The Antiquary — Complete

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

Early the next morning, a gentleman came to wait upon Mr. Lovel, who was up and ready to receive him. He was a military gentleman, a friend of Captain M’Intyre’s, at present in Fairport on the recruiting service. Lovel and he were slightly known to each other. “I presume, sir,” said Mr. Lesley (such was the name of the visitor), “that you guess the occasion of my troubling you so early?”

“A message from Captain M’Intyre, I presume?”

“The same. He holds himself injured by the manner in which you declined yesterday to answer certain inquiries which he conceived himself entitled to make respecting a gentleman whom he found in intimate society with his family.”

“May I ask, if you, Mr. Lesley, would have inclined to satisfy interrogatories so haughtily and unceremoniously put to you?”

“Perhaps not;—and therefore, as I know the warmth of my friend M’Intyre on such occasions, I feel very desirous of acting as peacemaker. From Mr. Lovel’s very gentleman-like manners, every one must strongly wish to see him repel all that sort of dubious calumny which will attach itself to one whose situation is not fully explained. If he will permit me, in friendly conciliation, to inform Captain M’Intyre of his real name, for we are led to conclude that of Lovel is assumed”—

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I cannot admit that inference.”

“—Or at least,” said Lesley, proceeding, “that it is not the name by which Mr. Lovel has been at all times distinguished—if Mr. Lovel will have the goodness to explain this circumstance, which, in my opinion, he should do in justice to his own character, I will answer for the amicable arrangement of this unpleasant business.”

“Which is to say, Mr. Lesley, that if I condescend to answer questions which no man has a right to ask, and which are now put to me under penalty of Captain M’Intyre’s resentment, Captain MIntyre will condescend to rest satisfied? Mr. Lesley, I have just one word to say on this subject—I have no doubt my secret, if I had one, might be safely entrusted to your honour, but I do not feel called upon to satisfy the curiosity of any one. Captain M’Intyre met me in society which of itself was a warrant to all the world, and particularly ought to be such to him, that I was a gentleman. He has, in my opinion, no right to go any further, or to inquire the pedigree, rank, or circumstances, of a stranger, who, without seeking any intimate connection with him, or his, chances to dine with his uncle, or walk in company with his sister.”

“In that case, Captain M’Intyre requests you to be informed, that your farther visits at Monkbarns, and all connection with Miss M’Intyre, must be dropt, as disagreeable to him.”

“I shall certainly,” said Lovel, “visit Mr. Oldbuck when it suits me, without paying the least respect to his nephew’s threats or irritable feelings. I respect the young lady’s name too much (though nothing can be slighter than our acquaintance) to introduce it into such a discussion.”

“Since that is your resolution, sir,” answered Lesley, “Captain M’Intyre requests that Mr. Lovel, unless he wishes to be announced as a very dubious character, will favour him with a meeting this evening, at seven, at the thorn-tree in the little valley close by the ruins of St. Ruth.”

“Most unquestionably, I will wait upon him. There is only one difficulty—I must find a friend to accompany me, and where to seek one on this short notice, as I have no acquaintance in Fairport—I will be on the spot, however—Captain M’Intyre may be assured of that.”

Lesley had taken his hat, and was as far as the door of the apartment, when, as if moved by the peculiarity of Lovel’s situation, he returned, and thus addressed him: “Mr. Lovel, there is something so singular in all this, that I cannot help again resuming the argument. You must be yourself aware at this moment of the inconvenience of your preserving an incognito, for which, I am convinced, there can be no dishonourable reason. Still, this mystery renders it difficult for you to procure the assistance of a friend in a crisis so delicate—nay, let me add, that many persons will even consider it as a piece of Quixotry in M’Intyre to give you a meeting, while your character and circumstances are involved in such obscurity.”

“I understand your innuendo, Mr. Lesley,” rejoined Lovel; and though I might be offended at its severity, I am not so, because it is meant kindly. But, in my opinion, he is entitled to all the privileges of a gentleman, to whose charge, during the time he has been known in the society where he happens to move, nothing can be laid that is unhandsome or unbecoming. For a friend, I dare say I shall find some one or other who will do me that good turn; and if his experience be less than I could wish, I am certain not to suffer through that circumstance when you are in the field for my antagonist.”

“I trust you will not,” said Lesley; “but as I must, for my own sake, be anxious to divide so heavy a responsibility with a capable assistant, allow me to say, that Lieutenant Taffril’s gun-brig is come into the roadstead, and he himself is now at old Caxon’s, where he lodges. I think you have the same degree of acquaintance with him as with me, and, as I am sure I should willingly have rendered you such a service were I not engaged on the other side, I am convinced he will do so at your first request.”

“At the thorn-tree, then, Mr. Lesley, at seven this evening—the arms, I presume, are pistols?”

“Exactly. M’Intyre has chosen the hour at which he can best escape from Monkbarns—he was with me this morning by five, in order to return and present himself before his uncle was up. Good-morning to you, Mr. Lovel.” And Lesley left the apartment.

Lovel was as brave as most men; but none can internally regard such a crisis as now approached, without deep feelings of awe and uncertainty. In a few hours he might be in another world to answer for an action which his calmer thought told him was unjustifiable in a religious point of view, or he might be wandering about in the present like Cain, with the blood of his brother on his head. And all this might be saved by speaking a single word. Yet pride whispered, that to speak that word now, would be ascribed to a motive which would degrade him more low than even the most injurious reasons that could be assigned for his silence. Every one, Miss Wardour included, must then, he thought, account him a mean dishonoured poltroon, who gave to the fear of meeting Captain M’Intyre the explanation he had refused to the calm and handsome expostulations of Mr. Lesley. M’Intyre’s insolent behaviour to himself personally, the air of pretension which he assumed towards Miss Wardour, and the extreme injustice, arrogance, and incivility of his demands upon a perfect stranger, seemed to justify him in repelling his rude investigation. In short, he formed the resolution which might have been expected from so young a man,—to shut the eyes, namely, of his calmer reason, and follow the dictates of his offended pride. With this purpose he sought Lieutenant Taffril.

The lieutenant received him with the good breeding of a gentleman and the frankness of a sailor, and listened with no small surprise to the detail which preceded his request that he might be favoured with his company at his meeting with Captain M’Intyre. When he had finished, Taffril rose up and walked through his apartment once or twice. “This is a most singular circumstance,” he said, “and really”—

“I am conscious, Mr. Taffril, how little I am entitled to make my present request, but the urgency of circumstances hardly leaves me an alternative.”

“Permit me to ask you one question,” asked the sailor;—“is there anything of which you are ashamed in the circumstances which you have declined to communicate.”

“Upon my honour, no; there is nothing but what, in a very short time, I trust I may publish to the whole world.”

“I hope the mystery arises from no false shame at the lowness of your friends perhaps, or connections?”

“No, on my word,” replied Lovel.

“I have little sympathy for that folly,” said Taffril—“indeed I cannot be supposed to have any; for, speaking of my relations, I may be said to have come myself from before the mast, and I believe I shall very soon form a connection, which the world will think low enough, with a very amiable girl, to whom I have been attached since we were next-door neighbours, at a time when I little thought of the good fortune which has brought me forward in the service.”

“I assure you, Mr. Taffril,” replied Lovel, “whatever were the rank of my parents, I should never think of concealing it from a spirit of petty pride. But I am so situated at present, that I cannot enter on the subject of my family with any propriety.”

“It is quite enough,” said the honest sailor—“give me your hand; I’ll see you as well through this business as I can, though it is but an unpleasant one after all—But what of that? our own honour has the next call on us after our country;—you are a lad of spirit, and I own I think Mr. Hector M’Intyre, with his long pedigree and his airs of family, very much of a jackanapes. His father was a soldier of fortune as I am a sailor—he himself, I suppose, is little better, unless just as his uncle pleases; and whether one pursues fortune by land, or sea, makes no great difference, I should fancy.”

“None in the universe, certainly,” answered Lovel.

“Well,” said his new ally, “we will dine together and arrange matters for this rencounter. I hope you understand the use of the weapon?”

“Not particularly,” Lovel replied.

“I am sorry for that—M’Intyre is said to be a marksman.”

“I am sorry for it also,” said Lovel, “both for his sake and my own: I must then, in self-defence, take my aim as well as I can.”

“Well,” added Taffril, “I will have our surgeon’s mate on the field—a good clever young fellow at caulking a shot-hole. I will let Lesley, who is an honest fellow for a landsman, know that he attends for the benefit of either party. Is there anything I can do for you in case of an accident?”

“I have but little occasion to trouble you,” said Lovel. “This small billet contains the key of my escritoir, and my very brief secret. There is one letter in the escritoir” (digesting a temporary swelling of the heart as he spoke), “which I beg the favour of you to deliver with your own hand.”

“I understand,” said the sailor. “Nay, my friend, never be ashamed for the matter—an affectionate heart may overflow for an instant at the eyes, if the ship were clearing for action; and, depend on it, whatever your injunctions are, Dan Taffril will regard them like the bequest of a dying brother. But this is all stuff;—we must get our things in fighting order, and you will dine with me and my little surgeon’s mate, at the Graeme’s-Arms over the way, at four o’clock.”

“Agreed,” said Lovel.

“Agreed,” said Taffril; and the whole affair was arranged.

It was a beautiful summer evening, and the shadow of the solitary thorn-tree was lengthening upon the short greensward of the narrow valley, which was skirted by the woods that closed around the ruins of St. Ruth. *

* [Supposed to have been suggested by the old Abbey of Arbroath in * Forfarshire.]

Lovel and Lieutenant Taffril, with the surgeon, came upon the ground with a purpose of a nature very uncongenial to the soft, mild, and pacific character of the hour and scene. The sheep, which during the ardent heat of the day had sheltered in the breaches and hollows of the gravelly bank, or under the roots of the aged and stunted trees, had now spread themselves upon the face of the hill to enjoy their evening’s pasture, and bleated, to each other with that melancholy sound which at once gives life to a landscape, and marks its solitude.—Taffril and Lovel came on in deep conference, having, for fear of discovery, sent their horses back to the town by the Lieutenant’s servant. The opposite party had not yet appeared on the field. But when they came upon the ground, there sat upon the roots of the old thorn a figure as vigorous in his decay as the moss-grown but strong and contorted boughs which served him for a canopy. It was old Ochiltree. “This is embarrassing enough,” said Lovel:—“How shall we get rid of this old fellow?”

“Here, father Adam,” cried Taffril, who knew the mendicant of yore—“here’s half-a-crown for you. You must go to the Four Horse-shoes yonder—the little inn, you know, and inquire for a servant with blue and yellow livery. If he is not come, you’ll wait for him, and tell him we shall be with his master in about an hour’s time. At any rate, wait there till we come back,—and—Get off with you—Come, come, weigh anchor.”

“I thank ye for your awmous,” said Ochiltree, pocketing the piece of money; “but I beg your pardon, Mr. Taffril—I canna gang your errand e’en now.”

“Why not, man? what can hinder you?”

“I wad speak a word wi’ young Mr. Lovel.”

“With me?” answered Lovel: “what would you say with me? Come, say on, and be brief.”

The mendicant led him a few paces aside. “Are ye indebted onything to the Laird o’ Monkbarns?”

“Indebted!—no, not I—what of that?—what makes you think so?”

“Ye maun ken I was at the shirra’s the day; for, God help me, I gang about a’ gates like the troubled spirit; and wha suld come whirling there in a post-chaise, but Monkbarns in an unco carfuffle—now, it’s no a little thing that will make his honour take a chaise and post-horse twa days rinnin’.”

“Well, well; but what is all this to me?”

“Ou, ye’se hear, ye’se hear. Weel, Monkbarns is closeted wi’ the shirra whatever puir folk may be left thereout—ye needna doubt that—the gentlemen are aye unco civil amang themsells.”

“For heaven’s sake, my old friend”—

“Canna ye bid me gang to the deevil at ance, Mr. Lovel? it wad be mair purpose fa’ard than to speak o’ heaven in that impatient gate.”

“But I have private business with Lieutenant Taffril here.”

“Weel, weel, a’ in gude time,” said the beggar—“I can use a little wee bit freedom wi’ Mr. Daniel Taffril;—mony’s the peery and the tap I worked for him langsyne, for I was a worker in wood as weel as a tinkler.”

“You are either mad, Adam, or have a mind to drive me mad.”

“Nane o’ the twa,” said Edie, suddenly changing his manner from the protracted drawl of the mendicant to a brief and decided tone. “The shirra sent for his clerk, and as the lad is rather light o’ the tongue, I fand it was for drawing a warrant to apprehend you—I thought it had been on a fugie warrant for debt; for a’ body kens the laird likes naebody to pit his hand in his pouch—But now I may haud my tongue, for I see the M’Intyre lad and Mr. Lesley coming up, and I guess that Monkbarns’s purpose was very kind, and that yours is muckle waur than it should be.”

The antagonist now approached, and saluted with the stern civility which befitted the occasion. “What has this old fellow to do here?” said M’Intyre.

“I am an auld fallow,” said Edie, “but I am also an auld soldier o’ your father’s, for I served wi’ him in the 42d.”

“Serve where you please, you have no title to intrude on us,” said M’Intyre, “or”—and he lifted his cane in terrorem, though without the idea of touching the old man.

But Ochiltree’s courage was roused by the insult. “Haud down your switch, Captain M’Intyre! I am an auld soldier, as I said before, and I’ll take muckle frae your father’s son; but no a touch o’ the wand while my pike-staff will haud thegither.”

“Well, well, I was wrong—I was wrong,” said M’Intyre; “here’s a crown for you—go your ways—what’s the matter now?”

The old man drew himself up to the full advantage of his uncommon height, and in despite of his dress, which indeed had more of the pilgrim than the ordinary beggar, looked from height, manner, and emphasis of voice and gesture, rather like a grey palmer or eremite preacher, the ghostly counsellor of the young men who were around him, than the object of their charity. His speech, indeed, was as homely as his habit, but as bold and unceremonious as his erect and dignified demeanour. “What are ye come here for, young men?” he said, addressing himself to the surprised audience; “are ye come amongst the most lovely works of God to break his laws? Have ye left the works of man, the houses and the cities that are but clay and dust, like those that built them—and are ye come here among the peaceful hills, and by the quiet waters, that will last whiles aught earthly shall endure, to destroy each other’s lives, that will have but an unco short time, by the course of nature, to make up a lang account at the close o’t? O sirs! hae ye brothers, sisters, fathers, that hae tended ye, and mothers that hae travailed for ye, friends that hae ca’d ye like a piece o’ their ain heart? and is this the way ye tak to make them childless and brotherless and friendless? Ohon! it’s an ill feight whar he that wins has the warst o’t. Think on’t, bairns. I’m a puir man—but I’m an auld man too—and what my poverty takes awa frae the weight o’ my counsel, grey hairs and a truthfu’ heart should add it twenty times. Gang hame, gang hame, like gude lads—the French will be ower to harry us ane o’ thae days, and ye’ll hae feighting eneugh, and maybe auld Edie will hirple out himsell if he can get a feal-dyke to lay his gun ower, and may live to tell you whilk o’ ye does the best where there’s a good cause afore ye.”

There was something in the undaunted and independent manner, hardy sentiment, and manly rude elocution of the old man, that had its effect upon the party, and particularly on the seconds, whose pride was uninterested in bringing the dispute to a bloody arbitrament, and who, on the contrary, eagerly watched for an opportunity to recommend reconciliation.

“Upon my word, Mr. Lesley,” said Taffril, “old Adam speaks like an oracle. Our friends here were very angry yesterday, and of course very foolish;—today they should be cool, or at least we must be so in their behalf. I think the word should be forget and forgive on both sides,—that we should all shake hands, fire these foolish crackers in the air, and go home to sup in a body at the Graeme’s-Arms.”

“I would heartily recommend it,” said Lesley; “for, amidst a great deal of heat and irritation on both sides, I confess myself unable to discover any rational ground of quarrel.”

“Gentlemen,” said M’Intyre, very coldly, “all this should have been thought of before. In my opinion, persons that have carried this matter so far as we have done, and who should part without carrying it any farther, might go to supper at the Graeme’s-Arms very joyously, but would rise the next morning with reputations as ragged as our friend here, who has obliged us with a rather unnecessary display of his oratory. I speak for myself, that I find myself bound to call upon you to proceed without more delay.”

“And I,” said Lovel, “as I never desired any, have also to request these gentlemen to arrange preliminaries as fast as possible.”

“Bairns! bairns!” cried old Ochiltree; but perceiving he was no longer attended to—“Madmen, I should say—but your blood be on your heads!” And the old man drew off from the ground, which was now measured out by the seconds, and continued muttering and talking to himself in sullen indignation, mixed with anxiety, and with a strong feeling of painful curiosity. Without paying farther attention to his presence or remonstrances, Mr. Lesley and the Lieutenant made the necessary arrangements for the duel, and it was agreed that both parties should fire when Mr. Lesley dropped his handkerchief.

The fatal sign was given, and both fired almost in the same moment. Captain M’Intyre’s ball grazed the side of his opponent, but did not draw blood. That of Lovel was more true to the aim; M’Intyre reeled and fell. Raising himself on his arm, his first exclamation was, “It is nothing—it is nothing—give us the other pistols.” But in an instant he said, in a lower tone, “I believe I have enough—and what’s worse, I fear I deserve it. Mr. Lovel, or whatever your name is, fly and save yourself—Bear all witness, I provoked this matter.” Then raising himself again on his arm, he added, “Shake hands, Lovel—I believe you to be a gentleman—forgive my rudeness, and I forgive you my death—My poor sister!”

The surgeon came up to perform his part of the tragedy, and Lovel stood gazing on the evil of which he had been the active, though unwilling cause, with a dizzy and bewildered eye. He was roused from his trance by the grasp of the mendicant. “Why stand you gazing on your deed?—What’s doomed is doomed—what’s done is past recalling. But awa, awa, if ye wad save your young blood from a shamefu’ death—I see the men out by yonder that are come ower late to part ye—but, out and alack! sune eneugh, and ower sune, to drag ye to prison.”

“He is right—he is right,” exclaimed Taffril; “you must not attempt to get on the high-road—get into the wood till night. My brig will be under sail by that time, and at three in the morning, when the tide will serve, I shall have the boat waiting for you at the Mussel-crag. Away-away, for Heaven’s sake!”

“O yes! fly, fly!” repeated the wounded man, his words faltering with convulsive sobs.

“Come with me,” said the mendicant, almost dragging him off; “the Captain’s plan is the best—I’ll carry ye to a place where ye might be concealed in the meantime, were they to seek ye ‘wi’ sleuth-hounds.”

“Go, go,” again urged Lieutenant Taffril—“to stay here is mere madness.”

“It was worse madness to have come hither,” said Lovel, pressing his hand—“But farewell!” And he followed Ochiltree into the recesses of the wood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.

Lovel almost mechanically followed the beggar, who led the way with a hasty and steady pace, through bush and bramble, avoiding the beaten path, and often turning to listen whether there were any sounds of pursuit behind them. They sometimes descended into the very bed of the torrent, sometimes kept a narrow and precarious path, that the sheep (which, with the sluttish negligence towards property of that sort universal in Scotland, were allowed to stray in the copse) had made along the very verge of its overhanging banks. From time to time Lovel had a glance of the path which he had traversed the day before in company with Sir Arthur, the Antiquary, and the young ladies. Dejected, embarrassed, and occupied by a thousand inquietudes, as he then was, what would he now have given to regain the sense of innocence which alone can counter-balance a thousand evils! “Yet, then,” such was his hasty and involuntary reflection, “even then, guiltless and valued by all around me, I thought myself unhappy. What am I now, with this young man’s blood upon my hands?—the feeling of pride which urged me to the deed has now deserted me, as the actual fiend himself is said to do those whom he has tempted to guilt.” Even his affection for Miss Wardour sunk for the time before the first pangs of remorse, and he thought he could have encountered every agony of slighted love to have had the conscious freedom from blood-guiltiness which he possessed in the morning.

These painful reflections were not interrupted by any conversation on the part of his guide, who threaded the thicket before him, now holding back the sprays to make his path easy, now exhorting him to make haste, now muttering to himself, after the custom of solitary and neglected old age, words which might have escaped Lovel’s ear even had he listened to them, or which, apprehended and retained, were too isolated to convey any connected meaning,—a habit which may be often observed among people of the old man’s age and calling.

At length, as Lovel, exhausted by his late indisposition, the harrowing feelings by which he was agitated, and the exertion necessary to keep up with his guide in a path so rugged, began to flag and fall behind, two or three very precarious steps placed him on the front of a precipice overhung with brushwood and copse. Here a cave, as narrow in its entrance as a fox-earth, was indicated by a small fissure in the rock, screened by the boughs of an aged oak, which, anchored by its thick and twisted roots in the upper part of the cleft, flung its branches almost straight outward from the cliff, concealing it effectually from all observation. It might indeed have escaped the attention even of those who had stood at its very opening, so uninviting was the portal at which the beggar entered. But within, the cavern was higher and more roomy, cut into two separate branches, which, intersecting each other at right angles, formed an emblem of the cross, and indicated the abode of an anchoret of former times. There are many caves of the same kind in different parts of Scotland. I need only instance those of Gorton, near Rosslyn, in a scene well known to the admirers of romantic nature.

The light within the eave was a dusky twilight at the entrance, which failed altogether in the inner recesses. “Few folks ken o’ this place,” said the old man; “to the best o’my knowledge, there’s just twa living by mysell, and that’s Jingling Jock and the Lang Linker. I have had mony a thought, that when I fand mysell auld and forfairn, and no able to enjoy God’s blessed air ony langer, I wad drag mysell here wi’ a pickle ait-meal; and see, there’s a bit bonny dropping well that popples that self-same gate simmer and winter;—and I wad e’en streek mysell out here, and abide my removal, like an auld dog that trails its useless ugsome carcass into some bush or bracken no to gie living things a scunner wi’ the sight o’t when it’s dead—Ay, and then, when the dogs barked at the lone farm-stead, the gudewife wad cry, Whisht, stirra, that’ll be auld Edie,’ and the bits o’ weans wad up, puir things, and toddle to the door to pu’ in the auld Blue-Gown that mends a’ their bonny-dies—But there wad be nae mair word o’ Edie, I trow.”

He then led Lovel, who followed him unresistingly, into one of the interior branches of the cave. “Here,” he said, “is a bit turnpike-stair that gaes up to the auld kirk abune. Some folks say this place was howkit out by the monks lang syne to hide their treasure in, and some said that they used to bring things into the abbey this gate by night, that they durstna sae weel hae brought in by the main port and in open day—And some said that ane o’ them turned a saint (or aiblins wad hae had folk think sae), and settled him down in this Saint Ruth’s cell, as the auld folks aye ca’d it, and garr’d big the stair, that he might gang up to the kirk when they were at the divine service. The Laird o’ Monkbarns wad hae a hantle to say about it, as he has about maist things, if he ken’d only about the place. But whether it was made for man’s devices or God’s service, I have seen ower muckle sin done in it in my day, and far ower muckle have I been partaker of—ay, even here in this dark cove. Mony a gudewife’s been wondering what for the red cock didna craw her up in the morning, when he’s been roasting, puir fallow, in this dark hole—And, ohon! I wish that and the like o’ that had been the warst o’t! Whiles they wad hae heard the din we were making in the very bowels o’ the earth, when Sanders Aikwood, that was forester in thae days, the father o’ Ringan that now is, was gaun daundering about the wood at e’en, to see after the Laird’s game and whiles he wad hae seen a glance o’ the light frae the door o’ the cave, flaughtering against the hazels on the other bank;—and then siccan stories as Sanders had about the worricows and gyre-carlins that haunted about the auld wa’s at e’en, and the lights that he had seen, and the cries that he had heard, when there was nae mortal e’e open but his ain; and eh! as he wad thrum them ower and ower to the like o’ me ayont the ingle at e’en, and as I wad gie the auld silly carle grane for grane, and tale for tale, though I ken’d muckle better about it than ever he did. Ay, ay—they were daft days thae;—but they were a’ vanity, and waur,—and it’s fitting that they wha hae led a light and evil life, and abused charity when they were young, suld aiblins come to lack it when they are auld.”

While Ochiltree was thus recounting the exploits and tricks of his earlier life, with a tone in which glee and compunction alternately predominated, his unfortunate auditor had sat down upon the hermit’s seat, hewn out of the solid rock, and abandoned himself to that lassitude, both of mind and body, which generally follows a course of events that have agitated both, The effect of his late indisposition, which had much weakened his system, contributed to this lethargic despondency. “The puir bairn!” said auld Edie, “an he sleeps in this damp hole, he’ll maybe wauken nae mair, or catch some sair disease. It’s no the same to him as to the like o’ us, that can sleep ony gate an anes our wames are fu’. Sit up, Maister Lovel, lad! After a’s come and gane, I dare say the captain-lad will do weel eneugh—and, after a’, ye are no the first that has had this misfortune. I hae seen mony a man killed, and helped to kill them mysell, though there was nae quarrel between us—and if it isna wrang to kill folk we have nae quarrel wi’, just because they wear another sort of a cockade, and speak a foreign language, I canna see but a man may have excuse for killing his ain mortal foe, that comes armed to the fair field to kill him. I dinna say it’s right—God forbid—or that it isna sinfu’ to take away what ye canna restore, and that’s the breath of man, whilk is in his nostrils; but I say it is a sin to be forgiven if it’s repented of. Sinfu’ men are we a’; but if ye wad believe an auld grey sinner that has seen the evil o’ his ways, there is as much promise atween the twa boards o’ the Testament as wad save the warst o’ us, could we but think sae.”

With such scraps of comfort and of divinity as he possessed, the mendicant thus continued to solicit and compel the attention of Lovel, until the twilight began to fade into night. “Now,” said Ochiltree, “I will carry ye to a mair convenient place, where I hae sat mony a time to hear the howlit crying out of the ivy tod, and to see the moonlight come through the auld windows o’ the ruins. There can be naebody come here after this time o’ night; and if they hae made ony search, thae blackguard shirra’-officers and constables, it will hae been ower lang syne. Od, they are as great cowards as ither folk, wi’ a’ their warrants and king’s keys*—I hae gien some o’ them a gliff in my day, when they were coming rather ower near me—But, lauded be grace for it! they canna stir me now for ony waur than an auld man and a beggar, and my badge is a gude protection; and then Miss Isabella Wardour is a tower o’ strength, ye ken”—(Lovel sighed)—“Aweel, dinna be cast down—bowls may a’ row right yet—gie the lassie time to ken her mind. She’s the wale o’ the country for beauty, and a gude friend o’ mine—I gang by the bridewell as safe as by the kirk on a Sabbath—deil ony o’ them daur hurt a hair o’ auld Edie’s head now; I keep the crown o’ the causey when I gae to the borough, and rub shouthers wi’ a bailie wi’ as little concern as an he were a brock.”

* The king’s keys are, in law phrase, the crow-bars and hammers used to force doors and locks, in execution of the king’s warrant.

While the mendicant spoke thus, he was busied in removing a few loose stones in one angle of the eave, which obscured the entrance of the staircase of which he had spoken, and led the way into it, followed by Lovel in passive silence.

“The air’s free eneugh,” said the old man; “the monks took care o’ that, for they werena a lang-breathed generation, I reckon; they hae contrived queer tirlie-wirlie holes, that gang out to the open air, and keep the stair as caller as a kail-blade.”

Lovel accordingly found the staircase well aired, and, though narrow, it was neither ruinous nor long, but speedily admitted them into a narrow gallery contrived to run within the side wall of the chancel, from which it received air and light through apertures ingeniously hidden amid the florid ornaments of the Gothic architecture.

“This secret passage ance gaed round great part o’ the biggin,” said the beggar, “and through the wa’ o’ the place I’ve heard Monkbarns ca’ the Refractory” [meaning probably Refectory], “and so awa to the Prior’s ain house. It’s like he could use it to listen what the monks were saying at meal-time,—and then he might come ben here and see that they were busy skreighing awa wi’ the psalms doun below there; and then, when he saw a’ was right and tight, he might step awa and fetch in a bonnie lass at the cove yonder—for they were queer hands the monks, unless mony lees is made on them. But our folk were at great pains lang syne to big up the passage in some parts, and pu’ it down in others, for fear o’ some uncanny body getting into it, and finding their way down to the cove: it wad hae been a fashious job that—by my certie, some o’ our necks wad hae been ewking.”

They now came to a place where the gallery was enlarged into a small circle, sufficient to contain a stone seat. A niche, constructed exactly before it, projected forward into the chancel, and as its sides were latticed, as it were, with perforated stone-work, it commanded a full view of the chancel in every direction, and was probably constructed, as Edie intimated, to be a convenient watch-tower, from which the superior priest, himself unseen, might watch the behaviour of his monks, and ascertain, by personal inspection, their punctual attendance upon those rites of devotion which his rank exempted him from sharing with them. As this niche made one of a regular series which stretched along the wall of the chancel, and in no respect differed from the rest when seen from below, the secret station, screened as it was by the stone figure of St. Michael and the dragon, and the open tracery around the niche, was completely hid from observation. The private passage, confined to its pristine breadth, had originally continued beyond this seat; but the jealous precautions of the vagabonds who frequented the cave of St. Ruth had caused them to build it carefully up with hewn stones from the ruin.

“We shall be better here,” said Edie, seating himself on the stone bench, and stretching the lappet of his blue gown upon the spot, when he motioned Lovel to sit down beside him—“we shall be better here than doun below; the air’s free and mild, and the savour of the wallflowers, and siccan shrubs as grow on thae ruined wa’s, is far mair refreshing than the damp smell doun below yonder. They smell sweetest by night-time thae flowers, and they’re maist aye seen about rained buildings. Now, Maister Lovel, can ony o’ you scholars gie a gude reason for that?”

Lovel replied in the negative.

“I am thinking,” resumed the beggar, “that they’ll be, like mony folk’s gude gifts, that often seem maist gracious in adversity—or maybe it’s a parable, to teach us no to slight them that are in the darkness of sin and the decay of tribulation, since God sends odours to refresh the mirkest hour, and flowers and pleasant bushes to clothe the ruined buildings. And now I wad like a wise man to tell me whether Heaven is maist pleased wi’ the sight we are looking upon—thae pleasant and quiet lang streaks o’ moonlight that are lying sae still on the floor o’ this auld kirk, and glancing through the great pillars and stanchions o’ the carved windows, and just dancing like on the leaves o’ the dark ivy as the breath o’ wind shakes it—I wonder whether this is mair pleasing to Heaven than when it was lighted up wi’ lamps, and candles nae doubt, and roughies,* and wi’ the mirth and the frankincent that they speak of in the Holy Scripture, and wi’ organs assuredly, and men and women singers, and sackbuts, and dulcimers, and a’ instruments o’ music—I wonder if that was acceptable, or whether it is of these grand parafle o’ ceremonies that holy writ says, It is an abomination to me.

* Links, or torches.

I am thinking, Maister Lovel, if twa puir contrite spirits like yours and mine fand grace to make our petition”—

Here Lovel laid his hand eagerly on the mendicant’s arm, saying,—“Hush! I heard some one speak.”

“I am dull o’ hearing,” answered Edie, in a whisper, “but we’re surely safe here—where was the sound?”

Lovel pointed to the door of the chancel, which, highly ornamented, occupied the west end of the building, surmounted by the carved window, which let in a flood of moonlight over it.

“They can be nane o’ our folk,” said Edie in the same low and cautious tone; “there’s but twa o’ them kens o’ the place, and they’re mony a mile off, if they are still bound on their weary pilgrimage. I’ll never think it’s the officers here at this time o’ night. I am nae believer in auld wives’ stories about ghaists, though this is gey like a place for them—But mortal, or of the other world, here they come!—twa men and a light.”

And in very truth, while the mendicant spoke, two human figures darkened with their shadows the entrance of the chancel—which had before opened to the moon-lit meadow beyond, and the small lantern which one of them displayed, glimmered pale in the clear and strong beams of the moon, as the evening star does among the lights of the departing day. The first and most obvious idea was, that, despite the asseverations of Edie Ochiltree, the persons who approached the ruins at an hour so uncommon must be the officers of justice in quest of Lovel. But no part of their conduct confirmed the suspicion. A touch and a whisper from the old man warned Lovel that his best course was to remain quiet, and watch their motions from their present place of concealment. Should anything appear to render retreat necessary, they had behind them the private stair-case and cavern, by means of which they could escape into the wood long before any danger of close pursuit. They kept themselves, therefore, as still as possible, and observed with eager and anxious curiosity every accent and motion of these nocturnal wanderers.

After conversing together some time in whispers, the two figures advanced into the middle of the chancel; and a voice, which Lovel at once recognised, from its tone and dialect, to be that of Dousterswivel, pronounced in a louder but still a smothered tone, “Indeed, mine goot sir, dere cannot be one finer hour nor season for dis great purpose. You shall see, mine goot sir, dat it is all one bibble-babble dat Mr. Oldenbuck says, and dat he knows no more of what he speaks than one little child. Mine soul! he expects to get as rich as one Jew for his poor dirty one hundred pounds, which I care no more about, by mine honest wort, than I care for an hundred stivers. But to you, my most munificent and reverend patron, I will show all de secrets dat art can show—ay, de secret of de great Pymander.”

“That other ane,” whispered Edie, “maun be, according to a’ likelihood, Sir Arthur Wardour—I ken naebody but himsell wad come here at this time at e’en wi’ that German blackguard;—ane wad think he’s bewitched him—he gars him e’en trow that chalk is cheese. Let’s see what they can be doing.”

This interruption, and the low tone in which Sir Arthur spoke, made Lovel lose all Sir Arthur’s answer to the adept, excepting the last three emphatic words, “Very great expense;” to which Dousterswivel at once replied—“Expenses!—to be sure—dere must be de great expenses. You do not expect to reap before you do sow de seed: de expense is de seed—de riches and de mine of goot metal, and now de great big chests of plate, they are de crop—vary goot crop too, on mine wort. Now, Sir Arthur, you have sowed this night one little seed of ten guineas like one pinch of snuff, or so big; and if you do not reap de great harvest—dat is, de great harvest for de little pinch of seed, for it must be proportions, you must know—then never call one honest man, Herman Dousterswivel. Now you see, mine patron—for I will not conceal mine secret from you at all—you see this little plate of silver; you know de moon measureth de whole zodiack in de space of twenty-eight day—every shild knows dat. Well, I take a silver plate when she is in her fifteenth mansion, which mansion is in de head of Libra, and I engrave upon one side de worts, [Shedbarschemoth Schartachan]—dat is, de Emblems of de Intelligence of de moon—and I make this picture like a flying serpent with a turkey-cock’s head—vary well. Then upon this side I make de table of de moon, which is a square of nine, multiplied into itself, with eighty-one numbers on every side, and diameter nine—dere it is done very proper. Now I will make dis avail me at de change of every quarter-moon dat I shall find by de same proportions of expenses I lay out in de suffumigations, as nine, to de product of nine multiplied into itself—But I shall find no more to-night as maybe two or dree times nine, because dere is a thwarting power in de house of ascendency.”

“But, Dousterswivel,” said the simple Baronet, “does not this look like magic?—I am a true though unworthy son of the Episcopal church, and I will have nothing to do with the foul fiend.”

“Bah! bah!—not a bit magic in it at all—not a bit—It is all founded on de planetary influence, and de sympathy and force of numbers. I will show you much finer dan dis. I do not say dere is not de spirit in it, because of de suffumigation; but, if you are not afraid, he shall not be invisible.”

“I have no curiosity to see him at all,” said the Baronet, whose courage seemed, from a certain quaver in his accent, to have taken a fit of the ague.

“Dat is great pity,” said Dousterswivel; “I should have liked to show you de spirit dat guard dis treasure like one fierce watchdog—but I know how to manage him;—you would not care to see him?”

“Not at all,” answered the Baronet, in a tone of feigned indifference; “I think we have but little time.”

“You shall pardon me, my patron; it is not yet twelve, and twelve precise is just our planetary hours; and I could show you de spirit vary well, in de meanwhile, just for pleasure. You see I would draw a pentagon within a circle, which is no trouble at all, and make my suffumigation within it, and dere we would be like in one strong castle, and you would hold de sword while I did say de needful worts. Den you should see de solid wall open like de gate of ane city, and den—let me see—ay, you should see first one stag pursued by three black greyhounds, and they should pull him down as they do at de elector’s great hunting-match; and den one ugly, little, nasty black negro should appear and take de stag from them—and paf—all should be gone; den you should hear horns winded dat all de ruins should ring—mine wort, they should play fine hunting piece, as goot as him you call’d Fischer with his oboi; vary well—den comes one herald, as we call Ernhold, winding his horn—and den come de great Peolphan, called de mighty Hunter of de North, mounted on hims black steed. But you would not care to see all this?” *

* Note F. Witchcraft.