‘I ate my love an’ I drank my love,An’ my love she gae me light;An’ the heart o’ the deer may lie right nearWhere it lay yesternight.’
‘I ate my love an’ I drank my love,An’ my love she gae me light;An’ the heart o’ the deer may lie right nearWhere it lay yesternight.’
‘Ha! that’s nae riddle!’ said the other; ‘little does some wat what they’re to eat an’ what they’re to drink the night! Can ye tell me, sister, if the wicked deed will be done?—Will the king die to-night?
‘The poison’s distill’d, and the monk is won,And to-night I fear it will be done.Hush!—hush!—we are heard an’ seen;Wae be to the ears, and wae be to the een!’
‘The poison’s distill’d, and the monk is won,And to-night I fear it will be done.Hush!—hush!—we are heard an’ seen;Wae be to the ears, and wae be to the een!’
“An wi’ that, they rowed themsels on the bonny corpse; and when I lookit again, there was a fine, plump, bausined roe-deer lying, an’ the blude streamin’ frae her side; an’ down comes the king an’ his men, an’ took her away hame to their supper.”
“Now, Croudy, of all the tales I ever heard that is the most improbable and unnatural! But it is too singular and out of the common course of nature for you to have framed it; and besides, I never knewyou to tell a manifest lie—Are you certain that you did not dream it?”
“How could I dream on the top of a tree? Ye may either believe it or no as ye like—it’s a’ true.”
“I was sure there was something more than ordinary about these dogs; but what to make of your story I know not. Saint Waldave be our shield! Do you think the king and his nobles have been feasting upon changed human creatures all this while? There is something in the whole business so revolting to human nature, a man cannot think of it! It seems, too, that there is a plot against the life of the king—What shall we do in this?—The fairies have again been seen at the Eildon Tree, that is certain; and it is said some more young people are missing.”
“They’ll soon hae us a’ thegither—I like that way o’ turnin’ fock into deers an’ raes, and worrying them, warst ava—Mumps, lad, how wad ye like to be turned into adeer, an’ worried an’ eaten?—Aigh, man! yewadlike it ill! I think I see how ye wad lay yoursel out for fear—Ha, ha! I wad like to see ye get a bit hunt, man, if I thought ye wad win away wi’ the life—I wad like to see ye streek yoursel for aince.”
“I wonder, Croudy, after seeing such a sight as you have just now described, that you can descend from that to speak such nonsense.”
“Tongues maun wag—an’ when they gang it’s no for naething—It’s a queer thing speaking!—Mumps, ye can speak nane, man—It’s no for want of a tongue, I’m sure.”
“Let us consider what’s to be done—The king should be warned.”
“I dinna see what’s to hinder you to speak, Mumps, as weel as ony white beagle i’ the country.”
“I have it—I will go home directly and tell pretty Pery—she will apprize the abbot, and we shall have the two hounds,Mooly and Scratch, burnt at the stake to-morrow.”
“You tell Pery? No; that will never do; for you will speak English—That tale winna tell in English; for the twa witches, or fairies, or changed fock, or whatever they may be, didna speak that language themsels—sin’ the thing is to be tauld, I’ll rather tell Pery mysel, if it is the same thing to you.”
This Pery was a young volatile maiden at Eildon Hall, who was over head and ears in love with Gale. She would have given the whole world for him; and in order to tease him somewhat, she had taken a whim of pretending to be in love with Croudy. Croudy hated all the women, and more particularly Pery, who had been the plague of his life; but of late he had heard some exaggerated accounts of the kind sentiments of her heart respecting him, which had wonderfully altered Croudy, although he still kept up as well as he couldthe pretence of disliking the sex. He went to Pery that evening as she was gathering in some clothes from the bushes, and desired her, with a most important face, to meet him at the Moss Thorn in half an hour, for he had something to tell her that would surprise her.
“Indeed and that I will with all my heart, Croudy,” said she; “how glad I am that I have got you this length! I can guess what your secret will be.”
“Ye can do nae sic thing,” said Croudy, “nor nae woman that ever was born.”
“I’ll wager three kisses with you, Croudy, at the Old Moss Thorn, that I do,” returned she.
Croudy hung his head to one side, and chuckled, and crowed, and laid on the ground with his staff; and always now and then cast a sly look-out at the wick of his eye to Pery.
“It’s a queer creature a woman,” said Croudy—“very bonny creature though!”
“Well, Croudy, I’ll meet you at theMoss Thorn,” said Pery, “and pay you your wager too, provided you have either spirit to ask, or accept of it when offered.”
Croudy went away laughing till his eyes blinded with tears, and laying on the ground with his stick.—“I watna what I’ll do now,” said he to himself, “little impudent thing that she is!—She’s eneugh to pit a body mad!—Mumps—O, man, ye’re an unfarrant beast!—Three kisses at the Moss Thorn!—I wish I had this meeting by!—Mumps, I never saw sic an unfeasible creature as you, man, when ane thinks about a bonny woman—A woman!—What is a woman?—Let me see!—’Tis no easy to ken!—But I ken this—that a ewe lamb is a far nicer, bonnier, sweeter, innocenter, little creature than a toop lamb. Oh! I wish it war night, for I’m no weel ava!—Mumps, ye’re a perfect blockhead, man!”
Precisely while this was going on at Eildon-Hall, there were two ladies met hurriedly on the Abbey Walk. No one knew who they were, or whence they came,but they were lovely beyond expression, although their eyes manifested a kind of wild instability. Their robes were white as snow, and they had that light, elegant, sylph-like appearance, that when they leaned forward to the evening air, one could hardly help suspecting that they would skim away in it like twin doves.
“Sister,” said the one, “haste and tell me what we are to do?”
“There is much to do to-night,” said the other. “That clown who saw us, and heard us speak, will blab the news; and then, think what the consequences may be! He must be silenced, and that instantly.”
“And tell me,” said the first, “is the plot against the king’s life to be put in execution to-night?”
“I fear it is,” answered the other; “and the abbot, his own kinsman, is in it.”
“Alas, sister, what shall we do! Give me Philamy’s rod, and trust the clown to me. But do you make all possible haste, and find your way into the banquet hall,and be sure to remain there in spite of all opposition.”
The two sisters parted; and she that got the wand from the other repaired straight to the Moss Thorn, where honest Croudy, and his dog Mumps, were lying at a little distance from each other; the one very busy biting for fleas, that he supposed had made a lodgment among his rough matted hair, and the other conversing with himself about the properties of women, fairies, and witches. All of a sudden he beheld this beautiful angelic creature coming towards him, which made his heart thrill within him.
“Saint Mary be my guide!” exclaimed Croudy to himself; “saw ever ony body the like o’ yon? I declare Pery has dressed hersel like a princess to come an’ speak to me!—An’ to think o’ me kissing a creature like yon! I maun do it, too, or else I’ll never hear the end o’t.—Och! what will I do!—I’ll lie down an’ pretend to be sleepin.”
Croudy drew his plaid up over his face, stretched out his limbs, and snored as in a profound sleep. The fair lady came up, gave him three strokes with her wand, and uttered certain words at every stroke; and, lo! the whole mortal frame of Croudy was in five seconds changed into that of a huge bristly boar! The transformation was brought about so suddenly, and Mumps was so much engaged, that he never once noticed, in the slightest degree, till all was over, and the lady had withdrawn. Let any man judge of the honest colley’s astonishment, when, instead of his master, he beheld the boar standing hanging his ears, and shaking his head at him. He betook himself to immediate flight, and ran towards the house faster than ever he ran in his life, yelping all the way for perfect fright. Croudy was very little better himself. At first he supposed that he was in a dream, and stood a long time considering of it, in hopes the fantasy would go off;but on seeing the consternation of Mumps, he looked first to the one side, and then to the other, and perceiving his great bristly sides and limbs, he was seized with indescribable terror, and fled at full speed. It is well known what a ridiculous figure a hog makes at any time when frightened, and exerting itself to escape from the supposed danger—there is not any thing so calculated to make one laugh—his stupid apprehension of some approaching mischief—the way that he fixes his head and listens—gives a grunt like the crack of a musket, and breaks away again. Every one who has witnessed such a scene, will acknowledge, that it is a masterpiece of the ludicrous. Consider, then, what it would be to see one in such a fright as this poor beast was, and trying to escape from himself; running grunting over hill and dale, hanging out his tongue with fatigue, and always carrying the object of his terror along with him. It was an ineffectual exertion ofmind to escape from matter; for, though Croudy’s form and nature were changed, he still retained the small and crude particles of the reasoning principle which he had before. All feelings else were, however, for the present swallowed up in utter dismay, and he ran on without any definitive aim, farther than a kind of propensity to run to the end of the world. He did not run a great way for all that; for he lost his breath in a very short time; but even in that short time, he run himself into a most imminent danger.
Squire Fisher of Dernaway Tower had a large herd of cows—they were all standing in the loan, as the milking green is called in that country, and the maidens were engaged in milking them, singing the while in full chorus, (and a sweet and enlivening chorus it was, for the evening was mild and serene), when down comes this unearthly boar into the loan, all fatigued as he was, gaping and running on without stop or stay. The kine soon perceived that there was something super-human aboutthe creature, for even the most dull of animals have much quicker perceptions than mankind in these matters; and in one moment they broke all to the gate as they had been mad, overturning the milk, maidens, and altogether. The boar ran on; so did the kine, cocking their heads and roaring in terror, as if every one of them had been bewitched, or possessed by some evil spirit. It was a most dismal scene!—The girls went home with the rueful tidings, that a mad boar had come into the loan, and bitten the whole herd, which was all run off mad, along with the furious and dreadful animal. The dogs were instantly closed in for fear of further danger to the country; and all the men of the village armed themselves, and sallied out to surround and destroy this outrageous monster.
It chanced, however, that the boar in his progress ran into a large field of strong standing corn, which so impeded his course that he fell down breathless, and quite exhausted; and thus he lay stretched at fulllength, panting in a furrow, while all the men of the country were running round and round him, every one with a sword, spear, or fork, ready to run into his body.
Croudy, or the Boar, as it is now more proper to designate him, got here some time to reflect. He found that he was transformed by witchcraft or enchantment, and as he had never looked up from under his plaid during the moments of his transformation, he conceived it to have been the beautiful and wicked Pery that had wrought this woful change upon him; therefore he had no hopes of regaining his former shape, save in her returning pity and compassion; and he had strong hopes that she would ere long relent, as he had never wilfully done her any ill. Pery knew nothing about the matter; but actually went up with a heart as light as a feather to have some sport with Croudy at the Old Thorn; and when she found that he was not there, she laughed and went home again, sayingto herself, that she knew he durst not stand such an encounter.
The poor boar arose from his furrow in the midst of the field of corn, as soon as it was day-light next morning, and with a heavy and forlorn heart went away back to the Old Moss Thorn, in hopes that the cruel Pery would seek him there, and undo the enchantment. When he came, he discovered honest Mumps lying on the very spot where he had last seen his master in his natural shape. He had sought it again over night, notwithstanding the horrible fright that he had got, for he knew not where else to find his master; and stupid as he was, yet, like all the rest of his species, he lived only in his master’s eye. He was somewhat alarmed when he saw the boar coming slowly toward him, and began first to look over the one shoulder, and then over the other, as if meditating an escape; but, seeing that it came grunting in such a peaceable and friendly manner, Mumps ventured to await the issue, and by the time the monster approached within twenty paces of him, this faithful animal went cowring away to meet him, prostrated himself at the boar’s feet, and showed every symptom of obedience and affection. The boar, in return, patted him with his cloven hoof, and stroaked him with his bristly cheek. Matters were soon made up—thenceforward they were inseparable.
The boar lay all that day about the Moss Thorn, and Mumps lay in his bosom, but no pitying damsel, witch, or fairy, came near him. He grew extremely hungry in the evening, and was deeply distressed what to do for food, for he pitied Mumps more than himself. At length he tried to plow up the earth with his nose, as he remembered of having seen swine do before, but at that he made small progress, doing it very awkwardly, and with great pain to his face. Moreover, for all his exertion, he found nothing to eat, save one or two moss-corns, and a ground walnut, with which hewas obliged to content himself; and, for his canine friend, there was nothing at all.
Next morning he saw his neighbour servants seeking for him, and calling his name, but he could make them no answer, save by long and mournful sounds between a grunt and groan. He drew near to several of them, but they regarded him in no other light than as a boar belonging to some one in the neighbourhood, straying in the fields. His case was most deplorable; but as he still conceived there was one who knew his situation well, he determined to seek her. He went down to Eildon-Hall, with the faithful Mumps walking close by his side—tried to work his way into the laundry, but being repulsed, he waited with patience about the doors for an opportunity to present himself before Pery. She came out at length, and went away singing to the well. The boar followed, uttering the most melancholy sounds that ever issued from the chest of distressed animal. Pery could not help noticing him a little. “Whatstrange animal can this be?” said she to herself; but perceiving that Mumps too was following her, her attention was soon directed solely to him.
“Alas, poor Mumps,” said she, “you are famishing. What can be become of your master?”
The boar laid his ungraceful foot softly on that of Pery, looked ruefully in her face, and uttered a most melancholly sound; as much as to say, “You know well what is become of him! Have you no pity nor remorse in your heart?”
It was impossible Pery could comprehend this. She judged, like others, that the animal had strayed from home, and was complaining to her for food. She looked at him, and thought him a very docile and valuable swine, and one that would soon be ready for the knife. He was astonished at her apparent indifference, as well as moved with grief and vengeance, seeing the abject state to which she had reduced him; and inhis heart he cursed the whole sex, deeming them all imps of Satan, witches, and enchantresses, each one. He followed her back to the house.
“Come in, Mumps,” said she, “and you shall have your breakfast for the sake of him you belonged to, whatever is become of him, poor fellow!”
The boar ran forward, and kneeled at her feet moaning, on which she kicked him, and drove him away, saying, “What does the vile beast want with me? Mumps, come you in and get some meat, honest brute.”
Mumps would not come in, but when the boar was expelled, turned back with him, looking very sullen. She brought him out a bicker of cold parritch mixed with milk, but he would not taste them until the boar had first taken his share; after which they went and lay down in the yard together, the dog in the boar’s bosom. Thus did they continue for many days. At lengththe master of Eildon had the boar cried at the church-door, and at the cross of Melrose, and as no one appeared to claim him, he put him up for slaughter.
But to return from this necessary digression.—The king and his nobles had a banquet in the Abbey that night on which Croudy was changed, and it was agreed by all present, that the venison of the roe-deer of Eildon exceeded in quality that of any other part of the kingdom. The king appeared thoughtful and absent during the whole of the evening; and at mass, it was observed that he was more fervent in his devotions than ever he was wont to be. The words of the old mysterious stranger—his sudden disappearance—the rumours of fairies and witchcrafts that were abroad, together with another vision which he had seen, but not yet disclosed, preyed upon his mind,as it was little wonder they should, and made him apprehend that every step he took was on enchanted ground. The hound, Mooly, had slipt into the banquet-hall at the time of vespers, and neither soothing, threatening, nor the lash, would drive her hence. She clung to the king’s foot until he took pity on her, and said, “Cease, and let the poor animal stay, since she insists on it. I will not have her maltreated for the fault of those who have the charge of her, and should have put her better up.” So Mooly got leave to remain, and kept her station the whole night without moving.
The glass circulated until a late hour. At length the king said, “My lords, I crave a cup full to the brim, which I mean to dedicate to the health of a lady, whom I think I saw yesterday morning; the mentioning of whose name will a little astonish you.”
“My royal son and sire,” said the abbot, “for your majesty is both, in the general acceptation of the terms, shall it not be ofyour far-famed Malmsey that you will drink this beloved toast?”
“If you so please,” said his majesty.
“Ralpho,” said the abbot, “here is the key. You alone know where the portion of old Malmsey is to be found among his majesty’s stores here deposited; bring one bottle only to his majesty, and pour it carefully yourself.”
Ralpho obeyed; poured out the wine till the cup was full, and turned the remainder into a sewer. The king then arose, and lifting his cup on high—“My lords,” said he, “I give you the fairest, the loveliest, and the most angelic maid that ever Scotland bred—I give you Elen of Rosline.”
Every one started at the name till the wine was spilled all around the table. Astonishment was in every look, for the king had said he had seen her yesterday at morn.
“To the bottom,” cried the king.
Every one drank off his cup with avidity, anxious to hear the explanation. Theking kept the position in which he stood until he saw every cup drained, and then brought his slowly and gracefully to his lips, with the intention of emptying it at one draught. But the moment that it reached them, Mooly sprung up, snatched the cup and wine out of his hand, and threw them on the floor.
“Strike the animal dead,” cried one.
“Kick her out of the hall,” said another.
“Take her out and let her be hung up,” cried a third.
Mooly cowered at her royal master’s feet, as if begging pardon, or begging to remain.
“Let her alone,” said the king; “let us see what the beast means, and if she persists in the outrage.”
He filled his cup of the wine before him, and brought it slowly to his head in the same manner as he did before. He even took it away and brought it back several times, in order to see if she would be provoked to do the like again. But no!—Mooly appeared perfectly satisfied, and suffered her master to drink it off piece-meal. A certain consternation reigned in the royal apartment for some time; sharp arguments followed; and, in the mean time, Angus and the abbot were heard whispering apart, and the one said, “It must be accomplished this night, or abandoned for ever.”
The nobles again took their seats, and the king appeared as formerly to be growing thoughtful and dejected.
“Pray cheer up your heart and be merry, my liege,” said Douglas, “and let not the casual frolic of a pampered animal tend to cast down your majesty’s spirits. Your majesty has not yet drank the extraordinary toast you proposed.”
“But that I shall do presently,” said the king.
“Ay,” said the abbot, “and your majesty shall do it too in the wine of which I have heard your majesty so much approve. Fetch another bottle, Ralpho.”
Ralpho brought it.—“I will pour for myself,” said the king; and taking the bottle, he poured about one-half of it into his cup; again named the name of Elen of Rosline with rapturous enthusiasm, and again as he put the cup to his lips, Mooly sprung up, snatched the cup from his hand, and dashed it on the floor more furiously than before, and then cowered at her master’s feet as if begging not to be struck.
“There is something more than ordinary in this,” said the king, “and I will have it investigated instantly.”
“There is nothing in it at all,” said the abbot. “Pardon me, sire; but it is a fault in your majesty, for which I have grieved, and often done penance myself. You are, and have always been a visionary, and nothing will ever wean you from it. You make idols of these two animals; they have sometime been taught a number of pranks, and for one of these would you augur aught against the monastery, your nobles, or your majesty’s own peace of mind?”
“Are you certain that is the genuine Old Malmsey wine, Ralpho?” said the king.
“I am certain, sire, it is the wine that was shown to me as such.”
The king poured out the remainder that was in the bottle. “Drink thou that, Ralpho,” said he, “and tell me if it be really and truly the genuine Malmsey.”
Ralpho thanked his majesty, bowed, and drank off the cup without hesitation.
“Is it genuine, Ralpho?”
“I don’t know, your majesty; I think it tastes a little of the earth.”
The circle laughed at Ralpho’s remark; and the conversation began again to grow general, when, some time thereafter, Ralpho, who was bustling about, sat down in a languid and sickly posture on one of the window seats. They looked at him, and saw that his face was becoming black.
“What is the matter, Ralpho?” said one.
“I do not know what is the matter with me,” returned he; “I think I feel as if that wine were not like to agree with my stomach.”
He fell into immediate convulsions, and in ten minutes he was lying a swollen and disfigured corpse.
Douglas was the first to cry outtreason. He bolted the door, and stood inside with his sword drawn, vowing that he would search the soul of every traitor in the room. Angus’s great power made the other lords to stand in awe of him; although it was obvious to them all, that he was at least as likely to have a hand in this as any other. Hume charged him boldly to his face with it, and made proffer to abide by the proof; but he pretended to receive the charge only with scorn and derision, as one which no reasonable man could suppose. The king was greatly affected, and, upon the whole, showed rather more apprehension on account of his personal safety, than was, perhaps, becoming in a sovereign. He criedout that “they were all of them traitors! and that he would rather be at the head of a band of moss-troopers, than be thus condemned to have such a set about him whom he could not trust.”
After some expostulation he acquitted the Earl of Angus, more, it was thought, through fear, than conviction of his innocence; but from an inference, the most natural in the world, he fixed the blame on the abbot.
“My liege,” said the reverend father, “I know no more how this has happened than the child that is unborn. There can be no doubt but that, instigated by some of your majesty’s enemies, the wretch, Ralpho, has mixed the poison himself, and has met with the fate he justly deserved.”
“No!” replied the king, “If that had been the case, he would not have been so ready in participating of the draught. I will not believe, but that there is a combination among you to take my life.”
Every one protested his innocence more strenuously than another.
The abbot was seized; and said, in his justification, “That he would show his majesty the set of wine from which he had ordered Ralpho to bring it, and he was willing to drink a share of any bottle of it that they chose;” which he did.
But this did not convince the king. He sent off privately a messenger to assemble the Border Chiefs, and bring them to his rescue—took his two favourite hounds with him into his chamber, placed a strong guard, counted his beads, and retired to rest.
Every means were tried next day by the nobles to dispel his majesty’s fears, and regain his confidence; and as nothing decisive could be produced against any one, they succeeded in some degree. New perplexities, however, continued to way-lay him, for he was throughout his whole life the prey of witches and evil spirits; and though he wrecked due vengeance on many,they still continued to harass him the more.
After high mass he had retired to his chamber to meditate, when the nobleman in waiting came in, and said, that a stranger wanted to speak with him on some urgent business. He was introduced, and any one may judge of the king’s astonishment, when he saw that it was the identical old man who had spoken to him on the mountain, and vanished, the day before. The king’s lip grew pale, and quivered as the stranger made his obeisance.
“Thou herald of danger, treason, and confusion, what seekest thou again with me?” said the king.
“I come, my liege,” said he, “to seek redress for the injured, and justice on the offenders. Your two favourite hounds came last night to the houses of two widows in Newstead, and have carried off their two children from their bosoms, which they have doubtlessly devoured, as no traces of them can be found.”
“Thou art a liar!” said the king, “and an inventor of lies, if not the father of them; for these two dogs were locked up with me in my chamber last night, and a guard placed on the door, so that what you aver is impossible.”
“I declare to your majesty,” said the stranger, “by the truth of that right hand, that I myself saw the two hounds at liberty this morning at daylight. I saw them come along the Monk’s Meadow, carrying something across on their necks.”
“It is easy to prove the falsehood of all that thou hast said,” replied the king; “and thy malicious intent shall not go unpunished.”
He then called in the guards, and bade them declare before that audacious stranger, if his two white hounds, Mooly and Scratch, were not in his chamber all the night. The guards were mute, and looked one to another.
“Why are you ashamed to declare the truth?” said the king to them. “Say, werethe two hounds in my chamber all night, or were they not?”
The men answered, “that the hounds were certainly out. How it came they knew not, but that they were let in in the morning.”
“There is a conspiracy among you again,” said the king; “if not to deprive your king of life, to deprive that life of every kind of quiet and social comfort.”
“I demand justice,” said the stranger, “in the names of two weeping and distracted mothers! In the name of all that is right, and held dear among men! I demand that these two obnoxious and devouring animals be hung upon a tree, or burnt alive before the sun go down. Then shall the men of Scotland see that their sovereign respects their feelings and privileges, even though they run counter to his own pleasures.”
“One of these dogs saved my life last night,” said the king; “and it is very hard indeed that I should be compelled to dothis. I will have better testimony; and if I find that these children have actually been devoured, (as most unlikely it is,) the depredators shall be punished.”
The old man bowed, and was preparing to reply, when the knight in waiting entered hastily, and told the king that there was a woman in the outer court, crying bitterly for justice, and who was very urgent to speak with him. The king ordered that she should be admitted, and in a moment she stood before him, pale, shrivelled, hagard, and wild, and altogether such a figure as one scarcely can see, or could see, without the impression that she was scarce earthly. Her appearance was that of a lady of quality, of great age; she had large ear-rings, a tremendous ruff, a head-dress of a thousand intricate flutings, projecting before and tapering upward behind, cork-heeled shoes, a low hoop, and a waist of length and stiffness, not to be described.
“Revenge! Revenge! my lord, O king!” cried she. “I crave justice of your majesty—justice, and nothing more. You have two hounds, that came into my house early this morning, and have devoured, or taken away my only daughter, my sole stay and hope in this world, and nothing is left but a part of her garments. These dogs have some power deputed to them that is not of thy giving, therefore grant me that I may see vengeance done upon them, and their bodies burnt at a stake before the going down of the sun.”
“That is a true and worthy gentlewoman, my liege,” said the old stranger; “and you may take her word for whatever she advances.”
The ancient dame turned about—stared on the stranger with wild astonishment—dropped a low courtesy, and then said, “I crave you pardon, my lord and master. I noted not that you were so nigh. I hope your errand here coincides with mine.”
“It does,” said he; “there are more sufferers than one; and, by the head that bows to thee!—I swear by none greater—we shall have justice if it be in the land!”
“This is a combination,” said the king; “I pay no regard to it. Bring witnesses to establish your charges, and you shall have justice done.”
They went forth to bring their proof, and behold they had them all in the outer court. In the mean time the king sent for some men of the place to come, and made enquiry of them who the old dame was, and what was the character that she bore. They informed him that she was a noted witch, and kept the whole country in terror and turmoil, and that she had indeed an only daughter, who was an impious and malevolent minx, devoted to every species of wickedness.
“The wrinkled beldame shall be burnt at the stake,” said the king. “It is proper that the land should be cleansed of thesedisturbers of its peace; as for that old stranger, I have my own surmises concerning him, and we shall find a way to deal with his subtilty.”
He then sent for a reverend old friar of the name of Rubely, who was well versed in all the minutiæ of diablery and exorcism, whose skill had often been beneficial to the king in the trying and intricate parts of his duty that related to these matters, and with him he conferred on this important subject. Father Rubely desired the king to defer the further examination of these people for a very little while; and, in the mean time, he brought in a basin of holy water, consecrated seven times, and set apart for sacred uses, after which the examination went on, and a curious one it was. The old witch lady deposed, “That as she was lying pondering on her bed, and wide awake, about the dawn of the morning, she heard a curious and uncommon noise somewhere about the house: That,rising, she went out silently to discover what it could be, and to her utter astonishment, beheld the king’s two hounds, Mooly and Scratch, spring from her daughter’s casement, and in a short space a beautiful roe-deer followed them and bounded away to the Eildons: That she hasted to her daughter’s apartment, and found that her darling was gone.” The stories of the other two were exactly similar to one another, only that the one blamed one hound, and the other the other. It was as follows: “I was lying awake in the morning very early, with my son in my arms, when one of the king’s hounds came into my house. I saw it, and wist not how it had got there. A short time after I heard it making a strange scraping and noise in the other end of the house, on which I arose to turn it out; but on going to the place from whence the sound seemed to come, I found nothing. I searched all the house, and called the hound by her name, but still could find nothing; and at last I lighted a candle and sought allthe house over again, without being able to discover any traces of her. I went back to return to my bed, wondering greatly what had become of the animal; but having opened the door before to let her make her escape, I conceived that she had stolen off without my having perceived it. At that very instant, however, I beheld her coming softly out of the bed where I had left my child, and in a moment she was out at the door and away. I ran to the bed with the light in my hand, but my dear child was gone, and no part, not even a palm of his hand, remaining!”
Ques.“Was there any blood in the bed, or any symptoms of the child having been devoured?”
A.“No; I could discover none.”
Q.“Did the hound appear to have any thing carrying in her mouth, or otherwise, when she escaped from the house?”
A.“No; I did not notice that she had any thing.”
Q.“Was there any thing else in thehouse at the time; any other appearance that you could not account for?”
A.“Yes; there was something like a leveret followed her out at the door, but I paid no regard to it.”
Q.“Was the child baptized in a Christian church?” (No answer.)
Q.“Were you yourself ever baptized in a Christian church?” (No answer.)
Q.“Why do you not answer to these things?”
A.“Because I see no connection that they have with the matter in question.”
“None in the least,” said the old stranger, who still kept by their side.
When the king heard that the answers of the two women were so exactly similar, though the one was examined before the other was brought in, he said,—“This is some infernal combination; they are all of them witches, and their friend there is some warlock or wizard; and they shall all be burnt at the stake together before the going down of the sun.”
“It is a judgment worthy of such a monarch,” said the stranger.
“Father Rubely,” said the king, “you who know all the men in this part of my dominions, Do you know any thing of this old man, who refuseth to give account of himself?”
“I have often seen the face,” said Rubely; “but I cannot tell at present from whence he is.—Pray, sir, are you not he who has supplied the monastery with cattle for these many moons?”
“I am the same,” said the stranger; “And were they not the best that ever were furnished to the Abbey?”
“They were,” said Rubely.
“Were they not exquisite and delicious above all food ever before tasted?” said the old man.
“They were indeed,” said Rubely; “and I think I have heard it reported that no one ever knew from whence you brought these cattle.”
“I knew myself,” said the stranger, “and that was sufficient for me.”
“I have heard of this before,” said the king, “and I think I divine something of the matter. Tell me, I insist on it, from whence you brought these cattle?”
“I brought them from among the poor and the indigent,” said the old man, “on whom kings and priests for ever feed. For Christian carrion, I provide food from among themselves.”
“They shall all be worried and burnt at the stake,” said the king; “and this man’s torments shall be doubled.”
“Have patience, my lord, O king,” said Rubely, “and let us not destroy the reclaimable with those of whom there is no hope.” Then going near to the first woman who had lost her son, he said to her,—“It is better to do well late than never—are you content to be baptized even now?”
The woman bowed consent. He put the same question to the other, who bowed likewise. The old man stood close by theirside, and appeared to be in great trouble and wrath. Rubely brought his goblet of consecrated water, and, as he past, he threw a portion of it on the wrinkled face of the old man, pronouncing, at the same time, the sacred words of baptism. The whole form and visage of the creature was changed in a moment to that of a furious fiend: He uttered a yell that made all the Abbey shake to its foundations, and forthwith darted away into the air, wrapt in flame; and, as he ascended, he heaved his right hand, and shook his fiery locks at his inquisitors. The old withered beldame yelped forth hysteric gigglings, something between laughing and shrieks—the king fell on his knees, clasped the rood and kissed it—the two women trembled—and even old Rubely counted his beads, and stood for a short space in mute astonishment. He next proposed trying the same experiment with the old witch lady, but she resisted it so furiously, with cursing and blasphemy, that they abandoned her to her fate, and hadher burnt at St Miles’s Cross before the going down of the sun. It was said by some that the old stranger appeared among the crowd to witness her latter end; and that she stretched out her hands towards him, with loud supplications, but he only flouted and mocked at her, and seemed to enjoy the sport with great zest. When Father Rubely heard of this, he said that it would happen so to every one who sold themselves to be slaves of sin in the hour of their extremity.
The other two women confessed their sins, and received absolution. They acknowledged that they had been acquainted with the stranger for a long season; that he had often pressed them to sign and seal, which they had always declined, but that nevertheless he had such an influence over them, that he in a manner led them as he pleased; that at first they took him for a venerable apostle, but at length discovered that he was a powerful sorcerer, and couldturn people into the shapes of such beasts as he pleased, but that they never knew he was the devil till then.
Friar Rubely assured them, that it was only such as slighted church-ordinances over whom he was permitted to exert that power, and in this the king passionately acquiesced. They confessed farther, that they were still greatly afraid of him, for that he could turn himself into any shape or form that he pleased; that he had often tempted them in the form of a beautiful young man; and there was nothing more common with him than to tempt men in the form of a lovely and bewitching woman, by which means he had of late got many of them into his clutches. When the king heard that, he counted his beads with redoubled fervency, and again kissed the rood, for it reminded him of a lovely vision he had seen of late, as well as some things of a former day. The women added, that the stranger had of late complained grievouslyof two mongrel spirits, who had opposed and counteracted him in every movement; and that they had done it so effectually, that, for every weak Christian that he had overcome and devoured, they had found means to destroy one of his servants, or emissaries, so that his power in the land remained much upon a par as in former times, although his means and exertions had both been increased sevenfold.[1]
A consultation of holy men was next called, and measures adopted for the recovery of the two children. There it was resolved, that prayers should be offered up for them in seven times seven holy chapels and cells at the same instant of time, and the like number of masses said, with all due solemnity; and that then it would be out of the power of all the spirits of the infernalregions—all of them that were permitted to roam the earth, or any of their agents, to detain the children longer, into whatever shape or form they might change them. But for these solemnities some delay was necessary.
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