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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Yellow Frigate, by James Grant
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65415 ***</div>


<h1>
<br /><br />
  THE<br />
<br />
  YELLOW FRIGATE<br />
</h1>

<p class="t3">
  OR<br />
</p>

<p class="t2">
  <i>THE THREE SISTERS</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /><br /></p>

<p class="t3">
  BY<br />
</p>

<p class="t2">
  JAMES GRANT<br />
</p>

<p class="t4">
  AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR"<br />
</p>

<p><br /><br /></p>

<p class="t3">
  LONDON<br />
  GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LIMITED<br />
  NEW YORK: E. P. BUTTON AND CO.<br />
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p class="t3b">
INTRODUCTION.
</p>

<p>
In that broad and magnificent valley which separates
chain of the Grampians from the Ochil Mountains, close
by the margin of the Allan, and sequestered among venerable
trees, lies the pleasant and peaceful little village
of Dunblane, in Scotland's elder days an old cathedral
city.  Northward of the limpid Allan lie purple heaths,
black swamps, and desert muirs.  An old bridge which
spans the river, and was built in the time of King
Robert III., by "the Most Reverend Father in God,"
Findlay Dermach, bishop of the see, with a few ancient
houses, having quaint chimneys and crow-stepped gables,
that peep on the steep brae-side from among the shady
beeches, are all that survive of Dunblane; but over those
remains rise the grey ruins of King David's vast cathedral,
of which nothing now is standing but the roofless nave,
with its shattered aisles, and the crumbling but lofty
gothic tower.
</p>

<p>
The gleds and corbies that flap their wings between the
deserted walls; the swallows that twitter on the carved
pillars, or build their nests among the rich oakwork of the
prebends' stalls, with the grass-grown floor and empty
windows of this magnificent ruin, impress the mind of the
visitor with that melancholy which is congenial to such a
place.  But it is neither the recumbent figure of a knight
in armour, with his sword and triangular shield, marking
where the once powerful Lord of Strathallan sleeps, not
the burial-place of the Dukes of Athol, blazoned with the
silver star of the Murrays, that are the most interesting
features in this old ruin.
</p>

<p>
It is not the fine west window which overlooks the
wooded path that winds by the river-side, and is known as
"the Good Bishop's walk," nor the ruined shrine where
sleeps St.  Blane of Bute&mdash;he whose boat sailed upon the
Clyde without sail or oar; he who (as the veracious
Breviary of Aberdeen tells us) struck fire with his fingers
when the vesper lights went out; and who raised from the
dead the English heir of Appleby and Trodyngham, that
attract most particularly the attention of visitors, but
<i>three plain slabs</i> of blue marble, that lie side by side on
the grassy floor, and nestling, as it were, together, as if to
show that those they cover had loved each other in life too
well to be separated even in death.
</p>

<p>
The fall of the ponderous and once magnificent roof;
the action of the weather, and the footsteps of visitors,
have defaced the legends that were originally carved there;
but the memory of those who sleep below these marble
labs yet lingers in Dunblane and Strathearn.
</p>

<p>
Under the first lies the affianced bride of one who was
a good and valiant soldier, and faithful to his king.
</p>

<p>
Under the second lies the betrothed of a stout Scottish
mariner, as brave a fellow as ever faced salt water or
cannon-shot.
</p>

<p>
Under the third sleeps the youngest&mdash;she who perhaps
was the fairest&mdash;the wife (but not the queen) of one who
in his time was the most gallant and magnificent monarch
that ever wore the Scottish diadem.
</p>

<p>
These three ladies were sisters; and their story is a
strange and a dark one.
</p>

<p>
History, tradition, and an old manuscript, that was
found (no matter when) among the Records of the Scottish
Court of Admiralty, have enabled me to lay their lives
and narrative before the reader in the following pages.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p class="t3b">
  CONTENTS.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p class="noindent">
  I. <a href="#chap01">ON BOARD</a><br />
  II. <a href="#chap02">THE SWASHBUCKLER</a><br />
  III. <a href="#chap03">BONNY DUNDEE</a><br />
  IV. <a href="#chap04">THE SISTERS</a><br />
  V. <a href="#chap05">JAMES III</a><br />
  VI. <a href="#chap06">PALACE OF SAINT MARGARET</a><br />
  VII. <a href="#chap07">MARGARET DRUMMOND</a><br />
  VIII. <a href="#chap08">THE FISHERMAN OF BROUGHTY</a><br />
  IX. <a href="#chap09">THE BANE OF SCOTLAND</a><br />
  X. <a href="#chap10">THE BOATSWAIN'S YARN</a><br />
  XI. <a href="#chap11">CHAINING THE UNICORN</a><br />
  XII. <a href="#chap12">EMBASSY OF THE SIEUR DE MONIPENNIE</a><br />
  XIII. <a href="#chap13">TO SEA!</a><br />
  XIV. <a href="#chap14">THE OGRE OF ANGUS</a><br />
  XV. <a href="#chap15">CONCLAVE OF MALCONTENTS</a><br />
  XVI. <a href="#chap16">ANOTHER SON-IN-LAW</a><br />
  XVII. <a href="#chap17">THE WARLOCK OF BALWEARIE</a><br />
  XVIII. <a href="#chap18">FATHER AND SON</a><br />
  XIX. <a href="#chap19">HOW BORTHWICK FULFILLED HIS PROMISE</a><br />
  XX. <a href="#chap20">WOOD MEETS HOWARD</a><br />
  XXI. <a href="#chap21">THE PRICE OF THREE TENEMENTS</a><br />
  XXII. <a href="#chap22">THE SILKEN CORD</a><br />
  XXIII. <a href="#chap23">LORD DRUMMOND AND ROBERT BARTON</a><br />
  XXIV. <a href="#chap24">DAVID FALCONER</a><br />
  XXV. <a href="#chap25">HOWARD AND MARGARET</a><br />
  XXVI. <a href="#chap26">THE CHAPLAIN'S CABIN</a><br />
  XXVII. <a href="#chap27">THE ISLES OF THE FORTH</a><br />
  XXVIII. <a href="#chap28">THE FIRST SCOTTISH REVOLUTION</a><br />
  XXIX. <a href="#chap29">THE MARCH TO STIRLING</a><br />
  XXX. <a href="#chap30">THE GOOD SHIP HARRY</a><br />
  XXXI. <a href="#chap31">THE TORWOOD</a><br />
  XXXII. <a href="#chap32">THE DOUBLE BRIBE</a><br />
  XXXIII. <a href="#chap33">THE GREY HORSE</a><br />
  XXXIV. <a href="#chap34">THE BATTLE OF SAUCHIEBURN</a><br />
  XXXV. <a href="#chap35">THE FOUR HORSEMEN</a><br />
  XXXVI. <a href="#chap36">THE MILL ON THE BANNOCK</a><br />
  XXXVII. <a href="#chap37">THE REGICIDES</a><br />
  XXXVIII. <a href="#chap38">THE HOUSE OF THE BARTONS</a><br />
  XXXIX. <a href="#chap39">THE PRINCE AND THE ADMIRAL</a><br />
  XL. <a href="#chap40">CLEARED FOR ACTION</a><br />
  XLI. <a href="#chap41">THE ENGLISH BOAT</a><br />
  XLII. <a href="#chap42">THE LOVER AND THE SPY</a><br />
  XLIII. <a href="#chap43">THE BATTLE OF THE MAY</a><br />
  XLIV. <a href="#chap44">LARGO</a><br />
  XLV. <a href="#chap45">ST. ANTHONY'S BELL</a><br />
  XLVI. <a href="#chap46">THE GUNNER</a><br />
  XLVII. <a href="#chap47">BORTHWICK'S NEW MISSION</a><br />
  XLVIII. <a href="#chap48">TIB'S HOWFF</a><br />
  XLIX. <a href="#chap49">THE KING'S WARK</a><br />
  L. <a href="#chap50">THE SUMMER SPEAT</a><br />
  LI. <a href="#chap51">LADY EFFIE'S LETTER</a><br />
  LII. <a href="#chap52">THE HERMIT OF LORETTO</a><br />
  LIII. <a href="#chap53">THE TRYSTE AT LORETTO</a><br />
  LIV. <a href="#chap54">THE WEIRDWOMAN'S TREE</a><br />
  LV. <a href="#chap55">THE ESCAPE</a><br />
  LVI. <a href="#chap56">THE UNICORN LOOSE</a><br />
  LVII. <a href="#chap57">CAMBUSKENNETH</a><br />
  LVIII. <a href="#chap58">DOUBT, FEAR, AND SECRECY</a><br />
  LIX. <a href="#chap59">REUNITED</a><br />
  LX. <a href="#chap60">LONDON IN 1488</a><br />
  LXI. <a href="#chap61">THE ADMIRAL'S STORY&mdash;THE LEGEND OF CORA LYNN</a><br />
  LXII. <a href="#chap62">STORY CONTINUED&mdash;"ERIS-SKENE!"</a><br />
  LXIII. <a href="#chap63">THE BROKEN WEDDING-RING</a><br />
  LXIV. <a href="#chap64">THE BATTLE OFF FIFENESS</a><br />
  LXV. <a href="#chap65">THE ENGLISH PRISONERS</a><br />
  LXVI. <a href="#chap66">THE STANE BICKER</a><br />
  LXVII. <a href="#chap67">THE MAUCHLINE TOWER</a><br />
  LXVIII. <a href="#chap68">DUNBLANE</a><br />
  LXIX. <a href="#chap69">THE MIDNIGHT TRYSTE</a><br />
  LXX. <a href="#chap70">THE IRON BELT</a><br />
  <a href="#chap71">CONCLUSION</a><br />
  <a href="#chap72">NOTES</a><br />
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap01"></a></p>

<p class="t2">
THE YELLOW FRIGATE
</p>

<p class="t3">
OR,
</p>

<p class="t3b">
THE THREE SISTERS
</p>

<p><br /><br /></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER I.
<br /><br />
ON BOARD.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "There was a ship at morning prime<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The Scottish shore forsook,<br />
  And southward with a favouring gab<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Her rapid course she took:<br />
  Her mast St. Andrew's banner bears,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And heaven be now her speed!<br />
  For with her goes the bravest knight<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That Scotland hath in need."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;BALLADS AND LAYS.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
By the fragment of a log-book, which was found among the
MSS. just referred to, we are informed that on Beltane day, in
the year of Grace 1488, two Scottish ships of war, the <i>Yellow
Frigate</i> and the <i>Queen Margaret</i>, were lying becalmed off the
mouth of the Tay, about seven miles from the Gaa Sands, and
three from the Inchcape Rock, the large bell of which was heard
at times, as its sonorous notes floated over the still bosom of the
water.  An abbot of St. Thomas at Arbroath had hung it there,
on a wooden frame, to indicate by night that ghastly ridge, so
long the terror of mariners; and thus as the waves rose and fell,
they swung it to and fro.  Water will convey sound to a vast
distance; thus, in the noon of a calm May day, the notes of the
Inchcape bell were distinctly heard on board of the two ships of
his Majesty James III., although they were three miles distant
from the reef.
</p>

<p>
A groundswell came off the dangerous sands of Abertay; the
sails of the caravels flapped lazily against the masts, as the hulls
rolled from side to side slowly and heavily, for there was so little
wind that neither would obey her helm, but lay like a log on this
water.
</p>

<p>
The fertile shores of Fife and Angus were shrouded in hazy
summer mist, above which peeped the bare scalp of the Law of
Dundee.  Noon passed, and still the swell came rolling in long,
glassy, and monotonous ridges from the land, while the burnished
sea seemed smooth, as if coated over with oil.  The ships
lay about half a mile apart; and the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, with which
we have more particularly to do, was nearest to the shore.
</p>

<p>
A young officer who was pacing to and fro on her poop, gazed
frequently and impatiently at the mouth of the river, and after
wearying himself by whistling for the lagging wind, tossing
splinters of lighted wood into the water, and watching anxiously
the direction taken by the puffs of smoke or steam, he suddenly
slapped his hands.
</p>

<p>
"Ahoy there, mizen-top!  Barton," he exclaimed to an officer
who had ascended into the mizen-rigging, "there is a breeze
setting in from the east."
</p>

<p>
"Right, Falconer," replied the other; "I can see it curling
the water over the Inchcape; and it comes in time, for I was
beginning to bethink me of some other trade, for this of sailor
requires overmuch patience for me.  So-ho! here it comes!" he
continued, while descending the ratlins with the activity of a
squirrel.  "See how the sea wrinkles before it!"
</p>

<p>
"Now the canvas fills," said Falconer, looking aloft.
</p>

<p>
"The <i>Queen Margaret</i> has caught it already, and now old
Mathieson squares his yards.  Aha! he is an active carle; always
on the look-out, and his messmates jump like crickets when his
whistle blows."
</p>

<p>
The person thus eulogized, we find to have been Sir Alexander
Mathieson, a rich merchant-skipper of Leith, who had become
captain of a king's ship, and won the name of "King of the Sea."
</p>

<p>
"Keep her away, timoneer," said Barton; "keep her away
yet&mdash;a point or two to the south."
</p>

<p>
"Why so," asked Falconer, "when she lies so well?"
</p>

<p>
"Because, in entering the harbour of Dundee, we must keep
the north gable of St. Clement's kirk upon the bar, and on the
north-west, right over against Broughty, else we shall run upon
the Drummilaw Sands; and then not St. Clement himself, nor
his blessed anchor to boot, would save us.  Master
gunner&mdash;Willie Wad&mdash;please to inform Sir Andrew that a breeze is
springing up; but that I see nothing of my father's ship, the
<i>Unicorn</i>, at anchor in the Firth."
</p>

<p>
"Art thou sure?" said Falconer, anxiously.
</p>

<p>
"Sure!  I would know her by her red poop-lanterns and
square rigging among a thousand ships."
</p>

<p>
Robert Barton, who was captain of the ship, hastened to get
sail made on her; and as the breeze freshened, the yards were
almost squared; the notes of the Inchcape bell died away, and
both vessels stood slowly into that beautiful estuary formed by
the confluence of the Tay with the German Sea.
</p>

<p>
The sailors, who, during the calm, hud been lounging lazily on
deck, or basking in the sunshine between the brass guns,
exchanged their listlessness for activity; a smile of satisfaction
spread over their weather-beaten visages, and a hum of gladness
arose from the ship.
</p>

<p>
"Now, timoneer, the breeze is more aft," cried Barton; "steer
dead for the harbour mouth."
</p>

<p>
"Soho!" said Falconer, "the <i>Margaret</i> is coming up with us,
hand over hand."
</p>

<p>
"Fear not," replied Barton, joyously, "we shall soon leave her
far astern.  Thou knowest, Falconer, that this good caravel was
built under Sir Andrew's own eyes at the New Haven, near
Leith," continued the captain, surveying with a seaman's
proverbial delight the lofty rigging of the frigate.
</p>

<p>
"Yet, she is but a cockle-shell to the great ship of Hiero,
anent which, Father Zuill, the chaplain, told us so many
wonderful things after mass yesterday."
</p>

<p>
"If you had seen how beautifully she took the water, diving
deep with her stern, and tilting up her bow like a swan.  She is
sharp as a lance at the bows below the water line&mdash;bold above it;
straight between poop and forecastle&mdash;clean in the counter, and
bolted with copper.  By the faith of Barton, there sails not such
another ship in all Scottish waters; and I marvel mickle, if
either French Francis, or English Harry, will ever build one like
her."
</p>

<p>
The ship which Captain Barton eulogised so highly would
create no small speculation in Bonny Dundee, if she and her
consort were seen standing before the wind, right up the Firth
of Tay, in this year 1855; and we may imagine the criticisms of
the rough old tars, who usually congregate about the piers and
rocks of Broughty Ferry.  Her whole hull was painted <i>brilliant
yellow</i>; hence the name, that has won her a place so conspicuous
in the histories of the period.
</p>

<p>
Both vessels seemed comparatively low in the waist, for their
gigantic poops and forecastles rose like wooden towers above the
sea; and to render this simile more complete, were furnished with
little wooden tourelles at the inner angles.  Elaborate carving
and gorgeous gilding covered the hulls above the water-line; and
amid this, grinned the great carthouns or forty-eight pounders;
the brass culverins and falconets, tier above tier.  The port-lids
were painted a flaming red; three gigantic lanterns, with tops
of polished brass, surmounted each of the poops, which had round
their sterns and quarters a gaudy row of painted shields, bearing
the armorial blazons of the gentlemen who served on board.
Round the butt of each mast stood a rack of long Scottish spears
and hand-guns, into the tubes of which were inserted the hafts
of Jedwood axes.
</p>

<p>
The <i>Yellow Caravel</i> or frigate carried fifty guns; the
<i>Margaret</i>, twenty.  Both were ship rigged, with three masts, each
of these being composed of two long tapered spars, fidded at the
tops, which were clumsy and basket-like enclosures, surrounded
by little embrasures, from whence the cross-bowmen, pages, and
arquebussiers, could gall the enemy in security.  From the
carved bows, the bowsprits started up at an angle of forty-five
degrees; and each had rigged thereon a lesser or fourth mast,
having a great square spritsail before.  At the yard-<i>arms</i> were
iron hooks to grasp an enemy's rigging.  All the sails were large
and square.  At her mainmast head, each vessel carried the flag
of the admiral, a golden tree in a blue field; while at the stern
waved the blue national ensign, with the great white cross of
St. Andrew, extending from corner to corner.
</p>

<p>
The summer sun of this fair Beltane day shone joyously on the
glassy water, on the glittering hulls and snow-white canvas of
these stately caravels, as they neared those green headlands which
form the entrance to one of the noblest of the Scottish firths.
</p>

<p>
On the south the shore is bold and rocky; there, round its old
peel, now in ruins, clustered the little village of Port-on-Craig,
whose population lived by fishing and managing the boats of the
ferry (the oldest in the kingdom), which plied between Fife and
the opposite point, where, on a bare and unwooded promontory
stands the Royal Castle of Broughty, a strong, square tower,
then surrounded by a barbican and other defences, which frowned
towards the ocean on the east, defending the narrow strait from
hostile fleets, and on the west, towards a dreary salt-marsh, that
stretched almost from the outer walls to the gates of busy
Dundee.
</p>

<p>
The dresses of the officers and crews of the ships of James
III. were as remarkable as the aspect of their craft; for Robert
Barton, who was sailing master or captain, and Sir David
Falconer, who was captain of the arquebussiers, wore doublets or
pourpoints of grey velvet, cut very short, with slit sleeves, to
show the loose white shirts below; their shoulders were padded
out with <i>mahoitres</i>, or large puffs; they wore tight hose of
Flanders cloth, with long boots that came up to their knees,
They had swords and daggers of great length and flat blue
bonnets; at the end of his gold neckchain, the sailor carried a
whistle; but the soldier had a cross and medal; and, as a protection
from salt water, each wore an overall, or rough surcoat of
Galloway frieze, trimmed with brown fur.
</p>

<p>
The sailors wore gaberdines of the same coarse material, with
fustian breeches, blue bonnets, and shoes of undressed deerskin,
which in those days won us the strange appellation of
<i>rough-footed Scots</i>.  Willie Wad, the gunner, and Archy of Anster,
the boatswain, only, wore doublets of Flemish cloth, edged with
silver lace, and with the royal crest, the crown and lion <i>sejant</i>,
embroidered on the sleeves thereof.  The arquebussiers, of whom
there were a hundred and fifty on board, wore steel casquetels,
with large oval ear-plates, buff coats, and broad military belts,
which sustained their dirks, priming-horns, bullet-bags, and the
spanners of their long-barrelled arquebusses.
</p>

<p>
Such was the general aspect of the ships and crews of his
Majesty James III.
</p>

<p>
Barton and Falconer were both stout and athletic young men,
but were somewhat different in aspect and bearing; for the
former, who was a son of the admiral, Sir Andrew Barton, or
Barnton, of that Ilk in Lothian, the wealthy Leith merchant,
who had acquired a splendid fortune, and purchased a fine estate,
was a florid and jovial-looking young seaman, with something of
the Cavalier in his aspect; but Falconer, who had no fortune but
his sword, had been introduced to the royal favour by the late
Earl of Mar&mdash;the murdered favourite of James III., who
knighted the youth for his valour at the siege of Dunbar in
1478, when but a stripling.  Thus, though a knight, and captain
of one of the king's bands, he was but the son of a poor
merchant-skipper of Borrowstoness; yet he was a handsome and a stately
youth; his eyes, hair, and complexion were dark, and his
sharply pointed mustachios stuck fiercely off on each side of his
mouth.
</p>

<p>
"A boat has shot off from Broughty," said he, shading his
eyes with his right hand; "and two stout fellows are pulling for
the ship as if their lives depended upon their speed."
</p>

<p>
"Keep to larboard of the <i>Margaret</i>," cried Barton to the
timoneer; "for she draws less water of course, and we require
all the fairway to ourselves.  Keep her away&mdash;see how the surf
curls on the Gaa Sands!"
</p>

<p>
At that moment, a door, which was studded with iron
nails like that of an old tower, opened in the after part of
the poop, and the sentinels saluted with their arquebusses as
the admiral stepped on deck, and first cast his eyes aloft and then
ahead.
</p>

<p>
"Keep her full, Barton," said he, "keep her full.  So, the old
Tay now opens her arms to us! and now the spires of St. Clement
and St. Mary are in sight again.  Gadzooks, I can see the
Rock of St. Nicholas, and if I had thine eyes, Falconer, I might
distinguish the great house of Stobhall."
</p>

<p>
Falconer only twisted his mustachios, and smiled, but with a
sombre aspect.
</p>

<p>
"How, Sir Andrew," said Barton, "you think the eyes of a
mariner&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Are but green glass when compared to those of a lover&mdash;yea
I do," laughed the good old admiral, as he walked to the quarter,
looked over the side, and whistled to the freshening breeze; thus
he failed to observe the ill-concealed gesture of impatience that
escaped Sir David Falconer, and the bitter smile he exchanged
with Barton.
</p>

<p>
Sir Andrew Wood of Largo, admiral of the fleet of James III.&mdash;the
Scottish Nelson of his time&mdash;was originally a wealthy
merchant of Leith, where in early life he was as well known in the
Timber Holfe as at Sluice and the Dam.  He had first been
merely a merchant-skipper, who fought his own way at sea, but
he had done so with such signal success, and had so frequently
defeated the fleets of Edward IV. of England, and of Alfonso, King
of Portugal, and the pirates of many nations, that he was knighted
on his own deck by James III., who never omitted an opportunity
of distinguishing that rising middle class which the feudal
barons viewed with aversion and contempt.  James further
bestowed on him the noble barony of Largo, in Fife, and he held it
by the tenure that he should at all times be ready to pilot and
convey the king and queen to the famous shrine of St. Adrian,
on the Isle of May.  His Castle of Largo, a pile of great size
and strength, he built by the hands of several English, French,
and Portuguese pirates whom he had captured at sea, and whose
hard work he made the price of their liberty.
</p>

<p>
Thus he, who had commenced life as a poor sailor boy of Leith,
found himself, before his fiftieth year, a Scottish knight and
baron of Parliament; the founder of a noble family; the
possessor of a stately fortress, Laird of Largo, Easter-dron, and
Newbyrne; with a coat of arms, bearing two ships in full sail
under an oak tree, in memory of his defending the Castle of
Dumbarton against an English fleet in 1481, and defeating
another near the Bass a few years after&mdash;But we anticipate.
</p>

<p>
Now, his caravels had just returned from Sluice, where he had
been on an embassy, concerning the quarrel then existing between
Scotland and the Flemings.
</p>

<p>
He was rather under than over the middle height, and
somewhat stout in body, with a round good-humoured face; his
complexion was fair, but burned to a dusky red by exposure for
nearly forty years to the sea air in many climates; his beard and
mustachios were rather full, and the former fringed his face all
round, mingling with his short-cut hair, which, though it had
been dark in youth, was now becoming grey and grizzled.
</p>

<p>
On his head was a cap of maintenance, adorned by a short red
feather; he wore a rich military belt, and a jazarine jacket of the
fashion of the late King James II.; a gorget of polished steel,
having escalloped edges, and a magnificent poniard, which he
had received from Bartolemeo Diaz, the famous Portuguese
navigator, who discovered the Cape of Good Hope.  Buff-coloured
hosen encased his sturdy legs, and he wore plain knee-boots of
black leather, with high red heels.  The only indications of naval
life about him were, his silver whistle (in those days the
invariable badge of rank on the ocean), with a consecrated medal,
bearing the image of Clement, the patron of mariners; and more
than these, that unmistakeable roll in his gait, which is peculiar
to all those brave and honest souls who live by salt water.
</p>

<p>
"And so, Barton," said he, returning from the starboard
quarter; "there is no sign of thy father's ships in the Tay.  We
expected to have met them here."
</p>

<p>
"It is indeed most strange!" replied Captain Barton, giving a
last and anxious glance up the broad and shining river that
opened now before them; "but assuredly I can see no more ships
in the Firth."
</p>

<p>
"Not even from the mast-head?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay, though I could see the river as far up as the Pows of
Errol."
</p>

<p>
"Some service must have turned up in our absence, and while
we lingered at the Sluice," said Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"And if service was to be found," said the admiral, with
honest emphasis, "my brave auld messmate, Sir Andrew Barton,
would be the last man on the Scottish waters to keep his anchor
down.  But, ho! gadzooks, here is the captain of Broughty
beginning to waste the king's powder.  Archy of Anster, order a
yeoman of the braces to lower my pennon."
</p>

<p>
At that moment a puff of white smoke broke over the black
ramparts of Broughty, as the cannoneers saluted the admiral's
well-known flag, which was thrice lowered in reply to the
compliment as the vessels swept slowly past, and entered the broad
bosom of that magnificent river.
</p>

<p>
The tide was now beginning to ebb, and those dangerous
shoals, known as the Drummilaw Sands, were gradually
appearing.
</p>

<p>
Under these heaps lie the wrecks of those Norwegian galleys
which were destroyed in a storm in the days of Duncan I., after
his general had defeated the soldiers of King Sueno in the Carse
of Gowrie.  There they sank, and there the shifting sand rose
like a bar at the river mouth above their shattered hulk.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap02"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER II.
<br /><br />
THE SWASHBUCKLER.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Kind cousin Gilford, if thou lack'st good counsel<br />
  At race, at cockpit, or at gaming table,<br />
  Or any freak by which men cheat themselves<br />
  As well of life as of the means to live,<br />
  Call for assistance upon Philip Mure;<br />
  But in all serious parley spare invoking him."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;AUCHINDRANE.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
By this time, the boat which had shot off from the promontory
on which the fortress is situated, was alongside the <i>Yellow
Frigate</i>, which was moving slowly, almost imperceptibly, up the
river, and was now some hundred yards ahead of the <i>Margaret</i>,
which was but a dull sailer.  As the boat neared, the song
chaunted by the two rowers was heard on board.  It was a dull
and monotonous chant, the constant burden of which was,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Hey, the canty carles o' Dysart!<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ho, the merry lads o' Buckhaven!<br />
  Hey, the saucy limmers o' Largo!<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ho, the bonnie lassies o' Leven!"<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
"'Tis the boat of Jamie Gair," said Barton; "the bravest
fellow that ever dipped a line in salt water; let a rope be hove
to him from one of the larboard ports."
</p>

<p>
This was immediately done; the boat (which was one of those
strong clinker-built fisher craft, which are peculiar to the
Scottish firths) sheered alongside; and the two fishermen who rowed
it, together with a gentleman, enveloped in a scarlet mantle, who
had been lounging in the stern, ascended to the maindeck, and
from thence the latter climbed by Jacob's ladder to the lofty
poop, where the admiral, his second in command, and the captain
of the arquebussiers, were surmising who the visitor might be.
</p>

<p>
"Pshaw!" said Sir Andrew, as they all retired aft; "'tis Sir
Hew Borthwick!"
</p>

<p>
"But we must not forget ourselves altogether," urged Robert
Barton; "the man is a visitor."
</p>

<p>
"True," said the admiral; "I forget."
</p>

<p>
"Welcome," said Falconer, as this visitor, not in the least
daunted by the coolness of his reception, approached them jauntily,
with a tall feather nodding in his bonnet, and an enormous
sword trailing at his heels; "welcome on board the <i>Yellow
Frigate</i>."
</p>

<p>
"A dog's welcome to him," muttered Robert Barton, under
his thick mustachios; "for he is the falsest loon in all broad
Scotland.  Dost thou know, admiral, that 'tis said, this fellow,
with two brother villains in the English pay, betrayed Berwick
to the King of England?"
</p>

<p>
The Admiral nodded a brief assent.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick's appearance was somewhat forbidding.  He was past
forty years of age, and had black, glossy, and fierce-looking eyes;
a mouth like an unhealed gash; ears set high on his head, black
teeth, and a stumpy beard.  He wore a faded doublet of figured
satin with <i>mahoitres</i>, that had once been cloth of gold; his feet
were encased in English boots of that absurd fashion then called
duck-bill, as the toes were like beaks, and five inches long.  A
purse hung at his girdle, and a chain encircled his neck; but
rumour wickedly averred that the former was frequently
distended by pebbles, and that the second was only brass.
</p>

<p>
When he removed his bonnet, the remains of a tonsure were
visible; for Sir Hew (the origin of whose knighthood was
somewhat obscure) had formerly been a prebend in the Cathedral of
Dunblane, but forsaking the cloister at a time when the
ecclesiastical rule was considerably relaxed, he had espoused the more
congenial occupation of sharper, bully, jockey, and swashbuckler.
Always obsequious to the rich and noble, but supercilious to the
poor and humble, or brutal whenever he dared venture to be so
he hovered like a vulture wherever the ambulatory Court of
James III. chanced to be residing.
</p>

<p>
"And now, that all ceremonious inquiries are over, may I ask,
<i>Master</i> Borthwick, on what devil's errand thou hast boarded
us?" bluntly inquired Robert Barton, who, being less good-natured
than the bluff old admiral, was at no pains to conceal
his scorn for the swashbuckler.
</p>

<p>
The dislike was quite mutual; thus a malicious gleam lighted
the eyes of Borthwick, as he replied&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"I came on board to learn that which is of much importance
to the jovial gallants about Court; (nay, nay, Sir David Falconer,
do not laugh quite so loud if <i>you</i> please!) whether our good friend
the admiral has been successful in his embassy to the Flemings;
for since the interdict of '66, when our vessels could no longer
trade with the ports of the Swyn, the Sluice, and the Dam, wine
hath been so bad, and so dear&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"That you must e'en content your noble self with plain
usquebaugh," interrupted the admiral, laughing outright at the idea
of communicating the result of his important mission to a pitiful
fellow like Borthwick.  "But canst thou tell me, sir, where are
the ships of mine old messmate, Sir Andrew Barton, and where
is he?"
</p>

<p>
"The ships of Sir Andrew," replied the swashbuckler, slowly,
and with another malevolent glance at Robert Barton, "are
anchored safely by the walls of London Tower."
</p>

<p>
"And Barton&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Is at the bottom of the sea, I suppose."
</p>

<p>
"Borthwick!" exclaimed the admiral, in great wrath; "if thou
hast come on board to laugh at us, by Heaven's mercy, thou
shalt find none here, for I will rig thee by the earings to the
spritsail yard."
</p>

<p>
"He dare not trifle with us," said Robert Barton, in a thick
hoarse voice, as his swarthy cheek grew pale; "be patient, Sir
Andrew, and let us hear what he has to say.  Hew Borthwick,
thou art poor, and lovest gold, like thy own life-blood.  I will
give thee a hundred crowns if thou speakest the truth; but I
will poniard thee on this deck, sirrah, if thou liest; so spin thy
yarn, then, hand over hand; be a man for once.  'Tis a son who
asks for tidings and the safety of his father."
</p>

<p>
"Quick!" added the testy admiral, stamping his foot; "for
my arm is somewhat longer than my patience, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Hearken," said Borthwick, with deliberation.  "On the very
day you sailed for Sluice, three months ago, the Provosts of
Aberdeen and Dundee appeared before the Parliament at Stirling
(where the king was biding) making doleful complaints anent the
great loss their burghs had suffered from the pirates of Portugal,
who had seized many of their ships and barbarously murdered the
crews.  In five hours thereafter, Sir Andrew Barton put to sea
with the <i>Great Lion</i>, the <i>Unicorn</i> and <i>Little Jenny</i>.  He sailed
towards the Tagus, and by a herald's mouth demanded immediate
justice from the Portuguese.  Alfonso V. delayed; then stout
old Barton lost his temper, and after firing a few shot at the
castle of Lisbon, put to sea.  Falling in with the identical ships
which had committed the outrages complained of by the two
Provosts, he captured and sunk them, sending the heads of their
crews, daintily salted in beef barrels, to the King, at Stirling.
Being somewhat soft-hearted, James, as you may believe, was no
way delighted by the present; but, Sir Andrew, after cannonading
every town on the coast of Portugal, as he passed it, and
after destroying every ship of that nation which he met on the
high seas, bore away for Scotland.  Alfonso complained to his
good ally the King of England; the latter made inquiries as to
the most likely route to be chosen by Sir Andrew Burton on his
homeward voyage, and despatched his high-admiral, the Lord
Thomas Howard, and his brother Edmund, with a strong fleet
of the best ships London could produce, to the Downs, as these
Southerns call that part of the north sea&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"I know, I know, off the south-east coast of England, on
the Kentish shore," said the admiral, stamping a foot
impatiently; "go on, man&mdash;go on!"
</p>

<p>
"After sweeping all the shores of Portugal, and after escaping
a frightful tempest, on Saint Swithin's day, he was descried by
the English fleet, breasting gallantly up the channel, with all
sail possible on the <i>Lion</i>, and the <i>Jenny</i>, too, which bowled on
alongside, like a little gadfly, all legs and arms, with sweeps out,
and every stitch of canvas set."
</p>

<p>
"Ay," said Robert Barton, "she was a noble little sloop,
built under my father's own eye, poor man!&mdash;Well."
</p>

<p>
"The English fleet came on in the form of a half-moon, each
vessel with a large white rod at her bowsprit, in sign of amity;
but Sir Andrew knew the Lord Howard of old; and undaunted
by his array, came on with his guns double-shotted, and all his
ports open; but failing to break through, he engaged the
English admiral.  A desperate conflict ensued, for the <i>Great
Lion</i> was hemmed in on every side, and boarded at both stem
and stern.  Through the joints of his armour, Sir Andrew was
shot by an arrow, when about to retreat by the rigging into the
main-top on his decks being taken; and just then, as he was
falling, a cannon shot swept both his legs away.  His brave crew
fought round him in a circle, and he continued to cheer and
encourage them, by blowing his whistle to the last, until they
were all slain, or taken and disarmed.  Edmund Howard, with
three ships, pursued the <i>Jenny</i>; dismasted her, and shot her
sweeps away; then she struck, and the survivors of both
crews&mdash;only one hundred and fifty poor seamen in all&mdash;were
marched in chains through the streets of London, as a spectacle to
the exulting citizens.  They were then flung, like felons, in the
fortress which they name the Tower; but after being instructed to
implore their lives from the English king, they were dismissed;
and now, <i>Master</i> Robert Barton, your father's noble ships, the
<i>Great Lion</i> and the <i>Unicorn</i>, have the honour of being esteemed
the best in the navy of England, and display St. George's red
cross, where St. Andrew's blue ensign waved before."
</p>

<p>
"And what says our king to all this?" asked Barton, in a
voice that was rendered hoarse and tremulous by grief and
passion.
</p>

<p>
"Ay," added the admiral, with a terrible frown; "what says
King James?"
</p>

<p>
"He despatched the Rothesay Herald to Windsor Castle,
demanding redress, and threatening war."
</p>

<p>
"And the Englishman answered&mdash;?"
</p>

<p>
"That the fate of pirates should not occasion disputes between
princes."
</p>

<p>
"<i>Pirates!</i>" exclaimed Robert Barton, whose rage at such an
epithet surmounted even his grief for his father's death.
Borthwick's sinister eyes were brightened by a grim smile; but
mutterings of anger were heard among the officers and seamen,
many of whom had crowded round to hear the news from shore;
and many a swarthy brow was knit, and many a hard hand
clenched: for old Andrew Barton, like his compatriot and
mess-mate, Andrew Wood, had long been the idol of the Scottish
mariners.  "<i>Pirates!</i>" reiterated Robert; "dared the English
king stigmatize by such a name a gallant merchant mariner, who,
by noble valour and honest industry, has won himself a fair
estate and spotless reputation&mdash;a knight, who received his spurs
from the hands of a queen&mdash;an admiral, second only to the Laird
of Largo!"
</p>

<p>
"Second to none, my brave boy," said Sir Andrew Wood,
clapping Barton on the shoulder.  "Thy father was second to
no man that sails upon the sea; but he hath found a sailor's
grave, so rest him God!  As for pirates&mdash;Heaven will know
best whether kings or those who live by salt water are the most
honest men.  Every dog hath his day; and just now Lord
Howard hath his; be patient, my boy, until our new ship, the
<i>Great Michael</i>, is off the stocks, and then we shall see whether
the Scottish or the English cross shall float highest above the
water.  But tell me, Hew Borthwick, what hath been the result
of all this; for among these lubberly Flemings we learned no
Scottish news."
</p>

<p>
"You all know, sir, of course," resumed the swashbuckler,
assuming a lofty and impertinent air of consequence, as he stuck
his left hand into the hilt of his sword, "that the king's eldest
son, James Duke of Rothesay, was at his birth betrothed to
the Princess Cecilia of England, daughter of the late King
Edward IV.; that his brother, the Duke of Albany, was to
marry King Edward's fair young sister, the Dowager Duchess of
Burgundy; that our adorable Princess Margaret was to marry
the English Duke of Clarence; that every one was to be married
to some one else, except myself, who, in all these illustrious
alliances, had been strangely overlooked; when lo! the brave
Archibald, Earl of Angus, who is now Warden of the East and
Middle Marches, grew weary of all this traffic with England, and
the long truce to war.  To square accounts with Henry VII. for
Barton's loss, he marched ten thousand of his vassals across
the Border, and ravaged all Northumberland.  So thus, for the
present, have all these royal marriages ended&mdash;in fire and
smoke&mdash;bloodshed and cold steel."
</p>

<p>
"So may they ever end when our kings look for alliances
elsewhere than on the Continent," said Sir David Falconer.
</p>

<p>
The admiral paced up and down the deck, in a bitter and
thoughtful mood, grieving for the loss of his oldest and earliest
friend; one hand he thrust into the breast of his jazarine jacket;
the other rested on the pommel of his poniard.
</p>

<p>
Relinquishing the ship to the care of others, Barton stood
apart, gazing dreamily upon the shining river, with his heart full
of sad and bitter thoughts, while involuntarily he clutched the
mizen rattlins.  His eyes were swimming; but he bit his bearded
nether lip till the blood came.  Suddenly he raised his eyes to a
large mansion, which was looming high above others, through
the summer haze in which Dundee was sleeping; and then a
smile spread over his broad and thoughtful brow.
</p>

<p>
At that moment a hand was laid upon his shoulder, he turned,
and encountered the ship's chaplain, Father Zuill, a Dominican.
</p>

<p>
"Relinquish these bitter thoughts, Barton," said he; "and
come below with me to my cabin.  There I will show thee an
invention that will avenge thy father more surely than all the
cannon in Scotland&mdash;yea, a burning-glass, that will consume a
ship at the distance of a hundred leagues."
</p>

<p>
"Right, Father Zuill," said the admiral, who did not hear, or
mistook, what the friar had said.  "God may listen to the prayers
of an honest sailor, when He turns a deaf ear to those of
a king."
</p>

<p>
A few minutes after they had gone below, the friar reappeared
and ascended to the ship's waist, where Sir Hew Borthwick,
notwithstanding his knighthood, was comfortably regaling himself
with Archy of Anster and Wad the gunner, on salt beef and
spiced ale at the capstan-head.  Zuill placed a purse in his hands,
and said,
</p>

<p>
"Here are the hundred crowns which Captain Barton promised thee."
</p>

<p>
"A hundred crowns!" stammered Borthwick; "'tis an
enormous sum, good father."  (And so it was in the time of
James III.)
</p>

<p>
"But Barton hath a noble heart and a princely fortune," said
the chaplain, retiring hurriedly, for he had neither respect nor
admiration for an apostate priest like Borthwick.
</p>

<p>
"Ah me!" muttered the latter; "where shall I conceal this,
and what shall I do with it?  I never had such a sum before!
What a thing it is, for a poor devil, who has not had even a
black penny for ten days, to find himself suddenly the king of
a hundred crowns!  I' faith!" he added, while concealing his
prize, "'tis well that fiery birkie Barton knoweth not by <i>whose</i>
information the Lord Howard knew that the Scottish ships would
pass the English Downs about Saint Swithin's day."
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap03"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER III.
<br /><br />
BONNY DUNDEE.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Yon is the Tay rolled down from Highland hills,<br />
  That rests his waves, after so rude a race,<br />
  In the fair plains of Gowrie&mdash;further westward<br />
  Proud Stirling rises&mdash;yonder to the east,<br />
  Dundee, the gift of God."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;MACDUFF'S CROSS.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
In that age of cold iron (for indeed we cannot call it a golden
age), when the potent and valiant knight, Sir James Scrimegeour,
of Dudhope and Glastre, Hereditary Bearer of the Royal Standard,
was Constable and Provost of the Scottish Geneva, the
unexpected appearance of Sir Andrew Wood's two stately caravels
created no small commotion within the burgh.  No sooner was
notice given from the Castle of Broughty that the Laird of Largo's
ships had been seen off the Inchcape, and were now standing
up the Tay, than it spread from mouth to mouth, and passed
through the town like wildfire.
</p>

<p>
Though now the shapeless façade of many a huge linen
factory, and the tall outline of many a smoky chimney,
overshadow the ground that was covered by green fields and
waving coppice in the days I write of, "Bonny Dundee" still
merits the name given it of old by the northern
clansmen&mdash;<i>Ail-lec</i>&mdash;the pleasant and the beautiful.
</p>

<p>
Spread along the sandy margin of one of our noblest rivers,
and nestling under the brow of a green and conical mountain, it
was without walls in the year 1488; but at each end had a
strongly embattled gate, which defended it on the east and west,
while its castle, of the eleventh century, which stood on an
immense mass of steep rock that overlooked the Tay, gave it
additional strength, and added a military character to the naval
importance which the burgh was acquiring by the shipping that
usually crowded its harbour.  This castle is now removed, and a
broad street has been hewn through the heart of the rock which
it crowned.
</p>

<p>
Its quaint thoroughfares contained then many beautiful
chapels, convents, and monasteries; and the stately hotel of
many a noble family, with turrets and turnpike-stair, embattled
porch, and armorial bearings.  These towered above the
timber-fronted and arcaded houses of the Fluckergaitt, the
Overgaitt, and other venerable streets, whose appearance was
more picturesque than their names would import.  There our
kings had a mansion named the Whitehall, the vaults of which
are yet remaining; as also had the Lords Drummond, the
Scrimegeours of Dudhope, the Barons of Strathmartine, the
powerful Earls of Angus, and the great Earl of Crawford, who,
for his valour at Blackness, in the recent struggle between the
king and nobility, had been created Duke of Montrose, and Lord
High Chamberlain of Scotland.  Many great barons of the
Carse of Gowrie also resided in Dundee, where Parliaments and
Conventions have been held; and which could then boast of the
Mint of King Robert I., and the palace of St. Margaret, the
Queen of Malcolm III.; but its proudest objects were that
broad river, which from the hills of Strathfillan and
Glendochart rolls its mighty current to the German Sea; and its
ample harbour, crowded by the high-pooped and gaudily-painted
ships of France and Norway, Sweden and Flanders.
</p>

<p>
On the afternoon of this bright Beltane day, the return of the
great naval hero from the shores of Flanders caused an unusual
commotion and satisfaction in Dundee.  The whole inhabitants
were "on tiptoe," and a joyous murmur spread along the Mole
when the well-known caravels of Wood were seen to enter the
river; for now, though the admiral was a knight and baron of
Parliament, who fought under the king's pennon, he still dabbled
a little in merchandise, which gave him additional value in the
estimation of the thrifty burgesses and merchant traders of the
town.  Thus, every ship in the harbour, from the great argosie
that traded with the Levant, down to those little crayers or
low-built smacks which are still peculiar to the Scottish firths,
hoisted her colours.  The bells in the vast tower of St. Mary
rang a merry peal; groups of old weather-beaten tars, wearing
broad blue bonnets, gaberdines of Galloway white, and enormous
boots of rough skin, assembled on the rock of St. Nicholas, and
on the Mole, which then lay to the westward thereof, to observe,
and exercise their nautical criticism on the aspect of the tall
ships which, before a gentle eastern breeze, were slowly coming
abreast of the town.  There are bluff old fellows of this kind&mdash;half
man and half fish&mdash;who, in all ages, have haunted the piers
of seaport towns, and are great, pugnacious, and, moreover
obstinate authorities, in all matters appertaining unto salt water.
</p>

<p>
Amid all the dense population so interested in the arrival of
the admiral, there were none who bent their eyes more eagerly
on the coming ships than five fair young girls who were seated
on the bartizan of a large mansion, which (after surviving nearly
all its baronial cotemporaries) still stands at the corner of
Fish-street, and the Flesher-row, which were then, as they are yet, the
busiest part of all Dundee, and contained some of the finest
examples of old Scottish street architecture.
</p>

<p>
This mansion is large and square, like a great bastel-house;
and at three of its corners has broad round towers, which are
strong enough to turn cannon balls.  The whole superstructure
rests on an arcade composed of finely-moulded elliptical arches,
that spring from fluted pilasters.*  Its arcade is partly sunk into
the earth, and it is further diminished of its original height by a
slate roof sloping down upon the walls, which of old were
surmounted by a bartizan, from whence a view could be obtained of
the river to the south, and that quaint old thoroughfare to the
west, where, two hundred years before, the schoolboy <i>William
Wallace</i>, slew the son of Selby, the English governor; but to
the north the lofty mansions of the Nethergaitt shut out the
view.
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p class="footnote">
* In 1808, two hundred silver coins of James VI. were found imbedded
in the wall of this fabric, which is now named King James's Custom
House, from the use to which it was last applied.
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
In the time of our history, this stately mansion, the stone
panels of which were covered by coats-of-arms bearing a Sleuth-hound
and shield, with three bars <i>wavy</i>, was the town residence
of one of Scotland's most powerful peers, John, Lord Drummond,
of Stobhall and that ilk, who was Baron of Concraig, Steward
of Strathearn, Privy Councillor, and had been Ambassador of
James III. to England, three years before, concerning the
marriage of James, the young Duke of Rothesay, to a princess
of that kingdom; an embassy on which he mysteriously failed.
</p>

<p>
The five fair girls who were watching the ships' approach on
this bright summer evening, were his daughters, now left entirely
to their own control; for Lord Drummond was with the king
at Scone, and their mother, Elizabeth Lindesay, of the princely
House of Crawford, had been dead three years, and lay
entombed in Dunblane.
</p>

<p>
Euphemia was twenty years of age; her sisters, Sybilla and
Margaret, were respectively nineteen and eighteen; but
Elizabeth and Beatrix were little girls, and of them cotemporary
history has recorded little more than the names.
</p>

<p>
Lady Euphemia was a very handsome girl, with fine hazel
eyes, and glossy dark brown hair, which was entirely confined
in one of those cauls of gold net by which the Scottish ladies had
gladly superseded the fontanges of the preceding reign.  Over
this floated a white kerchief of the finest texture, edged with
gold fringe.  Her nose was straight; her well-defined eyebrows
expressed decision; her complexion was clear, but pale; her bust
and figure were unexceptionable, and the very elegant costume of
the court of James III.&mdash;an ermined jacquette of black velvet,
with spangled skirtle and yellow mantle, displayed them to the
best advantage.  She wore scarlet gloves from Perth, and shoes
of crimson tissue.  Her whole appearance was gaudy and brilliant;
while her air was lofty and reserved, for it was an age
when pride of birth and station were carried to an absurd extent;
but in her beauty there was something noble and majestic;
and her dark hair imparted to her skin a pure and transparent
whiteness that was very striking, even in a land of
fair women.
</p>

<p>
Sybilla was just a second edition of Euphemia, but with a
slight rose tinge in her cheek, and a stature somewhat less.
Perhaps the most charming of the three was Margaret, who was
then barely eighteen, and had soft blue eyes, a pure and delicate
complexion, a profusion of that beautiful and brightly-coloured
hair for which our Scottish Mary was so famous; and her face
(though less regular than her elder sisters) had the sweetest
expression that ever Raffaelle conjured up in the happiest moments
of his artistic inspiration.  There was a dash of thought or
sadness (which you will) in Margaret's winning smile that fascinated
all, and she was the favourite of the proud and ambitious old
lord, her father.
</p>

<p>
Lizzie and Beatie were both fair-haired and happy little girls,
who inherited from their mother the blue eyes and dazzling
complexions of the Lindesays of Crawford.
</p>

<p>
The three elder ladies occupied tabourettes; their two younger
sisters alternately romped round the bartizan with a wiry otter
terrier, or nestled among the embroidered skirts of Euphemia
and Sybilla.
</p>

<p>
The rich attire of these five girls, the abundance of satin,
velvet, jewels, and embroidery which they had about them,
betokened wealth; while by their air, the carriage of their heads,
the chastened expression of their eyes, and above all by the
beautiful form and whiteness of their hands, any one might easily
perceive their birth was noble; yet their father (although the
heir of a long line of chieftains) was the first of his race who had
worn a coronet.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, look at the caravels!" exclaimed little Lizzie to her sisters,
who had been doing little else for the last hour; "look, sister
Margaret," she continued, clapping her pretty hands, "see how
one gay flag runs up after another!  Dost thou see Captain
Barton yet, sister Euphemia?&mdash;or thou, Sir David Falconer,
Sybilla?"
</p>

<p>
"How should we, if thou dost not?" asked Euphemia, with
some asperity.
</p>

<p>
"Because you are older and bigger than me, and should of
course see farther."
</p>

<p>
"Hush, child," replied Lady Euphemia, who had frequently
found little Lizzie's powers of observation somewhat provoking;
"but I <i>do</i> think," she added, turning to Sybilla, "that I can
distinguish Falconer and Barton on the poop."
</p>

<p>
"At this distance!" said she, shading her fine hazel eyes by a
small white hand.
</p>

<p>
"Dost see a white feather waving there?"
</p>

<p>
"Euphemia, Falconer always wears a red feather in his
casquetel," replied Lady Sybilla.
</p>

<p>
"We shall have good Father Zuill, the chaplain, visiting us ere
long," said little Sybilla, "to read us some of his wonderful stories
out of that great book, in which he writes down the miracles of
St. Clement, the mariner's patron."
</p>

<p>
Be it known, that though these charming girls could write,
not one of them ever read a book in her life; for the simple
reason, that there was not then a printed book in all the realm of
Scotland, where the noble art of printing was unknown till
twenty-two years later&mdash;being fourteen years after it was known
in England.
</p>

<p>
Here little Lizzie, after terrifying her sisters by a large wasp,
which she thrust before them on her fan of feathers, threw it
over the bartizan.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis the first wasp I have seen this year," said Euphemia;
"thou shouldst have killed it, child, for that would have freed us
from foes till the end of December."
</p>

<p>
"Father Zuill told us not to believe in that superstition," said
Margaret, gently.
</p>

<p>
"Yet he believes in beads that cure blindness," said Sybilla.
</p>

<p>
"And burning-glasses that will consume a fleet at the
horizon and further," added Euphemia; "but lo you, now, the
ships are about to anchor!"
</p>

<p>
The sun was now in the westward, and a bright flood of
light was poured along the broad and beautiful river, the green
banks of which lay steeped in purple haze.  The <i>Yellow Frigate</i>
and her consort, towering above all other craft in the harbour,
were now abreast of the mansion from whence the five daughters
of the Steward of Strathearn were observing them; and being
distant only a bow-shot, the words of command issued through
the trumpet on board of both could be distinctly heard.
</p>

<p>
There was a light wind, thus the vessels were under a press of
canvas, and formed, indeed, a noble sight, with their snow-white
sails shining above the mirror-like water, and their
many-coloured pennons streaming in the sunny air.  They elicited
frequent bursts of nautical rapture from the old Tritons who were
clustered on the craig of St. Nicholas, a sea-beaten rock, that
took its name from a small chapel dedicated to that saint, which
crowned its summit.
</p>

<p>
"To your quarters, yeomen of the sheets and braces!" cried a
clear and distinct voice from the poop of the frigate.
</p>

<p>
"This is <i>his</i> voice&mdash;that is the voice of Barton!" exclaimed
Euphemia, a glow of joy replacing the paleness of her fine face
to hear again the familiar accents of her lover&mdash;even in the
hoarse words of command.
</p>

<p>
A moment after the courses were hauled up, and the light
breeze swept through the rigging; boats were now putting off
from the shore, and the high gunnels (or <i>gun-walls</i>) of the
caravels were crowded with glad faces, and hurried but hearty
recognitions of friends were interchanged.  The seamen, clad in
their grey gaberdines (each with St. Andrew's cross sewn on the
breast thereof), and their flat blue bonnets, were seen swarming up
the shrouds like bees, and displaying themselves upon the sharply
braced yards; and then, as if by the wave of a wizard's wand,
the great canvas sails disappeared, landsmen scarcely knew how,
as they were neatly and compactly handed and laid in, revealing
the taut black rigging and ponderous top-castles of the frigate&mdash;nor
was Sir Alexander Mathieson, in the <i>Queen Margaret</i>, an
instant behind the admiral in his manoeuvres.
</p>

<p>
"Stand by the anchor, lads!" shouted Barton, with a voice
like a trumpet.
</p>

<p>
"All clear&mdash;yare, yare, my hearts!" replied the boatswain,
Archy O'Anster from the forecastle, while as the frigate rounded
her to, great blue ensign flapped in the wind.
</p>

<p>
"Then let go!"
</p>

<p>
A rushing sound, as the thick rope cable swept through the
hawseholes, and a heavy plunge, as the ponderous iron anchor
disappeared into the calm flow of the river, announced that
the admiral's ship swung at her moorings in the harbour of
Dundee, from whence, four months before, she had sailed for the
coast of Flanders, as we have already mentioned, anent King
James's dispute with the merchants of the Sluice and Dam.
</p>

<p>
At that time no man was so popular in Scotland as Sir Andrew
Wood, unless we except Sir Andrew Barton; but now he was
gone to his long home, and the people looked to his old messmate
to avenge him.  Three loud cheers were given from the shore as
the frigates came to anchor; and from aloft and alow their crews
responded, with the deep and hearty shout that can only come
from the throats of those who are incessantly combating with
the waves and winds.
</p>

<p>
"See, dear Lizzie," said Margaret, who, though usually silent
and languid, had partaken of the excitement and bustle caused
by the admiral's arrival, "a barge is leaving the side of the
<i>Yellow Frigate</i>."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, the bonny little barge!" exclaimed Beatrix, dancing
about her, and comparing the sixteen-oared boat to the towering
caravel.
</p>

<p>
"Two gentlemen, clad in grey doublets, are in it."
</p>

<p>
"Margaret, 'tis Barton and Falconer&mdash;thou seest his red
feather now, Sybilla," said Euphemia, as she flushed again with
pleasure.
</p>

<p>
"They will bring us pretty, pretty presents, will they not?"
said the younger girls, clapping their hands.
</p>

<p>
"Father Zuill promised you each a box of sweetmeats," said
Margaret, with one of her sad kind smiles.
</p>

<p>
"Captain Barton promised me a silver collar from Bruges,"
said little Elizabeth.
</p>

<p>
"And David Falconer promised <i>me</i> a carcanet of pearls, with
a hood and veil," added Beatrix, who was a year younger.
</p>

<p>
"Thou&mdash;child?" said Euphemia; "and what would <i>you</i> do
with a carcanet, a hood and veil?"
</p>

<p>
"Wear them at mass, and in the Highgaitt, to be sure,"
retorted the little dame, testily; "no one fell in love with you,
sister Euphemia, till you exchanged the coif for a hood and veil."
</p>

<p>
"Nor with Sybilla, either," added Beatrix, making common
cause against the elders; "and as for poor sister Margaret, no
one has loved her yet."
</p>

<p>
Lady Margaret grew ghastly pale, and turned away.  Sybilla,
who did not perceive this emotion, laughed; but Euphemia, who
had now the place of mother over them all, said gravely,
</p>

<p>
"You are overforward, imps.  Eight years hence it will be
time enough for Lizzie, and for you, Beatie, to think of lovers,
and talk of hoods and veils.  Marry come up! child, thou canst
not spin yet!  But see&mdash;Barton's boat hath reached the Rock of
St. Nicholas."
</p>

<p>
"Alas!" said Margaret, sadly, "what evil tidings we have to
give him of his father's fate."
</p>

<p>
As the two friends sprang ashore, the old seamen who were
clustered by the chapel wall, all doffed their bonnets, and
murmured a hearty welcome.
</p>

<p>
The rock was the ancient landing-place, and lay to the westward
of the old harbour.  It was there that David, Crown Prince
of Scotland, landed on his return from the Crusades; and there,
that two hundred years after, the good Sir James Douglas
embarked for Jerusalem, with the heart of Robert Bruce; for
"bonnie Dundee" is a place of many old and many stirring
memories.
</p>

<p>
"They are coming this way," said Sybilla, in a flutter; "we
must hasten to receive them."
</p>

<p>
"But, lo!&mdash;what scurvy companion do they bring with them?"
added the haughty Euphemia.
</p>

<p>
"Sir Hew Borthwick," said Lizzie, "who cheated our butler
at dice, and stole the gateward's bugle."
</p>

<p>
"<i>Sir!</i>&mdash;how can you thus pollute the title of knighthood?"
asked the eldest sister.
</p>

<p>
"But do not the people call him so?" said Margaret.
</p>

<p>
"He is a mansworn priest," continued Euphemia, "and I
marvel that the Lord Bishop of Dunblane permits him to be at
liberty.  Was not Father Arbuckle built up in the gable of
Gilston kirk for the same crime&mdash;abandoning his cloister?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, frightful!" said the gentle Margaret, with a shudder;
"'tis so unlike <i>you</i>, dear Effie, to urge such an expiation;
moreover, I do not believe it."
</p>

<p>
"Not believe!" repeated Euphemia, as they all descended
from the bartizan by a turret stair; "has not our father told us
that he saw it done&mdash;yea, and guarded the kirk with the lances
of the stewardry for ten days; and there, in the wall, the bones
of the friar, poor man! are yet remaining.  But, hark! there are
our visitors."
</p>

<p>
At that moment Sir David Falconer blew the copper horn
which hung at the tirling-pin of the house door.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap04"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER IV.
<br /><br />
THE SISTERS.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "A sailor's life is a life of woe,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He works now late, now early;<br />
  Now up, now down, now to and fro,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But then he takes it cheerly.<br />
  And yet think not our fate is hard.<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Though storms at sea so treat us,<br />
  For coming home, a sweet reward,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With smiles our sweethearts greet us."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;T. DIBDIN.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
In an apartment which had three large windows overlooking the
river, the ladies seated themselves in a group to await their
visitors; and two, at least, were flushed and palpitating, for they
expected acknowledged lovers.  The younger girls were all
expectation too, anticipating certain gifts or presents; Margaret,
alone, was, as usual, pale, calm, and quiet&mdash;even sad.
</p>

<p>
The lofty walls of the chamber were hung with pale brown
leather, stamped with rich golden figures; the ceiling was
covered with grotesque gilding, and upon every available place
appeared the sleuth-hound of the Drummonds, with their motto,
<i>Gang warily</i>.  A magnificent Dutch buffet, having bulbous
shapen legs, and deep recesses, stood at one end, and was
surmounted by a large hound in delft ware; a gift by which Barton,
whose father brought it from Flanders, first made an impression
on the old lord's heart.  The chairs were of oak, with crimson
cushions; but the floor had no other carpet than a matting of
plaited straw.  There was a high stone mantelpiece covered with
carving; an iron grate, the enormous basket of which (the season
being summer) was filled with sea-shells, and on each side was a
sculptured niche or ambre, so common in old Scottish houses of
that age.
</p>

<p>
"Heaven be praised, our anchor hath again hold of Scottish
ground!" said Falconer, as a page conducted him and Barton up
stairs.
</p>

<p>
"How so&mdash;thou art either more of a lover or less of a sailor
than I, David?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay, I am not less of a lover, but more of a soldier, perhaps,"
replied the arquebussier, "or more of a landlubber, if you will."
</p>

<p>
"Now then, little marmoset," said Barton, who perceived the
page listening, "heave ahead, if you please."
</p>

<p>
The captain of the caravel and his companion were attired just
as we have seen them on board, save that the latter had adopted
an embossed helmet, with a plume of feathers, a bright gorget,
and long steel gloves.  He looked very handsome, gay, and
glittering; but honest Barton, in whose heart the recent tidings he
had received, sank deep, looked grave and grim, though a sad
smile spread over his brown and weatherbeaten face, as he took
both Lady Euphemia's hands in his, and greeted all her sisters
with warmth of heart, though perhaps with less of formal
courtesy than Falconer, who had served in the King's Guard,
and was one of those fine handsome fellows whom all women
unite in admiring; for he had a superb but native and inimitable
air.  While his friend, inured to a life of hardship on the ocean, at a
time when the infancy of science trebled its dangers, was perhaps
less easy, he was not a whit less noble in manner or aspect; and
the name and wealth he inherited from his gallant father, the
fighting merchant-mariner of Leith, had gained him a place
among those proud barons, who, but for the valour by which old
Andrew Barton won his spurs, would heartily have despised the
magnificent fortune and estate acquired by his probity and care.
</p>

<p>
Poor Falconer was wont to say, that all <i>his</i> father had left
him consisted of a rusty coat of mail, two old swords, and four or
five cordial hatreds, or feuds, to settle; all of which he had
settled honestly and manfully, twice over, on the street, or the
highway, wherever and whenever he chanced to meet with the
creditors; and now he owed no man either a blow or a bodle.
</p>

<p>
"Welcome, Robert Barton, my dream is read," said Euphemia,
rising up with a bright expression in her beautiful eyes.
</p>

<p>
"And what was thy dream, dearest Effie?" he asked in a soft
voice.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis of an old saw, told me by Jamie Gair."
</p>

<p>
"The fisherman of Broughty&mdash;he boarded us as we passed the
auld craig&mdash;but what of his saw?"
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "'To dream of a ship sailing on the blue sea<br />
  Is a sign of bright joy to thy kindred and thee;<br />
  But to dream of a ship that lies bulged on the strand<br />
  Is a sign that dark sorrow is almost at hand.'<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
"Now last night, Robert, I dreamt of thy yellow caravel
sailing on the sea (said I not so, Margaret?); and lo, thou art
here!"
</p>

<p>
"And my friend Falconer, too?"
</p>

<p>
"He is, like thee, most welcome," said Lady Euphemia,
offering her pretty hand, which Falconer timidly raised to his
lip, and then approached Sybilla; but on receiving from her a
significant glance, full of prudence and love, he sighed, bowed
and remained aloof; for the passion of these two was as yet,
secret, or merely a matter of jest with some, and of speculation
with others.
</p>

<p>
Falconer, brave to a fault, was poor, and had only his spurs
and his sword.  He knew this but too well, and Sybilla did
not forget it.  He had long concealed his passion; but she had
soon divined it; and now they treasured up a secret thought in
the depth of their hearts, like a dream that might never be
realized; for Lord Drummond was ambitious, and had many a
time sworn, that at least "four of his daughters should <i>die
countesses</i>."  Thus Sybilla and Falconer had found their best
resort was patience or hope.
</p>

<p>
The eldest sister was a happy, rich, and beautiful <i>fiancée</i>;
Sybilla was a timid girl, loved by one who dared not avow his
passion to her family; and Lady Margaret was sad and melancholy,
loved, the people said, by many for her goodness and
gentleness, but by none for her beauty&mdash;save one, of whom more
anon.  After the first compliments, inquiries, and congratulations
were over,
</p>

<p>
"Ah!  I had almost forgotten thee, little one," said Barton,
kissing the pretty Lizzie, whom he now observed hovering about
him; "but here is thy promised necklace."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, joy!" said the girl, skipping among her sisters, on
receiving a beautiful collar of Bruges silver, with a pendant of
opals; "now I am not less than my cousin Lady Egidia Crawford,
who is so proud because <i>her</i> mother was created a duchess."
</p>

<p>
"By my faith, Barton!" said Falconer, "thou givest such
magnificent presents to Lady Lizzie, that to keep Beatie's favour,
I shall be a ruined dyvour."
</p>

<p>
"With all the rings and blessed medals these children have
got, they might open a trinket shop," said Sybilla.
</p>

<p>
"And hast thou nothing for me?" asked Beatie.
</p>

<p>
"I have the most beautiful veil that the nuns of Sluice could
work; but unfortunately, it is still on board the frigate.
To-morrow I shall remember it better than I did in the hurry of
to-day."
</p>

<p>
"To-morrow the king arrives," said Barton.
</p>

<p>
"Nay&mdash;we heard nothing of it," observed Sybilla.
</p>

<p>
"Sir Hew Borthwick, or the man so-called, informed us that
the king was coming hither from Stirling on the morrow with
the young Duke of Rothesay, and all the court."
</p>

<p>
Lady Margaret's colour heightened at this intelligence, and
to conceal her emotion, she hastened to say,
</p>

<p>
"If Borthwick said so, it must be true, for he is one who is
never far from those parasites and flatterers who crowd the
court at present."
</p>

<p>
"Moreover, he told us that certain ambassadors from France,
who are now at the constable's house in the Carse, would be
presented soon after."
</p>

<p>
"And on what mission have they come?" asked Sybilla.
</p>

<p>
"I know not; but our right honourable informant, the
worthy swashbuckler, hinted&mdash;and really this fellow often knows
matters which are far above his position&mdash;that they had come
anent some royal marriage, as the young prince's proposed
alliance with the House of England has been so fortunately broken
off since my poor father's battle in the English Channel."
</p>

<p>
Margaret trembled so excessively as Barton said this, that had
the four lovers been less occupied with each other than they
were, and had the children not been engaged with the silver
collar, some of them must have observed her singular emotion,
which however fortunately passed unnoticed.
</p>

<p>
Restrained by the presence of others, the conversation of
Sybilla and Falconer (who, had the world been his, would have
given it for liberty to press her to his breast) was confined to the
merest commonplace; but Robert Barton and Euphemia, who, by
Lord Drummond having consented that their marriage should
take place in autumn, were under very different circumstances,
had retired somewhat apart.  She had passed her arm through
his, and clasping her hands upon it, was looking up fondly in his
sunburned face, and was telling him in a low and earnest voice
of all she had learned concerning his father's death off the
English coast; how she had prayed for him, and had masses said for
his soul; and with an air, in which sternness, bitterness, and
tenderness were curiously mingled, the heir of Sir Andrew Barton
listened to her; for his thoughts hovered between the bright
eyes and soft accents of the fair girl by his side and the carnage
of that day's battle in the Kentish Downs, when he would have
given the best ten years of his life to have stood for an hour on
his father's deck.  In these thoughts, and in those of future
vengeance, he almost forgot that this untimely event (though it
put him in possession of a princely fortune, an estate in Lothian,
and a mansion like a baronial castle in Leith) would necessarily
delay his marriage with Lady Euphemia for many months to
come.
</p>

<p>
"How happy thou art to be rich, Robert," said Falconer, as
they descended to the street, after lingering long and bidding the
ladies adieu.
</p>

<p>
"Wealth does not always bring happiness, David," replied the
seaman; "and just now I am miserable, when I reflect on how
my brave old father, and so many fine fellows, have been flung
overboard, to feed the hungry serpent of the sea."
</p>

<p>
"The ocean is wide," replied Sir David; "but thou mayst
meet the Lord Howard on it yet."
</p>

<p>
"And he is not the man to avoid me."
</p>

<p>
"I would give my right hand to be, like thee, Lord Drummond's
friend," said Falconer, bitterly, and still thinking of
Sybilla.
</p>

<p>
"Without thy starboard fin, David, thou wouldst be of little
use in this world; and mayst yet be the Lord Drummond's friend
without so great a sacrifice; besides, I can foresee, that between
intrigues, mayhap invasion from abroad, and domestic rebellion,
the loyal and the good in Scotland will ere long require all their
hands to keep their heads on their shoulders."
</p>

<p>
"Dost thou think so?" asked the arquebussier, with kindling
eyes.
</p>

<p>
"Yea&mdash;a child that knoweth neither how to pass a gasket or
knot a reef point, might see it."
</p>

<p>
And though no prophet, but only a blunt and plain-speaking
seaman, Robert Barton spoke of coming events with more
foresight and acuteness than he was perhaps aware of possessing.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap05"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER V.
<br /><br />
JAMES III.
</h3>

<p class="intro">
"Who ever approached me, but for some private object, or with some
private passion to gratify?  Hatred, ambition, and cupidity form round
me a circle without issue, and as a victim is ever needed for each
violence&mdash;that victim is ever myself."&mdash;JOAN OF NAPLES.
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Next day, the second of August, the sun rose above Dundee in
the same unclouded splendour, and again the green hills, the
ancient burgh, with its spires and castle, the bannered ships, and
all the wide panorama of the Tay, were mirrored in its clear
and waveless depths.
</p>

<p>
Bells were tolling merrily in the tall spire of the great church,
then designated the Kirk of the Blessed Virgin Mary in the
Fields, as it stood without the portes of the burgh; and a wreath
of those sacred lilies which still form the armorial bearing of
Dundee, encircled the now mouldering statue of our Lady, which,
with the little infant Jesus in her arms, has survived the storms
of seven centuries and the rough hands of the Scottish Iconoclasts,
and still adorns the western gallery of that stupendous
tower which overlooks the "<i>Gift of God</i>."
</p>

<p>
Almost drowning the peals that jangled from the belfries of
the Grey Franciscans in the Howff, the Dominicans in the Friars
Vennel, the Mathurins, and the nuns of St. Clare, the great bell
of St. Mary (which was rent when too joyous a peal was rung
for Prince Charles, in 1745,) rolled a flood of iron sound above
the town, and summoned all the burgesses to meet a monarch
whom the people loved, but whom the nobles hated&mdash;James
III.&mdash;who was now approaching by the road from Perth.
</p>

<p>
Beyond the western porte, and all the streets that led thereto,
this road was crowded by the populace; and there might be seen
the merchants and burgesses, clad in plain broadcloth, with
steel-hilted poniards in their girdles.  By law, neither they nor
their wives could wear scarlet, silk, or furring, and the females of
their families were restricted to short curches with little hoods,
after the Flemish fashion; and the ladies of poor gentlemen,
whose property was under forty pounds, had to content them with
the same.  There, too, were officials of the church, doctors, and
gentlemen, (having two hundred marks per annum,) in cloaks of
scarlet, laced and furred; and labourers, who had exchanged
their work-dresses of grey frieze and Galloway white for the
holiday attire of red and green.
</p>

<p>
From the eight stone gurgoyles of the market-cross, which, as
usual in Scotland, was surmounted by a tall octagonal column,
bearing the unicorn <i>sejant</i>, resting its forepaws on the imperial
scutcheon, wine was flowing, and a noisy contest waging among
the young <i>gamins</i>, seamen, and others, who struggled and thrust
each other aside, not always with good humour, to fill their
quaighs, cups, and luggies with the generous Rhenish and
claret, which gushed forth alternately from the mouths of the
dragons and wyverns; but order was stringently kept by the
constable of Dundee, Sir James of Dudhope, who had brought into
the burgh five hundred of his troopers from the Howe of
Angus&mdash;all sturdy yeomen, who wore black iron casquetels, with
oreillets over the cheeks and spikes on the top, and were armed with
that deadly weapon the ghisarma, which had been but recently
introduced.
</p>

<p>
Escorted by a numerous retinue of well armed serving men, all
of whom had <i>the sleuthhound</i> embroidered on the sleeves of their
gaberdines, and were accoutred with jacks and bonnets of steel,
two-handed swords, and wooden targets covered with threefold
hide, the daughters of Lord Drummond, with their aunt the
Duchess of Montrose, the Lady of Strathmartine, and many
other noble dames from the Carse of Gowrie, were grouped
together on horseback, awaiting the king.  Robert Barton, Sir
David Falconer, and other gentlemen, attended them on foot,
and held their bridles, having assigned their own horses to the
care of the pages, who carried their swords and helmets,&mdash;for a
page was at that time indispensable to every gentleman of
pretensions.
</p>

<p>
Conspicuous amid all was the old Duchess of Montrose, a tall
and noble-looking matron, whose height on horseback, when her
stupendous coif was added, became almost startling; for, like
old people generally, "being behind her age," she still retained
one of those enormous head-dresses which our ladies had copied
from the French, and which had been introduced by Isabel of
Bavaria, consort of Charles VI., who had to enlarge all the doors
in the Palace of Vincennes after the arrival of his bride.
</p>

<p>
Nor must we forget that redoubtable Knight of the Post and
Chevalier d'Industrie, Sir Hew Borthwick, who loitered near,
bowing and smiling to people who knew him not, or knowing,
who disdained him.  After completely failing to attract the
attention of Falconer or Barton, he swaggered through the crowd,
clinking a pair of enormous brass spurs, and exhibiting a new
scarlet cloak, which he had procured by the recent replenishing
of his exchequer; he tilted up the tail of this by his long sword,
pointed his mustachios, and from time to time turned up his
eyes complacently, to watch the nodding of an absurdly long
feather that drooped from his head-dress; and the latter being a
velvet hat, like that of an Englishman, the people murmured,
and made angry observations about it.
</p>

<p>
The undisguised aversion and fear with which the crowd made
way for him wherever he went, were a source of satisfaction to
this barefaced charlatan, of whom we shall hear more than
enough perhaps, in time to come.  He found ample occupation
in observing the brilliant group which surrounded Margaret
Carmichael of Meadowflat, the Duchess of Montrose, and in
surveying the brilliant colours of those splendid costumes which
exhibited all the frippery extravagance and coxcombry of the
time of James III.  Gold and jewels flashed on everything,
from the ladies' fair fingers to the bridles of their palfreys; but
by far the greatest number of diamonds and pearls glittered on
the long stomachers and among the braided hair of Lord
Drummond's three beautiful daughters.
</p>

<p>
Finding himself bluntly repulsed by Captain Barton and the
arquebussier, Borthwick had actually the assurance to address
the admiral, who came through the archway on horseback,
surrounded by his barge's crew, who had no other weapons than
their poniards and boat-stretchers; but a determined and
hardy-looking old bodyguard they were, with swarthy visages, long
grisly beards, and broad blue bonnets.
</p>

<p>
"Your humble servant, Sir Andrew," said the impudent
swashbuckler, elbowing a passage through them; "I dare say
the folks will marvel at this&mdash;a knight like me on foot, and thou,
a seaman, on horseback."
</p>

<p>
"And how came this to pass, Sir Hew?" asked the admiral,
who, being older, had, perhaps, more complaisance or less pride
than Barton or Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"My favourite horse was shod in the quick by a villanous
smith, who is now dreeing the reward of his carelessness in the
jougs at the burgh cross."
</p>

<p>
"I congratulate you on your good fortune," said the admiral,
endeavouring to pass; "by your scarlet cloak I perceive&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"That I have now more per annum than the Apparel Act requires:
so far, right, Sir Andrew; but, alas! an ancestor of mine
lost a noble estate by one act of indiscretion."
</p>

<p>
"Ah!&mdash;How?"
</p>

<p>
"By eating an apple," replied Borthwick, with one of his
hideous grins; "but so thou art come hither among us courtiers,
admiral, to steer by the royal smiles."
</p>

<p>
"The sailor's best compass is his conscience, messmate, and by
that I steer," retorted Wood, as he gave a peculiar wink to his
coxswain; then the Knight of the Post was gently put aside by
the barge's crew, and the old admiral alighted on foot by the
side of the Duchess of Montrose.
</p>

<p>
Around this noble matron, who was then the second lady in
the realm, the conversation was very animated; and, notwithstanding
the awful exclusiveness with which the Scottish noblesse
in those days chose to hedge themselves about, it was evident
that the venerable Wood, the gallant Barton, and the handsome
arquebussier, were three centres of attraction.
</p>

<p>
Margaret Drummond, still sad, pale, and thoughtful, paid
little attention to the buzz and bustle around her; she gazed
anxiously at the vista of the road which stretched westward past
the Convent of St. Mary Magdalene and the Tower of Blackness;
a page held her bridle; but the horses of her sisters were each
held by their lovers, with whom they were conversing in low and
earnest tones.  Falconer spoke little, yet he was, perhaps, the
happiest man in Dundee, for now he was by the side of Sybilla,
and could converse with her untrammelled by the observation of
others; and as the only matron who could control her actions
knew neither of his hopes, (or, as she would have termed it, his
presumption,) many little attentions were unheeded or unseen.
</p>

<p>
A cloud of dust that rolled along the road announced the
approach of the King, and soon a troop of nearly a hundred and
fifty mounted men was seen approaching at a rapid trot.  This
cavalcade was well mounted on horses of a breed which, at that
time, was famous, a baron of Corstorphine having improved the
high Lanarkshire horses by the introduction of some sturdy
Flemish mares; thus, for hacks and chargers, these large animals
were esteemed as superior to any of the four distinct breeds of
horses belonging to the country.  All their steeds were brilliantly
caparisoned with rich saddles, housings, and bridles, covered
with fringes and tassels of silk and gold embroidery, gilded
ornaments, and armorial bearings.
</p>

<p>
On approaching the west porte of Dundee, the king and his
attendants slackened their speed to a walk, but their horses
continued tossing their proud heads and flinging the white foam from
side to side.  The monarch was unaccompanied by his queen,
Margaret of Denmark and Norway, who had departed, with many of
her ladies, on a pilgrimage to the famous shrine of St. Duthac, in
Ross, then esteemed a long and arduous journey.
</p>

<p>
James III., a tall, handsome, and athletic man, was then in
his thirty-fourth year; his complexion was of that deep brown
tint which is not usual to the islanders of Britain, and his hair
was black and curly.  When in repose, his mouth expressed the
utmost sweetness of expression, but there were times when it
curled with bitterness and suppressed passion.  His beard was
closely trimmed; his air was soldierlike; his manner dignified, at
one time cold and reserved, but at others sad, even to
despondency, for he was the most unhappy of kings.
</p>

<p>
On this day he wore a doublet of rose-coloured satin,
embroidered with damask gold, cut and lined with rose-coloured
sarcenet, and fastened by twenty-four little gold buttons.  Over
this he had a riding surtout of green velvet, laced.  On his dark
locks he wore a black velvet bonnet, with an embroidered band,
a St. Andrew's cross, and white plume; he had long riding-boots
with embroidered velvet gambadoes and gold spurs.
</p>

<p>
James, the young Duke of Rothesay, then in his seventeenth
year, also tall, and a very handsome youth, inherited his father's
dark eyes and hair; his straight nose, with its fine nostril, and
his mouth, which was like a woman's, but over it a dark
mustachio was sprouting.  The dresses of the king, the prince, and
all their suite, were nearly alike in fashion, colours, and richness,
unless we except the Lord High Treasurer, Sir William Knollis,
one of the most upright and valiant men of the age, who, as
Lord of St. John of Jerusalem, and preceptor of the religious
knights of Torphichen, wore the black dress and eight-pointed
cross of Rhodez.  Around this ill-fated king were many who
were his friends, but many more who were his most bitter
enemies, and whose loyalty or treason will all be revealed in
future chapters; to wit, Sir James Shaw of Sauchie, who had
been made governor of Stirling because his father had been slain
by a cannon shot at the siege of Dunbar; Evandale, the Lord
High Chancellor; Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff; the Lord
Drummond; his brother, Sir Walter, who was Dean of Dunblane
and Lord Clerk Register; the Duke of Montrose, who was
Master of the Household and Great Chamberlain of Scotland;
Lord Lindesay of the Byres, and Archibald, <i>the great Earl</i> of
Angus, a noble then in his thirtieth year&mdash;one whose fierce and
restless ambition, indomitable pride, and vast feudal power, made
him a terror to the good king on the one hand, and to the oppressed
people on the other.  Then, he was popularly known by the
sobriquet of Bell-the-Cat, from the quaint parable spoken by
him at Lauder Bridge in that memorable raid when he hanged
every favourite of James III.; for, in his eyes, Robert Cochrane,
the eminent architect, was but a stone-cutter; Sir William
Rogers, who composed many fine airs, but a fiddler; Leonard,
the engineer, was but a smith; and Torphichen, the fencing-master,
a miserable fletcher&mdash;men who disgraced James III. by
the preference which he showed for them over a proud, barbarous,
and unlettered nobility, whom, like his father, he resolved to
spare no pains to curb and to humble.  Vain thought!
</p>

<p>
This Lord of Tantallon, who was Warden of the East and
Middle Marches, and a chieftain of the powerful House of Douglas,
overshadowed even the throne by his power; for the King of
Scotland was but a laird in comparison to the great military
nobles.  Angus was dark and swarthy as a Spaniard; his hair
and beard were sable, his eyes black and sparkling, with a keen,
restless, and imperious expression.  Like his father&mdash;that valiant
earl, who with ten thousand horse, covered the retreat of M. de
Brissac and the French troops from Alnwick in 1461&mdash;he
constantly wore armour, and was now riding beside the Earl of
Erroll, Lord High Constable of the kingdom, who had come with
a few lances from the Carse of Gowrie, to escort the sovereign to
Dundee.
</p>

<p>
As this brilliant and illustrious cavalcade passed through the
old moss-grown and smoke-encrusted archway which then closed
the end of the principal street, a general uncovering of heads took
place, and loud and reiterated cheers greeted James, who was beloved
by the people, especially in the towns where there was now rising
a wealthy middle class, who had no sympathy with, and who owed
no fealty to, the great barons, but were rather at enmity with
them.  He who cheered most lustily, in forcing a passage through
the gate with the courtiers, was the soi-disant Sir Hew Borthwick,
who endeavoured to place himself as near to the king or
prince as Lord Erroll's lances would permit.
</p>

<p>
On passing Sir Patrick Gray, he exchanged a glance of
intelligence.
</p>

<p>
"<i>To-night</i>," said he, in a whisper.
</p>

<p>
"<i>Where?</i>" asked the Knight of Kyneff,
</p>

<p>
"<i>On the beach near Broughty</i>," replied Borthwick.  And
here the crowd pressed between them.
</p>

<p>
The king, still young and handsome, doffed his bonnet to the
tall duchess and her fair companions, and the young heir of
Scotland, whose spirited horse curvetted past them, bowed again
and again to his saddle; and though he looked anxiously amid all
that glittering group for one beloved face, by some fatality he
never observed it, and caprioled through the archway by his
father's side.
</p>

<p>
Margaret Drummond, the foremost of the group, and almost
unconscious of where she was, had watched the approaching party
in silence with a beating heart.  The shadow of her hood and
veil concealed her pallor and the sad and anxious expression of
her fine blue eyes.  Amid those hundred horsemen and more
who swept up to the gate, she had soon distinguished Rothesay,
and held her very breath with joy as he passed, but alas! without
observing her; and her young heart sank as he did so; for though
none knew it, save one old priest and two other persons, the
crown prince of Scotland was her wedded <i>husband</i>&mdash;wedded at
the altar of St. Blane with all the solemnity of the ancient
faith&mdash;but in secret.
</p>

<p>
Barton and Falconer were now compelled to leave the ladies,
and with many other gentlemen sprang on horseback, to
accompany the admiral, who had now joined the royal cavalcade.
</p>

<p>
The king received the fine old man with unfeigned expressions
of affection and joy; for grief soon discovers true sympathy, and
misfortune readily discerns the difference between flattery and
devotion: thus James III. always felt stronger and more
confident when such men as Sir Andrew Wood, or Lindesay and
Montrose were by his side; but such nobles as Angus and Lord
Drummond were his horror and aversion.
</p>

<p>
"There are times, my faithful friend," said he to Wood, as
their train fell back a little on entering the narrow Nethergaitt,
"when I envy thee and thy honest hearts the free and happy
life they lead upon the open sea."
</p>

<p>
"Yet a sailor's life hath its troubles and its crosses
too&mdash;witness the fate of Barton, my gude auld messmate."
</p>

<p>
"Of that, and of thy Flemish mission, we will talk at another
time," replied the king; "let us not mar the happiness I feel at
seeing thee, honest Wood, the dearest and most faithful of my
people, by allusions to such cold and bitter subjects."
</p>

<p>
"God and St. Andrew bless your majesty!" said the admiral,
whose eyes and heart overflowed as he spoke.  "I have never
done aught more than my duty to Scotland and my king, as man
and boy, for forty years, since first I trod a deck&mdash;a puir sailor
laddie, in the <i>Peggie</i> of Pittenweem.  I would run my head into
a cannon's mouth, if by doing so I could serve your majesty;
and that, I believe, is mair than half of these gay galliards ahead
and astern of us would do; natheless their long pedigrees and their
dainty doublets, with white lace knuckle-dabbers at the wrists."
</p>

<p>
"Some day I shall go to sea with thee, Wood," said King
James, with a melancholy smile; "for, by the soul of Bruce!  I
begin to tire of this trade of kingcraft."
</p>

<p>
"I like the land as little as a fish; but should a day of foul
weather ever come, when your majesty is safer on salt water
than on Scottish earth," said the admiral, more than divining the
secret thoughts of the king; "remember, there is a ship's
company of five hundred good men and true, under the flag of
the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, every man of whom hath a seaman's hand
and a seaman's heart, solid as a pump-bolt, and not like a perfumed
and painted courtier's, hollow as a leather bottle, or rotten
like an old pumpsucker.  Gadzooks!  I would like to see a few of
these braw gallants drifting under close-reefed topsails, with a
wind blowing hard from the east, and the craigs of Dunnottar on
their lee!"
</p>

<p>
The king sighed, and allowed the reins of his horse to drop
upon its neck.
</p>

<p>
"Your majesty is troubled," resumed the honest seaman; "but
if any of these dogfish barons have been at their auld work, just
let me ken, and, by all the serpents in the sea! they shall feel the
weight of my two-handed sword, or I shall pipe away my barge's
crew with their boat-stretchers, and they will soon clear the
causeway of every lord and loon in Dundee."
</p>

<p>
The king laughed.
</p>

<p>
"Thou art indeed an honest heart," said he; for he found that
they could converse freely, as the incessant exclamations of the
people, as they pressed along the crowded streets, concealed their
conversation from such jealous listeners as Angus and Drummond.
"A process so summary might destroy thee, admiral, and thy
bargemen too.  But indeed, Sir Andrew, I am sick of this
ferocious loyalty (if I may so term it) by which the nobles encircle
me like a wall of iron.  Though short, my life has been a long
and dreary labyrinth of intrigue and civil war, of crafty councils
and infernal suggestions&mdash;a struggle between a tyrannical feudal
peerage and a gallant people, who would, and by St. Giles's bones
shall yet, be free!  The nation has placed upon my brow a crown
of gold; but the nobles have engirt my heart by a band of
burning steel!"
</p>

<p>
As the king spoke in this figurative language, he glanced about
him uneasily, almost timidly, and encountered the dark and stern
visage of Angus, and the proud, inquiring eyes of Drummond
but they had not heard him, or, having done so, did not
comprehend.
</p>

<p>
"I speak figuratively, admiral," said he; "but do you
understand me?"
</p>

<p>
"Perfectly, your majesty," stammered Wood, as with some
perplexity he rubbed his grizzly beard; "but come, come, Sir
Hew," he added, on perceiving that worthy close to them; "ware
ship&mdash;give us sea-room here, if it please ye."
</p>

<p>
At that moment the report of cannon on the river announced
that the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> and her consort were firing salutes, as
the king and his train halted at the old palace of St. Margaret,
where the Duke of Montrose, as Master of the Royal Household,
and the Constable of Dundee, had already alighted, and were on
foot to receive him.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap06"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VI.
<br /><br />
THE PALACE OF ST. MARGARET.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "The weird wan moonlight looketh down,<br />
  And silvers the roofs of the silent town&mdash;<br />
  Silvers the stones of the silent street,<br />
  That ere while echoed to busy feet."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
This venerable royal residence was situated at the head of a
narrow street opening off the great thoroughfare, then called
St. Margaret's Close, though by mistake the civic authorities
have now given that name to another alley in the Nethergaitt,
where stood an ancient chapel, dedicated to the Saxon
Queen-Consort of Malcolm III., who had her dowry lands in the
adjacent Howe of Angus.
</p>

<p>
By her numerous virtues, the sister of Edgar Atheling was so
endeared to the Scottish people, that every spot connected with
her presence is still remembered; thus her name was long and
indissolubly connected with this little palace at Dundee.  It was
a gloomy and massive building, which stood within a court or
cloister, and had over the central door, and all the windows, deep
and low-browed arches, covered with a profusion of catsheads
and grotesque sculpture.  These arches sprang from short, round,
and massive pillars, having escalloped capitals and zigzag
mouldings.  The deeply recessed windows were all barred with iron,
glazed with lozenged panes, painted with coats of arms and
brilliant devices, designed by Robert Cochrane, the royal architect,
an artist of great taste and talent&mdash;one of the murdered favourites
of the king, who in his foolish generosity had created him general
of artillery and Earl of Mar.
</p>

<p>
It was in this palace that in the year 1209, Alan, Lord of
Galloway and Constable of Scotland, espoused Margaret, niece of
King William the Lion.
</p>

<p>
Soon after the entrance of James III. the bells ceased to toll,
and the ship guns ceased firing; the wine and ale still poured at
intervals from the stone spouts of the Cross; but the acclamations
died away in the Nethergaitt, and soon a stillness reigned
around the small but crowded residence of the king.  A stranger
could not have imagined that a monarch and a court were there&mdash;so
ominous was the silence in that grim old Scottish palace;
for James mourned over the caprices of his nobles and the insults
he had endured from them, during his nine months' captivity in
the Castle of Edinburgh, from which he was not released until
Richard III. of England interfered in his behalf, at the head of
30,000 men.  Young Rothesay mourned over domestic troubles,
and a secret marriage which he dared not yet avow; while a
crowd of cunning favourites on one hand, and of ambitious nobles
on the other, watched like lynxes for the turning of any scale
that would prove of advantage to themselves.
</p>

<p>
Discontent was apparent everywhere in and about the court of
James III.  It was visible in the face of the king, for the
recent slaughter of his courtiers by Angus and others, against
whom he was nursing secret plans of vengeance; it was visible
in the stern eyes of the noblesse, who, by a royal edict, had been
desired to forbear wearing swords within the royal precincts&mdash;an
order which they observed by arming themselves to the teeth,
and doubling the number of their mail-clad followers; it was
visible in the faces of the merchants, <i>anent</i> the twenty-one years'
quarrel with Flanders; and in the faces of the people, because
they saw a disastrous struggle approaching between the feudal
nobles and themselves&mdash;a struggle which the field of battle alone
would decide for their future good or evil.
</p>

<p>
That evening the king gave a banquet to his false courtiers,
ad to Admiral Wood, to Barton, and Falconer.  Lord Drummond
was grand carver, Angus grand cupbearer, and the Laird of
Kyneff grand sewer, or <i>asseour</i>; but Rothesay stole at an early
period from the table, and reached his own apartments
unperceived.  There be exchanged dresses with his faithful
Lord Lindesay of the Byres; and putting on a mask, with a shirt
of mail of the finest texture under his doublet, issued by a private
gate into the main street, just as the last shadows of the
mountain that overhangs Dundee were fading away upon the river&mdash;or
rather becoming blended with the general obscurity of the
summer gloaming.
</p>

<p>
The young prince wore a casquetel, and had his sword and
dagger under the scarlet cloak of Lord Lindesay, for whom he was
mistaken by the pages, yeomen, and archers, in the neighbourhood
of the palace, as he passed into the burgh.
</p>

<p>
"Oho, my merry masquer!" said Sir Hew Borthwick, who
had been loitering near the king's residence for the livelong day,
in the hope of finding some one to drink or play with him, or
from whom to pick up any stray intelligence concerning the
admiral's embassy to Flanders, and the errand of those envoys who
were now at the house of the Provost in the Howe.  "By the
Holy Kirk!  I should know that dainty red cloak; now, were
those locks black instead of brown, and had that casquetel a
feather, and those boots silver spurs instead of gold, I would say
this gallant was my good friend Lord Lindesay of the Byres, and
<i>not</i> the young Duke of Rothesay.  But to the proof!  On my
honour, I'll follow him; and if he is bent on the errand I suppose,
this night may bring another thousand of King Henry's English
pounds to my purse."  Walking very quick after the young
prince, who was carefully keeping himself under the shadows of
the darkest and least frequented streets, the spy cried aloud,
</p>

<p>
"Soho! sir&mdash;I crave pardon; but can you tell me what's
o'clock?"
</p>

<p>
Annoyed by this impertinent interruption, the prince paused
and laid a hand on his sword; but being anxious to avoid a
brawl, turned and walked on at a quicker pace.  Borthwick, who
was now close at his heels, came abreast of him just at the corner
of Fish-street, which was then quite dark and destitute of lamps.
</p>

<p>
"Sir&mdash;thou with the mask," continued Borthwick; "when I
ask questions I expect to receive replies.  Will you please to give
me one?"
</p>

<p>
"<i>There</i>, blockhead!" retorted the prince, furiously, as he gave
him a blow with his clenched hand which levelled the intruder
in the kennel; and as it was dealt skilfully, right under the left
ear, it was a full minute before he recovered.
</p>

<p>
Then, from the muddy street, Borthwick rose with a heart full
of rage and vengeance.  His first thought was of his soiled cloak;
his second of something else.
</p>

<p>
"'Twas the prince's voice!" said he; "I was right!  Oho!&mdash;let
me watch, and watch well.  How fortunate! the more so as
I keep tryst at Broughty to-night."
</p>

<p>
After knocking this fellow down, Rothesay hurried along the
street in the twilight.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick saw him cross it near the great mansion of Lord
Drummond, which, with its dark façade and round towers,
overshadowed the narrow way.  There he disappeared under the
arcades, but whether he was lurking among them, or had been
received into some secret door, Borthwick could not discover;
yet for more than an hour he lingered there, watching to make
sure that Rothesay had really entered the house, which he dared
not approach, lest a thrust from a sword, unseen, might reward
his impertinence, from behind one of the columns on which the
superstructure stood.
</p>

<p>
At last eleven tolled from the tower of St. Mary's Church, and
remembering his appointment (of which more anon), the swashbuckler
muffled his cloak about him, and set off at a rapid pace
along the eastern road, which by the margin of the river led
towards the Castle of Broughty, the lights of which could be seen
twinkling on the low flat promontory that approaches the mouth
of the Firth of Tay.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap07"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VII.
<br /><br />
MARGARET DRUMMOND.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&mdash;&mdash;They gazed upon each other,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With swimming looks of speechless tenderness,<br />
  Which mixed all feelings, child, friend, lover, brother,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;All that the best can mingle and express,<br />
  When two pure hearts are poured in one another,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And love too much, and yet cannot love less!<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;BYRON.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
In a small round chamber, really "a secret bower," of her father's
house, Margaret Drummond was seated alone.  She was half
kneeling and half reclining in an old <i>prie-dieu</i> of oak, for she
had just concluded her prayers; and a missal, bound in velvet
and gold, with a rosary of bright amber beads, lay in her lap.
</p>

<p>
In a large holder of carved wood and brass-work, two tall
candles lighted this apartment, which was hung all round with
dark-red arras.  Here was a little bed, raised scarcely a foot from
the ground, canopied by a gilded cornice with plumes of feathers,
with a small niche over the pillows, and within it stood the
prettiest Madonna that ever came out of Italy, with a little font,
which always contained some holy water.
</p>

<p>
This was Margaret's little bower, and at times her sleeping-place.
As she lay half reclined in that old and grotesque <i>prie-dieu</i>,
with her soft sad features partly hidden amid her clustering hair,
her long lashes downcast, one white hand supporting her temples,
and the other drooping by her side, she would have made a beautiful
picture.  She was still as death, as she listened for every
passing sound; but all was quiet in that vast mansion, whose
inmates were now retired to rest.  For more than an hour she
had watched and listened, without hearing anything, for the old
walls of the house were several feet thick, and, together with the
wainscoting and tapestry, nearly excluded all external sound,
even by day.  At last she raised her head and listened, while her
fine eyes sparkled with animation.
</p>

<p>
St. Mary's bell struck ten.
</p>

<p>
"<i>Ten</i>&mdash;and he comes not yet!" said Margaret, rising, to sink
again with a sigh into the <i>prie-dieu</i>, but almost immediately a
knock was heard at the side of the apartment, and a soft voice
sang the burden of that beautiful old song&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Oh, are you sleeping, Maggie,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;My ain, my dear, my winsome Maggie!<br />
  Unbar your door, for owre the muir<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The wind blaws cauld frae Aberdaggie."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
An expression of joy spread over her features; her eyes
sparkled again; her cheek flushed, and springing from the <i>prie-dieu</i>,
she raised the red arras, opened a little door by withdrawing
a bar of oak, and stooping low the young Duke of Rothesay
entered from a secret staircase, to which he alone had access, and
which communicated with the lobby of the house and its arcades
below.
</p>

<p>
"Tears?" said the handsome prince, taking her tenderly in
his arms, and kissing her on the lips and on the eyes.  "Dearest,
why this emotion?"
</p>

<p>
But Margaret only sobbed, drooped her head upon his breast,
and wept.
</p>

<p>
"It was my happiness to see you; but you did not observe me
to-day."
</p>

<p>
"See thee, dearest Maggie," said the prince, throwing aside
his casquetel and rich mantle; "I looked all amid the glittering
crowd that stood by the western gate for thee, and thee only;
but, whichever way I turned, could see nothing save the
enormous fantange of Madam the Duchess of Montrose.  I vow it
looks like a kirk steeple!  But now," added Rothesay, with a
smile of inexpressible tenderness, "thou forgettest, I have one
other little mouth to kiss."
</p>

<p>
Margaret drew back the curtain of an alcove, and there, within
a little couch, canopied by rich hangings of rose-coloured velvet,
lay a pretty child of not more than eight months old, plump,
fair, and round, with its small face and cheeks, tinted like
rose-leaves, encircled by a lace cap.  Two hands were also visible, so
small and so very diminutive, that but for their dimples they
might have passed for those of a fairy.  The prince knelt down,
and while his heart rose to his lips, kissed gently the soft
warm cheek of the sleeping baby that in after years was to
be Lady Gordon of Badenoch; and after gently closing the
curtain, again he pressed Margaret to his breast, and seated her
beside him.
</p>

<p>
"Life is so sweet!" said he, "when one has something to
love, and is beloved again; and you, my Maggie, are a diamond
among women."
</p>

<p>
"And thou wilt never tire of thy poor little Margaret?"
</p>

<p>
"Tire of thee?" sighed the prince, smiling; "dear Maggie,
since I knew thee I have only begun to live&mdash;to know joy.  To
me it seems that we have but one heart, one soul, and that
without thee I should now have neither.  And thou hast confided
to me thy life, thy love, thy destiny, and this dear infant,
the pledge of them all.  Oh, Margaret, without thee, how dark
would this world be to Rothesay?"
</p>

<p>
"And yet, prince, for one long month we have not met."
</p>

<p>
"Why call me <i>prince</i>?  Dear Margaret, here there is no
prince."
</p>

<p>
"Nor princess!" she sighed.
</p>

<p>
"There <i>is</i>&mdash;for thou art Duchess of Rothesay, and shall yet be
Queen of Scotland&mdash;even as my ancestress, Annabella Drummond,
was before thee."
</p>

<p>
"Alas, but for our unfortunate consanguinity through her, we
had not been wedded in secret, or been driven thus to commit a
mortal sin.  I had not borne this poor child unknown, or carried
under my bosom a load of grief and shame."
</p>

<p>
"Shame," reiterated Rothesay, kissing away her tears.  "Ah,
Margaret, have you forgotten that night in the cathedral at
Dunblane, when we were so solemnly united, as Father Zuill and
the cathedral registrars shall yet bear testimony in Parliament.
Ere long the Bishop of Dunblane will bring from Rome the
dispensation that shall clear us all, and then I shall <i>again</i>
espouse thee, Margaret, with such splendour as Scotland has not
seen since Mary of Gueldres stood by the side of James II. at
the altar of the Holy Cross."
</p>

<p>
"But till then, I must live in terror, and love in secret.  Oh,
prince, had I loved thee less&mdash;had I known or foreseen&mdash;but I
most not weary thee with unavailing reproaches, prince&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Prince again!  Now this is most unkind.  Dear Margaret,
why call me otherwise than James Stuart&mdash;am I not thine own
James?"
</p>

<p>
"Thou art, indeed, and my beloved one!" said Margaret,
laying her beautiful head on the breast of her handsome lover,
with one of her sweetest and most confiding smiles; "but do
pardon me, if I say, that there are times when I look forward
and tremble&mdash;look back and weep.  There is something to me
so terrible in the renewal of the old strife between the king and
the nobles.  My father, the proudest among them, is ever
muttering deep threats of vengeance against the royal favourites,
and in the quarrel which I see too surely coming, if all the pride
and ferocity of the peers are unchained against the throne, what
may be the fate of thee, of this poor tender bud, and of myself?
Oh, James, think of the many who wish for the English alliance,
and who would brush me from their path like a gossamer web!"
</p>

<p>
"Thee!" exclaimed the prince, clutching his poniard; "not
Angus himself, even in the heart of his strongest fortresses, or
amid his twenty thousand vassals, dare harbour an evil thought
against the lady Rothesay loves.  Nay, nay, Maggie, thou art
sorely in error."
</p>

<p>
"At a wave from the hand of Angus, all the troopers of the
east and middle marches are in their helmets; then think of the
hatred of Shaw and Hailes&mdash;the treachery of Kyneff&mdash;the mad
ambition of them all!  They are brooding over revolt&mdash;one day
it will come.  Would, dear prince, that we had never met or
rather, that I had never been!"
</p>

<p>
"Still regrets," said Rothesay, impatiently.
</p>

<p>
"Pardon me, dearest, if I weary thee&mdash;I do not regret, but I
fear."
</p>

<p>
"What glamour hath possessed thee to-night, Margaret? for,
by the Black Rood, I never saw thee so full of dolorous
thoughts."
</p>

<p>
"An evil omen, perhaps," said Margaret, with one of her faint
smiles.  "This morning, when looking for the prayers prepared
for those who are in tribulation, I thrice opened my missal at
the burial service for the dead."
</p>

<p>
"And what then?"
</p>

<p>
"Madam my aunt, the Duchess of Montrose, told me, to-day,
it was a sure sign of coming evil."
</p>

<p>
"Your aunt the Duchess of Montrose is an&mdash;old fool!" said
the prince, bluntly.
</p>

<p>
"Strife is coming&mdash;I know it," continued Margaret,
emphatically; "for I have read it in the face of my father and the
faces of his friends, when Angus, the Lords Hailes and Home,
and Shaw of Sauchie, are with him.  I have heard it in their
deep whispers, and seen it in their dark and angry glances, when
Lindesay or Montrose, Gray, Ruthven, Grahame or Maxwell,
Wood of Largo, Falconer, or Barton&mdash;any who are the king's
known friends&mdash;are mentioned."
</p>

<p>
"And what matters it to us if all these high-born brawlers
cut each other's throats?  The peers of Scotland are her curse,
and in all ages have been her betrayers, and will be so until the
detested brood are rooted out.  A few names less on the peerage
roll will better enable the grain to ripen in harvest, and the
people to live in peace.  My father, the king, has taught me this
lesson, and I will never forget it.  War will come&mdash;I know it;
for if we do not fight with England, we must fight among ourselves,
just, as it were, to keep our hands in practice.  But fear
not for me, Margaret, and fear less for our little babe, for I can
protect both, and must do so; for my soul is but a ray of
thine&mdash;my life, the breath of thee.  My castle of Rothesay is thy
proper dwelling, and I will place young Lindesay in it, with
five hundred of his men-at-arms."
</p>

<p>
The young prince left nothing unsaid which he thought might
soothe Margaret's fears, and remove those dreary forebodings of
coming evil in which she had indulged, and by dwelling as long
as possible on the expected return of the Bishop of Dunblane
from Rome, with the dispensation of Innocent VIII., he completely
restored her to cheerfulness; for that venerable prelate
was in their secret, and had undertaken to remove the only
obstacle that prevented the public or <i>state</i> espousal, which Father
Zuill (who, being partly a seaman, and not over-particular) had
anticipated, by performing their marriage ceremony in secret, and thus
ending for ever all those deep intrigues by which the three Kings
of England, Edward II., Richard III., and, lastly, Henry VII.,
had each in succession striven to have the Crown Prince of
Scotland wedded to a princess of their families.
</p>

<p>
Though thus espoused, Rothesay and Lady Margaret were
still lovers, for both were so young, that long and frequent
absences, with the secrecy they were compelled to observe, lest the
politic king, on the one hand, or the imperious Lord Drummond
on the other, should discover their union, all tended to increase,
rather than to diminish their tender regard.
</p>

<p>
The prince remained by her side until midnight had tolled,
and their conversation was all of themselves; for so it is ever
with lovers, who would cease to be so if they tired of their theme,
which "is ever charming, ever new."
</p>

<p>
Promising to return at the same hour on the second night
following, James kissed his beautiful princess and her infant
daughter, wrapped his scarlet mantle about him, and raising the
arras, slipped down the secret stair, the concealed door of which
Lady Margaret immediately secured.
</p>

<p>
"She hath spoken truly," muttered the prince, as he turned
the buckle of his belt behind him, brought the hilt of his sword
round, and looked cautiously up and down the dark, silent, and
deserted street for the interloper by whom he had been formerly
followed.  "She hath, indeed, spoken truly.  A strife approaches
that will drench the land in blood&mdash;a strife which even I cannot
avert.  This secret marriage may destroy us both.  Dear, dear
Margaret!  Like my father, a fatality pursues me, and those who
could guide us both may be the innocent cause of undoing us
all."
</p>

<p>
He hurried along the narrow and quaint old street, and,
favoured by his disguise and the watch-word, passed the sentinels,
and reached the Palace of St. Margaret unknown and undiscovered.
</p>

<p>
The unfortunate relationship which rendered a papal dispensation
necessary in those days, was caused by Rothesay's descent
from Annabella Drummond, queen of Robert III., who was a
daughter of Margaret's great-great-grandsire, Sir John Drummond
of that ilk.  In her own time, this queen had been justly
celebrated for her loveliness; for, as Cambden says, "the women
of the family of Drummond, for charming beauty and complexion,
are beyond all others."
</p>

<p>
Other writers amply corroborate this, and add, that three girls
more beautiful than Euphemia, Sybilla, and Margaret Drummond
had never graced the court of a Scottish king.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap08"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VIII.
<br /><br />
THE FISHERMAN OF BROUGHTY.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  Oh weel may the boatie row,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And better may she speed;<br />
  And weel may the boatie row,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That wins the bairns' bread.<br />
  I cuist my net in Largo bay,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And fishes I caught nine;<br />
  There's three to fry, and three to broil,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And three to bait the line.<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Scots Song.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
A cheerful fire burned on the hearth of Jamie Gair, the
fisherman of Broughty-point, and it seemed to burn brighter as
evening deepened on the land and sea.  The cottage, which stood
within a kail-yard, the gate of which was a pair of whale
jaw-bones, consisted of a butt and a ben,&mdash;<i>i.e.</i>, an outer and inner
apartment,&mdash;the latter, serving as a kitchen, had a floor of
hard-beaten clay; the walls were lined with wood, and in the rafters
were a vast quantity of lumber, boat-gear, oars, sails,
fishing-creels, bladders, floats, and other apparatus stowed away aloft.
Half of a cart-wheel felloe formed a fender (such as we may yet
see in Scottish cottages), but the fire of bog-fir was blazing on
the hearthstone, for iron grates were then an article of splendour
and luxury.  On the wooden shelf above the fireplace stood a
little image of St. Clement, the mariner's patron, with the anchor
of his martyrdom hung about his neck; and on the back of the
door a horseshoe was nailed, with a sprig of rowan-tree, the
usual precaution against witchcraft.  From a rafter an egg was
suspended by a rope-yarn.  This was the <i>babys-egg</i>, the first
laid by a pullet, the gift of its granny, and carefully preserved, as
a source of good fortune to it in after life.
</p>

<p>
By the bright red light of the fire (which shone through a
little window upon the waters of the ferry) Jamie Gair sat
mending his nets, and affixing various large brown bladders
thereto.  A red night-cap was placed jauntily on his round curly
head; the sleeves of his blue flannel-shirt were rolled up to the
elbows, displaying his brawny arms, and, where his thick beard
and whiskers did not conceal it, his face was browned to the hue
of mahogany by exposure to the weather.
</p>

<p>
Mary, his wife, a buxom dame of six-and-twenty, wearing one
of those long-eared coifs, which are still worn by old women in
the Lowlands, and a short skirted jacket, was fondling their son
and heir, a baby about a year old, to which she was merrily
<i>lilting</i> in that manner peculiar to the women of Scotland, when
a song is hummed and half sung, while a dish of stappit-haddie
(<i>i.e.</i>, a haddock stuffed with oatmeal, onions, and pepper), broiled
before the fire, for breakfast next morning, as Jamie had to start
early, and now sat late in the preparation of his nets.
</p>

<p>
Jamie had not sailed that day to the fishing-ground for various
reasons.  He had passed a stray pig on the beach; and, moreover,
he had on a pair of new boots&mdash;both ominous of a bad day's
fishing, and, perhaps, of greater evil; so he had spent the noon
and evening beside his red-cheeked Mary at the cottage, mending
and thoroughly repairing his nets for the morrow; for he
believed as implicitly in these augurs of evil as in the mark of
St. Peter's thumb on the haddock, and in the wonderful story of
the twenty-four beautiful mermaids who swam round Inchkeith,
and sought in vain to tempt Abbot William of Holyrood, who
dwelt there as a hermit, to trust himself afloat on their tails,
which, happily for himself, the Abbot politely declined to do.
Mary was pleased that he was at home, for the night was fitful,
and dark masses of cloud crossed the face of the moon, which
rose slowly above the ness of Fife.  The wind swept in sudden
gusts down the ferry, and the surf hissed as it rolled on the outer
beach; for the sand was thickly strewn with enormous whin
boulders, and was not a pistol-shot from the cottage door.
</p>

<p>
Three strange ships had been visible in the offing all day, and,
as evening fell, Jamie had observed them stealthily creeping
towards the shore; and when the gloaming came on, the head-most
vessel was perhaps not three miles from the Gaa sands.
When Jamie had scanned her last with his nautical eye he
observed her laying off and on, but without manifesting any
intention of entering the harbour or requiring a pilot, as she
never fired a gun or showed her colours.  Not a vessel had passed
the ferry that day; all was quiet in the harbour of Dundee, for
the old superstition about the ill-luck of sailing on a Friday was
still devoutly believed in.
</p>

<p>
The hour was now verging on midnight.  Jamie had mended
the last hole in his nets, and the pretty Mary looked very sleepy
and coy.
</p>

<p>
"Hark, gudeman," said she, interrupting her lilting, "some
one tirls the door-pin."
</p>

<p>
At that moment a loud and reiterated knocking was heard,
and the door-latch was shaken violently.  Jamie relinquished
the net for a boat-stretcher, lest the visitor might be, as he
muttered, "some ground-shark or uncanny body," and angrily
opened the door, saying,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Wha the deil's this, makin' sic a dirdum at my door, at this
time o' nicht?"
</p>

<p>
"Sir Hew Borthwick," replied that personage, with gruff
hauteur; and Jamie perceived that he and two companions were
well muffled in cloaks, beneath which he saw their long swords
and spurs glittering.  The two gentlemen were masked.  "Thou
knowest me, Jamie Gair, I think?"
</p>

<p>
"Ay, Sir Hew," replied the fisherman, doffing his night-cap,
while something of a leer twinkled in his lively grey eyes; "I
took ye on board the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> yestreen, for which&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"I owe thee half a lion; here it is.  Now, art willing to earn
another honest penny?"
</p>

<p>
"Troth am I, sir," replied Jamie, throwing on his storm-jacket;
"I've my gudewife and a bonnie bairn to provide for.
In what can I serve ye, sir?"
</p>

<p>
"Take us on board the vessel that is nearest the shore, and
thou shalt have an angel."
</p>

<p>
An angel was thirteen shillings Scots&mdash;but now Jamie paused.
</p>

<p>
"A Louis, then?  Plague on't! thou sailest nigh the wind, man!"
</p>

<p>
"Come, come, fellow," said one of the masked men,
imperiously, "do not trifle, for we have not time to chaffer with
such carles as thee.  Besides, this place hath a devilish odour of
tar, wet twine, and old fish baskets&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Wow, sir, but you've a het tongue in your head, and a
dainty nose on your face.  But it's no the money that I tak
tent o'," replied Jamie, proudly.  "The craft that was close in
shore, and hugging the land a' day, never showed her ensign;
but three times lowered her boat, and three times hoisted it on
board again.  Her forecastle guns are levelled owre the gunnel,
and not through portholes, wherefore I opine she is English; so
gentlemen, I crave your pardons, but I likena the job."
</p>

<p>
"Jamie Gair," said one of the strangers, in a hoarse whisper,
"'tis on the King's service we are boune; here are six golden
lions; art satisfied?  If not, I would not be in thy tarry boots,
fellow, for all the Howe of Angus!"
</p>

<p>
This man's voice startled Jamie, for he now recognised Sir
Patrick Gray of Kyneff, captain of the adjacent Royal Castle of
Broughty&mdash;one with whom he, a poor fisherman, dared not
trifle for a moment.
</p>

<p>
"I will do your bidding, fair sir; but my neighbour is away
to the fishing-ground, whilk o' ye can handle an oar?"
</p>

<p>
"I," said Borthwick.
</p>

<p>
"And I," added Gray of Kyneff; "so let us be off, for I have
not a moment to spare."
</p>

<p>
"Gudewife, thou wilt pardon us taking Jamie away for an
hour or so; and bethink thee, dame, how many braw gauds and
new kirtles these golden lions will buy."  And with these words
Gray placed in Margo's hand six of those large gold coins of
James II., which bore on one side a lion rampant, and on
the reverse, the St. Andrew's cross.  Jamie put on one of
those broad blue bonnets for the manufacture of which Dundee
was even then celebrated, and after kissing the sleeping baby,
said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Now, Mary, let me kiss thee, lass, frae lug to lug."
</p>

<p>
"To spare time, I shall be glad to save thee that trouble,
Gair," said Sir Patrick Gray.
</p>

<p>
"Mony thanks, my braw gentleman," retorted Jamie, twirling
the boat-stretcher in his brawny hand; "but there are some
things I like to do for myself, and <i>this</i> is ane o' them.  Keep a
cog fu' o' het yill on the hearth for me, Mary, gin the time I
return; and now, sirs, let's awa."
</p>

<p>
As they stumbled along the beach to the rude stone pier,
where Jamie's clinker-built boat was moored to an iron ring,
</p>

<p>
"Dost see anything of those ships?" asked Sir Patrick Gray
whom Jamie was careful not to recognise.
</p>

<p>
"The headmost craft wasna a mile frae the Buddon-ness when
the gloaming fell," replied the fisherman, looking keenly to the
eastward; "the wind was off the land then, but it veered round
a point to the north.  Wow but the moon bodes a grand haul o'
herrin' off St. Monan's the morn!  I wish I had gane to the
fishing-ground&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"And lost these six lions&mdash;eh?  But here is thy boat, grumbler,"
said the third personage, who as yet had scarcely spoken;
"now let us shove off."
</p>

<p>
"If these are English ships, sir," said Jamie, as he assisted
the three to embark, and cast off the painter, "I marvel mickle
at their impudence in being off the Tay, while Sir Andrew Wood
is at anchor in the Firth."
</p>

<p>
"Marvel at nothing; but keep thy wind for cooling thy
porridge, or for better uses," retorted the haughty Gray, rolling
himself up in his mantle, and his companion did the same, while
Borthwick and Jamie shipped their oars, and turned the boat's
prow to the sea.
</p>

<p>
When the shadows of the land and the square dark keep of
Broughty, with its broad barbican and flanking towers were left
behind, the night (even while the moon was enveloped in clouds)
was not so murky that objects could not be distinguished; yet
the three voyagers looked in vain for a vestige of the ship which
they expected to be nearest the shore.  A pale stripe of white
light edged the horizon, and between it and the boat the waves
were rising and falling, like those of an inky ocean; and in that
streak of sky, and between the flying clouds, a few red, fiery
stars were seen to sparkle at intervals.  Cold currents of air
swept over the estuary, bringing that peculiar fragrance which a
night breeze always bears off the land; and the hoarse roar of
the heavy surf, as it bellowed on the rocks of Broughty Castle,
and rolled far inland upon the shingly beach to the eastward of
it, could be hoard distinctly, as the boat of Gair was pulled
directly out to sea.
</p>

<p>
"Tarry a moment, Gair," said Sir Patrick Gray; "now where
are those vessels&mdash;eh?"
</p>

<p>
"You'll see them, sir, when they are lifted into the streak o'
light; there they are! awa' doon to windward."
</p>

<p>
"But what the devil is windward&mdash;which way?" asked
Borthwick.
</p>

<p>
"Well mayst thou ask that, for it seems to be whichever way
I turn my face; but oho! I see them now!" added Gray&mdash;as the
dark outlines of two vessels, with all their sails set, appeared in
the distant offing, between the black vapours that seemed to rest
on their mast-heads and the darker ocean on which they floated.
"'Sdeath! they are ten good miles off."
</p>

<p>
"Outside the Inchcape, at least, I should say," added his
hitherto silent friend.
</p>

<p>
"But where is the <i>Harry</i>&mdash;this devilish craft, which Gair
says was visible near the Buddon-ness?"
</p>

<p>
"I'll soon find out."
</p>

<p>
"What was the signal agreed upon?" whispered Gray.
</p>

<p>
"<i>This</i>," replied the other, discharging a hand-gun the air,
</p>

<p>
Almost immediately afterwards, two sparks appeared about
half-a-mile off; they brightened fast, and then two pale blue
lights were seen burning close to the edge of the water.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis the <i>Harry</i>!  Give way, Jamie&mdash;give way, Borthwick!"
said Sir Patrick.  The oars dipped into the water, and the
sharp-prowed boat shot over the waves towards the lights, which soon
faded away and expired.  The night was now intensely dark,
for not a vestige of moon was visible; but soon a noise was
heard above the incessant dashing of the sea.  It was like the
flapping of a sail; and then one faint blink of moonlight, as it
broke through an opening in the clouds, showed, close by, a large
and high-pooped vessel coming suddenly to the wind, as if the
watch had descried the boat upon the water; and this proved to
be the case, for almost immediately, a voice in English cried out,
</p>

<p>
"Boat, a-hoy!"
</p>

<p>
Gray, who answered the hail, and held the tiller, passed the
fisher boat under the towering stern of the English ship, and
sheering sharply round on her larboard side, the little craft was
soon made fast; but Jamie was commanded to remain in her,
while Sir Patrick Gray, Borthwick, and the third personage, who
proved to be no other than Sir James Shaw of Sauchie,
governor of Stirling, were introduced to the state-cabin, where,
with some reluctance, we are compelled to accompany them.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap09"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER IX.
<br /><br />
THE BANE OF SCOTLAND.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "By Chericul's dark wandering streams.<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild;<br />
  Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of Scotland, loved while still a child;<br />
  Of castled rocks stupendous piled,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;By Esk or Eden's classic wave,<br />
  When loves of youth and friendship smiled,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!"<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;LEYDEN: <i>The Gold Coin</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
For many hundred years a curse, or rather a fell spirit, hovered
over Scotland, and time seems never to have lessened its force,
or the evil produced by the blighting breath of that <i>yellow slave</i>,
of which he who found a grave so far from her shore&mdash;poor
Leyden, one of the sweetest of our bards&mdash;has sung, in his
beautiful Ode to an Indian coin of gold.  This curse has been the
mal-influence of a party within the Scottish nation, whose
interests were separated from its common weal, who throve on its
ruin and disgrace, and have ever been the ready instruments of
oppression, neglect, and misrule: I mean that party
distinguished in the darkest pages of our annals as <i>the English
fiction</i>&mdash;usually a band of paid traitors, whom even the Union
could not abolish; men who surrendered themselves to work out
the evil, disastrous, and insidious projects of the sister kingdom,
for the purpose of weakening the power of the Scottish people;
and thus, as Schiller says, "never has civil war embroiled the
cities of Scotland, that an Englishman has not applied a brand
to the walls."
</p>

<p>
To the patricidal efforts of this faction, which for many hundred
years proved the bane of Scotland, our historians lay the blame
of every dark and disastrous transaction that blackens the page
of Scottish history.
</p>

<p>
Their intrigues brought on the troubles of Alexander III.; the
betrayal of Wallace; and that long war, which even Bannockburn
did not end; the early misfortunes of James I. and those
of James III., when England intrigued with Albany to gain the
town of Berwick, and marry a prince of Scotland to Margaret
Tudor.  We recognise the same corrupt faction in those ignoble
peers who pledged themselves to the English king after the fight
at Solway Moss, and thus broke the heart of James V., the most
splendid of our monarchs; who plunged Scotland in bloodshed
under the Regents Murray, Mar, and Morton; who betrayed
Kirkaldy of Grange, and, after a life of woe, surrendered their
sovereign to the axe of an English executioner.  Again we
recognise them, when "the master fiend, Argyle," and his compatriots,
betrayed her misguided grandson to Cromwell, and when their
more sordid successors sold their country at the Union; when
they betrayed our Darien colonists to the Spanish allies of
England, and the Macdonalds of Glencoe to the barbarous assassins
of William of Orange.
</p>

<p>
Sir James Shaw of Sauchie, Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff, and
the despicable swashbuckler, Borthwick, in the days of James III.,
represented the ignoble Scots of 1488.  They were conducted by
a page to the great cabin of the English frigate, in which several
gentlemen, all richly dressed, were lounging on the cushioned
lockers, and drinking Canary and Rochelle wine out of silver-mounted
horns.  A lamp, having a globe of pink-coloured glass,
swung from a beam, and diffused a warm light around the cabin,
which was all wainscoted, and hung with armour and weapons
of various kinds.
</p>

<p>
On the entrance of the three visitors, all the English officers
withdrew, save Edmund Howard, the captain, who wore a scarlet
cassock coat, richly furred with miniver, and a diamond
sword-belt; and his secretary, Master Quentin Kraft, a London
attorney, who was attired in plain blue broadcloth, trimmed with
black tape, and who immediately produced writing materials,
clean drinking horns, and more wine.
</p>

<p>
"Welcome on board the royal ship, <i>Harry!</i>" said Edmund
Howard, bowing, without rising, while a sneer of ill-disguised
contempt curled his handsome mouth, over which hung a dark
mustachio; for, like a noble cavalier and honest mariner, he had
an unmitigated aversion to the duty on which King Henry had
sent him, and for the three Scotsmen, with whom he had to
conduct a court intrigue.  "I am glad you have come off at last;
but why all rigged in armour&mdash;aloft and alow, from head to
heel, eh?"
</p>

<p>
"In Scotland, men go not abroad without their harness,"
replied the Laird of Sauchie, haughtily.
</p>

<p>
"By St. George," said Howard, "four hours ago I was sick of
knocking about in the offing, and then having to creep in, like a
thief in the nightfall, between the Inchcape Rock and yonder
devilish sands.  A fine business 'twould have been to have found
myself beached in the shoal water, and just after this hot affair
of ours with Sir Andrew Barton in the Channel.  Be seated,
Sir James; Sir Patrick, the Canary stands with <i>you</i>; come to
anchor, Master Borthwick&mdash;cannot you find a seat?  By the
bye, talking of Barton, I owe thee a hundred crowns, Borthwick.
Kraft, hand this gentleman a hundred crowns, and be sure to
get his quittance for them, ere they are stowed away."
</p>

<p>
While this transaction passed, and the price of Barton's blood
was being paid to Borthwick, the two rebellious barons divested
themselves of their ample cloaks and masks, and each presented
an athletic figure, completely cased in iron, save the head, and
armed with daggers and long swords of a famous kind, then
made and tempered at Banff.
</p>

<p>
Shaw of Sauchie was older, less bloated, and less dissipated in
aspect than Gray; but he had the same cunning eyes, large
mustachios, and bullying or imperious aspect.
</p>

<p>
"Now, then, Captain Howard, let us to business," said he,
filling his wine-horn.
</p>

<p>
"Ay, to business," added Borthwick, filling his, and imitating
the nonchalance of the baron.
</p>

<p>
"Well," said Howard, "how does his Grace of Rothesay's
amour proceed (for of <i>that</i> we have heard at the English court),
and what chance is there of his ranging up amicably alongside of
a fair English princess, yard-arm and yard-arm, with Cupid ahead?"
</p>

<p>
"Very little, I fear, since this affair with Barton."
</p>

<p>
"Barton was a brave seaman, and man of honour," said the
Englishman; "but," he added, contemptuously, "I have just
paid for that piece of sport."
</p>

<p>
"You have paid King Henry's spy," retorted Sir James Shaw,
warmly; "but remember that King James, and more than he,
old Andrew Wood, and Barton's eldest son, will amply avenge
your battle in the Channel, unless we have them both fettered, or
disposed of otherwise."
</p>

<p>
"Then dispose of them, in God's name, and as many more
angry Scots as are in the same unruly mood; for King Henry
wishes no more of this work; and indeed, ere long, an ambassador
will leave London, to clear up the story of our conflict with
the ships of Barton, against which, I think, <i>we</i> may fairly set off
Lord Angus's invasion of Northumberland."
</p>

<p>
"Well, but what is King Henry's new proposal?"
</p>

<p>
"Simply this, Sir Patrick; that by force or fraud we must
either bring off the young prince and have him wedded to the
Princess Margaret Tudor, in terms of their betrothal, or we
must kidnap the young Dame Margaret Drummond, whichever
your most worshipful knighthoods think can be most easily
accomplished, for we have undoubted proofs that Rothesay loves
her."
</p>

<p>
"Ah!&mdash;is it so?" said Gray, with a dark frown; "but what
does Henry VII. propose to do with her? for I would not have
evil done to the maiden."
</p>

<p>
"He would shut her up in some remote Welsh castle, or
perhaps the Red Tower of the Dudleys near Wem, where she
would never be heard of again.  Like a wise old fellow, King
Henry knows well that love is fed by the society of lovers; but
that, in absence or separation, the fire goes out, and the passion
dies.  Thus, if we could spirit this dainty dame on board the
<i>Harry</i>&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Easier said than done.  I have reason to believe," said
Borthwick, "that the young prince loves her better than life, and
would never survive her loss."
</p>

<p>
"I have heard it said that thy mother was a witch, Borthwick,"
said Gray, tauntingly; "I would we had the old dame's
aid to-night."
</p>

<p>
Borthwick darted secretly at the speaker one of his sinister and
ferocious glances, for this taunt stung him deeply.
</p>

<p>
"The prince is only seventeen&mdash;a chit, a child&mdash;and may yet
love twenty better than little Margaret Drummond," said Sir
James Shaw; "but to engage in a plan so desperate, I would
require King Henry's written assurance of a safe sanctuary in
England, for myself and friends, in case this plot were blown and
we obliged to fly; moreover, I would require another written
assurance that, if all succeeded&mdash;that is, if Lady Margaret
<i>disappears</i>, and Rothesay marries your Margaret Tudor&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Princess," suggested Howard, stroking his mustachio.
</p>

<p>
"Well&mdash;well&mdash;your Princess Margaret&mdash;that Henry will use all
his influence with Rothesay and the king to have my lands of
Sauchie, in the shire of Stirling, created into an earldom, together
with a gift of two of the best baronies now possessed by the Duke
of Montrose, supposing that by the same happy intrigue the said
dukedom is abolished, Angus made Lord Chancellor, and the
Lindesays driven to Flanders or the devil!"
</p>

<p>
"Um&mdash;um&mdash;Flanders, or the devil," muttered Master Quentin
Kraft, writing very literally and very fast.
</p>

<p>
"And I," said Sir Patrick Gray, "require the same royal
assurances, with Henry's recommendation to have my barony of
Kyneff and estate of Caterline created into a lordship, with the
captainrie of Broughty to me and my heirs, heritably and
irredeemably, and the salmons' cruives of the Dichty, now pertaining
to the Laird of Grange, who must fish for his salmon elsewhere."
</p>

<p>
"In all these particulars, if Henry's interest fail not, you shall
be perfectly satisfied.  Write carefully, Master Kraft."
</p>

<p>
"And I&mdash;" began Borthwick.
</p>

<p>
"Shall have two hundred crowns yearly, to be paid by the
English ambassador.  Ah! your eyes open like port-holes at
that."
</p>

<p>
"But suppose there is no ambassador, which happens very
often, Captain Howard?"
</p>

<p>
"Ah! to be sure; then the Governor of Berwick shall pay
thee."
</p>

<p>
"But how are we to have this pretty maiden brought on
board an English ship?" asked Howard.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis the most difficult matter of all.  A dose of poison might
serve us better, and obtain our ends without much trouble,"
suggested Borthwick.
</p>

<p>
The ruffian barons eyed each other, but did not speak.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, nay," said the gallant Howard; "by Heaven, fellow, if
thou makest another suggestion such as that, I will order the
boatswain's mates to fling thee overboard in a hencoop!  In the
king's service I have usually carried more sail than ballast&mdash;but
poison! a sailor's curse on't!  Egad, 'tis a word never
mentioned to a Howard, and moreover," he added, with a furious
glance, as he rose from the table, "'twas a villain's thought in
thee!"
</p>

<p>
"Softly," said Sir Patrick Gray, with alarm; "let us not
quarrel, Captain Howard, about poison or abduction; none of us
are severe moralists&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Scot&mdash;you speak for yourself, I presume."
</p>

<p>
"I would rather marry the damsel myself than that we should
have high words anent the disposal of her.  Bethink thee,
Englishman&mdash;'tis as much as your life is worth to be this night
within gunshot of the Scottish shore; and this gentleman&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"What&mdash;Borthwick?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, he&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Might inform Sir Andrew Wood, you mean to say," continued
Howard.  "Well, I should like to see your admiral's <i>Yellow
Frigate</i> come out of the river, with all her iron teeth bristling;
for now that Barton is gone, he is the best and bravest seaman
that treads upon a deck.  Nay, nay, none of you will betray me,
unless King James pays better than King Henry."
</p>

<p>
Gray and Sauchie were stung by this bold remark, and the
former hastened to say&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"How know we not but the prince may have wedded the Lady
Margaret Drummond?"
</p>

<p>
"Pshaw! what would it matter if he had?  She is only the
daughter of a subject&mdash;a baron."
</p>

<p>
"Captain Howard, you talk like an Englishman, who knows
not the temper of our Scottish barons.  Her father can rouse all
Strathearn, and set Scotland on fire.  Beware lest the flames roll
over the Border."
</p>

<p>
"Master Borthwick, you did not inform me that the Lord
Drummond was so powerful, or this amour so dangerous."
</p>

<p>
"If King Henry had written to me&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
Here the Englishman burst into a loud fit of laughter.
</p>

<p>
"King Henry write to thee!  By Jove, I like this
impudence&mdash;it amuses me excessively!"
</p>

<p>
"So it seems," growled Borthwick, every glance of whose
sinister eyes indicated the restless and evil soul within.
</p>

<p>
"Bah! people don't write that which is more safe when borne
by word of mouth.  Henry might hang me, or the King of Scots
might hang us all, for letting our gaff too loose&mdash;our words
would die with us; but letters will endure while ink and paper
last.  Yet where is our <i>bond in cipher</i>, of which King Henry has
the key&mdash;we cannot do without that.  Master Kraft, is it
ready?"
</p>

<p>
"Here it is, sir," replied the little secretary, laying a piece of
parchment on the cabin table.
</p>

<p>
"Then, sirs," said the English captain, "when you have signed
it, this shall acquaint King Henry that ye are his liegemen, and
pledge yourselves, with life, limb, and fortune, to further the
English alliance of His Grace the Duke of Rothesay, on the
understanding that Henry, by his new ambassador, urges your
claims to the peerage, and that, on the espousal day, you each
receive the sum of twenty thousand English crowns."
</p>

<p>
"It is agreed," said Shaw of Sauchie, as he and Gray touched
the pen of Kraft, who wrote the names they were unable to sign;
but Borthwick, having been educated as a priest, wrote in a bold
hand, amid a multitude of flourishes, <i>Heu Bortwyck, Knyt</i>, at
the bottom of this precious document.
</p>

<p>
"From the Inchcape, gentlemen, we must run over to
St. Abb's-head; and after hanging off the land for a day or two, we
will stand again towards the Tay.  Here, on the evening of the
10th&mdash;St. Anthony's Day&mdash;we will be in the offing; if by that
time you can give me this dainty dame to stow under hatch, all
your fortunes are made."
</p>

<p>
"Enough&mdash;we shall see to it, Captain Howard," said Sir
Patrick Gray, resuming his mask and cloak.
</p>

<p>
"Remember this, sir captain," said Borthwick: "the king's
chaplain, James, Bishop of Dunblane, who is returning from
Rome, will pass through England in disguise.  I would
recommend his capture, and the seizure of whatever papers may be
found in his possession, for they may prove of much service to
Henry, your king."
</p>

<p>
"Another thousand crowns to thee, Master Borthwick!
Zookers! man, thou wilt die rich as a Jew of Lombard-street!
Now then, Kraft, hast thou scribbled all this into thy devil's
log-book?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, sir," replied the secretary, securing his volume by a
curious lock in the iron band which encircled it.
</p>

<p>
"Then fill the wine-pots.  Take another cup, gentlemen," said
the Englishman, with that contempt for his guests which the
necessity of pandering to the snake-like policy of his court could
not repress.  "'Tis time we were all in our hammocks; and your
boat is waiting, sirs."
</p>

<p>
Shaw and Gray, who knew very well that they were in his
power, gave him dark and savage glances; and as they left the
cabin, they heard him issue orders to&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Lower away the port-lids, larboard and starboard; to run
back the culverins&mdash;lash and make fast; to stand off before the
land breeze; for," said he, "we must make the offing ere
daybreak&mdash;ay, and be hull down, if we can."
</p>

<p>
They left the English ship just as the bell rang the middle
watch, and the hoarse voice of the boatswain was heard ringing
in prolonged echoes between decks.  Howard, who mistrusted
his visitors, by an after-thought, came in person to see them over
the ship's side, and into their boat.
</p>

<p>
"Fare ye well, gentlemen," said he, in his jibing way.  "Adieu,
noble Master Borthwick&mdash;I beg pardon&mdash;<i>Sir Hew</i>.  I hope
you will not forget your visit to Ned Howard, and the good ship
<i>Harry</i>.  I pray it may not shorten your cruise for life."
</p>

<p>
"Hush, hush!" said Shaw, as the oars plunged into the water.
</p>

<p>
"<i>Howard and the Harry!</i>" muttered Jamie Gair, under his
thick beard, as he bent to his oar and slued the boat's head round
towards the land, where the bright-red light of his own cottage
window was streaming on the water, and while the English ship
filled her headsails, and stood off towards the sea.  "My
certie! but this <i>will</i> be braw news for Rabbie Barton and auld Sir
Andrew!  Here's been some fause wark; but I'll spoil your
port, fair gentlemen, lord-barons though ye be; for the admiral
shall hear o' this, though I should hang owre Broughty tower
for it."
</p>

<p>
The mast was stepped, a sail set, and before the south-east
wind, that blew from the Fifeshire hills, the boat glided over the
starlit water like a wild sea-mew.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap10"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER X.
<br /><br />
THE BOATSWAIN'S YARN.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Now past the limit, which his course divides,<br />
  When to the north the sun's bright chariot rides;<br />
  We leave the winding bays, and swarthy shores,<br />
  Where Senegal's black wave impetuous roars;<br />
  And now from far the Libyan Cape is seen,<br />
  Since by my mandate called the Cape of Green."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>The Lusiad.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Jamie Gair had the stroke oar, and Borthwick the other; they
bent all their energies to the task of pulling the boat against an
ebb-tide, which was fast leaving bare and dry the Drumilaw
Sands, and the long stretch of desolate beach at the promontory
known as the Buddonness.  Jamie kept his ears open to catch
any passing remark from the high-born traitors who occupied
the stern-sheets of his boat; but, full of their own dark thoughts,
they remained silent until she was within a bowshot of the beach,
when the Laird of Sauchie said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"So, on the evening of the 10th, we must have this dame
sailing merrily at sea!  A perilous promise!"
</p>

<p>
"Perilous!" said Gray, gruffly; "how so?"
</p>

<p>
"Ken ye, Sir Patrick, what the law saith anent trysts with
Englishmen?"
</p>

<p>
"I ken little, and I care less," replied the Knight of Kyneff,
doggedly; "but what says it?"
</p>

<p>
"That if any Englishman enter the kingdom of Scotland,
without the sign-manual of the king, and is found at kirk or
market, or in any other place, he shall be the lawful prisoner of
whoever chooses to seize him.  That the Scot who brings an
Englishman to tryst, shall be committed to ward, and have his
goods escheat.  For such are the laws of James II. and his
parliament of 1455."
</p>

<p>
"Well, we who are barons of parliament, and make the laws,
have assuredly the power of breaking them.  Besides, he who
can lead a thousand lances to the king's host, can make laws to
suit himself."
</p>

<p>
"But how know ye not, Sir Patrick, but this fellow
Borthwick may betray us."
</p>

<p>
"He dare not mar his profit and our own."
</p>

<p>
"The boatman, then&mdash;he might suspect us&mdash;yea, might
speak."
</p>

<p>
"Assure me of that," hissed the low, deep voice of Gray, "and
I will drive this poniard into his brisket."
</p>

<p>
Jamie's heart leaped, and he grasped his oar tighter; but at
that moment the boat grounded on the beach, and, while they
sprang ashore, he hooked his kedge-anchor in the sand, placed
the oars on his shoulder, and doffing his bonnet to his honourable
employers, turned away towards the red light that yet streamed
from his cottage window.
</p>

<p>
"Be discreet, good fellow," said Shaw, in an impressive whisper,
as he placed a coin in Jamie's hand.  "Now, fare ye well,
carle, and God speed ye."
</p>

<p>
"Be close as a steel-vice, Jamie Gair," added Borthwick, "lest
I tell the Lord Chamberlain that there is a rookery in the trees
at thy kailyard, and thou shalt be sorely fined, and mayhap
imprisoned in Broughty; for Beltane time is past, the corn is
ripening, and thou knowest the law."
</p>

<p>
With these warnings they left him, and, muffled in their
cloaks, strode hastily along the beach, towards where the outline
of Broughty, square, black, and grim, on its rock that jutted
into the ferry, rose between them and the starlit sky&mdash;for now
the clouds had disappeared, but the moon had waned.  Jamie
turned to look after the English ship, but though almost shrouded
in haze, he could perceive her standing off towards the
south-east with all her sails set.
</p>

<p>
"An angel&mdash;a golden angel!" said Jamie, turning over the
bright coin in his hard hand.  "By my saul, there maun be some
dark plot in the wind when these limbs o' Satan pay sae weel!
Jamie Gair, Jamie Gair! tak ye tent; for this braw fee may
never bring aught but dool and sorrow to thee and thine.  Now
to kiss my doo Mary, and then, ho for the admiral! for he shall
hear o' this hellicate job, though I should never see another sun
blink down the Carse o' Gowrie."
</p>

<p>
Entering his cottage softly, this honest fellow found his
blooming Mary asleep by the warm ingle.  The fire had smouldered
on the hearth, and the stappit-haddie had been allowed to burn;
but the bicker of spiced ale stood yet by the wooden fender.
Jamie took a long draught, wiped his mustachios with the back
of his brown hand, kissed Mary, and awoke her.
</p>

<p>
"Where awa noo, gudeman?" she asked, perceiving that he
took up his walking-staff.
</p>

<p>
"Dundee, lass."
</p>

<p>
"Dundee, at this time o' the morning, when you should be
beside me in your bed.  And mind, ye maun awa to the
fishing-ground by sun-rise, Jamie."
</p>

<p>
"Na, na, lass, I have other bait to my line.  There has been
foul treason on the water this night, Mary, and I maun e'en seek
the admiral; but, 'odsake, say nae word o' this to the neighbours,
or the hellicate Captain o' Broughty may mak ye a widow
before your time, lassie.  In a siccar place, put by the braw
gowden fee, till we see what comes o't, lest dool and disgrace
fa' on us.  And now, lass, fare ye well;" and pulling his broad
bonnet over his face, Jamie departed for Dundee.
</p>

<p>
The keep of Broughty was reddening in the rising sun, as the
fisherman passed it, on the landward side, for safety and
concealment, keeping as much as possible among the whins and other
wild bushes that grew on the margin of the wide salt marsh
which then stretched from the barbican of the fortress round by
the hill of Balgillo.  The tide had ebbed; the sands of Moniefreth
and Barry were dry, and the bare promontory of the Buddonness
stretched far into that blue sea, on which the three English
ships were then diminished to mere specks.  Jamie gave a
last glance to ascertain their course, and hurried on towards the
town.
</p>

<p>
The summer morning was beautiful; the Tay lay in its basin
like a sheet of glass, on which the ships, the town, and sunlit
hills were mirrored.  The midsummer flowers were mingling
with the bluebells, the crimson foxglove and wild hollyhock; the
hill of Balgillo, with the desert muirland that lay at its base,
were waving with purple heather-cups.  The fisherman's heart
expanded joyously with the beauty of the opening day; and
after hurrying past the old castle of Claypotts, then a seat of the
Abbot of Lindores, he reverently said a short prayer to St. Peter,
the patron of his craft, in the little chapel of St. Rocque of
Narbonne, which stood without the Cowgait-porte, on the east side
of the Bitter Burn.  This little fane, like all other holy edifices
in that age, remained open night and day; and in the principal
shrine stood an image of the saint, having the left breast marked
by the cross which appeared upon his bosom when born into the
world.  A little burying-ground encircled the cell.  From thence
a narrow lane, causewayed with large round sea-stones, and
encumbered by outside stairs which ascended upward to the houses
or descended downward to the cellars, where the merchants were
beginning to display their wares, led to the centre of the town,
and to the Kirk of St. Clement, near which another narrow lane
then led directly towards the harbour.
</p>

<p>
The streets were then unpaved, and were full of gleds and
corbies, which squattered and fed on the offal of the narrow wynds
and fleshers' stalls.
</p>

<p>
Some of the loiterers at the Craig of St. Nicholas readily
permitted Jamie to use their boat, and in a few minutes he found
himself on the ample deck of his Majesty's <i>Yellow Frigate</i>,
which was riding with her head to the stream, her yards all
squared to perfection, her black rigging all taut as iron rods, and
her broad blue ensign and pennon flaunting in the morning
wind.
</p>

<p>
The watch on deck crowded about the early visitor.
</p>

<p>
"Welcome on board, Jamie Gair," said Master Wad the
gunner, who was in charge of the deck, and was a short-legged
personage, with a red visage, enormous black beard, and stunted
figure, encased in a rough grey gaberdine; "what na wind hath
blawn ye here betimes?  Are ye tired o' your lubberly trade o'
fisherman, and come to take service under the broad pennon o'
the admiral?  I marvel muckle ye have na tired lang syne o'
sailing ilka morning to that weary fishing-ground, like the son
o' a shotten herring.  I would rather drink bilge-water a' my
days, than turn fisherman again."
</p>

<p>
"My best anchor&mdash;my bonnie Mary&mdash;is still at hame, Maister
Wad," retorted Jamie; "but we a' ken how your Tib broke from
her moorings and went adrift, naebody kens where."
</p>

<p>
"Tut&mdash;I have ten Marys as gude as yours," replied the
gunner, "forbye a Meinie and a Peg to boot."
</p>

<p>
"I have nae time for daffin the noo, Maister Wad.  Is the
admiral on board?"
</p>

<p>
"No&mdash;he is at the king's lodging, and has no come off yet;
but what would ye wi' <i>him</i>?"
</p>

<p>
"That which you maunna hear, Willie.  Then, is the Captain
Barton on board?"
</p>

<p>
"No&mdash;he, Sir David Falconer, and a' body else (but the
chaplain) are ashore at St. Margaret's."
</p>

<p>
Gair stamped his foot, and scratched his beard impatiently.
</p>

<p>
"Can ye no tell us what's in the wind, man?" asked the
seamen, as they clustered about him, in surprise at his excitement.
</p>

<p>
"Come," said Cuddie the coxswain, "what can <i>you</i> have to
tell the admiral that we canna hear?  Out wi' it, hand owre
hand, man."
</p>

<p>
"It's something that will find ye a' work for a week to come,
something that may knock the harns out o' half your heads,"
replied Gair, angrily.
</p>

<p>
"I have seen foul weather in my time, brother," growled Archy
of Anster, the boatswain; "and I have seen some gey het work,
too, between the English Channel and the Rock o' Lisbon; but
I marvel what the deil ye drive at, Gair!"
</p>

<p>
"May I never drink aught but black bilge-water, if I dinna
think him clean daft," added the gunner; "but he canna see the
admiral till mid-day, when the kind's council breaks up; sae,
Jamie, after Father Zuill hath piped all hands to mass, you had
better just take your breakfast wi' us, like a douce man, and meet
the admiral after, when tide and time suit."
</p>

<p>
Aware that he could not entrust his secret with the seamen,
among whom it would have spread like wildfire, and cost him,
perhaps, his life&mdash;for a word from Sir James Shaw, or the
tyrannical captain of Broughty, would be sufficient to hang a
poor fisherman among the rooks that Borthwick spoke of&mdash;Jamie
was obliged to exert his patience, and join the seamen at their
mess of Lammas ale and porridge in the forecastle, where, after
this humble repast was ever, Master Wad produced his fiddle,
and, after mass was done and the chaplain gone ashore, sung the
famous ditty, still known to our fishermen, of the
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Four-and-twenty mermaids, who left the port of Leith,<br />
  To tempt the fine auld hermit, who dwelt upon Inchkeith;<br />
  Nor boat, nor waft, nor crayer, nor craft had they, nor oars or sails,<br />
  Their lily hands were oars enough, their tillers were their tails," &amp;c.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
"I could tell ye something mair wonderful than the mermaiden's
voyage, brother," said the grey-haired boatswain, who
dearly loved to spin a yarn whenever he could get listeners.  He
was a rough-visaged Scot, with two great red-spotted cheekbones,
a nose that had a sword-cut across it, and which stuck out
between two enormous whiskers that mingled with his grisly
beard.  "Our gude chaplain thinks to discover a process whereby
he can make ships proof to the shot of culverins&mdash;for so he told
me yesternight."
</p>

<p>
"By my faith, old Ropeyarn," said Cuddie the coxswain, who
was his exact counterpart, "that will be better than muddling
his brains in trying to mak burning-glasses that will set a fleet
in a bleeze at a league's distance."
</p>

<p>
"Brother," said the gunner, striking his large-jointed hands
together emphatically, for between such inventions, it seemed not
improbable that his profession would prove a useless one;
"brother, I ken navagation as weel as maist men; I have run
all Europe down twenty times, frae the North Cape to the Gut o'
Gibraltar&mdash;ay, I have seen the Rio Grande, and the great peak
'o the Fortunate Isles, that rises right out o' the sea like a
spear-head, and flames like a torch; I have seen the sea-devils that
swim round the Cape de Verd, where the glinting o' the moon
makes men mad, and where St. Elmo's light dances like a
will-o'-the-wisp on the main-mast heid: yet it is a blessed light, for
it ever precedes a calm: but may I ne'er drink aught but bilge,
if I can swallow a yarn like yours.  I have seen muckle in my
time, but never saw I a ship's side that would turn a cannon-shot,
or a sail that had a hole burned in it by a mirror ten miles awa;
yet our chaplain pretends to ken o' baith.  My word on't, lads,
he sails beyond his commission, and will be brought up all
standing, some day, by the bishops, for sorcery, maybe."
</p>

<p>
"He is as gude a man as ever trod a plank," said the coxswain,
"but his noddle hath as many crotchets as the dog-star hath
rays.  Minnows and mackerel! to believe in shot-proof ships!"
</p>

<p>
"Why not?" asked the boatswain, gruffly.  "I'll tell ye what
I have seen, messmate&mdash;a shot-proof man.  Now what think
ye o' that; one, at least, who was proof to steel."
</p>

<p>
"I'll tell ye when I hear, brother," replied the seaman: "was
it one o' the antipodes, who walk on their heads?"
</p>

<p>
"Weel, I care na if I spin the yarn before the watch is called,"
said the boatswain; "but first, here is to the gude saut water, and
a' that live on't!" and he poured down his capacious throat the
last of the ale, and after wiping his mouth three or four times
with the cuff of his gaberdine, spitting twice through an open
port, and fixing his eyes on the beam overhead, he thrust his
hands into his pockets, placed his logs on the deck, his back
against a gun-carriage, and began thus:&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Ye maun ken, messmates, that after leaving the Gut o'
Gibraltar, we were beating westward against a head-wind.  Our
craft was the <i>Peggie o' Pittenweem</i>, hameward bound from
Barcelona, for Leith, wi' a mixed cargo o' wine and oil, fruit, cork,
and hides, and Sir Andrew, the admiral, who was then but a
sma' merchant-skipper, had ten brass culverins in her, forbye
some braw pateraroes along her gunnel, for the behoof o' the
heathen Moors o' Barbary if they daured to meddle wi' us.
After losing sight o' the Castle of Gibraltar, and the chapels of
our Lady of Europe and our Lady of Africa, that stand on ilka
shore, the wind veered round to the north-west, and we were
obliged to bear right away before it for well nigh a week, till we
had mony fears o' being blawn round Cape None, or getting into
the downhill currents, that bear ships away to the southern pole;
or, what is waur, being blown off the earth a'thegether: for the
warld is round, ye ken, just like my bonnet," continued this
ancient mariner, balancing the article named in his hands; "and
flat, as ye may see, for the sun dips down to port at night, and
then comes up to starboard in the morning, rising at the edge,
like this penny piece.  Weel, ye wad flee owre its margin if ye
stood on owre long wi' your canvas set, and so be launched out
into space like a hoodie craw.  The ship o' auld Sir Patrick Spens
was ance a' owre but the waist, when the current swept her back
again, and then she hauled her wind.  At last we saw the high
peak o' the Fortunate Isles rising frae the sea, vomiting fire and
brimstone, its side covered in one place wi' glistening snow, in
another wi' a forest o' green laurel bushes, wherein the yellow
birds o' the Canaries built their nests in the warm sunshine.
</p>

<p>
"The gale deid awa, and the sails flapped against the masts
and rattlins; the sea became like glass, and there was sae little
wind that the <i>Peggie</i> wouldna answer her helm; but it mattered
little, for Sir Andrew and auld Gibbie o' Crail had been in these
seas before, and we kent our whereabouts.  We were within less
than half a mile o' the shore, but in fifty fathoms water by the
line.  There was nae current, and the ship lay like a log, wi' her
decks blistering in the sun.  Sir Andrew thought it wad be a
gude time to get fresh water, for our last pint was in the
scuttlebutt; sae we hove up twelve casks, the crews o' the yawl and
pinnace were piped awa, and cheerily we shipped our oars, and
pulled for the shore, as I weel mind, singing merrily the auld
ballad,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "'Oh, who is he has dune this deed,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And tauld the king o' me,<br />
  And sent us oot at this time o' year,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To sail upon the sea?'<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Every man o' us had a durk and gude braid Banffshire whinger
in his belt, forbye ten that were armed wi' crossbows, for Sir
Andrew kent of auld that the Guanchos o' the Fortunate Isles
were unchancey chields to warsle wi'.  Gibbie o' Crail, wha had
served wi' the Spanish buccaneers under the Captain Bocca Roxa
(he whom Barton slew off Cape Ortegal), tauld us that they had
once landed there, and put a hail village to fire and sword, and
that wi' his ain hand he had killed the prince o' the place by a
slash <i>across the nose</i> wi' his boarding-axe.
</p>

<p>
"We landed at a sma' bit creek among black rocks, covered
wi' ashes, dust, and pumice-stane; but among them grew the
green sugar-cane, the olive, and the bonnie cotton-tree.  The
wee birds wi' their gouden wings flew aboot frae branch to
branch, singing in the bright sunshine.  A' the sweets o' summer
were there, and they wiled mony o' our messmates awa frae the
wark o' filling and bunging the water-casks to stray in the laurel
woods that grow on the base o' that tremendous peak, which is
five leagues nigh frae the water-line to the Deil's Cauldron on the
tap, where the red brimstone burns day and night.  Ay, Jamie
Gair, ye think muckle o' the craigs o' Dunnotter; but I wish ye
saw Adam's Peak, in the Fortunate Isles!
</p>

<p>
"The fresh water was delightful as milk, and the grapes that
hung owre the pumice-stane rocks were sweeter than heather
honey; and sae, despite Sir Andrew's orders, twa or three o' us,
including Sandie Mathieson, a Leith man, strayed a mile or mair
into the island, flinging our braid bonnets after the gouden birds,
eating grapes and wild honey in some places, tumbling knee-deep
in soft sulphur and spongy pumice-stane, until we found
the entrance o' a cave, for a' the warld like ane o' the weems in
the Fife, and, sailor-like, we scrambled in to see what was there,
and my faith, messmates, we saw a sicht to mind o'!
</p>

<p>
"In that cave were mair than twa hundred deid corpses, a
rankit up in rows against the walls; for it was a burial place for
the Guanchos, who, instead of putting their deid like Christians
into a grave, bathe and parboil them in butter and wild lavender,
black gum and wild sage&mdash;for sae Father Zuill told me; and
after drying them in the sunshine in summer, and the cauld
breezes in winter, they sow them up in goatskins, and then the
mummies are hard as a ship's figure-head, yea, and harder, for
they will never decay; and there they stood, twa hundred or
mair, wi' their tanned visages and sichtless eyen, their hair and
beards all brushed and plaited, and as if they yet lived; and oh,
there was an awesome grin on their shrivelled maws!
</p>

<p>
"It was a sight even for a sailor to scunner at, and we
glowered at them for awhile, ilk ane o' us ashamed to be the first
to put up his helm and be off.  At last Gibbie o' Crail, an auld
sea-horse, that feared nocht, and had mair owre a gude dram
under his hatches, began to examine them, in the hope of finding
some braw goud or trinket; and solemnly Mathieson and I warned
him to let the deid corpses alane; but he laughed, and tumbled
them owre like nine-pins.  There was ane, a great stark and
brawny corpse, wi' a lang scar across its nose, and twa precious
stanes, like emeralds, glinting where its eyen should be.  Gibbie
said, wi' an oath, that he was sure it was the prince o' the
Guanchos, whom he had slain twenty years before, and wi' a dab o'
his jocketeleg, picked out one of the emeralds.  But lo!
</p>

<p>
"At that moment the jaws opened, and there came frae them
a yell that shook the dust frae the cavern roof; that seemed to
mak the corpses start, and made Gibbie spring ten feet awa; and
then we turned and fled, wi' every hair on our heids bristling;
and without ever daring ance to look astern, we cam' plunging
doon the side o' the peak, through the laurel bushes and owre
the sulphur banks, till we reached the creek, where the yawl and
the pinnace, wi' the last o' the water-casks, were about putting
off, and mair deid than alive wi' terror, we sprang on board.
We were just in time to reach the boats and get a rope's-ending
for disobeying orders; for though Sir Andrew was but a skipper
then, as I tauld ye, he kept a tight hand owre his crew."
</p>

<p>
"May I drink bilge if ever I&mdash;" began the gunner.
</p>

<p>
"That evening a favourable breeze sprang up, and we bore
away for hame: but as the gloaming fell that breeze freshened
to a gale, the rain sowed the sea, and the red lightning flashed
at the far horizon.  Gibbie, Mathieson, and I were on the first
nicht-watch; we were restless, and fearfu' o' coming evil, and
we nestled in our storm doublets under the lee o' the foremast;
and though we would a' hae fain spoken o' that awesome adventure,
we never once referred to it; but sat listening to the dreary
wind, as it whistled under the leech o' the foresail, or watching the
waves that ran past us, like lang black ridges o' ink.  A' at
ance an unco blast took us a' aback!  Sir Andrew jumped on
deck in a moment, and ordered us to double-reef the mainsail
and fore topsail; and after this it became sae dark and eerie,
that we couldna see a crossbow-shot ahead.
</p>

<p>
"Amid the soughin' o' the wind and the hiss o' the waves we
heard a strange cry rising from that terrible sea&mdash;a cry that made
our blood curdle!  We rushed to the weather-bow, and after a
time could discern a man's head, as he rose at times, bobbing like
a fisherman's float upon the crests of the foaming ocean, or as
he sank doon into its gloomy trough; but again and again the
eldritch cry went past us on the gusty wind.
</p>

<p>
"'A man overboard!' cried Sir Andrew through his trumpet;
'and in sic a sea!  Forecastle there&mdash;see ye anything, lads?'
</p>

<p>
"I kenna what possessed us, but none o' us made any answer.
To back the foreyard or render any assistance were, we thought,
impossible; but Sir Andrew, wha does mony a thing other men
would never think o', on hearing the first cry, knotted a line to a
handspike, and getting a glimpse o' the man in the water as he
was swept past our bows, flung it right at him like a harpoon,
and we saw him catch it&mdash;yea, almost without an effort, as it
seemed.  Then the starboard watch, who had come on deck,
towed him aboard, and he cam' up the ship's side by the main
chains, like a cat or a squirrel, and stood dripping wet among us,
a strong and sturdy child, wi' a brown skin, and grisly and
matted hair.  Gibbie held up a ship's lantern to tak' a view o'
his face, and then I saw that he was almost bare bones, brawn,
and skin, wi' a long scar <i>across his nose</i>, and but one eye, that
glittered like green glass, while the other socket was <i>empty</i>, like
a walnut-shell.  We felt as if the deck would open under our
teet, for we knew it was the dead Guancho!
</p>

<p>
"I could feel puir Gibbie tremble as we slunk forward, leaving
the skipper and crew to question the stranger, whose answers
satisfied them, I suppose, but we couldna hear them for the
lashing o' the sea and roaring o' the wind, as it soughed through
the rigging.  A can o' usquebaugh was offered to the Guancho,
but he shook his head; and then clothes were offered him, but
he preferred his ain, a pair o' goat-skin breeks with the hair on
the outside.  The wind shifted&mdash;the squalls cam' oftener, and in
a wee while Sir Andrew had stripped the <i>Peggie</i> to her staysail
and trysail; we sounded the pumps, and had twa men at the
tiller; all hands were on deck, and though the crew muttered
doubtfully and fearfully under their beards to ilk other anent the
strange loon that had come on board in sic weather, there were
none that shared the terror o' Sandie, Gibbie, and mysel', for in
our hearts we kent that a deid corpse was sailing wi' us on that
mirk midnight sea, and that the ship and a' its companie were
doomed!  The wind was still roaring, and about three bells in
the middle-watch the staysail gave way, and I heard Sir Andrew
shout through his trumpet,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"'Yare, yare, my lads! down wi' the staysail&mdash;bend on the
sheet and right it again.'
</p>

<p>
"We three rushed to obey the order, but the ship broached to,
and before we could recover her again, and while that devilish
Guancho uttered an eldritch yell, a sea took her right on the
broadside, and burst over the decks, sweeping boats, booms,
scuttlebutt, skylights, and four men overboard; but the masts o'
pine frae Falkland Woods stood brawly, and then we let her
drive before the storm.  We were certain the <i>Peggie</i> was a
doomed ship now, unless we got rid o' the fiend that was aboard
o' her; and we three consulted in what manner it should be
dune.  As yet the nicht was dark as pitch tar; no' a ray o' light
was glimmering, and we saw the Guancho standing by the weather
fore-rigging, wi' his one eye shining at times like a green
star.  Gibbie, who was a ferocious auld buckie, proposed to gie
him a cloure wi' a capstan-bar, or a dab wi' his durk, while we
should chuck him overboard; and wi' our hearts fu' o' fear and
hatred, we resolved upon this, for we dreaded sairly lest our
crew should be washed awa man by man, and we be left alane
wi' the Guancho, and led to destruction.  It was an unco wild
night, and noo the lightning glinted between the scudding clouds
breaking sea wi' a green and ghastly glare.
</p>

<p>
"Wi' muckle o' fear and mair o' desperation in our hearts, we
drew near the Guancho, who stood by the gunnel grinning at the
passing waves.  None could see us, either forward or aft, for the
crew were busy enough, and kept aloof frae the stranger.
</p>

<p>
"'Heave, Gibbie, heave, and wi' a will!' cried I, as I grasped
him by the breeks.  Gibbie took his heels, and we shot him
richt owre into the deep black trough o' the hungry sea; and
then on swept the ship, like a shot frae a culver in, and as if
relieved o' half her cargo.
</p>

<p>
"'Mony hands mak licht wark,' said Sandie.
</p>

<p>
"'But the Lord forgie us if we hae dune wrang,' quo' I, taking
off my bonnet at His name.
</p>

<p>
"'Wrang!' growled Gibbie; 'wrang to drown a deid man!  I
could swear that his ankles were but dry banes as I hove him
owre the bulwark.'
</p>

<p>
"The <i>Peggie</i> laboured hard and creaked in a' her timbers,
the wind howled, and now a wave like Ailsa Craig came roaring
after her.
</p>

<p>
"'Beware, my lads, beware fore and aft!' cried Sir Andrew
through his trumpet.  The three of us grasped the starboard
rattlins, and at that moment another heavy sea poured like a
torrent owre the decks o' the <i>Peggie</i>.  Our mate, Mathieson's
brother, and another seaman were swept away; for a time, the
ship trembled and was settling down.  By my life, had one more
wave like that rolled on her, she had gane doon into the trough
and never risen mair; but the water ran off her; she swam like
a duck, and again shot on, though the foresail was splitting to
ribbons.
</p>

<p>
"'St. Clement be near us!' whispered Gibbie.  'Look, Archy&mdash;look
Sandy!' and there, just where we had pitched him
owerboard, was the Guancho, standing by the starboard gunnel,
grinning and laughing as before.  Naebody on deck had missed
him, and nane but oursels kent that the same sea which had
swept awa our mate, had washed the storm-fiend on board again.
</p>

<p>
"Towards morning the gale subsided, and the grey daylicht
cam in through a mirk and louring sky, to brighten a rowing
sea.  We were cheerless and sad.  The men muttered among
themsels, and were aye in pairs, keeping aloof frae their unco
shipmate; and even Sir Andrew liked him but little, and
promised that he should be set upon the first land we came to.  For
five days we drifted about, and wist not where we were; for, as
the sun was hidden, our captain couldna win an observation wi'
the cross-staff.  He asserted that we were blown right out into
the Atlantic, where never ship sailed before; but Gibbie, wha
kent these seas o' auld, averred that we would sune mak the
coast o' Mogadore, which belonged to the king o' the Moors.
Yet our brave captain proved to be right.
</p>

<p>
"For these five days and nights, the Guancho did nocht else
but mope about the deck, and grin whenever Gibbie cam near
him; but our men worked hard to repair the damage o' the gale.
We bent on four new sails, reeved some o' the rigging anew,
shipped a new foretopmast, and, after taking an observation, bore
away for Madeira.
</p>

<p>
"Gibbie aye gied the Guancho a wide berth on deck, and kept
as much aloft as possible.  For three hail days he sat perched in
the craw's-nest; and three times I took the tiller for him at
night, as he was ever in mortal terror when the awesome thing
cam nigh him.  We crowded every stitch o' canvas, carrying
mair o' nights than the skipper kent o'; and twice nearly ran
the <i>Peggie</i> under water, in our eagerness to reach the land.  A
this time the Guancho ate little or nocht, but a grain or sae o'
maize; and mony o' our men, wha, owercome wi' weariness, had
slept on their watch, had frightfu' dreams, and averred that the
Guancho pressed their throats in the night and sucked their
blood; for they fand bite-marks about their necks in the
morning;&mdash;but then the <i>Peggie</i> was swarming wi' Norway rottens.
The terror increased; men spoke in whispers; and day by day, this
awsome Guancho sat in the lee scuppers, motionless as if deid,
and only moved and girned when Gibbie drew near or passed it,
which he aye did sidelong, wi' his hand on his durk; and three
times the thing pointed to his eyeless socket, from whilk Gibbie
had howked the shining stane.
</p>

<p>
"On the fifth night o' this horrid voyage, Mathieson and I had
the foretop.  We were on the look-out for land.  The <i>Peggie</i>
was going free, about eight knots or sae; and having now to
take his helm, Gibbie stood by the binnacle, and, Gude kens, we
watched the deck mair than the horizon for four hours o' that
dreary night.  The Guancho sat, as usual, in the lee scuppers,
and a wet berth it was.  About the middle-watch, we saw him
rise and creep towards Gibbie, whose een were fixed on the
sails&mdash;for he was a gude steersman, and aye loed to keep them full.
I think I see him noo, as he stood wi' his siller hair and red face
glinting in the light o' the binnacle lamps; his feet planted firm
on the deck, and his hands gripping the lion's head that was
carved on the tiller-end; and he sawna the fiend that drew nigh
him!
</p>

<p>
"'Deck ho!' I shouted.  'Gibbie, man&mdash;mind yoursel!' but
the wind swept my cry to leeward; and a' at ance the Guancho
sprang upon the puir helmsman&mdash;there was a despairing cry, an
eldritch yell, and the demon dashed him against the larboard
stanchions, a breathless and a brainless corpse.
</p>

<p>
"Wi' the wild cry that rose frae the deck, a' was owre!
</p>

<p>
"Unhanded, the tiller swayed frae side to side; the vessel fell
awa round like lightning; her canvas was a' taen aback, and
her topmasts went crash to leeward by the caps.  We were a
wreck in a moment.
</p>

<p>
"In a trice Sir Andrew was on deck.  Sandy and I cam doon
the backstay by the run, and 'out hatchets' was the word, to
dear us of the wreck; and under the foresail, mainsail, and gib,
we entered the roads of Funchal, and anchored off the Castle of
St. James, to refit, procure fresh water, Madeira, hock, and
provisions."
</p>

<p>
"But what o' this deevil wi' the green ee?" asked Willie Wad,
impatiently.
</p>

<p>
"Anger got the better o' our fear.  We sprang upon him the
moment the ship was safe; a desperate tulzie began, for every
blow o' his bony hands was like a cloure frae a smith's hammer,
and he knocked our best men owre like ninepins; his eldritch
yells were like the whistling wind, and he laughed and kicked,
when at last we laid him sprawling on the deck, and, while our
hearts boiled wi' fear and fury, lashed him hard and fast by neck
and heels to ringbolts.  Some proposed to heave him overboard,
wi' a shot at his craig, but Sir Andrew wouldna hear o' that;
and as soon as we dropped anchor at Funchal, the Guancho was
handed owre to the Dominicans and the Commander of the Order
of Christ, who put him in a vault o' the Castle of St. James, to
thole a trial for sorcery and murder.  Our story filled a' Funchal
wi' terror and consternation.  A lang procession o' Dominican
Fathers, carrying relics, crosses, banners, and holy-water pots,
marched to the Castle o' St. James, to exorcise the demon; and
the holy-water, when it fell frae the asperges on his brown hide,
hissed as if it sputtered on iron in a white heat, and he girned
at the priests like a marmoset.  At last, finding that exorcism
and blessed water were used alike in vain, the Portuguese Dominicans
and the Knights of Christ betuik themsels to prayer, and
after solemn high mass is the great church, visited the Guancho
again.
</p>

<p>
"They found him free o' his fetters, and laughing like a wild
imp, while he gied the finishing strokes to a great galley or boat,
which he had chalked, wi' its sails set, and twenty rowers at their
paddles, on his dungeon wall.  They marvelled sairly at this
strange employment, for one wha's funeral fire stood burning in
the castle yard; but a glamour was owre them, and nane dared
approach him.
</p>

<p>
"Then the brown deevil drew the waves below the galley sae
lifelike, that <i>they</i> seemed to roll and <i>it</i> to heave, while the rowers
began to paddle, and a low wild chant was heard, as they a
paddled and kept time.  Then he drew a ladder, wi' two perpendicular
strokes and sax horizontal ones; and then he <i>stepped on
board</i>, wi' anither o' his eldritch yells.  The rowers began to
paddle harder than ever, and while their sang died awa, it
sailed clean off the wall wi' him, and left ne'er a trace behind.
</p>

<p>
"A Knight of Christ sprang forward, but the place was empty,
clear o' its evil tenant, and no a vestige o' the fairy-ship remained
upon the dungeon wall.  Noo, what think ye o' <i>that</i> story,
messmates?"
</p>

<p>
"By my faith, I would rather drink bilge a' my days than
once sail the sea wi' a deevil in the ship's companie," said Willie
Wad.
</p>

<p>
"Puir Gibbie o' Crail ended his life as I told ye, and sleeps in
his hammock among the mermaids," said the boatswain, rising
from the gun-carriage; "but Sandy, our messmate, hath left me
a lang way astern, for he is now Sir Alexander Mathieson,
Knight&mdash;<i>the King of the Sea</i>, and captain o' yonder gallant caravel,
while I am only auld Archy the boatswain.  And, see, yonder his
barge is shoved off frae the Craig o' St. Nicholas, and pulled
straight for the <i>Queen Margaret</i>."
</p>

<p>
"Which shows that the king's council maun e'en be owre,
and 'tis time I were awa to the Admiral," said Jamie Gair, as
through an open gun-port, the gilded boat referred to, was seen
to leave the rock of St. Nicholas, with a banner waving at its
stern, where three or four gentlemen, wearing rich dresses, were
seated; and, with sixteen bright-bladed oars flashing in the
meridian sun, it was pulled across the shining river directly towards
the consort of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap11"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XI.
<br /><br />
CHAINING THE UNICORN.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Quaint old town of toil and traffick, quaint old town of art and song,<br />
  Mem'ries haunt thy painted gables, like the rooks that round them throng;<br />
  Mem'ries of the middle ages, when thy sovereigns rough and bold,<br />
  Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;LONGFELLOW.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
While the boatswain was spinning his incredible yarn in the
forecastle of the frigate, the king, after being at mass in the
chapel of St. Salvador, which stood near the palace of
St. Margaret, on a rocky eminence to the north side of the
High-street and Overgaitt, proceeded to the hall of this ancient
residence, where the great officers of state were to assemble, and
where he was to receive the ambassadors of Louis XI.
</p>

<p>
This old apartment was of great height, and was lighted by
six round-headed windows; its roof was an arch of solid stone,
spanned also by six sculptured ribs, that sprang from capitals,
the floor was of oak, which had been split into planks by wedges,
in the old Scottish fashion, roughly dressed by the axe, and
secured by large-headed iron nails.  The hall bore the impress of
the architectural genius of the early part of the Middle Ages:
the mouldings, the corbels, the flowered bosses, the ribs and
mullions of the windows, were bold and massive, and the subdued
light of a calm bright morning stole softly through their painted
lozenges and crimson draperies.  Old tapestries of green and
amber colour, representing in quaint and mis-shapen figures the
virtues and miracles of St. Margaret, the valour and death of her
husband, clothed the walls of this sombre hall.  The fair fingers
of six Scottish princesses, viz., Margaret the Dauphiness of
France, Elizabeth of Brittany, Jane of Huntly, Elinor of Austria,
Mary of Campvere, and the Lady Annabella, all daughters of
James I., had woven, in Dunfermline Tower, the stern romances
which hung on tenter-hooks of steel around those ancient walls.
At the lower end was a buffet, on which stood a gigantic thistle,
with its stamens composed of English swordblades, and its
bristles of poniards, all gathered from the victorious field of
Sark; at the upper, was the large fireplace, surmounted by the
royal arms, and from each of the antique crowns by which the
supporters&mdash;the white unicorns&mdash;were gorged, there depended a
gilded <i>chain</i>.
</p>

<p>
This new and most remarkable addition to the imperial arms
of the kingdom was soon remarked by several of the nobles, who
muttered together, as they gathered in groups, awaiting the
entrance of the king.
</p>

<p>
"It is significant of the chain he would bind around us," said
the Earl of Angus, with one of his dark and bitter smiles, as he
thrust his furred cap of maintenance over his dark and shaggy
brows.
</p>

<p>
"But 'tis a chain the sword can easily sever," added Sir James
Shaw.
</p>

<p>
This trifling affair shed a gloom over all the courtiers, who
were rapidly assembling, all clad in rich and magnificent dresses.
Accompanied by Sir David Falconer, Captain Barton, and Sir
Alexander Mathieson, a wiry old seaman, the admiral arrived,
and many of the proudest peers felt themselves constrained to
greet the brave old man with courtesy and outward respect.
</p>

<p>
"My Lord of Angus," said Robert Barton, frankly, kissing
the hand of Scotland's greatest noble, "God bless thee for
avenging my poor father on the Howards and their Northumbrian
kerne.  From my soul I thank thee!"
</p>

<p>
"Thank me not, good Robert Barton," replied the earl, with
boldness; "for though but a trader, thy father was a true Scot,
and a brave one."
</p>

<p>
At this reply Barton's eyes flashed, and Sir Andrew
bestowed on the speaker a frown.
</p>

<p>
"This haughty admiral does not bow very low, I think,"
whispered Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff.
</p>

<p>
"He who can stand upright in the presence of <i>honest</i> men,
needs not to bow in the presence of <i>great</i> ones," retorted Sir
Andrew, who overheard the remark.
</p>

<p>
At that moment the curtain at the lower end of the hall was
drawn aside, and the king entered, preceded and followed by a
brilliant retinue of ladies and nobles; Colin of Argyle, the Lord
High Chancellor; Knollis, the Lord High Treasurer; the Bishop
of Dunkeld, who was Secretary of State; Patrick Leith, a learned
canon of Glasgow, who was Lord Clerk Registrar; Sir William
Halkett of Belfico, the Judge of Justiciary; the Great Chamberlain,
the Master of the Household, the Standard Bearer, and a
crowd of other courtiers and favourites followed; among them were
many ladies, but those who attracted most attention were the
Duchess of Montrose, with her conical head-dress, and Margaret
Drummond, yet pale and sad, and, as such, contrasting with
her sisters, who were all brightness&mdash;beautiful and blushing with
pleasure and excitement,&mdash;especially little Lizzie and Beatie, who
wore their rich gifts, the silver collar and veil of lace.
</p>

<p>
The Duke of Rothesay, whose only attendant was his friend
the young Lord Lindesay, kept himself a little apart from this
variously attired crowd, which divided in two as the king
assumed his lofty chair, which was placed on a carpeted dais,
and under a cloth of estate, or canopy of purple velvet, which
was then the royal colour in Scotland.
</p>

<p>
The king bowed and smiled to all around him; but under
those smiling acknowledgments there was, too painfully visible,
that thoughtful expression which resulted from those bitter
dissensions and civil broils that in past years had wrinkled the
handsome face and seared the generous heart of James III.
</p>

<p>
He wore a jacquette and tight hose of white satin, embroidered
with Venetian gold, and over the former a loose surcoat of blue
velvet, without sleeves, but furred with miniver; his sword,
dagger, and belt sparkled with jewels, and around his neck were
the orders of the Thistle and St. Michael the Archangel.  His
blue bonnet was borne by a pretty little page,&mdash;a
royal <i>protégé</i>,&mdash;who was the son, not of a noble,
but of some poor mendicant,
who had attracted his notice, one day, when passing the Bridge
of Dunblane.  His hose reached to his feet,&mdash;for stockings, apart
from hose, were then unknown.  The first pair ever seen in
Britain were worn by Henry VIII. of England, who obtained
them from Spain, and his little successor, Edward VI., was
solemnly presented with a pair by Sir Thomas Gresham.
</p>

<p>
Angus, Lord Home, Lord Hailes, Sir James Shaw, Sir Patrick
Gray, the Laird of Keir, and others of that fierce noblesse, who
never laid aside their iron coats, and who despised the almost
effeminate dresses, the laces, ruffles, and ribbons of the courtiers,
stood in whispering and observant groups.  Apart from these
and such as these, who were too often the curse and betrayers of
their country, were grouped a few of those learned men whom,
like a true Stuart, the king loved and cherished.
</p>

<p>
Among them were three Benedictine priests, viz., John Abercrombie,
a vigorous writer against the dawning heresies in the
Church; Alexander Barclay, the translator of Sallust; and
Robert Henrison, author of the <i>Bluidy Serk</i> and <i>Ye Burrowstoun
Mouse and ye Landwart Mouse</i>; Father Zuill, the
learned chaplain to Sir Andrew Wood; John Bellenden, then
the greatest poet in Scotland, and afterwards Archdeacon of
Moray; the learned Andrew Forman, the Proto-notary Apostolic
of the kingdom, in after years the most famous of our churchmen,
and the mediator between Pope Julius II. and Louis XII.,
David Steele, who wrote the <i>Thrie Priestis of Peblis</i>, and
many other poor poets, who subsisted on the good king's privy
purse, and wrote odes, ballads, and songs for a small yearly fee
and the gift of a camlet gown, a bonnet and shoes, at
St. Martin's-Mass and White Sunday.  In the bearded visages of
all these sable-gowned and black-capped literati, there were
plainly visible a peculiar mixture of self-conceit and pedantic
pride, tempered by an unpleasant timidity; for some of the
smaller satirists, like Steele, were eminently obnoxious to the
nobles; yet it was to this group that the impolitic king first
addressed himself.
</p>

<p>
"Come hither, Father Barclay," said he to the gifted translator
of Sallust; "I have just read thy noble satire, <i>The Ship of
Fools</i>, and owe thee a chain of gold for it.  I prefer it to thy
<i>History of the Jugurthine War</i>; but we must imprint both, if
we can get those newly invented iron letters from Germany.
By my honour, Barclay, a scholar such as thou&mdash;or one like
thee, Abercrombie, or any of ye&mdash;might well become the mentor
of a king!  I may mistake," he added, turning to his gloomy-eyed
peers, "but I assure you, my lords, that nobility of mind is
more acceptable to me than nobility of name."
</p>

<p>
With a grotesque mixture of fear and pleasure, Barclay kissed
the hand of the king.  Angus glanced scornfully at his friends,
and Kyneff whispered,
</p>

<p>
"Thou seest, my Lord Earl, how this doting king hath not
even policy enough to gild the chain by which he would fetter
the unicorn."
</p>

<p>
Wood now approached and presented to James his three
favourite officers&mdash;old Sir Alexander Mathieson, Sir David
Falconer, and Robert Barton.
</p>

<p>
"God's benison on thee, my old king of the sea," said James,
clasping the hard rough hand of the venerable captain of the
<i>Margaret</i>; "and on thee, too, Barton.  To thee I leave the
duty of avenging thy slaughtered father.  His estate of Barnton
shall be created into a free barony, and his services shall never
be forgotten.  But come <i>thou</i> hither, Davie Falconer," added
James, who, to mortify his nobles, never omitted an opportunity
of distinguishing one of the people.  "I owe thee something for
that brave fight with the Spanish caravel in the English waters,
but I know not what it may be&mdash;unless this trinket, for the
time;" and taking from his finger a ring, he presented it to the
arquebussier, whose heart swelled within him with sudden gratitude
and joy; and then his eyes sought those of Sybilla Drummond.
His heart leaped anew, for it was full of all that a strong
and beautiful passion can kindle in a profound and sensitive
nature.
</p>

<p>
"Sir David," continued the king, "thy father died on the
deck of his ship for mine; and to feel that I have such subjects
as thee and Barton, is to feel the true pleasure of being a king.
Go&mdash;from my soul I love all such brave and honest fellows!"
</p>

<p>
"'Twas I who first made men of them both," said Sir Andrew
Wood, "and who gave them a relish for gunpowder and salt
water.  Gadzooks!  confess, Robert Barton, when first thou
camest aboard thou couldst neither hand, reef, nor steer, clamber
aloft, grease a mast, handle oar, culverin, or caliver.  All these
I taught him, your majesty, and made a man and a sailor of
him!"
</p>

<p>
"This day makes poor David Falconer the envy and the
hatred of the nobles," said Barclay the translator to Father Zuill.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis false, sirrah," growled the laird of Sauchie, who overheard
the remark, which was made a little too audibly; "he is
a brave fellow, who has won his spurs as he wins his daily bread
by knight's service and the sword.  Were he a cutter of stones,
like the umquhile Cochrane, a fiddler, like William Rogers, or a
useless scribbler, like thee, I would care little to see him gang
the gate those loons were sent at Lauder."
</p>

<p>
"Alas, noble sir," urged the Benedictine, submissively,
"Cochrane was a most unfortunate man&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"He was a villain," said the Earl of Angus; "a dyvour who
had turned heretic in his heart, and carried a Bible at his belt
by a silver chain&mdash;a Bible printed in black letters by a German
sorcerer, even such as the king would employ to print thy written
book.  Enough, sir!"
</p>

<p>
After this, the priest had nothing more to urge.
</p>

<p>
"Father Zuill," said the king to the chaplain of the <i>Yellow
Frigate</i>, "I am glad to see thee, and have received thy learned
treatise on the burning glasses of the ancients, which I hope to
peruse with pleasure; though I doubt mickle if you will ever
supersede our cannon-balls.  I have desired his grace of
Montrose to present you with a copy of Virgil, by Caxton the
Englishman."
</p>

<p>
Confronting the lofty and arrogant eyes of the nobility,
Falconer, who was armed like themselves, but less richly, retired
towards the curtained doorway, where his arquebussiers were
stationed, with the Montrose Herald and Garioch Pursuivant.
</p>

<p>
"This <i>protégé</i> of Wood," said Sir Patrick Gray, "is a
coxcomb, whose profound admiration of his own person&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Is only surpassed by his profound loyalty and respect for his
native monarch," said Lady Euphemia Drummond, bluntly
interrupting him, as she and her sisters drew near their father.
Sybilla, who blushed with anger at Gray, gave her tall, pale
eldest sister, a glance full of gratitude; but the governor of
Broughty, whom the words native monarch had stung deeply,
bit his white lips with sudden anger, and relapsed into silence.
</p>

<p>
"How the devil doth it come to pass," said the imperious Lord
Drummond, "that this churl, Falconer, who hath neither lands
nor rents coming in, wears a scarlet mantle like a landed baron?"
</p>

<p>
"'Tis the growing insolence of the class he springs from,"
replied Sir James Shaw, haughtily, drawing his own rich mantle
over his breast.
</p>

<p>
Poor Sybilla put down her fine face with timid sorrow, on
hearing her lover spoken of thus.
</p>

<p>
"Well, my Lord Angus," said Drummond, as they all drew a
little apart into one of the deep windows; "by your presence
here this morning, am I to conclude you have become a faithful
counsellor of the king?"
</p>

<p>
"As you have, my lord," replied the dark Angus, with a
courtly but crafty smile; for each was quite equal to and
understood by the other.
</p>

<p>
"Your followers have valued lightly the new edict anent
wearing swords in the king's vicinity!"
</p>

<p>
"As Scottish men should ever value such infamous edicts,"
replied Bell-the-cat, with a dark frown; "I have five hundred
lances from the Howe stabled in the close of St. Salvador, and
should like to see any one enforce the edict on them."
</p>

<p>
"Angus," said Drummond, with a deep glance, "where will all
this loyalty and this disloyalty, this open flattery and secret
discontent, end?"
</p>

<p>
"<i>On the field of battle</i>," was the hoarse reply, whispered
through a thick and wiry beard; and the timid Margaret
Drummond trembled as she heard it, and drooped her soft, dark
eyes, on finding the keen glance of Kyneff fixed as it was from
time to time upon her with mingled curiosity and pity,&mdash;if in
such a heart as his there might be pity.
</p>

<p>
Amid all this court intrigue and sea of plotting, but aloof from
it, stood the Duke of Rothesay, conversing with his friend and
follower, the princely heir of Crawford.  He saw only Margaret,
whom he loved with all the heedless ardour of a boy, and was
quite oblivious of the many fair ones, possessing no ordinary
amount of charms, who were clustered around the Duchess of
Montrose; and there were not a few who whispered into each
other's pretty ears many a compliment on Rothesay's handsome
figure and face.  On this morning he was dressed almost entirely
in white satin, slashed with blue and edged with gold.  Margaret
Drummond was attired in the same colours, which so well became
her fair complexion and blonde hair.  In the presence of the
king, though he seldom addressed her, she always felt a dread, as
of one against whom she had committed a wrong in becoming
the wife of his son.  She was ever apprehensive that his calm,
inquiring eye might read her secret.  She was pale as marble;
and from time to time applied to her little pink nostrils a gold
pomander ball, which was filled with scented paste, and such as
were then used before the introduction of pouncet boxes.  This
had been one of Rothesay's earliest love-gifts to her.
</p>

<p>
Kyneff and Sauchie had been closely watching Rothesay and
their beautiful victim, but found themselves completely at fault
and unable to discover any glances, signs, or tokens of intelligence
passing between them; and Kyneff, who, although he could be
politic and wary at times, was generally coarse, reckless, and
bold, resolved to probe the matter at once, and dared to do so in
the following manner:&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"I have a boon to beg of your highness this morning," said
he, in his easiest and most familiar tone.
</p>

<p>
"A boon&mdash;thou?" asked the prince, with the coldness of
instinctive distrust.  "Well, Sir Patrick?"
</p>

<p>
"I have taken the liberty of addressing your highness on the
dearest secret of my heart," said he in a low voice, and twirling
his mustachios, while he drew the prince aside, and with his
stealthy eyes bestowed a covert glance on Sir James Shaw; "I
crave your influence with one of your most favoured
courtiers&mdash;for&mdash;for&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"For what&mdash;do not be <i>bashful</i>, Sir Patrick&mdash;his purse?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay, his daughter's hand."
</p>

<p>
"I crave in turn to be excused, for I would be exceedingly
loth to assist a fowler so deadly as thee in meshing a poor little
dove."
</p>

<p>
"But I am one of the most faithful servants of your highness
and of the king."
</p>

<p>
"Well&mdash;and you are in love?"
</p>

<p>
"Prince, I have just had the honour of saying so."
</p>

<p>
"But with whom, Sir Patrick?"
</p>

<p>
"A woman&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Of course, I took that for granted.  Well; and this woman&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Is, beyond all compare, most beautiful!"
</p>

<p>
"Pshaw!  Sir Patrick, money-bags were more to thy purpose.
Is she rich?"
</p>

<p>
"Yea&mdash;as a queen in charms."
</p>

<p>
"'Twere better in crowns for thee.  But who is she for whom
I am to act a proxy lover?"
</p>

<p>
"Lady Margaret, the Lord Drummond's younger daughter."  As
Kyneff said this, his keen grey eyes were fixed with an intense
scrutiny on the clear hazel eyes and open brow of the young
prince, but nothing could he detect, not even the slightest start;
for although the hot heart of the impulsive Rothesay vibrated at
that dear name, so admirably had he schooled himself to encounter
the base plotters of his father's court, that he betrayed
not the smallest outward sign of inward emotion; and with all
his cunning, the traitor was completely baffled.
</p>

<p>
"I have but little influence with that family, I assure you, Sir
Patrick Gray," replied the prince, with a smile; "and still less
in the quarter you indicate; yet such as I have is yours.  When
shall I address the Lord Drummond&mdash;now?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay, nay, not just now," said Kyneff, hurriedly, and confounded
by the prince's perfect facility; "but on another opportunity;
and I beg of your highness to accept of my profound
gratitude."
</p>

<p>
"Doth this villain laugh at me, or hath he already divined our
secret?" thought the startled prince, as the conspirator withdrew
to the side of his friend and compatriot, the governor of the town
and castle of Stirling.
</p>

<p>
The great chamberlain now approached to lay several
complaints before the king, who by a power which had come down
from those good old patriarchal times when the Donalds and
Constantines dispensed justice from the mote-hills of Scone and
Stirling, could yet hear the complaints of the most humble of his
subjects; but so crippled was his power, that James III. was
now approached in vain.  Then there were no courts of session
or justiciary.  Territorial jurisdiction was vested in the barons
and provosts of burghs, from whom the appeals of vassals might
be made to the sheriff, to the royal justiciar, to the parliament,
or the king&mdash;and from burgesses, in the first instance, to the
chamberlain-ayre and court of the four burghs; but generally the
people loved better to prefer their prayers to the ear of an
indulgent prince, who regarded them all as his children.  Thus, after
Sir Andrew Wood had related that his embassy to Flanders had
proved futile in clearing up our quarrel with the sturdy citizens
of the Swyn, the Sluice, and the Dam, and that all trade with
them would still be interdicted, the loyal and venerable Duke of
Montrose said, in a most impressive manner,
</p>

<p>
"I grieve to say that complaints against the nobles have been
pouring in to your majesty, and everywhere the people murmur
against their oppression and misgovernment.  Here," he
continued, consulting his notes, "is a certain bondsman of the Lord
Angus, who hath bought unto himself a burgage in the royal
burgh of Dumfries, and is consequently a freeman, enjoying the
liberty of that provostry; yet, without a crime, he has been
manacled and thrown into the dungeon of the castle of Thrieve."
</p>

<p>
"What say you to this, my Lord Angus?" asked James.
</p>

<p>
"That I have hanged the frontless loon for complaining to his
grace the chamberlain," replied Angus, tightening the buckle of
his gold waist-belt.
</p>

<p>
Montrose and the king exchanged impatient glances.
</p>

<p>
"Another complaint hath been made against Sir James Shaw
of Sauchie, governor of your majesty's castle of Stirling, for
seizing and slaying several swine belonging to burgesses in the
Braid Wynd; and moreover, emptying eight byres and twelve
henroosts in one night."
</p>

<p>
"This is only according to law, duke," replied Shaw; "for the
king's castellans may freely slay all swine that are found straying
upon the causeway; and may also exact kain thrice in the year:
at Yule, Pasch, and White Sunday."
</p>

<p>
"But not at Bartilday and Martin-mass too, Sir James," said
the chamberlain.
</p>

<p>
"Refer this to the judge of justiciary," said the king.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis long sincesyne, sirs," urged Shaw, doggedly; "besides,
the burgesses of Stirling have ever been contumacious villains,
and utterly unworthy of all belief."
</p>

<p>
"Lord Home hath seized the leper-house and hospitium of
Soltra," continued the chamberlain, again glancing at his notes;
"his friend, the Lord Hailes, has stormed the knight of Ravelrig's
castle, and burned his three farm-towns.  The Steward of
Menteith, with five hundred redshanks, hath forced himself upon
the burghers of Auchterarder as provost, at the same time
sacking them of armour, furniture, and all manner of gear."
</p>

<p>
"Incited by ane auld witch carlin," replied the steward, a
grim-looking old man, who wore black armour and a kilt of blue
and purple tartan; "they ground their wheat wi' handquerns
instead of coming to my new milne on the Ruthven water, quhilk
is contrairy to the nineteenth chapter of the Statutes of Gild, and
I swore that carlins should weep, and bearded carles should dee
for't.  Let them appeal to the General Convention of Burghs at
Edinburgh, if they choose."
</p>

<p>
"Nay," said the king, in great anger; "let them rather appeal
to arms."
</p>

<p>
"Be it sae," said the savage old steward, with a laugh like a
growl, as he rattled his long two-handed cliobh on the floor;
"what the deil care I?  By a wave of my hand I could quench
every fire between the muir of Orchill and the kirk of
Aberruthven, if they winna thole my yoke."
</p>

<p>
"Upon Rood-day, in last harvest," resumed the chamberlain,
"the constable of Dundee cruelly slew, under solemn tryst, the
laird of Fetter-angus, at the glack of Newtyle."
</p>

<p>
"Wherefore?" demanded the king, starting from his seat with
irrepressible indignation.  And the constable replied&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"A year before he harried my lands in the Howe; but I have
made amends by paying an ample bludewit and by founding in
the chapel of St. Blaise the martyr of Armenia, here in the
Thorter-row of your majesty's burgh of Dundee, an altar, where
the priest for the time shall annually say for ever, until the day
of doom, on the anniversary of that unhappy hour, a solemn mass
for the soul of the umquhile laird; and on that altar lies the
sword wherewith I slew him."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis well, constable," said the king; "may some good spirit
do as much for thee.  What, Montrose, is not this catalogue of
crime exhausted?"
</p>

<p>
"The Heritable Forester of Drum," replied the Duke, closing
his notes, "hath seized a hundred head of swine belonging to the
citizens of Aberdeen."
</p>

<p>
"Because they declined to pay <i>pannage</i>, the usual duty levied
upon all porkers that feed on mast and beech-nuts in the royal
woods," replied this baron, whose badge of office was a
magnificent silver bugle.
</p>

<p>
"By the holy kirk, thou art a faithful subject!" said the king,
scornfully.
</p>

<p>
"Something <i>must</i> be done," resumed the Duke of Montrose,
looking at the group near Angus, "to repress this growing spirit
of outrage, and to bring the complaints of the people before
parliament; or, as my lord chancellor will agree with me, we
cannot warrant peace among them for three months longer."
</p>

<p>
"Montrose," said James, in a soft, but bitter voice; "wellawa!
I remember the raid of Lauder Brig, and am now, as then,
powerless."
</p>

<p>
"Lauder Brig," reiterated the remorseless Angus, who had
caught the words, and, whispering, turned to those around him;
"by St. Bryde of Douglas!  I was beginning to think thou hadst
forgotten that day, when we strung thy base mechanical favourites
like a devil's rosary over the Lauder stream."
</p>

<p>
Such were the peers of Scotland in the year of grace 1488.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap12"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XII.
<br /><br />
EMBASSY OF THE SIEUR DE MONIPENNIE,
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "A grey-haired knight set up his heid,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And crackit richt crousely:<br />
  'Of Scotland's king I haud my house,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He pays me meat and fee;<br />
  And I will keep my guid auld house,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;While my house will keep me.'"<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;AULD MAITLAND.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
While these accusations had been made by the lord chamberlain,
and proud replies given by the noblesse in question, Rothesay
had drawn near Margaret, and smilingly, and in whispers,
related to her his conversation with Sir Patrick Gray, and the
suit which the knight had requested him to urge.  She grew, if
possible, paler at the relation, for in her secret heart she feared
that even were this new suit not urged for some dark and ulterior
object, it might afford her great cause for uneasiness, and perhaps
lead to the discovery of that private union, which, as a deadly
secret, she treasured in her timid heart; for well she knew that
the jealousy of the greater nobles at such an honourable alliance
formed a <i>second time</i> with the House of Drummond would fan
the flame of "many a feud yet slumbering in its ashes."
</p>

<p>
In the group near the Duchess of Montrose, Captain Barton
was conversing softly with her sister Euphemia; and poor
Falconer, from the foot of the hall (where a few of his soldiers
supplied the place of Lord Bothwell's guard, who were then at
Stirling), glanced anxiously at Sybilla from time to time, and
sighed when reflecting that all the gold <i>he</i> possessed was on his
spurs and doublet.  A flourish of trumpets in the court-yard,
and a glittering of pike-heads and heralds' tabards between the
festooned curtains which shaded the lower end of the hall,
announced the arrival of the new French ambassador and his
train, and then all became hushed, save some such scraps of
conversation as the following:&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Sybilla Drummond," said the Duchess of Montrose, "remember
ye aught of the splendour in which the Lord Stuart
d'Aubigne, Mareschal of France, came here in 1483?"
</p>

<p>
"As ambassador of Charles VIII?"
</p>

<p>
"To renew the ancient league."
</p>

<p>
"Ah yes, madam; how could I forget it? My dear brother,
who was killed at Naples by Gonsalvo de Cordova, was captain
in one of the eighteen Scottish companies whom he took away
with him to the Italian wars."
</p>

<p>
"My puir nephew&mdash;he was indeed a brave gallant!" said the
old duchess, with a sigh.
</p>

<p>
"Yet, madam," resumed Sybilla, glancing through the painted
window near her, "I think the train of this Lord of Concressault
every way inferior to those of the Mareschal d'Aubigne and of
the papal ambassador, who came soon after from His Holiness
Innocent VIII."
</p>

<p>
"In the following year&mdash;the Lord Bishop of Imola; I
remember me, child."
</p>

<p>
"He succeeded in procuring a three years' truce between
King James and Richard of England," said Barton, "who sent
his despatches sewn in the stomacher of Muriella Crawford."
</p>

<p>
"Ah, that woman became a Lindesay by marrying into our
family," said the haughty old duchess, applying her pomander
ball to her nose.
</p>

<p class="t3">
* * * * *
</p>

<p>
"My Lord Drummond," said the swarthy Earl of Angus,
glancing grimly at the king, who was sitting with his forehead
resting on his hand, and buried in thought, while the Chancellor,
Treasurer, Secretary of State, and other richly dressed courtiers,
hovered near him; "it would seem as if we peers of Scotland had
become mere grooms and pages in the eyes of this king's new
pimps and puppets."
</p>

<p>
"By the fiend, yes!  Only conceive again what we have just
heard&mdash;Hailes, Home, the Steward of Menteith, and the Forester
of Drum, being thus arraigned at the instance of a few wretched
burgesses!"
</p>

<p>
"Yea, and before some of those we spared at Lauder Brig&mdash;men
who are yet unhanged," added Angus, with one of his
darkest scowls.
</p>

<p>
"There now, not a yard from the king's chair, is a balladeer,
the son of a sword-slipper in the Shoegaitt of Perth, who hath
exchanged the file and hammer for a sword and Parinese poniard&mdash;his
canvas gaberdine for a dainty doublet of cramosie, because,
forsooth, he is master of the king's music, and Margaret of
Denmark loves to listen to the twangle of his viols and
ghitterns&mdash;faugh!"
</p>

<p>
"Men say he will be made a knight and privy councillor."
</p>

<p>
"If so," said Sauchie, "by God I shall forswear my spurs for
ever!"
</p>

<p>
"I knew such another clown who was made an earl," said the
Steward of Menteith, who had given his tent-cord to hang
Cochrane over Lauder Bridge.
</p>

<p>
"There are Falconer and Barton, too, whose fathers were but
merchant-skippers!"
</p>

<p>
"But the former is a brave gallant, and the latter is my
particular friend," said Drummond.
</p>

<p>
"Well, well," resumed the discontented Angus, impatiently;
"but think of him whom I saved at Lauder, when <i>your</i> tent-cord
was twisted round his neck&mdash;John Ramsay&mdash;a mere bonnet
laird, who is now, forsooth, <i>Sir</i> John Ramsay, and Lord of
Bothwell, Baron of Balmain, Flaskie, and Pitnamore, with the
Captainrie of the king's guard.  Yet, by St. Bryde, this springald
dared but yesterday to pass me in the Baxter's Wynd at
Stirling&mdash;me, Archibald of Angus&mdash;with head erect, and without beck,
bow, nod, or recognition!"
</p>

<p>
"The brose these loons shall sup is thickening fast, lord
earl," said Drummond, with a dark smile, as he spread his
silvered beard over his steel gorget, "and ere long our lances will
be at their throats."
</p>

<p>
At that moment the Montrose herald, an officer of the Lyon
court, who had been recently created in honour of the Crawford
dukedom, exclaimed, "Place for the ambassador of his Majesty,
the King of France!"
</p>

<p>
"Sweetheart!" whispered Rothesay, pressing his Margaret's
trembling hand, as all eyes were turned towards the entrance,
"this is, indeed, a critical day for us!  Should my father depart
on his long-proposed pilgrimage, I shall be regent, and he must
grant us pardon ere he go.  If he stays, we shall then be
condemned to linger on in secrecy, but only a little longer."
</p>

<p>
"Until the good Bishop of Dunblane returns," said Margaret,
with one of her dearest smiles.
</p>

<p>
During the reign of James III. there were an unusual number
of solemn treaties and splendid embassies passed between the
court of Scotland and those of Louis XI. and Charles VIII. of
France; Alphonso <i>Africanus</i> of Portugal, Ferdinand V. of Spain,
Christian of Denmark, and Charles <i>the warrior</i>, Count of
Flanders, by means of nobles, prelates, and heralds.  Some of
these were exceedingly magnificent, for under the care of kings
who were far in advance of their times, Scotland was rapidly
rising in the scale of European nations.  But on the present
occasion the special envoy of Charles VIII. was attended only by
two esquires and two pages, who bore his helmet and braque-mart,
or short French sword.
</p>

<p>
The Sieur de Monipennie, Lord of Concressault, was a Scotsman,
a cadet of the family of Pitmilly, long naturalized by residence
in France, in the armies of which he had served lor thirty
years.  He commanded four thousand archers in the war between
the Charolois and the Lords of the League, and at the battle of
Montleri had slain, with his own hand, Pierre de Breze, the
grand seneschal of Normandy.  At the left clasp of his cuirass
dangled the gold cross of eight points, worn by the chevaliers of
the Order of St. Etienne, and the Cross of the Immaculate
Conception.  In aspect he was venerable and soldierlike.  His
armour was black, edged, studded, and engraved with gold; his
boots had those long toes or <i>poleines</i>, of which we may read in
the chronicles of Monstrelet; his beard was white as snow, but
his dark grey eyes were bright and keen; his features were severe
and somewhat harsh, but a smile of pleasure and loyalty
overspread them as he approached his native monarch, and, full of
honest enthusiasm, knelt down to kiss the hand of James, who
immediately raised him from the dais.
</p>

<p>
"The last time I had the happiness of seeing your majesty,"
paid he, in a voice that was strongly tinged by a foreign accent,
"was about thirty years ago, and ye were then but a halfling
laddie."
</p>

<p>
"At the funeral of my mother, of royal memory, in the
collegiate kirk of Edinburgh," said the king.
</p>

<p>
"I mind it weel, as if 'twere yesterday.  Woe is me! but the
cares of manhood have been written deeply on your majesty's
brow sincesyne; yet ye <i>do</i> remind me of the king, your father,
when I saw him last in '58 at the Castle of Stirling.  He was
ever a good friend to me and to my house."
</p>

<p>
The eyes of the veteran suffused with emotion as the recollection
of years long passed came gushing back upon his warm
and generous heart.
</p>

<p>
"I rejoice, indeed, to see you, my Lord of Concressault, and
am all impatience to hear the message of my cousin of France."
</p>

<p>
"It is simply concerning the proposition formerly made
anent the invasion of Brittany.  He has been pleased to desire
me to urge your majesty to invade and take possession of that
dukedom, promising, at the same time, to make over to the
crown of Scotland all right and interest France may have in its
five bishoprics of Rennes, Nantes, Saint Malo, Dol, and Saint
Brieuc.  He would advise your majesty, as more fully set forth
in these papers which I shall have the honour of laying before
your council, to promise to the Bretons that their states-general
and all their ancient privileges shall be retained as inviolate,
subject, however, to the modifications of the Scottish Parliament."
</p>

<p>
"What say you to this, my lords?" asked the king, as a
murmur of varying opinions rose among the nobles.
</p>

<p>
"I say nay," replied Angus; "the poor Bretons have never
wronged us, and by St. Bryde! why should we invade and
dispossess their duke, to please a King of France or to avenge his
petty piques and jealousies?"
</p>

<p>
"The King of France requires no man to avenge his quarrels,
Earl of Angus," retorted the Scoto-French Lord of Concressault,
turning abruptly round.
</p>

<p>
"Drummond," said the king, "what sayst thou?"
</p>

<p>
"I agree with Angus," replied Lord Drummond.  "Why
should we imitate England of old, by waging wanton wars, and
violating the rights of a free people?"
</p>

<p>
"There are some fine harbours off the Breton coast," said Sir
Andrew Wood; "gadzooks, Robbie Barton, we know Nantes
well, with its castle at the mouth of the Sevre."
</p>

<p>
"King Charles desired me to say," continued Sieur de Monipennie,
without heeding the nobles, "that twenty thousand men
will be sufficient to reduce the Bretons, with such French forces
as he would send against them by the way of Maine and Anjou,
together with all the Scottish troops now in the service of
France&mdash;to wit, Sir Robert Patulloch's gard du corps Ecossaises; my
thousand lances of Concressault, and those of John of Darnley, the
mareschal Stuart d'Aubigne, who has just been created Comte
d'Evereaux; and those would enter by the way of Poitou, as
these letters will show."
</p>

<p>
Whatever James thought of this splendid offer from the wily
ministers of his cousin Charles the Affable, who was then in his
eighteenth year, he had not time given him to say.  In 1473,
the proposition had been made before, and he had then intended
to annex Brittany, at the head of 6000 Scottish infantry; but
the Parliament opposed it; and now nearly with one unanimous
voice, the nobles said, and perhaps with some feeling of justice&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Not a man of us will draw a sword or lift a lance in this cause!"
</p>

<p>
"The Bretons have never wronged us," added Lord Drummond;
"and woe be to those who wage an unjust war!"
</p>

<p>
"You forget, my lords, that the barons and burgesses are yet
to be consulted," replied the king, with rising anger; "and if
<i>their</i> voice is for the annexation of Brittany to our realm, by the
Black Rood of Scotland, I will march without my recreant
nobles, or create <i>new ones</i> on the field!"
</p>

<p>
The peers on hearing this rash speech smiled at each other
contemptuously and incredulously, while the Lord of Concressault
gazed at them in astonishment; for though he knew well
the stubborn pride of his native chiefs, he had but recently come
from France, where he had seen the iron rule of Louis XI., his
fortresses of Loches and Montilz-les-Tours, with their trap-doors
and gibbets, for the proud and refractory; his atrocious bastille,
with its vaulted hall, and those cubes of masonry and iron which
stood therein, and were called the king's little daughters, and in the
heart of which, some men were pining and had pined for twenty
years, like frogs in a marble block!  He had seen all France
tremble at the nod of the decrepit little tyrant who espoused
Margaret of Scotland&mdash;and now he gazed with ill-concealed
wonder at the effrontery of these Scottish nobles.  And James,
though his generous nature was ever averse to injustice and
oppression, merely to oppose, and if possible to mortify them,
seemed not indisposed to undertake the conquest and annexation
of this then independent dukedom, which was not united to
France until 1532.
</p>

<p>
"Immediately after the meeting of Parliament, before whom
your papers shall be laid, I will send to France my final answer,"
replied the king; "and now, my Lord of Concressault, you can
favour me in a very particular manner.  You are, of course,
aware, that since 1477, now eleven years ago, I have been bound
by a solemn vow to visit the shrine of St. John, in the great
Cathedral of Amiens."
</p>

<p>
The ambassador bowed; Rothesay pressed the hand of Margaret
Drummond, who hung upon his arm, and stepped forward
a pace to listen.  A deep stillness reigned in the crowded hall;
even the nobles seemed to hold their breaths for a time.
</p>

<p>
"On this pilgrimage I was to have gone, accompanied by a
thousand gentlemen; but the arrival of a legate from his Holiness
Sixtus IV., the siege of Dunbar, the revolt of my brother,
the Duke of Albany, and those events which brought on the&mdash;the
fatal raid at Lauder, with many other events, have totally
precluded the fulfilment of this most holy pledge; I therefore
entrust to you, my Lord of Concressault, this holy medal, the
gift of our Father Innocent VIII.," continued James, taking
from his neck a large and heavy gold medallion.  "This I
beseech you to present in my name to the shrine of St. John, as
at present I see no possibility of my leaving Scotland, even for
the short period of three months."
</p>

<p>
The Sieur de Monipennie knell to receive the consecrated
medal, which he kissed and suspended by its gold chain at his
neck.  It bore an image of the Virgin, and was encircled by the
legend,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="t3" style="font-family: Old English Text MT, Times New Roman, serif">
Hail, Mary, Star of Heaven, and Mother of God!
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
This medal was afterwards conveyed to the Shrine of St. John
at Amiens, and there it hung until the plunder of the churches
during the French Revolution.
</p>

<p>
Rothesay gazed on Margaret tenderly, and in silence, for the
king's sudden and unexpected abandonment of his long-projected
pilgrimage removed, for the present, all hope of a fortunate or
happy revelation of their rash and secret union.  Rothesay
sighed with disappointment, and Margaret's timid eyes filled
with tears; for had James actually departed on this pilgrimage,
the rules of the Church would have compelled him to forgive all
who had offended against him, or his journey would have been
deemed a false and futile pretence.
</p>

<p>
Distinguishing from among the nobles the stout and portly
admiral, whom he knew by the silver whistle which hung at his
neck, the venerable ambassador of Charles VIII. entered into an
animated conversation with Sir Andrew Wood, which was a fresh
source of irritation to some of the jealous peers, who thereby felt
themselves slighted.  The hum of voices again pervaded the
large and stately hall, and James, after exchanging a few words
with the Duke of Montrose, reclined his brow upon his hand,
and with his face overshadowed by a bitterness which he could
not conceal, at the affront so publicly given to him by the nobles,
suddenly and abruptly arose to withdraw.  Angus, who at times
was not ungenerous, perceived his deep emotion, and as the
acknowledged leader of the peers, approached and said in a low
voice,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Your majesty may feel that we have wronged you; but I
beseech you to rest assured, that at heart your nobles love you."
</p>

<p>
"And hate all else who have a claim on my friendship,"
replied James, bitterly, "or all who deserve my affection; is it
not so, lord earl?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, if bestowed upon the ignoble and unworthy," replied
the earl, haughtily, while his deep, dark, glassy eyes bestowed
on his sovereign one of those daring, fixed, and penetrating
glances which even he at times found almost insupportable.
</p>

<p>
"Yet would I hope, Angus, that with our great banquet in
Castle of Edinburgh&mdash;that friendly feast of which I have
spoken so often&mdash;all these feuds and bitternesses will cease," said
James, as he bowed low to Concressault, the ambassador, lower
still to the ladies, and retired, leaning on the arm of his most
faithful friend and counsellor, the Duke of Montrose.
</p>

<p>
"Poor king!" said the admiral to Barton, as they also departed;
"between his peers and his people, he is like one between
the devil and the deep sea."
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap13"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XIII.
<br /><br />
TO SEA!
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "All hands unmoor! proclaims a boisterous cry;<br />
  All hands unmoor! the caverned rocks reply;<br />
  Roused from repose, aloft the sailors swarm,<br />
  And with their levers soon the windlass arm."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;FALCONER'S <i>Shipwreck</i>, Canto i.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
On leaving the hall, Sir Andrew Wood was received at the
palace-gate by his usual body-guard; the crew of his barge,
under the command of Cuddie, the coxswain, armed with their
boat-stretchers, and clad in their spotless white gaberdines,
girdled by broad black belts, in which each had his Scottish
knife or dudgeon-dagger, and all wearing broad blue bonnets,
having red cherries on the top and white St. Andrew's crosses in
front.  They were sixteen of the smartest men in the ship's
company, and Cuddie&mdash;or Cuthbert&mdash;the coxswain, marched
in front.
</p>

<p>
As the admiral, thus escorted and accompanied by Falconer
and Barton, proceeded towards the landing-place down Tindall's
Wynd, a narrow thoroughfare, then paved by those round stones
such as may yet be seen in the streets of Arbroath and other
seaport towns in Angus, he perceived a seaman making various
efforts to attract his attention, by coming close to the barge's
crew, and always touching his bonnet with profound respect
whenever his eye fell on him.
</p>

<p>
"Ahoy, brother!" said the admiral, "what cheer?  Do you
wish to speak with me?  Ha!  Jamie Gair&mdash;is it thee who art
backing and filling thus, as if I were some great lord?  Put on
thy bonnet, man.  But why art not away to the fishing-ground?
Are there English cruisers off the coast?"
</p>

<p>
"Ye have guessed aright, Sir Andrew," replied Gair; "and
I crave the honour o' a word wi' ye apart."
</p>

<p>
"Well,&mdash;say forth."
</p>

<p>
"Captain Howard, the <i>Royal Harry</i>, and twa other English
ships were off the Firth last night."
</p>

<p>
"What dost thou tell me?"
</p>

<p>
"Sure as I am a living man, sir&mdash;inside the Inchcape bell,"
continued Jamie, in a low anxious whisper.
</p>

<p>
"Lubber and loggerhead!  And thou only tellest me now!"
</p>

<p>
"Wi' the first blink o' dawn I was aboard the frigate, Sir
Andrew, but ye werena there; and I hae been haudin' off and
an about the palace door sincesyne, in the hope o' seeing you.
But oh, be wary, Sir Andrew, and ask me nae mair, for I am but
a puir fisherman, wi' a wife and a bairn to feed and to cleed&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Wary&mdash;what mean ye, Jamie Gair?"
</p>

<p>
"Your word as a knight, Sir Andrew, that you will never
repeat what will assuredly be my ruin."
</p>

<p>
"Messmate, thou hast my word as a seaman.  Well?"
</p>

<p>
"Last night three gentlemen, in masks, went off to the <i>Royal
Harry</i>, and remained two hours aboard."
</p>

<p>
"About what time was this?"
</p>

<p>
"Mirk midnight&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"When honest men are swinging in their hammocks.  Well?"
</p>

<p>
"When day broke, she and her twa consorts were bearing awa
south and by east."
</p>

<p>
"Three gentlemen, wearing masks,"&mdash;said the admiral, keenly
scrutinizing the honest brown visage of the fisherman; "ken ye
their names?"
</p>

<p>
"No, Sir Andrew," replied Jamie looking down, for he
trembled for his wife and child, if exposed to the vengeance of
Gray of Kyneff.
</p>

<p>
"By every shrine in Largo kirk!" said the admiral, "I
would give my starboard fin to know who these villains were.
Ho!  Robert Barton, I have news for thee," he added, with a
grim smile; "the English <i>Harry</i> and her consorts are off
the coast."
</p>

<p>
"Edmund Howard&mdash;he who with his brother slew my father
in the Downs?"
</p>

<p>
"The same, my lad; and while we have been loitering in
smooth water among those gilded sharks of courtiers, they may
have escaped us."
</p>

<p>
"Edmund Howard&mdash;oh, David Falconer, hearest thou that?"
said Barton, with fierce joy; "come admiral: if he escapes
us now&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"May we never go to sea without a foul wind, or come to
anchor without a rotten cable.  Away to your arms&mdash;to your
cannon&mdash;the English fleet is off the coast!"
</p>

<p>
"Bear away then, Cuddie&mdash;heave ahead, my lads! hurrah!"
</p>

<p>
cried Burton, waving his bonnet, and the whole of the barge's
crew ran down Tindall's Wynd brandishing their boat-stretchers,
and springing on board, shipped their oars.  Wood and Falconer
leaped into the sternsheets, and Barton grasped the tiller.
</p>

<p>
"Give way, my braw lads, give way!" exclaimed the admiral,
as Cuddie shoved the boat off; the sixteen oars were dipped into
the water; the crew bent to their task, and almost lifted the
light shallop out of the river, as they shot her round the Craig
of St. Nicholas, where the nautical loungers bestowed a farewell
cheer in honour of old Sir Andrew.  Jamie Gair was left in the
middle of the Wynd, where he stood for a time, irresolute and
half repenting the interest he had taken in affairs of State, and
dreading that the gold he had earned might bring him nought
but sorrow.
</p>

<p>
"Give way, callants&mdash;give way!" continued the brave old
Laird of Largo; "see&mdash;the tide is ebbing, and there is a fine
breeze blowing down the Carse o' Gowrie!  Give way merrily, my
hearts&mdash;pull with a will!"
</p>

<p>
The old man was all impatience; the crew of the barge caught
his enthusiasm.  They bent to their slender oars with all their
muscular energy, and the light boat was shot over the waters of the
Tay, which parted before its bows, and curled under its counter, in
the bright sunshine, in long lines that were edged with bells of
snowy foam.  Like an arrow, the long sharp boat sheered alongside
the towering frigate; the oars were unshipped from the
rowlocks and piled along the thwarts, while Cuddie the coxswain
caught an eyebolt with his boat-hook.  In three minutes, the
admiral, his officers, and the crew were all on board, and the
boat was dangling like a toy from the davits.
</p>

<p>
"Run up the signal for sea," said the admiral; "Master Wad,
fire a culverin to let Sir Alexander Mathieson know what we are
about.  Boatswain, pipe away the yeomen of the windlass, and
heave short&mdash;cast loose the courses; trip the anchor, and prepare
all for sailing."
</p>

<p>
The greatest alacrity followed these rapid orders.  Archy of
Anster was as active as if the one-eyed demon of his
extraordinary yarn was after him: he hurried from poop to forecastle,
growling, shouting, swearing and piping away between decks.
</p>

<p>
"Willie Wad&mdash;quick wi' your gun!" he cried; "or we'll
serve ye wi' a stoup o' bilge in guid earnest."
</p>

<p>
The little blue flag, which, from time immemorial has been the
signal for sailing, was run up to the foremast-head, where it
fluttered in the wind; one of the starboard ports was triced up,
and a great cannon-royale sent its report like thunder over the
calm still flow of the shining river; and immediately a
commotion was visible on board the <i>Queen Margaret</i>.  The flag of
Sir Alexander Mathieson was displayed from her mainmast-head,
and the shrill whistle of her boatswain was heard, as he piped all
hands on deck.
</p>

<p>
As to referring to either king or council, lord high chancellor
or secretary of state, for orders to put to sea, such an idea never
entered the head of stout Sir Andrew Wood; who sometimes
was not over-particular, for it is recorded that once during a
private quarrel with the Provost of Aberdeen, he sailed up the
Don with the king's ships, and bombarded the granite city in a
fashion which its citizens never forgot or forgave.
</p>

<p>
Falconer stood on the poop looking regretfully at the house of
the Drummonds, with its large round towers, which were then
almost washed by the river; but Barton was all life and
animation; and with a celerity astonishing for an age when every
species of mechanism was rude and in its infancy, the ships of
war were got under way.  The boatswain manned the windlass,
and after a few hard tugs with the handspikes, they tripped the
anchor and turned
</p>

<p class="poem">
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&mdash;&mdash;"The engine round,<br />
  At every turn the clanging pauls resound;<br />
  Uptorn reluctant from its oozy cave,<br />
  The ponderous anchor rises o'er the wave."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Its square stock appeared above the surface of the water, and
then Barton seized his trumpet.
</p>

<p>
"Hard up with the helm, timoneer," he cried; "fill the head
sails&mdash;on board with the foretack! haul out the spanker and set
the spritsail.  Forecastle there&mdash;cat and fish the anchor!"
</p>

<p>
"Quick, my lads!" added the boatswain; "yare, yare&mdash;mony
hands mak licht wark."
</p>

<p>
"Sheet home," said the admiral, stamping his feet as he
walked up and down the poop impatiently, and at every turn
looked aloft; "sheet home!  Barton, hoist the top-gallant sails!
Gadzooks, but it is a brave breeze this!  Archy of Anster, send
your sharpest man to the crow's-nest as a look-out, and see that
he kens a fleet of ships from a flock of gulls.  By the whale of
Jonas!  I will give a hundred golden angels to the first man who
discovers these English pirates!"
</p>

<p>
Cuddie the coxswain scampered up aloft, and perched himself
in the main-cross-trees.
</p>

<p>
As the great square mainsails of the frigates fell, they began
to feel the full pressure of their canvas, and gathered way; the
transient bustle subsided, and as the broad sails swelled out
from the yardheads, and the glassy river rippled beneath their
sharp and lofty prows, they stood noiselessly down the opening
Tay with the ebbing tide, and a western wind, right aft to bear
them onward.
</p>

<p>
With evening a soft opal-coloured light stole over the summer
sky.  The heat of the day had subsided, and a light breeze stole
along the water, wafting from the shores of that majestic river
the rich fragrance of the apple-bowers, the ripening grain, and
the thousand plants that flourish by its margin.
</p>

<p>
The great square tower of St. Mary, the pointed spire of
St. Clement, the Rock of St. Nicholas, and the little burgh&mdash;for it
was then indeed but a small but beautiful Dundee,&mdash;became
shrouded in the haze of the warm summer evening, as the
frigates, keeping straight in the fair way, rounded Tentsmuir-point,
the sands of Abertay, and then bore away a point or two
towards the south, with the western wind upon the quarter, when
the sun's rays were fading behind the undulating coast of Forgan,
or, as it then was named, St. Fillan.
</p>

<p>
People supped early in those days; thus, an hour after sunset,
the bell in the great cabin announced that the evening meal was
ready.
</p>

<p>
"By Heaven! admiral, I have an appetite for the first time
since my father's death!" said Barton, as he took his seat with
a flushed brow.
</p>

<p>
"Gadzooks, Robbie, if Cuddie descries those Englishmen&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"I will add two hundred angels to thine, admiral, and rig him
a crayer of his own&mdash;and she shall be the best that ever was
launched on the Forth or the Tay!"
</p>

<p>
Father Zuill, the chaplain, who sat on Wood's right hand,
blessed the viands, which consisted of a platter of fried garvies
fresh from the Tay, two great pies, one called a gibelotte, which
the Scots had adopted from their friends the French, and have
now abbreviated into <i>giblet</i>; and the other a tower of paste,
containing all the odds and ends the cook could collect in his
larder.  This was designated a double-decker.  There were pies
of quinces and orange marmalade for dessert, and cases of sack
and canary for those who sat above the salt; with a great leather
jack of ale for Archy the boatswain, Willie Wad the gunner,
Cuddie the coxswain, the captains of the fore, main, and
mizentops, who sat below this line of demarcation, and who, instead of
supping off plate and a silk-edged table-cloth like the officers,
were bound to content them with a plain bare table and wooden
treen-plates, with horn-handled knives, and spoons.  The conversation
was general and animated, for it ran chiefly on the merits
and death of Sir Andrew Barton, the probable strength of the
enemy, and the chances of overhauling them.  When supper was
over, Sir Andrew desired all to fill their cans, for the toast which
he invariably gave every night, at the same hour and in the same
place, when on board, and had done so for the last thirty years.
</p>

<p>
"The gude Port o' Leith, messmates&mdash;God bless it, and a' our
Scottish ships at sea!"
</p>

<p>
When again they came on deck, the ships were off the Eden
mouth, and the waves of St. Andrew's stormy bay were rolling
their crests away to windward.  As the light breeze swept over
them, they were tinted with a thousand prismatic hues by the
broad white summer moon, which rose in her clearest beauty
from the German Sea.  Falconer's thoughts were then of Sybilla,
whom he loved so well and perhaps so vainly; and abandoning
himself to the fondest reveries, he brooded deeply over his passion
amid the majestic silence of the sea that swept around him, and
the distant land, whose headlands jutted into that shining mirror
in bold but hazy outlines.
</p>

<p>
Barton loved Euphemia Drummond not a whit less than the
captain of arquebussiers loved her younger sister; but with the
secure feeling of a fiancé, for the present he dismissed her fair
image from his breast, and gave full play to those high hopes of
fully avenging his gallant father on the very men who had slain
him, and whose ships he knew were on those moonlit waters,
which he was incessantly scanning with eagerness and
impatience, but with his unaided eyes alone: for telescopes were
not invented for nearly a hundred and twenty years after.
</p>

<p>
The old admiral, who burned to punish the slayers of his
venerable friend and messmate, more than to avenge the temporary
disgrace&mdash;if disgrace it was&mdash;cast by the Howards upon the
rising prowess of the Scottish mariners, shared all the impatience
of Barton, and together they trod up and down the weather side
of the poop, frequently hailing Cuddie, who was still perched at
the crosstree, to be assured that he kept a proper look-out.
</p>

<p>
The night stole on; the moon began to sink; the frigates were
still going free with the wind upon the quarter; Fifeness, with
the dangerous Carr-rock, arose on the starboard-bow, and the old
admiral, who knew every part of the coast as well as the features
of his own face, now looked from time to time at the compasses
which stood in the lighted binnacle, or as the seamen then named
it, <i>habbitacle</i>&mdash;<i>i.e.</i>, a small house, for there were two&mdash;one for
the steersman and another for the gunner who was conning.
</p>

<p>
The <i>Margaret</i> was now a falcon-shot astern, and the great
poop-lantern of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> was lighted; but this
precaution was needless, as her cloud of snow-white canvas and all
her taut black rigging were as visible to her consort under the
clear blue sky of night as if at noonday.
</p>

<p>
"Fifeness in sight, and no sign of them yet!" muttered the
Admiral; "square the yards, Barton, and stand right away before
the breeze."
</p>

<p>
The temporary bustle of this manoeuvre soon subsided; the
rope-ends were again coiled away, and, save the watch and some
of the crew, who were listening to another of the boatswain's
incredible yarns in the forecastle, all the ship's company had
turned into their hammocks.  About the middle watch of the
night, Barton, who was still impatiently pacing the deck, heard
the man (who for a time had replaced the coxwain) at the
masthead hailing the deck.
</p>

<p>
"Poop, ho!"
</p>

<p>
"Hallo," answered Barton, instinctively grasping his trumpet,
which lay on the binnacle; "are you aloft, Dalquhat?"
</p>

<p>
"Twa sail are in sicht, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Where away, my old Carle?"
</p>

<p>
"On the larboard bow."
</p>

<p>
"What are they like?"
</p>

<p>
"Ilk ane is a three-masted ship.  Ane has a poop lantern&mdash;the
other is hull doon; but we are coming up wi' them hand owre
hand."
</p>

<p>
"Look hard, shipmate, and mayhap ye may see another," said
Barton; "Falconer, call the admiral.  Yeomen of the sheets and
braces, to your quarters; up with that fore-top-gallant-sail a bit,
and fill the heads of that sprit-sail-yard.  How does she steer,
Wad?"
</p>

<p>
"Like a swan," replied the gunner; "a wee bairn micht keep
her full wi' a silken twine."
</p>

<p>
The admiral now came on deck, and with a beating heart the
gallant Barton sprang away aloft, to have a look at the vessels
a-head, and praying as he went, that they might prove to be
those of Captain Edmund Howard.
</p>

<p>
By this time the silver moon had waned, and the hills of Fife
were melting into the darkened sea and cold, blue, starlit sky
astern.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap14"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XIV.
<br /><br />
THE OGRE OF ANGUS.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "I snuff up the smell of a corse from afar&mdash;<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Whither goest thou, wild steed?  Whither fliest, cavalier?<br />
  Does the warrior seek for the pathway of war?<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Does the wild steed seek for pasture here?<br />
  The wind of the desert here battles alone&mdash;<br />
  None but serpents inhabit the wilderness stone&mdash;<br />
  None but skeletons slumber upon the ground,<br />
  And the vultures in solitude hover around."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>From the Polish of Mickiewics</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The gun which was fired from the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> before she
sailed from her moorings at Dundee attracted the attention of
many in the town, and among others Hew Borthwick, who, at
a bench outside the gate, had been teaching the constables
men-at-arms, who loitered about the king's lodging (as St. Margaret's
Palace was sometimes named), various tricks with cards and dice.
Hurrying down St. Clement's Wynd with others, to the beach,
he saw the frigate under full sail, standing down the river.
</p>

<p>
"What the devil's i' the wind now?" was his first thought;
"if Sir Andrew encounters Howard on the high seas, our special
plan will assuredly be blown up like a soap-bubble!  Can Gair
have suspected us?  Impossible! the fellow knew nothing, save
that we boarded a ship&mdash;and what of that?  Well, well, let those
laugh who win this desperate game.  But it looks ill, yonder old
grampus putting to sea in such haste," he continued, after a
pause; "I must een hie me to Broughty, and see Sir Patrick."
</p>

<p>
In those days there were but two hostelries in Dundee, and as
neither of these had confidence enough in human virtue to entrust
our worshipful knight with a horse, he was obliged to depart on
foot for Broughty, passing out of the town by the shore instead
of the Seagate and market-place, for which he had a decided
aversion; and, indeed, wretch as he was, he could never pass through
the latter without a shudder, as it recalled certain passages in
the history of his family, with which we may now acquaint
the reader.
</p>

<p>
In many ancient records, but chiefly that old and quaint
chronicle of Scotland written by Robert Lindesay, Laird of
Pitscottie, we are informed, that about thirty-eight years before the
time of our story, there was a strange being named Ewain
Gavelrigg, who dwelt among the Sidlaw hills in Angus, and who
with his whole family was accused of the strange and horrible
crime of eating human flesh!
</p>

<p>
At the foot of the mountains, he occupied a small hut, walled
with turf and thatched with heather, at a place called Uach-dair
Tir&mdash;now <i>Auchtertyre</i>; but his chief haunt was that savage
pass in the Sidlaws, known as the Glack of Newtyle, where he
waylaid, robbed, and slew the solitary travellers who chanced to
be benighted in that wild and lonely district, which then lay
between Dundee and Strathmore.  Several who had escaped him,
and reached either the Castle of Bailie-Craig, which was close
by, or that of the Constable of Dundee, related how they had
been encountered by a man of frightful aspect and vast stature,
armed with a great mace and poniard.  All accounts of him were
similar.  He was entirely clad in homespun grey, with rough
deer-skin shoes and galligaskins; a broad belt of cowhide
encircled his waist, and his head, which was ever destitute of
bonnet, was protected by a forest of matted black hair.  A blow
from his clenched hand was sufficient to brain a mountain bull,
or smite a charger to the earth; and those who escaped from him,
averred that they saw him sucking the blood from the wounds of
those he had slain, and rending asunder their limbs like the
branches of a withered bush, while he picked their bones, as a
marmoset might pick those of a chicken.
</p>

<p>
In that age of credulity and marvel, such stories made a
terrible impression on the people.  The whole of Angus rang
with them&mdash;and others were constantly being added, each more
startling than the last.  The men of Strathmore, the light
Lindesays, the vassals of Glammis, and even the valiant Sutors of
Forfar, never ventured abroad alter night-fall, save in parties of
three or four, and always well armed with their quarter staves
or two-handed swords.
</p>

<p>
Twice had men of undoubted valour and veracity averred that
they had slain him; one an arrow-maker of Dundee, by a wound
he had given him in the throat; another who was a sword-slipper
of Banff, by a thrust he had given him in the breast; but
they were taunted as bootless boasters, for this strange and
uncouth being was still haunting the pass of the Sidlaws.
</p>

<p>
A succession of these incredible stories excited the wonder and
kindled the chivalry of Sir James Scrimegeour of Dudhope, the
young constable of Dundee; and attended only by Lord
Drummond&mdash;then Sir John of that ilk&mdash;well mounted and in full
armour, on St. John's night in the year 1440, he rode to the
Glack of Newtyle, and there, like a paladin of old, blew three
blasts with his bugle-horn.  The night was unusually dark, and
the broad sheet lightning was reddening the sky behind the
black peak of Kinpurnie, which is eleven-hundred feet in height,
and is the highest of the Sidlaw range.  The narrow-bridle path
which led through the Glack was buried in obscurity, and clumps
of stunted firs which grew in the morasses waved mournfully
in the wind that sang down the mountain pass and through
their wiry foliage.
</p>

<p>
With their chargers shod with felt, the knights rode softly on,
and as challenger, Scrimegeour, the royal standard-bearer, was a
bowshot in front of Sir John Drummond.
</p>

<p>
By the first blast of his bugle the erne was roused from its
eyry among the cliffs of Kinpurnie; by the second the warder
at Bailie-Craig was wakened from his sleep, and the hirsels lowed
on the hills; but the third had scarcely been tossed among the
mountain echoes by the wind, when between him and that midnight
sky, which every instant was reddened by the bright but
silent lightning, the valiant Scrimegeour saw a gigantic figure
arise as if from the ground, with its long hair waving wildly,
while it brandished a mace, which was furnished with a studded
ball of steel, that swung at the end of an iron chain.
</p>

<p>
"Ewain Gavelrigg&mdash;man or fiend&mdash;come on!" exclaimed the
knight, and though every pulse in his body for a moment stood
still, he dashed forward to the combat.
</p>

<p>
By one blow of this iron mace, which descended like a thunder-bolt,
the brains of the horse were dashed back into its rider's face,
and the rider himself hurled prostrate on the path.  Then the
vampire or demon of Uach-dair Tir strode over him, brandishing
his tremendous weapon, and uttering a succession of wild shouts
of laughter.  Grasping by the throat the half-stunned constable
of Dundee, and compressing his gorget of steel as if it had been a
lady's ruff of lace, he would have slain him there but for the
valour of his companion, and a vow he had made to build a chapel
in honour of St. John, if he escaped.  Moreover, it is related,
that he was almost suffocated by the inconceivable odour that
pervaded the body of his herculean conqueror.  While the latter,
exulting in his victory, and laughing like a hyæna, was half
strangling and half dragging the discomfited Scrimegeour
towards the pine woods, he neither heard nor saw Drummond,
who with his light Barbary courser, shod by soft felt, advanced
over the velvet sward that bordered the wayside, but noiselessly,
like the tall shadow of a man and horse.
</p>

<p>
The long sharp lance of Drummond was in the rest, and urged
by the full force of a galloping steed and the thrust of a powerful
arm, the head of steel and a yard of the tough ash pole, were
driven through the body of the midnight marauder, who expired
with a frightful cry.
</p>

<p>
When day broke and the body of this strange man was examined,
it was found to be vast in its strength and proportion,
but terrible in aspect; and multiplied by a hundred-fold, the
odour of dead carrion pervaded it.  When stripped, it was found
to have <i>four</i> wounds, from all of which the black blood had been
freely flowing; viz: those where Drummond's lance had pierced
the back and breast, and those inflicted by the barbed shaft of
the arrow-maker, and the sword of the dalmascar.
</p>

<p>
Two wild and haggard-looking women, his wife and daughter,
came from their hut at Uach-dair Tir, and as a boon begged to
have the body for interment, and as a refusal would have been
deemed unknightly, it was freely bestowed by the valiant Laird
of Dudhope, who first hewed off the hand which had grasped
him by the throat, and nailed it on the western gate of Dundee,
where the skeleton fingers were to be seen in the days of
James IV.
</p>

<p>
In accordance with his vow, he endowed and dedicated a beautiful
little chapel to St. John the Evangelist, which he built at
the Sklait-hewchs, upon a rock near the burgh; but the walls of
this fair oratory had barely been raised three feet in height, when
again the travellers, who in that unruly age were hardy enough
to traverse the wilds between Dundee and Strathmore, were
found murdered and mutilated; children disappeared, desperate
conflicts were fought and pools of blood found in the Glack of
Newtyle, and all Angus was stricken with consternation by
tidings that the wild man of the Sidlaws had come alive again!
</p>

<p>
By sound of trumpet at the burgh crosses, Sir Alexander
Livingstone, of Calender, governor to the young King James I.,
proclaimed a general crusade against him.  The hut at Uach-dair
Tir was levelled and destroyed, when, in a chamber, or vault
below it, there were found an incredible number of bones, which
the credulity of the time magnified to a perfect hecatomb of
human remains.  Dudhope brought a hundred lances on horseback,
the Lindesays of Crawford and the Abbot of Aberbrothwick
a thousand each; the Laird of Bailie Craig brought a band
of gallant archers; a general hunt began; the whole country was
searched between Stenton Craig and Edzel Kirk, till, deep in a
chasm of the Sidlaw hills, the sleuth bratches of Dudhope
discovered Ewain Gavelrigg, who made a desperate and frantic
resistance, slew eight men and three horses&mdash;after threatening all
the rest with dire vengeance, even if he should be slain; but he
was at last overborne by blunted spears, for the knights wished
to capture and not to slay him; and for a charm each had tied
to his lance's head a rosemary branch, with a twig of the rowan
tree.
</p>

<p>
Having but <i>one hand</i> to fight with, he was soon bound hard
and fast by cords and chains, slung under a horse's belly, and
thus conveyed to Dundee, where he was sentenced by the Constable
to be burned at the market-cross, together with his wife,
daughter, and son, a little child, to make sure that none of a
brood so terrible should ever come alive again.
</p>

<p>
Jellon Borthwick, a prebend of Dunkeld, pled hard to have
the child delivered to him; and his boon was granted; but the
others were burned in succession: first Gavelrigg, then his wife,
and next their daughter, who was also accused, whether truly or
falsely we know not, of having eaten the flesh of many children.
</p>

<p>
"When she was coming to the place of execution," saith Robert
Lindesay in his Chronicle, "thair gathered an hudge multitud of
people, and especiallie of vomen, cursing her for being so
unhappie as to committ such damnable deidis; to whom she turned
with an ireful countenance, saying&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"'<i>Whairfoir chyde ye me, as if I had committed an
unworthie act?  Give me credence and trow me, if ye had
experience of eating of mens and womens flesch, ye wald think it
so delitious, that ye wald never forbear it agane!</i>'
</p>

<p>
"So without any signe of repentance," concludes the historian,
"this vnhappie traitour deid in the sight of the people."
</p>

<p>
Her ashes, with those of her terrible parents, were scattered
on the waters of the Tay; and a black whin-stone in the
causewayed market-place long remained to indicate the spot where
they perished.  Hew Borthwick was the child whom the priest
saved: hence it was that he shuddered to pass through the central
street of Dundee.  The good old prebend, who had given him his
own name, reared him for the Church, in the hope that through
his piety and prayers the atrocious lives of his parents might in
some measure be atoned for; but Hew broke his vows, and came
forth into the world, to fulfil the terrible mission for which fate
seemed to destine him.
</p>

<p>
The people of Dundee and Angus knew not that he was the
rescued child of the terrible Ewain Gavelrigg, the ogre of the
Sidlaws: for the secret was known only to the prebends of
Dunblane; and animated either by pity for the wretch himself, or a
sense of shame that their holy cloister had once been desecrated
by his presence, they locked the secret in their own
breasts,&mdash;unfortunately, we may add, for many of the actors in our drama,
and most unfortunately indeed for the whole of Scotland, as the
event proved.
</p>

<p>
An hour's walk along the rough and shingly beach brought
Hew Borthwick to the gates of Broughty, the strong walls of
which, when occupied by a gallant garrison, twice defied the
Regent Arran with eight pieces of cannon and eight thousand
infantry.  The barbican, with its flanking towers and strong
curtain wall was then well mounted by heavy culverins of yetlan
iron, to sweep the river; but the smaller guns, which faced the
salt marshes on the north, and the links of Moniefieth on the east,
were composed of iron rings, enclosing malleable iron bars.  Like
other royal castles, it was garrisoned by a company of the king's
<i>Wageours</i>, as the people named the enlisted soldiers of those
military bands by which James III., at a time when standing
armies were unknown, with a foresight far in advance of his age,
provided for the security of the kingdom; especially towards the
frontier of England.
</p>

<p>
Thus, in addition to the troops in the five great fortresses of
the Lowlands, and to five hundred soldiers maintained in Berwick
until its loss and betrayal by the Duke of Albany, James, with
consent of his Parliament, made the Laird of Glengilt captain
of a hundred archers and lances, who kept the castles of
Blackadder, Hume, and Wedderburn; the Laird of Edmeston
commanded as many royal archers and lances in the castles of
Cessford, Ormiston, and Edgerston; the Laird of Cranston, a
hundred lances and archers, in the Border Peels of Jedburgh,
Cocklaw, and Dolphinton; the Laird of Lamington had a
hundred troopers under his orders in Hermitage; the Laird of
Amisfield a hundred more in Castlemilk, Bellistower, and
Annan.  In Broughty, Kyneff had fifty archers, and fifty
pikemen.  All these troops, like the arquebussiers of the king's
ships, were uniformly clad; the horsemen in steel jacks, and the
infantry in blue surcoats, having St. Andrew's white cross upon
the back and breast; under all these captains were lieutenants,
who received from the exchequer, as the daily pay of their
soldiers, eleven shillings and sixpence for every spear and bow.
This organization was one of the many wise measures taken by
this good king to ensure the safety of his southern frontier;
but such a permanent force, however small, was eminently
obnoxious to the feudal nobles.
</p>

<p>
The sentinels at the gate of Broughty, who knew that Borthwick,
though a sorner and blackleg, was a dependent or follower
of their captain, admitted him at once, and he was conducted up
a bare stone staircase, through the large bleak and ill-furnished
hall of the great tower, to an apartment, which was hung with
arras, that had once displayed bright stripes of alternate
crimson and gold, now faded to rusty green and sombre brown.
A straw mat covered the stone floor; the furniture consisted of
a buffet, encumbered by flasks, bowls, and drinking horns,
swords, poniards, cards, chessmen, hawks' hoods, dog-whips, and
a hundred other et-cetera, covered by dust; four clumsy
armchairs, as many tripod stools, and an oak table, at which Sir
James Shaw and Sir Patrick Gray were drinking the cheap
Bordeaux wine which was then brought in by the Eastern
Seas.
</p>

<p>
"Ho, ho! speak of the devil!"&mdash;said Gray, as Borthwick
entered; "welcome! thou art the very man we have been wishing
for," he added, kicking a stool towards him unceremoniously with
his foot; "close the door and drop the arras, for we have
something to talk of that others may not, must not, hear."
</p>

<p>
"The king's intended banquet to the nobles at Edinburgh?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay, nay; fill your horn first, my fine fellow," said Sir
Patrick Gray; "'tis a thirsty affair, a walk in the sunshine
along yonder sandy shore."
</p>

<p>
"Thanks, sir Captain&mdash;devil!  I am thirsty," replied Borthwick;
so he quaffed off a pot of wine; "I had not my purse at
my girdle, and the rascally hostler in the Seagate would trust
me with nothing more than a cup of cold water, and on that I
lunched."
</p>

<p>
"So the Laird of Largo has sailed," said the Governor of
Stirling, knitting his brows inquiringly.
</p>

<p>
"I ken not on what errand, sirs."
</p>

<p>
"If yonder villain of a boatman hath proved false, we shall
all have to mount to ride, like Bordermen, when the spurs are
on the platter and the houghs i' the pot," said Gray.
</p>

<p>
At this surmise they all changed colour, and Shaw looked as
yellow as that English gold for which so many Scottish traitors
were ever ready to sell their services and their souls.
</p>

<p>
"Well, I care not," said Gray; "for every man in this tower,
though drawing the king's pay and drinking his ale, are mine
own true men to the backbone; vassals of my barony, who will
fight only under the banner that I choose to follow."
</p>

<p>
"I may say as much for his majesty's garrison in Stirling,"
said Sauchie; "but I would that Angus and Drummond were
come hither; for now since this plebeian king of ours will neither
march to fight in Brittany, nor to pray at St. John of Amiens,
we must e'en devise other measures, or our pretty bubbles may
be blown, if yonder old sea-horse, with his devilish <i>Yellow
Frigate</i>, encounter Howard on the high seas."
</p>

<p>
"Then I trust in God that the Englishman may sink with all
his papers, for he can never capture Wood!" replied the Captain
of Broughty, with fervour.  "A startling affair it will be, if Sir
Andrew finds all the secrets contained in the iron-bound book of
Master Kraft, the London Attorney, and lays them before King
James and our enemies of the Privy Council."
</p>

<p>
"But our <i>Bond</i> with Henry is in cipher."
</p>

<p>
"Those shaven monks and cunning clerks who write to
James in Greek, Hebrew, and other damnable languages,
soon find a key to our ciphers, believe me, Sir James."
</p>

<p>
"Then something must be done, for we know not what this
night may bring forth," said Shaw, refilling his wine cup;
"where are Wood's ships now?"
</p>

<p>
"Hull down, already," replied Borthwick, looking from a
window which faced the Firth of Tay, whose blue waters were
beginning to redden in the setting sun.
</p>

<p>
"By my soul!  I could have laughed outright at the gravity
with which Rothesay acceded to my proposal for the hand of
Maggie Drummond," said Gray.
</p>

<p>
"What if she accept thee?" asked Sir James Shaw.
</p>

<p>
"Right well knew I there is but slender chance of that; but
Borthwick, have you examined all the avenues to this damosel's
chamber, so that we may have her by the time Howard
returns?"
</p>

<p>
"By to-night I will have made sure, Sir Patrick; but if
Howard is slain or taken by Sir Andrew, what then?"
</p>

<p>
"We must devise other means," said Shaw, with one of his
deep, fierce glances; "by St. Andrew!  I would give three of my
best tenements in Stirling to have this suspense brought to an
end."
</p>

<p>
"For one of those tenements,&mdash;yea, the smallest, Sir James,"
said Borthwick, "I will write such a letter to Montrose as shall
dethrone the king."
</p>

<p>
"To Montrose&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Yea; but the letter must go to Angus."
</p>

<p>
"Doth the Lord Angus read?" asked Gray.
</p>

<p>
"A little; I saw him spelling over the legend on the castle gate."
</p>

<p>
"A letter!&mdash;and who will sign it?"
</p>

<p>
"I&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Thou!  Borthwick;&mdash;fellow, thou laughest at us!"
</p>

<p>
"Under favour, Sir James, I never was more in earnest in
my life.  I will write, and sign it with the king's signature, and
seal it with his seal, in such wise that not even he could detect
the hand of a forger; then how much less the half-lettered
Angus?"
</p>

<p>
"With the king's seal, say you?"
</p>

<p>
"His private signet, which I found this morning at the gate
of St. Salvador's chapel, where the king must have dropped it,
after mass."
</p>

<p>
"And this letter&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Will kindle a blaze through all Scotland."
</p>

<p>
"Art thou sure of this?" asked Shaw, with a grim joy that
was blended with incredulity and contempt.
</p>

<p>
"Let the deed show."
</p>

<p>
"Hew Borthwick," said the traitor Shaw, "I know thee to be
subtle as that serpent which of old beguiled our mother Eve.  I
know thee to love money, even as thine own soul, and I swear to
thee by my part of Paradise, that if thy boasted letter achieves
the promised end, thou shalt have, not one, but three of my best
tenements in the Broad Wynd of Stirling, held of the Burgh by
an armed man's service."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis a bargain; and thou, Sir Patrick Gray, art witness,"
said Borthwick, rising with joy beaming in his atrocious
countenance.
</p>

<p>
"In that inner chamber are pens, parchment, and wax," said
Gray; "away to thy clerking, for here come the Lord Angus
and his friends."
</p>

<p>
As Borthwick retired to compose one of the most villanous
forgeries ever made by a traitor's hand&mdash;unless we except the
contents of that silver casket so famous in the history of Mary, or
some of the letters of Secretary Stair,&mdash;a train of brilliant
horsemen rode up the ascent to Broughty, and dismounted in the
paved barbican.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap15"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XV.
<br /><br />
CONCLAVE OF MALCONTENTS.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  <i>Sir Penny</i> owre all gets the gree,<br />
  Both in burgh and citie,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In castle and in tower;<br />
  Withouten either spear or shield,<br />
  He is the best by firth or field,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And stalwartest in stowre.<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Money, an old Ballad.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Sir Patrick Gray and Sir James Shaw rose with much real
and more feigned respect, as the swarthy Earl of Angus, still
clad as usual in his armour, the statesman-like Lord Drummond,
wearing a suit of black velvet edged with corded gold, the Lords
Hailes, Home, Stirling of Keir, and the Hereditary Forester of
Drum, all partially clad in buff and steel, and the grim old
Steward of Menteith, with his long Highland cliob, and
portentous beard that reached nearly to the top of his kilt,
entered the apartment, making a great clatter with their long
steel Rippon spurs, and those enormous swords, for the manufacture
of which the sword slippers of Banff bade fair to rival those
of Cologne and Toledo, and which were of such preposterous
length, that they were generally worn across the back, with the
hilt at the left shoulder, over which they were unsheathed when
necessary.
</p>

<p>
Now, since James had declined his pilgrimage to Amiens, and
Angus, leader of the peers, was quite averse to the invasion of
Brittany, to destroy Montrose, Wood, and other favourites of the
king, there seemed to be no other resource but a general appeal
to arms; and yet the malcontent barons were perhaps loth to
engage again in a project so desperate.
</p>

<p>
"I ken o' nocht for us but an open raid and massacre o' the
king's garrisons, if they hauld aloof," said the stern Steward of
Menteith.  "Those paid soldiers are but an insolent curb upon
the auld and inborn power of the nobles."
</p>

<p>
"Massacre!" reiterated Angus, with one of his dark smiles;
"and what then, Steward of Menteith?  The king can readily
find new garrisons and new favourites, who will again keep the
power in their own hands, to the exclusion of our interests."
</p>

<p>
"Then let us dethrone the king," growled the Forester of
Drum.
</p>

<p>
"And crown young Rothesay in his stead, whether he will or
not," added the Laird of Keir.
</p>

<p>
"I like not the project," said Drummond, who was the most
politic and least violent noble there; "<i>dethrone!</i> it hath a new
and strange sound, sirs, to a Scottish ear."
</p>

<p>
"Dethrone&mdash;and why not, my lord?" asked Sir James Shaw,
who was now flushed with wine; "in our past history there are
precedents enough even for the most unscrupulous.  Without
going back to that barbarous age when Fergus II. restored the
monarchy, have we not had Constantine I., who was slain by a
Lord of the Isles; and Ferquhard I., who fell into the errors of
the Pelagians, and for his contempt of all holy rites was
dethroned by his nobles, and cast into a dungeon, where he died
like a Roman of old; Malduin, who was strangled by his
queen; and the son of Findon, who was shot by an arrow?  Had
we not Ewen VIII., '<i>who was slain for having wicked
favourites,</i>' all of whom ended their lives on a gallows, around
which the people held jubilee as round a maypole?  And did
not Eth, Malcolm I., and Colin, all die at the behest of an
insulted people?  And last of all, was there not Duncan II., whom
the Earl of Mearn slew by one stroke of his dagger?"
</p>

<p>
"The last you have named reigned four hundred years ago
Sir James," replied Lord Drummond, coldly; "but I do hope in
my heart, that the measures which suited the thanes of the
eleventh century and their more barbarous predecessors, are
altogether antagonistic to the sentiments of the Scottish peers of
James III."
</p>

<p>
A partial murmur of pretended assent responded to this reply,
and thus encouraged, the old lord continued&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"When I remember the love of this young king for me, and
how he placed a coronet on my head, I feel something of remorse
when men speak as thou, Sir James, hast spoken."
</p>

<p>
"My lord," retorted the fiery baron, "in this desperate game,
the man who feels remorse is lost!"
</p>

<p>
"Alas!  I fear me it is but too true."
</p>

<p>
"Remorse!" added Gray; "pshaw! 'tis but weakness of mind
and narrowness of soul!"
</p>

<p>
Lord Drummond made an impatient step forward, but Angus
grasped his arm.
</p>

<p>
"Knight of Kyneff," said he, with a reddening brow and
quivering lip, "I can afford to pardon this rashness of speech,
which a younger man and soldier would be compelled to resent.
I am an old man now, sirs, but while this dear Scotland of ours
required my sword, it was never allowed to rest in its scabbard;
and if it is for the good of the people, whose natural head are the
nobles, I will unsheath it against a corrupt court, as readily as
against our hereditary foemen of England or elsewhere."
</p>

<p>
"In this hast thou spoken well; for by one grand stroke must
this corrupt court be swept away!" said the Earl of Angus, who
as yet had not spoken much, but in whose breast was concentrated
all the pride of feudal nobility, and the memory of a lofty
ancestry, whose origin was lost in the dark ages of Scottish
antiquity, and whose military glory was incorporated with the past
history of the nation.  "My lords and gentlemen, I will appeal
to you, whether it is not an intolerable thing that I, who am
lieutenant-general of the kingdom, must receive orders and edicts
from this new-fangled Duke of Montrose, whose ancestry were
but Lairds of Crawford and Glenesk when mine were Earls of
Douglas and Lords supreme of Galloway?&mdash;men who, since the
days when Sholto the Swarthy won the Dale of Douglas by his
valour, have been foremost in every field that is honourable to
Scotland,&mdash;men who bore on their shields the red lion of the
Galwegii at the battles of Largs, Theba, and Northallerton, and whose
war cry, six hundred years ago, found a terrible echo in the ranks
of the Longobardi!  I will rather die, as many of them have
died, on the red field of battle, than stoop their honoured crest to
this ignoble yoke!  Aid me to drive these tawdry courtiers into
England or the sea, and I will make thee, Drummond, Great
Chamberlain of Scotland."
</p>

<p>
"It would appear to me," said Sir James Shaw, who was
blinking over another pot of wine, "that thou, my Lord Hailes,
art bettor fitted for the office of treasurer than yonder old Saracen,
Knollis, the Prior of Rhodez."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, and we shall make his pood friend Home lord privy
seal, in lieu of that old foutre the Provost of Lincluden," added
Sir Patrick Gray, half in jest.
</p>

<p>
"Accept my thanks, sirs," replied Home; "but are there no
pretty places you could choose for yourselves?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, let me think," muttered Gray; "I have some old
feuds in the Howe of Angus&mdash;feuds which have been standing
over since my father fought Huntly at the battle of Brechin, on
Ascension-day in '53, and I would like for one month&mdash;only a
month, sirs&mdash;to be judge of justiciary, with a commission of fire
and sword against all malcontents."
</p>

<p>
"Right," hiccuped Shaw; "by St. Beelzebub! and thou shalt
be clerk of justiciary too, instead of that painted fop, Halket of
Belfico, and I shall be lord clerk register.  The Laird of
Bailie-Craig hath a pretty young wife and a cellar of pretty old wine;
we shall confiscate both, Sir Patrick&mdash;for he is a malcontent, and
master of the king's hounds."
</p>

<p>
During this, the Earl of Angus, who had been whispering
aside with the politic old chief of the Drummonds, now stepped
forward with a peculiar smile on his dark visage.  It almost
amounted to drollery, if such an expression ever lighted up that
swarthy and stern, yet handsome face, before which the sister of
Henry VIII. of England quailed when his bride at the altar, and
knelt down in the dust at the castle gate of Edinburgh,
thirty-six years afterwards.
</p>

<p>
"My lords and gentlemen, I crave your attention," said he;
"the Lord Drummond, although steward of Strathearn and head
of his house, does not feel that his family is sufficiently powerful
to take the field formally against the court.  His coronet is
somewhat newer than mine, and consequently seems to him, perhaps,
of greater value.  Thus he proposes to strengthen himself by
two alliances in marriage, through which he calculates on having
at least, for the security of himself and his cause, six other castles,
well furnished with men and artillery, and four thousand border
horse and Lothian spearmen.  His three daughters are beautiful,
and as we know, my lords, are <i>peerless</i> (in more ways than one).
He therefore proposes to make you, my Lords of Home and
Hailes, his sons-in-law, giving to each a good slice of his arable
land in bonnie Strathearn, and three of Montrose's best farms in
the glen of Kincardine.  Now, my lords, you have a noble chance
to win earls' coronets, with fair countesses to share them. By
St. Bryde of Kildara!" he added, turning to Stirling of Keir,
"were I not espoused to your dear daughter, Sir William, I
would lay my heart and sword at the feet of one of these
beautiful Drummonds."
</p>

<p>
There was a general, but very subdued titter at this proposal;
Shaw and Gray laughed so immoderately that Lord Drummond
grew red with anger, and tall Angus bent his formidable gaza
inquiringly upon them.  The fierce old Steward of Strathearn
stroked his white beard (which seemed the exact counterpart of
his Highland sporran), and adjusted his belted plaid, with the
air of a man who was about to say something for himself if the
younger suitors declined; though he had already handfasted by
force the fair daughter of a cock-laird in Glenartney.  There was
a momentary pause, for the two young Southland peers were
confounded by the sudden proposition, though such hastily conceived
alliances were by no means uncommon in those days, when the
Scottish nobles availed themselves of every means of strengthening
themselves for those sudden raids and revolts which were the
ruin of the national strength, and the terror of the rising
middle-class.
</p>

<p>
"For my own part," said Hailes, hastening to break the silence,
"I beg to offer my most dutiful thanks to the Lord Drummond,
and to say, that I will consider it the task&mdash;or rather the
pleasure&mdash;of my life to love his fair daughter Sybilla, and if he will
honour me with her hand, two thousand of the best lances in
Eastern Lothian will follow his banner to death!  Alexander
Home, what sayest thou?"
</p>

<p>
"All that you have said, I too am ready to perform&mdash;excepting
that instead of spearmen, I bring two thousand troopers from
Tweedside and the Merse, for I have long admired the Lady
Euphemia Drummond, and would soon have learned to love her,
but feared she was betrothed to the rich heir of Sir Andrew
Barton."
</p>

<p>
"Robert Barton is a brave, good fellow," said Lord Drummond,
"but a stanch king's man."
</p>

<p>
"And the son of a merchant skipper," said Angus; "so it is
your bounden duty, Home, to save a noble lady from such a
misalliance."
</p>

<p>
"I place myself at the complete disposal of her father," replied
Home, whom, like Hailes, the dazzling beauty of the proffered
bride had made completely tractable; "but what shall we say if
each of these fair dames assert a woman's right of choice?"
</p>

<p>
At this idea Lord Drummond laughed aloud, for that was a
<i>right</i> which was but ill defined in Scotland till the middle or
nearly the end of the last century.
</p>

<p>
"Wine&mdash;wine! more Rochelle and Bordeaux to drink to
these fair brides and facile bridegrooms!" cried the half-intoxicated
Governor of Stirling, as he thundered on the oaken table
with a silver drinking-pot.  "Gray, is thy devil of a butler deaf,
or is the cellar empty?"
</p>

<p>
"We have three butts of Rochelle, a bombarde of Bordeaux,
and Lammas ale enow to swim the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>," replied
the chatelain; "but, on my soul, Sir James, I think thou'st had
enough before dinner."
</p>

<p>
"More wine, I tell thee, thou inhospitable!  Bring up the
bombarde, and I will teach thee an infallible thrust, by which
thou wilt always kill an adversary, even though girded in a triple
coat of mail.  By my faith, old Drummond, thou art a wise
carle!  Take lords, while thou canst get them;&mdash;better have
eggs to-day than hens to-morrow.  Ha! ha!"
</p>

<p class="t3">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Altogether unaware of the troubles in store for them, the three
daughters of Drummond at that very time were seated on the
bartizan of their ancient mansion in Dundee, watching the white
sails of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> and her consort, as they shone in the
setting-sun, and diminished on those waters which the western
light tinged with a golden glow.
</p>

<p>
With anxious eyes and saddened hearts, the dark-haired
Euphemia and hazel-eyed Sybilla gazed after them, for they
knew not on what errand the ships had sailed so hurriedly; and
there they lingered long after the summer sun had sunk beyond
the beautiful Carse of Gowrie, and its rays had faded from the
green conical hill of Dundee, which was then girded by the
ruined ramparts of a castle, averred by history to have been
the habitation of Catanach, King of the Picts, and afterwards of
Donald I. of Scotland.
</p>

<p>
By their side sat Margaret, pale and thoughtful as usual, with
little Lizzie and Beatrix nestling by her side.  The ocean became
a darker blue, and blended with the sky; bells rang for vespers in
the many ecclesiastical buildings of the town, which then
possessed four great churches, five convents, and thirteen chapels;
and reluctantly and with silent anxiety the three fair girls
withdrew from the proud bartizan to the chamber of dais
below.
</p>

<p>
By this time their politic&mdash;perhaps we are not wrong in
saying cunning&mdash;old father was leaving the tower of Broughty,
accompanied by his two intended sons-in-law, and two gentlemen,
both Drummonds of Strathearn, who were his constant attendants,
and were constantly armed to the teeth.  Borthwick, who
had finished his letter, and was loitering in the archway, beckoned
to his lordship, and uncovering his head with great respect,
craved a word with him, for he had not forgotten the punch he
received on the head from the fiery young Duke of Rothesay,
and his heart yet burned to be revenged for it.
</p>

<p>
"Well, good fellow, what would you with me?" asked
the noble, as he checked his horse, for he was in excellent
humour at the prospect of two such powerful alliances for his
daughters.
</p>

<p>
"I am one who has a sincere friendship for your lordship, and
a regard for the honour of your family," said Borthwick in a
whisper; "and I beg to warn you, that by watching well, there
may be discovered a certain masked man, wearing a scarlet
mantle, who visits your mansion under cloud of night&mdash;generally
about the hour of ten&mdash;and who enters a postern by the way of
Fish-street."
</p>

<p>
The old lord glanced hastily at Home and Hailes, but fortunately
they were beyond earshot; so he turned sternly to Borthwick,
and said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Fellow, art sure of what thou tellest me?"
</p>

<p>
"Sure as I have now the honour of addressing you."
</p>

<p>
"A scarlet mantle, say you;&mdash;the Lord Lindesay wears one;&mdash;'tis
like his insolence.  Well, this eavesdropper shall die!  But
who art thou?"
</p>

<p>
"A friend and follower of Sir Patrick Gray, who will vouch
for my veracity."
</p>

<p>
"A most worthy recommendation!" said the old lord, ironically;
"but I thank you, sir, and will watch, believe me.  This
muffled man may find it perilous work, and that he had better,
as our motto hath it, <i>gang warily</i>, or byde at home.
Carnock&mdash;Balloch!" he added to the two gentlemen referred to, "come
hither."
</p>

<p>
They cantered up to his side; and with all the ardour of
vengeance, Hew Borthwick watched their chief as he repeated
the information just received, and no doubt gave them the
necessary instructions how to waylay and discover this unknown
interloper.
</p>

<p>
"So much for thee and thy blow," said he, with one of his
hyæna laughs; "and <i>this</i> for thy simple father."
</p>

<p>
For a moment he contemplated his letter, which was written
on the coarse grey paper then coming into use, folded square,
pierced at the corners with blue ribbons, which were tied
saltirewise, and sealed with purple wax like a royal letter,&mdash;sealed,
moreover, by the king's own private signet, which Borthwick
applied to this most infamous use.
</p>

<p>
The traitor gazed complacently at his handiwork, and then
concealing it under his scarlet mantle, he returned to the
tapestried room, where Kyneff was still drinking, and Sir James
Shaw was now lying prostrate on the matted floor, and
completely intoxicated.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap16"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XVI.
<br /><br />
ANOTHER SON-IN-LAW!
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  But state-craft, mainly, was his pride and boast<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;'The golden medium' was his guiding star,<br />
  Which means 'Move on until you're uppermost,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And then things can't be hotter than they are!'<br />
  Brief in two rules, he summed the ends of man&mdash;<br />
  <i>Keep all you have, and try for all you can!</i><br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;KING ARTHUR.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Next day was Sunday, and, as usual in that age, the people of
Dundee, after mass, were shooting at the butts with arquebus
and bow; for, by the same act of the Scottish legislature which
abolished the games of football and golf, targets were ordained
to be set up by the sheriffs near every parish kirk, where,
busked as archers, all the young men repaired to shoot at least
six arrows, each a clothyard long, under fine of twopence; and
thus in every town, however small, there was an arrow-maker
who drove a thriving trade, though firearms were rapidly
superseding the more ancient weapon, in the use of which the
Lowland Scots never equalled the English or the Highlanders.
</p>

<p>
The Duke of Rothesay, with Lord Lindesay and other young
courtiers, mingled with the burgesses, and took shot about in
their turn among the sailcloth-wabsters, bonnet-makers, and
baxters at the butts; for it was one of the greatest charms, and
the leading wish of the Stuart princes while in Scotland, to be
considered a part of the people, rather than as jewelled
demi-gods enthroned on pedestals, and placed above the lot of common
humanity.  On this morning, it was remarked that the young
prince did not shoot as was his wont, that his arrows fell wide
of the mark; that he was abstracted, careless, and fretful; for
overnight a trooper had arrived from the captain of the king's
band in Annan, stating that there was a rumour of the old
Bishop of Dunblane having been wantonly seized on the high
seas by Sir Stephen Bull, an English captain, who had carried
the reverend lord a prisoner, with all his papers, to Henry VII.,
at London.
</p>

<p>
Tidings like these spread like wildfire among the people,
aggravating the angry bitterness occasioned by the assault on
Barton's ships in time of peace; the English faction, and those
who, for their own infamous ends, were anxious to further
Rothesay's marriage with Margaret Tudor, hung their heads;
while the national party, whose eyes were always turned
towards the continent for royal alliances, openly exulted, and
expressed the utmost resentment at an insult which yet required
confirmation.
</p>

<p>
The first thought of the young prince was his Margaret, and
of what <i>her</i> emotions would be; for on that kind bishop's return
she had garnered up the inmost hopes of her heart.  Oh! how
he longed for evening, and cursed the lagging hours!
</p>

<p>
Evening came at last, and then more sombre night.
</p>

<p>
Masked, muffled in his cloak, and armed with his sword and
poniard, Rothesay again left the little provincial palace of
St. Margaret by the private door, and proceeded to the house of
Lord Drummond.  As he traversed the dark and narrow Fish-street,
he did not perceive three watchers, who were also disguised,
for they wore short black cloaks and iron salades, which
completely concealed their faces, having only a horizontal slit for
the eyes; they wore boots with felt soles, and had long swords at
their girdles.
</p>

<p>
These were Lord Drummond, and his clansmen Balloch and
Carnock; none of them recognised Rothesay, who, without perceiving
the three figures which glided after him like dark shadows,
reached the northern arcade of the old house, and by his
master-key opened the private door which led to the secret stair (the
entrance and windings of which Lord Drummond had hitherto
supposed to be known to himself only), and ascended straight to
the bower of his mistress.  While his heart swelled with rage
and astonishment, the chief resolved to discover the masker, and
to probe the affair to the bottom.  He drew his sword, and
desiring his friends to keep sure watch in the street, followed
cautiously, but noiselessly, behind the young prince.
</p>

<p>
On that evening Lady Margaret had heard the rumour of the
old bishop's capture, and, with a heart that was full almost to
bursting, she sought the little oratory&mdash;every house had one in
those days&mdash;to pray and weep; but it was already occupied, for
her sisters Lizzie and Beatie, who had the special charge of the
altar, were industriously dusting the cushions, and preparing all
for the morrow's mass, after which they knelt down together, to
pray and invoke the protection of St. Margaret, with whom their
ancestor, Andreas Dromond, had come out of Hungary into
Scotland.
</p>

<p>
"Pray for me, dear Lizzie," said Margaret, in a tremulous
voice, as she paused at the altar-rail.
</p>

<p>
"I pray for you all&mdash;my father, Euphemia, Beatie, and Sybie&mdash;"
said the little girl, in a whisper, as she tied up a bouquet of white
roses, "and for my new doll, when it is good, and for kind
Robert Barton, and Sir David Falconer, when they are on the
sea.  Do I not, sweet mother?" said the child, looking up at a
beautiful white image of the Madonna, which, with the infant
Jesus in her arms, stood above the altar, draped by a veil, and
crowned by a circlet of gold.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, sister Lizzie," whispered Beatie, "is not that a dear,
dear wee baby?"
</p>

<p>
"How I should like to have just such a baby, for my doll fell
and broke its nose," responded the other; "if you had such a
baby, would you not love it, sister Maggie?"
</p>

<p>
Margaret thought of her little babe that slept in the secret
alcove, and her tears fell fast.
</p>

<p>
"Say one prayer especially for me, for indeed the wishes of
such pure souls as yours must be like unto those of angels,"
replied Margaret, as she kissed her pretty little sisters on the
forehead, and lest they should perceive her tears, though the oak
oratory was but dimly lighted by a silver lamp suspended from
the roof, she hurried away to her own apartment, where she found
Rothesay hanging over their sleeping offspring, which lay within
its curtained alcove, like a waxen doll.
</p>

<p>
She threw herself into his arms, and gave vent to a long and
passionate fit of weeping; Rothesay did all in his power to
console her, and after a time succeeded.  Rousseau remarks, that
to the woman who loves truly, there is no <i>man</i> in the world; for
to her the object is <i>more</i>, and every other less; and such was
sweet Margaret's love for Rothesay!
</p>

<p>
As they sat with their arms as closely entwined as their hearts,
</p>

<p>
"Dearest Maggie," said he, gazing tenderly and conscience-stricken
upon her pure and pale Madonna face, and with that
expression of eye that speaks of a love verging on idolatry, while
he smoothed the thick tresses of her rich soft hair, "dearest
Maggie, I must end this painful and unmanly secrecy, by avowing
my passion, and our marriage, to the people."
</p>

<p>
"Alas! then how shall I, a poor weak girl, withstand the
power of two ambitious kings?"
</p>

<p>
"Thou wrongest my good father, dear Margaret.  His heart
is as free from ambition as from guile!"
</p>

<p>
"But not from the cold policy that would wed you to a
princess."
</p>

<p>
"I am not the first of our royal line who has wedded the
daughter of a baron."
</p>

<p>
"No&mdash;but from that I can gather but little hope," sighed
Margaret.
</p>

<p>
"David II. married Margaret Logie, the daughter of a
knight."
</p>

<p>
"Ah! and how fared she?  Repudiated by her husband when
his love grew cold&mdash;banished from his court, penniless and poor,
she sought the protection of Urban V. at Avignon, and died of
a broken heart among strangers; so that we know not where
she, a queen of Scotland, found a grave.  Better far, had she
wedded in her own degree, to die beloved, and sleep among her
kindred in the old chapel of Rattray."
</p>

<p>
"But this was more than a hundred and thirty years ago; and
since that time Robert III. married Annabella Drummond, of
your own family."
</p>

<p>
"Alas, again! was she happy?"
</p>

<p>
The prince was silent, and Margaret continued.
</p>

<p>
"Does not rumour say that she died at Inverkeithing of
sorrow for the misfortunes that had descended upon the grey
hairs of her good husband, and for the loss of her sons; and
then there was Jane of Somerset, who received into her body the
same sword that pierced the heart of her husband, James I.  If
no better fate is in store for your poor little Margaret than fell
to the lot of those queenly dames, better it were a thousand
times, dear prince, that you had never seen&mdash;had never loved
her."
</p>

<p>
"But the king, my father, must and shall remember that love
levels all distinctions, and indeed knows of none," replied the
prince, impatiently; "thy love for me, Maggie, raises thee to my
rank, and mine for thee brings me down to thine, if indeed there
is a difference, for a lady by birth is the equal of a king!  But
why those sad misgivings? and why look back to Margaret of
Logie, to Euphemia of Ross, to Elizabeth Mure, to Jane, or
Annabella, the queens of barbarous times, when our kings wore shirts
of mail, drank out of pewter, and kept their courts in Scone or
Rothesay.  Be confident, little one, for I love thee with all the
depth of a young and honest heart&mdash;yea, Margaret, with all the
strength of a burning soul!  Thou shalt yet be Queen of Scotland,
for if my father, or others, drive me into this hateful English
marriage, I will join with the malcontent nobles, and when the
cubs turn upon <i>the Lion</i>, woe to Scotland then!"
</p>

<p>
The prince kissed her with ardour.  Then Margaret sprang to
the little alcove, and noiselessly lifting out the rosy cherub, which
lay with its tiny hands folded under its dimpled and double chin,
she placed it, still sleeping, in the arms of Rothesay, and knelt
down at his feet, yet half reclined upon his knee, to contemplate
their child, the dear idol of her affectionate heart&mdash;the pledge of her
pure virgin love&mdash;nursed as it had been born, in secrecy; the only
solace of many a lonely and many a bitter hour.  The young
pair were full of ecstasy, and oblivious of all but themselves and
their beautiful babe.  To them it was a reverie, a joyous waking
dream!  How happy they were, with their bright young eyes
bent over that small plump sleeping face and rosebud chin, while
the rich brown locks of Rothesay mingled with Margaret's
still darker curls, as with all the expression of a Madonna she
hung over her infant, with her soft eyes full of tears, and joy,
and holiness.
</p>

<p>
"If my father saw this beautiful child," said Margaret, "I am
quite sure he would forgive me."
</p>

<p>
"<i>He not over confident, Madam!</i>" said a stern voice behind
them.
</p>

<p>
A faint cry rose to Margaret's lips, which, like her cheek,
grew ashy pale; and with one hand round the infant, and the
other on his sword, the bold prince sprang up, to be confronted
by the tall dark figure of Lord Drummond, leaning on his naked
sword, which was at least five feet long.  He was contemplating
them with an expression of eye which it would be difficult to
determine or analyse.  He had overheard the whole interview;
astonishment had given place to indignation; indignation to
grief and anger; and these had in turn been supplanted by
gratified pride and ambition.
</p>

<p>
Shame crimsoned the cheeks and terror sealed the lips of poor
Margaret; while confusion, with something of anger at being
surprised, reddened the haughty brow of Rothesay, and for a
moment there was a painful silence on the lips of all.
</p>

<p>
"Your Grace of Rothesay has wronged me&mdash;deeply wronged
me!" said the old lord, with a terrible gravity of manner, as he
struck his sword into the floor.
</p>

<p>
"Had I words, my lord, to extenuate the offence I have
committed against you," replied the young prince modestly, as he
cast down his eyes, and clasped in his the hand of the kneeling
Margaret, "I would explain and apologize for my seeming
misconduct; but at this moment there is no coherence in my mind,
and I only dread to rouse your already too just indignation."
</p>

<p>
"And <i>thou</i> too, Maggie!" said her father, reproachfully and
with bitterness; "it was very bad of thee to deceive me, for thou
hast ever been my favourite child, and none but the blessed God
can know how much I loved thee."  Then, raising his voice, he
added passionately, "By the Lord of heaven and earth, my
daughter, prince, must be the acknowledged Duchess of Rothesay,
or I shall slay thee, even as the Lord Athole slew thy grandsire
James the First!"
</p>

<p>
Margaret's sweet pale face became convulsed by grief, and she
wept bitterly; but still her father's brow grew darker, and his
eye rested on the little babe in Rothesay's arms.
</p>

<p>
"Am I to understand that you have ignobly made a Highland
wedding of it, or been handfasted by some hedge priest or tramping
pardoner, to the foul dishonour of a house as yet unsullied
by a stain?  Answer me, Duke of Rothesay, for even were you
heir to a thousand thrones instead of only one, I would not have
the honour of my daughter and the honour of my name, trifled
with even for a single hour."
</p>

<p>
"Alas, my lord," said Rothesay, "why do men, who, like
yourself, are no longer young, forget that they have ever been
so?  I have loved your daughter long, yea, since I saw her first
attend my mother's court in Stirling, a little demoiselle of the
tabourette.  Your lordship knows the hateful scheme of having
an English wife for me, and how in my cradle I was betrothed
to the Princess Cecilia of England, and thereafter to Henry
Tudor's daughter.  My heart, my afterlife and happiness, were
bartered away like a useless isle or frontier town by cunning
ambassadors and cold diplomatists; but as I grew older I revolted
at such a state of tutelage, and in spurning the future soon
learned to love the gentlest of your daughters.  She knew how
I was circumstanced, but spare her, and spare me, the recapitulation
of all I said and did to procure the honour of her hand;
for in secret we were espoused, eighteen months ago, in the
cathedral of Dunblane, as its registers yet can testify&mdash;espoused
by Father Zuill, the admiral's chaplain, and with consent of my
good friend, the Lord Bishop Chisholm, for whose return from
Rome with a papal dispensation we have waited long and wearily.
And here, to all unknown save to her nurse and me, Margaret bore
and nursed this babe&mdash;and oh, my lord, look gently on it, for it
yet may wear the crown of a hundred gallant kings."
</p>

<p>
"Prince, thou amazest me!" said the old lord, with a tone of
severity; "this secrecy&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Think over it, my dear good lord and father," resumed
Rothesay with energy, and in his most winning manner, for he
felt that he was advocating the cause of the shrinking Margaret,
rather than his own.  "Had I openly espoused your daughter,
taunted by the English faction, a hundred ambitious nobles had
felt themselves and their daughters insulted; had I obtained the
consent of Parliament for such a marriage, then long ere the
dispensation for our consanguinity arrived from Home, by poison
or otherwise the subtle Tudor had swept our Margaret from his
daughter's path; for alas! my lord, too well do we know that
ever since the wars of Bruce there hath existed among us a
faction of traitor Scots, each of whom for English gold would sell
his dearest brother into slavery, even as Joseph was sold by his
brethren&mdash;if by doing so place or pelf could be secured; <i>and this
evil spirit will never die</i>!  Reflect upon these things, my
lord&mdash;reflect upon them&mdash;pardon and advise us, for I am the son of
your king, and Margaret may yet be Queen of Scotland and the
Isles."
</p>

<p>
Though Lord Drummond maintained an outward aspect of
severity and offended dignity, he was very far from feeling it in
his heart, and indeed was at no small pains to conceal the real
gratification afforded him by this discovery of a <i>third</i> son-in-law,
and by the prospect that if this secret marriage was properly
brought before the king, the parliament, and country, his daughter
would, in the first place, be hailed as Duchess of Rothesay,
and if she survived James III., would assuredly be queen
consort of the realm.  He saw the rival house of Crawford eclipsed,
his enemies in Strathearn crushed, the house of Drummond
placed on such a pedestal as it had not occupied since the days of
Robert III. and Queen Annabella, and the golden shower of
honours, titles, perquisites, and everything that ambition could
desire, descending upon his old and politic head.  Even Hailes
and Home, with their earls' coronets in perspective, dwindled
down into mere nothingness before an alliance such as this; and
as for poor Robert Barton, he was no more thought of at that
moment than an old piece of ropeyarn!  Lord Drummond raised
his daughter and kissed her with great formality, upon which
she threw herself into his arms in a passion of gratitude and joy.
</p>

<p>
"Come to me, dear Maggie," said he; "I forgive thee; but
secret as ye kept this matter, be yet more secret now, I pray you,
until the time appointed for revealing all.  Ye have been standing,
as it were, upon a precipice, for royal alliances and a noble's
honour are not to be played with like gems or gawds; for
men&mdash;even the wisest and greatest&mdash;neither make nor mar them at
pleasure.  Be secret still, I implore you, keeping this unwary
marriage from others, even as ye have kept it from me.  The
bishop has been seized, and Henry of England, for purposes of
his own, will destroy the dispensation; but we will have a sharp
war anent it, and then all hope for the English match will die
amid the crash of swords and lances, the boom of cannon, and
the flight of flanes.  But come, prince, the night waxes apace;
the morrow is a new day, when I must, in the first instance,
confer with the king your father, and in the second, have this
little babe&mdash;this poor wee imp of love, perchance of
wrath&mdash;committed to some of my surest vassals in Strathearn.  Come,
Rothesay, come."
</p>

<p>
"Adieu, Maggie," said the prince, as he kissed her hand and
retired by the secret door; "adieu, my best, my first, and
dearest hope!"
</p>

<p>
And as the Lord Drummond hurried him away, he saw poor
Margaret, as if overcome by the whole interview, sink down,
pale, breathless, and exhausted, into her <i>prie-dieu</i>, with her face
buried in her hands.
</p>

<p>
He gave her an anxious and impassioned glance, the last he
was fated to bestow on Margaret Drummond for many a long
and many an anxious day.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap17"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XVII.
<br /><br />
THE WARLOCK OF BALWEARIE.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "The morning e'e saw mirth and glee,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the hoary feudal tower;<br />
  Of bauld Sir Alan Mortimer,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The Lord o' Aberdour.<br />
  But dool was there, and mickle care,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When the moon began to gleam,<br />
  For elve and fay held jubilee,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Beneath her siller beam."&mdash;VEDDER.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
While these events wore occurring in bonnie Dundee, Sir Andrew
Wood, intent on avenging the fall of his friend, Sir Andrew
Barton, but no way dreaming that the fate of two affectionate
hearts, perhaps the fate of two rival kingdoms, depended on his
severely overhauling the ships of Edmund Howard, was cruising
with his frigates on the German Ocean.
</p>

<p>
The two ships, in pursuit of which we left the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>
and her consort some pages back, proved to be only large
three-masted caravels, belonging to the Prior of Pittenweem, laden with
wheat and malt for Denmark; and when hailed through the
trumpet, if they had seen aught of three English ships, their
skippers answered in the negative.  This discovery proved a
source of great satisfaction to Cuddy the coxswain, who had
feared that his messmate Dalquhat was about to gain the promised
reward.  He took his place again in the main-cross-trees,
and had not been there long before he reported other two sails in
sight on the starboard quarter.
</p>

<p>
Barton eagerly mounted into the mizen-top.  The upper sails
of the distant vessels were then visible, even to his unassisted
eye, for they shone white as snow in the light of the morning sun,
which rose in unclouded brilliance from the eastern sea; and the
shore of Fife, with the bold bluff Isle of May, were dimly
mellowed in the morning haze.
</p>

<p>
"How do they steer, Cuddie?" asked Captain Burton.
</p>

<p>
"Dead for Dunbar Harbour."
</p>

<p>
"Have they any colours flying, do'st think?"
</p>

<p>
"Nane, sir."
</p>

<p>
"One is a large three-masted ship, with her mainmast fidded
at the topcastle," said Barton, as he reached the deck; "her fore
and mizen are in one spar each, but with every rag of canvas set
aloft; the other is hull down yet, but I take her to be a small
merchantman."
</p>

<p>
"It matters not," replied the admiral; "'bout ship and
overhaul them."
</p>

<p>
The frigate was put about, a manoeuvre immediately followed
by the <i>Queen Margaret</i>, and both steered for the Isle of May:
by this time the two strange sails were placed upon the lee-bow.
The bustle caused by this manoeuvre brought on deck Father
Zuill, the ship's chaplain, a grave but kind old man, whose
brains were so much steeped in abstruse study, lore, and scientific
vagaries, as to be of little use either to himself or others.  To
defend him from the cool, fresh air of the morning sea, he was
well muffled in a coarse blue over-coat, shaped like a cassock,
with wide sleeves, and a cowl which fell behind; on his head was
a coarse blue bonnet.  A cord encircled his waist, and thereat
hung his cross and rosary, with a pocket-dial, or perpetual
almanack, of brass.  In one hand he had a pen, in the other a
little volume, bound in vellum and clasped with gold; he had
been studying it overnight, till his eyes became red and inflamed,
and he had applied himself to it immediately again, after
morning prayers.
</p>

<p>
It was one of this good man's crotchets to imagine that, by
discovering the true burning-glasses of the ancients, he would
supersede the use of cannon and gunpowder, and this idea being
ever uppermost in his head, he saw everything through its
medium.
</p>

<p>
"If these should be English ships," said he, "have you no
scruple, Sir Andrew anent fighting on Sunday?"
</p>

<p>
"Scruple! gadzooks, no&mdash;the devil a bit!  There is no Sunday
in five-fathom water; and here, I believe, we have somewhere
about seventy by the line; besides, Father Zuill, bethink thee of
the saw&mdash;'the better day, the better deed.'  Barton, run out that
spanker-boom, and sheet home the foretopsail; keep all hands or
deck."
</p>

<p>
These orders were obeyed in the time I have taken to write
them.
</p>

<p>
"Hast thou heard, father," resumed the admiral, "that Vasco
de Gama, a certain valiant mariner of Portugal, hath sailed from
the Rock of Lisbon to reach India by weathering the Cape of
Storms?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes&mdash;but he will never do it," replied the friar, emphatically.
</p>

<p>
"I fear me so, for the good Bartholomew Diaz&mdash;he who gave
me this Moorish poniard&mdash;tried it with two fair barks of fifty
tons each, four years ago, and failed completely."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis because of an evil spirit who dwells on the top of the
Table-Mountain," said the chaplain; "a spirit whose angry
breath can whelm the largest caravel in the ocean."
</p>

<p>
"Yea, father, the Storm Fiend," replied the admiral; "old
Diaz told me that he saw his shadowy form in the clouds, over
hanging his mainmast head, for many days."
</p>

<p>
"But De Gama hath received from his king a consecrated
banner, having in its centre the white cross of the Military Order
of Christ; and, moreover, he hath a letter to Prester John, of the
Indies."
</p>

<p>
"Would that I were with him!" said Sir Andrew.
</p>

<p>
"By my faith, laird of Largo, thou art safer within a league of
the auld Isle of May," replied the chaplain, who was somewhat
piqued by the admiral's general unbelief in burning-glasses; "for
I verily believe that none can inhabit the torrid clime beyond
Cape Non, which lies in twenty-nine degrees north latitude."
</p>

<p>
"That maintopsail shivers, Barton," said Sir Andrew, stamping
his foot, as he gazed alternately aloft and at the yet distant
ships, which they were approaching by crossing their south-east
course; "this devilish breeze is failing us already."
</p>

<p>
"Would that I could give you the winds in a bag," said the
chaplain, "like the heathen, of whom we may read in this little
book."
</p>

<p>
The admiral, who had no great love for the chaplain's books,
which he thought savoured overmuch of sorcery, glanced suspiciously
at the little tome, which was no other than "<i>The Boke of
Eneydos</i>, made in Latin by that noble Poete and grete Clerke,
Vyrgyle, and newly translated from the Frenche into Englishe"&mdash;a
gift from James III, to the chaplain, who continued,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Ers long, Sir Andrew, I may serve you in other ways, and
now I have a notable opportunity for experimenting."
</p>

<p>
"What, with thy devilish glasses again!" exclaimed the
admiral, as the chaplain descended the ladder and entered the
door of the poop without replying.
</p>

<p>
Almost immediately afterwards he reappeared, bearing in his
arms a machine which very closely resembled something between
those now used by a photographer and the theodolite of an
engineer, for it consisted of a little oaken box, containing a long
brass tube, with a multitude of little mirrors, screws, and glasses,
Concave and convex, the whole being propped on three legs
triangularly, and forming their apex.  For want of a better
name, this mysterious apparatus was christened by the unlettered
crew, "Father Zuill's hurdy-gurdy," and it was a source of
secret ridicule with some and of curiosity with others; for whenever
he was seen to level his lenses at distant objects, there was a
confident expectation that they would go off with a report like a
brass cannon.  The Romans used moveable types for stamping
their names upon cloth and vessels of clay; thus they were very
near discovering the whole art of printing.  Father Zuill used
lenses, and was quite as near discovering the telescope, yet no such
idea ever occurred to him.  Considering the whole affair as a
mere whim-wham or harmless foible, the admiral, Barton,
Falconer, the boatswain, and gunner, watched his operations, and
made many a covert joke upon them; but the crew, who had
long since tired of experiments which ended in nothing, were
grouped forward watching the approaching ships, or dozing away
the hours on the sunny deck.
</p>

<p>
Father Zuill levelled his lenses and arranged his glasses in
such a way that the bright morning sun, then straight astern,
shone lull upon one end, while the other was pointed at the
head-most ship, which was now on the lee bow, and beating hard up
against a head wind.
</p>

<p>
"Sir Alexander Mathieson will never sail ahead of us in a
sunny day, Father Zuill," said Falconer, laughing; "for he fears
your operating on his canvas, and burning holes in it;&mdash;what he
calls your 'damnable hurdy-gurdy.'"
</p>

<p>
"Now, Father Zuill, dost thou really believe in the power of
these bits of looking-glass?" asked the admiral; who, with an
incredulous smile on his honest face, and his hands thrust into
the pockets of his gaberdine, had been watching the futile
attempts of the chaplain to ignite the white canvas of the
head-most ship.
</p>

<p>
"As truly as I believe that Archimedes burned the Roman
fleet with glasses at the siege of Syracuse!" retorted the chaplain.
"He used concave mirrors; and if I could only construct a
parabolic speculum, the focus of which would reach three bowshots
off, and burn there, does it not indubitably follow, that by
increasing the scale, I might construct another which would
consume a city at three leagues, and scorch to death all who were
in it?  Hear me, sirs.  If <i>one</i> mirror will light a spot one-fourth
of its size, at a certain distance, assuredly we may presume that
the reflected light of a <i>hundred</i> mirrors, all bearing on the same
spot, will render the heat unbearable, and bring the light to that
refulgent point at which it engendereth fire.  So sayeth
Anthemius, who used hexagonal mirrors surrounded by others; and so
say Tzetzes, Zonaras, Lucian, and others.  We read in ancient
history, that the ships of Marcellus were consumed to ashes at
the distance of a bowshot, when the sun's rays were at noon.  I
have heard of as much being done by two concave specula
composed of polished brass.  A little study, admiral, would make
plain to thee (who use the cross-staff for striking the meridian),
the geometrical mode of discovering the rectilineal propagation of
heat and light, as it was understood by Eustathius and Ptolemy.
Thou understandest me?"
</p>

<p>
"May I never more go to sea, if I do," replied the admiral,
scratching his beard in sore perplexity.  "I think all this sounds
as like sorcery as one ropeyarn seems like another.  No, no! the
gunner to his lintstock, the steersman to his helm, and the
cook to the foresheet.  Thou to thy book lear, and I to my
seamanship.  By my father's soul!  I would put more reliance in a
good cannon-royale with a smooth bore, and a calm sea under
the counter, than in all the glass hurdy-gurdies that ever were
seen!"
</p>

<p>
By this time the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> had the wind upon her
beam, and she was close upon the two vessels, which proved to
be merely merchant-traders of Blackness, whose crews had seen
nothing of the English ships in question; and the admiral was
beginning to fear that Jamie Gair had been mistaken, or that he
had been sent on some false errand, for purposes unknown.  His
ships then stood close in shore, and steered again for the Tay,
under easy sail; and as they were near the dangerous rock named
the Carrwick, Master Wad, the gunner, took the helm, and steered
on the spire of the old Cistertian kirk at Crail.
</p>

<p>
"I agree wi' the admiral, Sir David," said the boatswain to
the captain of the arquebussiers, as they leaned over the larboard
bulwark, gazing at the coast of Fife, which was then sparkling
under a brilliant noon-day sun; "and I believe there is mickie
mair o' sorcery than theology in Father Zuill's box o' glasses.  I
never kent o' man, wife, or bairn that throve under the influence
o' sic fause contrivances."
</p>

<p>
"Yet it may not be magic," replied Falconer; "for the same
thing was thought of our mariner's compass when it was invented.
For there are many things in nature, Archy, which such
simple fellows as thou and I cannot comprehend."
</p>

<p>
"I ken this, Sir David," replied the boatswain, "that I never
heard o' a skipper buying a fair wind frae the witches o'
Pittenweem or Anster, but was laid bare on his beam-ends some day.
I would rather hear the close-reefed foresail blawn to ribbons,
and feel the saut spray hissing owre my head, than resort to
siccan contrivances; and I could spin ye a yarn that would let
ye see, Sir David, how puir mortal men should just content them
wi' whatever God is pleased to gie."
</p>

<p>
"Spin away, then, boatswain; out with it, off the reel, while
the line will run."
</p>

<p>
"It was told me by my father, puir auld bodie, who is now
keeping his deid reckoning in the kirkyard o' Anster Easter,
where he has been aground these thirty years and mair.  Weel,
sir, it was this:&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"In the days when the last King Alexander kept court at
Scone, and whiles in the auld Castell o' Crail, the ruins o' whilk
ye may see through the simmer mist on yonder hazy headland,
auld Sir Michael Scott, the warlock, byded at Balwearie, near
the Linktoun o' Kirkcaldy, where his great castle is yet to be
seen; and where, on the anniversary o' the night on whilk he
was summoned awa frae earth, as men say, the shadow o' a great
hand, wi' a forefinger as lang as the spritsail yard, appears on the
wall; thrice in the moonshine it beckons an unseen spirit awa;
and when the bell at the Abbotsha' tolls one, it vanishes.  Being
a Fife man mysel, though frae the East Neuk, I ken the place
as well as the trout-holes o' the Dreel Burn.  I have seen the
gate where, when Sir Michael stamped his foot, the deevil came
up in the form of a black Barbary courser, with a silver bridle
and saddle o' crommosie, the same on whilk he was carried to
Paris in one night, and whilk, by every stamp of its foot, made
every bell dance in the kirk of Notre Dame.  I ken the window,
where, by a wave o' his hand, Sir Michael raised the storm that
rolled the German Sea upon the Links o' Forgue in Aberdeenshire,
and there they will roll for ever; that tore the Lang Craig
frae the Inch at Leith, and swallowed up the boat wi' the dead body
o' his mortal enemy, Sir Alan Mortimer, when, at midnight, the
monks, wi' tapers and torches lighted, wi' censers smoking and
choristers chaunting, were rowing the funeral barge wi' muffled
oars, frae the Castle o' Aberdour to the Abbey of St. Colme; and
there, where the yawning sea engulfed the crusader's corpse, in
its leaden coffin, cross-legged, with sword-at-side and spur-on-heel,
men to this day call the place the <i>Mortimer's Deep</i>; and
deep it is, I trow! for ye may pay out a thousand fathoms of
line, and never reach the bottom.  On that awesome night, the
Donjon o' Aberdour was rent frae cope to ground-stane, and Sir
Patrick Spens,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'The best sailor<br />
  That ever sailed the sea,'<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
was weel nigh wrecked at St. Margaret's Hope; for his topsails
were blawn clean out o' the boltropes; and the Laird o'
Hartshaw, as he walked on the deck, was brained by a flap o' his
mainsail.
</p>

<p>
"In these days, there was an auld fisherman, called Logan o'
the Weem, who served King Alexander wi' fish, when he byded
at the Castle of Crail.  Logan and his gudewife, Mysie, had ance
seven sons, but six o' them had perished off Elie, in that fearful
storm after which the herrings forsook the coast, and there
wasna a fish to be had in a' the fishing grounds between
Kinghorn Craig and the Red Head o' Angus.  The time of Lent was
at hand, and then King Alexander, wi' a great train o' lords
and knights, auld Bruce, the pawkie Lord o' Annandale, the
Earls o' Mar and Buchan, true Sir Thomas the Rhymer, and
mony mair, were to keep the festival at Crail; and a helmetfu' o'
bannet-pieces were offered for a creelfu' o' fish.
</p>

<p>
"On the first day o' Lent, Logan o' the Weem, a dour and
determined auld carle, presented himsel at the Castle o' Balwearie,
and begged permission to see Sir Michael Scott; and, without
muckle ceremony, but wi' a beating heart, he was ushered into a
wee dark chalmer, like a coal-sloop's cabin, where, chin-deep
amang great books, wi' a globe on ae side o' him, and a stuffed
monster on the other, Sir Michael, a' dressed in sable taffeta, sat
reading by the light of a lamp, which threw nae shadow behind
him, for the warlock knicht had <i>nane</i>.  Aboon his head, a blue
star burned on the tapestried wall, and Logan could scarcely keep
his een off it, for it glinted and shone, as it grew sma' and broad,
and flashed and shrunk, by turns.
</p>

<p>
"Auld Michael's hair was white as the thistle-down, his beard
descended to his girdle, on whilk was graven a row of shining
letters.  His head was bald, but his eyen shone like two diamonds,
or like those o' the black cat and white owl that sat on the back
o' his chair, from whence the one spat and the other whistled
like the de'il in a gale o' wind, as Logan approached bauldly,
but wi' his braid bonnet in his hand.
</p>

<p>
"'Well, Carle Logan,' said the warlock, sternly, 'what seek
ye here?'
</p>

<p>
"'Fish,' quo' Logan, trembling a wee.
</p>

<p>
"'Dog! dost thou take me for a fisher-loon?' asked the
Knicht o' Balwearie, wi' a terrible frown.
</p>

<p>
"'No,' said Logan, growing desperate; 'but I tak ye for a
mischevious auld warlock, that will ruin a' the fisher-touns o'
Fife, by scaring the herrings frae every firth and bay; and I've
come to beg as a boon that ye will tak the spell off the water, so
that the herring draves may again come back to Crail and
St. Monan's.'
</p>

<p>
"'Sayst thou that I have layed a <i>spell</i> upon the water?'
Balwearie, furiously.
</p>

<p>
"'I do&mdash;ever since the night when Mortimer's corpse was
lost.'
</p>

<p>
"'Then I tell thee thou art a presumptuous liar, whom I shall
yet see hanging in hell by the tongue!' cried the warlock, rising,
while the cat flattened its ears, erected its back, and spat again;
the owl croaked, whistled, and ruffled its feathers, and the blue
star on the tapestry flashed wi' sparks o' fire; but Logan never
flinched, for he remembered that his gudewife, and the gudewives
o' many, were starving at hame.
</p>

<p>
"'Thou hast a son?' asked the warlock.
</p>

<p>
"'The last, Sir Michael, that you and the storm have left
me&mdash;alake! alake!'
</p>

<p>
"'Carle Logan, thou hast dared to do what never mortal man
has done before; thou hast bearded Michael Scott under his own
roof-tree in the Castle of Balwearie, and it is but fair that such
insolent courage should have its reward.  To-morrow, at midnight,
commences the Feast of St. Adrian, the martyr of the May,
launch then your boat alone, and cast your line in Mortimer's
Deep, and thou wilt see what will happen then.  Bid your son,
at sunrise, drop his nets off the Cave of St. Monan, and he will
have in it such a strange haul as never fisherman, since the days
of the blessed St. Peter, brought out of the great deep before!'
</p>

<p>
"On this the cat purred, the owl whistled, the star flashed fire,
and wi' a surly laugh the warlock received the thanks o' auld
Logan, who was right glad when he found himsel clear o' the
great Castle o' Balwearie, and hurrying alang the bright green
links o' Kirkcaldy, when the summer sun was setting behind the
Lowmonds o' Fife.
</p>

<p>
"The morrow's midnight came; the Feast o' St. Adrian was
held in a' the fisher-touns o' Fife, and the priests o' Pittenweem
were saying solemn mass for the souls of him, of the Bishop
Stalbrand, and of the six thousand six hundred that perished wi'
them when the heathen Danes sacked all the Isle o' May and
the towns o' the East Neuk.  Logan's gudewife, Mysie, as she
lay alane in her warm box-bed at Pittenweem, put up many a
prayer to St. Adrian o' the May for her puir auld fisherman, who
had launched his boat alane, and sailed to the Mortimer's Deep.
The night was calm and clear; her son was away to the fishing-ground
off St. Monan's Cave, and there he was to drop his nets,
as the warlock had said, at the uprising o' the sun.
</p>

<p>
"It was about the middle watch o' the night when Mysie
dreamed that she saw her gudeman's boat wi' its lugsail floating
on the dark waters o' Mortimer's Deep.  A bright moon shone
on the Isle o' St. Colme, and the abbey lights were glinting on
the water; but the great Castle of Aberdour, and its wooded
beach, cast a gloomy shade on the place where Logan's boat was
drifting, and where the dead crusader lay.  She saw him drop
his line, and stoop owre the gunnel; then she saw him bringing
it in hand-owre-hand&mdash;for all in a dream passes quick; he had
caught something!  Was it a fine fish, for which the chamberlain
would gie a golden price at the Castell o' Crail?  Up it
came, slowly and heavily, and lo! a mailed hand arose from the
water, it grasped her husband by the throat, and dragged him
down&mdash;down beneath the sea&mdash;and the empty boat drifted awa'
in the munelight, with its lug-sail flapping in the wind.
</p>

<p>
"Wi' a shriek&mdash;a wild despairing cry in her ears, the fisherman's
wife awoke, and before her on the wall there glinted a <i>blue star</i>; afar
off she heard the splash o' water, a hissing, gurgling sound, and
the voice of her gudeman moaning as he drowned, <i>thirty</i> miles
awa'.  The star faded, as the awesome sounds sank, and mirk
darkness, terror, dool, and silence fallowed! ....
</p>

<p>
"But I maun e'en be quick, or I'll hae to pipe the larboard
watch before my yarn's spun.
</p>

<p>
"The sun rose brightly frae the sea, and Mysie's son, when
the first blink o't glittered along the water, lowered his nets into
the clear green waves that danced off auld St. Monan's; the
kirk windows, the steep red-streets and rocky shore were a
shining in the glowing light.  Young Logan let his boat drift
by the net for a wee while; at last the floats began to bob and
sink! ha! there was something heavy in the net at last, and he
dragged it in, thinking this braw haul would be brave news for
the auld couple at hame.  Hand-owre-hand he brought the wet
twine, floats, and bladder on board; and then he could see something
glittering in the net as slowly it rose to the surface.  Up,
up it came at last, and lo! there was not even a codling in the
net&mdash;but there was the dead body o' his puir auld white-headed
father!  And surely, never fisherman had such a haul before.
Now, Sir David, what think ye o' that yarn o' sorcery and
devilry?"
</p>

<p>
"That, if true, boatswain, it is more wonderful than the story
of the Imp that strangled Gibbie o' Crail, for stealing his
top-light."
</p>

<p>
"True! by my faith, Sir David, it is as true as that mermaids
sing when the wind rises, and drag doon drooning men."
</p>

<p>
The frigates continued their course, and keeping outside the
Inch Cape Bock, passed the broad estuary of the Tay about
sunset.  Sir Andrew then gave orders to keep them away "north
and by east," and still in search of the Englishmen, they stood
along the coast as far as the Red Head of Angus, favoured by
the strong current, which there runs alternately
south-sou'-west and north-nor'-east.  In his impatience he carried all the
sail he could crowd, till the masts strained, and he ordered the
watch to heave the log every quarter of an hour, to ascertain the
ship's speed.
</p>

<p>
At this very time, and favoured by the same wind, the three
vessels of Captain Edmund Howard were boldly, and under cover
of the descending night, bearing straight for the mouth of the
Tay, with topgallant-sails set, a fair breeze, and a smooth sea.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap18"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XVIII.
<br /><br />
FATHER AND SON.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Don Alfonso!  Don Alfonso!<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Thou art heir unto this throne;<br />
  None thy right would wish to question,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;None thy sovereignty disown.<br />
  But the people sore suspect thee,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That by thee this crime was done."&mdash;The Cid.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Two days had elapsed since the prince's last visit to Margaret
Drummond, and her father's discovery of a union which, ambitious
as he was, had been altogether above his dearest hopes, and
beyond his most daring schemes: and true to his plan of having
it regularly announced to the nation by the voice of a new
chancellor, when the Parliament assembled in the capital, he did not
breathe a syllable of the important secret even to his most faithful
friends or followers, or to his daughters, Euphemia and Sybilla,
who were sorely puzzled to find that the two young Lords Home
and Hailes were likely to become constant visitors at their house;
that in two days each of these nobles had paid them four visits,
and that beautiful hawks, with scarlet hoods and silver bells, had
been presented to them; that elaborate little cases, containing
gloves of Blois trimmed with miniver and perfumed to excess,
Turkish fans edged with swansdown, and Cordovan slippers
beautifully embroidered with gold and seed-pearls, had come to
them, they knew not from whence; and that the sudden admiration
and regard expressed by their father for these two border
lords was unbounded, while he seemed to be ever in the best of
humours with himself and with every one else; and guessing
wide of the truth, because such thoughts were farthest from
their own hearts, the timid girls believed and dreaded that this
sudden and unwonted friendship was but the sure forerunner of
some desperate raid against the courtiers of the king.
</p>

<p>
During these two days Rothesay, with Lord Lindesay, Sir
Patrick Gray of Kyneff, Sir William Stirling of Keir, and
others, had been hunting on Montrose's estates near the Braes of
Angus; consequently, when he returned, on the morning of the
third day, he knew nothing of the storm then gathering at court,
where Lord Drummond had imparted to the king the secret he
had discovered.
</p>

<p>
Laying aside his hunting costume of green cloth, Rothesay
was equipped by his pages in his favourite gala dress, which was
blue velvet, slashed with cloth-of-gold, and tied by aiguilettes
and three hundred little trefoils of gold; for he had now resolved
to pay openly a visit to Lord Drummond's family.  The last
point of his elaborate costume had just been trussed, when John
Ramsay, Lord of Bothwell, the young captain of the Royal
Guard, appeared, and said that the king required his presence in
his private cabinet.
</p>

<p>
With an unpleasant foreboding of what was to follow, and
with a beating heart and flushing brow, the young prince
hurried to the presence of his father, whom he found seated in a
little wainscoted room, the windows of which faced the sunlit
Tay and the opposite coast, where the rich corn-fields of Fife lay
ripening and basking in the noonday sun, and where the waving
woods of Balmerino, Monkquhannie, and the Peak of Craigsanquhar
blended the golden grain with emerald green.  The ceiling
of this apartment was profusely decorated with coats of arms
and gaudy ornaments; the floor was of oak, polished and
varnished.  Books, globes, musical instruments, hunting-whips,
handsome swords and ivory bugles, were strewn about the chairs
and side tables; but the principal object was a grotesque and
venerable buffet, which had belonged (as tradition said) to Saint
Margaret, and thereon were placed six ancient silver goblets,
which had belonged to King Robert I.; and above them hung
the shirt of mail worn by him at the Battle of Bannockburn;
seven valuable relics treasured by James III. with peculiar care,
and which, long after his death, were preserved in the Castle of
Edinburgh.
</p>

<p>
The king was clad in a plain dressing-gown of green silk, the
open breast and loose sleeves of which displayed his rich shirt,
with its diamond buttons; his vest and hose were of grey velvet,
and his boots of soft white leather, with scarlet heels.  A great
ruby ring was on one of his fingers, and Father Zuill's pedantic
<i>Treatise on Burning-glasses</i> lay open beside him.
</p>

<p>
By the aspect of severity which clouded the usually open and
kind face of his father, Rothesay perceived in a moment that his
secret was known to him.  Reclining back in his arm-chair, with
a hand resting on each of the carved arms, James III. gazed
with calm but stern eyes on the young prince, and said.&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Shame on thee, Rothesay, for thou hast deceived me, who
have ever trusted and yet love thee so well!  But worse than
that, thou hast deceived the people thou mayst one day govern.
Alas! the Lord Drummond has told me all."
</p>

<p>
"I did indeed deceive you&mdash;but how was I to act?  The
intrigues of England, my successive betrothal to two princesses
of that nation, my relationship to Margaret Drummond through
our ancestress Queen Annabella, and the necessity for a public
dispensation, must all plead my excuse for her; for myself I
make none; upbraid me as you may, I feel that I deserve reproach
for deceiving those who loved me, but not more than Margaret
Drummond."
</p>

<p>
Rothesay gathered a courage, as it were, from desperation;
and aware how much the happiness of the future depended on
the effect produced at this first interview on the subject, he
endeavoured to rally all his presence of mind.
</p>

<p>
"This John Drummond," said the king, bitterly, "when only
Laird of Stobhall and that ilk, was a good man and true; but
in the same evil hour when I created John Hay, Lord of Zester,
Robert Crichton, Lord of Sauquhar, and John de Carlyle, Lord
of Torthorwald, I placed a coronet on his head, and immediately
his heart became infected by the ambition, corruption, and
falsehood which make the peers of Scotland a curse to the nation and
to us.  I could read the inmost thoughts of that old man's hollow
heart, when smiling he stood before me, and told how the crown
prince of Scotland had in secret wedded his daughter; and while
affecting to reprehend such secrecy and disobedience in proper
terms of severity, he could but ill conceal the joy with which he
contemplated a second daughter of his house sharing the honours
of an imperial crown."
</p>

<p>
"The Lord Drummond," urged the prince, "is the most faithful
of your majesty's subjects, and his forefathers have all been
true to their country; one fought by Bruce's side at Bannockburn,
and destroyed the English horse by the Calthrops, with
which he strewed the field; another was slain at the battle of
Durham; a third took Piercy prisoner at Otterburn; and the
present lord is a venerable and upright noble."
</p>

<p>
"Do not deceive yourself," replied James, still more bitterly;
"grey hairs do not indicate a wise head or honest heart, any
more than bright armour indicates a valiant soldier; besides, I
ever think meanly of him whose sole merits are based on those
of a dead ancestry.  Drummond will prove true to the innate
principles of that high-born but hollow-hearted class who are at
all times ready to betray their country.  But listen to me,
Rothesay," continued James impressively, "the public duty and the
common weal, your own honour and justice to the nation, to say
nothing of simple prudence, require that you must conquer this
most unfortunate attachment, and repudiate this irregular
marriage, which the Church can and <i>shall</i> dissolve; till when, I
require you to see no more the too willing and too artful
daughter of this ambitious and designing lord."
</p>

<p>
Rothesay was thunderstruck by these words.  "This severity
will distract me!" said he, clasping his hands,&mdash;for he loved and
revered his royal father with a love and reverence that were
never surpassed; "my dearest&mdash;my unfortunate Margaret!
Thou too willing&mdash;thou too artful?  Alas, you know her not!  A
sweeter nature, a fonder heart, a purer or a nobler love than
hers, never warmed a human breast!  It is I who have been
criminal.  It is I who have been false, artful, and beguiling; and
most justly to me she looks for reparation, vindication, and
redress.  She is my wife&mdash;wedded in the Cathedral of
Dunblane&mdash;wedded solemnly before God and man,
and is Margaret Duchess
of Rothesay, Countess of Carrick, and Lady of Renfrew."
</p>

<p>
"Prince! prince!" urged the gentle king, overcome by the fiery
energy of his son, "remember that these Drummonds are only
Barons of Stobhall."
</p>

<p>
"Father," retorted the proud young prince, "do you forget
that we Stuarts were <i>once</i> but thanes of Strathyryffe?"
</p>

<p>
"I do not," said the king, rising; "and by that proud memory
command you to renounce this woman!"
</p>

<p>
"Impossible! mortal man may not now put us asunder."
</p>

<p>
James III. grew pale with anger.
</p>

<p>
"If, like King Duncan, thou hadst openly wedded the miller
of Forteviot's daughter, I could have forgiven it; but the
secrecy, the deceit of thee, and of this Lord Drummond, whose
friend and benefactor I have been, sting me to the soul.  He has
but wiled and intrigued with thee, that his daughter may be a
queen, and I dethroned, even perhaps before my wretched days
are numbered.  Now my own son conspires against me!" added
the king, wildly, as he covered his face with his hands; "for I
have fallen on evil times.  Ah! woe is me!"
</p>

<p>
"I beseech your majesty to pardon me!" said Rothesay,
who was crushed for a moment by the grief and bitterness of his
father.
</p>

<p>
"Promise me, first, the renunciation of this artful woman!"
said the king, looking up, imploringly.
</p>

<p>
"Rather than conceive a thought so base, I will take my
sword, and, renouncing the Scottish crown in favour of my little
brother the Duke of Ross, or even of the exiled son of my uncle
Albany and Anne of Auvergne, I will enter the service of
Charles VIII. to fight against the Breton lords, or of Ferdinand
the Catholic, to fight the Spanish Moors; I will go wherever my
sword can find me bread, and leave this land for ever!"
</p>

<p>
James III. grew pale again, for he knew well the rashness of
which Rothesay was capable.
</p>

<p>
"Another menace such as this," said he, snatching up a silver
whistle which lay on the table, "and I will send thee under guard
to the Tower of Lochmaben or the Castle of Inverlochie.  Inconsiderate
boy, this rash espousal is every way illegal, for ye are
both related within the third and forbidden degree of blood!"
</p>

<p>
"The Lord Bishop of Dunblane&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"He has been captured on the seas by English pirates."
</p>

<p>
"Alas!  I know, but he was bringing our dispensation from
Rome."
</p>

<p>
"Ho! what is this thou tellest me?  A dispensation!  Could
Henry VII. know of it?  Impossible; yet why seize the poor
bishop and destroy his papers."  James bit his lip, and, smiling
disdainfully, added, "This wily Tudor toils hard to have his
daughter wedded to a Stuart&mdash;but Barton's bones are yet unburied,
and his kinsmen will yet avenge his death.  But do, dear
Rothesay, pause, for it seems that this frantic love hath bewitched
thee."
</p>

<p>
"I have no reason to blush for it.  Have not the bravest
soldiers, the wisest philosophers&mdash;yea, the most virtuous
saints&mdash;been vanquished by its power?
Think over it calmly, my dearest
king and father, and say, wouldst thou have me to deceive one
who has trusted to me, and whose love for me is not second even
to thine."
</p>

<p>
"No, on my soul, I would not have thee to deceive her; but
oh, Rothesay, I would rather have lost ten lowland earldoms
than the hope of such an alliance for thee as Charles VIII. of
France or Catharine of Navarre could have offered, if this one
with England failed.  But leave me now," added the good and
indulgent king; "a time may come when I shall forgive you,
but not just now."
</p>

<p>
The young prince's heart danced with joy; tears started into
his fine hazel eyes, as, with a burst of affection, he kissed the
proffered hand of his father, and hurried away to visit Lord
Drummond's house, while James prepared for that daily council
or levee which was one of the tasks our sovereigns had to undergo
during their annual progresses through the kingdom.
</p>

<p>
Leaving the Palace of St. Margaret by the principal entrance
in the Nethergaitt, the happy prince, without any followers or
attendants, hurried along the crowded and sunny street, and
turned to the right, down the quaint old wynd of St. Clement,
where he was suddenly met by Lord Drummond, who was
coming up hurriedly, and followed by his constant attendants the
Lairds of Carnock and Balloch.
</p>

<p>
"Your servant, my dear lord," said Rothesay, uncovering;
"you are abroad betimes this morning."
</p>

<p>
"Prince, thou hast wronged and deceived me most foully!"
said the stern noble, in a voice rendered hoarse by passion, as he
unsheathed his long sword; "I am an old man, but beware, for
not even a prince of the blood shall insult me.  My daughter
Margaret&mdash;where is she?"
</p>

<p>
"Where?" reiterated the prince, with confusion and alarm,
</p>

<p>
"Yea, where&mdash;speak, speak!"
</p>

<p>
"Is she not at home with you, my lord?"
</p>

<p>
"With me&mdash;no!  All last night her chamber has been vacant,
her bed unslept in; the window of her turret was found open;
the tables overturned, the hangings torn; her babe half dead by
cold; a rope ladder dangling&mdash;yea, it dangles yet&mdash;from the
window that faces Fish-street.  My daughter is gone, none
know whither, and her poor babe mourns and whines for her in
vain.  Prince, by this abduction thou hast doubly disgraced and
insulted me.  Say, where is my daughter&mdash;this best beloved of
five?&mdash;say, say, lest my too just indignation turn this sword
against thee&mdash;prince royal though ye be!"
</p>

<p>
"My lord," said the prince, clasping his hands, "I swear by
all my hope in Heaven's mercy, by that blessed altar before which
I received her hand, and where I gave my solemn troth, that I
know not where she is; but will spend the last drop of my blood
to discover and to save her."
</p>

<p>
"Go to!" said the enraged father, hoarsely; "dost think I
will believe all this?  'Sdeath, he who deceives me once may
readily do so again.  But I will have vengeance sure for it.
Every man in Strathearne shall be in his helmet ere the morrow's
sun sets, and I will nail my gauntlet on your father's
palace-gate, in token of what a Scottish peer may do."
</p>

<p>
On hearing this threat, the two Drummonds, who shared all
the indignation of their chief, twisted their shaggy mustachios,
and played with the hilts of their long iron-hilted swords, in
their fiery impatience.
</p>

<p>
"I am as little accustomed to deceive, my lord, as I am to be
disbelieved or misunderstood," replied the prince; "and again I
swear to you, by all we hold most sacred, that I have spoken to
the verity, and the verity alone.  My Margaret&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Behold the only trace of her," said Lord Drummond, as he
roughly grasped Rothesay's hand, and drew him a few paces
down the wynd, to where they could see the north-east tower of
his mansion.  There Rothesay's eye first caught sight of
Margaret's well-known window.  It was open: the fragments of a
rope-ladder were yet streaming out upon the wind, and various
passengers were grouped in the street below, conferring and
surmising, with upturned faces, on what had happened there
overnight.  On beholding these ocular proofs of some terrible
catastrophe, the prince lost alike his patience and presence of mind.
He unsheathed his sword, and exclaimed,
</p>

<p>
"We have been discovered and betrayed!"
</p>

<p>
"Thank God, this emotion seems genuine!" said Drummond,
as he leaned on his long weapon, and grimly scrutinized the
prince; "betrayed, sayst thou? but by whom, dost thou think?"
</p>

<p>
"By some of my father's favourites."
</p>

<p>
"Right! by the hand of St. Fillan, I thought these varlets
had something to do with this outrage.  Can the king know it,
think ye?" asked Drummond, with a terrible glare in his eyes,
as he turned to his kinsmen, Balloch and Carnock, who both
drew their swords, as if by instinctive use and wont.
</p>

<p>
"Alas, I said not <i>that</i>," replied Rothesay, giving way to tears;
"but my mind is a chaos&mdash;I can no longer think."
</p>

<p>
"'Sblood&mdash;act, then!"
</p>

<p>
"How now, my lord&mdash;your highness&mdash;gentlemen, what is astir?"
asked Sir Patrick Gray, stepping out of a daggermaker's shop at
that moment; "beware, sirs&mdash;and up with your swords; remember
that it is an act of treason to draw within four miles of
the king or the lord high constable, and both are now in our
burgh of bonnie Dundee."
</p>

<p>
"Damn the constable, and the burgh of Dundee to boot!
My daughter Margaret has been carried off by violence; there
hath been hership and hamesücken overnight, Sir Patrick, and
as a knight and gentleman, and moreover as the king's good
soldier, I claim your assistance."
</p>

<p>
"Carried off!&mdash;the beautiful Margaret!" exclaimed Gray, with
well-feigned astonishment; "by St. Mirran! there hath been foul
play, then; for alas, my lord, as last night I rode along the beach
to Broughty, I heard shrill cries, as from a woman on the water."
</p>

<p>
"Kyrie Eleison!" ejaculated the prince, trembling, and growing
paler than death, at the terrible thoughts this information
suggested, and he wept aloud.
</p>

<p>
"Some of James's courtly minions&mdash;&mdash;" began Gray.
</p>

<p>
"Have been at work here," interrupted Lord Drummond,
passionately; "thinkest thou so, too?  Then the king shall do
me justice, or this right hand, which has so often fenced his
father's throne, shall be the first to thrust a lighted torch under
it now.  Come with me, sirs," he added, hurling his long sword
into its sheath of crimson velvet; "come with me, the king is
now in council."
</p>

<p>
As they hurried up the wynd, taking the bewildered Rothesay
with them, they heard the clatter of many hoofs, and saw the
Earl of Angus, sheathed in complete armour, and attended by
not less than five hundred spearmen on horseback, all heavily
accoutred, pass at a hard gallop along the Nethergaitt, towards
the king's residence.
</p>

<p>
"Now, what may this portend?" asked Carnock and Ballock
together, with surprise.
</p>

<p>
"Heaven only knows," said Gray, laughing under his thick
beard; "but the Douglasses never mount without good cause, be
assured, sirs.  How this plot thickens," thought he, as he looked
towards the dim blue sea; "and how readily this muleheaded
old lord, who hath no ideas of his own, adopts the good or evil
suggestions of other.  Now, Sauchie and I have them all, like
puppets, in our grasp!  But I would fain see the mouth of
yonder fellow, Borthwick, stopped with earth for ever!"
</p>

<p>
At that moment they entered the palace door, and followed
Lord Angus straight to the presence of the king.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap19"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XIX.
<br /><br />
HOW BORTHWICK FULFILLED HIS PROMISE.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "My path was waylaid by a band<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of ruffians hired to kill;<br />
  They seized and tied me hand and foot<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Though me they owed no ill.<br />
</p>

<p class="intro1">
  "A dreary night and day I passed;<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;All hope was far removed;<br />
  I thought each hour would prove my last;<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yet Anna still I loved."&mdash;<i>The Druid</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
In fulfilment of his boast made in the Tower of Bronghty
Borthwick had fully examined "all the avenues" to the chamber
of Lady Margaret Drummond, preparatory and previous to her
abduction.  By inquiries cunningly pursued among the domestics
within, and by observations made from without, he had discovered
the exact locale of her bed-chamber, and her hour for retiring,
and now, being aware that the prince was hunting in the Howe
of Angus, he resolved to make the attempt at once.
</p>

<p>
As yet there was no appearance of the Laird of Largo's dreaded
ships returning; but the evening of the appointed day closed
darkly and hazily in, and the three vessels of Captain Howard
had been descried by Sir Patrick Gray from the Craig of
Bronghty, as they crept slowly and stealthily in shore.
</p>

<p>
It was one of those evenings when the chill east wind brings
a thick <i>haar</i>, as the Scots name it, from the German Sea, when
the moon veils her head in the clouds, and a murky gloom
envelopes everything.
</p>

<p>
It was one hour past Margaret's usual time for retiring, yet
she was not in bed.  During the whole of that day and the day
preceding, the new joy which had replaced her usually sad and
quiet demeanour, the light that sparkled in her calm soft eyes,
and the buoyancy of her spirits, were remarked by her sisters;
but they knew not that Margaret was happy because her
important secret was shared and approved of by her father, who
had ridden away to Dunblane, accompanied by Carnock and
Balloch, to examine the cathedral registers, and assure himself
that nothing was wanting but the Papal dispensation to make all
clear, on announcing to Parliament, when it met in the
metropolis, that his daughter was Duchess of Rothesay, and the
mother of a little princess who yet might wear that crown of
thorns which was the inheritance of the Stuarts.
</p>

<p>
The fact of a priest and bishop being cognizant of a marriage
within the degrees forbidden by the church, affords a strong
proof that the corruption and neglect by which that church was
crumbling down in Scotland were beginning a hundred years
before the Reformation was achieved by Knox and his followers.
</p>

<p>
Margaret was happy, too, because she would soon be able to
impart to her dear sisters, whom she loved so tenderly, the
perilous secret, which she was ever upbraiding herself for having
withheld from them so long; and she imagined how great would
be the astonishment of Euphemia and Sybilla when her baby
would be shown to them, and the joy of little Lizzie and Beatie
finding themselves aunts to a real live princess.
</p>

<p>
Wearied with long surmises and thoughtful reveries, and with
fondling her pretty little Margaret&mdash;for it had been named after
herself and the queen-mother&mdash;and with hushing those feeble
cries which as yet had never gone beyond the thick stone walls
of the tapestried room, nor been heard by any one save her
faithful old nurse and constant attendant, the beautiful young
duchess had fallen asleep on her bed, partly undressed, and with
the babe nestling in her bosom.  On the inside her door was
secured by those complicated bolts of wood and iron with which
all internal doors were then fastened in old Scottish houses, but
her window, which was in the round-tower at the street-corner
<i>still</i> appears never to have possessed a grating.
</p>

<p>
Twelve tolled in the tower of the "Blessed
Virgin-in-the-fields."  The mist was thicker,
and the night darker than ever.
</p>

<p>
Margaret did not hear the sound of feet in the narrow street
below, for the lurkers there trod softly; neither did she hear
their voices, for they spoke in whispers; but there, masked,
muffled, and disguised as peasants, in broad round bonnets,
frieze gaberdines, and deerskin boots, were the governors of
Stirling and Broughty, with <i>Sir</i> Hew Borthwick; other followers
they had none, for this expedition was so desperate and daring
that they could trust none, even from among the many well-chosen
ruffians with whom the two chief traitors had garrisoned
the royal castles committed to their care.
</p>

<p>
Margaret did not hear the jarring of two long lances, tied
together, against the panes of glass, as by this means they affixed
the iron hooks of a rope ladder to the stone mouldings of the
tower window-sole, and then held it firm and steadily at the foot,
while Borthwick clambered to the casement, which (although it
was twenty-five feet from the ground) he reached with ease, and
raising the sash entered softly.  He then stood within the
apartment, with two naked poniards in his belt, for defence, in
case of surprise or attack.
</p>

<p>
All appeared just as we have described it before&mdash;the rich
little couch, the carved <i>prie-Dieu</i>, the Venetian mirror, with its
bottles of rose-water, pots of essence and other appurtenances,
and the thick dark tapestry.  The wax tapers in the silver
girandoles on the dressing-table were dimly burning and
flickering, for the wicks were long, and snuffers were not invented
until the epoch of James IV.
</p>

<p>
Margaret lay on her couch, fast asleep, with one white arm
extended on her pillow, and the other round her infant, whose
little head reposed on a luxuriant mass of her thick brown hair,
which had escaped from that golden net or caul, then worn by
the ladies of the court, and was streaming over her pillow.  The
ribbon points of her long boddice were partly untied, and on the
dressing-table lay a multitude of those skewers of gold and
silver tags and clasps which noble dames then used, before the
simple invention of the <i>pin</i>, which was first adopted by Catharine
Howard, an English queen.  The rosy and dimpled hands of the
infant, like its round and sleeping face, were nestling in the
bosom of its young and delicate mother.
</p>

<p>
It was a touching picture of perfect innocence and love
reposing together; but it affected not the sensual and cowardly
heart of the ignoble Borthwick, or of Sir Patrick Gray, whose
black head, through the mask of which his fierce and sinister
eyes, that gleamed like two evil stars, might have been seen
peering over the window-sole into the chamber of the sleeping
girl.  Something that glittered in the mouth of this baronial
bravo, a nearer inspection would have shown to be a dagger,
which he held between his teeth.
</p>

<p>
"Well, 'pon my soul, the prince's taste is not bad!" grumbled
the other ruffian (who was flushed with wine), as he contemplated
the beautiful girl, whose soft and regular breathing was the only
sound that broke the silence of the sanctuary on which he was
intruding his unhallowed presence.  "A baby, too!  Oho! now,
whose brat may this be?"
</p>

<p>
Margaret turned her noble head, parted her fine lips, and
smiled tenderly in her sleep.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick thought she was about to waken, and shrunk irresolutely
back; but the dreams of such innocence as hers are ever
pleasing and gentle, so the young girl still slept on.
</p>

<p>
"Donnart fool! why dost thou tarry?" asked Gray, in a
hoarse whisper.  "Be quick!"
</p>

<p>
His voice half wakened Margaret, and she moved her head
again, and a sigh escaped her lips.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick drew from his breast one of those large and gaudy
Dutch cotton handkerchiefs which were then common in Scotland,
and with brutal energy tied it completely over the head of
Margaret, and, tightening it across her mouth, muffled and
stifled any cry she might have uttered; but the slightest sound
was impossible, for sudden terror deprived her of all power of
thought or action.  He then raised her in his powerful arms,
even as he would have done the wakened infant, which now
began to raise its plaintive little voice, and which he shook
roughly off, as it grasped its mother's thick soft hair.  He bore
her to the window, and thrust her through it, upon the right
arm of Sir Patrick Gray, who grasped with his left hand the
rope ladder (which was firmly secured below by Sir James
Shaw), and which he descended in safety to the ground.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick sprang after them, but as Shaw lent his assistance
to bear off Margaret, the light ladder swayed about in the wind,
which dashed the growling and enraged conspirator against the
rough wall like a plummet; by this means it snapped, and he
fell heavily to the ground, but he hurried after the two barons,
who were bearing Margaret down to the beach, which was then
within less than a pistol-shot of the house.
</p>

<p>
As she had now freed her head from the muffler, she uttered a
succession of shrill and piercing cries; but none heard or attended
to them, for the stillness and darkness of midnight rested on the
mist-shrouded town and river.  In that "good old time," when
the country-houses of the Scottish gentry were manned and
moated garrisons, or towers that were entered at an upper story
by ladders, which the careful inmates drew up after them; when
their towns had walls with barrier-portes, and their streets had
neither lights nor pavements, but when every window was grated,
and every close and wynd secured by a massive gate; when
people carried lanterns at night, and every one went armed to
the teeth, as a security against every one else&mdash;the clash of
swords or the cries of fear and danger excited but little interest.
Thus, without suffering the least interruption, the knightly
ruffians and their accomplice reached the beach, where, within a
bowshot of the chapel of St. Nicholas, Captain Edmund Howard,
with a well-armed boat's-crew of picked English seamen, awaited
them in the yawl of the <i>Royal Harry</i>.
</p>

<p>
"Do not be alarmed, fair lady," said he, as Margaret was
borne over the chafing surf, and placed in the stern-sheets of
the boat by a man who grasped her with the tenacity of a vice,
and who whispered huskily and impiously in her ear.
</p>

<p>
"Be not afraid of me, lady, for I am innocent as the Paschal
Lamb, and as gentle to boot."
</p>

<p>
"By that blessed name," she implored, "I conjure you to tell
me the meaning of this? and who you are&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"I am Sir Hew Borthwick, knight of an unfortunate ilk, but
your most devoted servitor, lady."
</p>

<p>
"O, heavenly mercy!" she murmured, on hearing that
terrible name, and believing that all her old forebodings were
about to be realized, immediately fainted, or became powerless,
and had no longer any capability of coherence in speech or
thought.
</p>

<p>
"Devil be thanked&mdash;now we shall have no more trouble with
her," said Borthwick, as Captain Howard kindly spread his own
velvet mantle over her.
</p>

<p>
"Poor little thing," said he; "she has fallen among evil
hands; but, thank heaven, this dog's duty will soon be over.
To-night she will swing in her hammock, aboard the <i>Royal
Harry</i>."
</p>

<p>
"And to-morrow may mingle her tears with the waters that
bear her to English Harry's prison," added Sir James Shaw,
laughing.
</p>

<p>
"Hold water a moment, my lads," said the English captain,
as he flung a purse to Borthwick, who caught it as a hungry
dog does a bone.  "Master Hew, this is the last largess of King
Henry's I hope you will ever receive from my hand."
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, Captain Howard&mdash;life is a race, and money the
prize.  In this world we always scorn honest poverty and
worship gilded crime."
</p>

<p>
"Philosophy in a cur's throat," muttered Howard.  "Adieu,
gentlemen; when next I unfurl St. George's cross in these
waters, I hope to do it in fair daylight, when bringing to your
shores a bright-eyed English queen.  And now give way, my
hearties," he added, as the oars were dipped into the water, and
the boat was slewed round&mdash;"give way for life!"
</p>

<p>
"Or death," said Borthwick, with a chuckling laugh, as he
concealed the heavy purse in his broad leathern girdle.
"Farewell, sirs."
</p>

<p>
"Farewell," cried Howard, with one hand grasping the tiller
and the other placed at the side of his mouth to convey the
sound&mdash;"and may the great devil go with you for a rascally
Scots pirate and ground shark."
</p>

<p>
Margaret lay in a death-like faint, and this gallant English
gentleman, while commiserating her fate and cursing the secret
duty on which his subtle king had sent him, still urged his men
to <i>give way</i>, and at every stroke their fourteen oars almost
lifted the light boat out of the water.  Howard raised the mantle
repeatedly from the pale face of his prisoner, and the soft beauty
of her features served every moment to increase the disgust he
felt for himself and his Scottish colleagues.
</p>

<p>
The tide was ebbing fast, and as the river was running
like a millrace, they soon reached the <i>Royal Harry</i>, which,
with her consorts, was abreast of Broughty Castle, laying to,
with her fore and mizen yards aback; but it was not until
she was placed on one of the cushioned lockers of the great
cabin, where proper restoratives were kindly and judiciously
applied by two pretty young female attendants whom Howard
had brought for her from London, that poor Margaret began to
recover from her first shock of terror, and to become aware of
where she was.
</p>

<p>
With the wind right ahead, the <i>Harry</i> began to beat out of
the narrow channel, on each side of which are broad and
dangerous sandbanks, which then were alike destitute of lights and
buoys; but a quartermaster was in the fore-chains, constantly
heaving the lead.  The night was misty, for a thick eastern
haar yet floated on the bosom of the sea.  The moon, now full-orbed
and brilliant, was shining, like a lamp-globe of obscured
glass, shorn of its beams, which lent a palpable whiteness to the
mist they could not pierce.  As the wind freshened a little and
made gaps through the fogbank, the moonlight played along the
waves, which followed each other in long white lines of glittering
foam.
</p>

<p>
The English ships heeled over as the breeze freshened, for they
were now always close-hauled.  The stately <i>Harry</i> rode
gracefully over each long rolling swell that curled under her prow;
but Howard thanked his good angel when he was clear of that
dangerous estuary, and when his next larboard tack enabled him
to run far beyond the shoals of the Buddon-ness.
</p>

<p>
At times the mist was so dense that the two consorts of the
<i>Harry</i> could not discern her top-light; the watch rang the ship's
bell every ten minutes, and they responded.  This monotonous
ringing continued for nearly two hours, when suddenly the watch
of the leading English ship was startled by the report of a heavy
culverin, apparently only a few fathoms distant from their
weatherbow, or so close that the red flash was seen through the
white and moonlit haze.
</p>

<p>
All hands were piped, and with alacrity the seamen stood to
their quarters, but in considerable excitement, for <i>Andrew Wood</i>
was murmured along the decks as the ports were opened and
the loaded guns run out, while Howard hurried Margaret
Drummond to a place of safety below the water-line.  But in
accordance with King Henry's express orders, he was resolved to
avoid hostilities if possible, and if the stranger should prove to
be the famous Scottish admiral, to deceive him by answering his
hail in <i>French</i>.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap20"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XX.
<br /><br />
WOOD MEETS HOWARD.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "What though our hands be weaker now<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Than they were wont to be,<br />
  When boldly forth our fathers sailed,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And conquered Normandie?<br />
  We still may sing their deeds of fame,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In thrilling harmony;<br />
  They won for us a gallant name,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ruling the stormy sea!"&mdash;<i>Ballad</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
After running along the coast of Angus so far as that remarkable
promontory named the Red Head, which rises to the height
of two hundred and fifty feet on the southern shore of Lunan
Bay, Sir Andrew Wood had put his ships about, and under easy
sail bore back towards Dundee, without seeing any trace of the
strangers he was in search of.  From the tops the light had been
discerned in the <i>Big O</i> of Arbroath, as the seamen named the
great circular window of St. Thomas of Aberbrothwick, which
was then illuminated at night by the charitable Benedictines of
that magnificent abbey; and it formed a glorious landmark for
those who traversed the German Sea, from whence it could be
seen shining afar off, like a vast moon resting on the sloping
promontory.
</p>

<p>
About midnight the vessels were creeping along the sandy shore
of Barrie, where the waves rolled far upon the level beach, and
chafed against the heaps or tumuli which cover the graves of the
Danish invaders, when Master Wad, who had the middle watch,
pricked up his ears on hearing the distant sound of a ship's bell.
The silver mist was still so thick, that when viewed from the
stern, the ship's head, and even the mizen crosstrees, were involved
in obscurity.
</p>

<p>
"I hear a sound," said Falconer, who, lover-like, was still
loitering on deck, and restlessly musing over the hazel-eyed
Sybilla, from whom he calculated he was now only about eight
or ten miles distant.  "Willie," said he, "that sound is like the
ringing of metal, or is it the deid bell in my ear?"
</p>

<p>
"I would hope not," replied the gunner; "for if it is sae, some
o' us will be slipping our cables before day-dawn."
</p>

<p>
"There it is again&mdash;no imaginary, but a solid bell, and it rings
in the mist.  Can it be the Inchcape?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay, Sir David; the moon is in the west, and the tide in
ebbing, so by the soundings we should ha'e the Buddon-ness
about three miles off on our lee-bow."
</p>

<p>
"And the Inchcape Bell?"
</p>

<p>
"About eight miles to windward.  Ewhow, sirs! there are
the top-gallant sails of a large vessel glinting in the moonlight
and aboon the mist like snaw on a hill-top; a pint o' sack to a
pint o' bilge, it is the English captain!  Call up Robert
Barton&mdash;pass the word to the admiral!"
</p>

<p>
The arquebussier who stood on guard near Jacob's ladder
passed this intelligence through the door of the poop, and in a
moment Captain Barton and Sir Andrew came on deck.  As all
sailors do, they first glanced at the compass, and then cast their
gaze aloft, to see that all the sails were full.
</p>

<p>
"How does she bear?" asked Sir Andrew.
</p>

<p>
"About a mile off, on the lee-bow, between us and the Gaa
sands."
</p>

<p>
"Gadzooks! her draught of water must be small."
</p>

<p>
"There she's noo, sir, wi' top-gallants set aloft, for the wind is
but light."
</p>

<p>
As the gunner spoke the canvas of the strange vessel was seen
to glitter like snow in the moonlight; but for a moment only, as
she was again immediately shrouded in mist.
</p>

<p>
"What dost thou take her to be, Robbie?" asked the admiral.
</p>

<p>
"English," replied Barton, tightening his waist-belt, "English
by the rake of her masts and fashion of her top hamper."
</p>

<p>
"Art sure?"
</p>

<p>
"I got a full glisk of her just now, as she shot out of one
bank into another.  Hark! there goes her bell again!"
</p>

<p>
"Master Wad, got ready a gun there, for on the next tack we
may fall aboard of her; I do think she is English, though there
was no red-cross on her fore-topsail.  But clear away for battle,
Barton, for if it is the gallant Howard, we shall avenge thy
father's fall, and make such a din on these waters as will scare
all the fish between Fifeness and the Carlinheugh.  Take in sail,
and beat to quarters."
</p>

<p>
The kettle-drum rolled and the trumpet was blown: in three
minutes the ports were opened; the sails reduced by the watch;
the magazine opened by the gunner; the arquebussiers of Falconer
manned the tops and poop, and flinging aside their bonnets
and gaberdines, five hundred seamen, grasping the rammers and
sponges, the linstocks and tackle of the cannon, stood in fighting
order, while Master Wad fired a gun, and ran a red lantern up to
the mast-head, to let Sir Alexander Mathieson, who was half a
mile astern, know that the admiral had cleared for action.
</p>

<p>
"Sail ho!&mdash;here she comes again!" cried a hundred voices, as
the gigantic outline of the English ship, looming like a great
cloud through the mist, approached on the opposite tack, and
within pistol-shot.  Both shortened sail by backing their fore
and mizen-yards.  By the line of lights that glittered along the
stranger's deck, her crew were evidently standing by their guns,
and all equally prepared.  Trumpet in hand, Barton, whose heart
was brimming with fiery joy, sprang into the main-chains on the
starboard side.
</p>

<p>
"Silence fore and aft!" cried he; but the warning was needless,
for then one might have heard a pin fall on board the
<i>Yellow Frigate</i>.
</p>

<p>
"Ho&mdash;the ship ahoy!"
</p>

<p>
"<i>Hola-ho!</i>" replied a voice from the waist of the stranger.
</p>

<p>
"French!" muttered Barton, in a tone of disappointment;
"what ship is that?"
</p>

<p>
"The <i>Sainte Denis</i>, caravel of Monseigneur the admiral of the
galleys to his Majesty Charles the Affable."
</p>

<p>
"This is the <i>Yellow Caravel</i> of his Majesty the King of the
Scots.  We knew not that the admiral of France was in these seas."
</p>

<p>
"We are in pursuit of three English ships commanded by
Captain Edmund Howard, brother of the lord admiral of England."
</p>

<p>
"So are we, and would give all the teeth in our heads to
overhaul them.  Sir Andrew Wood craves leave to pay his respects
ko Monseigneur d'Esquerdes, admiral of the galleys."
</p>

<p>
"Monseigneur the Laird of Largo is welcome."
</p>

<p>
Archy, the old boatswain, was piping away the crew of the
barge, when the pretended Frenchman, having no desire for such
a visit, hauled his wind, braced up his yards, and stood right
away into the mist, with his topsails glittering, after which Sir
Andrew Wood saw no more of him.  The ports were lowered,
the culverins secured; Master Wad locked the magazine with a
sigh, as he reflected there was no chance of fighting; the
hammocks were piped down; the yards were squared; and with no
ordinary feelings of disappointment, the crew of the <i>Yellow
Frigate</i> found themselves once more silently passing the Tower
of Broughty towards their former anchorage off the craig of
St. Nicholas.
</p>

<p>
Intent only on reaching England without perilling the crooked
measures of his sovereign, Captain Howard was glad that he had
succeeded in "throwing dust," as he said, "into the eyes of old
Andrew Wood," and when sorely importuned by his officers and
crew to fight the Scots, is reported to have lost patience, and said,
</p>

<p>
"God confound ye, fellows; dost think I will carve out my
coffin to please you?"
</p>

<p>
But fate, however, and the waves and wind were against him;
for before daybreak the mist was swept from the German Sea by
a sudden and heavy gale from the south-east, which nearly threw
the <i>Harry</i> on her beam-ends, and compelled her to run before it,
in the very opposite direction from that which Howard wished to
pursue.  He was driven along the dangerous coast of Kincardine;
and before the second day's sunset, instead of making the coast
of England, as they had hoped, the crews of the three English
ships were straining every nerve, and using all the art of
seamanship to weather the dangerous Cape of Buchan-ness, nearly
ninety miles northward from the mouth of the Tay.
</p>

<p>
How it fared with Margaret Drummond in the meanwhile
will be related in another chapter of this history.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap21"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXI.
<br /><br />
THE PRICE OF THREE TENEMENTS.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "A letter forged!  St. Jude to speed!<br />
  Did ever knight so foul a deed?"&mdash;<i>Marmion</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
A few pages back, we left the Duke of Rothesay, the Earl of
Angus, and Lord Drummond seeking the presence of James III.,
all in a high state of excitement.  They soon reached the hall
(already described) where, during his annual visits to Dundee,
the king received petitions and heard complaints, or held
council, with what success we have already shown.  It was, as
usual, crowded by courtiers and nobles, with their armed followers
and dependents; and Hailes, Home, the Forester of Drum, the
Steward of Menteith, and other discontented personages, were
grouping and whispering together.
</p>

<p>
The king was seated in the great chair, under the purple cloth
of estate; near him stood John Abercrombie, the learned
Benedictine, and they were examining with deep interest Lorenzo
della Magna's edition of Dante's <i>Inferno</i>, which had been printed
at Florence seven years before, and had thirteen illustrations
engraved by Baldini.  This had been a gift to James from the
Papal ambassador, the Bishop of Imola; and the almost
unlettered Angus gazed with wonder and pity at a king whose
mind was so narrow that he could feel interested in a trifle so
pitiful as a printed book!
</p>

<p>
The usually stern expression which clouded the dark face of
this great lord of Galloway was partly concealed by the visor of
his helmet; but the excitement under which he laboured was
evident, for he frequently approached James, and withdrew again,
as if irresolute how to broach the subject that oppressed him.
</p>

<p>
Lord Drummond and Rothesay were equally excited, and their
emotion was balm to the gloomy soul of Sir Patrick Gray who
accompanied them, and who, with his pale thin lips and fine but
sharp teeth, his small wiry hands and cold delusive smile, seemed
to be the evil genius of them all.
</p>

<p>
"My Lord Angus," said the Constable of Dundee, "dost think
this king of ours will ever prefer the marshalling of hosts to the
making of books and ballads&mdash;the clank of armour to rustle of
silk&mdash;or the jangle of spurs to the patter of cork-heeled shoon?"
</p>

<p>
"We shall soon see," replied Angus, hoarsely, through his
clenched teeth, as he darted a savage glance at the Duke of
Montrose.
</p>

<p>
"It would seem not," added the warlike Constable, who, when
a mere youth, had slain the aged Earl of Crawford at the battle
of Arbroath; "he is overmuch of a clerk and carpet squire
for me."
</p>

<p>
Neither Angus nor this Lord of Dudhope had much love for
each other, but like many of the hostile nobles, they cordially
agreed in keeping an iron hand over the poor king, and in
resolving to defeat his projects, whether wise or unwise, and to
destroy every favourite chosen from "the herd," as they designated
the people, from whom unfortunately the favourites of the
Stuart princes were generally chosen.
</p>

<p>
"Fool-king!" growled the furious earl, "while thou toyest
with some wretched ballad-book, I hold in my hand that which
shall startle all Scotland like the note of the last trumpet."
</p>

<p>
"Yea," responded the Constable of Dundee, "these balladeers
and book-makers remind me of so many birds of prey hovering
about the throne."
</p>

<p>
"These carles in iron seem like so many crocodiles watching
the poor king," whispered the Benedictine at the same moment
to William Dunbar, the sweet author of the <i>Thrissel and the
Rois</i>, for there was then a feud between the men of the sword
and the men of letters, as it was not an age when they could
entertain a high veneration for each other.
</p>

<p>
Rothesay's excitement at last became insupportable.  Pale
and trembling with grief and anger, he approached the royal
chair, and stretching out his hands, with his fine eyes full of fire,
tears, and upbraiding, said to the king,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Father, is it thus thou hast deceived me!"
</p>

<p>
"Deceived thee&mdash;in what?" asked the astonished monarch.
</p>

<p>
"Yea, deceived me.  The Lord Drummond told thee how I
loved and was wedded to his daughter; and you gave me hopes
of clemency and forgiveness, while knowing that overnight she
had been most cruelly and foully abducted&mdash;torn away from
me&mdash;from me who loved her better than my own soul!"
</p>

<p>
It is impossible to describe the astonishment that was visible
in the faces of all who heard this startling avowal and charge;
but in no face was it more strongly impressed than the king's,
and his silence appeared to Rothesay the dumb confusion of
discovered guilt.
</p>

<p>
"Father and king," said he, firmly, "where is my wife, the
Duchess of Rothesay?"
</p>

<p>
"Rash monarch!" added Lord Drummond, with a hand on
his sword, "I, too, demand, where is my daughter?"
</p>

<p>
"By my soul as a man&mdash;by my honour as a king, I know
not!" replied James, with dignity and indignation, as he rose
from his chair, and threw the poems of Dante on the dais.
</p>

<p>
"Restore her to me!" continued the young prince, frantically,
while his dark eyes sparkled through their tears; "restore her,
or in three days I will set all Scotland on fire!"
</p>

<p>
"'Tis a wile of the English faction to further their Tudor
marriage," said Lord Lindesay, an opinion in which many nobles
concurred; "beware, my lord, beware of what you say and do!"
</p>

<p>
Angus stood silent and confounded by this double revelation.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis enough to weep <i>once</i> over those we love," said Lord
Drummond; "I have wept for my lost daughter, for she was
my dearest and best beloved, the most gentle and bonnie of five;
and now I shall think of vengeance!  None but thee, James
Stuart, could have an interest in removing or destroying her, so
restore her, dead or alive, or vengeance will be the occupation of
my life!  The honour of a Scottish noble cannot be trifled with,
even by a Scottish king; so beware that, when plunging into the
abyss of rebellion I do not drag thy throne down with me!"
</p>

<p>
Stunned by this terrible and, at such a time, most dangerous
accusation&mdash;dangerous, the more so that it came from the lips
of his own son, the good and amiable king gazed irresolutely
among the nobles, and read a threatening expression in all their
clouded brows; even Montrose, his most trusty councillor, cast
down his eyes in doubt, and now the stern face cf Angus, who
stood close by him, leaning on his sword, rivetted his
wondering gaze.
</p>

<p>
"My lord earl," said he, "what is the matter?  Why
approach me in harness, and almost in a close helmet?  Say,
dost thou believe me capable of a deed so vile?"
</p>

<p>
There was a solemn silence, for it was known that the majority
would adopt the opinion of this potent military chief.
</p>

<p>
"I do deem thee guilty of this most cruel abduction; yea,
and of worse!" replied the stern Earl, as he threw up the barred
umbriere of his black helmet with a jerk, and drew from his
gauntlet a letter which was folded with care and tied by a ribbon,
sealed with purple wax, and inscribed "<i>secret, with care</i>."  "And
to prove how far the bitter memory of our raid at Lauder, and
the love of the faithless and vile will carry thee, I will take the
liberty of reading to this most illustrious audience a letter which
is addressed to his Grace of Montrose, but which, by a blundering
pikeman, was brought to my secretary, who made himself
master of its contents.  My lords, these are terrible!  Strict
honour required that it should have been forwarded to the Earl
of Crawford&mdash;pardon me&mdash;(with a sneer) I mean your Grace of
Montrose; but the common safety of the First Estate required
its immediate publicity."
</p>

<p>
The stealthy eyes of Sir James Shaw sought those of Gray,
and an icy smile was exchanged; but to others, their faces seemed
imperturbable.  A commotion immediately pervaded the hitherto
still assembly; and the old Duke of Montrose, with his sword
half-drawn, was approaching Angus, in great wrath, when his
arm was grasped by the king.  Seeing a storm impending,
several of the peers, the Sieur de Concressault, the Lord
Lindesay, and Ramsay, Lord Bothwell, drew near the throne,
the malcontent nobles drew near Angus, while the pale and
irresolute Rothesay stood like a statue between them.
</p>

<p>
"You know this signature, my lords," said Angus, displaying
the letter.
</p>

<p>
"It is the king's," said Shaw, almost the only man among
them who could read or write with ease.
</p>

<p>
"And this seal, <i>bearing two rocks in the centre of a stormy
sea</i>, with the motto 'DURABO?'"
</p>

<p>
"The king's private signet," said Sir Patrick Gray; "we all
that as well as our own faces."
</p>

<p>
"Read, read, my lord," cried twenty voices; and with some
trouble, though the handwriting of this document of Borthwick,
which is now before us, is very plain, Angus sternly and
emphatically read as follows:&mdash;
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
"To his Grace the Duke of Montrose and Earl of Crawford,
our trusty and heartily beloved friend, Lord Great Chamberlain,
&amp;c., be this delivered.
</p>

<p>
"Montrose, we greet you well.  The help of the same blessed
God, who has delivered us from many perils, will, I doubt not,
with the assistance and advice of such powerful and zealous
subjects as your grace, soon free our unhappy realm and oppressed
people from that cruel nobility who tyrannize over all.  I have
now all prepared for the great banquet to be given in the Castle
of Edinburgh, where, when Angus, Hailes, Home, and all that
party, are birling the wine pot, we shall show them the <i>Black
Bull's Head</i>.  Fail not to come with all your most trusty
adherents&mdash;men who will close their hearts to every emotion of
pity and remorse, and who will have no thought but the wish to
save Scotland by extirpating a traitorous nobility, who in all
ages have been ready to sell their souls and bodies to the English
kings for gold.  With the fathers, all the sons above the age of
twelve years should also be invited, and such I think was the
suggestion of your grace at our last meeting.  It now remains
but to fix the time of this auspicious banquet.  What say you
to the feast of St. Monina&mdash;that evil day of July?  From our
Castle of Stirling, the 7th day of May, 1488.
</p>

<p class="noindent">
"JAMES REX."
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Exclamations of anger and astonishment burst from every lip,
for this letter contained some artful hits, such as the Bull's Head,
which was the signal for the murder of the Earl of Douglas in
1440, and Monina's day, which was the anniversary of the raid
at Lauder.
</p>

<p>
The king was fearfully pale.
</p>

<p>
"My Lord Earl of Angus," said he, controlling his righteous
indignation, "on your allegiance as a subject, I command you to
surrender up this tissue of falsehood&mdash;this infamous forgery."
</p>

<p>
"Nay," replied the earl, with a grim smile; "if your Majesty
wishes it consigned to the custody of the Lord Clerk Register,
let him and other parasites seek it at my Castle of Thrieve, in
Galloway, where, by the cannon's mouth, it shall be faithfully
delivered to them or their messengers."
</p>

<p>
"Beware, Archibald Douglas, lest ye overtask my patience."
</p>

<p>
"Beware, James Stuart, for thou playest a perilous game!  So
this precious banquet is to be on Monina's day in July.  I trust
<i>that party</i> will all come with their best swords by their sides."
</p>

<p>
"The anniversary of the raid of Lauder," said the governor of
Broughty; "an ominous day."
</p>

<p>
"This is infamous&mdash;this is intolerable!" exclaimed the
white-haired Duke of Montrose, unsheathing his sword.
</p>

<p>
"So say I," added Angus, with a bitter laugh.
</p>

<p>
"All who dare aver that the king wrote such a letter to me,"
continued Montrose, "or that such was the intention of our state
banquet at Edinburgh, lie foully in their throats, and are false
cravens!  Let us betake us to our swords at once, for the sword
alone can wrest a charter for the people's liberty from this subtle
and tyrannical nobility."
</p>

<p>
"Duke," said James, "liberty is the inherent right of the
people.  They give us prerogatives, but it is not in the power of
princes to give a people what they possess by right of
inheritance&mdash;liberty."
</p>

<p>
"Montrose, thou sayest well," said Angus, who did not understand
the hint conveyed by the king's reply; "the sword, the
sword, so be it then," he added, with lofty pride and stern joy;
"and with God's blessing, let the battle field decide whether this
kingdom of Scotland shall be governed by its hereditary peers or
the parasites of a king.  James II. slew two earls of my house;
one was murdered in the castle of Edinburgh in the midst of a
friendly feast, another was stabbed to the heart by a dagger in
the Castle of Stirling&mdash;stabbed by the royal hand, and then was
flung over the chamber window upon the rocks below, like the
body of a slaughtered hound rather than the corse of William
Douglas, Duke of Touraine, and Lord Supreme of Galloway.  I
shall be wary how your father's son adds a third to the number."
</p>

<p>
Angus glared with hatred at Montrose, who was the first
subject in Scotland after the little Duke of Ross, being the first
of the nobility who attained a ducal coronet, a distinction quite
sufficient to gain him the enmity of all the earls of the Douglas
faction.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Angus," said James, reproachfully, "thou art a fierce
subject, in whose lawless heart uncurbed ambition rages like a
devouring flame; but wouldst thou have thy king to stoop to
thee?"
</p>

<p>
"And why not, if that king hath erred?" asked the earl,
bluntly.
</p>

<p>
"God be the judge between us," said James, raising upwards
his hands and tearful eyes.
</p>

<p>
"Decide, decide," said Angus, whose anger was increasing
every moment; "banishment to such evil councillors as Montrose,
and death to all ignoble favourites&mdash;or death to the peers of
Scotland; and here, at the foot of that throne for which I and
ten generations of my house have often shed the Douglas blood,
I throw down the gage of battle!"
</p>

<p>
With these daring words Angus drew the steel gauntlet from
his right hand, hurled it at the foot of the throne, and withdrew,
followed by Drummond, Hailes, Home, Gray, and others, who
led the bewildered Duke of Rothesay away with them.  The
young Lord Lindesay, and his father the venerable Montrose,
both sprang forward to pick the gauntlet up, but the latter was
successful, and both these loyal nobles, with several others who
loved and pitied the king, followed him to his private cabinet, to
which he immediately withdrew.
</p>

<p>
"Said I not that I would put all Scotland in a flame?"
whispered Borthwick to Sauchie, as he put his foot in the stirrup
to mount at the palace gate.
</p>

<p>
"Yea, and verily thou shalt have, as I promised, three of my
best tenements in Stirling, by deed of a notary's hand," replied
the Laird of Sauchie.
</p>

<p>
Abercrombie the Benedictine, William Dunbar the poet, and
other literary men, were left behind in the hall.  The angry
altercation had somewhat scared them, but they could not resist
an expression of pleasure at the prospect of their enemies, the
military nobles, confronting each other on the field of battle.
</p>

<p>
"I would not, for a king's ransom, be in the boots of him who
penned this specious forgery!" said the chief of our ancient poets,
in his East Lothian patois.
</p>

<p>
"Ay, Willie Dunbar," said Father Abercrombie, "with the
nobles it proposed to slay their eldest sons&mdash;no bad hint."
</p>

<p>
"Why, this would make our poor king a heathen, like the
Jews of old," replied Dunbar.
</p>

<p>
"Yea, and it reminds me of a passage in the first act of the
<i>Electra</i> of Sophocles."
</p>

<p>
"You remember of the pagan emperor, who amused himself
catching flies?" said the translator of Sallust, laughing.
</p>

<p>
"I warrant you, Brother Barclay," replied Dunbar, "the king
will find these carles increase like unto so many wasps.  But hint
not that, even in jest, our blessed king conceived a thought so
vile as that banquet of blood."
</p>

<p>
"Alas!" said the young poet Henrison, sorrowfully, "who
among us can foresee the end of all this?  Life is unstable as
sunshine on the water."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, my good master of arts," replied Barclay, "it is even
our friend Dunbar sings in his sweet Lament&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Our pleasaunce here is all vane glory,<br />
  This false world is but transitory:<br />
  The flesh is bruckle, the fiend is slee&mdash;<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Timor mortis conturbat me!</i>"<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Dunbar gave a gratified smile at this quotation from his
and bowed to the learned Benedictine.  At that moment the
clatter of hoofs drew them all to the north windows of the hall,
and they beheld the noisy train of Angus gallop along the street
with lances uplifted, and his banner with the <i>red heart</i>
displayed.  The earl, with the Duke of Rothesay and others, were
with them, and save the prince, all were brandishing their drawn
swords, and crying, "A Douglas! a Home! to arms!  Remember
the raid of Lauder!"
</p>

<p>
To these tumultuous cries many added others, such as, "No
English alliance, no invasion of Bretagne!  Remember Andrew
Barton!"  And making a terrible din as they poured along the
narrow street, Angus, with five hundred armed men, issued from
the western gate of Dundee, and, conveying the young heir of
Scotland with him, took the road direct for the royal burgh of
Stirling.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap22"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXII.
<br /><br />
THE SILKEN CORD.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Faintingly her head she bendeth,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And on my dim and dewy eyes,<br />
  A kiss her purple mouth bestoweth,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sweet repayment, while she sighs&mdash;<br />
  'Ah, that fondling in thine arms,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Thus may I ever live and die!'<br />
  She ceased, and the heart of Euphrasie<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the joy forgot the sigh."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
We must go a little back in this, our history, to inform the
reader how the daughters of Lord Drummond received his
proposition of making one of them Lady of Home and the other
Lady of Hailes.  He did not find them quite so pliant or
acquiescent as the noble lords for whom he destined them.
</p>

<p>
In the morning, before Margaret's abduction had been
discovered, and when the cold roasted beef, the venison pies, and
tankards of hot spiced ale, on which the good folks of those days
breakfasted, were awaiting them in the dining-hall, he sent
impatiently for Euphemia and Sybilla, and announced his views
regarding them, simply saying that the safety of the state in a
struggle which all men saw approaching required many bonds of
union among the nobles, and that the bonds of matrimony being
the surest, it was requisite, by an alliance with these two military
chiefs, to strengthen his house, as he was now well up in years,
had many enemies, and so forth.
</p>

<p>
Poor Sybilla, whose lover had avowed his passion to none save
herself, and whose claim upon her love and honour were known
to her only, received this startling announcement with terror and
dismay; for it crushed and bewildered her like a sentence of
death.  But Euphemia, who was proud and fiery, and the day of
whose marriage with Robert Barton had been already named,
and was now only postponed in consequence of his father's death,
received the proposal with astonishment, and with the
indignation it merited.
</p>

<p>
"My father, this cannot be!" she exclaimed, setting her pretty
foot firmly on the floor, and nervously adjusting her satin hood,
"you know that I am solemnly, and by a ritual of our Church,
promised and affianced to Robert Barton.  My uncle, the Dean
of Dunblane, heard my <i>trothplight</i> at the altar, when I received
this betrothal ring; our promise of marriage is sanctioned and
blessed by the Church, and can no more be broken than the band
of marriage itself, without committing sacrilege and sin."
</p>

<p>
The old lord fidgetted about, for he felt the truth of what she
said.
</p>

<p>
"Oh think again, dearest father, of what you require of us?"
added Euphemia.
</p>

<p>
"Us&mdash;<i>us</i>?  I address myself to you, in the first place, Dame
Euphemia.  The noble lovers I provide for you are not to be
trifled with, and will assuredly brush from their path the son of
Barton the merchant&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Sir Andrew Barton, the knight and admiral," interposed
Euphemia&mdash;"Barton the Laird of Barnton and Almondell!"
</p>

<p>
"Barton umquhile skipper and trader," said the father, angrily,
as he tore open the ribbons of his doublet and walked hurriedly
up and down the oak floor, stamping hard on his red-heeled
boots at every turn.
</p>

<p>
"Dear father," urged the plaintive voice of Sybilla, "bethink
thee what our dearest mother would have thought of such a
proposition."
</p>

<p>
"Just what she thought when such a proposition was made to
her thirty years ago&mdash;God assoilize her!  She was a good and
loving wife to me, and yet&mdash;dost know how we came to be
espoused?"
</p>

<p>
"Because you loved her, I would hope."
</p>

<p>
"Loved&mdash;fiddlestick! not a bit, at that time at least.  When
I was a beardless young callant, the Murrays of Athole marched
into Strathearn, and came down by the woods of Ochtertyre
and Comrie, with pipes playing and banners displayed, to harry
the lands of Drummond of Mewie, and levy at the sword's
point the tiends of the kirk of St. Ronan at Monzievaird.
Mewie was slain by them&mdash;shot dead by three arrows.  This was
not to be borne!  I marched with all the stout lads of the
stewartry against the Murrays, but they were too strong for me
then, and I was obliged to <i>gang warily</i> until Lord Crawford
offered to lend me five hundred lances from Angus.  We soon
cleared all Upper Strathearn of the Murrays, and drove them
through Glenturrit and Glenlednock.  We besieged them in
St. Ronan's kirk&mdash;fired its heather roof, burned one half of them
alive, and claymored the rest.  In gratitude to Crawford, who
had more daughters than he knew what to do with, I married
Elizabeth Lindesay, and a good wife and true she was to
me&mdash;although at first she made many a moan, for she had been
affianced to Drummond of Mewie; but who cares for woman's tears
when trumpets are blown?"
</p>

<p>
"Father," said Euphemia, "thou forgettest that a woman has
but one heart to lose&mdash;one heart to bestow."
</p>

<p>
"'Sdeath!  I shall lose my patience, and bestow my curse on
some of ye.  Some harper or balladeer, some tramper or Egyptian
hath put this stuff into your head.  Whoever heard of hearts
or lovers standing in the way of great lords&mdash;of castles and broad
acres&mdash;of bands of mail-clad men?  Stuff, I tell thee, Effie;
Hailes and Home will both be made earls, and you shall both
become countesses.  I swear by every altar in yonder kirk of
Mary, you shall!  We have had a queen and a Lady of the Isles
in the family, but never a countess yet!"
</p>

<p>
"Father, this cruelty and sacrilege will break my heart&mdash;it
will kill me."
</p>

<p>
"I never heard of a lusty lass like thee being killed by
marriage yet.  Now do not provoke me, for my mind is made up.
Come hither, Sybilla; thou wilt not take a plaguey love-fit to vex
thy old father?"
</p>

<p>
"Alas! father&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"What! 'sdeath! hast thou no heart either, and wilt thou
become a contumacious gipsy?"
</p>

<p>
"Hear me, dear father&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"I'll hear nothing but thy promise to be the bride of Hailes,
or of Home, I care not which; but one you shall have, so settle it
between ye.  They are both brave and handsome gallants, with
a good retinue at their cruppers.  I have no time for more of
this," he continued, buckling on his enormous sword; "or for
reponding to the devil's litanies of such gadabouts as either
of ye."
</p>

<p>
The announcement of Lady Margaret's disappearance gave a
sudden change to this extraordinary conversation, and springing
at a wrong conclusion, Lord Drummond impetuously rushed
away in search of Rothesay, whom, as already related, he met in
St. Clement's Wynd, from whence they proceeded to the poor
king, leaving Sybilla and Euphemia overwhelmed with grief and
consternation by this new and sudden calamity; for no trace of
Margaret could be found, and the discovery of her poor little babe,
concealed in the alcove of the turret, served but to augment their
sorrow and perplexity.
</p>

<p>
Next morning the anchors of the frigate were barely down
before Jamie Gair, who acted as pilot, and others who came off in
the shore-boats, informed those on board of the strange rumours
then current in Dundee.  One man informed Archy the boatswain
of how the Lady Margaret Drummond had been carried off
by the king's order, and drowned in the pools of Errol; another
told Master Wad how Angus and Drummond had quarrelled with
the king, and would have slain him but for the timely intervention
of the French ambassador, the Mareschal de Concressault,
and the Lord High Constable; a hundred other stories, equally
absurd and improbable, were heard by other members of the crew;
and the excitement which evidently prevailed ashore, caused some
alarm on board of the ships.
</p>

<p>
The admiral doubled the guard of arquebusses on the poop and
forecastle, loaded the cannon, moored the ships with a spring
upon their cables, ordered that all boats should be kept a bow-shot
off, and desiring the barge to be piped away, hurried ashore
with all her crew armed by jacks of mail below their canvas
gaberdines.
</p>

<p>
Falconer, Barton, and the admiral were in half armour.  The
latter hastened to the presence of the afflicted king, whom he
found highly excited by his late altercation with Angus and
Rothesay; while the two companions&mdash;the lovers&mdash;repaired to
the mansion of Stobhall.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick, whom Sir Patrick Gray had desired to act as a spy
upon the inmates of that stately residence from the moment the
ships had been seen in the estuary, threw himself, sans leave, upon
a coalier's horse, which he found tethered to a ring in St. Clement's
Wynd, and galloped to Broughty, where the malcontent noblesse
were assembled in solemn but somewhat angry conclave; and
there he informed Lord Drummond and his two intended sons-in-law
that the young ladies had visitors.  Upon this, the trio
formed a little plot within their greater conspiracy, to remove, or
as Lord Drummond said, to brush Barton and Falconer from their
path for ever, and if possible to entrap the good old admiral, and
get the two king's ships into their own hands; for the <i>Yellow
Frigate</i> and the <i>Margaret</i> were then the flower of the Scottish
fleet, which, in the infancy of our maritime affairs, mustered only
a few sail.
</p>

<p>
In that time England had no more; for Henry VII. and
Henry VIII., when requiring ships for warlike purposes, seized
without ceremony upon the largest merchantmen in their English
ports.  In 1512 the fleet of James IV. consisted of forty-six sail,
and was in no way inferior to the fleets of Henry of England or
Don Emanuel, King of Portugal.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick, a wretch whose whole life had been a lie, a cheat,
a web of mischief and infamy, informed the three lords that
Robert Barton was in the house with Lady Euphemia, and that
Sir David Falconer was in the garden with her sister.  On this
they all rushed to their horses, summoned the Lairds of Carnock
and Balloch and other armed followers of trust, and left the tower
of Broughty intent on some desperate outrage.
</p>

<p>
"So, then, 'tis Falconer whom Sybilla loves," said Hailes;
"and 'tis she whom I have made up my mind to win if I can.  I
have observed that in his presence she always became brighter
and more beautiful.  I was sharp enough to see that a spell was
upon her; but I had no idea then that she would ever be more
to me than her aunt, the old dame of Montrose."
</p>

<p>
"Prick on! prick on!" urged Home, spurring his horse; "we
will soon teach these varlets the penalty of raising their eyes to
noble ladies."
</p>

<p>
Unaware of the coming storm, Barton sat with Euphemia in
the chamber of dais; and Falconer with Sybilla in a summer
house or alcove at the foot of the garden, the southern boundary
of which was the bed of the Tay.
</p>

<p>
Shaded from the brilliant sun of noon by the trellis-work, the
thick honeysuckle and the privet, the lovers sat within their
bower.  The shining river chafed the yellow sand at their feet
in all its greenness and verdure, the opposite coast seemed to
palpitate in a blaze of light; and midway between, with all their
yards squared by the boatswain's critical eye, their white sails
neatly handed, and their great blue ensigns drooping listlessly
over their carved poops, the stately caravels of the Laird of Largo
rode at their moorings with their heads to the ebbing tide.
</p>

<p>
Believing that none were watching and that none could see
them, Sybilla, in the excess of grief for her sister's mysterious
disappearance, had thrown herself upon the breast of Falconer.
All his whispers were full of hope and affection, and Sybilla wept
while she listened.  Confined in its caul of gold, her glossy hair
hung in a heavy cluster on the shoulder of Sir David, and her
hands were locked in his.  The lover endeavoured to convince
her that their sad and gentle Margaret was not, as the credulous
burghers averred, destroyed by the king, but most probably was
abducted by him or young Rothesay, and secured in some of the
royal castles, but for what end none could then foresee; at all
events, to be assured that her safety was certain, and that they
would infallibly hear of her soon, as none could have a pretext
for injuring a being so good and gentle.  Sybilla allowed herself
to be persuaded, and a faint smile began to steal over her soft
and downcast face.
</p>

<p>
Never did the rich costume of the court of James III. appear
to better advantage than on the fine form of Sybilla Drummond.
Her kirtle was of green brocade, and an open robe of cloth-of-silver
fell behind her, edged with fur and lined with white satin.
Her girdle was of silver, and there, as at her white forehead, her
swelling bosom and delicate little ears, hung long pearl pendants.
</p>

<p>
Women are said "to love those who follow desperate professions;"
but in those days, though the men of Scotland were all
desperate fellows, they had no professions to follow save the
church, the sword, or the sea; so it was rather the chivalric
uprightness of his character, the gallantry of his bearing, and the
superiority which his educated mind gave him over the brutal
barons and unlettered lords of her time, that made Sybilla yield
up her pure and simple love to this young soldier, who was one
of James's favourites, and a protégé; for his father had died in
battle on the deck of his ship, defending the harbour of Blackness
when assailed by the English fleet seven years before.
</p>

<p>
They did not speak much, this young and dreaming pair, for
their hearts were too full of tenderness and hope, desperate hope,
that their love might be successful; and being loth to pain
unnecessarily the heart of her lover, Sybilla, unlike the haughty
Euphemia, did not confide to him the intentions of her father
regarding that young noble whom he had sworn to make his
son-in-law at all hazards; but with the superstition incident to
her time, rather than to herself, she enumerated a number of
omens of impending evil which now can only excite a smile&mdash;and
Falconer smiled at them even then.
</p>

<p>
Yesterday, when going to the chapel of the Grey Sisters in the
Overgaitt, ahe had seen a single crow flying straight before
her&mdash;an infallible omen of mischance; and this morning at sunrise,
when watching the swans that swam on the river, one uttered a
wild, wailing, and melodious sound, such as she had never heard
before.  She thought it was enchanted; but an hour after it was
seen to float upon the water with outstretched wings, quite
dead&mdash;another terrible omen!
</p>

<p>
"The swan was dying, dearest Sybie, and was singing its own
sweet dirge," replied Falconer; "but thou hast heard what few
have the fortune to hear&mdash;though there is nothing wonderful in
it.  If Archy of Anster our wight boatswain were here, he could
tell thee of stranger things; of an ocean where the fish turn all
manner of beautiful colours before they die; of gigantic plants
that flower but once in a hundred years, and happy is he who
beholds them then; of islands where every tree utters a melodious
sound when the soft wind sweeps through their fairy leaves, and of
birds that live for six long centuries, and having no mate, burn
themselves to death in a nest of spices, from whence a young one
springs forth with all its plumage sprouting&mdash;the phoenix of
Arabia!  In the bosom of Nature, dearest, there is hidden many a
secret of which we know nothing."
</p>

<p>
"I have heard Father Zuill speak of such things to my sister
Margaret," said Sybilla, weeping at her name.
</p>

<p>
"Our chaplain&mdash;ah! he hopes one day to invent a mirror
which will consume ships and cities, scorch forests to charcoal,
and mountains to cinders, and put cannon and arquebusses
quite out of fashion, like the mangonels and balistæ of the
olden time.  What would become of me then?  I should have
to learn some other trade than soldiering, or go to battle with a
mirror on my back.  It is the insanity of science."
</p>

<p>
"Yet I have heard that your old Dominican is a famous
preacher."
</p>

<p>
"Ay, Willie Wad, our gunner, swears that when he expounded
on the Deluge, one day, all the fishes arose from the
water and sat upon their tails to hear his discourse, as they of
old to St. Anthony, when he preached.  But Cuddie, the
admiral's coxswain, averred that it was only because they had
more reason to be grateful than other animals, being the sole
portion of the animated creation that escaped the great flood in
the days of old Admiral Noah.  But thou dost not smile,
Sybie&mdash;sweet-heart."
</p>

<p>
Between these two there was a reciprocity of sentiment so
complete, that conversation was, perhaps, little wanted at that
sad and anxious interview.  Neither had a thought, a hope, or
a fear, in which the other did not participate; and now, for more
than another hour they sat dreaming side by side, or only
exchanging mute and little caresses, as Sybilla reclined her head
on Falconer's shoulder.  Her eyes were fixed on the still flow of
the sunlit Tay, while his were gazing on the radiance and
serenity of her pure and delicate face.
</p>

<p>
He thought that a time <i>might</i> come when this dear spell would
be broken&mdash;when the tendril that clung to him, this gentle one
who had entwined herself around his heart, and who loved him
with all the purity and fervour of a young and confiding girl,
would be torn from him and given to another.  It might be;
such things happened often in Scotland then; and at that
foreboding thought, a frown wrinkled the brow of Falconer; a cold
anguish entered his heart, and he was obliged to turn away, lest
the timid Sybilla should see the expression of menace which he
knew such a terrible anticipation wrought upon his features.
Was this a foreboding of what was to come?
</p>

<p>
At such moments Falconer would feel the white straight brow
of Sybilla come nearer his cheek, and her hand tighten its clasp
in his; then his angry fears evaporated, in the tenderness that
mute caress inspired.
</p>

<p>
Poor lovers! they heard not the stealthy steps that were
creeping down the gravel walks; they saw not the fierce and
mocking eyes of those who, from without the leafy bower, were
watching, with mingled scorn and amusement, this interchange
of endearments and this purity of soul, in which they could not
share; for, acting on the information received from Borthwick,
those inseparable companions, Hailes and Home, with the Lairds
of Carnock, Balloch, and others, were all close by, armed and
intent on some deed of cruelty.
</p>

<p>
Suddenly their ominous shadows darkened the sunny entrance
of the bower!  The lovers started, and beheld five or six pairs
of eyes regarding them with expressions of menace and
insolence.
</p>

<p>
"Villain, draw!" said Lord Hailes, imperiously.
</p>

<p>
"'Pon my soul, you have a polite way of announcing yourself,"
said Falconer, scornfully, as he drew his sword and placed
himself before the terrified Sybilla, around whom he threw his left
arm as a protection.
</p>

<p>
"I most humbly crave pardon for this unpleasant intrusion,
Lady Sybilla," said Hailes, uncovering his head, and bowing till
his plumed bonnet swept the grass&mdash;but bowing with bitter
irony: "we must hale forth this man, whose presence disgraces
you."
</p>

<p>
"Fellow, come forth!" cried Home, unsheathing his sword;
"the crows shall hold thy lykewake to-night."
</p>

<p>
"Gie him Lauder Brig owre again," said Drummond of Carnock,
making a thrust, which drew a shrill cry from Sybilla, and
a successful parry from Falconer, whose sword twisted the other's
blade out of his hand, and sent it flying over a tree-top behind
him.
</p>

<p>
"A devil of a fellow this!" said Balloch.
</p>

<p>
"An insolent churl!" added the two lords.
</p>

<p>
"Allow me to suggest to your lordships the cultivation of
courage as a quality&mdash;the acquisition of politeness being an
impossibility," said Falconer, with a withering glance.
</p>

<p>
At this sneer the rage of his assailants knew no bounds; and
they lunged at him again and again severally and with all their
swords together, but being within the bower he kept them
completely at bay.
</p>

<p>
"Come forth, I tell thee, villain!" said Home, imperiously,
"that I may handsel a new sword on thy plebeian head."
</p>

<p>
"Proud lord," said Falconer, as by one well-directed thrust he
pierced the sword-arm of Hailes; "ere long we will teach thee,
and such as thee, who fight only to uphold long pedigrees and
overweening privileges, that the Scottish people will not submit
to be trampled on by a horde of titled traitors."
</p>

<p>
"May I die, fellow, but thou shalt eat these words," cried
Hailes, hoarsely, and still pressing on, while his sword-arm
dripped with blood.
</p>

<p>
"I know one thing thou wilt never die of&mdash;shame," said
Falconer, laughing, as he thrust him back at full length on the
sward.  At that moment, the gallant young arquebussier, who
was so fully occupied in front that he did not hear Borthwick
breaking through the bower behind him, suddenly felt his arms
seized by that personage; and then his assailants, two of whom
were infuriated by wounds, rushed upon him; tore the screaming
Sybilla from his arm, wrested away his sword, and dashed him
to the earth.  Now there was an ominous pause, as to whether or
not they should despatch him at once.
</p>

<p>
"Gie him Lauder Brig, I till ye!" cried Balloch again.
</p>

<p>
"Thou art right, laird," said Home, fiercely; "but we have no
tent cords."
</p>

<p>
"But here is my scarf," said Hailes, whose hands clutched the
throat of Falconer like a tiger's fangs.  "Knot me a noose some
of you, and pull with a will."
</p>

<p>
"Quick," added Carnock; "pull&mdash;pull!  By Saint Beelzebub,
my fine fellow, thou wilt soon look like a gled nailed on a
byre-door."
</p>

<p>
In the hands of so many, Sir David Falconer, though young,
powerful, and athletic, was completely overmastered; and now
ensued one of those terrible scenes which so often darkened the
annals of our country.  The scarf, which was of soft silk, was
tied round Falconer's neck in a slip-knot, with grim deliberation.
</p>

<p>
"Save me from this butchery, Lord Home&mdash;for <i>her</i> sake," said
Falconer, making tremendous efforts to free himself; "or, at
least, remove her in pity.  Hear me, Home&mdash;thou wert once
loyal and gallant."
</p>

<p>
"Peace, villain," replied that ferocious peer, as he smote the
brave suppliant full and heavily on the mouth with his hand.
</p>

<p>
"Mercy," implored Sybilla, sinking on her knees, and clinging
to the hand of Borthwick, who held her as in a giant's grasp;
"mercy for him, and for the love of God!  Man&mdash;man&mdash;thou
hast been a priest, and must yet remember that the merciful are
blessed, for they shall obtain mercy.  Have pity!  O have pity;
by the Star of Heaven, by the Queen of Angels, I implore you
to have pity!"
</p>

<p>
But Borthwick, who was wholly employed in looking down
upon that snowy bosom, of which her kneeling position enabled
him to see more than was ever meant for eyes like his, heeded
her not; but grasped her with the strength and tenacity of an
iron vice; and now, while her cries and entreaties would have
melted the hearts of any men but those of the Scottish noblesse
of 1488, these miscreants began to strangle and drag Falconer,
by the knotted scarf, towards the river.
</p>

<p>
"For God's love&mdash;for her sake&mdash;gentlemen&mdash;my Lord's&mdash;good
sirs, do not murder me thus before her face&mdash;before her; remove
her&mdash;beloved Sybilla&mdash;pity, pity&mdash;mercy, am I to die like a
dog&mdash;for her&mdash;for her sake, monsters&mdash;God!&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
The tightening of the knot cut short the cries of Falconer,
who in that terrible moment thought only of Sybilla; but dragged
as he was by the throat, strangulation immediately ensued; his
handsome features became swollen, livid, and frightful; his
eyeballs protruded.  He tossed his arms about him wildly; but the
third time he was dragged round the bower, he was senseless,
lifeless, and stiff; and the assassins, after bestowing a few
parting kicks on the body, carefully sheathed their swords, which
had been lying on the ground, and retired, leisurely and without
precipitation.
</p>

<p>
"Adieu, lady," said Lord Hailes, with a stern loftiness of
manner; "now we have revenged your honour on this
presumptuous churl."
</p>

<p>
"Farewell, and I give you joy of your lemane, sweet madam,"
said Borthwick, mockingly, as he released her.
</p>

<p>
With a shriek Sybilla sprang to the breathless body of her
lover.  Her fingers were trembling, weak, and powerless; thus
she strove fruitlessly to loosen the hateful scarf which encircled
his neck.  The attempt was vain, for there was no strength
in her.
</p>

<p>
Then, overcome by the frightful, swollen, and blackened aspect
of that beloved face, she uttered another wild, despairing cry, and
fell prostrate and senseless upon him.
</p>

<p>
So ended this scene of horror!
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap23"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXIII.
<br /><br />
LORD DRUMMOND AND ROBERT BARTON
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "How can I 'scape Antonia!&mdash;how evade<br />
  A father's stern inflexible decree?<br />
  Paint but the means, I ne'er shall be afraid<br />
  To tread a path prescribed by love and thee."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Bridal of Pisa</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
While this atrocity was acted in the garden, and about a pistol
shot distant from the mansion, Robert Barton received from
Lady Euphemia a sorrowful and excited explanation of her
father's new and peculiar views regarding herself and her sister;
on hearing which the lover lost all patience, and said all one
might be supposed to say on receiving such startling information.
David Falconer would, perhaps, have heard it in silent sorrow,
for he felt himself poor and powerless; but the wealthy heir of
old Sir Andrew Barton had no doubt on the subject of his own
conduct.
</p>

<p>
"'Zounds, Effie, what is this you tell me?  Would your father,
Lord of that ilk, and Steward of Strathearn though he be, wrest
thee from me? thee whom the Church hath given me&mdash;who art
all but my wife, and wear on that dear hand the betrothal ring,
which soon must be a bridal one?  No, no!  Yonder lieth the
frigate, and the barge's crew are at the Craig of St. Nicholas;
say but the word, and I shall place the broad waters of the Tay
between thee and these Lords of Home and Hailes!  They may be
the prouder and the sterner, but that they are either richer or
better men than Robert Barton of Leith I deny.  'Sdeath, 'tis
little I value such holiday loons!  Mass!  I would like rarely
to see them both piped aloft in a close-reefed topsail breeze to send
down the topgallant-yard, or haul out a weather-earing!  On my
faith, it would be a sight for old Andrew Wood."
</p>

<p>
"Alas! they have seldom less than each a thousand lances at
their back; and thou, dear Robert, hath none."
</p>

<p>
"None, say ye, Effie?  I have every man in yonder <i>Yellow
Frigate</i>, and the <i>Queen Margaret</i> to boot; I have every seaman
in Leith and Dundee.  Faith!  I would not lie in the hosen of
him who wronged the son of Andrew Barton; but to let these
lordlings get the weathergage of me and Davie Falconer&mdash;Hailes
and Home&mdash;two varlets only fit for carrying powder or wringing
wet swabs&mdash;no, no, Effie, it never shall be!"
</p>

<p>
"But alack! they are both brave and determined."
</p>

<p>
"Likely enough&mdash;brave fellows in smooth water; but I'll
teach them how to dip their spoons in the captain's mess; by
St. Mary I will!"
</p>

<p>
Euphemia Drummond threw herself upon his breast and wept,
as she said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Surely, they will never have the evil heart to take me from
thee?  Oh, were my uncle the dean, or our good friend the old
bishop here, they dared not even to think of it."
</p>

<p>
"But your uncle the dean is attending a chapter at Dunblane,
and our good friend the bishop is drinking King Henry's sack in
London Tower, to which he has been wantonly conveyed a
prisoner, by those same Englishmen who quite as wantonly slew
my poor father on the open seas.  But some one approaches&mdash;'tis
thy father, Effie; leave me to speak with him on this
matter&mdash;for a moment only, my sweet one."
</p>

<p>
As the old lord raised the arras at one end of the apartment
and entered, his eldest daughter retired by a door at the other;
and Robert Barton, while his heart swelled with sorrow and
honest indignation, approached with a lowering brow the father of
the girl he loved, and one whom until now he had ever esteemed
is a dear and venerable friend.
</p>

<p>
"Good my lord," said he, "I pray you to pardon me, if
I intrude upon the grief occasioned by the disappearance of
Lady Margaret, by making a humble offer of my service and
assistance."
</p>

<p>
"I thank you, Master Robert Barton," replied Lord Drummond,
with something of confusion and much of stern coldness
in his manner; "but I believe that to the king&mdash;and to him
only&mdash;must I look for the restoration of my dearest and most
gentle daughter."
</p>

<p>
"To the king?&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Ay, to the king!  I spoke plain enough.  She is the wedded
wife of his son, the Duke of Rothesay&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Rothesay!"
</p>

<p>
"Ay, ye well may start; but James, still hankering after
those grasping Tudors (may God confound them all!) liked not
the match, and hath had her kidnapped.  He hath dared to do this;
but the act shall cost him a crown, should I spend the last of my
breath and the last of my blood to tear it from his brow.  False
king!" he added, apostrophising the wall; "didst thou forget
even for a moment that she was a daughter of Lord Drummond?"
</p>

<p>
"Hark you, my lord; I am the king's liegeman, and deplore
you should nurse thoughts of treason, or have such words of
danger on your tongue; but still more do I deplore that you
should harbour in your heart sentiments repugnant to the principles
of honour, and to the happiness of your eldest daughter."
</p>

<p>
A flush of anger reddened the brow of the proud old noble.
</p>

<p>
"What mean you, Captain Barton?" he asked.
</p>

<p>
"Why, my lord, have you proposed to cast me adrift&mdash;I who
am affianced to Euphemia, and who love her with a true and
honest heart?  Come, my lord, be fair and above-board with me;
remember that our dear Effie is my plighted wife&mdash;plighted and
betrothed to me in happier times than these."
</p>

<p>
"Pledges made in peace are often broken in war," replied the
noble, coldly, and without noticing a gesture of impatience which
escaped the honest seaman; for he remembered how anxious the
conspirators at Broughty were to obtain the king's ships.  In his
ambition to achieve this, and also obtain vengeance upon James,
he condescended to subterfuge.
</p>

<p>
"Captain Barton," said he in a low voice, "all correspondence
between the king and his nobles is at an end, and another day
may see their swords unsheathed against him.  Promise me,
should this event occur," he continued, sinking his voice into a
whisper, "that you will contrive to have yonder war ships
delivered unto such captains and mariners as the vice-admiral who
acts under his Grace the Duke of Albany may appoint; or that
you will serve the nobles&mdash;and my pledge to you may yet remain
inviolate."
</p>

<p>
"<i>May</i>?  God forgive thee, thou subtle old man, for such a cruel
alternative," replied Barton, with deep emotion, while his eyes
filled and their lashes trembled.  "I love your daughter better
than my life; Heaven knows how long I have loved your Effie,
how dearly and how well; but I also love that good king who
was ever my father's friend; and the curse of that dead father
would arise from his grave in the Englishman's sea, and follow
me to the end of my days on sea and on land, if I proved false to
my allegiance.  My dear Effie! accursed be the policy which
would make thee the boon for which I am to barter name and
fame, honour and soul!"
</p>

<p>
Lord Drummond whose perceptions of right and wrong (never
too clear at any time) were somewhat clouded and warped by the
quarrel of the barons and king, against whom he now felt a
deadly hatred, witnessed this deep burst of feeling unmoved, for
he had not the smallest intention of yielding up his daughter to
her betrothed, even though the latter were base enough to betray
the admiral and surrender those great caravels, which were the
terror of the northern sea, and the flower of the infant navy.
</p>

<p>
"You will not join us, and deliver up two paltry ships,"
resumed the politic tempter; "what! not even for a bride so
fair?"
</p>

<p>
"No&mdash;not as the king's rebellious subject."
</p>

<p>
"So, so," muttered the lord, impatiently, "if you go from
this on your feet, you may warn James of the cloud that gathers
round his throne."
</p>

<p>
"Alas!  I will never betray your lordship.  As the father of
Euphemia, I almost considered you mine.  Heaven judge between
us, my lord, for I love and revere you still; natheless, this
duplicity to me, and this falsehood to our beloved king."
</p>

<p>
Instead of being touched by the depth of feeling displayed by
Robert Barton, the cruel noble now only feared that in his efforts
to serve that desperate cause in which he had enlisted himself,
he had betrayed too much to the king's true man, and saw at
once the danger thus incurred.  Raising the arras, he whispered
to young Drummond of Mewie, who stood without, and was in
attendance upon him,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Summon Carnock, Balloch, and their people; they are loitering
in the hall, the street, or garden.  Tell them that this man
knoweth more than should be risked with others than ourselves.
Dost thou comprehend me?"
</p>

<p>
Mewie, a savage-looking and unscrupulous young Celt from
Strathearn, muttered something under the thick red beard that
fell in shaggy volume under the brow of his steel cap, while he
grinned and withdrew.  Then Lord Drummond turned once
more to poor Barton, who, under the old noble's calm exterior,
could never have divined the deadly intentions of one he loved so
well, but gazed sadly at him as if he sought to gather some new
hope for himself and for Euphemia.
</p>

<p>
"Then in this approaching raid, Captain Barton, you will
permit that long Toledo of yours to rust in its velvet scabbard?"
</p>

<p>
"Not if the king's enemies are in the field; but, good my
lord, let us talk of that which is nearer my heart than broil or
battle.  Consider how this sudden enmity to me has filled my
soul with sorrow.  Oh, my lord, to say how much poor Effie and
I have loved each other were a vain and useless task; but to
reflect that the very day on which we were to wed was
named&mdash;to think&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Come, come," replied Drummond, with a lowering brow and a
grim smile, as he heard the trampling of feet in the arcades
below, and knew that his clansman, Mewie, and others were
assembling there; "this may not be; Cupid must not shoot his
shafts amid a civil war, nor Hymen light his torch at the flame of
burning towns.  We can have no dalliance now; the dame to
her bower, and the knight to his saddle.  If, Robert Barton,
thou wilt deliver up Sir Andrew Wood and the king's ships to
the governor of Broughty, thou mayst yet have thy bride; to
not, seek a mate in another nest than the house of Drummond,
and as its foe, <i>gang warily</i>.  Fare ye well, sir,&mdash;ha! ha! my
daughters shall wed with new made earls."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis true, my lord, I am no noble, and consequently I am the
better Scotsman; but I believe I am rich enough to please even
you.  My father has left me a fair estate upon the Forth and
Almond, where the land is so fertile that, as the old rhyme says,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "A rood of land on links of Forth<br />
  Is worth an earldom in the north."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
"I care not," replied Lord Drummond, doggedly; "thou shalt
never have daughter of mine, wert thou rich as James III., and
rumour says his black chest in the castle of Edinburgh is
brimming with ingots and precious stones.  I will not wed a
Drummond to the son of a merchant trader."
</p>

<p>
"My Lord,"&mdash;Barton began, proudly&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Nay, nay," interrupted the old lord, impatiently; "get thee
some huckster lass about the timber holfe, at Leith; she will
better suit old Barton's son than will a daughter of the Steward
of Strathearn."
</p>

<p>
At this gross speech Barton grew deadly pale, and laid a hand
on his sword, but immediately relinquished it, saying with
calmness,
</p>

<p>
"No insult will tempt me to forget that you are the father of
my dear Euphemia; that your hairs are grey as my poor father's
were; and more than all, that (alas!) you loved me once!"
</p>

<p>
"Zounds, fellow, I shall lose all patience!" replied the lord,
angrily, for, in truth, he felt ashamed of himself, and wished to
be worked up into a passion.  "Wouldst thou place thyself in
competition with the Lord Home, the son of the Hereditary
Bailie of Coldinghome, or with the Lord Hailes, the son of that
gallant peer who slew the Lieutenant-general of England at the
battle of Sark, and won that glorious day for Scotland?"
</p>

<p>
"The son of Sir Andrew Barton may compete with any man!
True, <i>he</i> began life as a poor ship-boy and skipper's varlet; but
he died a knight and Laird of Barnton.  Woe to both Home and
Hailes, if they come within arm's-length of me; some day I may
overhaul them, and show them the foretop with a vengeance!
Farewell, my lord; when next we meet I will not trouble you
with entreaties even for your daughter; and so, till then, God
keep you."
</p>

<p>
Barton bowed, and with a heart swollen almost to bursting
with rage and grief, and a brain that seemed to swim under the
influence of his conflicting emotions, he staggered from the
chamber, and descended unattended to the outer-door, and with
all the aspect of a man flushed with wine.  On gaining the
pavement he saw the Drummonds of Carnock, Balloch, and
Mewie, all with the holly-branch in their bonnets or helmets,
loitering under the arcades in the Fish-street, and all well armed.
He was hurrying past them towards St. Clement's Wynd, when
some one called aloud,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Hallo!&mdash;Captain Barton!"
</p>

<p>
Too much occupied by his own bitter thoughts, he did not hear
the cry, but walked hurriedly on.
</p>

<p>
"Dost thou not hear us, rascal?" cried several voices.
</p>

<p>
Barton now turned to discover who was addressed.
</p>

<p>
"Ah," said Lord Hailes, who with Home and others issued
into the street, "I thought he would know we meant <i>him</i>."
</p>

<p>
"Villain!" said Barton, unsheathing his sword, and trembling
with a terrible joy; "what mean you by this?"
</p>

<p>
"By the black rood, my fine fellow, but your tone is high for
a skipper of Leith!" said Home.
</p>

<p>
"It is the tone to which I am entitled."
</p>

<p>
"Ah, we shall prove that," said Borthwick, drawing his
sword, while his eyes gleamed with cruelty and malice; and the
rest, to the number of seven or eight, also unsheathed their
weapons.
</p>

<p>
Barton did not wait for the attack but fell on bravely, dealing
long and sweeping cuts with many a thrust between.  One of the
latter ripped up the sword-arm of Borthwick, and hurled him
against the wall of a house; one of the former fell full upon
the harnpan which Lord Hailes wore under his velvet bonnet,
and rolled him ignominiously in the gutter; but the rest closed
in, fighting in a circle, and notwithstanding his bravery, skill,
and that strength of arm peculiar to all seamen, Barton would
have been beaten down and slain without mercy had not the
sudden arrival of old Sir Andrew Wood, Cuddie Clewline, the
coxswain, and the whole barge's crew, armed with boatstretchers
and poniards, given a sudden change to the aspect of the conflict.
With a stentorian shout, such as only can come from the throats
of those who are wont to out-bellow the wind and waves, they
rushed into the fray, with cries of&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Ho for Barton!  Clear the hause here, loons and lubbers!
Ware your gingerbread masters&mdash;Largo for ever!"
</p>

<p>
Barton, who had been driven back against the wall of a house,
was soon freed, and his assailants put to immediate flight, but
not before several severe blows had been given and received.
With the admiral there was a tall and handsome man, who was
clad in a coat of rich gold brocade, and whose face was concealed
by a salade.  This person immediately assailed Lord Home with
great impetuosity, and at every blow cried&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Down with the traitor nobles&mdash;perdition to the foemen of
the king!"
</p>

<p>
Home met him with great resolution, but on receiving from
Caddie a side blow, right in the pit of the stomach, this great
lord of the Merse was doubled up, as the admiral said, "like a bolt
of old canvas," and stretched without breath on the causeway.
</p>

<p>
"Now that we have cleared the fairway, let us trip our
anchors and be off," said the admiral, "for Home has a hundred
mosstroopers and more in the market-place.  Away to the Craig
of St. Nicholas, my lads, and shove off!"
</p>

<p>
They soon reached the landing-place and sprung into the
barge; the oars were shipped, Barton grasped the tiller, and with
the blue ensign trailing in the water astern, they pulled away
towards the ships.  In his excitement the captain forgot his poor
friend Falconer; then suddenly the recollection flashed upon him;
he turned to address the admiral, when lo! he found that the
tall gentleman whose voice and sword had been so active in
Fish-street, had now removed his salade, and was no other than
the&mdash;king!
</p>

<p>
On recognising him, the barge's crew suspended rowing for s
moment, and doffed the bonnets amid deep silence, while Barton
also uncovered.
</p>

<p>
"Give way, my lads," said the admiral, smiling; "'tis his
Majesty the King, who, finding only falsehood and rascality
among the loggerheads ashore, is coming to sail merrily with us
on the sea, where we shall teach him how to knot and splice, to
grease a mast, to hand, reef, and steer, and to sleep in the
topgallant-sail, as soundly as in the Castle of Stirling.  Barton," he
added, in a whisper, "the nobles are rising in arms; the men of
Angus are already mustering in the Howe, and the barons hold
conclave at the Tower of Broughty.  We are on the eve of a
dark rebellion, and as yet, nowhere hereabout could the king be
safe but on board the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>."
</p>

<p>
Barton bowed, for he had no words to reply in.  His heart
was already too full of anxieties of his own&mdash;anger, bitterness, and
sorrow, not unmingled with fear for the persecution that might
be endured by Euphemia, and the domestic tyranny to which she
might be subjected.
</p>

<p>
In a few minutes they were close to the frigate.  Cuddie
caught the mainchains by his hook, and the boat sheered
alongside the steps.  The boatswain's pipe was heard&mdash;the kettledrum
beat, and the arquebussiers stood to their arms as the king
stepped on board, followed by Wood and Barton.  He was then
marshalled with great formality and the deepest respect to the
great cabin.
</p>

<p>
Then the royal standard, the yellow banner with the red lion
rampant, was hoisted at the mainmast-head, to indicate that the
king was on board.  On this appearing, a commotion was observable
immediately on board the <i>Margaret</i>, which lay a bowshot
further up the river; her drum was beaten and her barge's crew
piped away, to bring old Sir Alexander Mathieson, "the King of
the Sea," on board the Admiral, while all her port-lids were
triced up, and the cannon run out.
</p>

<p>
The salutes of the two great ships, which fired each a hundred
guns, announced to the people of Dundee and of the opposite
coast, that the king was on board.  Hence arose that rumour,
which proved perhaps so fatal to the interests of James&mdash;<i>that he
had abdicated</i>, and was going with Admiral Wood to Holland
or Flanders.  Circulated industriously by the highborn enemies
of the throne, the report spread like wildfire, and though there
were no means of travelling in those days but on foot or on
horseback, it was known with many strange additions at the cross of
the metropolis on the following day, and it gave a great impetus
to the bad cause of the malcontent nobles.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap24"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXIV.
<br /><br />
DAVID FALCONER.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Then on my mind a shadow fell,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And evil hopes grew rife;<br />
  The damning thought stuck in my heart,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And cut me like a knife,&mdash;<br />
  That she whom all my days I loved<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Should be another's wife!"<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Summer and Winter Hours</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
With the last words of Barton ringing in his ears and rousing
a voice of reproach in his heart, Lord Drummond flung aside his
velvet cloak and descended into the garden, which was at the
back of the mansion, and lay between it and the margin of the
river.  Some remembrance of happier, and perhaps of less
ambitious days came over his memory; he felt something of remorse
for having so ruthlessly delivered over his daughter's plighted
husband to the violence of his enemies; but as he had no wish
either to alter the deadly cast of the die, or to hear the clashing
of the assassins' swords in the street without, he walked through
the garden hurriedly and muttered&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"I have done wrong&mdash;I have acted ignobly, and not as Robert
Barton would have done by me, or to the meanest in Scotland!
Yet I did not tell him to love my daughter Effie&mdash;and Home
and Hailes shall both be earls, if swords and lances can make
them so.  Yet&mdash;yet&mdash;tush!  I have behaved like an old wolf.
But there was no remedy&mdash;I had betrayed too much to him;
so cold steel must seal his lips for ever.  And yet, alack! those lips
have often been upon poor Effie's cheek.  No&mdash;no&mdash;let me not
think of it!&mdash;&mdash;But who is this?  A captain of the king's
arquebussiers&mdash;and Sybilla too;&mdash;pest! here is another lover!"
</p>

<p>
Beside the bower he saw Sir David Falconer lying upon the
ground with the scarf of Hailes (which he knew well) twisted
round his throat.  The young man was not dead, but nearly
strangled, and was now beginning to recover.  Near him, on her
knees in a stupor of grief, with blood-shot eyes, and with her
dress disordered, Sybilla was sobbing.  Powerless and unable to
rise, she stretched her hands to her father, saying&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Save him, father&mdash;save him!"
</p>

<p>
For a moment the heart of the ambitious old man was touched;
he forgot that he had basely surrendered Barton to destruction,
or remembered it only with an emotion of terror; and now he
hastened to save Falconer.  He freed his compressed throat from
the rich silk and golden scarf of Lord Hailes, and opened the
collar of his velvet doublet to afford him air; he bathed his face
and hands in the bright salt water of the firth that was rippling
on the yellow sands close by, and in a few minutes the rescued
man was able to raise himself upon his hands and look around
him.  Sybilla, still kneeling beside him, placed an arm caressingly
around his livid neck, and while glancing thankfully and
imploringly at her father, placed her trembling lips to the
distorted brow of her lover, murmuring&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Joy, joy&mdash;oh, David, dearest David, thou art still spared to
me!"
</p>

<p>
"Good morrow, fair sir," said Lord Drummond, grimly.
"Now what am I to understand by all this?"
</p>

<p>
"That your lordship&mdash;has&mdash;has saved me from a cruel death,&mdash;from
a death the coward hands of Home and Hailes destined for
me&mdash;for me who never wronged them," said Falconer, with
difficulty, and at intervals.
</p>

<p>
Sybilla wept aloud, and again wrung her pretty hands.
</p>

<p>
"Hold, little one," said her father; "this noisy exhibition of
love and grief but little beseems a noble lady.  Though one of
King James's new-fangled knights, do you forget that this man
is but the son of a merchant skipper?"
</p>

<p>
Though this was said in a low voice Falconer heard it, and it
gave him new energy.  Slowly and tremblingly he rose to his
feet and said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"My lord, with your daughter's love and your esteem I could
achieve anything&mdash;Yea, I could ennoble myself,&mdash;yet both were
alone sufficient to ennoble any man."
</p>

<p>
Unsubdued by this compliment, the proud old noble made a
gesture of impatience.
</p>

<p>
"Another lover!" he muttered, stamping his spurred heel on
the gravel walk; "was there ever a poor man so pestered by
three gadabout daughters?  This will be another fellow for us
to kill, I suppose."
</p>

<p>
"Ah, my lord, if you knew how I love her, and how to me
her love is a richer and a greater treasure than our good king's
favour."
</p>

<p>
"The king's favour?  Umph&mdash;a poor inheritance to-day,
perhaps a poorer one to-morrow!"
</p>

<p>
"How, my lord," said Falconer, anxiously; "what is it you
mean?"
</p>

<p>
"You will soon learn, for this night perhaps may see those
standards which we furled at Blackness unrolled against the king.
He who serves James is the foe of the nobility; he who is the
foe of the nobility is also mine.  So come, Sir David, get thee
gone to thy ship, for the day wears apace, and I would not for
the brightest jewel in my coronet have my daughter seen in this
unseemly dress.  Thou knowest this infernal king has stolen her
sister, and that I'll have sure vengeance; yea, by Him who
preached in Jerusalem and died on Calvary, I will!  Come
madam, come&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
A shout interrupted the old lord's sudden burst of anger;
bright dresses and glittering swords were visible among the
shrubbery; Home, Hailes, and their friends, smarting with
wounds, bruises, and anger, after their conflict in the adjoining
street, came tumultuously towards the bower, for they had resolved
on hanging Falconer's body at the market-cross, in reparation of
what they termed their wounded honour.
</p>

<p>
Sybilla uttered a cry of terror; again her heart trembled and
stood still; but she threw herself with outstretched arms before
her still feeble lover, whom the ferocious assailants again
recognized and greeted with a shout.
</p>

<p>
"How now, my lords and gentlemen," exclaimed Lord Drummond,
unsheathing his sword; "would ye commit hamesücken?
Respect my presence, my property, and authority, if you regard
not the life of this man, or the powers of the Lord High
Constable?  Are the rights of the baronage and nobility to be
infringed by the nobles themselves?  In the streets or highways
slay as many as you please; but here, even a dog's life is
sacred."
</p>

<p>
"We have sworn to hang this half-strangled parasite of James
at the market-cross, and hanged he shall be!" replied Hailes,
making a deadly thrust with his sword, which was skilfully
parried by Lord Drummond, yet it passed within three inches of
Falconer's heart.
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, my good lord," said the latter; "I am weak,
but will rather trust to my own limbs than to your power of
protection, or to their humanity.  Adieu, dear Sybilla, and may
God bless thee, kind one, for we may never meet again."
</p>

<p>
He staggered towards the water, and rushed in until beyond his
depth, and then struck out to reach the ship.
</p>

<p>
Like a herd of wild animals disappointed of their prey, his
tormentors sprang after him, midleg into the water; but he was
already beyond the reach of their swords.  They then hurled
stones from the beach, and two tall Highland gillies, who had
followed Balloch from Lochlomond side, strung their bows and
shot their feathered shafts after him, but without success; for,
weak as he was, Falconer was an expert swimmer, and was soon
far beyond bowshot.
</p>

<p>
After all he had undergone, it was evident that he never could
reach the ships without succour; but, fortunately, the uproar or
the beach had been observed by the watch on deck; the fainting
swimmer was seen to make signals of distress; a boat was piped
away and lowered; and just as poor Falconer was slowly and
despairingly relaxing his efforts, and sinking beneath the calm
glassy current of the river, he was seized by the strong nervous
hands of Willie Wad and Cuddie Clewline, and dragged on
board.
</p>

<p>
Sybilla uttered a cry of joy and fainted, just as the first cannon
of the royal salute pealed over the shining river.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap25"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXV.
<br /><br />
HOWARD AND MARGARET.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Lady, those hours for aye are gone.<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Our days of youth and joy are past;<br />
  And each new year but rolls along<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To that which soon must be our last.<br />
  Our early friendship&mdash;early joy,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Moments affectionate and dear,<br />
  The rules of life too soon destroy,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And leave a barren desert here."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Margaret had now been three days on board of the <i>Harry</i>,
which, with her consorts, the <i>White Rose</i> and <i>Cressi</i>, had been
vainly endeavouring to weather the dangerous Ness of Buchan,
and gain the open German Sea; but as Howard's evil fortune
would have it, the stiff breeze blew right ahead, and they were
forced to tack and tack again, running eastward and westward on
the same line, like that fated ship which, in the nautical legend,
is ever striving in vain to weather Table Bay.
</p>

<p>
Howard, on leaving England, had provided two attendants for
Margaret&mdash;pretty young English girls, whose names are recorded
as Rose and Cicely.  They were gentle and attentive, and did
all that their kind natures dictated to soothe the prisoner's grief,
which, after the first wild paroxysm had subsided, became a calm
and settled bitterness, sadness, and dejection; and her tears fell
incessantly for her child, which had been left in the secret alcove,
where, perhaps, none might discover it, and where its feeble cries
might be unheard till it perished; but then she remembered that
Rothesay would know and reveal the place, and save its little
life at all hazards.
</p>

<p>
She was now aware of being in the power of Henry's agents,
and that she would be removed in secret, to make way for an
English princess.
</p>

<p>
Howard, a gallant and polished gentleman, had visited her
twice; the first time she repulsed him with flashing eyes and wild
upbraidings of inhumanity and cruelty; the second time she
heard all he had to say in silence, remaining pale and immovable,
with eyes downcast, weeping and inflamed, for her powers of
utterance were almost gone, and despair was coming fast upon her.
Her great beauty of face and grace of form, when united to her
grief, touched the manly heart of Howard; deep and sincere
emotions of pity were stirred within him; and soon a deeper and
a softer influence began to steal into his breast, and he muttered
to himself again and again, as he walked on the weather-side of
his poop&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"By St. George, I would rather stand old Largo's heaviest
broadside than the witching glance of this fair woman's eyes!
If I could but teach her to love me, a double end would be gained:
it would win me Henry's favour on one hand, and such a charming
wife on the other, as never a Howard had in his bosom
before."
</p>

<p>
Then he longed to visit her again, and try his powers of
consolation.  He descended to the door of her cabin.
</p>

<p>
"How is the Scottish dame?" he inquired of little Will Selby,
one of his pages, who remained below in attendance.
</p>

<p>
"Ill enough at heart, but pretty well in body, sir," replied the
lad, with an impudent smile.
</p>

<p>
"Pretty well, sir," added his brother, tall Dick Selby the
gunner, a strong and athletic son of old Father Thames;
"especially after parting with her loose ballast in the last
night's breeze."
</p>

<p>
Howard knit his brow at this coarse speech.
</p>

<p>
"Poor little thing," he muttered; "may the great devil take
this pitiful errand, say I!  By my soul, John o'Lynne," said he
to his sailing master, or second in command, "I would rather
walk over the standing part of the fore-sheet, with a shot at each
heel, than do all this dirty work over again!"
</p>

<p>
He knocked softly at the cabin door, which was opened by
Rose, one of the attendants.  Exhausted and overcome, Lady
Margaret had fallen asleep on one of the cushioned lockers; a
velvet cloak was spread over her; one white hand, and her pretty
feet in their red velvet slippers richly embroidered with gold, were
only visible.  Her face was deathly pale; her eyelids unusually
swollen and inflamed, while their long lashes were matted by the
bitter tears she had shed.  Her rich soft hair was in disorder.  It
hung half in and half out of its gold caul, and Cicely was kindly
and gently endeavouring to plait it into braids, while its owner,
her new mistress, slept.
</p>

<p>
"Thou art a good girl, Cicely," said the captain, "and shalt
have a ring of gold for this."
</p>

<p>
Though he spoke in low voice, Margaret was roused from her
uneasy slumber, and started into a sitting position.  Cicely and
Rose withdrew into the inner cabin, and their lady began, as usual,
to weep in silence, for the tears, which she had not the power to
repress, rolled in large drops slowly over her face.
</p>

<p>
"Still so sad, so sorrowful!" said Howard, as he knelt on one
knee, and taking her cold white hand in his, gazed kindly into her
fine blue eyes; "still weeping, dear madam; still those tears,
which, like your reproaches, cut me to the soul!"
</p>

<p>
"Alas! sir, what other solace have the wretched, but their
tears?"
</p>

<p>
"I am but a plain English seaman, lady; I have been somewhat
of a courtier in my time, but the salt water, as it washed
the perfume out of my doublet, obliterated also the fine speeches
that were then at my tongue's end, and I may not now fashion
soft nothings to suit a lady's ear; but I speak from my heart,
and with all the sincerity of an honest purpose.  Oh! would,
lady, that I could find some means of serving you and drying
those tears!  I beseech you to be pacified, and to hope&mdash;for while
life remains to us, there is always <i>hope</i> to bear us onward like a
fair good breeze."
</p>

<p>
"If once I see your English shore, what hope shall I have
then?"
</p>

<p>
"Heaven only knows what may happen before we have old
England on our lee, lady.  This head-wind freshens every
minute, and you may see that the rocks of Buchan are still upon
our starboard quarter, while the sea looks black to port."
</p>

<p>
Margaret gazed anxiously from the cabin windows, and saw the
bold coast of Invercruden half shrouded in the haze of evening,
as the sun sank behind it; she saw, also, the waves rolling in
white mountains on the Bowness, the most eastern point of
Scotland, where the rocks are so steep and the water so deep, that,
in one of the rooms of the High Constable's castle, a glass of wine
has been drunk from the top-gallant yard-arm of a vessel, as an
old tradition tells us.
</p>

<p>
"If you would but land me, even on yonder stormy point, I
know one who would lay an earldom at your feet&mdash;a Howard, an
Englishman though you be."
</p>

<p>
"I would not disobey my king or betray his orders for all the
earldoms in Scotland, lady.  My father was an English lord,
true; but the English nobles are not a race of sordid slaves like
the Scottish peers, lady, ever ready to barter their country and
their service for foreign gold and gain."
</p>

<p>
"Too true&mdash;too true!" said Margaret, wringing her hands;
"I feel myself the victim of this cupidity."
</p>

<p>
"But I pray you to pardon my harshness of speech," said the
handsome Howard, with great gentleness.
</p>

<p>
Amid all her grief, Margaret had sufficient perception to
observe Howard's modulated tones, and the full, earnest, and
anxious expression of his eye, which indicated the emotion then
stealing into his heart.  At first, the idea flashed upon her mind
that she would make the poor Englishman's dawning passion
subservient to her purpose and the achievement of her liberty;
but Margaret Drummond was too artless and too honourable for
such a course, and at once repressed the thought; for there was so
much of open candour on his manly brow, and so much of kindness
in his fine eyes and well-formed mouth, that she could perceive,
although <i>he</i> was the instrument of her wrong and misery,
that he was at heart her friend, and might yet prove her most
powerful protector.  To such a man, she knew at once all bribes
would be offered in vain; and she knew that she had nothing to
hope for but from his generosity, his pity, or his love.
</p>

<p>
She gazed fixedly and with agony at the lessening shore, as the
<i>Harry</i> stood off with its head towards the German Sea, and a
pause, filled up by sighs, ensued.
</p>

<p>
"You still refuse to restore me to liberty?" she said, while
her tears fell fast again.
</p>

<p>
"Absolutely&mdash;once and for all."
</p>

<p>
"For the first time in my life, I have received a refusal from a
gentleman," said Margaret, proudly and bitterly.
</p>

<p>
"Alas! that this unfortunate should be me!"
</p>

<p>
"But it matters not; we are still in the Scottish seas, and a
time may come when you will be forced to listen to me."
</p>

<p>
"Listen! oh, Lady Margaret! if you know the secret which
is hushed in my heart!" replied Howard, who felt her reproaches
deeply.  "I do beseech you to pardon me," he continued, in a
sad and earnest manner, "for I obey the dictates of a cold and
politic king, not those of my conscience or my heart."
</p>

<p>
"A brave English gentleman should be above being the tool
even of a king."
</p>

<p>
"Madam, I would deem myself the most ungallant of Englishmen
if I refused you anything that lay within my power to
grant, but liberty must lie with Henry himself."
</p>

<p>
"Liberty! but I am not an English subject.  Oh, Rothesay,
Rothesay!" continued Margaret, giving way to a fresh burst of
grief; "what will be your thoughts on finding that I am gone?"
</p>

<p>
"Believe me, Lady Margaret," said Howard, in his saddest
tone, and yet with somewhat of pique in his manner, "you will
recover your love for this boy prince, and King Harry may mate
you to some gallant English courtier."
</p>

<p>
"Thou thinkest me very facile," said Margaret, coldly, and
with a pout on her pretty mouth.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, lady, I only think you beautiful, gentle, good, and,
indeed, most loveable; so I crave pardon if I viewed you like a
court lady too.  They easily forget an affection; for women,
alas! are very facile&mdash;yea, variable as wind and weather."
</p>

<p>
"Many women never loved at all, sir."
</p>

<p>
"No woman ever had only one love, gentle lady," replied the
seaman, laughing.
</p>

<p>
Again Margaret renewed her entreaties to be set ashore; but
she no longer resorted to bribery, for she saw how the noble
Howard was stung when she formerly did so.  Now she appealed
only to his generosity, his courtesy, and his chivalry, and she
plied her cause with all the power and eloquence that grief
inspired, but plied in vain, though Howard became fearful that
he would not be long able to withstand her pleading tongue, when
aided by two such speaking eyes; he therefore begged permission
to retire on deck, where his presence had long been required, for
the south-east wind was increasing to a squall, and sail after sail
had to be taken off the three English ships, which were now
separated and far apart.
</p>

<p>
The dangerous coast of Buchan, of Cruden, and Peterhead,
with all their bluffs, and reefs, and boiling caves, were on their
lee; half-veiled in watery clouds, the sun had sunk behind the
hill of Bennochie&mdash;that landmark of the ocean&mdash;and an angry
sea was rolling in huge billows on the stern and terrible shore.
To increase Margaret's mental and bodily miseries, a severe storm
came on, and she had only one thought in the intervals of her
sickness, as she lay weeping and supremely wretched on a
couch&mdash;one desire&mdash;that this hated English ship might be dashed
upon her native coast, and that she might have one desperate
chance of ending her sorrows&mdash;of being saved or drowned.  She
would freely have risked one for the other; but then she
remembered the poor mariners, who in that event might perish; and
she prayed God and St. Olaus the patron of that rocky shore, to
forgive her evil wishes; and, after reckoning on her white fingers
the hours she had been absent from her poor babe, and after
becoming totally exhausted, she fell into a deep, deep sleep, and
was long unconscious of all that passed around her.
</p>

<p>
The English ships floated on the chaos of waters.  With
evening a pale ashy hue stole over them, and the whole sea
darkened as the clouds lowered above it; then the wind swept
past with its mighty breath, rolling the waves like vast ridges of
mountains crested with foam, and having long dark vales of
water between.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile, Howard, an able seaman, was using incredible
exertions to weather the storm and that deadly lee shore, behind
the bluffs and peaks of which the sheets of lightning were
reddening the cloudy sky.  He reduced the sails to a few strips of
canvas, and lowered the top-gallant yards on deck.  Being
ignorant of the strong currents, as the night-cloud deepened and
the hoarse thunder died away, he feared much that some of his
consorts might be stranded; he could see nothing of them, for,
on hoisting a lantern at the main-mast head, no answering
signals were returned.  Every wave that swept over the <i>Harry</i>
bore something from her deck; and John of Lynne was ordered
to cut away her two large anchors, after which she rode more
lightly over the black tumbling billows, and lay a point nearer
the wind.
</p>

<p>
But the increasing storm compelled Howard at last to put his
ship about, and away she flew like the wind itself, round Rattray
Head, a promontory of Aberdeenshire; and so he bore away
towards the Moray Firth, in search of shelter and of safety.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap26"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXVI.
<br /><br />
THE CHAPLAIN'S CABIN.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "They moved, a gallant companie<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of stately ships, along;<br />
  While Scotland's banner in the van,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Led on the warlike throng."&mdash;<i>Ballad.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The king remained on board of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> for some
days, during which the rumour that he had abdicated and retired
to Holland, to avoid a new civil war, spread far and wide, from
the gates of Berwick to those of Kirkwall.  Meanwhile, the
faithful Lindesays of Crawford and Montrose, with Thomas, Earl
of Mar, and other loyal peers, were exerting themselves to raise
an armed force for the protection of James, who appointed the
Tower of Alloa as the place of tryst; and thus, immediately after
the storm, the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> and her consort weighed anchor,
and bore away for the Firth of Forth.
</p>

<p>
All communication between the ships and shore had been cut
off since the king's embarkation, as the town of Dundee was full
of malcontents; and indeed there were great fears that an
exchange of shots might take place as the vessels passed Sir
Patrick Gray's garrison in the Castle of Broughty.
</p>

<p>
Falconer and Barton had no means of ascertaining what was
passing at the house of Lord Drummond; but rumour reached
them that he had sent his four daughters to his Castle of
Drummond in Strathearn, under the escort of the Laird of Balloch.
</p>

<p>
It was a beautiful morning, about the last day of May; the
river shone like a mirror, but its shores yet slept in the sunny
summer haze when the frigates weighed anchor.  The king was
in his cabin, but he heard the din of preparation for sea, as
Barton gave the order to "ship the capstan bars!"
</p>

<p>
Then, while his pages dressed him, he heard the sound of the
fife and the stamping of feet, as the sailors in their deerskin
boots tripped merrily round the capstan to the old air of "Trolee
lolee lemane dou."
</p>

<p>
"Away aloft," cried Barton; "let fall."
</p>

<p>
Then the sails fell, and filled as they were sheeted home, on
which the frigate gathered way.  "Set the fore-topmast
staysail&mdash;quick there&mdash;up with it, out of the cat's cradle."
</p>

<p>
Muffled in a surcoat of scarlet cloth trimmed with sables, King
James came on deck as the vessels passed Tents-muir Point, and
all the seamen took off their bonnets, while the drummer beat a
march, and the arquebussiers gave a profound salute.
</p>

<p>
"I feel now more keenly than ever how hollow is all this pomp
of royalty," said he, as he walked up the poop with the admiral,
"and how paltry the inheritance of pride!  The poorest archer
or pikeman in any of my castles is happier than I, who to-day
am called a king.  Believe me, admiral," he continued, sadly,
"if my death would be a bond of peace between my divided
subjects, I could die happily!"
</p>

<p>
"And let those rapscallions get the weathergage of you?  No,
no&mdash;I would never die while I could live&mdash;never sink while I
could swim, and that I consider good salt-water philosophy.
Yet when the death-watch <i>is</i> piped, doubt not, your majesty,
that old Andrew Wood will be found at his post, though he would
be sorry to strike his flag before he had brought a few of these
traitors up all standing at the bar of Divine Justice.  Your
majesty is only half my age&mdash;and to think of dying&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Father Zuill," said James, turning to the chaplain, who at
that moment came on deck; "in this matter, what opinion have
you to offer me?"
</p>

<p>
"We should remember the words of Seneca," replied the
priest, folding his hands on his breast, and looking down; "he
says&mdash;it is uncertain at what place death awaits thee, so wait
thou for him in every place.  Before old age be careful to <i>live</i>
well, and in old age be careful to <i>die</i> well&mdash;and herein Seneca
gave sound advice."
</p>

<p>
"Alas, good priest," responded the sad king, "art thou a
Scottish subject, and yet forget that thy kings&mdash;unhappy
race!&mdash;never live to become old men?"
</p>

<p>
"But their virtues and honour survive the tomb," replied the
chaplain; "true philosophy can only be acquired by mental
suffering.  There was a learned Persian who was wont to aver that
he who had not suffered knew nothing."
</p>

<p>
Here the Admiral, who had a great aversion for this kind of
conversation, which he did not understand, hailed the maindeck.
</p>

<p>
"How is she going, Barton?"
</p>

<p>
"Eight knots&mdash;clear off the wet reel, Sir Andrew."
</p>

<p>
"Keep her away a point or two to the south, and close the
lee ports, for now we are past the guns of Broughty."
</p>

<p>
"We weary thee, worthy admiral," said the gentle king; "but
I pray thee, Sir Andrew, to excuse my sadness."
</p>

<p>
Largo bowed, and reddened with a feeling of vexation, that the
king had detected his impatience.
</p>

<p>
"I am a cold comforter for those who are in trouble," said he,
"for I am but a plain-spoken mariner, who know of nothing beyond
the ropes of a ship and the points of a compass; but we sailors,
though our tongues may be less ready than our hands, have our
hearts in the right place, our anchor is hope, and the blessed
gospels our helm and compass&mdash;religion is our polestar, and
loyalty our pilot."
</p>

<p>
"I defy thee, Father Zuill, to have expressed this better," said
the king, with a smile; "how many of those dog nobles who
are the curse of Scotland could say as much?"
</p>

<p>
The sun was now above the sea, which rolled like a mighty
sheet of light around each rock and promontory; the low flat
shore of Angus slept in that sunny glow, but the bolder bluffs
of Fife were slowly becoming visible as the morning haze drew
upward like a curtain of gauze.  The clear brilliance of the sea
and sun made Father Zuill think of his burning-glasses, and he
invited the king (who found a great pleasure in visiting every
part of the ship) into his cabin, whither the admiral felt himself
constrained to accompany them; for, as there were many points
and features in the chaplain's studies which he did not admire,
he never entered this cabin when he could avoid it.
</p>

<p>
Small, low, and panneled with oak, it was surrounded by
shelves, laden with books, glasses, retorts, and chemical
apparatus, stuffed animals, and various antiquities, fossils, and
preparations, the use of which the simple-minded seaman could not
divine.
</p>

<p>
From one of the beams overhead hung a Roman lamp of
bronze, which had been found in the city of Camelon; and
appended thereto were the egg of an ostrich, a large amber bead,
used as a charm to cure blindness, and an amulet of green stone,
the meaning of which, Sir Andrew, after some hesitation,
inquired.
</p>

<p>
"It is an Egyptian Nileometer," replied the priest; "in
hieroglyphics this was the symbol of <i>stability</i>, and as such was
given of old to Pthah and Osiris."
</p>

<p>
Sir Andrew, who did not appear to be much more enlightened
on the subject, rubbed his short beard, and ventured on one other
inquiry.
</p>

<p>
"What means this black devil imprinted here on stone?"
</p>

<p>
"It is the Scarabaeus, the symbol of Pthah and the emblem
of creative power, inscribed on a tablet, supported by Serapis
and Anubis."
</p>

<p>
"Fiend take me, father chaplain, if I understand all this!"
said the admiral, testily; "yet it may be all true as Barton's
logbook, for aught that I know to the contrary.  But were these
persons you name demons like he who dwells at the Cape of
Storms, and by one puff of his sulphurous breath blew old Barty
Diaz on his beam-ends? or like the sea-ape&mdash;that scaly monster
which hath the voice and figure of a man, yet is, after all, but a
fish? or like the great sea-serpent whose yawning causes the
whirlpool of Lofoden?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay," said the king, "they were the false gods of the pagan
Egyptians."
</p>

<p>
"Well, I do not like having their trumpery on board the
<i>Yellow Frigate</i>," replied the admiral.  "Do they not smell of
witchcraft?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay," replied the chaplain, angrily, "not half so much as
these two books behind you."
</p>

<p>
The admiral turned abruptly, and perceived two gigantic
volumes, bound in vellum and clasped with iron; they lay upon
the stock of a large brass culverin, which, as the port was closed,
was lashed alongside the <i>gun-wall</i>, or, as it is now named,
gunnel.
</p>

<p>
"And what may they be anent?" he asked.
</p>

<p>
"The writings of Joannes de Sacro Bosco, <i>De Sphæra Mundi</i>,
and the magic book of Kirani, King of Persia, with the four
treatises of Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie, <i>De Secretis
Naturæ</i>; his tracts on the transmutation of metals, chiromancy,
and astrology."
</p>

<p>
"Priest, I do not understand all this," said the admiral,
growing quite angry.  "Gadzooks! to me it would seem that thou
speakest very much like a sorcerer, and all this place must be
well swabbed out, for it hath a devilish odour of necromancy.
But the gunner to his lintstock, the steersman to his helm, and
the cook&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Sorcery!" interrupted the poor chaplain; "Heaven forbid!
Dost think, if these relics of the olden time had aught to do with
sorcery, they would lie side by side with this holy volume?" he
added, opening an oak-bound tome, containing St. Gregory's
Homilies on the Four Gospels.  "Nay, this amber bead and
this hieroglyphical tablet would then explode like a bursting
cannon."
</p>

<p>
The admiral craved pardon, but mentally resolved that, in the
first gale of wind, he would contrive to have the ship lightened
of all these strange and mysterious wares.
</p>

<p>
"Dost thou speak Latin, admiral?" asked the chaplain.
</p>

<p>
"Latin," reiterated the seaman, angrily, "how should I speak
Latin?"
</p>

<p>
"With your tongue," replied the chaplain, simply.
</p>

<p>
"Thou laughest at me, Father Zuill; dost take me for a
puling student or a smock-faced friar, that I should know Latin?
Nay, when such drones as thee were at the grammar schule,
and trembling like a wet dog under a pedant's ferule, I was a
bold sailor-lad, learning to hand, reef, and steer, and being
made a man of, even while my chin was smooth as a lady's
hand."
</p>

<p>
"Father Zuill was merely about to refer to a certain learned
writer, who wrote of the secrets with which Nature is filled,"
replied the king, in a conciliatory tone.  "Was it not so?"
</p>

<p>
"Exactly, please your grace; for with all his seamanship,
he hath much yet to learn.  Now, admiral, with what is the
water filled?"
</p>

<p>
"Fish," was the laconic reply.
</p>

<p>
The chaplain smiled, and pouring a drop into the palm of the
admiral's hand, placed a magnifying glass above it.
</p>

<p>
"Look, now, Sir Andrew," said he.
</p>

<p>
The admiral bent his eyes over it, and lo! an unknown world
of little monsters were crawling there!
</p>

<p>
"Now, by Our Lady of Pittenweem, there <i>is</i> sorcery here!"
said he, aghast, as he flung the water on the deck, and rubbed
his hand on his trunk hose, and examined it again and again, to
see whether all were gone.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, nay," said the king, with one of his sad smiles, "thou
wrongest our good friend; for I assure thee, admiral, there is
nought of sorcery here.  This will show thee, Sir Andrew, how
unsafe it is to laugh at anything merely because we do not
understand it."
</p>

<p>
"Your majesty is right," said the chaplain, beginning to
screw and unscrew the mirrors of his warlike machine; "thus
the admiral laughs at me, because he knows not the theory of
light, or the principles of its production.  Why do decayed wood
and dead fish emit a light?  You know not; yet Pliny, who
lived fourteen centuries ago, knew and wrote of these things.
Every earthly body will emit light when heated, for the particles
on their surfaces shine by attrition, and light is the first
principle of fire.  Ah," continued the learned projector, setting all
the little mirrors in motion, and making them flash and glitter
in a very alarming manner, "if Heaven give me grace, I may yet
achieve much by my burning-glasses."
</p>

<p>
"Father Zuill," said James III., who had been reflecting that
this poor priest, in his realm of strange inventions and abstruse
study, was much happier than a King of Scotland and the Isles,
"thou mightest achieve more by striving to develop the use of
the magnifying-glass.  Dost remember what Seneca says of a
crystal convexity?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes; and of a glass globe filled with water, which maketh
letters appear larger and brighter when viewed through it."
</p>

<p>
"I pray your majesty to excuse me," said the admiral, bowing;
"for, gadzooks, if this goes on for another ten minutes, he
will give me a fit of apoplexy.  By the sound on deck, I think
the wind is dead off-shore; and as we have not a king under our
pennon every day, I beg leave to retire to the deck, and see how
the land bears."
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap27"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXVII.
<br /><br />
THE ISLES OF FORTH.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "The moon was in the dark blue sky,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And mirrored in the dark blue deep;<br />
  The placid wave rolled noiseless by,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The winds like babes had gone to sleep;<br />
  While o'er the vessel's shadowy side,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The pilot viewed the glassy tide."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
On rounding that long promontory known as the Ness of Fife,
the wind, which had been upon the beam, became, of course,
ahead, and as the frigates entered the mouth of that magnificent
estuary, where the Forth, after a course of a hundred and
seventy miles, joins the German Sea, they had to tack from shore
to shore, consequently their progress became slow and protracted.
The king, who loved to be among his subjects, to learn their
wants, their wishes, and ideas, had been through every part of
the ship between stem and stern, and had heard Willie Wad's
explanations on various points of gunnery, and the boatswain
expound on seamanship and the intricacies of standing and naming
rigging.  He had been through the magazine, the bread-room,
the hold, cockpit, and cable-tier, and amid the various new things
he heard and saw, forgot for a time, perhaps, that he was the
unhappy King of Scotland.
</p>

<p>
He rejoined Father Zuill and the admiral on deck, where the
former told him many a tale and legend of the castled craigs, the
isles and rocks they passed; and amid these stories of the olden
time, the chaplain forgot his crotchets of burning-glasses and
other learned absurdities, and all who were near, drew nearer
still to listen.
</p>

<p>
About noon, they were between the Isle of May and the
straggling town of Anster, with the castle of the Anstruthers of
that Ilk, and all its rough, brown, antique houses that cluster
round the mouth of the Dreel-burn.  Brightly on sea and river
shone the unclouded sun on the white cliffs of the isle, and the
rugged shore of Fife, with all its caverns, rocks, and towers,
its ancient burghs, with their pointed spires and long and
straggling fisher-villages that dot the sandy beach.  The scene
was lively and beautiful; but with saddened eyes and a sorrowful
heart the thoughtful king gazed from Sir Andrew's lofty poop
on the shores of his rebellious kingdom.  The Forth shone like
a stream of lucid gold; the Bass Rock, in the vaults and towers
of which so many a wretch has pined: the Isle of May, with its
priory and gifted holy well; Anster, with the enchanted Castle
of Dreel; lonely Crail, with its Chapel of St. Rufus, and the
Weem, wherein King Constantine was murdered by the Danes;
St. Monan's, with the cavern where that martyr-hermit dwelt in
the ninth century, and where he was slain, on that day of blood
when the Norsemen ravaged all the coast of Fife, and slew six
thousand persons;&mdash;all these were visible at once, and bathed in
ruddy light.
</p>

<p>
Around the ships vast droves of porpoises were leaping joyously
in the bright sunshine, and near the shore at least three hundred
fisher-boats, with all their varnished sides shining in the
noon-tide glow, were shooting their nets; and now a cheer floated
over the water from their crews, in greeting to the valiant Laird
of Largo, whose <i>Yellow Frigate</i> was so familiar to them all.
Above these boats the white sea-mews were flying in wild flocks,
thus indicating where the droves of herring were.
</p>

<p>
Perceiving that the king gazed fixedly at the picturesque old
town of St. Monan, with its venerable church having the walls
of its steep-roofed chancel washed by the encroaching waves, the
chaplain drew near, and pointed out a deserted path, which leads
to this beautiful fane, by the side of a little stream that rushes
through a ravine upon the beach.  By that path King David II.,
when in sore agony from a wound received at the Battle of
Neville's Cross, came humbly to crave the intercession of the
dead St. Monan by praying at his shrine; and even while he
prayed, the rankling wound, which had defied the care of the
most skilful leeches, became well and whole, for the barbed head
of an English arrow dropped from the scar as it closed;&mdash;so say
the monks of old.
</p>

<p>
In the days of which we write, the bell that summoned the
people to prayer hung upon a venerable yew, which stood in the
churchyard, just where the saint had placed it seven hundred
years before; but once in every year it was removed during the
herring season, for the fishermen of the East Neuk averred that
the tolling thereof scared all the fish from the coast.
</p>

<p>
In the roads of Leith the king was joined by the <i>Salamander</i>
and several other armed ships, commanded by the admiral's
brother, by John Barton, and other brave seamen whose names
are distinguished in the annals of their country.
</p>

<p>
The western breeze blew down the Firth as the vessels tacked
between the narrowing shores, and Father Zuill or the garrulous
boatswain had a tale to tell the king of every rock and isle; nor
was the legend of Alexander II. and the Hermit of Emona who
saved him from shipwreck, forgotten; and they showed a rock
where the little prince his son was drowned, since named Inch
nan Mhic Rhi; and before this story was finished the vessels
were passing through the Ferry and standing slowly up the
river, which there opens out like a vast lake, bounded by hills
and wooded shores, between which its waters were rippling in
the evening sun: but still the wind blew hard ahead, and Sir
Andrew's ships lay as close to it as possible, being anxious to
land the king at Alloa, the muster-place of the loyal barons.
Repeatedly Captain Barton reported to him that he feared "the
tide would not serve, and the ships would run aground."
</p>

<p>
"No matter," said he; "bear ahead at all risks, and remember
our auld Leith proverb&mdash;Obey orders, though ye break owners."
</p>

<p>
Next morning, when the pale and anxious monarch came on
deck, the ships were at anchor off the town of Alloa, which lay
on one side of them, while on the other stretched a number of
beautiful isles or Inches, covered with the richest pasture, and
among the sedgy banks of these the stormy petrels yet build
their nests at times.  It was one of those hot summer days, when
a smokelike vapour seems to pass in the sunshine over the fields
of ripe corn, and in that sunny haze the hills of Clackmannan
and the fertile shores of Stirling were steeped.  The water was
then deeper at Alloa than it is now, otherwise the ships of Wood
could not have come abreast of the town, even though favoured
by St. Mungo's tide, of which the crews, who of course knew the
river well, took due advantage.  This double flow is somewhat
remarkable, for when the tide appears full it suddenly falls fifteen
inches, and then returns with greater force, until it attains a
much higher mark.
</p>

<p>
Tradition accounts for this by stating that when St. Mungo,
the tutelar saint of the district, was proceeding with certain
missionary priests to Stirling, by water, their vessel ran aground,
and could not be got off, as the tide was ebbing; but the Saint
prayed, and lo! the ebb returned with greater strength to bear
the holy freight on their way; and in memory thereof, a <i>double
tide</i> rolls even unto this day on the beach of the ancient Alauna.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap28"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXVIII.
<br /><br />
THE FIRST SCOTTISH REVOLUTION.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Shall I resign the sceptre of my sires,<br />
  And give the haughty barons leave to reign?<br />
  No! perish all before that fatal hour<br />
  I will sustain the majesty of kings,<br />
  And be a monarch while I'm a man!"&mdash;<i>Runnamede</i>, Act 4.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
It was the meridian of the 1st of June, 1488.
</p>

<p>
Partial gleams of sunlight fell or died away and flashed again
alternately on the ancient town and still more ancient tower of
Alloa, the stronghold of the Erskines, which crowns those strata
of rock that lie between the fertile carse and the higher grounds,
and break off abruptly above the harbour.  The narrow and
irregular streets of this picturesque little burgh were clustered
round the strong donjon, the walls of which are eleven feet thick,
and more than ninety feet high, and had often in Scotland's
braver times repelled the chivalry of the first Plantagenets.  A
few crayers and barks, with their brown pitched sides and browner
sails, were lying beside the rough stone quay that forms the pow
or creek into which a rivulet flows.
</p>

<p>
The old lime-trees and venerable avenues of hedge, closely
clipped in the French fashion, were in thick foliage around the
old grey walls; the tide was full, and the Forth ran slowly past,
still, calm, and waveless, as, with an imperceptible motion, the
tall ships of Sir Andrew Wood warped close towards the town.
</p>

<p>
The gleam of arms was seen in the quaint old streets; steel
helmets and cuirasses glittered on the quay, for armed men were
watching the approaching ships, and a blue banner with a pale
sable was unfurled on the tower, where Thomas, ninth Lord
Erskine and second Earl of Mar, a loyal and irreproachable
noble, with a numerous band of men-at-arms, drawn from his
barony of Alloa, his forestry of Clackmannan, his estates of
Nisbet, Pit-arrow, and Newton, awaited the landing of the king.
</p>

<p>
The nobles were everywhere rising in arms, and repairing to
various muster-places, some for the king, but many more to fight
for Angus, and against the court, in vindication of their
imaginary rights and assumed privileges; while the hearts of the
people, like their liberties, were oppressed and cast down.
</p>

<p>
It was a peculiarly close and sultry mouth, the June of 1488
and on this day in particular the air was breathless, hot, and
still.  Lowering thunderclouds, through the openings of which;
the sunlight shot in sickly flakes, obscured the summer sky.
Omens of evil preceded the coming civil war.  In the fertile
carse of Gowrie the peasantry had observed numbers of field-mice
lying dead about the footpaths among the ripening corn&mdash;dead
without any apparent cause.
</p>

<p>
A wonderful scorpion had been killed in the jousting haugh of
Linlithgow; and a terrible comet&mdash;men called it a fiery
dragon&mdash;passed over the Castle of Rothesay, from whence it was visible
between the Polestar and the Pleiads, and for three nights this
source of terror floated in the darkened sky.  The stone unicorn
on the cross of Stirling uttered a cry at midnight; the shadowy
figures of armed knights were seen to encounter on the
battleground where Wallace defeated the army of Edward I., under
the brow of the Abbey Craig; the helmeted or hooded fish, called
monachi marini, which never appear in the Scottish seas but as
the presage of some terrible event, were seen to swarm in the
firths and bays; and, to his great dismay, Jamie Gair had thrice
netted an entire shoal of them.  The minds of the people (naturally
and constitutionally superstitious) became filled with the
most dire forebodings of the great events that were at hand;
and on the hearts of none did these omens fall more heavily than
those of the two sisters, Euphemia and Sybilla Drummond, who
were secluded in their father's solitary Castle of Drummond,
where no tidings reached them of their missing Margaret, and
where they could only hear vague and flying rumours of the
great events which then convulsed the kingdom.
</p>

<p>
Their father's words when he left Strathearn for the insurgent
camp had made them aware only of two things:&mdash;that he would
fight to the death against the false king who had carried off his
favourite daughter, and that <i>they</i>&mdash;on the rout of James's forces
and the destruction of his favourite courtiers&mdash;should become,
one Countess of Hailes, and the other Countess of Home, or he
would never see their faces more.
</p>

<p>
At this time, it was not exactly known by the king and his
court where the malcontent nobles held their tryst, or where the
crown prince of Scotland was.  Some said they were in Stirling
with Sir James Shaw; others said, at Linlithgow; and many
asserted they had retired as far off as the Douglasses' Castle of
Thrave, in the wild and distant province of Galloway.
</p>

<p>
Many loyal and gallant gentlemen were now flocking to the
royal standard with all the armed men they could muster; and
with his most faithful adherents, James held a solemn conclave,
or council of war, in the hall of the Castle of Alloa.  On this
occasion he was accompanied by the old admiral, by Sir
Mathieson, Captains Barton and Falconer, than whom
there were none present more eager to meet the insurgent lords
in battle, that they might have an opportunity of avenging on
Home and Hailes their late atrocities at Dundee.  There, too,
were Sir William Knollis, the preceptor of the Scottish knights
of Rhodez; the old Marshal de Concressault; and young Ramsay
Lord of Bothwell, with many gentlemen of his band&mdash;the Royal
Guard&mdash;who wore the king's livery&mdash;red doublets, faced and
slashed with yellow.  These crowded around James, and on their
glittering arms and excited faces the sunlight fell ill deep broad
flakes of hazy radiance, through the grated windows of the old
Gothic hall.
</p>

<p>
The sadness and dejection of James were apparent to all, as the
noble Earl of Mar, the captain of Dunbarton&mdash;a peer whose
family stood proudly pre-eminent in the annals of Scottish
loyalty&mdash;conducted him to a chair on a dais
at the end of the hall, over
which hung a crimson cloth of state.
</p>

<p>
"On this unhappy day," said the Earl, "your majesty is more
welcome to my house of Alloa than if you came to me flushed
with the triumph of a hundred battles."
</p>

<p>
"I thank you kindly, my Lord of Mar," said he; "you are
one of the few who know that through life I have struggled
against an untoward and unhappy fate&mdash;or, as it would seem, an
irrevocable destiny, which I can neither conquer nor avoid.
Gladly would I change my father's crown for a shepherd's bonnet,
and this lofty place for the sphere of those happy peasants who,
in their narrow world, seem to pass through life without meeting
an obstacle, simply because they are without ambition, and have
few enemies.  I never knew that the poor could be so happy till
within these last few days which I spent among the brave hearts
of good Sir Andrew's frigate."
</p>

<p>
"Hard work maketh a light heart at times," said the admiral,
as his eyes glistened; "and I can assure your majesty, that never
shipmate of mine would turn landsman again, to be bearded by
every painted baron, and bullied by every cock-laird and
cow-baillie whom he met at kirk or market."
</p>

<p>
"Are there no tidings yet of Rothesay?" asked James.
</p>

<p>
"None on which we can rely," replied the Earl of Mar.
</p>

<p>
"Or of Angus?"
</p>

<p>
"A body of horsemen, supposed to be his, marched eastward
through the Torwood two days ago," replied the Duke of
Montrose; "but whether bound for Edinburgh, or home to Galloway,
no man can say; but the loyal nobles are gathering fast, and
seven are now in waiting to pay their duty to your majesty."
</p>

<p>
"Seven&mdash;only seven, of all the peers of Scotland!"
</p>

<p>
"But seven is a fortunate number," said Father Zuill; "and
even may prevail, when thirty might fail."
</p>

<p>
"Admit them at once, Earl of Mar," said James, "for this is
not a time when a king of Scotland can trifle with his friends."
</p>

<p>
Marshalled by ushers, preceded by pages, and followed by
esquires bearing their swords and helmets, there now entered
seven nobles, all of whom the king knew well, and now they were
the more welcome that they came completely armed.  Among
them were&mdash;Alexander, Earl of Glencairn, a Lord of the Privy
Council, who had fought for James against the nobles in the Raid
of Blackness; the aged Earl of Menteith, who in his youth had
been a hostage for James I.; the Lords Graham, Ruthven,
Semple, Forbess, and Gray, the High Sheriff of Forfar&mdash;a cousin
of Sir Patrick, the infamous Governor of Broughty.
</p>

<p>
Though all unlettered and ignorant of scholarcraft as the most
humble peasant of their time, all these lords had a high and noble
bearing&mdash;for the age was one when pride of birth and long descent,
with high military renown, were valued more than life; and,
moreover, they were all hardy, strong, and athletic&mdash;browned by
exercise, hunting, and hosting, and inured to war by the incessant
feuds of the clans; thus, they wore their globular cuirasses, large
elbow plates, and immense angular tuilles, or thigh-pieces, as
easily as if they were garments of the softest silk.  James rose
up to welcome them, and each in succession knelt to kiss his hand.
</p>

<p>
"Welcome, my lords," said he; "what tidings bring you of
our friends and foes?"
</p>

<p>
"I have brought your majesty three thousand good infantry
from Cunninghame and Kyle," said Glencairn; "the same brave
men who won me a coronet on the field of Blackness."
</p>

<p>
"A thousand thanks, brave Cunninghame!  And thou,
Ruthven?"
</p>

<p>
"A thousand and three brave fellows on horseback, all armed
with morion, jack, and spear."
</p>

<p>
"And I, fifteen hundred archers and claymores," said the Lord
Forbess, a weather-beaten and long-bearded noble, who wore the
ancient Celtic lurich, with a plaid of his green clan-tartan, fastened
by a silver brooch, upon his left shoulder; "I would they were
as many thousands, to conquer or die in this good cause!"
</p>

<p>
All had a good report to make of their vassalage, and the
king's spirit rose on finding, by computation, that these faithful
peers had marched to Alloa somewhere about thirty thousand
horse and foot, with many Highland archers; but these forces
had very few cannon, and the only arquebussiers on whom they
could rely were those of Sir Andrew Wood's ships.
</p>

<p>
"Montrose," said he, "mount messengers and despatch letters
to those lairds who are captains of the Border castles; desire
them to keep tryst at Melrose, and come in with all their lances
and archers without an hour's delay."
</p>

<p>
Montrose, whose principal scribes were the poor poets who
hovered about the court&mdash;such as William Dunbar and others&mdash;soon
had the messages written and given to gentlemen of trust,
who concealed them in the scabbards of their swords and
poniards; and after being landed on the Carse of Stirling by the
boats of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, they departed on the spur towards
the south.
</p>

<p>
While James was taking counsel of the loyalists on what
course he should pursue, the venerable Duke of Montrose-Crawford
entered again, with an expression of gloom and dejection so
strongly marked on his face, that all the nobles turned towards
him inquiringly.
</p>

<p>
"What now, my good Montrose," said the agitated king&mdash;"you
have bad tidings&mdash;but what other can come to me?  Have
blows been struck, or has my poor son been slain?  Speak, duke,
for this suspense is torture."
</p>

<p>
"I have tidings, indeed, of double evil," said the aged peer,
slowly, as if considering in what terms to impart them.  "The
Earls of Huntly, Errol, and Marischal, and the Lord Glammis,
at the head of more than ten thousand men, have crossed the
Forth at Stirling&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"To join me&mdash;well?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay, to join the Earl of Angus, it is supposed; for they
marched right under the cannon of the castle, and took their route
through the Torwood."
</p>

<p>
"For where?" asked James, growing pale.
</p>

<p>
"None know.  The prince&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Was with them," said James, bitterly.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, God forbid!  He is said to be with Sir James Shaw, in
the Castle of Stirling."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis well; we shall join him there, and together march against
these rebel peers," said James, with flashing eyes.  "Errol shall
tyne his constable's staff, and perhaps his head with it.  Is it
agreed, my lords, that we march for Stirling and leave the ships
of Sir Andrew Wood to guard the passage of the Forth?"
</p>

<p>
A murmur of assent replied.
</p>

<p>
"Let us to horse, then," said the king; "I would the queen
were here, instead of praying at St. Duthac's shrine, in Ross.
But to horse, sirs; and now what ails thee, kind Montrose?"
asked James, placing a hand on the old man's shoulder, on
perceiving that amid the general bustle which ensued, the donning
of helmets and buckling of swords, this most faithful and aged
noble stood irresolute, with sorrow impressed in his eyes and
upon his face.
</p>

<p>
"Allace, your majesty," said he, "there are tidings of serious
evil; the queen&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Is ill&mdash;my dear and loving Margaret; she left me sick and
ailing sorely," said James, clasping his hands; "she is ill, while
I am loitering here to play for a glittering bauble; she is ill, and
where?"
</p>

<p>
"Allace the day! she is dead and in her coffin!" said Montrose,
as he covered his kind old face with his hands and burst
into tears.....
</p>

<p>
The unfortunate monarch was so crushed by these evil tidings,
that his heart seemed almost broken, and his spirit sank lower
than ever.  His guiding-star was gone now, for she on whose
advice he had ever relied as his most faithful friend and
counsellor, during a stormy and unhappy life, was dead.
</p>

<p>
Margaret of Oldenburg, daughter of Christian I. of Denmark,
Sweden, and Norway, had been a woman of great beauty and
amiability, tact and discernment, and their marriage had been a
happy one, though at first purely political, having been brought
about by Andrew, Lord Evandale, High Chancellor of Scotland.
James had loved well his beautiful Dane, and they had three
children, Rothesay, Alexander, Duke of Ross, and the little Prince
John, styled, for a time, Earl of Mar.  For eighteen years she
had been his chief comfort amid every affliction, and the partner
and soother of his sorrows; for the gentle Margaret had been
all to him that a wise and politic queen, a dear and affectionate
wife could be.
</p>

<p>
Mistrusting even the few nobles who had joined him (the
faithful Montrose excepted), James lingered in deep sorrow
another day at the old tower of Alloa, and then resolved to join
the prince, his son, in the Castle of Stirling, there to assure him
by the most solemn vows a heart-broken man might make, that
he was innocent of Margaret Drummond's abduction, and would
use every means to discover her.  After that, he resolved to shut
himself up in the fortress until the Highland clans&mdash;ever loyal
and ever true&mdash;came down from the northern hills to his succour;
for now rumour said that Grant of Grant, and Sir James Ogilvie
of Lintrathen (afterwards the ambassador to Denmark), Hugh,
Lord Lovat, with many of the Forbesses, Gordons, Keiths, and
Meldrums had risen in arms, and were marching south to defend
and enforce the royal authority on the rebellious Lowland lords.
</p>

<p>
By this time sure tidings were brought to Alloa, that the Earl
of Angus, the Lords Drummond, Hailes, and Home, Sir William
Stirling of the Kier, Sir Patrick Gray, and many others, had set
up the standard of REVOLT at the town of Falkirk, in the fertile
Carse of Stirling, where all the discontented lords and landholders
of the three Lothians, Galloway, and the Borders, had joined
them, with all the armed men they could collect; and together
they formed a league, which for strength and daring had no
parallel in the previous history of the kingdom, save the raid of
the Douglasses in the reign of James II.
</p>

<p>
Sir James Shaw of Sauchie, Gray of Kyneff, and their minion,
the infamous Borthwick, were among the most active in creating
this unwarrantable rebellion.
</p>

<p>
The ancient burgh of Falkirk, which is so beautifully situated
among the lands of the now fertile carse, was <i>then</i> surrounded
by a dense forest of oaks and beeches, and near it lay a great
morass, through which the Carron&mdash;that stream so famed in
Celtic song and Roman war&mdash;flowed past the old Castle of
Callendar, whose lords were for centuries comptrollers to the king.
This town was then little more than a village, and consisted merely
of a High-street and the Kirk Wynd, which led to the church
of St. Modan, the pointed spire of which rose above the antique
tenements of the Knights of Rhodez, whose preceptor possessed
most of the property within the rising burgh.  It was surrounded
by a fortified wall having ports, one of which is yet remaining
in the Back Row.  Being loftily situated, and commanding an
extensive view in every direction, it was admirably adapted for
the muster-place of the rebel lords, whose whole desire was now
to lure the unfortunate king to try their strength in battle.  The
town was filled by their troops; the cavalry occupied the High-street
and Churchyard, while the chiefs had their quarters in the
Castle of Callendar, the family seat of James, Lord Livingstone,
where they held council by day, and wassail by night, drinking
the comptroller's wine, and broaching his Lammas ale, "to the
confusion of the king and of his parasitical favourites."
</p>

<p>
Here they were visited by the venerable and valiant Sieur de
Concressault, who came alone, or at least attended only by three
horsemen&mdash;one who bore his banner, a second who carried his
helmet, and a third who sounded a trumpet; and, penetrating
into the flushed, proud, and riotous company, who were drinking
and roistering in the hall of Callendar, where they
</p>

<p class="poem">
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Carved at the meal with gloves to steel,<br />
  And drank their red wine through the helmet barred,"<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
the marshal boldly announced to them what he had been desired
to say by a mandate recently received from his master, the King
of France.  But before he spoke, this good soldier was shocked
to perceive the young Duke of Rothesay (whom all the loyalists
believed to be in Stirling) among these dark and fierce
conspirators; for the false and subtle Shaw and others retained the
heir of the crown among them, to give a colour and pretext to
all their illegal actions&mdash;or at least, that on his young head some
of the blame of revolt, and shame of defeat, should fall.  He
seemed pale and sad, and crushed in spirit; for he now felt
convinced&mdash;thanks to the reiterations of Borthwick, Shaw, and
Gray&mdash;that his father had destroyed both Margaret and her child; and
as he was one of those who think it "better to have loved and
lost, than never to have loved at all," his bitterness was great
indeed.
</p>

<p>
"Marshal de Concressault," said he, "how did the king, my
father, receive the tidings that I had left Dundee with these
noble peers, and that they were in arms?"
</p>

<p>
"He wept."
</p>

<p>
"'Twas well," said Lord Drummond, sternly; "kings weep
but seldom, and their tears are precious."
</p>

<p>
"Ay," added the grim and bearded Steward of Menteith; "and
there be some in Scotland who shall yet greet tears of blude
before this wark is owre!  But what seek ye here, Laird of
Pitmilty&mdash;speak! for our swords are longer than our patience?"
</p>

<p>
"My lords," said the ambassador, "the Kings of France and
England declare that they consider it to be the common cause
of all monarchs to protect the Sovereign of Scotland against you;
for subjects must not be permitted to give laws unto a king, who,
even although he were a tyrant, cannot be amenable to the authority
of the people; for we have yet to learn that it is from them,
rather than from God, he receives his throne and power."
</p>

<p>
All laughed loudly at this, for the "right divine" was never
valued much in the Lowlands of Scotland; but Angus, who
presided, struck his mailed hand like thunder on the table, and
sternly imposed silence.
</p>

<p>
"Your king is not a tyrant, my lords," continued the aged
marshal, warming as he spoke; "nay, we all know that no lady
in the land was ever more good or gentle.  And his errors, if he
hath any, are the result of youth and evil counsellors&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
At this remark, a storm of angry mutterings pervaded the
cuirassed and helmeted assembly.
</p>

<p>
"But suppose these men have done you wrong, my lords, is
it wise, or is it noble, in a wild desire for vengeance, to endanger
the safety of the most ancient kingdom in Europe, and the
honour of its throne?  These princes desire me to say, firmly
and boldly, that no state can be so pure that corruption cannot
creep into it; that you, my lords and gentles, should be cautious
how ye shake the framework of the Scottish monarchy, and
shatter its government, for they are ready to resent it; and,
moreover, John, King of Denmark, Ferdinand of Spain,
Maximilian of the Romans, the Dukes of Austria, Muscovy,
Burgundy, and Brittany are ready to join France and England in
punishing this revolt; and his Holiness Innocent VIII., by the
voice of his legate, armed with full pontifical powers, will, ere
long, pour the terrors of his indignation on all who are in
rebellion against the Scottish crown."
</p>

<p>
Many a brow was knit, and many a sward half-drawn at this
bold speech; but Angus waved his mailed hand, and again the
multitude were still.
</p>

<p>
"Go back, De Concressault&mdash;go back to those false carles who
sent you here," said he; "or, further still, to all those barbarous
dukes and foreign kings, and tell them that the sacred rights of
an old hereditary nobility shall not be shared with, or trampled
on, by clodpoles and merchant-skippers, by hewers of wood and
drawers of water, by men accustomed less to the sword than to
the plough and hammer, the handloom and the tiller.  Begone,
I say, my Lord of Concressault; for if within another hour you
are found within a mile of Callendar Yew, by the bones of
St. Bryde, and by the soul of the <i>Dark Grey Man</i>, from whom my
blood is drawn, I will hang you on its highest branch, as the
taghairm of victory to our cause!"
</p>

<p>
"Be it so," replied the Sieur de Monipennie, as he drew himself
up with an air of scorn and military pride, and closed the
umbriere of his helmet, as he donned it in defiance of them all.
"On a coming day, I hope to requite this foul insult, and teach
thee, Lord of Angus, that a Scottish gentleman&mdash;a Marshal of
France&mdash;is as good as any peer that ever came of the Douglas
Blood, and better, it may be."
</p>

<p>
Turning from the hall, he left Callendar with all speed, and
crossed the Carse in the direction of the Forth, to rejoin the king
at Alloa.
</p>

<p>
"How happy all these titled villains will be now," said the
marshal to his esquire, who was no other than David Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, they may be <i>glad</i>, but scarcely <i>happy</i>," he replied.
"There are our ships.  Barton sees us, and sends off a boat."
</p>

<p>
"Say nought about our having seen that madcap prince among
the rebels," said the old soldier; "for his father the king hath
over many sorrows already to thole."
</p>

<p>
The moment the ambassador left Callendar, Sir James Shaw
summoned Borthwick, who had been duly infeft in his three
tenements in the burgh of Stirling.
</p>

<p>
"Mount," said he; "mount and ride, with forty chosen men,
to Linlithgow, and thence to Edinburgh; display our banners at
the burgh crosses&mdash;rouse the Gutterbloods of the Good Town, and
the Whelps of the Black Bitch; say that the Falkirk Bairns and
the vassals of Carse and Callendar have joined us to a man.
Rouse one, rouse all against the parasites of James! those
base-born courtiers who oppress the people&mdash;shout fire and sword,
horse and armour!  It is easy to gather the rascal mob,
and raise an outcry.  Here are a hundred lyons and
rose-nobles&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"English?"
</p>

<p>
"Ay, English rose-nobles," replied the subtle Laird of Sauchie,
with one of his snaky smiles; "scatter them among the rabble;
say they are from the good and charitable nobles&mdash;ha, ha! from
Angus and from Drummond!  Bait and draw on the <i>canaille</i>;
threaten them with war and pestilence; foretel the ruin of the
burghs and the invasion of their privileges.  Select
villains&mdash;thou knowest many&mdash;harangue and arm them; say blood must
flow.  To arms by tout of horn and tuck of drum&mdash;against the
court&mdash;and the muster-place is Callendar Wood.  Say, to arms
with Angus! who, like Warwick the Englishman, will become a
maker of kings and a breaker of crowns in more ways than one.
Tell the people and the poor that they must no longer be the
stock-fish and foot-balls of the rich and noble; tell the rich and
great that the base multitude have risen for plunder and the
assumption of absurd privileges.  Here, take my sword, it is a
good Banffshire blade, and away to Edinburgh; see Napier, the
provost, and say all I have said; for the papal legate is coming,
and if once he sets his red legs on Scottish ground, the burghs
are lost to the nobles for ever!"
</p>

<p>
While Sauchie repaired to his governorship in the Castle of
Stirling, the firebrand Borthwick departed on his rebellious
mission; for the revolted peers dreaded that, on the arrival of the
Legate Adriano di Castello, who was hastening from Rome, the
burgesses, and all who feared the censures of the Church, might
join King James before a decisive battle was fought or a
Revolution achieved.
</p>

<p>
The artful minion was very successful in his mission, and soon
after, the flower of the Lothian spearmen&mdash;the finest infantry in
Scotland&mdash;joined the rebel lords at Falkirk.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap29"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXIX.
<br /><br />
THE MARCH TO STIRLING.
</h3>

<p>
On a glorious morning of the first days of June, James III. began
his march for Stirling, once the El Dorado of the Scottish
nobles during his reign, as Linlithgow was in the time of James
IV., and Falkland in the time of James V.
</p>

<p>
The gentle breath of the morning stole along the heather braes,
and the sound of the river was heard as it murmured on its
yellow shores.  Above the hills the sun was rising in his summer
splendour, and the winding Forth blushed red as the shades of
night retired.  The peaks of the Ochil mountains glittered as the
mist rolled away from their summits; the mavis and merle sang
among the woods of Alloa; but the dew lay long in the grassy
haughs and hollows, where the peaceful shepherds, who heeded
little the godless strife of lords and earls, were winding their
horns, while the colley dogs barked and yelled when herd and
hirsel came forth from bught and penn.
</p>

<p>
Though less accustomed to armour than most of his turbulent
subjects, James was attired in a heavy suit, which he valued
highly for having been worn by his father at the sieges of Thrave
and Roxburgh.  It was gorgeously inlaid with ornamental and
religious devices; the back and breastplates were composed of
several pieces, to render them flexible, and the thighs wera
defended by an apron of chain mail.  Above his salade (a peculiar
headpiece, first introduced from Germany during the reign of
James II.) he wore a cap of maintenance, surmounted by the
imperial crest, the lion <i>in defence</i>; while the royal arms, the
lion rampant, within the double tressure, were everywhere
emblazoned on the caparisons of his horse, the head of which was
encased in a chanfron of tempered steel.
</p>

<p>
Another helmet for battle was borne behind the king by the
Laird of Touch, who was hereditary armour-bearer and esquire of
the royal body; his standard was borne by Scrimgeour, the
Constable of Dundee, also its hereditary bearer.  The lances of
the Royal Guard, under Ramsay, Lord Bothwell, wearing over
their armour scarlet jupons, trimmed with yellow (the royal
livery), rode close around, in front and in rear of the king, near
whom were Sir William Knollis, preceptor of Torphichen, wearing
the black côte d'armes of his order, with its white cross of
eight points; the old Sieur de Concressault, clad in a gorgeous
suit of Milan plate, with his orders of knighthood sparkling on
his breast, his swallow-tailed pennon borne before him by one
esquire, and his helmet behind him by another.  With this
group rode the venerable Montrose, the king's first counsellor,
attended by many gentlemen, among whom were Sir David
Falconer, who, as a soldier, had resolved to share the dangers of
the campaign; while the admiral, Barton, and Mathieson had
returned to their ships to guard the passage of the river below
Alloa.
</p>

<p>
The royal army was nearly thirty thousand strong, and
gathered strength at every tower and hamlet as it marched
westward, by the margin of the Forth, towards Stirling.  There were
the well-accoutred horsemen and spearmen of the North Lowlands,
in their steel caps and buff coats, with iron gloves and
gorgets; Highland archers in their long lurichs of chain and
conical helmets of steel, with short bows and ponderous swords&mdash;all
brave and determined, but unruly and, unfortunately, inferior
in equipment to the fine troops of the revolted nobles.  The
cannon were few and small, their principal one being the <i>Lion</i>,
a brass gun, cast in Flanders for James I., in 1438; it weighed
3000 lbs., and was inscribed with a long Latin legend.
</p>

<p>
Save the hum of the marching squadrons as it rose on the
morning air, the tramp of horses, and the tread of feet, the
rustle of the many-coloured banners and pennons of baronial
families, clans and burghtowns, or an occasional word of
command, there were no sounds of military triumph accompanied this
march to Stilling.  In respect for the king's sorrow and recent
bereavement, no Lowland drum was beaten, no trumpet blown, or
bagpipe gave a note to the breeze; and most of the peers and
gentlemen were thoughtful and downcast, or conversed only in
low and subdued tones; for it was an age of omens, and many
portending evils had been seen; and thus, their minds, being as it
were forewarned of unhappy results, attended to the most trivial
things, and drew from them dark and mighty conclusions.
</p>

<p>
Passing through the woods of Tullibody, the forces crossed the
beautiful Devon, which is fed by a hundred streams that pour
down from the Ochils, and rush united through a channel of
rock, among wild, romantic, and richly-wooded glens, towards the
Forth.  The royal troops passed through the little village of
thatched cottages, from the low chimneys of which the smoke of
fires, that were fed with fir and oak from the neighbouring bog,
was curling high above the rich green foliage.  The cottars stood
at their doors, and held up at arm's-length their little ones,
to see the passing king, and in the hope, perhaps, that they
might catch a glance of the royal eye; men, old and bent with
age, stretched their thin hands towards him in blessing, and the
tears came into the eyes of James when, after a long silence, he
turned to those about him, and said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"It is these poor people, and such as these, I love: and it it
at such a time as this I feel myself a king.  Believe me, my good
Montrose, the prayers and wishes of the lowly reach Heaven
more readily through these roofs of thatch, than those that rise
from baron's halls and great cathedral aisles; for, as Saint Mungo
said of old, the poor are the children of God.  I would that all
Scotland were as single in purpose and as true in heart as these
poor cottars now."
</p>

<p>
To this no one replied, and after another silent pause, James
continued, in the same bitter strain:
</p>

<p>
"How many of my forefathers have shed their blood for this
ungrateful people, who will slay me, even as they slew James I. at
Perth?  Fighting for Scotland, my father fell at Roxburgh,
by a cannon, in the very armour I now wear; yet how few of her
nobles have one drop of blood for me?  Like the very demons of
violence, crime, and ambition, they will traverse all the land in
arms; burghs will be sacked, and homesteads laid in ashes;
towers stormed and battles fought, for there is no hand can
restrain them but <i>One</i>, and even that seems armed against me now!"
</p>

<p>
"Alas!" said the Treasurer Knollis, in a low voice, as he laid a
hand on the cross of his order; "alas! that your majesty should
speak thus; doth not the Holy Writ tell us, that 'man is born
to trouble, even as the sparks fly upward?'"
</p>

<p>
"Where, beyond the little band here, have I a friend?"
</p>

<p>
The Lord of St. John of Jerusalem pointed upwards, saying,
</p>

<p>
"The wisdom and the repining of man are alike folly in the
sight of Heaven."
</p>

<p>
"I beseech your majesty to be of good cheer," said Montrose;
"thirty thousand loyal hearts are under your royal banner; and
another day may see your enemies routed, baffled, and destroyed."
</p>

<p>
"Duke, I have ever heard it said that the most noble way of
destroying one's enemies was to make them friends; but in
every attempt to gain these hostile peers, I have signally failed.
Our long projected banquet, which was to cement the bonds of
friendship&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"For God's love, speak not of that," said Montrose, betraying
a storm of anger in his eye and manner; "for never shall I know
one hour of peace until I have discovered and nailed on Stirling
cross the hand which forged the letter proud Angus so
exults in!"
</p>

<p>
And now old Stirling's "towers and town" arose before the
marching troops, all steeped in summer haze and brilliant
sunlight&mdash;that gorgeous palatial fortress, so rich in statues,
ornament, and carving&mdash;so lofty and so strong, rising tower above
tower, and rampart over rampart, on that stupendous rock that
terminates the steep on which the quaint old burgh clusters, with
all its gable-ended houses, its grey turrets, and antique courts, its
shady wynds and masses of fantastic masonry, with gardens all
around, and orchards in full bloom; while, seen at intervals, the
winding Forth swept through the fertile vale below, so rich in
dark green coppice and golden fields of corn, and teeming all
with natural loveliness&mdash;bounded by the dark and purple peaks
of the mighty Ochils and the mightier Grampians&mdash;by a thousand
hills and more, that look down on plains where Scotland
fought three of her most glorious battles.
</p>

<p>
By old Stirling bridge, so famed in the annals of the past for
pageantry and strife&mdash;so narrow and so steep, with its deep-ribbed
arches that span the river Forth, the king crossed at the
head of his troops, and for three hours they continued to defile
along that lofty gangway of stone, with banners waving, and
spears and helmets shining in the sun.  Strong walls and
fortified portes then enclosed the town.  Its eastern barrier, "a
formidable arch of ponderous masonry, sprung from columns of
basaltic rock, twenty feet in diameter.  A jagged portcullis and
solid gates closed the path by night, and their state keys of
solid silver are yet preserved in the town-house."
</p>

<p>
No provost, bailies, or dean of guild, in furred gowns,
appeared on bended knee to present these keys to James as he
passed through the arched portal which then secured the centre
of the bridge; and the streets beyond it were silent and
deserted, for the people were stricken with fear and awe, as his
forces marched through towards the Torwood; for he had resolved
to encamp beyond the walls, and thus relieve the burgesses of
his favourite town from the presence of the wild and unruly
northern clans who adhered to his cause and crown.
</p>

<p>
Intending to remain in Stirling until more of the Highland
chiefs could join him, and being anxious to meet the prince his
son, whom he believed to be in the castle with Shaw the governor,
of whose defection he was still ignorant, James rode up the
Broad Wynd, attended by a few of his guard, by Bothwell, its
captain, Montrose, the Sieur de Monipennie, Sir David Falconer,
and others who were his best friends, and who formed a glittering
troop as they approached the castle, which was James's
favourite residence, and which he had greatly embellished,
having built therein a parliament-house, the magnificent oak
roof of which was but recently and recklessly torn down by the
British government, and sold for firewood!
</p>

<p>
As the cavalcade advanced up the hill, they were surprised to
find a strange banner&mdash;the red heart of Douglas&mdash;flying upon
the castle in place of the blue national ensign, while the gates
were closed, the drawbridge up, the walls lined by the garrison,
and the cannon pointed against them.
</p>

<p>
Glances of inquiry and suspicion were exchanged by the
attendants of the king, whose pale face was turned with stern
scrutiny upon the armed ramparts, so he ordered a trumpet to be
sounded, and with the umbriere of his salade up rode forward
boldly to the edge of the ditch.
</p>

<p>
"Is the Laird of Sauchie, my captain of Stirling, within your
gates?" he asked, in a firm and haughty manner.
</p>

<p>
"I am here, at the service of your grace," replied that
arch-conspirator, as he appeared all armed, save the head, at the wall
above the portcullis.
</p>

<p>
"Thou false traitor and mansworn subject," said James, "why
am I received in this fashion at my own castle-gate?  Do ye not
see the royal banner and the guard in our livery?"
</p>

<p>
"As plainly as may be," replied Sauchie, with the coolest
assurance; "and what of it?"
</p>

<p>
James thought of his dead queen, and controlled the gust of
proper indignation that swelled within him at the insolent
bearing of his subject.
</p>

<p>
"Am I to understand that you decline us entrance here?"
</p>

<p>
"I regret to say that your majesty surmises justly."
</p>

<p>
"Soldiers!" he exclaimed, "I am James, your king!
Lieutenant-governor, Allan Cochrane
of Dundonald, arrest the traitor
Sauchie, and lower the bridge; arrest him, I command you all
on your allegiance."
</p>

<p>
The Laird of Dundonald curled up his mustachios in silence,
while Sauchie laughed aloud; but no man stirred upon the
walls, though all gazed upon each other in evident doubt and
trepidation.
</p>

<p>
"Will no man there desire the prince, my son, to appear before
me," said the poor king.
</p>

<p>
Then Sauchie answered:
</p>

<p>
"The prince, your son, is with the lords, in arms, beyond the
Torwood, and is birling his bicker in Callendar Hall."
</p>

<p>
This intelligence cut James to the soul, and he turned to
Concressault, with a glance full of reproach and inquiry.
</p>

<p>
"I could not tell your majesty such evil tidings," replied the
old soldier; "though I saw the prince, pale, sad, and I am glad to
say it, looking miserable enough, among those evil-minded lords."
</p>

<p>
"And thou, David Falconer?" said the king.
</p>

<p>
"I was silent for the same reason."
</p>

<p>
"It was kindly meant, sirs&mdash;kindly meant; but it makes the
blow more heavy to-day.  Wifeless and sonless, in one week&mdash;I
may well be crownless and lifeless the next.  Oh, who that could
have a crust and cup of water in peaceful obscurity would be king
of Scotland?  One word ere we go, Sir James of Sauchie, and
answer me truly on your soul as a Christian man, is my son in
arms against me of his own free will?"
</p>

<p>
"I know not; but the nobles, now in arms to demand justice,
took him away with them."
</p>

<p>
"Justice is in the hand of Heaven; and yet these rebel lords
would seek it at the head of forty-thousand spears."
</p>

<p>
"I know not in whose hand it may be, and care not," replied
the insolent Shaw; "but time will prove all."
</p>

<p>
"Time will also avenge thy perfidy!" said James, with
bitterness; "fie on thee, traitor; fie!  But I shall neither curse
nor ban thee, for thy father was a good knight and loyal man;
and this conduct in thee is enough to make his bones shake in
their coffin in Cambuskenneth aisle.  Foully and basely hast
thou deceived me, for to thee were entrusted alike the custody of
this my royal castle and of my eldest son; but I shall yet be
avenged, and have thee rewarded as thou deservest."
</p>

<p>
It is related that James then shook his clenched hand at the
subtle traitor on the battlement above him; and all his train
made the same menacing gesture, as they wheeled their horses
round and descended into the town.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap30"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXX.
<br /><br />
THE GOOD SHIP HARRY
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Yest'reen I saw the new moon<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With the auld moon in her arm;<br />
  And if we gang to sea, master,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I fear we'll come to harm.<br />
  They had na' sailed a league, a league,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A league, but barely three,<br />
  When the lift grew dark, the wind blew loud<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And gurly grew the sea."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Scottish Ballad.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The evening was cold and grey; the shrill wind swept over the
German Sea, tearing the surf here and there from the crests of
the murky waves, which reflected the colour of the inky scud that
traversed the lowering sky heavily and swiftly in flying masses
overhead.
</p>

<p>
Scattered far apart, three English ships are striving to make
headway against the freshening gale that blows from the east,
and at every fresh gust strains their almost close-reefed canvas
as if to blow it out of the bolt-ropes; and seizing their ponderous
spars, their intricate top-hamper and heavy-towering poops,
every moment careens them over to leeward.  Hardly they beat,
and bravely too; for a foreign, and it may be a hostile shore is
lying with all its rocky terrors on their lee, for these ships are
the <i>Harry</i>, the <i>Cressi</i>, and <i>White Rose</i>.
</p>

<p>
They dared not signal for pilots as they passed the little fisher
towns that nestle in the creeks and crannies of that tremendous
coast, which rises like a wall of rock along the northern sea; and
if they had fired guns and shown their colours, it may be doubted
whether a pilot could have come off in such tempestuous weather
"It freshens fast, this plaguey breeze," said John o'Lynne,
turning his weather-beaten face to windward; "but ere this I have
weathered many a tough Levanter, and seen St. Elmo's light lay
the spirit of the storm, as it burned blue for half a fathom or so
below our maintruck, and along the topsail-yard."
</p>

<p>
"Ay, John," responded Howard, "thou mayst have been all
round the world, and outside it too&mdash;yea, have doubled the Cape
of Storms, and yet never have seen a more dangerous or damnable
coast than this of Buchan here!"
</p>

<p>
"Should we not take a reef in that foresail and the maintopsail?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay&mdash;ouf! what a mouthful of salt water!&mdash;nay, stand on;
see, the rocks fall back and the land opens!  Ho!&mdash;St. George
for England! we may yet get into safe riding, and thank God
and St. Mary we have neither started tack or sheet."
</p>

<p>
"Or had aught carried away from truck to keel&mdash;from
sprit-sail to poop-lantern."
</p>

<p>
"A board of the forechain-plates hath been torn off; but we
will plank it anew in Scottish fir," said Howard, with a smile.
"The old <i>Harry</i> hath carried her canvas and shipped her seas
most nobly; she is the most manageable craft 'tween Thames
and Humber, and though we have not a dry hammock or doublet
on board, we will be all right and ataunto ere long.  Will Selby,
pass the word forward for a posset of sack, and then wear the
ship round, John o'Lynne, for that bight on the lee bow opens
fast; and though I never was but once in these seas before, I
remember me of finding safe anchorage hereabout.  Get ready
a culverin, as a signal to our craft to windward, and run up
St. George's cross, but for a minute only; lest the gimlet eyes of
some wary Scots may espy it from yonder devilish bluff, as we
wear ship and make to port."
</p>

<p>
"I hear a strange sound," said Dick Selby, putting a tarry
hand behind his red, weatherbeaten ear.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis the storm fiend laughing," said John o'Lynne.
</p>

<p>
"Nay," said Howard, "'tis the waves roaring in a cavern, and
mingling with the boom cf breakers on the beach; and now we
should see Phillorth Church and sands; and lo! there they are to
leeward&mdash;let her fall off a few points&mdash;so&mdash;yare&mdash;John, yare, and
bravely!"
</p>

<p>
Rattray Point, that low and dangerous promontory, with its
burgh town, not a vestige of which now remains, were left astern,
and soon Kinnaird, that tremendous headland on the Buchan
coast reared its weatherbeaten brow above the foam, where the
wave that rose upon the far Norwayn shore breaks upon its iron
front; and now, as Howard said, Phillorth opened its friendly
bay, overlooked by an ancient castle belonging to the Frazers,
and its kirk of St. Modan, the confessor of King Couran.
</p>

<p>
The <i>Harry</i> fired a gun as a signal to her consorts, and right
before the wind they stood in between the foam-drenched
promontories of Cairnbulg and Frazerburgh, and came to anchor in
the bay or roads, where, as the high bluffs protected them from
the fury of the sea, they rode in safety.
</p>

<p>
"Thank God and St. George our anchor is down, and seems
to hold bravely too!" said Howard, as the ship swung round and
everything was furled, fore and aft.
</p>

<p>
"But how fareth this dainty Scottish dame to-day?" asked
John o'Lynne.
</p>

<p>
Howard coloured deeply, and pretending not to have heard,
looked fixedly at the bluff of Cairnbulg.
</p>

<p>
"Dost thou affect her, shipmate o' mine?"
</p>

<p>
Still no answer.
</p>

<p>
"Ahoy, my captain! thou'st seen her to-day, I warrant."
</p>

<p>
"Who?" asked Howard, fretfully.
</p>

<p>
"The lady&mdash;our prisoner, who hath never set her pretty foot
on our wetted deck since that misty night we were off Tay
mouth."
</p>

<p>
"How could she do so, when the wind hath blown a tempest
since, and we have shipped an ocean and more of this bitter
Scottish sea?  She is low in heart, and sunk in health and
spirit&mdash;poor little damsel&mdash;my heart bleeds for her!"
</p>

<p>
"And yearns for her too&mdash;is it not so, Edmund Howard?"
</p>

<p>
"It yearns in vain, then," said Howard, with a sigh; "for she
is impregnable."
</p>

<p>
"Faith she must be if <i>thou</i> has failed in getting the weather-gage
of her; thou hast been kind to her as father, brother, and
lover, all in one," continued the talkative lieutenant; "and I
doubt not, she will make such a report of thee to old King Harry
as may win thee a pair of golden spurs."
</p>

<p>
"A stout fellow who wears a sword and faces salt water&mdash;a
Howard least of all&mdash;should not owe his spurs to a petticoat,
John o'Lynne," said his captain, coldly; "but I would to
Heaven she had never set foot on board the <i>Harry</i>; and I hope
its heaviest malison will fall on yonder villanous Scots who are
plotting this poor girl's ruin, and who brought her to us&mdash;on
Borthwick more than all!  That night his face was white as our
flag; but one day I hope to see it turn blue as a Scot's one!"
</p>

<p>
Then, the coast which is now covered by one of the most
thriving burghs of regality in Scotland, was lonely and somewhat
bare.  The high promontories, the level shore, the old castle of
the Lairds of Phillorth, the older church which was their burial
place; the green Mormond Hill, with thickets of fine oak and
dense clumps of red-stemmed Scottish firs, composed the scenery
of the bay, in which the waves rolled blue and calmly,
notwithstanding the storm that flecked with foam the sea without.
</p>

<p>
For several days the gale continued, and for these days the
English ships rode at their anchors, without their crews molesting
the shore, or being molested from thence: for it happened
that the old Baron of Phillorth was marching with his chief, the
Lord Lovat, and all his retainers, to join the king's host; so that
none were left behind to guard his lady and their tower but old
men and boys.  Moreover, although Barton had been slain in
the Downs, and Lord Angus had ravaged all Northumberland,
the kingdoms of Scotland and England were rather in a state of
suspicion and alarm, than of war, as the wary Henry VII. had
no wish for that event, being anxious to cement the bonds of an
offensive and defensive alliance by the projected marriage of
Rothesay with his daughter, the voluptuous Margaret Tudor.
</p>

<p>
Howard knew nothing of all that had been passing at Dundee,
Stirling, and elsewhere, during these several days of stormy
and arduous beating to windward; and Margaret Drummond,
his prisoner, knew of course no more.  She had now become
somewhat composed, and ceased alike to threaten, to entreat, and
to weep, save when she thought of her motherless and abandoned
infant.
</p>

<p>
While thus compelled by the stormy eastern wind to loiter off
the Scottish coast, the amiable and gallant Howard became
deeply impressed by the beauty, the gentleness, and sadness of
Margaret Drummond; and he felt all this the more keenly,
because he was too well aware that he was the contemptible
instrument of causing sorrow and distress to one so beautiful.  Daily
he resolved never more to enter her cabin, and hourly he broke
the resolution; for the charm of her presence was too strong for
his heart to resist.
</p>

<p>
Frequently in his secret thoughts he cursed the cruel and
subtle policy of his king, and the cupidity of the infamous
Scottish traitors who pandered to him, and sold for English gold
their faith and services.
</p>

<p>
At one time he had almost resolved to land her on the coast,
near some seaport town or baronial castle, and then bear away
for the Thames, and surrender himself to Henry's wrath; or to
quit his ships and seek a shelter among the wild Northumbrian
moss troopers.  Thus, fearful of adding fresh poignancy to her grief
by commencing his homeward voyage, he loitered in the bay
near Frazerburgh, while the gale moderated and veered round
favourably to the north-west; while water, wine, and provisions
became scarce on board the ships; while tall Dick Selby the
gunner, Anthony Arblaster, captain of the crossbows, who had
lost an eye at the Battle of Bosworth, and others of the crew,
looked strangely in each other's faces, and muttered under their
bushy beards; and John o'Lynne, who had been gruffly told to
"haul taut and belay, and to mind his own affairs," strode
sulkily up and down the larboard side of the poop, with his hands
thrust far into the pockets of his coarse blue gaberdine,
shouldering master Quentin Kraft, for whom he had no great love or
liking, and whistling to console himself, as he sipped a
peg-tankard of sack that stood on the binnacle-head, and looked
crossly from time to time at the flying clouds, and the long
whip-like pennon that streamed towards old England.
</p>

<p>
In deep thought, poor Howard often walked quite as hurriedly
on the other side of the poop, and was frequently heard to
mutter&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Alas, for thee, Eddy Howard&mdash;thou art a lost and ruined
man!"
</p>

<p>
"Ruined people are dangerous," grumbled John o'Lynne, under
his long wiry mustachios, which were always encrusted with saline
particles; "misfortune is infectious, and I would fain see the ship
cleared of this here piece of Scottish trumpery."
</p>

<p>
"And bearing away for the Nore and Thames, which we are
never likely to see again if this work lasts," added Dick Selby,
emptying the lieutenant's posset in pure inadvertence.  "St. Mary
be praised, we gave these Buchan-bouillars a wide berth, though! else
we had all found our graves in the Scotsman's sea."
</p>

<p>
"I would rather you had taken a pull at your slack jawing
tackle, than my sack posset, Master Selby," said the lieutenant,
gruffly; "so please to sheer off when next it stands here, and
before you come aft again, give one look at the Book of Good
Manners."
</p>

<p>
On this day the weather was calm and clear; the wind had
almost died away, and for the first time since she came on board,
Margaret had ascended to the poop, supported on the arm of
Howard, and well muffled in rich Muscovite sables, for the muffly
(or muff and tippet) were then worn by the ladies in Scotland.
Howard dared scarcely look his own lieutenant in the face; for
now the weather had cleared so completely that he was at last
deprived of every vestige of excuse for lingering off the Scottish
coast.
</p>

<p>
Upon that coast&mdash;on the granite brows of Cairnbulg and the
loftier bluff of Kinnaird with its cavern a hundred feet in depth,
on old Phillorth with its woods, and the Mormond Hill covered
to its summit with green moss and purple heather, on the
beach in front and the flat champaign beyond, Margaret bent
her sad and anxious eyes.  Round them the blue bay shone like
a mirror; but not a Scottish ship was near.  Close by were
the consorts of the <i>Harry</i>, lying at anchor, with their yards
braced sharply up and their heads to the wind, and in the open
sea without were a number of those Dutch vessels called bushes,
which, until the beginning of the seventeenth century, were
permitted by the Scottish government to fish in the Loch of
Strathbeg, which was <i>then</i> an arm of the sea, though now it is more
than a mile from it.
</p>

<p>
Howard saw the expression of Margaret's dark and beautiful
eyes, as she gazed in silent sorrow on the shore and on the
narrow strip of water, little more than half a bowshot, that
separated her from the yellow beach on which that water rippled,
and as she turned pleadingly and reproachfully to him, he felt
that his own gaze became disordered; and dreading that she
would renew those earnest entreaties with which he dared not
comply&mdash;entreaties to be landed on any point or place from
whence she could make her way to the nearest hut or house&mdash;he
begged her to be seated, and to excuse him, and hurried to the
fore-part of the vessel on some pretented duty, despatching to
her the pretty Cicely and the black-eyed Rose, who were gaily
chatting with Dick Selby and Anthony the archer, in the waist,
and in the sunny side of the starboard gun-tier, and were looking
as spruce and charming as the hideous dress then worn by the
women of England would permit; for their gowns were cut
square at the neck, with enormous sleeves confined at intervals
from the elbow to the wrist, or worn like "bishop's sleeves," as
they were named in London.  On their heads were flowing
capuchons turned back, as we may still see them in some of
Holbein's portraits.
</p>

<p>
Finding herself an object of attention and considerable
speculation among the crew, who (honest souls!) knew little of the
mission and less of the object which had brought them into
Scottish waters, the sensitive Margaret soon retired again to her
cabin, and there Edmund Howard followed her, by a temptation
which he could not resist&mdash;lured by the sound of her voice, and
the soft expression of her eyes; for these, though speaking only
of sorrow and reproach, were too powerful and too seductive to
be easily withstood.
</p>

<p>
Though his visit had been respectfully heralded by little Will
Selby, the gunner's brother, Howard found Margaret seated in
a chair near the cabin windows, still watching the shore, then
shining in the meridian sun.  She had thrown aside her hood,
and wore only her caul of gold, under which her soft fair hair fell
in a shower of glittering curls down her back,&mdash;for such was then,
and for long after, the fashion.  The sunlight streamed through
the cabin window, and Margaret's bright tresses seemed to form
a glory round her mild Madonna face, which was so pure, so fair,
and exquisitely soft; while the deep sadness and solemn thoughts
that hovered in her heart, made her eyes seem of a darker and a
deeper blue than they really were.
</p>

<p>
She gave Howard but one glance as he entered, and turned
again to the stern windows, from whence the bright water
rippled away like lines of light towards the pebbled shore, from
which she deemed herself about to be taken as a punishment for
having violated the laws of the Church, and brought discord into
the royal family.
</p>

<p>
"You have soon quitted the deck, lady," said Howard, on
whose handsome face there were impressed all the doubt and
hesitation which now rendered strange and abrupt his usually
open-hearted and elegant manner; "would not a little more of
the breeze that blows from yonder waving woods have revived
you, after such long confinement in this close cabin here."
</p>

<p>
"Not unless I was under their branches, sir, which I am not
likely to be while you are captain of this caravel," replied
Margaret, without raising her eyes.
</p>

<p>
Howard then pressed her to partake of a luncheon of preserved
strawberries, quince marmalade, macaroon biscuits, hippocrass and
orange wine, which stood untasted on the cabin table; but she
coldly declined.  He stood silent for a minute, and his heart
swelled under his well-embroidered doublet, as he leaned over
her chair and gazed upon the bright soft tresses that fell on the
girl's neck,&mdash;for Margaret was yet a girl, though maternity
had given a roundness to her beautiful form, even as premature
sorrow had given a sadness to her charming face and manner.
</p>

<p>
Of that maternity and her marriage Edmund Howard was ignorant,
but knowing that the heir of Scotland loved her, he dared not
speak of his own growing passion; for what had he to offer,
compared with all of which he was depriving her.  Yet Margaret could
read that rising sentiment in his speaking eye and kind persuasive
voice, and in his softened manner,&mdash;it fretted and provoked her.
A woman has an intuitive or instinctive perception when a man
is in love with her, let him do ever so much to conceal it; and in
the present instance Howard was too much of an English sailor,
and too little of a courtier, to show false colours.
</p>

<p>
"For the hundreth time, lady," said he, "I beseech you to be
assured that if your fate was in my own hands, you would be
conducted to any part of Scotland you desired; and there would
I leave you, though in doing so my heart should break for ever!"
</p>

<p>
Margaret smiled bitterly, but did not reply.
</p>

<p>
"Alas, lady, think better of me," urged Howard, sighing
deeply; "think better of me than to believe me a mansworn
wretch like Sir James of Sauchie, or a sordid slave like those other
Scots who have betrayed you to Henry of England.  Lady, I see
a cloud now gathering on your beautiful brow; I am but a plain
speaking English seaman (somewhat of a courtier once, it might
be); I have no wish to take the wind out of any man's sails, but
I do think, that while so many rascals tread her soil, this same
Scotland of yours is not worth mourning for."
</p>

<p>
"And dost think I have only the woods and mountain to weep
for?  Have I not my father&mdash;my four sisters, and my&mdash;&mdash;" she
dared not add "child!"
</p>

<p>
"Lady, the love of kings and princes is like foam on the
sea&mdash;a thing that comes and goes with every puff of wind, and so
passes away for ever.  Kings are but a hollow-hearted race at
best; their lives and their loves are made alike subservient to
policy and statecraft; and your Scottish kings have ever, as it
were, been among breakers and shoal water since Scotland had
a name; for her nobles are a race of hereditary traitors, such as
have no parallel in Europe&mdash;men ever ready to sell her liberty
and barter her honour for foreign gold."
</p>

<p>
"Who spoke of kings or princes," asked Margaret; "not I
surely, sir&mdash;my lips never uttered the name of king or prince?"
</p>

<p>
"But your heart did, madam," said Howard, sadly.  "Oh,
do not conceal your secret thoughts from me.  My own sentiments
enable me to sound the depth of yours too surely for my own
peace."
</p>

<p>
"I think, sir captain, I might have wearied you by this time."
</p>

<p>
"Nay, lady, nay; does the miser ever weary of his treasure?"
continued poor Howard, getting into deeper water every moment.
"I count not the hours you are with me, unless to reckon how
long it may be till we are separated by King Henry, and my sun
sets in a dark and hopeless sea."
</p>

<p>
"And when will this happen?" asked Margaret, making a
violent effort to control a rising sob.
</p>

<p>
"When we drop our anchors by the Tower of London."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, thou art a wretch&mdash;a minion&mdash;the slave of servile
slaves!" said Margaret, covering her face, and giving way to
one of those wild bursts of grief which always convulsed her
when the memory of the babe from which she had been so
cruelly torn, arose more poignantly within her; "begone, and
leave me to the horror thou hast wrought me."
</p>

<p>
"Madam," said Howard, with increasing sadness, "I take
kind Heaven to witness, that I seek no higher ornament than
the admiration you withhold from me; no greater glory than
the love I can never win.  You have thrice held out bribes to
me, as if I wore some sordid Scottish lord or servile English
clown, instead of being a gentleman of spotless coat-armour and
reputable bearing.  I have not deserved contempt thus, even at
your hands, for your presence here has wrecked my peace as
surely as it has wrecked your own; but alas! from very
different causes.  Dearly as he loves you, madam&mdash;and God who
hears him only knows how dearly,&mdash;Edmund Howard will never
again ask grace of one who has stigmatised him as a king's
minion and a sordid wretch.  I dare not land you on the Scottish
coast; and I have now but one hope&mdash;that we shall fall in with
old Andrew of Largo, and that after I have died fighting on my
deck, you may be given to those whom you love by the lads I
leave behind me; though I fear much that bold Dick Selby
would rather throw a match in his magazine and blow the old
<i>Harry</i> up, than see St. Andrew's cross above St. George's ensign!
Farewell, madam&mdash;I will never trouble you more."
</p>

<p>
Repenting her harshness, and impressed by Howard's calm
and noble demeanour, Margaret would have called him back; but
he sprang upon deck, and summoning John o'Lynne, ordered
him to prepare for sailing&mdash;to man the windlass and heave short,
and to cast loose the courses, while Dick Selby fired a culverin
as a signal to their consorts, the <i>White Rose</i> and <i>Cressi</i>, to put
to sea.
</p>

<p>
"I will no longer act the traitor to my king," thought
Howard, "or be the plaything of this proud beauty, who wrongs
me in her heart, and treats my honest passion with the cold
indifference of an anchor-stock.  Too long have I been the
laggard and the lover, and now the play is ended!"
</p>

<p>
"Ho! for England&mdash;cheerily, my hearts!" cried the gunner,
as he summoned a squad, who cast loose and loaded a culverin;
"I thought we should have ridden in this here cove till our
anchors rusted and our cables rotted&mdash;or till the hungry devils
of the Scottish sea had picked our ribs as clean as ivory.  Ready
the match! we have cruised long enough in these here northern
latitudes to wish for home again!"
</p>

<p>
The culverin flashed redly from the dark port-hole; the woods
of Phillorth, the cave and rocks of Kinnaird, and the shores of
the bay, gave back the report with a hundred reverberations, as
the courses fell and swelled out in the western breeze, when the
anchors were apeak, and the topsails sheeted home, and the white
flags with St. George's red cross were displayed from the
gaff-peak and mainmast-head, as the stately <i>Harry</i> moved slowly
out of that lonely northern bay, and once more began to roll
upon the stormy waters of the Scoto-German sea, which broke
in foam above the ghastly reefs then known as Phillorth Briggs.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap31"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXXI.
<br /><br />
THE TORWOOD.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "On earth 'twas yet all calm around,<br />
  A pulseless silence, dread, profound,&mdash;<br />
  More awful than the tempest's sound."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Lalla Rookh.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
It is recorded in history that James III. made a second effort to
overcome the treason of Shaw, but in vain.  The message
delivered by Sir David Falconer and Lord Bothwell, commander
of the Royal Guard, was received with derision and contempt;
and for the evening and night the king remained in the town of
Stirling, with all his troops around it, and fully resolved to fight
the insurgents on the morrow, if they advanced against him.
</p>

<p>
Rumours of their great strength made the few faithful nobles
who adhered to James doubtful of victory and fearful for his
safety; thus, the good old Duke of Montrose desired Sir David
Falconer to bear a message to Sir Andrew Wood, who was still
anchored off Alloa, requesting him to have his boats along the
beach and near the Carse, to take off all fugitives and wounded
men of either party who might pass that way.  As the
Torwood&mdash;a vast forest of primeval oaks which covered most of the
Carse to the eastward of Stirling&mdash;was full of wolves, wild deer,
and, worse than these, the hunting and wandering parties of the
insurgents, this duty was a task of no ordinary danger; but the
gallant captain of the king's arquebusses prepared for it with
alacrity; resolving, if molested, to trust to a ready hand, a sharp
sword, and a swift horse.
</p>

<p>
Accoutred in his harness, back, breast, and head-pieces,
armlets and gloves, or, as the Acts of James I. say, "weel horsed
and weel harnished as gentlemen oucht to be," with lance,
sword, dagger, and a hand-gun at his saddle-bow, Falconer
quitted his lodgings in the Friars' Wynd, near the Meal-market,
and rode down the steep streets of Stirling on his mission, just
as the sun was setting afar off behind the mountains of the
Highland frontier.  He had wisely taken from his helmet the
knot of <i>red</i> and <i>yellow</i> ribbons&mdash;the royal colours&mdash;which the
Duchess of Montrose and her <i>dames d'honneur</i> had prepared
and bestowed upon the gentlemen of the royal army; thus he
had nothing to distinguish him as he rode on his solitary
mission, and he could pass for loyalist or traitor, according to
circumstances.
</p>

<p>
He passed out of Stirling by an ancient porte near the Wolf's
Craig, where, in the war of Donald V., a sentinel, when asleep,
and been awakened by the growl of a wolf, and started to his
sword just in time to find a horde of Saxon invaders close by;
they were routed; and to this day we may still see on the old
burgh seals a wolf, recumbent on a rock, with seven stars above
it in the sky, in memory of how the town was saved.  As
Falconer gave his steed a draught of the pure spring that
flows from St. Ninian's well, a dark frocked figure&mdash;an
Augustine of Cambuskenneth apparently&mdash;was similarly occupied in
watering his nag, a stout Galloway cob.
</p>

<p>
"Good morrow, father; I hope you are come to bless the
cause of the king," said Falconer.  But he received no answer;
so leaving the well and chapel behind, he wheeled off to the left,
between the deepening shadows of the Torwood and the
stupendous eminence crowned by the town; and at a rapid trot
pursued the old Roman route towards the north-west.
</p>

<p>
This time-worn path was solitary and deserted; at such a
crisis none were abroad save well-armed men, and now all these
in the neighbourhood were within the walls of Stirling or
cantoned around it.  In the stillness of the summer eve, he heard
the cattle lowing in the Queen's haugh, where the herds of the
Queen were grazing, for the lordship of Stirling was the dowry
of the queens-consort of Scotland.
</p>

<p>
The summer moon rose clearly and brightly above the dark
foliage of the Torwood, and its silver light mingled with the
yellow flush of the western sky, and threw forward in black and
bold relief the sharp ridge of Stirling, with its castled rock, its
turreted chateaux and old square gothic spire; the wooded Abbey
Craig, on which were the ruins of a castle, with the Forth winding
like a gigantic snake of silver between thickets of beautiful
coppice, and forming those green links of rich alluvial land
which, in all ages, have been so proverbial for their pasture and
fertility.  Above these towered the lofty Abbey of St. Mary of
Cambuskenneth&mdash;massive, rich, and strong, as when King
David built it three hundred and forty years before; and lights
began to twinkle in the painted windows of its church and
dormitories as the daylight faded behind the gigantic Ochils, and
as the river that swept around it turned from silver to a cold,
yet bright star-studded blue; and the mighty bell which swung
in the highest tower was tolling the hour of ten, and summoning
the Augustines to prayer, as the arquebussier rode on, and
passing the abbey and river on his left, dipped into the wood.
The head of this great abbey was usually a powerful and wealthy
lord.  Henry, the then abbot, was sent ambassador to England
a few years after the period we write of.
</p>

<p>
As the last note of its melodious bell&mdash;which, strange to say,
as yet lying in the Forth, just where the Reformers sunk
it&mdash;died away upon the wind, and the road grew dark as the lofty
oaks of the Torwood arched their branches over it, forming, as it
were, a lofty tunnel of twined and matted foliage, Falconer
thought he heard the hoofs of a horse behind him: he checked
his own for a moment, and looked back.  He saw only the monk
mounted on his stout little cob, and well muffled up in his black
gown and cowl: so the soldier turned and rode on, though it
was evident that the stranger had also for a moment checked
his speed.
</p>

<p>
As Falconer crossed the Bannock he again looked back; the
monk was still in sight, preserving his distance, and pursuing at
a trot, the old Roman way.  Falconer turned to ride back and
meet this follower, who immediately wheeled round and galloped
in the opposite direction to avoid him.
</p>

<p>
"Poor friar&mdash;my harness frightens him!" thought Falconer,
as he resumed his way.  "By my faith, but these are sharp
times, when peaceful monks and men of God tremble at the
sight of their own countrymen!"
</p>

<p>
He soon dismissed the circumstance from his mind, on remembering
that it was a peculiarity of the Augustines or Canons
Regular, that they took charge of parish churches and performed
ecclesiastical functions in any place, whereas the contemplative
orders never left their convent walls.  As he passed Polmaise
(or the Pool of <i>Rotting</i>, so named from the thousands of bodies
that lay unburied there after the Battle of Bannockburn), he again
heard the hoofs of the priest's cob following closely and warily
behind him.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis intolerable, this!" said Falconer, as ideas of spies and
assassins were suggested to his mind, and he remembered that
twice he had recently escaped a barbarous death.  "Come on,
good father," he cried, "come on, and fear nothing, for I am a
peaceful man, though armed, as you see."
</p>

<p>
To this the priest made no response, but again wheeled his
horse to the right, and dashed into the recesses of the Torwood.
</p>

<p>
"Suspicious, this!" thought Falconer; "and if I find thee
tracking me again, I will try the effect of a hand-gun shot on
thee, wert thou the last of all the friars in Scotland."
</p>

<p>
He listened for a time, but all was still, save some distant
and uncertain sounds that rose from the recesses of the forest
and floated in the still air overhead; but whether these were the
notes of hunting horns recalling straggling parties, or wild
wolves baying at the summer moon, seemed uncertain; so, once
more he resumed his way, and at a hand-gallop passed the manor
of Throsk, crossed the fertile Carse, turned round a link of the
Forth, and descended to the Craigward or King's Ferry, where
the river is still crossed by a boat.
</p>

<p>
Here the Forth is only half-a-mile broad at high water.
Opposite lay dusky Alloa, with its lights twinkling among
masses of quaint old buildings, and the smoke of their chimneys
ascending into the pure still air of the evening, which had now
almost blended with the dewy night.  The woods, the castle,
and the town were reflected downward in the stream, in the
mid-channel of which were the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> and <i>Queen
Margaret</i>, with their consorts, lying at anchor, with all their boats
hoisted in, their courses loose, the upper portlids triced up and
the guns run out; strong watches were on deck, with battle-axe
and arquebuss, and all ready for sea and service at a moment's
notice.
</p>

<p>
Dismounting, Falconer took his horse by the bridle and led it
close down to the water-edge at the Craigward, and selecting a
place where the boor-trees grew thick and mingled with the wild
Scottish roses and the woodbine in a matted screen, over a
scaured bank which the river had scooped as if to form a place
of concealment, he looked cautiously round and listened for a
moment, and all was still, save the ripple of the stream as it
flowed towards the sea.  He placed to his mouth a silver-mounted
bugle that hung at his girdle, and blew one low, winding, and
peculiar note.  It floated away over the river, and ere it died in
the distance, the shrill whistle of Archy the boatswain was heard
on board the admiral's ship&mdash;a boat plashed as it was lowered
into the moonlit water, the crew were seen to drop lightly
down from the chains, and the oars gleamed, as Cuddie the
coxswain pushed off from the carved and painted side of the high
and formidable caravel.
</p>

<p>
At that moment Falconer heard something crackling among
the boor-trees above his head.  He looked upward suspiciously,
but could perceive nothing.
</p>

<p>
"Tush," thought he, "I have scared some red fuimart or
todlowrie from its lair&mdash;yet every leaf that stirs startles me
to-night."
</p>

<p>
He had forgotten the suspicious friar; but had he looked more
narrowly he might have seen that respectable personage, with
his head uncowled, with neck outstretched, with a hand behind
one ear to let not a sound escape, and with grey, malignant eyes,
half starting from their sockets, while, screened among the leaves,
he bent over the bank to see and hear what this bugle-sound,
the answering whistle, and shore-rowed boat portended&mdash;for our
monk was a spy!
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap32"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXXII.
<br /><br />
THE DOUBLE BRIBE.
</h3>

<p class="intro2">
"Sordid, mean, and miserly, he has made various compacts, he has
made a compact with pride; a compact with avarice; a compact with
knavery; a compact with ambition; a compact with contempt; a compact
with mammon; a compact with all the evil passions, and with all the
fiends!"&mdash;<i>Tantalus.</i>
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
"Welcome as a fair wind!" said Barton, leaping lightly
ashore, though he was heavily armed in a suit of black
unpolished armour, and carried in his hand a Jedwood
axe&mdash;"Welcome, doughtie Davie."
</p>

<p>
"And welcome thou, my comrade and shipmate," replied
Falconer, as they drew off their steel gloves, and shook hands,
but without a smile, for their hearts were full of stern thoughts.
</p>

<p>
"What tidings are there 'long shore, eh?" asked Barton.
</p>

<p>
"Evil enough&mdash;the lords are all in arms in the Carse, and
to-morrow we hope to give them battle."
</p>

<p>
"Would I might leave the ship and share it with thee!"
</p>

<p>
"And why not?" asked Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"The admiral&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"True&mdash;true."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis said these lords have a hundred thousand men under
their banner."
</p>

<p>
"Rumour says even more," added Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"But rumour is a landlubber, and often lies: and the king,
how many?"
</p>

<p>
"Only thirty thousand men, to my certain knowledge, but
all good men and true, and God will bless their cause.  Have
any tidings of Howard's ships reached thee yet?"
</p>

<p>
"Not a whisper&mdash;nor has a boat boarded us since the king
marched west from Alloa.  On board we hear no more than a
deep-sea lead, when down.  Would that we could meet him!"
added Robert Barton, twisting his mustachios.  "To me the
opening cannon of that English fleet were welcome as a peal of
merry marriage bells.  Any message from the fair sisters in
Strathearn?"
</p>

<p>
"Alas, none! and I suppose there is no intelligence of the
lost Lady Margaret?"
</p>

<p>
"None&mdash;a strange mystery!"
</p>

<p>
"Can she be with Rothesay among the rebel lords?"
</p>

<p>
"Impossible! for Rothesay then would leave their banner.
Hostility, despair, and old Lord Drummond's wiles alone detain
the prince among them; for Sir James Shaw, who twice to-day
bent the cannon of Stirling against the king, and also Sir Patrick
of Kyneff, declare aloud that James has hidden or poisoned her."
</p>

<p>
"I should like to meet, on clear deck or open field, an
armed man who would say so much to me!" said Barton,
grasping his Jedwood axe.
</p>

<p>
"Dost think we will have a fair day for the battle to-morrow;
for the rain so bedevils our gun-matches."
</p>

<p>
"Fair&mdash;I think so," said Barton, looking at the starry sky.
"As Archy the boatswain says&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "When the mist takes to the German sea,<br />
  Fair weather, shipmate, it will be;<br />
  But when the mist rolls owre the land,<br />
  The rain comes pouring off the sand;"<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
so the mist took to the sea this morning.  And now, shipmate
of mine, what errand brings thee to the Craigward to-night?"
</p>

<p>
"A message from the Duke of Montrose to the admiral."
</p>

<p>
"Well, and what is his grace's desire?"
</p>

<p>
"That, as we have, perhaps more chance of being vanquished
than victorious on the morrow, he will keep his boats along the
shore here, to take off all fugitives and wounded men, and so
provide a safe retreat for the king, who in case of reverse (which
God avert!) will be conveyed by faithful friends this way."
</p>

<p>
"So James retreats <i>this way</i>!" said the lurker overhead.
</p>

<p>
"And how shall we know him?" asked Barton.
</p>

<p>
"By the Lord Lindesay's famous grey horse, which he is to
ride on the morrow, and by a yellow plume in his helmet."
</p>

<p>
"Good," said Barton; "I shall note them in the log-book of
my memory."
</p>

<p>
"Good, and so shall I," muttered the friar, overhead.  "<i>A
grey horse and a yellow plume</i> will be readily known on the
morrow."
</p>

<p>
"Hark," said Barton, as the listener withdrew; "dost thou
not hear something?"
</p>

<p>
"Can we be watched?" exclaimed Falconer, grasping the
hand-gun at his saddle-bow.  "A muffled man&mdash;one at least in
a friar's cowl, followed me to-night, pace for pace, from the Wolf
Craig to the Polmaise."
</p>

<p>
"Cuddie&mdash;ho, there!&mdash;keep the boat close in," cried Barton,
looking sharply round him.  "A friar, said ye&mdash;and there is
one, even now, at the top of the Craigward!"
</p>

<p>
Barton sprang to the summit of the bank with all the agility
of a sailor, and grasping the lurker by the frock, as he was
crawling away, dragged him roughly down to the beach.
</p>

<p>
"How now, sir friar, what seek you here?" asked Falconer,
recognising the priest he had met at the Wolf Craig.
</p>

<p>
"A passage across the ferry."
</p>

<p>
"Then you are not likely to get it, for the rebels have burned
the boat, and the oarsmen have fled," replied Barton, releasing
him, and half ashamed of having shown so much warmth before
a clergyman.  "Why did you not come boldly forward and say
go at once, good friar, instead of crawling about there like a
parboiled parton&mdash;eh?"
</p>

<p>
"This is not a time to venture rashly among armed men."
</p>

<p>
"The friar is right," said Falconer; "and such was perhaps
his reason for avoiding me in the Torwood."
</p>

<p>
"Moreover, I am a friend of the Lord Drummond, bound on
a peaceful mission to two gentlemen of the king's ships," said
the friar, the upper and lower parts of whose face were concealed
by his hood.
</p>

<p>
"We know most of the men in the king's ships, father," said
Barton, in an altered tone; "and for whom may your message
be?"
</p>

<p>
"Robert Barton, captain of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, and Sir
David Falconer, captain of the king's arquebussiers."
</p>

<p>
There was a pause, during which the persons mentioned gazed
at each other and then at the friar.
</p>

<p>
"Priest, thou gibest us," said Barton, bluntly; "for we are
the men you speak of."
</p>

<p>
"How shall I be assured of that, sirs?"
</p>

<p>
"Ask our names of the boat's crew, if you doubt us," said
Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"It is enough&mdash;I now recognise ye both, sirs."
</p>

<p>
"A sudden recognition!"
</p>

<p>
"Well, friar, thou'st the weathergage of us, and knowest
our rank and rating now; but what would the Lord Drummond
with us?" asked Barton.
</p>

<p>
"Step a little this way; what I have to tell must not be
overheard," said the friar, drawing them a few paces from the boat.
</p>

<p>
"Sir David Falconer, you love the Lord Drummond's daughter,
Sybilla?"
</p>

<p>
Falconer was silent, for the sound of that beloved name made
his heart leap under his cuirass.
</p>

<p>
"And you, Robert Barton, love her sister, Euphemia?"
</p>

<p>
"Silence, friar!" said Barton, angrily; "what hast thou to do
with this?"
</p>

<p>
"Thus much, that the Lord Drummond, the High Steward of
Strathearn, sent me to say, that if you will make the admiral
prisoner, seize his ships, and deliver them to the lords, ye
yet win your brides; but refuse, and you shall never see them
more."
</p>

<p>
"Villain monk, thou liest!&mdash;the Lord Drummond is a
gentleman!" said Falconer, furiously.
</p>

<p>
"He is more," said the monk, sneeringly; "he is a Scottish
noble."
</p>

<p>
"In that word <i>noble</i> lies a world of treason," said Barton;
"but he was wise to send a priest on this infernal mission, for
with this axe I had cloven a layman to the chine."
</p>

<p>
"Very likely," sneered the monk again; "for useful and
honourable men are never appreciated in this world&mdash;they are
ever unfortunate."
</p>

<p>
"Such priests as thee will be fully appreciated in the world to
come," said Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"Do not let us quarrel, sirs," said the tempter, with assumed
meekness, crossing his hands upon his breast; "I am but the
Lord Drummond's mouthpiece; and he said, Sir David, that your
pay as captain of the king's arquebussiers would go but a short
way, with a houseful of little Davies and Sybies crying for
bannocks, cheese, and Christmas-boxes."
</p>

<p>
This sneer enraged the soldier, but he heard it with apparent
disdain.
</p>

<p>
"So you will not win your brides, fair sirs&mdash;yea, with as many
gold pieces each as would fill a Linlithgow firlot."
</p>

<p>
"English, no doubt," said Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"Of course," added Barton; "what other coin could pay for
Scottish treason?  No&mdash;we will not win our brides thus, but by
lance and sword will we win them on the morrow; so, base
slubberdegullion, slip your cable and sheer off&mdash;begone, or by my
father's bones, now bleaching in the English Downs, I will tie
thee in thy Mar's frock as in a sack, and sink thee with a
whinstone bullet; though thou art more likely to die with a fathom
of rope than a fathom of water over thy shaven crown!  Away;
ship your oars, my hearts," he added, springing into the boat, as
Falconer leaped on his horse; "Farewell, gossip Davie&mdash;God
speed thee back to Stirling, and give us victory on the morrow.
I will not forget to look for the yellow plume, though I pray it
may never come here on the head of a fugitive king.  Give way,
lads; we have been off a full hour by the glass;&mdash;give way for
the ship."
</p>

<p>
The boat shot off from the shore into the stream, the rowers
keeping time with Dalquhat, who pulled the stroke oar, and all
their blades flashed in the moonlight, as Sir David Falconer,
without bestowing a word or glance on the recreant friar,
galloped up the slope and along the Carse by the old Roman Way
that led to Stirling.
</p>

<p>
The moment they were gone, the friar threw back his hood
and displayed to the white moon, then sailing high aloft in the
clear blue sky, the evil visage of Hew Borthwick, over the deep
sinister eyes and hateful mouth of whom a laugh spread as he
said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Fools!  The bodachs of Angus, the men of the Mearns, the
Whelps of the Black Bitch, and the Souters of Selkirk&mdash;yea, even
the canny folk of Aberdeen&mdash;are in arms against you, and yet ye
hope for victory!  I am now a Stirling laird, duly infeft and
seized with earth and stone.  Well, well! they laugh merrily who
laugh the last.  A little more of Henry's gold, and my fortune
is made!  In the battle of to-morrow, a crown will be lost and
won; and I shall gain a thousand <i>crowns</i> if I can bear to
Berwick-gate sure tidings of King James's death!  The <i>yellow
plume&mdash;-the yellow plume</i>,&mdash;I shall watch for it in yonder field
to-morrow as one who is damned watches for the first blink of
redemption!"
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap33"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXXIII.
<br /><br />
THE GREY HORSE.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "I would the wind that is sweeping now<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O'er the restless and weary wave;<br />
  Were swaying the leaves of the cypress bough<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O'er the calm of my early grave."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Scottish Song.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The morning of the 11th June, 1488, rose brightly over Stirling
and its magnificent scenery.
</p>

<p>
Almost with dawn, tidings reached King James that the insurgent
nobles, at the head of a vast force, had left Falkirk some
hours before daybreak, and were on their march through the
Torwood to attack him.  The unfortunate monarch now found
himself peculiarly situated.
</p>

<p>
His Castle of Stirling, the only adjacent place of security in
case of reverse, was closed against him; while the nobles as they
marched by the old Roman road which ran through the recesses
of the Torwood, barred the only route to the capital.  Thus, in
the event of defeat, James could turn nowhere for succour but to
the admiral's boats at the Craigward, as arranged by the faithful
Falconer.
</p>

<p>
He summoned a council of his chiefs&mdash;Montrose, Glencairn,
Menteith, Ruthven, Semple, the Preceptor of Torphichen, and
others; and they were unanimously of opinion that he should
commit their cause and fortunes to the hazard of a battle.
Immediately on this decision being come to, the steep streets and
old fantastic alleys and wynds of Stirling echoed to the brattle of
drums, the clang of trumpets, the twang of Border horns, and
the yelling of the mountain pipe, as the royal troops, horse and
foot, spearmen, archers, and knights&mdash;all sheathed in mail, with
horses richly trapped; burgesses and yeomen in splinted jacks,
steel gloves, and morions; and clansmen with their long linked
lurichs, tuaghs, and two-handed swords, marched past its walls
and barrier-ports, by the ancient road, which then, as now, led
towards the rampart that extended from the Forth to the Clyde,
and advanced eastward in three heavy columns, all animated by
enthusiasm, for the royal cause, and by the highest spirit and
determination.
</p>

<p>
At that time the insurgents were passing the Carron, so famed
of old in our Highland songs and Lowland history as the scene
of many a bloody contest with "the kings of the world;" for
there the wings of their pride were shorn, and the line of their
conquests marked for ever by the swords of the Scottish Gaël.
</p>

<p>
The vast extent of the Torwood&mdash;the Sylvæ Caledonia of
antiquity&mdash;and all the foliaged hills that rise around the "Bulwark
of the North," were clad in the richness of their summer beauty.
The air was laden with perfume exhaled from the waving woods
and teeming earth; the sky was without a cloud, save where a
few specks of gold or fleecy white floated in the distant east.
The dew was glittering on everything, from the topmost leaves
of the Torwood's giant oaks to the little mary-flower and red-eyed
daisy that grew below them.  All nature seemed fresh and
bright and beautiful.  The wild violet and the mountain roses
that grew thickly by the wayside scented the air, and its purity
was enchanting.  It seemed rather a morning for a merry hunting
or hawking party, than the stern debate of Scottish civil war;
and as pipe and trumpet, with the tramp of barbed horses and
the tread of heavily-armed men, rang on the pavement of the
Roman Via, and awoke the leafy echoes of the forest, the wild
erne screamed in the oaken glade, and the cushat dove fled from
the hateful sound.
</p>

<p>
After hearing mass in the Dominican church, and confessing
himself to Henry, Abbot of Cambuskenneth, the king mounted
his horse amid a flourish of trumpets.  He was a peaceful and
amiable prince&mdash;one more suited to our own civilized time than
that age of blood and cold iron; and thus he felt somewhat
unused to the ponderous but gorgeous suit of armour in which he
was cased and riveted; and all uncheered by the enthusiasm
wound him, the flashing of arms, and the braying of martial
music, as the drums and fifes, horns and trumpets, of Lord
Bothwell's guard (first embodied by James II.), played merrily,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Cou thou the rashes greene O,"<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
or by the historical memories of the ground over which he
marched, for the Scottish Marathon lay close at hand; he rode
silently and moodily on, with his helmet closed, to conceal the
tears that came unbidden to his eyes, as he thought of his dead
wife, his son's desertion, the unjust accusations against him, and
the coming slaughter which nothing but his own death could
perhaps avert.
</p>

<p>
"Another hour will bring us in sight of the foe," said the
old Duke of Montrose, whose armour was richly ornamented,
though somewhat old-fashioned; for his head-piece had the
oreillets and long spike worn in the days of Murdoch, the Regent
Duke of Albany, and his horse was gaily housed in his colours;
<i>gules</i>, a fess checque <i>argent</i> and <i>azure</i>, the bearings of the
Lindesays of Crawford; "and in one hour after that, your
majesty will find yourself enabled to punish and repay the treason
of Sauchie.  I would give my best barony to see his head rolling
on the Gowling Hill of Stirling!"
</p>

<p>
"Time will show, duke," said James, with a sigh.  "God wot,
I have no wish to shed the blood of my people; but I never liked
this Laird of Sauchie; his soul was an abyss, and I never could
fathom his thoughts."
</p>

<p>
"His chief friend and follower&mdash;a man named Hew Borthwick&mdash;was
in Stirling last night, disguised in a friar's frock.  This
man is a spy and traitor; yet he escaped us, and took the eastern
road, doubtless to tell what he has seen; and for all the Howe of
Angus, I would not have lost that fellow's head."
</p>

<p>
"Borthwick! have I not heard that name before?"
</p>

<p>
"Doubtless; he is a well-known bully, pimp, and brawler, who
hovers about the discontented lords."
</p>

<p>
"Is he well-born?"
</p>

<p>
"Hell-born would be nearer truth, if rumour pedigrees him
right," replied Montrose; "but what aileth your majesty?" he
asked, perceiving the king to shudder so much that the joints of
his armour rattled.
</p>

<p>
"A <i>grue</i> came over me," said the poor king, and Montrose
was silent, for neither were above the superstitions of the time;
and in Scotland people still believe that an involuntary shudder
is caused either by a spirit passing near or when we tread upon
the ground which is to be our grave.
</p>

<p>
A shout, a clamorous hurrah from the vanguard, announced that
the foe was in sight; and as the king, with his forces, debouched
from the Torwood, he came in view of the long array of his
insurgent lords; and Falconer, who rode with the royal guard,
shook his lance aloft in fierce ecstasy, as he thought the moment
was now approaching when he might meet Hailes and Home,
singly or together, in close and mortal combat.
</p>

<p>
The insurgents were posted at the bridge over the Carron, and
were formed in three strong columns, the whole strength of which
has been variously stated, for their exact number has never been
ascertained.  Some historians have estimated them at one hundred
and eighty thousand, which is doubtless a great exaggeration.
Their force, however, was sufficiently formidable to appal the
mind of the heart-broken king.
</p>

<p>
The Lords Hailes and Home commanded the first column,
which was composed of the men of Berwickshire and East
Lothian; and Falconer's quick eye soon distinguished the chevron
of the first, and the green banner of the second, with its yellow
lion waving above the flower of the Scottish spearmen.
</p>

<p>
With this body rode the traitor Borthwick, armed like a simple
knight, and wearing a close helmet.
</p>

<p>
The second column was composed of the fierce clans of
Galloway and the hardy Bordermen from the Liddel, the Annan,
the Tweed, and the Teviot, all clad in jacks of splinted steel,
with long lances and two-handed swords, well mounted, and
ranged under the terrible Red Heart of Angus&mdash;the banner of a
thousand battles, a thousand crimes and glories!
</p>

<p>
In the third column, led by the Lord High Constable, were
the men of the central Lowlands (under the nominal command of
the Duke of Rothesay), and in this column the insurgents had
the hardihood to display the royal standard of the kingdom.
Lord Drummond, the Steward of Menteith, Sir Patrick Gray,
the Forester of Drum, Sir William Stirling of Keir, Sir James
Shaw, who had come from Stirling Castle, with many more
malcontent noblesse, were around the prince, as guards and spies
upon his conduct.
</p>

<p>
The aspect of these long triple lines as they stood in order of
battle by the banks of the Carron, with their deep masses of long
spears that vibrated like the stalks of a ripe cornfield, their many
silken standards waving in the wind, and all their bright harness
shining in the meridian sun, as knight and noble galloped from
troop to troop and band to band, was too formidable to leave the
unhappy king the shadow of a hope that he could ever come to
an amicable arrangement with them, which he would gladly have
done had his forces been the most numerous.
</p>

<p>
He formed his little army of thirty thousand men into four
columns.  The first was commanded by the aged Earl of Menteith,
under whom were the banners and vassals of the Lords
Erskine, Gray, Ruthven, Graham, and Maxwell; the second was
led by the Earl of Glencairn, and consisted chiefly of the western
clans; the third was led by the Lord Boyd and the young Lord
Lindesay, who carried the gauntlet of Angus on his spear.
</p>

<p>
The main body, in which was the royal guard under Lord
Bothwell, was led by the king and Montrose.  It consisted
principally of men from Fife, Angus, and Stormont.  In front were
the Great Lion and a few other pieces of cannon.  James III. rode
at the head, distinguished above all around him by the loftiness
of his stature, the brilliancy of his armour, the collar of the
Thistle, and his towering <i>yellow plume</i>.
</p>

<p>
On both sides all were well armed according to the fashion of
the time and country, for the Scots excelled in the manufacture of
weapons; and at that time every gentleman possessing ten
pounds' worth of land was compelled to have a complete suit of
harness, with sword, spear, and dagger; every yeoman, a basinet,
steel gloves, bow, shafts and buckler, sword and dirk.  From an
early period the nation were good gunners; they first used cannon
in the war against the English in the year 1340; and in after
years the Parliament ordered that every proprietor whose lands
were a hundred pounds of new extent, should provide a hackbut,
while every hundred-merk-land should equip two field-pieces;
consequently, the nobles had plenty of cannon in this fatal
field of Sauchieburn.
</p>

<p>
As the lines were approaching each other, the faithful Lord
Lindesay of the Byres rode up to the king, attended by an esquire
who led a grey horse of beautiful proportions&mdash;one which was
deemed unrivalled in Scotland for beauty, strength, and fleetness.
"I beg," said he, "that your majesty will accept of this steed
from me; should we lose this eventful field&mdash;which God and
St. Andrew avert&mdash;your majesty may fully trust your sacred life to
this animal's agility and sureness of foot; for if you can but keep
your saddle, my favourite grey will never fail you."
</p>

<p>
"He has been carefully bred," said the Duke of Montrose,
"and possesses the fifty-four gifts of a good horse."
</p>

<p>
"Fifty-four, duke?" reiterated the king, stroking the fiery
animal as it pressed on the powerful curb, and caracoled from
side to side; "on my faith, a goodly number!"
</p>

<p>
"Examine him, please your majesty," continued the handsome
young donor, throwing up his umbriere; "he hath a woman's
breast, with a lion's courage; the eye of a bull, with the patience
of a sheep; the strength of a Spanish mule, with the fleetness of
a Scottish deer; and the ears of a wolf!  You will find him no
cutter of gowans.  Keep his head well up, and, by the faith of
Lindesay, he will never fail under you!"
</p>

<p>
How fatal a gift this fiery horse proved will be shown in the
sequel!
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap34"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXXIV.
<br /><br />
THE BATTLE OF SAUCHIEBURN.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "The king has come to marshal us, all in his armour drest;<br />
  And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;MACAULAY.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The hostile lines were drawing nearer and more near; the
shouts of the wild clansmen of Galloway mingling with the
slogans of the Merse-men, who shouted "A Home! a Home!"
were borne on the wind across the fertile fields that lay between
the approaching columns.
</p>

<p>
A loud report pealed upon the stillness of the sky.  It was the
Great Lion, a ball from which made a gap in the ranks of the foe;
others followed from a green knoll on which the royal culveriniers
had posted themselves, but slowly and laboriously, for the gunners
of the fifteenth century were somewhat less expert than those of
our own day.  James gazed fixedly and anxiously at the insurgent
bands.  He was looking for the prince, his eldest son.
</p>

<p>
"No victory can come to a heart filled with dark forebodings
such as mine," said he to Montrose.
</p>

<p>
The Duke's reply was lost in the hollow of his helmet.
</p>

<p>
"No doubt young Rothesay is surrounded by a flattering crowd,
all anxious to hail him as <i>James IV</i>."
</p>

<p>
"Ah, say not so, sire," said the faithful old peer, with a sigh;
"yet such, alas, is perhaps the fate of kings."
</p>

<p>
"The fate of kings! thou thinkest so?&mdash;to see their own flesh
and blood rise in rebellion up against them," replied James,
incoherently; "yet is there not an old proverb&mdash;a
prophecy&mdash;which says&mdash;what said it?"
</p>

<p>
Montrose did not reply.
</p>

<p>
"What said it?" repeated James, impatiently.
</p>

<p>
"That in Scotland <i>this year a lion shall be slain by its
whelps</i>."
</p>

<p>
The king grew pale as death, for at that moment the wind
blew out the banner of the third division of the insurgents, and
above their long lines of shining helmets he recognised his own
imperial flag, with the red lion rampant in its golden field.
</p>

<p>
"If I this day am slain, and the boy, my son, made king,"
said he, huskily, "Scotland&mdash;Scotland&mdash;what will become of her?
Lord of St. John, doth not the scripture say, 'woe unto the land
whose monarch is a child'? and my simple-hearted Rothesay is but
little more in years."
</p>

<p>
At that moment a number of arrows and caliver-shots whistled
past them, and the battle began in earnest, just as the distant
bell of St. Ninian's Church tolled twelve.
</p>

<p>
The scene of this sanguinary encounter was the tract of land
now known as Little Canglar, upon the east side of a brook
called the Sauchieburn, about two miles from Stirling.  A number
of weeping-willows&mdash;called in Scotland sauch-trees&mdash;drooped over
the water, and gave a name to the place, as they did to Sir James
Shaw's barony.  The birds were carolling aloft in the blue welkin;
the air was pure, the sunshine bright and warm; the fragrance
of the flowers and bearded grass was wafted on the soft summer
wind; the mavis sang among the pale green sauches, and the
cushat dove sent up its cry from the Torwood's shady oaks.
Grey Stirling, the wooded brow of Craig-forth and the Ochil
peaks, rose on the north, all mellowed in the summer mist; all
nature looked beautiful and smiling; but herd and hirsel fled
as the brass cannon opened on the adverse lines, and the shout
and shock of the furious onset made the poor shepherd who
stood afar off on the lone hill-side, hold his breath and bend his
head in prayer&mdash;for when Scot met Scot, right well he knew
how deadly and how deep would be the sacrilegious slaughter!
</p>

<p>
The king's vanguard, which was of course composed of his own
clan, the gallant Stewarts and other Highlanders, armed with
swords, long daggers, bows, and axes, led by John Stewart, Earl of
Athole,&mdash;the conqueror of the Lord of the Isles&mdash;rushed upon the
insurgents with a loud yell, such as can only rise from a Celtic
throat.  This attack was well supported by the king's left wing,
composed of five thousand Perthshire spearmen, led by Lord
Ruthven.
</p>

<p>
The Mersemen met them with their levelled lances&mdash;those
pikes so terrible in warlike annals, "six Scottish ells in length,"
and an awful conflict took place; while the shouts of "<i>A Home, a
Home!</i>" on one side, and the shrill cathghairn of the Athole
Stewarts, were often turned into the shriek of agony or the
groan of death, as the lance was thrust through the Highland
lurich, or the claymore found a passage through the Lowland
jack; while weapons broke and throats were grasped and daggers
driven through plate and mail, through plaid and buff, or the
swaying axe split helmets of tempered steel and targets of tough
bull's-hide like withered nutshells.
</p>

<p>
"The first charge was valiantly given," says Drummond of
Hawthornden, "launce meeting with launce; so the vanguard of
the lords began to yield ground, and was strongly repulsed."
</p>

<p>
The men of West Lothian shot showers of arrows, to which the
Highland archers replied; and for a few minutes the air was
darkened by the passing flights, while men fell fast on both
hands, and pressing on, pikemen and archers came closing up on
every side with axe and sword, till a deadly and disastrous <i>mêlée</i>
began between the royalists and insurgents, who rushed upon
each other like two torrents broken loose.
</p>

<p>
On one side was the poor bewildered king, driven forward with
this armed tide, confused, sorrowful, and irresolute, with the royal
standard borne over his head by the Constable of Dundee; on the
other was the heir of Scotland, agitated also by painful irresolution,
by remorse and shame, and also having the royal standard
above him, but surrounded by a brilliant band of nobles, all
shining in polished steel, gold, plumage, and embroidery; and
towards that quarter of the enemy's line, young Ramsay, Lord
of Bothwell, at the head of the royal guard, made incredible
exertions to hew a passage for the purpose of ridding the king,
with his own hand, of as many high-born traitors as possible.
</p>

<p>
James sat motionless on his magnificent grey charger, with
this forest of lances and sea of helmets flashing round him; and
not one blow did he strike, but kept his eyes fixed with a species
of despair on the banner of his son.
</p>

<p>
Conspicuous among the press of rebel lords and vassals
towered the gigantic Earl of Angus, mounted on a powerful
Clydesdale horse, and clad in fluted mail, his vizor up, and a
profusion of beautiful feathers streaming from his helmet almost
to the crupper of his steed.  Aloft his mailed hand brandished,
with deadly execution, a sword which for length and strength
few men could wield, and he sent his voice before him like a
trumpet; thus, it needed not the scarlet heart on his golden
surcoat to proclaim the terrible Angus&mdash;the representative of his
lord and chief, the captive Earl of Douglas.
</p>

<p>
By one blow he clove the Earl of Gleacairn through casque
and gorget to the breast, and still pressing forward&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"On, on, my wild men of Galloway!" he cried; "a Douglas! a
Douglas! on, on, for I have sworn to ride through this rabble
rout <i>red wat shod and mair</i>!" (<i>i.e.</i>, above the feet in blood).
</p>

<p>
"See ye the Lord Angus, with his helmet open?" cried Sir
David Falconer to a Highland bowman; "shoot, my brave Celt,
with a will!"
</p>

<p>
The Gaël&mdash;a MacRobert of Struan&mdash;shot an arrow, which
glanced off the helmet of Angus.
</p>

<p>
"Shoot again," exclaimed Falconer; "'sdeath, fellow, wert
thou a king's archer, I would hang thee in thine own bowstring
for such a glee'd shot."
</p>

<p>
Again the Atholeman shot, and slew the standard-fearer of
Angus, instead of his lord.
</p>

<p>
Undaunted by the terrible aspect of this potent and herculean
lord, many knights and gentlemen of the royal army pressed over
the crowd of shrieking men and falling horses&mdash;over all the wild
<i>dëbris</i> of a hand-to-hand combat to reach him; but the most
successful was Itamsay of Balmain, captain of the guard, and
recently created Lord Bothwell.  Though young, slight, and
athletic, he rushed upon the formidable Angus, and intent only
on killing him, rained his blows thick and fast upon the coat of
fluted armour, from which the sparks of fire were driven by every
stroke.
</p>

<p>
"False fool and plebeian villain!" said the disdainful Angus,
parrying the blows skilfully with his long Banffshire blade;
"methinks ye seem better used to the porridge spurtle than the
knightly sword&mdash;but die, fellow, die! 'tis the hand of an earl
that slays thee," he cried, as his long weapon found entrance
under the left pass-guard of Bothwell's armour, and pierced him
to the heart.  With a wild cry he fell into the seething mass of
death and life below.  "Next time you meet me in Stirling
streets, false loon, you will not pass me unveiled, I wot," added
Angus, as he pressed on, cleaving helmets like pippins, and
shredding away the tough ash-spears like reeds by a winter
brook.
</p>

<p>
"My God&mdash;my God&mdash;look on me!" cried the poor king, on
seeing this terrible episode, which, more than the thousand others
occurring round him, cut him to the soul.  Intent on avenging
his many wrongs on this imperious rebel, he now for the first
time that day drew his sword and put spurs to his horse; but a
furious rush of mounted men-at-arms, on both sides, separated
them hopelessly.
</p>

<p>
These were led by Home and Hailes, who, having recognized
Falconer, though in plain armour, by the silver falcon which
adorned his helmet, and had a knot of scarlet and yellow ribbons
in its beak, pressed on to slay him; while the wretched Borthwick,
with Sir James Shaw, Sir Patrick Gray, and Sir William Stirling
of the Keir, disdaining all such humble antagonists, reserved
alike their swords and strength for the king, whom the arch-traitor,
their tool, had already indicated by the yellow plume in
his head-piece; and towards him, and him only, they pressed
surely and warily on.
</p>

<p>
Falconer, by one stroke, cut the reins of Lord Hailes' horse
and so rid himself of one enemy; by another blow he struck
Lord Home's casque from his head; yet, bareheaded and half-blinded
by pride and fury, the noble pressed on, standing high
in his stirrups, and showering blows on every side.
</p>

<p>
"A Home! a Home!  By Saint Anne, fellow," cried he,
"thou hadst better been tending the sheep on yon brae side
than here in knight's armour."
</p>

<p>
"Better for you, perhaps, my Lord of Home," said Falconer,
as by one skilful thrust, full upon the tempered gorget, he shot
him out of his saddle on the heap of men below.
</p>

<p>
"<i>Gang warily!</i>" thundered a voice in his ear, and now the
vengeful sword of one whom he trembled to encounter&mdash;old
Lord Drummond&mdash;was flourished above him.
</p>

<p>
Covering himself, parrying thrusts and warding blows, poor
Falconer sought only to escape from an antagonist whom he
dared not assail, and for whose safety he would have laid down
his life&mdash;for he was the father of Sybilla.  But the fiery blood of
the old noble was at boiling heat; he had seen "this skipper's
son" defeat two chiefs of name, to whom he had promised his
daughters, and a storm of feudal pride and aristocratic hatred
of the king's humble favourite was swelling up within him, and
the arquebussier would undoubtedly have been slain, had not
Drummond of Mewie, who was hewing away on foot, with a
Lochaber axe, hamstrung his horse; and as the snorting animal
sank under him, Falconer fell heavily to the earth.  His armour
protected him from serious injury, but the horses of Borthwick,
Shaw, Gray, and Keir, as these worthies spurred on, trampled
him down; thus he was stunned, and became unconscious of all
that passed over and around him.
</p>

<p>
A deadly conflict, hand to hand and horse to horse, ensued
around the unhappy king, as these four infernal spirits, followed
by a thousand others, all superbly mounted and accoutred, left
the Duke of Rothesay far in the rear; and though archers and
pikemen, troopers and knights, nobles and burgesses, pressed on
with straining eyes and noisy tongues, with swords flashing and
uplifted, to kill, to capture, or to overbear the most hapless
monarch, save one, that ever sat upon the Scottish throne,
the four ruffians were ever the nearest to him, but failed to reach
him; for old Montrose, Lindesay, and all the loyalists fought
nobly in a circle round the yellow plume; and there fell by
James's side the Lord Erskine, who was slain by a Drummond;
Sir Thomas Semple of Eliotstoun, who was pierced through the
neart by a Border spear; William Lord Ruthven, the heritable
sheriff of Perth; the Laird of Innes; Alexander Scott, director
of the chancery, whose head was carried off by a cannon-ball,
and many more gentlemen, with their friends and followers.
The royal standard was beaten down and its bearer unhorsed;
the cannon&mdash;the Great Lion&mdash;and all the ensigns were taken,
and when the sun of that long summer flay was sinking behind
the Grampians, and the shadows of the Torwood were deepening
on the plain, the king's troops, overborne by numbers, after a
long and gallant conflict, gave way, and a total and irreparable
rout ensued.
</p>

<p>
"God help your majesty," said the young Lord Lindesay, as,
pale, excited, without a helmet, and with his face streaked by
blood, he took the king's horse by the bridle; "the day is lost,
yet all is not lost with it while your sacred life is safe.  No horse
in the field can overtake this grey I gave you.  Ride&mdash;ride
north, and swiftly&mdash;the admiral's boats await you at the
Craigward&mdash;farewell!"
</p>

<p>
"Ay, farewell, Lindesay&mdash;a long farewell to Scotland and to
thee&mdash;for France or Holland now must be my home."
</p>

<p>
Thus urged, and knowing that alone and unattended he might
escape more easily and unnoticed, than if followed by a train,
James turned his grey horse's head towards the north, and
gladly left behind that bloody and corpse-encumbered plain.
</p>

<p>
Thousands of arrows, with their feathers uppermost, planted
all the turf around him; here the earth was torn by hoofs, and
there it was furrowed up by cannon-shot.  Men and horses,
dead or wounded, or writhing and dying, lay singly or in piles
and heaps together, among a vast <i>débris</i> of broken helmets, torn
standards, and bloody pennons, splintered spears, swords, scarfs,
and bucklers, near the Sauchieburn, which yet gurgled placidly
along under its pale green willows, as the King leaped his fiery
and unwearied horse over it, and with a breaking heart rode
towards the banks of the Forth, while night and sorrow descended
together on that disastrous field.  On, on he rode with a
breaking heart, as he hoped, unnoticed and unknown&mdash;but hoped in
vain; for close behind, and tracking him like blood-hounds, as
history tells us, were Sir Patrick of Kyneff, Sir James of Sauchie,
Stirling of Keir, and Borthwick, the apostate monk of Dunblane.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap35"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXXV.
<br /><br />
THE FOUR HORSEMEN.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Look ye, sirs!<br />
  The breath of murder loads the air to-night&mdash;<br />
  Be watchful and be wary."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Old Play.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Under the Duke of Montrose, Lindesay his son, the Earls of
Mar, Athole, and others, the main body of James's forces retired
slowly through the Torwood, by the old Roman Way, still fighting
with obstinate valour, and protracting the struggle until the
long and lingering eve of June had faded into night, and
darkness spread a veil over the horrors of the battle, when the
royalists, as usual with all hastily collected levies, retired into
the mountains, and disbanded.
</p>

<p>
The victorious lords, with the young prince still in their
possession, passed that night near the field, and next day marched
to the town and palace of Linlithgow.
</p>

<p>
The moon was shining in the summer sky, when Sir David
Falconer freed himself from the bodies of three slain men, who
lay heavily and coldly above him; rising from the field, he was
able to look after his own safety&mdash;for many of the border
prickers were hovering abroad in search of rings and jewels, or
gold-handled daggers and embroidered belts.  A body lay near
him sheathed in bright armour; its gauntletted hands clutched
the earth, the vizor of the casque was up, and the dead man's
eyes glared horribly in the pale moonlight.  Between his teeth
were some blades of grass, which, when dying, he had bitten in
his agony.  On his breast sparkled the diamond jewel of the
Thistle&mdash;for this was the corpse of Alexander Cunningham, the
noble Earl of Glencairn.  This brave warrior lay above the blue
silk banner of his house, charged with its shakefork <i>sable</i>&mdash;the
same pennon which his bride, fair Margaret of Hailes, had woven
for his lance in their Castle of Kilmaurs.
</p>

<p>
Most of the wounded had been removed by their friends or by
the merciful; others had been speared by the mosstroopers of
Hailes, Home, and Buccleugh; thus, thick as grain on a harvest
field, the bodies of the dead&mdash;white-visaged, and gleaming blue
in their coats of mail&mdash;strewed all the plain; but they were
quiet and still as the leafy woods or the azure sky of that sweet
summer night.
</p>

<p>
Ignorant of where the royal forces had retreated, and anxious
only to ascertain the fact of the King's safety&mdash;of which he had
great doubts on beholding the number of the guard who were
lying dead three and four deep, and whom he knew easily by
their scarlet surcoats trimmed with yellow,&mdash;and being anxious
to rejoin the frigate, Falconer arose with difficulty, and after
refreshing himself by a draught of pure water from the Sauchieburn,
at a place above where the dead lay in it, he took his
way towards the north, and fortunately found a stray horse
saddled and bridled grazing in a field, near the gate of which its
rider, a trooper, with the laurel of the Grahams in his morion,
lay dead.  This animal with great docility permitted Falconer
to seize the reins and leap on his back; thus mounted, he soon
left the fatal field behind, and rode through the scattered oaks of
the Torwood towards the ferry by which the Forth was crossed
opposite Alloa.
</p>

<p>
The whole country appeared deserted; he saw no one, and
heard not even a dog bark; thus the stillness became oppressive
after the storm of war, the strife of wounds and agony, the
carnage and horrors of the day that was past.  He soon reached
the boor-tree thickets at the Craig ward, and saw the beautiful
river with the Clackmannan hills and old Alloa rise before him
in the moonlight, with the King's ships at anchor in the stream,
with courses loose and a spring upon their cables.  Half a
bow-shot from the beach were several well-oared boats, full of armed
men, and by their garb Falconer recognised his own arquebussiera
and the King's seamen, while the royal standard drooped from
the boats' sterns, and swept the water.
</p>

<p>
"Ho&mdash;boat yoho!" cried he, leaping from his horse.
</p>

<p>
"David Falconer, at last!" cried a number of distant voices,
as the oars dipped, and the boat shot in.
</p>

<p>
"Welcome in safety, messmate o' mine," said the bluff
admiral, who was clad in his helmet and suit of steel; "we
heard you had parted your cable in yonder devilish field."
</p>

<p>
"Only unhorsed, Sir Andrew."
</p>

<p>
"Any planks stove in, or timbers started?"
</p>

<p>
"None, thank Heaven! though I received a blow that must
have killed me, had I not&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Like most Scotsmen in these troublous times, been well
used to cuts and blows," interrupted Barton.  "So the battle
was fairly fought?"
</p>

<p>
"Yea, fairly as the Ball of Scone, as the saw hath it&mdash;fairly
fought and most unhappily lost.  Alas! yonder field of battle is
the very garden of Death!"
</p>

<p>
"And what of the king?" asked several voices.
</p>

<p>
"The king&mdash;is he not on board the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>?"
</p>

<p>
"No," said the admiral; "I would to God he were, for then
he would be in safe anchoring ground.  Which way did he ride?"
</p>

<p>
"I know not, for I fell by his side in the middle of the
battle&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Happy thou, my good Falconer, to share that day's vengeance
with the king," said the admiral; "but that I had other
ropes to splice, I had assuredly been with thee.  Well?"
</p>

<p>
"The lord Lindesay gave him a horse of matchless blood and
speed, whereon, if evil happened or the day were lost, he might
reach you here at the Craigward&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"We have never sighted him once, though many a fugitive
hath crossed, for we have been little better than ferrymen since
the gloaming fell.  The auld Earl of Menteith, in his battered
harness; the Preceptor of Torphichen, with three other knights
of Rhodez; and many of the Ogilvies, as we knew by their tartan
plaids and the hawthorn in their helmets; and Murrays, with the
juniper twig;&mdash;most of them pricked with spears or slashed by
sword cuts, have we taken across the river; but nought have
we seen of the king, though the Preceptor averred that he saw
him ride towards the north."
</p>

<p>
"What if he should have fallen from the Lindesay's fiery
steed, and now be lying in the Torwood?"
</p>

<p>
"St. Mary avert it!" said Falconer.  "Yet, when I bethink
me now, I saw more than one dead man lying in his armour
on the sward, between this and the field."
</p>

<p>
"Sayest thou so?" exclaimed the admiral, leaping lightly
ashore, despite his years and rotundity, "and we are loitering
here like so many hag-ridden lubbers!  Barton, do thou keep
the boats here for us; and, Falconer, take twenty of thine
arquebusses and come with me; we'll bear up towards the battlefield
a little way, and see if aught may be descried of the king;
come on shore with your flasks, forks, and arquebusses, heave
a-head my men, and quickly."
</p>

<p>
The soldiers hastened up the bank, and Falconer would have
resigned his horse to the admiral, but the latter declined, saying
"that he always lost some of his outer-sheathing when perched
on horseback."  So Sir David drew his sword, and led the way
back to the field of battle.
</p>

<p>
They marched three or four miles without finding any trace of
him they sought.  At last the sound of hoofs was heard near
the milltown of Bannock.
</p>

<p>
"Hist&mdash;tarry a bit," said the admiral.  "Lie to, sirs."
</p>

<p>
"Halt!" cried Falconer, in a soldierly tone; "plant your
forks and wind up your spanners!  Be ready to fire at a
moment's notice!"
</p>

<p>
Four heavily-armed horsemen, all riding furiously, the last
however, a long way behind his companions, dashed along the
road, and though repeatedly required to stop, they rode recklessly
on, with their armour flashing, the horsehoofs striking fire, and
disappeared among the Torwood oaks.
</p>

<p>
"Fire on the sternmost, and make him bring to," cried the
admiral, angrily; "throw a shot across his forefoot."
</p>

<p>
An arquebussier fired: the bullet whistled close to the horseman's
casque, and panting and breathless he reined up, while his
horse plunged and reared fearfully.
</p>

<p>
"Hallo! haul taut your reins or braces! don't miss stays,"
said the admiral.
</p>

<p>
"From whence come you, sir?" asked Falconer, confronting
him.
</p>

<p>
"From the field, as you may see," he replied, showing a
drawn dagger in his right hand.
</p>

<p>
"Know you aught of the king?"
</p>

<p>
The other gave a diabolical laugh.
</p>

<p>
"Elsewhere I have heard that laugh!" said the admiral,
advancing a step with his Jedwood axe in his hand.
</p>

<p>
"Are you not the Admiral Wood?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes; and thou&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Sir Hew Borthwick, at your service."
</p>

<p>
"Villain!" began Falconer; but the admiral stayed him.
</p>

<p>
"Saw ye the king to-day?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes&mdash;and moreover I saw him not a minute since."
</p>

<p>
"Where&mdash;where?"
</p>

<p>
"In yonder mill."
</p>

<p>
"And is he there now?"
</p>

<p>
"No," replied the subtle assassin; "he is one of yonder
horsemen before me, and now rides hard to reach the <i>Yellow
Frigate</i>."
</p>

<p>
"Say ye so;&mdash;about ship, my lads, and after him," said the
admiral, as they hastily began to retrace their steps; while
Borthwick, driving spurs into his horse, with a shout&mdash;but
whether of fear or triumph it is impossible to say&mdash;dashed along
the road after his three comrades.
</p>

<p>
<i>The dagger in his hand was wet with James's blood!</i>
</p>

<p>
On regaining the Craigward, the admiral and his companions
found that they had been deceived, for neither the king nor any
one else had approached the ferry since they had left it.
</p>

<p>
Many days passed away, yet no tidings were heard of the
unfortunate king.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap36"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXXVI.
<br /><br />
THE MILL ON THE BANNOCK.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Oh, for a tongue to curse the slave<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Whose treason, like a deadly blight,<br />
  Comes o'er the councils of the brave,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And blasts them in their hour of might."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
All unaware that he was singled out and tracked, James rode
from that lost battle-field at a rapid trot, to reach the boats of
Sir Andrew Wood; and every sound that rose from the Roman
Way and woke the echoes of the Torwood&mdash;every shout and
random shot of cannon or of hand-gun, made his heart vibrate
and leap within him; for even as his own children did this good
king love the people of his kingdom.  His heart was full of
prayer and sorrow, and the resolution which he had so often
announced, of retiring to the court of his ally, Charles VIII.,
was now stronger than ever within him.  As he thought of this,
his saddened spirit rose, and he felt soothed by the beauty of the
evening.  The gorgeous sunset shot upward with a thousand
golden rays behind the green peaks of the fertile Ochils, piercing
the saffron clouds like veils of shining gauze; the giant oaks of
the Torwood, many of them thirty or forty feet in circumference
were rustling their heavy foliage; the solemn Scottish firs were
shaking their wiry cones; and the perfume of the wild Gueldre
roses loaded the evening air.
</p>

<p>
The coo of the cushat dove, the plashing of the Bannock under
its pale green sauch-trees and white-blossomed hawthorns, the
rocks spotted with grey lichens and green moss, the flowers, the
birds, the foliage, the blue sky, the balmy air, and the beautiful
mountains, all spoke to the poor king of his native home and
that beloved Scotland which he had now resolved to leave for
ever; and as he approached the Bannockburn he leaped the grey
charger&mdash;Lindesay's last and fatal gift&mdash;across from bank to
bank, and it cleared them by one furious bound.  This was near
Beaton's Mill, which still remains about one mile east from the
field.
</p>

<p>
The mill was a strongly-built and old-fashioned house with
crow-stepped gables, a heavily thatched roof, deep windows
obscured by flour; a square ingle-lum, over which the green ivy
clustered, stood at one end, while its huge wooden wheel revolved
merrily at the other.  Its snug and quiet aspect made the king
think, with a sigh, (as he shortened his reins and rode on,) how
much the contented and unambitious life of the occupant was to
be envied.
</p>

<p>
Now it happened most unfortunately that Mysie Beaton, the
gudewife of the Milltoun, was filling a pitcher with water from
the dam; and on seeing an armed knight riding at full speed
towards her, she uttered a shriek of terror and tossed away the
tin vessel, which clattered noisily along the road, while she fled
into her cottage adjoining the mill.
</p>

<p>
Terrified by the rolling pitcher and the foolish woman's sudden
cry, the fiery grey horse swerved furiously round and threw his
royal rider heavily on the road, close to one of those boor-tree
hedges which generally in those days enclosed old gardens and
barnyards in Scotland.
</p>

<p>
Gawain Beaton, the miller, a stout ruddy man about forty
years of age, clad in a buckram gaberdine, which, like his beard
and bonnet, was whitened by flour and meal, sprang to the door
on hearing his wife cry and the armour clatter.
</p>

<p>
"Deevil mend thee, Mysie!" said he, angrily; "for thine
eldritch scraigh hath scared the horse and slain this comely
gentleman!"
</p>

<p>
"Oh!  I trow not," said the woman, in great terror.
</p>

<p>
"Weel may ye trow sae," said the miller, in some consternation on
beholding the excessive richness of the king's armour;
"for if his vassals come this gate they will level the mill to its
grundstane; we sall tyne our a', and hae to flee like maukins
when the bratches are on the bent."
</p>

<p>
"Rise, sir&mdash;oh! rise; for the love of St. Mary and St. Ringan
say where are ye hurt?" cried the miller's wife, kneeling down
by the prostrate man; but there came no reply from him, though
she placed her ear close to the barred umbriere of the closed
helmet.
</p>

<p>
"Hoolie," said the honest miller to his buxom wife, from
whose usually pink cheeks the roses had now fled and left them
white as her coif of Mary of Gueldre's time; "Hoolie, gudewife,
see ye nocht the knicht is feckless and weak?  Let us bear him
in ayont the hallan, and get ye the flask of usquebaugh and mak'
him a milk posset."
</p>

<p>
While the fatal steed was galloping over the Carse, the miller
and his wife raised the body of the inanimate man; and bearing
him in, closed the mill-door, carefully secured its tirling-pin, and
laid him on their humble box-bed; and then while the kind and
sympathizing Mysie busied herself in making up a posset, the
miller, her husband, undid the clasps of the gorget and the back
and breast-plates, removing them all after taking off the helmet,
which he did with ease, as it was opened simply by throwing up
the metonniere which guarded the chin and throat, and which
turned on the same screw with the vizor.
</p>

<p>
On doing this the miller saw a pale and handsome face,
surrounded by thick, dark clustering hair, and a well-trimmed
beard; but the stranger was still senseless, and a streak of blood
was flowing from his mouth.  On beholding so much manly
beauty, the sympathy and remorse of the miller's wife were
greatly increased; and on her knees she took the gauntlets off
his hands and assisted Gawain to chafe them, and to lave the
patient's brow with cool water which he brought from the
Bannock in a black leather jack, about sixteen inches high; and
then slowly the object of their care began to revive.
</p>

<p>
"Eh! sirs&mdash;oh! sirs&mdash;St. Mary sain us!&mdash;to see that comely
face sae pale and sad!" exclaimed Mysie; "oh! withered be my
tongue for uttering that doolfu' cry!"
</p>

<p>
"And dule it may bring to us, Mysie my doo," said the
miller; "if some o' his lances pass this way&mdash;for his friends may
slaughter us, or their enemies may slaughter him&mdash;for we kenna
whether he fought this sorrowfu' day for the king&mdash;whom God
bless&mdash;or the black-hearted nobles; but his degree is doubtless
high; look at that armour, Mysie; ilka stud on't is pure gold,
and the diamonds shine like stars on his baldrick and dudgeon
knife!"
</p>

<p>
"Alake, alake!" mourned Mysie, who deemed herself the
source of all, and whose sympathies were more and more excited
by the apparent rank of the unknown; "the sicht o' this winsome
gentleman wi' his silken hair bedabbled in bluid wad melt the
heart o' a nether mill-stone."
</p>

<p>
"'Od, Mysie, I ken mine is loupin like a mill happer, and I
wuss we were weel clear o' this ravelled hesp."
</p>

<p>
"And some fair lady in Lawder or Angus will be sitting on
the tower-head wi' a fan in her hand, looking sadly owre moss
and muirland for you, my puir sir," said Mysie, passing her hand
timidly and kindly through James's silky hair.  And now his
senses began to rally.  "I am richt glad, Gawain dear, I hid
<i>your</i> steel bonnet and harness this morning&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"And keepit me frae fechting for our noble king&mdash;mair shame
to you, Mysie lass."
</p>

<p>
"Thanks, good people, thanks," murmured their patient,
rising up slowly on his elbow, and gazing about him with sad
and heavy eyes.  He passed a hand across his damp and blood-stained
brow, and looked again at the low-roofed and clay-floored
cottage, with its bunkers or window-seats, its fir ambres and
girnels, its Scottish fauldstools and wide fire-place, before which
lay the half of a cart-wheel as a fender, and within which, though
the month was June, there blazed a fire of turf and bog-fir
under a huge three-legged kail-pot that hung on one of those
wooden crocans, or crooks (last used in the Hebrides), and then
he turned again with surprise to his attendants.  "Honest
people, accept my thanks, I pray you, for this great
kindness&mdash;but say, where am I?"
</p>

<p>
"In the mill-toun o' Bannock, gentle sir," said Mysie, making
low courtesy.
</p>

<p>
"How far from this day's field of sorrow?"
</p>

<p>
"Little mair than a mile, sir."
</p>

<p>
"He is a king's man," said the miller, with satisfaction.
</p>

<p>
"And who, gudeman, are you?" he asked, with mild dignity.
</p>

<p>
"Gawain Beaton, a puir miller, at your honour's service,"
said the host, removing his dusty bonnet; "and this is Mysie,
my gudewife, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Here, then, I am safe.  Thank God, I have not fallen among
those who boast of gentle blood and heraldic blazonry," replied
the other, while his eyes flashed.
</p>

<p>
"Gentle bluid&mdash;I dinna understand ye, sir.  I am a far awa'
cousin o' the Beatons o' Balfour," said Gawain, proudly.
</p>

<p>
"What, art thou, too, infected by this absurdity?  But,
Gawain Beaton, and thou, too, gudewife, if I live, shall find this
service faithfully and thankfully remembered; but I fear me my
days cannot be many now, for that fall from my horse has been a
dreadful shock to me."
</p>

<p>
"Oh say, gentle sir, what can we do for you," said Mysie.
"Command us&mdash;we are at your bidding."
</p>

<p>
"Then get me a priest, that I may confess."
</p>

<p>
"There is none nearer than Cambuskenneth or St. Ninian's
Kirk," said Gawain, taking his walking-staff and dagger; "yet
I can soon reach either; but may we ask your name, sir?"
</p>

<p>
"My gudeman, this day, at morn, I was YOUR KING," said
James, with a hollow voice and sorrowful emphasis, as he sank
back on the coarse box-bed.
</p>

<p>
Gawain stood as one terrified and confounded on hearing this;
but Mysie, his wife, burst into tears, and wringing her hands in
great fear and excitement, ran out upon the roadway as she heard
hoofs approaching.
</p>

<p>
"A priest," she cried, "a priest, for God's love and sweet
St. Mary's sake: a priest to confess the king!"
</p>

<p>
"To confess whom say ye?" cried the headmost of four
armed horsemen, who, with helmets open and swords drawn,
galloped up to her in the glooming.
</p>

<p>
"The king, the king, gude sirs&mdash;our puir and sakeless king!"
</p>

<p>
"And where is he, gudewife?"
</p>

<p>
"Lying in our pair bed&mdash;here, in here, ayont the hallan in
my gudeman's mill.  Oh, sirs, for a priest!"
</p>

<p>
"Hush, woman, I am a priest," said the first, who was no
other than <i>Sir</i> Hew Borthwick, with a glance of infernal import
to his three companions, as he leaped from his horse; "lead me
to the king."
</p>

<p>
Borthwick entered the lonely mill, and his three companions,
who were no other than Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff, Sir William
Stirling of Keir, and Sir James Shaw of Sauchie, after fastening
their horses to the hedge without, followed him beyond the <i>hallan</i>,
or wooden partition which formed the inner apartment.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap37"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXXVII.
<br /><br />
THE REGICIDES.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Upon desolate Aros there is wailing and weeping,<br />
  For the chief of her lords in the dark chamber sleeping;<br />
  In the dark chamber sleepeth our curly-tressed warrior,<br />
  In the day of the battle our bulwark and barrier."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Lament for Maclean of Aros.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The poor miller was inexpressibly alarmed on perceiving the
four armed knights enter; the richness of their armour and
accoutrements impressed him still more, and he hastened to say,
in an explanatory manner&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"His horse threw him at our door&mdash;a wicked horse, sirs;&mdash;we
have done a' we could&mdash;on my life, sirs, I assure you&mdash;my gude
wife and I&mdash;that the horse&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Enough, enough, fellow," said Sir Patrick Gray, gruffly.
"Stir up that fire, for this den of thine is as dark as a dungeon.
Let us see where <i>this</i> king of ours is lying."
</p>

<p>
Though shocked and startled by the bearing of his visitors,
Gawain hastened to throw a quantity of fir-apples on the fire,
where they blazed and crackled and diffused a brilliant light
throughout the humble apartment, and the highly polished-suit
of the ruffians shone like silver as they stooped over the bed of
the hapless and helpless king, who was "covered by a coarse
checked rug," and on whom they gazed with eyes as pitiless in
expression as their hearts were in feeling.
</p>

<p>
"Does your majesty fear death?" asked Gray.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, it never was my fear, and <i>now</i> it is my only hope,"
replied James, in a low voice, "but I asked for a priest,
sirs&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Well&mdash;here I am&mdash;a priest, though cased in iron," said
Borthwick.
</p>

<p>
"And for whom fought you to-day, false priest?"
</p>

<p>
"By the cross of Macgriddy!  I fought for my own hand&mdash;as
Hal o' the Wynd fought, in old King Robert's time; but I am,
nevertheless, a priest&mdash;behold my tonsure&mdash;or what remains of
it."
</p>

<p>
"It is enough&mdash;even the unworthy is better than none.  And
you will hear my confession?"
</p>

<p>
"Yea," answered the bantering ruffian, "wert thou as great
a clown as ever played at Hogshouther."
</p>

<p>
"And who are ye, sirs?" asked the king, turning uneasily
from this disrespectful person.
</p>

<p>
"I am William Stirling of the Keir," hissed one through his
teeth.
</p>

<p>
"And thou art the Lord Gray?" said James to a second, his
brow darkening, as he saw the scarlet tabard-coat, which had a
lion within its engrailed border, and was worn above the armour
of the wearer.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, I am only the Lord Gray's near kinsman, and captain
of your majesty's castle at Broughty."
</p>

<p>
"Leave me," said James, bitterly; "I will confess myself&mdash;and
oh, bless me, father, for I have sorely sinned."
</p>

<p>
A terrible smile spread over Borthwick's face, as he grasped
his dagger, and saw the poor king, after three futile attempts
to rise, sink powerlessly down on the miller's humble pallet.
Gawain and his wife drew aside, awestruck and silent; Mysie
held her apron to her mouth with one hand, while the other
clasped her husband's arm; but the Lairds of Keir, Kyneff, and
Sauchie stood a little in the background, and conferred together
in whispers on what should now be done, for their minds were
agitated by a slender doubt, though the viler slave of English
Henry's gold felt none.
</p>

<p>
"Dost thou expect to recover?" he sneered.
</p>

<p>
"I trow I might," sighed the poor king, "if I had a physician."
</p>

<p>
"How long dost thou expect to live?" he asked again, playing
with his victim as a cat does with a mouse.
</p>

<p>
"Alas! priest; He who numbereth the leaves in the Torwood,
and every blade of grass in the Carse of Stirling, alone can tell."
</p>

<p>
"I never numbered either; yet I think thou'lt be a dead man
in ten minutes."
</p>

<p>
A flush passed over James's pallid brow.
</p>

<p>
"Be it so, father; the world and all its vanities are nothing now
to me;&mdash;wifeless, childless,&mdash;or worse, for my own son is in arms
against me; my soul hovers, as it were, between this world and
the next.  Oh would, father, that I might cure my soul at the
expense of my body!"
</p>

<p>
"Pythagoras&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"He was a pagan."
</p>

<p>
"Well, what matters it," said Borthwick, becoming deadly
pale, while his eyes gleamed with fire, and he felt himself endued
with a demon's strength of mind and body, by the very magnitude
of the crime he was about to commit; "what matters it,"
he continued, drawing one of those long Scottish dirks, such as
are still worn with the Highland garb; "Pythagoras said that
the eyes could not be cured without the head, nor the head
without the body, nor the body without the soul!  I am not now a
priest, and cannot shrive thee; so by this stroke&mdash;and this&mdash;<i>and
this</i>&mdash;I destroy both body and soul together!"
</p>

<p>
And with these terrible words the merciless ruffian buried his
dagger "many times," says Lindesay of Pitscottie, in the breast
of the unfortunate king, who expired without a sigh.
</p>

<p>
Thus perished James III., in his thirty-fifth year.
</p>

<p>
Terrified on beholding the committal of a deed so awful, the
poor miller and his wife abandoned their mill and cottage, and
fled into the recesses of the Torwood, where they lurked many
days.
</p>

<p>
When they ventured to return with some of their neighbours,
the body of the king was gone, and no trace of it remained, save
the blood encrusted on the bedding where it had lain.
</p>

<p class="t3">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Thou hast done it at last, ruffian!" said the grim Sir Patrick
Gray; "such a deed hath not been seen in Scotland since that
night in the Black Friary at Perth, when James I. was stabbed
in Jane of Beaufort's arms.  And now, sirs, what shall we do
with this royal piece of carrion?"
</p>

<p>
"Let us fire the house, and leave <i>it</i> here to be consumed,"
said Shaw.
</p>

<p>
"Not a bad idea; but then consider the alarm it would raise."
</p>

<p>
"Let us fling it into the dam, then."
</p>

<p>
"Nay&mdash;toss him into the adjacent fields; there it will be
found and buried as the corpse of some one slain in the battle of
to-day," said the barbarous Laird of Keir.
</p>

<p>
"Then so be it; help me, sirs," said Borthwick, panting
fiercely as he spoke; "for, o' my soul, dead flesh is heavy to bear.
I am sorry we allowed yonder hagridden fools, the miller and his
wife, to escape us, though."
</p>

<p>
The assassin and his companions dragged the gashed and bloody
corpse irreverently cut upon the clay floor, and carried it in the
moonlight across a neighbouring field, and there flung it info a
ditch beside a thorn-hedge.
</p>

<p>
Ere he left it, Borthwick tore off the third finger of the right
hand a large signet-ring, on the native amethyst of which was
engraved a vine tree, fading and withered, because the current
that flowed around was supposed to be wine instead of water.
This strange device, which was adopted by the king (says
Abercrombie) "when he saw his son in arms against him," bore the
legend,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="t3">
  "<i>Mea sic mihi prosunt,</i>"<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
and the wretch placed it on his own finger.  They again thought
of firing the cottage; but the sudden appearance of Sir Andrew
Wood's party made them think of providing for their own safety.
</p>

<p>
Their interview is already related.
</p>

<p>
Keir, Kyneff, and Sauchie took the road for Linlithgow, but
Borthwick rode on direct to Berwick&mdash;as the king's private
signet, when transmitted to Henry VII., would be the best
assurance that the King of Scotland was slain.
</p>

<p>
Had the admiral arrived fifteen minutes sooner, he might have
saved James's life, and spared Scotland the disgrace of one more
historical atrocity.
</p>

<p>
The house in which this cruel regicide occurred is still in
existence, and is yet named <i>Beaton's Milne</i>, and the traditionary
account of the murder preserved by the inhabitants of the <i>town</i>
or hamlet, closely resembles that given in history, and reverently
the good people still lower their voices, when pointing to the
corner where their king was murdered.  In 1667, as a date
shows, the house of Gawain Beaton had been somewhat modernized;
but it yet bears the aspect of antiquity and strength.
</p>

<p>
It stands about one hundred and fifty feet eastward of the road
from Stirling to Glasgow; and though thatched, is yet as snug a
little dwelling as when Gawain attended the <i>happer</i> and Mysie's
spinning-wheel birred by its ingle in the days of the unhappy
king, James III.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap38"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
<br /><br />
THE HOUSE OF THE BARTONS.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Do men love thee?  Art thou so bound<br />
  To men, that how thy name will sound,<br />
  Will vex thee lying underground."&mdash;TENNYSON.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The insurgent lords had marched from Linlithgow to Leith, but
had not as yet obtained possession of the capital or its fortress
which the provost and governor maintained against them.  They
had established themselves in the seaport, and the house of the
late Sir Andrew Barton was assigned to the young Duke of
Rothesay and his suite.
</p>

<p>
It was the 18th of June.  The sun was as bright, the sky as
blue, and the atmosphere as pure, as they ever are in that
delightful month.  The broad Forth, with its anchorage full of
crayers, pincks, and caravels; its green isles and winding bays&mdash;the
surf-beaten rocks and fertile promontories of Fife, with the
fertile shores of Lothian were glowing in sunny light.
</p>

<p>
The seaport was still, perhaps, in its infancy, though Sir
Andrew Wood, Sir Andrew Barton, Sir Alexander Mathieson,
and Sir William Merrimonth, all brave knights, who received
their spurs on their own decks, and who had fought their way
at sea as merchant-skippers, had given to the burgh a wealth
and importance such as no port in the kingdom had hitherto
known; and though its wynds, alleys, and closes were quaint,
small, and irregular, with all their gable-ends towards the street,
though the shore was encumbered by boats, anchors, kailyards,
and gardens, where <i>now</i> broad moles of stone bulwark in the
river; and though its pier was of wood, without either lighthouse
or martello tower, the stately argosies and gay caravels of
these fighting merchant-traders, and of many others, gave a gay
aspect to the harbour; though, as usual still, at this season, it
was the least busy time, for the Baltic ships had not returned.
</p>

<p>
At anchor in the stream, or moored beside that wooden pier,
which was burned by the English, 1544, lay those quaint old
merchantmen, with their basketed tops, their lofty poops, and
pinck-built, or square projecting sterns, which were retained until
lately by some of the Leith whalers, and may yet be found
among our Orkney shipping.
</p>

<p>
Leith was full of armed men; the nobles and their forces
thronged every street and alley; their banners waved over the
houses they occupied, and armour, spears, swords, and axes
flashed incessantly in the sunshine, especially in the Wynd of
St. Nicholas and the vicinity of the house of the Bartons.  This
was a lofty, strong, and turreted mansion, situated near the site
of the present Custom-house, on the west bank of the Leith; and
in after years, Henry VIII. gave the admiral of England special
orders to cannonade and destroy it, during Hertford's invasion.
</p>

<p>
In the hall or chamber of dais of this noble dwelling of the
old merchant, whose son and heir was then on board the <i>Yellow
Frigate</i>, the Duke of Rothesay was seated in council with the
victorious insurgent lords; and the splendour and luxury with
which the enterprising trader (a man far in advance of them in
"the march of intellect" and civilization, and far in advance of
the age,) was enabled to decorate the dwelling his industry had
won, must have formed a strong contrast to their rude stone-halls
and the wooden benches of their secluded towers on the braes
of Angus, or in the dells of Galloway; and so, no doubt, each
earl, lord, and laird thought, as they twisted their wiry
mustachios under their steel caps, and surveyed the apartment in
which they held council&mdash;the dining hall of a Leith merchant,
in the year of the first revolution.
</p>

<p>
It had six tall windows, each barred with iron and latticed
with brass; the roof was arched with stone; but the walls were
hung with pale brown leather, richly stamped with thistles and
silver fleurs-de-lys.  The oak furniture was enormously massive
and strong; all the chairs were quaintly and grimly carved, and
had arms with great knobs and square cushioned seats of blue
Utrecht velvet.  The fire-irons were chained to the jambs of the
fire-place; for our forefathers, honest souls! being somewhat
short-tempered, were wont to have disputes when they sat round
the fire at night.  In the recesses of the carved stone ambres and
quaint old knobby cabinets, were many articles of vertu and rarity,
which the taste of umquhile Sir Andrew Barton, when homeward
bound, had made him select for his good dame in happier
days.  There were Turkish carpets, African skins, and Persian
bows; Venetian crystals, Japanese canisters (brought by the way
of the Red Sea), Muscovite bowls, and Italian bronzes; a plump
Cupid sprawling on a dolphin's back; a St. John asleep; the
model of a ship, and several Egyptian gods and goddesses, minus
"pantaloons and bodices," on which the noble lords looked
somewhat dubiously, "as smelling of sorcery and damnable
idolatry;" but the late Sir Andrew was a pious and upright man&mdash;one
who would rather have died than withheld a plack of the cess
due to kirk or king; and in his mercantile days he never omitted
to pay regularly to the Hospitallers of St. Anthony at Leith the
kain to which they were entitled by law&mdash;a Scottish quart from
every tun of wine that passed the Beacon Rock; and of all the
fighting merchant-mariners of the time, none had paid more
liberally the <i>primo gilt</i>, as it is still named,&mdash;a duty paid from
time immemorial, to aid "the poor, old, and infirm mariners of
Leith."
</p>

<p>
The southern windows of the hall, showed the ancient bridge
of the burgh, the old gothic Hospital and Church of St. Nicholas,
with its burying-ground, (on which, in after years, the citadel
was built,) and the Links of North Leith, a green and level plain,
which has now entirely disappeared, and become an irreclaimable
waste, flooded at every tide.  The eastern windows showed the
opposite bank of the river, with the quaint shipping, the Beacon
Rock, the wooden pier, the steeple of St. Anthony, and the
picturesque outline of the old Timber Holfe, or bourse, where the
Memel and Riga wood was sold, and where traders generally met
for the transaction of business.
</p>

<p>
Sad, pale, and thoughtful, with a heart crushed between sorrow
for the disappearance of his beloved Margaret, and the new
mystery which involved the fate of his unhappy father, who had
not been seen since the day of the battle, young Rothesay sat at
the table, in a raised seat of honour: and his dark, melancholy
eyes wandered alternately over the sunny landscape without, and
the crowd of steel-clad, stern, and proud landholders who sat
around the board or thronged the apartment, conversing and
laughing, all very much at their ease,&mdash;for they were not the men
to be awed by the presence or opinions of a spirit-broken boy,
even though that boy was the heir of the throne.
</p>

<p>
On one side of him stood the Earl of Errol, the Lord High
Constable of Scotland, with his white ivory baton of office; on
the other sat the gigantic Earl of Angus, Lieutenant-general of
the realm, clad in his dark armour, with the <i>Red Heart</i> crowned
and emblazoned on his surcoat, and his gauntletted hands crossed
upon that terrible weapon, which had slain Glencairn and many
a gallant man.  Of all the poor men of letters who thronged the
court of James III., not one was present here; but in the
sunny recesses of the windows were Catharine Stirling of the
Keir, Countess of Angus, Beatrix Douglas, Dowager of Errol,
wearing on her spousal finger a bone ring, to which the wedding-ring
of her late lord was attached by a cord; Elizabeth Douglas,
Lady Lyle, and other dames of the rebel faction, among whom
were the sad and shrinking daughters of Lord Drummond&mdash;Sybilla
and Euphemia&mdash;who fixed their eyes, furtively, however,
on the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> and her armed consorts, now many in
number, which were all riding at anchor, under the admiral's
flag, in the roads, about two miles distant, after scouring the
surrounding shores, and sinking every ship whose crew adhered
to the insurgent lords.  The latter had offered the most splendid
bribes to the Leith masters, if they would arm ships and attack
the Laird of Largo; but not one would sail against him, were a
ducal coronet the reward of conquest.
</p>

<p>
Seven days had now elapsed since the battle of Sauchie had
been fought; yet, in all that time, no tidings had been heard of
James; for the poor miller, Beaton, had not yet dared to relate
the terrible scene he had witnessed; and those who could have
given the best information, viz., Gray and Stirling, stood by the
prince's council board, exchanging those deep smiles that villains
can only read.
</p>

<p>
"Every where we have offered bribes to those who may bring
us sure tidings of your royal father," said Angus, "by twang of
trumpet at every burghcross; I have proffered brave propines for
drinking, and many a rich largess, yet no news hath come in."
</p>

<p>
"Rumours are current that the king has been assassinated,"
said the Lord Hailes, bluntly.
</p>

<p>
The young prince grew ghastly pale, and started with horror
at the remark.
</p>

<p>
"By God's love and the Virgin's purity, I pray you, do not say
so!" he exclaimed, imploringly.
</p>

<p>
"By both, I assure you, it is said so," returned the coarse,
unfeeling noble.
</p>

<p>
"Rumour ever lies," said Sir Patrick Gray, angrily; "for on
one hand 'tis said he has fled to England&mdash;on the other, to
Holland; and there are many who maintain that he is on board the
ships of that contumacious loon, old Largo, whose boats plied at
the Craigward the live-long battle day, ferrying over the wounded
and the fugitive."
</p>

<p>
"From my soul, I thank you for the hope, my good Sir
Patrick," said the prince, mournfully.
</p>

<p>
"Until the king's flight or safety&mdash;his death or abdication are
known, my lords, we can decide on nothing," said the constable.
</p>

<p>
"Save that we must keep together in arms," added Angus,
"till Parliament meets, and we are voted scathless for the raid
at Sauchie."
</p>

<p>
"We have gained a battle," said old Lord Drummond, in a
growling whisper to his daughters: "we have routed our false
king&mdash;slain his minion Ramsay of Balmain, whom some styled
Lord of Bothwell; we have cut to pieces his red-doubletted guard;
yet I am not one inch nearer discovering where the foul villains
of the late court have hidden or murdered your sister Maggie,
to further their English alliance."
</p>

<p>
Crushed by their own sorrows, the poor girls did not reply to
this vituperation, save by the tears which fell silently over their
cheeks.  Young girls in general look to the bright side of
everything: thus the sisters were full of hope; and they loved their
lost Margaret so much, that they shrunk, instinctively, with
dismay from the rough inferences of their father; and from the
idea that any one could injure a being so gentle and so harmless.
</p>

<p>
"Listen to me, Effie Drummond," resumed the old lord,
through his long mustachios, which resembled those of a walrus:
"look a little more at the quarterings on Lord Hailes' tabard-coad
and a little less at yonder devilish ships; and thou, too,
Madam Sybilla&mdash;what, the fury! hath this skipper's son gained
more influence over thee in one year than I have done in
eighteen?"
</p>

<p>
Still they wept silently, for none had spoken to them kindly
save young Rothesay, and he knew not their secret; but now the
sudden entrance of Lord Home, with his mail covered by dust,
relieved them of their father's persecution, fur all now turned to
him.
</p>

<p>
"Welcome, Bailie of Coldinghame!" said Angus, who by his
loftiness and confidence seemed more like a king than a mere
peer; "what tidings&mdash;hast heard of our missing man?"
</p>

<p>
"Nought, save that he hath fled; but I have been harrying the
lands of the <i>malcontents</i>, his people."
</p>

<p>
"And how many castles hast thou burned?"
</p>

<p>
"At the head of a thousand Border spears, I have ridden
through all the Howe of Angus, where men shall long remember
the slogan of <i>a Home</i>!" replied the chief, who was a very good
type of those feudal nobles, who never bowed to religion or to
law, and who never knew remorse for crime, or fear of God
or man, and were generally as destitute of pure patriotism as
ever Scottish peers have been in later years.  "I have sacked
twenty farm towns on the baronies of the so-called Duke of
Montrose; I have ruined and dismantled ten castles in the Carse
of Gowrie, and laid all the towns of Fife under heavy contribution."
</p>

<p>
"Ye have done well, by St. Bryde!" said Angus, giving a
glance of stern curiosity at Rothesay, who had listened with
stolid apathy.
</p>

<p>
And now entered, quite as hastily, Robert, Lord Lyle; he was
one of James's most faithful servants, and had recently returned
from an embassy to England, concerning the slaying of Barton.
</p>

<p>
"How now, Lyle&mdash;what news?" asked Angus.
</p>

<p>
"Men say the king is dead&mdash;murdered, and that the Lord
Forbess hath risen in the north, and ridden from Aberdeen to
Elgin o' Murray, displaying a bloody shirt upon a spear, and
summoning all the Gordons, the Forbesses, and Leslies to rise in
arms against you, and for vengeance!  My lords, alake! this
soundeth like evil."
</p>

<p>
"Let him do so; we may meet him and the northern clans by
Sauchieburn, perhaps," said Angus; "but I would we knew the
verity, whether or not the king is on board the ships of yonder
stubborn admiral."
</p>

<p>
"Another messenger with tidings," said Lord Hailes; "my
kinsman, Adam Hepburn, of the Black Castle, has come in from
the east country, and would speak with his grace."
</p>

<p>
"Admit him," said Rothesay; "he may have news of the king
my father."
</p>

<p>
Hepburn, a hardy and sunburned south-country laird, accoutred
in a very plain and somewhat rusty headpiece, corslet, vambraces,
and steel gloves, with an enormous sword, dagger, and
wheel-lock caliver at his girdle, now pushed his way
unceremoniously forward, but bowed low on perceiving the young
prince, whom he knew at once by the richness of his dress&mdash;being
without armour, and having on a short crimson velvet
tunic, girdled tightly about the waist, long hose of spotless white
silk, a violet-coloured cloak lined with white satin, and on his
breast the sparkling collar of the Thistle.
</p>

<p>
"What news, laird?  If of my father, by my soul, you shall
have the best of all the forfeited baronies."
</p>

<p>
"Would I had such tidings to give," replied the soldier-like
laird, who having <i>no title</i> was the truer Scotsman; "but I have
merely come in on the spur, with a message from the captain of
the king's Castle of Dunbar."
</p>

<p>
"Anent what?"
</p>

<p>
"Five English ships, which, after having lain wind-bound for
many days in Phillorth Bay, have appeared off the Firth of Forth,
and avoiding our cannon at Dunbar, now hover thereabout, plundering
the coast, cutting away our fishers' nets, firing on their
boats, and taking every advantage, after their old fashion, of
these our present hapless broils."
</p>

<p>
"What can we do, my lords?" said the prince, whose
patriotism was fired by hearing this news, which made Gray and
Shaw exchange glances of anger and disappointment.
</p>

<p>
"Nothing that I know of, for Wood and all his people remain
sullenly and proudly aloof from us, acknowledging no authority
but that of James III.," said Angus.
</p>

<p>
"My father's good and faithful subject!" said Rothesay, with
honest ardour.
</p>

<p>
"I will wager my coronet against a jester's cap, that old
Largo will sail against these Englishmen, if we do but ask him,"
said Angus.
</p>

<p>
"I say nay," said Sir Patrick Gray.
</p>

<p>
"I gay <i>yea</i>," added Angus, frowning.
</p>

<p>
"If this English churl is yet tarrying in Scottish waters, we
may be totally ruined," whispered Shaw to Gray.
</p>

<p>
"It cannot be he; this breathless courier speaks <i>five</i> ships;
now young Howard had but three."
</p>

<p>
"True; yet I quake at the suggestion of sending out Wood
against him."
</p>

<p>
In less than half an hour several urgent messages of similar
import came from the Whitefriars of Aberlady; from the provost
of North Berwick, and the prioress of the Cistercians there, all
complaining of ravages committed along the coast of Eastern
Lothian; and by the prince's desire the Albany herald was
despatched to Admiral Wood, requesting him to come on shore, on
the double purpose of discovering whether he knew anything of
the king's safety, and if he would sail against the enemy.
</p>

<p>
Too wary to trust himself among these barbarous nobles, Sir
Andrew "refused (says Abercrombie) to comply with the request
unless good hostages were delivered to him for his security,"
thus, two of the peers volunteered for this service, George Lord
Seaton and John Lord Fleming, both men of great integrity.
They were sent to the fleet as hostages, and were received with
all honour on board the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, where they were put in
ward in one of the great cabins, under the care of Willie Wad,
the gunner, who voluntarily bound himself to drink an unlimited
quantity of bilge should they escape.
</p>

<p>
In one hour after this, the great barge of the admiral, having
his banner, <i>azure</i>, charged with a tree, <i>or</i>, and pulled by sixteen
well-armed oarsmen, with Cuddie in the prow, and Robert
Barton and Sir David Falconer, both sheathed in armour and
accoutred to the teeth, swept past the Mussel-cape, and through
the old harbour, with oar-blades flashing in the sunshine.  They
landed at the ancient bridge which crossed the Leith, near where
a chapel of St. Ninian was erected soon after by an abbot of
Holyrood, with consent of his chapter.  It was removed about
seventy years ago, and nothing remains of it now but an arched
door.  At the other end of the bridge was a miraculous well,
which belonged to the Bailie of St. Anthony.
</p>

<p>
Accompanied by all his barge's crew, armed with their
boat-stretchers, and having daggers and wheel-locks at their belts,
the old admiral, with no other ornament above his armour than
the <i>silver whistle</i>, which was the badge of his rank, strode
through the Wynd of St. Nicholas, and entered the house of
Barton, where ensued one of the most interesting interviews
recorded in the history of those stirring times.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap39"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXXIX.
<br /><br />
THE PRINCE AND THE ADMIRAL.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Rebellion! foul dishonouring word,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Whose wrongful blight so oft hath stained<br />
  The holiest cause that tongue or sword<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Or mortal ever lost or gained."&mdash;MOORE.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Undaunted by the presence of so many enemies, Sir Andrew
Wood and his two faithful followers ascended the great turnpike
stair of Barton's house, and were ushered by pages, esquires, and
heralds into the presence of the young prince and the chief
conspirators, several of whom were grouped in the recesses of the hall
windows, conversing earnestly.  Others sat in corners, drinking
the right Rhenish, the Canary, and Bourdeaux with which the
cellars of the wealthy Laird of Barton had been stored.
</p>

<p>
"Robbie Barton," said the admiral, as they pushed their way
towards the dais; "by St. Anthony, 'tis enough to make thy
father's bones start from their coral bed in the English sea when
so many deil's buckies and gilded sharks hold wassail under his
old rooftree!  God sain thee, old shipmate o' mine," sighed Sir
Andrew, as he cast his eyes over the hall; "many a long wine
horn hast thou and I birled here, over our old yarns of lee shores
and cannon-shot."
</p>

<p>
Barton felt his heart stirred doubly by grief and indignation;
for every feature of this hall reminded him of his brave old father,
and he was exasperated to find so many of his enemies installed
there, all very much at their ease, and drinking from his cellars
as if the contents thereof were their own.
</p>

<p>
"My lords and gentlemen," said he, sternly; "by my faith, ye
reck little of hership and hamesücken."
</p>

<p>
"These are but the spray of the great wave, Barton," said
Sir David Falconer, "and are small items in the great amount of
treason and rebellion."
</p>

<p>
"And see," added the admiral, "on yonder window-bunker
the traitor Sauchie, full to the beams with thy father's
wine.  Ah, false villain, one day I hope to see thee
spritsail-yarded by three feet of a good rapier!"
</p>

<p>
By this time they had reached the presence of the prince, and
his vicinity was fortunate for them, as the freedom of their
remarks was such that several poniards were drawn, and there
was every prospect of their being assailed, though the two noble
hostages were certain to dangle from the <i>Frigate's</i> yardarm in
an hour after.  The young prince stood up, and coloured deeply
as they appeared before him, and various whispers went round
that otherwise silent circle of proud, ferocious, and unscrupulous
peers; for, owing to the loftiness, dignity, and high bearing of
Wood, there ran from tongue to tongue a suggestion that "he
was <i>the king</i>&mdash;James himself;" and then a thrill pervaded all
present, for he was the only one of three who wore a close casque,
the rivets of the vizor having been secured before he came ashore,
and his armour having gilded passguards on the shoulders, and
puckered <i>lambeaux</i> similar to a suit frequently worn by the king
on state occasions.  The same resemblance occurred to Rothesay,
who, looking up with eyes full of hope and timidity, said in a low
and agitated voice,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Sir, are you the king my father?"
</p>

<p>
The artlessness of this question, and the touching accent of the
young prince, smote the veteran admiral to the heart.  He burst
into tears, and replied, says Pitscottie,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"I am not your father, sir; but I am his true servant, and the
sworn enemy of those who have occasioned his downfall."
</p>

<p>
Though Lord Lyle and some of the nobles were touched by
the pure, honest, and generous loyalty of Wood, his words kindled
the rage and scorn of Angus and others.  In the grief of age and
manhood there is something very impressive; and thus, when
that brave mariner wept there was a dead silence in the vast
apartment; Rothesay covered his face with his violet-coloured mantle,
while Barton and Falconer cast down their eyes, for they were
deeply moved.  But now that stately bearing, which made so
many suppose the closed helmet concealed the face of James,
kindled the pride of the nobles, who muttered among themselves,
and to those who adhered to them.
</p>

<p>
"I would give three of my best crofts to see old Tarrybreeks,
and these saucy tarpaulins, his comrades, with their master in
yonder ditch beside the Bannock," said Sir James Shaw, who
was somewhat tipsy, to Gray, who grasped his arm, and gave
him a fierce and significant glance; for, in that iron age, banter
(as we now understand it) was unknown in Scotland.  Every
man wore a sword and dagger; so jesting was perilous work at
all times.
</p>

<p>
"You speak somewhat loftily, <i>Master</i> Wood," said Angus,
with a haughty frown on his dark and commanding face.
</p>

<p>
"I am Andrew Wood, <i>knight</i>, my Lord Earl of Angus," he
replied, firmly; "I received that title from a king's hand on my
own deck, abaft the mizen-mast&mdash;a deck drenched with foreign
blood!  From my father, who was an honest and hard-working
merchant-mariner of this good port of Leith, I inherited nothing
but a bold heart, and my sturdy legs and arms.  I have had to
work my way through the voyage of life, with no compass but
honesty, and no convoy but faith in God; and since I was an
idle brat, who spent the day in fishing for podleys out of the
fore-chains, I have never owed or wronged any man the value of a
ropeyarn or a herring-scale&mdash;least of all do I owe any merit to a
dead ancestry&mdash;thof most here, my lord, owe mickle mair to
their ancestors than they owe to themselves, God wot!  But
enough of this; the gunner to his lintstock, the&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Remember, Laird of Largo," said Lord Drummond, with a
darkening brow, "thou speakest to the Lieutenant-general of the
kingdom, and to men who will not stoop to monarchs, for 'tis
beneath the dignity of true nobility."
</p>

<p>
"Then why should I stoop to such as thee, an old jackfeather,
when 'tis beneath the dignity of true manhood?"
</p>

<p>
"Let us have no brawling here, sirs," said the High Constable,
stepping forward, as he saw the admiral disposed to "come to
close quarters;" "remember my office, its high prerogative, and
this presence."
</p>

<p>
"Know ye aught, Sir Andrew, of the king my father?"
asked Rothesay.
</p>

<p>
"Alake!  I do not," replied Wood, mournfully.
</p>

<p>
"Will you swear on your honour as a knight, that he is not
on board your fleet?"
</p>

<p>
"There are over many knights here for me to be believed,"
replied Wood; "but I pledge you my faith and troth as a
seaman, that he is not on board of any of the ships now under my
broad pennon."
</p>

<p>
"Who were those you took off after the battle?"
</p>

<p>
"My Lord St. John of Jerusalem, the High Treasurer, the
Mareschal de Concressault, and a few more loyal men: but as for
the king,&mdash;God bless him, and confound his enemies!&mdash;of him I
know nothing; even rumour hath not reached us in the Firth.
My shipmates and I were ready to have risked our lives in his
defence; and we landed many times on that evil day, yet saw
him not, though duly warned by his Grace of Montrose that
James would wear a yellow plume, and ride a grey charger."
</p>

<p>
Here Sir James Shaw gave a peculiar snort, and blew his nose
to conceal his malicious laughter.
</p>

<p>
Then (as Buchanan records) Sir Andrew added,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"If the good king is alive, I am resolved to obey <i>none</i> but
him; if he is slain, I am ready to <i>revenge</i> him!"
</p>

<p>
At this Grey almost clutched his dagger, and felt assured he
would never be safe while such a man as Wood lived.
</p>

<p>
"Would to St. Mary he had never left our ship!" said Barton,
who had hitherto remained silent, "for then he would have been
in safety from those false traitors, whom I hope to see one day
rewarded as they deserve, by having their dog-throats cut from
clew to ear-ring."
</p>

<p>
Perceiving that these rough speeches were rousing the anger
and apprehension of the insurgent lords, and moreover that they
were making too favourable an impression on Rothesay, who
never forgot the three leal and true men who now so boldly
confronted so many enemies&mdash;for Scotland's truest sons were seldom
men of noble birth&mdash;Lord Angus said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Sir Andrew Wood, news hath come in, within this hour, that
five English ships are plundering all the coast about Dunbar, so
that men can neither fish at sea, nor plough upon the shore, for
the shot of their cannon and arquebusses.  They have burned
many homesteads in the night, and harried the hirsels of the
friars at Aberlady; so, if you will not serve <i>us</i>, you may, at
least, serve Scotland, by ridding her of these gnats, who sting
her in her time of toil and trouble."
</p>

<p>
"That will I do blithely, lord earl!  I searched all the coast
from the Red Head to Dunbar Sands, and yet saw nought of these
English craft, which were off Taymouth last month.  What say
ye, Barton, if it should prove to be Eddy Howard?"
</p>

<p>
"That I will found an altar to St. Clement in Mary's Kirk of
Leith, where, if we are victorious, masses shall be said till the
day of doom."
</p>

<p>
"Where were these craft last seen, lord earl?"
</p>

<p>
"Cruising between the Isle of May and the Craig of Bass,"
answered Hepburn of Blackcastle; "there are five in all, and
three have their forecastle guns <i>en barbette</i>."
</p>

<p>
"With red crosses in their topsails?" asked Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"The same."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis Howard!" exclaimed Sir Andrew Wood, striking his
hands together with joy; "let us unmoor, and be off, lest we miss
them again.  Farewell, your grace and lordships&mdash;come, Davie
Falconer, and thou, too, Barton; let us go."
</p>

<p>
"You will take one cup of wine ere you leave us, admiral,"
said Angus.
</p>

<p>
"I crave leave to be excused," said Wood; "I have drunk many
a pot of wine here with my auld messmate, Andrew Barton;
but I will never bend a bicker with those who are in arms
against his master&mdash;for had puir Andrew been alive, he had
stood by my side to-day; so let us bear away, then&mdash;the sky is
clear, as the saw saith,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  'When the clouds spread like a feather,<br />
  Mariner look for fair gude weather.'<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
We'll sight these Englishmen to-night, and overhaul them before
morning."
</p>

<p>
Glad to be rid of one whose loyalty and inflexible truth were
likely to prove troublesome, and perhaps infectious, the barons
in reality cared very little whether Sir Andrew vanquished the
English or was sunk by them; for, like true Scottish peers, the
national honour to them was nothing when conflicting with their
own private ends.  As the three kingsmen left the house, they
saw two ladies at one of the lower windows waving their
handkerchiefs through the basketted grating, careless whether pages,
grooms, or men-at-arms observed them.  These were Sybilla and
Euphemia Drummond.  For a minute the lovers loitered to
exchange a word and glance.
</p>

<p>
"Thou art welcome, thrice welcome to my father's house, Lady
Effie," said Barton; "and one day I hope to see its porch bedecked
with white garlands in thine honour, when coming home as its
lawful mistress; but that must be when the tide of fortune turns,
for sorely hath it now set in against the loyal and true; so we,
dear Effie, must thole it with the others.  I see how the land lies
still with the old lord, thy father; but we'll weather the reefs
yet, please God, Effie."
</p>

<p>
Poor Falconer could only kiss the soft white hand of Sybilla,
and give her one deep and sorrowful glance, when Lord Home, who
would gladly have fallen on him, sword in hand, but for the safety
of their hostages, came furiously forward, and the two lovers
hurried after the admiral, who was impatiently waiting for them
at the outer gate.
</p>

<p>
"Bear on, Robbie," said he, "we have no leisure now for
backing and filling, or toying and kissing hands.  Doth not thy
heart glow with a double hope of vengeance at the sight of thy
father's rooftree and wasted substance?  Well-a-day," he added,
as they hastened through St. Nicholas Wynd, "our poor king,
after beating to windward all his life against the dark current of
adversity, perhaps is gone now, as his grandsire went before
him&mdash;sain him God!  And though I will rather scuttle the old frigate
than lower my colours or vail my topsails to those sharks of
barons, yet thou seest, messmate, we must e'en bear up before
this civil tempest, and scud under bare poles, for fear of losing
all; but were I sure that the king was in life, by the bones of
St. Rule, I would not lift tack or sheet to humour the best lord in
the land!"
</p>

<p>
"But then the English fleet?"
</p>

<p>
"Ay, true, there thou hast the weathergage of me; yes, we
must fight in honour and conscience, whether lord, earl, or laird,
king or chancellor commanded us or not; ship your oars, my
lads, and shove off for the ship," he cried, as they sprang on
board the barge, just in time to prevent a violent collision
between some of her crew and the Angus spearmen, who had been
provoked by the taunts and abuse of Cuddie Clewline the
coxswain.  This "ancient mariner," whose weatherbeaten visage
was puckered up like a knot on an oak tree, possessed a
vocabulary of abuse that was pretty extensive; and he had been
perambulating the pier, spitting on his hard horny hands, and
throwing mortal defiances right and left among the vassals of the
Lord of Galloway, boasting that he did not value "their steel
trappings or iron jacks a ropes-end or a brass bodle."
</p>

<p>
As the barge, with its colour waving, shot out of the sunny
harbour, the crews of the merchant craft and Hanse traders gave
the well-known admiral a hearty cheer, and his oarsmen, as they
bent to their task and almost lifted their light craft out of the
water, sung that merry old Scottish sea-song, which is mentioned
in the prologues of Bishop Gawain Douglas&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "The ship sails owre ye saut sea faem,<br />
  Yat rowes on ye rocks o' our native hame;"<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
while Cuddie sat in the prow, flourishing his boat hook in defiance
to the soldiers on the bridge and pier.
</p>

<p>
Ere the last notes of the song and the plash of the oars had
been lost in the boom of the surf that broke on the reefs then
known as the Musselcape and Beacon Rock, Sir Patrick Gray
rushed down St. Nicholas Wynd, crossed the bridge, and hurried
to the Kirkgate, where, in the <i>Bell of St. Anthony</i>, a well-known
hostel, he found his minion, Sir Hew Borthwick, whom he
scarcely knew, so splendidly was he attired; for the price of
James's signet-ring (long since transmitted by the Governor of
Berwick to London) had lined his pockets with something better
than pebbles, and enabled him to ruin all the pages, pimps, and
bullies about the prince's court at tric-trac and shovel-board.
</p>

<p>
"Ride, Borthwick, ride," said Gray, breathlessly, as he roughly
drew him into a corner; "for death and life ride to Dunbar;
here is money&mdash;six half lions (about thirty shillings); get thee a
skiff, and seek the English Captain Howard.  Warn him that
Wood is putting to sea&mdash;say his fleet is overwhelming.
Anathema!  Oh, the fool, the half-witted English lurdane, to be
loitering yet in Scottish waters with that devilish damsel in his
possession!  If she is taken, her tongue will destroy us all; she
must be flung overboard, with all the ciphers of Quentin Kraft,
if the <i>Harry</i> is captured; see to this on your life, Hew
Borthwick, see to it!  Away, while there is yet time&mdash;away!"
</p>

<p>
In ten minutes after this the regicide, well mounted, left
Leith by the Porte St. Anthony, and crossing the Links, struck
eastward by the dreary Figgate Muir, riding at headlong speed
towards Dunbar.
</p>

<p>
It was about four o'clock in the evening, and as these "Scottish
worthies" separated, each mentally bequeathed the other to the
infernal shades.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap40"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XL.
<br /><br />
CLEARED FOR ACTION.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Fu' loud the wind blaws down the ferry,<br />
  The ships ride at the Berwick Law,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And I maun leave my bonnie Mary."&mdash;<i>Scottish Song</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
As his barge glided into the stream, and Leith with its pier,
spires, and sandy links, melted into the sunny haze; as the
harbour closed and narrowed astern; the admiral, after remaining
long silent, exclaimed,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Well&mdash;-split my topsails, if I would not rather endure the
English fire, yardarm and yard arm for eight glasses, than
overhall all this talk again with these herring-faced lordlings; but
one day, gadzooks!  I hope to make the best among them lower
his ancient at the king's name."
</p>

<p>
"They have cast a glamour over the Lord Drummond," said
Barton, with a gloomy expression in his eyes; "he was kind to
me once, and but for my father's death and this unhappy strife,
I had been ere now his son-in-law, and holding a banquet, perhaps,
in yonder hall, where all that rabble rout of hostile peers
hold council."
</p>

<p>
"Thy fair weather and smooth anchorage are coming, Robert,"
said the admiral; "and what sayst thou, Davie Falconer?"
</p>

<p>
"That fickle fortune, I fear me, will never tire of persecuting
one who ever courts her smiles; though sooth to say, I never
fear her frowns.  Poor Lady Sybilla, how sad, how pale she
looked!"
</p>

<p>
"Be not cast down, Falconer," continued the kind old Laird
of Largo, on seeing the arquebussier gazing dreamily at the tall
house of Barton, which stood like a watch-tower on the left bank
of the Leith; "be not heavy o' heart, because thy purse is at
low water; thou shalt have thy winsome bride yet, my lad!  And
if the king gives thee not land, thou shalt never lack siller while
auld Andrew Wood hath a shot in his locker.  Thy father's son,
Davie, shall beat to windward, and keep in the line of battle with
the best craft in the fleet.  The happiest occurrence in the
voyage of life is to be brought to by a bonny young lass."
</p>

<p>
"How wobegone young Rothesay looked to-day," said Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"Ah! there our king (God bless him!) was wrong," said the
admiral; "he should have given the lad a longer swing to his
cable, or a little more headway, in the matter of running after the
winsome dames at court, as young princes will do at times.  The
tide of experience would soon have brought him into deep water.
I know that, though an auld sailor, who (St. Mary be thanked)
knoweth as much anent courts and cities as a seamew may; but
hilloh! what is astir here?" he added, as the barge sneered
alongside the Yellow Caravel, and two very ominous loops were
seen to dangle from her foreyard-arms.
</p>

<p>
History informs us that the admiral had just returned in time
to save his two noble hostages from being hung; for the crew
having become alarmed by his long stay on shore, were
preparing&mdash;by order of Sir Alexander Mathieson, who took command
in his absence&mdash;with great deliberation to run George Lord
Seaton and John Lord Fleming to the yardheads; and the poor
nobles (both good and worthy men) were in the very act of
making their peace with Heaven, through the intervention of
Father Zuill, when the admiral stepped on board, and at once
despatched them on shore, where the account they gave to
Angus and others of their treatment, made the peers more than
ever dread and abhor the Laird of Largo and his crews.
</p>

<p>
"Tell the spearmen o' the Lord Angus," shouted Cuddie over
the side, as their boat was shoved off, "that d&mdash;n my auld
buits if&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Peace, coxswain," said Barton; "thou ever becomest crank
when lacking ballast, or when thine orlof is overstowed with
usquebaugh; so, silence&mdash;man the tackles, and hoist the boats on
board."
</p>

<p>
"Lords, indeed!" muttered the admiral, as he walked aft;
"were my honour not pledged, I would fain have belayed the
dogsons to the whipping-post, and given them a round dozen
with a rope's end, just as a fare-ye-well.  But heave short on the
anchor, Barton&mdash;cast loose the courses, and make sail on the ship."
</p>

<p>
History (to which in these chapters we are obliged to have
constant reference) informs us, that though the admiral had
several ships at his disposal, and the English squadron consisted
of five sail, he somewhat unwisely resolved "to take <i>only his own
two</i>," meaning the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> and the <i>Queen Margaret</i>,
which had been built at the Newhaven, under his own eye; and
so, after desiring the other armed vessels, whose captains adhered
to him and the cause of the missing king, to cruise between
Leith Roads, St. Margaret's Hope, and Alloa, to cut off the
communication of the insurgents with Fife, he weighed anchor, and
stood down the river about six in the evening, favoured by a
gentle south-west wind.
</p>

<p>
There were great preparations made for battle on board these
two stately ships, as under a press of canvas, they bore down the
Forth, between Inchkeith and those two reefs known as the
Briggs and the Craigness, and steered for the Isle of May, which
lay north-east by east, but was not visible from that part of the
river.  The admiral and his officers remained in their harness.
Willie Wad and his yeomen hoisted powder up from the magazine;
the boatswain was preparing all the culverins on the long
and clumsy slides then in use; the arquebussiers put fresh
matches to the serpentine cocks of their firearms; filled their
priming horns, and buckled on their bullet-bags, which were
hung at the right hip, and all were on deck in their jazarine
jackets and steel caps, swords, and daggers.  The seamen were
accoutred in nearly a similar manner, and armed themselves
from the racks of Jedwood axes, hand-guns, and boarding-pikes,
that were framed round the masts and the bulwarks of the poop.
All were noisy, loquacious, and enthusiastic, save a few of the
quiet married men, whose wives and little ones were watching
their departure from the shore.
</p>

<p>
"Away aloft, Cuddie&mdash;get into the fore-crosstrees," said the
admiral, "and thou shalt have a can of egg-flip and three silver
bonnet pieces the moment ye sight these English ships.  Will
she not carry more, Barton?"
</p>

<p>
"Not without leaving Sir Alexander too far astern; but we
may try: master boatswain, rig me a guy on the spanker-boom,
sheet home the mizen-staysail, and up with that cross-jackyard a
bit."
</p>

<p>
This primitive contrivance has now been replaced by the gaff,
and to the lower end of it the staysail was then bent on.
Though the summer evening was then bright on shore, a thick
white haze arose from the broad estuary, and hid the land on
both sides.  The admiral became merry as the river widened, and
the May arose in a faint blue line at the horizon; and he said to
the gunner,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Pass the word, Willie, to Father Zuill, to quit the mass-book&mdash;to
overhaul his hurdy-gurdy, and ship on its mirrors, for
gadzooks, we will be aboard the English in another hour or two."
</p>

<p>
"Carry those shot to their guns, Willie Wad," said Barton,
kicking away some balls that were rolling about the deck; "no
iron should ever come within seven feet of a binnacle."
</p>

<p>
The wind soon became lighter and more aft; and as the yards
were squared more, the staysails began to shiver.  The vessels
were now going slowly through the water, and cleaving a shining
passage that left a long wake astern.  The sun of June set
brilliantly behind the distant Ochils; the shores were mellowed
in haze; but above it, the peculiar hill of North Berwick rose on
the starboard bow, gleaming in the western light like a volcanic
cone of flame.  As the glow faded on the waters, a light, like a
gigantic star, began to beam among the hills astern.
</p>

<p>
This was Saint Anthony's Light&mdash;a beacon which was burned
by the good and charitable Hospitallers of St. Anthony upon the
tower of their hermitage on the rocks above Holyrood.  This
tower was then more than forty feet high, and thus its light was
seen far down the estuary, in which it was the only beacon in
those days; for there was then no Pharos on Inchkeith (which
belonged to <i>Keith</i>, the Earl Marischal), and was without a night-beacon
until the early part of the seventeenth century.  The island,
in the time of James III., was a place of compulsory retirement
for lepers and other sick persons; and was a famous resort of
water-cows and kelpies; and on the rocks there the mermaids,
with curling tails, a looking-glass in one hand and a comb in the
other, are <i>still to be seen</i>, as more than one hardy boatman of
Newhaven, and pious elder of the Fishwives Kirk, are ready to
aver on oath, especially when the moon is S. by W., and the tide
is full between Granton and Kinghorn.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap41"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XLI.
<br /><br />
THE ENGLISH BOAT.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"St Abb, St. Helen, and St. Bey,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;All built kirks near unto the sea;<br />
  St. Abb's upon the Nabs, and St. Helen's on the Lea,<br />
  But St. Bey's upon Dunbar sands is nearest to sea!"&mdash;<i>Old Rhyme.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Meanwhile, the worthy messenger of the worthy knight, Sir
Patrick Gray, captain of Broughty, was riding hard towards the
east.  To avoid question by the gateward, who kept the bridge
and toll of Musselburgh, he swam his horse through the river,
near the church of St. Michael the Archangel, and dashed through
Pinkie-woods, over Tranentmuir and Hoprigmains, and never
drew his bridle until King David's royal burgh of Dunbar and
the massive towers of that noble fortress, which was then
considered the key of East Lothian, rose before him; and from the
higher ground, as he approached the bare and sea-beaten
promontory on which they stand, he could perceive five English
vessels cruising in the offing, or deep water, and almost becalmed
between the mainland and the May.
</p>

<p>
Three of these were indeed the vessels of Howard, who, when
on his homeward voyage, had been joined off Holy Island by two
large armed vessels, under Miles Furnival, sent by Henry VII. from
the Thames, with orders to pillage the coast of Scotland,
and (in fulfilment of the old and invariable policy of the English
kings) to take every advantage of the intestine broils of Scotland
to distress and harass the people, that they might the more
willingly listen to his proposals, when the project of the prince's
marriage with Margaret Tudor was revived&mdash;a foolish and mistaken
policy, as the Scots were ever the last people in the world
to be wooed by cold steel and gunpowder.
</p>

<p>
Feeling appetised after his long ride, Sir Patrick's messenger
reined up his foam-flecked charger at the <i>Dunbar Arms</i>, an
hostel in the Highgate, where he ordered a cup of Malvoisie, a
pair of roasted plovers, and a quail, with sweet sack, for he felt
able to devour a horse, after his long ride near the seacoast; and
he resolved, that though the evening was drawing on, affairs of
state should wait his pleasure.
</p>

<p>
"How happy are the rich," thought he, with a sigh of enjoyment,
after he had drained the last of his sack, and picked the
last bone of the quail; "how often have I fed my hopes when I
had little wherewith to feed my stomach," he added, clinking
the English gold pieces, with which his purse was now so well
lined, and which went current in Scotland, as Scottish coins did
in England, for then the coin of all nations was circulated
everywhere; "but this country will grow too hot for me ere long, so I
must e'en turn spy on Henry, and win in England the lyons,
louis, and angels of the new king, James IV.&mdash;ugh!" and he
smiled a ferocious smile, "he owes his crown to <i>me</i>!  But now
to reach these devilish ships anent that damsel, who I would
with all my soul was sleeping with her fathers."
</p>

<p>
He now went on foot to the harbour, where, though the sea
was calm, there was considerable agitation in the water, for
Dunbar is the most bleak and stormy headland on the coast; but
he found that no money would tempt the fishermen to put him on
board of any of those English vessels, which were lying, almost
becalmed, about two miles off; and he soon ceased to ask them,
as their suspicions were readily excited, and there were not a few
who threatened to drag him before the provost, that he might be
forced to "declare what manner of business he, a Scot, had on
board these hostile craft."
</p>

<p>
This threat made him tremble, for now he had three tenements
in Stirling, with a remarkably well-lined purse; and if "the
sudden possession of gold will make a brave man cautious," how
much more so will it render timid a dastardly regicide?
</p>

<p>
Hastily leaving the fishermen, he walked for nearly a mile
along the sands, on which the surf was rolling with considerable
force, and gazed anxiously at the English ships, which were all
within two miles of each other, with their high lumbering poops,
their carved and gilded quarter-galleries, and the muzzles of their
brass cannon shining in the last rays of the sunlight that lingered
in the west; and Borthwick stamped his feet with anger, for he
supposed that Wood's ships must, by this time, have dropped far
down the river, and that shots would soon be exchanged.
</p>

<p>
Upon the level shore, close to the seamark, there stood in those
days the chapel of St. Bey, who was daughter of a certain Saxon
king.  This princess, according to local tradition, had emigrated
among the Scots with her two sisters, St. Abb and St. Helen,
who, being meek, gentle, and pious, were disgusted with the
world and the barbaric pomp of their father's petty court, and
resolved to spend their dowers in the erection of churches, and
their lives in devotion.  All these three votaresses having a
curious predilection for salt water, endeavoured to find sites as
near the sea as possible.  St. Helen built her oratory on a plain,
near the beach, and St. Abb raised hers on that high rock which
overhangs the German Ocean, while St. Bey succeeded in founding
her fane so close to the floodmark that at every full tide the
waves washed its massive walls; and hence arose the Lothian
rhyme prefixed to this chapter.
</p>

<p>
Thinking little of St. Abb, St. Helen, or St. Bey, Hew Borthwick,
on passing the chapel of the latter, suddenly found himself
seized by a party of seamen, whom, by the fashion of their
gabardines, and the sound of their voices, he knew at once to be
English; and close by was a large boat, well laden with several
sacks of flour, three sheep, and a quantity of vegetables, all
taken from an adjacent farm; for this foraging party were
numerous and well armed.
</p>

<p>
"Yoho, brother; whom seek ye?" demanded one, who grasped
Borthwick by the throat&mdash;yet the craven dared not to draw his
sword.
</p>

<p>
"I seek some one who will take me on board the <i>Harry</i>, for I
have an urgent message to the captain."
</p>

<p>
"Concerning the damosel aboard, I have little doubt,"
replied the seaman, who was no other than Dick Selby, the gunner;
"I ever said little luck would come to Eddy Howard by having
this painted galley in tow."
</p>

<p>
"Nay, Dick," said another, "she be no galley, but a noble lady."
</p>

<p>
"A Scots one, though.  Well, and what want ye with the
captain, eh?"
</p>

<p>
"How can the Scot answer thee, Dick," interfered another,
"when thou'st twisted his mouth all to starboard; why, 'tis all
on one side, like the ballast-port of a timber-ship."
</p>

<p>
"Teach thy grannum to make sackwhey!  I warrant thee I'll
make the Scot find his tongue.  Speak!" roared the gunner,
giving Borthwick a furious shake.
</p>

<p>
"I have an urgent message for your captain, which none must
know but he," gasped Borthwick, in a half-strangled voice;
"look at me, sirs&mdash;some of you must have seen me on board
before now?"
</p>

<p>
"Tarry a minute, gunner Dick," said a soldier who was in half
mail, and had but one eye; "I <i>have</i> seen this man before,
methinks."
</p>

<p>
"Off Taymouth&mdash;at night," said Borthwick.
</p>

<p>
"I remember me now," said the soldier, who was Anthony
Arblaster; "unhand him, Dick, ere worse come of it, for the
captain's temper hath been truly devilish of late."
</p>

<p>
"We have had a long spell on this here shore," growled the
gunner, as he released the throat of Borthwick, whose lace
doublet was no way improved by the application of such a hard
and tarry hand as Dick's; "we have turned our best barge into
a bumboat, as ye may see, so come aboard and let us shove off,
before some of your furious Scots come after their flour-sacks.
I would to St. George they were all, for the trouble they give
us, steering in the latitude of purgatory!"
</p>

<p>
"Or a warmer latitude still," added Anthony Arblaster,
rubbing his blind eye.
</p>

<p>
"Avast," said an old sailor, "and remember there is a Scot
here, and that he be but one among many."
</p>

<p>
But the said Scot, though boiling with rage at his treatment,
cared little for national reflections; yet, had these honest English
hearts known the actual character of the wretch they had on
board, they would have flung him into the sea, lest they should
never more have fortune on its waters.
</p>

<p>
"Ship your oars, my hearts," said the gunner; "and harkee,
Arblaster, bear a-hand, old dead-eye, and belay these here
quadrupeds to the thwarts, or we may lose them in the surf."
</p>

<p>
The boat was bluffly built, and being full of men, and moreover
heavily laden, she laboured through the breakers which roll
for ever on those sands, and shipped a great quantity of spray
before her head was fairly turned towards the <i>Harry</i>, which was
astern of all the other vessels, all of which were lying with their
heads towards the river.  The uneasiness manifested by Borthwick,
as the spray flew over his rich cloak and doublet, afforded
extreme gratification to the hardy seamen who had nothing to
spoil, and whose oars bent almost to breaking, as they strained
between the tholing-pins, and shot the heavy barge from one
long roller to another.
</p>

<p>
After they had pulled a mile from the shore, and saw the Castle
of Dunbar rising with all its strong red towers and crenellated
ramparts in many a frowning row, bristling with cannon
and black loop-holes, the one-eyed archer, who was seated in the
stern, uttered a shout of astonishment:&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Hilloah, old Buff," said the gunner; "what is the matter?"
</p>

<p>
"There are two large ships standing down the river!"
</p>

<p>
"Sir Andrew Wood, for a thousand rose nobles!" said the
gunner, slapping his thigh; "thou hast the true eye of an
English archer, Tony, thof thou'st but one; well, I thought we
should not make out two days of a quiet cruise here.  Give way,
my hearts&mdash;give way! odds firkin, they are bringing down both
wind and tide with them&mdash;yare&mdash;yare&mdash;stretch out!"
</p>

<p>
"It <i>is</i> the Admiral Wood," said Borthwick, with gloomy spite,
"and my message to your captain concerns him."
</p>

<p>
"They are hull down as yet, though," said the gunner, as he
stood up and shaded his weather-beaten visage with his thick
knotty hand; "well&mdash;odds my life, bold as he is&mdash;and a better
seamen never spliced a rope, Scot though he be, I do not think
Sir Andrew, with only two ships, will venture to attack us; and
we'll see him haul his wind ere another half-glass is run."
</p>

<p>
The ships of Wood were about nine miles off, being abreast of
North Berwick, and they loomed large through the haze of the
summer gloaming, which, however, was rising from the water as
the moon, which was round and full, soared into the clear blue
sky, above the hills of East Lothian.  The Ness of Fife was not
visible in the haze, for at this extreme point the noble Forth is
more than twenty miles broad.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap42"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XLII.
<br /><br />
THE LOVER AND THE SPY.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps,<br />
  And now falls on her bed."&mdash;Shakespeare.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The approaching vessels had been descried already from the
ships of Howard, who fired a cannon to quicken his boat; and
the moment it was on board and hoisted in, with its provisions
he desired all to be cleared away for battle, and ordered
Borthwick to attend him in his cabin.
</p>

<p>
"Well, thou bird of ill omen," said he, while arming himself,
"what evil wind hath blown thee on board the <i>Harry</i> to-night?
Speak out, and briefly, too; try none of thy cobler tricks with me."
</p>

<p>
"I have come with a message from the Lords at Leith&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Ah! they are there, then; and the rumours we have heard
are true: has the King of Scotland fought a battle and been
defeated?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, and hath fled, no man knows whither," said Borthwick,
with a dark smile on his pale face, while he could not repress a
twinge of uneasiness at the mention of the king's name, for he
saw ever before him&mdash;when alone for a moment&mdash;that ghastly
corpse, lying where he had flung it, in the ditch beside the
Bannock.
</p>

<p>
"And so young Rothesay now is king," said Howard, sadly,
and pausing while he braced his corslet.
</p>

<p>
"No&mdash;nor can be, until we ascertain that the king, his father,
is dead."
</p>

<p>
"Of course; well, and what want your rebel lords with me?"
</p>

<p>
"I should have said Sir Patrick Gray."
</p>

<p>
"Well, well&mdash;speak quickly; for the foe comes on.  Your
message&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Concerns the Lady Margaret Drummond, and your bond in
cipher with the Scottish friends of King Henry."
</p>

<p>
"Well," said Howard again, buckling his waist-belt with a
furious jerk; "what of them?"
</p>

<p>
"Wood is about to attack you, and you must be well aware
that if the <i>Harry</i> is taken, and these are found on board&mdash;the
lady and the bond,&mdash;the hope of Henry's alliance will be crushed
by her being discovered, and the safety of his allies in Scotland
will be compromised by the documents."
</p>

<p>
"The curse of all the saints be on King Henry's plots and on
those Scottish cravens who pander to the pay, the wiles, and
selfish ends of England!" said Howard, with great bitterness.
"Well, fellow, and what would your Laird of Kyneff advise?"
</p>

<p>
"That this troublesome dame be hove overboard, with Master
Kraft's writings and the deep-sea lead tied together to her
neck&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Confound thee, thou limb of Satan!&mdash;thou infamous and
lubberly lurdane!" cried Howard, in a tempest of rage at this
terrible proposition.  "Begone," he added, smiting Borthwick
on the mouth with his steel glove; "begone, sheer off; or by all
that is sacred in heaven, I will have thee bound to a kedge, and
flung overboard like St. Clement!  Yoho there, Will Selby!" he
said to his page, who stood without the cabin, "is that
fisher-boat, which we took off Tyningham sands, astern yet?"
</p>

<p>
The page replied that it was.
</p>

<p>
"Then see this ruffian put into her; give the two fishermen a
handful of tokens, and bid them cast off and begone, in the devil's
name, lest I hang this recreant Scot where I fain would hang his
masters."
</p>

<p>
In two minutes after this our knight of the scarlet mantle found
himself hustled over the side of the <i>Harry</i> into a shore-boat, in
which were two poor fishermen, who, after receiving a handful of
those leaden pledges which the English used in the time of their
seventh and eighth Henries in lieu of copper coinage, gladly
pulled away for Tyningham Sands, where their wives and
children had been waiting for them in sore apprehension and
weeping the livelong day.  Anxious to get clear of the engagement
which was to take place, they stepped their mast, hoisted their
sail, and prayed hard to St. Bey for a favourable breeze; but little
wind came, and even that was against them; so they bequeathed
the poor saint to the devil, spat on their hands, and betook them
to their oars, like men.
</p>

<p>
"Thank Heaven, my ship is freed from the contamination of
such a wretch," said Howard; "though 'twere not worth while
to lose my temper with him.  By St. George, I profit little by
old Caxton's 'Book of Good Manners;' though I have studied
it more than stars or compass since Margaret Drummond came
on board."
</p>

<p>
The handsome Howard was now completely armed, and presented
himself at the cabin of Margaret, whose attendants, Cicely
and Rose, had acquainted her of the dire preparations making on
deck overhead.  Sorrow and confinement had rendered her so pale
that she was like a beautiful marble statue, and her exceeding
fairness was rendered stronger by her dark purple dress, and the
triangular cap of the same material which shaded her fine hair,
the locks of which shone like golden tresses in the light of the
cabin lamp.  On beholding Howard in his armour she started
forward to meet him.
</p>

<p>
"Dear madam," said he, "I am come&mdash;to&mdash;to&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"To restore me to my family," said Margaret, with sweet
earnestness; "is it not so? you will&mdash;you will do so now; for I
have been told that the king's admiral approaches to demand
me."
</p>

<p>
"Nay, lady, I came but to convey you to a place of safety,"
paid he; "you are misinformed, for none in Scotland (three
villains excepted) know that you are here, or that you are in the
land of the living.  The king was accused of abducting you, and
he has lost a bloody battle near Stirling, fought by the nobles."
</p>

<p>
"And my father fought against him?"
</p>

<p>
"Very probably."
</p>

<p>
Margaret clasped her white hands in fear and misery.
</p>

<p>
"And what tidings are there of the Duke of Rothesay?"
</p>

<p>
"I have heard of none," said Howard, on whom that name
when uttered by her lips, fell as a mortal blight.  "Lady
Drummond, we are about to engage in a close, and, it must be,
desperate conflict, with the king of the Scottish mariners, and it may
be that you will never again be troubled by the voice or presence
of Edmund Howard.  Oh, think over all I have dared to urge,
during the many days it has been my happiness to know you
and to seek your esteem.  You know my secret; say, if I survive
to-night, may I hope for something more than friendship?"
</p>

<p>
"Your secret," reiterated Margaret, as her fine blue eyes filled
with tears; "alas, fair sir, you know not <i>mine</i>.  I admire and
most sincerely respect you, Edmund Howard; but more I dare
not say&mdash;so, I beseech you, cease to urge me further on this
most painful subject."
</p>

<p>
"True, true," said Howard, beating his breast, "I have indeed
but little to offer you compared with what you have lost.  It
may be weakness&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"The weakness of the strong man and of the gallant heart."
</p>

<p>
"Alas! in love we ever carry more sail than ballast&mdash;who can
control the heart in love&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"If you knew <i>all</i>, you never again would address me thus.
Oh, talk not of love to me&mdash;it is in vain, nor dare I listen."
</p>

<p>
"Alas, that I should hear this doom from your own lips at
last, lady!  I will quit this wandering life of mariner, for I have
one of those happy homes that are only to be found in England;
where the woods are green, and our painted windows open down
to soft and sunny lawns, instead of iron grates that grimly peer
through deep fosses and guarded barbicans, as here in Scotland,
lady.  There no rude barons, or lawless lairds, ride from tower
to tower with spears and torches in their train, no hostile
clansmen wage eternal war, making their life but a mission of
military vengeance and feudal hatred; and there no venal peers
are ever ready to sell their country and their king, her rights or
her honour for foreign gold.  Oh no; in merry England we
know nothing of transmitted hatred, of Highland raids and
border forays.  I love you, lady, well, and, with you, I fain
would share that quiet English home; I love you passionately,
and denial is death, and worse than death to me! and I say so
now when on the eve of battle with one who was never foiled or
vanquished on the sea.  In that happy home, if spared to see it,
I could worship you as a monk who serves his altar, and treasure
you as a miser hoards his treasure.  Oh do not turn from me as
if I was hateful," continued Howard, borne away by his passion
and finding eloquence in the very depth of it; "'tis true I am
an Englishman, lady, and that you are a Scot&mdash;but can a few
miles of land or of water make such an evil difference in our
tempers or our race&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Oh no, it is not hate that makes me turn away, but true
sorrow for yourself, my good and noble Howard," said Margaret,
as she pressed his hands in hers; for his honest passion and gentle
bearing touched her to the soul, and no woman ever hears a man
say he loves her without feeling a more than common interest in
him; but happily for both, this painful interview was cut short
by the stentorian voice of John o'Lynne, who cried through the
poop door,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Yoho, Captain Howard; the Scots are within a mile of us
and bring down the breeze with them, and it freshens fast."
</p>

<p>
This reminded Howard of what he had forgotten,&mdash;that he had
come, not to make love, but to conduct his fair prisoner and her
two pretty attendants, Rose and Cicely, to a place of security,
which he now proceeded to do.  They were accordingly conducted
between-decks, amid a tremendous uproar, for in one quarter
Dick Selby was hoisting up shot and powder from the magazine,
in another, boxes, chests, and bulkheads were going down, and
hammocks being triced up, while the shrill whistle of the
boatswain, the swearing and noise of the seamen, made the place
terrible to them; and from the lower deck they descended by a
ladder and the light of a lantern into a dreary and Cimmerian
gulf, from which arose the combined odours of bilge and rancid
beef, stale cheese, tarry ropes, and other agreeable perfumes, such
as usually pervade the region of the cockpit.  And there, in a
curtained and cushioned berth, below the water-line, he left them
to their prayers, and with a sigh ascended to the maindeck of
the <i>Harry</i>; and then his spirit rose as he breathed more
freely.
</p>

<p>
"Dick Selby,&mdash;up with the battle-lanterns, and beat to
quarters!" said he: "John o'Lynne, make sail on the ship; see,
the <i>Cressi</i> will first engage these petulant Scots; stand to your
culverins, my lads fore and aft, if you would not brook a
Scottish prison, oatmeal, and iron fetters, before we see merry
England again!"
</p>

<p>
And bravely every man in the good ship <i>Harry</i> stood by his
gun, and drew tighter the buckles of his helmet and girdle.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap43"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XLIII.
<br /><br />
THE BATTLE OF THE MAY.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "He ha' brass within and steel without,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;With beams on his top-castle strong;<br />
  And eighteen pieces of ordnance,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He carries on each side along.<br />
  And he hath a pinnace dight,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;St. Andrew's cross is his guide;<br />
  The pinnace beareth nine score men,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And fifteen guns on each side."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Sir Andro Burton</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The wind had freshened as the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> and her consort
bore down the river, and confident in the great size, heavy
armament, and complete equipment of those vessels which Sir
Alexander Wood was so fond of styling "his own two," he
walked to and fro on the poop, whistling for more wind, and all
undaunted by the reported strength of the enemy, though
Barton, Falconer, and Sir Alexander Mathieson deemed him rash
and unwary in leaving so many of his vessels to cruise idly in
the river.  As the land lessened, Preston Bay opened out on one
side and the far-stretching bight of Largo on the other.  By
this time the five English vessels were in sight, scattered
considerably apart, but their white sails were distinctly visible on
the dusky blue of the darkening sea and sky.  Falconer and
Barton were accoutred in polished steel, and were armed with
Jedwood axes, sword, and dagger.  After having inspected the
culverins, moyennes, and sakers with which the forecastle, poop,
and main-deck were mounted&mdash;after having seen that the bores
were clean, the wadding tight, and tackles clear&mdash;Willie Wad was
placidly regaling himself on cold salt junk and a can of beer
with the coxswain of the barge, who was drinking ale from an old
gallipot.
</p>

<p>
Archy the boatswain, and his mate (or yeoman, as they were
then named), worked at a grindstone, putting a keener edge on
their two-handed swords, axes, and boarding pikes, while they
whistled and sang as the sparks of the grinding steel flew to
leeward through the open ports; and close by them was a grim old
arquebussier, who had served at the siege of Lochmaben, under
James II., against the Douglases at Brechin, and at the Bog of
Dunkinty, notching his leaden balls with a cross for good luck;
and now the Admiral, whose mind was occupied by the hope of
victory, was joined by Father Zuill, who under his cassock wore
a jazarine jacket and steel gloves, which he was at no pains to
conceal.
</p>

<p>
"Harkee, timoneer," said the Admiral, "keep her head away
a point or two towards the north.  Yonder headmost ship I take
to be the <i>Cressi</i>, and if so, I will play her a trick I have not
tried since we fought the Portuguese under Antonio de Belem,
and sunk his <i>Lady of Sorrow</i>.  Gadzooks! that Englishman
saileth as if he would poke the wind's eye out!  We will have a
brave moonlight night, Father Zuill; see how brightly she rises
above the Lammermuirs."
</p>

<p>
"Yet I would rather this bout took place by sunlight."
</p>

<p>
"Why&mdash;what! art at thy plaguey burning-glasses again?"
</p>

<p>
"Thou knowest, Admiral, that Marcellus used his mirrors
both in summer and winter&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Nay, I know nothing of the kind."
</p>

<p>
"Unless they were to trim his beard by," said Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"Out on thee, Davie," said the Admiral; "don't mock our
friar, though he hath more crotchets in his poor head than there
be strands in a nine-inch cable."
</p>

<p>
"Yes," mused the priest; "he used them even in the coldest
winters against the ships of an enemy; but there is no record of
moonbeams setting ought on fire."
</p>

<p>
"Odds life!  I should think not, friar," said the Admiral,
looking aloft, and watching the sails of the frigate.
</p>

<p>
"Would that I could assure thee, Sir Andrew, how a combination
of mirrors, all reflecting heat on one point, could set the
great globe itself on fire; then how much more so a miserable
caravel?"
</p>

<p>
"Let me see the caravel set on fire first, and I will consider
about the world after.  So-ho, Burton, the wind is veering round
upon our quarter."
</p>

<p>
"And thou shalt see it, Admiral; for when I construct my parabolic
speculum to burn at ten paces, one ten times its size shall
consume everything to cinders at a hundred paces.  'Tis plain as
a pikestaff."
</p>

<p>
"Look ye, shipmate," said the Admiral, impatiently, "stick to
thy mass, and leave burning and cannonading to those whose
trade it is; the gunner to his lintstock, the steersman to his
helm&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"And the cook to the foresheet," interrupted the friar, petulantly
finishing the Admiral's invariable proverb, which he had
picked up in his old skipper days.  "Yet a time shall come when
thou and all here shall behold with wonder the effect of my
parabolic speculum, when it reflects the fierce solar rays to that point
of fire which is the true focus of the parabola."
</p>

<p>
"Perhaps so," replied the Admiral; "but I never mean to
watch thy devilish hurdy-gurdy again.  Dost remember when we
were off Cape Ushant, how nearly I was brained at the taffrail
by the jibbing of the mainboom, when watching these plaguey
glasses with which you promised to burn me a hole in the sails
of a Spanish lugger?"
</p>

<p>
"Alas!  Laird of Largo," said the learned chaplain, sorrowfully,
"thou knowest nought of this noble science&mdash;nothing of
optics; nothing of epicycles, whose central circle is the
circumference of a greater; and nothing of crystalline spheres."
</p>

<p>
"Hillo! thou'rt at thy magic again," said the Admiral,
angrily; "all this is too deep for me, Father Zuill; I am out of
soundings, look ye; and if I dived into the abyss of this learning,
I should never come up again.  Look to the staysails, Barton&mdash;the
wind cometh more upon the beam."
</p>

<p>
The <i>Margaret</i> was now half a mile astern.  After passing the
Bass Rock, they found the wind coming freshly from the south,
and saw the English ships closing up fast as they caught the
breeze; but still the <i>Cressi</i> was far ahead of the <i>Harry</i>, and
though a small vessel, which mounted only twenty pieces of
ordnance, with a crew of about two hundred men, she stood boldly
towards the taller and heavier Scot, with which her crew were
intent on grappling&mdash;a <i>tactique</i> peculiar to that age; but Wood
had no intention of letting her do so, and resolved to rid himself
of her company, by serving her as he had served the Admiral
of Portugal, when he fought him off the Rock of Lisbon, a few
years before.
</p>

<p>
The light haze had now cleared away from the bosom of the
estuary; from a clear, unclouded sky, a gorgeous moon shed a
flood of brilliant light upon the wide blue waters, on the coast of
East Lothian, that lay sleeping in the silvery distance; on the
nearer bluffs of the castled Bass and the low, flat Isle of May,
that lay far off towards the north and east.  The waves were
dancing in green light tipped with silver foam, as they rolled
between continent and isle, and the English vessels, with all their
canvas set, as they stood towards the foe, looked like gigantic
swans or sea-birds floating on the deep.
</p>

<p>
A red flash from the high forecastle of the <i>Cressi</i> was followed
by a gush of pale blue smoke, and then the iron ball of a
carthoun howled through the rigging of the frigate, and
plunged into the water far off.  This irritated the old Laird of
Largo, who always loved to have the first fire; and now he blew
his whistle&mdash;the signal for battle.
</p>

<p>
"Let fly at her tophamper, Willie Wad," he cried, as a line of
lights glittered along the gun-deck; "give us moonlight through
her canvas,&mdash;cut her cordage and unreeve her rigging."
</p>

<p>
Simultaneously a flood of red fire and white smoke burst from
the low waist and towering fore and <i>after-castles</i> of the two
ships, and a storm of shot flew over each, the balls of the <i>Cressi</i>,
many of them stone bullets from King Henry's quarries at
Maidstone, knocked great white splinters from the painted hull
and carved galleries of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, and killed and
wounded many of her men; while she in turn cut to pieces the
rigging of her enemy, and thus rendered her motions slow and
her management difficult.
</p>

<p>
"We must rid ourselves of this hornet before we engage her
companions," said Sir Andrew; "put the ship about, Barton,
and remember our prank with the Portuguese."
</p>

<p>
"'Bout ship," cried Barton, after a few preparations, putting
the trumpet through his open helmet; "helm's a-lee;&mdash;let go,
and haul!"
</p>

<p>
Round swung the ponderous ship, while loose shot and everything
else rolled from windward to leeward, as she stood off on
the opposite tack, as if about to creep in shore and fly; and now
the increasing breeze filled her canvas, and careened her
gracefully over on that bright moonlit sea, which her bows cleft as
an arrow cleaves the air.  Astonished to find the dreaded Laird
of Largo fly before them, the crew of the Cressi gave three
hearty English cheers, and had the hardihood to make all sail in
chase, firing the light falcons of their forecastle as fast as the
cannoniers could bring them to bear upon the towering stern and
quarter of the Scot, who while returning the fire, tacked twice,
as if to escape.
</p>

<p>
"Barton, take thou the helm," said Wood, "and keep at your
quarters, my yeomen of the sheets and braces.  Yo-ho,
boatswain! take in all the small sails."
</p>

<p>
On seeing this, in their nautical or national confidence on the
sea, the English crew again believed that now Wood was about
to grapple with them, and natheless his superior size, they had
no doubt of being able to engage and retain him valiantly until
the <i>Harry</i>, which was a mile astern, came up.
</p>

<p>
Though it was an age in which navigation was destitute of
many modern inventions and appliances, Wood was as famous
for the skilful manner in which he handled his ship as for the
bravery with which he fought her, for under his orders, her vast
hull, with its towering rigging and cloud of sail, was like a toy.
Thus, after a few manoeuvres, the <i>Cressi</i> lay to, and continued
firing briskly at the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, which her crew believed
was about to run alongside; but in rounding to, her captain,
though a brave mariner, had given Wood the advantage of the
wind, and while her crew poured in their missiles, cannon and
arquebuse-shot, with those clothyard shafts so famed in English
war, Barton suddenly put the helm hard up, at a sign from the
Admiral, who cried with the voice of a stentor,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Yeomen of the braces and bowlines, let go! slack off your
sheets and tacks,&mdash;-yare, my hearts,&mdash;yare, and square the yards."
</p>

<p>
It was all the work of a moment; the blocks creaked, the
cordage whistled, the canvas flapped heavily, and filled again, at
the tremendous bow of the Scottish caravel was suddenly brought
to bear directly upon the broadside of the <i>Cressi</i>, whose captain
had no time to fill his yards or forge ahead again, for dire
confusion and dismay pervaded his crowded decks, from which a
hundred mingled cries of rage, wonder, and defiance arose.  And
there she lay, in the deep valley formed by the long-swelling waves,
while her crew bravely fired their culverins at the <i>Yellow
Frigate</i>, which bore down under a cloud of canvas, looming like
the shadow of death between them and the brilliant moon.
</p>

<p>
On, on she glided, almost noiselessly.
</p>

<p>
One wave alone separated them!
</p>

<p>
Then down she came thundering with her iron beak upon the
enemy's vessel, striking her right amidships.  The wild shriek
of rage that rose on one side was mingled with a shout of
triumph on the other.  The <i>Yellow Frigate</i> scarcely felt the
shock, as she rode over the low waist, and crashed through the
torn rigging of the <i>Cressi</i>, the lofty poop and forecastle of which
fell inwards, as the hull was cloven in two, and sunk for ever into
that brilliant sea, the vortex of which sucked down two hundred
gallant men.
</p>

<p>
"For God's love, Sir Andrew, lower the boats," cried
Falconer, looking into the foam-covered whirlpool, where a few
spars and casks, with an occasional head or a hand, were rising
and sinking.
</p>

<p>
"Impossible&mdash;even our pinnace would sink with her; but
God sain them," said the old Admiral; "there hath gone down
many a brave fellow, who will never more lift tack or sheet in
this world!"
</p>

<p>
A loud cheer now rose close astern; it came from the crew of
the <i>Queen Margaret</i>; and both ships then bore on towards the
enemy, leaving the sea covered with the <i>débris</i> of the wreck;
and as the old ballad says,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Many was the feather-bed,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That fluttered on the foam;<br />
  And many was the gude lord's son,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That never mair came home.<br />
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "The ladies wrang their fingers white,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The maidens tore their hair;<br />
  A' for the sake o' those true loves,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They never shall see mair."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
"May they sleep as soundly in the Scottish sea as my father
sleeps in their Kentish downs," said Barton; "but many a blue
corpselicht will dance on these waters ere the sun of to-morrow
rises."
</p>

<p>
"To your guns again, my merry men all," cried the Admiral
"they are two to one against us; but if we put them not to rout
we were no better than Gordon gowks, and there will be many a
toom bowie and kirn in Fife and Lothian.  Heed not King
Henry's bitter almonds, for I swear by my honour as a seaman
and faith as a knight, that every shipmate o' mine who loseth a
fin, shall swing his hammock for life in Largo Tower, and share
the goods kind God hath given me; he shall never lack a brass
bodle or a can of ale while auld Andrew Wood hath both to part
with him fairly over the capstan head; so stand every man to his
quarters&mdash;put your faith in God and St. Andrew, and fight, my
lads, as you have often fought before, for auld Scotland and her
glory!"
</p>

<p>
This characteristic harangue was answered by a hurrah, and
many a weatherbeaten and well-bearded visage glowed redly
along the gun-deck when the matches were blown, and the waves
sparkled in the moonlight, as they ran merrily past the triced-up
lids of the open ports through which the brass culverins and guns
of Scottish yetlin were run and pointed, after being primed and
shotted for battle.
</p>

<p>
"Sir David Falconer, send thine arquebussiers aft, line the
taffrail and fill the tops with them&mdash;away aloft!" cried the
Admiral, "and shame be on the last who is through the lubber's
hole or over the foot-hook shrouds!"
</p>

<p>
The arquebussiers clambered up the ratlins, and our marines
of the present day would be rather amused could they see such a
sight as those soldiers presented; heavily accoutred with back,
breast, head, and thigh pieces, bandoliers, flasks, and swords&mdash;and,
more than all, their long arquebusses, crawling like scaly
armadilloes up the black rigging.  However, they soon reached
their perches, and levelled their barrels over the little wooden
battlement which then surrounded the tops.  As it was now
intended to come to what was termed "close battle," there was no
more manoeuvring; and all the adverse ships bore down upon
each other, firing their cannon briskly; while arquebusses,
pistolettes and calivers, with many a shaft from bow and arblast were
levelled from the tops, the poops, and forecastles&mdash;for the brilliant
moon enabled aim to be taken with precision; and as the wind
was again becoming light, the courses were drawn up, and all
reduced their sails.
</p>

<p>
"Stand by with the grappling irons," cried Barton, whose
bright armour and conspicuous figure made him the mark of
many a missile; and in obedience to his order a number of bold
fellows leaped into the chain-plates to threw them on board the
foe, the moment the vessels came near enough.  The sides of the
English ships were similarly supplied.  These grappling-irons
were composed of five or six branches, bent round and pointed,
with a ring at the root, to which is fastened a rope to hold on
by when the grapple is thrown and catches the object.  Thus
they closed in upon each other&mdash;these six hostile ships; the two
Scots running (as our annals relate) right in between the four
English; the left centre ship being the <i>Harry</i>.  All were pouring
their missiles upon each other with fearful rapidity, and the
English were so reckless that their shot must have killed many
of their own men, after piercing the Scottish hulls.  By some
mismanagement, the <i>Harry's</i> spritsail-yard became entangled
with the main-shrouds of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, which forged a
little a-head, and dragging round the <i>Harry</i> with her, by one
broadside she swept her deck like a tempest, and breached to
ruin the towering poop beyond.
</p>

<p>
"Half-an-hour of a true parabolic speculum were worth a
year of this work!" said Father Zuill, who now appeared in a
coat of mail, with a poleaxe which he handled as well as ever he
had done his rosary.
</p>

<p>
"Boarders, away fore and aft!" cried Sir Andrew Wood,
through his trumpet, as he stood above the clouds of smoke at
the edge of the poop, towering like an iron statue, while the
chain-plates crashed as the ponderous hulls sheered alongside of
each other in rasping collision; and in hundreds the boarders
swarmed on the bulwarks, while the English grappling-irons
clutched the Scottish ships, whose sailors worked side by side
with the foe, in lashing the shrouds together below and the
yard-arms aloft, until the six vessels formed, as it were, one
broad platform, for a scene of melancholy butchery, which we
have but little heart and less taste for describing.
</p>

<p>
The Scottish mariners, armed with their two-handed swords
and Jedwood axes, and all accoutred in steel caps and jacks or
doublets of escaupill, led by Sir Andrew Wood on one side,
poured from the bows and sprit-sail yard of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>
upon the decks of the <i>Harry</i>, and drove the enemy across the
forecastle and along the larboard gangway, while Barton,
sheathed in full armour and wielding a deadly ghisarma in
both hands, led another band through the fire, smoke, and infernal
uproar, hewing a passage, hilt to hilt, to the forecastle of
the other ship, desperately forcing a passage through a hedge of
gallant billmen, into the waist.
</p>

<p>
The crew of the <i>Queen Margaret</i>, under Sir Alexander
Mathieson, after succeeding in repelling the English boarders,
were similarly employed elsewhere; and there, under that placid
summer moon, were Englishmen and Scot fighting like tigers,
all mingled in a wild <i>melée</i>, while their firmly-grappled ships were
committed to the mercy of the waves and currents.  Save the
flash and boom of a cannon or saker from the poops, or the bang
of a pistolette or arquebuse from the tops, there were no other
sounds heard now, but the rasp of steel gleaming on steel, the
twang of the English bows, and the crash of the Scottish axes oh
helmets and bills; the cries and shrieks of the wounded, and the
yells of pain and defiance, drowned in a gurgle, as many a man
was driven, fighting, overboard, and drowned or crushed to death
between the grappled ships.  The decks were encumbered by killed
and wounded, and repeatedly the Scots were driven back over their
own bulwarks, and had to fight the English on the decks of Wood
and Mathieson.
</p>

<p>
"St Andrew!  St. Andrew!  A Wood! a Wood!" on one side,
were met by "St. George for England!" on the other, mingled
with many a furious epithet and ferocious expression of that
deep-rooted national animosity, which the infamous wars of the
Plantagenets had created between two nations, who, if allied,
might then&mdash;as they have since&mdash;defied the world in arms.
</p>

<p>
Overhead the arquebussiers blazed at each other from the tops,
and sent an occasional bullet into the mass of combatants below.
</p>

<p>
After various turns of the conflict, Robert Barton found
himself fighting hand to hand with the crew of the <i>Harry</i>, close to
her poop, and attended only by Willie Wad and a few seamen.
With these he strove to join the Admiral, who had already
penetrated into the vessel <i>beyond</i>, and was maintaining a desperate
and most unequal conflict with her crew.
</p>

<p>
While Barton fought his way up the starboard side of the
<i>Harry's</i> deck, his boatswain, with a band of Jedwood axes,
hewed a passage along the larboard, and, owing to the heavier
weapons, and perhaps greater number of the Scots, the <i>Harry's</i>
crew were driven into the poop, where they hewed and shot in
the dark: thus many a brave man perished by the hands of his
own shipmates.  Here Barton, when just at the poop door,
encountered a gallant English gentleman, who had repeatedly cut
a passage through the frigate's men, by knocking them down like
ninepins; and, recognising Howard by the heraldic cognizance
on his surcoat, the Scottish captain uttered a cry of triumph,
and rushed upon him, to revenge Lord Howard's recent victory
in the Downs; and then forgetting all but their personal
animosity, they engaged hand to hand with sword and dagger, at
every blow and cut making the sparks fly from their coats of
tempered steel; and thrice during the conflict old Anthony
Arblaster wound up his weapon, and sent a deliberate shot at
Barton's head, and was preparing a fourth when a blow from an
axe ended the poor man's shooting for ever.
</p>

<p>
"Haloo, auld junk," cried his slayer, "may I drink bilge, but
thou'rt fitted for foreign parts at last! and by St. Andrew,
gaffer Englishman," he added, turning upon Howard, "I'll
cloure thy harnpan too, double caulked wi' wadding and sheathed
wi' steel though it be!"
</p>

<p>
The short squat gunner was rushing on with uplifted axe,
when Barton threw himself forward, and on his own sword
caught the descending blow.
</p>

<p>
"Sheer off, Wad, sheer off, this man is mine, and I must slay
him myself, were it but to soothe my slaughtered father's soul; so
leave us, I command you!"
</p>

<p>
Wad soon found another antagonist in tall Dick Selby, who
gave him more than enough to do.  Meanwhile the combat
continued between Howard and Barton, till a passing bullet broke
the sword of the latter, and he stood disarmed and at the mercy
of Howard, who merely uttered a bitter laugh and scornfully
dropped the point of his sword, saying,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"How now, my bonny Scot; wilt beg thy life at an English
hand?"
</p>

<p>
"I could beg it of none more noble than Howard's; but strike,
if you will, for never will I beg life or quarter of a living man,
and least of all from the brother of him who slew my father!"
cried Barton, hoarsely.
</p>

<p>
At that moment Wad returned with an armed tide of seamen
flushed with blood and victory; the noble Howard was beaten to
the deck, and, despite all Barton's efforts, would have been slain,
had not the cry of a woman been heard, and Margaret Drummond,
fearless of the surrounding carnage, the whistling shafts,
the ferocious visages, and uplifted steel, threw herself on her
knees beside him, and spread her white arms over him in
protection.
</p>

<p>
The terror she had experienced in the cockpit was so great,
that, regardless of the hideous grating and crashing below and
the awful tumult above, she resolved to make an effort to reach
the Scottish ships, which, as little Will Selby had informed her,
were lashed alongside.  Thus had she come so opportunely&mdash;and
thus, with these two acts of mercy, will we gladly veil the horrors
of this midnight conflict.
</p>

<p>
The Scottish seamen, who knew her not, and deemed she was
the wife of Howard, drew back and spared him at once; for
none are more merciful, albeit their roughness, than those honest
souls who live by salt water; but Barton was confounded, and
gazed upon her in astonishment and silence, while the din of
battle died away around them, and it became known that the
English ships had hauled down their colours.  So thanks to the
bravery of Sir Andrew Wood, old Sir Alexander Mathieson,
"the King of the Sea," David Falconer, and a certain valiant
mariner of Leith, named William Merrimonth, sailing master of
the <i>Margaret</i>, who received a desperate wound, "ye foure
Inglish shippes were takin," and all their crews disarmed,
according to the records of the Scottish Admiralty, after
a deadlier conflict than these waters had witnessed since the
Knight of Dalhousie fought King Edward's fleet at Tweedmouth
and sunk eighteen of his galleys.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap44"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XLIV.
<br /><br />
LARGO.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Oh, blythely shines the bonnie sun upon the Isle o' May,<br />
  And blythely rolls the morning tide into St. Andrew's Bay;<br />
  When haddocks leave the Firth of Forth and mussels leave the shore<br />
  When oysters climb up Berwick Law, we'll go to sea no more&mdash;<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;No more&mdash;we'll go to sea no more."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Scottish Fisherman's Song.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
When the sun rose from the ocean, the appearance of these six
ships was wofully changed.  The waves were rolling in brilliant
green and gold, and the yellow sands of Tyningham, the red
towers, the deep caverns and surf-beaten rocks of Dunbar were
glistening in the morning beams; the gannets, the cormorants, and
gigantic solan geese on their snow-white pinions, were wheeling
merrily in the welkin above the summer sea; but the state of the
hostile ships, which, while they were all lashed together, had
drifted hither and thither at the mercy of the wind and tide, was
deplorable.  Their decks were crowded by killed and wounded,
especially round the scuttle-butts, to which many had crawled
for the purpose of allaying their burning thirst; the bulwarks
were splashed with blood, and it oozed, or dropped in curdles from
the scuppers; boats, booms, and spars were riven and splintered;
sheets and tackles were streaming loose upon the breeze; the
yards were out of trim and lowered upon the caps, while the
canvas was pierced and torn;&mdash;but still the <i>blue ensign</i> was flying
over all.
</p>

<p>
The ships with which Sir Alexander Mathieson had grappled
were almost complete wrecks, for all his cannon were great
carthouns or forty-pounders&mdash;prodigious guns for that age.
The <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, like her chief adversary the <i>Harry</i>, had
lost all her trim neatness; some of her yards were shot in the
slings; her rigging hung in loops and bights, and blood was
trickling down the masts and stays, or dropping from the
tops upon the battered deck and white courses; for many of
Falconer's arquebussiers lay there slain, or bleeding through
the gratings, from the wounds of bullets and arrows.
</p>

<p>
Sir Andrew Wood, before loosening a buckle of his harness,
now ordered the prisoners to be secured, and crews put on board
the prizes; their damages to be partly repaired, and sail to
be made on them all.  The grappling-irons were cast off; the
ports lowered; the decks swabbed, and the dead sent ashore;
shot-holes were plugged and caulked; loose ropes coiled up, the
sails trimmed, and before a favourable breeze from the south-east,
the six vessels bore away for Largo Bay, as the Admiral had no
intention of taking his prizes into Leith, until he knew to whom
they should be delivered; for he considered the victorious barons
as no better than rebels.
</p>

<p>
The dead were buried in two trenches in the cemetery of
the old collegiate kirk at Dunbar, where the mound which
covered the "Englishmen's grave" was long an object of interest
to the people.
</p>

<p>
In getting the ships clear of the horrid <i>débris</i> of the battle, and
in attending to the wounded, English and Scots worked side by
side with hearty goodwill, and only relaxed their sailor-like
indifference when they drank their cans of brown ale together,
and passed the blackjack of whiskey-and-water from man
to man;&mdash;for now, when that deadly strife was over and their fury
had expended itself, enmity was at an end&mdash;for a time at least,&mdash;and
Willie Wad and Dick Selby, the rival gunners, carved at
the same junk with their jocktelegs (or clasp-knives), and the
latter sang when the former produced his fiddle; while the
boatswain spun some of his wonderful yarns to amuse the prisoners.
All on the gundeck of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> seemed merry
enough, the maimed excepted, but there were lowering brows and
heavy hearts in the cabin of her Admiral.
</p>

<p>
This apartment had four windows which overlooked a gallery;
and the morning sun shone brightly through them as he
rose from the amber-coloured sea.  Along the sides were the
culverins on their carriages, and on the rudder-case were the arms of
Wood&mdash;<i>argent</i>, an oak tree growing out of a mount, with
two bears for supporters; and to this two ships were afterwards
added, as we find in Sir David Lindesay's "Book of Blazons," in
memory of his victory near the Isle of May.
</p>

<p>
The frank Laird of Largo had doffed his helmet and much of
his iron panoply, and at two bells (nine A.M.) was entertaining
to a sumptuous breakfast (as sumptuous at least as could
be prepared on board of ship) his officers and some of the
English prisoners&mdash;Captain Howard, John o'Lynne, Miles
Furnival, and two other English captains whose names are not
recorded, with Falconer, Burton, and other gentlemen of the
Scottish ships.  All sat side by side at Largo's long and
hospitable board, the place of honour being assigned to Lady
Margaret Drummond and her two attendants, Rose and Cicely.
</p>

<p>
The three looked pale, jaded, and weary, for the terrors of the
past night and the horrors of the dawn had impressed them deeply&mdash;the
more so, as they had been attending to some of the wounded,
who had no other leeches than the ship's barber-apothecary and
their messmates.  The breakfast consisted of several joints of
mutton, cut in collops, with roasted capons, dishes of roasted
chickens, eggs broiled in their shells on large platters&mdash;or as they
are named in Scotland and France, assiettes,&mdash;cakes, manchets,
and jugs of ale, with several sack possets, each formed of twelve
eggs put into a Scottish mutchkin of sack with a quart of cream,
well sugared and boiled together for fifteen minutes; and there
were hippocrass of milk and cherry wine for the ladies.  Such
was the repast to which fair justice was done by all save Howard
and Margaret Drummond&mdash;or as we should perhaps style her,
the Duchess of Rothesay.
</p>

<p>
Entreaty and remonstrance had proved alike futile when
Howard was pressed by Barton and Sir Andrew Wood to explain
how and why this missing daughter of the Lord Drummond&mdash;she
whose strange disappearance was one of the secret springs
that rolled a civil war against the throne&mdash;was found on board
his vessel!  He flatly and firmly declined to answer; and
Margaret herself could not very clearly inform them as to
her abductors; for she knew of none save Borthwick, against
whom, for want of a better object, Barton resolved to turn
the whole current of his wrath.
</p>

<p>
However, all King Henry's plot with the Scottish traitors was
nearly being discovered about the time the ships surrendered, by
Master Quentin Kraft, the notary, who was dragged abaft
the mizenmast of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> by Cuddie Clewline
and Dalquhat the seaman, who had found him ensconced in the
cable-tier of the <i>Harry</i>, where he had repeatedly offered them a
certain iron-bound volume, with which they would have nothing
to do, believing by its aspect that it must be a book of magic,
else wherefore that lock and all these bands of steel.
</p>

<p>
"Slue him round&mdash;heave ahead, master," said the coxswain,
giving him a push; "haud up your face, auld dog-fish&mdash;you are
before the Admiral!"
</p>

<p>
The dapper attorney, in his black cassock-coat, looked very
much scared, and said in a quavering voice&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"I crave your mercy, Sir Andrew Wood&mdash;I can pay a small
ransom if it be wished; I am Quentin Kraft, a gentleman of
the law&mdash;an attorney&mdash;a notary, if it please you&mdash;one well known
about Westminster Hall and Lincoln's Inn&mdash;London."
</p>

<p>
"A what, sayst thou?" demanded the Admiral.
</p>

<p>
"A notary public, at your service&mdash;and secretary to the noble
Captain Howard."
</p>

<p>
"A scurvy rogue, Sir Andrew Wood," said Howard, disdainfully;
"one who hath been stripped of his gown and coif in
Westminster Hall and cast adrift by the benchers at Lincoln's
Inn.  But men who can handle the quill are scarce,&mdash;so I was e'en
forced to content me with such a secretary, for lack of a better."
</p>

<p>
"It is false&mdash;I am a man of repute," said Kraft.
</p>

<p>
"Yea," said Howard; "but a devilish one, sirrah."
</p>

<p>
"And if the Scottish admiral," added the spiteful notary,
"will accept this volume at my hands, promising that my life,
limbs, and goods shall be respected, it will make his fortune."
</p>

<p>
"Wretch and villain, wouldst thou betray the secrets of King
Henry?" cried Howard, as he rushed upon Kraft, and wrenching
away the volume, flung it through an open port-hole; and being
iron-bound, it sunk like a stone into the sea.
</p>

<p>
"It was well done, Captain Howard," said Sir Andrew Wood;
"I ken little and I care less what yonder black tome contained;
but I honour thee for destroying it, as much as I despise this
miserable notary for proffering it as the price of a life that is not
worth taking.  Away with him, Cuddie, and though such lubberly
land-loupers are gude for nocht but to drink the king's ale
and lollop in the afterguard or ship's waist, see that no man
molests him."
</p>

<p>
The breakfast was dispatched with great relish.  Men were
used to hard knocks, cuts, and slashes in those days; and, though
many at the table had their heads and arms bandaged up, from
the effect of their late conflict, they passed the ale-cans and
frothing possets merrily from hand to hand; and already Father
Zuill, who had donned his friar's frock, was explaining to John
o'Lynne the powerful results that would ultimately accrue to an
astonished world by a properly developed parabolic speculum;
and John listened with a smile of perplexity to what he
considered the freak of a learned madman.
</p>

<p>
Barton sat silent, and gazed from time to time at Howard, as
if he was pondering whether it was a dream or a reality, that they
both had their legs under the same friendly table.  Falconer, too.
was somewhat silent, or only addressed the fair Margaret, in
whose soft eyes and pale Madonna face he was tracing the expression
of her darker sister Sybilla.  Howard was also reserved, for the
waves that ran go brightly past the cabin windows were bearing
him further from his home; and he felt himself disgraced in
being captured by a force so inferior to his own, and being the
subject of a narrative that would sound but ill on Paul's Walk,
in London; and he was aware, too, that with Margaret's release
all hope of his gaining her affection would pass away for ever
for now she would be restored to that gay young prince, whom,
as yet, he conceived to be her lover only.
</p>

<p>
Wood observed that the brave Englishman was low-spirited,
and that a peculiar sadness hovered over his fine features, so he
begged him to be of good cheer; "for I doubt not," said he,
"that the Governor of Berwick will have in ward some of our
mosstrooping lairds, for whom to exchange thee; at all events,
we may fairly set thee off against the Lord Bishop of Dunblane,
whom your king still detains in London.  Come, shipmate, fill
the foreyard; the sea is yet under thee&mdash;and life in thee is young
yet; for I am more than twice thine age, and am a canty auld
carle yet."
</p>

<p>
"True, Admiral," said Howard, with a glance at Margaret; "but
the charms of life have been doubly destroyed at the very time I
was beginning to find there was another to live for than myself."
</p>

<p>
The Admiral rubbed his beard uneasily, for he detected the glance
of Howard, and saw how Margaret's cheek reddened, though
Falconer was speaking to her of other things; and, as he afterwards
said to Barton, he "knew in a moment which way the wind
was setting in," but he veiled his correct suspicions, and said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Of course it is sad to lose one's old shipmates and a battle
too; but what o' that; we lose to-day and win to-morrow, for
we cannot be always victorious.  Twelve years ago, the ships of
stout Andrew Barton (who never was beaten before) were
overwhelmed by the Admiral of Portugal, though, as the song says,
he was
</p>

<p class="t3">
  'The best sailor that ever sailed the sea.'<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
But, gadzooks, he soon after cleared off that score with the
skippers of the King of Portugal."
</p>

<p>
"True, Admiral," said Howard, glad to grasp at anything
which might serve to explain his melancholy; "but of all those
whom you have sent ashore to be entombed, and of those who in
the <i>Cressi</i> have sunk to feed the hungry serpent of the sea," he
continued, for that nautical personage, now so familiar to us as
Master David Jones, was then unknown, "I regret none more
than brave Anthony Arblaster, the captain of my archers."
</p>

<p>
"Ah&mdash;and how fell he?"
</p>

<p>
"A blow from a poleaxe took him right amidships, and slew
him;&mdash;poor Tony!"
</p>

<p>
"And thus he went to foreign parts&mdash;God bless him! we'll
remember him when masses are said and the sance-bell tolled in
Largo Kirk," replied the Admiral.  "And now, Madame," he added,
turning to Margaret, to change the subject, "now that the smiles
are coming back to your sweet face (I am an auld carle, and may
say so)&mdash;now that you have got all your gear rove and your
golden hair braided, by my faith, I would scarcely know you it
be the same wild dame who rushed from the <i>Harry's</i> poop last
night, all pale, like a white spirit or weird woman, with your hair
dishevelled and canvas loose in the brails, to save this gallant
gentleman!  I' faith! 'twill be a strange story to tell the old
Lord Drummond, though darkly enough he looked on me, when,
yesterday at noon, we stood in the prince's presence.  I think
that now I may win his good-will, unless his heart be tough as a
nine-inch cable or hard as a cannon-ball."
</p>

<p>
"You have indeed a claim on my father's everlasting gratitude&mdash;and
on one greater even than he," said Margaret, as tears filled
her eyes, and she paused, lest too many thanks should sound
reproachfully to the gentle Howard.
</p>

<p>
"Ay, the good king," said the Admiral, partly mistaking her;
"yet, I would to St. Andrew we could hear aught of him, for he
must be in Scotland still, and they are false traitors who say he
hath fled to Holland, England, or any other foreign country; for
there are too many brave clansmen in the north to make flight
necessary after one battle!  But of these matters of statecraft I
ken little; kings and lords ride in owre deep water for me; so the
gunner to his lintstock and the steersman to his helm, say I."
</p>

<p>
About noon the ships passed the basaltic promontory and low,
flat, sterile links near Elie&mdash;or as it was then named, Ardross,
with the houses of its bleak old burgh standing upon sea-dykes
of black round stones, on which the tide was roaring with a
peculiar sound, which ever betokens bad weather.  Thus, the
fisher-boats were all creeping under the lee of the bluff, into that
little harbour which is still named from our Admiral, Wood's
Haven; and as the mist was beginning to roll round the green
and conical hill of Largo, he ordered that on coming to anchor in
the bay, the topmasts should be struck, the topgallant-yards sent
down on deck, and all the ports secured, for now the sky had
overcast, and as the old sea rhyme says,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "When Largo Law the mist doth bear,<br />
  Let Kelly Law for storms prepare."<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Thus, both wind and rain were expected.
</p>

<p>
The coast of Fife looked close and gloomy, the headlands were
drenched in foam; the fir woods and deeply caverned shore of
Kilconquhar were black and dreary; the sun became fiery and
red, while the wind came in hollow, sudden, and furious gusts, an
the vessels ran into the broad and beautiful Bay of Largo, and
came to anchor abreast of the little town, which was then
thriving under the fatherly care of the noble merchant-skipper, and
was protected by the strong castle he had built with the royal
permission, on becoming the king's chief admiral, and being
made a knight and baron of Parliament.
</p>

<p>
As the summer sky was darkening fast, and some of the ships
were injured in their hulls, Sir Andrew ordered all the hammocks
to be stowed below; the culverins to be double-breeched, the
deadlights to be shipped, and the sheet anchors to be let go,
as the vessels had to ride on an ebb and lee tide.  He then
conveyed Lady Margaret and her two English attendants, with
Howard, Miles Furnival, and all the gentlemen of their squadron,
ashore, and conducted them to his Castle of Largo, the gates of
which were barely closed behind them, before the summer storm
burst forth with all its fury, and its drenching rain that sowed
the sea and smoked along the shore, while the chill east wind,
swayed the heavy woods and made the ships careen in the bay,
as it swept round each bare headland, and the rifted nesses of
Fife.
</p>

<p>
"Truly Horace was right," sighed Father Zuill, as he saw the
squadron straining on their cables, "when he said that 'he who
ventured first to sea had a soul of triple brass!'"
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap45"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XLV.
<br /><br />
ST. ANTHONY'S BELL.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "The gruntil of St. Anthony's sow,<br />
  Quhilk bore his holy bell."&mdash;SIR D. LINDESAY.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Next day it became known among all the ports on both sides of
the Forth, that Admiral Wood had won another victory&mdash;that his
three favourite followers, Mathieson, Barton of Leith, and
Falconer of Bo'ness, had escaped without scaith, and the bells in
more than a hundred steeples rang joyously, while the ships
hoisted all their colours and streamers in the roadstead, at the
Hope, and in the harbours.
</p>

<p>
In the house of Barton, the insurgent nobles held a deep
carouse, and drank the Rhenish and Malvoisie of the umquhile
Sir Andrew with a relish all the greater that it cost them
nothing.  Among the company were four persons, at least, who
would rather have hailed a disastrous defeat than this
unexpected victory.
</p>

<p>
These were the Lords Home and Hailes&mdash;who had great hopes
that their troublesome rivals might have been sent to a better
world; but chiefly Sir Patrick Gray and Sir James Shaw, with
others of their servile and infamous faction, who were thunderstruck
by the intelligence; for they had never doubted, when the
Admiral dropped down the river with two vessels only, that he
was running into the jaws of destruction.  But it is strange
that Wood, in all his naval battles, had to contend against great
odds, yet never <i>once</i> was beaten.  And now the cosmopolitans of
the English faction trembled, as they remembered their bond
with Henry, and feared that unless the lips of Margaret
Drummond were sealed for ever, their projects would all be revealed to
Rothesay, of whom, boy as he was, they knew enough to be
assured of a terrible retribution.
</p>

<p>
Lord Drummond&mdash;that irascible old patrician&mdash;had peremptorily
warned his daughters Euphemia and Sybilla to prepare
for being espoused by Home and Hailes, whose new patents of
nobility, he believed, would be issued as soon as the king's
<i>flight</i>&mdash;his murder was yet unknown&mdash;was ascertained, and as soon as
Rothesay was proclaimed king.  Their uncle, the Dean of
Dunblane&mdash;a facile priest, in all things subservient to his brother as
chief of the clan Drummond, and, like most Scottish churchmen
of that age, bent solely on the aggrandizement of his family,&mdash;was
to perform the ceremony, which was fixed to take place on
an early day.  And as the venerable dean had long since been
abstracted from all human sympathies, and become a mere
mummy in a cassock and scapular, the poor girls had now no
hope in anything, and no resource but their tears, which were
likely to avail them little; for in Scotland, in those days, the
rights of women were as little known, or nearly as ill defined, as
among the Asiatics in the present; for cruel coercion and abduction
at the sword's point were of daily occurrence, as the criminal
records show, until the middle of the last century.
</p>

<p>
The presence of the prince's court and insurgent army was a
harvest to the keeper of the tavern or hostel, already referred to,
as being situated in the Kirkgate&mdash;<i>the Bell</i>,&mdash;so named in
honour of the hospitallers of the ancient and wealthy preceptory
of St. Anthony, whose establishment stood on the east side of
that venerable thoroughfare, and who wore a <i>bell</i>, sewn in blue
cloth on the breast of their gowns.  This signboard gave the
said tavern respectability, while the keeper was ensured protection
by paying an exorbitant yearly fee to the Laird of Restalrig
for the privilege of keeping it open; for that turbulent and
avaricious little potentate was lord superior of Leith; and though
King Robert I. had granted the harbour to the citizens of
Edinburgh, they had still to purchase from the family of Logan the
right of erecting wharves and houses upon the sandy banks of
the river, which for ages had flowed into the Forth between heaps
of sand and knolls of whin and broom.
</p>

<p>
On the second day after the naval battle, about six o'clock,
when the great bell of St. Anthony had rung the hospitallers to
prayer, in an upper chamber of the hostel (the east windows of
which overlooked the drear expanse of the sandy links and the
Figgate-muir, on the verge of which the waves were rippling) sat
Sir James Shaw of Sauchie, Sir Patrick Gray, and their brother
assassin, Sir William Stirling of Keir, all armed as we saw
them last at Beaton's mill, save their helmets, which, with their
scarfs, swords, and wheel-locks, lay on a bench, which stood on
one side of the wainscoted room.  On the mantelpiece were
shells, stuffed fishes, and sea eggs.  There was no fire on the
hearth, of course, for the month of June; and the recess was
destitute of a grate, for such things were expensive.  The
furniture consisted of a large table, and fauld-stools seated with
leather.  Comfort was considered unnecessary in an hostel,
consequently the room looked bare and dreary, and the governor
of his majesty's Castle of Stirling was, as usual, a little tipsy;
for after their early supper of fried flounders, buttered crabs,
and eggs in gravy, each had imbibed more than a Scotch pint
(equal to an English quart) of Rochelle wine, then sold at
eight-pence; and a fresh supply was ordered, for they had thirst and
doubt, spleen and, it might be, some small remorse to drown.
And the pewter stoups of the last supply had just been placed
upon the black oak table, when Hew Borthwick, in his rich
attire, stood before them, and carefully locked the door on the
inside.
</p>

<p>
"By my soul, sir, but you are bravely apparelled!" said the
grim Baron of Sauchie, with a drunken leer.  "What sayeth the
Act of '71:&mdash;that none wear silk except knights, minstrels, and
heralds&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"King James and his acts&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Are lying together in a slough ditch," said the Laird of Keir
interrupting the pale and sneering Borthwick.  "But we have
other matter in hand; you have just come from the east country?"
</p>

<p>
"I left Dunbar this day, at morn."
</p>

<p>
"Be seated.  Here, take a stoup of the Rochelle.  Well, is
not this accursed intelligence?" said Gray, grinding his teeth.
"What!  Howard, with five great ships, to be beaten by this old
seahorse of Largo, this presumptuous Leither, with only
two!&mdash;and Kraft, that damnable secretary, he may ruin us all!"
</p>

<p>
"Think of three Scottish barons being at the mercy of an
English notary!" said Borthwick, scanning them maliciously
over his wine-pot, as it rose to the angle of forty-five degrees
above his mouth.
</p>

<p>
"And his book&mdash;and the bond in cypher," added Gray.
</p>

<p>
"God confound this evil fortune!" growled Sir James Shaw.
"To be at the beck of a smockfaced driveller!  The thing is not
to be borne, sirs; we must stop his mouth, by fair means or by
foul."
</p>

<p>
"Art certain, Hew, these rumours of victory are not
exaggerated?"
</p>

<p>
"There remains not the shadow of a doubt.  With hundreds
more&mdash;yea thousands&mdash;in East Lothian, I saw at dawn yesterday
but two flags flying, as the six ships stood under sail for Fife,
And these were the blue ensigns, with the white cross of Saint
Andrew."
</p>

<p>
"We must sleep in our harness, and keep fleet horses saddled
day and night," said Gray; "and let spies be set to watch what
messages come hither from the admiral."
</p>

<p>
"Angus may see us clear of it," suggested Keir.
</p>

<p>
"Angus knows nothing of our deeper plots," said the more
politic and subtle Gray: "moreover, he abhors an English match
as much as we pretend to hate a continental one&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Among ourselves."
</p>

<p>
"Of course.  He cares not for rank&mdash;he is an earl; he cares
not for pay&mdash;he is Lord of Galloway, and owns more land and
lances than any four earls in Scotland."
</p>

<p>
"He is well off!  I'faith, I have been spending four thousand
pounds yearly, out of a barony that yields birt one thousand
Scottish crowns per year," said Shaw.
</p>

<p>
"Henry of England will deem us fools for having our plots
marred, and in revenge may tell the whole to Rothesay, and then
we shall all be lost men."
</p>

<p>
"Well, well," said Shaw, draining his huge tankard; "after
all his gold spent and ships lost, it must be rather provoking to
find that James III. is only removed to make little Maggie
Drummond Queen of Scotland."
</p>

<p>
"I urged Howard to throw her overboard," said Borthwick,
lowering his voice, while that snaky gleam which his eyes often
wore passed over them.
</p>

<p>
"And what said Howard then?" asked Gray, impatiently.
</p>

<p>
"The Saxon pockpudding! he smote me on the mouth with
his steel glove, and styled your knighthoods a pack of 'Scottish
hounds,'" replied Borthwick, whose sinister brow grew dark
with ferocity; "and he threatened to make a martyr of me, like
St. Clement."
</p>

<p>
"Would to thy master the devil that he had done so," grumbled
the drunken Shaw; thinking of his share in that dark deed
in Beaton's mill.
</p>

<p>
Gray muttered an impatient and unmeaning malediction.
</p>

<p>
"What said ye then?" asked Keir, with a cold smile, as he
played with his dagger.
</p>

<p>
"I said little, but I thought much."
</p>

<p>
"What thought ye?" asked Gray, fiercely.
</p>

<p>
"Merely that this Englishman was not yet on his own side of
the border," said Borthwick with a deep smile, as he took the
last drain of his wine-pot.
</p>

<p>
"Angus still acts the bearward to this beardless princeling
Rothesay," said Gray; "and so is occupied by matters of his
own; but the tide of events on which we have ridden so bravely,
seems setting in against us now; all we can do is to watch, and
watch well; let us be assured in the first place, of what messengers
come from the fleet, and whether they say aught of Margaret
Drummond; for if she once gain Rothesay's ear, our cause is
ruined and for ever lost!"
</p>

<p>
Borthwick bit his tongue with anger, for he trembled for
himself alone.
</p>

<p>
"Get thee spies," said Keir; "and let Barton's house, where
Rothesay lodges, be watched both day and night.  Watch all
who come from thence, and from the Laird of Largo."
</p>

<p>
"But spies must be paid, Sir William, and I am short of
money."
</p>

<p>
"Already!" cried Gray; "curse thee, fellow; dost think we
keep a coin house?  Short again, after all received from Howard,
from Henry VII., and from us?"
</p>

<p>
"All gone, sirs," he added, doggedly; "patriotism is expensive
work."
</p>

<p>
"Here are eight fleurs-de-lys, and not another coin shalt thou
have, were it for thy mass when <i>in articulo mortis</i>.  So away to
thy task, while we will watch and deliberate."
</p>

<p>
The worthy functionary of the English faction swept the Laird
of Keir's money into the velvet pouch which hung on his right hip
beside his poniard, and then quitted the presence of his employers.
As he descended the stair of the hostel, a gentleman in black
armour touched him roughly on the shoulder.  Borthwick grew
pale, and clutched the dagger at his girdle; and then perceiving
that the iron plates of this personage were somewhat rusty, he
said with haughty insolence,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Who may you be?"
</p>

<p>
"Your better man, sirrah&mdash;therefore attend."
</p>

<p>
"What want ye, sir?" he asked, rather abashed by the other's
air and determined manner.
</p>

<p>
"Nothing," was the blunt reply; "that is, personally I seek
nothing of such fellows as thee; but the right honourable my
very good lord and chief requires your presence in his chamber,
here, without delay."
</p>

<p>
Borthwick still kept a hand upon his poniard, as he scanned
the speaker's sunburned face.
</p>

<p>
"And who are you?" he asked, after a pause.
</p>

<p>
"One of the Hepburns&mdash;Adam of the Black Castle."
</p>

<p>
"Then your chief is the Lord Hailes?"
</p>

<p>
"I have just had the honour of hinting as much," replied the
other, with an irony which Borthwick dared not resent.
</p>

<p>
"Lead on, then, laird; I follow you," he said; and then they
ascended another of the turnpike stairs with which this
hostel was furnished.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap46"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XLVI.
<br /><br />
THE GUNNER.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "They sin who tell us Love can die;<br />
  With life all other passions fly,<br />
  All others are but nonity."&mdash;<i>Southey.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
At this time, when the sun had set enveloped in clouds&mdash;when
the Forth was breaking in foam over the black scalp
of the Beacon Rock, and while its billows boomed along the
dreary ridges of the Mussel-cape and the far expanse of
desert-sand that bordered the Figgate-muir,&mdash;Euphemia and Sybilla
Drummond occupied a seat near the beach at Barton's house,
where they sat hand-in-hand, and bathed in tears; for their sky,
to speak figuratively, was as much overcast as that which
yester-night had warned old Andrew Wood to drop his anchors and
make all snug for riding out a gale in the bonny Bay of Largo.
But it was not the sullen chafing of the waves, the darkening of
the inky sky, the foam-flecked river, or the flying scud, that
brought those tears to the hazel eyes of these two gentle and
loving sisters, for they feared not for the safety of their lovers;
they wept alone for that unhappy fate to which they seemed
abandoned; for ambition or avarice had steeled the heart of their
father against them; and family pride and priestly austerity had
withered up the soul of their uncle; and hope they had none.
</p>

<p>
Callous, proud, and cold, Hailes and Home seemed bent on
espousing them in a spirit of mere opposition or convenience&mdash;if
not with something of revenge, for their rejection of an absurd
and insulting suit which had been coarsely pressed upon them,
while it was known that their affections were secured by others,
and that their hearts were swollen with sorrow by the strange
disappearance of their sister; and young Rothesay, who for her
sake loved them well, and who might have unravelled one part
of her story&mdash;viz., the discovery of the poor little babe in the
alcove, was yet, by the lawless detention of the Bishop of Dunblane
in England, obliged to seal his lips as to an espousal which
he dared not acknowledge to the nation.
</p>

<p>
Two large willows shaded, and a thick boor-tree hedge screened
this old garden seat, on which a hundred lovers had cut their
names or initials; and on the soft rind of the wallows, Sybilla
soon discovered the date 1486, between the letters D.F. and
S.D.&mdash;the initials of herself and Falconer, who, in that year had
first seen and learned to love her, and, like a true Orlando, had
cut them there,&mdash;thus revealing, as it were, to the spirits of the
air and the sea, that love which he dared hardly acknowledge to
himself as yet.
</p>

<p>
"Poor dear Falconer!" said Sybilla, patting the rind with her
pretty white hand; "thou lovest me well and truly!"
</p>

<p>
Since their separation at Dundee, she had never heard his
voice; nor since that horrible day had Euphemia an opportunity
of addressing Barton, her betrothed, save for one brief moment,
the other evening, when with the admiral he left that house of
which the prince and nobles had unlawfully possessed themselves;
so both the poor girls were very sad and miserable, and the
communings of each served but to feed rather than soothe the sorrow
of the other.
</p>

<p>
Euphemia, who, as the eldest, had learned to act with more
decision than her sister, had written and had now concealed in
her bosom a letter for Robert Barton, relating to him the
desperate crisis that was coming; and boldly saying, that unless he
and Falconer rescued and concealed them from Hailes and Home,
they would be compelled to bend before the overweening influence
of their father, especially if united to the preaching and stern
presence of their uncle, the Dean, of whose arrival from the
cathedral city of Dunblane they were hourly in terror.
</p>

<p>
"It is here, you see, sister Sybie," said Lady Euphemia,
opening two little pearl buttons of her boddice, and discovering
the corner of a square epistle, tied with blue ribbons; "but how
we are to get it conveyed to Robert's hand, I know not&mdash;for of
all the hundreds about us, is there one we can trust?  They are
all Hepburns devoted to Hailes, Homes devoted to Home, or
Drummonds who tremble at our father's name."
</p>

<p>
"There is young Mewie, or Balloch," said Sybilla; "both
smile in the silliest way, and blush from their bonnets to their
red beards, when I address them.  What think you, Effie, of
trying them?"
</p>

<p>
"I think it would be most unwise.  Two cock-lairds, who are
good for nothing but hunting the deer and hewing down the clan
Donnoquhy, or any other tribe on whom our father unkennels
them and their followers, like a pack of hungry hounds;&mdash;men
who drink all day and sleep all night in their plaids under the
hall tables, or anywhere else, like gillies or trencherman.  You
will find a hundred men as good in our father's band, yet there
is not one I dare entrust with <i>this</i>!"
</p>

<p>
"Would not some old Franciscan or Hospitaller convey it, as
an act of mercy?" said Sybilla, weeping bitterly.
</p>

<p>
"They dare not, sister, for the terror of our father's name is
great; and through the dean, his wrath might reach even them,"
said Euphemia.
</p>

<p>
"And in three days at furthest, this terrible dean will be here,
with his stern brow and cunning cold grey eye.  Oh!  Effie,
would not the young prince find us a messenger?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay, he has not a friend himself on whom he can rely.
Young Lindesay, his dearest gossip and companion, fought
against him in the king's ranks; and moreover, Rothesay seems
as crushed in heart and broken in spirit as ourselves, for strange
whispers are abroad anent our poor king's life and some old
prophecy; and these rumours sorely wound the prince's happiness
and honour."
</p>

<p>
"I believe thee, sister.  Then hedged in, watched, begirt, and
attended as we are, how can we communicate?" asked Sybilla;
"Heaven only knows!" she added, lowering her head on her
sister's breast, and giving way to tears again: "Poor David
Falconer&mdash;so sad, so gentle! so full of kind and affectionate
thoughts!&mdash;perhaps I shall never see him more!"
</p>

<p>
"Come, sister Sybie," said Euphemia, "take an example from
me.  Do I weep like a child, as little Beatrix would do?  No,
no; I gather courage as the storm darkens.  Barton&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Barton is rich; he possesses this lordly house and that noble
barony on the Almond.  He is very rich, dear Effie, so I do not
pity him as I do David Falconer, who is poor, and hath nothing
but what his sword wins."
</p>

<p>
"And, Heaven knows, it would win him more in any land than
here in Scotland; for there are over many false traitors and
hypocrites, envious detractors and jealous lords among us, for
truth, honour, or patriotism to be justly appreciated; and so
will it ever be."
</p>

<p>
"I long so much once more to speak with David!" said
Sybilla; "to lay my cheek where it has never lain&mdash;on his kind
breast, and tell him&mdash;tell him all the horror we endured, dear
sister, on that last awful day at Dundee."
</p>

<p>
"True," said Euphemia, as her hazel eyes flashed fire, and she
shook the pearl pendants in her velvet cap; "and that day of
crime broke all truce for ever between our father's friends and
us; and so, this letter&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Would it were away&mdash;or that I were a pigeon, and could fly
with it under my wing."
</p>

<p>
"If I could meet the poor poet Dunbar,&mdash;you remember
William Dunbar, who sent us the staff of sweet verses&mdash;the
kind young Franciscan?&mdash;I think we might trust him safely."
</p>

<p>
"A poor fisherman, rather!" said Sybilla; "he comes from
Lord Hailes' country, and yet hath fled to England in dread of
the nobles."
</p>

<p>
The sisters relapsed into silence for a time, and sat observing
a brown fisher-boat, which, with its dark chocolate-coloured
lug-sail set, was running swiftly towards the old harbour, with
its sharp prow dashing the dingy water of the river in white
spray on both sides, till it was almost abreast of the west bank
of the Leith, <i>i.e.</i>, between the old wooden pier and the sandy
promontory occupied by the garden and mansion of Robert
Barton.  Then one of two men who were in her shortened sail,
while the other, (who was none else but our former friend Jamie
Gair) put the tiller hard up, and brought the little vessel
sheering close by where the sisters were seated.
</p>

<p>
The person who had taken in the sail was a short, thickset
man, clad in a rough grey gaberdine, girt with a belt at which
hung a pouch and poniard; on his head was a blue bonnet;
round his neck was a steel gorget, and his legs were encased in
long boots which had never been blackened, and seldom oiled.
He now sprang ashore by wading through the rippling surf,
which came nearly up to his knees, and advanced straight
towards the sisters, who, by his attire, knew him to be a seaman
of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>.  He approached with diffidence, and,
removing his bonnet from his round and well-thatched head as
he bowed, made one of those scrapes with the right foot which
we suppose have been peculiar to all seamen since the ark first
got under way.
</p>

<p>
"Weel, may I drink bilge, ladies, but I have gude luck
to-day," said he.
</p>

<p>
"I hope you may have it every day, sir," said Lady Euphemia.
"I suppose you are&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Wad&mdash;madam; Willie Wad, gunner to the Laird of Largo."
</p>

<p>
Sybilla held her breath as she listened to him!
</p>

<p>
"It came on foul weather after our tulzie with the Englishmen
off Dunbar, and so we ran owre to Largo Bay, where the
squadron rides wi' head to wind and topgallant yards on deck;
while the admiral, and a' our gallant gentlemen&mdash;English as
weel as Scots&mdash;are safely moored in Largo House; but as soon
as I could leave the ship, the gude Captain Barton and Sir
David Falconer sent me across the Firth in Jamie Gair's boat,
wi' some sma' bits o' remembrances to you ladies, and to let ye
be assured that they are baith sound and tight, and had never a
plank started or spar knocked awa', though shot and shaft the
other night flew about us thick as hail in February."
</p>

<p>
"And so they are safe!" said the impulsive Euphemia, taking
a silver chain from her neck, and throwing it over the head of
the gunner.
</p>

<p>
"Gentle madam," said the sailor, with another scrape of the
right foot; "I couldna' decline the honour you do me&mdash;I would
rather drink bilge! but what is a puir fellow like me to do wi' a
gaud sae braw as this?"
</p>

<p>
"You have some bonnie lass who loves you, I doubt not."
</p>

<p>
"I have had many, but they aye parted their cables and got
adrift someway or other; yet there is a braw bonnie craft at
Largo that may yet come under my lee," replied Wad, who had
grown tender with English Rose; "but the Captain gied me a
silver pound to pay expenses though his shipmate.  I hae here
a packet addressed to you, Lady Euphemia, and another for the
Lady Sybilla; I ne'er kent murkle o' crocans and crooks, being
better leaved in the weight o' shot, the charges o' powder, wi
knotting and splicing; so I desired that the big packet from
Captain Barton should be for the tallest lady, and the next, from
the captain of our arquebusses, for you, Lady Sybilla."
</p>

<p>
"How fortunate that we were here! watched as we are, you
could never have reached us."
</p>

<p>
"They have braw news, ladies, to tell you," said Willie,
gathering courage as he spoke, and ceasing to twirl his bonnet,
or shift from foot to foot; "for what think ye?  We found
your fair sister, the Lady Margaret, a prisoner on board the
English <i>Harry</i>."
</p>

<p>
Astonishment and joy fettered the tongues of the sisters at
this intelligence.
</p>

<p>
"Ay, ladies; and noo she is wi' the admiral in Largo Tower,
and I would ye were moored in as safe riding; for by what the
captain told me, there are owre many gilded sharks and perfumed
pirates hovering about ye here; and by my father's grave,
I see twa coming this way noo!"
</p>

<p>
The sisters did not hear this exclamation, or did not
understand it, for they were weeping and joyfully embracing each
other, being highly excited by the intelligence which the short
squat gunner imparted to them with the most perfect stolidity;
and while they addressed each other, he continued to smooth his
thick shock hair, and gaze with suspicion upon two richly-attired
gentlemen, who were in half armour, and who loitered near the
back porch of the house, where they were closely observing him;
for they were no other than the two lords, Hailes and Home.
</p>

<p>
Those who are in the habit of plotting and deceiving, usually
suspect others of doing the same.  Thus, the moment these
noble suitors (who had come to visit the sisters) perceived
Euphemia and Sybilla conversing with an armed seaman, they
paused to watch for what might follow, as they had no doubt he
belonged to one of the admiral's ships.
</p>

<p>
To the eager questions of "How&mdash;why&mdash;and wherefore their
sister Margaret came to be an English captive?" Wad replied,
again and again,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"I ken nae mair, ladies, than the man in the mune; and
neither do the admiral nor Robert Barton; for the English
captains, who alone may ken, are vowed to silence.  We opine
there has been dark treachery at work, but why or how is owre
deep for us to fathom; but noo I maun e'en be sheering off, for two
armed gallants are heaving in sight, and Barton warned me that
this was dangerous ground.  These are the letters, whilk will
gie a' necessary account of our battle; and lest ye have na time
to read and answer them&mdash;for I must cut my cable and
run&mdash;just say, madam, where it will please you to meet the captain
and Sir David, who hae muckle to say that none but you
maun hear?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, we cannot have more to hear than we have to say and
ask!" said Euphemia, who had already made herself mistress of
Barton's loving epistle, while Sybilla was bending her streaming
eyes over Falconer's, who had sent her a handsome gold cross
which he had found in one of the captured ships; while Barton
had enclosed a book&mdash;then a priceless gift&mdash;which he had found
in the <i>Harry</i>.
</p>

<p>
"Is the admiral coming over to Leith?" they asked.
</p>

<p>
"No; his hard-won prizes will he yield to none but to the
king; and the king is not here."
</p>

<p>
"I have a letter ready written for Barton, and in a moment
will add where we can meet him; but my poor brain is a chaos
now," said Euphemia.  "Where shall we say, sister&mdash;St. Magdalen's
Chapel?"
</p>

<p>
"On the Figgate-muir&mdash;it is so lonely."
</p>

<p>
"And on what pretence can we visit it?"
</p>

<p>
"A pilgrimage to pray," said Sybilla.
</p>

<p>
"People do not believe in pilgrimages now.  Hailes would
laugh, and our father would storm and refuse&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Then where else shall I say?" said Euphemia.
</p>

<p>
"The Rood Chapel in Leith Loan."
</p>

<p>
"Their lives would be in peril there," said Willie Wad, who
still kept his eyes fixed on the eavesdroppers, who had resolved
to waylay him as he passed through the garden, and force him
at the sword's point, to say from whence he came, or be slain.
</p>

<p>
"Say, say," urged Euphemia, bewildered, as she produced at
pencil of pointed lead.
</p>

<p>
"I know not where to say&mdash;but oh, speak lower, lest we be
overheard."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, will you be wary, Willie, for we have none to trust but
you?"
</p>

<p>
"I will stick to you like a burr on a bonnet," replied Wad,
with energy; "and may he that would wrong ye ne'er drink
aught but bilge in this world, and boiling water in that to
come!"
</p>

<p>
"We will meet them at Loretto," said Sybilla.
</p>

<p>
"Loretto! that is beyond the Eskwater, and further off than
St. Magdalene's."
</p>

<p>
"True, sister; but it is a place of such holiness, that none will
molest us there."
</p>

<p>
"May Heaven forgive our duplicity&mdash;but what can we do
without it?" sighed Euphemia.
</p>

<p>
"We can meet them there, and pray too, sister."
</p>

<p>
"We shall go on horseback, accompanied only by women and
pages.  The place is quiet; our meeting once achieved, and
arrangements made, perhaps for a flight to our dear Maggie at
Largo, we must trust to Providence for the rest.  I am happier
now, that this is decided on," continued Euphemia, as she
wrote&mdash;'Post scriptum; we will meet you at the Chapel of Loretto.
beside the links of Musselburgh, on Friday, in the evening; for
there we mean to spend the whole night in vigil and in prayer.
Till then, may God and the Blessed Virgin take you into their
holy keeping.  E.D.'  "Friday will be the day after to-morrow&mdash;may
no unhappy event intervene to prevent our keeping the
tryst," she added, folding the letter, and tying the ribbons, after
which she gave it to Wad, who placed it in the tarpaulin pouch
at his girdle; and making a low obeisance, by scraping his left
foot and pulling his forelock with the right hand, retired, not by
the garden, as the two loitering lords expected, but by wading
through the water, and stepping on board of Gair's boat.  Then
he and the proprietor thereof betook themselves to the oars, and
pulled into the crowded harbour, where they were soon lost in
the dusk, amid the maze of boats, barges, crayers, and caravels,
which filled it on both sides; for, as there were then no wet-docks
or stone quays, all vessels were moored by the sides of the Leith,
or in the midstream.
</p>

<p>
With one or two followers, Home hurried away by St. Nicholas
Wynd to intercept the gunner, while Hailes advanced to meet
the two ladies, who, with flushed faces and sparkling eyes, were
retiring into the house.
</p>

<p>
"I fear, madams," said the proud lord, sarcastically, "that
our appearance in the garden has interrupted your conference
with a salt-water friend."
</p>

<p>
"I knew not that your lordship was watching us," replied
Euphemia.
</p>

<p>
"Did yonder tarry rascal come from the ship of our
contumacious skipper, the Laird of Largo?"
</p>

<p>
"Permit us to pass, my lord, and do not add one more insult
to the many we have received at your hands."
</p>

<p>
"I deplore that you should speak thus to me, madam; but
your father is a noble, and I cannot see his honour trifled with
by fishermen and merchant mariners, though the king may
knight them, and set them to fight and man his ships.  I pray
you to pardon my curiosity&mdash;but you gave that seaman a letter,
I think."
</p>

<p>
"He gave me a packet, you mean," said Euphemia, trembling
with apprehension, as the calm, bold eye of Hailes scrutinized her
beautiful face with more of pity than indignation.
</p>

<p>
"And this packet&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"You are very inquisitive."
</p>

<p>
"Your <i>betrothed</i>, the Lord Home, is my dear friend."
</p>

<p>
Euphemia bit her lips with anger, while her eyes filled with
tears.
</p>

<p>
"And this packet?" said Hailes again.
</p>

<p>
"Contained a book&mdash;only a book found in an English ship;
and your lordship knows that a printed book is worth some crofts
of corn."
</p>

<p>
"It may be so, but I would rather have the crofts," said
Hailes, with a smile of scorn, as Euphemia opened the
black-letter folio.  "Thank God, I have no need to write; for I
can bite my thumb, and affix my seal, like the good lord my
father before me, to aught that is requisite in peace, and with
this&mdash;his sword&mdash;I make my mark, where it suits me, in time of
war; but what is this most precious tome?"
</p>

<p>
"One, the perusal of which might be of infinite service to your
lordship."
</p>

<p>
"Indeed!&mdash;then what may it be&mdash;read, if it please you, fair
madam."
</p>

<p>
"'<i>The Book of Good Manners</i>,'" said Euphemia, with a
smile, as she read the title page, which we give literally from the
original now before us; "'<i>fynisshed and translated out of
frensshe in to englisshe, the viiij day of Juyne, in the yere of
our Lord</i>, 1487, <i>and the first yere of the regne of Kyng harry
the vij</i>&mdash;compiled by the venerable <i>Frere Jacques le Graunt,
an Augustin</i>,' and the study thereof would, I am assured, benefit
you much, so God keep you, my lord&mdash;and now, fare-you-well."
</p>

<p>
Sybilla laughed, as Euphemia gave one of her lofty bows, and
they swept past Hailes, into whose proud heart the broad taunt
sank deeply, for he had perception enough to feel his own want of
manner and of education; so he bit his nether lip as he muttered,
"I shall byde my time, and when I have either of you in my
castle by the Tyne, her tongue shall be bridled, should a brank
of iron be made for it!"
</p>

<p>
Then turning on his heel, he hurried after Home to wreak his
smothered wrath on the interloping mariner.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap47"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XLVII.
<br /><br />
BORTHWICK'S NEW MISSION.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Your pardon, sir,<br />
  But sure this lack of Christian charity<br />
  Looks not like Christian truth."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
"I would give ten of my best horses, if by so doing I could
find this stunted vagabond in the grey gaberdine!" said Hailes
to Home, as they met in the Broad Wynd; "and so he has
escaped your lordship too?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, but we shall find him yet.  Canst think of any one to
employ, Blackcastle?" asked Home of a Hepburn who attended
them.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, not I, my lords," replied Hepburn; "I am but little
used to the dirty work which seems the sole occupation of those
who hover about the court of this poor prince; and it would ill
beseem a gentleman of name to be hunting for a seaman among
yonder tarry wilderness of boats and booms, casks and
anchors."
</p>

<p>
Lord Hailes frowned at his retainer.
</p>

<p>
"Lady Euphemia Drummond gave this man a letter, and this
letter we must have, should we burn Leith for it!" said Home.
</p>

<p>
"Whom shall we employ?" asked Blackcastle; "there are
rascals and pimps in plenty about the prince's court, for the
news of our rising seems to have gathered all the roguery in
Scotland from the four winds of Heaven."
</p>

<p>
His lord and chief frowned again, and said, "You are over free
with your tongue, Adam, and at this juncture I like it not.  Art
thou a king's man, eh?"
</p>

<p>
"Though a landed gentleman, I am your lordship's vassal and
near kinsman," replied the laird, evasively; "but there is a fellow
named Borthwick, a follower of Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff, who
is the best man to assist you in this matter, I think."
</p>

<p>
"And where may he be found?" asked Home.
</p>

<p>
"At the <i>Tantony Bell</i> in the Kirkgate."
</p>

<p>
"Let us seek him.  Get us a room, Blackcastle, and see if
this fellow be about the tavern."
</p>

<p>
Thus it was that <i>Sir</i> Hew was accosted in the stair by the
haughty lesser baron, who despised both him and his lord for the
plots they had in hand; and thus it was that the avaricious
regicide found himself ushered suddenly into the presence of the two
greatest military chiefs in the South Lowlands; for Hailes was a
warden of the Marches, and Home was steward of Dunbar.
</p>

<p>
The landlord in person brought them a supply of wine in a
large Delft jug, with four silver-rimmed stoups of horn.  The
chamber was wainscoted, and its windows faced, on one side,
the quaint and narrow Kirkgate, which became gloomy as the
dusk deepened, and on the other, overlooked a narrow pathway
called the Cotefield-loan.
</p>

<p>
"Fill thy stoup, my friend&mdash;'tis East-sea wine, this," said the
Laird of Blackcastle to Borthwick, who, he rightly conjectured,
would be more likely to do his lord's behest if his heart were
first warmed by wine.
</p>

<p>
"Thou art a gaily-dressed carle, on my faith!" said Hailes,
who had not recovered his temper since Lady Euphemia's
ill-disguised contempt had ruffled it, and he lacked an object on
which to vent his spleen.  "Scarlet cloth and seed-pearls, velvet
and passments," he continued, coolly surveying the gay attire of
Borthwick; "though I have two thousand mailed horse in my
train, and twice that number of spearmen on foot, I doubt
mickle whether I can afford to win the service of a gallant so
dainty!"
</p>

<p>
"Tush!" said Lord Home, more warily; "why should not
an honest man dress him as he pleases?"
</p>

<p>
"Well, sirs," said the plain Laird of Blackcastle, "to cross
the Lammermuirs, or ride through the Merse, I would rather
have my steel cap and rusty jack, with its plate sleeves, or it
might be, a good coat of wambesan, than all this finery.  But
was it to appraise his attire, and to comment on the fashion of
his cloak or the trimming of his doublet, you sent me for this
person, my lords?"
</p>

<p>
"Thou art the plainest of all plain-spoken fellows, Blackcastle,"
said his chief; "but thou art the best lance that rides on the
land of the Hepburns.  Nay, we sent for him to have a pot of
wine together, and a little conversation."
</p>

<p>
"I shall be glad to talk of anything your lordships please,"
said Borthwick, rather impatiently; "that is, anything except
the battle off the May, anent which all men now speak, till I
have sickened of it."
</p>

<p>
"Well, then, canst thou&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Nay," whispered the politic Home, "do not <i>thou</i> him, lest
we mar our purpose."
</p>

<p>
"Can you keep a secret?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes&mdash;if I am paid for it," was the unhesitating reply.
</p>

<p>
"Can you also be sincere and of service?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes&mdash;if I am very well paid for it."
</p>

<p>
"Hech!" said Hepburn, "I would take thee to be one of that
English faction who have been Scotland's curse since the days of
Alexander III., and will be so till we have a broader barrier
than the Tweed."
</p>

<p>
Borthwick gave him one of his sour and sinister smiles.  "Men
must live," said he; "but what do your lordships desire?"
</p>

<p>
"Simply this.  Within the last hour a seaman landed from
the ship of Admiral Wood, and he hath in his gaberdine&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Nay," said Blackcastle, "you said before, his pouch."
</p>

<p>
"Well, well, his pouch&mdash;a letter addressed we know not to
whom; but this letter we must have, and if you will procure it
by fair means or foul, we shall pay you bravely."
</p>

<p>
"You will easily discover him, for all in Leith know and love
the shipmates of Wood; we had made short work with him
else," said Home, haughtily, "for we have lances enough to level
the burgh, but seek not a feud with the Logans of Restalrig;
thus I was half forced by Angus to hang a pikeman yesterday,
in defiance of the law of <i>Burdingseck</i> which sayeth that no
man shall be 'hanged for stealing so much as he can bear on his
bark in a poke.'"
</p>

<p>
"The devil seize all laws!" said Blackcastle.
</p>

<p>
"So say I," added Borthwick.  "But what manner of man is
this sailor?"
</p>

<p>
"Short and square set," said Home.
</p>

<p>
"With thick mustachios, a beard, and grey gaberdine?"
</p>

<p>
"The same&mdash;a calfskin girdle and long boots like a
horseman's gambadoes."
</p>

<p>
"I have him&mdash;I know him!  'Tis Wad, the gunner of the
<i>Yellow Frigate</i>, one of Sir Andrew's prime seamen."
</p>

<p>
"I would they were hung together over yonder steeple!"
</p>

<p>
"I know his howff, and before midnight will undertake to
have this letter, even should I use my poniard for it."
</p>

<p>
"Use it freely, fellow," said Hailes, putting a hand into the
velvet purse which hung at his glittering girdle.  "My Castle of
Hailes, near Linn-Tyne, is a sure hiding-place, and such as thee
need not fear a feud with the overlord of this regality.  We
lodge with the Lord Angus in the King's Wark; bring us there
this looked-for letter as soon as you find it, and heed not the
hour of night."
</p>

<p>
"We who bide upon the Borders are used to have our rest
broken at all hours," added the other peer.
</p>

<p>
"Blackcastle, hand these coins to our new ally; and now let
us begone, for there is here that horrid odour of sawdust and
stale liquors which I never knew an hostel to be without."
</p>

<p>
"Fare-you-well, Master Borthwick," said Lord Home.
</p>

<p>
"God keep you, sir," added Hailes, turning away.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick found himself mechanically counting the money as
he descended the stair.  He had received twenty half-lyons, or
five-shilling pieces.
</p>

<p>
"St. Nicholas, patron of thieves, I honour thee!" thought
he.  "What with the fleurs-de-lys of Sir Patrick Gray, the
half-lyons of Lord Hailes, the rents of my three tenements in Stirling;
and the rose-nobles of King Henry, which are ever descending on
me in a golden shower, I shall die a rich man!  Die&mdash;ugh!" he
added, with something between a sneer and a shudder, while he
shut his eyes like one who sees a horror; "why should people
die at all, especially when they have plenty of money?"
</p>

<p>
"When thou comest to the King's Wark, ask first for the
Laird of Blackcastle," said that personage, who had taken upon
himself the task of seeing this pitiful swashbuckler clear of the
tavern.  "And I pray to St. Anne," thought he, "that this
poor mariner may steer clear of thee, and deliver the fair lady's
letter to her lover&mdash;Robert Barton, if all tales be true&mdash;for he is
a brave good fellow, and hath fought well for old Scotland, like
his father before him; and God bless all who do so, say I!"
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap48"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XLVIII.
<br /><br />
TIB'S HOWFF.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Oh, welcome bat and owlet grey,<br />
  Thus winging low your airy way;<br />
  And welcome moth and drowsy fly,<br />
  That to mine ear come humming by."&mdash;<i>Joanna Baillie.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
However, neither the interference of St. Anne, nor the good
wishes of the honest Lothian laird, availed Master William Wad
in the matter in hand, for in five minutes after the interview
just related Borthwick saw him coming up the Broad Wynd, with
his thumbs stuck in his girdle, his bonnet on the back of his
head, and his thick crop of such beard and whiskers as sailors
alone have a peculiar facility for raising encrusted with spray;
and he was whistling very loud as he rolled along, every moment
hailing or being hailed by some acquaintance; for Willie was
bent on having a night's amusement before he went back to the
ship.
</p>

<p>
It was now dusk, and though the little town was full of armed
men, its narrow streets were becoming empty.  They were then
alike destitute of lamps and pavement, and darkened by many a
heavy projecting timber-front and turnpike stair or stone
outshot.  Thus Borthwick followed his victim unseen and with
facility as he rambled along without any apparent object.
</p>

<p>
On the east bank of the Leith, the banner of Angus waved
above the King's Wark, which stood on the north side of the
Broad Wynd, the houses of which were occupied by his vassals;
while the Lairds of Glendonwyn, Heriotmuir, Bonjedworth,
Glenbervie, and ten other powerful barons, making fourteen heads of
houses, all bearing his surname of <i>Douglas</i>, were installed in the
best adjacent mansions, <i>sans</i> leave and <i>sans</i> ceremony.
</p>

<p>
The King's Wark, which their haughty and presumptuous
leader appropriated to himself (leaving the young prince to occupy
the house of Barton), was a strong and ancient tower, in which
the kings of Scotland occasionally resided&mdash;hence its name.  It
was surrounded by a spacious garden, with which it was
bestowed by James VI. on a groom of the bedchamber, Bernard
Lindesay, of Lochill, from whom the site is still named
Bernards-street, or Neuk.
</p>

<p>
The number of armed men, all wearing the Douglas badge,
who hovered about the vicinity of this place, made the gunner
avoid it, and he turned abruptly into a dark and narrow close,
which led towards the Timber Bourse, where an old friend of his,
Tibby Tarvet, whose spouse had been taken prisoner by the
Turks, kept a change-house for mariners, locally known as Tib's
Howff.
</p>

<p>
The alley which led to this place was dark as if the time was
midnight, owing to the height and projection of the houses;
therefore, when Borthwick contrived to meet Wad face to face,
he asked the question, which may still be heard at times in the
same kind of closes in Scottish towns after nightfall&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Is there any one coming?"
</p>

<p>
"Yo ho!&mdash;heave to, or port your helm," cried Wad, who was
already some "sheets in the wind;" and he added, "the
channel's narrow, whereby I've to mak' short tacks, ye ken."
</p>

<p>
"Then keep to your left hand," said Borthwick, who having
some idea of using his poniard, wished his right hand free; but
then, on a moment's reflection, he feared to encounter a man so
stout as Wad, and therefore altered his plan, and came roughly
and rudely against him in the dark.
</p>

<p>
"Damn ye! did I no shout 'Port your helm?'" asked the
gunner, angrily; "whereby we would baith have had sea-room
enough to clear each other."
</p>

<p>
"Upon my faith, I believe it is my good friend Master Wad!&mdash;Master
Wad, good morrow," said Borthwick, with well affected
surprise and satisfaction.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I'm Willie Wad, the Laird of Largo's gunner," replied
the seaman, rather sulkily; "I never sail under false colours, or
cheat the king's collectors of dock dues or haven siller, so I value
nane a rope-yarn.  But yo-ho, brother, I have seen you before,"
he added, as a light shone through a shutter and showed the
gay dress of Borthwick; so Wad therefore became more suspicious
than pleased by his familiarity, and scrutinized him closely,
although various drams he had imbibed rendered his faculties
rather obscure, and his temper somewhat fractious.
</p>

<p>
"You have seen me! indeed&mdash;and where?" asked Borthwick,
who was ready to assume any character Wad might assign him;
for old habit and experience made him aware that it was safer to
be any other person than <i>himself</i>; but Wad dissipated this idea
by saying&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"You boarded us off Broughty, when last we came from Holland?"
</p>

<p>
"True; I had a message from the king to the admiral."
</p>

<p>
"From the king!" reiterated Wad, dubiously; "and the
Admiral&mdash;ken ye him?"
</p>

<p>
"Well as I know good Robert Barton."
</p>

<p>
"Then ye ken the twa best men that ever sailed on salt
water&mdash;except&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"The king?"
</p>

<p>
"Ay, the king, of course," said Wad, touching his bonnet.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick, who always trembled at that name, now said
hastily&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Are you a king's man?"
</p>

<p>
"Ye donnart fule! am I not the gunner o' a king's ship?"
said the seaman, who was rather pugnaciously inclined, and
began to clench his hands; "you, who were ashore, fought for
the king, I hope?"
</p>

<p>
"Bravely," said Borthwick, in whose throat the word almost
stuck.
</p>

<p>
"Had you fought against him, I had brained you on the first
timber-head!" hiccuped Wad, making one or two blows in the air.
</p>

<p>
"Tib Tarvet, the alewife's booth, is close by," said Borthwick;
"let us in, Master Wad, and we shall drink to the admiral's
health in a bicker of her best brown ale; moreover, I would
fain hear the story of this battle off the May."
</p>

<p>
"Our boatswain spinneth a better yarn than I," said the
gunner; "but as I feel drouthy, and Tib is an auld friend, I care
not if I shake out a reef for an hour or sae, so bear ye ahead, sir."
</p>

<p>
The alewife's house was soon found, for over her door was
the sign which all brewsters had to put forth under a penalty of
four pennies.  An Act of the Parliament passed in those days
made it unlawful for a man "to walk or travell in tyme of nicht,
unless he was a man of great authentic or of gude fame;" and
recent outrages committed in her establishment made the poor
alewife somewhat reluctant to unbar her door, until she heard
the familiar voice of Wad; on this she at once admitted him
and his companion, placed a fresh candle in the tin sconce, which
lit her low ceiled and clay-floored apartment, one end of which
was spanned by an enormous fire place, wherein, though the
season was summer, a fire of wood and turf was blazing.  On a
fir-table she placed a trenplate of cakes, and two jugs of foaming
ale, which she brought from a secret place.  The vicinity of so
many lawless vassals and mosstroopers having made her house
very unsafe of late, Tib had allowed her barrels to remain
empty, there being neither wisdom nor thrift in filling them for
soldiers who only paid her by ridicule or abuse.  Some had
vowed that she brewed "evil ale, and should pay them the usual
fine of eight shillings for having <i>drunk it</i>;" others swore they
"would have her put upon the cuckstule at Bonnington, and
send her ale to the puir or the hospitallers," and so forth, as
Tib, who was a rosy and comely woman of some forty years, and
who had long since contrived to console herself for the
abstraction of her spouse "by the infidel Turks," informed Willie
Wad, while Borthwick listened to the history of her troubles
with great impatience.
</p>

<p>
While he plied the honest and unsuspecting gunner with Tib
Tarvet's strongest beverage, we may imagine the affectation of
interest with which Borthwick listened to his detail of action, in
which he was painfully minute, and which he loaded with
technicalities unintelligible as Greek or Hebrew to the cunning
listener, who bit his lips with impatience while Wad ardently
expatiated on the able manner in which the poor <i>Cressi</i> was run
down; and how the spanking <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, with every stitch
of canvas set aloft and alow, was brought to bear in all her weight
and strength on the doomed ship; how, in rounding to, she won
the advantage of the wind, and how the gallant Barton took her
helm; how the braces and bowlines were let go through the
blocks like a whirlwind; how the sheets and tacks were slacked
off and the yards squared like lightning; and how the sea smoked
under her counter, as the heavy ship broke like a thunderbolt
upon the foeman's hull, crashing through and over it!  Then how
they all ranged up alongside of each other, Englishman and
Scot&mdash;yardarm and yardarm&mdash;muzzle to muzzle&mdash;till their portlids
and chainplates rasped together, and men slew each other at the
lower deck ports; how iron grapnels were flung out and lashed to
yard-head and gunnel; and how thus, for so many glasses, they
continued that deadly strife, pouring in the shot of carthouns,
sakers, falcons, crossbows, and arquebusses, while two-handed
swords, axes, and mauls, were plied like flails in a barnyard, and
the steel blades rang on the helmets like a shower of iron
hammers upon clinking anvils; how many brave fellows had fallen in
the battle; how many had weathered it, and how many had died
since of their wounds <i>when the tide ebbed</i>, the invariable time of
death, according to an old superstition.
</p>

<p>
Tib, who was somewhat abashed by the gay apparel of Borthwick,
sat knitting in the ingle seat of her wide chimney, and
though far aloof, listening intently to the narration of Wad, in
which, as a sailor's wife and a Scot&mdash;for in those days the
Scottish women possessed even more patriotism than their
countrymen&mdash;she was doubly interested.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile the fire blazed on the hearth; the candle guttered
and streamed in the currents of air, and Willie continued to speak,
but thicker and more slowly, of course, while he quaffed pot after
pot of ale; and now he began to remember that "Jamie Gair was
waiting for him at the auld Brig-stairs," just when Borthwick
(whose wolfish eyes were constantly fixed on the pouch containing
the letter) resolved to give him a finishing stroke, by ordering
Tib Tarvet to prepare for him a strong <i>hot</i> pint.
</p>

<p>
Now, we have elsewhere mentioned, the Scottish pint is similar
to the English quart, and as the required draught consisted of
strong ale, whiskey, and eggs boiled together, and taken hot, it
may easily be supposed that such a decoction was more than
sufficient to lay the unwary gunner, as he afterwards said, "on his
beam ends."
</p>

<p>
Some lingering recollection of where he was, and of the
message entrusted him, flashed upon his memory through the
thickening haze that was overspreading his faculties, and
setting the hot stoup, half drained, upon the board, he reeled up
from it.
</p>

<p>
"Where away?" said Borthwick; "finish thy pot, man&mdash;where
away so fast?"
</p>

<p>
"A lady&mdash;a letter," muttered Wad, opening and shutting his
eyes in succession, and rolling his head from side to side; "she
gied me a braw siller chain for my pretty Rose; yo-ho, brother
gossip; I must trip my anchor now&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"But finish thine ale, friend, to the health cf Andrew Wood."
</p>

<p>
"Weel, weel,&mdash;<i>there</i>,&mdash;it is a' stowed under hatch," said Willie,
as with a loud whoop he poured the last of the hot ale down his
throat; "and noo," said he, flinging away the stoup, "may I
drink bilge, if I can stay a minute mair&mdash;I am getting slow in
stays&mdash;I yaw and canna obey my helm&mdash;hard up&mdash;hard up it
is&mdash;thou'st owrestowed me&mdash;I careen&mdash;hillo&mdash;oh!" cried Wad, as
he lurched and rolled about, and then sank prostrate on the bench
from which he had just risen.
</p>

<p>
In his eagerness to obtain the letter, Borthwick would have
sprung upon him and wrenched away his belt-pouch, for every
man wore one in those days, and the goat-skin sporran of the
Highland clansman is but the remnant of the fashion; the
gunner, however, lay with his pouch under him, and he muttered,
"Avast, billy, avast," and snorted like a pig, when the thief
turned him over to reach it.
</p>

<p>
Perceiving that the alewife's attention was directed another
way, and that she was busy in heaping turf upon the fire, he
attempted to unbutton the pouch; but a gleam of sense and
suspicion made Wad place a hand heavily upon it.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick glanced impatiently at the hostess; she was still
bent over the hearth; he clutched his dagger, and then withdrew
his hand as if the hilt had burned him.
</p>

<p>
He had never unsheathed that fatal weapon since the terrible
night at Beaton's mill, and even now the blood of him who was
the heir of "a hundred kings" had glued the blade in its velvet
scabbard.
</p>

<p>
"I would soon end thee, fellow," thought he, "but I choose
not to risk my life for bubbles."
</p>

<p>
Then finding the seaman sunk in a deep and helpless sleep, he
tore open the pouch, and inserting his hand, pulled forth the
letter from among the pieces of cord, gunmatches, fragments of
biscuit, cheese, and ropeyarn, a few coins and other et cetera,
which Willie Wad usually carried in this repository; and then
throwing a half-lyon on the table, Borthwick told Tibby Tarvet
to "keep the change, for looking after this drunken lurdane,"
and wrapping himself in his cloak left the house.
</p>

<p class="t3">
* * * * *
</p>

<p>
Faint and grey the summer morning was stealing down
between the lofty houses of the narrow alley and straggling
through the rusty and cobweb-woven gratings of the windows,
into the outer chamber of the alehouse, when the gunner awoke
and started up, with heavy eyes and an aching head.  The
apartment was dark and cold: the <i>gathering peat</i> was smouldering
on the hearth, and a full minute elapsed before he remembered
where he was, and how he came to be there; then the two pewter
flagons and the ale-slopped table recalled his debauch over-night
with some one&mdash;a stranger&mdash;gaily attired in scarlet and velvet;
and instinctively diving a hand into his pouch, he found the lady's
letter gone!
</p>

<p>
Master Wad became sober in a moment.
</p>

<p>
Starting from his seat he examined the pouch; shook it, turned
it outside in; he then opened his gaberdine and examined the lining
of his bonnet; then he searched all about the chamber, and became
convinced that the letter for his captain was lost&mdash;irretrievably lost.
</p>

<p>
"May I drink bilge, but it's clean awa'!" said he, and stood
for a time bewildered; "and what shall I say to Robert Barton,
or to the winsome lady who gied it, wi' this handsome chain&mdash;that
I've been drunk&mdash;drunk as a Sluys pilot!  Oh, Willie Wad,
Willie Wad&mdash;dool be on thee for this."
</p>

<p>
The gunner sat down for a moment, and his honest heart was
swollen by the mingled emotions of shame and anger.  He
prayed for help to St. Barbara, who was the patron of all
cannoniers, and whose altar stood in St. Mary's Church close by;
but she probably turned a deaf ear to him, for praying did not
mend the matter; then starting up, he stormed and swore
roundly, shouting the while on Tibby Tarvet, whom he roused
without ceremony from her box-bed in one of the lofty garrets,
and whom he threatened with the vengeance of the Baron Bailie,
and all the terrors of the Burgh laws enacted "anent evil
ale-wives," if his lost letter was not forthcoming.
</p>

<p>
Then Tib stormed in turn, and reminded him that he too was
liable to a fine, or six hours' detention in the iron <i>jougs</i>, for being
intoxicated in an ale-house after ten o'clock at night,&mdash;for such
was the law.
</p>

<p>
Finding thus that the hostess might in the end have the best
of the dispute, the poor gunner had to smother his wrath and
"sheer off."
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap49"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XLIX.
<br /><br />
THE KING'S WARK.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Virtue!&mdash;to be good and just&mdash;-<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Every heart when sifted well,<br />
  Is a clot of warmer dust,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mixed with cunning sparks of hell!"<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The bell in the tower of St. Anthony's preceptory&mdash;a tower
demolished by the English cannon in 1559&mdash;was just tolling
eleven, when Hew Borthwick blew the copper horn which hung
by a chain at the outer gate of the King's Wark, and hastily
inquired for the Laird of Blackcastle, or for the Lords Home or
Hailes.  These names secured to him an immediate passage
among the Douglases, Homes, and Hepburns who loitered about or
slept on the floor or benches of the passages, hall, and vestibule,
and two pages, having the Hepburn arms&mdash;two Scottish lions
rending an English rose&mdash;ushered the bravo at once into a
chamber, the walls of which were hung with old amber-coloured
arras, sewn over with red stars and green thistles, the work, it was
said, of Elizabeth, Duchess of Brittany, daughter of James I.
</p>

<p>
This apartment was encumbered by arms and armour;
halberts and lances were piled against the walls; two large
sconces of tin, having in each four candles, gave sufficient light
to the two reckless young lords, who were playing at chess, and
sipping wine from silver cups, while the pages were conveying
away the remains of the baked chicken and pie of plumdames
on which they had just made their rere-supper.
</p>

<p>
Their daggers, belts, and cuirasses were flung aside, and they
wore loose ample gowns of dark woollen cloth, lined with brightly
coloured silk, and edged with stripes of fine sable.
</p>

<p>
"Thou hast come betimes, sir," said Hailes; "and doubtless
hast succeeded, too."
</p>

<p>
"I seldom fail in aught I undertake, my lord.  A ready wit,
a clear head, a bold heart, and nimble hands, are ever required
by those who have light purses and high ambition," was the
confident reply.
</p>

<p>
"Thou hast rather an active tongue too, sirrah," said Lord
Home, frowning.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis the only inheritance my good mother left me," said the
unabashed Borthwick.
</p>

<p>
"Enough of this&mdash;the letter, if thou hast it!"
</p>

<p>
Borthwick still lingered, till Hailes scornfully tossed to him a
fleur-de-lys, and then he received the letter at once.  He untied
the ribbons, opened and scrutinized it with stern and curious eyes.
He then counted the lines repeatedly, and looked at the address&mdash;but
of that and the contents neither he nor Hailes could
decypher one word.
</p>

<p>
"Curse on this conjuror's art!" said he; "'tis the Dean of
Dunblane hath taught dame Euphemia and her sisters this
clerkly craft.  Had they learned how to make hippocras, to knead
a pasty, to collar a pig, or to throw a hawk well off, it had been
wiser!  Canst thou make out this devilish scrawl, my lord?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay, not I, thank God!  If I can mumble <i>Kyrie Eleison</i>,
or <i>Christi Eleison</i>, at Mass, 'tis all my book lear."
</p>

<p>
"Ouf! for a fair dame's epistle, what an odour it hath of
herrings and tar!"
</p>

<p>
And now there was a pause.  Home thrust aside the chessmen;
Hailes took a sip at his wine-cup, and curled up his moustachios,
while Borthwick stood by with a sneer on his face, and
watched them, smiling in his heart at their absurd perplexity.
</p>

<p>
Now, although so early as the year 1173 the towns of Perth
and Stirling, Aberdeen and Ayr, had their seminaries under the
monks, and others were established in Roxburgh, St. Andrews,
and Montrose during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries,
the Scottish nobles were so ignorant, that a law was passed at a
period subsequent to the reign of James III. that every peer
should send his eldest son to school.  Thus, to the Scots, all of
whom&mdash;even the lowest and poorest classes&mdash;are now so well
educated, the ignorance of the good folks, their ancestors, must
seem extraordinary, if not incredible.
</p>

<p>
Impatient that Borthwick did not offer to read it, and yet half
ashamed of what the contents might be, Home turned to him
with reluctance, saying,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Master Borthwick, wert thou not somewhat of a monk in thy
younger days?"
</p>

<p>
Borthwick started, and his countenance flushed, as he replied,
"To my shame I acknowledge that I was; I am now a more
useful man&mdash;but what of that, my lord?"
</p>

<p>
"You can read, of course?" said Hailes, a little more gently,
and with a bitter expression of eye, for he felt that he and his
friend were at the mercy of a man whom they disliked and
despised.
</p>

<p>
"Read, if it please you," said Lord Home, and he whispered,
while Borthwick took up the letter, "Fear not its contents,
Hailes; if it contains aught unpleasant, we can stop this fellow's
tongue by a gag of steel, and there are vaults in Home Castle
where the light of day hath never entered: read on."
</p>

<p>
"'<i>For Robert Barton of that Ilk&mdash;Captain to the Laird of
Largo&mdash;be these delivered&mdash;</i>,'" began Borthwick.
</p>

<p>
"Of that Ilk!" exclaimed the two lords, together, with fierce,
and unutterable scorn; and then they burst into a fit of laughter.
</p>

<p>
"By St. Anne, this amuses me!" said Hailes, "Read on,
good fellow; of that Ilk&mdash;read on."
</p>

<p>
The noble lord was not so much amused by what followed, for
Euphemia expressed in strong language the horror she and her
sister Sybilla entertained of the two suitors whom their
impetuous and ambitious father had thrust upon them; the letter
expressed their double dread of him and of their uncle, the
dean; it detailed the persecution they were subjected to, and the
surveillance with which they were annoyed; and ended by stating
that their marriage days were fixed, but that they were resolved
not to be wedded, at the sword's point, like two brides among the
wild Redshanks who dwelt beyond the Grampians; and so they
begged that Barton and Falconer, if they loved them, would take
measures to save them from such a fate, and become their
protectors.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis madness&mdash;'tis infatuation!" said Home, with something
of pity; "and but for the honour of Lord Drummond's house,
and the necessity for killing these scurvy companions, and
preventing the daughters of our nobles from making alliances so
degrading, on my soul I would leave Lady Euphemia to her
lover, Master Robert Barton of&mdash;<i>that Ilk</i>."
</p>

<p>
"And had I not a slender fancy for the pretty Sybilla, and a
greater one for that slice of Strathearn which the old lord
promised me, I would rest contented with the black-eyed dame to
whom I am hand-fasted already; but we must punish their
contumacy; and I doubt not they will become loving wives enough,
after we have given their gallants to feed the gleds."
</p>

<p>
"So, so; is that all, Master Borthwick?"
</p>

<p>
"There is a post scriptum, my lord."
</p>

<p>
"Post&mdash;what? is there more of this precious epistle?"
</p>

<p>
"But a line or two, my lord, hastily pencilled."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis what we saw her writing," said Home; "and faith, she
did look beautiful as she bent over her tablets, and her heavy
locks fell forward; well, and what saith the post scriptum?"
</p>

<p>
"'<i>We will meet you at the chapel of Loretto, beside the
Links of Musselburgh, on Friday, in the evening, for there we
mean to spend the whole night in vigil and in prayer, &amp;c.</i>&mdash;E.D."
</p>

<p>
"At our Lady of Loretto! what a place for an assignation
with these skipper varlets," said Lord Hailes, "those cullionly
mongrels!"
</p>

<p>
"Art sure of this, sirrah?" asked Lord Home, with a terrible
frown.
</p>

<p>
"Sure as I now address your lordship&mdash;for I read word for
word as it is written."
</p>

<p>
"At six in the evening?"
</p>

<p>
"Six, my lord."
</p>

<p>
"God's death!" said Hailes, with ferocious joy, "if this meeting
take place, I would not wed the Lord Drummond's daughter had
she the crown of Scotland on her head."
</p>

<p>
"Nor I her sister, with Brittany and Orkney to boot."
</p>

<p>
"What then shall we do?"
</p>

<p>
"Send their letter to its destination, my lords," said Borthwick,
who ever loved to ferment and further mischief; "permit
the ladies quietly to ride forth, but attend the tryst, too&mdash;and let
them find their lovers there, but less their heads."
</p>

<p>
"It shall be so; we'll beset the place, Hailes, and cut them
into gobbets, by my father's soul we will?"
</p>

<p>
"But Loretto is a holy place."
</p>

<p>
"What! art thou one of those who deem one place more holy
than another because a shaveling mumbles Latin there?  Well,
we will drag them forth and hang them at the Musselburgh
Cross, if you will.  I'll take a hundred horse and hide them in
the woods of Pinkey.  Enough&mdash;enough, we'll see to it; and
now to send this letter to the churls at Largo.  The bearer&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"I left him drunk as a Saxon, and snorting like a pig, in an
alehouse near the Timber Bourse; day has not yet broken, so I
may easily restore it to his pouch without his having missed it,
perhaps."
</p>

<p>
"Good&mdash;excellent! away, it lacks but a short time of day-dawn;
when all this matter is over and settled, when the rooks
of Pinkey Wood have gorged them to their fill on those aspiring
curs who cross our plans, I'll make thee, Borthwick&mdash;a rascal
though thou art&mdash;the richest varlet in my new earldom&mdash;away,
away!" and laughing and pushing, he almost put Borthwick
out of the room.  When he was gone,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Hailes, can we really trust this fellow?" asked Home.
</p>

<p>
"Trust him!  For gold he would sell his father's bones, and his
own slender chance of salvation; but I'll have him followed, and
prove whether or not he plays us foul."
</p>

<p>
The messenger of Home was no other than the unwilling Laird
of Blackcastle, who had been sleeping in his armour on a stone
bench in the upper hall of the King's Wark, and who grumbled
under his helmet as he followed Borthwick through the dark and
narrow streets of Leith in the grey light of the morning.
</p>

<p>
Turning off towards the Timber Bourse he saw him enter the
narrow alley which led to Tibby Tarvet's alehouse, and there he
met Willie Wad in a high state of excitement.
</p>

<p>
"What ho, Master Wad," said he, "you are abroad betimes."
</p>

<p>
"Abroad betimes, thou dog-thief and loon; thou'st boarded
me like a pirate in the night, and stolen a letter frae me."
</p>

<p>
"Beware ye, sirrah, of what you say," replied Borthwick,
making a show of dignified indignation; "beware, for I am a
man of a good repute, that must not be impugned; but if this be
the letter you have lost&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"It is&mdash;it is," said Wad, almost dancing with joy as the other
displayed the missing article; "and where got ye it?"
</p>

<p>
"Lying at the close-head."
</p>

<p>
"Say you so?  Could I have dropped it?"
</p>

<p>
"You know best."
</p>

<p>
"My deck was overstown wi' usquebaugh&mdash;donnart deil that I
am, it must have been so!"
</p>

<p>
"This letter is of value then??
</p>

<p>
"I would rather lose my starboard fin than it."
</p>

<p>
"Then it is well worth a crown."
</p>

<p>
"To those wha hae crowns to spare," said the gunner.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick took a firmer grasp of the packet.
</p>

<p>
"What, will a gay gentleman in a scarlet cloak, chaffer thus
wi' a puir mariner like me?" asked Wad, with astonishment
mingled with contempt.
</p>

<p>
"I have said the letter is well worth a crown."
</p>

<p>
"Crowns hae I none&mdash;but I will gie what I have, and then
let us part; sorrow be on the hour I met you."
</p>

<p>
As money poured upon this wretched bravo, avarice grew and
strengthened in his heart; and he omitted no opportunity of
gathering all he could win; knowing well that ere long Scotland
would be too hot to hold him.
</p>

<p>
"A' I hae is here," said Wad, opening a secret nook in his
pouch; "three rose-nobles, and welcome you are to them."
</p>

<p>
"Rose-nobles," said Borthwick, suspiciously, and pricking up
his ears at the sound; "where got you them?"
</p>

<p>
"In the pouch of a dead Englishman.  Take them; the letter,
the letter!" said Willie, losing all patience, and beginning to grasp
his knife with one hand, while by the other he angrily snatched
away the billet.  "You are I doubtna a thief and limmer to
boot&mdash;despite your braw gear and laced mantle.  But off! sheer off, I
say, or may I drink bilge, if by one hearty kick I dinna double
you up like a bolt of wet canvas!"
</p>

<p>
With these complimentary remarks Willie hastened down the
Broad Wynd, crossed the ancient bridge of three arches, where a
trifling toll was levied from every passenger, and reached the
boat of Jamie Gair, who was just preparing to put off without
him.  A chill wind was blowing from the north-east and a white
<i>harr</i> was setting in from the German Sea, so they buttoned up
their gaberdines, betook them to the oars, shot the boat out into
the midstream, and in a short time the old wooden pier of Leith,
the Beacon Rock and Partan Craig, were left astern.  Then they
set their lug-sail, and keeping the boat close-hauled, bore away
as nearly as her head would lie to the wind, for the beautiful Bay
of Largo.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap50"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER L.
<br /><br />
THE SUMMER SPEAT.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Well mounted on their gallant steeds,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The brothers led the van;<br />
  And with four-and-twenty troopers gude<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Their midnight march began."&mdash;<i>Ballad.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The fatal Friday was a dark and lowering day; the sun had been
hidden in fiery clouds, and torrents of rain had fallen, swelling all
the mountain streams.  The minds of Euphemia and Sybilla
Drummond, though joyful in the certainty of their loved sister's
safety, were oppressed to some extent by vague forebodings of
evil.  Lord Drummond was still ignorant of his daughter's
discovery, for he was absent on a mission of the insurgents, and
was still nursing and maturing his plans of vengeance against
James III., whom he deemed and styled "a forfeited and
fugitive king."
</p>

<p>
Well attended, guarded, and surrounded as they were by many
hundreds of faithful and obsequious vassals, whose adherence
combined the love of the patriarchal clansman with the servility
of the Lowland feudal serf, the two young lords had little
difficulty in having the mansion of umquhile Sir Andrew Barton
closely watched; and on the afternoon of Friday, Borthwick, who
had been lying, <i>en perdue</i>, somewhere in the vicinity, announced
to them that the two daughters of Lord Drummond had "set
forth on their pretended pilgrimage to Loretto."
</p>

<p>
The two noble suitors hastened to assure themselves that such
was indeed the case, and had the chagrin to see them pass out
from Leith by St. Anthony's Porte, their cheeks flushed with fear
and pleasure, and their eyes beaming, well mounted on ambling
horses, with long and sweeping foot-cloths over their saddles,
and each attended by a female servant, who rode on a pillion
behind a page, and carried each a basket of offerings to the hermit.
</p>

<p>
"They ride fast," said Home, as they whipped their horses
across the level links.
</p>

<p>
"They will come less speedily back," said Hailes, with his
dark but courtly smile; "a heavy heart makes a slow wayfarer
and their hearts I ween will be heavy enough."
</p>

<p>
"Two women and two pages&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"A slender escort this for noble dames."
</p>

<p>
"Especially in such ticklish times as these."
</p>

<p>
"True, my lord; but what will not women risk for a lovers'
sake?" said Hailes.
</p>

<p>
"Two painted pages (I'll have the rascals scourged!) may be
guard enough in Lothian here; but in the Merse, or Teviotdale,
a hundred spears were not a man too many, if one goes but a
hundred yards from one's own gate."
</p>

<p>
"They have left betimes," said the chief of the Hepburns,
looking up at a dial-stone that projected from the corner of St.
Anthony's Gate.
</p>

<p>
"And at what time shall we set forth to spoil this precious
pilgrimage&mdash;this dainty love-making?"
</p>

<p>
"Somewhere about six at even," said Hailes.
</p>

<p>
"Then we shall have the whole night before us."
</p>

<p>
"All the better; I have directed Borthwick and Blackcastle&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"I doubt whether my kinsman would like such a conjunct
partnership."
</p>

<p>
"Well, Blackcastle and Borthwick," said Home, impatiently,
"with twenty of my most unscrupulous mosstroopers&mdash;Johnstones,
thieves of Annandale, men who would spear their own
brother if I wished them&mdash;to be all in their jacks betimes, and
mounted to ride with us."
</p>

<p>
"Pleasant and honourable company," said Lord Hailes, with a
smile.
</p>

<p>
"But fitted for the occasion, my lord," replied Home, firmly;
"we know not but those scurvy fellows, Barton and Falconer, may
have some of their ruffianly seamen with them; and if so, by my
father's hand and by the crest of Home, though it be beneath
our rank to draw on varlets such as these, I'll not leave in all
Loretto one alive to tell the story to their admiral!"
</p>

<p>
As he spoke, Home clenched one hand, and with the other
thrust his furred cap of maintenance over his dark and fiery
eyes.
</p>

<p>
"Good, my lord; farewell until we meet again," said Hailes; "if
to-day we do not teach these fellows a sharp lesson, this glorious
raid against the court and king, and that most signal triumph
before the walls of Stirling, have been less than vain."
</p>

<p>
And these two ferocious and unlettered nobles, though bent
upon committing one of those atrocities which occurred daily
among their proud, turbulent, and unpatriotic class in Scotland,
bowed and parted as quietly and as pleasantly as if their appointed
tryst had been for a pleasant evening ride in some green lane,
instead of one for sacrilege and murder.
</p>

<p>
The troop of twenty men, who assembled near a gate of the
King's Wark, and from thence set forth under the guidance of the
two nobles, the Laird of Blackcastle and their new ally, Hew
Borthwick, in their aspect and appearance did full justice to that
character for ease and flexibility of conscience ascribed to them by
Lord Home.  They were all strong, dark, and sinewy men, whose
forms were hardened into mere bone and brawn, and were
durable as iron; for they were lawless mosstroopers, Scottish
Bedouins, in fact; men who won every meal at the spear's point,
and lived in their harness; men whose dwellings were among
wild morasses, pathless woods, and inaccessible mountains; where
law was never known, and religion little heard of; wild and
predatory warriors, who fought against their countrymen as readily as
against the common enemy that dwelt beyond the frontier; for,
like the Ishmaelities, their hands were upraised against all men.
</p>

<p>
Their armour, which consisted of a splinted jack with plate
sleeves and steel gloves, head-piece and gourgerin, was all rusty
and well dinted by many a sword-cut and lance-thrust.  Their
beards and whiskers flowed out between their steel cheek-plates,
ample and uncombed as the shaggy manes of their strong and
active border steeds.  Well-armed and fleetly-mounted, Home
and Hailes, divested of every distinguishing badge, rode together
at their head.
</p>

<p>
Wheeling off the main street between the hedge-rows of the
Cotefield-loan, the whole party crossed the green and sandy
links, and entered on the vast and purple expanse of the Figgate-muir,
which was covered by the mossy stumps of an old druidical
forest, whose roots are yet turned up by the plough and spade.
</p>

<p>
Shrill blew the wind, and drearily boomed the waves upon
their left.  The estuary of the Forth looked black as ink, and its
billows rolled in white foam upon the lonely beach with a deep
and hollow sound.  The slanting aspect of the clouds showed
that the rain, which had been pouring all that morning in
torrents, was again about to descend; and though the party rode
fast to escape it, they had only reached the little Chapel of Saint
Mary Magdalene, which stood among some coppice near a stream
that poured through a ravine into the sea, when it descended
with such fury as almost to blind even the border riders, and
the wind blew as if it would have blown its last, driving the
sand from the shore across the open moor, and forcing the horsemen
to seek shelter in the grove, while the two lords dismounted
and entered the chapel, the door of which stood open, and before
the altar of which they made the usual involuntary genuflection,
by half-kneeling and signing the cross; and this, with them,
was a very useless piece of mummery.
</p>

<p>
"How unlucky!" said Home, as the rain continued to fall in
torrents upon the stone roof of the little oratory, while the
stream beside it rolled in red foambells upon the beach; "this
devilish tempest may spoil all, and there seems little chance of
its lulling soon."
</p>

<p>
"Had our meeting with these rascals been elsewhere than at
Loretto, there might not perhaps have been a storm."
</p>

<p>
"Art really so weak as to think this?" said Home.
</p>

<p>
"I know not what to think&mdash;but I like it not," replied his
companion, shrugging his shoulders; for he was not without his
share of the superstition incident to the time and country.
</p>

<p>
"How," continued Lord Home, with a lowering expression in
his keen and fiery eyes, as he seated himself on a stone bench
near the steps of the rude altar, and dashed the water from his
plume; "your words would imply that Heaven itself was
against us."
</p>

<p>
"I know not; but this sudden storm hath broken on us with
wondrous fury, and here we are forced to draw our bridles
within four miles of the place."
</p>

<p>
"Rest assured, my good lord, that Heaven leaves you and me
to mind our own affairs.  The elements would never be at peace
if storms were raised to cross every man's purpose in Scotland;
and least of all will they raise such an infernal hubbub as this
to save a couple of scurvy varlets, who must swing, even as
their companions swung, over Lander Bridge, in our raid of '82.
There is one comfort, however," continued the practical but
irreverent chief of the Homes, listening for a moment as the
wind howled through the unglazed windows of the edifice, and
the rain drenched the copsewood near it, and hissed along the
beach till surf and sand were smoking; "we may be assured
that the same storm which stays us here must keep our fair
dames in shelter at Loretto, while it may also save us all trouble
by kindly sending their lovers to feed the fishes of the Firth."
</p>

<p>
"But suppose we find the cockbirds flown?"
</p>

<p>
"Think not of such a disappointment."
</p>

<p>
"Yet such a thing is possible."
</p>

<p>
"Remember that Lady Euphemia, in her precious post
scriptum, spoke of spending the night in vigil and in prayer."
</p>

<p>
"Profound prayer no doubt it will be, with a couple of saucy
gallants to hold their tapers and turn the missal leaves," said
Hailes, with a smile of contempt.
</p>

<p>
"St. Mary, how the sky darkens!"
</p>

<p>
"And how the rain comes down!"
</p>

<p>
"This burn beside us is swelling into a perfect torrent."
</p>

<p>
"How fare our rogues of Annandale in the thicket?"
</p>

<p>
"Ill enough, I doubt not," replied the Laird of Blackcastle;
"and methinks they were as well riding as standing there, like
todlowries under a lynn."
</p>

<p>
"You forget that no man could keep his saddle in such a
tempest of wind," said Lord Home.
</p>

<p>
"Of a surety it must portend some coming evil; a pestilence,
or an English invasion," added the superstitious Hailes.
</p>

<p>
As the chapel of Loretto stood in a solitary place beyond the
eastern gate of Musselburgh, the two lords arranged that, on
setting forth again, when once the Esk was crossed, it should be
surrounded, an alarm given, and that all should be killed who
issued forth&mdash;every man at least; for they had no wish to incur
the vengeance of a tyrannical hierarchy which was full of power
and strength, by actually slaughtering their victims within the
walls or precincts of a church, if such a catastrophe could be
possibly avoided.
</p>

<p>
But while, within a holy place, and close to the altar of their
religion and their God&mdash;the symbolical throne, before which they
had each gravely, and not the least in mockery, made a low
reverence&mdash;they sat planning this projected outrage, and
combining with their own views such suggestions as the mischievous
and blood-thirsty spirit of Borthwick proposed, the storm still
continued to howl along the shore; the rain still poured in one
broad and blinding cataract; and torn from the woodlands by the
furious wind, the wet leaves were whirled and swept in myriads
across the moor, which at times was shrouded in mist and spray;
and for hours this continued, with occasional gleams of lightning;
and the mosstroopers, who had unsaddled their terrified horses
and haltered them to the trees, now crowded, all drenched and
disconsolate, into the dreary little chapel beside their leaders,
where they grumbled and muttered under their thick beards,
while drinking raw whiskey from their portable leather flasks
and horn quaighs.
</p>

<p>
As the evening drew on and the place grew dark, they were
not without their own fears that the elements were indeed in
league against them; and now, enraged that their well-matured
stratagem should be crossed by an intervention so unlooked for,
their lords sat in sullen silence, listening to the din without; and
the time seemed interminably long, for there were then no watches
to mark the passing hours, and even had a dial been there,
without the sun it had been useless.
</p>

<p>
"At last," said Home, "at last the wind lulls!  Horse and
spear, my Annan wights&mdash;let us mount, and begone!"
</p>

<p>
The horses were soon saddled and their riders mounted.
Though the wind had lulled, the rain poured down as furiously
as ever.  The time was now past nine in the evening; but the
gloomy aspect of the sky made the drenched landscape and the
sea look very dark, for the sun had set enveloped in dense banks
of opaque and murky cloud, behind the Ochil peaks, Dumiat,
and the hills of Alloa.
</p>

<p>
The riders soon passed the hamlet named the Fisher Row, and
reached the ancient bridge of the Roman Municipium, the arches
of which still span "the mountain Esk," the opposite bank of
which was covered with copsewood, where the dark and heavy
oak mingled its thick crisped foliage with the lighter spray of the
pale-green sauch and the feathery ash-tree.  This venerable bridge
consists of three quaint high and narrow arches, "over which,"
says one of our modern writers, "all of noble or kingly birth
that approached Edinburgh for at least a thousand years must
have passed; which has witnessed the processions of monks, the
march of armies, and the trains of kings; which has rattled
beneath the feet of Mary's ambling steed, and thundered beneath
the war-horse of Cromwell."
</p>

<p>
Swollen by the summer flood, the Esk was found by our
troopers to be rolling in one vast sheet of foam under the three
arches, each of which are fifty feet in width; and in froth and
spray its red current lashed furiously against their strong
abutments, sweeping the mingled spoil of field and fell, uprooted
trees, straw, hay, and grass, farm implements, rafters, and
garden-pales, with the rolling carcasses of sheep and cattle, into the
harbour, which was <i>then</i> so deep as to admit the largest
merchantmen of Norway, of Pomerania, and of Holland; and many
of these vessels, built in that quaint style which the Dutch have
yet retained unchanged, were riding with all their anchors out,
to stem the furious <i>speat</i>.
</p>

<p>
The narrow pathway of the bridge was then barred or spanned
by a transverse arch and an iron gate, traces of which are yet
remaining in the parapets.  The warder dwelt in a small house
on the other side, and as the barrier was closed, the night
darkening fast, and the rain still pouring down, the two lords
and their drenched mosstroopers halloed loudly and impatiently
for passage through; but the keeper of the gate paid not the
slightest attention to their loud and angry summons.
</p>

<p>
"Hark," said Lord Hailes; "what hour is that now striking?"
</p>

<p>
The mournful notes of an old bell were now heard, but faintly
and far between, upon the gusts of wind.
</p>

<p>
"Ten by Musselburgh clock," said Borthwick; "ten, and we
still loiter here!"
</p>

<p>
Above the trees they could discern, against the murky sky,
quaint steeple of the Town House, in which there yet remains
a bell-clock of the fifteenth century, which was presented to the
burgh by their High Mightinesses, the States of Holland.
</p>

<p>
The dusk was now so deep that the foliaged bank opposite
seemed all black and solid; and the white and foaming river
boiled and thundered past so rapidly and fiercely, that the
boldest trooper among our adventurers shrunk from attempting
to swim his horse across it; for if they essayed it above the
bridge, they ran the chance of being brained against the arches,
on which the stream had risen; and if below it, of being powerlessly
swept with the <i>débris</i> of its banks among the boats and
shipping.  Red and fiery, the stars were seen to peep at times
between the flying scud, while the dark trees tossed their foliage
on the gusty wind, like the black plumes of our modern Scottish
infantry.
</p>

<p>
At times a mournful cry rose amid the gloom that enveloped
the rolling river, and the grim horsemen reined back their
reeking steeds, and looked darkly and inquiringly in each other's
faces.
</p>

<p>
"Hear ye that, sirs?" said the Laird of Blackcastle.  "What
doth it sound like?"
</p>

<p>
"The monks chanting <i>De Profundis</i> in St. Michael's Kirk,"
said Lord Hailes.
</p>

<p>
"God's malison on this base runnion of a warder!" cried
Borthwick, impatiently.
</p>

<p>
"Hark!" said Hailes; "there comes that wailing cry again!"
</p>

<p>
"'Tis the Water Kelpie!" muttered the troopers, for the belief
in that aquatic demon was yet strong in Scotland; and thus
there was not a rider there who did not tremble at the
idea of being drawn by that voracious fiend into his den below
the flood.
</p>

<p>
"By my soul, I'll ride the river," said Hailes, boldly; "there
should be a ford here, I think but the darkness is such that I
cannot see."
</p>

<p>
"Beware in Heaven's name, my lord," cried Blackcastle,
anxiously throwing his horse before the charger of his chief;
"beware, lest your life be needlessly perilled; for even were the
flood stemmed, ye may not abide the Kelpie's grasp.  Listen to
me," he continued, speaking breathlessly; "I had once a narrow
escape from one at the Brig of Tyne, when last I crossed it
during a Lammas flood.  I had bought me a black horse from a
strange-looking carle at the Haddington market; and at the
sight of water, however far off, this horse became wild and
frantic; it kicked, plunged, and neighed; and when we offered
him a drink, he dashed over the bucket, and laved its contents
about him with delight.  When I rode him along the bridge at
the Nunraw, he uttered an awesome yell as he rose into the air
with me, and sprang over the parapet; and lo! I found myself
astride a kelpie in that black Lammas flood, at mirk midnight!
He turned upon me with open jaws, and eyes that blazed with
fire!  But I signed the cross between us, and then he sunk from
me, yelling like a fiend as he was; and drowned I had been
assuredly, had I not caught the branch of a sauch-tree and
reached the shore&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"And thy devilish horse-couper, what of him?"
</p>

<p>
"He was never more seen."
</p>

<p>
"St. Mary! he must have been the devil!" said Hailes.
</p>

<p>
"Or Michael Scott of Balwearie," said Home.
</p>

<p>
"Blackcastle, blow thy bugle," said his chief, "and we'll crop
the gate-ward's ears if they hear it not."
</p>

<p>
"Woe to the loitering villain!" grumbled Home.
</p>

<p>
"His gudewife will be keeping him a-bed," said the other
lord; "and perhaps the poor man dare not rise."
</p>

<p>
"I <i>have</i> heard that the grey mare is the better horse here,"
said Blackcastle, as he blew a startling blast; "and I have seen
good proof that the poor gate-ward is only Joan Tamson's man,
as the saw hath it."
</p>

<p>
"How&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"The rosemary sprig borne at their wedding now flourishes in
his kail-yard, like a green bay-tree."
</p>

<p>
"The drowsy rascal; I'll strew its branches on his coffin
board.  Blow again!"
</p>

<p>
Once more Blackcastle poured the notes of his horn to the
wind; and as the echoes mingled with the roaring of the river
and the moaning of the trees, that low wailing cry, so chilling to
their hearts, was heard again; and now lights began to twinkle
in the warder's cottage.
</p>

<p>
"Pest upon thee, villain!" said Borthwick; "while we are
detained here, our birds may indeed be flown from Loretto.  He
ought to know 'tis no ordinary errand that bringeth men abroad
in weather such as this."
</p>

<p>
As he spake a white figure, evidently that of a woman in a
long dress, appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and
beckoned repeatedly to the troopers to attempt the ford.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis the keeper's wife," said one; "I ken the carlin weel by
her lang luggit mutch."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis the Kelpie&mdash;beware, beware!" said another, while their
horses trembled, kicked, and plunged, and their eyes shot fire, as
a deadly terror seemed to possess them&mdash;a terror easily
communicated to their superstitious riders.
</p>

<p>
Still the figure pointed to the ford and beckoned impatiently.
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, mistress," cried Hailes; "but we would rather
not attempt it; so instantly open the gate."
</p>

<p>
But she continued to beckon, and her voice, if she used it, was
lost in the howling of the wind and the hoarse roaring of the
stream; so, finding their horses were becoming quite unmanageable,
Lord Home lost his temper, a commodity which he was ever
losing and long of recovering.
</p>

<p>
"Hag!" he exclaimed; "undo the gate, or begone at once <i>to
hell</i>!"
</p>

<p>
On this, it is related, a wild shriek was heard, and the white
wavering figure disappeared.
</p>

<p>
At the same moment, the warder came hurriedly and opened
the barrier.
</p>

<p>
"Wretched varlet!" said the imperious Home, giving the man
a blow with his clenched hand; "thou hast kept us waiting long
enough; why did not that hag of thine open the gate, instead of
seeking to wile us by the ford?"
</p>

<p>
"A thousand humble pardons, noble gentlemen," stammered
the poor warder; "but&mdash;but&mdash;a hag, said ye?"
</p>

<p>
"Ay, thy gudewife, carle," said Blackcastle; "I know her
well enough by her long-eared coif."
</p>

<p>
"God assoil us!  Ye have seen a spirit; for my wife was
drowned at the ford this fatal morning, and noo we are streekin'
her puir wat corpse for the burial!  Oh! sirs," wept the keeper,
"what is this o't&mdash;what is this o't?"
</p>

<p>
"By St. Mary! we have seen a spectre!" shouted Hailes,
dashing spurs into his horse, and clearing the bridge at abound;
and furiously all the train followed him through the dark but
wide street of Musselburgh.
</p>

<p>
This event shed a species of horror over the whole party,
whose faculties, never very clear at any time, were past inquiring
whether or not it was a supernatural figure they had seen; so
they all spurred on to leave the bridge and stream behind, and
to reach Loretto as soon as possible.  But whether the delay
which occurred at the gate was productive of good or evil
consequences to the lovers at the Hermitage, another chapter or so
will disclose.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap51"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LI.
<br /><br />
LADY EFFIE'S LETTER.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "But now we part, and it may be that years shall wing their flight<br />
  Ere thou again wilt cheer my heart, or rise upon my sight;<br />
  Then fare thee well! in other days, in years of after life,<br />
  On fancy's wings, I'll turn to thee, and bless the land of Fife."&mdash;<i>Anon</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The weather had become gloomy, and continued so.  Though
the month was merry and sunny June, and all the woods of
fertile Fife were then in their fullest foliage, the sky lowered
heavily over the German Sea, and the waves of the Firth broke
sullenly on the pillared bluffs of Grail and Elie; and, driven by
the east wind, the breakers of Largo Bay broke furiously upon
the Dyke, and dashed their spray on the sandy shore beyond it.
</p>

<p>
This noble bay, in which the Scottish ships and their prizes
were still at anchor, forms a semicircle of about ten miles of
coast, marked by a peculiar ridge of sand, called by fishermen
the Dyke, and old tradition says it was a wall or rampart, that
ran from Kincraig, round all the bay, to Methul, and that it
contained a forest, called the Wood of Forth.  In corroboration of
this, the anchors of ships have been known to drag up the roots
of oaks from their beds in the sand below.
</p>

<p>
The <i>Yellow Frigate</i> and her consorts rode quietly there at
anchor, and safe from every wind but a south one.
</p>

<p>
Mean while, in Largo House there was a gay and joyous company,
for the hospitable old admiral made all welcome&mdash;Englishman
and Scot&mdash;to the noble dwelling with which the grateful king,
James III., had gifted him.  The castle was old, for in ancient
times it had been a jointure-house of the queens consort, and
built, some say, for Jolande de Dreux, the bride of Alexander III.
Northward of it rose the conical hill of Largo, green to its
summit, which stands nine hundred feet above the yellow shore.
Near the castle grew a pine coppice, in the centre of which
yawned a wild and deep ravine, the <i>Keil's Den</i>, famous in the
annals of sorcery and horror.  Through this brawled a mountain
burn, which rushed to meet the waters of the bay.
</p>

<p>
The noble barony of Largo had been granted by James III. to
his favourite admiral, because it was the place of his birth,
the royal donor considering, "Gratuita et fidelia servicia sibi per
familiarem servitorem suum Andream Wod, commorante in
Leith, tam per terram, quam per mare, in pace et guerra,
gratuiter impensa, in Regno Scotiæ et extra idem, et signanter
CONTRA INIMICOS SUOS ANGLIA, et dampnum per ipsum Andream
inde sustenta, suum personam gravibus vitæ exponendo periculus
18 die Martii, 1482;" for thus runs his charter, which is yet
preserved in the office of the great seal of Scotland.
</p>

<p>
The evening was grey; a mist was settling over the estuary
and the woods and hill of Largo looked dark and nigh; on the tower,
head of the admiral's mansion, Barton and Falconer were pacing
to and fro, with their quarter-deck step, conversing on their
chances in love and war, and awaiting the return of Willie Wad,
whom, as related, they had, on the previous day, despatched to
Leith with letters to the sisters.
</p>

<p>
The admiral was on board the fleet, seeing after the repair of
damages and awaiting tidings of the lost king or the rebellious
barons.
</p>

<p>
Howard and Margaret Drummond were seated together on
the cushioned seats of a deep window in the hall.  It overlooked
the wooded glen, through which the yellow sunlight straggled
in the haze of the misty evening; and both were silent and sad,
for their hearts were occupied by many heavy thoughts.
</p>

<p>
That of Howard was full of Margaret; but her heart was
wandering away to Rothesay and their child.
</p>

<p>
She was very pale, yet a tinge of health had returned to her
soft cheek, now that hope was reviving in her breast; now that
she was no longer the secret prisoner of Henry and the victim of
his cold intrigues; and now that she was about to be restored
to the powerful protection of her father, and her youthful
husband.  With her white hand she playfully caressed a large
Scottish staghound, which had ventured to nestle his great
rough head upon her knees.
</p>

<p>
Her fine bright hair, which she had long neglected&mdash;at least
during her sad sojourn on board the <i>Harry</i>&mdash;was now smoothly
braided above her forehead, and it shone like threads of gold in
the occasional sunbeams that stole through the deep embayment
of the window; and nothing could be prettier or more becoming
than the fashion of her blue velvet hood, with its white satin
lining, tied by twelve little friars' knots of fine silver&mdash;a favourite
ornament with the Scottish belles of the time.
</p>

<p>
Howard thought he had never seen her looking so beautiful
or so seductive; and she believed that she had never seen him
more sad and more silent.
</p>

<p>
The residence of a day or two in the lonely Castle of Largo, in
the society of the gentle Drummond, with the painful certainty
of a total separation now close at hand, had sealed the fate of the
poor English captain, by destroying his happiness for ever.
</p>

<p>
"Then I have no hope now&mdash;none?" said he, gazing upon her
tenderly and earnestly, as he referred to a previous and most
anxious conversation.
</p>

<p>
"It is most painful, good Howard, that my lips should&mdash;"
said Margaret, with hesitation, "should ever confirm anything
that&mdash;that is calculated to make unhappy a heart so kind, so
noble, and so true as thine: but oh, I beseech you to be assured,
that to love me is indeed a hopeless task."
</p>

<p>
"Curse on our king's cold-blooded policy!" he exclaimed, in
bitterness and sorrow.  "Had I known you under kinder and
better auspices,&mdash;under any other than as the compatriot of
infamous abductors, you had perhaps listened to me with more
approbation.  I am indeed unfortunate&mdash;more unhappy than the
power of language can convey."
</p>

<p>
He paused, and Margaret sighed with impatience.
</p>

<p>
"My heart, that never knew another love, is all your own,
sweet Margaret; it became so from that time when over your
senseless form I spread my cloak in pity; on that unfortunate
night at Dundee; a night to me the source of mingled joy and
woe, for then I knew you first."
</p>

<p>
"Alas, poor Edmund Howard; you were indeed born under
an evil star."
</p>

<p>
"Madam, it had been well for me if, in our battle in the
Downs, a shot from Barton's ships had ended my career, before
this northern mission was devised.  I had then been spared the
pain of losing you&mdash;of loving you in vain!"
</p>

<p>
He turned his eyes away, and pressed his hands upon his
breast, for the depth of his emotion was great.
</p>

<p>
Margaret gazed upon him with mournful interest: he was
indeed most winning in manner and noble in aspect, for he was
the stateliest captain in all King Henry's infant fleet.
</p>

<p>
His face and form were unexceptionable, and his attire was
gorgeous.  His tunic was cloth-of-gold, brocaded, and fastened
by twenty little clasps, studded with diamonds, and on each
breast were six slashes of blue silk.  A collar of twelve pearls,
with twelve medallions of the apostles, encircled his neck, and at
the end of it hung his silver whistle, his badge of office and
command.  His cap was of scarlet velvet, edged with pearls; his
long hose were of fawn-coloured silk, and his shoes of crimson
leather.
</p>

<p>
"Captain Howard," said Margaret, after a long and painful
pause, "I will make you the partner of a secret, if, on your
honour, you promise me to keep it from others; for it is of
mighty import to me,&mdash;a secret valuable as life, dear as honour."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, command me, madam," said Howard, kneeling down and
removing his cap, full of that chivalric enthusiasm which was
peculiar to the time as well as to the man.  "Your wish shall
teal my lips as close as death himself."
</p>

<p>
"Well, my kind, good Howard, imagine how I have suffered
by your professions of love to me, and how much is the pity I
feel, when obliged to acknowledge that I am the wedded wife of
the crown prince, and am now, by virtue of this <i>his ring</i>, the
Duchess of Rothesay, and Countess of Carrick."
</p>

<p>
Howard was paralysed by this fatal intelligence; again he
clasped his hands, and his nut-brown cheek grew ashy pale.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, madam," said he, "to me your secret is worse than
death; for now I am indeed hopeless, crushed, and ruined
Honour and love are alike lost to me!  The wife of Rothesay&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Wedded to him, Howard, a year ago, in my uncle's cathedral
of Dunblane.  'Tis best to know the worst at once&mdash;ay, wedded!"
</p>

<p>
"Despite his betrothal to a princess of England?"
</p>

<p>
"Despite a more serious barrier&mdash;our ties of blood; and hence
this fatal secresy."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, most fatal&mdash;fatal, at least, to me!  But say, dear madam,
knew Henry our king of this espousal?"
</p>

<p>
"He knew not, or, knowing, little cared: but the Bishop of
Dunblane has been lawlessly seized on his way from Rome with
our dispensation, and now well must Henry know this well-kept
secret, which was hidden even from my father and my own
beloved sisters."
</p>

<p>
Now there was a long and sorrowful pause.
</p>

<p>
Howard felt assured that he could urge nothing more, and
Margaret, after a time, spoke kindly to him of other things&mdash;but
in vain; for his passion for her was the only idea that had
soothed, or made him forget at times the mortification of being
a prisoner, and of his late defeat&mdash;a defeat so remarkable, when
the smallness of the attacking force is considered: but history
shows us, that in all his battles Sir Andrew Wood never feared
to encounter double his strength at any time, and never encountered
without being victorious; so, on that score Howard had no
reason for shame.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile, the communings of Robert Barton and Sir Davis
Falconer on the bartizan overhead were interrupted by the
appearance of Master Wad, who, bonnet in hand, ascended to
their lofty promenade by the narrow wheel-stair of a turret, that
gave admittance to the battlement, and which yet overlooks the
orchard of the house.
</p>

<p>
"Welcome, good shipmate," said Barton.
</p>

<p>
"Well, what tidings, Willie?" added Falconer; for in Scotland
it is still the kindly custom with persons in authority to address
inferiors by their <i>Christian</i> name.
</p>

<p>
Not conceiving it conducive either to his interest or reputation
to relate how he had lost, and so narrowly regained, the letter of
Lady Euphemia, the gunner smoothed down his obstinate forelock,
made the invariable scrape with his foot, and delivered the
missive to Robert Barton; after which he hurried away to join
one whom he deemed his own peculiar prisoner,&mdash;the pretty
English Rose, who had been also awaiting his return.
</p>

<p>
"It is from Euphemia!" said Barton, reading it hurriedly;
"from dear Effie; and she says it must equally suffice for one
from Sybilla to you.  It tells of close surveillance, of their father's
roughness, and their new lovers' cool insolence and quiet
pertinacity.  'Sdeaih! would we were alongside of them for three
minutes&mdash;only three minutes, Davie.  A time has been fixed for
their marriage&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Their marriage!" reiterated Falconer, stamping his heel on
the bartizan.
</p>

<p>
"They dread the arrival of their uncle the dean&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"A stern man&mdash;hard of heart and dark of brow; I know him
well."
</p>

<p>
"And implore us to find a place where they can be sheltered
until these troubles are past, and the army of the insurgent lords
is disbanded.  Moreover, they promise to meet us on Friday
evening at the Chapel of Loretto, beside the Links of
Musselburgh&mdash;kind Effie!"
</p>

<p>
"We'll keep the tryst," said Falconer; "Loretto&mdash;know ye
the place, Robert, for we must not wander much on yonder side
of Forth?"
</p>

<p>
"I know it well; 'tis a run of eighteen miles across the river,
and we'll take the ship's pinnace or the boat of Jamie Gair, which
lies yonder, anchored by the Dyke; but to find them a place of
shelter, that puzzles me sorely!"
</p>

<p>
"If dear Sybie would but marry me&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Perhaps she would, David, now, when matters are at the
worst; but where would you place her, while you were
afloat&mdash;eh?"
</p>

<p>
"Alas!  I have neither house nor hold&mdash;nor any home, but
the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>."
</p>

<p>
"Nor I; for now these rebel lords have seized my manor of
Barnton and my father's house in Leith; but I hope soon to make
a clear ship of them."
</p>

<p>
"Then all those dog-nobles would cry aloud for vengeance, at
the sisters taking shelter with us."
</p>

<p>
"Two jovial young bachelors."
</p>

<p>
"Nay," said Falconer, with a sigh of anger; "as two plebeians,
whose presumption brought dishonour on a noble house."
</p>

<p>
"Let them cry; it suits their fancy."
</p>

<p>
"But we must find a secret as well as sure place, lest they
be carried off from us at the sword's point; for the Lords
Drummond, Hailes, and Home, could march with ease five thousand
men to recover them.  I know their power better than thee,
Robert, the half of whose life, and more, has been spent upon the
water.  Besides, Lady Euphemia has written to you, perhaps,
when spurred on by some keen excitement; and it may so chance
that when the time comes, they will shrink from committing
themselves to our care."
</p>

<p>
"What!  Effie shrink from committing herself to the care of
her betrothed?  Thou art a timid lover, Davie."
</p>

<p>
"I am crushed in spirit by my evil fortune."
</p>

<p>
"When their hearts are touched, women (and to their glory
be it said) scorn alike the vaunted rubbish of feudal pride and
the cold north wind of worldly prudence!  Besides, who has a
better right to secure the safety of Lady Effie than I?  Am I
not her affianced husband, whose ring of promise is on her finger?
Stay&mdash;thou knowest, Davie, that my aunt, Robina Barton, is
prioress of the Grey Sisters at Dundee; and for the love she
bears us, she will gladly keep the three sisters until this breeze
blows past and the king's authority is enforced."
</p>

<p>
"Right, Rob; I would rather trust them with that reverend
lady and her good Claresses, than in the strongest castle in
Scotland.  For these lords might storm and sack the stronghold&mdash;even
the Bass itself,&mdash;when they dare not molest the poor
nuns; but we must consult the admiral&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"He is on board the ships in the bay."
</p>

<p>
"Or Howard&mdash;but then he is an Englishman, and consequently
knows little or nothing of Scotland or her customs."
</p>

<p>
"But he is a brave fellow, a foeman though he be," said
Barton, with a darkening face; "and I might learn to love him
had not my father fallen in battle by his brother's hand."
</p>

<p>
Leaving the two friends and lovers to arrange, consider and
reconsider their plans,&mdash;leaving poor Howard to console himself
the best way he can,&mdash;leaving the admiral busied about his ships
and their prizes, while his gunner and coxswain, though staunch
Scotsmen, were yielding to English influence, like greater men in
more modern times, but after a more honourable fashion, for
they were lowering their colours to the pretty Cicely, and the
bright-eyed Rose, on whom their kind leader had bestowed two
carcanets of silver, studded with those beautiful stones which are
found upon the beach of Fife, and from their deep red colour are
called Elie Rubies&mdash;leaving Father Zuill busied in the development
of the great parabolic speculum,&mdash;and leaving young Margaret
sighing with impatience to rejoin her boy husband, we will
change the scene to the other side of the river.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap52"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LII.
<br /><br />
THE HERMIT OF LORETTO.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "'Tis your belief the world was made for man;<br />
  Kings do but reason on the self-same plan.<br />
  Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn,<br />
  Who think, or seem to think, man made for them."&mdash;<i>COWPER.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Among all the places esteemed for sanctity, at a time when
a singular mixture of high religious veneration and a strong
faith amounting to adoration and sublimity, united to gross
superstition,&mdash;existed in the land, there was none in Scotland
so famous as the chapel and hermitage of Our Lady of Loretto,
which stood a little way without the eastern gate of Musselburgh.
</p>

<p>
It belonged to the abbots of Dunfermline, and had been built
in an age anterior to all written record; so now, we know not
when it was founded or by whom.  The obscurity in which its
early history was enveloped left fancy free, and thus the fane
enjoyed a celebrity for holiness second only to the Cottage of
the Nativity, like which, it became famous for effecting
supernatural cures and conversions on visitors and devotees.
</p>

<p>
The nuns of St. Catharine of Sienna patronised the cell and
sought the prayers of the ascetic who dwelt in the hermitage.
In August, 1530, before visiting France, James V. made a
pilgrimage of more than forty miles on foot, to Loretto.  Ladies
about to be delivered sent there their childbed linen, to obtain
the "odour of sanctity."  If they recovered, the hermit attributed
it to the powers of the shrine; if they died, to their own
evil and sin.  There, it was affirmed that sight had been restored
to the blind, and strength to the lame; but under the coarse and
pungent satires of Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, and one in
particular by John Knox, beginning&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "I, Thomas the Hermit, in Loreitte,<br />
  Sanct Francies Order do heartillie greet,"<br />
</p>

<p>
the shrine ultimately lost all reputation and honour; it was
demolished, and its materials form the present Tolbooth of the
town&mdash;little more being left of Loretto than the name and a
vault under a wooded mound.
</p>

<p>
By the decline of the Church, and the general decay of religious
sentiment, before the Reformation, the pilgrimages to Loretto
became mere scenes of debauchery and an excuse for licentiousness.
</p>

<p>
In the days of James III. the shrine enjoyed its ancient
fame&mdash;pure and undefiled; and Father Fairlie, the Franciscan who
then occupied the hermitage, afterwards attained a great age, for
he was the immediate predecessor of the Father Thomas referred
to in the pasquil of Knox.  Though a pious enthusiast in some
respects, he was not at all one of those who thought
</p>

<p class="t3">
  "To merit heaven by making earth a hell."<br />
</p>

<p>
He had been a soldier in his youth, and fought in the Douglas
wars; so he said his office daily and never omitted his prayers,
or withheld kind advice from those who sought his shrine; and
yet withal, he enjoyed the various good things of this life that
came his way.  Thus, though he went abroad barefooted and
wore the grey woollen gown and cowl, with the knotted girdle
prescribed by his patron St. Francis of Assisi, he was one of the
most sleek and well fed of the brotherhood in Scotland.
</p>

<p>
It was towards the afternoon of that stormy day described in
a recent chapter.  From the Firth a cool wind blew over the sandy
knolls and broomy hollows of Musselburgh Links; the old woods
of Pinkey and the venerable oaks around the Chapel of Loretto
moaned in the rising wind, and their damp foliage whistled
drearily.  The sky wore a dingy grey hue to the eastward,
darkening as it approached the horizon, which served as a
background, and against which the white curling waves of the Firth
rose and fell, while the bitter surf boomed far along the echoing
shore.
</p>

<p>
No less than three substantial burgess-wives of the "honest
town" had been at the shrine on this morning, craving the prayers
of the hermit; one for the recovery of her spouse, who was a
leper on Inchkeith; a second that her child might be cured of
the croup; and a third that her husband might escape from the
Turks, who had taken him prisoner in the Levant, all of which
Father Fairlie promised should be done "without delay, if they
had <i>faith</i>;"&mdash;however, each had what was of more importance to
him, a basket of viands, ready cooked, which they deposited and
departed.
</p>

<p>
The hermit, after a long and sorrowful contemplation of a
daintily roasted duck and side of lamb, was compelled (the day
being Friday) to content himself with a couple of pounds of
kippered salmon, five or six buttered eggs, and a quart of Rhenish
wine for dinner; after which he stroked his paunch, made a sign
of the cross three times, and blessed the three burgess-wives in
his heart.  He then drew his grey cowl over his face, and walked
forth upon the beach for the double purpose of gaining an
appetite for supper and saying "his office," or daily set of
prescribed prayers in Latin; though some persons who were envious of
the popularity enjoyed by Friar Fairlie among the maids, wives,
and widows of the honest town&mdash;for so was Musselburgh
named, <i>par excellence</i>, by the Regent Randolph in 1333&mdash;averred
that he knew no more of Latinity than a few scraps,
with which he incessantly interlarded his conversation; and as
the said scraps sounded very mysterious and holy, they were not
without having a due and potent effect upon the simple-minded
folks who heard them.  Some were rash enough to assert that at
vespers he had been heard in his hermitage singing, "Jollie
Martin," and that old ditty which became so famous in the time
of James V.&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Bill wilt thou come by a lute<br />
  And belt thee in Sanct Francis cord;"<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
but all this we verily believe to have been mere scandal, raised
by the chaplains of other oratories in the burgh, who belonged
to rival orders, and were envious of the fame enjoyed
by the poor Franciscan hermit and his shrine at Loretto, without
the gate.
</p>

<p>
The attention of our new friend the recluse was divided
between his daily office, which he repeated drowsily and
mechanically, and in watching the lowering of the sky and sea, on
which a boat with her large lug-sail squared was running straight
for the beach which bordered the links.
</p>

<p>
She cut through the water, riding over, or cleaving asunder
the waves with her sharp prow, and throwing on each side a
continual shower of spray; the helmsman steered her straight
for the shore, and being aware that the tide was ebbing, beached
her firmly into the soft sand, while at the same moment two
companions whom he had on board reduced the sail, hauled
down the yard, and struck the mast.  They then threw over the
anchor, to keep her fast when the tide floated her again; and
stepping into the surf in their long boots which came above the
knee, they crossed the links (or downs, as they would be called
in England) and approached the observant friar.
</p>

<p>
The latter was glad to perceive that one of the trio carried an
ample basket on one arm and had a small keg under the other;
and these&mdash;as there were no smugglers in those primitive
times&mdash;he fondly believed were dutiful offerings for himself.
</p>

<p>
The three men, who came straight towards him, wore the
coarse grey doublet, cloak, and short trews then worn by the
Scottish seaman, with long fisher boots; but under this plain
attire, the quick eye of the hermit detected in each the upper rim
of a gorget of fine steel, and other indications which led him to
suspect that two of them at least, were gentlemen, who under
their humble garments had each a good coat of mail; and such
was really the case, for the three mysterious boat voyagers were
none else than Robert Barton, Sir David Falconer, and Willie
Wad, who had boldly run across that morning from Largo in a
fisherboat, all undeterred by the threatening aspect of the sky
and weather, and still less by terror of the insurgents&mdash;for each
had with him his sword, dagger, and handgun.
</p>

<p>
"Good-morrow, father," said Barton, with a profound salutation;
"we presume you are the Franciscan Father of Loretto."
</p>

<p>
"Dominus vobiscum&mdash;gude-morrow, my bairns," said the
Hermit, waving a blessing to them with his fat fingers; "come
ye here to pray?" he added, eyeing with affection the basket
and barrel.
</p>

<p>
"We have run in here and anchored, good father, for the
double purpose of avoiding the black squall now coming on, and
if offering up a small orison at the shrine of Loretto,
where&mdash;much as I have heard of it&mdash;I never, to my shame, have been
before," said Robert Barton.
</p>

<p>
"Come ye here, sirs, to pray alone?" asked the hermit
inquisitively.
</p>

<p>
"Alone"&mdash;reiterated Falconer, puzzled by the question; "dost
see there are three of us?"
</p>

<p>
"Benedictus dominus Deus," said the friar, shrugging his
shoulders, over which his grey cowl hung, for by past experience,
he had a shrewd guess that ladies would soon arrive.
</p>

<p>
"This is the way to my hermitage&mdash;enter, and the blessings of
the day be on ye, for every day is blessed."
</p>

<p>
"The eleventh of this month, for example?" said Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, in all his wickedness, man cannot curse it; but our
poor king&mdash;are there yet no tidings of him?"
</p>

<p>
"None; and awful rumours are abroad anent his fate."
</p>

<p>
"Our pilgrimage here is dark and devious," sighed Father
Fairlie, eyeing the basket again; "yea, it is full of pitfalls,
crooks, and thorns&mdash;Benedictus dom&mdash;&mdash;but take care, friend,
that barrel will slip and the ale be spilled."
</p>

<p>
"Wha tauld ye it was ale, friar?" asked the gunner, with a
smirk; "maybe it's only bilge?"
</p>

<p>
"What?" asked the Franciscan.
</p>

<p>
"Peace, Willie," said Sir David Falconer; "by my faith,
priest, it is the best of French brandy."
</p>

<p>
"Well, as I was saying, our path here in this valley of sorrow,
is indeed full of dangers and doubt.  The poor king&mdash;(brandy
indeed!&mdash;Causa nostræ lætitiæ!)&mdash;the king of the commons,
alake!" and the friar beat his breast, through which a glow had
spread on hearing with what the keg was filled.
</p>

<p>
They now approached the chapel, which was surrounded by a
high stone wall, and stood amid a grove of venerable oak trees,
the branches of which were widely spread and entwined together.
One of these bore the name of the Weirdwoman's Aik, from
what circumstance it is now impossible to ascertain, but
innumerable tales of terror were connected with it.  There the souls
of those who had committed acts of sacrilege during their
lifetime had been heard to moan, and were seen to hover near
the precincts of the holy place; there the Druids had performed
their impious rites in the days of their awful rule; and there the
gentle fairies yet danced in the bright moonlight, on the festival
of St. John, as every hermit of Loretto had averred since the
chapel was founded.
</p>

<p>
Moreover, more than one fugitive, who, unable to reach the
sanctuary of the chapel, or, mistrusting its security, had clambered
up the oak and taken shelter there, <i>had never more come down</i>;
thus it was with something of the superstitious awe incident
to their time and profession that Barton, Falconer and the gunner
gazed up at the dark, dense foliage of the weirdwoman's aik,
and approached the chapel.
</p>

<p>
This venerable fane, which had been built by the <i>Kuldei</i>
(corrupted gaelic for "the servants of God") at a time when
sculpture was merely an adjunct to masonry, was massive and
plain; for though erected for the simple form of worship those
early priests performed within its walls, it exhibited the engrafted
decorations of later times.  Built of dark grey stone, it was a
simple parallelogram, destitute of transept and of aisle.  Its
door and windows were arched, and the latter were small and
placed high in the wall, having been for ages unglazed,&mdash;the
<i>Kuldee</i> architect had wished to screen the half-savage
worshippers from the cold east wind that usually blows from the
Forth, and from the sandy links; yet much of the solemnity
and mystery peculiar to catholic edifices were imparted to it, by
a gilded figure of the Saviour on his cross, which stood above the
altar; and before it, were daily offerings of flowers.
</p>

<p>
Above this image shone the letters I.N.R.I.; below was a
niche covered by a grotesquely sculptured canopy of stone: here
were the elements, within a gilded door, around which were the
following words in old gothic letters,
cut in the stone, and flourished
in blue and gold.
</p>

<p class="t3" style="font-family: Old English Text MT, Times New Roman, serif">
  Hic. Est. Servatum Corpos. ex. vergine. natum.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
While the three visitors, after dipping their right hands in the
font at the chapel door, proceeded, like good catholics, to say a
prayer or two on their knees before the carved stone rail which
enclosed the altar, the hermit peeped into the basket which the
gunner had left without (giving him a wink and nod as he did
so); and the reverend father enumerated the contents with great
satisfaction, muttering between many a scrap of pious Latinity,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"A goose, roasted&mdash;daintily, too&mdash;mater purissima!&mdash;and stuffed
with cloves and spices, doubtless; a pout pasty; three choppin
flasks of Rochelle, as I live! good;&mdash;and a mutchkin of canary; a
bag of maccaroons, with ten crowns, and five lyons&mdash;Dominus
vobiscum.  Master gunner, you are a worthy soul; and your
masters are generous!"
</p>

<p>
The brevity of their prayers convinced the hermit that they
had not come for religious purposes alone, and scrutinizing them
he said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"My gude sirs, your mariners' garb fails to conceal from me
that you have iron harness below these gaberdines of frieze."
</p>

<p>
"True, father," said Barton, smiling; "we are shelled over
like partans.  But what of that?  In these desperate times men
are not wont to go abroad unarmed."
</p>

<p>
"Then who may ye be?"
</p>

<p>
"We may be a couple of rascals," said Falconer, laughing, in
that free manner acquired by soldiering; "and would be traitors,
most likely, if our blood was noble; but being of humble birth,
or only the sons of our own deserts, we are the king's liege men,
and true Scotsmen."
</p>

<p>
"Benedictus dominus," mumbled the hermit.
</p>

<p>
"This is Robert Barton, captain of the yellow caravel; this is
Master Wad, our gunner wight, and I am David Falconer;
knight, and a captain of the king's arquebusses."
</p>

<p>
The fat and full-faced hermit threw back his cowl, and taking
each by the hand with warmth, said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"God and St. Mary bless ye, sirs; for though your fathers
were but humble men, you are the sons of gallant deeds, and
have stood nobly by our hapless king.  Welcome to my poor
cell, sirs, and to share the gude cheer ye have brought me.  But
hark&mdash;here are horses!" he added, as the sound of hoofs was
heard without.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap53"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LIII.
<br /><br />
THE TRYST AT LORETTO.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Perfect love hath power to soften<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Cares that might our peace destroy;<br />
  Nay, does more&mdash;transforms them often,&mdash;<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Changing sorrow into joy."&mdash;COWPER.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The hermit's eyes were filled by a cunning leer, as two ladies,
each followed by a page and female attendant, all mounted, rode
down the pathway to the chapel, and, whipping up their nags as
they passed the Weirdwoman's Aik, they alighted at the arched
doorway, from which Barton and Falconer hurried forth to
meet them, full of joy and ardour.
</p>

<p>
"Causa nostræ lætitiæ!" said the hermit.  "I kenned how it
would be; the hen-birds are come at last!"
</p>

<p>
Now, as interviews between lovers are usually very delightful
to young ladies in general, we might for their benefit narrate at
great length all that was said and done by the two fair
Drummonds and the brave loyalists who met them at Loretto; but a
foreknowledge of the dire conclusion of their tryst, has somewhat
chilled us, and so we hasten to unfold the more important part of
their adventures.
</p>

<p>
"So, so; Sancta Maria!" muttered the sleek hermit, as he
reckoned on his fingers the sum given by the page of Lady
Euphemia, and the contents of a basket given him by the other.
"Such is the fashion of prayer in these degenerate modern
times, and such are the pilgrims who usually come to pray.
Once it was not so.  A pity, too, 'tis Friday!  That pout pie will
be quite stale to-morrow.  But away with these thoughts, for
here is a pie of buttered crabs, on which I can sup bravely, and
with a clear conscience."
</p>

<p>
"By my certie, Friar Fairlie, ye might victual a sea-going
ship," said Willie Wad.  "Here now are a cask, six flasks, and
three baskets."
</p>

<p>
"Well," responded the hermit, sulkily, "I shall have the more
wherewith to feed the hungry, the puir headsmen and lamiters,
who will be here betimes in the morning.  King William the
Lion ordained that 'Kirkmen should live honestlie by the fruits
and profits of their kirk;' even so, sir gunner, do I live by the
profit and fruit of mine.  I lippen to none, and none can say that
while I have a drop to share or a crumb to divide, the poor or
the hungry left the cell of Loretto uncared for."
</p>

<p>
"How black it grows without," said the gunner, somewhat
abashed, as he hastened to change the subject, and the chapel
became dark and gloomy, while the distant waves were heard to
roll like thunder on the lonely beach.  "Those that are at sea
to-night will hae about as mickle sleep as a weathercock may, in
a close-reef-topsail breeze."
</p>

<p>
"Then do thou take up the barrel and basket, while I take
these, and come hither with me, master gunner.  And you,
gentlemen," he added, to the pages; "this stair leads to my cell.
Let us leave these four friends to their prayers (prayers&mdash;mater
purissima!), while we arrange for them something by way of
repast.  Look ye, sirs, and be quick.  Hark! is that rain?"
</p>

<p>
Now the storm which swelled the Esk, and served to detain
the would-be murderers in the chapel on the Figgate-muir, was
beginning to descend in all its fury, and the grove of Loretto
waved in the rising wind, while the deep heavy foliage of the
weirdwoman's tree swayed mournfully in the gusty blasts.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile, heedless of it (for perhaps they heard it not) the
lovers poured out their hearts to each other; for their cause was
common, and Barton had nothing for the ear of Euphemia that
Falconer might not hear, while he had no secret for Sybilla in
which his friend had not an interest.  It was their common
safety, and the successful issue of their fortunes on which they
now consulted.
</p>

<p>
Impetuous and impulsive, with all her firmness, Euphemia
gave way to tears and wept bitterly; and the breast of Sybilla
was swollen by many a heavy sob.  Falconer left nothing unsaid
to console and to soothe her, while he gazed upon her tenderly,
as if he would have said in the words of the poet,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Would I were with thee every day and hour<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Which now I spend so sadly, far from thee!<br />
  Would that my form possessed the magic power<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To follow where my heavy heart would be.<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Whate'er thy lot by land or sea,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Would I were there, eternally!"<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
"My poor blossom, how faded and how pale!" said Falconer,
encircling her by an arm.  "But take new courage, dear one,
for be assured that happier days will come.  God controlleth our
destinies, and whatever is in store for you, Sybilla, must be
happiness and peace."
</p>

<p>
"I cannot, without presumption, assure myself of that.  I have
endured so much, Sir David, since that awful day at Dundee!"
she added, closing her eyes for a moment as the scene in the
garden came before her.
</p>

<p>
"Forget it, as I have forgotten it, my sweet one."
</p>

<p>
"We have been so lonely and so isolated, Euphemia and I,
that&mdash;that&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Thou hast missed me, then, beloved Sybilla!"
</p>

<p>
"Oh yes, as a bird misses the sunshine," said she, with a bright
smile through her tears.
</p>

<p>
A mute caress was the only reply of Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"And this may be the last time we shall ever meet!" said
Sybilla, clasping her hands.
</p>

<p>
"Unless we find a safe harbour for you," said Barton.
</p>

<p>
"And found it must be, Robert," said the firmer Euphemia;
"for if we return to place ourselves under the authority of
our father, and&mdash;and the influence of our uncle, that cold and
determined dean, we will be hopelessly separated from you; for,
women though we be, we dare not refuse to wed those facile fools
of Angus, Hepburn of Hailes, and Home of Home."
</p>

<p>
Barton uttered a bitter laugh, which almost burst the braces
of his cuirass.
</p>

<p>
"What say you to this, Sybilla?" asked Falconer, with a
mournful smile.
</p>

<p>
"I have nothing to urge," said she, gently; "my mind has
long been without hope, and my heart is so crushed by sorrow
that I have now less courage than a child."
</p>

<p>
"Has the Lord Drummond forgotten altogether that you
are my plighted wife, Euphemia?" asked Barton, in a mingled
tone of tenderness and anger.
</p>

<p>
"He forgets all&mdash;everything&mdash;or despises to remember&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"And faith!  I had almost forgotten to give thee that
particular kiss our dear Margaret sent thee."
</p>

<p>
"Stay&mdash;the friar&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, the hermit&mdash;he is busy overhauling our baskets;
well&mdash;and so Lord Drummond forgets, eh?"
</p>

<p>
"Everything of the past; and now sees nothing but two earl's
coronets and clumps of Border spears; and hears nothing but
the whispers of envy, anger, and restless ambition&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Ay&mdash;and treason and rebellion."
</p>

<p>
"Hush, Bob," said the less confident Falconer; "bethink you
he is <i>their</i> father?"
</p>

<p>
"Poor infatuated old lord," continued Barton, pursuing his own
train of thought; "in these times it may be rash to wed, when one
half of Scotland has unsheathed the sword against the other; but
why may we not bring in the hermit; here is an altar (in the
kingdom we have none holier), and we have witnesses enough&mdash;the
pages, the tirewomen, and the gunner.  Father Fairlie will
splice us all in half the time a reel would run; what say you, dear
Euphemia?"
</p>

<p>
Sybilla coloured deeply at this proposal, while her sister waved
her hand in dissent and said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Nay, nay, Robert Barton; say no more of that, or this instant
we mount and ride westward again; shelter we must have&mdash;a
sanctuary&mdash;but not such as you would propose."
</p>

<p>
"Then for the love she bears me, my aunt, the old Claress cf
Dundee, will gladly receive you both."
</p>

<p>
"Such was our wish; but how to reach her?"
</p>

<p>
"By horse or boat&mdash;which you will.  Sauchie's soldiers guard the
Bridge of Stirling; but the king's ships keep the passage of the river
at Alloa.  At present neither mode can be thought of&mdash;to-night at
least; for we shall have a blast that will furrow up the very bottom
of the sea, and show old wrecks that lie among the weeds and
waste below; yet we shall be happy enough here, whate'er betide
without."
</p>

<p>
"I often think, dear Robert, that happiness has left us for ever!"
said the elder sister, with a sigh.
</p>

<p>
"Heaven hath its own ways, Effie, of working out its own ends;
and thus it may be all for the best of purposes that we now are
beating against a head-wind with the ebb-tide of misfortune to boot."
</p>

<p>
"Circumstances are seldom so bad, Lady Euphemia, that they
might not be worse," said Falconer, cheerfully; "we might both
have been maimed or slain outright in our last battle with the
English&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, that would have been a scene of horror!" said Sybilla,
wringing her hands.
</p>

<p>
"Horror, indeed, dearest Sybie!  When the ships crushed together
till the muzzles of their cannon rung, and the boarders were brayed
to death between them, as their sides thundered in collision."
</p>

<p>
"Yea, David," said the Captain; "many a brave fellow found a
watery grave that night, and is now lying in pickle off the Isle of
May.  But let us visit the Father Hermit in his cell; after having
a slice of meat and a bicker of wine we shall be better able to arrange
our thoughts.  And hark!  By my soul, what a blast!  How the gale
rises as the spirits of the air pipe up freak gusts of wind; all at sea
must keep sure watch to-night!"
</p>

<p>
The tempestuous state of the evening prevented the chapel being
favoured by any more visitors; and the whole party (including the
four attendants of the ladies), making ten persons in all, sat on the
stone benches of the Hermit's cell, and by the light of a lamp supped
pleasantly enough; though the wind howled through the trees, and
moaned in the openings of a burial vault close by, and the boom of
the sea resounded on the beach, while the glare of the lightning
reddened at times the two narrow slits which served as windows to
the recluse's dormitory, and on the coarse glass of which the heavy
rain-drops pattered and hissed.
</p>

<p>
Willie Wad, having nothing else to do (for the ladies' attendants
seemed more occupied by the gaily-dressed pages than with him),
coiled himself up in a corner, and knowing that he would have to
keep the harbour-watch on board to-morrow night, had gone to
sleep with that sailor-like facility which defies all discomfort.
</p>

<p>
The attendants were awed into silence by the reputed holiness of
the place; the aspect of the cowled hermit, in his grey Franciscan
frock, sitting silent and reserved, as he always did before strangers;
and by the grim aspect of the cell, which was all built of bare hewn
stone, and darkened by age.
</p>

<p>
In a recess on one side lay the bed of the recluse; on the other was
a rudely sculptured niche, before which projected a little stone font
for holy water; within it was a coarse crucifix of black-thorn and
a bare skull, well polished by long use; and having inscribed on its
blanched bony temples a pious legend.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap54"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LIV.
<br /><br />
THE WEIRDWOMAN'S TREE.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "I count the man most worthless who would feed<br />
  His wavering soul with vain delusive hope;<br />
  To live with glory, or with glory die,<br />
  Befits the noble."&mdash;<i>Sophocles.</i><br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The evening was growing into night.
</p>

<p>
The conversation at Loretto had been maintained in broken and
unconnected sentences, or in low whispers; the hermit had retrimmed
his lamp, removed the remains of the supper, and composed himself
to finish that part of his "office" which yet remained unsaid; and
then he told the maids and pages many a wonderful story of the
miraculous cures effected at the shrine: how the blind had recovered
their sight, the sick their health; how the lame had left their
crutches and wooden legs behind them; and how, when an impious
boy had cast a stone at the image of Our Lady, blood dropped from
her nostrils, to the horror of the beholders, and how that wild little
boy died the mitred Abbot of Dunfermline.
</p>

<p>
Then the gunner, who had wakened up, told many a story of a
somewhat different character: of the achievements of Andrew Wood,
and of brave old Andrew Barton; and how, in the old war waged by
Scotland against the Dutch and Portuguese, he had swept all the
ocean of their ships, from the Fortunate Isles to the swamps of the
Zuiderzee; capturing, sinking, or burning their gilded argosies and
noble carracques, to avenge the murder of some Scottish mariners
on the high seas in time of peace; and how he had barrelled up
their heads in brine, and sent some scores of them to Stirling (to the
no small horror of the good King James) as the best proof of how
he was discharging his duty,&mdash;and as the records of the Secret Council
still remain to show.
</p>

<p>
The wind had gone down as the night darkened; the rain had
ceased, and now little more was heard than the roar of the billows on
the level shore; but the lovers were thoughtful and silent, for the
time of separation was approaching, and no definite plan had been
resolved on.
</p>

<p>
Amid this silence the tread of an armed man&mdash;if one might judge
by the jangling rowels of heavy military spurs&mdash;was heard to cross
the chapel floor above them; for the hermitage was in one of the
numerous vaults below the edifice.
</p>

<p>
"Gate of Heaven&mdash;a visitor!" said the hermit, closing his book,
and softly ascending the narrow stair to the chapel.  Falconer
followed with his sword half drawn, and prepared for any meeting or
emergency.
</p>

<p>
The chapel was empty; there was no one there, and the door was
still closed, lest the wind might extinguish the six tapers that were
always burning before the little altar.
</p>

<p>
"This is most strange!" said the fat hermit, with an expression
of perplexity on his sleek round face.  "No man can have crossed
the chapel, and closed the door too, before we could see him."
</p>

<p>
"Some one may be without," said Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"Sancta Maria! it may be a warning of approaching evil; keep
back, Sir David, a little way, while I look without; for none dare
meddle with me."
</p>

<p>
Setting down his lamp, the hermit softly opened the chapel door,
slipped out, and looked round him; the wind had sunk into a low
moaning sough; the stars were shining through the gaps in the
flying clouds.  These gaps revealed patches of blue, occasionally;
their ragged edges were tinged by the moon; and a lurid light was
visible at the horizon.  The night was still wild-looking; but the
storm was evidently past.
</p>

<p>
On the pathway which led to the chapel, he saw a group of
mounted horsemen, one of whom was giving directions to the rest
and in about half a minute after, they separated and formed
themselves in a circle round the edifice, with the unmistakeable design
of surrounding and entrapping its unwary inmates.
</p>

<p>
The friar softly and hastily closed the door, and drew across it
the ponderous oak bar by which it was secured.
</p>

<p>
"How now, Father Hermit?" said Falconer, startled by the pale
and excited aspect of his usually rubicund visage; "what is the
matter?"
</p>

<p>
"Matter!  Sancta Maria ora pro nobis&mdash;the chapel is beset!" he
cried, rushing down stairs to alarm still more the startled inmates
"we are surrounded, hemmed in on all sides!"
</p>

<p>
"By whom?" asked Falconer, furiously.
</p>

<p>
"Men&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"The devil, friar!  I scarcely expected it would be by wild
beasts."
</p>

<p>
"You may find them little better, perhaps.  They are a band of
armed horsemen, who must be in pursuit of you, and who have
heard our voices or seen the light through this small loop of glass."
</p>

<p>
"Horsemen!" said Euphemia; "they must be the mosstroopers of
Lord Home, or of Hailes.  Alas!  Robert Barton, we&mdash;<i>we</i> have lured
you to this destruction!"
</p>

<p>
"Ora pro nobis," mumbled the bewildered hermit, looking upward
imploringly; "alack&mdash;is this a time for wretched men to wage a
strife amongst themselves, when the elements are at war with us all?"
</p>

<p>
"Away, away, dearest David," said Sybilla, throwing herself into
the arms of Falconer; "reach your boat, and trust to the waves
rather than to them.  They dare not harm <i>us</i>&mdash;but you and Robert
Barton&mdash;oh, Mother above, have mercy on us!"
</p>

<p>
At that moment, the two female attendants unwisely began to
utter noisy cries of terror, while the startled pages, though but boys,
grasped their poniards; then a knocking, like thunder, shook the
chapel door, and a fierce laugh was heard without the little painted
window of the cell, at which Sybilla saw a grim and bearded face
appear, with its eyes glittering under the peak of an iron morion;
for there stood Borthwick, with his brazen visage, and heart as hard
as steel.
</p>

<p>
"Be calm," said Barton&mdash;"be silent all," he added, with a voice
of authority; "take courage, and remember that this is a
sanctuary&mdash;a holy place."
</p>

<p>
"You should have remembered that before making it the scene of
amorous assignations and unholy dalliance," said the hermit, with
something of anger.
</p>

<p>
"Pardon us," said Barton; "yet it is not the less a sanctuary."
</p>

<p>
"But, I fear me, these masterful limmers would violate the
blessed sepulchre itself," replied the friar, bitterly, as he hastened to
conceal the barrel, the two baskets, and the six flasks, in the niche
beyond the crucifix and skull.
</p>

<p>
"Violate it! dost thou think so?" asked Barton, drawing his
sword.
</p>

<p>
At that instant, again the thundering knocks rang on the chapel
door, and shouts were heard.
</p>

<p>
"A Home! a Home!"
</p>

<p>
"Dost think they will commit sacrilege?"
</p>

<p>
"What dare they not do?  Hear ye not they are Homes?"
</p>

<p>
"True&mdash;true," said Falconer, biting his nether lip; "hark to the
slogan of the Border-men."
</p>

<p>
"Ay," quoth Master Wad; "but mony a gay galley saileth
under fause colours; mony a muffled man, and mony a lord baron
when his helmet is closed, if bound on a deed of ill, crieth the
slogan of another house than his own, to mislead the people."
</p>

<p>
"A shrewd suggestion, Willie; but no other men have such an
interest in the shortening of our lives as Hepburn of Hailes
and&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"<i>Kepe tryste!</i>" cried a voice without.
</p>

<p>
"That is the cry of Hailes&mdash;so both are there!" said Falconer,
with fiery joy.
</p>

<p>
"'Sdeath," said Home; "open, false priest!  Is the chapel of Our
Blessed Lady a place for these cushat doves to coo and bill in?  By
Saint Ringan, Father Hermit, the Lord Abbot of Dunfermline and
the Archbishop of St. Andrew's shall know of this, and dearly shall
it cost thee!"
</p>

<p>
"Now we know our enemies," said Falconer, as he and Barton
exchanged a dark glance of intelligence; "off with these vile
disguises, Robert," he added, throwing aside his grey gaberdine and
short trews, below which appeared a handsome coat of mail; "If
we must die, let us do so like the men we are, not garbed like
guisards on the night of Hogmenai."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Father Hermit&mdash;oh! is there, is there no avenue&mdash;no mode
of escape for them?" said Euphemia, while pale and trembling she
clung with her white hands to the friar's coarse grey cassock.
</p>

<p>
"None&mdash;none; there is a passage through the burial vault, towards
the links&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"And that&mdash;and that&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Is guarded;&mdash;hark how they hammer at it now."
</p>

<p>
"Saint Mary and Saint John! then the place is surrounded,"
</p>

<p>
"On every side."
</p>

<p>
The wretched sisters wrung their hands in an ecstasy of grief;
while Wad began to tighten his waistbelt, draw his bonnet over his
brow, and spit with terrible deliberation into the palms of his brown
hands, as the preliminaries of attempting something desperate.
</p>

<p>
"We have but one way," said Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"And that?" asked Barton.
</p>

<p>
"Is to sally out and die boldly," said he, as he pressed his lip to
Sybilla's cold white cheek.
</p>

<p>
"To climb the wall of the precincts is impossible," said the
priest: "it is ten feet high, and its gate is guarded by eight spearmen
at least, I could reckon their lance-heads when glittering in the
starlight."
</p>

<p>
"Right, and we are but three men on foot," said Barton.
</p>

<p>
"If we could but slip out and reach one of these trees," said the
gunner, "there we might sit perched up and undiscovered till the
burgesses of Musselburgh were roused with their axes and staves."
</p>

<p>
"St. Mary forgive me for engaging in this matter; but it is
most just to defend the innocent, to punish the sacrilegious, and
prevent the effusion of Christian blood," said the poor hermit, with
a sigh of anger, as he brought up from his cell the cask of brandy,
and staved in the head thereof by one blow of his sturdy hand.
"Now, friend gunner, lend me a match from that pistolette of thine,
and while I souse the leading varlets in burning liquor, do you three
take shelter in the weirdwoman's tree, for the gate beyond is guarded.
Among its branches you will be safe from molestation, and perhaps
from discovery."
</p>

<p>
"Good&mdash;thou counsellest bravely," said Barton; and all the while
the incessant din continued at the door without.
</p>

<p>
The three shipmates stood ready, with their swords and daggers
drawn; the hermit dipped the flaming match into the brandy, from
which the fire arose in red and bluish lambent light.  The ladies
shrunk back towards the altar-rail, while Wad flung open the chapel
door.  Then, as four or five armed men rushed forward to enter,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Malediction!" cried the hermit, and dashed the flaming spirit
full into their faces; while Barton, Falconer, and Wad charged them
sword in hand, and broke through at the same moment.  Some of
the assailants had the aventayles of their helmets shut, thus the hot
spirit passed through the eyelet-holes, and half or wholly blinded
them for the time.  There was a momentary shock&mdash;a clashing of
blades, and emission of sparks, as two men were hurled to the earth,
and one run through the body by our fugitives, who, being well
aware that the outer gate of the precincts was securely guarded,
hastened to the weirdwoman's tree, and with no other footing on its
rough and gnarled bark than such as desperation and the fierce
energy of the moment supplied, they clambered up, all heavily
accoutred as they were.  Wad was first secure among the branches,
and Barton next.  Less accustomed to climbing and wholly unused
to "going aloft," poor Falconer, but for the assistance lent by their
proffered hands, would have failed to attain the same secure elevation,
and must infallibly have been sacrificed; but soon they all three
clambered up together among the damp leaves, and in the heart of the
thick dark foliage attained a perch where even spearmen on
horseback would fail to reach them.
</p>

<p>
"Art thou secure and firmly anchored, friend David?" asked
Barton, in a whisper.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I am astride a great branch here, like a French juggler
on a <i>cheval-de-bois</i>," said he, laughing.
</p>

<p>
"Hush!&mdash;here come those runions now, so let us take to our
hand-guns, and make service against them.  My flask&mdash;I have left
it in the chapel!  Falconer, I trust thine is at thy belt?"
</p>

<p>
"Nay, I unstrapped it at supper; but perhaps Willie Wad&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
An imprecation from the gunner now increased their alarm.
</p>

<p>
"God's mercy!" said Barton; "is thine missing too?"
</p>

<p>
"No, sir; but I have only three charges of powder in it."
</p>

<p>
"Well, these are three men's lives.  Charge home, Willie, and
fire surely, for here they come."
</p>

<p>
In the fitful moonlight, Falconer being the last, had been seen to
scramble up the oak; and now, with drawn sword and brandished
lance, Home, Hailes, Borthwick, and even honest Blackcastle, whom
the infectious spirit of mischief had seized, and who was still
smarting from the burning brandy, some of which had been dashed in his
face, with all the rest of their party, surrounded the stem of the
threat tree, with threats, jibes, and cries of anger and defiance.
</p>

<p>
"Ha, ha!" laughed Hailes; "so the cock-pigeons, whose cooing
we spoiled, are all roosted in this tree."
</p>

<p>
"Unwind me your hand-guns, some of ye, sirs," said Home; "try
a shot ere they take wing."
</p>

<p>
"Blithely, though I wad rather hae ane gude straik wi' a Jethart
staff than sax shots wi' thae <i>war-cracks</i>," said a grim mosstrooper,
who gave his weapon the local name by which these primitive
firearms were then known.
</p>

<p>
This simple gun, which first made its appearance in Scotland
about 1450, in the time of James II., who received it from the
Italians, was at first a mere iron tube, with little trunnions at its
sides.  By these it was secured to a wooden stock.  The touch-hole
was first on the top; but as the priming was liable to fall off,
or be blown away, the vent was transferred to the right side, where
a pan held the powder, and over it was a cover which opened on a
pivot: such was the first germ of our modern musket.
</p>

<p>
Two or three horsemen who were furnished with these then
formidable weapons, opened their pans, and levelling at the heart
of the tree above their heads, applied the matches.  There was a
triple blaze&mdash;a simultaneous report, and three bullets whistled
harmlessly through the foliage of the oak, cutting its leaves, and
whitening the branches, but far apart from the three fugitives; for the
troopers fired unsteadily, and at random.
</p>

<p>
The night was still dark; the moon glinted uncertainly at times,
and the foliage was dense and thick.
</p>

<p>
"Again, and again," said Home; "fire while there is a charge in
your flasks or a ball in your bags; and I will give ten crowns to
the first who brings down his bird like a capercailzie."
</p>

<p>
At that moment there was a flash in the heart of the black foliage;
a ball grazed Lord Home's shoulder and killed a mosstrooper beside
him.  The man's morion and iron jack rang heavily as he fell to
the ground, and almost without a cry; for Wad's aim was a sure one.
</p>

<p>
"Fire at the spot that flash came from," cried Lord Hailes; "and
I swear by St. Serf's ram, and St. Anthony's pig, to add twenty
crowns to thine, Home, as the guerdon of our best gunner."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis said that some have gone up this tree and never more come
town," said Blackcastle.
</p>

<p>
"Well, it would matter little if it happens again in the present
instance," said Borthwick, on seeing how the superstitious
mosstroopers shrunk back at this remark; "but we shall soon bring
them down, I warrant.  Let the chapel door, however, be well
guarded, lest the hermit or his ladies rouse on us the burgesses of
Musselburgh, which their tongues will assuredly do, if this unwonted
firing doth not."
</p>

<p>
Again three bullets were fired into the tree, and as the flashes
broke from the iron muzzles of the hand-guns, the murderers&mdash;for
such they were by intention&mdash;could see each other's brown visages,
wiry beards, and rusty morions, and the green leaves and rough
bark of the enchanted oak,&mdash;but for an instant only.
</p>

<p>
These three balls were as harmless as their predecessors; and
while the slow process of loading from a flask, putting in wadding,
bullets, and priming, was resumed, a shot came from the tree, and
with a cry of agony another borderer fell at the side of Lord Home.
</p>

<p>
"On my soul, thou'st the cry of a screech-owl!  Where the devil
art thou hurt, fellow?" asked the lord, with considerably less of
sympathy than anger in his tone.
</p>

<p>
"In the left cuit.  Oh, my lord, I shall never, never ride again,
and wha will gie me meat and fee?"
</p>

<p>
"Ha, ha!" laughed Wad from his perch; "I have pinked this
one on the larboard side."
</p>

<p>
"He'll have a heel to port for the remainder of his days," said
Barton; "fire again, Willie."
</p>

<p>
"What if yonder white figure by the stream was the weirdwoman,
and <i>not</i> the ghost of the warder's wife?" suggested Blackcastle.
</p>

<p>
"Gomeral!" cried Home, furiously; "I care not if she were the
devil, and&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
Wad's last shot, for (as the reader is aware) he had unhappily but
<i>three</i>, grazed the cheek-plate of the noble's helmet, and so
discomposed him that he forgot what he meant to say; but now doubly
alarmed by their superstitious fears, and by finding themselves
exposed, under an increasing moonlight, to the deadly aim of those
they could not see, the two lords and their followers withdrew a little
to consult on their future measures.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile those who had been left within the chapel heard the
uproar without, and the reports of the hand-guns, which filled their
hearts with terror; for these weapons were little known in Scotland,
and were deemed more deadly in effect than they really were.
</p>

<p>
"Let us kindle a fire round the tree," said Borthwick, whose wits
were sharpened by the prospect of gaining thirty crowns; "this
will soon bring them all down among fire and smoke."
</p>

<p>
"Good!"
</p>

<p>
"Admirable!" said the lords; "but where is the fuel?"
</p>

<p>
"Here; this shed, wherein this rogue of a hermit stables his
visitors' horses, will provide us; alight, my Annandale thieves&mdash;off
with your steel gloves, and unroof the stable," said Borthwick,
setting the example; "pile sticks and straw, roof and rafters, round
the stem, and throw in your lighted matches&mdash;quick!"
</p>

<p>
The little edifice to which he referred adjoined the chapel, and
meant to receive the horses of pilgrims and visitors.  It was
heavily roofed with warm thatch, which was quite dry below the
coating of emerald-green moss which covered it.  Well used to such
work, the strong mosstroopers in two minutes tore down the rafters,
broke up the hack, manger, and one or two old corn casks that lay
in the stalls, and piled them with all the straw round the stem of
the oak tree; and then sprinkling powder over all, threw in their
lighted matches.
</p>

<p>
The flame smouldered a little, and then shot up and licked the
thick-seamed bark of the ancient tree.
</p>

<p>
"Bring more fuel," cried Hailes, "even though we tear down the
provost's house for it; quick, my bold mosstroopers, so ready of wit
and stout of heart."
</p>

<p>
Two little stacks, one of heather, from which the poor hermit
made up his bed, and another of peats, which supplied him with fuel,
and both of which, like everything else he had, were the gift of
visitors, were torn down and added to the pile, with all the fallen
branches and green saplings that could be collected; and now the
wavering fire began to ascend and blaze in a fiery circle, twisting
itself into a column around the stem of the strong oak tree.
</p>

<p>
The forky flames shot high and higher among the foliage, hissing
against the wet branches, and scorching off those that were crisped
and dry; the old knots and gnarls began to crack and burn; and as
the sheet of fire deepened and gathered strength, it became evident
that the three lurkers, even if they failed to be suffocated, would
soon be compelled by the heat to fall on the spears of those who
watched and waited below, while others were constantly employed
in seeking the means necessary to maintain and augment the fire!
</p>

<p>
"It burns well," said Borthwick, with grim complacency, while
poking it up with his swordblade.
</p>

<p>
"These varlets have given us more trouble than their miserable
lives can ever atone for," said Hailes, in an undertone.
</p>

<p>
"Lives! on my soul, they seem to have as many each as a cat,"
replied Home.
</p>

<p>
"With the power of making the most of each of them."
</p>

<p>
"On my faith, were not my pride and obstinacy enlisted in
this cause, I would counsel that we should wear the willow in our
bonnets, Hailes, and bequeath these Drummond dames to their
salt-water lovers, with the devil's benison on their bridal."
</p>

<p>
"Let us first see each gay lemane with his head under his arm.
Halloa, fellows, are not yet coming down?  By my soul, ye must be
birselled in your iron coats like winter apples or roasted crabs by
this time!"
</p>

<p>
The flames had now reached the middle of the tree, and in their
blaze the whole band could see each others' flushed faces and fiery
eyes; their rusty accoutrements and glittering weapons; and their
two comrades stretched on the ground, one with upturned eye and
jaw relaxed, but placid and still, like all who die by gunshot wounds;
the other still bleeding and writhing in pain.  On one side rose the
façade of the ancient chapel with its low-browed Roman doorway
and deep-sunk windows, on the other were the sturdy stems and
freakish branches of the patriarchal tree which shaded its
time-worn walls.
</p>

<p>
Up and farther upward shot the flames, and in half-an-hour every
leaf, save those upon the extremity of the branches, was gone; the
whole foliage had been scorched off; the large knotty limbs were
blackened and burned, or the smaller entirely consumed; the whole
of that magnificent oak was divested of bark, cracked, calcined, and
half consumed by fire.
</p>

<p>
Still the three prisoners had neither cried once for mercy, nor
fallen down by being overcome by heat or exhaustion; and <i>now</i>,
those who thirsted for their blood below, began to look rather blankly
in each others' faces, while fear and wonder grew together in their
hearts.
</p>

<p>
The flames around its mighty stem sunk low, and died away as
morning brightened in the east; and there stood the giant tree,
with its trunk, nearly nine feet in diameter, the bare and blackened
ruin of its former self&mdash;a smoking and sable skeleton; but there was
no trace, not even a vestige of the fugitives!
</p>

<p>
It was impossible that the fire could have consumed them and
their apparel too.
</p>

<p>
It was equally impossible that they could have descended and
escaped through the flames, for their intended destroyers stood around
them in a circle.
</p>

<p>
"By St. Mary, there hath been magic or a miracle at work here!"
said Hailes, on being convinced that, beyond a doubt, the <i>three</i> had
vanished from their lofty perch.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis said that some who have ascended this tree did never more
come down," said Home.
</p>

<p>
"May the Blessed Virgin not have borne them away to punish
us for violating the sanctity of Loretto," said the superstitious
Laird of Blackcastle, in a low voice.
</p>

<p>
"May not the devil or the weird woman have done the same thing?"
asked Borthwick, scoffingly, with a scowl in his eye.
</p>

<p>
"Peace," said Hailes, with an irrepressible shudder, caused either
by fear or the chill morning air; "I have heard of strange things
for good or evil happening here," he added, putting a foot in his
stirrup to remount; "and <i>now</i> I am not ashamed to say that I
repent me sorely of following those rascals into consecrated ground;
so let us to horse and begone, lest the burgesses of the honest town
betake them to axe and stave to punish this raid of ours before
we cross the Esk again; for <i>they</i> will not thole the sin, though our
gentler Lady of Loretto may."
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap55"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LV.
<br /><br />
THE ESCAPE.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Oh shut, O bar the castle-gate!<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Oh shut the chamber-door!<br />
  No faithful turtle quits her mate,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I'll quit my love no more."&mdash;ELLIOT OF MINTO.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
In no way satisfied by the result of their expedition, the two nobles
and their followers galloped from Loretto, and re-passed the Bridge of
Musselburgh just in time to avoid the wrath of the burghers, who had
displayed their standard with its <i>three mussels</i> and the proud motto,
"Honesto," and were preparing to punish severely the sacrilege of
the night; but Borthwick, as his companions retreated across the
bridge of the Esk, locked the iron gate on the western side, and
tauntingly, in sight of all their pursuers, flung the key "to the
Kelpie's keeping" in the swollen river, the deep and rapid torrent of
which barred all passage; and thus in safety, the whole band&mdash;two
excepted, who were afterwards hanged at Musselburgh Cross&mdash;"the
quick and the dead"&mdash;reached the King's Wark at Leith, the
headquarters of the insurgent lords.
</p>

<p>
"Mater purissima!" exclaimed Father Fairlie, as well he might,
on leaving his chapel door next morning, and seeing the <i>débris</i> of
the operations we have just described; the roofless stable; the
rifled stacks; the torn shrubbery; the scorched sward; the black
skeleton of the burned oak, and the two men who lay upon the
ground in their armour, one dead and the other nearly so.
</p>

<p>
"Heaven will assuredly punish this sacrilege," said Euphemia to
Sybilla, as a smile of triumph struggled with the fear and sorrow
impressed upon her pale face by the events of the past night.
"Bring forth our horses," she added to the pages, "and let us also
begone, for I fear me, holy friar, you will deem your cell but little
favoured by the presence of those who have been the innocent,
though certainly the primary cause of this atrocious outrage and
bloodshed.  In our purses, which we have left upon the altar, you
will, I hope, find more than enough to repay you for all you
have suffered or lost; and be assured we will never forget you."
</p>

<p>
The friar did not reply.
</p>

<p>
Poor man&mdash;he was astounded by the whole affair; and crossing his
hands upon his paunch, rolled his round eyes, and continued to mutter
involuntarily, "Benedictus Dominus deus!" and other scraps from
the canticle of Zachary, while the pages prepared the horses in haste;
and with all speed the ladies departed, expressing the most lively and
heartfelt gratitude to the hermit, who retired to begin his daily
"office," and once more investigate the contents of the two baskets
and six flasks.
</p>

<p>
"But the barrel, alas!" said he, with a sigh of anger, though its
contents had been spent or spilt in furthering the escape of Barton,
Falconer, and their faithful follower from the barbarous fate to
which this luckless tryst had lured them; "the brandy&mdash;the
barrel&mdash;<i>miserere nostri</i>&mdash;'tis lost!"
</p>

<p>
Their disappearance was brought about in the following manner:&mdash;
</p>

<p>
When our three fugitives found that their ammunition was
expended&mdash;that day was breaking, and yet there came no signs of
rescue&mdash;that the tree remained environed by armed men on every side&mdash;and
that the fire which begirt it was mounting up the stem, despair and
horror began to seize their hearts, and, creeping close together in the
dark among the rising smoke and withering foliage, they were about
to adopt the proposal of Robert Barton&mdash;that the whole three of
them should leap down, sword in hand, on three different sides, and
die under the steel of these vindictive enemies, if they could not
baffle or surmount them, when, lo! to their astonishment, they
heard a fourth voice beside them, and the bald head of the hermit
appeared close by, projecting from a hole in the enormous trunk of
the tree, which by age was quite hollow, and by decay had become a
mere wooden tube.
</p>

<p>
"Mater purissima," said he; "quick, my bairns, quick! descend
this way, while there is yet time."
</p>

<p>
"Descend&mdash;but to where?  The smoke hath made me blind as a
bat," said Barton; "but how, in the name of Saint or Satan, came
you here, most reverend Father?"
</p>

<p>
"Up the hollow trunk of this old oak, with which a stair below
communicates," replied the priest, whose voice was almost lost amid
the crackling of the flames; "this has proved a hiding-place to more
than one in time of broil and trouble; but descend, and, in the name
of Our Lady, quickly?  Give me thy hand&mdash;thy foot, I mean&mdash;place
it <i>here</i>, so&mdash;this is the first step hollowed in the trunk&mdash;now thy
hand, so&mdash;this is the next, and thus we descend; one of my predecessors
constructed this stair, that he might say his prayers on the
tree-top, in imitation of St. Simon Stock, who lived in a tree in
Kent;&mdash;down&mdash;down&mdash;yet, carefully now."
</p>

<p>
The friar disappeared and Barton and Falconer followed; but the
latter, missing a footstep, fell heavily to the bottom, and found
himself underground, on the soft, damp mould of the burial vault.
</p>

<p>
Dumbfoundered by the sudden and mysterious disappearance of
his companions, poor Willie Wad paused for a moment in great
irresolution.
</p>

<p>
"Avast, Sir David&mdash;belay there," cried he; "hallo, gude Father
Fairlie, in the name o' Our Leddy, dinna leave me here in stays!
O-ho&mdash;I see how it is!" he added.  Ignorant of the mode of descent,
and not wishing exactly to drop into the dark hole below, he resolved
to "go down by the run."  After reflecting for a moment, Willie
pulled out of the pouch which has been so often already referred to,
a few fathoms of what a seaman is seldom without&mdash;stout cord, and
looping it round a branch, lowered himself into the hole, from the
bottom of which he heard Captain Barton anxiously shouting, and
describing the mode of descent.
</p>

<p>
While the fat, pursy friar was clambering slowly and laboriously
up to his assistance, he was unexpectedly met by the broad end of
the short, squat gunner, who, as the cord slid through his hands,
descended upon his shaven crown with all the force of a
steam-hammer or a battering ram, and shot him at once to the bottom;
nearly ending there his orisons and feasts of every kind, spiritual
and temporal.
</p>

<p>
"O Mater castissima, you have slain me!" he cried, as he rose
with difficulty from the floor of the vault; "<i>Miserere nostri
Domine!</i>"
</p>

<p>
"Mercy on us!" said the startled gunner; "look ye, shipmate&mdash;holy
Father, I mean&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Heaven send that no more pilgrims such as you come here,"
said the hermit, peevishly; "and now, for your own sakes at least,
begone; I shall be blessed by the sight of your backs."
</p>

<p>
"May we not see the ladies?"
</p>

<p>
"Impossible, Sir David; they are above in the chapel, at some
distance, for this is but an old burial-vault, where the lairds of
Fawsyde lie.  Ye have suffered enough for cooing and billing here,
instead of confessing and praying; so get ye gone, sirs, in the Holy
Virgin's name,&mdash;away, by yonder outlet, which will take you to the
beach; away, ere worse come upon you."
</p>

<p>
"Friar, may we not take them with us?" asked Sir David
Falconer.
</p>

<p>
"Four women in an open boat&mdash;and in this weather?" exclaimed
the priest, polishing his bald crown with his wide sleeve, and giving
the penitent gunner a glance of very mingled cast.
</p>

<p>
"True&mdash;true," said Barton; "it is impossible."
</p>

<p>
"With a fresh breeze perhaps coming on," said the gunner,
rubbing the nether end of his galligaskins.
</p>

<p>
"Heaven knoweth I would be the last man to keep fond hearts
asunder; but, once again, I implore&mdash;nay, I command you to begone,
before your blood desecrates these holy walls for ever!"
</p>

<p>
After this, farther parley was useless, and through a suite of
vaults&mdash;only one of which now remains&mdash;they were led by the friar for
about forty yards, till he reached a little door, which on the outside
was half buried by drifted sand.  He opened it, and they soon found
themselves beyond the precincts, and free.
</p>

<p>
"Gude be thankit, we are fairly under way," said Willie Wad;
"may I drink bilge, if such a hellicate job was ever mine before!
Noo, sirs, let us haul off on the larboard tack and reach our boat."
</p>

<p>
They hurried across the sandy knolls and broomy hollows of the
links and reached their boat by wading to her through the full tide.
Taking the kedge on board, they stepped the mast, half hoisted the
lugsail, and betaking them to their oars, bore away into the
river just as the dawn began to streak the eastern sea with light.
But still the wind was blowing hard.
</p>

<p>
"I have but one sorrow," said Barton, as he relaxed the braces of
his armour and bent to the oar; "we have left our ladies in their
hands&mdash;but by Tantony's bell, they have had a hard fight for them!"
</p>

<p>
"If I thought Sybilla's chances of happiness were greater with
the powerful Lord of Hailes, than with the king's poor arquebussier,
by my word, Barton, I would yield her to him, though my heart
should break in doing so."
</p>

<p>
"Wherefore and why so benevolent?"
</p>

<p>
"Because it would best prove the strength and purity of my love
for her to yield her up, rather than by prosecuting my humbler suit
to the injury of her worldly interest and commoditie&mdash;thus throwing
my own happiness overboard to secure hers."
</p>

<p>
"Hailes could neither secure her happiness nor value your
sacrifice.  You heard his sentiments under that flaming oak?" said
Barton.
</p>

<p>
"Alas!  I cannot blame Lord Drummond for his hostility to me.
Unlike Hailes, I cannot offer poor Sybilla the rank, the power, the
splendid gifts of feudal fortune possessed by the House of the
Hepburns."
</p>

<p>
"Thou canst give her far more&mdash;a brave and honest heart, and a
name unstained by crime and <i>treason</i>.  Of that few Scottish noble
names are free!  Ouf&mdash;there was a mouthful of salt water!  Willie,
mind ye the tiller, my lad."
</p>

<p>
The chapel wherein the events of this chapter occurred was
demolished at the Reformation, and no vestige of it now remains save
the name&mdash;Loretto,&mdash;and a little cell, which measures about twelve
feet by ten.  Herein were found a number of skulls lately.
</p>

<p>
From the materials of the edifice, the present Tolbooth of
Musselburgh was built in 1590, during the reign of James VI.; and for
this signal act of sacrilege, the burgesses of the "Honest Town"
were regularly excommunicated annually, by bell, book, and candle,
at Rome, until within the last few years, when his holiness perhaps
grew tired of it.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap56"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LVI.
<br /><br />
THE UNICORN LOOSE.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  <i>Macduff</i>.&nbsp;&nbsp;  "Stands Scotland where it did?<br />
  <i>Rosse</i>.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;    Alas, poor country;<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Almost afraid to know itself!  It cannot<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Be call'd our mother, but our grave."&mdash;<i>Macbeth</i>,<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The Lords still remained at Leith, where they took all measures and
precautions necessary to strengthen their power and increase their
forces, in case the missing king should appear at the head of the
Highland clans, or perhaps a foreign army, to vindicate his rights and
those of Scotland; for they still remembered the threats uttered by the
Mareschal de Concressault in the Castle of Callender; but an end was
put to all their arrangements and surmises by the discovery of
James's body, which was found by the sleuth bratches of the old
Steward of Menteith when tracking some robbers through the
Torwood, all gashed and bloody, blanched and soiled by a week's
exposure in a field-ditch near Beaton's mill on the Bannock; and now
a thrill of sorrow went over all the land, for even the most barbarous
of that nobility who have ever been so false, so treacherous, and so
base to Scotland&mdash;who have usually been the first to abandon her
on the field, and assuredly not the last to betray her in the
cabinet&mdash;had not contemplated an issue so terrible!
</p>

<p>
The young prince was filled with horror and remorse, which even
the tidings of Lady Margaret's safety with the Admiral could not
alleviate: for now he recalled with the keenest sorrow, how bitterly
he had accused his poor father of abducting her, and how, led away
by passion and despair, he had permitted himself to be the tool,
the dupe, and the plaything of the turbulent and ambitious
noblesse.
</p>

<p>
From that hour he began to shun them, and to seek for his
father's oldest and most faithful friends.  The first he thought of
was the trusty Laird of Largo, to whom he despatched the Snowdon
Herald and Unicorn Pursuivant, announcing the awful intelligence
of his royal father's murder (the news of which was already pretty
well known at the court of England), and requiring his presence at
Leith.  Then full of rage and sorrow the Admiral put out of Largo
Bay, and with all his ships and prisoners, stood with all sail set up
the river, and anchored off the seaport of the capital, where all the
vessels in the harbour and roadstead, showed their ensigns half
hoisted&mdash;the blue Scottish flag with its white saltier, which is the
groundwork of the modern Union Jack; and which is still retained
unchanged by the Old Shipping Company of Leith.
</p>

<p>
The same flag was hoisted on the English prizes, one of which, say
the Admiralty records, as she came abreast of the town, had her
keel knocked away upon the Gunnel.  The latter is a dangerous sunken
rock, which is yet unmarked by a buoy, though it has only eight
feet of water over it at ebb tide.
</p>

<p>
In the large hall of Barton's house at Leith, on a bright and sunny
morning, the prince was again seated at the table, where a grave and
melancholy council had just been held on what should <i>now</i> be done
to heal the dissensions which were likely to break out anew, as a cry
"for vengeance on the king's murderers" was going throughout
the land.  The council had been broken up without a decision being
found.  The prince was pale, sad-eyed, and downcast, and left almost
alone: for in the deep recesses of the hall windows, Angus, Home,
Hailes, the Heritable Forester of Drum, and others, with many
lords of the noble faction, were conversing, or gazing dreamily at
sunlit river, and the ships which caine to anchor near the shore.
</p>

<p>
Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff had retired to the Castle of Broughty;
Sir James Shaw of Sauchie had repaired to his fortress of Stirling,
and Sir William Stirling of the Keir, animated by the same wisdom
and prudence, had retreated to some fastness in the Highlands of
Perthshire; while their worthy compatriot, Hew Borthwick&mdash;though
as yet unsuspected and unknown&mdash;had concealed himself in Berwick,
which was then garrisoned by English troops, and had been so since
its betrayal by Alexander Duke of Albany, who was then an exile in
France.
</p>

<p>
Above the prince's chair was a coat of the royal arms, in which
the chains of the unicorns were represented <i>loose</i>, as we may still see
them.
</p>

<p>
Lately by the voice of Heralds, by the sound of trumpets and
by the boom of brass artillery, he had been proclaimed at the crosses
of all the adjacent burghs, King of Scotland and the Isles, by the
title of James IV.; but he felt as if a curse had come with it upon
him, for the crown had been drenched in the blood of his father.
</p>

<p>
"Betouch us, too!" said old Lord Drummond, to whom Home and
Hailes related the mysterious disappearance of the three fugitives
from the tree.  "Well, it matters not whether the spirits of the air,
the earth, the gude wichts, or the weirdwoman herself hath made
away with them; they are gone, and St. Mary be praised, there is
an end of them now.  But please you, my good lords, bruit not
abroad this scandalous tryst of my runagate daughters."
</p>

<p>
"I shall speak with the Abbot of Dunfermline anent this runion
of a hermit, however," said Home, angrily; "by Heaven I will!"
</p>

<p>
"The friar; yes, we shall have him unfrocked for abetting
assignations under the colour of pilgrimages, and bringing scandal
upon holy places," added Hailes, as he joined Lord Lyle and turned
to another window to watch the ships of Wood.
</p>

<p>
Observing his daughter Sybilla similarly engaged, with her pale
cheek resting on her hand, Lord Drummond approached her, with his
brows knit, and said in a low voice,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Art prepared now, Sybie, to seek my blessing, and to win forgiveness
for this most shameful visit to Loretto, by wedding at once
this gay young Lord, whose Earl's patent hath all but passed the
seals?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh father, I never could love him."
</p>

<p>
"Why not? hath he not as many legs and arms, eyes and ears
as other men&mdash;and what more dost thou want&mdash;eh?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Mother Mary!" sighed Lady Sybilla, "teach me what to say."
</p>

<p>
"A truce to prayers," said the old Lord, spitefully, while his eyes
kindled; "prayers, indeed! had we not enough of that ware at
Loretto?"
</p>

<p>
"I have ever striven to please you, dear father,&mdash;to be dutiful and
kind&mdash;but&mdash;but&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"But me no <i>buts</i>&mdash;thou silly giglet."
</p>

<p>
"Father, I am your child&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"I hope so, though of late I've had my doubts of it.  Well, then,
as my child thou art bound to obey me."
</p>

<p>
"But surely not in all things?" said Sybilla, whoso tears fell fast.
</p>

<p>
"In all things!" reiterated this despotic old baron, who had the
power of life and death, pit and gallows, over all in Strathearn, and
yearly took by force the best horse and fattest cow from every tenant
there as a herezeld: "if the greatest of my vassals is bound to obey
me to the death&mdash;yea, to obey or swing on the nearest branch,&mdash;how
much more ought thou and Euphemia, who are my own daughters?
A curse on the hour such brittle ware as daughters came into the
house of Drummond!"
</p>

<p>
"I have no desire to wed," said Sybilla, making a violent effort
to control her tears, for many eyes were upon her, "none! let me
abide with you, dearest father, and little Elizabeth and Beatrix, in
bonnie Strathearn; for I have no wish to leave your hearth and home;
I have no wish for wealth, and no desire for rank."
</p>

<p>
"Rank&mdash;what do you mean by rank?  <i>My</i> daughters require not
<i>that</i>," said the old chief, clanking his enormous spurs on the floor.
</p>

<p>
"But if you think over-many of us are growing up to woman's
estate, let me retire into a convent, where, by teaching others to
embroider, to illuminate, and to write, I may maintain myself with
utility; hear me, dearest father!"
</p>

<p>
"A convent, Sybie?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes&mdash;yes; there are the Grey Sisters at Dundee, all of whom are
pious, good, and kind, and know me well."
</p>

<p>
"Enough, thou cunning minx, enough! the superior of those
Claresses is aunt to Robert Barton, the skipper's son; nay, I see
how the wind sets, as <i>he</i> would say.  'Tis a conspiracy against me,"
added the old lord, furiously; "but let all plotters <i>gang warily</i>, for
by the arm of St. Fillan I'll have a deep revenge and a sure one!
But hush now, lassie, for here cometh the Admiral Wood and his
English prisoners, with Margaret&mdash;my daughter Margaret, as I am
a living man!"
</p>

<p>
"And two spruce English damsels," said Hailes, who like Home
was astonished on beholding Falconer and Barton, both of whom
accompanied the admiral.
</p>

<p>
"On my soul, this Laird of Largo hath no small assurance, to bring
all this rabble of fellows into the prince's presence," said the Earl of
Angus, knitting his brows as he surveyed the numerous group
surrounding Sir Andrew Wood, whose friends were all in armour, and
who had brought with him Willie Wad and Cuddie Clewline, his
coxswain; while Edmund Howard, conspicuous by his noble bearing
and rich costume, was followed by John o'Lynne, Dick Selby, his
tall gunner, and the principal officers of the captured ships; all of
whom were without swords or armour, and were graciously received
by the sad and thoughtful prince&mdash;now James IV.,&mdash;after he had
sprung forward, and heedless of the assembled crowd, knelt down
with that enthusiastic gallantry for which he was so celebrated, and
kissed both the hands of Lady Margaret Drummond.  He then
placed her by his side, where her sisters hung around her neck.
</p>

<p>
James then asked Howard with something of sternness, "how she
came to be found on board of the <i>Harry</i>, and why, in time of truce,
such war was levied on the Scottish people?"
</p>

<p>
Howard, who had beheld this meeting with a keen emotion that
amounted almost to agony, replied with grave but respectful firmness:
</p>

<p>
"I can assure your majesty, that in the matter of having this
noble dame on board my ship I shall answer no questions, and
though you should tear me limb from limb, I would rather die than
betray the secrets of my royal master!"
</p>

<p>
"Hah&mdash;is it so? then here, as usual, have been at work dark
England's cursed gold and Scotland's ready treason," said the young
king, striking his spurred heel on the floor; "but a time shall come
for unravelling all this!  Welcome, brave Andrew Wood, my dear
dead father's firmest friend; his first and last, his noblest and most
true!"
</p>

<p>
A tear came zigzag down the furrows of the old mariner's face
as the young monarch spoke, and he answered in a broken voice,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"I have ever striven to do my duty to Scotland and her king,
like a sailor and a man, and so God has blessed and prospered me.
Weel, weel, it's a' owre noo; our gude king is, I doubt not, safely
moored in a blessed anchorage, and lest he may not lie in the
smoothest riding, I will lay out a thousand crowns in masses for his
soul in Largo Kirk and at Mary's Altar in Leith, just to make his
anchor hold.  Let us hope that the evil currents, the rocks and
shoals he came through in life will all be taken into account aloft,
when he comes to reckon up his variation and leeway, and shall
secure him everlasting peace in the blessed latitudes above; for a
braver or a better man never faced wind or water, shot or steel!
Well fare thy soul, King James; in thee puir auld Andrew Wood
has lost a kind and faithful master, such as he never more may
see!"
</p>

<p>
"This may savour more of truth than politeness to his successor,"
said the haughty Angus, who disliked this outburst of feeling, which
quite unmanned James IV.; "but I say welcome to thee from battle,
stout Largo, and there is my hand to thee in all amity and
friendship."
</p>

<p>
The giant earl drew off his glove, and they shook hands; the
noble with an air of courtly condescension, and the seaman with
blunt cordiality.
</p>

<p>
Many now expressed the pleasure it gave them to see the admiral
once more in safety, but he received their advances with coolness and
evident distrust.
</p>

<p>
"I am safe and sound and well, thank Heaven, my lords and
gentles," said he, "and have neither had a hole punched in my ribs,
nor a butt nor bolt started; but here I bring your majesty four
gallant ships and much warlike gear, all marked with the broad
arrow of England;" (the badge of the Edwards was then, as now, a
government mark.) "Would that I could have laid their white
colours at the feet of that brave monarch over whose devoted head
the stormy sea of this world has closed for ever!"
</p>

<p>
After a few words with Barton, Falconer, John o'Lynne, and
others, the young monarch, for whom "woman's face was never
formed in vain," suddenly perceived Rose and Cicely, and desired
them to approach.  As the old admiral led them both forward
trembling and blushing, to a close observer it would have been evident
how nervously Cuddie Clewline and Willie Wad fumbled each with
his ruff and waistbelt, twirled his bonnet, and hitched up his short
wide trews, or chewed the ropeyarn lanyard of his jockteleg,
<i>i.e.</i>, clasp-knife.
</p>

<p>
"And so, my pretty damsels," said James IV., "you also were
found on board this great ship, the <i>Harry</i>?"
</p>

<p>
"They were my attendants," said Margaret, "and most kind and
faithful have they been to me."
</p>

<p>
"What is thy father in his own country, maiden?" James asked
of Rose,&mdash;a shade coming over his face as he thought of his own
sire.  But poor Rose blushed and hesitated, for she had never stood
in such a presence before; and a simple English girl of those days
had about as much conception of what like a Scottish king might be
as of the Khan of Tartary;&mdash;indeed, the unlettered English are not
very clear in their ideas of Scotland yet, for two acts of the British
parliament have recently described it as an <i>island</i>.
</p>

<p>
"Speak, my pretty one; and be not alarmed," said the handsome
young king.
</p>

<p>
"My father is Abel Eyre, a fishmonger in the Knight-Rider-street,"
said she, gathering courage at the gentle voice of James;
"my mother is the sister of Peter Puddle, who keepeth a wharf
westward of Baynard Castle, upon Thames; so please you.  Alas!"
she continued, still keeping her eyes and their long dark lashes
downcast; "I know not how to see them all again; I never was so far,
far away from the sound of London bells before!"
</p>

<p>
"And <i>thou</i>, maiden, with the dark brown braids, eh?"
</p>

<p>
"I am an orphan," said Cicely, as she was about to weep; "my
father was a poor cottager of Liverpool."
</p>

<p>
"Liverpool&mdash;where may that place be; dost know, Admiral?"
</p>

<p>
The admiral expressed ignorance, as well he might, for it was
then, as Leland terms it, a small "paved towne with a chapel," in
the parish of Walton.
</p>

<p>
James gave each of the girls a gold chain and a purse of money
and perceiving that Howard was without a sword, presented him
with his own, which, with an expression of sadness and gratitude,
this brave English gentleman received, on his knees.  He felt his
heart beating keenly all the time, for the eyes of Margaret were
fixed upon him, with kindness and regret.
</p>

<p>
At her intercession and request, James gave him liberty to return to
England whenever he pleased; but added, that so severe had been
the ravages committed along the coast between Berwick and Dunbar,
by the ships under his command, that their crews must be considered
as ordinary prisoners of war, and be committed to some royal castle,
until John, Prior of St. Andrew's, the new secretary of state,
arranged for their exchange or transmission home.
</p>

<p>
Howard gave a silent bow of acquiescence.
</p>

<p>
Barton now whispered to Sir Andrew Wood, who, with a half
smile, in his own fashion of phraseology, informed the young king,
that his "gunner and coxswain had conceived certain matrimonial
designs against the two English prizes, and that if these fair damsels
would bring-to under their lee, he would give each of them a cottage,
a cow, and a cow's mailing, at least, for their dower, by the shore of
Largo Bay."
</p>

<p>
At this speech, Cuddie and the gunner gave their foretops a tug,
and scraped with their right feet; while the two girls cast down
their eyes and again blushed furiously, for there was a numerous
circle around them; but none of these four had a word of thanks to
offer, so completely were they abashed by the presence in which they
stood; for there was many a dark and hostile eye bent on one
portion of the group, because they were English; and on the other
portion, because they were the late king's faithful subjects.
</p>

<p>
"Come, Cuddie Clewline, stand forward," said the Admiral; "lay
alongside thine own prize, man; show thyself a sailor.  And thou,
gunner o' mine, heave ahead, sirrah; let not the king's presence
abash one who hath so often looked grim death in the face and never
blanched.  I assure thee, Willie," he continued, as the king put
Cicely's hand into the gunner's, "there is not such another bride on
this side of Cape Non.  Rogue, sawest thou ever such swelling
bows and a run so clean under the counter?  I trow not.  Hold up
thy head, man, for thou and that lumping varlet, Cuthbert Clewline,
are the only two among us who may recal with joy that night's
hard battle in the Firth."
</p>

<p>
"God bless your majesty," said Wad, "and may my drink be
bilge in this world, and waur in that to come, if I keep not a clear
conscience and a fair reckoning, having sic a consort to sail through
the voyage o' life wi'."
</p>

<p>
"And friend coxswain," said James, with a smile, "hast thou no
thanks?"
</p>

<p>
"Tickle my timmers, but I say wi' the gunner," said Cuddie, as
they backed through the gay crowd not very ceremoniously, and at that
moment the eyes of poor Falconer and Sybilla met, with a glance
that seemed to inquire, "Were there no other hearts here&mdash;whom the
king's influence might render happy?"
</p>

<p>
"Now, thanks be to Heaven, all this is over, Robbie Barton," said
the Admiral; "for when among lords I always lose my temper, and
yaw in my speech.  Gadzooks, courts are not for me; the gunner to
his lintstock, the steersman to his helm."
</p>

<p>
"Saw you how sternly the Lord Drummond regarded us?" said
Barton, gravely.
</p>

<p>
"Let him glower his een out, Robbie&mdash;an obstinate old snatchblock!"
</p>

<p>
So ended this interview, and the whole issue of it tended
somewhat to soothe the excited minds of those who were present.
</p>

<p>
That stringent act of the Scottish parliament, which ordained that
"none of his majestie's subjectes marrie with any Englishwoman,"
was not passed for a hundred years <i>after</i> the time of our history;
thus the espousals of the gunner and coxswain were duly celebrated
by Father Zuill at the capstan-head of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>; the
Admiral gave them each a piece of land at the mouth of the Keil
Burn; and it is a curious fact, that most of the inhabitants of the
thriving village of Lower Largo have descended from these two
marriages.
</p>

<p>
Barton, in the religious spirit peculiar to the time, founded and
dedicated an altar to St. Clement, according to his vow, and there
solemn masses were said till the times of Knox and Wishart.
</p>

<p>
Two days after the marriages the Admiral parted with Edmund
Howard, who returned to England sorrowfully, for he had left both
fame and happiness behind him.  The chivalric Barton escorted him
to the borders.
</p>

<p>
"Adieu, captain," said Howard, "until we <i>meet again</i>; and believe
me, that when in merrie England I reckon up the days of my
captivity among you, I will omit the happy ones I spent in Largo
House in Fife."
</p>

<p>
The wardens of the marches soon achieved the exchange of Miles
Furnival, John o'Lynne, Dick Selby, and other prisoners, who,
strange to say, are all designated as "English <i>pirates</i>" in the royal
charters of land given to the Admiral, who received the island of
Inchkeith, the estate of Dron, and the lordship of Newbyrne for his
bravery.
</p>

<p>
Still poor David Falconer was forgotten; and he and Robert Barton,
by the determination, vigilance, and assiduity of Lord Drummond,
found themselves as far as ever from all prospect of successfully
winning their brides.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap57"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LVII.
<br /><br />
CAMBUSKENNETH.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Oh, wide is the sorrow in landwart and borough,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And dark is the symbol on proud Falkland's wall!<br />
  For James the true-hearted, our prince hath departed,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The king of broad Scotland lies dead in his hall!"<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Ballads and Lays</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Preparations for the young king's coronation were suspended
until after the interment of his father, whose body had been
conveyed to Cambuskenneth Abbey; and also until after the general
pacification of the kingdom.  All the realm south of the Tay
acknowledged him as king; the Castles of Edinburgh and Stirling
were surrendered to him; and now he began the task of rewarding
his father's friends, and punishing his own pretended adherents, by
appointing Sir John Lundie of that Ilk, governor of Stirling, and
the Laird of Balgillo, captain of Broughty.  On this Sir Patrick
Gray, and Sir James Shaw, and others of their party, retired to their
own houses, and brooding on revenge, entered into a closer
correspondence with the agents of Henry VII.
</p>

<p>
Thus did James punish Shaw for shutting his father out of his
own castle.
</p>

<p>
Dissension for a time seemed to be suspended around the coffin of
the murdered king, whose remains were borne with all the pomp of
regality, and all the solemnity of the Romish faith, from the Abbey
to the great Church of St. Mary of Cambuskenneth; and there those
grasping lords and loyal chiefs, who had so lately crossed their
swords in mortal strife at Sauchieburn, met side by side, in secret
prayer and sorrow&mdash;or making an outward show of both: the tall
and dark-browed Angus; the good and pious Montrose; the brave
hero of Rhodez, the Preceptor Knollis, in the robes of his order;
the veteran Lord of Concressault; the ambitious Drummond; the
turbulent chiefs of the Homes and Hepburns; the half-savage
Steward of Menteith; the rough Forester of Drum; and all the
great officers of the state and household, gorgeously apparelled and
carefully <i>armed</i>.
</p>

<p>
The heralds and pursuivants, the guards and beads-men, with the
prelates of the then powerful but withal crumbling hierarchy; the
Archbishop of St. Andrew's, primate of the kingdom, with the <i>ten</i>
other bishops, (the Right Reverend Lord of Dunblane was still a
prisoner in England), with their mitres, crosiers, and crossbearers,
attended by many a relique, censer, banner, and taper, were also there.
</p>

<p>
These prelates really sorrowed for the king, unless where family
influence and rank curbed or warped their natural feelings; but the
majority of the temporal lords, while wearing armour, a strong
evidence of their mutual distrust of each other, contrived to veil all
emotions under a calm exterior; and with their heads bent low,
and bearing lighted tapers in their gauntletted hands, they followed
through that long and lofty aisle the purple-velvet coffin in which
their slaughtered monarch lay, with the crown of "Fergus, father of
a hundred kings," the sword and sceptre above him; and there, to
the sound of trumpet, bell, and organ, amid the half-hushed murmur
of a thousand tongues that prayed, they lowered him into his narrow
home, beside his wife, the queen, Margaret of Oldenburg.
</p>

<p>
As the vault closed over him, faint and distant came the boom of
the minute-guns, as they rang from the dusky towers of Stirling,
where the royal standard hung, half hoisted, in the sunny air.
</p>

<p>
Sir Andrew Wood, Barton, Falconer, and their barge's crew, stood
by the closing grave, and there was not an eye unmoistened among
them when Rothesay dropped the velvet cord that lowered down his
father's head; but the Admiral could not repress his inclination to
compliment Lord Drummond and other nobles "on the great <i>fortitude</i>
they displayed on this sorrowful occasion," a jibe which made
them knit their brows.
</p>

<p>
But now none may say where James III. of Scotland and the
Isles, or his queen, Margaret of Oldenburg, are lying; for the noble
Abbey of St. Mary has been swept from its foundations; one remnant
alone survives&mdash;a lofty tower; and though the peasants still pretend
to remember the royal grave, and point it out to visitors, not a
stone remains to mark the tomb of the murdered monarch, for the
place is now a bare greensward.
</p>

<p>
The sorrow and remorse of the young prince, his successor, were
long and deep; and it was by the advice of the good abbot, Henry
of Cambuskenneth, he resolved to atone for the part he had taken
against his father by wearing next his skin a belt of iron, to which
every year he should add a weight, while he shortened it by a link.
</p>

<p>
While this remarkable belt was preparing,&mdash;while Gray and Shaw
were plotting with England,&mdash;while Borthwick lurked in Berwick,
and rewards were offered in vain for the murderers of the king,&mdash;while
Sir Andrew Wood busied himself in preparing a fleet to meet
one which Henry VII. was said to be secretly preparing against
Scotland, while openly he avowed his intentions of pressing by
diplomacy the long projected marriage of the Duke of Rothesay, now
James IV., with his daughter, Margaret Tudor, of dubious
reputation,&mdash;while the Bishop of Dunblane was still detained in England,
in defiance of international law,&mdash;while all these events were passing,
or in progress, measures were taken by Lord Drummond to have his
daughter Margaret&mdash;now restored to her family&mdash;acknowledged as
queen-consort by the king, who spent much of his time in the charm
of her society at Dundee and Dunblane.  But fresh delays occurred,
for the late king's loyal adherents had risen in arms, inspired by
that wild inborn love of justice so natural to the Celt&mdash;for every
Scottish Lowlander has, more or less, Celtic blood in his veins.
</p>

<p>
Beaton, the miller of Bannock, now related the barbarous manner
in which James III. had been butchered.  Lord Forbess, in armour,
rode through the clans on the northern slopes of the Grampians,
displaying upon his lance a bloody shirt, said to have been taken off
the king's body; the venerable Earl of Lennox joined him at the
head of five thousand Highlanders; but the Lords Drummond,
Home, and Hailes, marched against them with all their vassals.
Favoured by information received from a deserter named Alexander
Mac Alpine, Lord Drummond surprised these loyal insurrectionists
in their camp at the Moss of Sassentilly, near Stirling, and routed
them, after a brisk engagement, with great loss of life.
</p>

<p>
Pushing on from thence, he took the Castle of Dunbarton, which
the Earl of Lennox and the Lord Lyle endeavoured in vain to defend.
</p>

<p>
For these services Drummond received a grant of Lennox's
forfeited lands in the lordship of Menteith; Home was appointed
Lord Warden of the Eastern Marches and High Chamberlain of
Scotland.  In the same month, Hailes obtained the Earldom of Bothwell,
with all the forfeited estates of John Ramsay, the loyal Laird
of Balmain, who had fallen at Sauchieburn when charging at the
head of the royal guard; he was moreover made Lord Warden of the
Western Marches, High Admiral of Scotland, and master of the
young king's household; so old Lord Drummond returned to court
in excellent humour with himself, and highly delighted to find that
a shower of favours had descended upon his two intended sons-in-law.
</p>

<p>
James IV. had painful doubts regarding the fight at Sassentilly;
for the men who were defeated there had been his father's dearest
friends, and the banner they fought under was no feudal flag or royal
standard, but the gory garment borne on the lance of the Lord
Forbess.
</p>

<p>
He asked his father-in-law if there was anything he could bestow
upon him.
</p>

<p>
"I seek naught," said he; "I am a lord of that ilk, and the
Drummonds have no need of titles; terror and antiquity had caused
their name to be venerated enough in the land."
</p>

<p>
This was but a species of the pride that aped humility; but it was
so peculiar that the young king laughed.  Without much pressing,
the old lord accepted the office of Justice-general of Scotland&mdash;and
a deal office it proved to most of his enemies; but "the contumacy
of those gipsies," his daughters, proved a source of continual
annoyance to him.
</p>

<p>
As corruption and bribery were (and not unfrequently are still) the
highway to public offices in Scotland, it is wonderful that we do not
find Shaw or Gray installed as lord advocate; but that official was
merely a lawyer then, without any pretence of being a statesman, and
so the post was not held in great repute.
</p>

<p>
The reader may marvel whether Master&mdash;we beg pardon&mdash;Sir
Hew Borthwick was troubled by his conscience; but it must be borne
in mind, that those facile Scots, who from time to time (since the
days of Sir John Menteith down to a very recent period) have sold
themselves to English ministers, never had a conscience to trouble.
Besides, a few acts of slaughter, more or less, in a lifetime, were of
little consequence in those days; thus any twinges experienced by
our Scottish cosmopolite were principally those of fear.
</p>

<p>
One fact is <i>certain</i>; there is no record of Stirling, Shaw, or Gray
ever having been punished for abetting him in the barbarous
assassination of the king; and though even <i>he</i> escaped all judicial
penalties, his ultimate fate was not a happy one, as shall be seen in the
sequel to the events we have narrated.
</p>

<p>
As time progresses and the world turns round, even the most
serious events are fated to be faintly remembered or soon forgotten:
thus, the grave of the unhappy James III. was barely closed, when
his young successor in the assembled parliament was forced to give
his royal sanction to an act which was brought forward and carried
by an overwhelming majority of the powerful lords and their
adherents, the commissioners of shires and burghs&mdash;an act which
declared that the slaughter of the late king and of his followers was
the just reward of their own crimes and deceit; and that James
IV. "and the <i>trew</i> Lordis and Barronis that were with him in the same
field were innocent, free and quyte of the slauchters;" and that copies
of this deed, with their seals attached thereto, should be sent to the
Vatican, to the courts of "France, Hispanzie, Denmark, and other
realmes as shall be expedient for the tyme."
</p>

<p>
The old Mareschal de Concressault, who, as a Scottish baron, had
a seat in the house, now demanded from the prior of St. Andrew's
his passport, with a safe escort back to France; and in addressing
the three estates upon the late events, he adverted severely on the
spirit of treason, conspiracy, and rebellion, which seemed to be
spreading over Europe, every kingdom and state of which had been
convulsed, as well as Scotland.
</p>

<p>
"To wit, my lords," he continued, "France under Louis XI.,
Flanders and Holland under Charles the Warlike, Gueldres under
Duke Arnold, who is now imprisoned by his own son, and England
under Henry VI. and Edward IV.  But rest assured, my lords, that
in each and all of these countries, a just Heaven will punish those
who have advanced, with swords drawn and banners displayed,
against the Lord's anointed!"
</p>

<p>
"Laird of Pitmilly, this is but pyots talk," was the insolent reply
of Angus; "for we remember, my lords, that Louis of France,
Charles of Burgundy, John II. of Portugal, and Richard III. of
England, have all endeavoured to play the tyrant in their own
countries, as well as King James in Scotland; and if they have not
been duly punished for it in this world, they will assuredly smart
for it in the next!"
</p>

<p>
And then, as the veteran Concressault left the assembly for ever,
the grim Scottish nobles only smiled as they played with their long
swords, and remembered that they had forced James III., when
seated on the same throne now occupied by his sad-eyed son, to
<i>stitch</i> the patent of James Douglas, Lord of Dalkeith and Earl of
Morton, the parchment of which he had torn in a fit of just indignation
at the "inordinate royalties and privileges it contained."
</p>

<p>
Though no declaration of war had been made&mdash;for Henry had yet
hopes of achieving an alliance by marriage&mdash;political relations between
Scotland and England were somewhat dubious.  Thus, to prevent any
hostile interference with the French ambassador, Sir Andrew Wood,
with the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> and a ship named the <i>Flower</i>, was ordered
by the Lord High Admiral Hailes, now Earl of Bothwell, to convey
the Sieur de Monipennie to Brest; and thus he prepared for sea with
all speed.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap58"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LVIII.
<br /><br />
DOUBT, FEAR, AND SECRECY
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Oh, sweet Margaret! oh, rare pale Margaret!<br />
  What lit your eyes with tearful power,<br />
  Like moonlight on a falling shower?"&mdash;TENNYSON.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Since the day when the English prisoners were presented to
James IV. at Leith, Euphemia and her sister Sybilla had no
opportunity of meeting, or even seeing Barton, or Falconer.  They were
kept in strict seclusion at their father's mansion in Dundee, while
their lovers were compelled to remain as much as possible on board
their ships, owing to the dangers that menaced them ashore; for the
unscrupulous emissaries of Drummond, Home, and the new-made
Earl of Bothwell, were ever on the watch for them; moreover, their
presence was constantly required during the refitting consequent to
the late engagement and the projected voyage to Brest.
</p>

<p>
These repairs were conducted at the New Haven above Leith,
where the king's dockyards were then established.
</p>

<p>
James IV., about 1512, had no less than forty-six ships of war
built here and elsewhere; one of these, the <i>Great Michael</i>, was
the largest vessel in the known world; she carried a thousand men,
was two hundred and forty feet long, and cost £40,000&mdash;an enormous
sum in those days.  For the accommodation of the workmen, at Sir
Andrew Wood's suggestion, he built a chapel dedicated to Our Lady
and St. James, the eastern window and gable of which are yet
remaining in the Vennel of New Haven.  If Scotland, in 1512, could
equip such a fleet, before the value of her vast iron mines, her forests
of fir and oak, and the convenience of her deep bays and salt lakes
were known, what a noble armament could she now launch upon the
waters of the Tay and Clyde!
</p>

<p>
Margaret Drummond, though happy in her restoration to her
royal husband (who was making every requisite preparation for
espousing her publicly on his coronation day, after the arrival of the
papal dispensation), never mentioned that her sisters had lovers of
more humble pretensions, who were known only to their own family
circle.  Her father had laid her and them under the most stern
injunctions of secrecy, and thus the young king believed that
his two beautiful sisters-in-law were the affianced brides of Home
and Bothwell; and though he had no great admiration for the
characters of those turbulent and unlettered lords, he had no desire to
excite dissension anew by seeking other spouses for Euphemia and
Sybilla.
</p>

<p>
Thus overawed by their parent, the sisters locked the secret in
their own breasts, and were miserable; for this old, habitual terror of
their father was mingled with the love and respect which were due
to him, and united to a long foreknowledge of his unbounded pride,
his imperious spirit, his calculating ambition, and his haughty will,
which had never, since the hour of his birth, been thwarted, and
which made him follow to the death any man who dared to mar, in
the most trifling manner, the plots he wove and the plans he laid
for the aggrandizement of himself and his family.
</p>

<p>
Confident in the young king's chivalric and generous character,
Barton and Falconer, with the natural bluntness of their profession,
would at once have sought an interview, told their story, and claimed
his patronage and protection; but the king was at Stirling one day,
at Falkland the next, at Dundee the third, and thus no proper
opportunity was afforded to them; the ships were soon reported as ready
for sea; De Concressault came on board, with all his train, under
three salvoes of cannon, as ambassador of France; and the <i>Yellow
Frigate</i> and the <i>Flower</i> got under way; and the reader may
easily conceive the emotions of Barton and Falconer when sailing
on this expedition, and leaving their loves behind them while so many
evil influences combined to cast a shadow on their hopes.
</p>

<p>
Indeed, both sailed with the most firm and melancholy conviction
that, long before their return, either by fear, coercion, or despair, or
by all three combined, Euphemia would be Lady Home, and Sybilla
Countess of Bothwell.
</p>

<p>
Their growing sadness and their many communings could not
escape the quick eyes of the old Admiral, who had been closely
observing them, one day in particular, as he was taking an observation
with the cross-staff, during a bright sunshine that equally favoured
the operations of Father Zuill, who was hard at work levelling his
lenses, mirrors, and parabolic speculum against the sails of a
fisher-boat, which he was vainly endeavouring to ignite, an experiment
which, if successful, would no doubt have excited considerable
surprise and consternation in the mind of the unconscious proprietor
thereof.  The kind Admiral, who knew well the secrets of the two
friends, endeavoured to reassure them, and laugh their fears away.
</p>

<p>
"Alas, Admiral," said Falconer, "I never can forget that all my
fortune is in my scabbard; that my prospects of success at home are
now more dim and distant since the late king's death, and how can
I hope to be the brother-in-law of his son?  Oh, it is all vanity and
madness in me&mdash;this passion for Lord Drummond's daughter!  Yet
I know that Sybilla loves me; thus I cannot abandon her while life
remains, otherwise, I would not return with you from France, but
would enlist in the Scottish archers, or offer my sword to Robert of
Patulloch, or the Mareschal de Concressault, and seek fortune in the
wars of Charles VIII.  These nobles at home will prove too strong
for us in the end, Barton!"
</p>

<p>
"In their eyes no deed, however brave, can gild a humble birth;
and no shame is so deep as a lowly name!" said Barton.
</p>

<p>
"Well, and is not this a wisdom in the titled blockheads, after
all," said the Admiral; "for they know that, in respecting high birth
and sounding titles, they are but paying a compliment to themselves
and enhancing their own value."
</p>

<p>
"To conceive it possible that my gentle Sybilla may be <i>forced</i>&mdash;yea,
in free Scotland, forced like a Danish serf, to marry a man who
cannot appreciate her goodness and excellence."
</p>

<p>
"There is no man so low in the scale of humanity&mdash;not even
among the rebel lords," said Barton.
</p>

<p>
"Poor Sybilla&mdash;how I love her!"
</p>

<p>
"This were vast presumption in Strathearn, Davie," said the
Admiral; "but here, on the deck of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, is only
natural and just,&mdash;a great lord's daughter though she be.  But tush,
man! is this the way for a stout fellow to pule and sadden like a
pitiful scaramouche?  If these damosels wed in your absence, my lads,
remember there are gude fish in the salt sea, as ever came out of it; a
rusty anchor and a rotten cable are not worth the upheaval; and so,
gadzooks! if they miss stays and get stranded in your absence, let
them e'en go, with God's blessing, and bear ye away for a fairer
haven and more seaworthy consorts."
</p>

<p>
Consolation of this kind was about as good as none; but time
wore on&mdash;day succeeded day.  After passing the straits of Dover
without seeing any sign of a hostile English fleet, which rumour
said was preparing to intercept them, and after running down the
English Channel, the two Scottish caravels doubled the point then
named by the French the <i>End of the World</i>, as no land was known
to the westward of it, and arrived in safety at Brest in Brittany.
</p>

<p>
This, though one of the best harbours in Europe, was then but a
small seaport or village, dependent on the town of Sainte Renan.
</p>

<p>
After exchanging salutes with the Castle of Brest, and being
royally feasted by the abbot and monks of its rich Benedictine abbey,
the Scottish admiral bade adieu to the Sieur de Concressault (who
began his journey to court), and again put to sea.
</p>

<p>
Passing between the Isle of Ushant and the mainland, he bore
away for Sluys, on another mission from the court of Scotland to the
Flemings, concerning that commercial dispute, which, natheless the
casks of Dutch heads, pickled by Andrew Barton, it was believed no
man in Scotland was better able to adjust than Sir Andrew Wood of
Largo.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap59"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LIX.
<br /><br />
REUNITED.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "But am I not the nobler thro' thy love?<br />
  O three times less unworthy! likewise thou<br />
  Art more thro' love, and greater than thy years."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Meanwhile treason was not idle at home.
</p>

<p>
Sir Patrick Gray and Sir James Shaw, exasperated by the turn
affairs had taken against them, and by finding, that instead of
having their petty lairdships erected into lordships and earldoms,
with many a fair slice of the lands of the Crawfurds, the Erskines,
the Stewarts, and others, to whose confiscation and forfeiture they
had fondly looked forward, and being no longer able to exact kain
and herezelds at the sword's point again and again from the hapless
rentallers of the king's castles, they entered into a closer compact with
Henry for the removal of Margaret Drummond, and with Master
Quentin Kraft, who, eluding the chain of guards and close watch
kept upon the Borders between Tweedmouth and Solway Sands, had
the hardihood to re-enter Scotland disguised, and he, together with
Borthwick, who still lurked about the town and Castle of Berwick,
were, as before, their ready means of communication with the
court of London.
</p>

<p>
The two anti-national knights had both conceived a mortal grudge
against Sir Andrew Wood, for no other cause, perhaps, than his being a
sterling and unflinching patriot, who, by taking the English ships,
had restored Margaret Drummond to her princely lover.  Thus they
had many a long conference, and one in particular on the very day
after he sailed for Brest.
</p>

<p>
Shaw, as usual, half intoxicated,&mdash;and Gray, nervous, grim, and
fiery as ever, sat over their wine in the half-naked hall of Kyneff,
where Kraft, the notary, or attorney&mdash;for he was called both&mdash;prepared
a statement of the number of ships, men, and guns carried by Admiral
Wood.  With this paper he departed on the spur to Berwick, from
whence Borthwick conveyed it to London (then a four-weeks' journey
at least), and there he informed the Bishop of Winchester, the
secretary of King Henry, who was then residing at Baynard Castle, that
on leaving Brest, the Scottish admiral would sail for Sluys; and that
by having a powerful fleet to intercept him, he might easily, at one
and the same time, crush one of the young king's most gallant
subjects, assert the superiority of England on the sea, and revenge the
affront so lately put upon her arms in the battle of the Firth of
Forth.
</p>

<p>
Though kings had generally as little power of choice in love, then
as now, and had to submit to the wishes and will of their subjects,
and to the interests of their country, James IV., after striving to
banish from his mind the gloom his father's fate had brought upon
him, and after exiling from his presence most of those who had been
the cause of that hapless father's downfall, gave himself up to the
joy and intoxication of his passion for Margaret Drummond&mdash;a
passion all untrammelled now by secrecy, and uncurbed by caution.
</p>

<p>
The whole nation knew that he loved her now&mdash;that they were
secretly married, and that a little daughter had been born, to secure
whose legitimacy and regal rights the dispensation of the Pope alone
was wanting; and the Lyon King of Arms had gone to England,
empowered to demand the instant liberation of its bearer, or denounce
war by sea and land.  But though anxious to destroy Sir Andrew
Wood and his companions, and also to detain the Bishop of Dunblane,
the subtle Henry VII. had no intention, if it could be avoided,
of having a crisis so fatal to his darling matrimonial projects; and
he still resolved, that by fair means or foul, Lord Drummond's
daughter should be removed, to make way for an English princess.
</p>

<p>
It was now the beginning of August: the birds had ceased to
sing, and were training their newly-fledged broods; the swallows
were gathering for their long and mysterious journey, and the ripe
corn waved in heavy ear.
</p>

<p>
The sun was setting beyond the fertile carse of Gowrie, and the
evening was warm and balmy in bonnie Dundee.
</p>

<p>
The last of the traders had left the meal-market, and the lorimers,
the bonnet-makers, the wabsters, and cordiners, had closed their
booths about the old Salt Iron.  The various bells were ringing for
the vesper service, and the broad blue river, with its picturesque
craft, lay sleeping in its beauty between the yellow sands and fertile
slopes of Fife and Angus.
</p>

<p>
Dreaming little of the tangled web of trouble, care, and sorrow
Scottish guile and English gold were weaving round their young
and loving hearts, James and his fair-haired consort occupied the old
Palace of St. Margaret, of which we gave the reader a description in
the earlier chapters of this history.
</p>

<p>
The royal guard had been re-established under another captain,
the town was occupied by a great number of armed men&mdash;Drummonds,
Homes, and Hepburns,&mdash;all flushed with their recent victory at
Sassentilly, and these were quartered on the wealthy citizens, among
whom they remained at free quarters to be ready for any emergency
as the country was far from being quiet or settled.
</p>

<p>
The young monarch gave himself up to all the joy of a complete
reunion with his youthful consort, but she was unusually sad and
thoughtful, as if a foreboding of approaching evil hovered in her
heart and clouded her open brow.
</p>

<p>
"Dearest," said she, after a long pause, as they sat together in a
recess of one of those deep old windows which were so well calculated
for a quiet <i>tête-à-tête</i>, "how deeply am I indebted to you for your
tenderness, which gratifies all my wishes, and anticipates all my
thoughts.  Oh, my dearest&mdash;my best beloved one!" she continued,
clinging to him like a child; "let me creep closer to you."
</p>

<p>
"Sweet Maggie," said the handsome young king, as he passed a
hand fondly and caressingly over her bright-coloured hair, which
looked indeed "as if powdered with gold dust"&mdash;and this was the
same stout hand which was afterwards hewn off his stiffened arm at
Flodden,&mdash;"every moment we are separated seems an age, and yet
the while my heart is full of thee!  But a time is coming, when in
the presence of all Scotland, we shall stand side by side upon the
throne, and the greatest peers shall kiss this pretty hand, as their
queen's."
</p>

<p>
"When our good Bishop returns&mdash;but not, alas! till then!" she
murmured, looking upward, as her soft cheek fell upon his shoulder,
"he is a weary time away."
</p>

<p>
The brightness of pure love shone in her fair face; and this young
queen&mdash;for a queen, indeed, she was, though the Church would not
yet acknowledge her&mdash;seemed enchanting in her beauty and her
innocence.
</p>

<p>
"Fools speak of the right divine of kings," said James, gazing
tenderly upon her.  "By my soul, dear Margaret, the power of a
beautiful woman is the only one that comes direct from heaven."
</p>

<p>
Margaret only sighed at this compliment, and her eyes filled with
tears.
</p>

<p>
"Still nursing thine old sadness, Margaret!"
</p>

<p>
"Ah, call me pet names, as you were wont to do."
</p>

<p>
"Well, then, Maggie, why so sorrowful?"
</p>

<p>
"My aunt, the Duchess of Montrose, told me that there is a
rumour going abroad&mdash;that&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"That what?"
</p>

<p>
"That an old prophecy of Thomas of Ercildoune says,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "When Pausyle and Tweed meet o'er Merlin's grave,<br />
  Scotlande and Englande one king shall have."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
"There they can never meet, thank God!" said the king, laughing:
"though Merlin lies buried in Drummellier, by Tweedside; for
there I have seen his tomb.  But what doth an old rhyme matter to
us, Maggie?"
</p>

<p>
"They say moreover&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Who are <i>they</i>?"
</p>

<p>
"The people," said Margaret, giving way to tears, "that this
prophecy will be accomplished by your wedding the daughter of
Henry VII."
</p>

<p>
"Those who say so are fools!  Has not this cunning old Tudor
a son, who will be Henry VIII.?  No English king can reign over
Scotland, and I would not sit on the English throne were I its heir
to-morrow; for who, then, would be king of broad Scotland,
Margaret? and who would be a barrier between her people and the
tyrannical nobility?  Besides, tidings must long ere this have
reached the English court that we are married, and well must
Henry know that thus all hope of fulfilling the terms of that state
betrothal, which assigned <i>another Margaret</i> to me, is at an end for
ever."
</p>

<p>
Margaret only sighed, and her tears continued to fall.
</p>

<p>
"My bounibel," said James, "here are luxury, wealth, grandeur,
rank, and greater are yet before thee; yet thou art not happy."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, pardon my ingratitude; but I have such strange dreams by
night, and such dark forebodings by day!  Something is always
wanting to complete happiness."
</p>

<p>
"That is the curse of life, Margaret."
</p>

<p>
"Of mine at least," said she, folding her soft little hands.
</p>

<p>
"And that want&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Is security," said Margaret, sighing.
</p>

<p>
"Thou wilt always be loved and respected, Maggie," said her boy
husband, as he caressed her; "for thou art not valued by the
dimness or splendour of thy fortune, but for thy sweetness and piety,
thy goodness of heart and purity of soul, rather than imaginary
nobility of name."
</p>

<p>
"But your majesty must be ever watchful and ready to defend
from danger your poor Margaret, who loves you so well&mdash;better than
all the world beside;&mdash;yea, better even than her little babe&mdash;<i>ours</i>;
and you must not leave me so often and so long for those meetings
of council and affairs of state, for dire forebodings of evil crush me
whenever I am left alone."
</p>

<p>
"Why so fearful of plots and wiles, sweet Maggie?  But take
courage, for I would defend you against a world in arms; and fear
not either for our fair-haired little one, who may one day wed some
gallant king of France or Spain, when she is beautiful as thyself, my
kind-eyed Maggie!"
</p>

<p>
Such was one of many similar conversations which took place
between the young king and his secretly wedded wife, while they
awaited the bishop's return and the coming coronation; but whether
the dark presentiments that hovered in Margaret's timid mind and
saddened her winning manner were false or true, a little time will
now serve to show.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap60"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LX.
<br /><br />
LONDON IN 1488.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Sir John got on a bonny brown beast<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To Scotland for to ride&mdash;a;<br />
  A brown buff coat upon his back,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A short sword by his side&mdash;a;<br />
  Alas! young man, we sucklings can<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Pull down the Scottish pride&mdash;a."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Sir John Mennis</i>, 1639.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Saint Swithin's Day in 1488&mdash;fortunately a fair and sunny one&mdash;was
the busiest ever witnessed in the good city of London, if not
since the English capital had a name, at least since the mayoralty of
the loyal and wealthy Sir William Horne, whom King Henry VII. had
knighted in the preceding year at Hornsey Park; and from its
countless wooden thoroughfares&mdash;bricks were only beginning to be
used about thirty years before&mdash;she poured forth her thousands,
to witness the departure of a gallant admiral against the Scots.
</p>

<p>
"The first article of an Englishman's political creed," saith my
Lord Halifax, "must be that he believeth in the sea!"&mdash;and a very
good article it is.
</p>

<p>
Hence Henry VII. was so deeply concerned by the humiliation of
Howard, that he summoned the most expert and experienced mariners
in his kingdom, "and after exhorting them to purge away the stain
east upon the English name," he offered the then handsome pension
of a thousand pounds yearly, to any man who would undertake to
bring before him, dead or alive, Sir Andrew Wood of Largo, though
it was now a time of truce, and actually of treaty between the two
nations; but such were the anomalies of an age when no man was
particular about anything but the length of his sword and the trim
of his beard&mdash;if he had one.
</p>

<p>
In this new project Henry had many difficulties to encounter, for at
that time, England was almost destitute of a navy.  "Before the reign
of Queen Elizabeth," says Fuller, "the ships-royal were so few that
they deserved not the name of a fleet, and our kings hired vessels
from Hamburg, Lubeck, yea, from Genoa itself."  The <i>Great
Harry</i>, his first ship, cost him one hundred and fourteen thousand
pounds; before this, he used to seize or press merchant vessels for
warlike purposes when he required them.
</p>

<p>
The celebrity for skill and valour enjoyed by Sir Andrew Wood,
caused him to be so much dreaded by the English, Dutch, and
Portuguese, that some time elapsed before a volunteer was found.  At
last Sir Stephen Bull, a naval captain of known talent and
well-tried courage, offered his sword and services to the King, who
accepted them with joy; and three vessels, the largest and strongest
that England could furnish, well-manned by chosen men, and
mounted with heavy cannon, were placed at his disposal by John de
Vere, Earl of Oxford, who was Lord High Admiral of England from
the year 1485 to 1512, and who spared no pains to fit out this half
chivalric and wholly vindictive enterprize,&mdash;for to their glory be it
said, the English nobles&mdash;unlike the Scottish&mdash;have always been
distinguished by a high degree of patriotism and love of the honour
and interests of their native country; identifying themselves with
both in all ages.
</p>

<p>
The chief of these three ships was the <i>Unicorn</i>&mdash;the caravel of
the late Sir Andrew Barton.
</p>

<p>
Sir Stephen had been a merchant-trader of London, and was well
known at Staple Inn, where the dealers of those days exposed their
samples of wool, cloth, and other commodities for sale; and no vote had
more influence than his at Aldermanbury, where the Guildhall was then
situated, and where the council met; but fired by a laudable and
honourable desire for upholding the glory of "Old England," he had
buckled on his armour, and left his buxom dame and comfortable
mansion with its <i>glazed</i> windows&mdash;then no ordinary luxury&mdash;at the
corner of Fenchurch-street, near the Aldgate, to wage battle against
"the hot and termagant Scots."
</p>

<p>
To the great, or uneducated mass of the English people, even in
the present age, Scotland is a country of which but little is known.
<i>Then</i> it was deemed a distant and remote, as well as hated land,
and all expeditions against it, were fraught with danger and
death.
</p>

<p>
In those "good old times" there were no electric telegraphs; no
mails, rails, or "own correspondents," and no resident ambassadors
or consuls.  Every Scot entering England became a prisoner; every
Englishman entering Scotland might be lawfully killed or captured
by whoever could catch him.  These were pleasant times withal;
and thus, though it was a season of peace between the two countries,
Henry, after wisely considering the recent convulsion in Scotland,
and the new King's extreme youth&mdash;thought he might risk a little
to punish the bold Scottish mariner, in the same fashion in which he
had overwhelmed Sir Andrew Barton; and if war was declared by
Scotland thereanent, he might easily contrive to repudiate the whole
affair as a military quarrel between two rival knights&mdash;a passage of
arms upon the sea.
</p>

<p>
Sir Stephen Bull had hoisted his flag on board the captured
<i>Unicorn</i>, and he had spared no pains or expense in fitting her up;
thus, not content with all the King gave him, he had borrowed
largely from the opulent money-lenders in Lombard-street.
</p>

<p>
Edmund Howard was his captain.
</p>

<p>
The second ship was commanded by Miles le Furnival, son of the
Lord of Farnham in Bucks&mdash;an ancient house, whose tenure it was to
find the King of England a right-hand glove on his Coronation day,
and to support his right arm when he held the sceptre.  Their
town residence, still known as Furnival's Inn, stood on the north
side of Holborn.
</p>

<p>
The third ship was under the orders of the wealthy Fulke, Lord
of Fulkeshall (now better known as Vauxhall), who is said to have
been an ancestor of Guy of notorious memory.
</p>

<p>
Immense quantities of iron balls and stone shot&mdash;the latter from
the royal quarries at Maidstone in Kent&mdash;had been put on board of
these vessels, and they were crowded by the best marksmen of the
ancient Fraternity of Artillery, or Gunners of the Tower; and the
chief of these was our old friend, tall Dick Selby, the best
cudgel-player that ever broke a head at Moorfields, or tossed the bar at
Finsbury, and who, moreover, was the blithest toper that ever
tossed off a horn, as the bluff host of the Belle Sauvage on Ludgate
Hill was ready to testify.
</p>

<p>
Many brave volunteers accompanied Bull; these were all members
of noble families&mdash;some of them gay fellows, whose white feathers
and laced mantles would long be missed by many a bright blue eye
in Paul's Walk, as the aisle of the great cathedral was named, being
the favourite place of the Londoners for gossip and promenades;
many, too, would prance no more among the horsemen at the
Smoothfield, on Friday, or lounge at the Priory of St. John, at
Clerkenwell, where the Sacred Mysteries were performed in the fine
summer evenings.
</p>

<p>
Thus, the three ships were manned by mariners of tried skill, and
soldiers of proved courage; but among them were not a few desperadoes
from that sanctuary of miscreants, St. Martin's-le-Grand.
</p>

<p>
"Bring ye back my daughter, Captain Howard," cried old Abel
Eyre, the stout fishmonger of Knightrider-street, as he came off to
the <i>Unicorn</i> in a wherry, from the Old Swan Stairs; "bring her
back to me, from yonder distant country, and I will give thee a pair
of the best gold spurs Giltspur-street can furnish."
</p>

<p>
"Restore my niece, Rose," added Peter Puddle, of Puddle-wharf,
"for, by my troth, I would rather she had turned cut-purse, or
wedded the greasiest scullion of Pie-corner, than become the wife of
a rough-footed Scot."
</p>

<p>
"If I ever return, good citizens," said Howard, through his open
helmet, as he looked over the buckler-ports of the <i>Unicorn</i>; "thy
daughter will be by my side.  I took her away with me, and it is
but fair I should restore her, if I can.  Farewell, sirs, and remember
me at vespers to-night," he added, with a sadness that chilled the
hearts of the two portly citizens; "for sorely my mind misgives me,
I shall never hear the English curfew bell again!"
</p>

<p>
Never had the banks of Thames seen a sight so gay or so busy,
since London Stone was first placed by the verge of the old
Prætorian-road!
</p>

<p>
In a gorgeous barge, covered by an awning, decorated by pennons
and rowed by men in the royal livery, Henry VII. was on the
river, accompanied by the Lord Mayor and commonalty, all in smaller
barges, garnished with streamers and surrounded by a swarm of
lesser boats, crowded by knights, courtiers, citizens, and beautiful
women, all wearing the gayest of colours.
</p>

<p>
He wore his royal robes&mdash;a kirtle and surcoat, with his furred hood
and mantle, and the George upon his breast.  A smile of gratification
lit up his usually grave face from time to time, as he caressed
his chief favourite&mdash;an abominable monkey.
</p>

<p>
As he stood up in the barge to bow in return to the people, whose
shouts rent the sunny air, his tall thin figure was conspicuous above
his courtiers, "among whom we observed," as the newspapers would
have said had there been one in this year of grace, 1488, Sir William
Stanley, Lord Chamberlain of England, wearing his gold key of
office; Robert Lord Brook, Knight of the Garter, and Lord Steward
of the Household; Sir Richard Crofts, the King's Treasurer, and
Sir Richard Edgecumbe, his comptroller, each bearing a white wand;
Berkely, the Earl Marshal; Lord Dinham, the Treasurer of England;
and Gerald, Earl of Kildare, the newly appointed Governor of
Henry's lordship of Ireland, all attired in gorgeous costumes, while
the fifty Yeomen of the Guard&mdash;a body established only two years
before&mdash;clad in scarlet coats and black velvet caps, and armed with
partisans and swords, were in the king's great barge, with their
captain, Sir Charles Somerset, afterwards Earl of Worcester.
</p>

<p>
It was quite a gala day in London.  The beautiful cross in Cheapside,
and the Conduit, recently built by the Sheriff, Thomas Ilam,
were covered with garlands of flowers; all the bells were tolling, and
the houses which faced the river had their windows crowded with
heads, and their <i>horn</i> lattices open,&mdash;for glass was not common in
England until the middle of the sixteenth century, and even in
1558, when "the proud Earl of Northumberland" left Alnwick
Castle for a time, the glass windows were carefully taken out, and
thriftily replaced by plain wooden boards.
</p>

<p>
The culverins and bombardes of the Tower thundered out their
farewell salute as the ships got under way; flags were displayed
on the old Church of St. Katharine, where now the Docks are; and
all the foreign argosies and the corn traders from the Cinque Ports,
which in those days were compelled to land their cargoes at
Queen-hithe, the rival of Billingsgate, were bedecked with banners and
streamers, while many a broad piece of tapestry floated from the
keep of the Tower, and from Baynard Castle, which had been rebuilt
about sixty years before by the Duke of Gloucester.
</p>

<p>
The roofs and windows of quaint Old London Bridge, through the
narrow arches of which the ebb tide was rushing, displayed a
thousand faces and waving caps.  It had then a grotesque row of houses
and shops, forming a narrow street across the river, with a gothic
Chapel of St. Thomas à Becket; an embattled drawbridge-tower, on
which Hentzner, one fine morning, counted no less than thirty
human heads, all of which had been carefully cooked and parboiled,
according to act of parliament, in the kitchen of the said tower.
</p>

<p>
At last the topsails were sheeted home, and while their ordnance,
amid clouds of smoke replied to the farewell salutes of the Tower
and the deafening cheers of the people, St. George's red cross was
thrice lowered in adieu to the king, and the vessels began to drop
down the river, while a fry of wherries pulled by barefooted and
barelegged watermen shot after them, their occupants cheering with
delight at the anticipation of pelting with the mud of the then
unpaved streets "the rough-footed Scots" of Andrew Wood; for
those of Andrew Barton, when marched in chains through the
thoroughfares of London, obtained some weighty marks of the
goodwill borne by the citizens to foreigners in general, and the
abhorred Scots in particular.  In the days of Henry VII. and Henry
VIII., we are told the London streets "were very foul, and full of
pits and sloughs," and thus, plenty of muddy ammunition lay always
at hand.
</p>

<p>
On board the ship of Miles Furnival sailed Hew Borthwick, bound
to Scotland on another mission of infamy.
</p>

<p>
A deadly and subtle poison had been prepared by a certain Master
Kraft, an herbalist whom Henry VII. patronised, and who was a
brother of Quentin the Notary.  This personage kept an apothecary's
booth in Bucklersbury, a street which, from a very early period,
until the great fire of 1666, was inhabited solely, or nearly so, by
renders of simples, medicines, cosmetics, and deleterious drugs.
</p>

<p>
This poison had been delivered by Henry's agents to Borthwick,
who was to leave nothing untried, by its means, to remove Margaret
Drummond for ever from the path of Margaret Tudor.
</p>

<p>
Thus Hew Borthwick had embarked on board the caravel of Miles
Furnival, being too wary to show himself near Captain Howard, who
he knew would indubitably fling him overboard, without mercy or
remedy.
</p>

<p>
Cheer after cheer continued to be interchanged as the vessels dropped
down Thames with the ebbing tide, and with their white sails and
silken streamers shining in the sunny evening light.  The bank
near East Smithfield, known as the Red Cliff, which gave a name to
the ancient village of Ratcliffe Highway, was crowded by spectators,
who waved their adieux to the tall and stately caravels&mdash;the hope of
so many hearts.
</p>

<p>
The sun was sinking now, and soon the merry chimes of St. Clement
Danes, and the deep ding-dong of the Bow-bell in the spire
of St. Mary de Arcubus, with the smoke and steeples of London, the
din of its streets with the voices of their assembled thousands, and
the huge square tower of old St. Paul's, lessened and faded together
in the distance, as the vessels stood down the widening and winding
river, on their bold expedition to intercept Sir Andrew Wood of
Largo, on his return from Sluys.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap61"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LXI.
<br /><br />
THE ADMIRAL'S STORY&mdash;THE LEGEND OF CORA
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; "Peace, Kent!<br />
  Come not between the dragon and his wrath:<br />
  I lov'd <i>her</i> most, and thought to set my rest<br />
  On her kind nursery.&mdash;Hence, and avoid my sight<br />
  So be my grave my peace, as here I give<br />
  Her father's heart from her!"&mdash;<i>King Lear</i>, Act i.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
While the two Scottish caravels (such was the name usually
given to all large ships) lay at Sluys, the admiral left nothing
unsaid, in his rough, hearty fashion, to rouse the spirit and fan the
hopes of David Falconer and Robert Barton; but both sank lower,
they grew weary of the flat shores of Dutch Flanders, with their
gaudy houses, closely clipped hollies and stiff tall poplar trees; and of
the sluggish Scheldt that flowed so noiselessly to the sea in slime and
sunshine; and of rambling among the grass-grown fortifications of
Cadsandt, the cannon of which commanded the navigation of the
river; they were wearied too, by the endless interviews and
diplomacy of the slow, pompous, and full-fed burgomasters of Bruges,
Sluys, and Ardenburg, with their vast circular hats, great bombasted
breeches, and long iron spadas; and heartily they longed to weigh
anchor for home.
</p>

<p>
"Take courage, and be men," said the Laird of Largo to his two
friends and companions, as they lingered over their wine, one sunny
afternoon, in that famous old hostel on the quay at Sluys, the
"Yung-fraü," kept by Dame Gudule Snichtercloot, who wore a cap
with long ears, a score of petticoats, and had a long-legged stork
sitting dreamily on each of the six steep gables of her house.  "Take
courage, carles; gadzooks! had I lost heart thus every time fortune
gave me a head-wind, I had never gathered leeway in life, or been
Laird of Largo and Newbyrne."
</p>

<p>
"True, true, Sir Andrew," said Barton, gnawing the ends of his
mustachios; "but had the stout old skipper, my father, been a lord
of that ilk&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"He would have kent to a plack the price of Scottish honour
and of the favour of foreign kings," said the Admiral, bitterly; "but
being a humble man, he deemed that Scotland was the Scotsman's
gift from God&mdash;for the poor man's sole inheritance is his country,&mdash;and
so, he fought and died for her.  Were I the Lion King of Arms,
I would enact a law of heraldry that every Scottish peer and
placeman should have his shield powdered with English rose-nobles, as
indicative of the fealty they are ever ready to transfer for lucre,
But were there two Adams in the Garden of Eden, and two Eves
to mate with them, Father Zuill?  I trow not.  Gadzooks! one
man's blood is as good as the blood of another, whatever his soul
may be.  But enough of this&mdash;I could spin you a yarn to the point,
though I usually leave that task to the boatswain.  Heard ye ever
the story of King Malcolm's daughter Cora and Mac Ian the
royal huntsman?"
</p>

<p>
"No."
</p>

<p>
"No" were the replies from each side of the table.
</p>

<p>
"And of how she wedded a youth of low degree?"
</p>

<p>
"Cora!  I have heard of her," said Father Zuill, who was making
a focus with his glass in the sunshine, and endeavouring to burn a
hole in his cassock; "she was drowned in the Falls of Clyde."
</p>

<p>
"So sayeth old history, but old history is wrong.  'Twas a tale
my poor mother was wont to tell me, when I was a wee halfling
callant that spent the lee lang summer day in fishing for podleys
at the auld wooden pier of Leith, and rambling on the Mussel-cape;
and many a time have I thought of it after I became a sailor, like
my father before me; and the auld woman's kind voice came to me
in dreams, when the wind rocked me asleep on the swinging
topsail-yard.  Well, fill up the bickers&mdash;summon another stoup of Dame
Snichtercloot's best Bordeaux, and I'll tell you the tale, for it may
give you heart to bear up against your present crosses, and show how
a sair broken ship may natheless come merrily to land."
</p>

<p>
After a few more preambles, the admiral began as follows&mdash;and
although we have shown hitherto that he spoke in his own dialect,
and mingled his phraseology with many a nautical simile and salt-water
metaphor, lest the reader should tire of these, we have rendered
his story into proper language, and in short preferred to tell it in our
own way:&mdash;
</p>

<p>
Malcolm II., King of Scotland, surnamed Mac Kenneth, (his
father, the victor of Luncarty, being the third of that name) was a
wise, just, and valiant monarch, who divided his realm into provinces,
putting over each a governor or sheriff to restrain the turbulent and
lawless; he encouraged the commons to become skilful husbandmen
and tillers of the soil, and to become merchants and traders on the
sea.  Under his rule all the arts of peace flourished, while those of
war were not forgotten; for by his valour he spread his conquests
far beyond the Saxon border, and by the annexation of the northern
counties of England obtained the additional surname of
</p>

<p class="t3">
  <i>Rex Victoriosissimus.</i><br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Hence it is, that for many years after, the eldest sons of the kings
of Scotland bore the title of Prince of Cumberland; and hence it is
that we find the inhabitants of these northern counties of England
so Scottish in aspect, dialect, and character.  Malcolm had no son;
but he had four daughters, all famous for their charms: the Princess
Beatrix, wife of Crinian Abthane of the Western Isles; the Princess
Doacha, wife of the Thane of Angus, and consequently mother of the
terrible Macbeth; Muriella, married to Sigurd Earl of Orkney; and
lastly, the Princess Cora, the most beautiful lady in the land.
</p>

<p>
Many powerful thanes and chiefs sought her hand in marriage,
but the principal competitors were Kenneth, a Lord of the Isles;
Græme, Thane of Strathearn; and Dunbar, Thane of Lothian: and
so anxious was the king to secure by her means the firm adherence
of one of these influential nobles, that he would not have hesitated to
employ force and severity, but that he loved the gentle Cora with
the tenderest love that can fill a human breast; for he had transferred
to her, in another form, all the regard he had borne the queen
her mother, who had now passed away to the company of the saints,
and whose remains lay with those of her fathers, among the royal
combs of lona.
</p>

<p>
Yet, when this good king waxed old, when his brow became lyart
and his beard grew white, and when he saw that Cora, his youngest-born,
had expanded into a beautiful woman&mdash;full-bosomed, graceful,
and tall, with snow-white skin, soft eyes, and golden hair, he thought
in his secret heart, how gladly he would see her some bold warrior's
bride; lest, when the time came that he too should be borne through
the valley of corpses in Kilmalie, that some of his bearded thanes
and ferocious chiefs might decide the prize of her hand by the sword,
and so deluge the land in Scottish blood.
</p>

<p>
Many of the great lords were more than usually importunate,
because Malcolm's grandchildren, little Duncan, the son of Beatrix,
and the boy Macbeth, the son of Doacha, might both die in infancy,
or when they grew older, might perish in war, or in the forest, which
was then fraught with danger to the hunter; for the woods were
full of white mountain bulls, bears and wolves, elks, and other wild
animals, that the old Scots of those hardy times loved to encounter
and subdue, for wild sports were their chief pastime.
</p>

<p>
None of King Malcolm's court loved the chase like the Princess
Cora, and she was ever the foremost of the hunters, mounted on a
beautiful horse, which Gregory, Bishop of St. Andrew's, had procured
for her in Arabia Petræa, with its bridle of silver, at which hung
thirteen blessed bells; and as she gave each of these as a prize to the
best horseman successively, in racing round the ring, the proverb
first came among us of "bearing away the <i>bell</i>."
</p>

<p>
The old king spared no cost in the decoration of her chamber,
which was entirely hung with bright-coloured silk, and its windows
were glazed with clear beryl, though he and his courtiers contented!
them with beds of soft heather, and had nothing in their windows
save the iron gratings which gave them security.  Moreover, the
floor of her chamber was laid with the softest furs, and her bed and
her pillows were the finest feathers, all procured by Mac Ian Rua,
the Forester of Dunfermline, and favourite huntsman of the king, in
an age when luxury was almost unknown.
</p>

<p>
She was an expert citharist, and none in Scotland sang more
beautifully; thus, each night by the royal couch she sat with her harp
on her knees, and sang the old king to sleep by rehearsing the lay
of Aneurin, describing the great Battle of Cattraeth, which was fought
in Etterick Forest, where, five hundred years before, the men of
Dunedin were almost exterminated by the Saxons of Deiria; and
this warlike song made the old king's heart leap within him, and he
would beat time with his fingers, and thus sinking to sleep, would
dream of his early days, of the field of Cramond, the flight of flanes
and shock of spears, and his battles with Danes by the Earn and the
Tay.  But his chief favourite was the low sad song of "The Owl,"
which our Highlanders yet sing when the cloud of night descends
upon the darkening mountains, word for word as Ossian sang it in
Selma, many a long and misty year ago.
</p>

<p>
Yet it was strange that three chiefs so powerful, so handsome, and
so valiant as the Thanes of Lothian, Strathearn, and the Isles, should
be without interest in the eyes of the young princess&mdash;for a day
seldom passed without their laying some offering before her.  Græme
brought from the Perthshire mountains the snow-white hide and
sable horns of the mighty Scottish bull, the tusks of the savage boar,
the antlers of the elk, and the claws of the red-mouthed wolf; to
evince his prowess, Dunbar of Lothian laid before her the painted
banners, the steel helmets, and white linen surcoats of the
yellow-haired Saxons whom he had slain in many a field between the Tweed
and Ouse; while Kenneth of the wave-beaten Isles brought a hundred
bearded harpers, each of whom could frame a hundred songs in her
praise, and the charms of whose united voices filled the air by day
and the halls by night with melody; while by the number and
splendour of their retinues, the usually sequestered court of the good
King Malcolm was a scene of constant gaiety and delight; for the
merriment of the palace seemed to grow apace with the years that
grew upon him.
</p>

<p>
Still the princess remained unwedded, and the bells of many a
church and chapel had rung on her twenty-third birthday, before the
king began to lose patience; but whenever he waxed wroth, or even
serious, Cora spread her white hands over her harp, shook back her
long golden locks from her smiling face, and sang the song of "The
Owl" with an eye so bright and a voice so sweet, that the kind king
laughed at her drollery, kissed her, and was pacified.
</p>

<p>
Pondering on her opposition to his dearest wishes, one evening
when the sun was low in the west, Malcolm II. left the old tower in
the woods by a secret door, and wandered into the deep dark glen of
Pittencrief.
</p>

<p>
The sunlight streamed along the wooded hollow, and tinged with
many a brilliant hue the topmost branches of the tallest trees and
the red battlements of the old tower which crowned the summit of
the <i>Dun</i>,&mdash;a steep and lofty rock, at the base of which flowed a
stream.  The brown fox shot across the leafy dell, the dun fuimart
peeped from among the long grass, and the cushat dove cooed on the
branches of the ivied oaks, as the king walked slowly and
thoughtfully on, until he reached a nook in the copsewood, where a pair of
lovers were sitting side by side and hand in hand, with the arm of
the man around the white neck of the maiden, whose soft cheek
rested on his brown and sunburned face.
</p>

<p>
Then the old king paused, with a finger on his bearded lip, and
held his breath, for their figures seemed familiar to him.
</p>

<p>
The maiden wore a mantle of yellow linen, with a tunic of scarlet
silk that reached to her ankles, according to the fashion of the time;
and instead of sleeves, this tunic had openings for her arms, which
were white as hawthorn flowers, and were encircled by bracelets and
armlets of fine silver.  After the custom of all unmarried women,
her hair, which was of the brightest golden colour, was uncovered,
untied, and flowed in ringlets over her neck; and a brooch, which
the king recognised to have been a gift of his own, beamed on her
left shoulder.
</p>

<p>
Roused by a step among the last year's leaves, she started, and
turned her beautiful face from her lover's breast, in fear and
confusion.
</p>

<p>
"Cora!" said the King, in a breathless voice, and stood as one
transfixed.
</p>

<p>
The youth wore a lurich of linked mail, with a cap of steel, and an
eagle's wing therein.  In his hand was a boar-spear, and on his
back a short bow and quiver of arrows; at his belt hung a knife and
silver bugle&mdash;for he was no other than the king's own huntsman,
the son of Red John, and usually named Mac Ian Rua.
</p>

<p>
Malcolm stood silent for a minute, full of anger, grief, and scorn,
for he now knew how her heart by pre-engagement had become
invulnerable, and why the compliments of her princely suitors&mdash;the
hardy Kenneth of the Isles, the gallant Græme of Strathearn, and
the splendid Dunbar, who ruled all the fertile Lothians, from the
sands of Tyningham on the east to the Torwood oaks on the west,
were heard in vain.
</p>

<p>
"My own huntsman, by the holy crook of Saint Fillan!  Have I
lived to see my daughter in the arms of Mac Ian Rua?" exclaimed
the old King, bitterly, as he strode forward, with his walking-staff
clenched in his hand.
</p>

<p>
"Mac Ian," he exclaimed, "thou black-hearted traitor and
presumptuous churl, what punishment is due to one who dares as thou
this day hast dared?"
</p>

<p>
"Death," replied Mac Ian, without hesitation, yet pale as ashes,
and laying a hand upon his breast, while with the other he handed
his sword to the king; "death, Malcolm Mac Kenneth; and I am
ready to die; strike and rid me of a life, that since the hapless hour
I dared to lift my eyes and heart so high, has been to me a burden
and a toil; for I lived as one who was in daily dread of losing his
all&mdash;his life, his sun, and glory!  God made thy daughter beautiful,
O king, and if to love her was presumption, strike, strike
<i>here</i>&mdash;one thrust, and all will be over!"
</p>

<p>
Pale as a statue, the Princess Cora stood between her incensed
father and her humble but handsome lover, but not one word fell
from her quivering lip, for her tongue was chained by love for both,
by fear and by a pride that was not unmingled with shame, that her
father, the proud old Malcolm II.&mdash;Rex Victoriosissimus&mdash;should
have seen her hanging like a wanton on a common huntsman's
neck.
</p>

<p>
But if the king was proud, he was also generous, and with dignity
gave back the proffered sword to Mac Ian Rua.
</p>

<p>
"Mac Ian," said he, "thou has wickedly betrayed the trust I reposed
in thee, in common with all my people; yet will I forgive thee.
Take up thy bow and hunting-spear and begone; if within three
days from this, I find thee within thirty miles of Dunfermline Tower,
by the Stone of Fate, I will have thee torn asunder by wild
horses&mdash;away!"
</p>

<p>
Thus commanded, Mac Ian Rua gave the princess a glance of
sorrow and agony, and taking up his spear and bow, made a low
reverence to the king, who watched him with a stern yet glistening
eye, as he strode down the wooded glen and disappeared; for he had
ever been his favourite hunter, and the old monarch had loved well
to see Mac Ian bend that bow against the eagle, as it cleft the azure
sky, or launch that spear against the wild boar, while its angry
bristles stood erect, and its small and sunken eyes shot fire as it
whetted its foam-covered tusks on the stump of some sturdy oak;
and well had the good Malcolm loved to hear his favourite huntsman's
bugle waking the wooded echoes of Pittencrief; and he now reflected
almost with sadness, that he would never hear that ringing horn
more.
</p>

<p>
"And as for <i>thee</i>, Cora," said the King, "the Black Abbess of
Iona shall soon have thee under her care; thou knowest her?
Muriella Mac Fingon&mdash;stern, ascetic, cold as ice, and immovable as
the black stones of the isle; well, she shall have thee, if not as a
nun, at least as one who requires much good guidance, wise counsel,
and purification by prayer."
</p>

<p>
In a chamber of the old Tower, Cora secluded herself from all, and
wept over this discovery and separation with shame, anger, and
grief; but none shared the emotions of the king, save the young
Macbeth, the son of Doacha, and <i>his</i> anger had no bounds; for he swore
by the pillow of Jacob, on which our kings are crowned, and by the
black rood of Scotland, that no mercy should be shown to Mac Ian;
and for three days this furious boy scoured all Fife in search of him,
beating every thicket and wood between Ardross and the Castle of
Lindores.
</p>

<p>
But who could baffle the pursuit, or trace the steps of a hunter so
wary, so bold, and expert as Mac Ian Rua?  He had gone off
towards the woods and mountains of the south and west; he crossed
the Forth at Stirling Bridge, not the present one, but the more
ancient, which was built in the days of Donald V., and inscribed&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem" style="font-family: Old English Text MT, Times New Roman, serif">
  "I am free to march, as passengers may ken,<br />
  To Scots, to Britons, and to English-men;"<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
and passing through the mighty forest of the Torwood, he went no
man knew whither; at least the fiery young prince and his followers
could never discover him, though a hundred head of cattle were
offered for him dead or alive.
</p>

<p>
Notwithstanding his indignation, and the justness thereof, the old
king soon missed his favourite huntsman sorely, for he loved all
manner of forestry and venery, and Mac Ian had vigorously enforced
all the laws of the woods; but now these were outraged and broken
daily; for there was none so faithful to the king as he had been.  So
all the ancient rules of the forest were violated; stray droves of cattle
broke through the royal wood at the time of St. John's Feast;
men with horn and hound passed the night there; no longer did
three blasts of a bugle announce to the keeper of the royal kitchen
that Mac Ian had found a stray cow or flock of sheep, lawfully escheat
to the king; goats rambled through the parks, and the new huntsman
omitted to hang up one by the horns, according to the ancient
use and wont; carts and wains passed through, and if the fine of
thirty silver pence was exacted, the new forester spent them at the
ale-brewster's, while the keeper of the king's wood and grass declared
by all the devils he could no longer preserve either, for one was cut
and the other eaten,&mdash;for waife-beasts rambled, and wild men hunted
with spear and horn, and laughed at the rangers, for they now feared
none, since Mac Ian Rua was gone.
</p>

<p>
Rumours of these things reached Cora in her bower; her colour
came and went, and her eyes brightened as her old nurse told them; for
these acknowledgments of her lover's courage and gallant bearing
pleased and gratified her; but now, more than ever incensed against
his daughter, the old king resolved to consign her, for a time at
least, to the care of the rigid and reverend mother, Muriella, among
those servants of God, the canonesses of Saint Augustine.  There
he hoped by prayer and solitude, by the force of good example and
of pious precept, that Cora would be led into a proper train of
thought; that the low-born churl, Mac Ian, would be banished
from her memory; and that in good time she would accept as her
husband one of those noble thanes or earls, who, in their love for
her and jealousy of each other, were ready to clutch each other's
beards.
</p>

<p>
Malcolm loved this bright-haired daughter&mdash;his last and
youngest&mdash;dearly; yet he steeled his heart
against her sorrows and reluctance
to be immured in that lone Hebridean Isle, and with a train of
faithful attendants departed from his Tower of Dunfermline in the
woods of Fife, towards the Clyde, where Gillespie Campbell, the
great Lord of Lochawe, was to have one of his largest birlinns in
waiting to convey the royal train from the wooden bridge of
Glasgow in all safety to the Port-na-curragh of Iona; and this
birlinn was to be steered by one who had thrice, in the name of the
Blessed Trinity, stretched his hand over the <i>Black stones</i> of the
isle; for it was an old superstition&mdash;yea, old as the days of the
Druids, that the timoneer who did so would never fail in his
steering; and that the vessel he guided would assuredly come safe to
land.  But vain were all their reckonings, and vain their preparations.
</p>

<p>
Among the apple groves and oaken woods of Clydesdale the
king and his train lingered long, for he loved well the free green
wood, and at every turn of the old paved Roman Way by which
they traversed that long and lovely dale, the great Scottish bull,
with his snow-white mane and sable horns, shot past, crushing the
trees in his path, and making even the ravening wolf and stubborn
boar fly before him.  Thus, as the king's train rode on, many a
<i>détour</i> was made, many a shaft was shot, and many a lance was
flung; but he saw none whose hand was so perfect, or whose aim
was so true as those of Mac Ian Rua had been; and the beautiful
princess smiled brightly at their discomfiture as she rode by the
margin of the descending Clyde, making her fine Arabian horse
caracole and paw the soft air of the warm summer morning.
</p>

<p>
And now the ceaseless din of falling water was heard, where the
stream rolled over a linn of tremendous height and breadth.
</p>

<p>
There, roaring and rushing between their wooded shores, the
whole waters of the Clyde, in one mighty volume, poured over a
sheer precipice of four-and-eighty feet, down, down below, into
a black and weltering pool, from whence the foam arose like smoke,
but tinted by a hundred rainbow hues, in the hot sunshine that fell
between the jagged rocks and tangled woods like a steady flood of
light, to brighten the gushing flood of water.
</p>

<p>
Bewildered by the whirling and screaming of the wild birds, by
the grandeur and sublimity of the scene, and almost stunned by a
dreamy sense that stole over him while listening to the endless roar
of that tremendous linn, cascade, or deluge that thundered down
between the shattered woods, and boiled in foam against the
upheaved crags till it shook the very shore, King Malcolm, with his
white locks streaming on the wind from under his cap of steel, which
was as girt by a crown of golden trefoils, reined in his horse upon the
brink, with his shrinking daughter by his side, and gazed over the
natural rampart into the wild confusion of waters that hissed and
boiled in the gulf which yawned far down below.
</p>

<p>
"Look down, dear Cora," said he, kindly,&mdash;for his soul was awed;
"look down if thou darest; for in all my kingdom, from Caithness
to the Tyne, there is not such another linn as this.  The very spray, as
it cometh upward from that dark pool below, hangs on our hair
like dew!"
</p>

<p>
At that moment, a cry broke from all the royal attendants, for
scared, some say, by a loud blast from a bugle which sounded like
that of Mac Ian Rua,&mdash;others say by the din of the mighty waterfall,
the fiery Arabian steed of the princess reared up on the very verge
of that tremendous brink&mdash;reared until its sable mane was mingling
with its rider's golden hair, and wildly shook its head, till every
silver bell at its bit and bridle jangled, and with Cora on its back,
plunged headforemost down into that deep and awful den, the depth
of which no mortal hand had fathomed, and which the boldest eye
shrunk from contemplating!
</p>

<p>
In a moment Cora&mdash;the laughing and beautiful Cora, and her
fiery horse, had vanished into that hideous maelstrom, which for
ages had swallowed up rocks, trees, and herds, with all the <i>débris</i>
swept down by that mighty stream from Clydesdale and the Western
Lowlands!
</p>

<p>
The poor king closed his eyes in horror; he stretched his trembling
hands to Heaven in silent agony, and by the quivering of his
bearded lips his nobles knew that he was praying devoutly; and
after commending his soul to God, he uttered a cry of despair, and
was urging his steed towards the brink, when Græme, Kenneth, and
Dunbar, the three lovers of his daughter, with Duncan, Earl of
Caithness, Hugo of Aberbuthnoth, old Thomas of Errol, with his
three sons, whose sturdy hands and hearts in former years had
turned the tide of battle at Luncarty, flung themselves before him,
and dragged his terrified horse from the giddy verge, and forcibly
conducted him from the terrible scene.
</p>

<p>
Far down below the fall, where, calm and blue and shining, the
broad majestic river rolled between its thick dark woodlands to the
sea, three days after, the Arabian horse was found, swollen and
drowned upon the sand, with its silver bridle and all its tinkling
bells; but no trace appeared of the poor princess, from whom that
fall upon the Clyde, even to this day, bears the name of <i>Cora Lynn</i>.
</p>

<p>
Long and deep was the sorrow of the old and lonely Malcolm, who
returned to his grim and gloomy tower among the woods of Dunfermline,
and committing the care of the kingdom to Dunbar, the justiciar
of Lothian, Duncan, the chancellor, and Nicholas, the secretary, he
gave himself up to grief and contemplation, prayer, and long
communings with Gregory the Bishop of Saint Andrew's, who made
him found and endow thirteen chapels to St. Mary, in thirteen
different districts; a proceeding which, if it failed to ease the mind
of the king, at least eased his treasurer of all the superfluous cash in
his exchequer.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap62"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LXII.
<br /><br />
STORY CONTINUED&mdash;"ERIS-SKENE!"
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Horsed on a speckled steed, Biserta's king<br />
  Traversed the extended line from wing to wing<br />
  To close the loose array he gave command&mdash;<br />
  Ten thousand lances flamed in every band;<br />
  And twice five squadrons in the van of war."&mdash;<i>RONCISVALLES</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Now, when too late, the bereaved king thought he could willingly
have bestowed his Cora upon even the humble huntsman, and
believed he could happily have seen her the wife of Mac Ian, or of
any honest man who would love her as she deserved to be loved; but
now he had lost her in a moment, and in a manner so terrible that
it seemed like a judgment direct from the hand of Heaven upon him,
for his pride and severity; for, thought he,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"I may control the bodies of my subjects, or those of my children,
but God hath given me no power over the hearts or consciences of
either.  Woe is me! for the brightest diamond has fallen from my
crown, and never more will my old bosom swell while she strikes
her harp to the 'Battle of Cattraeth,' or never more will she soothe
me to sleep with the low sad song of 'The Owl,' when the north wind
soughs down the leafless glen, and the frozen lynn hangs owre the
beetling craig like the beard on an auld carles chin.  Oh, Cora!
Cora!"
</p>

<p>
And the old king kept poor Cora's harp in his bed-chamber, and
often in the stillness of midnight he wept, while his thin and
wrinkled hands wandered among the strings, and woke their old
familiar sounds again and again, till her voice seemed to mingle
with them.
</p>

<p>
Now it happened that although her Arabian steed was drowned,
the princess, by some blessed miracle of Providence, escaped; for she
had been caught in her descent by one of the spouts or boiling
streams that ascended upward from the bottom of the den, and unseen
among the clouds of light and vapoury spray was flung far over
a ledge of rocks into the smoother water beyond; and while the
king, her sire, and all his bearded thanes, in their steel caps and iron
lurichs, were beating their breasts, calling upon all the saints, and
fixing their eyes upon the hazy horrors of the gulf below the lynn,
she was swept gently onward, in a dream as it were; and then the
hands of some one seemed to buoy her up; then she felt herself
conveyed into a dark and shady chasm of rock, overhung by a
gorgeous mass of wild-roses and ivy, honeysuckle and sweetbrier;
and there, upon a bank of daisies and violets, kind hands laid her
gently down&mdash;a hot breath came upon her cheek, as some one
tenderly parted her soft and wet dishevelled hair from her chilled
and pallid cheek; and after remaining long insensible, she opened
her eyes to meet the enraptured face of the bold Mac Ian Rua, for he
it was who had saved her.
</p>

<p>
No other leech than love was necessary to bring the half-drowned
princess to life.  Her heart soon beat with joy, and amid the double
raptures of her escape and reunion with her lover, she forgot the
sorrow of her bereaved father, and the terror of her friends on the
summit of the cascade, from which she had been so awfully
precipitated and so miraculously saved; and for the fleeting hours of
that soft summer day till the sun sank behind the hills of Lanarkshire,
she listened to the adventures of her banished lover, and heard
him repeat a hundred times over all he had endured in danger,
absence, doubt, and grief, while hovering in disguise near the court
of the king; how he had accompanied her step by step from the
palace in Fife to the banks of the Clyde; and how by the goodness
of Heaven he had chanced to be at hand, and ready to save her from
a death so terrible, by plunging boldly into the fierce and seething
flood beyond the waterfall.
</p>

<p>
Love, like death, levels all distinctions,&mdash;and indeed he knows of
none; thus, the daughter of the king assured Mac Ian that her
passion was yet unchanged; and laving their clasped hands in the
water that flowed at their feet&mdash;that perilous water from which
Cora had so wondrously escaped&mdash;after the old fashion of Scottish
lovers, they vowed to be leal and true, and wished that if one deserted
or forgot the other, that God and the saints might so desert and
forget the faithless and untrue.
</p>

<p>
Now this wish was doubtless very wrong, yet they were not
punished for it, neither were they again separated; but to reward
them for all they had suffered during Mac Ian's exile, and to seal
their faith for ever, they received the nuptial blessing from a poor
Gillie Dhia&mdash;that is, a culdee, or servant of God&mdash;who dwelt in a
cell of rock in the wood of Cadzow; and then, to avoid all discovery,
they crossed the Forth, the Tay, and Don, and travelled far north
till they reached the forest of Glenfiddich.  There Mac Ian built a
bower, over the door of which he placed the antlers of a stag; and
their daily food was furnished by his spear and bow, while the
princess spun with her own white hands, to clothe herself and the
bright-haired children with which God had blessed them; and thus,
far from courts and camps, and the troubles of council and debate, they
lived in happiness, in peace, and in seclusion.
</p>

<p>
Eight years passed away, and though the poor old king had never
forgotten his lost daughter, he had learned to think calmly over the
events of that terrible day at Cora's Lynn, and eight times as the
mournful anniversary returned he shut himself up in a chamber,
darkened and hung with sackcloth; and there he repeated those
solemn prayers which the Church ordains shall be said for the dead;
and solemnly he rehearsed them while the hot tears coursed over his
silver beard: they were for the soul of his daughter, who was yet
living in her birchen bower, and singing to her little ones among
the woods that shroud the rolling Fiddich.
</p>

<p>
Aged though he was, the din of war now summoned Malcolm II. to
the field, against those common foemen of the British Isles, the
half-pagan and wholly barbarous Danes.
</p>

<p>
Sueno, King of Denmark, who then reigned in England, having
driven Ethelred, monarch of that country, into Normandy, had an
implacable hatred at Malcolm for yielding succour and assistance to
the English, whom the Danes were rapidly crushing; and he resolved
to send an army which should assail in his own dominions the King
of the Scots, of whose title&mdash;Rex Victoriosissimus&mdash;he was jealous
and impatient.
</p>

<p>
Landing in Murrayshire, under Enotus, in the year 1009, the Danes
overthrew in battle the Scottish forces which opposed them; they
took the Castle of Nairn, and cutting through the neck of land on
which it stood, brought the sea round it, and named it Burg for the
time; the fortresses of Elgin and Forres were next taken, and for
nearly a year they held them; being the longest period that those
invaders retained possession of Scottish earth, while alive, at least.
They also took the Castle of Balvenie, and therein Enotus built a
great chamber, which is still named the Danes' Hall.  In the
following year Malcolm marched against them in person with a powerful
army, formed in three great columns, under Kenneth, Thane of the
Isles, Græme, Thane of Strathearn, and Dunbar, Thane of Lothian;
for they were yet feal men and true to the old king whose daughter
they had loved so well.
</p>

<p>
Clad in a byrne, formed of steel rings, which were sewn flat upon
a leathern tunic, and having on his head a square helmet, like those
last worn by the guards of Charles the Bald, surmounted by a
diadem, the venerable monarch rode at the head of his troops,
who&mdash;although he wore a tunic of blue silk crossed by a white St. Andrew's
saltire of the same material (which was then so rare and costly),&mdash;were
mostly clad in long lurichs, with helmets of iron, and carried
targets and swords, axes and mauls of ponderous weight, with bows
and spears, having leaf-shaped blades of bronze or tempered steel.
The wild clans of Galwegia marched beneath the banner of their
lord, all clad in tartans, dyed with checks of purple and dark red,
violet and blue, while their long locks flowed under their caps of
iron; and they had their sturdy arms bare, as well as their legs,
which were kilted to the knee.  <i>Albyn!  Albyn!</i> was their battle
cry, and with the sound of the harp, the horn, and pipe, they roused
their fiery hearts, when, after a march of some weeks' duration, they
came in sight of the foe, drawn up in array of war, near the old
Pictish Tower of Balvenie, then named the House of St. Beyne the
Great&mdash;which stands on a high green bank overlooking the Fiddich
and the rich landscape through which it wanders, where the dark
firs cast the shadow of their solemn cones upon its lonely waters.
</p>

<p>
South-west of the castle the barbarous Danes were formed in deep
ranks, all mailed in byrnes of iron rings, and bosses sown upon
cloth or leather, with hauberks and painted surcoats to the knee,
with spears and axes of steel and bronze, and ponderous iron maces
that swung at the end of clubs and chains; while above their heads
waved the enchanted banner with the Black Raven, which had never
been unfurled without ensuring victory.
</p>

<p>
The mighty scalp of Benrinnes was shining in the warm glow of
the rising sun; the snow-white mist was rising from the side of
Corriehabbie, and the valley, the wood and water, rock and heather,
all that make the scenery of the Fiddich so wild, so bold, and
beautiful, were glowing under a warm summer sun; while the yells of
the red-haired Danes on one side, the braying of mountain pipes on
the other, the twanging of bows, and hiss of passing arrows
announced that the battle was beginning.
</p>

<p>
The lonely heron and the mountain eagle were scared from rock
and river by the flashing of the steel; but the cries of the
combatants brought the gled and the hawk from the four winds of heaven,
and high in mid-air, with outstretched wings, they overhung the
nearing hosts, expectant of their coming feast&mdash;the flesh of horse and
man.
</p>

<p>
This was the anniversary of the day on which he had lost his
daughter, and the heart of Malcolm II. was oppressed, and full of
dark and dire forebodings: so he anticipated both defeat and
death.
</p>

<p>
The first charge was a furious one, and the onset was deadly and
disastrous.  The Danes plied the poleaxe, their national weapon, with
savage fury; the Scots charged with their long pikes and two-handed
swords, while swift and surely shot the archers on both sides from
the rear ranks of the closing columns.  Steel helmets and byrnes
of shining rings, bucklers of tempered iron, and targets of thick
bull-hide were cut by the sword, cloven by the axe, or pierced by the
barbed arrow, or by the spear that was launched from afar; and
unhappily in the early part of the battle, Kenneth of the Isles, Græme
of Strathearn, and Dunbar of Lothian, fell from their horses, each
struck by a mortal wound; for the first had the axe of Enotus the
Dane driven through the brass umbo of his shield and the iron cone of
his helmet, sheer down to his teeth; the second had his heart pierced
through, byrne and buff, by a leaf-shaped javelin; and the third had
a double-edged <i>seax</i> driven repeatedly through his body.
</p>

<p>
Valiantly fought the venerable king, and as fast as men fell, their
places were supplied; but disheartened by the sudden loss of the
three greatest chiefs in the land, his soldiers began to give way, and
with a triumphant yell the heavily-armed Danes pressed on them&mdash;their
eyes sparkling with rage and the lust of blood, while the horse-hair
of their helmets mingled with their long and tangled locks and
the wild volume of their shaggy beards.
</p>

<p>
Enotus, the Danish general, a powerful and gigantic warrior
mounted on a white charger, and clad in a hauberk of burnished
rings, with the skin of a bear floating from his shoulders on which
the claws rested while the skull of the monster grinned above his
basinet, soon singled out the King of Scotland, whom he knew by his
venerable aspect, his silver beard, and the diadem of golden trefoils
that encircled his helmet, which had three upright feathers of the
iolar&mdash;for the Scottish king is the chief of all the Scottish chiefs;&mdash;and
(though around him fought Gillemichael, Earl of Fife, Alan, Thane
of Sutherland, who defeated the Danes on the nmir of Drumilea,
Hugo of the Rutherford, whose ancestor twelve hundred years before
had conducted King Reuther through the Tweed against the Britons,
Crinian, Thane of Dunbar, and others, the very flower of the land),
with his tremendous mace the Dane by one blow dashed out the
brains of the royal charger, and by a second would assuredly have
slain the king had not a sturdy warrior of the Murrayland, clad in
striped breacan and wearing the long Celtic lurich to his bare knees,
at that moment cloven the mighty Scandinavian almost in two
by one stroke of his tuagh, or Scottish battle-axe.
</p>

<p>
"Well fare thee, my stalwart soldier," cried Malcolm; "for thou
hast saved thy king!"
</p>

<p>
His protector re-mounted him on the white steed of the slaughtered
Dane, and blowing his bugle to collect the scattered Scots,
plunged into the thickest of the conflict, parting the foes before him
like a field of corn.
</p>

<p>
"By the stone of Fate," cried the King, shortening his reins and
grasping his sword, "yonder blast never came from other horn than
the bugle of Mac Ian Rua!"
</p>

<p>
So said all who heard it.
</p>

<p>
"And if yonder fellow proved to be Mac Ian?" said the king's
Secretary, wiping his bloody sword in the mane of his horse, "what
then, sire?"
</p>

<p>
"Then he should have the best earldom in the north, were it but
for the sake of her he loved and lost," said the brave old King, as he
spurred once more to battle; but alas! disheartened by the loss of
three of their greatest leaders, despite the bravery of Malcolm, and
the fiery example of this warrior of the Murrayland, the Scots began
to give way and retreat, but with their faces and weapons to the
foe, until they gained an old rampart formed of turf, trees, and
stones, the relic of former wars.
</p>

<p>
There the king's preserver encountered Enrique, the second Danish
leader, and, under Malcolm's eye, cut off his head, and holding it aloft
with one hand and his dagger with the other, cried, in Gaelic,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"<i>Eris-skene!</i>&mdash;by this knife I did it."
</p>

<p>
"Eriskene, my brave man, thy name shall be," said the King; but
natheless these valiant deeds, the Scots were still borne back in
disorder.
</p>

<p>
Malcolm was swept away with the crowd of fugitives, who were
all wedged in a narrow valley, till he found himself near an old
chapel at Mortlach, which was dedicated to Saint Molach, the bishop
and confessor, a Scot who, in the seventh century, was the assistant
of St. Boniface of Ross, and whose bones lay in that sequestered
fane.
</p>

<p>
Here the king raised his gauntletted hands to heaven, and prayed
that the holy saint would intercede with God and St. Andrew for
Scotland and her people, vowing that, if they obtained a victory, he
would increase the chapel by three lengths of his spear, and make
the church of a bishoprick dedicated to Heaven and its service.
Wheeling round at that moment, he found a third Danish captain
close by him, and slew him by one thrust of his lance, and restored
courage to the Scots.
</p>

<p>
"Victory!  Victory!" cried Malcolm; "God and St. Andrew for
Scotland!"
</p>

<p>
Like a torrent the Scots again rushed through the narrow vale,
and again many a tartan plaid and many an eagle's wing was dyed
in the reddest blood of Denmark.  So furious was their new onset,
that the Danes were swept along the valley like dry leaves before a
stormy wind, and, over a field strewn with gashed corpses and
bleeding men, were driven in headlong flight towards the sea.  The
slaughter was terrible!
</p>

<p>
Not a man of them saw the sun sink behind the great ridge of
Benrinnes; and when daylight faded in the west, the king found
himself breathless, weary, and alone in a silent and sequestered place,
where a brawling stream, flowing from a deep copse-wooded glen,
mingled its waters with those of the Fiddich, which roll from the
mountains down to the Lowlands of Banftshire.
</p>

<p>
The gloomy pines were shaking their wiry cones in the soft
evening wind; a deep blue, darkening into a dusky purple, tinted the
distant hills; the evening star was glimmering amid the blush that
lingered in the west; and the king sat down by a tree to think and
to pray.
</p>

<p>
After the fury, the excitement, and slaughter of the past day, his
neart felt oppressed by its own thoughts, and a glow of rapture
struggled with his sorrow, for Heaven had that day accorded victory
to his people; and kneeling on the grass, there, in solitude and
unseen, he raised his aged eyes and hands in thanksgiving and in prayer
to God and the patron saint of Mortlach.
</p>

<p>
While he was praying thus, there came a child with a pitcher to
draw water at the stream&mdash;a little golden-haired girl of eight years,
whose face was beautiful as that of an angel, and whose bare feet, as
they brushed the heather-bells, seemed white as new-fallen snow.
She did not perceive the king as she stooped over the water in a cool
and shady spot, and sang while her vessel filled.
</p>

<p>
"What is this that stirs within me," sighed the king, who was
troubled by the sight of this child, and whose heart yearned for
for the fairness and the beauty of her face, with the brightness and
softness of her eyes, reminded him of Cora, when she was a child;
and, that nothing might be wanting to complete this dear illusion,
the girl sang the soft, low song of "The Owl;" and as the poor old
king, still remaining on his knees, listened breathlessly, he almost
seemed to hear the voice of Cora mingling, as of old, with the notes
of her harp; "but Cora," thought he, "is sleeping in her grave among
the unblest waters of the Clyde, and her harp is in her silent chamber,
far away beyond the mighty Grampians and the broad Firth of Tay,
in the lonely Castle of Dunfermline."
</p>

<p>
The King now called the child to him, and though her first
impulses were fear and flight, on hearing his voice, and beholding a
stranger so brilliantly armed, the reverence of his aspect and the
kindness of his manner soothed and delighted her, and she approached
with timidity and curiosity mingled in her charming little
face.  The eyes of Malcolm filled, and his heart swelled as he gazed
on her, and would fain have kissed, but feared to alarm her.
</p>

<p>
"Child," said he, "ken ye where I may find a bield wherein to
rest me for the night; I am an auld man and a weary one, for I have
fought in battle this lee-lang summer day."
</p>

<p>
"My mother bydes on Fiddich side," replied the child, "and
though she dreads all strangers, she cannot fear you, for ye are
auld and kind; and my father is a strong man whom none dare
wrong, for he is the boldest archer on the Braes of Auchindoune."
</p>

<p>
"My name is Malcolm Mac Kenneth," said the King; "auld I trow
I be&mdash;yea ten times your age, my bairn, but give me your hand in
mine and lead on."
</p>

<p>
Leaning on his long sword, with his silver tresses floating over
his mailed shoulders, the king walked along, led by the smiling
child, who peeped upward at him timidly from time to time through
her clustering curls, as they went through a daisied haugh, and
among the sweetly scented hawthorn birks.  She soon prattled and
talked to the <i>auld knycht</i>, as if she had known him for all the years
of her little life; and when the good king felt the warm glow of the
evening on his cheek, and saw the bright flowers that spangled the
banks of the stream, and when he heard the rustle of the summer
leaves, and the merry brawl of the mountain burn mingling
with the glad voices of children, he felt himself young again, and his
heart grew light and joyous as he forgot the corpse-strewn field that
lay near the old Tower of Balvenie and all along the shore of the
rushing Fiddich.
</p>

<p>
"Little one," said the King, "who taught thee the song of 'The
Owl'?"
</p>

<p>
"My mother," replied the child.
</p>

<p>
The King sighed heavily; then after a pause, he asked,&mdash;"And
thy name, little one&mdash;what is it?"
</p>

<p>
"Cora&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Cora!" he reiterated, and bursting into tears, pressed her to his
breast; "I might have guessed it&mdash;Cora! what other name could be
borne by one so bright, so beautiful, and so innocent; but be not
alarmed my poor little one, for I once had a Cora like thee."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, here we byde, and yonder is my mother!" said the child,
who was terrified by the stranger's emotion; and now they found
themselves before a hunter's cot, the walls and roof of which were
formed of turf and clay; and over the door of which were the
branching antlers of a stag.  Around it was a thicket of dark
hawthorns, with all their white blossoms in full and fragrant bloom,&mdash;for
as the reader has no doubt long since surmised, this was the humble
dwelling of Mac Ian Rua which the king approached, and the
beautiful matron who stood at its lowly door, with two babies at her
knee and one in her arms, was his daughter Cora; yet the king,
whose mind was full of her, knew her not; for she no longer wore
the rich attire, the garments of many-coloured silk, the jewels and
golden armlets of old, with which he had last seen her; but a homespun
kirtle and linen tunic with sleeves that reached only to her white
elbows; and about her tresses, which once waved round her head
like a golden halo, was plaited a plain linen fillet&mdash;the <i>heafodes
roegel</i>, or headrail of the Lowland peasant woman&mdash;an adoption
from the Saxons&mdash;who dwelt beyond the English border.
</p>

<p>
The King gazed upon her earnestly, yet he knew her not; and
though he was older and his face was more wrinkled,&mdash;though his
eyes were sad and haggard, and his hair, which had been grey, was
now white as the snows of Ben Mhor, Cora knew her parent&mdash;that
princely sire who had loved her so well of old&mdash;and all the daughter
gushed up in her heart; yet not a word could she sajr, but gazed
upon him trembling with sorrow and remorse, with fear, with love,
and hope, while her children clung to her skirts, and she pressed to
her bosom their youngest born&mdash;the child of Mac Ian Rua, the
banished huntsman.
</p>

<p>
"Good woman, I seek but a night's shelter in your sheiling, till
my train can join me," said the King; "be not alarmed, I am a
Scottish soldier, and have been fighting all day down the waterside.
The foes are vanquished, and the King is safe.  Allow me to enter;
and believe that kindness will not be unrewarded.  My name is
Malcolm Mac Kenneth."
</p>

<p>
The tongue of Cora was without words.  Silently she led Malcolm
into her humble hut, and silently placed a seat for him, spreading
the softest deerskin under his feet,&mdash;for her gentle heart was full of
old thoughts and loving memories that came crowding fast and
remorselessly upon her&mdash;summoned back, as it were, by the sound of
her father's voice; yet that voice was sadder in tone, and more
tremulous than it was wont to be of old; and that conviction stirred
her hoart of hearts, and crossing her hands upon her bosom, she
thought,&mdash;"Oh, pardon me, God&mdash;for it is I who have caused this!"
</p>

<p>
"Hast thou no words to welcome me, good woman, or does this
armour, even when on an auld man's back, so scare thee?" said the
King, kindly, taking one of the children on his knee, as he perceived
that she was gazing eagerly, mournfully, and with awe upon him,
as he sat near the little window, with his silver tresses glittering in the
light of the west, and his wrinkled hand resting on the flaxen head
of his little conductress.
</p>

<p>
Cora could control her emotions no longer!
</p>

<p>
"Father&mdash;sire!" she exclaimed wildly, as she threw herself upon
the clay floor and embraced his knees; "oh, father! dost thou not
know me?  Have these few years so sorely changed me?  I am
Cora&mdash;thine own Cora, who was swept down the Lynn of Clyde.
Beloved father and king&mdash;behold me at thy feet!  Oh thou whom I
have so cruelly and so wickedly forsaken in thine old age, pardon and
forgive me, lest these younglings should forsake me in turn; forgive
me and bless me, though I have sinned against God and thee!"
</p>

<p>
These words terrified the old king as if a spirit had spoken them.
He held her from him at arm's length, and his eyes wandered over
her face and person with an expression of fear and wonder.
</p>

<p>
"I am Cora, the little child that clambered at your knee, and
nestled in your bosom, in old Dunfermline Tower," she exclaimed,
passionately; "I am Cora whose cheek was once so dimpled&mdash;whose
hair was so bright&mdash;whose little mouth you kissed so often and so
kindly&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Cora was drowned! oh day of horror&mdash;horror&mdash;horror!" replied
the troubled King; "she is dead and at rest."
</p>

<p>
"She is not, for I am she."
</p>

<p>
"Thou?" he exclaimed.
</p>

<p>
"I."
</p>

<p>
"Impossible!"
</p>

<p>
"I.  Oh father, am I indeed so changed?"
</p>

<p>
A glare shot over the king's keen eyes; he trembled, and stretching
out his hands, drew her towards him, but a cloud came over his
brow, and pausing, he said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"And these children?"
</p>

<p>
"Are the offspring of Mac Ian Rua."
</p>

<p>
"Born of thee?"
</p>

<p>
"My father,&mdash;oh, my father!"
</p>

<p>
"Born of the daughter of Scotland?" he added, bitterly.
</p>

<p>
"My heart, long steeped in sorrow, will burst at last.  In pity,
father, have mercy on us."
</p>

<p>
"And where is the lawless traitor who stole thee from me, and
hath concealed thee for these many long years, my daughter?"
</p>

<p>
"Say rather, where is he who saved me when the greatest and
noblest in the land&mdash;yea, even Kenneth of the Isles and Dunbar of
Lothian, hung back."
</p>

<p>
"Kenneth of the Isles and Dunbar of Lothian are both lying
dead in their armour by the walls of Balvenie;&mdash;God rest them! they
fought and fell for our dear Scotland.  But Mac Ian; where is he?"
</p>

<p>
"Yonder he comes down the glade, with a stag on his back,&mdash;your
favourite huntsman, so ready of hand and true of aim; the
same Mac Ian Rua as of old," said Cora, in a trembling voice.
</p>

<p>
"Heaven be praised, my daughter, I have found thee; yet oh, to
find thee thus!"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, embrace me, or I shall die; let me feel your cheek on mine
once more, my father!"
</p>

<p>
"Come, then&mdash;come to my old heart," said the King, as he sobbed;
for it was a rude old age, when even kings had human hearts, and
nobles were not without them.
</p>

<p>
"Forgive me my sins against thee," said Cora, in a choking voice.
</p>

<p>
"They are forgiven."
</p>

<p>
"And my husband&mdash;Mac Ian Rua?"
</p>

<p>
"Even he, too, is forgiven," said the King, as the door of the hut
was thrown open, and the tall huntsman, fresh from the pursuit, and
still clad in his lurich&mdash;the same stalwart warrior who had that day
slain Enrique and Enotus, and saved his monarch's life, and whose
loud bugle blast had rallied the Scottish bands&mdash;stood before Cora
and her father, with astonishment and fear in his eyes, while one
hand grasped his axe, and the other the antlers of the stag, and his
ruddy children clung joyously to his sturdy legs.
</p>

<p>
To dwell longer on this scene would mar its effect.
</p>

<p>
The huntsman was forgiven, and the old king spent the happiest
night of his long life with his daughter on one side of him, and her
husband on the other, while his grandchildren clambered about him,
and in wild glee rolled about the floor the glittering helmet which
was encircled by a diadem.
</p>

<p>
He told them how he had pined and sorrowed, and how deep his
grief had been,&mdash;for Cora was ever the object around which all his
affections had been entwined,&mdash;and how desolate his heart, his hearth,
and home had been since her loss.
</p>

<p>
Then Cora related, that with the exception of bitter remorse at
times, how happily they had dwelt in this green bower beside the
Fiddich, far away from courts and kings, with their children budding
round them, maintained by the fruit of her own industry and the
skill of Mac Ian's hand.
</p>

<p>
They supped that night on venison broiled on a wooden spit, with
cakes of Cora's baking, and nut-brown ale of her husband's brewing.
When the old king was disencumbered of his armour, Mac Ian and
he sat over their cans and fought the battle thrice again; and when
he lay down to sleep on a soft bed of freshly-pulled heather and
smooth skins&mdash;the spoils of fell and forest&mdash;Cora produced a
clairshach, or harp cf humble form, and once more sang him to sleep, as
of old, by the warlike lay of the king of bards; that soul-stirring
lay he loved so well&mdash;"The Battle of Cattraeth;"&mdash;and often, as his
eyes were closing, the old man raised himself with a flush of ardour,
as she related the slaughter of the men of Dunedin in Anuerins'
burning words, which told how, among the Pagan Saxons, "were
three hundred warriors arrayed in gilded armour&mdash;three loricated
bands, each with three commanders wearing torques of gold."
</p>

<p>
With early morning came the king's train.  They had traced him
to the hut, and all flushed with victory, pursuit, and slaughter,
Duncan, Earl of Caithness, Nicholas, the secretary, Hugo of the
Rutherford, Crinian, Thane of Dunbar, Gillemichael, Earl of Fife,
and others, stood by his humble couch of skins, and after reporting
the utter extermination of the Danes, heard him relate the joyous
and wondrous discovery he had made overnight.
</p>

<p>
In Scotland there were great rejoicings for the restoration of the
long lost Cora, and there could no longer be competition or discord
about her hand; for Græme, Dunbar, and Kenneth lay dead on the
field of Mortlach, and she was now a wedded woman.  For his
bravery in saving first the life of Cora from the waters of the Clyde,
and secondly the life of the king in battle, the huntsman, Mac Ian,
was made thane of a thanedom in the shire of Rhynfrew; and
Malcolm gave him a coat of arms, which his descendants bear to the
present time.  Moreover, he nobly fulfilled the vow he had made to
St. Molach, by adding to the chapel thrice the length of his long
Scottish spear; thus it became, as we may still see it, a church, and
he made it the cathedral of the diocese of Mortlach, of which
St. Beyne was the first bishop, and Nechtan the last, when the see
was translated by King David I. to Aberdeen, and enriched in all
its revenues: and in memory of the bloody field so auspiciously won
by the saint's intercession, he desired that the heads of Enrique,
Enotus, and another valiant Dane, should be built into the wall, and
there <i>to this hour</i> we may still see them, bare, white, and ghastly,
with their teeth grinning from the stonework, and in the brow of
each is the broken mark of the blow under which he died.
</p>

<p>
In that church is the shrine of St. Molach, whose festival was held
on the 25th of June, and who became famous all over Scotland, but
especially in Ross-shire and Argyle, where another church was built
in his honour at Lismore.
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Such was the story of the princess and the huntsman; and the
moral of it is, that we should never despair, for the spokes in the
wheel of fortune follow each other so fast that all are uppermost in
their turn.  Thus, the once despised Mac Ian Rua became the head
of a great house, still named ERSKINE, in memory of his words at
Mortlach; and Malcolm II. gave him for his cognizance a hand
holding a dagger, with the motto, "Je pense plus," and a shield
<i>argent</i>, with a pale, <i>sable</i>; then as Mac Ian loved the Clyde&mdash;for
there he had won the beautiful Cora&mdash;Malcolm gave him the lands,
barony, and castle of Erskine, and from his marriage sprung a race
that never failed their king or country&mdash;the loyal and noble Earls of
Mar.*
</p>

<p>
Such was the story of the Admiral, an old legend, which, as before
mentioned, I have given in my own words rather than his; for
many parts of the narrative, as <i>he</i> told it, would not have been
over-intelligible to landsmen.
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p class="footnote">
* The death of Cora, at Cora Lynn,
is an ancient legend, still remembered
in Clydesdale.
The scene of the Battle of Mortlach is still marked by many
sepulchral mounds, full of bones and broken armour.
The bishopric is said
to have originated in the king's vow,
and it was confirmed by a bull of Pope
Benedict VIII.  The charter of erection
by the king is still preserved in the
chartulary of Aberdeen.
It begins in the usual form "Malcolmus Rex
Scottorum," and consists of only five or six lines,
and ends with "Teste meipso
apud Forfar, octavo die mensis Octobris, anno regni mei sexto."
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap63"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LXIII.
<br /><br />
THE BROKEN WEDDING-RING.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "His little hardy infant son<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sits crowing on his lusty neck;<br />
  His wife&mdash;a fair and tender one&mdash;<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Murmurs and weeps upon his cheek;<br />
  The sail is set, she clears the shore,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She feels the wind and scuds away,<br />
  Heels on her little keel, and o'er<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The jostling waves appears to play."<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
While all these events which have been narrated had taken place,
Jamie Gair, the fisherman of Broughty-point, had been quietly fishing
and selling, or selling and fishing, and while battles were won
and a kingdom lost, he had nothing to agitate his mind of greater
importance than an occasional foul wind, or an evil omen, such as
meeting a cat, a pig, or an old woman, when about to embark, or
seeing two crows flying together&mdash;an infallible sign of misfortune;
or losing a net, and being unable to settle his twine bill&mdash;a serious
matter for a poor fisherman.
</p>

<p>
During the last days of July, he had suffered so many omens to
deter him from putting to sea, that the imperative necessity for
braving all such absurd dangers and superstitious fears, and of departing
for the fishing ground, made Jamie prepare his nets and floats,
though advised by his companion and partner in the boat, John
o' the Buddon-ness, that the weather, which had been squally for
some days past, was likely to become more so.
</p>

<p>
"Toots, carle," said Jamie, as he knotted the last brown bladder
to the net; "the Crail fisher that passed in here yestreen said the
sea had been roaring at Kincraig, a sure sign o' fine weather; so let
us trip our anchor, and hie awa', John, for the last cogfu' o' meal is
in Mary's girnel, and I daurna' byde langer by the ingle cheek, like
a lubberly land-louper."
</p>

<p>
"E'en as ye please," replied John, drawing on his long rough
boots; "he that will to Cupar, maun to Cupar."
</p>

<p>
"But Mary, my doo, what is asteer, lass, and wherefore greet ye?"
asked Gair, whom John's proverb annoyed.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Jamie, look on <i>this</i>, and then say whether you suld gang to
the fishing this day!" replied Mary, showing her wedding ring,
which by some fatal mischance had been broken in two; and in
Scotland this is deemed an invariable sign of approaching separation.
People lived in an atmosphere of omens in those days; thus Jamie
was sorely staggered: but he had been inert so long, that to linger
longer on shore was to ruin himself.  He held his cottage from the
castellan of the king's castle, and its rent had to be punctually paid
when the time came.  For many days his kain of fish had not been
delivered at the barbican gate, and though the new governor, the
Laird of Balgillo, was a man of a very different character from Sir
Patrick Gray, yet he could be trifled with no longer!  And now the
herring droves were sweeping down from the Northern Ocean; and
seaward Jamie Gair resolved to go, though John o' the Buddon-ness
looked stern and gloomy, and Mary wept and held up their little son
and heir for the last kiss of his father's rough and bearded cheek,&mdash;and
a <i>last</i> kiss it proved indeed to be!  But let us not anticipate.
</p>

<p>
"The ring will mend, Mary," said Jamie, as he kissed away the
tears from her blooming cheek; "and bethink ye, lass, can an omen
o' evil ever be shown by a ring that was blessed by the auld Monk
o' Sanct John at the Sclaitheughs?  I trow no."
</p>

<p>
After a breakfast of peasebannocks, cheese, and hot Lammas ale,
thickened by eggs, the fishermen embarked, trimmed their boat,
braced the yard sharp up to the north wind, and bore down the estuary.
</p>

<p>
There was a grey sky overhead, and a rolling sea below; the
horizon looked dark where it met the line of ocean, and the waves
lifted their white tops between.
</p>

<p>
The wind whistled drearily along the shores of the Firth; the
breakers boomed on the low flat sands of the Buddon-ness; the
gusts that came at times strained the braces of the brown lug-sail,
and while they lifted the boat's sharp prow above the water, they
tore the white spray off the dancing waves, and threw it far along
the sea, like heavy rain or mist.
</p>

<p>
Mary's form in her mantle and lowland wyliecoat had faded to a
speck on the sand, and now the square tower of Broughty and the
Hill of Balgillo began to sink among the grey vapour that crept
along the shore.  The cottage on the beach was all the world to
Jamie Gair, and the boat that was dwindling into a black spot in
the grey and dusky offing, was all the world to Mary.
</p>

<p>
Jamie whistled and sang, as the waves rolled past.
</p>

<p>
"There will be a grand haul of herrings to nicht!" said he; but
his partner, John o' the Buddon-ness, made no reply, for his keen
eyes were fixed to windward.  He had an uncomfortable feeling in
his breast&mdash;for old seamen have secret instincts about the weather,
instincts of which a landsman knows nothing, and in which he
cannot share: but the evil foreboded by this old man's heart was
different, perhaps, from what he anticipated.
</p>

<p>
"Tak' a pull o' the sheet, John," said Jamie; "though the
weather looks grey, we are as safe as our neighbours&mdash;be a
man&mdash;trust in God and St. Mary!"
</p>

<p>
"I do trust in them," said the old man, touching his bonnet with
reverence as he looked upward; "but neither God nor St. Mary
have said men shall no be drooned.  I can face saut water and the
northern scud, Jamie, as my faithers did before me&mdash;and face them
like a man as ye say, and neither blench nor quail."
</p>

<p>
"Keep her away another point or sae," said Jamie, "for the
glare o' the kelpfires and the saut pans have scared the droves frae
this part o' the shore,&mdash;and mairower, the <i>waterburn</i> has been here
for a week and mair."
</p>

<p>
This is a luminous appearance of the sea, which, like lightning,
has the effect of scaring the herrings from the coast.
</p>

<p>
It is usually about this season&mdash;the end of June or middle of
July&mdash;that the great <i>heer</i>, or shoal of herrings from the north, appears
at the extremity of the northern isles of Scotland.
</p>

<p>
Where they come from, no man knows; but a surface of many
hundred square miles of water becomes literally alive, and teeming
with this prodigious body of fish.  All the ocean seems to ripple around
them, while whales are tumbling and myriads of porpoises surging
and plunging through them, and clouds of gulls and gannets
accompany them, screaming and in full flight.
</p>

<p>
The Scottish fishermen aver that they can scent this mighty drove
from afar off, by the strong oily smell with which the air becomes
impregnated.  This yearly invasion divides into two bodies, one of
which seeks the Ebudoe and the Irish Channel; the other keeps
along the eastern and western coast of Scotland till October, and
then, from her countless creeks and harbours, she sends forth her
clinker-built fleets to net the annual mine of wealth with which her
waters teem.
</p>

<p>
By sunset Jamie Gair and his companion reached the herring
ground, where the gulls were screaming and the porpoises dancing
through the short foamy waves, but still the sky was cold and
lowering, and the sea was inky black; yet though the breeze was
freshening, they shot their net, with inward hopes and a half
muttered prayer&mdash;for they are pious souls,
those hardy Scottish fishers&mdash;that
a night of success might reward a day of toil amid the drenching
spray.
</p>

<p>
Their boat, the <i>Mary</i>&mdash;for so she was fondly named&mdash;they denuded
of her sail, and hooked on to the net, allowing her thus to
drift before wind and tide.  They were the farthest off shore, for
more than a hundred boats were all drifting in the same fashion,
between them and the land.
</p>

<p>
Night came on, and to prevent any chance of their being run
down, each boat's crew lit their dim horn lantern; then a quaighful
of whiskey went round; and still the darkness deepened on the
silent sea; still the boats drifted by their heavy nets, and still the
breeze was freshening from afar.
</p>

<p>
Midnight came.
</p>

<p>
Black, dense, and furious, a gust came with it&mdash;a fierce and
heavy squall, sheer from the icy north, that scattered all the little
fleet and nearly swamped the boat of Gair.
</p>

<p>
It was the turn of the tide now, and from their fishing ground a
strong current runs from the north-north-east towards St. Andrew's
stormy bay, and all along that bleak and iron shore.
</p>

<p>
"Awa' wi' the net, Jamie!" cried old John o' the Buddon-ness,
furiously, through the roaring wind and hissing sea; and he held up a
hand to the side of his mouth.
</p>

<p>
Jamie lingered, for the sacrifice was great.
</p>

<p>
"Awa' wi't!" cried John; "awa' wi't, or the boat is swamped
in a minnit mair!"
</p>

<p>
Jamie sprang to the leeward gunnel, knife in hand, and a sore
pang shot through his heart, as he thought of the unpaid twine bill&mdash;for
he yet owed the price of the net to the rope-makers in Tindall's
Wynd; but go it must.  One slash of the knife, and net and floats,
with all their scaly cargo, were swept away like a gossamer web.
Half the boat-lanterns around them were tumbling hither and
thither on the crests of the waves, or deep in the trough of the sea;
the other half had vanished, for many a boat had gone down with
all her hands on board!
</p>

<p>
And now nothing can save their frail shallop but running before
the wind, and the close-reefed foresail strains on the mast of tough
Scottish larch as it lifts the boat of the bold fisherman over each
hoarse wave of that black and gurly sea.
</p>

<p>
Nor kith nor kin has poor John o' the Buddon-ness to weep for
him, if his corpslicht dances on the waves to-morrow night; for his
father and seven brethren had all perished at sea.
</p>

<p>
Jamie thought of Mary and of their babe&mdash;of the broken ring&mdash;of
the lost nets, and of his older friend's foreboding, and their present
danger; and, while his strong heart swelled with agony, his iron
hands grasped the wet tiller, and kept the lug-sail full.
</p>

<p>
On, on flew the sharp boat before that furious wind; and now
faint lights were seen to twinkle amid the darkness and the flying
scud to starboard; then the poor Scottish fishermen, while tears of
hope and reliance mingled with the bitter spray that drenched their
faces, put their trust in God and St. Andrew, and a hope arose that
all might yet go well; for those lights were twinkling in the aisles
of that glorious cathedral church upon the promontory&mdash;the work
of a hundred and fifty years; and their prayers were heard; for
morning came, and still their boat was sea-worthy, and as the dawn
brightened, both sea and wind went down; the water was covered
with foam&mdash;but not a trace was seen of that little fleet, among which
they had shot their nets over-night.
</p>

<p>
As the sun rose through a hazy veil of vapour, Jamie found the
Isle of May lying right a-head, and discovered that he had been
blown far past Fife-ness, for now the distant spire of Crail and the
faint blue Craig of Kilmeinie were gilded by the rising beams; and,
now that all danger of being drowned was past, Jamie thought
bitterly of his losses over-night.
</p>

<p>
Toil-worn and disappointed, the two fishermen were about to haul
up for the shore and run into Crail Harbour, when the sudden apparition
of three large vessels, under easy sail, bearing straight towards
them, from under the lee of the Isle of May, where doubtless they
had lain secure all night at anchor, arrested their attention; for at
a glance Gair and John o' Buddon-ness perceived they were English
ships, heavily armed and full of men.
</p>

<p>
These vessels were little more than a mile distant, and the fishermen
knew that a run of four miles would bring them into the nearest
harbour, where their boat&mdash;their little all&mdash;would be safe.  The
time was one of truce between the two countries; but recent events
had proved that the warlike skippers of King Henry were not
over-particular in respecting strangers at sea.
</p>

<p>
The breeze was still fresh and keen; the fishers stepped their
mast, hoisted so much of their lug-sail as they dared, and, favoured
by a side wind, bore away for Crail; but one of the English caravels
followed them, and only a short time elapsed before a puff of smoke
curled from her bows, and a cannon-shot boomed over the water
close by, and plunging into the slope of a wave, raised it like a
spout ahead of the boat.
</p>

<p>
"Ablins, they lack a pilot, Jamie," said John o' the Buddon-ness;
"let us lie-to; they canna' hae the hearts to harm twa puir dyvour
shields like you and me."
</p>

<p>
"May my een melt in their sockets when I undertake to pilot an
Englishman!" said Jamie; "but by my certie, here comes another
shot&mdash;douk doon, John, douk doon!"
</p>

<p>
This time it was the ball of an arquebuse, levelled through an
iron sling attached to the ratlins.
</p>

<p>
The warning words had scarcely left Jamie's lips before the boat
yawed round furiously, and his poor old companion fell dead across
the thwart, for the same bullet that cut the halyard had pierced his
heart, and in another minute the startled Gair found the English
ship cleaving the billows close by him, and her hull towering from
the sea as her mainyard was backed, and she lay to.
</p>

<p>
"Come on hoard, thou rascally Scot," cried a voice; "and
marry! come quickly, lest we fire again!"
</p>

<p>
"Fling me owre a rope, then," replied Jamie, who, but for the sake
of Mary, would have jumped overboard rather than obeyed.
</p>

<p>
A rope was thrown to him, and in another moment he found
himself standing on the deck of the stately ship commanded by Sir
Stephen Bull, and he was roughly dragged before that portly
commander, who appeared in half armour at the door of the poop, which
contained the principal cabins.
</p>

<p>
"Thou hast given us trouble enough, in all conscience, fellow!"
said he, angrily; "why laid ye not to?"
</p>

<p>
"Because Sir Andrew Wood is not in these waters; the ships of
Sir William Merrimonth and John Barton are all in the western seas,
and we have none to protect us now," said Gair, with a sigh of
bitterness as he looked after his boat, now cut adrift and tossing on the
sea with the dead body of his companion in it.
</p>

<p>
"Ah! and so Sir Andrew Wood is not in the seas?"
</p>

<p>
"No, sir; but is daily expected," said Gair, spitefully.
</p>

<p>
"Good," said Sir Stephen, with a smile of gratification on his
broad and bearded face; "that is the reason, Scot, which brings us
here."
</p>

<p>
"I pray you to release me, gude sir," implored Jamie, as he stood,
bonnet in hand, amid a circle of armed Londoners, who stared at the
"rough-footed Scot" as if he had been a wild animal; "I am but a
puir fisher carle, wi' a wife and a wean to support in these hard times
of civil war and trouble; I lost my nets yesternicht in the squall,
and ye have cut my boat adrift this morning&mdash;I am a ruined man!"
he added, as he almost wept in the agony of his spirit.
</p>

<p>
"A ruined man, indeed! so much the better for our purpose,
perhaps," said Sir Stephen Bull, with an icy smile; "wouldst know
the ships of Sir Andrew Wood if you saw them now?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, sir, as well as my ain cottage lum."
</p>

<p>
"Cottage what, sirrah?"
</p>

<p>
"Lum, sir; lum."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis well," said Bull, turning to Captain Edmund Howard, who
had recognised the poor fisherman of Broughty-point, and who had
been standing somewhat aloof; "let this man be well watched, and
call me the moment a sail appears in sight; for Scot though he be,
his eyes may serve us here better than our own."
</p>

<p>
"But he may escape," suggested Howard, who half hoped he
would.
</p>

<p>
"Escape! nay, nay; let his legs be secured in fetterlocks, then
he'll not drag his anchor, I warrant."
</p>

<p>
Strictly guarded, Jamie was kept for three days on board of the
<i>Unicorn</i>, the ship of Bull; and though he knew not exactly for
what purpose, he feared it would prove of no good ultimately to
himself.  In these three days which succeeded the midnight storm, what
would be the thoughts, the surmises of poor Mary, and how great
would be her terror at his disappearance; how much greater, too, if
his boat was picked up, or cast ashore, with the body of his slaughtered
friend in it!  The poor man covered his brown visage with his
rough hands, and endeavoured to shut out sight, sound, and
reflection, but such thoughts would come again and again.
</p>

<p>
Edmund Howard treated him with the greatest kindness, and
endeavoured to raise his drooping spirits by promises that he would
soon be set on shore, with gold sufficient to buy ten such boats and
nets as those he had lost; but Jamie ever replied,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Na&mdash;na, sir; I want nane o' your siller, for English gold works
Scotland ever dule and wae; and may my fingers be blistered if I
touch it!"
</p>

<p>
Then Howard questioned him about the family of Lord Drummond;
but Jamie could only say that "it was commonly bruited
abroad that his daughter, the Lady Margaret, the king's gude
cousin, was to be Queen of Scotland, and that a winsome young pair
they would be."
</p>

<p>
Had honest Jamie Gair been less occupied by his own thoughts
than he was, he could not have failed to observe how these
tidings&mdash;though expected, sank into poor Howard's brave and noble heart.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile the English ships never molested the coast, for it was
not the purpose of Sir Stephen Bull to create an alarm, so he
continued to cruise off the mouth of the Firth, within a space of twenty
miles or so, running southward as far as Dunbar, and northward as
far as the Carr Rock; but generally hovering about the Isle of May,
to the great anxiety and discomposure of the secluded priests of
Pittenweem, who dwelt thereon, and traded by shipping with France
and the Baltic.
</p>

<p>
About dawn, on the fourth day after Jamie's misadventure, two
large vessels were descried at the horizon, like black specks, for
the clear streak of the coming day was astern of them, and their
outline was darkly and strongly defined.  They loomed large; and from
the lofty poop of the <i>Unicorn</i> Sir Stephen Bull reconnoitred them
with some anxiety, for the Scottish admiral was said to have but two
ships with him; and so he despatched a boat to the vessel of Miles
le Furnival, to bring on board the Scottish spy he had brought with
him from London.
</p>

<p>
"Is it <i>thee</i>, thou hell-begotten wretch?" exclaimed Howard, as
Hew Borthwick, gaily attired, stepped confidently along the deck of
the very ship which had been captured by his treachery; "by
St. Paul, I would give something handsome to see thee rove up to the
foreyard-arm!"
</p>

<p>
Borthwick gave the speaker a dark and furtive glance, but made
no reply.
</p>

<p>
"Thou art sure, sirrah, that Andrew Wood hath but two ships
with him?" asked Stephen Bull, imperiously, contempt and scorn
curling his full, ruddy lip as he spoke.
</p>

<p>
"Sure as I have now the honour of addressing you."
</p>

<p>
"Wouldst know them if ye saw them?"
</p>

<p>
"Not unless within half-a-mile or so."
</p>

<p>
"That were somewhat too close for my purpose," said Bull;
"remove this shabby lubber, this skulking lurdane, from the
quarterdeck, and bring aft the fisherman."
</p>

<p>
Borthwick, who had repeatedly begged to be placed ashore, but in
vain, was now roughly removed, and poor Jamie Gair, with his legs
stiff by four days' and nights' retention in fetter-locks, was brought
before Sir Stephen Bull, around whom all his officers and gentlemen
volunteers were crowding, with kindling eyes and open ears.
</p>

<p>
"Wouldst thou know the ships of Sir Andrew Wood, sirrah?"
asked Sir Stephen, whose pages were arming him in a brilliant coat
of mail.
</p>

<p>
"Weel as I wad ken the dear face o' my ain wife!" replied the
prisoner, with ardour and sadness.
</p>

<p>
"Never mind thy wife's face, Scot; but answer me."
</p>

<p>
"So far an honest man may, I will, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Then, are these his vessels&mdash;away there to windward?"
</p>

<p>
Gair looked there for a moment; his eyes flashed and his cheek
reddened; but he hung his head with an emotion which did not
escape the keen and penetrating eyes of the English captain.
</p>

<p>
"Speak, sirrah!" said he, imperiously, as he grasped his poniard.
</p>

<p>
"They are hull down, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Well, but ye may know the trim of his sails, and the fashion of
his gear aloft."
</p>

<p>
"I&mdash;I dinna ken, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Answer me, fellow, at once; are these, or are they <i>not</i>, the caravels
of Sir Andrew of Largo?"
</p>

<p>
"I am no free to say."
</p>

<p>
"Trifle not; answer me at once, or, by the head of King Henry,
I will lash you at the gunner's daughter, and fling you overboard
after!"
</p>

<p>
"I daurna trifle, noble sir, I who am but a pair fisherman, with
you an armed knight; but I too can swear, and by the head of King
James, I sall rather dee than tell ye."
</p>

<p>
"Then die, fellow!" said the knight, furiously; "Dick Selby, tie
a ball to his heels, and trice him by the armpits up to the yard-arm;
while there, he will have a better view of these coming craft.  Knot
the rope round in a fisherman's bend&mdash;he may like it the better."
</p>

<p>
It was all done in the time we have taken to write it; the ball of
a carthoun&mdash;about thirty-six pounds in weight&mdash;was attached to his
ankles, which were tied together; a rope was passed round his body,
and he was run up to the arm of the maintopsail-yard, where he
hung with outspread hands.  A shudder, but partly subdued by
anger at his obstinacy, passed over all on deck.  A culverin was
prepared, and the seamen in the waist, who had "triced" the poor
fisherman up, held in their hands the line on which his life depended.
</p>

<p>
"Answer me now, Scot&mdash;are yonder craft the ships of Sir Andrew
Wood?" cried Stephen Bull, who was a stern and uncompromising,
as well as a cunning and reckless man; "answer!"
</p>

<p>
"Never," cried Gair, "though ye should wrench me bone frae
bone!"
</p>

<p>
"You may as well tell the truth," said Howard, "and save your
life, for it will be all the same for your admiral in the end."
</p>

<p>
"I ne'er say aucht but truth," replied Gair; "but ye sall get nae
information frae me."
</p>

<p>
"Then take thy last look of yonder rising sun, my brave fellow,"
said Howard, with deep commiseration; "for in one minute more
thou'lt be lying at the bottom of thy native sea."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, my sakeless wife and bairn!" cried the poor fisherman: "but
in life and death, I commit you to the care of God!"
</p>

<p>
These words struck a chill on all who heard them, and the brave
English gentlemen and mariners of Bull grew pale as they looked on
each other.
</p>

<p>
Twice Sir Stephen repeated the question, and on receiving, for the
last time, the same reply, he cried, furiously,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Thy blood be on thine own head, fellow!&mdash;fire the gun!"
</p>

<p>
The white smoke gushed from the gunport through the black
rigging; the sharp report pealed over the morning sea, and ere it
died away the rope had whistled through the block, as the sailors
cast it from them like an instrument of murder, and poor Jamie Gair
had vanished from the yard-arm of the <i>Unicorn</i>.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Sir Stephen Bull," cried Howard, as he rushed to the vessel's
side; "what is this thou hast done?"
</p>

<p>
"Drowned a pitiful Scot, whose obstinacy may mar our morning's
work," was the dogged reply, as a few bubbles that rose to the
surface, were all that remained to show where the fisherman had sunk.
Sir Stephen walked aft hastily, but was evidently dissatisfied with
himself, for he returned, and said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Why this regret, Edmund Howard; was not the man only a
Scot?"
</p>

<p>
"For that reason I commiserate his fate the more," said Howard,
who was no doubt thinking of Lady Margaret Drummond.
</p>

<p>
"Tush! display the signal to clear away for battle, and hoist the
French ancient, for I have no doubt these are the ships of him we
are in search of.  If they were not, our defunct fisherman would soon
have said so."
</p>

<p>
"God will not bless the course we thus begin," said Howard;
"and if yonder ships are indeed those of Sir Andrew Wood, the weepers
of Saint John, by London Wall, will be singing dirges for some of us
ere long."
</p>

<p>
"I care little whether or not God blesses it, if Henry our king is
pleased," said Sir Stephen, with a glance of pride and anger; "but
peace with this croaking, Sir Captain of mine&mdash;'tis a new thing in
thee.  To your arms and to your quarters, fore and aft&mdash;sound
trumpets, and load culverins and arquebusses!  Dick Selby, open the
magazine; John o'Lynne, see the fire's out; beat to quarters, and
get abroach three runlets of canary.  Fight to the death, my merry
men all, for if you fall into the hands of the Scots they will chain
you to work on their castles and highways, and feed you worse than
Charterhouse monks&mdash;so every man to quarters, and St. George for
Merry England!"
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap64"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LXIV.
<br /><br />
THE BATTLE OFF FIFENESS.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I swear by kirke, and bower, and hall,<br />
  He wolde overcome them everye one,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If once his beames they doe downefall.<br />
  This is colde comfort, quoth my lorde,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To welcome a stranger thus to sea;<br />
  But I'll bring him and his ships to shore;<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Or to Scotland he shall carry me."&mdash;SIR ANDREW BARTON<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
After nearly bringing to a successful issue his diplomatic mission
concerning the quarrel between the Scottish, Dutch, and Flemish
merchants,&mdash;though the latter remembered bitterly the various barrels
of pickled heads despatched by the unquhile Sir Andrew Barton to
the Privy Council of James III.,&mdash;Sir Andrew Wood had left the
port of Sluys, or Sluice, which is one of the best harbours and
strongest frontier towns in Dutch Flanders, and from the Bailiff and
Echevins of which he received a gold cup and silken banner.  Sailing
with a fair wind, he soon lost sight of the low flat shores of Batavia,
and bore away for the Firth of Forth.
</p>

<p>
The voyage across the northern ocean was rough, and more than
once his Scottish caravels rolled their lower yard-arms in the water;
but their trip of five hundred miles was drawing to a close, and on
the morning mentioned in the preceding chapter, the crews of the
<i>Flower</i> and <i>Yellow Frigate</i> hailed with satisfaction the black rugged
scalp of St. Abb, as it rose above the summer sea.
</p>

<p>
The <i>Flower</i> was commanded by Sir Alexander Mathieson, "the
Auld King o' the Sea," whose former ship, the <i>Margaret</i>, had been
given by the young king to John, the younger brother of Robert
Barton.  John was also a brave mariner, and well known in
Scottish history.
</p>

<p>
The vessels were going under easy sail; morning prayers were
over; the crew were lying in groups between the guns on deck,
resting themselves after the recent gale.  Willie Wad was playing
on the fiddle; Father Zuill was of course engaged in the further
development of his parabolic speculum; the admiral was writing in his
cabin; Falconer and Barton were on deck, talking no doubt over the
chances of good or evil tidings awaiting them from the fair daughters
of Lord Drummond, and of their aversion for the new Lord High
Admiral of Scotland&mdash;Hailes, now Earl of Bothwell; old Archy, the
boatswain, was "spinning a yarn" to some idlers who were clustered
near the capstan, and assuring them that in some parts of the
Northern Sea, he knew with certainty there was a fiend who was
often seen astride the bowsprit or the spritsail-yard on the eve of a
hurricane, with blue flames coming out of his hawseholes, and wearing
a conical hat tipped with fire; and there he rode, leading the
vessel to destruction; for if the storm was weathered, she would run
into the down-hill at the back of the world, where she might beat
and tack in vain, for her crew could never gather leeway until the
day of doom.  This, and much more to the same purpose, was
listened to, in the most perfect good faith by the hearers, and was
corroborated by some of them, who had seen the identical demon
referred to, when they were wrecked near the English Castle of
Barnborough in '72, in the great ship of James Kennedy, Bishop of
St. Andrew's, when all perished, save a few who escaped in a
jollyboat with the holy Abbot of Inchcolm, whose case of reliques&mdash;but
at that moment a voice was hailing the deck.
</p>

<p>
"Hollo," cried Barton, "who hails?"
</p>

<p>
"Captain of the maintop, sir&mdash;sail ho!"
</p>

<p>
"Sail ho!" was echoed from the deck.
</p>

<p>
"Why, thou gomeral, there is nothing wonderful in seeing a sail off
St. Abb's Head."
</p>

<p>
"But there are three o' them, Sir Captain," cried the sailor, looking
over the basket-work of the top; "war-ships to my eye."
</p>

<p>
"Oho&mdash;that alters the case entirely!"
</p>

<p>
Barton sprung into the main-rigging, and ran up aloft to take a
view; when he descended, the admiral, whom some rumour had
reached, was on deck.
</p>

<p>
"What dost make them out to be, Robert?"
</p>

<p>
"Three full-rigged ships, standing straight towards us; coming
down with a fine breeze, and everything set aloft that will catch it."
</p>

<p>
"Didst make out their colours?"
</p>

<p>
"They have none hoisted as yet; but by St. Andrew, they are
war-ships, or I have the eyes of a mole!"
</p>

<p>
"They may be English&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Or Portuguese caravels on some roving commission; but both
are alike dangerous.  To be forewarned is to be forearmed."
</p>

<p>
"Right," said the admiral; "so beat the starboard watch to
quarters; Willie Wad, out with all lights, and open the magazine!
To your armour, gentlemen; Sir David Falconer, order your
trumpeter to sound, and line the poop with arquebussiers."
</p>

<p>
"That puff of smoke," said Falconer, as he buckled on his splendid
baldrick, "is very like the discharge of a culverin."
</p>

<p>
And such it was, being the death-knell of Jamie Gair, the
unfortunate fisherman.
</p>

<p>
As the vessels neared each other, the two Scottish caravels were
cleared for action, and every man armed himself; the cannon was
served with shot and powder; the arquebussiers manned the tops
and taffrails; the cannoniers stood by their guns, with tackle, sponge,
and rammer; the lines were laid along the deck, and the ports were
triced up.
</p>

<p>
"By my soul, Robert Barton," said the admiral, as he scanned the
strangers; "I think I should know the hull of yonder craft and the
rake of her masts.  Gadzooks! look at her now, as her sails lift in
the breeze."
</p>

<p>
"And the fashion of her topsails, too," said Barton, observing her
with kindling eyes, and a darkening brow.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis the <i>Unicorn</i>&mdash;as I am a living man!"
</p>

<p>
"Either thy father's spirit, or an English foe, is under sail on these
waters.  It <i>is</i> the <i>Unicorn</i>, Robert.  But hah&mdash;what is this?  Up
goeth her pennon and ensign.  French, gadzooks!  Now what may
this portend?"
</p>

<p>
"'Tis all a wile," said Barton, as Sir Stephen Bull, the further to
deceive them, as he hoped, hoisted the white flag with the fleur-de-lis,
a flag then as familiar to the Scottish people as their own; and
as the oriflamme swelled out in the breeze, Sir Stephen fired a gun to
leeward.
</p>

<p>
"Up with St. Andrew's cross," said the admiral; "if these are
not three English ships, may I skulk in the lee scuppers of fortune
to the end of my days.  Up with our ancient, quartermaster; and
Wad, fire a gun to <i>windward</i>."
</p>

<p>
It is recorded, that immediately on the hostile signal being given,
the oriflamme went down, and up went the white flag with the red
cross of England, while the bright heraldic pennons of the many
gentlemen who served in the ships for glory and honour, or in sheer
hatred of the Scots, were displayed in the bright sunshine.  The
adverse ships, now about half a mile apart, were nearing each other
fast, and every heart on board beat high.
</p>

<p>
In our account of this battle, we will follow briefly and strictly the
relation of Dalzel, Pitcairn, Buchanan, the Laird of Pitscottie, and
others.  The quaint chronicler Lindesay gives us the characteristic
address of his contemporary, the Scottish admiral to his crew, while
every man received a stoup of wine at the capstan-head.
</p>

<p>
"My lads, these are the men who would seek to convey us in
fetters to the foot of an English king as they did the shipmates of stout
old Andrew Barton; but, by the help of God and your bravery, they
shall fail!  Shipmates, set yourselves in order; every man to his
station; the gunner to his lintstock, and the steersman to his helm!
Charge home, cannoniers&mdash;crossbowmen, to the tops&mdash;pikes and
two-handed swords to the forerooms.  Down with the bulk-heads, up
with the screens, reeve tackle, and ram home.  Be stout men and
true, for the love of your kindred, and the honour of old
Scotland&mdash;hurrah!"
</p>

<p>
A loud cheer responded; the poops, tops, and forecastles were
bristling with cuirassed and helmeted men; the yeomen of the sheets
and braces stood by their stations, the gunners by their guns, and
all were armed to the teeth, with swords and daggers, pikes, axes,
ghisarmas, and hand-cannons.
</p>

<p>
The sun was clear and the sky brilliant; the waves rolled like
crystal in long glassy swells; the bellying canvas was white as snow,
and the gaudy pennons waved from mast-head and yard-arm, like long
ribands of many coloured silk on the gentle wind.  The sides of all
the ships, but more especially their towering poops and ponderous
quarter-galleries, were gay with carving and gilding, and grim with
the flashing of sharp weapons and the brass-mouthed tiers of their
pointed artillery; and a thousand bright or gaily tinted objects were
thus reflected in the clear waves as they rolled past in slow heaving
ridges that glistened in the sun.
</p>

<p>
In a few minutes the guns of Bull commenced firing, and their balls
whistled through the rigging of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> as she closed
up, but without firing a shot, for, breathless and impatient, her
crew were waiting for the sound of the admiral's whistle.
</p>

<p>
One ball splintered the mizenmast near Sir Andrew, and another
stretched Cuddie Clewline, his coxswain, on the deck.
</p>

<p>
"My poor Cuddie," said he, rushing forward; "how art thou, old
shipmate?"
</p>

<p>
"Ill enough, Sir Andrew," groaned the seaman, from the sleeve of
whose doublet the blood was gushing; "my best spar is knocked
away."
</p>

<p>
"Poor carle&mdash;thy right arm?" said Barton.
</p>

<p>
"Never fear ye for me, sirs, I'll weather the gale yet," he answered,
as he crawled along the deck, leaving a long trail of blood, till he
reached the main hatchway, where Father Zuill, relinquishing an
immense parabolic speculum, received him in his arms, and conveyed
him below.
</p>

<p>
"Hollo!  Saints and angels, what clattering is that?" he asked, as
a heavy shot tore its way between decks.
</p>

<p>
"An English bullet through the magazine," said some one.
</p>

<p>
"Damnation," cried Wad, plunging down the ladder to ascertain
the damage.
</p>

<p>
"Peace," said the chaplain; "swear not, friend gunner; it is
forbidden."
</p>

<p>
"The shot is through thy laboratory, Father Zuill," said the
boatswain, ascending; "and if it hasna smashed your hurdy-gurdy
to flinders, may I never mair see Anster kirk!"
</p>

<p>
"Hell's fury! sayst thou so?" cried the chaplain, losing all
patience, as another of King Henry's pills came crashing through
the timbers, killing and wounding all in its way.
</p>

<p>
"Oho! may I drink bilge but a friar can swear as well as a poor
gunner, though it is forbidden," said Willie Wad, as he hoisted up
case after case of shot; but the unhappy chaplain, rendered furious
by the destruction of his lifelong labours, flung off his frock, under
which he wore a jazarine jacket, seized a sword, and rushed on deck
intent on vengeance.
</p>

<p>
The <i>Yellow Frigate</i> and the <i>Unicorn</i> were now less than a
musket shot apart, when Sir Andrew blew his silver whistle; and
then the former poured her broadside of "pestilent" carthouns,
sakers, and serpentines, into the latter, exchanging fire with her on
opposite tacks, while the arquebussiers and crossbowmen aloft and
below volleyed at each other as fast as they could cast their weapons
about.
</p>

<p>
"By the soul of King James, that broadside will cost ye a few
bolts of canvas, my friends!" said Wood, with a smile; and bearing
on, by his great seamanship he continued to keep the weather-gage
of Bull; while Sir Alexander Mathieson, with the <i>Flower</i>, followed
close in his wake, they each exchanged broadsides with the three
English ships, whose triple fire cut up their rigging, battered their
gay bulwarks, and wounded a vast number of their men; but few
were killed, though all the scuppers ran with blood and water.
</p>

<p>
These brave adversaries foresaw not the days that were to come,
when "Duncan, Nelson, Keppel, Howe, and Jervis," under a <i>united</i>
flag, would lead their descendants side by side to sweep Scotland's
ancient ally from the ocean.
</p>

<p>
"Tack," cried the admiral to Barton, again, as the cannon were
charged for the fourth time; "tack again, and range up on the
weather quarter of the sternmost ship."
</p>

<p>
By this manoeuvre he almost blew to pieces the poop of Miles
Furnival's caravel; he then gave the order to "close in and grapple."
</p>

<p>
"A narrow escape, David," said Barton, as an English bullet tore
the crest off Falconer's headpiece.
</p>

<p>
"A little lower, and it would have ended all my cares to-day,"
replied Sir David, with a sad smile; "and believe me, Barton, I
would rather die here than land to-morrow, and learn that Sybilla
has become the countess of the high-admiral."
</p>

<p>
The five vessels now simultaneously shortened sail, and, according
to the tactics of the day, grappled with each other; and there was a
frightful rasping as they closed-in muzzle to muzzle with their
yard-arms tearing each other's canvas to rags and ribbons.
</p>

<p>
Alas! we need scarcely advert to the <i>desperation</i> of the conflict
which ensued&mdash;a conflict from which we recoil; for it was Englishmen
and Scotsmen who then fought against each other, and fought
as they alone can fight.
</p>

<p>
The yetlan guns soon became so hot that Wad reported to the
admiral, "that they were bouncing off their stocks, and tearing their
breechings like pack-thread."
</p>

<p>
We are told that, fearless of the numerical force and superiority of
the enemy, old Andrew Wood led the way to the "Inglish deckis
with his twa-handed quhinger," and that for twelve hours, with
sword and pike, crossbow and battle-axe, a deadly conflict was
maintained; and that they had often to retire from sheer exhaustion,
and to free their blood-stained decks from the dead and wounded;
"and there they fought," saith Pitscottie, who knew the admiral
well, "frae the rising of the sun till the going down of the same, in
the long summer's day, while all the men and women that dwelt
near the coast-side stood and beheld the fighting, which was terrible
to see."
</p>

<p>
The sun sank behind the hills of Fife, and those persons who
crowded on the steeple of Crail and the summit of Kincraig, saw the
five grappled ships abandoned to the wind and current, drifting off
towards the north.  They saw the blue flag of Scotland and the
white English ensign floating side by side; they could see the
incessant gleaming of steel, and the pale smoke that broke upward in
white curls from time to time, but they knew not how the tide of
battle turned, or to whom red Victory held out her bloody wreath.
</p>

<p>
Night came down on the echoing deep, and when morning dawned
the good folk of the East Neuk, pale with watching, and fired by
expectation, could see no trace of the hostile ships; for by that time
they had drifted like a huge and gory raft, or a floating hecatomb,
to the mouth of the Tay.  There, after casting off to refit and reeve
anew their cut and torn rigging, again the trumpets sounded, and
again they grappled at sunrise; and Wood ordered that the English
ships should be lashed "with cables" to his own&mdash;that they should
all go down together rather than any one should escape.
</p>

<p>
The Scots and English were repeatedly in possession of each
other's decks, and incredible valour was exhibited in the many
hand-to-hand conflicts that ensued amid the general <i>mêlée</i>; many a
Scottish mariner was "spritsail yarded," as they termed it, by being
pinned in the head or breast by the clothyard shafts of Sir Stephen's
archers, who shot from the tops and poops; and many an Englishman
was <i>scotched</i> (i.e., cut or slashed by the sword or Jedwood axe),
a phrase we first find in Shakespeare, but which had long previously
been common in England, for a wound received in the Scottish wars.
</p>

<p>
Tall Dick Selby, with his poleaxe, displayed to advantage the
agility and prowess which made him the lion of the Moorfields and
Finsbury; and strong in the belief of a blessed Paternoster, bought
in the Row beside St. Paul's, and bound about his better wrist, he
had hewed a way almost to the poop of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, when
he was killed by Sir David Falconer, who there recognised Edmund
Howard fighting bravely against great odds, and keeping his back
to the mizenmast; and there, after doing all in his power by voice
and deed to save him, he had the mortification of seeing him hewn
almost to pieces by the crew of the <i>Flower</i>.
</p>

<p>
Sir Fulke of Fulkeshall was also slain, and there was scarcely a
noble or wealthy family in London that did not lose a relative in
this desperate conflict.
</p>

<p>
Sir Stephen Bull, tall, powerful, and brave as a Hector, sought
everywhere for old Sir Andrew Wood, reserving his sword and
strength for him alone; and they encountered each other no less
than six times, but were always separated by the furious pressure of
those around them; for Miles le Furnival, John of Lynne, and
others, on one side, Sir Alexander Mathieson, Robert Barton, and
Falconer, on the other, were always rushing on, and taking part in
the bloody game, though all of them were severely wounded, and
covered with blood and bandages.
</p>

<p>
"Had we no better cast off the grapples," cried Archy of Anster,
rushing to the admiral, who was leaning, breathless, against the
taffrail of the <i>Unicorn</i>, with his sword in his hand.
</p>

<p>
"Wherefore?" he asked.
</p>

<p>
"We are close on the Buddon-ness&mdash;in shoal water," exclaimed
the boatswain; "and will strike in three minutes or less."
</p>

<p>
"Let us take our chance," answered Wood, grimly; "I will
rather knock the old ship to pieces than see her an English prize;
but, alas! honest Archy&mdash;art thou wounded?"
</p>

<p>
"My mainyard is shot in the slings," groaned the old boatswain,
as a ball struck him near the shoulder, and he fell heavily on the
deck, with his right arm broken.
</p>

<p>
At that moment, there was a tremendous shock; the masts nodded
like willow wands, and several topmasts with all their yards, sails,
rigging, and hamper, came thundering down on the still contested
decks; and then a hoarse shout of rage and despair arose from the
English ships, for their crews were aware that they were all ashore,
or wedged on the shoaly sands together.
</p>

<p>
To shorten this account, which, as it may be found in many
old histories of Scotland, need not be longer dwelt on here, the
English trumpets sounded a parley, and the brave Sir Stephen Bull,
now thoroughly crestfallen and dejected, surrendered his sword to
Sir Andrew Wood; but without shame or dishonour, for he and
his crews had done all that brave men might do.
</p>

<p>
The ships were all floated off by the flood tide; the grapplings cut,
jury masts were rigged, and sails set on them, and before midnight
they were all safely anchored in the harbour of Dundee, within the
protection of the cannon of Broughty.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap65"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LXV.
<br /><br />
THE ENGLISH PRISONERS.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Sir Stephen, who was prisoner made<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With ships and sailors all,<br />
  Unto King James Sir Andrew took,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Before his feet to fall."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;SIR ANDREW WOOD.&mdash;<i>Old Ballad</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The tidings of this victory, notwithstanding the slaughter by which
it was gained, caused the greatest rejoicings over all Scotland, for
her people were proud of their country, and were then sensitively
jealous of her honour; thus, the excitement in Dundee, on the day
after the battle, was tremendous.
</p>

<p>
Sir Andrew Wood took Sir Stephen Bull, and all the officers and
English gentlemen volunteers ashore, to present them to King
James IV.  When the barge of this fine old Scottish mariner left
the ships, the seamen of the <i>Yellow Frigate</i> and <i>Flower</i> swarmed
up the rigging, manned the yards, and gave him three hearty
cheers.
</p>

<p>
"God bless ye, my brave callants," said the good admiral, as he
stood up in the boat, bowed his silvery head, and waved his blue
bonnet.
</p>

<p>
A similar greeting awaited him at the rock of St. Nicholas, and
in the streets of Dundee, where, giving his arm in token of amity
to his late adversary, the haughty and resentful Stephen Bull, and
followed by the principal prisoners, and surrounded by Falconer's
arquebussiers, to guard them from insult, he went straight to the
little palace of St. Margaret, where the young king, who had been
apprised of his coming, awaited him.  Vast crowds followed the
vanquished and the victors; the lances of the Provost guarded them,
and in front rode the Laird of Blackness, bearing the banner of the
Burgh, argent, with a pot of lilies, or&mdash;the emblem of the
Virgin&mdash;supported by two green dragons, with enormous twisted tails; and
many an unsophisticated Englishman, who had never seen a Scot
before, gazed about him with emotions of wonder and hostility; for
the towns and dresses of the Lowlanders were very different from those
of the English, to whom the architecture of the Scottish streets and
houses has still a strange and foreign aspect.  In those days, the
peasantry of the Lowlands all wore rough brogues of deerskin, with
the hair outwards; hence they were named rough-footed Scots by
the people of England, where the peasantry were all barefooted, and
even bare-legged, as some writers of the time of James IV. say.
</p>

<p>
Accompanied by the venerable Duke of Montrose-Crawford, the
young Lord Lindesay, in his scarlet mantle, and his tall mother, the
Duchess, by Robert Lord Lyle, and many other friends of his
unhappy father, mingled with a few of the Angus faction, James IV.,
with his half-acknowledged queen by his side, received the victorious
admiral and his bold prisoners in one of the finest chambers of this
old country palace.
</p>

<p>
The walls were hung with green and gold arras; the oak ceiling
was divided into square compartments, and in the centre of each was
a royal or heraldic device, the arms of the house of Stuart, of their
alliances with foreign reigning families, and their many ennobled
descendants.  Above the carved stone fireplace hung that celebrated
picture of the murdered James III., with his queen, in which he is
represented in a lilac-coloured robe, trimmed with ermine, and wearing
a vest of cloth of gold; Margaret of Oldenburg is attired in a blue
robe, with a Scottish kirtle of cloth of gold, and a head-dress blazing
with jewels.  This picture, which now hangs in Kensington, is
probably one of the many valuable portraits of which the avaricious
James VI. stripped the Scottish palaces, on his succession to the
English crown in 1603.
</p>

<p>
Crestfallen and silent, the proud and brave English captain stood
within this noble apartment.
</p>

<p>
James frankly and kindly shook the hand of the vanquished mariner,
and complimented him on his bravery, in terms similar to those
with which he favoured Wood.
</p>

<p>
"Sir Stephen," he added, "I will restore to you and to your
followers your swords, arms, and armour, your ships, and liberty,
because I ever love brave men who fight&mdash;not for gain&mdash;but for
glory.  Go, sirs, you are free; but I trust that never again you will
trouble the Scottish seas with your presence or your piracies, else
another fate may await you."
</p>

<p>
Before presenting his own officers and shipmates to their young
sovereign, Sir Andrew courteously introduced Miles de Furnival,
John o'Lynne, and all those Englishmen who had distinguished
themselves most in the recent battle; he also deplored the death of
Captain Edmund Howard; "for," said he, "he was a brave man,
and a true English seaman, whom I respected, though his brother,
the admiral, slew my old shipmate, Barton, on that day of sorrow in
the Downs&mdash;but woe is for women, and masses are for monks&mdash;the
gunner to his lintstock, and the steersman to his helm, say I."
</p>

<p>
Margaret Drummond heard these tidings with a pang, for the
noble and gentle Howard had won her whole esteem, though he could
win nothing more.
</p>

<p>
"Thou art so rich in honour, and, men say, in money too, Robert
Barton," said the king, "that I am sorely puzzled how to reward
thy bright career of faithful service; but thou shalt be the captain
of my <i>Great Michael</i>, as soon as that stately ship is launched and
fit for sea.  And as for thee, my honest Davie Falconer, the gentle
and the brave," he added, taking both Sir David's hands in his,
"what shall I say to thee?  As an earliest of better things, let me
hang this gold medal, the gift of our Holy Father Innocent VIII.,
to the golden chain my father gave thee, when last we were all under
this old rooftree together.  May the good God bless thee, Davie
Falconer; for, on the last day of that poor father's life, thou didst
fight nobly by his side, where I too should have been, but for evil
fortune and most accursed counsel!"
</p>

<p>
Falconer's heart swelled with mingled joy and sadness as the
young king attached the medal to his chain, and he gazed imploringly
at Margaret Drummond, with an expression that seemed to say,
"Oh, speak for us&mdash;for Sybilla and for me&mdash;you know our secret
well;" but terror of her father, on whose face there was a scornful
smile, repressed any such thought in her mind.
</p>

<p>
"I have ever done my duty as a subject and a leal Scotsman,"
said Falconer; "but in this presence I dare not say all I think, or all
I feel, lest the Lord Drummond and others deem me bold; for other
inheritance than my sword and an honest name, have I none."
</p>

<p>
"Nay, by my soul, David Falconer, Drummond will never deem
thee over-bold," said the old lord, with a sudden emotion of generosity,
"for the sword is ever the Scotsman's best, and often his <i>last</i>
inheritance, as many a foreign field can show; and well I know, that it
was not when treading on a silken carpet you won the spurs you wear."
</p>

<p>
These were the first kind words the father of Sybilla had ever
addressed to him, and they raised in his warm heart a glow of hope
and gratitude.
</p>

<p>
That evening there was a grand banquet served up amid a flourish
of trumpets; Sir Stephen Bull sat on the king's right hand, the
Laird of Largo on his left; and the English and Scots, oblivious of
yesterday's strife and slaughter, pushed the stoups of Malmsey and
Rochelle, Canary and Bordeaux, as busily as of late they had plied
cannon and arquebuss, eghisarma and hand-gun.  Sir John Carmichael
of Netherton and Hyndford&mdash;the same who, with Swinton of
Dalswinton, slew the Duke of Clarence at the Battle of Verneuil&mdash;was
chief carver; the Laird of Southesk was cup-bearer, and the kirk
bells of "the Blessed Virgin Mary-in-the-fields" rang their
matin-chime before the carousers drank the voidée, or parting-cup&mdash;the
signal for retiring.
</p>

<p>
The dead were buried in two large graves, within the old cemetery
of St. Paul's Church, between the Sea Gate and the Murray Gate of
Dundee.  Sir Fulke of Fulkeshall was interred alone; and his
remains, with a large sword with the blade full of notches, and
several silver coins (which the Scots always interred with the
dead&mdash;a strange remnant of paganry) were found in a large stone coffin,
when the foundations of the East Church of Dundee were being dug
in 1842; but poor Howard had found a grave among the waves
that dash upon the shoals of the Buddon-ness.
</p>

<p>
In less than a week the English ships were refitted, and began to
drop down the Tay, to sail for London.
</p>

<p>
On Blue Peter being displayed at the masthead by Sir Stephen
Bull, and the fore-topsails being cast loose&mdash;announcing that they
were about to depart&mdash;the crews of all the Scottish war-ships, about
fifteen or twenty of which had now mustered near Dundee&mdash;manned
the yards, and gave them a parting cheer, while the Laird of
Balgillo saluted St. George's cross by a salvo of guns from the
battlements of Broughty; and thus they separated&mdash;those hostile
ships&mdash;with farewell compliments and mutual expressions of amity
and good-will.
</p>

<p>
Bull had on board the Montrose Herald and Garioch Pursuivant,
who were the bearers of a letter to King Henry.
</p>

<p>
This document demanded the immediate release of the Bishop of
Dunblane, and begged Henry to accept of his own ships back again
as presents, and enjoined him to reward nobly the brave men who
had fought them so skilfully and well; and also recommended him
to remember for the future, "that Scotland could boast of warlike
sons by sea as well as land, and that he&mdash;King James&mdash;trusted
the piratical shipmen of England would disturb his coasts no more,
for it micht be, they would not be so weel entertained, nor loup hame
so dryshod."
</p>

<p>
King Henry (add Buchanan and Lindesay) dissembled his anger
and mortification, saying that he "accepted the kindness of the
young King of Scotland, and could not but applaud the greatness
and the chivalry of his soul."
</p>

<p>
The Nethertoun of Largo was bestowed by James upon the Admiral,
together with the Green Ribbon of the Thistle, an Order in which
the death of the loyal Glencairn at Sauchieburn had made a vacancy;
for this naval victory, on which innumerable ballads were made, was
of infinite consequence to Scotland, as it spread abroad the terror of
her name by sea, at a time when the warlike skippers of France,
England, Portugal, and Spain, when sailing in their lumbering
argosies, with their cumbrous tops and gigantic poop-lanterns, were
not over-particular in distinguishing friends from foes, when they
met each other, far from human aid or justice, on the broad and
open arena of the ocean.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap66"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LXVI.
<br /><br />
THE STONE BICKER.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal!<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;<br />
  And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Is love from a heart that loves liberty too."&mdash;MOORE.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Everything being quiet now, at home and abroad, Lord Drummond
proposed the completion of his old arrangement for wedding
his daughters to Home and Bothwell, and as the Bishop of Dunblane
was returning through England,&mdash;ready excuses having been found
for his unlawful detention,&mdash;the scheming and ambitious old noble
contemplated a grand and triple ceremony; the coronation of one
daughter and the marriage of the other two, and spent much of his
time among monks, minstrels, heralds, and other devisers of
pageantries.
</p>

<p>
Henry had released the poor Bishop, and satisfied him that his
detention had been all a mistake; and in proof thereof, committed
his secretary of state to the Tower&mdash;craved the reverend Father's
blessing, kissed his episcopal ring, and so forth, and thus dismissed
him with all honour; but, cunning as a lynx, and still following the
insidious policy of his family and his time, he hourly expected
tidings from Shaw, from Gray, or Borthwick, of whom more anon;
for that worthy had contrived to keep himself concealed in the ship
of Bull during the engagement, having not the slightest interest in
its issue, and feeling only a laudable spirit of economy with regard
to risking his own precious person.  Thus, on the ship's anchoring
off Dundee, favoured by the darkness and confusion, he lowered
himself into the water by one of the starboard gunports, swam
safely ashore, and made his way with all speed to the house of the
traitor Gray of Kyneff, which lay several miles distant, beyond the
Howe of Angus, and there he remained for some time in concealment
and consultation.
</p>

<p>
Brown autumn came; the birchen leaves turned yellow in the
russet woods of Angus; the hills looked dark and close at hand;
the black corbie and the greedy gled croaked on the fauld dykes and
on the bare branches of the loftiest trees, and the swallows had long
since departed on their yearly journey to the sunny lands of the
South.
</p>

<p>
All taut and trim as ever, the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>, with her carved
and painted sides that shone with gilding, still lay inactive in the
harbour of Dundee, with her long blue pennon dipping in the
glassy water alongside.
</p>

<p>
The Bishop of Dunblane (James Chisholm, chaplain to the late
king) had now reached his episcopal palace on the banks of the
Allan Water, and from Strathearn, Lord Drummond had brought his
two beautiful daughters, with a glittering escort, to Dundee; but
now Home and Bothwell, their intended spouses and their double
terror, were loitering on the borders, concerning some dispute in
which they had&mdash;fortunately for those in whom we are
interested&mdash;became involved with the Wardens of the English Marches.
</p>

<p>
Barton and Falconer hovered about the mansion of Lord Drummond,
and watched its walls, till they knew every stone in its quaint
arcades and broad round towers; they loitered in Tindall's Wynd
and the Fish-street daily&mdash;each like an Adam near his Eden; but
never once, at the windows, on the bartizan, nor in the street on foot
or on horseback, nor at church during morning mass or evening
vespers, had they been favoured by a sight of the sisters; neither
did they receive any message, which only convinced them how
strictly the poor girls were guarded, for Drummond of Mewie and a
band of his men from Strathearn garrisoned the house, and warded,
like wakeful hounds, every avenue to it.
</p>

<p>
In Dundee, in those days, there was a famous hostel and tavern,
named the Stone Bicker, which had been established by the provost
and magistrates in the time of James I., in obedience to the law of
1424, which required all burgh-towns in the realm to have at least
one comfortable "hostellrie," with stables and chambers.  This
was a quaint old house, having many crow-stepped gables, square
ingle-chimneys, and deep shady galleries of wood, which stood upon
columns of stone.  Above its door was carved in stone a
bicker&mdash;with the legend,
</p>

<p class="t3">
  PAX INTRANTIBUS, 1424.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
In form, this stoup or bicker was identically the same as that now
used in Scotland; and the name is derived from the same source as
the German <i>becher</i>.
</p>

<p>
Behind the house was a spacious green, smooth, grassy, and
surrounded by various little bowers trimmed over with Gueldre roses,
sweetbriar, and woodbine.  Here the soldiers of the king's guard,
the cannoniers of Broughty Castle, the seamen of the ships, pages of
the court, and other idlers&mdash;not a few of the latter, knights and
gentlemen&mdash;loitered and played, or observed others playing, at
long-bowls, at chess, or cards, or shooting at the butts with bow and
arquebuse, to encourage the use of which, James I. put down the
games of golf and foot-ball by act of parliament in 1424.
</p>

<p>
On a warm evening about the end of August, Barton and Falconer
sat moodily over a stoup of Bordeaux, in one of these bowers: close
by them on the green was a knot of their sailors, lounging at full
length, drinking ale from pewter flagons of that form which we
find still retained in the metal gill and mutchkin stoups in Scotland:
they were all talking and laughing with their bonnets off and
gaberdines unbuttoned, for they had just ended a tough game at bowls;
Cuddie Clewline, the coxswain, with his arm still in a sling, old
Archy of Anster, the boatswain, and Master Wad, the gunner, were
among them; and placing his short squat figure against a cask,
Willie began to scrape and screw up his fiddle, preparatory to
favouring the company with an air.
</p>

<p>
"How happy seem those honest souls of ours," said Falconer;
"no thought of to-day&mdash;and less care for the morrow."
</p>

<p>
"True, David; and all are happy whose wants and wishes, hopes
and ambition, are small&mdash;for contentment is great wealth."
</p>

<p>
"Hark," said Wad, lowering his fiddle-bow as a bell tolled;
"what's o'clock?"
</p>

<p>
"It is Sanct Clement's Kirk, but tak nae heed what's o'clock, sae
lang as ye are happy, Willie," said Cuddie.  "We'll hae another
stoup, and pay the score wi' the fore-topsail."
</p>

<p>
"And are you sae happy awa' frae your bonnie English wife?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I am&mdash;happy as a cricket; but do the folk no say that bell
tolled o' its sel on the nicht the king was slain."
</p>

<p>
"There can be nae sic thing in nature, coxswain," said a seaman.
</p>

<p>
"But there may be out o' nature," replied the coxswain, sharply;
"how the black de'il can you ken aucht aboot it&mdash;you that hae
been but a month at sea?"
</p>

<p>
"I hae heard o' mony queer things in my time, Cuddie; but I
never heard o' a bell that rang o' its ain accord."
</p>

<p>
"Weel, I <i>have</i>," said the old boatswain, solemnly; "and if ye
wad like to hear a bit yarnie spun anent it&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Coil away, boatswain," said one, clinking his stoup.
</p>

<p>
"Pay it out, carle Archy," said another.
</p>

<p>
"My faither, honest man, in his young days was master o' the <i>Saint
Denis</i>, a pinck of Kinghorn," began the boatswain, "and had three
times the honour o' sailing to France wi' knights and ambassadors,
anent the marriage o' King James wi' the daughter o' Duke Arnold
and Catharine the Duchess o' Cleves.  Weel, on the third time, in
the year '48 as he was bearing awa' for name, and had left far astern
the free port o' auld Dunkerque, wi' its basin, sluice, and batteries,
he found a dismasted and abandoned caravel floating on the sea;
and lang she seemed to have been dismantled and unmanned, for
sea-weed and barnacles grew thick on her gaping planks and rusty
chainplates, and it was next thing to a miracle that she floated at
all.  He boarded and overhauled her, but name, mark, or trace
found he none, to indicate whose she might be, or where she cam'
frae.  A fine bell, wi' a clear siller tone, rocked on her forecastle,
and this he unhooked and brought awa'; and the moment his boat
pushed off, the bell gied a clink wi' its tongue, and the auld battered
wreck gaed down wi' a sough, and half swamped the boat in its
swirl as the waves yawned and closed owre it.  The sailors looked
ilka man in the other's face, and there seemed whisper in their
hearts, that there was something about that auld and nameless wreck
that was strange and eerie.
</p>

<p>
"My faither hung the bell in his forecastle,&mdash;for its tones were
clear and ringing, like a siller horn in a summer wood, or a young
lassie's laugh when her heart is full; but my certie, there were soon
terror and dismay on board the brave pinck <i>Saint Denis</i>, of Kinghorn;
for the bell o' the nameless wreck was bewitched, and rang a'
the watches itsel', and untouched by mortal hand; and in the deid
hour o' the mirk nichts its full clear notes vibrated through every
plank and stanchion in the ship, and through every sleeper's ears
and heart; for never before had a bell wi' sic a sweet yet terrible
tone flung its sound upon the waters.  It was thrice thrown
overboard, and thrice it was found hanging on its old neuk in the
forecastle; and when the <i>Saint Denis</i> came home, far and wide spread
the terror o' her story through a' the seaport towns o' Lothian, Fife,
and Angus; so the owners had to break up the pinck, for nae man
would bide aboard o' her, and for years she lay rotting at her anchors
in the harbour o' Wester Kinghorn."
</p>

<p>
"May this broon ale be bilge if I would ha'e put a foot on her
deck after the bell came back the first time," said the gunner.  "So
they broke the auld craft up for firewood: weel, Archy, after that
what became o' the bell?"
</p>

<p>
"It was exorcised by candle, book, and holy water, by the Abbot
o' Inchcolm, and thereafter it was hung in the steeple o' Largo,
where unto <i>this day</i> it summons the faithfu' to prayer; but never a
note hath it rung unbidden since its devilish power was destroyed."
</p>

<p>
"Ugh!" said the gunner, shrugging his thick square shoulders,
"St. Mary keep us frae evil!  And noo for a song, shipmates," he
added, giving his bow a flourish over the fiddle.  "Cuddie will sing
us the last new ballad, made by a gentle makkar, on the admiral&mdash;to
whom lang life&mdash;and our battle with Sir Stephen Bull,&mdash;to whom
I also say long life, southron he be!"
</p>

<p>
Thus invited, Cuthbert Clewline required no pressing, but after
clearing his throat, giving his ruff a jerk, and hitching at the points
of his wide canvas breeches&mdash;which were similar to those still worn
by our fishermen, being so ample and short as to resemble a kilt, he
sang the quaint and old doggrel ballad of
</p>

<p class="t3" style="font-family: Old English Text MT, Times New Roman, serif">
  "Schir Andro Wood,"<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
to the air of <i>Sir Andrew Barton</i>; and as it is somewhat curious as
a nautical ballad of the time, we are tempted to transfer a modernized
copy of it from the "History of the Scots Wars," into these pages,
still preserving, however, the words the coxswain sung.
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Of all our Scottish mariners, who ever sailed the sea,<br />
  The stoutest was Sir Andrew Wood, the bravest too was he!<br />
  So wroth grew England's haughty king, that a single Scot should keep,<br />
  From Norway's shores to Cape de Verd, the mastery of the deep;<br />
  And he throughout his kingdom did a proclamation make,<br />
  Of a thousand silver pounds per year, Sir Andrew Wood to take.<br />
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Then up a gallant captain stood, Sir Stephen Bull was he,<br />
  Saying, 'I shall fight this Scottish man till he your prisoner be,'<br />
  Right merrie and right proud withal was England's monarch then,<br />
  And he gave unto this captain bold, three ships with guns and men.<br />
  So sailing to our Scottish seas, he cruised near to Crail,<br />
  Until he saw Sir Andrew Wood with two ships under sail.<br />
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "No enemies old Andrew wot were in the Scottish sea,<br />
  And fearing neither man nor deil, he sailed right merrilie;<br />
  But when he saw the English cross, O joyful was he then,<br />
  And bravely did his crew exhort to fight like Scottish men;<br />
  'For Scotland's king we draw the sword, our bairnies and our wives,<br />
  in the cause we'll fearless risk our precious limbs and lives.'<br />
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "So then he pierced the auld red wine, and a stoup to ilk did gie,<br />
  As owre the capstan-head we swore from southron ne'er to flee!<br />
  Thus on we came with open ports, at six knots going free,<br />
  And vowed to sink&mdash;or sink the foe&mdash;to die, but never flee!<br />
  And there we fought this battle keen beside the Bass and May,<br />
  From the rising to the set of sun, upon a summer day.<br />
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "The first ball from the English fleet, it shot our foreyard through,<br />
  And the splinters beat our gunner wight, till he was black and blue,<br />
  Then up he sprang, stout Willie Wad, for a fierce wee man he,<br />
  And vowed to drink 'a pint o' bilge,' or he avenged would be;<br />
  Then levelling straight a great carthoun, with rings of iron stayed,<br />
  A bloody lane, from stem to stern, he through the foemen made!<br />
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "The Scots they fought like lyons bold, and many English slewe,<br />
  So the slaughter which they made that day, old England long sall rue;<br />
  And bravely fought Sir Stephen's men, as Englishmen do aye,<br />
  And blows they gave, for ilk they got, as we shall ne'er gainsay;<br />
  Till the red summer eve closed in, and at the set of day,<br />
  We parted, but as tigers part, all panting from the fray.<br />
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "But ere again that summer sun rose from the German main,<br />
  Once more the drummes to quarters beat, the fight began againe;<br />
  And long we fought with deadly hate, as men for life may fight,<br />
  For nought can nerve a Scottish arm, like Scotland's wrong and right.<br />
  Sir Stephen Bull we captive made, and sailing to Dundee,<br />
  We squared the yards, we furled the sails, and anchored merrilie.<br />
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Then joyful was our noble king, and generous too was he,<br />
  Red gold he gave, and shipped them home, to their ain countrie;<br />
  'Go tell fair England's king,' quoth he, 'that soe I use the brave,<br />
  But if againe ye sayle our seas, you'll win a watery grave.'<br />
  Sir Andrew Wood, our captain bolde, was thanked throughout the land,<br />
  And many a fair reward got he, from good King James's hand.<br />
  Thus bravely was this battle fought, between the Tay and Bass,<br />
  And when <i>next</i> we meet the English fleet, may worse ne'er come to passe!"<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Boisterous applause followed the conclusion of this song, and every
man simultaneously lifted his mug of ale to his mouth, in honour of
the sentiment expressed by the last line.
</p>

<p>
"Thou hast sung well, honest fellow; take this for thy minstrelsy,"
said a gentleman who had loitered near, tossing into the coxswain's
bonnet a golden louis, a donation which immediately drew all eyes
upon him.
</p>

<p>
He was a handsome man, young apparently, and wore a rich sword
and scarlet mantle, with a jazarine jacket and salade, which
concealed his face, or at least hid so much of it that recognition was
impossible.  He had lingered near Falconer and Barton, and now
resumed his place in a seat adjoining theirs, and if he was not
eavesdropping his conduct looked very much like it; but it was unmarked
by them, for they were too full of their own thoughts.
</p>

<p>
"Well fare thee, Scotland," sighed Falconer, draining his wine-horn,
"and many such battles may ye win by land and sea.  But,
much as I love thee, thou art no longer a home or a place for me.
France&mdash;France or Italy, and their battle-fields, must now be the
place where my life and its sorrows may be ended together."
</p>

<p>
"Why so, bravo Falconer?" asked a familiar voice, as a hand was
laid on his shoulder.  "What melancholy crooning is this?"
</p>

<p>
Sir David turned, and his eyes met the face of the young king,&mdash;for
he it was who wore the scarlet mantle, and had now laid the
salade aside.
</p>

<p>
The two gentlemen started to their feet, and uncovered their heads
with reverence.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, nay, sirs; put on your bonnets," said he.  "I am the
younger man by a few years, and, though a king, have not risked
my head so often in my country's service; but a time may come.
And now answer me truly, gallant Falconer&mdash;why didst thou
not tell me of this old love of thine for our pretty Sybilla
Drummond?"
</p>

<p>
"I dared not."
</p>

<p>
"Dared not! art thou not a brave fellow?"
</p>

<p>
"I am a poor one.  Alas! your majesty cannot know the
miserable timidity of the poor."
</p>

<p>
"Then what fettered thy tongue, stout Barton, eh?&mdash;thou who
art laird of manors and acres, ships and stores, enow to make a
monarch envy thee?"
</p>

<p>
"Because&mdash;dare I say it?"
</p>

<p>
"My true friends may say whatever they please to me."
</p>

<p>
"Because, your majesty, deep though my love, I dared not aspire
to wed the sister of one who&mdash;who is to be our queen."
</p>

<p>
The young king coloured deeply, and paused for a moment, as if
some such thought had now struck himself for the first time; then
he thrust the idea aside, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Your fears were foolish, sirs; ye had won those ladies' love, and
surely that was winning the main part of the battle; for, if the song
says rightly, when a woman's heart is won, there is nothing more to
achieve in this world."
</p>

<p>
"Save fortune and rank; and dare I, the son of a poor skipper of
Borrowstonness, who have neither, compete with long descended
peers who have both?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Falconer," said Barton, proudly; "for thou hast that which
we seldom find among our nobles&mdash;a right true Scottish heart, that
would peril all for the weal and honour of the land God gave our
fathers."
</p>

<p>
"By Heaven and by my father's bones, you say well, Robert Barton!"
said the young king, with a sudden emotion of generous enthusiasm;
"and men who have hearts so tried and so true as yours, may well be
the brothers of a Scottish king! and mine you shall be, or this proud
old lord&mdash;John Drummond of Stobhall and that ilk&mdash;must tell me
better why not!  Come with me then&mdash;his house is close by; let us
have this skein unravelled, for to make my loyal subjects happy is
the best tribute I can pay to the memory of that dear departed sire
for whom you fought: he who lost his life in upholding the rights
of the people against the monstrous privileges of a race of titled
tyrants."
</p>

<p>
However reluctant Barton and Falconer might be to thrust
themselves upon the presence of Lord Drummond, while the barbarous
treatment they had so lately experienced there was fresh in their
minds, and being aware that the Laird of Mewie, with a band of
wild Celts from the Highlands of Perthshire, guarded the passages
and ambulatories of the house&mdash;the generous energy of the young
king, the protection his presence could afford, his desire, which was
law, and the happiness his intervention might procure, together with
the wish for meeting once again with those they loved so well&mdash;were
all too powerful to be resisted; and in silence the two gentlemen
followed King James down the main street of Dundee, through
Tyndall's Wynd, where Lord Lindesay and part of the royal retinue
joined them, and together they all proceeded straight to visit Lord
Drummond, the copper horn at whose gate young Lindesay blew
lustily.  And the old baron's half anger, half astonishment, and
entire perplexity at the visit and its object, we will leave to the
reader's imagination, and thus close this eventful chapter&mdash;eventful,
at least, to the two lovers who accompanied the King of Scotland.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap67"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LXVII.
<br /><br />
THE MAUCHLINE TOWER.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "Strange tidings these, my cousin!  By St. Jude!<br />
  They'll urge us all to battle ere the time."&mdash;<i>Old Play</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
What followed this happy interview with the leal and true-hearted
James IV. may be gathered from the following conversation, which
took place next day, in the Mauchline Tower, between three Scottish
worthies who have already occupied a prominent place in the annals
of their country, as well as in this more humble narrative.  The
Mauchline Tower, which had the honour of being the residence of
Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff, when that personage afflicted Dundee
with his presence, stood at the south-west corner of the Murray
gate, and obtained its name from the Campbells of Loudon and
Mauchline, to whom it once belonged.  It was of such strength as
to become in after years a bastelhouse of the town wall, but is now
removed, and no trace of it remains save its name, which is still
retained by a court or alley that opens off the Murray-gate.
</p>

<p>
In the roughly-arched and stone-paved hall of this ancient mansion,
the windows of which had stone seats and iron gratings, the
furniture was of an old and barbarous aspect, and consisted only of a
great standing-table, forms and cupboards all of black old Scottish
oak, with five or six enormous arm-chairs.  In stone recesses were
the wooden bowls, the tren-plates and luggies used at meals; for
the half-bankrupt baron's silver tankard and pewter dishes were all
carefully put away in lockfast almries.
</p>

<p>
The wide fireplace was without a grate, and over it was carved
the escutcheon of the Grays&mdash;a lion rampant, within a border
engrailed; the emblem of hope upon a wreath, and the motto, "Anchor,
fast anchor," being the cognizance of the first of the race in
Scotland,&mdash;Sir Hugh de Gray, Lord of Broxmouth, in the days of
Alexander II.
</p>

<p>
On the day after the interview between James IV. and the two
officers of the <i>Yellow Caravel</i>, Sir James Shaw of Sauchie and Sir
Patrick Gray had a meeting with Hew Borthwick, in the upper hall
of this ancient structure.
</p>

<p>
Gray and the regicide had been in close consultation, when Sir
James Shaw, a little intoxicated, though the hour was early&mdash;hastened
in, with his face inflamed, and expressive of high excitement.
</p>

<p>
"Here are tidings, with a vengeance!" said he, dashing his blue
velvet bonnet on the paved floor.
</p>

<p>
"What's astir now?" asked Gray, knitting his dark eyebrows.
"If it be the reading of the papal dispensation in the cathedral
kirk of Dunblane to-morrow, I know of it already, for our friend
Hew Borthwick has just informed me thereanent."
</p>

<p>
"The king, with Margaret Drummond, Sir David Falconer&mdash;the
same runnion who is captain of Wood's arquebussiers&mdash;and Robert
Barton, with the Lord Drummond, and the ladies Euphemia and
Sybilla&mdash;all smiles and merriment, and riding side by side, with
hawks upon their dexter wrists, each lover by his lemane, and
guarded by the lances of the Royal Guard&mdash;have left Dundee within
this hour."
</p>

<p>
"Which way&mdash;east or west?" asked Gray, starting to his feet.
</p>

<p>
"By the western gate, and past Blackness."
</p>

<p>
"For Dunblane?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes; and the constable of Dundee carried the royal pennon on a
Lance."
</p>

<p>
"Damnation!"
</p>

<p>
"So say I&mdash;doubly," stammered Shaw.
</p>

<p>
"On what errand have they gone?"
</p>

<p>
"Men say variously," replied the Laird of Sauchie, opening and
shutting his bloodshot eyes; "but I overheard that venerable foutre
whom the courtiers call Duke of Montrose, tell his son&mdash;that fop
the Lord Lindesay&mdash;that the king was gone to hear the sentence of
excommunication fulminated against those who slew his father."
</p>

<p>
"That concerns thee, Master Hew."
</p>

<p>
"<i>Sir</i> Hew," sneered Shaw.
</p>

<p>
Borthwick winced, and smiled bitterly.
</p>

<p>
"He said, moreover, that James was to receive from the bishop's
hand, an iron belt, to be worn for ever under his shirt, in memory of
the day he drew his sword against his father."
</p>

<p>
"Few who were at Sauchie, on either side of the burn, will be
likely to forget the day, Sir James.  Well&mdash;and is there anything
more?" asked Gray, biting his glove and rasping his steel spurs on
the pavement.
</p>

<p>
"Yes&mdash;chief of all&mdash;that Margaret Drummond will there be
crowned as Queen of Scotland, at the same time as her husband, and
that the Lord Lyon, with all his heralds and pursuivants, the
chancellor and all the great officers of state, are appointed to keep
tryst at Dunblane."
</p>

<p>
"What&mdash;the reading of the papal letter, the crowning of a king
and queen, and a sentence of excommunication, all to be performed in
one day&mdash;not omitting this freak of the iron belt&mdash;pshaw! thou
ravest man; and I will not believe it."
</p>

<p>
"And why not?"
</p>

<p>
"Because, since Scone became old fashioned, every coronation must
take place at Holyrood.  A rare bundle of news thou'st brought us,
gossip."
</p>

<p>
"I have not yet told thee all&mdash;for the best of the pudding is still
in the pot."
</p>

<p>
"Well, say on," said Gray, shrugging his shoulders with something
between a smile and a frown on his face.
</p>

<p>
"I heard Sir Andrew Wood say to the Constable of Dundee, that
Falconer and Barton were to be wedded by the bishop to old John
Drummond's daughters&mdash;and by the king's express command; but
thou wilt not believe <i>that</i> either, perhaps?"
</p>

<p>
"Wedded&mdash;is he as mad as his father was before him?  Will he
wed one sister himself, and in the person of others raise those
traders' sons&mdash;loons whose ancestors are buried in obscurity, and whose
fathers brought salted hides and tallow, tar and hemp from Memmel,
cartwheels and saddles, iron pots and pewter pans, from Flanders&mdash;to
a close alliance with the Scottish crown?  God's death, it's
monstrous&mdash;pshaw! and cannot be!  Our peers and barons are not so
low in pride or poor in spirit as to brook such an outrage&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Unless King Henry paid them for it&mdash;which he is not likely to do."
</p>

<p>
"But what will the Lords Home and Hailes&mdash;Bothwell, I mean&mdash;say
to this?"
</p>

<p>
"The constable put the same question to yonder gorbellied admiral,
who replied that the king had undertaken to pacify them; but it
was no business of his&mdash;a mariner's&mdash;to study such ware; then he
added something about a gunner and his lintstock, a steersman and
his helm, which I did not understand, but conceived to mean
something insolent to the nobility."
</p>

<p>
"And doubtless it was so&mdash;the tarry varlet!" said Gray, stamping
his armed heel on the paved floor; "Sir James, thou amazest
by all this! but where tarries now the Lord Angus?"
</p>

<p>
"He is hunting the red-deer on the wild Rinns of Galloway,"
replied Shaw, with a reckless laugh.
</p>

<p>
"I might have shrewdly guessed he was not on this side of the
Howe of Fife."
</p>

<p>
"Are there any fresh tidings from Henry of England?"
</p>

<p>
"Henry expects them from us," said Gray with one of his hissing
whispers and deep satanic smiles.
</p>

<p>
"True&mdash;I am forgetting our fair stipulation, penned by Master
Quentin Kraft, and of which there are duplicates in London, to the
effect that he&mdash;that is, King Henry&mdash;shall use all interest with our
king to have my barony of Sauchie erected into an earldom&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"And <i>my</i> barony of Kyneff and estate of Caterline erected into a
lordship; I do not see why I should not have put in for an earldom
too&mdash;but I shall content me if made as good as my chief, Kinfauns;
though I would make as noble a Scottish peer as most of them."
</p>

<p>
For once in his life, Sir Patrick Gray spoke truth.
</p>

<p>
"But instead of gaining these things, sirs," said Borthwick, who
had listened in attentive silence to all the foregoing, "ye have
lost your governorships of Stirling and of Broughty, with all their
attendant customs, kains, and powers, and now&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"The marriage on which these airy coronets depend will never
happen, I fear me," said Shaw, seating himself with a groan.
</p>

<p>
"It shall happen," said Gray, furiously, as he took a huge tankard
of wine and three flagons from a side press; "we have made but
one or two false moves, Sir James; next time we'll have better luck;
and the tables will turn when we have Margaret Tudor for queen.
She is said to be not over-handsome; but 'twill be all the same to
King James when the candles are out in Linlithgow Bower.  So
Margaret Drummond must be removed," he added, filling up the
silver-rimmed horns with Rochelle.
</p>

<p>
"We have each said so a thousand times, sirs," said Borthwick,
"and yet she still remains."
</p>

<p>
"This removal must then be thy task, Master Hew," said Shaw,
setting down the pot, in the purple contents of which he had dipped
his wiry mustachios; "get thee a nag at the Stone Bicker, or
anywhere else; hie thee away after these galliards to Dunblane, and
learn what can be done; for nothing but desperate measures can
save us now, as we are desperate men; one may see that by these
bare walls and these half mutchkin stoups of sour Rochelle."
</p>

<p>
"Thou hast still the powder of Kraft, the London apothecary?"
asked Gray, in a whisper.
</p>

<p>
"Yea," answered Borthwick; "and it is said to be so potent, that
I have borne it about me in great fear, though it is carefully sealed
and waxed all over."
</p>

<p>
"Draw closer," hissed the voice of Gray, as he sunk it into an
almost inaudible whisper.
</p>

<p>
The reader is already aware that Borthwick had been originally a
priest of Dunblane, and, consequently, he knew well the whole
cathedral and its locality.  It was therefore agreed that he should
disguise himself in any manner he deemed most fitted for the
occasion; that he should depart for that secluded little city, and
endeavour to put to some deadly use the poison with which he was
entrusted.
</p>

<p>
It was, moreover, arranged that at midnight, on the second day
from this one, they should both meet him at the Bridge of Dunblane,
and hear what his success had been.  Gray supplied this trusty
ruffian with a horse, and Shaw gave him gold, for he had about
seventy miles of a rough and devious road to travel, and so they
separated; the two barons to prepare and mount, for any emergency,
all the armed retainers they could collect; and the regicide to execute
his terrible mission.
</p>

<p>
"This object once achieved," said Gray, "<i>we must rid ourselves
of Borthwick</i>&mdash;for he knoweth over many secrets to make our
heads secure on our shoulders!"
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap68"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LXVIII.
<br /><br />
DUNBLANE.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"For human bliss and woe in the frail thread<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of human life are all so closely twined,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That till the shears of Fate the texture shred,<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The close succession cannot be disjoined,<br />
  Nor dare we from one hour judge that which comes behind."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Harold the Dauntless</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
The information of Sauchie was all correct, save in that part which
referred to the coronation of Margaret, which James intended should
take place at the same time as his own, not in the little episcopal
city of Dunblane, but in the capital city of Edinburgh, amid all the
splendour with which he could invest it; and already the Lord High
Treasurer, Sir William Knollis, better known as Lord St. John of
Jerusalem, being Preceptor of the Scottish Knights of Rhodes, the
Lord Chancellor, the Secretary of State, and the Lords of the Privy
Council, were making the necessary arrangements for the great
ceremonial at Holyrood.
</p>

<p>
The king's influence, united to Barton's acknowledged worth and
landed possessions, operated so far on Lord Drummond, as to make
him sullenly acquiesce in the marriage of Euphemia to one whose
betrothal could not, in a Catholic age, be broken without incurring
the penalty of sin; and, in the same spirit, he permitted arrangements
to be made for Sir David Falconer, whom James called "the
gentlest and the bravest knight at court," wedding Sybilla;
meanwhile the old lord consoled himself for thus stooping to the royal
will by reflecting that he still had two other daughters growing
up&mdash;Beatrice and Elizabeth&mdash;who should be forced bongré malgré to
marry the first eligible earls upon whom he could lay the hands of a
father-in-law.
</p>

<p>
The king's train was received with all honour by the Baron Bailie
of Dunblane, and Sir Edmund Hay of Melginch, the chamberlain of
the diocese, who marshalled them to the palace of the good old bishop,
James Chisholm, whose name must not be confounded with that of
his successor, William Chisholm, a base and irreverend prelate, who
robbed the see of its revenues to maintain his children, and desecrated
the episcopal palace by scenes of licentiousness.
</p>

<p>
This palace stood to the southward of the magnificent cathedral,
on the edge of the declivity which slopes down towards the river
Allan.  It was surrounded by thick old copsewood and by striking and
picturesque scenery; but it has long since fallen into shapeless ruin,
and now only a few vestiges of its lower apartments can be traced.
</p>

<p>
The four lovers were so happy that we shall not presume to intrude
upon them, or attempt to transfer to paper any description of their
joy, but will leave them to their quiet and dreamy rambles, arm in
arm, or hand in hand, in that deep and finely wooded glen below
Dunblane, where the precipices overhang the Allan, and the windings
of the dell give so many lovely glimpses of foliaged scenery; and to
their sport of shooting at the butts with feathered arrows, in the
smooth park without the old cathedral walls, where many hundred
years of careful pasturage and mowing had made the green grass
as smooth as velvet; for now it was never brushed by other feet
than those of the gliding deer or the lighter-footed hares and rabbits;
and there the young king, and even the kind bishop, with some of
the prebends, drew the bow to please the three beautiful
Drummonds; and Margaret, with her blonde hair and sweet blue eyes,
was voted the best shot of them all&mdash;for James and his two favourite
subjects were too gallant to beat her shooting, and the most
reverend father, by Divine permission Bishop of Dunblane, was
somewhat too stout and pursy to draw a shaft like her.
</p>

<p>
They were all happy, and pure joy beamed in their eyes; it
glowed in their young hearts and mantled in their cheeks.
</p>

<p>
Two alone were grave; viz., old Lord Drummond, because he was
somewhat perplexed, or felt that he cut rather a foolish figure, and
was about to have for sons-in-law two men on whom James dared
not yet bestow nobility for fear of raising the anger of older
patentees; and on the young king's brow a cloud was resting, for on
the morrow he was to receive from the Bishop's hand "the sackcloth
shirt and iron belt," which he was to wear as the self-imposed penance
of filial disobedience;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "While for his royal father's soul,<br />
  The chanters sung, the bells did toll;"<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
and kindly and consolingly the white-haired bishop sought to soothe
the sorrow and disperse the gloom which the young monarch strove
in vain to overcome.
</p>

<p>
Could it be that a mysterious presentiment of approaching evil
was hovering in his heart?  In Scotland, we often hear of such
forebodings still.
</p>

<p>
On the day following the intended sentence of excommunication,
Margaret was to behold one sister wedded to Robert Barton and
another to David Falconer; and on that day the <i>Yellow Frigate</i>
and her consorts would startle the broad blue Firth that rolls before
Dundee by a loud and merry salvo from their brass culverins and
iron arquebusses à croc.
</p>

<p>
Already had each beautiful bride playfully tried the espousal ring&mdash;the
emblem of eternity&mdash;upon her pretty finger&mdash;that third finger
of the left hand from which, according to an old superstition, there
ran one mysterious fibre directly to the heart; and now we may
inform our fair readers, whom such items may interest, that the said
rings were not the plain hoops used in our own day, but each was
massive and chased, inscribed by a holy legend, and having on it
two ruby hearts, surmounted by a little crown of diamonds, for such
was the fashion in the olden time.
</p>

<p>
And now, as the day on which the sisters were to receive communion
at mass in the cathedral, dawned in sunny glory and splendour,
lighting up the painted lattices, the grey walls, and green woods of
the old episcopal palace, and tinting with its brightest hues the rapid
waters of the Allan, the old bishop patted their silken tresses, and
called them his "good children," as they knelt to receive his morning
blessing in the dining-hall, reminding them with a smile, that
"happy was the bride whom the sun shone on, and that he hoped
the god of day would not rise less brightly on the morrow."
</p>

<p>
And they all smiled to each other timidly and fondly, for, alas! they
little knew that for some of them to-morrow was&mdash;eternity.
</p>

<p>
Margaret, the Queen of Scotland&mdash;for such indeed was she now&mdash;was
to receive the communion with her sisters; but Barton and
Falconer having, we may suppose, obtained it but recently, or for
some other reason now unknown, <i>did not</i> share it with them, which
will account for their escaping the perilous web which English guile
and Scottish treason were weaving around them all.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap69"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LXIX.
<br /><br />
THE MIDNIGHT TRYST.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"And, as they say,<br />
  Lamentings heard i' the air; strange scream of death;<br />
  And prophesying, with accents terrible,<br />
  Of dire combustion and confused events,<br />
  New hatched to the woful time."&mdash;<i>Macbeth</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
True to his appointment, about twelve o'clock, "that hour o'nicht's
black arch the keystane," on the night before the important day of
the three solemnities, when the papal dispensation was to be read,
an excommunication to be pronounced, and that Iron Belt, so famous
in the history of James IV., to be consecrated and bestowed&mdash;Hew
Borthwick, the fell spirit, the evil genius of Margaret Drummond&mdash;or
rather, the vile slave and tool of villains more subtle than
himself&mdash;appeared at the ancient bridge of Dunblane; the same which
is mentioned in the introduction to this work as being the erection
of the Bishop Findlay Dermach, in the year 1406.
</p>

<p>
The stillness of midnight reigned in and around that diminutive
cathedral city.  As Hew Borthwick, the outcast of nature, loitered
on the old and narrow bridge which spans the Allan, and lingered
under the gloom of some enormous alder or boor-trees that grew out
of the rocks and threw their shadow on the path, some strange ideas
began to hover in his mind.
</p>

<p>
Save the rush of the river over its rocky bed, the rustle of the
autumn leaves in the coppice, or the bay of a sheep-dog on the
distant muirlands, there was no sound in the air; but there came
many an imaginary one to the ears of Borthwick.  At one time he
thought a wild cry went past him on the wind; at another, he was
certain that voices were lamenting among the copsewood by the river
side.
</p>

<p>
He listened breathlessly!
</p>

<p>
All was still, save the beating of his own heart.
</p>

<p>
Was conscience beginning to be stirred at last within that arid,
cruel, and stony breast, or were these ideas the mere result of the dark
and midnight hour, the place, the time, and the solemn and awful
superstitions incident to the age and the nation?
</p>

<p>
Swinging high aloft in the beautiful square tower of carved
stonework, the cathedral bell tolled the hour of twelve.  The first
sonorous note, as it rolled away upon the trembling air, made
Borthwick's coward heart leap within him; and he listened to each stroke
in breathless agony, as a wretch might listen to his death-knell, and
when the last and twelfth had boomed away upon the darkened sky,
he breathed more freely, but the perspiration hung in drops upon
his clammy brow, for that bell had roused old memories in his heart,
and called back the days that were gone, as an old familiar voice or
gong might do.
</p>

<p>
"Tush!" he muttered; "let me not be now white-hearted and a
fool, when the last die has been cast in this infernal game&mdash;the last
scene prepared in this tremendous drama.  Twelve has struck, but
there is no appearance of them yet!"
</p>

<p>
Faint and flickering lights shot over the tall and many-coloured
windows of the cathedral, and played between the slender tracery of
their shafted mullions, or died away in the recesses of the church.
Those were the tapers of monks who had received a penance of
midnight prayers to say at certain tombs or shrines; and our lurker
remembered the time when he too&mdash;but he turned on his heel, and
strove to forget those better days and that embittering memory.
"Would the tryst had been anywhere but here."
</p>

<p>
Rays of light were streaming more brightly from the smaller but
strongly grated windows of the bishop's palace, and they played on
the brown foliage of the woods below, and on the rushing surface of
the river in the dell.  One by one these rays of light faded away;
at last darkness reigned in the mansion, and Borthwick shuddered,
for he knew that Margaret Drummond and her sisters would then
be a-bed.
</p>

<p>
He was deadly pale; and had any one passed him casually on that
high and narrow bridge, his aspect, even at night, must assuredly
have startled them.
</p>

<p>
To him it was strange and almost irritating, that all the life he
had passed, with many of its minuter and long-forgotten incidents,
should now rise before him like a long unfolding scroll, strongly,
darkly, and fearfully, as it might do before one who is about to die;
and a terrible tissue it was!
</p>

<p>
He recalled the awful name and fate of his parents, and the
promises he had made to the humane old priest who had saved him
doubly, as he was wont to say, "like a brand from the burning,"
and the vows he had made in youth, in that cathedral aisle, to spend
a life of holiness, of usefulness, of purity, and of prayer, to atone for
the real or traditional atrocities of Ewain Gavelrigg and his wife
among the Sidlaw hills; and how had he kept these vows?
</p>

<p>
"Accursed be these thoughts!" said he, as he walked to and fro,
and bit his nether lip, as if to control the growing fear and bitterness
of his heart.  At that moment something struck his face, and he
sprang aside in terror uncontrollable.
</p>

<p>
"Pshaw!" said he, "a bat!"
</p>

<p>
Everything was fraught with some old memory to him now, and
he remembered the old story of its origin to which he had often
listened, as the monks sat round the refectory fire in the cold winter
nights, when the Allan was sheeted with ice, and the blast of the
snow-clad Grampians moaned in the leafless woods of Dunblane; and
the voice of his old patron came back to his ears in the accents of awe
with which he used to tell the story:&mdash;of how, when a boy of seven
years of age, the Saviour of mankind was at play in the streets of
Jerusalem, with other little Jews, and in sport they fashioned various
birds and animals of clay, and then the children quarrelled among
themselves, each preferring his own workmanship, and all united in
laughing to scorn an uncouth bird made by the little hands of the
golden-haired boy, the son of Mary, till the tears fell from his eyes;
and as they dropped upon the little image, lo! it expanded its wings
of clay and flew from hand to hand, and after fluttering over his
head, soared into the air and became a veritable <i>bat</i>.  On beholding
this, the children fled, and on relating the story to their parents, were
by them forbidden to play again with that bright-haired little boy,
whom they stigmatized as an embryo sorcerer; and Borthwick
remembered with mingled pity and envy the good faith, the awe, and
holy interest with which the old and silver-bearded priests bent their
heads around the winter hearth, and listened to legends such as
this; for it was indeed an age "when old simplicity was in its prime."
</p>

<p>
At last his reveries were interrupted by perceiving at the other
end of the bridge two men on foot; they had been there for some
time conversing and regarding him, but unobserved by Borthwick,
whose eyes and mind were turned inward, if we may say so; and
now by their height, bearing, and stealthy motions, he was convinced
that they were no other than Sir James Shaw of Sauchie and Sir
Patrick Gray of Kyneff.
</p>

<p>
"Well met, fair sir," said the latter, with his usual courtly sneer.
</p>

<p>
"Good-morrow, Master Borthwick," added Shaw, whose incessant
intoxication was quite visible, even in the dark.
</p>

<p>
Both were well armed in cuirasses, gorgets, and plate sleeves, with
swords and daggers in their belts, and they bore on their heads
French salades which completely concealed their faces, forming at the
same time a defence which no sword could cleave or pole-axe
break.
</p>

<p>
"You have good tidings, I opine, sir," said Gray.
</p>

<p>
"Alas! what leads you to infer so?"
</p>

<p>
"Your keeping tryst so faithfully," said he, again.
</p>

<p>
"Is this troublesome dame disposed of?" asked his companion,
with a hiccup.
</p>

<p>
"To-morrow will tell&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"To-morrow, and why to-morrow?" demanded Shaw, angrily.
</p>

<p>
"God's death, fellow! have we ridden a matter of seventy miles,
from the Mauchline Tower to the Brig of Dunblane, only to hear
this?"
</p>

<p>
"Hear me, sirs, and be patient," said Borthwick, who, to their
astonishment, seemed to be as crushed in spirit as he was pale in
face and trembling in speech; "I have essayed a hundred modes of
obtaining access to the Bishop's palace, that I might reach Dame
Margaret's room, which is in the north-east corner thereof, for I know
every nook and cranny of that house of old, as if it were my own."
</p>

<p>
"And with what intent?"
</p>

<p>
"To poison the holy water font, which I understand hangs at the
head of her bed."
</p>

<p>
"A rare idea," hiccupped Shaw, "provided King Henry's powder
be strong enough."
</p>

<p>
"'Sdeath, the young king likely dips his dainty fingers too
therein, so that would only mar King Henry's matrimony for
ever&mdash;well."
</p>

<p>
"The king's pages and attendants, archers, esquires, and priests,
thronged every avenue, so all attempts to reach the room were vain.
By the way of the bishop's kitchen, I had less hope; for though I
might dose a dish strongly enough to poison a score, yet how could
I be assured that Dame Margaret would eat of it?"
</p>

<p>
"True; then by the Holy Father, we have come but to hear of
difficulties."
</p>

<p>
"And to learn that nothing has been done," grumbled Sir James
Shaw; "a pestilent humbug!"
</p>

<p>
"Patience, sirs, patience," groaned Borthwick; "failing about
the palace, I resolved to try what could be achieved by the way of
the cathedral."
</p>

<p>
"Hah!" said Gray, starting.
</p>

<p>
"I know its avenues well&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Ay, you were a monk, and snuffled Latin there for many a year&mdash;well."
</p>

<p>
"I begin to breathe again&mdash;so&mdash;" muttered Shaw.
</p>

<p>
"I had heard with certainty that the three sisters were to receive
the Blessed Sacrament there to-morrow from the hands of the bishop,
with all solemnity&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Well, well, what then?" asked Gray, impatiently.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, what then?" repeated the Laird of Sauchie, whose eyes
were always closing.
</p>

<p>
"I stole the vestments of the sacrist who hath charge of the altar
vessels, flowers, and ornaments, and whose duty it is to provide
candles, bread, and wine for the communion.  Well I knew where old
Father Duncan's cassock hung when the good man was a-bed; and
I knew the pocket too wherein he kept the key of the iron-doored
niche containing the cruets of wine, beside the great altar.  I donned
the gown, I found the key&mdash;with eyes half blind, with ears that tingled,
and a heart that trembled at every fancied sound, I glided through
the long aisle of yonder silent church, and sought the niche,
unchanged as when I saw it last, some sixteen years ago!  I opened
it&mdash;softly&mdash;slowly&mdash;fearfully, and the cruets of wine were before
me&mdash;to-night, sirs&mdash;only to-night&mdash;yea only an hour ago were they
before me, in my hands&mdash;and&mdash;and&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"My God! thou didst not poison the wine&mdash;the wine about to
become&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Hush, oh hush, in pity now; I poisoned one of them at least."
</p>

<p>
"Horror!" exclaimed Gray of Kyneff; "I foresaw not this.  I
would have cared little about the poisoning of some vulgar wine-pot,
suppose that all Dunblane had died o' the dose; but the
Communion&mdash;the Holy Eucharist&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"<i>I poisoned it!</i>" groaned Borthwick, while his teeth chattered;
"and to-morrow will solve a grand and awful mystery."
</p>

<p>
"And gain me an earldom," said Shaw.
</p>

<p>
Gray placed a hand upon his mouth.
</p>

<p>
There was a pause during which the three wretches gazed upon
each other in silence; for it would require a Catholic, and more
especially a Scottish Catholic of that age,
to feel the full effect of the
chilling awe and dread the act of this apostate priest produced upon
himself and his two companions.  Even <i>their</i> hearts quailed and
trembled at it; for though the infamous and unjust conduct of the
popes to Scotland, in early times and during the Crusades, made the
people value lightly the bulls of the Vatican&mdash;so lightly, indeed, that
more than one papal legate, natheless his purple cope and scarlet
stockings, has been assaulted, stripped, and driven across the English
frontier, with the nation in arms, and the country flaming at his
heels; still the influence of religious sentiment, whatever its phase,
was, as it has ever been, strong in the hearts of the Scots; but now
with Shaw and Gray it was mingled with an overpowering superstition,
and veneration for ancient, incomprehensible, and mysterious
rites.
</p>

<p>
"A holy horror curdled all their blood;" and thus for some minutes
none of them spoke.
</p>

<p>
"This sacrilege is awful!" said Sir Patrick.
</p>

<p>
"But the Holy Eucharist will <i>not</i> poison," said Shaw, whom the
communication had completely sobered; "so thou hast, perhaps, but
fooled thyself as well as us, Master Borthwick."
</p>

<p>
"What is this, Laird of Sauchie," asked Borthwick with gloomy
fury; "art thou so dull as to think so? was there not William
Comyn, the Lord High Chancellor of Scotland, in the days of King
Malcolm IV.&mdash;a consecrated bishop too&mdash;who was poisoned by the
wine of the Eucharist, and fell stone dead, in rochet, cope, and stole,
on the steps of the altar?"
</p>

<p>
Another long pause ensued, during which Gray whispered to
Shaw,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"We must now close this fellow's mouth for ever; a dagger
stroke, and over the bridge with him.  Be ready when I say, 'Let us
part, Sir Hew."
</p>

<p>
"May the blessing, or invocation, render this poison, if not
altogether null in effect, at least less fatal than death?"
</p>

<p>
On this important point, Borthwick dared not reply, and they
could hear his teeth chattering.
</p>

<p>
"Where is there a leech?" asked the ex-governor of Stirling.
</p>

<p>
"There is none nearer than Perth,&mdash;at least none that I wot of."
</p>

<p>
"How, Ninian the barber-chirurgeon in the Speygate?"
</p>

<p>
"The same; and he is too far off to be available," said Borthwick.
</p>

<p>
"He is the only one on the south side of Tay, except the Highland
seers and crones," said Shaw, loosening his dagger in its sheath
of velvet.
</p>

<p>
"Ah," continued Gray, conversing in the assumed tone of ease, to
throw their intended victim off his guard; "did he not nearly slay
the Lord Angus by piercing him too deep with his phlebotemus?"
</p>

<p>
"Missing the vein and cutting the artery,&mdash;a very fool."
</p>

<p>
"For which, if he had failed to stop it, the Master of Angus would
have hung him over his own stair-head.  He knoweth the signs and
stars," continued this cold-blooded ruffian, looking casually, as it
were, over the bridge to measure the height by his cold and stern
eye; "but who save asses employ him, Master Borthwick?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, many," continued Shaw, laughing, as they drew nearer their
victim; "husbands, to have doses for scolding wives, and expectant
heirs whose purses are empty, for old and doting uncles; in short,
anyone who wishes to be rid of anyone else; for he enjoys pretty
much the reputation of your friend the apothecary at&mdash;how name
you the place&mdash;oh yes, Bucklersbury, in London, ha! ha! is it not so,
Master Borthwick?"
</p>

<p>
He made no reply, for their ghastly merriment chilled him.
</p>

<p>
"Such a leech will not do for the daughters of the Lord
Drummond," resumed Shaw; "but the night wears apace."
</p>

<p>
"<i>Let us part then, Sir Hew!</i>" said Gray, and at the same moment
both their daggers clashed together in the breast of Borthwick, whose
hot blood spirted horribly through his pyne doublet, over the hilts,
and over their fingers.
</p>

<p>
The first blows failed to kill him, and he sank heavily against the
parapet of the bridge.
</p>

<p>
"Mercy," he sighed; "mercy&mdash;God&mdash;mercy!"
</p>

<p>
"Such mercy as thou gavest King James," replied the villains as
an apology to themselves, while they buried their poniards again
and again in his heart, with a heavy and awful sound.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis but an act of self-defence, this!" said Gray.
</p>

<p>
"True&mdash;true&mdash;of course it is&mdash;he might have destroyed us, else,"
added Shaw, in a breathless voice.
</p>

<p>
"He is gone now&mdash;so over with him!" replied the other.
</p>

<p>
Lifting the heavy, and yet warm body of the regicide, they shot it
over the steep bridge into the rapid stream below, where it fell with
a loud splash.  As it was swept down the current, they sprang upon
their horses, which were haltered under the boortrees.
</p>

<p>
"Now, Sir James, away for Kyneff or Caterline!" cried Gray, as
they dashed through the dark streets of Dunblane, and at full speed
took the road towards that great and fertile plain which lies between
the northern bank of the Tay and the base of the Sidlaw hills, and
is known so well in song as the Carse of Gowrie.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap70"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LXX.
<br /><br />
THE IRON BELT.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "I love! and love hath given me sweet thoughts, to God akin;<br />
  And oped a living paradise, my heart of hearts within;<br />
  Oh! from this Eden of my life, God keep the serpent, Sin."<br />
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;GERALD MASSEY.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Pontifical high mass was performed with unusual splendour in
the cathedral church of Dunblane.  On this occasion, the bishop
preceded by his cross-bearer, and the banner of the diocese, borne
by Sir Edward Hay of Melginch, by all the prebends of the cathedral,
with choristers and singing-boys, passed in procession through the
centre aisle to the altar, having on his head a mitre blazing with
jewels, gorgeous robes on his shoulders, and wearing scarlet gloves
on his hands, which bore the identical crook by one touch of which
Saint Blane restored sight to the blind, and life to the dead heir of
Appilby, as we may still see recorded in the fifty-seventh folio of the
Breviary of Aberdeen.
</p>

<p>
The king was on a royal seat, surrounded by the lords and ladies
of the court and household, and many of the great officers of state;
the Captain of his Guards, Lord Drummond, Falconer, Barton, and
many more, all richly dressed in the gaudy costumes of the time,
when fancy and fashion ran riot among silk and satin, velvet and
miniver, feathers, jewels, and lace.  Bright steel cuirasses, cloth of
gold, satin doublets and velvet mantles, with the silver stars and
green ribands of the Thistle, or the escallops of St. Michael, and
the crosses of many a foreign Order of knighthood, made the group
around the young monarch alike gay and splendid.
</p>

<p>
The entire population of the little city and of the adjacent district
crowded the triple aisles of the magnificent church; and on groups
of these, all of them attired in varying colours, and various
fashions&mdash;for Dunblane approaches the Highland border&mdash;long hazy flakes of
light fell inward from the three tall lance-headed compartments of
the great western window, in which were a thousand prismatic tints,
as martyred saints, crowned kings, and pallid Virgins stood amid
pious scrolls and gaudy flowers, green foliage and bright armorial
bearings, all woven in the brilliant glass, filling up the double
mullions and grotesquely twisted tracery.
</p>

<p>
This beautiful church is less richly decorated than many others in
Scotland; its mouldings and clustered capitals are without flowering;
yet from the loftiness of its windows, and the general symmetry of
its proportions, this effort of the architectural taste and piety of
King David I. is full of grandeur and dignity.  From its walls
hung the banners and scutcheons of the once powerful Earls of
Strathearn, with the sword of Malise, who fought at the Battle of
the Standard; and the helmet of Sir Maurice of Strathearn, who
was slain at the Battle of Durham; there, too, hung the trophies of
the Lords of Strathallan, and the Drummonds of Drummond.
Beneath the pavement, which was lettered with epitaphs, and rich
with graven brasses, their bones were reposing, cered in lead, deep
in the gothic vaults below; and there their effigies may yet be seen,
with shield on arm, with sword at side, and hands upraised as in prayer.
</p>

<p>
The light stole through the windows with a chastened effect, and
so many tapers burned upon the great altar, that with all its gilding
it seemed a pyramid of flame; and in front of it were the floating
garments of the bishop and his attendant priests, with the thin
white smoke of the censers rising among them; while the full-toned
organ, with its trumpet sound, and the harmony of a hundred voices,
all melodiously attuned, rolled along the high-arched roofs, and went
at once to the depth of every soul and the inmost chords of every
heart&mdash;calling, as it were, to prayer and to enthusiasm, the whole
being of every listener.
</p>

<p>
On the altar lay two bridal wreaths, and a peculiar belt of iron.
</p>

<p>
The wreaths were those to be worn on the morrow by Euphemia
and Sybilla Drummond; the iron belt was to be the life-long
penance of King James.
</p>

<p>
In the lower aisles, "a dim religious light" brooded over all; and
in the solemnity of devotion, every knee and every head were bowed,
and, outwardly at least, all was hushed and humble meekness.
</p>

<p>
Before the carved oak rail of the sanctuary knelt the three sisters,
with their bright hair confined in golden cauls, and their faces bowed
before the venerable bishop&mdash;an old man, whose days went back to
those of the Regent Murdoc Stuart, and the wars of James I. with
Alaster of the Isles.
</p>

<p>
Mass was performed with great solemnity; and though few
Catholics&mdash;perhaps none&mdash;will believe what ensued, or that blessed
wine would poison, yet we have it on record, that a Scotsman, who
was Bishop of Durham in 1153, was destroyed by the wine of the
Eucharist, in which a deadly drug had been placed by his enemies,
some English priests.
</p>

<p>
From the prelate's hand the three fated sisters received the communion,
of which he had himself partaken, impregnated, as it was, with
a poison as deadly as ever human science or human villany prepared.
</p>

<p>
"<i>Corpus Domini nostri</i>," &amp;c. &amp;c., prayed the poor bishop, with
reverence, and eyes half-closed as he signed the cross in blessing over
their fair foreheads, and placed between the lips of each the wafer
which he had dipped in the poisoned wine, and of which he had
himself partaken!
</p>

<p>
The poor girls, with their white hands crossed upon their fluttering
breasts, and their young hearts, full of pious joy, returned to the
crimson canopied stall, over which their father's feudal banner, with
the three bars, wavy, hung beside the royal standard, with the lion,
gules, and there again they knelt in prayer beside the youthful king.
</p>

<p>
When mass was over, the bishop ascended the altar, still robed in
fall pontificals, with his mitre on his head, and resigning his crook to
an assistant priest who waited on the steps, he opened the famous
letter of Dispensation.
</p>

<p>
"The Most Holy Father in Christ our Lord, Innocent the Eighth,
by Divine Providence, <i>servus servorum Dei</i>, to his dearly beloved
brother James, also by Divine mercy, Bishop of Dunblane, and to
all others, &amp;c. &amp;c., wisheth health and benediction in the Lord."
</p>

<p>
Beginning thus, he read, in pure and sonorous Latin, the Papal
authority, removing the guilt and sin committed, and absolving,
dissolving, and annulling the ties of blood between James, by the grace
of God, King of the Scots, and his cousin, the Lady Margaret Drummond;
and thus, by the apostolical power confided to the Holy See,
removing every hindrance and impediment to their lawful marriage,
"dated at Rome, on the festival of Corpus Christi, and of our
Pontificate then fourth year."
</p>

<p>
The bishop closed the letter which he had brought from such a
distance, and which had involved him in so many personal perils,
and then resumed his glittering crozier from its bearer.
</p>

<p>
Then Margaret, whose small white hand the young king had pressed
repeatedly, and whose agitated heart had beat wildly, felt as if a
mountain had been lifted off it; for fondly, fully, and devoutly she
believed in the annulment it announced, and the authority from
which it came; and her soft blue eyes beamed under her velvet hood
and gold-fringed caul with the most beautiful joy, and with the
purest and holiest of rapture as they met those of the young king,
her husband&mdash;ay, her husband now, without secrecy, or fear, or sin.
</p>

<p>
"Margaret&mdash;my own beloved Margaret!" he whispered, and
tremblingly kissed her brow, an act of respect and tenderness which
stirred the hearts of all the people.
</p>

<p>
Honest Barton was spelling away industriously at his missal,
content, as he thought, and said inwardly, "that Euphemia was
alongside of him, and that, on the morrow, with a fair wind and a friar's
blessing, they would cast anchor together in smooth riding, and in
the sunny haven of matrimony;" but Falconer and Sybilla knelt
hand in hand behind the high oak-screen, and deeply thanked God
and the good young king, who had brought to this happy and most
unexpected issue the long hushed secret of their ardent hearts.
</p>

<p>
Would that we could leave them thus; but the ways of fate, and
the course of unforeseen events, are inexorable.
</p>

<p>
James IV. now received from the Bishop's hand the penance-girdle&mdash;that
<i>Iron Belt</i>&mdash;to which he added every year a weight to
worn in memory of his father's fall, and which he never laid aside
either by day or by night, until the morning of the fatal ninth of
September, 1513, thirty-five years after; and on that day he perished
at Flodden, with ten thousand Scottish hearts as brave as his own!
</p>

<p>
Now old Duncan, the sacristan, supplied innumerable torches and
tapers to the people, giving one to every man, woman, and child.
The whole church become filled with light&mdash;a blaze, a flood of flame,
till the eyes ached, and the beautiful lines of St. Paulinus seemed
to be realized in the old aisles of Dunblane:
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "With crowded lamps are these bright altars crowned,<br />
  And waxen tapers shed perfume around,<br />
  From fragrant wicks beams calm the scented ray,<br />
  To gladden night, and brighten radiant day.<br />
  Meridian splendours thus light up the night,<br />
  And day itself, illum'd with sacred light,<br />
  Wears a new glory, borrowed from those rays,<br />
  That stream from countless lamps in never-ending blaze."<br />
</p>

<p class="noindent">
But this unusual glory chilled the hearts of the vast congregation
who filled that great cathedral church; for now the bishop prepared
to pass upon the murderers of the late king and their abettors, the
heaviest fulminations of the Vatican: and in that age, when churchmen
united spiritual with temporal power, everything in nature, from
the king on his throne to a caterpillar on the leaf of a tree, were
liable to anathema.  To men, its sentence was armed with a thousand
terrors.  The ex-communicated person was shut out, cut off, as
it were, from all social life; his servants, his wife&mdash;even his dearest
children, dare not come near him, or relieve his most urgent wants
by a crumb of bread or a drop of water; for he had forfeited all
claims on humanity, all natural rights and legal privileges.
</p>

<p>
Any man might slay him, and under this inhuman law, even his
body was denied proper burial; in some sequestered or hated, at
least, unconsecrated spot, it was flung aside, and covered up with
stones; and now the bells of Dunblane began to toll a solemn peal,
and the inmost hearts of all the people, surrounded as they were by
that blaze of light, became appalled, as the bishop, in a loud but
melancholy voice, poured forth against the regicides the sentence of
Pope Innocent VIII.: "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,
et benedictæ nostræ Dominæ Sanctissimæ Mariæ, atque virtute
angelorum archangelorumque, &amp;c., à sancte matris Ecclesias græmio
segregamus ac perpetuæ <i>maledictionis anathemate condemnamus</i>!"
</p>

<p>
The three sisters felt a sleep stealing over their humid eyes and
hushing their beating hearts, as they nestled close together, as if
in terror of the spiritual thunder that rang over their heads in a
language they could not comprehend; but, perhaps, it was excess of
happiness at their own position&mdash;or, perhaps, the blaze of light
oppressed them, for they were silent, motionless, and still.
</p>

<p>
Timidly they cast a furtive glance at their father, Lord Drummond,
as he stood near them, sheathed in the same armour he had worn at
the Battle of Sauchieburn, with a wax taper clutched like a lance in
his gauntleted hand; unsubdued by the terrible anathema, the
proud noble heard it with constitutional indifference, or concealed
his inward fear under an outward smile of scorn.
</p>

<p>
But his daughters felt sick and faint.
</p>

<p>
Margaret closed her eyes and drooped her head upon the shoulder
of Euphemia, whose hand was now clasped by Sybilla.
</p>

<p>
As the bishop concluded, he extinguished his taper, and every one
in the church followed his example,&mdash;the prebendaries and others
treading their torches vigorously underfoot, and Lord Drummond
crushed his under his armed heel with as much animus as Sir
Andrew Wood might have done; while the bells continued to toll
the knell of the doomed souls, at long and solemn intervals, in the
towers of the cathedral, the interior of which seemed to become
suddenly dark and gloomy, for the day without had overcast, and
dense autumn clouds, charged with mist and rain, came rolling from
the Grampians across the lowering sky.
</p>

<p>
A chill&mdash;a horror of the scene, this solemn curbing with bell
book and candle&mdash;had fallen upon the people, who were stealing softly
and hastily away; while the poor old bishop, exhausted by the long
service and its exciting nature, and more than all by the poison he
had imbibed, tottered into the arms of Sir Walter Drummond, the
dean, and was borne out by a side door, with all the air of a dying
man.
</p>

<p>
The three sisters, as if absorbed in prayer, were still leaning
forward against the oak rail, and kneeling on the velvet cushions;
they remained thus very long after all the congregation had
dispersed; and loth to disturb them, their happy lovers lingered in the
aisle with the king and his attendants, till Lord Drummond lost all
patience, and roughly summoned them.
</p>

<p>
"Effie&mdash;Maggie&mdash;by my soul, ye have gone to sleep, I
think&mdash;come, arouse ye there!" he exclaimed.
</p>

<p>
Then the young king went softly over and touched Margaret on
the shoulder.
</p>

<p>
She did not stir; neither did she seem to feel him.
</p>

<p>
"Sybilla&mdash;Euphemia!" said he.
</p>

<p>
But there was no answer.
</p>

<p>
For those three kneeling figures were stone dead!
</p>

<p class="t3">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap71"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER LXXI.
<br /><br />
CONCLUSION.
</h3>

<p class="intro1">
  "I never liked the landsman life, the earth is aye the same<br />
  Gie me the ocean for my dower, my vessel for my hame.<br />
  When life's last sun gangs feebly doon, and death comes to the door,&mdash;<br />
  When a' the world's a dream to us, we'll go to sea no more,<br />
  No more&mdash;we'll go to sea no more!"&mdash;<i>Scottish Song</i>.<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Lord Drummond lived to see one of his daughters become a
countess, and the other in a fair way to wear a coronet; for little
Lady Beatrix grew a beautiful woman, and in after years became
the Countess of James Earl of Arran, commander of the Scots in the
French and Danish wars; while Elizabeth was wedded to the war-like
Master of Angus, who fell at Flodden, with two hundred knights
and gentlemen, all of the great and gallant Douglas' name; and
could the proud old lord have had a vision of her descendants, his
ambitious heart would have swelled with joy, for her grand-daughter,
Margaret, became the mother of Henry, King of Scotland, from
whom the kings of Britain, France, Spain, Prussia, and the emperors
of Germany, are descended.
</p>

<p>
After the horrible catastrophe which closed our last chapter, we at
first intended to have said no more; but as this narrative has partaken
much more of the character of a veritable history than a romance, a
few parting words are necessary, before we say farewell to those who
have accompanied us so far.
</p>

<p>
The historians of later times have revealed to us what was then
unknown,&mdash;that the unhappy Margaret Drummond was, as Robert
Douglas has it, "<i>taken away to make room for a daughter of
England</i>," and that her two elder sisters perished with her.
</p>

<p>
In their bridal wreaths and veils each was interred, with a golden
chalice on her breast, in that old cathedral aisle; and there they sleep,
side by side, where for many years solemn masses were said over
them, until the belief in such things passed away.
</p>

<p>
Three blue slabs cover them, and mossy ruins and grassy graves
are around them.  The Allan murmurs by unchanged; but the trees
that shade it are old now, and they moan as they shake their
rustling leaves in the wind that comes from the distant Grampians.
Few now know the stones that mark the graves of the three
hapless sisters&mdash;the three beautiful Drummonds; for it is often the
way of the world, that those whose couch in life has been decked
with every splendour, have their bed of eternity forgotten and
neglected.
</p>

<p>
Neither David Falconer nor Robert Barton died of broken
hearts, as the heroes of romance might have done; but broken
hearts were as little in fashion then as now.  They sorrowed long
and deeply, like noble and true-hearted men, and they never married.
</p>

<p>
Barton was knighted, and became comptroller of the royal household;
the arquebussier, as we are informed by Buchanan, was slain
at the head of the Royal Guard, of which he was captain, when
covering the retreat of the king's artillery at the siege of Tantallon.
He was then a man well up in years, being past his seventieth
birthday; and when his body was stripped and plundered by the Douglas
troopers, there were found, in a little bag at his neck, an Agnus Dei,
a lock of hair, a ring, and a medal.
</p>

<p>
The ring and the lock of hair belonged to Sybilla Drummond, and
the medal was the gift of King James IV.  Some monks of North
Berwick found the body as it lay on the highway; and though it
had ever been Sir David's wish to lie in Dunblane, they buried him
in the Auld-kirk close by the sea, which is now washing its
burying-ground away.
</p>

<p>
The reader will naturally suppose that after achieving the
long-desired wish of the English faction, in removing the unfortunate
Margaret, the enterprising Lairds of Sauchie and Kyneff ultimately
obtained their peerages; but such was not the case,&mdash;<i>why</i>, we are
not in a position to state, for no doubt they, or their descendants,
would have shone conspicuously in that black list of political traitors
who broke the heart of King James V.
</p>

<p>
Sir Andrew Wood of Largo survived to see the early part of the
reign of James V.  He was then in extreme old age; and after a
long career of faithful service and brilliant achievement, and after
fighting his old ship, the <i>Yellow Caravel</i>, as long as her timbers held
together, he retired to the Castle of Largo, in and around which
Cuddie Clewline, the coxswain of his barge, Willie Wad, the gunner,
Archy of Anster, the boatswain, and nearly all his crew, were
located; for the Scottish Nelson lived in his old age, and died, when
the hour came, like a true Scottish Trunnion.
</p>

<p>
When he grew feeble and unable to ride to Largo Kirk, where
Father Zuill was chaplain, and where he long strove in vain to
achieve the development of the parabolic speculum of Marcellus, it
was proposed to make a litter, wherein his old shipmates might
convey him on their shoulders.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, nay, Robbie Barton," said he, "I ken nothing of how to
navigate such a craft; every man to his trade,&mdash;the gunner to his
lintstock, the steersman to his helm, and the cook to the foresheet.
Gadzooks, I shall be rowed in my barge as of yore!"
</p>

<p>
From the northern gate of Largo Castle he had a canal cut
through a wooded hollow to Largo Kirk, and along this he was
rowed every Sunday by his old barge's crew, with Cuddie in the
prow, bearing a boat-hook, and keeping a look-out ahead, and an
admiral's broad pennon floating in the water astern.
</p>

<p>
The remains of this canal are still distinctly visible at Upper
Largo; and along that watery path, when his years were full, his
remains were rowed by torchlight to the venerable fane where his
tomb is yet to be seen; and where now he sleeps, with his compass,
his cross-staff, sword, and whistle, in his coffin; and so he passed
away, "believing and hoping," as he said to those who wept around
him, "that when piped up aloft at the last muster-day, he would be
able to give as good an account of his steerage, variation, and
leeway in life, as ever he had done in the longest voyage of the dear
old <i>Yellow Frigate</i>&mdash;God bless every plank of her!"
</p>

<p>
Such were the last words of the brave old Laird of Largo.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>

<p><a id="chap72"></a></p>

<h3>
NOTES.
</h3>

<p>
1.  Concerning Lady Margaret Drummond, a long and interesting note will be
found in Tytler's admirable <i>History of Scotland</i>, vol. iv.  The king became
deeply attached to her at an early period.  In his first Parliament she was
voted an allowance for dresses.  Douglas, in his Peerage, stated that she was
poisoned in 1501; "great mystery," says Mr. Tytler, "hangs over the death
of this royal favourite."
</p>

<p>
In Moreri's <i>Dictionary</i>, it is stated that John, first Lord Drummond, "had
four daughters, one of whom, named Margaret, was so much beloved by
James IV., that he wished to marry her; but as they were connected by blood,
and a dispensation from the Pope was required, the impatient monarch
concluded a private marriage, from which clandestine union sprang a daughter,
who became the wife of the Earl of Huntly.  The dispensation having arrived,
the king determined to celebrate his nuptials publicly; but the jealousy of
some of the nobles against the house of Drummond, suggested to them the
cruel project of taking off Margaret by poison, in order that her family might
not enjoy the glory of giving two queens to Scotland.
</p>

<p>
"Certain it is, that Margaret Drummond, with Euphemia and the Lady
Sybilla, her sisters, died suddenly at the same time, with symptoms exciting a
strong suspicion of poison, which it was thought had been administered to them
at breakfast.  Sir Walter Drummond, Lord Clerk Register, their paternal
uncle, was at the time, Dean of Dunblane, a circumstance which seems to have
led to their interment there, the family having lately removed from Stobhall,
their original seat, on the banks of the Tay, to Drummond Castle, where
probably they had no place of internment."
</p>

<p>
James IV. appears never to have forgotten her, for down to the end of his
life, are entries in the Treasurer's accounts of the payments made to the two
priests who sung masses for her soul in Dunblane.
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
2.  Concerning the story told by the boatswain in Chapter X., I may mention,
that in Ogilby's <i>Africa</i>, a gigantic folio work, published in "the White
Fryers, London, 1670," will be found a curious description of the Guanchos,
and their mode of preserving the dead, which agrees entirely with the
description thereof given by the shipmate of our admiral.
The idea of the chalked
ship sailing <i>off</i> the wall is not original,
for I remember once hearing a soldier
tell some such story to his comrades
as they sat round a guard-room fire, on a
cold winter night in North America.
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
3.  I may remark, that though I have rather anticipated the time of Sir
Andrew Wood's two battles, for the purposes of my own story, I have striven
on the details of them, and everywhere else, to adhere closely to history, to
character, and to costume, &amp;c., and to those who are curious in the matter,
much information concerning the admiral will be found in <i>Tait's Magazine</i> for
April and May, 1852.  "He was," says Tytler, "an enterprising and opulent
merchant, a brave warrior, and skilful naval commander, an able financialist,
intimately acquainted with the management of commercial transactions, and
a stalwart feudal baron."  He died about the year 1510,
and left several sons,
one of whom became a senator of the College of Justice.  There is still
remaining a circular tower of the castellated dwelling erected by the brave
old admiral.  A tablet, bearing an inscription to his memory, and an
extract from his charter, was inserted in the mouldering wall by the late
General Durham; on the summit of the ruin was one of the iron thirty-two
pounders recovered from the wreck
of the <i>Royal George</i>, which pointed towards
the sandy shore and beautiful bay of Largo, and formed a characteristic
monument to the stout old captain of the <i>Yellow Caravel</i>.
</p>

<p>
The cannon is now placed in front of the modern mansion-house, but the
white marble slab yet remains above the door of the old one,
and is inscribed
as follows:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="t3">
  "This Tablet was placed by<br />
  GENERAL JAMES DURHAM, of Largo,<br />
  In the year M.DCCC.XXXII.<br />
  To remind posterity that<br />
  These are the remains of the Royal Residence,<br />
  Granted with the lands of Largo, by<br />
<br />
  JAMES THE THIRD<br />
<br />
  <i>To His Admiral Sir Andrew Wood,</i><br />
<br />
  Who repaired and strengthened the Fortalice<br />
  By the hands of Englishmen captured by him<br />
  This donation from his grateful Sovereign<br />
  Was the well merited reward<br />
  Of his brave and generous conduct,<br />
  In successfully defending,<br />
  At his own private expense,<br />
  The seas and shores of Scotland<br />
  From the otherwise unconquered Navy of England;<br />
  Or, as his charter bears:<br />
  'Propter servicia tam per terram quam per mare,<br />
  in pace et in guerra, gratuiter impensa.'"<br />
</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p>
Sir Alexander Durham of Largo, Lord Lyon King-at-Arms, acquired the
estate of Largo Anno Dom. 1659.
</p>

<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65415 ***</div>
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