"Lord earl, I thank you," said Mary, whose eyes filled with tears, and whose daughter, on perceiving this emotion, gently stole her little hand within hers; "after his death, I might have urged the parliament to remember that Mary of Gueldres, the widow of James II., and Margaret Tudor, the widow of James IV., were both regents of Scotland; then why not I, Mary of Guise and Lorraine, widow of their descendant, James V.? Yet, I asked you not for this. I love my kinsman Arran; but I better love my little daughter—the child your monarch left me. Is it not so, my good Lord Regent?"
"It is, madam; you speak most fairly and truly," replied Arran, whose smile belied the admission.
"I call God and His blessed Mother to witness, if I had then a thought in the world, but to rear my babe, as I was reared by my father, René of Lorraine, a good Catholic, and to guard her from the intrigues of those who would destroy the liberties of her country and her hope of salvation, by giving her in marriage to the heretic son of a heretic king."
"And while united to resist this object," said Arran, courteously kissing her white hand, "we are invincible; so long live the Dauphin of France, who shall one day be Francis I., king of the Scots."
A loud burst of applause shook the hall, while the malcontent lords exchanged glances of fury.
"Beware, my Lord of Arran, beware," said Glencairn; "last year, '46, Francis I. of France was glad to purchase a peace with England at the expense of eight hundred thousand crowns."
"We will purchase it at the expense of a few superfluous lives," retorted Arran, with a glance of stern significance, which made the sombre earl yet more grim and sullen; and now Bothwell began to fear that his chance of obtaining an English princess to grace his castle of Hermitage, was about as slender as Master Edward Shelly's hope of obtaining a Scottish countess, for better or worse.
The general result of this conference, or convention of the lords spiritual and temporal, was a unanimity of sentiment on the part of the regent and of the queen-mother to promote internal peace and public order. The former, for the common weal, formally renounced the contract of marriage between the young queen and his son the Lord Hamilton, in favour of the Dauphin of France, and annulled all the bonds given by various powerful peers, who pledged themselves to see that alliance effected.
The Earl of Angus and the Lord Maxwell, stung with shame, publicly and solemnly repudiated all promises of loyalty or fealty to England; and the peer last named was made warden of the western marches. Bothwell, Cassilis, and Glencairn, with others of their party, were left in a state of doubt, irresolution, and fear; for there was now at hand a crisis which would force them to arms, either for Scotland or against her.
The convention dissolved, and from that hour Scotland and England prepared for open war!
During the debate the eyes of Florence and of the countess met repeatedly, and each time she trembled, coloured deeply, and looked aside. Then, after a time, she durst not turn towards him. She knew that now he must have discovered her name, and who she was; and her heart seemed to shrink and wither up within her, in dread lest his love might turn to indifference, if not to hatred; for she knew the depth of abhorrence excited by the memory of the death-feud, inculcated by Lady Alison, in the two sons of Sir John Fawside.
Meanwhile, ignorant of what was passing in the minds of his niece and his soi-disant enemy, the old Laird of Preston had more than once surveyed the latter with somewhat of melancholy interest; for he knew the wild, stern spirit which this youth inherited from his father—and the ideas he had imbibed with the milk and blood of his mother; but poor Florence, overwhelmed by varied emotions, and by the secret he had so recently learned, avoided altogether the keen grey eye of Hamilton.
The queen-mother made a low reverence to the lords of convention, and while the sharp trumpets flourished bravely, withdrew with her daughter and ladies of honour. The eye of Florence followed sorrowfully the sombre group in their doole-cloaks (for Mary of Lorraine in public still wore the garb of mourning), and in imagination he seemed to be bidding adieu for ever to his love, and the hope it had kindled within him.
In presence of this beautiful girl the young man seemed to be alike without words or thoughts that had any coherence.
So absorbing was the emotion, that he was quite unconscious of the insolent and defiant glances levelled at him by Glencairn, by his son Kilmaurs, and others, as they brushed past and left the hall, to scheme further plots for vengeance or for safety; for these lords and their followers were only restrained by a knowledge of the locality, of its sanctity, and of the high powers of the Lord High Constable, from assaulting and slaying him, sword in hand, within the precincts of this royal castle and palace; for princely Stirling, in Scotland's earlier days, was both.
Within an hour after the convention broke up two horsemen were seen passing eastward, through the Torwood, at full speed, to lessen as much as possible the eighty Scottish miles or so that lay between them and the frontiers of England.
They were the valiant captain of the Boulogners and Master Patten, the emissaries of the Duke of Somerset, on the high-road for Berwick and London, to announce that England had no argument left her now but a sharp and dangerous one—the sword!
The loyal and true foresaw the evils to come with sincere sorrow; and, under their silvery beards, old men muttered that ancient prophecy so fatally and so frequently applicable to Scotland:—
Woe unto the land whose king is a child!
'Tis but thy name, that is my enemy;—Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,Nor arm, nor face, nor any other partBelonging to a man.Romeo and Juliet.
Left almost alone in the king's hall, Florence retired from it with a heart that was alternately a prey to the emotions of sadness and mortification, bitterness and anger.
He had seen Madeline Home in her place at court as Countess of Yarrow, as maid of honour to Mary of Lorraine and as daughter of that brave Quentin Home, sixth Earl of Yarrow, who bore the king's standard at Flodden, and was warden of the middle marches—who was cupbearer to James V., and his ambassador to John III. of Portugal. Florence had seen the eyes of a hundred men surveying with admiration her beauty, which rivalled and at times outshone that of the queen she attended. The conference had lasted three hours. In all that time his eyes had scarcely seen another object than Madeline, and yet she had seldom turned her gaze towards him, and latterly not at all; for she felt oppressively conscious that she was in his presence, and that she had in some way wronged him.
She had become cold, he conceived; for it never occurred to him that, in her timidity, and lest other eyes might read their secret, she dared no longer trust herself to look upon him; and he knew not what this steadiness of averted gaze cost her poor little heart.
The dream which had filled his imagination with so much joy during the past few weeks—the dream of being loved by a woman young and beautiful—was now passing away; and the grim, armed figure of Claude Hamilton of Preston, with the warnings and incitements of his mother to bloodshed and hostility, seemed to loom darkly out from amid the shadows of the future.
In this sombre mood, and doubtful whether or not he ought to wait upon the regent before leaving Stirling, he wandered from the castle into the large tract of ground which lies south-west of it. Enclosed by a massive stone wall, this place is still known as the king's park, because there of old our monarchs kept tame deer. From thence he passed into the royal gardens, which lay at the east end of this park; and where vestiges of the walks and parterres, with the stumps of decayed fruit-trees, are still remaining amid the weeds and rushes of a marsh. In the centre of these parterres rises a mound of circular form, flattened on the summit, and named still the Round Table, from the games of chivalry played there by the princely Jameses and their knights of old, when a warrior spirit was strong in the land.
It was now one of the loveliest of August evenings. The green masses of the giant Ochil range, the columnar fronts of the Abbey craig, and of Craigforth, were basking in the sunshine; while the pale-blue or deep-purple summits of the mightier Grampians—Britain's ridgy backbone—stood sharply up against the clear glory of the golden sky; and chief of all arose the hill of God Benledi.
The terraces of the royal garden were balustraded with carved stonework, and were reached by flights of steps. They were decorated with vases of flowers, statues, and rosariums; and, in the old Scoto-French fashion, there were long grassy walks shaded by hedgerows of privet and holly, closely clipped, and compact and dense as a wall of leaves could well be.
As Florence wandered through these green alleys, oppressed by the thoughts we have described, at a sudden turn he met a lady, who carried upon her left wrist a hawk, the glossy pinions and plumage of which she was caressing. It sat upon a hawk-glove which was set with pearls, and with more than one ruby. Her other hand was bare, and of wonderful whiteness and beauty. She looked up as they drew near; and the heart of Florence beat painfully quick as his eyes met those of the promenader.
She was the Countess of Yarrow!
Flushing for a moment, she became very pale as she gave Florence her gloveless hand, which he kissed with a tremulous lip, ere it was hurriedly withdrawn; and then ensued one of those dreamy and painful pauses when, if doubt or fear exist in lovers, their eyes and hearts seem striving to analyse each other.
"At last I have learned your secret," said Florence sadly. "This day has discovered to me all—your rank, and, most sad and calamitous of all, your name and race; for my own peace, O lady, a double revelation most fatal!"
"Fatal!" she reiterated tremulously—her voice had a musical chord in it, which made every word she uttered singularly sweet and pleasing—"did you really say fatal?"
"Can the word excite your surprise?" he asked with a sadness amounting to bitterness; "when you knew that I was Florence Fawside, and the sworn enemy of your race—hating it and all its upholders—hating your blood and all who inherit it—even as the house of Preston have hated me and mine—with a rancour akin to that of devils; for in this faith my mother reared me.
"Yet, while knowing all that, I ministered unto you in your perilous illness, even as a sister—as a wife would have done," said the countess, in a low voice.
"And by that most gentle ministry—by your dazzling beauty and adorable manner, lured me to love you."
"Lured!"
"Oh, Lady Madeline! my heart is swollen to bursting. You said you loved me."
"And I love you still, dear, dear Florence!" she replied, in a voice broken by agitation.
"Alas! but yesternight I repelled the proffered friendship of your kinsman—repelled it as my dead father, as my dead brother would have done—with antipathy and scorn; and woe is me! the blood of both is on his sword and on his soul!"
The countess bowed her face upon her hands, and wept bitterly; her shoulders shook with emotion, and her bosom heaved with sobs. For a moment the heart of Fawside was wrung.
"Countess—Lady Yarrow—dearest Madeline—do not weep! Pardon me if I am rough of speech; your tears fall like molten lead upon my heart. My love—my dear love—look up and listen to me," he continued, taking her hands in his; while the hawk flew to the end of the cord which retained it, and screamed and fluttered its wings. "Oh, what shall I say to unsay the bitterness of words that should never have escaped me, and least of all to one so gentle and so tender as you!"
"And you saved the life of my kinsman, my uncle Claude, in Cadzow Wood?"
"And he mine——"
"In Millheugh tower?"
"Yes,—from Allan Duthie, and his vile marauders."
"He told me all, dear Florence, all, and did full justice to your truth and courage," said the young countess, looking up, while her bright eyes suffused with tears of joy; "after such services given mutually, this hatred, so wicked and unnatural, must surely lessen and die."
"Under favour, sweetest heart; these services so given and tendered, but placed us again upon an equality. Thought and action in each are still free. One cannot upbraid, or fetter the other's hand, by the bitter taunt,to me thou owest life!"
"Alas! here ends my dream; for if I find you thus stubborn and wilful to me, how shall I find my older, and sterner kinsmen?"
"Your dream, beloved Madeline,—of what?" asked the young man tenderly.
"Of peace and goodwill at least, if not of love and amity between us; for well do I know that so strong is your mother's hatred, that when we ding down Tantallon, and make a bridge to the Bass,[*] we may attempt to overcome it, but not till then."
[*] An old proverb, descriptive of an impossibility.
"Ah, speak not of my mother, Madeline," replied Florence, in an agitated voice; "the foreknowledge of all with which she may—nay, must taunt me, makes me think at times of bidding Scotland adieu for a season at least, and of returning to the Duchess of Albany, at Vendome; of joining the French army, now advancing into the Milanese; or, in short, of going anywhere, Madeline, save back to my father's old tower on Fawside Hill."
The eyes of the young countess were fixed on him sadly, sweetly, and with somewhat of reproach in them.
"You could not—" she began;
"At this crisis, no—when duty requires every loyal gentleman to lay his sword and service at the feet of Mary of Lorraine."
"Does no other sentiment than mere loyalty chain you here?" said the countess reproachfully; "could you——"
"Leave you—you would ask, beloved Madeline! ah, no—I am bewildered, and know not what I say."
He threw one arm round her, and pressed her to his breast, and his lip to hers.
When with her now, all the hopes and desires of life seemed to be gratified, and existence to have attained its culminating point, yet they were without words to express their emotion.
Each, to the full, had admitted or owned their love for the other. Then what more had they to say, for loverlike, their eyes were full of eloquence, though their tongues remained silent.
Suddenly a group of ladies appeared at the end of the long leafy alley. They were the queen-mother, the young queen Mary, and four ladies of honour. Florence had only time to whisper,—
"God mark thee, sweet one; adieu!"—to snatch one other kiss—a kiss never to be forgotten; and with a heart that beat joyously, and a head that seemed to whirl with delight, he quitted the royal garden with all speed, crossed the king's park, and ascended once more to the castle of Stirling.
Captain Swagger has ask'd me to wait on you, sir!—Of course you remember last evening's transaction?—And you, as a gentleman, cannot demurAt giving the captain the due satisfaction.
We have said that Florence left the countess with a tumult of emotion in his breast. He was full of joy that she loved him,—joy and honest triumph; but to what end was all this love? Circumstanced and separated as they were, by fate, by feud, and fortune, what could its sequel be, or how could a happy result ever be achieved?
At this perplexing thought, the tombs of his father and brother in the church of Tranent—those two quaintly-carved altar-tombs, on each of which lay the rigid effigy of an armed knight, his head upheld by two angels, his stony eyes gazing upward, and his mailed hands clasped in ceaseless prayer, as they lay with shield on arm and sword at side,—seemed to rise like the solemn barriers of death, between him and Madeline Home; for in each of these tombs lay the "blood-boltered" corpse of a near and dear kinsman, slain in feud and mortal fight, by the hand of Claude Hamilton. Florence still viewed the latter as the hereditary foe of his race; and with him, in the blindness of his anger, he identified those attempts by which his life had been so savagely and ruthlessly jeopardized of late.
The recollection of all he had undergone by wounds and indignity, filled him with a bitterness which even his successful love could scarcely soothe; and as he crossed the castle-yard to order his horse, on perceiving the captain of Mary of Lorraine's arquebusiers in conversation with a woman at one of the palace doors, he immediately approached him. The soldier was bravely apparelled in a red satin doublet and mantle, a white velvet hat with a red feather, white boots furnished with long gold spurs, which he clanked together, and apparently very much to his own satisfaction, as he pirouetted about, and laughed gaily with his female friend, while his delicately-gloved right hand played alternately with an amber rosary that dangled at his waist, and with a chain and medal of gold which hung at his neck. He wore a cuirass, which shone like a steel mirror; and had, of course, his sword and dagger.
Here Florence found a legitimate object whereon to vent his irritation; and, as he drew near, the woman, who was no other than Janet Sinclair, the little queen's foster-mother, retired hastily and shut the door, on which Champfleurie, with an air of annoyance which he was at no pains to conceal, turned, with a frown on his handsome but sinister face, and surveyed Florence from head to foot with the cool air of perfect assurance.
"I presume, sir, that you know me?" said the latter, sternly.
"I soon know every man who dares assume such a tone to me," replied the captain gruffly.
"Dares!"
"I have said so, sir," replied the soldier, shaking his plume.
"Ha! ha! You either mock yourself or me."
"Uds daggers, sirrah! What make you here?"
"That you shall soon learn. You remember giving me, in the streets of Edinburgh, a letter for the laird of Millheugh!"
"I have some faint recollection of doing so," replied Champfleurie, with an impertinent yawn.
"That letter was a deadly snare,—a lure for my destruction; and you knew it to be so."
"You—John Livingstone of Champfleurie!"
"How, laird of Fawside—how?"
"By the tenor of the letter, and by the message with which you accompanied it, you proved yourself to be——"
"What? Be wary, sir,—what?"
"A false liar!"
Livingstone grew pale with rage. He drew back a pace, and pressing the hilt of his sword against his heart for a moment, relinquished it with a gasp of anger. On this, his fiery opponent, who was his junior by ten years, smiled scornfully, and said,—
"You know the sensation of a sword-blade entering your flesh?"
"Cogsbones! I should think so!" replied the captain, with a smile equally proud and scornful. "I have, in my time, had a dozen of good swords in me; seven in duels, two at Ancrumford, and three at the rout of Solway."
"Then what is it like?"
"Do you wish practical proof, damned jackfeather?"
"What is it like?" reiterated Florence furiously.
"Hot iron."
"Then you shall enjoy that warm sensation again!"
"Indeed!" sneered Champfleurie.
"Yes!" replied Florence, unsheathing his sword with a fury no longer restrainable; for during this strange conversation he had gradually been drawing the captain towards the Nether Baillery, a secluded part of the fortress. "Defend yourself, villain, lest I kill you where you stand!"
"Stay!—stay!" exclaimed the other, defending himself only by his left arm, round which he quickly rolled his velvet mantle.
"Why stay? Would you confess? If so, the queen's chaplain——"
"Bah! Confession went out with the cardinal last year. But hold your wrath, sir, and put up your sword; remember where we are, and that our lands are forfeited to the Lord High Constable if we draw weapons within the precincts of a royal castle or palace, and must I remind you that the queen's fortress of Stirling is both. Moreover, my Lord of Errol, the constable, once caught me kissing his lady's hand; and husbands have troublesome memories sometimes."
"Sir, I thank you for the lesson; in my just anger I forgot where we were. But we need have no lack of a trysting-place."
"No sir, if you are thus stout and resolute," replied the captain, coming close, with a sombre frown on his face; for being as perfectly master of his temper as of his sword, he was the deadlier and more dangerous enemy. "At sunset I will meet you beside the Roman Rock, below the castle wall."
"Good! Till then——"
"Adieu."
And with a stern salute they both separated.
"Plague take thee for a ruffling bully," thought Champfleurie. "But, by the blessed pig of St. Anthony, I shall kill thee like a cur, or I am no true Livingstone!"
People thought little of risking life, and less of fighting, in those days. But as Florence remembered the young love he had just left, her sweetness, her beauty, and passionate nature; and then his stern mother, who loved and prized him as an only son, the prop of her years, the last of his line and the hope of its vengeance, the idea that he might for ever take up his abode in the burial-place of Stirling, filled him with a temporary sadness and gloom. Fortunately, however, but brief time was left him for sombre reflection, as he had barely parted from Champfleurie when the young baron of Dalserfe approached, cap in hand, to say that the regent desired to speak with him immediately.
Florence remembered the warning of Champfleurie, and believing they had been watched, his first idea suggested a rebuke, if not captivity, for drawing sword in a royal castle, as Arran was endeavouring, but in vain, to repress the lawless and tumultory spirit of the time. However, on being ushered into his presence, his smile and welcome at once relieved the young man from all apprehension on that score.
Wist England's king that I was ta'en,O gin a blythe man he would be;For once I slew his sister's son,And on his breast have broke a tree.Ballad.
The regent was alone, and seated at a table covered with papers, in a small chamber of the royal apartments, in the north-west corner of the castle. It was hung with tapestry, worked by the hands of Mary of Gueldres, as this closet had been a favourite study or resort of her husband, James II., whose name, "Jacobus Scotorum Rex," with the legend,I.H.S. Maria Mother of the Saviour, may still be distinctly traced in golden letters, amid the elaborate carvings of the cornice. In this closet hung two well-battered suits of armour, which had been worn in a single combat in the valley of Stirling, on a day in the Lent of 1449, by two noble Burgundians, named De Lalain, one of whom, Jacques, was esteemed as the best knight in Europe; but they were both slain, after a severe and bloody conflict, by two gentlemen of the house of Douglas, in presence of James II., who acted as umpire or judge of the lists. In this little room, the same monarch, by one stroke of his dagger, slew William, sixth Earl of Douglas, whom he knew to be in league with others against the throne, and whose bleeding body was flung over the window by the captain of the guard, into the Nether Baillerie, where his bones were found in the beginning of the present century.
From this terrible episode, which, though warranted in some respects, fixed an indelible stigma on the reign of the second James; the closet is still known by the name ofThe Douglas Room.
Arran looked weary and thoughtful; for after the irritating convention, he had a long interview with his brother John, who was Archbishop of St. Andrew's and lord chancellor; and with David, Bishop of Ross, the secretary of state, whom Florence passed in earnest conversation together on the staircase as he ascended.
"Fawside," said he, "after what has occurred to-day, you and every other gentleman in Scotland, may look to your harness, for we shall have war ere the next month be past."
"My harness is ever ready, and like my sword, is at the service of your grace."
"But the intrigues of our traitors will blunt the edges of the sharpest swords we possess."
"You mean——"
"The malcontent nobles, and the more turbulent of our landed gentry. Can I have patience with them, when Heaven itself seems to have none, since it permits them to slay and decimate each other, in their endless feuds and quarrels?"
At this remark, the young man coloured deeply, as he thought the regent referred to the feud of his family with the Hamiltons of Preston.
"You change colour," said Arran, smiling; "believe me, I referred not to your father's ancient quarrel with my kinsman, Claude, for your father was a brave and leal Scottish man; none was there better than he, or more approved in arms, among the soldiers of James IV. He fought at Flodden. But by that blush, Fawside, I perceive you are not much of a courtier," added the regent, laughing.
"No, lord earl, though I have passed some time in the saloons of the Louvre and St. Germains; happily I am not."
"Happily?"
"Yes, my lord; kings can at all times find courtiers, but loyal subjects and true soldiers are less brittle ware."
"And you——"
"Hope that I have the honour to be esteemed a loyal subject."
"And a brave soldier, too, young man."
"I have yet that name to win," said Florence modestly.
"At this perplexing time, when every avenue and antechamber of our palaces are thronged by traitors, who were in league with the late English Harry, and are now at faith with the protector, I do not deem it expedient to visit with condign punishment those men, of whose base intrigues I am, to some extent aware; yet, within the last hour, I have sent the Earl of Bothwell, deprived of his sword, spurs, and green ribbon, guarded by forty troopers, all Hamiltons, a prisoner to the castle of Edinburgh. There, in the sure ward of its governor, Sir James Hamilton of Stainehouse, let him await—through the iron bars of David's Tower—the coming of Dame Katherine Willoughby, his English bride; and there shall he remain in solitude and seclusion, while I consider the means of crushing his compatriots, after we have swept the foe back to their own country."
"Bothwell a prisoner!" exclaimed Florence; "I should like to hear my Lord Glencaim's opinion of this."
"What would his opinion be?"
"He is a lord of the Scottish privy council."
"But his opinion; what would it be?"
"He is a lord of council."
"Sir, what mean you by repeating that?"
"Because, as a royal councillor, he must not appear to think different from your grace."
Arran knit his brows, and then smiled.
"By my soul, young sir, you have picked up some wit in your travels; but it may provoke the exercise of a sharper weapon in Scotland. 'Tis dangerous here especially. The town is full of our malcontent lords and the gentlemen of their trains. They swagger in the streets, and jostle the queen's guards, impeding even the horse-litter of Mary of Lorraine. They say and practise a thousand insolences in public; their swords flash under the nose of any poor burgess body who dares but look at them; they are fine fellows—yea, brave fellows; but I hope to beat the dust from their jerkins, after we have used them to beat the Duke of Somerset." Arran laughed bitterly as he spoke thus, and then resumed more gravely: "To attempt to crush the hydra on the eve of a foreign invasion, would be an unwise policy. The friends and followers of my enemies would at once join the invader; and bethink you, the clothyard shafts of the English, or the balls of the Spanish arquebuses, may save our Scottish headsmen and hangmen some work in time to come, by sending our faithless ones to the place of their reward. But now to the point, concerning which I sent for you. Preparations are to be made on all hands for the defence of the country. A line of beacons is to be established from St. Abb's Head to the summit of the palace of Linlithgow, in order that due intimation may be given of the moment the English cross the Tweed or Solway; and in the old Highland fashion, the cross of fire shall be the warning to arms. You have done me good service, laird of Fawside; and this I mean to reward in the manner most pleasing to yourself—by taxing yet further your faith and loyalty."
"My lord regent, you read my thoughts like a wizard."
"To you, under a royal warrant, which will be sent to your tower, in Lothian, I remit the task of superintending the erection of those beacons, on the most available sites. As for the expense, the lord high treasurer must see to that; and each landed baron must furnish both workmen and material for the balefire in his own vicinity—as the landholders of Lothian furnished all that was requisite for the outer wall of Edinburgh, in the year of Flodden. You will see to this."
"At the hazard of my life I will perform any duty you may do me the honour to assign me," replied Florence, with enthusiasm.
The regent bowed, and when men in his position bowed, Florence knew that it was a hint, the interview was over. As he prepared to retire,—
"You must promise me, sir," said Arran, "to avoid all brawls, duels, and quarrels."
"As far as a man may do so, consistent with honour," replied Florence, as he retired and hastened to keep his appointment with Champfleurie.
Pleased that one of his foes was now in captivity and disgrace, proud of the high trust reposed in himself by the regent, and prouder that the young countess still loved him, no man ever went forth to kill or be killed in higher spirits than our hero, as he descended from The Douglas Room and called for his horse. It was soon brought; and as he rode between the four large towers which then guarded the arched porch of the castle, with the air of an emperor, and with the lavish generosity of a true gallant of the time, he put his hand into the embroidered purse which hung at his girdle, and scattered a glittering shower of its contents among the grooms, lackeys, and pages who lounged on the benches at the gate, and whose shouts of applause followed him as he rode hurriedly down the spacious esplanade.
Your love ne'er learn'd to flee,Bonnie dame—winsome dame!Your love ne'er learn'd to flee,My winsome dame!Old Song.
The sombre reflections mentioned at the close of the last chapter but one, again recurred to Florence, as he rode from the fortress and sought the winding path which led to the place of his hostile meeting. Then for the first time he remembered that he was without a second, and there was no man in Stirling whom he knew sufficiently to implicate in such an affair; indeed, he was totally without acquaintances. Checking his horse and looking around, he perceived, at the head of the Broad Wynd, a man about to mount a stout nag. This person wore a brown doublet of Flemish broadcloth, with long red sarcenet hose; he had on an open helmet, cuirass, and a grey border plaid. At his belt hung a long dagger, and at his saddlebow a Jedwood axe, locally known as a Jethart staff. His burly figure, rough beard, and open, honest expression of face, aroused the interest and won the favour of Florence, who for some time past had been forced to study the physiognomies of men; and by his equipment believing him to be a respectable burgess or yeoman, he at once addressed him,—
"May I ask, gudeman, if you are a burgher of Stirling?"
"Nay, sir; I come frae the gude town——"
"Edinburgh?"
"At your service, fair sir."
"'Tis well—I am from that quarter, or a matter of ten miles east of it, myself."
"In what can I serve you, sir? I am Dick Hackerston, a free burgess and guild brother, at the sign o' the 'Crossed Axes' in the Landmarket, where my booth is as weel kenned as St. Giles's steeple."
"Hackerston," reiterated Fawside, to whom his voice seemed familiar; "is such thy name, good fellow?"
"Sooth is it, sir; and my father's before me. Sae, wherefore sic marvel?"
"To you I owe my life, brave man!"
"To owe me siller is nae uncommon thing; but that a man—a braw gallant like you—owes life to me, is something new," replied the merchant, with surprise.
"Have you forgotten that night when on the Castle Hill a single swordsman was so sorely beset by the weapons of at least a score of swashbuckler knaves; and when, but for your Jeddart staff——"
"By my faith, weel do I remember that bluidy night," said he, warmly shaking the hand of Florence; "and how I was beset in turn by these foul limmers, ilk ane o' whom deserved a St. Johnston tippet, for they would have slain me on the open causeway, and burned my booth to boot, but for the timeous arrival o' the town guard and some burgess friends who heard the shouts under their windows, and came forth wi pyne doublet and axe to redd the fray. Wi some landward merchants I ride eastward in an hour, ilk escorting the other, as there are many uncanny loons in the Torwood at times; so, in what can I serve you, sir?"
"I am the laird of Fawside, and shall be right glad to ride eastward in your company."
The merchant touched the peak of his morion.
"I ken the auld tower on the braehead, above the Howemire o' Inveresk."
"I have to fight a false villain who hath wronged me; but am without a single friend to see fair play ensured. Gudeman, may I reckon on thee?"
"Command me, sir, if a gentleman will take the aid o' a plain burgess body."
"I thank you, gudeman, and may have some right to ask it of you; for my father, old Sir John of that ilk, led the burgesses of Edinburgh, when King James marched his host to Falamuir."
"And your enemy——"
"Is Livingstone of Champfleurie."
"Captain of the queen's guard?"
"The same."
"An impudent varlet—a scurvy arquebussier, who poked his nose under my gudewife's hood nae further gane than three days ago, as she was coming frae the Mass, by the north door o' St. Giles; and he wi' the Lord Kilmaurs were coming, drunk as pipers, frae an ale-browster's booth in the Crames. I am your man; and you meet him——"
"At the Roman Rock."
"When?"
"Within five minutes by the dial."
"Come on, laird—I am ready."
"I ask you but to see fair play, and if I am slain to bear this ring to the Countess of Yarrow, and my last message to—my mother."
"Yes," said Hackerston, grasping the hand of Florence, and giving his axe a flourish; "but ere I left the ground on sic a deevilish and dolorous errand, by the arm of St. Giles, the patron o' cripples, I'll hae smitten the head frae the shoulders o' Champfleurie as I would the neb frae a syboe; so, on, and without fear!"
"Forth, and feir nocht! 'Tis the motto of my house, gudeman; and your words are ominous of good fortune."
Hackerston mounted his horse, and rode by the side of Florence to the rendezvous, where they found the captain of the guard, accompanied by Lord Kilmaurs, awaiting them. Both wore the half-suits of light armour usually worn at that time by all Scottish gentlemen when walking abroad.
The scene of this encounter, of which we find a minute relation in the pages of a venerable diarist of the day, was the vicinity of the Roman Rock, which took its name from an inscription thereon. It was visible in that age, but has since been effaced by time and the action of the weather. The basalt had been smoothly chiselled, and bore on its face a Latin legend, cut by the soldiers of Julius Agricola, intimating that on the Rock of Stirling—the Mons Dolorum, or Hill of Strife—the second legion of the Roman army "held their daily and nightly watch," while on the Grampians the still victorious Scots barred the deep passes that led to the land of the Gael.
"So, sir," said the captain of arquebuses, loftily, "you have comeat last!"
"I crave pardon if I have detained you one minute over the appointed time," replied Fawside, with gloomy politeness; "but I had to procure a friend."
"You have more to crave pardon for, sirrah," said Lord Kilmaurs roughly; "as it is said that, by the agency of letters——"
"Letters again! That word bids fair to be the bane of my existence."
"Yea—letters brought out of France by thee from those accursed Guises, the Lord Bothwell, my assured friend, hath been degraded—deprived of his green ribbon—and committed to the custody of a Hamilton—a parasite of the Lord Arran."
"I brought no letters out of France, but such as well became the queen's liege man to bear," replied Florence haughtily.
"Well, and how about your friend: is a burrowtown merchant—a mere booth-holder, as I take him to be,—a beseeming squire for a landed baron—a gentleman of that ilk?" asked Kilmaurs, with a lightning glance in his sinister eye.
"Some flesher of Falkirk or souter of Linlithgow, I warrant," added the equally insolent Champfleurie, laughing.
"I am a brother o' the merchant guild, my masters," replied Hackerston, unabashed by their overweening manner; "and ken ye, sirs, that nae souter, litster, or flesher, can be one of us, unless he swear that he use not his office wi' his ain hand, but deputeth it to servitors under him?"
"What the devil does all this mean?" asked Kilmaurs, shrugging his shoulders. "Do you know, Champfleurie?"
"It means, gentlemen," replied Florence, sternly, "that I—being too well aware there were assassins and bravoes here in Stirling, who, under the guise of nobility assault and murder in the night—thought that the aid of an honest man, stout of heart and ready of hand, as this brave burgess has before approved himself to be, might not be unnecessary; and so, in lack of other friend, I sought his good offices here."
"And I commend you to keep a civil tongue in your head, my Lord o' Kilmaurs; for my Jethart staff has ere this notched a thicker one than yours. I have gien mony an uncanny cloure in my time."
"Enough of this!" exclaimed Champfleurie, drawing his sword and dagger.
"Yea, enough and to spare," added Florence, unsheathing his rapier and the exquisite little poniard given to him by Mary of Lorraine, and closing in close and mortal combat. They fought with such impetuosity that at the third pass he ran Champfleurie through the left forearm, piercing his plate sleeve like a gossamer web, and inflicting a wound so severe that the blood dripped over his fingers. This wound, by almost paralyzing his left hand, rendered his dagger useless, either for stabbing or parrying, for which latter purpose this little weapon was more especially used by the sword-playing gallants of those days.
The bearing of Champfleurie, which previous to this had been cool, contemptuous, and defiant, now became furious and wrathful.
He lunged and thrust almost at random; and twice Fawside contrived to secure his blade by arresting it in the ironwork of his own hilt; he was thus enabled to retain it, and, locking in, to menace the throat of Champfleurie with his dagger; but twice he generously released the blade, which he might easily have snapped from its hilt; and thus the combat was twice renewed, after they had breathed a little, and glared into each other's pale and excited faces.
The skill and generosity of Florence excited even the admiration of Kilmaurs, who exclaimed,—
"Well and nobly done, Fawside! But that I am sworn to be thine enemy I could wish thee for a friend. Another such mischance, Champfleurie, and by Heaven thou art a lost man!"
On each of these occasions Hackerston uttered a stentorian shout of applause, which in some measure served to dissipate the little self-possession retained by Champfleurie, who soon became almost blind with passion and hatred. In this state he soon proved an easy conquest to his antagonist, who by one tremendous blow broke his weapon to shivers, scattering the shining steel as if it had been a blade of glass, and, closing in, with the large hilt of his own rapier, struck him to the earth, and pinned him there by placing a foot on his breast. The blood flowed copiously from the mouth of the fallen man, who lay completely at the mercy of the victor.
"Champfleurie, thou mansworn loon, ask life at my hands, lest I slay thee like a venomous reptile."
"Nay, I need not ask that which is beyond your power to grant me," groaned the other.
"How, sir—what mean you?"
"That—that I am mortally wounded."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Florence with astonishment; "I did but give you a buffet with the shell of my sword—a mere buffet, sirrah."
"Draw near—draw near," said Champfleurie, half closing his eyes; and Florence knelt beside him.
"Nearer still I have somewhat to say—something to give thee."
Florence, with no emotion now in his heart but the purest commiseration, stooped over the supposed sufferer, who, transferring his dagger from one hand to the other, suddenly grasped him by the throat, dragged him down, and strove to stab him in the heart; but the point glanced aside upon the polished face of Fawside's finely-tempered cuirass, and the attempt was futile, as the blade went under his left arm.
Sudden though the action, Florence, by pressing his arm against his side, retained the weapon there, and, with his sword shortened in his hand, again menaced the throat of Champfleurie; but changing his purpose, instead of killing him on the instant, as he deserved, he merely compressed his steel gorget until he was almost suffocated, and then wrenching away the poniard, snapped the blade in pieces and threw them in his face in token of contempt.
At that moment the Lord Kilmaurs came forward, with his sword sheathed and his right hand ungloved.
"Laird of Fawside," said he, "you are a gentleman brave and accomplished as Champfleurie is false and unworthy. Accept my hand, in token that never again will I draw sword on you in any feud or faction, save for her majesty the queen. You have converted me from a foe to a friend."
"Then," says the old diarist already referred to, "the laird of Fawside, a soothfast youth and gallant, took the young lord's hand in his for a brief space, saying, with a laugh,—
"'He has rent me a velvet doublet, that cost fifty shillings in the Rue l'Arbre Sec, and ruined my garsay hosen by two sword-thrusts; but I am without a scratch.'"
Then straightway mounting his horse, without casting another glance at his prostrate enemy, who was covered with shame, he left the burgh of Stirling, in company with three landward merchants on their way to Edinburgh. And so, for the present, ended his quarrel with the laird of Champfleurie.
By my faith, there be thieves i' the wood!Soho, sir,—straightway stand, and let us seeWhat manner of knave or varlet you be.Old Play.
It was fortunate for Florence that he was accompanied by the three well-armed and well-mounted burgesses of Edinburgh, as several of the Lord Bothwell's friends or allies were loitering in the Torwood, as before they had lingered in Cadzow, with intentions towards him the reverse of friendly. Thus, though the conversation of his companions concerning imports and exports, tallow, flax, and battens from Muscovy, beer from Dantzig, wines from Low Germanie, fruits from France, and so forth, or the latest whim-whams or absurdities of the provost and council of Edinburgh, did not prove very interesting to him—a lover, a youth who had lately left the gaities of Paris, the court of France, and who, since then, had been so favourably noticed by Mary of Lorraine, the most beautiful queen in the world,—their burly forms in jack and morion, their long iron-hilted swords and wheel-lock calivers were of good service in protecting his passage through the wilds of the Torwood and past the Callender, the stronghold of the Livingstones, one of whose chief men, the laird of Champfleurie, had suffered so severely at his hands. One of those who accompanied him was John Hamilton, then a well-known merchant in the West Bow, a cadet of the house of Inverwick, who afterwards fought valiantly and fell at Pinkey.
From the green depths of the Torwood, Florence gazed fondly and wistfully back to Stirling, and his soul seemed to follow his eyes, till castle, rock, and spire melted into the dusk of eve.
The castle of Callender, the seat of Alexander fifth Lord Livingstone—a stern man, of high integrity, to whom Mary of Lorraine entrusted the custody of her daughter,—was a strong tower, surrounded by a deep fosse, and had a high wall forming the outer vallium of the place; and our travellers found themselves close to it about nightfall.
"The auld lord is a rough tyke," said Dick Hackerston; "so, after what has happened to that loon Champfleurie (as ill news travel fast), we had better abide elsewhere than in the Callender."
"The Lord Livingstone bears a high repute," said Florence, "and is greatly loved and trusted by the queen."
"Though somewhat of a courtier," said Hamilton, "he is keeper of the king's forest of Torwood, and, by living among trees and wild bulls his notions have become dark and fierce. I agree wi' you, neighbour Hackerston, we'll e'en find lodgings elsewhere, or lie under the gude greenwood."
"So be it," replied Florence. "And yet, sirs, 'tis somewhat hard that you, three honest burgesses, should be shelterless on my account. Think you that the Lord Livingstone, even if he heard ere morning, which is barely possible, of my open duel with his scurvy namesake, would make common cause with him against me?"
"I would fear to trust him," replied Hackerston; "for bluid is warmer than water."
"I little like lying a night in the Torwood," said John Hamilton; "preferring my snug bit housie at the Bowhead, wi my gudewife birling her wheel in the cosy ingle, and the bairns tumbling ilk owre the other on the floor; mairowre, I am a stranger hereawa. Johnnie Faa's gang o' Egyptians are abroad; and the saints forfend that I come not to harm!"
"Why you in particular! What fear you?" asked Florence.
"Gude kens! But this morning I put on my sark with the wrong side outwards, and placed myleftshoe on the right foot."
"Let us ride on to the castle of the Torwood," said Hackerston. "I ken the good dame who bides there, and have got her cramosie kirtles from France, and vessels of delft and pewter from the Flemings of the Dam. She lost her spouse in a brawl wi' the Livingstones, and may make us a' the mair welcome that one of our company has the bluid o' one o' that name on his hands. She comes o' Highland kin—Muriel Mac Ildhui, and is the last o' the Neishes, a tribe extirpated by the Mac Nabs at Lochearn. Come on, sirs; I ken the way, and can guide you there."
Putting spurs to their horses, they turned aside from the fortalice of the Lord Livingstone, which stood on the side of a green and gentle slope, and skirting a morass named Callender Bog, penetrated into a denser part of the Torwood by a path which, though apparently familiar to Hackerston, was scarcely visible to his companions, for night had closed completely in, and the pale light of the diamond-like stars was intercepted by the thick foliage of the old primeval oaks, which tossed their rustling branches in the rising wind. The rich grass that covered the path muffled, to some extent, the sound of their horses' feet; thus, on hearing voices before them,—
"Hush!" said Florence in a loud whisper; "and look to your weapons, sirs; for the Torwood has but an indifferent reputation."
He had scarcely spoken, when a clear and jolly voice was heard singing merrily a song, the chorus of which was something to this purpose:—
"Saint George he was for England,Saint Denis was for France:SingHoni soit, my merry men.Qui mal y pense!"
"Englishmen, by this light!" exclaimed Florence.
"By this murk darkness, rather!" added Hackerston, unslinging his Jethart axe from his saddlebow. "And bold fellows they must be, to chorus thus in the Torwood!"
The four travellers now hastily put on their helmets, which hitherto had been hung at the bow of their saddles, and for which, during their ride from Stirling, they had substituted bonnets of blue cloth.
"Stand, sirs!" said Florence. "Who are you!"
"Strangers," replied a voice, and then two horsemen became visible amid the gloom of the interlaced trees,—"strangers, who have lost their way in this devilish forest."
"This devilish forest belongs to the queen of Scotland; and how come you to be singing here by night?"
"By the Mass! I knew not that it was a crime to sing by night any more than to sing by day," exclaimed the other, laughing; "I do so when it listeth me."
"'Twas something unwary, at all events," continued Florence, advancing so close that he could perceive the speaker, by his air and manner, to be undoubtedly a gentleman; "but, as your song discovers your country, say, my friends, what make you here, so far from your own borders?"
"We do not yet make war," replied the other; "be assured, fair sir, we have only lost our way, and sorely lack a guide."
"For whence?"
"The highway to Berwick, to which place we belong."
"A word with you."
"Marry! sir, a score—you are welcome."
"You are perhaps ignorant of the law by which, if any Englishman comes into the kingdom of Scotland, to kirk or market, or to any other place, without a safe assurance, the warden, or any man, may make him a lawful prisoner."
"Nay, fair sir, we are not ignorant of that law, and have here a special assurance from the Scottish earl who is lord-warden of the eastern marches."
"'Tis well,—then for this night at least, we are comrades," replied Florence, giving his hand to the strangers, who were no other than Master Edward Shelly, and his companion, Master William Patten, of London; who, having mistaken the way, and being wary of exciting suspicion by inquiries, had for some hours been completely astray in the Torwood. Hackerston, who had suffered severe pecuniary losses in the war of '44, when the Duke of Somerset (then Lord Hertford) set Edinburgh on fire in eight different quarters, grumbled under his beard at this accession to their party.
"Fawside," said he, "I am a man true and faithful to God and the queen. Praised be Heaven, I have never consorted with traitors, or made tryst or truce with Englishmen——"
"Yes; but to leave strangers adrift in this wild wood, where broken men and savage bulls, yea, and wolves too, have their lair, is what an honest fellow like you would never consent to; so, lead on."
In a few minutes more, the travellers found themselves close to a small square tower, surrounded by a fosse and wall—an edifice the ruins of which still remain, and present in their aspect nothing remarkable, or different from the usual towers of Scottish landholders of limited means.
"Hallo—gate, gate, ho!" shouted Hackerston, two or three times, before a man appeared on the summit of the keep, and after counting the number of men, by the starlight, disappeared. His inspection had evidently been unsatisfactory, for he presented himself again, but lower down, on the barbican wall, and immediately above the gate, where he thrust a cresset over the parapet, at the end of a long pole, and surveyed the visitors a second time. The species of light called a cresset, was formed of a loosely-twisted rope, dipped in pitch and resin, and coiled up in a little iron basket, which swung like a trivet between the prongs of a fork. It flared on the old walls of the tower, on the keen, peering eyes and waving grey beard of the old warder, as he shaded his grim face with his weather-beaten hand, and assured himself that those who came so late, and halloed so loud, werenotLivingstones bent on stouthrief and hamesücken, but real and veritable travellers, lacking food and shelter for man and horse. Apparently this second and closer scrutiny, which the desperate nature of the times required and rendered common, satisfied his scruples; the flashing cresset was withdrawn, the gate was unclosed, and Florence, with his five companions, soon found himself in the hall or chamber of dais, in the little fortalice still known as the haunted castle of the Torwood.
After riding about three leagues, they saw the castle, and a goodly one it seemed; for before it ran a river, and it had a drawbridge, whereon was a fair tower at the end.—Amadis de Gaul.
Florence now recognized the face of Edward Shelly.
"We have met before—to-day, I think, in the streets of Stirling?" said he.
"Exactly—and what then?" asked Shelly, bluntly and uneasily.
"Nothing, save that I am pleased to see in this solitary place a face that is in any way familiar to me."
Shelly bowed, and smiled pleasantly; for the errand which brought him into Scotland, and the dangerous papers with which he was entrusted—papers bearing signatures involving war, and death, and treason—kept him ever anxious, restless, and suspicious of all who approached him.
The chatelaine or mistress of the mansion—-the Lady Torwood, as she was named, though but the widow of a landed gentleman, whose possessions lay principally amid the wilds of that once extensive forest, now approached. She wore a black silk dooleweed, with a cross of white velvet sewn on the left shoulder, in memory of her deceased husband (a mark of mourning which was introduced into Scotland by the late king, on the death of his first queen Magdalene of Valois); she was young, for her years were under six-and-twenty, pale and saddened in expression. Three little children, the eldest of whom was not over three years, all clad in black dresses, each with a little white cross on the shoulder, nestled among the ample skirts of her dooleweed, and peeped in mingled alarm and wonder at the strangers, whom the lady received courteously: for in those days the halls of the landholders and the refectories of the monasteries were the halting-places of all travellers, when, neither inns nor taverns could be found; and, indeed, prejudices against the latter ran so high that acts were passed by parliament, to enforce the patronage of hostelries.
Lady Torwood's manner of receiving her visitors was singularly soft and polite; yet it was not unmixed with anxiety, for her little tower stood in a lonely place, and six well-armed strangers were not quite the kind of people a widowed mother might wish to see in that lawless time. The extreme paleness of her complexion contrasted strongly with the blackness of her smooth shining hair and the darkness of her eyes and lashes, while her figure and bearing had all that fawn-like grace which is (or was) peculiar to the women of certain northern clans in Scotland.
"We crave your pardon for this untimely intrusion, madame," said Florence, courteously, "but we have been belated and astray in the forest; and as I have had a quarrel—one of those unpleasant things that will ensue at times among armed men,—a crossing of swords, in fact, with a Livingstone, you will readily understand that my vicinity to the Callender——"
"Sirs, you are welcome here, apologies are unnecessary," replied the lady, whose accent sounded somewhat like that of a foreigner, for she belonged to a Celtic tribe, and had acquired the Lowland language as that of another people. "You have had a quarrel with a Livingstone," she continued, while her quiet dark eyes were filled by a momentary light; "that name has cost me dear indeed! but let me not think of it now. Here you are safe, sir—your names——"
"Dick Hackerston, a burgess o' Edinburgh," replied the burly proprietor of the Jethart axe; "and my friends are also free burgesses and landward merchants like mysel'. My booth is nigh unto Master Posset's lodging,—an unco' strange man he is, my lady; he cured the sair eyne o' a bairn o' mine, by rubbing them thrice wi' a grey cat's tail."
"And you, sirs?" said the lady, smiling, and turning to Shelly and Patten.
"Englishmen, of Berwick," replied the former.
"Englishmen!" reiterated the fair chatelaine, colouring—for the laws against harbouring them were so severe as to involve the highest penalties.
"Be assured, madam," replied the confident Shelly; "we travel under the lord warden's especial protection."
"And I am Florence Fawside of that ilk, in East Lothian."
"I have heard of you—at least, of your family," replied the lady, while another gleam heightened her pale and pretty face, "and of their long feud with the Hamiltons of Preston. Dearly have such feuds cost me and mine! In one, my whole race perished, save myself; and in another, I lost my dear gudeman, his brother, and many brave friends and kinsmen, leaving me a forlorn widow, with these three sakeless bairns to rear."
"Live in hope, madam," replied Florence, with something of the spirit in which his mother reared him.
"Hope?" questioned the widow sadly, as she lifted her meek eyes to his; "what hope is there for me!"
"That these children may one day avenge you!"
"Oh, sir, speak not thus," said she anxiously, while one white hand and arm went involuntarily round the curly head of her eldest little one; "forbid it, God! I hope to teach them that not unto us, but to Him alone belongeth vengeance."
"Would that my mother had reared us as this gentle woman rears her little brood!" thought Florence, struck by her resigned spirit and Madonna-like aspect; "my brother had now been spared to us,—and Madeline, my love for her had then been no secret, like a deadly sin; but, alas! my father's blood is yet upon her kinsman's sword and soul!"
These and many similar ideas passed through his mind, while refreshments were placed upon the table; a cold chine of beef, manchets, and oat cakes, with flagons of Lammas ale; and the wants of the six guests were promptly attended to by the servants of the tower, while its mistress sat by the fire, in the only arm-chair in the hall, with her feet resting on a tabourette, and her three children nestling by her side, or playing and frolicking, with the lurchers and terriers that were stretched on the hearth, which was covered by a large straw matting, the work of those tawny outlaws the Egyptians, a tribe of whom had been lurking in the Torwood since the days of their patron James IV.
The usual evening meal had long been over in Torwood Tower; thus the lady sat apart from all, but conversed freely with her unexpected guests, more especially with Florence and Shelly: but the latter, though by nature the most frank and jovial of all jovial and frank fellows, felt the peculiarity, the delicacy and danger of his situation, and thus became singularly reserved. He therefore sought to turn the conversation as much as possible from subjects likely to lead to himself, to his companion Master Patten, or to their object in venturing into Scotland, whither Englishmen seldom came in those days of war and mutual mistrust, but with harness on their backs. In that age, before the invention of newspapers, the sole means of circulating current events (all of which were unusually marvellous) were passing travellers, pardoners, and begging friars, who gave their own version of "wars and rumours of wars," of battles, of fiery dragons, of spectres, devils, omens, and other wonders, which, with an occasional miracle in church, formed the staple topics of conversation in the middle ages, and for a long time after them, in Scotland. Thus, afraid that, as a stranger and wayfarer, he might be unpleasantly questioned by the inmates of this secluded tower, and lured to admit more than prudence suggested or patience brooked, Shelly, with considerable tact, led the fair chatelaine to speak entirely of her own affairs.
"And did your husband fall in battle?" he asked, with affected sympathy.
"Nay, sir; but in one of these vile civil brawls which are socially and morally the scourge of Scotland; and which our kings have always striven, but in vain, to crush. He and his father had been long at feud with the Livingstones, about the right of forestry in the Torwood,—even as the Fawsides have been at feud with the Hamiltons anent the right of pasturage on Gladsmuir; and with the same rancour they and their armed followers fought whenever they met, afield, at market, at church, in burgh, and on highway. Many were wickedly slain, and many grievously wounded, on both sides, till once, when the late King James of blessed memory was hunting in the Torwood, and both were in attendance on him, he commanded my husband and Alexander Lord Livingstone to take each other's hands in token of perpetual amity,—and in case of refusal, he threatened to commit them to the Peel of Blackness. Slowly, unwillingly, and with no consenting souls they did so, and, with a glare of hate in their eyes, vowed a hollow friendship over a cup of wine; and merrily the good King James drained it; to them both, fondly believing, in the kindness of his heart, that he had stanched the feud for ever. A vain hope! The day was passed in the forest; many a wolf, white bull, and deer were slaughtered, and many a horse and dog were gored and disembowelled in the conflict. Night came on, and, flushed with the king's good wine, their good cheer, and the excitement of the chase, the hunters separated; and before the midhour had passed, my poor husband, when on his way home, was beset by the Livingstones, led by the laird of Champfleurie, and, failing to reach the sanctuary of St. Modan's kirk, was barbarously murdered at Callender Bog, where, three days after, his fair body, sore gashed by many a ghastly wound, and divested of baldrick, bugle, sword, and dagger, was found by our sleuth dogs;—and, woe is me! his winsome eyes had been plucked forth by the gleds or eagles. We buried him in St. Modan's kirk, and therein I founded an altar, where masses shall be said for his soul's repose so long as the world shall last, at ten marks the mass. Heaven guide that the feud may be forgotten in his early grave, for I have seen enough of such horrors in my time; and the memory of them, so far from incitingmeto vengeance, like the stern lady of Fawside, fills me with dismay and woe."
"Would that my mother could hear this gentle woman speak!" thought Florence; "yet what would it avail me?"
"I come from the north country, sir," resumed the lady, her manner warming as she spoke; "from a district and of a race, where the blood of men, though shed more freely, waxes hotter than in the Lowlands here. My name is Muriel MacNeish, or MacIldhui; and I saw, in one night, all who bore my name and shared my blood, laid corpses round our hearth, as the closing scene of one of the darkest feuds that ever shed death and horror over the lovely vale of the Earn!"
To draw attention from his own affairs, Edward Shelly expressed some curiosity to hear her story; so, while Florence and his companions drew round, the Lady Muriel related the following legend, to which, from the resemblance borne by one of the characters to his mother, our hero listened with deep interest; and which, as it contains much that is private, as well as public history, we will take the liberty of rehearsing here, in our own words and in our own way.