Much he marvell’d a knight of prideLike a book-bosom’d priest should ride.
Much he marvell’d a knight of prideLike a book-bosom’d priest should ride.
Much he marvell’d a knight of pride
Like a book-bosom’d priest should ride.
The monk’s mule bore the commonest caparisons, but several small bells hanging at the bridle-reins, so that we may say of the rider, what old Dan Chaucer said of his pilgrim-father on the merry journey to Canterbury shrine, that
When he rode, men might his bridle hearGingling, in a whistling wind, as clearAnd eke as loud as doth the chapel bell.
When he rode, men might his bridle hearGingling, in a whistling wind, as clearAnd eke as loud as doth the chapel bell.
When he rode, men might his bridle hear
Gingling, in a whistling wind, as clear
And eke as loud as doth the chapel bell.
The dark brother rode up to the Sheriff, who, with a courteous salute, desired him to take position by his side.
Ere much longer time had fled a company of horsemen arrived—Lauder of Ballinshaw and retainers, prominent among which last was the gentle Johnston. Such of the party as wereintended for witness-bearing dismounted. Ballinshaw was a wiry, short-statured man, bearing his advanced years well; but his sallow and shrivelled visage had an air of avarice and duplicity, which was attempted to be hidden under an evident mask of careless candour. Offering his hand to the Sheriff, he delivered himself as follows, in a wheezing, jog-trot tone:—
“My humble service, Sir Robert, to uttermost power. I’m a wee ahint the appointed time; but some o’ my witnesses were slack in coming forward; though I’m glad and proud to think that you’ll find them a’ leal and true men that wadna forswear themsel’s for a King’s ransom. Gude kens! I dinna wish to wheedle ony man oot o’ his richts, far less my neighbour, Royston Scott, though he has lang borne enmity to me without cause. I see I’m before-hand wi’ him: he’s no’ on the field yet.”
“No,” answered the Sheriff, “and if he delays much longer, I shall adjourn the meeting to another day.”
“He’s a thrawart tyke, as I ken to my cost,” replied Ballinshaw, shaking his head. “We micht ha’e lived in gude neighbourhood, and settled a’ disputes ower a friendly flagon; but na—he wadcarry a’thing ower my head, kenning that I was a man o’ peace. I durstna hunt ower the ground ayont the burn. He slauchtered my hounds, chased my serving-men, and vowed that if I mysel’ daured to set foot across the holm, he wad be my death. Now, he ne’er had a shadow o’ richt to the ground; for, time out o’ mind, my forbears hunted ower it to the foot o’ the hill yonder, without let or hindrance.”
“And I presume you are possessed of legal evidence to prove your claim?” said the Sheriff. “Charters, and so forth?”
“Deil a scrap o’ write ha’e I, my lord—mair’s the pity,” responded Lauder, feigning a smile. “Ance in a day there was a muckle iron-banded kist, panged fu’ o’ musty parchments, that stood in the closet o’ the south turret; but a’e nicht the closet took fire, and kist and charters were burned to eizels, and gaed up in the air like peelings o’ ingans. Still, my witnesses are passing gude; and, Sir Robert, let me say—”
“They shall be heard in due course,” said the Sheriff. “Defer your statements till the proper time. I cannot listen to either party until both are present.”
“That’s gude law; for ilka man’s tale is gudetill anither’s be tauld,” returned Ballinshaw. “But what I ha’e yet to say is meant for your private ear.”
“My duty is to act publicly, not privately,” said the Sheriff; but not willing to be harsh, he added—“If what you wish to say does not concern the case in hand, I am ready to hear you. Say on, and be brief.”
Ballinshaw took hold of the knight’s bridle, and led him slowly away out of earshot of the assemblage. “Sir Robert,” said the crafty Laird, coming to a stand, and speaking low, “as you cannot but be satisfied in your ain mind that I am likeliest, frae auld use and wont, to ha’e the richtfu’ claim to the disputed ground—”
“Stay,” interrupted the Sheriff, angrily. “This still affects the arbitration. Would you have me to prejudge the case? I cannot, in conscience, listen to you.”
“A moment, Sir Robert, a moment,” implored Lauder, holding tightly by the bridle. “I was thinking that, as you will mind, when we were baith in our youthy days—though I had the advantage o’ you in years—how you whiles cam’ to Ballinshaw wi’ your faither; and how I took you amang the bosky knowes to gather bramblesand blaeberries; and sometimes made a fishingwand and tackle for you, and sorted your bow and arrows, and helpit you to climb trees for nests—ah! thae were lichtsome days: now, I say, I was thinking that maybe for langsyne and its friendship, you could ca’ me through the present troublesome business wi’ little din—and I wad mak’ up a purse—”
“Hah! you would pollute the source of justice by a foul bribe?” ejaculated the Sheriff, frowning deeply.
“Siller can do nae man harm,” said Lauder, with an insinuating smile. “You ken the proverb—‘There’s a time to gley, and a time to look even’: and wherefore shouldna a man gley for the sake o’ his ain pouch? Far be it frae my wish to wrang ony man; but Royston Scott has lang been kent as ane that cares na a whistle on his thumb for a’ the laws and shirras in braid Scotland; and it wadna be amiss in you, Sir Robert, to gi’e an auld friend a feather out o’ sic a corbie’s wing. I hear you’re pressed by Ben Magog, the Jew of Berwick, for some siller he lent you on bond. Settle this business in my favour, and I’ll help to clear you o’ the Jew’s grip.”
The Sheriff, in silent scorn, released his rein from Lauder’s hold. At that moment, the blast of a horn pealed from the adjacent hill, and a cry arose—“Yonder is Altoncroft at last, wi’ a sturdy clump o’ spears at his back!” The Sheriff, avoiding Lauder’s renewed clutch at his bridle, rode back to his train.
The summit of the height was crowned by a troop of horsemen, whose arms and armour flashed in the sunlight. They numbered double Ballinshaw’s party, which fact caused him to look nervous, and to whisper, in an agitated voice, to the gentle Johnston, who, with a stout aspect, strove to reassure him. The approaching band spurred hard down the grassy slope of the hill, and traversing the low ground like the shadow of a flying cloud, soon reached the rendezvous and drew bridle. Altoncroft was a man in the vigour of life, and of a tall and muscular figure, with a harsh cast of features, and fierce grey eyes. He wore a leathern jack, plated with mail on the breast and the sleeves, and a steel cap, from which a long red plume drooped down his back, whilst his weapons were lance, sword, and dagger.
“You are late in keeping tryst,” said the Sheriff.
“’Twill not deny,” answered Altoncroft, leaving his saddle and making a humble obeisance. “But, sooth to tell, my knaves broached a cask of double ale yesternight, and were loth to leave the dregs this morning. I crave your pardon, my lord Sheriff, and kiss your hand. And to the matter before us—I bring witnesses who, I think, will clearly establish my rights. I desire to have a free and fair decision, and will submit to it when it is pronounced; but I say frankly that if injustice be done me—”
“There shall be no injustice done either party,” responded the Sheriff. “Proceed we to business: and I trust that no broil will break the amity of our meeting, but that all will respect this emblem of peace,” pointing to the spear and glove, which his page held aloft. “Time wears on, and we shall proceed. Sergeants, proclaim and fence our court of arbitration.”
One of the sergeants blew his horn thrice, and then made the proclamation, and “fenced the court” (as the phrase was) against all disturbance, which was denounced under high pains and penalties. The contending parties, mostly dismounted, were arranged on either side of the Arbiter, who elected to hear Altoncroft’s evidencefirst. Altoncroft, like his opponent, had no documents of any kind to produce—his charters and sasines having long become non-existent, so that his case depended entirely upon what lawyers call parole proof. The monk, now on foot, and holding open his book, which was an old manuscript copy of the Gospels and richly illuminated, advanced to discharge the duty of administering the usual oath to the witnesses. This he did with all solemnity. Each man, when called in rotation, swore, with his right hand laid upon the sacred volume, and afterwards partook of a morsel of bread, and pronounced the imprecation that if he told an untruth the morsel might become mortal poison—a form probably borrowed from the Hebrew judicial procedure with the “water of jealousy.”
The bulk of Altoncroft’s proof, as expiscated chiefly by questions from the Sheriff, amounted somewhat to this—that the Laird’s predecessors seemed to have always regarded the disputed ground, embracing a wide portion of the moorland on one side of the Deadman’s Holm, as their own property, the burn being, to a considerable extent, the line of march. There were flaws in the witness-bearing, and much of it did not hang welltogether, as being inconclusive and sometimes contradictory hearsay. But Ballinshaw appeared to consider the proof as possessing a good deal of weight. When it came to his turn to adduce his witnesses, he whispered to Johnston, who was to be the first sworn—“Now comes the pinch, Edie; and for Gudesake dinna fail me! Thae Altoncroft rogues ha’e said ower muckle, and we maun damnify them, else we’re lost. Dinna you mind the bit aith; it’s just mere wind out o’ your mouth. Ne’er scruple, lad, in your master’s service. A fu’ purse aye heals a troubled conscience. Stand up stoutly for my richt, and ding them a’ doon. The lave o’ our men will follow you like a wheen sheep louping a dyke.”
“I daurna do mair than I ha’e promised, Laird, though it were for my ain faither,” responded Edie, shaking his head. “But trust me, what I promised, and what I’ll swear in the face o’ the sun, will bear you out. Tak’ nae fear.”
The Sergeant’s horn sounding again, Edie, assuming the firmest demeanour he could, laid down his spear, and presented himself for examination. He took the oath and the ordeal with becoming gravity, and then proceeded to depone how it consisted with his belief that theground in question belonged to Ballinshaw. Edie swore that he had frequently heard his father, grandfather, and other discreet men, who knew the locality, say so: that this was the common understanding of the country: that he himself had often seen Ballinshaw hunt over the said portion of moorland. “And to make siccar,” added he, “if your lordship will please to walk ower the ground alang wi’ me, I will point out the true marches as they were aye considered.”
This was the most matter-of-fact proposal which had been as yet offered, and it was readily accepted. Edie took his way, accompanied by nearly the whole of the assemblage. He made a wide circuit, inclining sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left. “The auld march rins this way, according to what I’ve heard, and according to what I ken,” he repeatedly deponed. “I’m walking here on the land o’ Ballinshaw. I swear, on soul and conscience, that the yird aneath my feet is Ballinshaw’s sure and certain.”
In this way he traversed a large space of the moorland, greatly to the satisfaction of his master, whose cunning eyes sparkled with joy. But the fiery Laird of Altoncroft, unable to control his chagrin longer, suddenly confronted the witnessand bade him halt. The undaunted Johnston obeyed, folding his arms, and giving his interrupter a sarcastic scowl.
“Do you, sirrah, dare to swear that what you are pointing out are the true boundaries of my lands?” demanded Altoncroft.
“What cause is there to doubt his word?” cried Ballinshaw, pressing to the support of his hopeful witness. “Let the worthy Shirra judge.”
“I tell you, Altoncroft,” said the witness, drawing himself up to his full height; “I tell you, as I ha’e sworn, that all alang the yird o’ Ballinshaw’s land has been aneath my feet. Will that content you?”
“Mis-sworn villain!” ejaculated Altoncroft, furiously.
“I’m nae mis-sworn villain,” retorted Johnston: “and were you and me here alane, wi’ only the broom-bushes around us, I wad gar you eat back your foul words. I ha’e seen your back before this day, and I may see it again.”
Altoncroft, stung by the retort, thrust his spear at the speaker’s body, piercing the iron-plated jack. Johnston uttered a yell of mingled rage and pain, and staggering back under the shock, vainly attempted to unsheath his sword, and then droppedto the ground at full length. An applauding cheer from one party of the spectators, and a vengeful cry from another, boded a general conflict. Swords were drawn, and spears lowered, and warlike slogans arose amidst the tumult. Altoncroft, having withdrawn his lance, would have repeated his thrust, had not Ruthven Somervil, on the impulse of the moment, started forward, and baring his blade, strode across the prostrate man to save him from further assault. A dozen spears were levelled at the youth’s breast, and as many advanced to protect him. The Sheriff spurred his horse into the press, and commanded all to keep the peace. His command had the effect of enforcing a pause.
Aft trifles big mishanters bring,Frae whilk a hunder mair may spring;An’ some, wha thrawart tempers ha’e,Aft stand unkent in their ain way;But aye, to guard against a coup,Fowk should look weel afore they loup.—Richard Gall—“The Tint Quey.”
Aft trifles big mishanters bring,Frae whilk a hunder mair may spring;An’ some, wha thrawart tempers ha’e,Aft stand unkent in their ain way;But aye, to guard against a coup,Fowk should look weel afore they loup.—Richard Gall—“The Tint Quey.”
Aft trifles big mishanters bring,
Frae whilk a hunder mair may spring;
An’ some, wha thrawart tempers ha’e,
Aft stand unkent in their ain way;
But aye, to guard against a coup,
Fowk should look weel afore they loup.
—Richard Gall—“The Tint Quey.”
The fish shall never swim the flood,Nor corn grow through the clay,If the fiercest fire that ever was kindledTwine me and Rothiemay.—Ballad—“The Burning of Frendraught.”
The fish shall never swim the flood,Nor corn grow through the clay,If the fiercest fire that ever was kindledTwine me and Rothiemay.—Ballad—“The Burning of Frendraught.”
The fish shall never swim the flood,
Nor corn grow through the clay,
If the fiercest fire that ever was kindled
Twine me and Rothiemay.
—Ballad—“The Burning of Frendraught.”
THEtimely interposition of the Sheriff prevented the commission of more violence. “Back! Altoncroft!” cried he, whilst his men surrounded the fallen trooper, whom Ballinshaw, with trembling arms, was endeavouring to raise. “Draw off your followers, Altoncroft,” continued Sir Robert. “You have broken Border faith, and insulted the representative of the law and the King.”
Altoncroft, sullenly sheathing his dagger, answered with a growl—“The audacious falsehoodsof this varlet would have moved patient Job; and I am not to be blamed.”
“I swore no falsehoods, but gave leal and soothfast witnessing,” retorted Johnston, who was now resting on his left elbow; “and this I’ll also swear, that next time we meet in a fair field we shall not part thus,” shaking his gauntleted right hand at his enemy.
“Come awa’ oot o’ this sturyfyke, master,” whispered the gaberlunzie to Ruthven. “You stand in deadly peril; for Royston Scott is nae craw to shoot at. Come awa’.”
He succeeded in drawing Ruthven out of the tumult. Altoncroft obeyed the Sheriff by leading his men back some space, and so allowed his victim’s comrades to gather around him and do what they could to staunch his wound. Under the impression that the gentle Johnston was dying, the attendant priest pressed through the confusion, knelt on the grass at his side, and holding up a crucifix, prepared to shrive him; but Edie scouted the notion that his end was near.
“Dinna fear for me, holy father,” he said, smiling grimly. “As broken a ship has come to land; and Death and me winna shake hands at this time o’ day. And never think that I haveperjured mysel’; for the sin o’ perjury is not on my conscience. The ground is not Ballinshaw’s, you say? I never made faith that it is. Bethink ye, holy father, o’ my words. I swore that I stood on my master’s ground; and so I did. Pull aff my boots, and you will find, in the soles o’ them, an inch or twa o’ earth from the yard o’ Ballinshaw tower.Thatsaves my conscience, and makes the matter but a jest: so if I am to die, I winna die with a falsehood in my mouth.” He finished with a hollow laugh at the deception which he had practised.
At this juncture a horseman, with the royal cognizance, the rampant red lion, emblazoned on his breast, galloped up the side of the stream, and made directly towards the Sheriff, to whom he delivered a sealed packet. The knight cut asunder the silken strings that bound it, broke the seal, and opening the packet, eagerly scanned the paper which it contained. His cheek reddened, his eyes sparkled, and he bit his nether lip, then deliberately re-folding the document, which seemed to have given him both surprise and mortification, he handed a few coins to the messenger, who, after making dutiful acknowledgment, turned his horse, and rode off as rapidly as he had come.
“A strange revolution of Fortune’s wheel,” whispered the Sheriff to his chief attendant. “The King’s Grace has appointed George Hepburn, the kinsman of Altoncroft, Sheriff in my room, and commends me to resign my office into his hands without delay, for which purpose he is to be at Jedburgh to-morrow at noon. This is the work of my unfriends at our fickle Sovereign’s court. Altoncroft cannot yet know of the change, else he would spurn my authority and provoke strife: therefore, I must dismiss him at once. I should have arrested him when he stabbed the witness; but I feared that such action would only embroil the business still further; and I am now glad it was not done.”
The Sheriff went over to Royston Scott, and said that after what had happened on the field, the arbitration proceedings behoved to be adjourned to some future day, and also enjoined him to retire, and to keep the peace. Altoncroft obeyed, and departed with his followers.
“There’s the main danger blawn ower,” said the gaberlunzie, viewing with much satisfaction the rude Laird’s retreat. “We winna toom a tankard wi’ the gentle Johnston the nicht; and wha kens whether he’ll see the morn? We’ll tak’the road, wi’ your leave, master, as lang as the play is fair.”
What road?—whither were they going? Ruthven indicated his intended destination, but did not desire to return to Greenholm, where he had changed his dress; and he added that he wished his route to be taken, so far as practicable, by paths not commonly frequented, to avoid any other mischance. The gaberlunzie was ready to accompany him by any route.
They left the Deadman’s Holm without attracting much notice, and were speedily in the midst of solitudes. As the day wore to its close, they made a halt on the edge of a wood, and what Harthill’s wallet yet contained, in the shape of viands, formed a substantial repast. This done, the journey was resumed while the sun was setting.
How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds,Like the blood he predicts.
How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds,Like the blood he predicts.
How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds,
Like the blood he predicts.
Soon, through the fading lustre above Sol’s ocean-bed, Hesperus, the lover’s star, sparkled brightly. Our wayfarer’s path now led near a sluggish stream which skirted a hilly chain, and beyond the heights lay a village, where, asHarthill said, they might find lodgement for the night; but it had this disadvantage, that it was part of the barony pertaining to Altoncroft’s kinsman, the newly-made Sheriff, and, therefore, Ruthven thought that their more prudent course would be to seek a less questionable place of rest. But, in short, to tell the truth, he was secretly desirous of parting, as soon as might be, with Willie, and of pursuing his course alone to Berwick, where he might obtain shipping for France—a country which afforded opportunities, to friendless and adventurous young Scots like himself of carving out their fortunes with their swords.
The twilight darkened, and the path grew wilder. Occasionally the harsh screams of birds of prey smote on the ear, and seemed to chill the gaberlunzie’s blood.
“I dinna like the cries o’ thae birds ava—they aye bode ill,” he said. “Nae doubt they think to pyke our banes belyve. Shue! shue! ye evil emissaries! Our Lady help us! was yon a groan? Heard you naething, master?”
“It sounded like the fall of a fragment of rock from yonder cliff,” answered Ruthven, with indifference.
Harthill shook his head, as if dubious of the explanation. His mind engrained with superstitious frailty, he began to hear uncanny sounds all around him. Every sough of the wind among the brackens was a dread presage. Hurrying his steps, he frequently left Ruthven in the rear; and to every half-jocular remonstrance of the youth, whose strength of limb was fast failing, Willie had but one apology:—
“It’s a bogley part this after dark. I’ve heard as mony stories aboot ugsome sichts seen here as there’s teeth in my head. I wadna put ower a nicht here, no for the crown o’ Scotland. Haste you, master, haste you! It’s for your ain gude.”
Without doubt he meant well. But Ruthven flagged more and more, and, after climbing a grassy eminence, which was surmounted by the ruins of a place of strength, he protested that, happen what might, he would go no farther.
“You’re in jest, master?” cried Harthill, scratching the side of his head in sheer vexation.
“We can rest here till daylight,” replied Ruthven. “The place is lone, and therefore safe.”
“Safe?” echoed Willie, with somewhat of asperity. “If we be sae daft as to rest here, wemay ne’er see daylicht. Be advised, master, be advised.”
Ruthven, however, was not to be advised. He advanced towards the ruin. The gaberlunzie followed with laggard pace, and shrank back when an owl started out, and, hooting dolefully, flew over their heads.
“There’s a warning!” ejaculated Willie. “The place is fu’ o’ uncanny things. Come back, for ony sake.”
But Ruthven still advanced. The ruin, in its palmy days, had consisted of a massive square tower of two storeys above the ground floor, with battlemented roof, and surrounded by an outer wall, which was now broken down to heaps of rubbish, overgrown with coarse vegetation. The roof had fallen in, and so had both floors, leaving only a shell of crumbling, grim walls: the courtyard was miry: and the arched portal preserved no vestige of the iron-bound door which had once barred passage. As Ruthven was about to pass inward, he was stayed for a moment by the almost hysterical entreaties of his companion, who now assumed a tone of wailing.
“I shall lodge here till morning,” answered the youth determinedly. “If anything earthly molestsme, I carry a stout heart and a trusty blade; and unearthly things I fear not.”
The gaberlunzie held up his hands in deprecation of such a foolhardy resolve; but at length he said—“Aweel, master, a wilfu’ man maun ha’e his ain way, and I maun leave you for the nicht. May a’ haly saints watch ower you! I’ll gang-on to the neist bigging, and in the morning I’ll come back; but I fear the morning winna find you a living wicht.”
“Never fear; but do as you say,” responded Ruthven. “Take this small guerdon”—bestowing some money. “You’ll find me in the morning hale and sound. Good-night, and good luck.”
The gaberlunzie was loth to part; but his superstitious nature prevailed, and he took leave, reiterating his promise to return in the morning.
Ruthven entered the ruined pile. The interior was heaped with fallen stones and debris. Casting his eye upward, as from the bottom of a deep well, he saw the dim welkin overhead, which was becoming sprinkled with golden cressets.
Star after star, from some unseen abyss,Came through the sky, like thoughts into the mind,We know not whence.
Star after star, from some unseen abyss,Came through the sky, like thoughts into the mind,We know not whence.
Star after star, from some unseen abyss,
Came through the sky, like thoughts into the mind,
We know not whence.
Some square apertures in the walls, which oncewere windows, were partly choked with grass: a narrow stone stair had given access to the first storey, but only a few of the lower steps remained intact: the air felt damp and chill, and the pervading silence was like that of a sepulchre. Ruthven weariedly sat down on a hillock of ruin close to the portal, and bending his face upon his hands, fell into a reverie, which eventually lapsed into troubled slumber.
When he awoke from a confused dream, trembling with cold, all was dark around him. He arose and went out into the courtyard to look at the sky. It was cloudless, and bright with the celestial host; and a gusty breeze blew from the west. As he turned in that direction, he perceived, upon the verge of the horizon, a glimmering light, which rose and fell alternately, but in short space grew into a broad and steady glare. Was “yon red glare the western star?” or was it “the beacon-blaze of war?” Whatever it was, it speedily became an intense mass of flame, shedding a lurid gleam on earth and heaven.
As Ruthven watched the mysterious fire, the clatter of horses approaching from the west struck his ear. He receded into the portal, and drewhis sword. In a few moments several horsemen, riding in disorder, broke dimly on his view as they ascended the height. Up they came: they urged their panting steeds over the rubbish of the wall, and drew rein in the courtyard. They were five in number, all wearing warlike harness, and seemed to have fled from an unsuccessful fight. Four dismounted, but the remaining one kept his saddle, and gazed back to the distant blaze, which was now sinking.
“Woe worth this nicht, that has seen mair ruin wrought than can be repaired in a lang life time!” ejaculated this rider, wringing his hands. “That cruel spoiler! that bluid-thirsty riever! Curses on him that wad fire an auld man’s house aboon his head!”
Ruthven recognised the voice as that of Lauder of Ballinshaw.
“A stranger here! a lurking enemy!” exclaimed one of the party, spying Ruthven in the doorway; but instantly Ruthven called out that he was no enemy but a friend to Ballinshaw.
“By St. Bryde! this is the brave lad that defended our Edie when he fell!” cried the man, “Of a surety he is a friend.”
Ruthven, assured of safety, stepped out of theportal, and sheathing his brand, hastened to the old Laird’s side, inquiring what had befallen; but the question had to be thrice repeated ere Lauder seemed to hear and comprehend it, and then he started, and peering down into Ruthven’s face, exclaimed—“Wha is this?”
“The stranger who defended our Edie,” said the retainer who had previously spoken.
“Indeed!” said Ballinshaw, in a vague way, and again directing his eye towards the fading fire. “See yonder what’s befaun. Bluidshed and murder! Ruth and ruin! A’ is lost—the airn kist fu’ o’ merks in the secret closet ahint the spence—the candlesticks and the plate that my great-grandsire brought frae the Low Countries—a’ plundered—a’ gane. But how cam’ you here, lad?”
“Night overtook me on my way, and I sought shelter here, where scant shelter there is,” replied Ruthven.
“We seek refuge, too,” said the retainer; “but if Altoncroft be in pursuit o’ us—”
“Altoncroft!” cried Ruthven. “Is he the ravager?”
“Ay,” returned the man. “His hatred has burnt up Ballinshaw. When we reached hameyesterday, word was heard that our fickle King had appointed Altoncroft’s kinsman Sheriff, in room o’ the just Sir Robert Home; and we heard the news like our death-knell. Dreading the warst, as weel we micht, we prepared the auld house for defence—armed every man and callant—and keepit strict watch. Afore midnicht, Altoncroft cam’ wi’ a’ his power. There was a fierce and deadly struggle; but he brak’ in wi’ his ruthless band, and we were driven out, and the place was fired. The flames lichted our way as we fled.”
“Did Edie Johnston perish in the struggle?” asked Ruthven.
“Not that I can tell,” said the retainer. “When the enemy brak’ in, we lowered Edie into the subterranean passage that leads frae the ha’ to the middle o’ the garden; but if the villains discoveredhis hiding place, they would gi’e him but short shrift.”
Note.—A parallel to the catastrophe of the arbitration is recorded in Sir John Sinclair’s “Statistical Account of Scotland” (Vol. V., 153), as having occurred in the parish of Menmuir, in the county of Forfar:—“Two lairds quarrelled about their marches, and witnesses were brought to swear to the old boundaries. One of these chieftains, provoked to hear his opponent’s servant declare, on oath, that he then stood on his master’s ground, pulled a pistol from his belt, and shot him dead on the spot. It was found that to save his conscience he had earth in his shoes brought from his laird’s lands.”
Note.—A parallel to the catastrophe of the arbitration is recorded in Sir John Sinclair’s “Statistical Account of Scotland” (Vol. V., 153), as having occurred in the parish of Menmuir, in the county of Forfar:—
“Two lairds quarrelled about their marches, and witnesses were brought to swear to the old boundaries. One of these chieftains, provoked to hear his opponent’s servant declare, on oath, that he then stood on his master’s ground, pulled a pistol from his belt, and shot him dead on the spot. It was found that to save his conscience he had earth in his shoes brought from his laird’s lands.”
“A’ my strength is blasted like a flower o’ the field, and a’ my gear gane like snaw aff a dyke,” moaned Ballinshaw, again wringing his hands. “But the enemy may be hard ahint us, and we maun on and awa’—on and awa’.”
“Our horses are blawn, and we maun gi’e them some minutes’ rest,” said the retainer, languidly laying himself on a heap of rubbish.
Scarcely had they thought of rest when the clatter of hoofs sounded in the glen below. Ballinshaw started in affright, and the next moment had fallen from his steed, a victim of apoplexy.
“’Tis Royston Scott!” exclaimed one of his retainers. “We are but dead men!”
The pursuers, headed by Altoncroft, rapidly began to ascend the hill. Leading his followers, Scott encouraged them in their work with promise of reward. Ruthven Somervil watched their movements, and, lifting a large stone, cast it down upon Altoncroft with so sure an aim that it struck horse and man to the earth. For the moment there was panic among Scott’s supporters, but an instant later, having left their leader torecover as best he might, they made for the crest of the hill, all eyes ablaze with vengeance against the youth who had thrown their master.
Ruthven wisely decided on flight. Entering the ruined fort, he dragged himself up on the broad sill of one of the windows, and leapt upon the soft, boggy ground beneath, seized one of the horses, and galloped away. Shouts and cries were behind him; he pricked his horse with his dagger for want of spurs, and dashed among the mountains, never drawing rein until he considered himself safe from the reach of the anger of the house of Altoncroft.
“The star of the unconquered will,He rises in my breast,Serene and resolute and still,And calm and self-possessed.”
“The star of the unconquered will,He rises in my breast,Serene and resolute and still,And calm and self-possessed.”
“The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene and resolute and still,
And calm and self-possessed.”
LITTLEdid Ruthven Somervil reck that Edie Johnston, whom he had so valiantly defended, was the man who had slipped him through the portal of Hawksglen on that long-past night. Had a suspicion, even hinting at that, dawned upon him, he would have instantly sought out Edie and tried to learn from him something of his descent. With Johnston and kindred spirits he was destined to have much in common, but the question of his parentage was never mentioned in their hearing.
Ruthven found refuge at Hunterspath, a notorious Border-raiders’ stronghold. The tidings he brought of the outrage on Ballinshaw, and his modest recital of the part he himself had played in recent events, won the sympathy and admiration of the mosstroopers, and he soon proved his daring before their own eyes. None was more fearless than Ruthven, no sword onall the Borders was sharper than his, and when, at the end of two years, the Chief of Hunterspath went down to his robber grave as the result of a treacherous thrust from a foeman’s spear, Ruthven Somervil was hailed as his successor. To him was assigned the Captaincy by common consent, and never a man went back on his choice.
The daring life of a mosstrooper did not ill agree with Ruthven’s valiant spirit. He was never more in his element than when leading his men across the English Border on some mission of pillage, and never prouder than when he withdrew into the stronghold of Hunterspath to share his spoils with his companions.
But sometimes, when alone, a kindly thought of Eleanor Elliot brought a mist to his eyes as he considered how ill-suited a Border-raider was to be a mate of such a gentle lady. From the topmost turret of his own keep he would gaze in the direction of Hawksglen, and try to discern the towers of the ancient castle where his childhood and youth had been passed.
“Some day, some day,” he would sigh, “God grant that I may clasp my fair angel to my breast.”
Since the morning when he had said good-byeto Sir James and Lady Elliot, more than three years ago, no word had ever passed between him and Eleanor. But something told him that the fair daughter of Hawksglen, who had looked into his eyes with the eyes of affection, was true to his undeclared love, and would yet welcome him to her arms. Had he known that Lady Elliot was assiduously endeavouring to arrange a marriage between Eleanor and Sir Anthony Maxwell of Rutherwell, it would have filled him with alarm, but even knowledge of that kind would not have shaken his faith in the companion of his early years. One summer evening, when he was more than usually moody, the long-desired opportunity of seeing Hawksglen came in his way. Edie Johnston burst in upon the mosstroopers.
“The English loons are owre again!” he exclaimed. “Sir Dacre de Ermstein and twa hunder o’ his men are spreading disaster on every hand. I hear that Elliot’s place is the next mark for them.”
“Elliot? Hawksglen?” queried Ruthven, as he sprang to his feet.
“Ay, the very same,” replied Edie.
“Then to-night we must strike a blow for the honour of Scotland. The quarrel of Elliot shallbe our quarrel, and God help the English loon that fa’s in our way.”
A few minutes later, at the head of his followers, Ruthven Somervil was advancing rapidly towards Hawksglen. Already news of the attack from the English enemy had spread in the district, and barons and their retainers, from different quarters, had assembled to help Elliot, and resist their common foe. When Ruthven and his men appeared upon the scene the conflict was at its height. Sir Anthony Maxwell, cheered by the thought that Eleanor’s hand might be the reward of his valour, fought nobly for the house of Elliot. But it was evident that Sir Dacre de Ermstein was to be victor. Once or twice the defenders had been forced back, and the spirits of the garrison began to droop. Then came the turn in fortune’s wheel. The reivers burst through the lines, and changed the fate of Hawksglen.
Another half-hour and the defeat of the English was complete. Horse and foot broke away from the fatal conflict, and fled for refuge in every direction. A murmur of rage broke from the lips of Ermstein, and he turned to one of his followers.
“This robber chief—his name?” he demanded.
“Ruthven Somervil. He keeps the Tower of Hunterspath with a powerful and desperate band.”
“Ruthven Somervil,” said the knight slowly; “he shall be remembered. Chance may yet throw vengeance into my power. But Elliot may thank his robber allies, for, had not they come to his aid, the flag of Dacre de Ermstein would now have been floating triumphantly over the towers of Hawksglen.”
Giving vent to his anger in these and similar words, the English knight withdrew his forces, and retired in the direction of the Border. The raiders of Hunterspath, greedy of booty, did not hesitate to despoil the English dead, and went about their business, while the servants of Hawksglen succoured those who had been wounded in defence of their house.
Sir James Elliot invited Maxwell, and others who had come to his relief, to partake of his hospitality, and Lady Elliot was most assiduous in her attentions to the guests.
“The chief of Hunterspath,” she said to her husband, as she noticed that Ruthven was not in the banqueting hall.
“Ay; I had almost forgotten,” returned Sir James, as he went in search of the mosstrooper.
A moment later he held his breath in wonder: Eleanor and Ruthven were in conversation in the courtyard. The mosstrooper’s visor was still down, as it had been during the fight. Sir James approached.
“You will drink to the defeat of our foes?” he said.
“Nay, Sir James,” and the voice sounded strangely familiar in his ear. “With Sir Dacre de Ermstein vowing vengeance against me I have other things to think of. But judge me not a churl,” he went on, as he took Eleanor’s hand; “one touch from your daughter’s fingers, and one glance from her flashing eye, are reward enough for the Captain of Hunterspath.”
Wha’s friends, wha’s faes, in this cauld warld,Is e’en richt ill to learn;But an evil e’e hath looked on thee,My bonnie, bonnie bairn.A. M’Laggan.
Wha’s friends, wha’s faes, in this cauld warld,Is e’en richt ill to learn;But an evil e’e hath looked on thee,My bonnie, bonnie bairn.A. M’Laggan.
Wha’s friends, wha’s faes, in this cauld warld,
Is e’en richt ill to learn;
But an evil e’e hath looked on thee,
My bonnie, bonnie bairn.
A. M’Laggan.
WHENRuthven mounted his steed, and passed the gate of Hawksglen, he found that all his followers, with the exception of Edie Johnston, had retired. Laden with booty, they had made tracks for Hunterspath, well knowing that their Captain was able to defend himself from the attack of any English straggler.
“It’s a bonnie sicht,” said Edie, as he indicated the English dead, “them a’ lying heids and thraws. An’ it was a bonnier sicht to see the lads gae aff wi’ the plunder.”
But Ruthven was in no mood for conversation. He had learned from Eleanor that Lady Elliot was desirous of marrying her to Sir Anthony Maxwell, and he well knew that Maxwell’s valour that day must have greatly advanced him in the eyes of Hawksglen. Deep in thought—almostunconscious of the presence of Edie—he rode on, while the shades of night descended upon them.
By and by the friendly light of a wayside tavern burst upon their view, and roused Ruthven from his stupor. Edie watched the Captain’s eyes light upon the inn.
“It’s dry wark ridin’ in silence,” he ventured to remark.
“Ay, Edie, ay, but I had thoughts that kept me frae thirst.”
“Ye’ve been unco quiet sin’ ye left Hawksglen. What ails ye, gin I may mak’ bold to speir?”
They had alighted from their steeds. Ruthven put his hand on Edie’s shoulder.
“Twa men and a’e woman,” he said, in a low tone.
“The auld complaint,” answered Edie; “put yer sword in him. Wha is he?”
“Sir Anthony Maxwell.”
“Him that ettles to mairry Elliot’s dochter?”
“Ay, the same. And, Edie, I love the lass. I lived—it’s a secret, and I give it to you alone—for twenty years at Hawksglen, and I loved Eleanor from childhood.”
“Ay, twenty ’ear,” repeated Edie, “you’re the lad—”
“That was left one night with nothing but this,” and he touched a little golden reliquary that hung round his neck, “to tell who I was.”
Edie looked keenly at his Captain. Would he tell him there and then that he was the man who had passed him through the portal of Hawksglen, and tell him whence was his origin? Would he?—
Before he had time to do aught, his arms were pinioned behind his back, and three stout Englishmen had thrown themselves suddenly on Ruthven.
The assault was so unexpected and sudden that neither the Captain of Hunterspath nor Edie could offer the least resistance. Amid the jeers of their captors they were mounted on their horses. Sir Dacre de Ermstein rode up to Ruthven and whispered in his ear:
“The robber of Hunterspath shall not always prevail against the house of Ermstein.”
By an ill-turn of Fortunes wheel the man who had beaten off the English foe from Hawksglen was now in the hands of that same foe—the victor led off in bonds by the vanquished!
A long night ride saw the forces of Sir Dacre de Ermstein across the Border, and on the afternoon of the following day the towers ofWarkcliff Castle rose before Sir Dacre and his followers.
The Lady of Warkcliff, the childless wife of Sir Dacre de Ermstein, was sitting at her chamber window, vacantly watching the conflict that raged in the bosom of the sweet valley, between the heavy morning mists and the sun and wind. Lady de Ermstein had come of a noble English line: in her youth she had been peerless for her charms, but middle-age had reft all those youthful charms away; still, she was a stately dame, and still possessed those graces of manner which had so much enhanced her youthful beauty. But she was childless. This was the secret sorrow that preyed everlastingly upon her soul. Her husband was the last of his ancient line. With him would perish the noble house of De Ermstein, and the lordly domains of Warkcliff would pass away to the stranger.
Watching the battle in the valley between the mists and the sun and wind, she thought of that great cloud which had heavily enveloped her heart and hopes so long, which no sun, no breath of promise, would ever dissipate. Her husband burst into the chamber. His countenance was flushed, and his eye kindling, and his look elated.The lady had heard the tumult in the castle, but it only cost her a passing thought.
“Such tidings as I have to tell, Alice!” he exclaimed, grasping her by both hands. “Such tidings as make my heart leap!”
“They are not of sorrow, then!” said the lady, with a wan smile.
“No! why of sorrow? I have won a proud triumph, Alice. Mountjoy, whom I despatched to watch the Scots at their Weaponschaw, or military muster of the shire, has captured the villain Somervil, the robber who keeps a tower on the Cheviot hills, who infests the whole English marches, Mountjoy has madehima prisoner.”
“And brought him to the castle?”
“Yes; and the mosstrooper now lies in the Donjon with iron on wrist and ankle.”
“He has troubled the Border long,” said the lady thoughtfully. “But you do not resolve to have his life?” she added, looking full in her husband’s face.
“I have determined that he shall suffer the penalty due to his crimes,” cried Sir Dacre; “and that within three days. Has he not been my relentless foe, the relentless spoliator of my lands?I never can forget that, through him, I suffered that disgraceful repulse before the tower of Hawksglen, which, but for his interposition, would have yielded to the assaults of my gallant soldiers. No, no, Alice, speak not a word for him; I will hear no petition from human lips that his life should be spared. Since the day at Hawksglen how often have my vassals been plundered and slain by the mosstroopers of Hunterspath? I will not listen to appeals for mercy to this noted outlaw—this villain whose pride and boast it is to plunder the domains of Warkcliff, and mortify their lord.”
“But, husband,” entreated the gentle-hearted lady, “resolve upon nothing until your passion has cooled down. Your spirits are flushed at this moment. There is no knightly virtue so brilliant as that of compassion for the vanquished foe.”
“But what a foe this is, Alice,” said the knight, “a mosstrooper—an outlawed and broken man—a miscreant who lives upon spoliation and rapine.Hecan claim no compassion.”
“Still, to put him to death, miscreant as he is, may bring the vengeance of his confederates on the Scottish side upon you, husband. Considerthis: his death may add another to the many grounds of feud and fray which the turbulent Scottish chiefs have against you. And we have suffered much from the hatred of the Border Scots.”
“It does not move my compassion for this ruffian,” returned the knight, with a dark gloom on his brow, “thus to rake up the memories of our past wrongs and sorrows. Can I forget that, through the fell hatred of some caitiff-Scot, we are this day childless and heirless?”
“Childless, indeed!” sighed the lady, as, with a burst of grief, she sank on her husband’s shoulder and wept aloud.
Sir Dacre was equally affected, but he forbore all signs of woe. He essayed to soothe his weeping wife, and laid her gently into a chair.
“Ay,” said the knight, as he moodily perambulated the room, “Scottish hatred has struck at the root of our house, and will behold its extinction in a few short years. The house of De Ermstein traces its long descent from the chivalrous Norman who followed the Conqueror, and shared in the perils and glories of the field of Hastings. And shall this long lineterminate withme? Alas! my name shall be erased for ever from the princely roll of English nobles.”
“O, that child—that lost, lost child!” sobbed the weeping lady. “Twenty years have deepened the sad wound of my soul!”
“Childless, heirless,” resumed Sir Dacre. “And this old house to close with me? One of my ancestors received the praise of King Edward on the field of Falkirk, where the Scottish rebels were scattered; another did his devoir gallantly under bold King Hall at Agincourt; and a third stabbed down the hump-backed Richard on Bosworth. We have all our ancient baronial honours about us. But oblivion is destined to swallow up all!”
“Let this outlaw live,” cried the lady, starting from the chair, and clasping her husband’s hands. “Shed no blood that may cry from the ground against us. Vengeance is the prerogative of Heaven alone. We who are in the midst of sorrow, who have no prospects but dark ones, we should excel in deeds of mercy. Let him live, keep him captive all his days, but shed no blood. I implore his life, husband; I implore it from the bottom of my heart.”
The knight beheld her with amazement.
“Alice,” he said calmly, “your feelings overpower you. This outlawmustsuffer. I am here in the stead of the minister of Justice, who shall perform my duty.”