Title: The Mosstrooper - A Legend of the Scottish Border
Author: Fittis, Robert Scott
Language: English
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    [Illustration: ROBERT SCOTT FITTIS]


    MEMORIAL VOLUME.



    THE MOSSTROOPER.

    A LEGEND OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.

    BY ROBERT SCOTT FITTIS.


    WITH INTRODUCTORY BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH BY
    A. H. MILLAR, F.S.A. (SCOT.).


    _A stark, mosstrooping Scott was he,
    As e’er couch’d Border lance by knee._
            --LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.


    _They were all stark mosstroopers and arrant thieves;
    both to England and Scotland outlawed; yet sometimes
    connived at._
            --HISTORY OF CUMBERLAND.


    PERTH:
    WOOD AND SON, 52 HIGH STREET.

    1906.



PREFATORY NOTE.


After the death of my husband, ROBERT SCOTT FITTIS, several of his
friends suggested to me that some of his earlier writings should be
re-published in book form as a MEMORIAL OF THE AUTHOR, especially as
it is now quite impossible to procure them otherwise. For these
reasons I have chosen “The Mosstrooper,” which, although now
re-published here as he revised it in a subsequent edition, was
originally written by my late husband when he was only between sixteen
and seventeen years of age.

I take this public opportunity of thanking Mr. A. H. MILLAR for his
great kindness in writing the very full and accurate biographical
notice which is prefixed to this Memorial Volume.

    KATHARINE FITTIS.

    89 HIGH STREET,
    PERTH, December, 1906.

       *       *       *       *       *



    ROBERT SCOTT FITTIS.

    (BIOGRAPHICAL).

    BORN 15TH NOVEMBER, 1824.

    DIED 11TH OCTOBER, 1903.


Robert Scott Fittis represented a type of the Scottish man of letters
which is rapidly disappearing. While it could not justly be said that
he was unique as a personality, or that he introduced a novel
combination of intellectual qualities and thereby formed an epoch, the
honour must be ascribed to him of having continued the best traditions
of the Augustan Age of Scottish Literature, and of maintaining the
dignity in literary affairs to which his native land had attained. He
was a Scotsman “through and through,” loving the land of his birth
with intense devotion, reverencing the heroes whom she had brought
forth to adorn the records alike of war and literature, and devoting
the energies of a long life to setting before his countrymen the best
models of patriotism for their imitation. His natural gifts were so
strenuously cultivated that in his later days he was regarded as an
inexhaustible encyclopædia of recondite information of the most varied
kind. He was from his youth an omnivorous reader, and he possessed
that best of all gifts “a reference memory,” as Dean Stanley called
it, and could bring forth from his treasures, new and old, a
surprising variety of apt quotations and original inferences. In some
respects his mind was akin to that of the late John Hill Burton, the
historian. He had the same finical love of accuracy, the same fervid
Scottish spirit, and a similarly broad outlook upon general literature
which prevented him from becoming merely a local historian and nothing
more. While his labours in connection with Perthshire history were
unceasing, and have produced a rich storehouse of facts, he dealt with
national history and literature in a manner which showed the breadth
of his mind and the variegated nature of his studies. He was a
historian, earnest to separate veritable truth from tradition; yet he
was one eager to collect these very traditions as fragments of
national character. A student of charters and a genealogist, over whom
any time-stained charter or antique paper scrawled with crabbed
penmanship exercised a fascination, he was still an ardent lover of
poetry, especially such as described the flowery banks of Tay or
Tummel, the gowany lea of Gowrie, or the Bens and Straths of Garth and
Glen Lyon. Upon one of his title-pages he placed two quotations which
aptly express his characteristics:--

    Let me the page of History turn o’er,
    The instructive page, and heedfully explore
    What faithful pens of former times have wrote.
    --Wondrous skilled in genealogies,
    And could in apt and voluble terms discourse
    Of births, of titles, and alliances;
    Of marriages, and inter-marriages;
    Relationship remote, or near of kin.

To describe adequately the life of such a man within limited space is
impossible. All that can here be done is to outline his industrious
career, as a tribute to one whose devotion to national literature,
even in times of severe distress and difficulty, must ever command
sincere respect.

The Fair City of Perth was the birth-place of ROBERT SCOTT FITTIS, and
there he spent all his days, from his birth on 15th November, 1824,
till his death on 11th October, 1903, when he had almost completed his
79th year. He was educated at one of the Burgh Schools, and in May,
1837, he was apprenticed for three years (at that time the usual
period) to Mr. John Flockhart, Solicitor in the City. So well did he
acquit himself during his apprenticeship that he was retained in the
office for two years as a clerk. From Mr. Flockhart’s place he went to
several lawyers’ offices in Perth, until 1853, when he bade farewell
to the Law as a profession, and took to literature. It was not
altogether a rash step which made him take the crutch of literature
and form it into a sustaining staff. Twelve years before this time--in
1841--he had begun to write for the press, and for over sixty years it
supported him.

The late Mr. John Fisher, Printer, Perth, had started in 1841 in that
city a penny weekly periodical of twelve pages called “The Perth
Saturday Journal.” It was the first of its kind in the locality.
Knowing the literary aspirations of Mr. Fittis, then a youth of 17
years, Mr. Fisher secured his aid as a contributor. The first editor
was Mr. Rennie, afterwards one of the sub-editors of “Hogg’s
Instructor,” and Mr. Fittis began in the second number, published in
August, 1841, a series entitled “Legends of Perth.” At that time the
Rev. George Clark Hutton (afterwards Principal Hutton, of the United
Presbyterian Church) was a Perth youth just beginning his theological
studies, and he also became a contributor of poems and tales.

Rennie was succeeded by Mr. James Davidson, a local reporter, who soon
resigned the office into the hands of Mr. Thomas Hay Marshall, also a
reporter, who came to be known as the “historian of Perth.” Before the
end of the year, however, this periodical may be said to have entered
upon another stage of its existence, with an alteration of the title
to “The Perth and Dundee Saturday Journal,” and in an eight-page
issue.

The first number was dated 27th November, 1841, and in No. 28, July
16th, 1842, Mr. Fittis began a serial story entitled “The Mysterious
Monk.” This issue ran on to fifty-two numbers, the last one appearing
31st December, 1842. In this number it was announced that “the second
volume of the ‘JOURNAL’ will appear on the day it is due--on the first
Saturday of 1843, and will continue to be issued, as usual, weekly.”
It was not, however until Saturday, January 21st, 1843, that the
first number of Vol. II. made its appearance. The volume consisted of
fifty numbers of eight pages, as before, but the last, which was
issued on Saturday, 30th December, 1843, consisted of two leaves (4
pp.) only, and intimated that the Journal was to be continued in 1844,
and that the talented writer (Fittis) of “Anguswood” and many other
tales which have appeared in the Journal, and met with so favourable
reception, is, in an early number, to favour us with the first chapter
of another tale entitled the “Mosstrooper.” Accordingly, in 1844, the
Journal again made its appearance, this time under the title of “The
Perth and Dundee Journal,” and in this year’s issue, as promised, the
tale called “The Mosstrooper,” by Fittis, was first published. With
this year the career of the Journal was terminated.

The literary ability of Mr. Fittis had been so conspicuously displayed
in connection with the “Journal,” that when Mr. Fisher contemplated a
new venture it was to Fittis he first looked for aid. On 1st January,
1845, there was started a periodical entitled “The Tales of Scotland,”
similar in character to Wilson’s “Tales of the Borders,” but taking a
wider scope. Fittis was editor and principal contributor, and he was
assisted by Thomas Soutar, Solicitor, Crieff, George Hay of Rait, and
James Stewart of Dunkeld. The experiment was entirely successful. So
great was the demand for the “Tales” that the first twelve numbers
were reprinted three times, and Fisher spared no effort to push the
sale of the publication in London, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Dundee, and
Aberdeen. The work was completed in four half-yearly volumes, the
greater portion of the contents having been written by Mr. Fittis.
Shortly after its completion Mr. Fittis became a contributor to “The
Scottish Miscellany,” which was begun in 1847. Four years afterwards
(1851) he edited a short series under the title of “Miscellany of
Scottish Tradition,” and in the following year (1852) he began the
“Tales and Traditions of Scotland,” in which he re-published “The
Mosstrooper” in a revised and improved version. The tales in this
periodical were all from his industrious pen.

In 1853 Fittis found himself sufficiently secure in literature to
resign his connection with Law; and he then became connected with the
“Perthshire Courier,” which had been acquired by the Dewars from the
old-established firm of the Morisons of Perth. His work at first was
to assist Mr. Thomas Hay Marshall in writing summaries and paragraphs,
and in supplying from notes the abstracts of speeches which were then
rarely printed verbatim. He remained in this position till 1861,
providing also original articles for the “Courier” and for other
newspapers. One of the incidents of this period of his life may be
narrated, as showing how steadfastly he remained true to the memory of
his early friends. James Stewart, the Dunkeld shoemaker, who had
contributed Scottish poetry to the “Saturday Journal,” died in Perth
Infirmary in 1843, and was buried in Greyfriars Burying-ground. His
grave was not marked by any tomb-stone, and Fittis determined that
this neglect should be remedied. In 1857 he brought out a volume of
Stewart’s works bearing the title “Sketches of Scottish Character, and
other Poems,” which he published by subscription, and with the
proceeds he was able to place a memorial stone over the grave of his
former comrade. The “People’s Journal,” which was begun in Dundee in
1858, provided an avenue for occasional contributions by Fittis, and
in 1864 his serial story, “The Secret Witness,” appeared in its
columns. His connection with the “People’s Journal” continued
intermittently for many years, his latest contribution being a series
published in 1891, under the title of “Haunted Houses in Perth.” In
1865 he wrote the novel “Gilderoy,” which was issued as a serial in
the “Scottish Journal,” and was published in the following year as a
volume in Routledge’s Railway Library. Mr. Fittis was married in 1866,
and, after a union lasting for 37 years, his wife survived him. At
that time the “Penny Post,” published in Glasgow, was the most popular
of weekly papers in that district, and was early in the field as one
of the first journals to issue serial stories. The late Mr. David Pae,
of Dundee (afterwards editor of “The People’s Friend”) ran several of
his most successful stories in the “Penny Post” in the “fifties.” Mr.
Fittis in 1866 supplied his novel “The King of the Cairds”; in 1867 “A
Master’s Crime”; and in 1872 “A Lass with a Tocher,” and “In the Pages
of the Past” to this periodical. The “Edinburgh North Briton” was
another of the weekly papers to which he contributed, his stories
there published being “Aggie Lyon,” in 1866, and “The Sexton’s
Mystery” in 1871. To the “North Berwick Advertiser” he contributed in
1870 “The Captain of the Bass,” besides reprinting some of the “Tales
of Scotland.” By his writings in these papers the name of Robert Scott
Fittis became widely known throughout Scotland.

A change came over the literary work of Mr. Fittis in the early
“seventies.” While he did not entirely give up writing fiction, he
devoted most of his time and energy to veritable history. In 1872 the
Rev. Thomas Morris, a promising young Glasgow student, who became
assistant in one of the Edinburgh churches, had started a weekly
column in the “Perthshire Constitutional,” under the title of the
“Antiquarian Repository.” He died suddenly in 1873, and Mr. Fittis was
then engaged to carry on this column, which had become a feature of
the paper. The work was entirely congenial to him. There was ample
scope for the use of his vast stores of miscellaneous knowledge of
Scottish history, tradition, and literature, and he fully utilised his
opportunity. From 1873 till 1881 he continued to produce two weekly
columns, republishing the matter in book form at the end of every
year. He thus brought together the most complete and varied series of
volumes relating to the history, antiquities, and literature of
Perthshire ever attempted. The following table gives the titles and
dates of these seven remarkable volumes:--

  “Illustrations of the History and Antiquities
      of Perthshire”                              (455 pages),      1874
  “Perthshire Antiquarian Miscellany”             (634 pages),      1875
  “Historical and Traditionary Gleanings
      concerning Perthshire”                      (521 pages),      1876
  “Chronicles of Perthshire”                      (540 pages),      1877
  “Sketches of the Olden Times in Perthshire”     (560 pages),      1878
  “Perthshire Memorabilia”                        (567 pages),      1879
  “Recreations of an Antiquary in Perthshire
      History and Genealogy”                      (556 pages),      1881

A mere glance at the list will give an idea of the industry of the
writer, while the fact that the books have been accepted as the work
of a painstaking and accurate historian proves their value. All these
books are at present (1906) out of print, and command good prices when
they come into the market.

After he had ceased his regular contributions to the “Perthshire
Constitutional,” much of the time of Mr. Fittis was taken up in
genealogical research, a task for which his long experience peculiarly
fitted him. Yet he did not neglect historical writing, though severe
illness frequently interrupted his labours. The five last volumes
which he published were not issued serially, but made their first
appearance in book form. Their titles and dates are as follows:--

  “Ecclesiastical Annals of Perth”                (322 pages),      1885
  “Heroines of Scotland”                          (327 pages),      1889
  “Sports and Pastimes of Scotland”               (212 pages),      1891
  “Curious Episodes in Scottish History”          (326 pages),      1895
  “Romantic Narratives from Scottish History and
      Tradition”                                  (363 pages),      1903

The activity of Mr. Fittis continued almost up to the close of his
life, and his two last books were produced after he had passed the
allotted span of three-score years and ten. His death took place on
11th October, 1903, after he had been engaged in literature for
sixty-two years.

The work of Robert Scott Fittis was not allowed to pass unnoticed and
unrewarded by those best qualified to appreciate it. In 1893 his case
was brought to the knowledge of Mr. W. E. Gladstone, and he then
received £100 from the Queen’s Bounty Fund. Three years later (1896)
Mr. A. J. Balfour gave £100 from the same fund. In 1899, Mr. Thomas,
Sheriff-Clerk of Perthshire, raised a sum of money among the friends
and admirers of Mr. Fittis, which Mr. Balfour doubled. With this sum
an annuity of £20 was purchased, which Mr. Fittis received till his
death. During his literary life Mr. Fittis had brought together an
extensive and valuable library, chiefly of books relating to Scottish
history and literature, and containing nearly 7000 volumes. After his
decease these books were purchased by Dr. Andrew Carnegie, and
presented to the Sandeman Library, Perth. Shortly after the death of
Mr. Fittis a movement was set on foot for the securing and erecting of
a suitable monument over his grave in Wellshill Cemetery, and
sufficient money was raised not only to accomplish this purpose, but
also to provide an enlarged photographic portrait of Mr. Fittis, which
was presented to the Sandeman Library, as a memorial of one of Perth’s
most notable sons. Even from this brief outline of his career it will
be seen that Robert Scott Fittis, by his self-sacrificing and
protracted labours, in the Roman phrase, “merits remembrance for his
services to the commonweal.”

                                                       A. H. MILLAR.

[Illustration: MEMORIAL TO THE LATE ROBERT SCOTT FITTIS.
erected in WELLSHILL CEMETERY, PERTH.]



THE MOSSTROOPER.



CHAPTER I.

    O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
      And loud the tempest’s roar;
    A waefu’ wanderer seeks thy tower,
      Lord Gregory, ope thy door.
            --_Burns._


It was an early Spring eve in a year long before King James III. of
Scotland perished in his flight from the lost field of Sauchieburn,
and was succeeded on the throne by his son, Prince James, who headed
the rebellion which resulted in the hapless monarch’s assassination at
Beaton’s Mill.

On that Spring eve the setting sun, breaking through heavy
cloud-masses, poured his red radiance athwart the snow-flecked summits
of the hilly chain known as the Cheviots, the scene of Chevy Chase and
of many another Border fight, and the boundary for a considerable
distance between Scotland and the sister kingdom. The day had been
dull and bleak, scarce enlivened by a transient glint of sunshine;
nevertheless, the aspect of Nature somewhat indicated that the reign
of “surly Winter” was over. As far as the eye could reach, the snow
and ice had almost wholly melted from the face of the low country on
either side of the hills; and the drooping snowdrop, emblem of purity,
and harbinger of genial skies, decked the Frost-king’s grave.

The red sun went down, leaving a trail of fire at the “gates of the
west”; and a dreary quietude brooded on the hills--scant sign or sound
of life being apparent save what the homeward-bound rooks made as they
sailed, weary of wing, this way and that. But as the gloaming fell, a
solitary pedestrian emerged from one of the passes on the Scottish
side of the marches--a tall and stoutly-built but youthful man. A
short cloak of untanned deerskin hung from his shoulders, being
secured at the throat by a knot of thongs, and it partly hid a
doublet, called, in Border phrase, a _jack_, of boiled leather,
fitting close to the body, and strengthened on the breast (if not also
all over the shoulders and sleeves) by small circular plates of
hammered iron sewed on in overlapping fashion like the scales of a
fish. A broad buff belt around his waist, held by a polished brass
buckle, sustained an iron-hiked sword and a long knife or dagger,
termed a _whinger_, hafted with buck-horn, curiously carved. His
right hand--the other being studiously concealed under his mantle, and
apparently carrying something rather bulky--was encased in a leathern
gauntlet, the back of which was defended by little plates of mail like
those on the jack. On his head he wore an iron bascinet cap, rusty and
much dinted, and from under its rim straggled locks of dark brown hair
inclining to curl. He had a thin, sallow, unprepossessing physiognomy,
which expressed a combination of cunning and effrontery: two keen,
grey eyes sparkled under heavy brows; and a slender moustache, lighter
in colour than his locks, sparsely covered his upper lip; but the
livid scar of a cicatrized wound, evidently from a sword-cut, adown
his left cheek, gave, on close observation, a peculiar grimness to his
otherwise sinister mien. Altogether, he might be considered as a
typical Borderer of the time, rough-living, law-defying, rarely ever
out of “sturt and strife.”

On quitting the defile, he struck across a stretch of open moorland,
over which the rising night-wind fitfully sighed among the furze. Now
and then he paused and gazed eagerly behind, seeming to listen, as if
dreading pursuit; but pursuers there seemed none, save the
cloud-billows that rolled in endless succession over the dim hills and
darkened above his head. The waste soon became both rugged and marshy,
and a shallow rivulet, fed from the moss-hags, ran in a serpentine and
perplexing course, necessitating its being repeatedly waded, but the
water never came much above the traveller’s ankles, and he wore a pair
of strong buskins reaching to the calf of his leg. When he had finally
left the sinuosities of the sluggish stream in his rear, he made a
dead halt, as if come to the end of his journey, and scowled all
around him in the gloom. Throwing back the left side of his cloak, he
disclosed a young child, well wrapped up, and fast asleep, whom he was
carrying, and whom he immediately laid down on the heath at his feet.
The infant awoke, and began to whimper and wail. The man stood bending
his moody gaze upon it till his eyeballs glowed with dusky fire.

“This nicht,” he said, in a low tone, savouring of fierce exultation,
“this nicht will the proud Southron grieve, and the bonnie lady greet
in her bower, for the loss o’ the young heir that was the hope o’
their hearts. The retainers may scour hill and dale, and the pathless
wilds echo the bay o’ their sleuth-hound. Let them speed far and wide
wi’ horse and ban-dog. In my hand rests the young heir’s fate. By the
Black Rood o’ Melrose! this is the revenge o’ gentle Edie Johnston!”

He stamped on the ground, and could have crushed the infant under his
heel; but he started back a pace, as if, indeed, the fiend of revenge
had prompted such a thought in his troubled brain, and he revolted at
it--but he revolted only for a moment, as the savage suggestion seemed
to be followed by another equally remorseless. What did he now
meditate? Was he one

    Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world
    Had so incens’d, that he was reckless what
    He did, to spite the world?

Nervously his fingers clutched the hilt of his whinger, and he
unsheathed it and waved it in the air, and then, stepping forward and
stooping over the child, pointed the steel as if to deal a mortal
stab. The weapon trembled in his grasp. Again the powers of
compunction and shame overcame the murderous impulse. He raised
himself erect, with an impatient ejaculation, and his armed hand fell
slowly, and as if reluctantly, by his side.

“Frae sunset to sunset has this hand been feckless as a withered
rush,” he said. “In darkness as in licht I ha’e been weak as water. I
micht ha’e flung the brat, like a stane, frae the brow o’ a fathomless
precipice, never mair to be seen but by the ravens: or he micht ha’e
been thrown into a rushing stream that would ha’e swirled him awa’ to
the sea; and nae mortal could ha’e fyled me wi’ the deed; and yet he
is spared, as if his life were charmed by a spell o’ power. Maun I, a
gentle Johnstone, forget my wrangs? My faither fell in an inroad o’
the Southrons: my mither was twice harried out o’ her cot-house in the
cleugh: and I--” He paused, and stroking his scarred cheek, glanced
alternately around him and at the sobbing boy on the cold turf: then
sheathed his whinger, lifted the babe, and strode hurriedly on his
way.

Soon he came to a spring-well, a round, brimful _well-e’e_, fringed
with furze. There he stopped, mused some space, and muttering a curse,
suspended the child over the water, as if intending to let it drop and
drown. But as he gazed fixedly on the limpid element, which shimmered
under the dim sky, a lustrous planet shone out through the clouds and
glittered in the natural mirror, the golden similitude sparkling up
like the eye of an accusing spirit. It was what guilt could not
withstand. The mystic gleam of the shadowy star smote the gentle
Johnston to the soul. Drawing a harsh breath, he succumbed once more
to a power that shamed his fierce nature. Huddling the infant under
his rude mantle, he hurried from a spot where temptation had pressed
him so strongly.

Straight northwards he held his route, with the shades of night
deepening on what seemed a desert, where no living things seemed near
save the heath-birds that started at his approach, and sped away with
shrill screams. Some heavy drops of rain, “like the first of a
thunder-shower,” pattered on his head-piece and deerskin garment, and
louder grew the sough of the gale, which prognostications of an
inclement night caused him to quicken his pace. The child had now wept
itself to sleep, and its bearer showed every care to screen it from
the rough weather. Happily, the threatened storm blew by. But although
the night settled down, the Borderer still travelled comparatively
fast, with long, unwearied stride, as being well inured to exertion
and well acquainted with the country which he was traversing. Indeed,
we may not err in supposing that in the latter respect he could rival
“stout Deloraine,” of whom the Last Minstrel tells us that--

    Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss,
    Blindfold he knew the paths to cross;

           *       *       *       *       *

    In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none,
    But he would ride them, one by one;
    Alike to him was time or tide,
    December’s snow, or July’s pride;
    Alike to him was tide or time,
    Moonless midnight, or matin prime.

Sometimes the traveller changed his course to a certain extent,
inclining now to the right, now to the left, probably to avoid the
neighbourhood of hamlets: his darkling journey was one of hours; but
eventually the blustering blast swept away the clouds, and a frosty
starlight shone down, enabling him to perceive that he was nearing the
spurs of a range of low hills. On he went towards a wide ravine, and
entering it, was soon plodding sturdily along a well-beaten but
winding path, whilst the gale whistled shrilly through the underwood
that clad both sides of the glen. As he progressed, his eye caught
the feeble glimmer of a light in the distance, which he knew was not
the twinkle of a star, and which was inconstantly seen and lost
according to the turnings of the road.

“The auld keep o’ Hawksglen at last!” he muttered. “An’ gude fortune
speed me, the seeds o’ a double revenge will be sawn.”

The glen debouched on what dimly appeared to be a spacious
amphitheatre among the low hills, and in the foreground loomed the
dark and turreted mass of a Border keep or castle, in a high casement
of which burned the light that had been attracting the wayfarer’s
attention. He trudged forward to the strength, and speedily reached
the outer wall surrounding it, which was machicolated or embrasured
along the top for the discharge of all sorts of missiles on the heads
of assailants attempting escalade: and now the angry, deep-mouthed
bark of a dog within the wall broke the silence. The Borderer halted
in front of an arched and strong portal, which was closed by a gate
which he felt was faced with iron. He gave a peculiar whistle and then
a halloo, which the dog answered vigorously, rousing others of its
kind in their kennel in the rear of the place. But next the gruff
voice of an elderly man responded to the Borderer’s call from over
the gateway--“Who goes there?”

The keen starlight could enable only the mere outline of the
stranger’s figure to be discerned. “A friend to Hawksglen,” he
answered.

“From whence, and on what errand?”

“From Rowanstane, and on matter o’ life and death. I bring a letter to
the worthy Elliot. Open the _vizzy_, and I will wait his pleasure.”

“So, so: and bring you also the Rowanstane password?” demanded the
scrupulous warder.

“_Hand and glove._”

Prompt was the result of this response--almost like the effect of the
“Open, Sesame” of the Forty Thieves. The warder, confident that the
knowledge of the password was confined to friends (and it was changed
at intervals), descended from his coign of vantage; and after some
preliminary clank of chains, an aperture, measuring scarcely a foot
square, opened in the side of the portal, without the iron-sheeted
gate, and about breast-high from the ground, whilst the dog was heard
sniffing and growling along the bottom of the gate.

“Hand in your letter,” said the warder.

The gentle Johnston deftly thrust the sleeping infant through the
opening, and feeling that it was grasped by the other, turned without
a word, took to his heels, and was lost in the gloom.

Judge of the amazement which seized upon the guardian of the portal
when he found that instead of a letter he had received a bundle
containing a young child, who being roughly awakened began to cry. For
a moment was the warder struck speechless, but then, recovering his
voice, he shouted through the aperture--“Hillo! man--what is this?
Where’s the letter? A bairn! what does this mean? Curse the knave! and
he had the password too. A vile trickster! Down, Ranger! down,
lad!”--for the dog was climbing upon him, and smelling at the child in
his arms. “By our lady! a rare gift at midnight! What will Sir James
say to it? or his mother, either? I was a dolt to open the vizzy-hole;
but the false-tongued knave swore it was a matter of life and death.
The foul-fiend rive him! What ho! within there! Robin, Robin--up,
man!”

A young serving-man rushed out to the gateway, with a spear in one
hand, and a round buckler on his arm, and ejaculated--“What’s the
steer, Allan? I was dovering ower the ha’ fire, after dipping ower
deep in the ale-jack, and I thocht I heard the dogs bark.”

“Bring a torch,” cried Allan, “mayhap the wean is but a fairy
changeling, and I must see to that ere it comes under our roof.”

“The wean? whatna wean?” inquired Robin, rubbing his sleepy eyes with
the knuckles of the hand that held the spear.

“You hear the wean yaumering: and fairy weans are ever girning--devil
take them!”

“Allan, Allan, dinna speak o’ _them_ in sic a way, and at sic an hour.
Ha’e you forgotten the auld rhyme?

    “Gin you ca’ me Imp or Elf,
    I rede you look weel to yourself.
    Gin you ca’ me Fairy,
    I’ll work you muckle tarrie.

“I beseech you, Allan, bethink yoursel’ that this is just the time
when the _gude neighbours_ are busiest for gude and ill.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed the warder. “I think a bad neighbour has been here.
Fetch a torch, in Mahound’s name!”

Robin hurried back to the hall, and, transferring his spear to his
left hand that the right might be free, kindled a flambeau at the
fire, and returned with it to the courtyard. The infant, on seeing
the light, ceased crying, and stretched out his little hands towards
the bickering flame.

“By the mass! a bonnie babe, and no fairy changeling, I’ll be sworn,”
said Allan, and he shut the espial opening. “Let us now within doors.”

They accordingly withdrew into the hall, where Allan sat down on a
buffet stool at the side of the hearth, with the young stranger on his
knee, while the watch-dog stretched itself at his feet, and the
clamour of its companions in the kennel died away. Robin fixed his
torch into an iron sconce projecting half a foot from the wall,
stirred the faggots on the andirons to a blaze, and was then told the
story of the adventure.

Seemingly nobody else in the place had been aroused, all remaining
quiet; but Allan now directed his subordinate to call up one of the
female domestics, to whose care the foundling should be committed till
morning. The woman, when she came, being dubious as to whether the boy
was not a fairy changeling after all, suggested the test usually
applied to such supernatural impostors, namely, by “putting it on the
fire to see if it wadna flee up the lum wi’ an eldritch lauch!” But
Allan was opposed to the experiment. The child’s clothes were of fine
materials, and around its neck was a slender gold chain of curious
links suspending an antique golden reliquary; but there was no
inscription on the trinket, or mark about the dress, to afford a clue
to the little wearer’s parentage.

The foundling being provided for, old Allan pulled his deerskin mantle
closer around him, and went out to satisfy himself that the fastening
of the aperture in the portal was secure.

“By our lady,” he muttered, “I’ll not open that vizzy again until
daylight, although a score of stories of life and death should be told
me. A small family might be foisted upon me ere morning.”



CHAPTER II.

    He’s married a may, and he’s fessen her hame;
    But she was a grim and a laidly dame.
    When into the castle court drave she,
    The seven bairns stood wi’ the tear in their e’e.
    Nor ale nor mead to the bairnies she gave,
    “But hunger and hate frae me ye’s have.”
            --_Danish Ballad._


Twenty years elapsed after the midnight when the infant boy was left
at Hawksglen Castle by the gentle Johnston, whom we dub with that
epithet in accordance with the Border usage of characterizing the
principal families, or clans, as the _haughty_ Homes, the _bauld_
Rutherfords, the _sturdy_ Armstrongs, the _gentle_ Johnstons, _et sic
de cæteris_. But “gentle,” as applied to the Johnstons, was an
ironical misnomer, they being a peculiarly rude and turbulent race,
living in “sturt and strife.” A story is told that a Baron, who was at
deadly feud with them, having captured several, ordered their heads to
be cut off and flung into a sack, which he gave to one of his
retainers to carry home; and the man, when he got the grisly burden
upon his back, gave it a good shake, saying jocosely, “Gree amang
yoursells, Johnstons!” Our Johnston seemed a full-fledged scion of
this law-defying race.

Let us now fill up the gap of those twenty years with a brief recital
of events which concern our tale.

Sir James Elliot of Hawksglen was the lineal descendant of a famous
Border house; and a worthier representative of a baronial stock it
would have been rather difficult to single out among his compeers.
High renown had been earned by his ancestors in the feuds and wars of
the marches. His father received his death-wound in resisting a
Southron inroad some few years anterior to the period when our legend
opens. Sir James, an only son and only child, was thus left master of
wide domains when he had just passed his majority. His mother was an
amiable lady; but after the loss of her husband she never regained
that happy buoyancy of mind which had distinguished her during her
wedded life. To all her dependants she was a kind and indulgent
mistress, ever ready to forgive shortcomings, and to relieve the wants
of humble vassals when overtaken by pinching poverty. Seeing that her
son inherited the martial spirit of his sire, it became her aim to
induce him to bury animosities and feuds, and to cultivate, as much as
he could, and as far as the circumstances of the times allowed, the
arts of peace. She meant well. But Sir James would say to himself, as
he paced through his hall, and gazed on several grim portraits of the
Elliots of Hawksglen with which it was decorated:--

“My mother’s mild precepts would avail in some other age and land; but
they are vain in this Border country, where every man rights himself
by his own hand, and wins honour and esteem by martial valour. When
every man draws his blade in his own quarrel, dare I keep mine
unsheathed without incurring disdain and disgrace? Nay--in these times
I must uphold the dignity of our house with the steel in my grasp and
the corselet on my breast.”

Sir James was ardent and fiery by nature, yet evincing generous and
chivalrous impulses. In stature he rather exceeded the middle height,
and had a manly and well-formed figure. His face was oval and
swarthy-complexioned, its expression being mild and thoughtful in
repose, but under excitement becoming instinct with strong animation.
As yet in early manhood, he was unmarried, and so far as appeared had
never been wounded by a shaft from Cupid’s bow.

The midnight adventure at the gate exceedingly amazed the knight and
his mother, and probably induced a certain suspicion in the latter’s
mind; but they resolved to shelter and provide for the child until its
parents should be discovered. Every means were used to penetrate the
mystery; but, owing to troubles which broke out along the Border, all
inquiries proved fruitless, and even rumour was dumb. The child’s
habiliments and the ornament about its neck betokened that its lineage
was above the common. Thus weeks and months sped away, and the
foundling was treated with as much care and kindness as could have
been bestowed upon a son of the family; which, indeed, the retainers
could not help suspecting that he was, and therefore, they gradually
refrained from rehearsing to others the story of his exposure at the
gate.

The boy was healthy, with pleasing features, a soft skin, and a clear
complexion. He soon became familiar with his new guardians; and the
lady forgot her sorrows in ministering to his wants, and fondling him
upon her knee. A priest from a neighbouring chapel admitted the
foundling within the pale of the visible Church by the Sacrament of
Baptism, and christened him by the name of Eustace, in memory of the
lady’s only brother who had died in infancy.

When Eustace had seen about a couple of years under the hospitable
roof of Hawksglen, the lady was seized with a malignant distemper,
which was destined to close her days. Despite the skill of physicians,
the rapid progress of the disease could not be arrested: the lamp of
hope burned dim: and now--

    The mildest herald by our fate allotted
    Beckoned, and with inverted torch did stand
    To lead her with a gentle hand
    Into the land of the great Departed,
    Into the Silent Land.

As the lady was sinking, fully resigned to depart, she desired that
the orphan boy should be brought into her presence, which was
immediately done. Long ere this time she had become entirely persuaded
in her own mind that he was really and truly of stranger blood.
Raising herself with a last effort, she took him in her arms, and
kissed his lips fervently; then turned to Sir James and said:--

“Son, I have one request to make ere I yield my fleeting breath. I
have endeavoured to fill the place of the unknown mother of this fair
child. In my last hour I leave him to your protection. I beseech you
to befriend him until, by the workings of Providence, he be restored
to the arms of his parents, or of his kinsfolk, which I am persuaded
will some day take place. But until that day never let him feel that,
under your roof, he is a stranger. In time you will lead a bride to
the altar, and bring her to Hawksglen: children of your own will grow
up around your knees: but, O, my son, never neglect this boy, never
count him as an alien, while he abides under your roof. As I have
cherished him till now, do thou cherish him still. This is my dying
request, which I trust will be fulfilled.”

The knight gave his solemn promise, laying his hand on the crucifix
which the attendant priest was holding up before the dying lady. The
child instinctively clasped her neck, and whimpered some broken words.
The parting moment drew nigh. The last offices of the Church were
performed; and soon the lady, in the serenity of hallowed hope, passed
through the dark tide of Jordan to the better land.

The knight of Hawksglen was overborne by his bereavement. Shutting
himself within his castle, for a space, he seemed to have forsaken
the changeful world beyond its walls. Time sped its course; and at
length the torch of Love slowly scattered the clouds of unavailing
sorrow. Not long after Sir James left his seclusion he was smitten by
the charms of Anne Rutherford, the only daughter of a Border baron.
Younger than himself, she possessed the witcheries of an exquisite
form and a lovely face. It was whispered, _sub rosa_, that with her
personal graces was united a disposition proud, self-willed, and
shrewish. But what daughter of Eve, however fair, could claim
perfection? Elliot, becoming her lover, was naturally incredulous of
the faults or failings with which rumour charged her. To his glamoured
eyes she appeared as a blooming rose without a thorn. She favoured his
impassioned addresses: she accepted his hand: and, about eighteen
months after his mother’s demise, Sir James brought a fair young bride
to grace his hall.

For a season wedded life went pleasantly at Hawksglen--the cup of the
happy pair, who seemed absorbed in a dream of love, betraying no
bitter drop. But the time came when the dream was broken. The mask
which the lady had worn was withdrawn, and her husband was
undeceived. She now evinced an unequal temper, a degree of whim and
caprice, and an obstinate desire to subject everything to her will,
which eventually dissipated much of Elliot’s matrimonial happiness. In
vain did he strive to wean her back to her former self: and he mingled
with the troubles of the Border to counteract the feeling of
disappointment.

An evil hour for the foundling boy was that in which Dame Anne came to
Hawksglen. She was duly informed of the mysterious manner in which the
child had been left, and of the injunctions laid upon her husband by
his dying mother, which he felt it his bounden duty to respect. The
lady affected to acquiesce in his sentiments; but at heart she thought
otherwise. Secretly jealous that the boy might prejudice her own
children in their father’s estimation, and perhaps ultimately receive
some portion of the Hawksglen lands (suspicions which cannot be
considered as wholly unnatural), she soon endeavoured, by various
little arts, to diminish her husband’s regard for the foundling. Her
enmity strengthened when, in about a year after marriage, she gave
birth to twin daughters. After that event, little Eustace became more
and more the object of the mother’s dislike, and Elliot, anxious to
soothe her feelings, relaxed in his attentions to the boy.

Eustace grew up a handsome youth, of a high spirit but an urbane and
generous nature, which endeared him to all the dependants of
Hawksglen. Lady Elliot, seeing in him more and more the likely cause
of future trouble and danger, never ceased plying her insidious arts
against him. Every trivial mistake or fault of his she reported to her
husband in such exaggerated shape as was possible: and it seemed her
aim to lower Eustace from the position of an accepted member of the
family to that of a mere dependant, who had no claim to higher
consideration. As she had no more children, and the want of a son
embittering her jealousy of the foundling, she frequently told her
husband that unless he secretly wished to adopt Eustace altogether, to
the injury of his daughters’ interests, it was doing wrong to maintain
him in a station to which he had not the shadow of right.

The lady’s twin daughters, Eleanor and Catherine, were beautiful
girls, lauded by all who saw them. Eleanor, however, surpassed her
sister in charms of form and feature, and had a gentle, guileless,
trustful heart; while Catherine, fickle, passionate, and overbearing,
seemed to be endowed with all the worst qualities of her mother. It
was not remarkable that a mutual sympathy and attachment arose betwixt
Eleanor and Eustace, or that antipathy towards him gradually gained
possession of Catherine’s mind, and was not concealed. Up to a certain
period, Eustace was led to consider himself an orphan relative of the
family: the sisters were allowed to entertain the same idea; but it
was never mentioned what was the relationship, or whence he came. The
retainers were constrained to avoid alluding in any way to the fact of
his having been left at the gate: and, indeed, they generally formed
the belief that he was Elliot’s own son, and would some day be openly
acknowledged. But Eustace, as he grew, had anxious musings concerning
his parentage and the strange reticence manifested by one and all
around him on the subject. He could not help fancying gloomily that
some dark secret was associated with his birth, and would in the end
be disclosed to his dismay.

Eustace, brought up amid the warlike turmoils of the Border, was
trained, like other youths, to the use of arms, and occasionally bore
his part in the field as Elliot’s squire. In one desperate fray his
daring saved the knight from slaughter, a gallant achievement which
gained him the latter’s highest regard. This was as gall and wormwood
to Dame Anne. In a fit of ungovernable spleen, she told her daughters
that the young hero was nothing better than a nameless foundling who
had been thrown upon the charity of Hawksglen. She entrusted them with
this startling knowledge as with a profound secret, which they were
not to disclose to any without her express permission, for fear of
drawing down upon her and them their father’s displeasure. Probably
the lady hoped that the revelation to her daughters would destroy the
attachment betwixt Eleanor and Eustace, which, if allowed to exist,
might result in love. Inconsiderate woman! she had no idea that she
was taking the very step to thwart her own purpose. Catherine acted
upon her mother’s counsels, in holding Eustace in undisguised
indifference. But with Eleanor it was otherwise. To tell her that
Eustace was the son of misfortune, cast upon strangers in his helpless
infancy, was but to give new life to the affection for him which had
grown in her mind.

Until about the age of one-and-twenty Eustace continued ignorant of
the all-important secret, although distressing suspicions had long
haunted his thoughts. But as intimacy betwixt him and Eleanor seemed,
in the watchful lady’s eyes, to increase, she dared again to break her
husband’s injunction. One day, when Sir James was absent from
Hawksglen attending a Warden’s Court, Eustace chanced to give the lady
some offence, and appeared to treat her rebuke lightly, in revenge for
which she told him the secret, adding that his unknown parentage was
doubtless base, and that his position in the Castle should be that of
the humblest menial. He had long anticipated something like this: yet
the final disclosure came upon him like a thunderbolt, and he felt
himself humiliated in the dust. He saw that the current of his life
must now inevitably turn into another channel, and that his days at
Hawksglen were thenceforth numbered. The world was wide, and he would
seek his fortune.



CHAPTER III.

    Adieu! Lochmaben’s gates sae fair,
      The Langholm holm, where birks there be;
    Adieu! my ladye, and only joy,
      For, trust me, I may not stay with thee.

    _Lord Maxwell’s Good-Night._


Deeply chagrined, deeply grieved was the knight of Hawksglen, when, on
his return, he was told by Eustace of what the lady had disclosed. Sir
James, who hitherto had habitually evaded the young man’s enquiries in
such a way as to leave him to suppose that he was of kin to the family
in some degree, however remote, now endeavoured to soothe his
lacerated feelings; but this was a vain effort, as the truth of the
story could not be denied. The utmost the knight could do was to
dissuade his protege from leaving the Castle in his first flush of
shame and indignation. “A soft answer turneth away wrath,” but no soft
words could allay the misery that filled the foundling’s bosom.

The ice being thoroughly broken, Lady Elliot, undeterred by her
husband’s regrets and remonstrances, persevered in her bitter
antagonism to Eustace, though covertly, for the most part. She
justified herself that what she did was of imperative necessity. To
her husband she justified herself on the score that affection was
growing betwixt Eustace and Eleanor, which, if not nipped in the bud,
might in the end lead to the disgrace of the house of Hawksglen. The
reader may easily imagine what result followed. “A constant dropping
weareth away stone.” The strong-willed and implacable lady won her
purpose. Elliot wavered, and eventually seemed to yield to her
incessant persuasives. Coolness and, occasionally, slight discords
arose betwixt him and his protege, by whom the change could not be
misunderstood, a change that pointed to ultimate separation.

Eustace felt in his inmost heart that now he loved Eleanor more
tenderly than in the days of his ignorance. She was become the
loadstar of his aching heart. On the other hand, such an attachment
looked hopeless--nay, more, that it was very madness to be cherished
by a stripling who knew no kindred, and had no fortune. He had
resolved to quit Hawksglen; but still he lingered. It was his anxious
desire that, before taking the final step, he should have an
interview with his lady-love, to explain his motives and to bid her
adieu. For a while the opportunity was denied him--trivial obstacles
interposing (perhaps designed by the cunning of Lady Elliot) to baulk
his wish, and causing him to tarry still for the fortunate moment.

On a bright May day, Eustace was returning alone from the hills and
woods in the vicinity of Hawksglen, among which he had listlessly
spent hours since the early morning. He had gone forth from the castle
on foot--not to seek the chase, for he took neither his favourite
hound, nor his steed Roland (named after the famous Paladin of
Romance); and though he carried a hunting-spear, it was for defence in
case of danger. His only object was to roam and meditate on his dark
prospects amid the solitudes of nature, unseen by an evil eye. On his
homeward way through the woodlands he reached a lake, near which, and
surrounded by a clump of sepulchral yews, appeared the ruined chapel
or hermitage, beneath which was the burial-vault of the Hawksglen
family, where lay the ashes of his generous benefactress. The castle
was within a short distance; but its turrets were not visible from
the banks of the lake, being hidden by a wooded height.

The sunlight beamed on the sheet of water, the placidity of which was
unbroken by the slightest ripple, save when a trout leaped at a fly
and sank with a slight plash, or a waterfowl skimmed lightly across
the lustrous surface. Yonder, half-hidden among tall, aquatic plants,
a gaunt heron stalked stealthily in the bordering shallows, intent
upon its prey. The sky was serenely blue, and the air profoundly
still, as if Zephyrus slept in his cave of the west. This quiet,
secluded scene of wood and water, which the fairy court may have
frequented in the moonlight, awoke in the youth’s mind reminiscences
of happy days past and gone. Wearied with his wanderings, he sat down
upon the trunk of an aged tree which a recent storm had overthrown,
and gave free scope to musings which recalled the “light of other
days”--the “sunshine of the heart.” In the dreamy hush of the
woodlands, whose fresh, green foliage marked the advent of summer, the
inconstant carol of a bird fell sweetly on the ear.

Eustace spent some time sitting on the fallen tree, and then resumed
his walk along the banks of the lake. In person he was of moderate
stature, slenderly but handsomely made, with an aspect that wore the
impress of a manly mind, whether his birth had been high or low. His
complexion, originally fair, the sun had tinged to a somewhat swart
hue; his eyes were hazel, but a physiognomist might have read in them
indications of soul-depression, and thick brown locks escaped in
profusion from beneath his velvet bonnet, mingling with the white
plume that drooped on his left shoulder. He was dressed in a cloth
jerkin of forest-green, fitting close to his body, and girt about his
middle by a belt from which depended a short falchion, the hilt of
which was chased with silver; and silver also was the mouthpiece of a
small bugle which was suspended beneath his left arm by a steel chain
around his neck. He carried a hunting spear, which, however, bore no
trace of having drawn blood that day. In fine, he had all the exterior
of a gallant squire, as was, indeed, the position he held in relation
to the knight of Hawksglen.

Leisurely pursuing his homeward route, our squire had surmounted the
woody height, when he suddenly perceived on the winding paths below
him, but half-hidden among the trees, a lady descending the
declivity. Evidently she heard his footsteps, for she turned and
glanced back. It was Eleanor Elliot. She wore a dark robe, open in
front, and showing a blue velvet kirtle (or gown), the breast of which
was covered by a stomacher of the like cloth, richly embroidered with
threads of silver; and on her head was a small hood of purple silk,
which did not prevent dark glossy tresses from clustering about a neck
of alabaster hue. Her brow was smooth and high, her eyes blue as the
sunny vault above her, and her soft and winning features bespoke a
gentle nature. When she discovered Eustace all her maidenly
sensibilities glowed on her cheeks. Not the fairest of the fair
creations of the Greek imagination could have surpassed the lady, who
now bashfully advanced to meet the youth who had gained her esteem and
love; yea, and had also awakened her keenest pity.

Quick throbbed the squire’s heart, and his countenance reddened, as he
met and, laying down his spear, greeted the mistress of his
affections. She took his hand, and giving it a gentle pressure,
said--“I have been uneasy by reason of your prolonged stay; for, as
you took neither horse nor hound with you, I thought your absence
would be brief.”

“Perchance it would be well for Hawksglen were I to depart, never to
return,” answered Eustace, sadly, unable to refrain from giving full
utterance to the thought that was uppermost in his heart.

Instantly the lady became pale. But she replied in a calm
tone--“Bethink you that there are those in Hawksglen who wish you
well, and would have you not to brood over trifles.”

“They are momentous trifles, since trifles you call them,” said
Eustace. “They are such trifles as have debased me in my own eyes.”

“It was my lady-mother’s fault, in hasty anger,” faltered Eleanor.

“I will impute no blame to either of your parents,” responded Eustace.
“Your lady-mother only spoke what, in justice to me, she should have
spoken long ago. It was right and just that I should know the truth.
Why should I be protected and pampered by those upon whom I have no
claim by ties of relationship? No, no, Eleanor, I have not the shadow
of title to share the name, the favour, and the honours of the house
of Hawksglen.”

“I cannot bear to hear you speak thus: it cuts me to the heart,”
sighed Eleanor, shedding tears, which seemed to increase her lover’s
distress.

“All this misery would have been spared me had I perished on that
night when the unknown Borderer left me at your father’s gate!”
exclaimed he, passionately, and striking his hand on his brow. But,
after a moment’s pause, he added, in a subdued tone--“I must bow to
inexorable fate: I must yield to the tide which I cannot stem. But O
Eleanor! forbear these tears.”

She was weeping silently, but seemed more lovely in her attitude and
aspect of sorrow. “Will the future never bring a time when the cold
tide of misfortune will cease to flow betwixt us?” she murmured.
“Heaven forbid!” she added firmly. “And I beseech you to think that
better days will come, and that we need not part. You know not what
end your destiny may work out. Trust it will be a good end. Why should
you rashly judge that it will be bad?”

“Think as I may, Eleanor, our parting must come,” said Eustace. “If I
am to retain respect in others’ eyes, I must carve out my own fortune.
Avenues are open to adventurous spirits. Scottish soldiers are gladly
welcomed at the courts of France, Italy, and other foreign states. Be
my future fate what it may, I shall meet it with a fearless heart: and
should I fail to win success--why, let me fail and fall, and be
remembered only as one on whom an evil destiny had set its seal.”

Both were silent for a space. Sorrowful emotion had exhausted
language. Eustace gazed vacantly towards the castle of Hawksglen,
which was dimly seen through the trees. Eleanor raised her swimming
eyes to his face, and his look met hers. Never, perhaps, till now, in
this dark and troublous hour, had the fair girl felt how devotedly she
loved him--how deep was her interest in his fate since she realised
that he was about to launch forth upon that ocean whose depths bury
many a blasted hope.

“Let us prepare to part,” said Eustace, breaking the silence. “To
contemplate speedy separation is the surest way to lessen its pain
when the inevitable hour arrives.”

“Speak not of parting, I implore you!” she ejaculated, whilst her
tears dropped fast. “The word sounds like a knell.”

In what better terms could the fair girl have avowed her affection?
Eustace tenderly grasped her hand. “We are no longer kinsfolk,” he
said; “but the love I bear you can never die. I will cherish it in my
heart of hearts, however fortune may frown or smile.”

She gave a loud sob, and fell upon his breast. He clasped her in his
trembling arms, and kissed her cheek. Hark! a murmur of voices--the
rustle of brackens, the crash of branches, the tread of hurrying
footsteps--and Sir James Elliot and his lady stood before the pair!
Eleanor started from her lover’s arms, and shrieking, would have sunk
to the earth had not her father sustained her. She swooned in his
embrace.

“Behold the proof of suspicions which you have scoffed at as often as
I expressed them,” cried Lady Elliot, looking livid with anger, and
darting a fiery glance at her husband. “This base-born minion will
bring disgrace upon your house and name, and yet you are deaf and
blind.”

“Youthful folly,” answered the knight. “But it shall never bring
dishonour upon me. Eustace, both you and my daughter sadly forget your
stations!”

“Forget!” echoed the lady. “Must such insolence be borne at _his_
hands?”

“No, it shall not,” said the knight. “Eustace, I have protected you
since your infancy; but the obligation was fully repaid when you saved
my life in battle, and therefore we shall cry quits, and part.”

“The passing hour shall part us,” said Eustace, calmly.

Without a visible sign of agitation, he lifted his spear from where it
lay among the brackens, and turning upon his path, plunged into the
thicket and vanished from sight. The die was thrown: the old tie was
snapped asunder; and he was a forlorn exile from the only home which
he had ever known.

    The world was all before him, where to choose
    His place of rest, and Providence his guide.

He hastened through “woods and wilds,” with no immediate purpose in
view save that of quitting the domains of Hawksglen. On he went,
heedless that the hours sped away on fleet wings. But he paused to
consider his course when the sun was setting amid amber cloudlets, and
the balmy influence of the “merry month of May” was in the gentle
western breeze that now fanned the wanderer’s hot cheek. He remembered
a hamlet at some distance, where he thought of staying till next
morning; and fortunately he carried a well-filled purse, which would
answer all requirements for a time.



CHAPTER IV.

    Wi’ cauk and keel I’ll win your bread,
    And spindles and whorles for them wha need.
    Whilk is a gentle trade indeed,
        To carry the Gaberlunzie on.
                --_The Gaberlunzie-man._


As the self-exiled Eustace pursued his route, in troubled reverie, he
was soon hailed by a masculine voice from a straggling thicket near
the wayside. Glancing in that direction, he saw a man issue from among
the trees, and step towards him. The man was in the humble garb of a
gaberlunzie, and seemed a fair representative of the trade of
mendicancy, which was numerously followed throughout the country in
that age, and for ages afterwards. At a little distance he looked
rather youngish; but on nearer approach he was seen to be elderly,
perhaps about his grand climacteric. He was tall, spare, and erect of
figure, lithe of limb, and with a shrewd, honest, weather-beaten, but
unwrinkled countenance, and short, iron-grey locks appearing from
under his broad blue bonnet. A wallet was slung at his back, and a
leathern pouch or purse at the side of his waist-belt, in which was
stuck a sheathed whinger, and he carried a stout _kent_ or long staff
with an iron spike at the end, which would prove a formidable weapon
when wielded in a fray by a strong hand. Eustace stopped, and was
saluted by the stranger, who doffed his bonnet and bowed low.
Understanding that the man’s object was the solicitation of charity,
Eustace gave him an alms which was received with effusive thanks, and
dropped into the pouch.

“You’ll be gaun the Greenholm way, master?” said the stranger,
deferentially.

“I am. But no farther than the village for the night.”

“Weel, master, I’m just gaun the same gate: and aiblins you winna be
offended though a gaberlunzie should jog at your heels?”

Eustace looked at him, with a complacent smile, without replying to
the question; but the smile seemed to be intended and accepted as a
negative reply. They went on together, side by side.

“It’s a braw and bonnie nicht,” said the beggar, surveying the
surrounding scenery with a gratified eye, and pointing here and there
with his staff. “A braw May nicht indeed. Look to the lift--look to
the earth--there’s beauty owre a’. See--the parting beams o’ the sun
linger on the bald, rocky brow o’ yon hill, like a crown o’ glory,
while a’ the dell aneath is losing itsel’ in the shadow, and the haze
is rising that will soon ha’e the appearance o’ a loch. You hear the
sweet sangs o’ the birds, the sough o’ the westland wind, and the
everlasting plash o’ yon burnie that gushes owre its linn. The gowden
clouds are sailing solemnly as if to strains o’ angel-music. How
pleasant to wander, free as air, amang Nature’s charms!”

“It is so,” said Eustace, surprised at the elevation of the beggar’s
tone. “But life passes through gloom and storm as well as through
sunshine. We have our flowery May, and we have our wintry December. In
some deep cleugh among the hills patches of last December’s snow will
still be lying.”

“Ay, truly,” returned the mendicant, glancing keenly at the youth.
“And, if I may presume, you seem to me, frae your words, to ha’e borne
the brunt o’ a stormy fortune, though you’re o’ gentle rank, and in
the morning o’ life, and no a grey carle like me, wha has warsled wi’
the warld sae lang an’ sair.”

“No one, whatsoever his station, is exempt from the frowns of fickle
Fortune,” said Eustace. “In sooth, the more exalted the station, the
more exposed is it to adverse blasts.”

“True, master, true,” responded the gaberlunzie. “The whirlwind, or
the levin’-bolt, that rives and scatters in flinders the sturdy oak o’
a hunder years, spares the wee bush that grows lowly at its root.”

“But how came you, who must have been a man of mettle in your prime,
to take to this wandering life?” questioned Eustace. “The world must
have gone ill with you.”

“Ay, master, just as it has gane ill wi’ mony a better man,” answered
the gaberlunzie, with a dry smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “I was
born and bred in a peasant’s cot in the Lothians, and mony a year I
spent in the service o’ my faither’s Laird. But service, you ken, is
nae inheritance: and I ne’er rase aboon the lot o’ a simple hind,
trauchling frae morning till nicht. I saw a’ my kith and kin laid
aneath the yird. Sae I flung the gaberlunzie-wallet ower my shouther,
and here I am.”

“And is the trade better to your liking and your profit?”

“Muckle better,” replied the wanderer. “I stravaig the country at my
ain will, and the calling thrives wi’ me. I use my e’en and lugs, and
aften see and hear what ithers dinna dream o’. A Border mosstrooper is
aye richt glad to pay for my tidings, whilk may shew him how to mak’ a
stroke o’ gude luck, or to save his neck frae the gallows. The same
wi’ a Border knicht or baron, wha may be threatened wi’ the onfa o’ an
enemy. Again, if a fair dame, shut up in her faither’s bower, has a
love message to send to the lad o’ her heart, wha sae able to carry
it, whether by word o’ mouth or in a sealed billet, as Willie
Harthill, the gaberlunzie? I pass free frae the clay-bigging to the
lordly ha’, and am aye welcome. Sae, master, the trade thrives weel,
and if the times were mair troubled, it micht thrive better--wha
kens?”

The wayfarer soon came within sight of the hamlet of Greenholm, which
lay nestled in a hollow among grassy hills, whose sides were dotted
with sheep, which shepherds and their dogs were collecting to fold for
the night.

Eustace was asking some question when Willie stopped him with--“Hush!
master. We are coming to haunted ground. Do you see thae
bourochs--thae bonnie green knowes, that are freshened by the
sweetest dew and blessed by the silveriest moonshine at midnicht
hours?”

“Haunted ground!” muttered Eustace, not without a faint feeling of
awe. He saw on one side of the path several gentle knolls, covered
with verdure, and environed by broom bushes like a hedge; and coming
nearer he perceived on the knolls some of those gracefully-formed
grassy circles which so long perplexed the ignorance, and confirmed
the superstition, of bygone ages. Tracing those mystic rounds, the
Fairies were believed to dance their gay galliards in the moonlight.
Our travellers paused a moment to contemplate the scene of Elfin
revelry.

“You’ll ha’e whiles seen the _gude neighbours_, master?” said the
gaberlunzie.

“Never,” answered Eustace; “the fairies are but figments of the
imagination.”

“Dinna ca’ them by that name, whatever you may think o’ them,” said
the other hastily. “You may freely ca’ them _gude neighbours_; but
_seelie wichts_ is the name they like best; for they say themsells--

    “’Gin you ca’ me _Imp_ or _Elf_,
    I rede you look weel to yourself:
    Gin you ca’ me _Fairy_,
    I’ll work you muckle tarrie:
    Gin _Gude neighbour_ you ca’ me,
    Then gude neighbour I will be:
    But gin you ca’ me _Seelie wicht_,
    I’ll be your friend baith day and nicht.”

“My forbears ha’e seen them: and I saw them twice mysel’ langsyne on
the green at the burn-side ahint our laird’s Grange. What mair proof
wad you seek? And as to their rings on the grass, the auld rhyme
says--na, we maun gang on a bit,” he said, checking himself, “we maun
get ayont the bourochs before I venture on a rhyme that ca’s the
seelie wichts by a wrang name.”

They jogged on beyond the knolls, and then Willie, believing himself
out of supernatural danger, recited the following words of
warning--which, however, he did not presume to aver were the
composition of some fairy versifier:--

    “He wha gaes by the fairy ring,
      Nae dule nor pine shall see;
    And he wha cleans the fairy ring,
      An easy death shall dee.
    But he wha tills the fairies’ green,
      Nae luck again shall ha’e;
    And he wha spills the fairies ring,
      Betide him want and wae;
    For weirdless days and weary nichts
      Are his till his dying day.”

Our travellers soon reached the outskirts of the village, which was
situated at the foot of a hill, with a shallow stream running in front
of the cottages, which all stood, in irregular order, on its farther
bank. A few old and gnarled trees raised their leafy heads above the
roofs. In the back-ground appeared a lofty square tower of the order
known on the Border as _Peels_ or _Peelhouses_, to which the
neighbouring cottagers usually resorted for protection against an
inroading enemy. The Peel had scarcely any windows save near the
battlemented roof; but the walls were pierced with many shot-holes,
and it was surrounded by a high and thick wall, with a strong portal.
In the vicinity was a mound, on which stood a moss-monolith or
stone-pillar, perhaps the last remnant of a Druidical circle, or
perhaps the memorial of some doughty warrior who fell in battle ages
before.

The hamlet looked poor and miserable, being composed of about a score
of clay-walled and thatched cottages, which, on the occasion of an
English inroad, would be unroofed and left empty, to let the foes work
what ravage they might; but there being little or nothing to burn, the
huts could be restored when the foray was over. The burn was bridged
here and there by old planks, and stepping-stones were also seen in
the water at different places. A troop of half-clad children romped
about the burn-side; and some old men sate at doors, in the evening
light, repairing rude implements of husbandry. When the two travellers
were perceived by the youngsters, they eyed them attentively, and
then, with a shrill outburst of delight, came running forward, and
danced about the gaberlunzie, like the very elves of whom he had been
speaking. He patted the heads of the girls, and chucked the chins of
the boys, saying, meanwhile, to Eustace--“The bairns a’ ken the
gaberlunzie. But are you kent here?”

“I am a stranger to the place,” answered Eustace.

Willie then addressed the merry group around him--“Enough o’ daffing,
bairns. Come awa’ and let me get into ane o’ your couthy hames; for I
am sair wearied this nicht wi’ lang travel.”

The imps set up another shout, and proceeded to escort the twain to
the village, where most of the cottagers were attracted to their doors
by the clamour.

“Weel, master,” said Willie, “will you condescend sae far as tae tak’
pat-luck wi’ me, or maun you ha’e a lodging for yoursel’?”

“One lodging will serve us both for the night,” answered Eustace. “I
am not proud, and I am glad of an honest companion. I neither know nor
care whether the people here recognise me; but recognition would do me
no harm. Meantime you can tell them, if required, that I had lost my
way before meeting with you.”

“And what name do you pass under?”

“Ruthven Somervil,” returned Eustace, without hesitation, having
previously decided on that adoption. The surname was an honourable one
on the Border, and had been so since the legendary times when an early
Somervil killed a serpent or dragon that kept its lair in a wild glen
of Linton parish in Roxburghshire--as the old rhyme commemorates:

    The wode Laird of Laristone
    Slew the worm of Worm’s Glen,
    And wan all Linton parochine.

“But,” added Eustace, “you need repeat the name to nobody.”

The cottagers greeted the gaberlunzie with kindly welcome; and the
dress of Eustace bespoke for him a respectful reception, no one
seeming to know who or what he was. A grey-headed sire and his dame
invited the travellers into their dwelling. Homely viands were set
before them, of which they partook with relish--Eustace being served
apart. When the meal was over, neighbours came in, and solicited
Willie to sing them some of his stock of songs. He complied, and a
full supply of nappy liquor being procured at Eustace’s expense,

    The nicht drave on wi’ sangs an clatter,
    And aye the ale was growing better.

When the jovial company broke up, the aged host showed Eustace into a
closet, furnished with a couch, and then bade the gaberlunzie ascend
by a trap-stair to the loft above, where he would find a sleeping
place. Eustace stretched himself on his couch, and slumber speedily
overtook him. He slept soundly until the morning sun, beaming on his
face, awoke him from strange dreams.



CHAPTER V.

    Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried--
      “Prepare ye all for blows and blood!
    Wat Tinlinn, from the Liddle-side,
      Comes wading through the flood.”
            --_Lay of the Last Minstrel._


When our two road-companions left their pallets and returned to the
kitchen or main-room of the cottage, the goodwife was setting out
materials for breakfast. The windows were wide open, admitting the
fresh breath of dewy morn to purify and sweeten the atmosphere that
had pervaded the domicile during the night. Early as was the hour, the
village was astir for the labours and duties of the new day, and the
horn of the cowherd who was driving the “milky mothers” to the
pastures--the singing of birds--the cawing of rooks--and the ceaseless
babble of the burn--formed a medley of sounds right cheerful to hear.
With fair appetite our wayfarers attacked the viands spread before
them; but ere they had finished their repast a sudden clamouring of
tongues and a trampling of horses made them pause and listen. Am I
pursued? thought Eustace--or, as we shall now call him, Ruthven
Somervil--and he and his companion rose, and going to a window, saw a
band of armed troopers riding slowly through the village, their
appearance causing a general commotion among its denizens. But at the
first glance our hero satisfied himself that the strangers were not
retainers of Hawksglen.

The better to observe the party, Harthill and the old host went out to
the door, but Ruthven remained at the window. The horsemen were seven
in number, jackmen or retainers of Laird or Baron. All wore strong
leathern “jacks” or doublets; iron bascinet caps or round helmets with
cheek plates, but no visors; and heavy jack boots with large spurs.
They were armed, after the usual fashion, with spears, swords, and
daggers--the spears being of the enormous length of nearly six ells,
according to the regulation in the Act of the Scottish Parliament of
2nd April, 1481. The foremost rider, the apparent leader of the party,
wore, in the front of his bascinet, a few sprigs of the golden broom,
which Ruthven knew was the cognizance or badge of Gilbert Lauder, a
grasping and restless laird, whose Peel was a number of miles distant.

“There maun be something in the wind,” said the gaberlunzie to his
host, “when gentle Edie Johnston is in the saddle sae early.”

Edie Johnston? Yea, the leader was the very man who had left the child
at Hawksglen gate! He looked much older now, older than perhaps he
actually was. Twenty years and more of a habitual course of “sturt and
strife” had done their work upon him: his complexion was darker, his
form more spare, and the scar on his cheek, which he would carry to
the grave with him, gave his countenance a settled and forbidding
gloom. Ruthven gazed at him with surprise, for, though he could not
remember having ever seen the man before, yet the face seemed one that
had frequently haunted his dreams, and now the figment was embodied to
his view.

Johnston, on coming up to the cottage, uttered an exclamation, and
halting with his men, leaned aside, and tapped the gaberlunzie
good-humouredly on the shoulder with his long lance, saying--“My
worthy crony! Hard to tell where friends may meet. Troth, I ha’ena
seen your blythesome face for near a twalmonth since yon nicht I fell
foul o’ you instead o’ gleyed Hecky Lapstane, the Selkirk souter; but
I hope you soon forgot the broil.”

“My cloured pow wasna sae soon forgotten,” answered Harthill. “But I
bore you nae grudge, kenning that you ettled at the souter’s croon and
no at mine.”

“Richt, Willie,” replied the trooper. “When the drink’s in, the wit’s
out--a saying as true as Gospel. But I was sair vexed next day when I
cam’ to my sober senses, and minded o’ what befell.”

“It was weel for you,” cried a village youth, on the other bank of the
burn, who was hacking wood; “it was weel for you that you had to do
wi’ souters and gaberlunzies, else you michtna seen the neist day.”

“Hooly, hooly, Dandie,” whispered a companion in the speaker’s ear.
“Dinna raise his ill bluid. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Hooly yoursel’,” returned the youth. “If a’ tales be true, he has
done ill to my kin, as weel as to fremit folk no far awa’. He canna
deny--and though he denies wha cares?--he whiles sell’d himsel’ to
our auld enemies ower the Border, and harried Scots land for them.”

“Ralph Kerr’s nowte were driven last Martinmas,” said another voice.
“Wha did that?”

“And Widow Janfarrie’s hoggs the Michaelmas before,” added a third.

It was evident that the gentle Johnston was in bad repute among some,
at least, of the Greenholm folks; and he was constrained to notice
their aspersions.

“What?” he ejaculated, with a sardonic grin, which showed that he had
lost some of his front teeth. “Are a’ the misdeeds on the Border to be
laid to my charge?”

“Your hand has been in a hantle o’ them,” retorted a fourth voice.

Edie’s eyes glowed with dusky fire, and shaking his spear, he
said--“If another foul word be spoken against me, by the mass! but
I’ll gi’e some o’ ye bluidy croons for your pains. Let the man that I
ha’e wranged stand forward, and I’ll answer him. If it werena that him
I serve and your ain Laird are hand and glove, I wad tak’ amends for
what has passed already.”

The mention of their own superior had a good effect upon the
traducers; for, one by one, they slunk away, muttering to themselves
what they did not venture to speak aloud.

“Cowardly tykes!” said Edie. “Weel did I ken that a word frae my lips
wad be worth mair than anither man’s blow.”

The gaberlunzie now stepped out from the doorway, and patted the neck
of Johnston’s nag, saying--“You wear Ballinshaw’s favour in your cap
again. I thocht that when you left his service, on a quarrel, it was
for gude an’ a’.”

“Sae I thocht, and sae I said,” answered Johnston. “But the Laird soon
found out that he couldna want me; for I had been to him as his richt
hand. He sent for me and southered up matters, and I put the bonnie
broom in my cap again.”

“And what’s your errand this morning, if ane may daur to speir?”

“A peacefu’ errand,” responded Edie. “Ballinshaw and Royston Scott o’
Altoncroft ha’e differed anent the marches o’ their lands. In my
judgment, a wheen spear-thrusts and sword-slashes wad ha’e decided the
dispute speedily and honourably, according to Border use and wont, and
I ga’e Ballinshaw my mind to that effect. But, by ill luck, Sir Robert
Home, the Shirra, got inkling o’ the affair, and sent word to baith
Lairds that if they broke the peace, he wad visit them baith wi’ the
King’s vengeance. On the ither hand, he advised them to appoint him as
arbiter atwixt them, and he wad decide justly on the plea.”

“He’s a worthy man Sir Robert,” said Willie. “Ever since he cam’ into
power in this shire, he has done his best to mak’ the law respected.”

“Law respected! whew!” exclaimed Edie, with a scoffing whistle. “Baith
Lairds swithered about coming to blows, and agreed to mak’ the Shirra
their arbiter, and to gi’e leal and true obedience to his award. They
are to meet him on the disputed ground this day at noon-tide: and I
ha’e been gaun the rounds, warning men that can mak’ aith in
Ballinshaw’s favour to attend at the place and hour appointed, and
bear soothfast testimony, as I am to do mysel’. Will you gang ower the
way? I’ll be glad to toom a tankard wi’ you after the sport.”

“Whaur’s the ground?”

“The meeting is to be at the Deadman’s Holm--ten lang mile awa.”

“I ken the place weel,” said the gaberlunzie, “and I’m a-mind to gang,
just as I gang to a’ gatherings whaur there’s chance o’ bountith and
gude cheer.”

“See that you keep tryst, Willie,” responded the gentle Johnston. “Now
lads,” he cried, “the day is advancing, and we maun mak’ speed. We
ha’e mair witnesses to warn.”

Instantly he and his band shook their bridles, spurred their horses,
and clattered at the gallop through the village. The gaberlunzie came
in from the door, and he and Ruthven proceeded to finish their morning
meal.

“Yon’s a dare-deevil.” said Willie. “He wad as soon drive cauld, cauld
steel through a man’s brisket as I cut up this black pudding”: and
then, in answer to Ruthven’s anxious enquiry, the wanderer related
what he knew of the gentle Johnston’s history: “Edie canna be muckle
blamed; for, like mony anither Border lad, he was brocht up to rough
living frae his young years--his faither being a famous reiver and
lifter till he met his death in a fray with the Warden’s men. Edie was
but a stripling when he was cuisten upon the world. For some time he
lived by his ain hand, like his forbears, but syne took service as a
common jackman, whiles on this side o’ the Border, whiles on the
ither--Edie caring only for the side that brocht him the best pay.
Mair nor ance he has rubbit shouthers wi’ the gallows, whilk, I fear,
will be his end.”

The gaberlunzie then began to suggest that our adventurer might
accompany him to the Deadman’s Holm to witness the proceedings of the
arbitration. After some dubiety, the youth, who had decided as yet on
no special destination, gave his consent, but deemed it absolutely
necessary that, in going to the meeting, he should adopt a disguise to
baffle recognition, and accordingly he requested his host to procure a
humble garb for him. What he wanted was obtained for a small sum of
money, and he donned a common dress, which was likely to suit his
purpose. Retaining only his sword and dagger, he left his cast attire,
with his hunting horn and spear, to be kept by the old villager until
reclaimed.

Everything being satisfactorily arranged, Ruthven and the wanderer
bade good-day to their host, who, being liberally rewarded for his
hospitality, stuffed Willie’s wallet with what victuals would suffice
for the day; and the strangely-assorted companions set forth.

The day was beautiful, the welkin pure as the brow of childhood, and
the earth robed in all the flowery freshness of the merry month of
May. The heart of the exile was lightened of its brooding despondency
by the sweet influences of Nature, and seemed to beat in unison with
the summer joy. But the relief was transient. Gloomy thoughts
returned, like dark clouds over a sunny sky, imparting a sadness to
his countenance, which, his fellow-traveller observing, he sought to
divert his mind by singing legendary ballads, and telling tales of
haunted ruins, fairies, and general diablerie--all which, if failing
in their true object, served to beguile the tedium of the way.

Travelling leisurely, our wayfarers, in a few hours, approached the
scene of the judicial meeting. A company of troopers and footmen, with
the Sheriff at their head, marched past, showing that the appointed
hour was drawing nigh. Our travellers, on reaching a sparse wood,
halted in the cool shade, and partook of refreshments from the
gaberlunzie’s wallet, which, being well stored, furnished a “feast of
good things,” and their drink was supplied by a slender streamlet that
flowed murmuring among the trees, and sparkling in the broken sunbeams
that glinted through the foliage overhead. After satisfying their
appetite, they pursued their route, and, having ascended an eminence,
descried a dark tower with turrets in the distance, which the
gaberlunzie said was the Keep of Ballinshaw, near which stretched a
wide expanse of level moorland, yellow with the broom and whin.

They quickened their pace, and soon heard an occasional winding of
horns and the loud voices of men, which directed their steps to a
broad hollow, or holm, on the verge of the moor farthest from the
tower of Ballinshaw, and traversed by a burn, the banks of which were
lined with aged saughs. There a considerable concourse of men had
assembled, partly armed, retainers and partly peasantry, straggled
about on both sides of the water, some of the former trotting up and
down on horseback, some lounging on the grass casting dice, whilst
their steeds grazed at random. In the midst of a well-appointed band
of jackmen appeared a knight in half-armour, Sir Robert Home, the
Sheriff, a man of middle age, with a grey beard. A young page attended
him, bearing aloft a spear with a gauntlet or glove on the point of
it, as the well-known border emblem of peace and amity. Behind their
superior stood the footmen of the party, some six Sheriff Officers or
“Serjeants,” as they are distinctively termed in the old Acts of the
Scottish Parliament. Their status was denoted by _white wands_ in
their hands; _blazons_, or medallions of brass, charged with the royal
arms, displayed upon their breasts; and _horns_ (for denouncing
rebels) hanging from their necks by iron chains; while, for greater
security in those troublous times, when law was so often defied, each
officer was armed with a sword, and wore an iron bascinet cap, and
gloves of mail.



CHAPTER VI.

    The times are wild; contention, like a horse
    Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose,
    And bears down all before him.

            _King Henry IV., Part Second._


Neither of the contending parties had yet appeared on the ground,
although the hour of meeting was rather past, as shown by the position
of the sun in the cloudless firmament. The Sheriff was indicating
signs of uneasiness at the delay. But now, on the farther confines of
the broomy moor, a dark, moving object was descried, which soon
resolved itself into a rider, and by and by into a monk, habited in
black frock and cowl, and mounted on a mule, which was trotting at an
easy pace. This was an ecclesiastic, who had been summoned from the
nearest religious house to assist in administering the judicial oath
to the witnesses at the arbitration. The breast of his frock was
bulged out by what had the appearance of a volume within it, which was
retained in its place by the cord encircling his waist. It was a
frequent custom of the time that priests went about the country, when
required, to perform the sacraments of matrimony and baptism, carrying
their missal in their breasts, and thereby acquiring the vulgar
appellation of _book-a-bosoms_. Thus, we are told, in the _Lay of the
Last Minstrel_, about the goblin page, when he discovered the magic
book which William of Deloraine carried, that

    Much he marvell’d a knight of pride
    Like a book-bosom’d priest should ride.

The monk’s mule bore the commonest caparisons, but several small bells
hanging at the bridle-reins, so that we may say of the rider, what old
Dan Chaucer said of his pilgrim-father on the merry journey to
Canterbury shrine, that

    When he rode, men might his bridle hear
    Gingling, in a whistling wind, as clear
    And eke as loud as doth the chapel bell.

The dark brother rode up to the Sheriff, who, with a courteous salute,
desired him to take position by his side.

Ere much longer time had fled a company of horsemen arrived--Lauder of
Ballinshaw and retainers, prominent among which last was the gentle
Johnston. Such of the party as were intended for witness-bearing
dismounted. Ballinshaw was a wiry, short-statured man, bearing his
advanced years well; but his sallow and shrivelled visage had an air
of avarice and duplicity, which was attempted to be hidden under an
evident mask of careless candour. Offering his hand to the Sheriff, he
delivered himself as follows, in a wheezing, jog-trot tone:--

“My humble service, Sir Robert, to uttermost power. I’m a wee ahint
the appointed time; but some o’ my witnesses were slack in coming
forward; though I’m glad and proud to think that you’ll find them a’
leal and true men that wadna forswear themsel’s for a King’s ransom.
Gude kens! I dinna wish to wheedle ony man oot o’ his richts, far less
my neighbour, Royston Scott, though he has lang borne enmity to me
without cause. I see I’m before-hand wi’ him: he’s no’ on the field
yet.”

“No,” answered the Sheriff, “and if he delays much longer, I shall
adjourn the meeting to another day.”

“He’s a thrawart tyke, as I ken to my cost,” replied Ballinshaw,
shaking his head. “We micht ha’e lived in gude neighbourhood, and
settled a’ disputes ower a friendly flagon; but na--he wad carry
a’thing ower my head, kenning that I was a man o’ peace. I durstna
hunt ower the ground ayont the burn. He slauchtered my hounds, chased
my serving-men, and vowed that if I mysel’ daured to set foot across
the holm, he wad be my death. Now, he ne’er had a shadow o’ richt to
the ground; for, time out o’ mind, my forbears hunted ower it to the
foot o’ the hill yonder, without let or hindrance.”

“And I presume you are possessed of legal evidence to prove your
claim?” said the Sheriff. “Charters, and so forth?”

“Deil a scrap o’ write ha’e I, my lord--mair’s the pity,” responded
Lauder, feigning a smile. “Ance in a day there was a muckle
iron-banded kist, panged fu’ o’ musty parchments, that stood in the
closet o’ the south turret; but a’e nicht the closet took fire, and
kist and charters were burned to eizels, and gaed up in the air like
peelings o’ ingans. Still, my witnesses are passing gude; and, Sir
Robert, let me say--”

“They shall be heard in due course,” said the Sheriff. “Defer your
statements till the proper time. I cannot listen to either party until
both are present.”

“That’s gude law; for ilka man’s tale is gude till anither’s be
tauld,” returned Ballinshaw. “But what I ha’e yet to say is meant for
your private ear.”

“My duty is to act publicly, not privately,” said the Sheriff; but not
willing to be harsh, he added--“If what you wish to say does not
concern the case in hand, I am ready to hear you. Say on, and be
brief.”

Ballinshaw took hold of the knight’s bridle, and led him slowly away
out of earshot of the assemblage. “Sir Robert,” said the crafty Laird,
coming to a stand, and speaking low, “as you cannot but be satisfied
in your ain mind that I am likeliest, frae auld use and wont, to ha’e
the richtfu’ claim to the disputed ground--”

“Stay,” interrupted the Sheriff, angrily. “This still affects the
arbitration. Would you have me to prejudge the case? I cannot, in
conscience, listen to you.”

“A moment, Sir Robert, a moment,” implored Lauder, holding tightly by
the bridle. “I was thinking that, as you will mind, when we were baith
in our youthy days--though I had the advantage o’ you in years--how
you whiles cam’ to Ballinshaw wi’ your faither; and how I took you
amang the bosky knowes to gather brambles and blaeberries; and
sometimes made a fishingwand and tackle for you, and sorted your bow
and arrows, and helpit you to climb trees for nests--ah! thae were
lichtsome days: now, I say, I was thinking that maybe for langsyne and
its friendship, you could ca’ me through the present troublesome
business wi’ little din--and I wad mak’ up a purse--”

“Hah! you would pollute the source of justice by a foul bribe?”
ejaculated the Sheriff, frowning deeply.

“Siller can do nae man harm,” said Lauder, with an insinuating smile.
“You ken the proverb--‘There’s a time to gley, and a time to look
even’: and wherefore shouldna a man gley for the sake o’ his ain
pouch? Far be it frae my wish to wrang ony man; but Royston Scott has
lang been kent as ane that cares na a whistle on his thumb for a’ the
laws and shirras in braid Scotland; and it wadna be amiss in you, Sir
Robert, to gi’e an auld friend a feather out o’ sic a corbie’s wing. I
hear you’re pressed by Ben Magog, the Jew of Berwick, for some siller
he lent you on bond. Settle this business in my favour, and I’ll help
to clear you o’ the Jew’s grip.”

The Sheriff, in silent scorn, released his rein from Lauder’s hold. At
that moment, the blast of a horn pealed from the adjacent hill, and a
cry arose--“Yonder is Altoncroft at last, wi’ a sturdy clump o’ spears
at his back!” The Sheriff, avoiding Lauder’s renewed clutch at his
bridle, rode back to his train.

The summit of the height was crowned by a troop of horsemen, whose
arms and armour flashed in the sunlight. They numbered double
Ballinshaw’s party, which fact caused him to look nervous, and to
whisper, in an agitated voice, to the gentle Johnston, who, with a
stout aspect, strove to reassure him. The approaching band spurred
hard down the grassy slope of the hill, and traversing the low ground
like the shadow of a flying cloud, soon reached the rendezvous and
drew bridle. Altoncroft was a man in the vigour of life, and of a tall
and muscular figure, with a harsh cast of features, and fierce grey
eyes. He wore a leathern jack, plated with mail on the breast and the
sleeves, and a steel cap, from which a long red plume drooped down his
back, whilst his weapons were lance, sword, and dagger.

“You are late in keeping tryst,” said the Sheriff.

“’Twill not deny,” answered Altoncroft, leaving his saddle and making
a humble obeisance. “But, sooth to tell, my knaves broached a cask of
double ale yesternight, and were loth to leave the dregs this morning.
I crave your pardon, my lord Sheriff, and kiss your hand. And to the
matter before us--I bring witnesses who, I think, will clearly
establish my rights. I desire to have a free and fair decision, and
will submit to it when it is pronounced; but I say frankly that if
injustice be done me--”

“There shall be no injustice done either party,” responded the
Sheriff. “Proceed we to business: and I trust that no broil will break
the amity of our meeting, but that all will respect this emblem of
peace,” pointing to the spear and glove, which his page held aloft.
“Time wears on, and we shall proceed. Sergeants, proclaim and fence
our court of arbitration.”

One of the sergeants blew his horn thrice, and then made the
proclamation, and “fenced the court” (as the phrase was) against all
disturbance, which was denounced under high pains and penalties. The
contending parties, mostly dismounted, were arranged on either side of
the Arbiter, who elected to hear Altoncroft’s evidence first.
Altoncroft, like his opponent, had no documents of any kind to
produce--his charters and sasines having long become non-existent, so
that his case depended entirely upon what lawyers call parole proof.
The monk, now on foot, and holding open his book, which was an old
manuscript copy of the Gospels and richly illuminated, advanced to
discharge the duty of administering the usual oath to the witnesses.
This he did with all solemnity. Each man, when called in rotation,
swore, with his right hand laid upon the sacred volume, and afterwards
partook of a morsel of bread, and pronounced the imprecation that if
he told an untruth the morsel might become mortal poison--a form
probably borrowed from the Hebrew judicial procedure with the “water
of jealousy.”

The bulk of Altoncroft’s proof, as expiscated chiefly by questions
from the Sheriff, amounted somewhat to this--that the Laird’s
predecessors seemed to have always regarded the disputed ground,
embracing a wide portion of the moorland on one side of the Deadman’s
Holm, as their own property, the burn being, to a considerable extent,
the line of march. There were flaws in the witness-bearing, and much
of it did not hang well together, as being inconclusive and sometimes
contradictory hearsay. But Ballinshaw appeared to consider the proof
as possessing a good deal of weight. When it came to his turn to
adduce his witnesses, he whispered to Johnston, who was to be the
first sworn--“Now comes the pinch, Edie; and for Gudesake dinna fail
me! Thae Altoncroft rogues ha’e said ower muckle, and we maun damnify
them, else we’re lost. Dinna you mind the bit aith; it’s just mere
wind out o’ your mouth. Ne’er scruple, lad, in your master’s service.
A fu’ purse aye heals a troubled conscience. Stand up stoutly for my
richt, and ding them a’ doon. The lave o’ our men will follow you like
a wheen sheep louping a dyke.”

“I daurna do mair than I ha’e promised, Laird, though it were for my
ain faither,” responded Edie, shaking his head. “But trust me, what I
promised, and what I’ll swear in the face o’ the sun, will bear you
out. Tak’ nae fear.”

The Sergeant’s horn sounding again, Edie, assuming the firmest
demeanour he could, laid down his spear, and presented himself for
examination. He took the oath and the ordeal with becoming gravity,
and then proceeded to depone how it consisted with his belief that
the ground in question belonged to Ballinshaw. Edie swore that he had
frequently heard his father, grandfather, and other discreet men, who
knew the locality, say so: that this was the common understanding of
the country: that he himself had often seen Ballinshaw hunt over the
said portion of moorland. “And to make siccar,” added he, “if your
lordship will please to walk ower the ground alang wi’ me, I will
point out the true marches as they were aye considered.”

This was the most matter-of-fact proposal which had been as yet
offered, and it was readily accepted. Edie took his way, accompanied
by nearly the whole of the assemblage. He made a wide circuit,
inclining sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left. “The auld
march rins this way, according to what I’ve heard, and according to
what I ken,” he repeatedly deponed. “I’m walking here on the land o’
Ballinshaw. I swear, on soul and conscience, that the yird aneath my
feet is Ballinshaw’s sure and certain.”

In this way he traversed a large space of the moorland, greatly to the
satisfaction of his master, whose cunning eyes sparkled with joy. But
the fiery Laird of Altoncroft, unable to control his chagrin longer,
suddenly confronted the witness and bade him halt. The undaunted
Johnston obeyed, folding his arms, and giving his interrupter a
sarcastic scowl.

“Do you, sirrah, dare to swear that what you are pointing out are the
true boundaries of my lands?” demanded Altoncroft.

“What cause is there to doubt his word?” cried Ballinshaw, pressing to
the support of his hopeful witness. “Let the worthy Shirra judge.”

“I tell you, Altoncroft,” said the witness, drawing himself up to his
full height; “I tell you, as I ha’e sworn, that all alang the yird o’
Ballinshaw’s land has been aneath my feet. Will that content you?”

“Mis-sworn villain!” ejaculated Altoncroft, furiously.

“I’m nae mis-sworn villain,” retorted Johnston: “and were you and me
here alane, wi’ only the broom-bushes around us, I wad gar you eat
back your foul words. I ha’e seen your back before this day, and I may
see it again.”

Altoncroft, stung by the retort, thrust his spear at the speaker’s
body, piercing the iron-plated jack. Johnston uttered a yell of
mingled rage and pain, and staggering back under the shock, vainly
attempted to unsheath his sword, and then dropped to the ground at
full length. An applauding cheer from one party of the spectators, and
a vengeful cry from another, boded a general conflict. Swords were
drawn, and spears lowered, and warlike slogans arose amidst the
tumult. Altoncroft, having withdrawn his lance, would have repeated
his thrust, had not Ruthven Somervil, on the impulse of the moment,
started forward, and baring his blade, strode across the prostrate man
to save him from further assault. A dozen spears were levelled at the
youth’s breast, and as many advanced to protect him. The Sheriff
spurred his horse into the press, and commanded all to keep the peace.
His command had the effect of enforcing a pause.



CHAPTER VII.

    Aft trifles big mishanters bring,
    Frae whilk a hunder mair may spring;
    An’ some, wha thrawart tempers ha’e,
    Aft stand unkent in their ain way;
    But aye, to guard against a coup,
    Fowk should look weel afore they loup.
            --_Richard Gall_--“_The Tint Quey._”

       *       *       *       *       *

    The fish shall never swim the flood,
      Nor corn grow through the clay,
    If the fiercest fire that ever was kindled
      Twine me and Rothiemay.
           --_Ballad_--“_The Burning of Frendraught._”


The timely interposition of the Sheriff prevented the commission of
more violence. “Back! Altoncroft!” cried he, whilst his men surrounded
the fallen trooper, whom Ballinshaw, with trembling arms, was
endeavouring to raise. “Draw off your followers, Altoncroft,”
continued Sir Robert. “You have broken Border faith, and insulted the
representative of the law and the King.”

Altoncroft, sullenly sheathing his dagger, answered with a growl--“The
audacious falsehoods of this varlet would have moved patient Job; and
I am not to be blamed.”

“I swore no falsehoods, but gave leal and soothfast witnessing,”
retorted Johnston, who was now resting on his left elbow; “and this
I’ll also swear, that next time we meet in a fair field we shall not
part thus,” shaking his gauntleted right hand at his enemy.

“Come awa’ oot o’ this sturyfyke, master,” whispered the gaberlunzie
to Ruthven. “You stand in deadly peril; for Royston Scott is nae craw
to shoot at. Come awa’.”

He succeeded in drawing Ruthven out of the tumult. Altoncroft obeyed
the Sheriff by leading his men back some space, and so allowed his
victim’s comrades to gather around him and do what they could to
staunch his wound. Under the impression that the gentle Johnston was
dying, the attendant priest pressed through the confusion, knelt on
the grass at his side, and holding up a crucifix, prepared to shrive
him; but Edie scouted the notion that his end was near.

“Dinna fear for me, holy father,” he said, smiling grimly. “As broken
a ship has come to land; and Death and me winna shake hands at this
time o’ day. And never think that I have perjured mysel’; for the sin
o’ perjury is not on my conscience. The ground is not Ballinshaw’s,
you say? I never made faith that it is. Bethink ye, holy father, o’ my
words. I swore that I stood on my master’s ground; and so I did. Pull
aff my boots, and you will find, in the soles o’ them, an inch or twa
o’ earth from the yard o’ Ballinshaw tower. _That_ saves my
conscience, and makes the matter but a jest: so if I am to die, I
winna die with a falsehood in my mouth.” He finished with a hollow
laugh at the deception which he had practised.

At this juncture a horseman, with the royal cognizance, the rampant
red lion, emblazoned on his breast, galloped up the side of the
stream, and made directly towards the Sheriff, to whom he delivered a
sealed packet. The knight cut asunder the silken strings that bound
it, broke the seal, and opening the packet, eagerly scanned the paper
which it contained. His cheek reddened, his eyes sparkled, and he bit
his nether lip, then deliberately re-folding the document, which
seemed to have given him both surprise and mortification, he handed a
few coins to the messenger, who, after making dutiful acknowledgment,
turned his horse, and rode off as rapidly as he had come.

“A strange revolution of Fortune’s wheel,” whispered the Sheriff to
his chief attendant. “The King’s Grace has appointed George Hepburn,
the kinsman of Altoncroft, Sheriff in my room, and commends me to
resign my office into his hands without delay, for which purpose he is
to be at Jedburgh to-morrow at noon. This is the work of my unfriends
at our fickle Sovereign’s court. Altoncroft cannot yet know of the
change, else he would spurn my authority and provoke strife:
therefore, I must dismiss him at once. I should have arrested him when
he stabbed the witness; but I feared that such action would only
embroil the business still further; and I am now glad it was not
done.”

The Sheriff went over to Royston Scott, and said that after what had
happened on the field, the arbitration proceedings behoved to be
adjourned to some future day, and also enjoined him to retire, and to
keep the peace. Altoncroft obeyed, and departed with his followers.

“There’s the main danger blawn ower,” said the gaberlunzie, viewing
with much satisfaction the rude Laird’s retreat. “We winna toom a
tankard wi’ the gentle Johnston the nicht; and wha kens whether he’ll
see the morn? We’ll tak’ the road, wi’ your leave, master, as lang as
the play is fair.”

What road?--whither were they going? Ruthven indicated his intended
destination, but did not desire to return to Greenholm, where he had
changed his dress; and he added that he wished his route to be taken,
so far as practicable, by paths not commonly frequented, to avoid any
other mischance. The gaberlunzie was ready to accompany him by any
route.

They left the Deadman’s Holm without attracting much notice, and were
speedily in the midst of solitudes. As the day wore to its close, they
made a halt on the edge of a wood, and what Harthill’s wallet yet
contained, in the shape of viands, formed a substantial repast. This
done, the journey was resumed while the sun was setting.

    How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds,
    Like the blood he predicts.

Soon, through the fading lustre above Sol’s ocean-bed, Hesperus, the
lover’s star, sparkled brightly. Our wayfarer’s path now led near a
sluggish stream which skirted a hilly chain, and beyond the heights
lay a village, where, as Harthill said, they might find lodgement for
the night; but it had this disadvantage, that it was part of the
barony pertaining to Altoncroft’s kinsman, the newly-made Sheriff,
and, therefore, Ruthven thought that their more prudent course would
be to seek a less questionable place of rest. But, in short, to tell
the truth, he was secretly desirous of parting, as soon as might be,
with Willie, and of pursuing his course alone to Berwick, where he
might obtain shipping for France--a country which afforded
opportunities, to friendless and adventurous young Scots like himself
of carving out their fortunes with their swords.

The twilight darkened, and the path grew wilder. Occasionally the
harsh screams of birds of prey smote on the ear, and seemed to chill
the gaberlunzie’s blood.

“I dinna like the cries o’ thae birds ava--they aye bode ill,” he
said. “Nae doubt they think to pyke our banes belyve. Shue! shue! ye
evil emissaries! Our Lady help us! was yon a groan? Heard you
naething, master?”

“It sounded like the fall of a fragment of rock from yonder cliff,”
answered Ruthven, with indifference.

Harthill shook his head, as if dubious of the explanation. His mind
engrained with superstitious frailty, he began to hear uncanny sounds
all around him. Every sough of the wind among the brackens was a dread
presage. Hurrying his steps, he frequently left Ruthven in the rear;
and to every half-jocular remonstrance of the youth, whose strength of
limb was fast failing, Willie had but one apology:--

“It’s a bogley part this after dark. I’ve heard as mony stories aboot
ugsome sichts seen here as there’s teeth in my head. I wadna put ower
a nicht here, no for the crown o’ Scotland. Haste you, master, haste
you! It’s for your ain gude.”

Without doubt he meant well. But Ruthven flagged more and more, and,
after climbing a grassy eminence, which was surmounted by the ruins of
a place of strength, he protested that, happen what might, he would go
no farther.

“You’re in jest, master?” cried Harthill, scratching the side of his
head in sheer vexation.

“We can rest here till daylight,” replied Ruthven. “The place is lone,
and therefore safe.”

“Safe?” echoed Willie, with somewhat of asperity. “If we be sae daft
as to rest here, we may ne’er see daylicht. Be advised, master, be
advised.”

Ruthven, however, was not to be advised. He advanced towards the ruin.
The gaberlunzie followed with laggard pace, and shrank back when an
owl started out, and, hooting dolefully, flew over their heads.

“There’s a warning!” ejaculated Willie. “The place is fu’ o’ uncanny
things. Come back, for ony sake.”

But Ruthven still advanced. The ruin, in its palmy days, had consisted
of a massive square tower of two storeys above the ground floor, with
battlemented roof, and surrounded by an outer wall, which was now
broken down to heaps of rubbish, overgrown with coarse vegetation. The
roof had fallen in, and so had both floors, leaving only a shell of
crumbling, grim walls: the courtyard was miry: and the arched portal
preserved no vestige of the iron-bound door which had once barred
passage. As Ruthven was about to pass inward, he was stayed for a
moment by the almost hysterical entreaties of his companion, who now
assumed a tone of wailing.

“I shall lodge here till morning,” answered the youth determinedly.
“If anything earthly molests me, I carry a stout heart and a trusty
blade; and unearthly things I fear not.”

The gaberlunzie held up his hands in deprecation of such a foolhardy
resolve; but at length he said--“Aweel, master, a wilfu’ man maun ha’e
his ain way, and I maun leave you for the nicht. May a’ haly saints
watch ower you! I’ll gang-on to the neist bigging, and in the morning
I’ll come back; but I fear the morning winna find you a living wicht.”

“Never fear; but do as you say,” responded Ruthven. “Take this small
guerdon”--bestowing some money. “You’ll find me in the morning hale
and sound. Good-night, and good luck.”

The gaberlunzie was loth to part; but his superstitious nature
prevailed, and he took leave, reiterating his promise to return in the
morning.

Ruthven entered the ruined pile. The interior was heaped with fallen
stones and debris. Casting his eye upward, as from the bottom of a
deep well, he saw the dim welkin overhead, which was becoming
sprinkled with golden cressets.

    Star after star, from some unseen abyss,
    Came through the sky, like thoughts into the mind,
    We know not whence.

Some square apertures in the walls, which once were windows, were
partly choked with grass: a narrow stone stair had given access to the
first storey, but only a few of the lower steps remained intact: the
air felt damp and chill, and the pervading silence was like that of a
sepulchre. Ruthven weariedly sat down on a hillock of ruin close to
the portal, and bending his face upon his hands, fell into a reverie,
which eventually lapsed into troubled slumber.

When he awoke from a confused dream, trembling with cold, all was dark
around him. He arose and went out into the courtyard to look at the
sky. It was cloudless, and bright with the celestial host; and a gusty
breeze blew from the west. As he turned in that direction, he
perceived, upon the verge of the horizon, a glimmering light, which
rose and fell alternately, but in short space grew into a broad and
steady glare. Was “yon red glare the western star?” or was it “the
beacon-blaze of war?” Whatever it was, it speedily became an intense
mass of flame, shedding a lurid gleam on earth and heaven.

As Ruthven watched the mysterious fire, the clatter of horses
approaching from the west struck his ear. He receded into the portal,
and drew his sword. In a few moments several horsemen, riding in
disorder, broke dimly on his view as they ascended the height. Up they
came: they urged their panting steeds over the rubbish of the wall,
and drew rein in the courtyard. They were five in number, all wearing
warlike harness, and seemed to have fled from an unsuccessful fight.
Four dismounted, but the remaining one kept his saddle, and gazed back
to the distant blaze, which was now sinking.

“Woe worth this nicht, that has seen mair ruin wrought than can be
repaired in a lang life time!” ejaculated this rider, wringing his
hands. “That cruel spoiler! that bluid-thirsty riever! Curses on him
that wad fire an auld man’s house aboon his head!”

Ruthven recognised the voice as that of Lauder of Ballinshaw.

“A stranger here! a lurking enemy!” exclaimed one of the party, spying
Ruthven in the doorway; but instantly Ruthven called out that he was
no enemy but a friend to Ballinshaw.

“By St. Bryde! this is the brave lad that defended our Edie when he
fell!” cried the man, “Of a surety he is a friend.”

Ruthven, assured of safety, stepped out of the portal, and sheathing
his brand, hastened to the old Laird’s side, inquiring what had
befallen; but the question had to be thrice repeated ere Lauder seemed
to hear and comprehend it, and then he started, and peering down into
Ruthven’s face, exclaimed--“Wha is this?”

“The stranger who defended our Edie,” said the retainer who had
previously spoken.

“Indeed!” said Ballinshaw, in a vague way, and again directing his eye
towards the fading fire. “See yonder what’s befaun. Bluidshed and
murder! Ruth and ruin! A’ is lost--the airn kist fu’ o’ merks in the
secret closet ahint the spence--the candlesticks and the plate that my
great-grandsire brought frae the Low Countries--a’ plundered--a’ gane.
But how cam’ you here, lad?”

“Night overtook me on my way, and I sought shelter here, where scant
shelter there is,” replied Ruthven.

“We seek refuge, too,” said the retainer; “but if Altoncroft be in
pursuit o’ us--”

“Altoncroft!” cried Ruthven. “Is he the ravager?”

“Ay,” returned the man. “His hatred has burnt up Ballinshaw. When we
reached hame yesterday, word was heard that our fickle King had
appointed Altoncroft’s kinsman Sheriff, in room o’ the just Sir Robert
Home; and we heard the news like our death-knell. Dreading the warst,
as weel we micht, we prepared the auld house for defence--armed every
man and callant--and keepit strict watch. Afore midnicht, Altoncroft
cam’ wi’ a’ his power. There was a fierce and deadly struggle; but he
brak’ in wi’ his ruthless band, and we were driven out, and the place
was fired. The flames lichted our way as we fled.”

“Did Edie Johnston perish in the struggle?” asked Ruthven.

“Not that I can tell,” said the retainer. “When the enemy brak’ in, we
lowered Edie into the subterranean passage that leads frae the ha’ to
the middle o’ the garden; but if the villains discovered his hiding
place, they would gi’e him but short shrift.”

     NOTE.--A parallel to the catastrophe of the arbitration is
     recorded in Sir John Sinclair’s “_Statistical Account of
     Scotland_” (Vol. V., 153), as having occurred in the parish of
     Menmuir, in the county of Forfar:--

      “Two lairds quarrelled about their marches, and witnesses were
      brought to swear to the old boundaries. One of these
      chieftains, provoked to hear his opponent’s servant declare,
      on oath, that he then stood on his master’s ground, pulled a
      pistol from his belt, and shot him dead on the spot. It was
      found that to save his conscience he had earth in his shoes
      brought from his laird’s lands.”

“A’ my strength is blasted like a flower o’ the field, and a’ my gear
gane like snaw aff a dyke,” moaned Ballinshaw, again wringing his
hands. “But the enemy may be hard ahint us, and we maun on and
awa’--on and awa’.”

“Our horses are blawn, and we maun gi’e them some minutes’ rest,” said
the retainer, languidly laying himself on a heap of rubbish.

Scarcely had they thought of rest when the clatter of hoofs sounded in
the glen below. Ballinshaw started in affright, and the next moment
had fallen from his steed, a victim of apoplexy.

“’Tis Royston Scott!” exclaimed one of his retainers. “We are but dead
men!”

The pursuers, headed by Altoncroft, rapidly began to ascend the hill.
Leading his followers, Scott encouraged them in their work with
promise of reward. Ruthven Somervil watched their movements, and,
lifting a large stone, cast it down upon Altoncroft with so sure an
aim that it struck horse and man to the earth. For the moment there
was panic among Scott’s supporters, but an instant later, having left
their leader to recover as best he might, they made for the crest of
the hill, all eyes ablaze with vengeance against the youth who had
thrown their master.

Ruthven wisely decided on flight. Entering the ruined fort, he dragged
himself up on the broad sill of one of the windows, and leapt upon the
soft, boggy ground beneath, seized one of the horses, and galloped
away. Shouts and cries were behind him; he pricked his horse with his
dagger for want of spurs, and dashed among the mountains, never
drawing rein until he considered himself safe from the reach of the
anger of the house of Altoncroft.



CHAPTER VIII.

    “The star of the unconquered will,
      He rises in my breast,
    Serene and resolute and still,
      And calm and self-possessed.”


Little did Ruthven Somervil reck that Edie Johnston, whom he had so
valiantly defended, was the man who had slipped him through the portal
of Hawksglen on that long-past night. Had a suspicion, even hinting at
that, dawned upon him, he would have instantly sought out Edie and
tried to learn from him something of his descent. With Johnston and
kindred spirits he was destined to have much in common, but the
question of his parentage was never mentioned in their hearing.

Ruthven found refuge at Hunterspath, a notorious Border-raiders’
stronghold. The tidings he brought of the outrage on Ballinshaw, and
his modest recital of the part he himself had played in recent events,
won the sympathy and admiration of the mosstroopers, and he soon
proved his daring before their own eyes. None was more fearless than
Ruthven, no sword on all the Borders was sharper than his, and when,
at the end of two years, the Chief of Hunterspath went down to his
robber grave as the result of a treacherous thrust from a foeman’s
spear, Ruthven Somervil was hailed as his successor. To him was
assigned the Captaincy by common consent, and never a man went back on
his choice.

The daring life of a mosstrooper did not ill agree with Ruthven’s
valiant spirit. He was never more in his element than when leading his
men across the English Border on some mission of pillage, and never
prouder than when he withdrew into the stronghold of Hunterspath to
share his spoils with his companions.

But sometimes, when alone, a kindly thought of Eleanor Elliot brought
a mist to his eyes as he considered how ill-suited a Border-raider was
to be a mate of such a gentle lady. From the topmost turret of his own
keep he would gaze in the direction of Hawksglen, and try to discern
the towers of the ancient castle where his childhood and youth had
been passed.

“Some day, some day,” he would sigh, “God grant that I may clasp my
fair angel to my breast.”

Since the morning when he had said good-bye to Sir James and Lady
Elliot, more than three years ago, no word had ever passed between him
and Eleanor. But something told him that the fair daughter of
Hawksglen, who had looked into his eyes with the eyes of affection,
was true to his undeclared love, and would yet welcome him to her
arms. Had he known that Lady Elliot was assiduously endeavouring to
arrange a marriage between Eleanor and Sir Anthony Maxwell of
Rutherwell, it would have filled him with alarm, but even knowledge of
that kind would not have shaken his faith in the companion of his
early years. One summer evening, when he was more than usually moody,
the long-desired opportunity of seeing Hawksglen came in his way. Edie
Johnston burst in upon the mosstroopers.

“The English loons are owre again!” he exclaimed. “Sir Dacre de
Ermstein and twa hunder o’ his men are spreading disaster on every
hand. I hear that Elliot’s place is the next mark for them.”

“Elliot? Hawksglen?” queried Ruthven, as he sprang to his feet.

“Ay, the very same,” replied Edie.

“Then to-night we must strike a blow for the honour of Scotland. The
quarrel of Elliot shall be our quarrel, and God help the English loon
that fa’s in our way.”

A few minutes later, at the head of his followers, Ruthven Somervil
was advancing rapidly towards Hawksglen. Already news of the attack
from the English enemy had spread in the district, and barons and
their retainers, from different quarters, had assembled to help
Elliot, and resist their common foe. When Ruthven and his men appeared
upon the scene the conflict was at its height. Sir Anthony Maxwell,
cheered by the thought that Eleanor’s hand might be the reward of his
valour, fought nobly for the house of Elliot. But it was evident that
Sir Dacre de Ermstein was to be victor. Once or twice the defenders
had been forced back, and the spirits of the garrison began to droop.
Then came the turn in fortune’s wheel. The reivers burst through the
lines, and changed the fate of Hawksglen.

Another half-hour and the defeat of the English was complete. Horse
and foot broke away from the fatal conflict, and fled for refuge in
every direction. A murmur of rage broke from the lips of Ermstein, and
he turned to one of his followers.

“This robber chief--his name?” he demanded.

“Ruthven Somervil. He keeps the Tower of Hunterspath with a powerful
and desperate band.”

“Ruthven Somervil,” said the knight slowly; “he shall be remembered.
Chance may yet throw vengeance into my power. But Elliot may thank his
robber allies, for, had not they come to his aid, the flag of Dacre de
Ermstein would now have been floating triumphantly over the towers of
Hawksglen.”

Giving vent to his anger in these and similar words, the English
knight withdrew his forces, and retired in the direction of the
Border. The raiders of Hunterspath, greedy of booty, did not hesitate
to despoil the English dead, and went about their business, while the
servants of Hawksglen succoured those who had been wounded in defence
of their house.

Sir James Elliot invited Maxwell, and others who had come to his
relief, to partake of his hospitality, and Lady Elliot was most
assiduous in her attentions to the guests.

“The chief of Hunterspath,” she said to her husband, as she noticed
that Ruthven was not in the banqueting hall.

“Ay; I had almost forgotten,” returned Sir James, as he went in search
of the mosstrooper.

A moment later he held his breath in wonder: Eleanor and Ruthven were
in conversation in the courtyard. The mosstrooper’s visor was still
down, as it had been during the fight. Sir James approached.

“You will drink to the defeat of our foes?” he said.

“Nay, Sir James,” and the voice sounded strangely familiar in his ear.
“With Sir Dacre de Ermstein vowing vengeance against me I have other
things to think of. But judge me not a churl,” he went on, as he took
Eleanor’s hand; “one touch from your daughter’s fingers, and one
glance from her flashing eye, are reward enough for the Captain of
Hunterspath.”



CHAPTER IX.

    Wha’s friends, wha’s faes, in this cauld warld,
      Is e’en richt ill to learn;
    But an evil e’e hath looked on thee,
      My bonnie, bonnie bairn.

    _A. M’Laggan._


When Ruthven mounted his steed, and passed the gate of Hawksglen, he
found that all his followers, with the exception of Edie Johnston, had
retired. Laden with booty, they had made tracks for Hunterspath, well
knowing that their Captain was able to defend himself from the attack
of any English straggler.

“It’s a bonnie sicht,” said Edie, as he indicated the English dead,
“them a’ lying heids and thraws. An’ it was a bonnier sicht to see the
lads gae aff wi’ the plunder.”

But Ruthven was in no mood for conversation. He had learned from
Eleanor that Lady Elliot was desirous of marrying her to Sir Anthony
Maxwell, and he well knew that Maxwell’s valour that day must
have greatly advanced him in the eyes of Hawksglen. Deep in
thought--almost unconscious of the presence of Edie--he rode on,
while the shades of night descended upon them.

By and by the friendly light of a wayside tavern burst upon their
view, and roused Ruthven from his stupor. Edie watched the Captain’s
eyes light upon the inn.

“It’s dry wark ridin’ in silence,” he ventured to remark.

“Ay, Edie, ay, but I had thoughts that kept me frae thirst.”

“Ye’ve been unco quiet sin’ ye left Hawksglen. What ails ye, gin I may
mak’ bold to speir?”

They had alighted from their steeds. Ruthven put his hand on Edie’s
shoulder.

“Twa men and a’e woman,” he said, in a low tone.

“The auld complaint,” answered Edie; “put yer sword in him. Wha is
he?”

“Sir Anthony Maxwell.”

“Him that ettles to mairry Elliot’s dochter?”

“Ay, the same. And, Edie, I love the lass. I lived--it’s a secret, and
I give it to you alone--for twenty years at Hawksglen, and I loved
Eleanor from childhood.”

“Ay, twenty ’ear,” repeated Edie, “you’re the lad--”

“That was left one night with nothing but this,” and he touched a
little golden reliquary that hung round his neck, “to tell who I was.”

Edie looked keenly at his Captain. Would he tell him there and then
that he was the man who had passed him through the portal of
Hawksglen, and tell him whence was his origin? Would he?--

Before he had time to do aught, his arms were pinioned behind his
back, and three stout Englishmen had thrown themselves suddenly on
Ruthven.

The assault was so unexpected and sudden that neither the Captain of
Hunterspath nor Edie could offer the least resistance. Amid the jeers
of their captors they were mounted on their horses. Sir Dacre de
Ermstein rode up to Ruthven and whispered in his ear:

“The robber of Hunterspath shall not always prevail against the house
of Ermstein.”

By an ill-turn of Fortunes wheel the man who had beaten off the
English foe from Hawksglen was now in the hands of that same foe--the
victor led off in bonds by the vanquished!

A long night ride saw the forces of Sir Dacre de Ermstein across the
Border, and on the afternoon of the following day the towers of
Warkcliff Castle rose before Sir Dacre and his followers.

The Lady of Warkcliff, the childless wife of Sir Dacre de Ermstein,
was sitting at her chamber window, vacantly watching the conflict that
raged in the bosom of the sweet valley, between the heavy morning
mists and the sun and wind. Lady de Ermstein had come of a noble
English line: in her youth she had been peerless for her charms, but
middle-age had reft all those youthful charms away; still, she was a
stately dame, and still possessed those graces of manner which had so
much enhanced her youthful beauty. But she was childless. This was the
secret sorrow that preyed everlastingly upon her soul. Her husband was
the last of his ancient line. With him would perish the noble house of
De Ermstein, and the lordly domains of Warkcliff would pass away to
the stranger.

Watching the battle in the valley between the mists and the sun and
wind, she thought of that great cloud which had heavily enveloped her
heart and hopes so long, which no sun, no breath of promise, would
ever dissipate. Her husband burst into the chamber. His countenance
was flushed, and his eye kindling, and his look elated. The lady had
heard the tumult in the castle, but it only cost her a passing
thought.

“Such tidings as I have to tell, Alice!” he exclaimed, grasping her by
both hands. “Such tidings as make my heart leap!”

“They are not of sorrow, then!” said the lady, with a wan smile.

“No! why of sorrow? I have won a proud triumph, Alice. Mountjoy, whom
I despatched to watch the Scots at their Weaponschaw, or military
muster of the shire, has captured the villain Somervil, the robber who
keeps a tower on the Cheviot hills, who infests the whole English
marches, Mountjoy has made _him_ a prisoner.”

“And brought him to the castle?”

“Yes; and the mosstrooper now lies in the Donjon with iron on wrist
and ankle.”

“He has troubled the Border long,” said the lady thoughtfully. “But
you do not resolve to have his life?” she added, looking full in her
husband’s face.

“I have determined that he shall suffer the penalty due to his
crimes,” cried Sir Dacre; “and that within three days. Has he not been
my relentless foe, the relentless spoliator of my lands? I never can
forget that, through him, I suffered that disgraceful repulse before
the tower of Hawksglen, which, but for his interposition, would have
yielded to the assaults of my gallant soldiers. No, no, Alice, speak
not a word for him; I will hear no petition from human lips that his
life should be spared. Since the day at Hawksglen how often have my
vassals been plundered and slain by the mosstroopers of Hunterspath? I
will not listen to appeals for mercy to this noted outlaw--this
villain whose pride and boast it is to plunder the domains of
Warkcliff, and mortify their lord.”

“But, husband,” entreated the gentle-hearted lady, “resolve upon
nothing until your passion has cooled down. Your spirits are flushed
at this moment. There is no knightly virtue so brilliant as that of
compassion for the vanquished foe.”

“But what a foe this is, Alice,” said the knight, “a mosstrooper--an
outlawed and broken man--a miscreant who lives upon spoliation and
rapine. _He_ can claim no compassion.”

“Still, to put him to death, miscreant as he is, may bring the
vengeance of his confederates on the Scottish side upon you, husband.
Consider this: his death may add another to the many grounds of feud
and fray which the turbulent Scottish chiefs have against you. And we
have suffered much from the hatred of the Border Scots.”

“It does not move my compassion for this ruffian,” returned the
knight, with a dark gloom on his brow, “thus to rake up the memories
of our past wrongs and sorrows. Can I forget that, through the fell
hatred of some caitiff-Scot, we are this day childless and heirless?”

“Childless, indeed!” sighed the lady, as, with a burst of grief, she
sank on her husband’s shoulder and wept aloud.

Sir Dacre was equally affected, but he forbore all signs of woe. He
essayed to soothe his weeping wife, and laid her gently into a chair.

“Ay,” said the knight, as he moodily perambulated the room, “Scottish
hatred has struck at the root of our house, and will behold its
extinction in a few short years. The house of De Ermstein traces its
long descent from the chivalrous Norman who followed the Conqueror,
and shared in the perils and glories of the field of Hastings. And
shall this long line terminate with _me_? Alas! my name shall be
erased for ever from the princely roll of English nobles.”

“O, that child--that lost, lost child!” sobbed the weeping lady.
“Twenty years have deepened the sad wound of my soul!”

“Childless, heirless,” resumed Sir Dacre. “And this old house to close
with me? One of my ancestors received the praise of King Edward on the
field of Falkirk, where the Scottish rebels were scattered; another
did his devoir gallantly under bold King Hall at Agincourt; and a
third stabbed down the hump-backed Richard on Bosworth. We have all
our ancient baronial honours about us. But oblivion is destined to
swallow up all!”

“Let this outlaw live,” cried the lady, starting from the chair, and
clasping her husband’s hands. “Shed no blood that may cry from the
ground against us. Vengeance is the prerogative of Heaven alone. We
who are in the midst of sorrow, who have no prospects but dark ones,
we should excel in deeds of mercy. Let him live, keep him captive all
his days, but shed no blood. I implore his life, husband; I implore it
from the bottom of my heart.”

The knight beheld her with amazement.

“Alice,” he said calmly, “your feelings overpower you. This outlaw
_must_ suffer. I am here in the stead of the minister of Justice, who
shall perform my duty.”



CHAPTER X.

    But young Beichan was a Christian born,
      And still a Christian was he,
    Which made them put him in prison strang,
      And cauld and hunger sair to dree,
    And fed on nocht but bread and water,
      Until the day that he mot dee.
            --_Lord Beichan._


On being taken from the courtyard, Ruthven Somervil was, without
delay, committed to close ward in the Donjon-keep. The armourer of the
castle brought a pair of heavy chains, which he rivetted upon the
prisoner’s wrists and ankles, and secured the ends to a ring in the
wall. The prison cell was low, small, and dark; two narrow loop-holes
scarcely admitted the feeblest light. The captive heard, with a
shudder, the bolts and bars drawn upon the door, and hammers driving
them securely into their staples, and chains fastened across the door
as an additional security.

Oppressed with the weight of his fetters, and more so by the
insupportable weight of his disaster and despair, the outlaw sank down
upon the floor of the cell, and lay for a long period silent and
inert in body and soul. Consciousness scarce seemed within him. To
look upon his motionless figure one would have thought him dead.

Almost involuntarily he raised his hand to his breast and felt, with a
thrill of joy and sadness, the little reliquary found on his neck when
left at the gate of Hawksglen, which still hung at his heart. For many
years Elliot kept this mysterious trinket carefully locked up in his
cabinet, and had refused to part with it even upon the urgent
solicitations of Ruthven previous to his quitting the castle. But,
after he joined the band of Hunterspath, Lady Eleanor contrived to
gain possession of the trinket, unknown to her father, and, at an
interview which she granted to her outlaw lover on the banks of the
lake, she delivered it into his hands. Around his neck he had worn it
ever since, and he was resolved to go to the grave with it. He now
drew forth the little trinket, and, surveying it for a moment in the
dim light, pressed it to his lips, for the sweet memory of her from
whose hands he had received it as a love-gift. How his soul, as it
roamed through the memories of the past, dwelt upon that meeting near
the lake, as a weary traveller of the desert lingers long on the bosom
of the green, shady oasis, with its glancing springs and flowing
waters.

And this was an oasis in his life; before, behind, around it was all
the desert in its barrenness. His soul recalled that autumn eve, with
all its beauty and sweetness. Yonder shone the lake in the fading
glories of the western sky. Eleanor was standing beneath the
whispering shade of hazel, and he stood by her side, gazing on the
fair young face that drooped with emotion; the mantling blush on the
smooth cheek, the drooping of the eyelids, the bosom that heaved with
sad and joyful thoughts, the lovely being whose heart was his, whose
hand was pledged to him.

The captivity, the prison, the chains, the prospect of death, all were
forgotten in the vision which the golden reliquary called magically
into being.

But the “visioned scene” fled, like a delusive mirage, and, as it
dissipated, it left the dungeon and the chains revealed and felt. The
captive had left the oasis for ever, and was now in the midst of the
waste, howling desert, horrors behind, and before, and around! Pent up
within the four grim walls, only to be led forth to hear his doom,
and thence to the place of death--a chained and powerless victim,
prostrate beneath the uplifted, menacing hand of Destiny. Plunged in
deepest despair, not a ray of hope could penetrate such a dungeon or
such a despairing heart. The last sands of a troubled life were
running out fast. And this was to be the end of him who was nursed in
the lap of luxury, on whose career the crimes of others had cast a
baleful influence. This the end of him who had gained fair Eleanor’s
heart. Alas for Eleanor!

The mental stupor returned, he lay sluggish on the ground; the little
golden reliquary had lost its magic power. Like him who languished in
the vaults of Chillon, he could have said--

    “I had not strength to stir or strive,
    But felt that I was still alive.”

And there was freedom on the green heights of Cheviot, on the wide
Border which he rode so long, in the halls of Hunterspath, where he
had defied all power and every enemy. But he was a captive, chained to
the wall like a dog. The time wore by unheeded; a ray of sunlight
trembled into the cell, and vanished, and the wind began to blow--the
wind that sounded high on Cheviot. The captive still sat grovelling
on the ground.

He had a fancy that the door of the dungeon was hammered open, that a
glare of torchlight illuminated the place, that voices arose, that
forms passed before him.

“He is in despair,” said one voice; and another answered: “He well may
be so, for on the third morning he dies.”

And then something like a laugh echoed through the cell.

“I will leave the food for him,” said a voice again. “He will wake and
be glad of it.”

And the other voice said:

“Pity that so comely a youth should have followed the lawless career
of a robber. In his King’s service he might now have been a knight,
and they say of him that he comes of noble blood.”

“That is why our good lady pleads so strongly for his life.”

“But she pleads in vain,” said the other voice. “Sir Dacre’s purpose
is fixed. Noble or ignoble, this robber leader shall die; and the
Border will be quiet after it. I will leave the bread and water.”

And there was a drawing and hammering of bolts, and the clanking of
chains, and then silence. And the captive awoke as from a dream, and
saw the bread and water on the cold floor, near where he lay. The
bitterness of his captivity was coming.



CHAPTER XI.

    “When purposed vengeance I forego,
    Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe;
    And when an insult I forgive,
    Then brand me as a slave, and live.”
            --_Rokeby._


On the following forenoon the captive outlaw was brought up from his
cell to be confronted with De Ermstein, in the great hall of the
castle. When the myrmidons intimated this to Somervil all his
dejection and helplessness left him; he scorned that, in this his
trying hour, an enemy should behold him cast down by misfortune, or in
despair at the apprehension of a speedy death. Summoning all his
daring courage, he became indifferent to whatever fate might await
him; and he followed his keepers with a firm step and a flashing eye.

In an antique chair, set upon the _dais_ or elevation at the upper end
of the spacious hall, sat the stern knight of Warkcliff, attended by
an imposing array of armed retainers. The deepest stillness prevailed
when the prisoner appeared and was led up to the foot of the _dais_.
Those who anticipated exultation at the sight of his misery were
greatly deceived; they were startled on beholding his fearless mien
and deportment. His face was calm but stern; and his eye met that of
De Ermstein, but never quailed. He could not have displayed more
bravery had he then stood upon the battlements of Hunterspath, with
all his wild band around him. Not all the power of De Ermstein--not
all the horrors of approaching death--could daunt him in a moment when
faint-heartedness would have been deep disgrace.

“You have dragged me hither,” began the outlaw, in a firm, measured
tone, “to speak the doom which you are impatient to utter.”

“You are here,” answered Sir Dacre, standing up, “to receive that doom
which your life of rapine makes justice. The sufferings of my vassals,
whom you so frequently have despoiled, call for redress at my hands,
and upon your head. I gratify no private malice, no private feud, in
pronouncing judgment of death upon a villain who stands outlawed by
both kingdoms. And the terror of such a judgment may have a salutary
effect upon the many lawless ruffians who infest the marches, and, by
their depredations, give constant causes for disturbing the peace of
these kingdoms.”

“By destroying my life,” replied the outlaw--“a life placed at your
mercy by an act of the foulest treachery--you shall gratify your own
malice more than redress the sufferings of your dependants. To you,
Sir Dacre, I have long been a personal and detested foe. The defeat at
Hawksglen can never be obliterated from your memory; the disgraceful
rout of the predatory forces, under your command, rankles yet in your
breast, and has stained your escutcheon, which has been still more
indelibly stained by the deed of treachery and ruffian guile which
threw me into your power--”

He was here interrupted by the clamour of the attendants; the jailor
even placed his hand upon his mouth to stop his speech; and some cried
out to dash his brains against the wall for such insolence to such a
knight. Sir Dacre himself was confounded by the audacity of the
mosstrooper’s speech; but his high pride conquered his indignant
emotions, and, affecting to smile, he imposed silence upon his
retainers, and forbade any one to interfere, either by word or deed,
in what should follow.

“I thank you, Sir Dacre,” cried the captive, “for silencing the empty
clamour of your armed serfs. I have much to say, and I will not be
overborne by insolent tumult. On you, Sir Dacre de Ermstein, I charge
treachery and fraud unworthy of the last scion of the noble house of
Warkcliff. I have defied you behind the battlements of Hawksglen, on
the field of your defeat--defied you as a soldier and a freeman
should--but never did I stoop to treachery and fraud to gain an
advantage over my foe.”

“How, churl! of what fraud speak you?” demanded Sir Dacre.

“The fraud which rivetted these chains on my limbs,” answered
Somervil, elevating his fettered hands. “It was fraud so dastardly and
so base that it will ever cover you with shame, and expose you to the
deep scorn of all whose hearts are warmed by feelings of honour.”

“Thou art beyond the pale of honour as well as of law,” retorted De
Ermstein, with a blush on his hard face. “To what code of honour,
observed by thyself, canst _thou_ appeal? Wretch, this insolence, this
show of frontless audacity, will avail thee nothing save to hasten thy
doom. It is my sentence that upon the third morning hence thou shalt
hang at the cross of Warkcliff!”

An approving hum and murmur broke from the attendant soldiery, and
there came a momentary palor over the captive’s face; but it was the
result of a mere evanescent emotion, and soon passed away.

“Hear me, Sir Dacre,” he exclaimed, with passionate ardour. “You have
pronounced my doom, and that doom I am ready to meet. The prospect of
the speedy approach of death has terrors in it for those only who have
found life pleasant, and who bask under the smile of fortune, and
stand high and fair in the world, who have kindred and loving friends,
who have wealth and luxury to leave behind them. To such the fear of
death is terrible. But I, who, from my ill-fated birth, have been the
sport of destiny, I have nothing to fear from the repose of the grave;
and there was mercy with Heaven even for the thief who hung quivering
in his death-agony on the cross. But flatter not yourself, noble
knight, that, by my murder, you shall relieve yourself of a stern and
unbending foe. I never was your foe until patriotism called me to the
field to oppose your inroad upon the Border. And my enmity to the
enemy of my country shall live after me. My followers will deeply
revenge my death. Hang me upon a gallows high as Haman’s if you will;
and each night your lady shall set her hood by the blaze of your
burning villages. From one end of the wide domains of Warkcliff to the
other shall ravage and destruction spread. And when, in the midst of
ruth, and rapine, and bloodshed, you shall stand aghast, powerless
against foes whose power you can neither break nor resist, you will
then think on the evil day when Ruthven Somervil died!”

Lost in thought, De Ermstein waved his hand involuntarily; and the
jailor, taking that to be a sign for the removal of the prisoner,
hurried him away.

The attendants hovered about for some minutes, and then noiselessly
left the hall, leaving their lord standing solitary on the _dais_.

A light footstep approached, and, looking up, Sir Dacre beheld his
lady. She was in great agitation, and came up to his chair, and,
taking him by the hand, said:

“Have you doomed the outlaw to death?”

“I have,” answered Sir Dacre. “I could, in justice, pronounce no other
doom.”

“I beheld him through yonder window,” she said, “and never did I
behold a nobler-looking youth. With what grace and courage he
confronted you; what emotion in his countenance; what defiance in his
tone. Such a youth must not die so shameful a death. I thought, as I
looked upon him, of our own boy.”

“Peace, Alice; you kindle afresh the embers of pain,” cried Sir Dacre.
“Recall not the memory of that one dread sorrow which has for ever
destroyed our happiness.”

“Grant me this captive’s life,” she cried passionately.

“Do _you_ plead for him?”

“I plead and pray that he may be spared to forsake his evil career,
and seek his fortune in some honourable path. It is hard that so young
and so noble a stranger should die, and by our hands. Give him life,
husband, though you may not give him liberty. His life is the boon I
crave. Deny me not.”

“I would deny it, Alice, to the mother that bore him,” said De
Ermstein, with stern composure, “though she pled for him on her bended
knees. I dare not suffer such a villain to live. Did I spare him, I
might be accused of participation in his crimes. Plead for him no
more; I am inexorable. I am steeled against pity.”



CHAPTER XII.

    “The last, the fatal hour is come
      That bears my love from me;
    I hear the death-note of the drum,
      I mark the gallows tree.
    The bell has toll’d; it shakes my heart;
      The trumpet speaks thy name;
    And must my Gilderoy depart
      To bear a death of shame?”
            --_Campbell._


The watery sun of the third morning slowly dispelled the mists that
filled the vale of Warkcliff. Although the day was only yet in its
infancy, one would have thought, from seeing the crowd, that all the
denizens of the village and all the peasantry from the surrounding
domains had gathered in the open market place. Great numbers of the
rustics were armed; and parties of troopers, in De Ermstein’s pay,
pranced up and down, quelling disturbance, and maintaining order.

That concourse had assembled to behold the mosstrooper die. The busy
hammer of the artisan was heard sounding on the gibbet, which was in
course of erection in the centre of the market. It was finished after
much labour, and the workmen sat down at the foot of it, and, throwing
by their tools, partook heartily of bread and ale, which they shared
with some few notorious topers of the village who gathered round them.
Healths were drunk, and jests bandied about from mouth to mouth, as if
at some merry festival; troops of urchins romped around the gibbet;
mothers held up children in their arms to see it; and every window was
open and filled with eager faces. The armed men began to gather in
close ranks around the scene of death, and the crowd increased.

And now the bell in the old steeple began to toll, announcing the hour
of death. The sound of trumpets from the castle denoted that the
prisoner had been brought up from his cell. The gates were flung open,
and the cavalcade of death issued forth. Every murmur of the crowd was
hushed. Every eye was turned toward that grim procession. Amidst a
strong force of horsemen and footmen, under the personal leadership of
Sir Dacre, appeared the condemned outlaw. A cart, covered with black
cloth, and drawn by a sorry nag, stood near the gate. The hangman sat
at the head of it, in a grim dress, and having his face hidden by a
black vizard. The captive ascended the cart with the assistance of a
tall monk, who also followed him into it, and seemed preparing him for
death.

Somervil’s chains were away, but his hands were bound at his back by a
thick cord. His head was bare, and his long tresses flowed on his
shoulders, or blew in the gale. Not a shade of fear was perceptible
upon his calm countenance; his step never faltered; not a tremor ran
through a limb. He rose superior to his cruel doom. This fearful end
to his career had lost its usual terrors, and nothing could shake his
stoical courage and defiant haughtiness.

The bell still tolled! The sandglass of the outlaw’s life was fast
running out. If he had one painful emotion, it was when he thought of
Eleanor and the hopes of his heart, which were now withered and
destroyed. _She_ would hear of his sad fate, and mourn long without
consolation; but she would never behold his grave.

The bell tolled! And he who had striven for years to pierce the dark
mystery of his lineage was to die, and the secret to be impenetrable.
What frightful iniquity lay on the head of those who had reft him from
his parents’ arms, and brought him to a death like this. The hope of
his whole life was to discover his parentage, and to assume his own
just rank; but how had such a hope been crushed! And he would die,
ignorant of the mother at whose breast he hung.

The bell tolled! And when he beheld the crowd, and the armed men, and
the tall gibbet, and the open windows, fierce thoughts rushed like
furies through his heart. His death-scene was to be a holiday
spectacle; he was to be butchered, like the Gladiator of the
Colosseum, to make a holiday. O, how he thought of some grim night, of
rain and storm and darkness, when the wild bands of Cheviot would
burst upon Warkcliff and make it blaze to heaven!

The bell tolled! The shade of Eleanor again! The memory of the gentle
being who loved him! His thoughts could not forsake _her_! And how his
death would break her heart!

On with the procession! On to the spot of death. Let the bell toll,
and the trumpets blow, and the crowd shout. The prisoner was still
undaunted. Not all the triumph and the malice of his foes could shake
his stern composure.

He sat down in the cart beside the monk, who, with his missal open,
was muttering in a low tone, indistinctly heard by the prisoner, but
unheeded by him. The hangman sat watching them twain. But the monk was
so tall, so darkly cowled, so gaunt, and so repulsive. What he read,
or what he muttered, no one knew. He might have been muttering
fiendish spells.

The horsemen in front cleared away the crowd before the slowly-rolling
cart. The murmuring of the crowd broke out afresh, and men pressed and
fought forward, and children were held high up to look at _him_; and
women gazed keenly, and, turning to each other, said how handsome he
was, and so noble was his look. A sound of pity here and there was
drowned in the general noise; the guards called out for open room, and
horses pranced and bore back the eager spectators. And swords and
spears flashed, and feathers waved and danced, and the cart slowly
rolled on, bearing its doomed burden.

It rolled on slowly, and then stopped beneath the gibbet. The place of
death was reached. The rope hung dangling to and fro, and swaying in
the wind. The hangman rose and put forth his hand to seize it, but the
wind was so strong that he could not come near it for many minutes,
and this little incident furnished food for jest and laughter. He at
length caught it and made a noose.

The outlaw stood up lightly and looked around with an unmoved
countenance. Some seemed to be of the belief that he meant to address
the crowd; but it was not so. The bell ceased. Far down the valley the
old battle still waged between the morning mist and the sun and wind,
and the outlaw cast a long glance down the valley to descry the
distant hills of Cheviot; but, until the sun and wind had vanquished
their enemy, the blue hills of Cheviot could not be seen.

The hangman now approached the captive with the noosed rope in his
hand. Somervil involuntarily shuddered at the approach of that
dingy-looking, vizarded miscreant; but by that hideous miscreant’s
hands he must die.



CHAPTER XIII.

    “I curse the hand that did the deed,
      The heart that thocht the ill;
    The feet that bore me wi’ sic speed
      The comely youth to kill.”
            --_Gil Morice._


Die! Not while there was a hand to save! Not while there was keen
steel unsheathing to break the captive’s bonds! Not while there was a
power to control evil destiny, and blast the malice of the remorseless
De Ermstein. Die? The star of Ruthven Somervil was in the ascendant,
swiftly culminating.

What sound was that which rose from the swaying concourse? What sight
was that which startled the grim executioner? The blast of a horn, and
the drawing of a dagger by the priest. Somervil was no less startled.
The priest had thrown down his missal and drawn a dagger, and, with
deadly spring, he struck the dagger through the executioner, who, with
a piercing howl, fell heavily on his face in the cart. To recover his
steel from the body of the howling hound, and to cut the outlaw’s
bonds asunder was, to the intrepid priest, but the work of an
instant, and Somervil was free. Free, and thus environed by the armed
bands of De Ermstein? Yes; for from every side dashed forward numbers
of mounted rustics, well armed, who, trampling down all in their way,
reached and surrounded the cart, whilst shouts of “Cheviot! Cheviot!”
rent the heavens.

All was the wildest riot; but in that wild riot was Ruthven Somervil’s
safety. He and the priest vanished from the cart, and it seemed that
the armed strangers mounted them both on steeds, and put swords in
their hands.

And the victim was rent from between the very fangs of the destroyer!
It was indeed so. All the power of Warkcliff could not bring that
victim to the doom which the relentless knight had pronounced in his
pride. He had flattered himself that he would cause that doom to be
executed in the open face of day, and at his own market cross, that it
might be a spectacle of his vengeance, and a terror to his foes. He
had made a Gordian knot which he vainly imagined no one could or dared
unloose--but the sword of the mosstrooper had severed it at a
blow--and he must now fight to retrieve his stained honour, else that
stain would disgrace him for ever.

The onset of the strangers had been so sudden and so fierce that it
frightened the crowd and paralysed the armed guards. The great tumult
and confusion admirably favoured the designs of the assailants. The
scene became frightful; and not less so by the furious attack than by
the shrieking of women, and cries of those unlucky wretches who were
trampled down beneath the horses’ hoofs. The horse which drew the
condemned cart plunged from the hands of its driver, and rushed madly
through the village. Roughly pressed upon, the gibbet quivered and
shook like a tree in the storm, and at last fell with a crash. More
died by the fall of that ghastly instrument of death than had died on
it for many a year. Inextricable uproar and dismay reigned on every
hand; for on every hand was the enemy.

De Ermstein’s voice was heard at length exhorting his retainers to
avert the disgrace which was falling upon them. The enemy were forcing
a retreat down the village, carrying off the false priest and the
condemned outlaw. Their object was retreat--retreat was their only
safety, for they did not boast overwhelming numbers; fifty horsemen
were perhaps their utmost force; but fifty horsemen only as they were,
not a man amongst them but would have died ere Ruthven Somervil was
re-taken. Down they galloped through the village amidst a tempest of
shouts and the clash of steel.

And down like a torrent swept the forces of De Ermstein, headed by the
old, stern-hearted knight, who would not relinquish his victim. His
men seemed animated by his own fury, and, with a devotion worthy of a
better cause, nobly seconded his efforts. The pursuit was hot. Away
they swept in the wake of the mosstroopers. The village was cleared.
They were careering through the valley, all in a confused and
disorderly band. De Ermstein kept foremost, sometimes far in advance,
for he rode with the fury of a blast. To take the outlaw, to drag him
back to the fallen gibbet; he perilled his life--everything--to
gratify his mortified pride and disappointed revenge. What disgrace it
was to behold the outlaw free once more. Free! And on some following
night the valley of Warkcliff might be gleaming with the red blaze of
the burning village, and echoing the death-cries of the ravaged. The
gibbet for the outlaw!

Amazed at the sudden rescue--snatched from death at the last
moment--Ruthven Somervil’s brain reeled and swam when he was dragged
out of the condemned cart, and mounted upon a horse. It was so like a
troubled dream. _Was_ he rescued? He would have fallen from the saddle
had not friendly and firm hands upheld him. He was sternly calm when
the hangman approached him with the noosed rope in his hand--calm and
collected _then_. But, when the first blow was struck, he became
almost oblivious of what followed. And the great tumult that deafened
his ear might have been the roaring of the tempestuous torrents of
that unseen Jordan which rolls in darkness, washing the shores of Time
and Eternity.

But, when the flight began, his recollection returned. He was in the
midst of his men; he knew this one and the other around him in their
disguises. Someone had put a steel cap upon his head, and he now found
that he had a naked sword in his right hand, clutched as by the grasp
of death. All at once he was restored to himself, saw and comprehended
all clearly, felt his blood kindling in the headlong motion of flight,
saw the pursuers following fast, brandished his sword, and faltered to
his men, “Courage.”

Courage? They had need of it. The pursuers were gaining upon them at
every bound. The valley was far in the rear, hidden by the wreathing
mists. The open Border was in front, and yonder stretched the blue
heights of Cheviot. On and on; and now a scattered thicket received
the mosstroopers. They were glad of its shelter, for the Southrons
were at their heels.

“Halt! turn!” exclaimed Ruthven Somervil. “If we escape, we must bear
these villains back. Turn upon them! Front De Ermstein! He will think
of the disasters of Hawksglen and fly from our spears again.”

At the stern word they halted, and reined round their panting steeds
within the covert of the thicket, which prevented a general charge
being made upon them. The Southrons, all scattered in twos and threes,
came plunging up to the trees, as if in anticipation of an easy
victory. But they had to fight the battle ere that victory could be
won. The foremost daring spirits were received upon the hostile
lances, and easily overthrown, some slain, others crushed beneath the
weight or by the mad struggles of their transfixed horses.

Now came De Ermstein and the flower of his band. Their headlong
assault was met by a straggling discharge of firearms, but the
struggle came to be decided by the cold steel alone. Pressing upon
each other, stumbling and trampling over their fallen comrades, the
dying horses, and the thick bushes and underwood, they at last
penetrated the thicket, and a deadly struggle, man to man, ensued. The
outlaws were outnumbered; but who recked of a disparity of forces?
They fought for their gallant captain’s life--they fought and bled to
humble the haughty pride and avenge the malice of the haughty and
fierce-souled Sir Dacre. It was a confused, tumultuous conflict, for
the combatants lost all union, and scattered themselves through the
straggling wood, which was filled with battle and bloodshed and death.

The two foes, for whose sakes all this fatal strife was waged, eagerly
sought the last mortal encounter. Ruthven Somervil was destitute of
all defensive armour save the bascinet cap on his head; but,
regardless of exposure, and with the irresistible fury of a lion, he
threw himself into the thickest of the battle, bearing down, as with
an arm of iron, all who dared to oppose him. His eagle eye glared
through the thicket for the tall form of Sir Dacre, on whom he sought
to wreak his vengeance. Hidden by the trees, or lost in the
confusion, he could not now be seen. But at length he emerged into
open view, and, ere either of them seemed aware, they met each other,
knew each other at the first wild glance, and halted face to face.

“Miscreant!” gasped Sir Dacre, half-choked with fury. “The hangman’s
fell hand should have rid the earth of thee. Why should Fate throw thy
worthless life upon the sword of an English noble?”

Somervil replied not to the insolence of his foe, but, brandishing his
blood-dyed falchion, he spurred upon him. They encountered with a
crash, and the outlaw’s blade was shivered to the hilt. An instant’s
hesitation would have sealed his fate, but, almost flinging himself
from his saddle, he grappled Sir Dacre’s sword hand, and wrenched the
sword from him. This was scarcely done when the plunging of their
horses threw them both on the ground, locked in each other’s arms,
boiling with fury, gasping for breath. It was a death-struggle in all
its fearful intensity.

Several of the outlaws, seeing their leader’s danger, instantly
abandoned their steeds and flew to extricate him and stab his
adversary; but as many of the Southrons were equally ready to fly to
the rescue of Sir Dacre, a mortal conflict ensued around the two
struggling combatants. The false priest was conspicuous for his wild
heroism, his trenchant blade, his voice of thunder; and the veterans
of Hunterspath were there mingling in the strife to save their
captain.

It seemed as though their aid was doomed to be unavailing, that they
could not save the outlaw. His strength was unequal to that of the
iron-nerved Sir Dacre, whose hand clutched his throat, whose knee rose
upon his breast. Alas for the outlaw! A dagger glittered in Sir
Dacre’s grasp--glittered in the air--when a frightful voice arose
above the din of battle, and arrested the clashing weapons, and a man,
breathless, wounded, haggard, distracted in aspect, his eyes bloodshot
and glaring, his head uncovered, his blood trickling to the ground--a
spectacle of death and horror--staggered, with sinking strength,
through the combatants, and seized Sir Dacre’s uplifted hand.

“Mother of Heaven!” he gasped; “would you slay your son? Would you
shed the blood of him whom you have lamented for twenty years?”

It was the gentle Johnston. At last the mighty secret was divulged. At
last he had revealed, in the face of the world, the dark thought that
so long wrung his heart and embittered his life. In the jaws of death,
with his life-blood rushing from his wounds, he had avouched his
guilt, and saved the father from a deed of unnatural guilt. By such a
disclosure, at such a time, he had atoned for many of the crimes that
lay heavy on his dark soul.



CHAPTER XIV.

    “’Tis he! ’tis he himself! It is my son.”
            --_Douglas._


What a cry that was--“Would you slay your son?” Had the proud, noble,
childless knight of Warkcliff--the last of his illustrious
line--lamented the fate of the lost infant so long, and now was about
to plunge his dagger into the breast of that very child? Had Heaven
spared that child’s life, and preserved him through many troubles,
only that he might perish beneath the blow of the blinded father? The
fateful, astounding words sounded to him like a death-knell; his hand
relinquished the blood-stained steel, and he sprang from the ground,
speechless and bewildered. As if by concert, the struggling parties
forbore their fierce contest, and drew back with lowered weapons.

Exhausted and swooning in the struggle, Somervil, if he heard the
startling exclamation, scarcely knew what it meant; his mind was
wandering, his senses were failing him, his brain swam round, and,
though relieved of the pressure of his adversary, he made no effort
to rise from the earth, but lay supine, with scarce a movement of hand
or foot.

Johnston, with his wild and haggard aspect, cast his blood-shot eyes
around him; he staggered to and fro, and then fell prone on the turf.

“I only ask for breath--to disclose all this secret of woe,” he
gasped, as he turned on his side, and endeavoured to raise himself on
his elbow--“breath to restore the lost son to the father--that is all
I wish--and then let me die!”

What could the outlaws think of this? Their bold captain the son of
their deadliest foe! They had striven with their blood and lives to
restore him to the tower of Cheviot and to liberty, and it had
resulted in the discovery that he was De Ermstein’s son! Could they
credit the incredible assertion from the mouth of a villain whose
perfidy, falsehood, and guile they abhorred--whose very name they
detested? No, no, it was but a fabrication of the dying ruffian. They
would fight for their captain yet! Up with the slogan-cry and the
deadly steel. Cheviot! Cheviot! Somervil should be borne off free.

With a wild shout they brandished their weapons; but their hostile
attitude recalled the bewilderment of De Ermstein.

“Stay, stay,” he shouted, almost in frenzy. “No more blood shall be
shed. Implore all to stay the conflict. This secret must be disclosed.
Somervil shall pass away free and scaithless though he be of no
kindred to my house. Stay, stay!”

“Let us rest on the assurance of this noble knight,” cried Reginald de
Oswald. “His knightly word is passed for the safety of your leader. I
for one will forbear further conflict,” and he sheathed his sword.

His example was followed by such of the mosstroopers as were at hand,
and, in a minute or two, the battle throughout the thickets had
entirely ceased, and the combatants came all crowding together around
the interesting group.

“Look to Somervil,” groaned the gentle Johnston, pointing eagerly to
the inanimate youth. “He may die of his wounds, and never look upon
his father’s face.”

Comyn, Sinclair, and others of Somervil’s band, instantly knelt around
their captain. He was unwounded, but much bruised; his respiration was
deep, his eyes were shut; but sensibility was returning, and he could
answer, though faintly, when they spoke to him.

“Dacre de Ermstein,” cried the gentle Johnston, “come hither to me. I
have not many moments to live, but what remains of my mortal breath
shall be devoted to the disclosure of this my blackest crime. Come
hither.”

De Ermstein rushed breathlessly towards him, bent over him, cast on
his dark visage a look that might have pierced him through.

“I conjure you,” he cried vehemently, “to disclose the naked truth,
however deeply it may criminate you. I know you now--I remember your
features, Johnston, and tremble to hear your revenge. Speak, speak,
deceive not an agonised father. Restore to me my son, if your cruel
hand spared my son to this mournful day.”

“Ay,” said Johnston, “my hand has long been cruel and dark with blood;
but, cruel and ruthless as it is, it could not but spare the child o’
De Ermstein. Behold your son--in Ruthven Somervil you behold him. And
forgive me for the great wrong of the past in that I have saved you
from the darkest crime that could stain living man!”

“My wife--his mother--pled sore for him,” exclaimed Sir Dacre. “The
mysterious sympathy betwixt mother and child had stirred her heart,
and she would have saved him, though she was ignorant that he was the
child of her youth and joy. And I spurned her prayer, and strove to
incur a guilt which would have branded me with infamy, and crushed me
with despair! My son! And can this be my son?” he faltered, as he
thrust aside the eager crowd around the prostrate mosstrooper, and,
throwing himself on his knees, threw his arms around the
half-unconscious youth’s neck, and gently raised his head to look upon
him. It was a long, burning, searching gaze.

Ruthven opened his eyes.

“He has the look of his mother!” exclaimed Sir Dacre. “He has his
mother’s features! Why could I not remark this before?”

The little golden reliquary now attracted his eye, for it was half
visible on the outlaw’s breast, his doublet having been torn open in
the struggle. In a moment Sir Dacre snatched it in his hand, and, in
extreme agitation, he at length touched a secret spring in one of the
edges, and the reliquary flew open, discovering within, in exquisite
engraving, the Arms of Warkcliff, the name of _Stephen de Ermstein_,
and the day and year of his birth,

“My son! my son indeed!” faltered Sir Dacre, letting the jewel fall
back again upon the outlaw’s breast. “But, as I remember, my child had
a scar above his left temple--the scar of an accidental wound received
in his infancy; that scar will close all proof,” and, casting back the
clustering hair from the outlaw’s forehead, there was the scar, faint,
indeed, but perceptible to the father’s eyes.

This was enough. The proof was complete, even without the dying
attestation of the gentle Johnston.

“My son! my long-lost son!” cried Sir Dacre, as, bursting into tears
of joy, he folded the outlaw to his bosom. “The house of De Ermstein
shall not yet be extinguished. Joy, joy! O, thou inscrutable
Providence, how shall I offer my gratitude for this mighty boon?”

The mosstrooper heard the words of recognition--heard that he was
called the son of De Ermstein, and heir of Warkcliff--felt himself
pressed in the arms of a father. What were his emotions? The event was
stupifying. And father and son rose from the ground with tumultuous
feelings.

“You are safe--you will live?” cried Sir Dacre. “I have not stained my
hands with your blood?”

The mosstrooper was unwounded. He might be giddy and faint; but not a
life-drop of his had been lost. How the band stared in speechless
amazement. No man could scarce credit what he heard and saw.

“Why did you not throw yourself into the arms of your father long
ago?” cried Sir Dacre, in joyful reproach.

“Never till this moment,” answered the outlaw, “did I know the secret
of my birth.”

“De Ermstein,” groaned the dying Johnston.

“Ah, this man will reveal all,” said Sir Dacre, and they all crowded
around the jackman.

“I have restored the son to the father,” said Johnston, with painful
effort, for his life was ebbing away from him fast, “and I now can
meet death, having, as I hope, expiated the darkest of my crimes. De
Ermstein, here, with my last breath, I declare that youth your son.
Cherish him and love him; he is of brave renown, and will bravely
uphold the honour of Warkcliff. It is long since we parted, Sir
Dacre, and I ha’e often wished ne’er to see your face again, for how
could I look the man in the face whom I had wronged so basely?”

“It was by your hand, Johnston, that all my wrongs were inflicted,”
interrupted the outlaw. “Alas, what wrongs to expiate! but I forgive
you.”

“Had I not borne your father malice,” answered Johnston, “you ne’er
wad ha’e suffered what you ha’e suffered. But on my head, on my head
alone, lies the whole weight of all your misfortunes. In my young days
I was your father’s jackman. In an evil hour, for some offence, he
chained me in his Donjon, degraded me in the eyes of my comrades, and
expelled me ignominiously from his service. My blood was hot, my brain
was on fire, and I vowed revenge. I lingered about Warkcliff for some
days, and one gloaming, being faint and weary, I lay down on a
braeside, under the bield o’ a bush, to rest my heavy head. Sir Dacre,
you came riding by with your hunting train, and you set them upon me,
and, in the desperate struggle for my life, I received a wound, the
mark of which I shall bear with me to my grave. I was borne down by
unequal numbers, and chased, like a wolf, before your hounds. Could I
forgive that?”

“But your revenge was frightful,” said Sir Dacre. “You might have
spared the child; he was innocent.”

“I knew that that child’s life was dear to you,” resumed Johnston.
“Had I had the power, I might have come, with a ruthless band at my
back, and filled all the valley of Warkcliff with smoke, and flame,
and ruin; but _that_ revenge would not have pierced you to the heart
so deeply as I wished. No, Sir Dacre, I vowed a revenge which would
crush you, and I had it, I had it! I came prowling back to Warkcliff,
and watched my purpose like an adder coiled up to spring upon the
victim. On the brae behind the castle I found your son in the nurse’s
arms--some of the other attendants had wandered to a little
distance--and, unseen by any, I seized the infant from the woman’s
arms. She shrieked, and I struck her, and the blow cast her down the
face of the brae. I then rushed away with the child.” He paused for
breath, and then continued his startling confession. “It was my
intention to wring the child’s life out, but my heart, rough as it
was, revolted at a deed so felon and atrocious. I crossed the Border,
and at last thought of a scheme by which I might also accomplish my
revenge upon Elliot of Hawksglen. I once was in Elliot’s train, but
he, too, degraded me, and I detested him for it. In the dead of night
I reached his castle. On the previous day I met with one of his
retainers on the English Border, and accidentally learned the
watchword at Hawksglen. This knowledge served me well, and bore me
through the deep fraud. I knocked at the gate, answered the warder’s
interrogatory, and, when the gate was unbarred, I put the child in the
old man’s arms and fled. I flattered myself that I had sown the seeds
of a deep revenge, for, thought I, should you discover that your son
was in Elliot’s power, you would charge upon him the crime of having
bribed some miscreant to murder the nurse and seize the child.”

“I would have charged him so,” cried Sir Dacre, “had I known; for with
Hawksglen I was ever at feud.”

“Elliot protected the child,” continued Johnston, “and brought him up
as his own son--”

“And I was base enough,” ejaculated Sir Dacre, “to levy war against
the man who protected my son! Did he ever know the child’s parentage?”

“Never,” answered the outlaw captain; “but, after growing up to
manhood, I was forced to abandon his house. In my helplessness I
joined the band of Hunterspath; their leader was slain in a foray, and
I was chosen in his stead.”

“Did Elliot drive thee to desperation?” cried Sir Dacre. “Upon the
villain’s head I will visit it an hundred-fold.”

“I have revealed all,” said Johnston, who was fast sinking, “and now I
can die in peace. It has long been a weary burden on my heart; but my
heart is lightened of it at last. My dying moments are cheered by this
restoration, even though it has come through crime and bloodshed.
Embrace! Embrace!”

Father and son, so long apart, so wonderfully restored, fell, with an
irresistible impulse, into each other’s arms, and embraced with the
intensest affection. The crowd of attendants burst out into a loud
cheer, with which the wood resounded.

“But we shall hold merry times of it no more in old Hunterspath,” said
Ringan Sinclair, lugubriously, in the ear of Ellis Comyn. “Who would
have thought our brave captain a Southron? And who shall be captain
now?”

“Ah, but who can lead us to foray and fray,” said Habbie Menmuir,
“like Ruthven Somervil? To my mind, Ringan, our mosstrooping days are
over.”

“Often,” said the gentle Johnston, “did my heart misgive me, and I
yearned to restore the son to the father; but then the fierce and
revengeful mood would come over me, and all my good thoughts were
crushed.”

“Had you come to Warkcliff,” cried Sir Dacre, “and disclosed the
secret to me, you would have been rewarded to the utmost. Why did your
revenge last so long? The degradation of my son might have filled up
your craving for vengeance, and led you to relent.”

“I was present when your men took him,” responded Johnston, “and I
fought and shed my blood for him, and all was of no avail. Even his
men detested me, and, when I offered to join them in a rescue, they
scorned my aid. Wounded and feeble as I was, I set out to Warkcliff,
and reached it on this morning, when I met with the band of
Hunterspath, and heard from them the tidings that your son was to
die. They had been informed by their spies of all that passed in the
castle regarding his destined fate, and had come under disguise to
attempt a rescue at the place of execution. I offered again to join
them in the rescue; but they drove me away with detestation. They had
no need of my aid, they said, for Ellis Comyn had entered the castle
under the guise of a priest, and would save the captain. I again
thought of throwing myself upon your mercy, Sir Dacre, and disclosing
all; but terror overtook me, and I wandered up and down the valley
like a madman. Then came the flight and the battle. I fought against
you, and, at the last extremity, revealed the terrible secret.”

His strength was almost wasted away, but still he struggled with
death, for he still had something to crave of the outlaw. It was his
forgiveness; and he freely gave it.

“One last request I have, which I implore you to grant,” cried the
dying man. “I will die here, but I fain would have my bones to lie
beside those of my father and mother in the little kirkyard of Eburn,
on the banks of the Teviot. I mind weel o’ the day that I laid my
mither’s head in that grave; and I fain would rest beside her. When
but a bairn I used to come in the gloamings wi’ my mither, and sit
doon aside the grassy hillock that rose over the remains of my father.
The clods o’ that kirkyard would be sweet to me.”

Could the outlaw have rejected such a request, even to his worst foe?
He granted it fervently. Johnston’s head fell back; he was speechless,
and his limbs were quivering in the struggle of death. But his parting
moment was eased by the thought that he should sleep in the sod of
that kirkyard which was endeared by the love of father and mother.
Even his rude heart still retained some remnant of the old feelings
and affections of childhood. He would lie in the grave of his kindred,
with the water of Teviot murmuring sweetly past. There came a smile to
his lips, and his eye flashed brightly for a moment like an expiring
lamp. But the lamp of his life was quenched in the waves of Jordan.
The gentle Johnston--that man of ruth and rapine--was no more!

       *       *       *       *       *

And now De Ermstein and his son, with the greater part of their
attendants, proceeded towards the castle. It should have been a
progress of triumphal joy; but the joy was dashed with so much
bloodshed. The strange tidings flew to the village before them,
filling men’s minds with amazement. The tumult in the village became
greater than ever as the restored son approached, and those who had
come out to see him die now surrounded him with shouts of welcome and
demonstrations of gladness. And that gladness might have been greater
had the stern knight listened to the solicitations of his lady, and
not, with blind passion and with inflexible determination, hurried on
a scene of tumult and death.



CHAPTER XV.

    “Oh! princely is the Baron’s hall,
      And bright his lady’s bower,
    And none may wed their eldest son
      Without a royal dower.”
            --_Wm. Kennedy._


Who may imagine and depict the emotions of Lady de Ermstein on being
presented with her long-lost son--that son whose loss was breaking her
heart? Like one in a dream she heard the glad revelation, and beheld
him with her eyes, and could even trace the features of the lost
child; and, overpowered by the intensity of her feelings, she swooned
away at his feet.

But the swoon was brief, and she awoke to happiness unalloyed.
Throwing herself upon his breast, she wept in the fulness of her joy,
and fervently gave thanks to Heaven for so eminent a blessing.

And from three hearts ascended bursts of gratitude to that over-ruling
Providence, which, in omniscient wisdom, watches over and regulates
human affairs. A blessing is intensified by the outpouring of a
grateful soul. That very gratitude is a blessing in itself. Men whose
minds are bound down and engrossed by the world may speak of this and
that fortunate accident, and how well their efforts succeeded, and how
skilfully they seized the all-important moment of Fortune; but a
higher hand rules all things, and to that hand--the _cause_, and not
the means--are all gifts to be assigned.

Thus had the outlaw discovered, at the eleventh hour, the secret of
his birth. For years he had fondly cherished the conviction that he
was descended from some noble line, and the whole effort of his life
had been untiringly devoted to the discovery of his parentage. He had
had his hours of deep depression and wild despair. As the clouds
seemed to gather more thick and black around him, he often thought
that they would never be dispelled; but always some hope cheered him
on, and in that hope he was not deceived. And now there could be no
obstacle to his union with the fair Eleanor; her hand he would
instantly gain.

All the forenoon was spent by the parents and their son in the
recital, by the latter, of the long and troubled history of his life.
He detailed each incident; his love for Eleanor; his expulsion from
Hawksglen; his union with the outlaws; his desperate adventures. The
parents heard the singular narration with feelings of deep sorrow.

“I could fervently thank Elliot for having protected your infancy,”
said Sir Dacre; “but my gratitude is destroyed by his cruel expulsion
of you at a time when your destiny might have become darker than it
has been. It was a hardhearted, almost atrocious deed. Had he no
thought that he would plunge you into despair?”

“It was not strictly an expulsion,” answered the youth, “for I
abandoned the castle to escape his reproaches and the insolence of his
wife.”

“That does not diminish his cruelty in my eyes,” replied Sir Dacre.
“What knight of honour and feeling would have so made unhappy and
wretched the life of an orphan youth who had no other protector?
Elliot has my gratitude for his care of your infancy; but my scorn and
hatred for the unmanly violence which made you what you have been. And
because you loved his daughter, too! It was a crime for the son of De
Ermstein to love the daughter of a paltry Scottish chief!”

“But you should consider, husband, that Elliot had no knowledge of
Stephen’s birth,” said the lady.

“No; he looked upon him as a beggar,” rejoined De Ermstein. “Had he
known my son’s rank he would have strained every nerve, and employed
every resource, fair or foul, to bring about an alliance which would
ennoble his name. But he will eagerly seek such alliance now. Let him
but hear this day’s news, and I may have a daughter-in-law from
Hawksglen to-morrow.”

“I do not lay every blame upon Elliot’s head,” said Stephen, “for, had
not his lady urged him on to hate me, I would never have left his
house. He repents his errors, and would atone for them were it in his
power. But, whatever his errors may be, let us never forget that he
brought me up from infancy as if I had been his own. Thrown upon his
mercy as a nameless, as an abandoned child, he cherished me with a
bounty, a care, and an affection which have no bounds.”

“You amply repaid all that bounty and care and affection,” said the
knight, “by defending him against inevitable downfall. Nevertheless, I
will not mar our felicity by harbouring hatred against him. But I
pray you to think no more of his daughter.”

Stephen was prepared for this. But he was firm in his devotion to
Eleanor; his heart never wavered from the fair object of its early
choice. He told his father of that maiden’s gentleness; that she had
plighted her faith to him; that her love had known no change even in
the depths of his degradation; that he would never forsake her; that
he would make her his bride. Rather than that his vows should be
slighted and broken, he would abandon the happiness which had come
upon him.

The old knight’s pride was wounded. There were many ladies in merry
England, he said, of ancient name and high fortune, from amongst whom
his son could choose a bride. But his son was inflexible. His mother
joined him, and Sir Dacre’s pride and wounded feelings at length gave
way.

The castle was now filled with festivity, and a proud day it now was
to him who had been so recently in the most dismal despair.



CHAPTER XVI.

    “Fy, let us a’ to the bridal,
      For there’ll be lilting there;
    For Jock’s to be married to Maggie,
      The lass wi’ the gowden hair.”
            --_Francis Sempill._


Nothing remains to close the tale save the nuptials of the hero and
heroine. Everything has been briefly (and, we trust, satisfactorily)
disposed of, so that, at the merry tinkle of the marriage bell, the
curtain may fall, and nothing more be desired.

Stephen de Ermstein, in the ardour of his love, soon overcame all the
objections which his proud-hearted father entertained to his proposed
union with the daughter of Hawksglen. So soon as the necessary
arrangements could be made, and the nuptial day fixed, Sir Dacre
invited Elliot to spend some days with him at Warkcliff. Elliot went;
and now these two, who had been enemies, buried their past feuds in
oblivion. There were feasts and revels and hunting matches during
Elliot’s visit, and Warkcliff was full of rejoicing.

At length came the day on which Stephen was to lead his beautiful
bride to the altar. It was a sunny day at the end of Spring. All was
holiday and gladness in the village of Warkcliff. Floral arches
spanned the resounding street, banners waved from the windows, and the
porch of the old church was gaily decorated. Young and old were in
their best attire, and on every face was joy.

Escorted by a numerous retinue of her friends, the bride had come to
the castle that morning. Noon was the nuptial hour. The gladsome
procession now left the castle amidst the thunder of guns from the
battlement, the shouts of the people, and the loud strains of music.
It was a gay and gaudy spectacle: the plumed horses, the foot-cloths
of velvet that swept the ground, the blaze of gold and jewels, the
floating banners, the armed men!

Never had Eleanor looked so beautiful, as now, with blushing cheeks
and downcast eyes, she was led along to the altar to wed the youth of
her heart’s choice. The stormy time of sorrow was over, and the torch
of love and hope burned purely bright.

In the brilliant sunshine the bridal party slowly approached the
sacred fane, at whose altar two fond hearts were to be united for
ever. Who could have foreseen this joyful hour when the young heir of
Warkcliff had the cold world before him--a world without a friend?

And now the happy pair entered the church, and came before the altar
and the priest. The blush of Eleanor grew deeper, and a tear of joy
trembled in her downcast eye.

    “Behold, while she before the altar stands,
      Hearing the holy priest who to her speaks,
    And blesseth her, with his uplifted hands,
      How the red roses flush up in her cheeks.”

The rite was soon concluded, and Eleanor was the blissful bride of
Stephen de Ermstein!


THE END.





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