CHAPTER XI.

THE BETROTHAL.

O love, when womanhood is in the flush,
    And man's a young and an unspotted thing!
His first-breathed word and her half conscious blush
    Are fair as light in heaven,—as flowers in spring—
    The first hour of true love is worth our worshipping.
                                                                        THE MAID OF ELVAR.

The red evening sun was setting, and his rays piercing the half-stripped trees of Bruntisfield fell on the old mossy dial-stone, which they never reached through the thick foliage of summer. It was about the hour of five, and the western sky shed a crimson glow over the whole landscape; the Loch lay calm and unruffled as a vast sheet of polished crystal, reflecting in its bright surface the ruddy clouds, the blue sky, and the bordering trees, whose foliage was now assuming the warm tints of Autumn, presenting alternately the darkest green, the brightest yellow, and most russet brown. The fallen leaves rustled among the withered sedges of the lake, and the wild swan, the black duck, and the water hen floated double "bird and shadow" on its surface, while the tall heron waded among the eel-arks that lay half hidden by the reeds and water-lilies at the margin.

The rustle of the dark brown woods and the deepening gloom of the hills, marked the decline of the day and year, and Walter's heart became chilled and sad as he galloped up the long dark avenue, which was strewed with the spoil of the passed summer—that happy summer which had passed away for ever.

Lilian sat within the deep bay of a window in the chamber-of-dais, busily embroidering Walter's long-promised scarf: it was of blue velvet, having thistles of silver worked with St. Andrew's crosses alternately. For many weeks her nimble little fingers had plied the needle on it, and now it was nearly finished. The tramp of hoofs made her look down the far-stretching avenue, which, with its arching elms and sturdy oaks, formed a long vista to the eastward, where it was terminated by an ancient and grass-tufted archway; beyond it, the bluff craigs of Salisbury and Arthur's ridgy cone mellowed in the distance, shone redly in the light of the setting sun, above the green and waving woods.

The blood rushed to Lilian's snowy temples: she sprang from her seat, her eyes beaming with delight, which rapidly gave place to surprise on observing the hurried and disordered air of Walter, who was minus cloak and plume. Never before had he come on horseback, and her mind misgave her there was something wrong.

She cast a timid glance at Aunt Grisel. Lulled by an old and favourite ditty, which for the thousandth time the affectionate Lilian had sung to her, the old lady had fallen fast asleep in her great leathern chair, with her relaxed hand on the spinning-wheel, the gay silver and ivory virrels of which glittered in the light of the cheerful fire. She slept profoundly.

Lilian threw on her hood and hurried to the door, where Walter had dismounted, and was in the act of slipping his snaffle-rein through one of the numerous rings in the wall, necessary appendages to the door of a manor-house, and quite as requisite as the "louping-on-stane" in those days, when every visitor of consideration came on horseback.

With a charming mixture of frankness and timidity, the blushing girl held out both her hands in welcome to her lover; but there was a sadness in his smile that made the colour leave her cheek and the lustre fade in her eye.

"Lilian—dear Madam—Lilian, I see you for the last time!" he exclaimed, as he took her hands in his, and raised them to his lips.

"The last time?" reiterated Lilian, faintly.

"Oh, are not these sad and bitter words? But so it is, Lilian; the fatal hour has come—our dream is over. We march for England to-morrow. The Dutch invaders are on the ocean, and in the hearts and swords of his faithful soldiers poor King James can alone rely in the struggle that is to come."

"O, Walter, what horror is this?"

"All the land is on the alert. A red beacon will blaze to-night from Arthur's rocky peak, and from Stirling in the west, to the Ochils in the north, will be sent tidings that will rouse the distant clans, and all Scotland will arise in arms. But oh! how adverse will be the motives of many who draw the sword! I have come to bid you adieu, Lilian—a long adieu, for many a battle must be fought and won ere again I stand on the threshold of your home—this happy home—the memory of which will cheer me through many a melancholy hour."

"Ah, Walter, the horrors of Aunt Grisel's girlhood are again come upon us. What a sudden blow it is! We have been so happy—and you go—." Tears choked her utterance.

"This instant, Lilian," said Walter, overpowered at the sight of her tears; "this instant. God! I have only a few minutes to spare even to bid you adieu."

"And Lady Grisel, too," said Lilian, in a breathless voice, for she was too artless to conceal her deep emotion; "she to whom you have always been so kind, so attentive—you surely will bid her adieu?"

"I could not be so ungrateful as to omit such a duty; but, dear Lilian, let us walk once more in the garden—you know our favourite place, by the old mossy fountain. Ah, Lilian, refuse me not," urged Walter, who saw that she trembled and hesitated. "I have much to say that I must not leave unsaid, for never again (how bitter are these words!) never again may an opportunity come to me; never again may I bend my eyes on yours, or hear the sound of your voice—oh, Lilian—"

Never had Walter trusted himself so far: he was earnest, impetuous, and confused. Lilian glanced timidly at his sparkling eyes, and then at the darkening woods, and, trembling between love and timidity, permitted him to draw her arm through his, and lead her into the ancient garden, the thick holly hedges of which entirely screened them from observation.

The heart of Lilian foreboded that a scene was to ensue; but a spell was upon her, a power which she could not resist threw a chain of delight and fear around her, and bound her to the side of Walter. She seemed to be in a dream: the very air grew palpable, and she felt only the beating of her little heart. Equally wishing and dreading the coming denouement, she was almost unconscious of whither Walter led her.

He, poor fellow! was something in the same frame of mind. Though he had full time to rally his thoughts, reflection served but to make him more confused, and instead of the passionate avowal which, a moment ago, had trembled on his lips, his intense respect for Lilian brought him down to the merest commonplace, and again the favorite words of Finland came truthfully home to his mind, "the girl one loves is greater than an Empress."

"It is very sad to think that—that peradventure we are walking here for the last time," said he.

This was not quite what Lilian expected, and somewhat reassured, she murmured a polite reply.

"You will not forget me when I am far, far away from you, Lilian?"

"Oh, no—how could I forget?" said she, bending her timid eyes kindly and sadly upon him. There was a charm in her answer that bewildered her lover, and, unable to resist longer the ardour and impulses of his heart, he threw an arm around her, and, pressing her right hand to his breast, exclaimed, in a voice that trembled with emotion,

"I love you, Lilian—I have dared to love you long—oh, may I hope you will forgive me?"

He paused; but Lilian could make no reply. An instant she was pale, then a deep blush crimsoned her cheek; her long lashes veiled her humid eyes—and for the first time Walter pressed his lips to hers as she sank upon his breast.

"Oh, Lilian," he resumed, after a long pause. "Now on the eve of parting, and perhaps for ever, I could not leave you with this great secret preying upon my heart—without saying that I loved you. The hope, that when I am gone, you will think of me with sentiments more tender and more endearing than those of mere friendship will be my best incentive to become worthy of them. Dear Lilian, I am poor and nameless; save my heart and my sword, and the sod which shall cover me, I own nothing in all this wide world; but than mine, never was there a love more generous or more true. Long, long, adorable Lilian, have I loved you in secret, and loved you dearly."

There was no art in his declaration; it came straight from the soul, and his words, rich, deep, and full of feeling, thrilled through the agitated heart of the young girl. He sought no reply, no other avowal of her reciprocal love, than her beautiful confusion and eloquent silence. Immovable and breathless, she lay within his embrace, with the deepest blushes overspreading her whole face and neck. Her mild eyes were shaded by their lashes, and the charming expression of modesty imparted by their downcast lids increased the emotion of Walter; and closer to his breast he pressed her passive form till her heart throbbed against his own.

"O love, when womanhood is in the flush!"

Walter was intoxicated. The purple hood of Lilian had fallen back, and the braids of her fair hair drooped upon his breast; his dark hair mingled with them, and their locks sparkled like gold in the glow of the set sun, as its last rays streamed down the long shady walk.

Short as the interview was, an age seemed to be comprised within its compass; the lovers were in a little world of their own—or with them the external world seemed to stand still. They were all heart and pulse, and overwhelmed with an emotion which the orthography of every human language has failed to pourtray.

But anon, the first glow of ardour and excitement passed away, and the memory of their parting fell like a mountain on their hearts. Lilian hung half embraced by Walter's arm; and a shower of tears relieved her.

Ah, could the evil-minded Clermistonlee have witnessed this scene!

The sun set behind the dark woods of Corstorphine; its last rays faded away from the turret vanes and seared foliage of Bruntisfield; the oaks and loch of the Burghmuir grew dark, as the shadows of the autumnal gloaming increased around them, and warned the lovers of the necessity of retiring and—separating.

Never was the glowing memory of that interview forgotten by Walter Fenton; and it cheered him through many an hour of sorrow, humiliation, and misery; through the toils of many a weary night, and the carnage of many a dangerous day. How happy and how well it is for us that the future is covered by an impenetrable veil that no mortal eye can pierce, and no hand draw aside!

The swans had quitted the lake, and the last glow of the day that had passed, was dying away upon its glassy surface, when hand in hand, the girl and her lover, contented, if not supremely happy, left the garden. There, by the old fountain of mossy and fantastic stone-work, on the pedestal of which a grotesque visage vomited the water from its capacious throat into a stone basin, they had plighted unto each other their solemn troth, according to the simple custom of the time and country.

There was no witness but the evening star that glimmered in the saffron west. There was no record but their own beating hearts.

Standing one on each side of the gushing fountain, and laving their hands in the limpid water, they called upon God to hear and register their vows of truth and love—vows which were, perhaps, less eloquent than deep, but uttered with all the quiet fervour of two young hearts as yet unseared and unsoured by the trouble, the duplicity, the selfishness, and the bitterness of the world.

Poor lovers! It was their first hour of delight; and even then, though by them unseen, a human visage of livid and terrible aspect was steadily regarding them from the thick foliage of a dark holly hedge, with eyes like those of a serpent—eyes that glared like two burning coals, and seemed full of that dire expression with which the superstitions of Italy gift the possessors of the mal-occhio. The lips were colourless and white, the teeth were clenched; it was all that a painter could pourtray of agony and mortification. As they arose from the fountain, it vanished; footsteps crashed among the fallen leaves and withered branches, but the lovers heard them not. Lilian, though she still wept from over-excitement and the approaching separation which had so suddenly called all these secret feelings to empire and control in her bosom, with sensations of mingled happiness and grief too intense to find vent in words, hung on Walter's arm, and thus clasped hand in hand with more apparent composure, they slowly returned to the house and entered the chamber-of-dais.

Its panels of polished oak, the silver plate on the buffet, the china jars, and japan canisters, on the grotesque ebony cabinets, glittered ruddily in the light of the blazing fire. A noble stag-hound, with red eyes and wiry hair, Lilian's lap-dog, and a favorite cat, were gambolling together on the hearth and tearing the snow-white wool from the prostrate spinning wheel. Lady Grisel still slept soundly; but Lilian stole to her side, kissed, and awoke her by murmuring in a broken voice, and with a sickly attempt at playfulness,

"Awake, aunt Grisel, Mr. Fenton has come to bid us farewell. He marches by crow of the cock, and we may not see him again for—for many a weary day."

"My dream is read!" exclaimed the old lady, starting. "O, Lilian, lass! what is this you tell me? Walter, my poor bairn, come to me; for whence are ye boune?"

"For England, Madam."

"England! alake, alake! and I was dreaming of Sir Archibald," replied the venerable dame, whose eyes were glittering with tears. "I saw him standing there, before the oaken cabinet, in his buff coat, steel cap and plume, just as I saw him last when under harness; and oh! but he seemed young and winsome, with glowing cheeks and bright locks of curling brown. 'Archibald,' I cried, and stretching my arms towards him, I strove to say mair; but O! Lilian, the words died away in whispers on my lips. He walked over to the buffet, and took up his silver tankard, which other lips have never touched since his own. It was empty. Sairly he gloomed as he wont when aught crossed him, and flang down the cup. I heard the clank of his jangling spurs as he turned lightly about, saying, 'Fare-ye-weel, my jo Grisel, horse and spear's the cry again,' and strode away. But O, his face, and the flash of his dark-browed eye; they come back to me, a vision from the grave. I awoke, and there stood Walter Fenton—his living image. O, Lilian! my doo, something sad is at hand. Blows and blood ever followed such visions as mine hath been this night. It forbodes deep dool, and dark misfortune."

"Dear Aunt Grisel, why such dreary thoughts?" said Lilian, no longer able to restrain her tears; "though we are losing our dear friend Mr. Fenton—one, I hope, after Sir Archibald's own heart."

"True he hath the bearing of a Napier, and the very eye of my young son, and, sooth, he was a stalwart cavalier as ever danced a gay galliard or spurred a horse to the battle field. And you are boune for the south, Walter? War and blood, more of it yet—more of it yet—when will the wicked cease from troubling? Well it is for ye, boy, that ye have no mother to weep this night the bitter tears that I have often shed for mine. Three fair sons, Walter, hae gone forth from this auld roof-tree, three stalwart men they were, and winsome to look upon, blooming and strong as ever braced steel ower gallant hearts; but hardalake! e'er the sun sank owre the westland hills, the last o' them lay by his father's side, cauld and stark on the banks of the Keithingburn.

"But I trow," she added, striking her cane on the floor, "many a braw English cap and feather lay on the turf ere that came to pass." The keen grey eyes of the spirited dame flashed bright through their tears, for strongly at that moment the Spartan spirit of the old Scottish matron glowed within her breast. "England? Alace! and what is stirring now that our blue bonnets maun cross the border again? Smooth water runs deep. I aye thought we were owre sib wi' the south to byde sae long."

"Madam; we march as friends and allies to assist in repelling invasion from its shores. William of Orange, with a great armament, now bends his cannon on the English coast, and by daybreak to-morrow we march for King James's camp. I must leave you instantly, for I have not a moment to spare. My Lord Dunbarton requires my presence at Holyrood, where General Douglas of Queensbury is to address the officers of the army. Farewell, dear madam; think kindly of me when I am far, far away from you, for never may we meet again," and half kneeling he kissed her hand.

"Then ere thou goest, my poor boy, drink to the roof-tree of one who loves thee well, and who may never behold thee more. Ye hae the very voice of my youngest son; and O, Walter, my auld heart yearns unto ye even as a mother's would yearn unto her dearest child."

Walter's heart swelled within him as the kind old lady laid her arm round his neck.

"Lady Bruntisfield," said he, in a low voice, "often have I known how sad a thing it was to feel oneself alone in the world, and never will the memory of these kind words be effaced from my heart."

Lilian, blushing and pale by turns, with eyes full of tears, brought from the almry a silver cup of wine, and after she and Lady Grisel had tasted, Walter drained it to the bottom, as he did so uttering a mental blessing on the house of Bruntisfield. The rich Gascon wine fired his heart, and gave him courage to sustain the separation.

"'Tis a sad and sudden parting, Walter," said Lady Grisel, weeping unrestrainedly with that old-fashioned kindness of heart which has long since fled from the land. "How long will you be away from us?"

"That depends on the fortune of war, Madam."

"Puir bairn! ye mean the misfortune. Alace! we live in waefu' times. Year after year an auld Scots' wife seeth the fair flowers that spring up around her trod down and destroyed. How many fair sons are reared with mickle pain and toil to be cut down by the sword of the foemen! Thrice in my time have I seen the balefire blaze on Soutra-edge and Ochil Peak, and thrice have I seen the haill flower o' the country-side wede away. And well it is, Walter, that thou hast no other mother than myself to mourn for thee this night; for, as I said before," she continued, in the garrulous musing of age, "my mind gangs back to the happy days and the fond faces of other times, when I have laced the steel cap owre comely cheeks whose smiles were a' the world to me. Then the balefire was lowing on ilka hill, and mount and ride was the cry. O, when will men grow wise (as that fule body Ichabod said with truth), and let the wicked kings of the earth gird up their loins and go forth to battle alone?

"Thine, Walter Fenton, is owre fair a brow for the midnight dew to lie upon, and the black corbie to flap its wings aboon in the stricken battlefield," continued the old lady, weeping, as "tremulously gentle her small hand" put back the thick dark locks from Walter's clouded brow and kissed it, while Lilian sobbed audibly on hearing her speak so forbodingly. The heart of the young man was too full to permit him to reply, but at that moment he felt he had done this kind and noble matron a grievous injury in gaining the love of Lilian without her consent. So reproachfully did the idea come home to his heart that he was about to throw himself upon his knees, and in the ardour of his temper pour forth an address in confession and exculpation—but his courage failed, and never again had he an opportunity.

Compelled at last to assume his bonnet and rapier he felt his heart wrung when reflecting that he was, for the last time, with the only two beings on earth actually dear to him, that in another moment he would be gone with the wide world before him, and that world all a void—a wilderness.

Lilian threw over his shoulders the scarf her fingers had embroidered, and as the reverend lady blessed him, the tears started into his eyes; he kissed their hands, and hurried away. Both arose to accompany him to the door; but while Lady Grisel searched for her long cane, he had yet a moment to give to Lilian. The light in the entrance hall fell full upon her face; it was pale as death, and never until that moment had Walter felt how intensely he loved her.

"Once again, farewell, dear Lilian," said he, putting a ring upon her finger; "wear this for my sake, and forget not this night—the twentieth of September. O, Lilian, this ring is the dearest, the only relic I possess, and it contains the secret of my life. On my mother's hand it was found, when cold, and pale, and dead she lay among the tombs of the Greyfriars, in the year of Bothwell:—you know the rest, and will treasure it for my sake. If your lover falls, Lilian, for you it will be some satisfaction that he died beneath the Scottish standard, fighting for his King by the side of the brave Dunbarton! Who would desire a better epitaph?"

"Walter," implored Lilian in a piercing voice, "for the love of God, if not for the love of me, speak not thus!"

"Thou shalt hear of me, Lilian, if God spares me, as I hope he will for thy sake," replied Walter, whose military pride neither love nor sorrow could subdue. "My name shall never be mentioned but with honour, for I have sworn to become worthy of thee, or to—die! And if our soldiers prove as they have ever done, leal men and true, many a helmet will be cloven, many a corslet flattened, many a pike blunted, and bullet shot ere the banner of King James shall sink before these plebeian Dutch! Farewell: forget not the twentieth of September!"

Another mute caress, and Lilian was alone: a horse's hoofs rang among the strewn autumnal leaves; but the sound died away, and Lilian heard her heart beating tumultuously.

As his horse plunged forward down the steep avenue, the starting of the saddle-girths compelled Walter to rein up near the gateway, and while adjusting the buckles, he became the unconscious listener to another leave-taking, which was accompanied by loud and obstreperous lamentations. It was Meinie Elshender bidding adieu to her kinsman and sweetheart Hab, who was reeling about in his bandaleers under the influence of various stoups of brandy.

"Now, Hab, you fause loon, dinna say no! You will forget me in the south, as you did in the west. Soldiers are a' alike."

"Roaring buckies are we, lassie!"

"Twa-faced varlets, that kittle up their lugs when the drums beat, and make love wherever they gang," replied Meinie, sobbing heavily. "You will be taking up with some English kimmer, I ken, and forgetting puir Meinie Elshender, that lo'es ye better than her ain life; and——"

"If I do, May——"

"Ewhow? and the rambles we've had together in many a red gloaming by the heronshaws and quarrel-holes. O, Hab, you're a fause ane, and will forget me—for the truth is no in ye!"

"Dear Meinie, if I do may——"

"Dinna swear, ye fule; for I may weary waiting on ye."

"May the de'il jump down my throat with a harrow at his tail! There now, will you believe me? Hoots, lass, we'll be back by the Halloween time to douk for apples in the muckle barn, sow hemp-seed in the Deil's-croft, roast nuts in the ingle, pu' kail castocks, and gang guisarding by Drumdryan and the Highriggs. Hech, how!

'Dunbarton's drums beat bonnie, O!'

Kiss me again, lass, and keep up your heart for a month or two more, when again I will have my arm around ye, and your red cheek pressed to mine;" continued poor Halbert, to whom that hour was never doomed to come, "and many a brave story I will tell ye of how our buirdly Scots chields clapper-clawed the ill-faured Holanders."

"Hab, ye ill-mannered loon!" cried Elsie. "Hab, ye ungratefu' vassal, daur ye gang awa' without paying your devoirs to my lady?"

"Bid her good bye for me, mother," replied Halbert in a faltering tone, as the old woman hobbled up and threw her arms passionately around his neck. "My father was her bounden vassal; but his son is the king's free soldier. Say gude'en for me, for I have not another moment to spare even for Meinie. Fareweel, dear mother; I never expected to leave you again, but for those who follow the de'il or the drum—Hoots, mother, havers!" exclaimed the soldier, as the poor woman sobbed convulsively on his breast. "I thought we had a' this dirdum oure before."

"Fareweel, my bairn, my winsome Habbie! On this side o' the grave we sail never meet mair. England is a far awa' and an unco' place, and long ere ye return I will be laid in the lang hame o' my forbears. But fearfu' times will come and pass ere the grass is green and waving oure me. Mind your Bible, Hab, for your faither (peace be wi' him, for he had none wi' me) ever gaed forth to battle with a whinger in one hand and the blessed book in the other. Beware o' the errors of episcopacy and idolatory, for your gaun to the hotbed o' them baith."

"O yes; ou' aye," muttered Hab impatiently.

"Now gang, my bairn, and God will keep his hand oure ye in the hour of strife, for he ne'er forgets those by whom his power and his glory are remembered."

And while Hab dashed off towards the city, the old woman with upraised hands implored with Scottish piety and maternal fervour a blessing on the footsteps of the son that had departed from her—for ever.

CHAPTER XII.

THE DEFIANCE.

'Tis well for thee, Sir, that I wear no sword,
Else it had soon decided which should claim,
And which for death's colde arms exchange the dame.
                                                                                        OLD PLAY.

Walter had listened longer than he intended, and for a moment he felt keenly how sad a thing it was that there were neither parent nor kindred to bless his departing steps. The sincere grief of the humble cottar had deeply moved him; but two kind kisses were yet glowing on his cheek, and the remembrance that there were two gentle beings who sorrowed for his departure and sighed for his return, filled his heart with joy.

The ardour of youth, and his old enthusiastic spirit, blazed up within him as he galloped back to the town. There, bustle and confusion reigned supreme. The streets were thronged with citizens and soldiers; and, though the hour was late, the hum of many voices shewed that all were upon the qui vive.

As he passed the old house of the High Riggs, in the gloom of the autumnal night, he nearly rode over a man whose grey plaid and broad bonnet indicated him to be a peasant.

"Hollo, friend!—I crave your pardon."

"Goodeen to you, Mr. Fenton—you ride with a slack rein for a cavalier," replied the other in a thick voice, after a brief pause.

"Ha! you know me, and it seems as if your voice was not unfamiliar; but the night is so dark. You are——"

"Captain Napier of the Scots-Dutch," replied the other in a low voice.

"Astonishment! Unwary man, know you not that the Council have placed a price on you, dead or alive? Is it madness that prompts you to venture, in this Cameronian disguise, within a city swarming with royal troops?"

"No, sir," replied the other haughtily; "but the service of William Prince of Orange."

"For Godsake, sir, hush! These words are enough to raise the very stones in the streets against you."

"Enough, young spark. I have been too long under the ban of Scotland's accursed misrulers not to have learned caution. But I know that he who addresses me is a man of honour."

"I thank you, sir, for the compliment."

"I believe you to be honourable as I have found you brave, and will trust you when I cannot do better. I am bound for England, on the shores of which William of Orange will soon pour his legions like another Conqueror. Hark you, Mr. Fenton, we are rivals in love as we are foes in faction; and, though the goal we aim at is the same, our paths are widely different. The scene I saw and overheard this evening by the fountain, makes me long with the hatred of a tiger rather than the spirit of a Christian man to slay you; for, by the might of God! no mortal shall ever cross the path or purpose of Quentin Napier, while his hand can hold a rapier or level a pistol!

"Walter Fenton, from my boyhood, I have loved that amiable girl, and there was a time when I fondly thought she loved me too. Necessity forced me into the ranks of the Stadtholder. In the campaigns in Zealand and Flanders, amid the turmoil of war, her image almost faded from my mind; but when again we met, my memory went back to the pleasant days of our younger years—all the first hopes and fond feelings of my heart returned to their starting-place. 'Twas thou that didst destroy this spell! And well it is for thee, youth, that I am unarmed; for strong in my heart at this moment, is the power of the spirit of darkness."

"Sir," replied Walter scornfully, "this is the mere Cameronian cant of the Scots Brigade; and had I pistols——"

"The dust beneath our feet should drink the heart's blood of one or both of us! By the Heaven that hears me, it should be so!"

At that moment the balefire on the cone of Arthur's Seat suddenly burst forth into a lurid flame, and, flaring on the night wind in one broad forky sheet, seemed to turn the dark mountain into a volcano, and, tipping its ridgy outline with light, brought it forward in relief from the inky sky beyond. The turreted battlements of Heriot's Hospital, and the casements of the towering city, were reddened by the gleam, and a faint light glowed on the pale contracted features of Quentin Napier. He smiled grimly.

"How long have I looked forward to the time when yonder blaze would redden on our Scottish hills! The time hath come! Farewell," he said, grasping Walter's hand with fierce energy, while his voice became deep and hoarse; "blows will soon be struck, and we may—we must—meet in the field. When that hour comes, spare me not; for by the Power who this night heard your plighted troth, and from His throne in heaven hears us now, I will not spare thee."

"Till then, adieu," replied Walter, with something of pity mingling in his pride and scorn.

"But that you may fall by other hands than these, is the best I can wish you. You were generous once, and I respect while I abhor you."

They separated.

A ferocious rival and uncompromising traitor were within his grasp, and effectually he might have crushed both in one; but he could not forget that this stern and cold-blooded partisan was the kinsman of Lilian Napier, and one who trusted in his honour.

As he urged his horse towards the Bristo Port, the great forges of the foundry, where formerly the Covenanters had cast their cannon, were in full operation, and the rays of those lurid pyramids of fire, that shot upwards from their towering cones, produced a wild and beautiful effect as they fell on the fantastic projections and deep recesses of the old suburbs, and the long line of crenelated wall which girdled the city, on the dark and ancient college of King James, and on the groups of anxious citizens gathered at their windows and outside-stairs, conversing in subdued tones on those "coming events" which were already casting their shadows before. As Walter passed, their voices died away, and many a lowering eye was bent upon him, while not a few shouted injurious epithets, and chanted "Lillibulero bullen à la," the Marseillaise hymn of the Scottish revolutionists.

The arcades or piazzas in the High Street were crowded by a noisy mob. The whole city seemed on tip-toe from the Highriggs to the Palace Gate, and many an eye was turned to where, like stars upon the west and northern hills, the answering balefires threw abroad the light of alarm. No man had yet dared to assume the blue cockade of the Covenant; but the faces of the "sour-featured Whigs," were become radiant with hope in anticipation of their coming triumph and revenge. Guarded by Buchan's musqueteers, the Scottish train of artillery were drawn up near the Tron, wheel to wheel, limbered and ready for service; while cavalier officers with their waving plumes and scarfs, guardsmen, and dragoons in their flashing armour galloped hurriedly from street to street.

Women were wailing, and soldiers crowding and revelling in and around the hostels and taverns, and the whole city was one scene of universal confusion, noise, and dismay. Followed by six of his splendidly accoutred cavaliers, Claverhouse (now Major-General Viscount Dundee) dashed up from the Palace at full gallop. All shrunk back as he swept forward on some mission of importance to the Duke of Gordon, "the COCK of the north," who commanded in the castle of Edinburgh, and, fired by the gallant air of Claverhouse, Walter felt his heart glow with ardour for the military splendour of the coming day.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MARCH FOR ENGLAND.

The neighynge of the war-horse prowde,
    The rowleinge of the drum;
The clangour of the trumpet lowde,
    Be soundes from heaven that come.
Then mount, then mount, brave gallants all,
    And don your helmes amaine;
Death's couriers—fame and honour—call
    Us to the field againe.
                                                                SCOTS SONG.

Led by General James Douglas, a brother of the Duke of Queenberry, the Scottish army was to march to London in three columns or divisions. He commanded the foot in person; Major-General Viscount Dundee led the cavalry; the Laird of Lundin the train of artillery.

By grey dawn on the 21st of September, the boom of a cannon pealed from the ramparts of the castle over the city, and echoed among the craigs of Salisbury and the woods of Warrender and Drumsheugh. It was the warning gun; and immediately the varying cadence of the cavalry trumpets sounding to horse, and the infantry drums beating the générale, an old summons that has often gained the malison of the wearied soldier, rang within the narrow thoroughfares of Edinburgh.

"I thought I heard the General say,—
'Tis time to rouse, and march away!"

Poor Lilian had passed a restless night; she slept only to dream, and awoke only to weep, and to feel that no tears are more bitter than those shed unseen by lonely sorrow in the solitude of night. Many a young heart was crushed with grief, and many a bright eye sleepless and tearful in anticipation of the morrow's separation, perhaps for ever. Many a fierce and enthusiastic religioso looked forward to the march of his countrymen as a relief from thraldom, and the dawn of a day of vengeance on the upholders of "the Great Beast."

Now that morrow was come, and the ruddy sun arose above the Lammermuirs to shed his morning glory on the woods of russet brown, from the bosky depths of which the lark, the gled, and the eagle were winging their way aloft.

Lilian looked forth from her turret-window, and the very brightness of that beautiful morning, in contrast to the gloom of her thoughts, made her heart feel more sad and lonely. The stern façade of the ancient chateau gleamed in the light of the rising sun, and the few flowers of autumn lifted up their heavy petals as the warm rays absorbed the diamond dew. Hastily and less carefully than usual, the duties of the toilet were dismissed, and deeply the young girl sighed as she braided her auburn hair, for now there was no one whom she cared to please. Bright and cloudless though the morning, to her a gloom seemed to veil everything; but she mastered her grief until Meinie Elshender, her tirewoman, burst into an uncontrollable fit of lamentation over the departure of her light-hearted Hab; upon which Lilian, infected by her sorrow, could no longer restrain herself, and the two girls wept together.

"Oh, Lady Lilian, another hour will see our braw lads owre the hills and awa! Hech-how!" sobbed the disconsolate bower-maiden, "I am glad that muckle tyke, Tam o' the Riggs, is no gaun too. I'll be sure o' him gif puir Hab's shot by the Hollanders. Eh, sirs, that ever I should see this day!" and she sobbed comfortably between sorrow and satisfaction.

"Oh that Annie of Maxwelton would come!" said Lilian; "she is ever so lighthearted, so joyous and gay—her presence were a godsend. Poor Annie! another week would have seen her wedding-day, and now her Douglas must follow Dunbarton to battle—perhaps to death."

"Yonder are her chairmen," replied Meinie as a sedan appeared in the avenue; "and my Lady Dunbarton's English coach, and Madam this and my Lady that—ewhow, Sirs! we'll hae a fu' hall to-day."

Numerous vehicles were seen approaching. The troops were to march southward by the Burghmuir, and many ladies of rank and fashion were arriving, to behold their departure from a platform erected within the orchard-wall of Bruntisfield, and overlooking the rough old quarries and deep marshy ground that bordered the Burghloch. Lilian flew down to the barbican, and embraced her friend. Though as gaily attired as usual, Annie was very pale, and the breeze of the morning when it lifted her heavy locks, shewed the pallor of the beautiful cheek below. Her innocent gaiety and coquetry had fled together; her spirit had evaporated, and tearful and sad, she sorrowfully kissed her paler friend.

The orchard was higher than the roadway, which its wall overlooked like a rampart, and there numerous highbacked chairs were placed for the convenience of the ladies, who were every moment arriving, each in a greater state of flutter and excitement than the last, to view the troops on their line of march. Various pieces of tapestry were spread over the parapet, and an ancient standard or two, and several branches of laurel tastefully arranged by the gardener, made the orchard-wall like a balcony at a listed tournament.

Lady Grisel was merry and grave by turns, but always stately and hospitable. With her the day had long since passed, when the march of a mailed host could raise other sensations in her bosom than those of pity for the young and brave who might return no more. The beautiful Countess of Dunbarton veiled her anxiety under an admirable placidity of face and suavity of manner; while Lilian, Annie Laurie and many other fair girls who had lovers and relations "under harness" were clustered together, a pale and tearful group that conversed in low whispers.

The moss-grown trees of the ancient orchard spread their faded foliage over them; behind rose the striking outline of the old manor-house, with its round projecting turrets and high-peaked gables glowing in the early rays of the sun, which streamed redly and aslant from the southern ridge of Arthur's Seat, lighting with a golden gleam the mirrored lake that rolled almost to the orchard wall. A light shower had fallen just before dawn, and everything was brightened and refreshed. The dew yet glittered on the waving branches and the bending grass, and white as snow the morning mists rolled heavily around the base of the verdant hills, or curled, in a thousand vapoury and beautiful forms, in the saffron glory of the rising sun. The dewy autumnal breeze was laden with balm and fragrance. The first fallen leaves rustled in the long grass; the corbies and wood-pigeons were wheeling aloft, and the swan and the heron floated on the still bosom of the loch.

Bright though the morning, and beautiful the scenery, the group assembled near Bruntisfield were thoughtful and reserved; any little chit-chat in which they had indulged while Lady Grisel was detailing the Duke of Hamilton's march for England in her younger days, died away, when the far-off notes of military music and the increasing hum in the city, announced that "they were coming."

"Hark!" said Lady Dunbarton, "now they are approaching. 'Tis by Lord Dundee's advice they march through the entire length of the city, from the Girth Cross to the Portsburgh, that their array may intimidate the false Whigs, who are hourly crowding in from all quarters."

Beneath where the ladies were seated, the roadway was thronged with cottars from the adjacent hamlets; and many an eye was turned wistfully to the road that wound by the western rhinns of the Loch towards the old baronial manor of the Lawsons, that on the Highriggs, as before mentioned, terminated the ancient suburb of Portsburgh. From thence a dense mass was seen debouching: the sound of the drum, and the sharper note of the trumpet, were heard at intervals, while pikes glittered, banners waved, and hoofs rang, and every heart beat quicker as the troops approached; for, even in our own matter-of-fact age, there are few sights more stirring than the departure of a regiment for foreign service; but then it was the entire regular force of the kingdom en masse on the march for another land. Dense crowds occupied the whole roadway; for though the Scottish government had few friends, all the idlers of the city were pouring forth from its southern gates.

England was still a foreign and rather hostile country, and London was "an unco and far-awa place" (much more so than Calcutta is now); and persons on their departure therefor received the condolences of their friends; on their return, were welcomed by joy and congratulation, and were regarded with wonder and interest like the ancient mariners who had doubled Cape Non. And thus the Edinburghers, according to their various hopes, fears, hates and wishes, regarded with unusual anxiety the departure of their countrymen.

Save our brave Highlanders, fifty-seven years afterwards, this was the last Scottish host that ever marched into England.

First came an advanced guard of Horse Grenadiers, who wore scarlet coats over their steel corslets, and had high fur caps; they were armed with long musquets, bayonets, and hammer-hatchets, and wore grenado-pouches on their left side, to balance the cartridge-boxes on the right.

Led by the Laird of Lundin, Master of the Ordnance, next came the train of artillery, with trumpets sounding and kettle-drums beating; the matrosses marching with shouldered pikes on each side of the polished brass cannon; the firemasters on horseback, distinguished by waving plumes and golden scarfs. Nearly sheathed in complete armour of Charles the First's time, four gentlemen-of-the-cannon rode on each side of the great flag gun, which was drawn by eight horses. The Scottish standards—one with St. Andrew's Cross, the other with the Lion, gules—were displayed from its carriage, on which sat two little kettle-drummers beating a march. It was followed by the gins, capstans, forge-waggons, and a troop of horse with their swords drawn.

Then the column of cavalry filed past; all fierce and select cavalier troopers, many of them inured to service by the civil wars of eight-and-twenty years. Claverhouse's Life Guardsmen, in their polished plate-armour, wearing white horse hair streaming from their helmets;—all were splendidly mounted, and rode with the butts of their carbines resting on their thighs. They were greeted by a burst of acclamation from the ladies, for these dashing horsemen were the Guardi Nobili, the Prætorian Band of Scotland. Douglas's regiment of Red-coat Horse, and the Earl of Dunmore's Dragoons, the Scots Greys in their janissary caps, buff coats, and iron panoply, brought up the rear.

Next came the infantry; the two battalions of the Fusilier Guards, clad in coats, breeches, and stockings, all of bright scarlet, with white scarfs and long feathers; the officers marching with half pikes, and the soldiers with lighted matches; the battalions of the Scots Musqueteers in their round morions and corslets of black iron; the Earl of Mar's Fusiliers, Wauchop's regiment, &c. &c., poured past in rapid and monotonous succession, till the rear-guard of Horse and a few pieces of artillery, with a long line of sumpter-horses, bidets, and peddies, or grooms, closed the rear.

From a cloudless sky, full upon their long line of march, the bright sun poured down his morning splendour; the blare of the brazen trumpet and the ringing bugle-horn, the clashing cymbal and the measured beat of the drum, rang in the echoing sky and adjacent woodlands; while, like the ceaseless rush of a river, the tread of many marching feet, the tramp of the horses, the clank of chain-bridles, steel scabbards, and bandoliers, the lumbering roll of the brass cannon and shot-tumbrils of the train, filled up the intervals of the air which all their bands were playing,—the famous old Scots' March, composed for the Guard of King James V.

Never before had Walter Fenton felt such exultation, or so proud of the banner that waved over his shoulder; and his heart seemed to bound to every crash of the martial music that loaded the morning wind. It is impossible to pourtray the glow of chivalry that stirs a heart like his at such a time.

Amid the dust of the long array in front, the innumerable bright points of armour, and accoutrements, and weapons, were sparkling and flashing, and, when viewed from the distant city, the host of horse and foot, with standards waving, resembled a vast gilded snake sweeping over the Burghmuir, and gliding between its old oak trees and broomy knolls towards the hills of Braid. It was a scene which no man could behold without ardour and admiration, or without that gush of enthusiasm which stirs even the most sluggish spirit—

"When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
        That song whose breath
        May lead to death,
But never to retreating."

"Ah! Douglas," said Walter to his friend, "I feel that all the romance of my boyish dreams is about to be realized. My breast seems too narrow for the emotions that glow within it. Love——"

"Yes, Fenton, it is the most powerful of all human passions; but a desire for military glory is scarcely less strong. Yet, bethink thee, Fenton, how sadly an old veteran's memory retraces the ardour of such an hour as this."

"To me it almost counterbalances the pain of parting from yonder dear girl;" and, while speaking, he bowed repeatedly to Lilian and kissed his hand, for they were now beneath the orchard-wall. Long and sad was the glance he gave that fair face, every feature of which was indelibly impressed on his heart. Her vivacity was gone, and her cheek pale; her heart was wrung with anguish, though it fluttered with the excitement around her. Even the gay Annie was unusually grave, and her dark blue eyes were humid with the heavy tears that trembled on their long black lashes.

"Farewell, Annie," said Douglas, looking up to her with intense feeling. "Farewell, my love. 'Horse and spear' is the slogan now."

The aspect of Dunbarton's Royals elicited a burst of applause, and the ladies threw flowers among their passing ranks. That surpassing state of discipline and steadiness which they had acquired under the great De Martinet (that phoenix of adjutants and paragon of drills) whose fame is known throughout all the armies of Europe, had not passed away.

From the richness of their accoutrements, they seemed one mass of vivid scarlet and polished steel. The musqueteers and pikemen (every corps had still a proportion armed with that ancient weapon) wore a close round morion of iron with cheek-plates clasped under the chin: those of the officers were of burnished steel, surmounted by dancing plumes of white ostrich feathers. The cuirasses and gorgets of the captains were of the colour of gold; the lieutenants' were of black, studded with gold; and those of the ensigns were of silver,—and all had embroidered sword-belts and crimson scarfs with golden tassels. The corslets of the soldiers were of black iron, crossed by their collars of bandoliers, little wooden cases, each containing a charge of powder; the balls were carried loose in a pouch on the left side, balanced by a priming-horn on the right. Their scarlet coats were heavily cuffed and richly braided, and each was armed with a sword in addition to his bright-barrelled matchlock. With tall fur caps, and coats slashed and looped, led by Gavin of that ilk, their grenadiers marched in front, with hammer-hatchets, slung carbines, swords, daggers, and pouches of grenades. Such was the aspect of the regular Scottish infantry of that period; and certainly it was not a little imposing.*

* Royal Orders of the day.

At the head of his regiment rode the brave Earl of Dunbarton, with the curious mask or visor (then appended to the helmet) turned upward, revealing his dark and noble features; his coat of scarlet, richly laced, was worn open to display his corslet of bright steel, which was inlaid with gold. The military wig escaped from beneath the plumed headpiece, and flowed in long curls over his shoulders; and he rode with his baton rested on the top of his long jack-boot. Still more gaily armed and accoutred, the handsome Viscount of Dundee rode on his left; and on the right, the dark-visaged and sinister-eyed James Douglas of Queensberry, the general commanding, managed a spirited black charger; and on passing the ladies, the three cavalier leaders bowed until their plumes mingled with their horses' manes.

The venerable Sir Thomas Dalyel, attired in his antique buff coat, steel cap, and long boots, and with his preposterous white beard streaming in the wind, galloped up, baton in hand, to pay his devoirs to Lady Grisel and her visitors—making, as he reined up, such a reverence as might have been fashionable at the court of His Ferocity the Czar of Muscovy. A crowd of tenants and cottars who loitered near, shrank back with ill-disguised fear and aversion as the "auld persecutor" approached.

"A fearfu' man, whose face is an index o' his heart," muttered Elsie Elshender, shaking her clenched hand at him behind Meinie's back. "'Tis just such a beard the warlocks and the deil have on, when they meet the witches at their sabbath on the Calton." As she spoke, the keen stern eye of the veteran cavalier chanced to fall full upon her, and the old woman trembled lest he might divine her thoughts, if he had not overheard her words—so great was the terror entertained of his real and imaginary powers.

"Ye say true, Cummer Elsie," whispered Symon, the ground baillie, a grim old fellow, clad in hoddin grey, wearing his Sunday bonnet and plaid, a staff in his hand, and a broadsword at his side. "He hath the mark of the beast on his frontlet. Hah! I have seen as muckle bravery displayed in the moss o' Drumclog, but the cheer of the oppressor was changed ere the gloaming fell. But better times are coming, Elsie; better days are coming, and then sall 'the children of Zion be joyful in their king.'"

Sir Thomas Dalyel, who

"Like Claver'se fell chiel,
Was in league wi' the deil,"

and had of course been rendered bullet-proof in consequence of this infernal compact, from his style of conversation was ill calculated to soothe the anxious fears of those he addressed.

"How, Sir Thomas?" said Lady Grisel Napier, "I knew not that you were boune for England."

"Nor am I, please you, madam," replied the old cavalier, standing in his stirrups, erect as a pike. "I am getting owre auld in the horn now. Eighty years, saxty of whilk were spent under harness, are beginning to tell sairly on me at last; and that frosty auld carle, Time, hath whispered long that my marching days are weel nigh over. But, please God, I may die in my buff coat yet, gif the tide of war rolls northward. I would fain see a few more blows exchanged on Scottish turf before I am laid below it."

"I marvel not, Sir Thomas," said the gentle young Countess of Dunbarton, "that the sight of these passing bands rouses your nobler spirit, when I, who am so timid, feel myself inspired with a false ardour and courage."

"Most noble ladies, the heart would indeed be a cauld one, that felt nae fire in sic an hour as this. By my faith, even my auld troop-horse, grey Marston, kittles up his lugs at the fanfare o' the trumpet, like a Don Cossacque at the cry of plunder. Puir Marston," he added, patting the neck of his charger, "I fear our fighting days are now gone by, unless the Dutch rapscallions come north, whilk may God direct, that auld Tammas o' the Binns may strike three strokes on steel for Scotland and his king, ere this baton is laid on his coffin-lid. 'Tis a brave sight, ladies, and Douglas hath under his banner some brave lads as ever marched to battle or breach. But I like not this new invention, whilk is callit the bayonet, preferring the good old Sweyn's feather, which repels the heaviest brigade of horse like a stane dyke.

"Lady Grisel, I heard you speak just now of the Mareschal-General Lesly. He was a d——d auld round-headed cur, and his brigades of sour blue-bonnets were no more to be compared to our lads that marched to Worcester, than eggshells are to cannon-balls. But had you seen the Muscovite host on the march for Samoieda, in that year when we beleaguered and sacked and overran the whole shores of the Frozen Ocean, ye would have seen marching to their last campaigns some of the prettiest cavaliers that ever ate horse-flesh or slashed the head off a Tartar. Now, God's murrain on the southern clodpoles!" began Sir Thomas, commencing some fierce tirade against the English, for he was a Scot of the oldest school.

"Fie, Knight of Binns!" said Annie Laurie; "you forget that my Lady Dunbarton is south-land bred."

"Sweet mistress, I crave pardon of her gentleness. But I am owre auld to pick my words now. I say as my fathers have said; I think as my fathers have thocht."

"Your servant, Sir Thomas.—Ladies, your humble servant!" said that unconscionable bore, Lord Mersington, who at that moment rode up with Clermistonlee. "Hee, hee, General—seeing your auld friends awa again—'bodin in effeir of weir,' as the acts say?"

"Yea, my Lord. You, too, hae seen some work like this in your time."

"Ay. At Dunbar I rode in the troop of the College of Justice, and exchanged the judge's wig for the troopers morion; ye ken, when drums beat, laws are dumb."

"Then Heaven send they may beat for ever and aye. A bonnie like troop o' auld carlins your Lordship's Justiciars were, and merrily we stark cavaliers of the French and Swedish wars laughed when Monk's regiment of foot, whilk are now denominate the Coldstreamers, routed ye like sae mony schule bairns."

"Under favour, Sir Thomas, I hold that to be leasing-making, hee, hee! and though we laugh owre it now as auld gossips, I mind the day when blades had been drawn on it."

Clermistonlee, while endeavouring with equal skill and grace to curb his restive horse, fixed his dark gloating eyes on Lilian Napier, and gave her a profound bow; but, well aware of what his intentions had long been towards her, instead of acknowledging it, she coldly turned away, and took the arm of Annie Laurie. She was too gentle to glance disdainfully, but an indignant blush crimsoned her cheek, and she withdrew to another part of the parapet. Clermistonlee bit his proud lip with vexation; but the fierce gleam of his dark eye passed unobserved by all save Juden, who, like his shadow, was never far off.

"My Lord Clermistonlee, we will hae but a toom toun now, when our brave bucks and braw fellows have a' marched southward," said Dalyel.

"Many a fair damsel sees her stout leman for the last time," replied his Lordship, with a soft smile at Lilian; "but keep bold hearts, fair ladies—there are as handsome fellows left behind as any that march under the baton of James Douglas."

"As gude fish in the sea as e'er cam' out o' t, hee, hee!"

"True," retorted Annie Laurie; "but such gay fellows as your Lordships are too economical of their persons to suit the taste of a bold border lass."

"Indeed, Mistress Laurie! But according to love à la mode, one leman is quite the same as another."

"Whilk," said Sir Thomas Dalyel, with a deep laugh, interrupting a sharp retort of Annie's, "whilk were the very words a certain Muscovite damsel sain to me, after her husband's head had been chopped off by the ungracious Tartars. I construed it into a hint that I was to occupy his place, and I was but owre happy, for 'tis a cold country, the land of the Russ and——but, dags and pistols! here cometh the rear-guard already! and as there are some lads marching owre yonder brae, with whom I would fain confer for the last time, I must crave your Ladyship's pardon, with leave to follow the line of route."

Erect in his stirrups, with toes pointed upwards and baton depressed, the old cavalier made a profound obeisance, and notwithstanding his great age dashed at full gallop through the crowd, amidst an ill-repressed shout of hatred and execration from amongst it.

"An auld ill-faured persecuting devil!" said Elsie Elshender, shaking her withered hand after him; "a tormentor o' God's worthiest servants, a Cain among the sons o' men—a fearfu' tyrant, and suited to fearfu' times. Gude keep us! look at the doken blade he spat on; there is a hole brunt clean through it."

"His horse's hoofs mak' runnin' water boil," added Syme the Baillie's wife in a low voice.

"Silence, Cummers!" said Juden Stenton; "or you'll hae the steel jougs locked round your jaws the morn, and may be get a het tar-barrelling after for speaking sae freely o' your betters."

Sir Thomas reined up alongside of the three generals, whom for several miles he bored with musty maxims, obsolete tactics, and strange advice, anent the superiority of Sweyn's feathers over the screwed dagger (or bayonet), and furiously condemned the slinging of carbines in budgets in lieu of shoulderbelts, as in the days of Montrose—expatiated on the method of forming square with the grenadiers covering the angles, and making the bringers-up (or third rank) entirely of musqueteers. He particularly impressed upon General Douglas the method of posting musqueteers among the horse and dragoons in alternate regiments—a tactique of that Star of the North, the great Gustavus of Sweden, and used by Prince Rupert at Long Marstonmoor—and after a fierce tirade against Sir James Wemys's leather cannon for field service, and a few words about the Muscovites, this veteran soldier of fortune bade them adieu near the Balm Well of St. Catherine, which lay yet a ruin, just as Cromwell's puritans had left it thirty-eight years before, when 16,000 of them encamped on the Gallaehlawhill. There Dalyel parted with "bluidy Dunbarton, Douglas, and Dundee," never to meet again; for though he saw it not, the hand of death was already stretched over the venerable "persecutor" and exile—war, wounds, and death were the portion of the others.

Long, long remained the fair young Countess watching the glittering columns as they wound over the Burghmuir, and ascended the hills of Braid, and until the faintest tap of the drums died away on the wind, and the helmets of the rearguard flashed a farewell ray in the evening sun, as they disappeared over the distant hills.

Then the grief of Lilian could no longer be restrained, for a heavy sense of utter desolation fell upon her heart.

"Oh, Annie, Annie!" she exclaimed, and throwing herself upon the bosom of friend, burst into a passion of tears.

The bustle, the glitter, and the music all combined, had caused an unnatural degree of excitement, and had sustained their spirits while the troops were pouring past, enabling them to behold with calmness a thousand tender partings. All now were away—silence and stillness succeeded—the excitement had evaporated, and they experienced an unnerving reaction which rendered them miserable, and they wept without restraint for the lovers that had left them—perhaps for ever.