"Farewell Falkland, the fortress of Fyfe,
Thy polite park, under the Lawmound law;
Sumtyme in thee I led a lusty lyfe,
The fallow deer to see thaim raik on raw,
Court men to cum to thee, they stand grait aw,
Sayand thy burgh bene of all burrowis baill,
Because in thee, they never gat gude aill."
Complaynt of the Papingo.
By the machinations of Redhall, and the subtle ability of Birrel, his messenger, there lay many a deadly barrier, and many a sharp sword, between the gallant Leslie and the city of Edinburgh.
The last rays of the sun had vanished from the furzy sides and green summit of the East Lomond, once called the Hill of the Goats, in the language of the Celtic Scots, when he quitted the park of Falkland, and struck into an ancient horseway, which, under the shadow of many a venerable oak-tree, led him towards Kirkforthar; and soon the hill of Clatto became visible as it rose about five miles distant on his left.
At that very time a party of horsemen, well armed with lances, two-handed swords, and daggers, and wearing steel caps, with jacks of mail, rode round by the edge of a great and dreary peat-moss, which then lay at the base of Clatto Hill; and passing the old chapel of Kirkforthar, concealed themselves in a thicket of beech-trees, near an ancient mill, some moss-grown fragments of which are still remaining in the highway. There two of their number dismounted, and borrowing a couple of shovels from a neighbouring cottage, with the utmost deliberation, after carefully removing the green turf, proceeded to dig a grave.
Of these horsemen, fifteen were Redhall's own vassals, led, not by Birrel, for that arch-conspirator had reserved unto himself another part in this cruel and cowardly drama, but by Tam Trotter and Dobbie, both of whom felt their personal importance and dignity increased to an unlimited extent by this command; and Dobbie's cat-like visage wore a comical expression of martial ferocity, as it peeped out of the depths of a vast helmet of the sixteenth century.
The other horsemen were led by John Seaton of Clatto, the representative of a family which had long been infamous for its lawless acts and readiness to perform any outrage. The ruins of their tower are still to be seen at the south-east end of Lathrisk, as the parish was then named.
The old road from Cupar to Kinghorn passed through a gorge, called Clatto Den, and in the face of the mountain which overhung that narrow bridlepath there lay a cavern, the mouth of which was concealed, but whose recesses afforded a subterranean communication with the vaults of the strong tower above; and there the bandit family of Clatto were wont to rush out and butcher those unsuspecting persons who rashly passed through the den alone, either by night or by day. James IV., when travelling with two esquires, had narrowly escaped assassination there; but cutting a passage through, escaped, leaving one of his assailants minus a hand. In his ignorance of the owner's free propensities, the king took shelter in the tower, when finding that Seaton's sixth son was maimed, the guilt of the family came to light; the secret passage to the tower was discovered; the old ruffian laird and all his sons were hanged, save John the youngest, who, being then a child, escaped to figure on the present occasion.
Justice was more severely administered under James V.; thus, the exchequer of the Laird of Clatto being somewhat low, the accoutrements of his fourteen horsemen were rather dilapidated and rusty; but, like their riders, the horses of his troop were fresh, strong, sinewy, and active. Having a plea anent meithes and marches with the Boswells of Dovan, the promise of a decision in his favour had drawn him from his lair on the dark errand of Redhall.
The cavern that lay below his tower is now concealed, by the impending side of the den having fallen down a few years ago, and choked up the entrance; but the peasantry still point to the place with fear and abhorrence.
Rendered thirsty by a six miles' trot from the tower of Clatto, John Seaton, while his men were coolly digging a grave, went boldly to the mill of Kirkforthar and demanded a cup of ale, upon which the miller gave it submissively, and without asking a question, for he knew that it was as much as the lives of his whole family were worth, to ask on what errand the Laird of Clatto was abroad in the gloaming.
"Harkee, miller," said he, with a grin, exhibiting (between his bushy moustaches and beard, which almost concealed the cheek-plates of his open helmet) a set of those sharp white teeth, which bespeak a strong healthy fellow, who is often hungry but always happy: "Harkee, carle miller; haud fast your yett, steek close your een and lugs, and steek them ticht, for the next twa hoors; and tak' ye tent to hear nocht else, but ablins the splash o' your milnwheel, till the mune glints abune the moss."
"Langer, gif it please ye, laird," replied the poor miller, trembling.
"Ou, that will be lang enow; but tak' tent o' my words; hear ye nocht, and see ye nocht; or I may come doon by the Mossend some braw nicht, and the mill o' Kirkforthar will be toom o' a tenant in the morning; keep close by your ingle cheek, carle, for the chields o' Clatto winna thole steering."
And carefully wiping a few drops of ale from his cuirass, which was magnificently cut, worked, and inlaid with the most rare damascene work, he left the low thatched mill, and sprang on horseback.
Meanwhile Leslie was galloping by the northern base of the East Lomond. His horse was a strong and active roadster, which he had received from the king's master-stabler. Fortunately he had taken the precaution to retain his armour, which was a ribbed Italian suit, studded with gilded nails, and on the globose cuirass of which his coat of arms were engraved. His gauntlets were overlapping plates, without finger-scales, thus, with the ample steel hilt of the sword, forming a double protection for the right hand. His arms were a long straight rapier and dagger, and at the bow of his demipique saddle he had a pair of firelock dagues, or pistols. The latter every gentleman carried when travelling; and the former were as necessary to a cavalier of the time as his feather or spurs.
His horse having lost a shoe, the delay caused by the necessity of having this loss repaired by a roadside Vulcan made the evening dusk before he approached the mill of Kirkforthar. The summer moon shone brightly in the blue sky, and clearly and strongly the outlines of wood and mountain rose against it.
On Leslie's right rose the steep Lomond; and on his left extended the vast moss, amid the wilderness of which many a deep pool of water lay gleaming in the moonlight. The district was desolate and wild; but no idea of danger or of molestation occurred to the mind of the solitary horseman, who rapidly approached the mill of Kirkforthar, where the dark foliage of some old beech-trees overshadowed both sides of the way; and where, save the cry of the cushat-dove, all was still as death. A red spark that glimmered among the trees, alone indicated where the mill lay.
Leslie checked the speed of his horse, as the road plunged down into this obscurity, which he had no sooner penetrated, than he found his course arrested by two bands of horsemen, who wheeled round their ranks from each side of the road, barring their passage by their levelled lances and uplifted swords. Well was it for Leslie that his fiery horse made a demi-volte, giving him time both to escape their weapons and unsheath his own.
"Make ye way, sirs! I am on the king's service!" he exclaimed, still backing his horse, but disdaining to fly. "Plague! the sheriff of Fife has surely bad deputies! But, whoever you are, rascals, the life of Balquhan for the best life among ye!"
And dashing spurs into his horse, he broke through the whole band like a whirlwind, thrusting one through the body, bearing down another, unhorsing a third with his foot; and passing unhurt through the hedge of steel around him, left John of Clatto and his ruffians to deposit one of their own number in the grave they had dug so carefully in the thicket near the mill.
He heard behind a storm of oaths and outcries, mingled with the clash of arms, and the rush of galloping hoofs, as the horsemen broke tumultuously out of the wooded hollow, and poured along the highway, in fierce pursuit of him. Heedless of their taunts and shouts, Leslie spurred on: he had now been made aware that there were those upon the road whose interest it was to intercept him. On, on he went by the skirts of the desolate and moonlighted moss, and his anxiety was not lessened by the reflection that he had to pass by the Tower of Bandon, whose proprietor was his enemy; and in a few minutes he saw the square outline of this fortalice, with its angular turrets and grated windows, rising above the roadway, among a group of old ash-trees.
The pursuers were close behind.
Leslie was almost tempted to turn towards the moss; but to one so ignorant of its paths, such a measure might prove a certain death, while the risk was scarcely less in keeping near the barony of Bandon. Half-a-mile before him, on the open muirland, he saw several men on horseback, and his practised eye soon discovered that they were twelve in number, and armed, for the moonbeams were reflected from twelve helmets. Then his heart became filled with rage; for though he knew not why his path was thus beset, he knew that if he were slain, and the pardon was not delivered by a certain hour in Edinburgh, the unhappy Jane Seton, the promised bride of his friend, would assuredly be led forth to perish by a shameful and frightful death.
Many of the troop from which he had escaped, not less than twelve, perhaps, were scarcely a hundred yards behind him; now he saw as many more in front, and his forebodings told him they were the Lindesays of Bandon. At Balbirnie there stood an ancient cross, erected by a gentleman of the neighbourhood who had slain another at that place; and this cross (which is still standing) Leslie knew would afford him a sanctuary, if his pursuers were old Catholics; but he remembered that the Reformation had made vast progress in Fife, and that its proselytes would not hesitate to violate any sanctuary; so, instead of pressing onward to gain this bourne, supposing that the direct road might be beset still further on, he turned abruptly to the left, and plunged down a narrow strath, which led, as he was aware, towards the village of Markinch and the strong castle of the Lundies of Balgonie.
A shout burst from the horsemen on the muir, on finding that he thus avoided them; and, joining with those who came from Kirkforthar, they all urged their horses to the utmost speed to intercept the gallant messenger. Many a dague and petronel were fired after him, and he heard the balls, as they whistled sharply past his ear, crash among the branches of the wayside trees, or sink into the flinty road; but after some twenty or thirty shots, the firing ceased, as the troopers rode in such haste that they had not time to reload their firearms. On, on came horses and men at headlong speed, rushing, a troop of evil spirits, along the moon-lighted strath; now dashing through coppice and underwood, then splashing through a brawling mountain burn; now sweeping noiselessly over the yielding moss and heather muirland, and anon breasting gallantly up the pasture braes: but Leslie, being mounted on one of King James's best horses, fresh from its stall at Falkland, though he did not leave his pursuers altogether behind, was yet enabled to keep a considerable distance between them and himself.
And now, upon a little eminence, the village of Markinch, with its venerable square steeple of the eleventh century, arose before him, and near it he fortunately left almost the half of his pursuers, floundering up to their girths in the deep and dangerous marsh which encircled the village on every side save one. Here to halt was vain; for the unscrupulous Lairds of Clatto and Bandon had men enough to sack and destroy the whole kirk-hamlet; so forward pressed the fugitive, intent on reaching the castle of Balgonie, or the ancient mansion of the Beatons of Balfour, where the archbishop of St. Andrew's and his nephew, the great cardinal, were born. On, on yet! and he soon found himself among the woods of the Leven; dark and thick, old and stately, the beeches were in the full foliage of July, and the dense old Scottish firs intertwined their wiry branches with them: and now the river, broad, deep, and hoarse, in the full fury of its summer flood, swollen by a night of rain, lay rolling in foam before him; and upon its opposite bank rose, from a wooded eminence, the strong and lofty donjon tower of that time-honoured, but now extinct race, the brave old Lundies of Balgonie.
Glittering in the moonlight, like a silver torrent, the beautiful Leven swept out of the far and dark obscurity of its foliaged dell, and in its crystal depths (save where the foam-bells floated) the sombre outline of the castle, with its turrets, and the steep knowe on which it stood, with all its waving trees, were reflected in the deep and downward shadows.
There were not less than twenty mounted spearmen still upon his track, and, lo! a deep, fierce current lay foaming in his front. On a level sward, Leslie paused with irresolution, and before plunging into the stream, surveyed it, but surveyed in vain to find a ford.
He looked back. The hill he had descended was covered with whins and scattered trees; and there, far in advance of their comrades, came four horsemen, who were now close upon him. With a fervent, almost a ferocious prayer to Heaven, he drew his sword and awaited them, for at the first glance he discerned that one of the four was his enemy Bandon, who, to breathe his panting horse, advanced leisurely at a trot before his three immediate followers.
"Guid e'en to thee, my light-heeled Leslie," said he, with a sardonic grin; "thou hast gien us a fast ride and a far one!"
"Beware, Bandon; I ride this night on the king's service."
"I ken that well."
"And still thou darest to molest me?"
"Yea, would I, though ye rode on the errand of the king of hell instead of that of the King of Scotland. Have at thee—for thou art a Leslie of Balquhan!"
"Beware, I tell thee, beware! My life is not my own to-night," cried Leslie, guarding the impending stroke of Lindesay's uplifted sword; "beware thee, till to-morrow only. I am the bearer of a royal pardon to Edinburgh."
"To thy grave alone thou bearest it!" cried the other, furiously.
Leslie parried the blow, and then replying by a thrust at the throat of his antagonist, before withdrawing his sword, bestowed a backhanded stroke at another horseman, who had covered him with his brass petronel, a stroke which rendered his better arm useless. Another deadly thrust relieved him of a second enemy, and then he had but two to deal with.
Round and round him they both rode in circles, but by point and edge he met their cuts and thrusts; till observing that Bandon was close to the edge of the stream, he suddenly put spurs to his horse, and charging him with the utmost fury, by a blow of his foot forced him right over the bank, where his horse fell upon him, and with its rider sank into the river. There Lindesay became entangled beneath the animal, which snorted, kicked, and plunged so violently, that he was swept unresistingly away with the current and drowned. Next morning the miller of Balgonie, on finding his machinery stopped and the dam running over, was horrified to see a horse and its rider, in armour, lying drowned and jammed under the great wooden wheel of his mill.
A volley of petronels from the bank above Leslie left him no time for further defence or reflection; and with a shout of defiance he leaped his horse boldly into the stream, and, regardless of the bullets which plunged into the water incessantly, exerted every energy to gain the opposite bank, using his hands and knees, half swimming, to relieve the animal of his burden (which was not a light one, the rider being in armour): keeping its dilated nostrils above water, and yielding a little to the current, he ultimately crossed, successfully and securely.
With flattened ears and upraised head, the broad-chested steed breasted gallantly the foaming water, and snorted with satisfaction on feeling the firm ground at the opposite side, where Leslie uttered a shout of triumph as he scrambled up the bank, and thus by one bold effort found himself free.
Oaths and cries of rage resounded among the woods behind, and many a trooper urged his horse towards the brink, but their hearts failed them, and not one dared to cross the deep and rapid Leven, by which their intended victim had been saved and their leader swept away before their eyes. The lieutenant of the king's guard now leisurely examined the knees of his horse and the girths of his saddle; looked to his sword-belt and spur-leathers; recharged his petronels, and glanced at the pouch which contained the pardon of Jane Seton. He then wiped his sword and remounted.
Reflecting that the river was now between him and his enemies, that he was several miles out of the direct road, and that (except the ducking) he was not in the least the worse either of the ride or the combat, he resolved, instead of seeking shelter either at the place of Balfour or the castle of Balgonie, to push onwards to Kinghorn.
The ramparts of this stronghold, which are eighty feet in height, were glimmering in the moonbeams, above the tossing foliage, as he descended into the hollow which lies to the south of it, and then turned westward, little thinking that the ferocious Laird of Clatto, with Dobbie, Tam Trotter, and some fifteen horsemen, in anticipation of such a measure, had long before wheeled off to the right, and were pushing on the spur towards the Kinghorn road to intercept him.
"Let us hasten to receive them,
Placing in the foremost ranks,
Those who bear the arquebuses;
Let the horsemen next advance,
With the customary splendour
Of the harness and the lance."—CALDERON.
With a heart divided between emotions of rage and exultation, the fugitive messenger rode towards Kinghorn.
The aspect of the tract of country he crossed is very different now from what it was in those days. Many places that are bare pasture lands were then covered by dense thickets of natural wood; other places, that are now fertile and arable, were covered with broom and whins of such gigantic size that horsemen might have been concealed among them; while all the straths and glens were filled with the water which then flowed through innumerable mosses and marshes. Streams, which were then impassable rivers, have now, by the drainage of the land and other agricultural improvements, shrunk to mere burns or mountain runnels; while those which were then burns and trouting streams, have in many instances totally disappeared; and waters, such as those of the Boathouse bridge in Linlithgowshire and the Eden in Fifeshire, which had ferry-boats plying upon them, are now scarcely deeper or broader than a wayside drain. Thus, when, to save time and the trouble of riding round in search of fords or bridges, the brave Leslie, all heavily armed as he was in Italian plate, boldly swam the winding Loctie and the Ore, near the Spittalcots, he performed two gallant feats, for then those waters foamed in deep, broad currents between torn and rugged banks, with a breadth and force very different from what they exhibit in the present day, even during the fury of a winter speat.
But before he had entered on the moss and moor that lay between the Ore and an old mansion named the Temple Hall, which then belonged to the knights of Torphichen, the waning moon was disappearing behind the hills, and shed a cold, pale light on the dreary waste that spread before the solitary rider.
Having lost all traces of the ancient drove-road, which had guided him thus far, Leslie walked his horse forward with caution, to avoid the peat-bogs and pitfalls that now surrounded him; while, impelled either by the dreariness of the solitude on which he was entering, or by some vague presentiment of danger, he narrowly observed every bush and hillock as he approached, and listened for any passing sound.
The moon seemed to rest on the summit of the distant hills, the solid outline of which rose blackly against the blue sky. Light clouds were floating across her surface; but a clear white light was shed along the countless ridges of the muir—the moss-covered roots of an old primeval forest—which resembled the waves of a motionless sea.
A sharp, low whistle on his left, and somewhat in advance of him, made Leslie look in that direction; and he saw the moonbeams reflected back from something bright, that too evidently was not moss-water, but polished steel; while two or three light puffs of smoke curled upward, showing where the matches of petronels were being blown for active service.
The moss was full of armed men!
"Fool that I was not to byde me at Balgonie!" thought Leslie, as he put spurs to his jaded horse, and quickened its speed to a hand-gallop. By his devious route he had now ridden fully twenty miles, over a frightful tract of country, full of steep hills and rocky glens, deep morasses, brawling torrents, and hills covered with forest and brushwood; he had forded three swollen rivers, and thus, like himself, his horse was already becoming exhausted.
"Hollo, Balquhan!" cried a mocking voice; "whither so fast? Is your lady-love sick, or is your house on fire?"
A shout of derisive laughter, together with the explosion of four long petronels, followed this remark; and Leslie became aware, from the sudden bound and snort of pain given by his horse, as it shot away like the wind, that the poor animal was wounded; one bullet had penetrated its near flank, and another had grazed its ears.
"The devil! 'tis quite an arquebusade! But I am getting used to such music to-night," thought Leslie, as he gave a wistful glance at the Temple Hall, which was not far off. All property which belonged to the Knights of St. John in Scotland afforded a safe sanctuary from debt and danger, and did so until a recent period; but Leslie knew too well that his present pursuers would violate the holiest shrine between Cape Wrath and the English frontier to reach him; and that he had nothing to trust to but the blade of his sword and the heels of his horse; for by the number of ambuscades, prepared in every direction, it became evident that his enemies, whoever they might be, were bent on his destruction.
Tall lances and bright helmets flashed in the moonlight, as the dark forms of many a horse and man arose from behind the heather knowes and clumps of moss and whin to join the chace; and Leslie found that again the ferocious John of Clatto, with all his band, was riding on his trail.
Though the balls which had wounded his horse caused a great effusion of blood, they acted as spurs of fear and pain to accelerate its speed; and Leslie soon heard the shouts, the clank of arms, and the rush of galloping hoofs growing fainter and fainter with every bound that his fierce strong charger made. The banks of the Ore, the desolate muir, and the grey Temple Hall soon vanished in the distance; and he saw the spire of Kirkaldy, and its long and straggling town, rising on the left, from the low flat shore of the Firth, which lay beyond it, glimmering in the last light of the moon, and bringing forward, as from a brilliant background, the innumerable roofs and gables, clustered chimneys, and turretted edifices of the venerable burgh. Near him rose the hill and castle of Raith, where Sir John Melville, the great Reformer, dwelt; and nearer still, embosomed among summer woods, lay the Abbotshall, a seat of the abbot of Dunfermline, the site of which is still indicated by an old stupendous yew that grew before its gate. Right in the fugitive's front lay the broad green links of Kirkaldy, and the glittering estuary, with the black rocky promontory of Kinghorn jutting boldly into its waters.
The strength of his horse was failing fast; its eyes were blinded, and its head was drenched in the blood flowing from its wounded ears; and he felt certain that, to turn from his straightforward course, to seek shelter in the neighbouring town, would only serve to exhaust it more. He knew well that the brave animal was dying beneath him, for with every convulsive bound of its foam-covered haunches, the blood-gouts gushed forth upon the sandy turf.
Balwearie, in older times the birthplace of the wizard, Michael Scott, was left behind; and now the hoarse brawl of the Teil—a flooded torrent—rang before him. He gave his horse the reins, and furiously applying the spurs, keeping his head back and his bridle-hand low, as he urged it to the flying leap. Lightly it rose into the air, cleared the stream, with all its banks of rock and bed of stones, but reached the opposite side only to die; for the noble horse sank down with its forehead on the turf, and after making more than one fruitless effort to rise, rolled heavily over, stretched out its legs convulsively, and with that mournful cry which few hear, but a horse alone can give, expired.
At that moment, with brandished swords and panting steeds, six horsemen appeared on the opposite bank; and the exhausted Leslie knew that nothing now remained for him but to sell his life as dearly as possible.
He was now but two miles from Kinghorn, and after all his exertions, he felt how hard it was to die; and reflected that, with his life, the pardon of poor Jane Seton would be futile, or forfeited, as she would inevitably be put to death before additional tidings of the king's favour came from Falkland. The very excess of his bitterness gave him a superhuman courage, and alone, on foot, he resolved to confront them all; but in doing so, to use every stratagem.
With the rapidity of thought, and unseen by them, he threw himself close beside his dead horse, the body of which was greeted by a shout of fierce exultation.
"Awa and on!" cried John of Clatto; "for gif ance he wins the burgh o' Kinghorn, the tulzie will be owre, and I sall tyne my plea anent the meithes and marches. On, on, ye fashious fules; hae your naigs nae mair mettle than the mules o' monks?"
Leslie grasped his drawn sword with both hands, and as the Laird of Clatto leaped the Teil, with one fierce backhanded stroke hamstrung his horse the moment its hind heels alighted near him.
With a tremendous curse, this ferocious rider with his steed tumbled prone to the earth; and as they fell, Leslie sprang up, and by the same daring manoeuvre, unhorsed another, and slew him as he fell. Then rushing to the summit of the bank, that he might have all the advantage the acclivity could afford him, he stood resolutely on his guard. The rest of the band were yet far off, and by their leisurely trot it was evident that their horses were breathless and blown. "John of Clatto!" exclaimed Leslie, as he engaged that person furiously, each swaying his sword with both hands on the hilt; "thou unhanged thief and son of a thief! now—now shalt thou receive the coward's reward."
"Fause coof!" retorted the other, with one of his ferocious laughs, as with a deadly coolness and activity he dealt his thrusts, while the force of his parries announced that his eye was sure, and his wrist was of iron, as he hewed away with his long and trenchant sword; "Coward? ha! ha! 'tis a name never kent by a son o' auld Symon o' Clatto. Strike weel and surely, my bauld Balquhan, for by God and Macgriddel, I sall handsell thy braw harness in thy hettest bluid."
"Dog! it hath been handselled by the swords of better men!" exclaimed the furious Leslie, as by a single sweeping stroke his heavy sword beat down the guard of his adversary, breaking his blade like a withered reed, and, cleaving his helmet through the very cone, killed him on the spot. A curse was half uttered by its quivering lips, as the body fell backwards over the bank, and lay half merged in the water of the Teil. With his great natural courage exasperated to a terrible pitch by the knowledge that he must inevitably perish at the hands of these cowards, Leslie fiercely met the horsemen as they leaped the stream, and in succession fell sword in hand upon him. A shower of blows rang upon his tempered helmet, his eyes swam, and, amid a cloud of fire, it seemed as if a myriad of men and horses had assailed him, and as if as many swords were ringing in his ears, and flashing before his eyes.
He was soon beaten to the earth, and several men sprang from their horses to despatch him, when the shots of two petronels were heard, and two assailants sank heavily, dagger in hand, beside him, tearing up the grass with their hands and teeth in the agonies of death. A rush of horses followed, and Leslie found himself free!
Clatto's men had fled; and a young cavalier stood before him richly clad, with three tall feathers in his bonnet; he was mounted on a superb black horse, and in each hand had a petronel, from the barrels of which the smoke was curling. The drawn swords of his six mounted attendants were gleaming in the bright twilight of the July morning, for day was already glimmering over the far horizon of the German Sea. The features of this deliverer were noble, but delicate; his eyebrows and closely-clipped moustaches were coal-black, his lips were red, and cut like those of a woman, but his large dark eyes sparkled with courage and animation.
"Now, by Heaven, 'tis our loving cousin and clansman, Balquhan!" he exclaimed; for in those days, "when old simplicity was in its prime," every man of the same name in Scotland was designated loving cousin.
"Sir Norman Leslie," said the lieutenant of the guard, as with thankfulness and respect he greeted the gallant Master of Rothes, the son and heir of the earl, his chief, "thou hast saved me from a cruel and bitter death! what do I owe thee?"
"Two brass bullets at a similar juncture."
"May it never happen!" said the young baron, to which the master replied with a reckless laugh, in which his followers joined.
"Balquhan," said he, "this gentleman is your cousin—my uncle, John of Parkhill. Here are three men and two hamstrung horses lying on the grass! By St. Mary! my true Leslie, thou hast this night handled the sword as if it had been thine own invention."
"Anent what hath all this been?" asked John Leslie of Parkhill, an elderly gentleman, sheathing his sword.
"Heaven only knows, sir," replied Leslie, as he caught the bridle of a riderless horse, and leaping into the saddle began to examine the petronels that were attached to it.
"They seem to have found you a rough jouster!"
"I am riding on the king's service, with a pardon for the Lady Seton."
"The Lady Seton!" they all repeated, in varying tones of astonishment and satisfaction.
"Yes, sirs, I am bound for Edinburgh, and have been thrice beset by horsemen, and thrice have swum a river, the Leven, the Ore, and the Lochtie!"
"Sheriff of Fife, what say you to this?" said Parkhill to Norman Leslie.
"That it shall be looked to, and that sharply," replied the young Master of Rothes, as he replaced his pistols in the holsters; "a harmless rider, a messenger of mercy on God's own service, to be molested thus!"
"Besetting the highway—'tis a capital crime."
"Perhaps John of Clatto (for it was he) thought that messengers of mercy, or of Heaven, seldom ride in coats of mail."
"To thy spurs, Balquhan, and on!" said the master; "the poor dame Seton will assuredly fall a victim to the malice of the Hamiltons at midnight—this midnight, for see, the day is dawning. They were setting the stake, and tearing the faggots, on the castle bank, as we left Edinburgh by the West Port last night."
"I go to the King's Horn hostel," said Balquhan; "would I were there, for I am drenched like a water-dog, and well nigh wearied to death. Farewell."
"Take ye care, sir!" cried John of Parkhill.
"Come now, you jest, my cousin," said the lieutenant, jocularly; "does a Leslie ever fall from his horse?"
"I only mean, beware thee while at Kinghorn, and keep thine errand secret; for there are several men of the house of Arran in the burgh, and their nags are stabled at the very hostel thou hast named."
"Nay, nay, uncle of mine," said the fiery Norman, "no Hamilton would arrest the pardon of any woman; then how much less that of a lady of high name and gentle blood!"
"Nephew Norman, we know not the tricks of which the Lord Arran and his faction are capable; and to whom shall we attribute this treble molestation of our cousin, the king's messenger?"
"True—adieu."
"Adieu, sirs, with many fair thanks for this good service."
They separated, and Balquhan rode on, feeling in his heart that he could slay all who bore the name of Hamilton; for the idea that Redhall was his evil genius never once occurred to him.
Those Leslies who had saved him were, nine years after, among the conspirators who slew the great cardinal in his castle at St. Andrew's, less to avenge the frightful deaths of the early martyrs, than as the hired assassins of Henry VIII.; and twenty years after, the fiery Master of Rothes died in the battle of St. Quentin, fighting valiantly at the head of thirty Scottish gens d'armes.
"Be yet advised, nor urge me to an outrage;
Thy power is lost—unhand me."
Edward the Black Prince.
The clock of St. Leonard's tower struck three as Leslie entered the old burgh of Kinghorn, and rode through its steep and straggling, narrow and deserted wynds, to the hostelry with which the reader is already acquainted. Though a vast sheet of pale light was spread across the east, sunrise was nearly an hour distant, and the whole town was silent as some ruined city in a desert; every door was closed, and not a single face appeared at the rusty gratings of the street windows.
It was not until after much noise and vociferation with the drowsy peddies and stable-boys that Leslie gained admittance to the inn-yard, and from the yard obtained ingress to the mansion, where his whole aspect excited fear and suspicion. His armour was dimmed by water and rusted with dew, cut, hacked, and bloody; the straps were loose and torn; he was feverish and excited; and there was a stern determination in his bearing, as he carefully took his petronels from his saddle-bow, and, ordering the attendants to look well to his horse against the time of the ferry-boat sailing, entered the first empty chamber that offered itself.
He looked first to the pardon, which, notwithstanding his frequent immersions, was dry and secure; he looked next to the wheel-locks of his fire-arms, which he laid on his pillow ready for immediate service. Thereafter, he examined his apartment. The window was two stories from the ground, and a harrow-grating amply secured it. Like all others in that age, the door was secured by a multiplicity of bars, all of which he shot into their sockets; and thereafter piled behind them all the available furniture—a great oak almrie, a meal-girnel, four chairs, and, lastly, the table.
He then took off his armour, and found that his clothing was almost dry.
"Come, 'tis well," thought he; "save three pricks and four scratches, I am not a whit the worse, and have still six hours for sleeping and dreaming of merry Marion."
And after assuring himself that he could not be taken in flank either by trap-door or sliding-panels, this brave and wary soldier threw himself on the bed, and behind his barricades slept soundly and securely.
The ferry-boat was to sail at ten in the forenoon.
Half-an-hour before that time Leslie awoke, and sprang up quite refreshed. His first glance was at his barricade.
"Oho! I have been beset even here!" said he, on perceiving that the door had been forced, and the heavy almrie and girnel pushed about three inches inwards, by which the chairs had been overturned, thus baffling the assault, as their fall had scared the intruders.
The sun was shining brightly on the river, and the merchants were opening their booths and displaying their goods under the stone arcades of the principal wynd.
"This devilish piece of paper is likely to cost me dear. I find I must still be guarded," thought Leslie, as he minutely examined his iron trappings, stuck his petronels in his belt, and, with his sheathed sword under his arm, descended to the hall of the hostel and ordered breakfast, but without mentioning the attempt which had too evidently been made to disturb his privacy. Looking sharply around, he seated himself at the arched ingle, where a comfortable fire was blazing, and above which appeared a rude fresco painting, which represented St. Leonard, the patron of Kinghorn, surrounded by a swarm of churubs in the forest of Limoges.
"Quick, old hag—my breakfast," said the traveller to the landlady; "let your rascals look well to my horse, or look well to themselves if they fail."
The gudewife—a slipshod and sullen-looking crone, with a nose and chin that were nearly meeting, a coif of the time of James III., and an enormous bunch of keys—being a little scared by the stern and distrustful aspect of Leslie, who sat down by the table with his helmet on, left a buxom damsel to attend on him, and retired. The young soldier found that his indignation could no way extend to her substitute; for her cheeks were blooming and her eyes sparkling with health and good-humour; she wore a very piquant, short linen jacket, short petticoat, and her brown hair tied up in a blue silk snood, after the fashion of unmarried girls in Scotland.
A fowl, from among several that were roasting on the spit, cheese, cakes, and honey, cold beef, eggs and bacon, with the addition of ale, formed then, as now, the staples for breakfast, and while it was preparing, Leslie solaced himself by whistling the March to Harlow, and by means of a piece of half-burned wood, decorating with an enormous pair of moustaches each of the fat little cherubim which surrounded the figure of St. Leonard; an amusement which neither the gudewife nor the diminutive gudeman, whom she seemed to rule with "a rod of iron," dared to interrupt.
"This is for thee, my rosy belle," said Leslie, kissing the plump cheek of the waiting-maid, after breakfast, "together with this French crown; as for the rascal, thy master, and the hag, thy mistress, let them rejoice that I have not burned the house about their ears, were it but to smoke out certain Hamiltons, who, I am assured, are within it. Thou hearest me, fellow?" added Leslie, as he passed the landlord, who, sheepishly, and bonnet in hand, was standing at the door of the house.
"I do, gude sir, but understand ye nocht."
"Nor do I you; but wherefore was my door forced last night—this morning, I should say—eh, thou rascally Fifer?"
"I swear to ye, noble sir, that, under God, I ken nocht o't," replied the poor man, with the utmost earnestness.
"It may be so, for I see that, in thine own house, thou art but Joan Tamson's man, as the saw has it."
The landlord gave a sickly smile.
"Harkee, gudeman, is thy better-half a Hamilton?"
"To my sorrow, I ken she is, sir," sighed the hosteller, in a whisper; "for never one of her name enters Fife, between the East and West Neuk, without lying a week and mair at the King's Horn, and never a bodle will she take for the lawing, for they are a' her cousins to the hundredth degree, and will scarcely let me call my soul my ain."
"Then, which of her worthy cousins are here now?"
"Sir John Hamilton of Kincavil," replied the gudeman, setting his teeth on edge.
"And his room?—"
"Was the next to yours."
"Hum! indeed; and this Sir John extends his patronage to you, gudeman—eh?"
"He pays like a prince, to be sure; for he had a fancy for my gudewife in her young days."
"He is a man of taste, Kincavil!" said Leslie, smiling; "but where is my horse?"
"My son holds it at the gate."
"How, the devil! is that tall fellow thy son?"
"No," replied the little man, with a grin of bitterness; "he is the son of my wife."
As Leslie slipped another crown into the hand of the host, and was turning away, a tall, swaggering cavalier—the same whom Roland Vipont had fought with and wounded near the Water Gate, as related in a preceding chapter of this history—brushed past him somewhat unceremoniously.
"Sir John of Kincavil!" said Leslie, with angry surprise.
"Well, sir! at your service," replied the other, swelling up his rose-coloured doublet, and resting his left hand in the bowl-hilt of his long rapier, as he assumed a lofty attitude.
"Is this to be taken as an insult?"
"It is to be taken just as you please," replied the other, twirling his moustache.
"Take care, sir. I am on the king's service."
"Does that entitle you to occupy the whole doorway of the King's Horn?"
"We are not equally armed—you see my coat of mail."
"Oh, that matters little—behold!" said Kincavil, as he opened the collar of his doublet, and displayed below it a mail shirt of exquisite workmanship. "We are quite equal, my friend," he added, clapping Leslie with easy familiarity on the shoulder, while a number of armed men, who, by their badges, seemed to be his followers, crowded ominously round them.
"Kincavil!" said Leslie, scornfully, "the next time thou touchest me, pray do so with a hand that is gloved."
"A thousand pardons," sneered Kincavil, whose insolence was as proverbial as his deadly skill and admirable swordmanship, "I forgot thou wert Falkland bred."
This was a phrase of the time to signify foppery, affectation, and refined manner. Leslie's eyes flashed with rage, but he leaped on his horse, saying—
"I know your object well, villain, to involve me in a brawl; but you will fail. Taunt me as you please, I will not draw my sword unless I am molested; and woe unto them who do so. To-morrow I will be a free man, and at noon will await you, braggart, on the sands of Leith, near the chapel of St. Nicholas, where seek me if you dare."
A shout of derisive laughter followed him; but, stifling his rage, he heard without heeding it, and in ten minutes more was on board the ferry-boat, which he endeavoured to beat across the river against a strong head-wind.
"Bless your honour, noble gentleman,
Remember a poor soldier."—Auchindrane, Act I.
We have now the events of only one night to relate, but these events are of the most varied description.
Father St. Bernard, the kind and philanthropic old clergyman, had prayed fervently that the cardinal, among the multitude of public matters that weighed upon his master-mind, would remember his promise; and as earnestly had he implored Providence to inspire the heart of James with more than his usual mercy, that a pardon might be granted to his poor penitent, for so a confessor always termed those under his care in the olden time.
Every hour after the cardinal's departure he had sought Sir James Riddel, in the hope that tidings had arrived from Falkland: but hour after hour passed; two weary days, and two still more weary nights elapsed; but no tidings came of the pardon, and no messenger.
Could the cardinal have forgotten his promise? or had he failed in his purpose? The poor friar racked his invention with suggestions, but hope died as the evening of the fatal 25th drew on; and Father St. Bernard was forced to confess to himself that she was lost; for the hour at which the ferry-boat usually arrived at Leith was long since passed. From the rampart of David's Tower he had seen it pass the Beacon Rock and enter the harbour, and with a beating heart he waited, but Leslie never came.
He saw the people already gathering in groups and crowds to witness the frightful execution, and the old man wept as he sought the knightly governor of the fortress for the last time, and turned away hopeless.
"Thou good and pious priest!" said Sir James Riddel, touched by the old man's grief, and warmed into a betrayal of his own religious opinions, "why art thou not, as I am, a Protestant?"
"Thou good and valiant soldier! why art thou not, as thy father was before thee, a pious Catholic and true?" asked the prebend, in the same tone, as he descended from the citadel towards the gate of King David's Tower, to visit Jane Seton for the last time. At that moment the great copper bell of the fortress, which swung at the gable of a tower called the Gunhouse, tolled the hour of nine.
She was to die at twelve.
Among all the snares laid for the destruction of Leslie, and to obtain the document he carried, Birrel had reserved unto himself the last, and, failing others (which he scarcely believed could fail), the surest, and perhaps most deadly plan for his death.
The road between Edinburgh and Leith was then a lonely, and (after dusk) unfrequented place. Between the monastery of Greenside, which lay at the foot of the Calton Hill, and almost in the very gorge that descends to the foot of Leith Wynd and the Port St. Anthony, there was not a house or edifice save a little wayside oratory; and thus between the Loch and village of Restalrig on the east, and the old house of Roystoun, near the shore, on the west, all the country was open pasture-land, links, or muir, with here and there a small farm-cot at its boundaries, with a kailyard and oxgang of arable land, watered by the runnels that ran into the river Leith, which then was twice, and in some places four times its present breadth, covering great pieces of holm-land at Comely-bank, and the Canon-mills, where the old scaurs that overhung its margin are still visible.
The few persons who traversed Leith Loan on the 25th July, 1537, could not have failed to remark a man wearing the well-known garb of a Bluegown, one of the privileged mendicants of the charitable olden time. These received a new cassock on every anniversary of the king's birth, together with a penny for every year of his age. The Bluegowns of the Stuart times seldom received much, as the monarchs of that gallant race were generally cut off in early life by war or misfortune; but the Bluegowns of later years, when kings have been more economical of their persons, have been wont to hail the day of his birth with joy; and those of George III. drew more shillings Scots than ever did other beadsmen since the society was instituted.
With a black cross sewed on the breast of his long blue cassock, as an emblem of sorrow for the late queen's death, and his face concealed in his hood, the beggar, who appeared lame in his left, and also lacked the right hand, which was hidden in the folds of his ample garment, sat by the wayside; and whenever a person passed (which was very seldom) he either begged for alms in a low peevish voice, or repeated an Ave to show how very good and pious he was, notwithstanding the hardness and humility of his lot in life.
This beggar was no other than Nichol Birrel. The hood concealed his yellow visage, his cunning eyes, and matted beard, as the blue gown did a shirt of mail, a belt full of daggers and pistolettes, and his right hand, which grasped a dague, loaded with two brass bullets. Being certain that Leslie could not escape all the ambuscades prepared for him in Fife—where Dobbie and Trotter, with fifteen troopers from Redhall, John of Clatto, with his lawless men, Lindesay of Bandon, with his ruffians, and lastly, Kincavil, a deadly fencer and professed duellist, were all induced, under various instigations, and from various motives, to beset his path—Birrel kept but a careless watch, looking upon Leslie as one whom he had not the least expectation of seeing.
It was one of those beautiful evenings which are common to July; and, at a part of the road which afforded him a view of St. Anthony's Port, he lay on a grassy bank, where a thicket of hawthorn overhung the roadway, which was then but a narrow, deep, and rugged bridle-path.
Behind lay Lochend and the house of the Logans, perched on a rock; before him stretched the level muir and pasture-land which joined the Firth at the New Haven, which had been constructed by James IV., all an open and unenclosed prairie; and across it shone the hot rays of the sun, then sinking towards the dark peaks of the Ochil mountains. The air was close and still; there was no sound but the casual rustle of a leaf, or the "drowsy hum" of the mountain bees as they floated over the verdant grass, and the air was filled with the perfume of the fragrant hawthorn.
The whirr of the nut-brown partridge, as it rose from among the long grass; the voice of the blackbird and thrush, as they sang joyously among the gnarled branches of an aged thorn-tree; the solitude of that place, though it lay between a fortified capital and its thriving seaport, had no charm for the disguised ruffian, nor could they wile him from his deadly purpose.
Thrice that day had horsemen left the Port St. Anthony, and thrice had the assassin grasped his weapon with the fellest intent. The first was the young Lord Lindesay, and he dashed up the Loan with all his feathers waving, and embroidery glittering in the sun. He had not gone to Falkland, because the Lady Margaret Beaton remained at her father's archiepiscopal palace. The second rider was a knight of Torpichen, in his black mantle, with its white cross; and the third was Sir Andrew Preston, of Gourtoun. None of these were in armour, as Birrel knew Leslie was sure to be, so, at their approach, his hand three times relinquished the pommel-butt of his dague. Each, as he passed, threw arms to the supposed beadsman, and disappeared in the gorge that led towards the city.
Mid-day passed, and heavily the still sultry afternoon lagged on. The Bluegown took from his wallet some bread and cheese, a roasted fowl, and flask of usquebaugh, and proceeded to dine under the bower of sweet hawthorn.
While engaged in this pleasing occupation, the sound of voices and hoofs arrested his attention; he looked up, and beheld a young lady, with several attendants on foot and on horseback, dashing straight towards him across the level muir, from the east, and continued a rapid gallop until she gained the opposite bank of the roadway, where she reigned up her horse, and looked hurriedly around.
She was a tall and stately-looking girl, with bright blue eyes, a blooming complexion, and a profusion of flaxen-coloured hair, that fell in heavy ringlets from under her scarlet velvet hood. She was richly attired; and as no one could then be completely dressed for company, for riding, or promenading, without a leather glove, with a hawk sitting thereon, she bore one on her right hand, while her left grasped the reins of her fiery and spirited horse. The bold and beautiful girl was Marion Logan of Restalrig.
A cloud rested on the usually happy aspect of her broad fair brow, and her sunny smile was gone, for her thoughts were full of the misfortunes that encircled her friend Jane Seton. Two men on foot ran after this party with all their speed; strapped over his shoulders, each had a square frame of green-painted wood, on the spars of which sat a number of hawks of various breeds, accoutred with plumed hoods, through which their fierce red eyes were glancing, and having little silver bells, which jangled with every motion. Around their necks were silver collars, whereon was engraved the legend—"Zis gudelie hawk belangis vnto ye Knicht, Schyr Robert Logan of Restalrig and zat ilk."
"Dost thou see nothing of my father?" asked the young lady of her attendants.
"I see nocht, madam," replied an armed horseman, who wore the Logans' livery, and had their crest embroidered on the sleeve of his pyne doublet, "but this auld Blewgoon may. Harkee, puir body," he added, addressing the disguised Birrel; "saw ye oucht o' a gentleman in a suit o' plum-coloured taffeta, wi' a white ostrich feather in his bonnet?"
"Had he a blue mantle?"
"Yes."
"Laced wi' siller pasements?"
"Yes—the very same."
"Riding——"
"A roan-coloured horse."
"With siller bells at his bridle?"
"Yes—yes!"
"Well, then, I havena seen oucht o' him."
"God confound thee! thou wordy carle, dost laugh at us?" said a falconer, angrily, as he shook his long pole threateningly towards Birrel, whose natural insolence could not omit this opportunity of indulging itself a little.
"'Twas an evil day this to come forth hawking," said the young lady; "the day on which my dearest friend is to die——"
"Now haud ye, Lady Marion," said the white-haired falconer, cautiously; "for ken ye not, that noble though that lady be, it's far frae being safe or wise to claim friendship wi' her at the present time. If Sir Robert turned towards the Corstorphine marshes——"
"I hope not, for they are both dangerous and deep," said the young lady, looking westward, and shading her large blue eyes with an ungloved hand, that was white as the hawthorn blossom. "God knoweth how sadly and unwillingly I came forth this day; and it was but to please him that I forsook our little oratory for the saddle. Thou knowest my father, Steenie——?"
"Aye, the auld knicht winna thole steerin," replied the old falconer, as he also shaded his sunburned face with a large brown hand, and scanned the glowing west.
"'Tis very strange, Steenie—where was my father seen last?"
"Galloping over the mains, after his favourite hawk, madam," replied a servitor, touching his bonnet.
"Mercy! if he should have mistaken the way, and fallen, into the moss of Craigcrook."
"Toots, bairn!" replied the falconer; "he kens owre well the dreich hole where, last Lammastide, we saw young Adamson o' Craigcrook gae down in the floe, baith horse and man, till even the point o' his lance vanished; and there they lie yet!"
"Look, Steenie; is not yonder bird a hawk? See how it ascends from Pilrig—up and up!"
The tramp of a horse arrested their attention.
A man on horseback, who left the gate of St. Anthony, came galloping from Leith; his armour flashed in the setting sun, and a cloud of dust rolled under the hoofs of his horse.
"In harness," said one falconer.
"He is not Sir Robert," muttered another.
"St. Mary! how he drives his horse!" exclaimed Marion Logan.
"It is Leslie of Balquhan!" growled Birrel, ferociously, as he grasped his dague. "Now, curse be on my folly, that sent not this butterfly, with her attendant wasps, hence on a fool's errand."
The continual glitter of the rider's armour showed that he was richly accoutred, and the incredible speed at which he rode announced that he was nobly mounted. In three minutes he reined up his horse at the foot of the bank, where, with a glow of pleasure beaming in her beautiful face, Marion Logan recognised him.
"Lewis Leslie!" she exclaimed, and kissed her hand frankly to him, for he was her favoured lover.
"At your service, my dear madam," replied the officer of the arquebusiers, bowing to his very saddle. Birrel's eyes were starting from his head, as he strained his ears to listen.
"From whence?"
"Falkland."
"Falkland! and why so fast?"
"Oh, rejoice, my dear Lady Marion! I have here the king's gracious pardon for Jane Seton; she is saved; and one hour from this will see her free!"
The brave young cavalier shook the pouch that hung at the girdle, which Marion had embroidered for him.
"The pouch! d—nation wither my tongue, for it alone hath made this woman and her varlets loiter, instead of hurrying them away," said Birrel, as he limped past, and posted himself a few hundred yards farther off.
"Pardoned!—Jeanie pardoned!" said Marion, whose blue eyes sparkled with tears and joy. "Can it be? Lewis, Lewis, how much I love you at this moment! For this good news I would let you have a pretty kiss, but for all those eyes about us. Oh, what blessed tidings for us!"
"Still more blessed for her, I think, and for my brave friend Vipont too! 'Tis all the cardinal's doing; his good offices have achieved this.
"The cardinal!"
"Faith, it is thought dangerous for a woman to accept a favour at his hand. But dost think, Marion, that such a gallant man will permit such an outrage upon youth and beauty as Abbot Mylnes' sentence to be carried into effect? No, no! Long live the cardinal, say I. But what a night I have had of it, Marion! nearly fifty scoundrel horsemen have tried to intercept and cut me off."
"Hamiltons?"
"Hamiltons or hell-hounds, I know not which," replied Leslie, angrily; "but I have given more than one the Leslie's lick, and have escaped them, blessed be Heaven!"
"My brave friend! 'tis like thee."
"Lady Marion," said Steenie, the falconer, approaching; "Sir Robert is in sicht; see yonder, by the bank o' the loch. Noo he flees his goshawk at a heron," he added, as the burly old knight was seen to rein up his horse, and let the bird slip from his wrist. "So—brawly cuisten off! See, the hawk is noo aboon, and noo it stoops to the quarry!" said the venerable servitor, as he waved his broad bonnet; "it's a true bird o' my ain training. See how the sly heron turns up her belly—ah, the lang leggit devil! she seeks to use baith claws and bill; but the hawk passes—noo the hawk tak's her at the sowse, and strikes doon. No; it's these Milan bells, they're owre full i' the sound, and spoil the bird i' the mounting. See, my brave bird plumes her—noo, doon for a croon, like a bow-shot!"
The birds disappeared among the sedges.
"Farewell, Leslie," said Marion; "on, on to the Castle, and delay not your errand of mercy. But come soon to see us; you know well how lonely we are on the Rig yonder, and how well my father loves you. How rejoiced he will be to hear these tidings of our poor Jeanie Seton; my faith, he will drink a deep tankard to-night, for it was but to shake off the dolours he rode forth to-day, and neither to hunt nor to hawk."
"Then, my Marion, to-morrow, at noon, I will stable my horse at Restalrig."
"We will expect you."
"My dutiful commendations to the good knight your father, and meantime, adieu!"
With eyes full of affection they kissed their hands to each other, and separated.
Whipping up her tall and fiery horse, with her veil and her long tresses floating behind, Marion, by one flying leap, made it clear the roadway and gain the summit of the opposite bank, from whence her lover saw her (followed by her attendants) cantering across the fields towards the sheet of water which her father's old manor-house still overhangs. She went at a pace which put the poor falconers, who were on foot, to their mettle; and the young Laird of Balquhan, despite his anxiety to deliver the important paper, which had thrice nearly cost him his life, checked the speed of his charger to look after the retiring figure of her he loved.
He little knew what that brief pause and that last glance after Marion Logan were to cost him.
Birrel's heart danced with joy to see him loitering, while the young lady and her armed servants were fast retiring beyond ear-shot.
The sun had now set, and the dun blaze of light it shed from the western hills across the muir of Wardie was dying away. The whole Loan, from the round arch of St. Anthony to where it disappeared under the brow of the Calton, was deserted. The Calton then was bare, bleak and desolate, or covered by waving furze, broad-leaved fern, or dark whin; so was the opposite bank, which sloped up to the height of eighty feet, and was crowned by the chapel and little hamlet of St. Ninian, the smoke of which was visible as it ascended into the calm air from the cottage chimneys.
This knoll was named Moultrays Hill; and between it and the Calton the narrow road plunged down into the gorge, where the church of the Trinity lay, passing, on the left, the Carmelite Friary of the Holy Cross at Greenside. Standing forward in strong relief from the dark shoulder of the hill, and against the blue sky, the broad boundary, the stone cross and crow-stepped gables of this edifice, were visible from a group of old elm-trees, under which Birrel posted himself. As Leslie approached, the assassin shrank under their branches, drew his hood over his face, and gave a last glance to the wheel-lock of his dague.
A leer of cruelty and malice shone in his eyes, and a horrible smile curled his square lips, as, with a limping step, he approached the centre of the path.
"Gie a plack or a bodle, sir, to help a puir carle that hasna broken a bannock these three days and mair."
"Try the Carmelites, my good friend," replied Leslie, riding hurriedly on.
"The Virgin bless you, noble sir," continued Birrel, hobbling after him; "mind a puir soldier of Sanct John, that lost his arm fighting under the Preceptor at the battle o' Haddenrig?"
"An old soldier?" said Leslie, checking his horse; "by the three kings of Cologne, an old soldier shall never in vain seek alms of me! Here, thou cunning carle, and say an Ave for me to-night;" he stooped to feel for a coin in the purse which hung at his sword-belt; then Birrel drew forth the arm that appeared to be maimed, and levelled his dague full at the ear of the unsuspecting horseman; his glistening eye glared along the burnished barrel; the wheel revolved; a bright flash, the sharp report, and a low groan followed.
Leslie rolled lifeless in the dust beneath his horse's hoofs, with the blood flowing from his mouth. The muzzle of the dague having been but three inches from his helmet, two brass balls had passed through his brain, and as the wretch turned him over, he saw in a moment that the hapless cavalier was far beyond the skill even of John of the Silvermills, the Scottish Galen and Avicenna of his age.
Birrel gave one ferocious glance around him to see that none were near; he gave another at the glazing eyes turned back within their sockets, the relaxed jaw and noble features of Leslie, which in a moment had become livid and horrible, as in the pale twilight they stiffened into the rigidity of death.
From the dead youth's glittering baldrick he tore away the leathern pouch, and rending it with his dog-like teeth (for he was in too great haste to undo the buckles), drew forth the pardon, and fled towards the city.....
And there on the road the slain man lay, with the dew and the darkness descending upon him; and he felt not one and saw not the other.
Near him, and under the dark shadow of the hill, his horse was grazing quietly, as if nothing had happened.
An old and withered elm, with scarcely a leaf, but a sprout of one of those which lined the way, still remains in the middle of the street to mark the site of this catastrophe.
Slowly the moon rose above the Calton; the long shadow of the hill grew less and less as the orb soared up, until its beams fell on the white visage of the murdered man, and on his polished armour. A black pool lay near, and mingled with the dry summer dust.
The horse, with its bridle trailing, was still grazing placidly at a little distance.
Some crows were beginning to perch on the elms, or flying round the body with screaming beaks and flapping wings.
They came from an adjacent gallows on the Lea.
"Oh! Harpalus (thus would he say),
Unhappiest under sunne;
The cause of thine unhappy day
By love was first begunne;
As easy 'twere for to convert
The frost into a flame,
As for to turn a froward heart,
Whom thou so fain would'st frame."
Reliq. of English Poetry, 1557.
The clock struck in the steeple of St. Giles. Jane heard it distinctly in her prison. Each note was wafted towards her as with a solemn note of lamentation, from the vast and broad mouth of the great church bell. Every stroke vibrated painfully through her heart.
It tolled eleven!
She had but one hour to live. One hour! and then——
A loud and palpable murmur, as of many thousand voices, arose in the city; her heart for a moment died within her; she covered her face with her hand and burst out into a passionate prayer to Heaven—for she knew that, encompassed as she was by sorrow and despair, and engirdled by that strong tower, the eyes of God were upon her.
The broad flame of a torch, which was stuck in a tin sconce that hung upon the wall, cast a livid glare on the bare masonry of the vaulted chamber, on her kneeling figure, on her dark and disordered hair, on her white hands, and her whiter forehead.
"Roland, my Roland! thou believest these things of me? Oh, I could never have believed such of thee!"
A shudder passed over her, and it seemed as if her heart would burst. She had received a reply to that paper so cunningly devised by Redhall, the letter signed and addressed to Roland, when suffering under the agony of an artificial thirst; and that answer, which showed that he believed in her guilt, as confessed to him under her own hand, had crushed her spirit more than all the tortures, inflictions, and insults she had so unmeritedly undergone.
Signed by Roland, but written generally to his dictation by the chaplain of the fortress, an old Dominican friar, the reply was sad and sorrowful, full of regrets for her sore temptation to evil; her bitter humiliation, blended with expressions of satisfaction at her contrition; and closing with a pious hope that the sincerity of her repentance and the severity of her earthly punishments would save her from those of another life, solemnly committed her and her works to Heaven.
This unlover-like epistle, the embodying of which poor Roland, in his sorrow and confusion of mind, had left entirely to the ingenuity of the friar, appeared to Jane Seton this crowning stroke of her misfortunes. It left her nothing more to wish for, to hope for, or to bind her to the earth. Her Roland had cast her off!
For the thousandth time she drew forth the letter and gazed upon the name his hand had traced; now the paper was sorely worn and fretted by her tears. She read it over for the last time, sighed bitterly, and placed it in her bosom.
"It shall go with me to—death," she said, for, with a shudder, she reflected that by the mode of that death even a grave was denied her; and there was something frightful in the idea that a week, a month, or a year hence, no one could point to a stone slab or a mound of earth, and say that she whom they remembered, or loved, or regretted, lay below—for the ashes of a witch were scattered to the four winds of heaven.
"Oh, my Roland, thou hast abandoned me! but God will not abandon me!"
"Look up, Lady Jane," said a mild voice.
She raised her eyes suddenly, but without surprise or terror, for neither of these emotions could affect her now; absorbed in her own thoughts, she had not heard any one enter.
The stately figure of Redhall stood before her. He wore a court dress of black velvet, with a white cross on his mantle, as mourning for the queen. His close-clipped beard and black moustache were trimmed with their usual care, but he seemed the shadow of what he was. His grave and noble features were pale as death, and, like her own, were attenuated to excess, but by mental rather than bodily suffering (though he had endured both), and their pallor contrasted strongly with his large, dark eyes, which were so full of light, and yet were so expressive of sorrow. Every part of his dress was black, save the shoulder-belt or scarf that sustained his silver-hilted sword, and which, like the band of his bonnet, glittered with silver embroidery and precious stones, that, ever changing in the light of the torch, sparkled with a thousand prismatic hues. He held his bonnet respectfully in his left hand, and its long black feather drooped on the floor.
"Look up, Lady Jane," he repeated; and Jane arose, with horror and aversion expressed in every feature of her face.
"You have dared to come hither? Is it to gloat upon the sorrow you have made—the poor being you have devoted to destruction—a being who never harmed you? Oh, Redhall! Redhall! what a plot of hell thy plot hath been?"
"Dost thou think me cruel?"
"Cruel?" reiterated Jane; "didst thou say cruel?"
"Hear me, hear me! for there is but little time, as in an hour thou art to die."