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Title: Mary of Lorraine
        An historical romance

Author: James Grant

Release date: June 20, 2023 [eBook #71001]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: George Routledge & Sons, 1865

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY OF LORRAINE ***







  MARY OF LORRAINE.

  An Historical Romance.


  BY

  JAMES GRANT,

  AUTHOR OF
  "THE ROMANCE OF WAR," "THE AIDE-DE-CAMP," "ARTHUR BLANE,"
  ETC. ETC.



  "It was English gold and Scots traitors wan
  Pinkeycleuch, but no Englishman."
                                      OLD RHYME.


  A NEW EDITION


  LONDON:
  GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS,
  BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL;
  NEW YORK: 129, GRAND STREET.
  1865.




  Contents

  I. THE TOWER OF FAWSIDE
  II. WESTMAINS
  III. THE DEATH FEUD
  IV. AN OLD SCOTTISH MATRON
  V. THE "GOLDEN ROSE."
  VI. CURIOSITY
  VII. THE BRAWL
  VIII. THE REGENCY OF ARRAN
  IX. MISTRUST
  X. IN WHICH THE PATIENT PROGRESSES FAVOURABLY
  XI. THE OPAL RING
  XII. MASTER POSSET
  XIII. HOME
  XIV. PRESTON TOWER
  XV. THE LETTER OF THE VALOIS
  XVI. THE COUNTESS
  XVII. A SNARE
  XVIII. THE DEATH-ERRAND
  XIX. CADZOW FOREST
  XX. MILLHEUGH
  XXI. A BOTHWELL!  A BOTHWELL!
  XXII. THE SCORNED AMITY
  XXIII. CADZOW CASTLE
  XXIV. THE JOURNEY
  XXV. THE PROCESSION
  XXVI. THE CONVENTION OF ESTATES
  XXVII. MADELINE HOME
  XXVIII. CHAMPFLEURIE
  XXIX. THE DOUGLAS ROOM
  XXX. THE ROMAN ROCK
  XXXI. THE JOURNEY HOME
  XXXII. THE CHATELAINE OF THE TORWOOD
  XXXIII. THE NEISH'S HEAD
  XXXIV. THE NEISH'S HEAD--STORY CONTINUED
  XXXV. A RIVAL
  XXXVI. THE RETURN
  XXXVII. LADY ALISON
  XXXVIII. THE CHAPEL OF ST. MARTIN
  XXXIX. THE LURE
  XL. THE WAKENING
  XLI. A BLOODY TRYST
  XLII. THE PASSING BELL
  XLIII. THE CROSS OF FIRE
  XLIV. THE INVASION
  XLV. THE MEN-AT-ARMS
  XLVI. THE PARLEY
  XLVII. THE BLACK SATURDAY
  XLVIII. THE BATTLE
  XLIX. THE FLIGHT
  L. HAWTHORNDEN
  LI. JOY
  LII. PEDRO DE GAMBOA
  LIII. THE GUISE PALACE
  LIX. THE DEPARTURE
  LV. SEQUEL TO THE INVASION
  LVI. THE ISLE OF REST
  NOTES I: FAWSIDE OF THAT ILK
  NOTES II: THE BATTLE OF PINKEY




PREFACE.

In the following pages I have endeavoured to describe something of
the manners and inner life of the Lowland Scots at the period
referred to, modernizing the language, which, to my English readers,
might otherwise prove unintelligible.

For the political corruption of the Scottish noblesse at that--as at
every other--period of their annals, ample proofs to support me are
furnished by "Rymer's Foedera," and "Tytler's History;" while the
fact that Henry VIII. and his successors too often employed in
Scotland other and very different emissaries than the two I shall
introduce to the reader, has been amply proved by the Calendar of
State Papers on Scotland, lately published by Mr. Thorpe, who shows
us that, in addition to the devastations and burning of his lawless
invading armies of English, Spaniards, and Germans, he was base
enough to hire secret assassins, to remove all who were inimical to
his matrimonial speculations in Scotland.

Incidentally, I have introduced the terrible episode of a Highland
feud which occurred in the time of James V.  The story of "The
Neish's Head" is still remembered in Strathearn; and I believe a
different version of it appeared some years ago in a work entitled
"The Scottish Wars."

The mode of torture mentioned in the adventure at Millheugh Tower,
was not uncommon in those barbarous days.  My attention was called,
by a friend, to a paper which is preserved at Cullen House,
Bauffshire, and which furnished the idea.

It formed part of a collection of MSS. which belonged to the late
Rev. John Grant, of Elgin, and which, with his library, he bequeathed
to his chief, the Earl of Seafield.  It refers to the feud between
the Earls of Huntley and Murray (which ended in the murder of the
latter, at the Castle of Donibristle, in Fifeshire), and is a copy of
a petition from the latter noble, the chief of the Grants, and
Dunbar, sheriff of Moray, praying the government of James VI. to
grant them protection against Huntley and his followers, and craving
redress for injuries which they had sustained at his hands.  After
narrating many instances of fire-raising and bloodshed perpetrated by
the Gordons, it demands justice "for the cruel slaughter of John
Mhor, son of Alaster Mhor Grant, a kinsman and follower of John
Grant, of Freuchie, who was hanged and _smeikit in the cruick, till
he died_, by Patrick Gordon, brother to William Gordon, of Monaltrie,
and five or six others, at the instance and command of the said
George, Earl of Huntley."

In this document, which was dated 1591, there is another barbarity
which I care not committing to print; but such were the cruelties and
recklessness of life, about the times immediately before and after
the Reformation, and the regency of Mary of Lorraine.

In the notes I have given a list--the gradual collection of years--of
some of those Scottish gentlemen who fell in defence of their country
on the 10th of September, 1547; and I have little doubt that many of
my readers may discover their ancestors amongst them.  I have seen no
similar list so ample, save one that I possess of the brave who died
at Flodden with King James.

  26, DANUBE STREET, EDINBURGH,
  _May_, 1860.




MARY OF LORRAINE.



CHAPTER I.

THE TOWER OF FAWSIDE.

  The castle looketh dark without;
    Within the rooms are cold and dreary;
  The chill light from the window fades;
    The fire it burneth all uncheery.
  With meek hands cross'd beside the hearth,
    The pale and anxious mother sitteth;
  And now she listens to the bat
    That, screaming, round the window flitteth.
                                        _Mary Howitt._


Ten miles eastward from the Cross of Edinburgh, and two southward
from the sandy shore of the Firth of Forth, stands an old and ruined
fortalice, named the Castle of Fawside, on a green ridge which rises
by gradual and gentle undulations, to the height of three hundred
feet above the sea.

In summer the foliage of a group of venerable trees generally
conceals much of this ancient mansion, which occupies a lonely and
sequestered spot; but its square crumbling chimneys and round
turrets, cutting the sky line above the leafy coppice, are visible to
all who traverse the roads which lie at the base of the aforesaid
ridge.  Covered with wood, and a little to the westward, is the hill
of Carberry, the scene of Queen Mary's memorable surrender (some
twenty years after the period of our present story) to those titled
ruffians who styled themselves the Lords of the Congregation.

The more ancient part of this mansion is of unknown antiquity, and
consists of a narrow and massive tower, entered by a low-browed
archway, built of deep-red sandstone, facing the north.  The arch
gives access to a suite of those strong dark vaults which form the
substructure of all old Scottish houses, and from thence, by a steep
wheel stair (which contains a curious and secret hiding-place) we may
ascend to a hall, the groined stone roof of which is still remaining,
though covered on the top, where once the stone bartizan lay, by a
coating of rich grass.

Here, in this grim and narrow tower, in the twelfth century, dwelt
William de Fawsyde, a baron in the first parliament of King David I.;
and his son Edmund, who stood by that brave monarch's side, when, in
the monastery of the Holy Rood, he gifted the lands of Tranent to
Thor, the son of Swan.  The more modern parts of this ruin are on the
south, and consist of a huge gable, having two massive turrets, a
steep and narrow circular stair, and several large windows, in which
the enormous harrow-shaped iron gratings are still remaining.  Stone
water-spouts, finely carved, project from these turrets; but no date
gives an index to the time of these additions, which are in the
Scoto-French style of the sixteenth century.

Like all such edifices in Scotland, this castle is haunted.  It is
the abode of a spectral lady, who wears a dule-weed, or antique suit
of mourning, and appears once yearly, flitting among the ruins, on
the anniversary of that Black Saturday in September when the fatal
field of Pinkey was fought on the green slope and beautiful plain
between the ruins and the sea.  Benighted shepherds, gipsies, and
other wanderers, who have ventured to seek shelter under the
crumbling roof of the old hall, have more than once encountered her,
to their terror and dismay; but this restless spirit molests no one.
Pale, sad, and silent, she generally sits in a corner of the great
northern window, with her wheel or spindle, and like she of whom we
read in the "Battle of Regillus," it has been said of her that,--

          "As she plied the distaff,
            In sweet voice and low,
          She sang of great old houses,
            And fights fought long ago;
  So spun she, so sang she, until the east was grey,
  Then pointed to her bleeding heart, and shrieked and fled away."


This quaint ruin, which is still engirt by the remains of a high
barbican wall, entered by one of those strong yetlan iron gates
peculiar to all baronial houses in Scotland, after the portcullis
fell into disuse, was the residence and stronghold of the Fawsides of
that ilk--one of the oldest families in the Lowlands of Scotland.
And now, with the reader's pardon for this somewhat archæological and
architectural preamble, we will proceed at once to open our story.

In the year 1547, when the little Mary Queen of Scots was a chubby
child of five years old, and her turbulent and rebellious kingdom,
then wavering between Catholicism and a new faith, for which there
was no other name but Heresy, was governed by the somewhat feeble
authority of a regent, in the person of James Hamilton, second Earl
of Arran, and next heir to the throne, the tower of Fawside was
inhabited by Dame Alison Kennedy, widow of Sir John Fawside, who had
been slain in a feud by the Hamiltons of Preston; and this stern
woman--for singularly stern she was by nature--was a Kennedy of the
house of Colzean, and cousin of that ferocious Earl of Cassilis, who,
thirty-three years _after_ the epoch of this our history,
deliberately roasted Allan Stewart, commendator of Crossraguel,
before a blazing fire, having first denuded him of his clothes, and
basted him well with grease; and there, sputtering like a huge
turkey, the hapless priest was turned upon a spit, until, with his
scorched and shrivelled hand, he signed a charter, gifting all the
lands of his abbey unto the earl and his heirs.

On the evening of the 1st of August, the Feast of St. Peter ad
Vincula (or the Festival of the Chains), 1547, this lady was seated
at the northern window of her hall, gazing with fixed and anxious
eyes over the tract of country that lay between her castle and the
sea.  Untouched and neglected, her ivory-mounted spinning-wheel stood
near her; close by were six other wheels of plainer construction,
evincing that she and the women of her little household had been
spinning since the time of dinner, which, in those stirring days, was
taken at the hour of twelve.

The sun was setting beyond the purple hills of Dunblane, and its
golden gleam lit all the far-extending shores of Lothian and of Fife,
with their gray bluffs, green bays, and sandy beaches, the straggling
burghs of Grail and Kinghorn, and many a fisher-village, all dark and
weather-beaten by the stormy gales that blow from the German Sea.  At
anchor in Musselburgh Bay were a few of those small craft which were
then termed topmen, from their peculiar rigging, and which traded
with the low countries in wool, skins, salmon, cloth, silks, and
wine.  They had huge square poops, and low prows beaked with iron,
and were always well equipped with falcons, crossbows, and
arquebusses, as a defence against English pirates and Moorish rovers.

Save where a few cottages and a clump of trees dotted the slope here
and there, the country was all open between the tower in which the
lady sat, and the green knoll crowned by St. Michael's Kirk of
Inveresk, and the high antique bridge and the thatched or
stone-slated houses of the "honest town" of Musselburgh.  This
venerable municipality was then terminated on the westward by a
beautiful chapel, dedicated to our Lady of Loretto, to whose shrine
the late King James V., with taper in hand and feet and head bare,
had made more than one pilgrimage for the health of his first queen,
Magdalene of Valois, and of his second, Mary of Lorraine; for this
old shrine shared all the fame and sanctity of its elder prototype in
Italy.  A great part of the adjacent town was in ruins, just as it
had been left by the English after their invasion under Lord
Hertford, three years before the date of our story.

Below the hill of Inveresk lay a deep and dangerous morass, named the
Howe Mire, then the haunt of the heron, the wild goose, and coot, the
water kelpie, and the will-o'-the-wisp.

Three miles distant from the window at which Dame Alison was seated
rose the high and narrow tower of Preston; and when her wandering
eyes fell on its grim dark mass, they flashed with a hateful glare,
while the gloom of her pale anxious brow grew darker, and its stern
lines more deep; for she hated the race of Hamilton, to whom it
belonged, with all the hate an old Scottish feud inspired.

On the green slope of Fawside Hill the shepherds, grey-plaided and
bonneted, were driving home to fold and penn the flocks which had
browsed there the livelong harvest day; and these were all of that
old Scottish breed which is now completely extinct, but was small,
active, and keen-eyed, with tawny faces, hairy wool, and well-curved
yellow horns.

The quiet evening aspect of the pastoral landscape on which the lady
gazed was not made more lively by the grisly forms of two dead men
hanging upon the arm of an oak tree about a bow-shot from the tower
gate, where the black rooks and ravenous gleds were perching or
wheeling in circles round them.  These unfortunates had been "hangit
in their buits," as they phrased it in those days, by order of the
baroness; for there was then a law "that ilk baron might cleanse his
lands of trespassers thrice in the year;" so, on finding two on her
estate of Fawside, she ordered them to be hanged, and, in five
minutes thereafter, old Roger of the Westmains, her bailie, had them
dangling from an arm of the dule tree.  Her neighbours averred that
this severity was exercised because the culprits bore the name of
Hamilton; and a greater horror was added to the episode by the
discovery that certain portions of their limbs had been abstracted in
the night,--"Doubtless," said the bailie, "by the witches of Salt
Preston, for the furtherance of their damnable cantrips."

"Half-past eight," muttered Lady Alison, as the last segment of the
ruddy sun sank behind the dark peak of Dumeyat, "and no sign's yet of
horse or man upon the upland road.  Woe to you, Westmains, for a
loitering fool!  Thou art too old to scourge, and too faithful to
hang, or, by my husband's grave, my mood to-night would give thee to
one or other--the rod or the rope!"

As she spoke her thoughts aloud, in that manner peculiar to those who
think deeply and are much alone, she beat the paved floor
passionately with the high heel of her shoe.  There she sat alone in
that quaint old hall, with the shadows of night closing around
her--alone, because she was a woman whom, from her stern nature and
wayward humour, many feared and few loved.

For the hundredth time that day, she anxiously consulted the
horologue.  This clock was a curious piece of mechanism, which
occupied a niche in the hall, and was supported on four little brass
pillars, surmounted by a metal dome, on which the hours were struck
by a clumsy iron hammer.  It bore the date 1507, and the name
_Leadenhall_, having been found in an English ship, taken by Sir
Robert Barton, who had presented it as an almost priceless gift to
her late husband.

Nine o'clock struck from this sonorous horologue; and then the pale
mother, who, in those perilous and stormy days, waited for an only
and long-absent son, struck her hands despairingly together, and
again seated herself at the grated window of the hall, to watch the
darkening shadows without.

Suddenly a sound struck her ear, and a horseman was seen galloping up
the narrow bridle-path which traversed Fawside Brae and led direct to
the castle wall.

"Nurse--nurse Maud!" said Lady Alison impetuously to an old woman
wearing a curchie and camlet gown, who joined her; "my eyes are full
of tears, and I cannot see--is that horseman our bairn, or only old
Westmains?"

"'Tis Westmains--I would ken his grey mare amang a thousand."

"He rideth fast, nurse, for a man so old in years."

"Yea; but a drunken man and a famished horse come fast home to bower
and stall," responded the Abigail crustily; "the hour is late, and
Preston's men were at Edinburgh market to-day; so, perhaps our bailie
had a shrewd guess the way might be beset between the night and
morning."

"Beset!--and my son----" muttered the pale mother through her
clenched teeth.

"Fear na for him; he has friends----"

"Friends?"

"Yes, madam--his sword and dagger, and stout hands to wield them!
But here comes that drunken carle, the bailie."

As the nurse spoke, the horseman trotted his nag into the paved
barbican of the tower, and dismounted.




CHAPTER II.

WESTMAINS.

  Oh, when will ye come hame again?
    Dear Willie, tell to me;
  "When sun and moon loup o'er yon hill--
    And that will never be!"
  She turned hersel right round about,
    Her heart burst into three;
  "My ae best son is dead and gane,
    The other I ne'er shall see."
                              _Old Ballad._


"A light," exclaimed Lady Alison; "a light, that I may see by this
loiterer's face whether he be tipsy or sober!"

Candles were soon flaming in the numerous sconces of polished tin and
brass that hung on knobs around the hall, and shed a cheerful light
through every part of it; yet it was not without what we in these
days would deem a quaint and weird aspect.  Many centuries had
darkened this old mansion, and twelve generations had hung their
swords in that baronial hall.  It is lofty, arched with stone, and
its walls are still massive, deep, and strong.  Father Seton, the
vicar of the adjacent village, who was locally known as Mass John of
Tranent, and to whose writings we are indebted for much that concerns
this old family, has left a minute description of all the "gear and
inside plenishing of the castle."

Large oak chests, girnels and almries, the receptacles of linen,
vessels for the table, food, corn, and beer, occupied the recesses.
Trophies of arms and racks of spears stood between the windows.  In
this apartment there were but two chairs of carved oak.  These, as
usual then in Scottish halls stood on each side of the fireplace:
one, being for the father of the family, had never been used since
the slaughter of Sir John Fawside by the Laird of Preston; the other
was for Dame Alison.  Round the hall were ranged various forms,
creepies, and buffet stools; these, like the long table, were all of
black old oak from the Burghmuir, and allotted to the use of the
family or visitors.  The stone seats in the windows were laid over
with cushions of Flemish damask, and had footmats of plaited rushes
from the Howemire.  The stone walls, which, as the season was warm,
were divested of tapestry, had been recently decorated by Andro
Watson, the late king's favourite painter, and bore numerous gaudy
and quaint designs, representing family traditions, such as passages
of arms and daring feats performed in war or in the chase.

Over the arched fireplace stood the portrait of umquhile Sir John of
that ilk, the work of the same hand.  Quaint, stark and stiff, he was
on foot, in an old suit of mail of the fifteenth century, jagged with
iron beaks; a snowy beard flowed below his girdle, and his right hand
grasped the bridle of a white horse, on the back of which this grim
figure had frequently been found _mounted_ at midnight, as nurse
Maud, and other old servants, had more than once affirmed!--for
Fawside Tower was haunted even then, as a matter of course.  Too much
blood had been shed in and about it, and too many of its mailed
proprietors had perished by bloody and violent deaths, for the
mansion to be without its due proportion of spectral appearances and
mysterious sounds.

Thus, an antique copper bell which swung at the gable of the tower
tolled of its own accord, and all untouched by mortal hand, when a
Fawside died; and on the Eve of St. John, a bearded visage, averred
by some to be that of the late laird, peeped in the twilight through
the hall windows, though these were more than twenty feet from the
ground.  The gleaming eyes would gaze sadly for a moment on the
shrinking beholder, and then the visage melted slowly away into air.

Above the mantelpiece, as above the barbican gate, were the arms of
this old family--gules, a fess between three besants, the heraldic
badge assigned to a predecessor who had been in Palestine--Sir Robert
of that ilk, having served St. Louis IX. in the last crusade, and
taken the motto _Forth and feir nocht_: but enough of this dull
archæology, and now to resume our narrative.

Followed by several of the household, male and female, all anxious to
learn what the town news was, and chiefly whether there were any
tidings of their young master's return from France, where he had been
resident nearly seven years, the ground bailie, Roger Fawside, of the
Westmains, a vassal and remote kinsman, entered the hall.  He was a
stout and thickset man, about fifty years of age; his beard was
grizzled and grey, like his Lombard coat, which had long hanging
sleeves, with rows of horn buttons from the shoulder to the wrist.
He wore grey breeches and white ribbed stockings gartered at the
knee, a blue bonnet, a sword and dagger, slung at a calf-skin girdle.
Doffing his bonnet, he made a reverence to Lady Alison, and walking
straight to where, upon a binn, near the hall door, there stood a
barrel of ale furnished with a wooden cup, for all who chose to drink
thereat; he drew forth the spiggot, and proceeded to fill the
aforesaid vessel with a foaming draught.  With her brows knit, and
her dark eyes flashing, the tall old dame came hastily forward, and
by one blow of her jewelled hand, dashed from his the wooden tankard,
while she exclaimed--

"Satisfy my impatience, carle, ere you satisfy your thirst!  Well,
what tidings of my son, Westmains, or of his ship? speak , and
quickly too, for you have tarried long enough!"

"A ship supposed to be his, my Lady Alison, was seen on the water of
Forth this morning, but she hath not come to land."

"This morning----"

"Yes."

"Art sure of this!"

"Sure as I live, madam."

"And he not here yet!" pondered the lady.

"The skippers at Musselburgh kent her well--a French galley, high
pooped and low waisted, with King Henry's banner displayed; men
called her the _Salamandre_, or some such name."

"Likely enough; 'tis the crest of the late king's mistress, Diana,
the Duchess of Valentinois; and this----"

"Was about the dawning of the day, madam."

"And since then," continued the lady impatiently, "she has not passed
the Inch."

"There have been no storms to delay the ship?"

"None, save that made by Girzy Gowdie, of Salt Preston, by baptising
a cat in the devil's name last week, as we a' ken."

"But that storm came and went to drown a skipper of Dunbar, who had
slighted her daughter."

"And yesterday," added Nurse Maude, "she did her penance under a pile
o' tarred barrels on Gulane Links."

"Rightly was she served, the accursed witch!" responded Roger of
Westmains, recovering the wooden cup and applying it hastily to the
spiggot of the barrel, from whence he achieved a draught of ale; "for
'tis now kenned that when she rode forth on a broom stick, in the
auld fashion, thrice a year, to keep the devil's sabbath at Clootie's
Croft, on the Lammermuir, she left in bed beside her gudeman, a
three-legged stool in the likeness of herself; and the said stool
(which was burned wi' her) only assumed its own form when Father John
of Tranent, chanced to pass that way, telling his beads, about the
matin time."

"Cease this gossip, bailie," said the lady, starting again to the
north window; "a horseman!--see, see!--a horseman at last is
ascending the brae side."

"But he wheels off to Carberry," added the nurse, in a voice like a
moan.

"Alas!" exclaimed this stern woman, as her eyes began to fill with
tears--"my son; why comes he not?"

"The dogs howled the lee lang night," said the wrinkled nurse,
applying her apron to her eyes; "and 'twas not for nocht that yonder
howlet screamed on the cape-house head yestreen."

"What mean ye, Maud?" asked the lady sharply.

"They are kenned omens of evil."

"Of evil say ye!"

"Yes--weel awat it is!"

"Havers, Kimmer!" said the ground bailie, taking another jug of ale;
"just an auld wife's havers!"

"Thou art right, Westmains," added Lady Alison; "for I have believed
but little in omens since Flodden Field was stricken."

"Why since then, lady?"

"On the morn my husband marched from here to join the king's host on
the Burghmuir of Edinburgh, as he combed his beard--and a braw lang
beard it was, Westmains"----

"I mind it weel, for it spread from ilk shoulder to the other,
covering corslet and pauldrons."

"Well, as he combed it out with a steel comb twelve inches long, and
buckled on his armour, lo! there appeared before him, in the
mirror--what think ye all?"

"I know not," replied the bailie, in his abstraction contriving to
fill a third jug of ale; "but many strange sights were seen in those
days.  We a' ken o' the spectres that King James saw at Lithgow Kirk
and Jeddart Ha', and of the weird spirit-herald who summoned the
souls of the slain--the doomed men of the battle at Edinburgh Cross."

"But what think you my poor husband saw!"

"As I live, I know not," replied the bailie; while the hushed crowd
of dependents drew near to listen.

"A mort head where his own comely face should have been!"

"Preserve us a'!"

"Our lady o' Whitehorn!"

"Say ye so, my lady?" were the varied exclamations of the servants.

"Yes!--there stood the shining reflection of his cuirass, pauldrons,
and sleeves of Milan plate, just as we see them limned in yonder
portrait; but the gorget was surmounted by a grinning skull.  And yet
he fell not with the king on that fatal ninth of September."

"God rest him now, in his grave in Tranent Kirk!  He was a leal brave
man, our laird!"

"True, Westmains," replied the lady, while her large black eyes
kindled.  "But none of his race have died a natural death--it would
seem to be their doom.  All, all have perished in feud or in the
cause of Scotland; and though my heart would break were a hair of my
Florence's head to be touched, never shall son of this house die in
his bed like a fat monk of St. Mary or a lurdane burgess of
Haddington."

"Thou art true to thy race, Lady Alison."

"Tell me what other news you heard, Westmains, in yonder borough
town?"

"A band of abominable witches have been dancing about the market
cross, as they did last Hallowe'en, with the deil, in the likeness of
a hairy Hielandman, playing the pipes to them."

"Pshaw!  And yet, 'tis strange--this witchcraft, like the spirit of
Lollardy, seems to grow apace in the land."

"They have been caught, and are to thole an assize.  One is accused
of giving devilish drugs and philtres to the Earl of Bothwell,
wherewith to win the love of the queen mother"----

"Mary of Lorraine?"

"Another, of cutting off a dead man's thumbs to make hell-broth,
wherein she dipped nine elf-arrows, and shot nine o' auld Preston's
kye."

"A murrain on him!  Would to Heaven the hag had shot himself!  But he
is reserved for a better end."

"How?"

"Can _you_ ask?" said the lady fiercely.  "To die by a Fawside's
sword--by the sword of my only son!"

"And there was taken," resumed the garrulous bailie, "a grisly
warlock, to whose house in Lugton, last Lammastide, there came the
deil"----

"Save us and sain us!" muttered the servants, crossing
themselves--for Scotland was Catholic still, in outward form, at
least, and the credulity of the people seems almost incredible now.

"The devil! say you, Roger?" asked the lady, becoming suddenly
interested.

"The grim black deil himsel, but in the likeness of a fair woman--the
Queen of Elfen,--and was there delivered of a female bairn, who in
the space of three weeks grew large enough to become his wife, and
through whom he knew as much as ever True Thomas did of old; for he
confessed that by taking a dog under his left arm, and whispering in
his ear the queer word _macpeblis_, he could raise the King of Evil,
his master, at will; and by sprinkling a blanket with Esk water, as a
spell, he drew all the clew and verdure of Wolmet-mains to his ain
farm land, leaving the other bare and withered.  Then, worse than a',
when Wolmet's wife was lying in her childbed-lair, by devilish
cantrips, he cast the whole of her pain, dolor, and sickness upon
John Guidlat, the baron bailie of Dalkeith, who, during the entire
time of her travail, was marvellously troubled, with such agonies,
fury, and madness, that it took the town drummer, the bellman and
piper to boot, to hold him; but the moment the gentlewoman was
delivered, John felt himself a whole man, and well; and so, for all
these, things, the grey warlock o' Lugton is to be brankit wi iron,
and worried by fire at the Gallows-haugh."

"Enough of such tidings as these; heard ye nought else at
Edinburgh-Cross, Westmains?"

"Else?"

"Yes, 'tis of my son and the state I would speak,--not the wretched
gossip of an ale-brewster's spence.  What is the queen-mother,--what
are the Regent Arran and his pestilent Hamiltons about?"

"The regent bydes him at Holyrood, the queen-mother at her house on
the Castle-hill; and there seems but little love and muckle jealousy
between them yet, as I learned from a proclamation anent false
coining, for which I saw three Frenchmen hanged and beheaded this
morning."

"Anything more?"

"Odslife!  I think that was enough to see before breaking one's fast;
and then their heads were spiked, where six others girn, on the
Bristo Porte."

"Goose!  I would thine was with them; for the news I seek oozes out
of thee like blood-drops."

"And there was an Irish leper woman branded by a hot iron on both
cheeks, for returning uncleansed to her own house in St. Ninian's
Row."

"Oh, Westmains, my heart is heavy!" said the lady, seating herself
after a pause, during which the ground bailie had filled and drained
a fourth cup, to which a fifth would have succeeded had not Nurse
Maud, as a hint that he had imbibed enough already, angrily driven
home the spiggot: "This day is the first of August; and at noon we
heard Father John of Tranerit say mass for St. Peter's benediction,
that the shorn lambs might escape the danger of cold."

"Mass according to the ancient wont."

"Mass according to the Church and faith of our fathers," continued
the lady, with some asperity; and then she added plaintively, "I was
in hopes that my son--_my_ absent lamb--would be with us ere sunset,
and yet he comes not."

"A braw lamb," said Westmains merrily; "a tall and proper youth, six
feet high, in full steel harness, with sword, dagger, and spurs."

"A lamb he is to me, Roger; though I trust he may yet prove worse
than a wolf to that old fox, Hamilton of Preston.  Oh, why doth he
tarry?" continued the mother, beginning to soften; "can danger have
beset him?"

"Consult Mass John anent this," whispered the nurse; "his prayers are
as spells of power----"

"For those that pay him weel," added the bailie under his beard,
while he scratched his chin.

"Will his prayers bring home my bairn, if a fair wind fails him,
think ye?"

"I dinna ken.  Like Our Lady's image in the Nunraw of Haddington,
they bring rain when the Tranent folk need it to gar their kail grow;
or make the weather fair and clear, as the case may be; then why may
they not bring hame the young laird?"

"Ay, why, indeed!" muttered the nurse.

"Oh, peace, you silly carlin!"

"As you please, madam," retorted Maud.  "But there is a wise woman in
Preston-grange----"

"And what of her?"

"She can forsee things to come, and the return o' folk that are far
awa, by turning a riddle wi' shears."

"Nay, nay; I would rather see my son no more than see him by
necromancy and acts against God's holy word, Nurse.  But Preston's
men have been abroad to-day, and they seldom ride on a good errand,"
said Lady Alison, starting from her seat with a new glow of anger and
terror in her breast; "but woe to them if aught happens to my son,
for bearded men shall weep for it, and I will kill Preston on his own
hearthstone, as I would a serpent in its lair!  If that foul riever,
who slew my husband under tryst, and my brave and winsome Willie----
but he dare not!" she added, checking the bitter surmise by a husky
and intense whisper; "no, he dare not!"

And, sinking into her chair, with nervous fingers she grasped the
arms of it, and fixed her wild dark eyes upon the wall, as if she saw
there in imagination the hereditary foeman of her husband's house.

"Yes, yes, he will be here in the morning," she said suddenly, "for
the ship has been seen.  Nurse Maud, look out the best dornick
napery, and have a fire of turf and coal lighted in his room; hang
the crimson curtains on the carved stand-bed, and the green arras on
its tenter-hooks.  See that the kitchen wenches set a posset of
spiced alicant to simmer by the ingle--for the mornings are chill
now; let them look well to what is in the spence and almerie against
his hame-coming.  We must make a feast, Nurse; for after seven years
in France our auld Scottish fare will be alike welcome and new to
him."

"Seven years," said Maud, thoughtfully.

"Yes, Nurse; seven years come yule-tide hath our beloved bairn been
absent from our hearth and hame."

Westmains went away to his grange, or farm, which lay westward of the
tower.  The strong gates of yetlan iron were now closed for the
night, and the lady of Fawside retired, to pray for her absent son,
who at that moment was only ten miles distant, but lying on his back,
bleeding and gashed by three wounds: but I anticipate my story.




CHAPTER III.

THE DEATH FEUD.

  Then pale, pale grew her tearfu' cheek,
    "Let ane o' my sons three
  Alane guide this emprise, your eild
    May ill sic travel dree!
  O where were I, were my dear lord,
    And a' my sons to bleed;
  Better to brook the wrong, than sae
    To wreck the high misdeed."
                                _Hardyknute._


Several days passed; and though the ship had certainly come from
France, and lay near the Beacon Rock, with all her sails furled,
there came no tidings of the widow's son.  Horsemen rode east, and
horsemen rode west; the burly Roger of Westmains wore himself almost
to a shadow, and every steed in the stables was completely knocked
up; but no trace of Florence Fawside had been discovered, from the
time he left the barge of M. de Villegaignon, at the old wooden pier
of Leith.  And now, with the reader's permission, we will go back a
little in our story.

The Fawsides of that ilk were neither powerful nor wealthy, and their
purses bore no proportion to their pride or their pedigree; but they
were landed barons of good repute, who took (or gave, which matters
not) their name from their own property, bringing thence in time of
war or tumult forty armed men to the king's host.  Faithful and true
in times of treason and invasion, this fine old race had never failed
the Scottish crown; but a deadly, bitter, and inextinguishable feud,
one of those hereditary and transmitted hatreds peculiar to some
Scottish families, existed between them and the Hamiltons of Preston,
whose lofty baronial tower stands about three miles distant from
Fawside Hill.

William of Fawside served under David I., in his war against Stephen
of England, and saved his life at the Battle of Northallerton.  For
this service he received, that night, a charter written on the head
of a kettle-drum, the only piece of parchment which the Chancellor,
Bishop Engelram, had at hand, and it is remarkable for a laconic
simplicity peculiar alike to the age and country:--

"_David Dei Gratiæ Rex Scottorum_, to all his people greeting.  Know
ye that I have granted unto William, son of Adam, son of John of
Fawside, the right of pasturage on Gladsmuir, in perpetual gift,
until the Day of Doom."

Now, in future years, long after the saintly David and the mailed
knight who fought by his stirrup at Northallerton had been gathered
to their fathers, there sprang up the Hamiltons, whose tower of
Preston was adjacent to this muir or waste land; and the charter of
the Fawsides was deemed sufficiently vague to make them claim the
right of having the pasturage in common.  Scotsmen required little
excuse for unsheathing the sword in those sturdy old times; and
hence, about this miserable tract of ground, which was covered with
broom, whin, heather, and huge black boulder-stones, the rival barons
quarrelled and fought from generation to generation, carrying their
cause of feud even to the foot of the throne.  More than once, in the
time of James IV., Fawside and Preston, with their armed followers,
had fought a desperate combat at the Market-cross of Edinburgh, and
been forcibly expelled by the citizens, led by their provost, Sir
Richard Lawson, of Boghall and Highrigs, who perished at Flodden.
Again and again, they had been forfeited by the Parliament, outlawed
by the King, and excommunicated by the Abbot of Holyrood; but each
maintained himself in his strong old tower, and seemed never a whit
the worse.

When the Court of Session was established by James V., their dispute
"anent meithes and marches" was brought forward, and their case was
the first on the roll; but during its discussion (which sorely
puzzled lawyers who were unable to sign their names) they so beset
the lords with fire and sword on the highway and in their own
residences, each threatening to cut off all who were friendly to the
other, that the plea was indignantly thrust aside, and they were left
to settle it by the old Scottish arbiter of justice, the broadsword.

They were the terror of East Lothian; they fought whenever they met,
and each houghed, killed, or captured the sheep and cattle of the
other, whenever they were found straying upon the disputed territory.

About twenty years before the period of our story, Sir John Fawside
and Claude Hamilton of Preston (both of whom had fought valiantly at
Flodden, and rendered each other good service in that disastrous
field), accompanied by several gentlemen, their friends, at the
particular request of the good King James V.--the King of the Commons
and Father of the Poor, as he loved to style himself,--met on
Gladsmuir, with the solemn intention of peacefully adjusting the
long-vexed question of their boundaries, and setting march-stones
upon the common.  They were attended by certain learned notaries, who
had been duly examined and certified by the bishop of their diocese,
"as being men of faith, gude fame, science, and law;" but the tedium
and technicalities of these legal pundits proved too dreary for such
"stoute and prettie men," as an old diarist terms our two
feudatories; and, in short, Sir John and Hamilton soon came to high
words.  In the dispute, Roger of Westmains closed up beside his
leader, and on drawing his sword, received a stroke from the
truncheon of an adversary.  Roger ran him through the body, and on
the instant all came to blows in wild _melée_.  Every sword was out
of its scabbard, every hand uplifted, and every tongue shouting
taunts and the adverse cries of--

"A Hamilton!  a Hamilton!"

"Fawside--'Forth and fear nocht!'"

The notaries tucked up the skirts of their long black gowns, and
fled, while the clash of swords continued on the grassy common, where
many a horse and man went down; but the Hamiltons proved the most
powerful, being assisted by the vassals of their kinsman, the Earl of
Yarrow.  Fawside was slain, and all his followers were routed, and
pursued by the exulting victors up the grassy brae to the gates of
the tower, on the iron bars of which the Hamiltons struck with their
sword-blades, in token of triumph and contempt.

When the brave Sir John fell, his neighbours were uncharitable enough
to regret that he had not (before his departure) given Preston a
mortal wound; as all deemed it a pity that two such fiery and
restless spirits should be separated for a time, even by the barriers
of the other world.  Denuded of his knightly belt and sword, Sir
John's body was found among the green whins upon the moor, and was
buried in the church of Tranent, where a tablet in the north wall
_still_ bears his arms, surmounted by a helmet, and inscribed
simply,--

"John Fawside of that Ilk."


Three bullets fired from calivers were found in his body.  His widow
had these carefully extracted, with the intention of returning them
to Claude Hamilton with terrible interest; and thrice she dipped the
dead man's dagger in the blood that oozed from his wounds, with the
hope that, in a future time, her oldest boy might cleanse the blade
in the blood of the slayer.

Dame Alison was a fierce and stern woman, "animated by such terrible
passions as the heroines of the middle ages alone possessed."  The
partner and partaker of all her husband's ideas, his rights and
wrongs--real or imaginary,--she now became inspired by one prevailing
thought, and one only--_revenge_;--and so absorbed was she by this
devouring passion, that nothing in this world seemed to possess the
least interest or value, unless it might feed this demon, or further
the terrible object she had in view.  Secluded in her gloomy tower,
with her two sons, William and Florence at her knee, she told them a
thousand times the dark, bloody story of the old hereditary feud and
hate--of their father's fall, and how, when tall men and strong
soldiers, they must avenge it, by slaying him who proved his
destroyer in time of truce and tryst--slaying him as they would a
wolf in his den, or a serpent in his lair.  And as she poured these
wild incentives to future bloodshed into their boyish ears, she would
point to where the tower of Preston reared its tall grim outline
between them and the sea, and say such things as such a mother,
living in that wild age and warlike land, alone could say, till the
little impulsive hearts of the boys panted like her own, in
anticipation of the hour that would lay Hamilton at their feet, and
avenge that day's slaughter on Gladsmuir and Fawside brae.

She gave each one of the bullets found in her husband's corpse; the
third she reserved and wore at her neck, with the intention that if
her sons' hands failed her when they grew to manhood, she had still
one left for vengeance in her own.

She would have appealed to the king; but the house of Hamilton was
then in the zenith of its power, and complaints against one of a sept
so numerous could find no echo at Falkland or at Holyrood; and so the
years passed on.

Because Sir John had died unconfessed, and had been suspected of
Lollardy, the Vicar of Tranent had at first refused him Church rites.
For this affront, the stern dame denied him the corse-presents
exacted then by the priests, and until the Reformation, in 1559--to
wit, the best cow of the deceased; the _umest-claith_, or uppermost
covering on the bed whereon he lay, together with the silver commonly
called _Kirk-richts_; and farther, she threatened to send Westmains
with a troop of horse, to burn both kirk and vicarage about the ears
of his reverence.

Yearly, on the anniversary of her husband's fall, she went, with hair
dishevelled, feet bare, and a taper in her hand, to hear mass said
for his soul, in the church of Tranent; and after the service, with
an irreverence which even the old vicar failed to restrain, she
invoked the curses of Heaven on the Hamiltons of Preston.  Her sons
heard these things; they sank deep into their little hearts, and
absorbed all their thoughts.

Often when she prayed at her husband's tomb (it had now become her
altar) she imagined that strange sounds came from it; that she heard
him chiding her delay in avenging him in this world and joining him
in the next; and these morbid fancies fostered yet more her spirit of
revenge.

By her injunctions, the gudeman of Westmains left nothing undone to
render the boys hardy, stout, and athletic, and expert in the use of
weapons of every kind; thus, ere William, the eldest, who possessed
great comeliness of face and beauty of person, had reached his
twelfth year, he was master of the sword and dagger, the bow and
arquebuse; and he could toss a pike, pitch a bar, or handle a
quarterstaff with the best man in the barony.  His brother Florence
had gone to France, as page in the suite of Anne de la Tour de
Vendome (the widowed duchess of the regent, John of Albany), who had
promised Lady Alison he would return the most accomplished cavalier
in Scotland; and, as related, he had now been seven years absent.

Fired by the story which his mother never ceased repeating and
enforcing, by touching references to the empty chair which stood
unused by the hall fire, to the unused plate that was placed daily on
the hall table, to keep alive the memory of the slain man whose rusty
arms and mouldering garments were hung in conspicuous places, and to
all of which Dame Alison hourly drew the attention of her
boys,--fired by the reiteration of all this, one evening, in the
autumn of 1541, when Hamilton of Preston had just returned from the
battle of Haldenrig, where the army of Henry VIII. had been defeated
with considerable slaughter, William Fawside, then in his fourteenth
year, without consulting his mother, Father John of Tranent, or his
warlike preceptor, old Roger of the Westmains, presented himself at
the iron gate of Preston tower, and, while his swelling heart beat
high and his smooth cheek flushed crimson with the consciousness of
his own audacity, he demanded of the surly and bearded warder
admittance to the laird.  The servants of the latter narrowly and
insolently scrutinized the boy, who bore the arms of his house,
_gules_, a fess between three besants, worked in crimson and gold on
the breast of his velvet doublet.

"See that he has nae weapon--nae sting aboot him, the young wasp!"
said Symon Brodie, the butler, whose name and convivial habits have
come down to us in a famous old drinking song.

"They are kittle cattle, the Fawsides," whispered Mungo Tennant, the
warder, as they ushered the boy into the high-arched hall, where the
grim old laird was reclining asleep in a huge black leather chair,
covered by a wolf's-skin, and seated near a fire that blazed on the
tiled hearth.

"Bairn!" he exclaimed, with more astonishment than anger, on being
wakened, "what want ye of me?"

"My father's sword!" replied young William boldly.

"Your father!--And who was he, my callant?"

"Sir John of Fawside and that ilk----"

"Aha!"

"He whom ye foully slew under tryst, as all in the Lothians know."

The high, stern brow of old Preston grew black as night.  He grasped
the carved arms of his high-backed chair, and for a moment surveyed
the boy with a terrible frown; then, perceiving that he neither
quailed nor shrank under this glance, but stoutly paid it back,
though his little heart trembled at his temerity, Preston relaxed his
ferocity a little, and grimly replied, under his shaggy moustache,

"Ye lie, ye d--d little limmer!--and they who told ye so, foully lie!
I slew him, true; but it was in fair fight, and at open feud, as God
and all braid Scotland be my judge!"

"Be that as you will, I want his sword; and, betide me weal, betide
me woe, I shall have it!"

"His sword?"

"Yes!"

"For what purpose?"

"That ye shall ken anon," replied the boy with flashing eyes and
clenched hands.

"Ye have the dour devilish look o' that termagant Kennedy, your
mother, in ye, lad.  You are the widow's son Willie, I suppose?"

"I am.  Your insolent grooms here ken me weel; and better shall they
ken me ere this death feud be stanched!  But the sword, Claude
Hamilton of Preston!--I say, my father's sword!"

"But what want ye with it, loon?"

"To stab you to the heart, when the time comes," responded the
fearless boy.

"By my faith! this little devil takes fire like the match of an
arquebuse!" growled the tall, grim laird.

"My father's sword, foul riever!" continued Willie, stamping his foot.

Old Preston now laughed outright, for the boy's daring charmed his
warlike spirit.

"Though lawful spulzie, taken in combat and under harness, receive
the sword, and welcome, bairn," replied Preston, unhooking from the
wall one of those long cross-guarded and taper-bladed swords used in
the early part of the fifteenth century, and handing it the boy, who
trembled with stern exultation as he there kissed the hilt of
polished steel.  "It was good King James's gift to your father on
that bloody morning when first we forgot our quarrel and fought side
by side, like brither Scots, on the green slope of Flodden Hill,
where our best and bravest were lying on the brae-side thick as the
leaves in Carberry Wood.  Take the weapon, bairn.  Your father was a
leal and gallant man--rest him, God! for Scotland had no better,--and
I, the man he hated most on earth, avow it; and ill would it become
Claude Hamilton to keep the sword of such a father from such a son.
Take it, bairn, and welcome; and I pray Heaven that we may meet no
more!"

"False carle, we _shall_ meet, and that thou shalt see!" responded
the boy, pressing the sword to his breast, while his eyes filled with
tears.

Symon Brodie, the butler, here raised his huge hand to smite the boy
down, but the laird interposed.

"Beware, fellow!" said he, "and let the bairn alone; yea, and let him
speak, too.  What have I to fear from a fushionless auld carline and
twa halfling laddies?"

"I have been told that you fear not God, although you are a Hamilton;
but I will teach you, carle, to fear me!"

"A brave lad!" exclaimed the old laird, with an admiration which he
could not repress.  "I love to see a lad stand up thus for his
father's feud and his family honour.  But let this matter end; in twa
hunder years and mair we have surely had enough of it!  Give me thy
hand, Willie o' Fawside, and I will ask pardon for slaying thy
father.  'Twas done in hot blood and under harness; and I will even
pay unto Mass John of Tranent a hundred French crowns to say funeral
services for his soul's repose."

"My hand!"

"Yes, bairn; an auld man asks it of thee."

"Never!" replied William Fawside, shrinking back.  "If I gave a hand
to thee, my mother would slay me like a cur; and I would well deserve
the death.  So fare ye well! with a thousand thanks for this fair
gift, until--we meet again."

And they did meet, most fatally, five years afterwards.

William Fawside, then in his nineteenth year, was a tall and handsome
cavalier, than whom there was none more gay or gallant in costume,
manner, or bearing at the court of the Regent Arran, to whom he
officiated as Master of the Horse.  He was the most graceful dancer
on Falkland Green, and there, also, the victor of the ring and butts,
with spear and bow; but when he and Claude of Preston, then a man
well up in years, confronted each other in the lists under the
southern brow of the Castle Rock of Edinburgh, to fight a solemn
duel, to which the taunts and open accusations of murder (for so the
widow styled her husband's fall on Fawside Brae) had brought him, the
young Sir William saw, without pity, that his grey-haired adversary
was animated by a reluctance which he was at no pains to conceal, for
on many a day of battle his courage had been put to the sternest
proof.

Cartels of defiance had been duly exchanged; mass had been said in
the chapel of Our Lady in the Portsburgh; and there, in presence of
the assembled citizens of Edinburgh, whose provost, William Craik,
appeared on horseback in complete armour, and before a chair, in
which sat George Earl of Errol, hereditary lord high constable of
Scotland, as vicar-general to the infant queen, wearing on his
surcoat the three shields of his house, in a field _argent_, and
within a listed space, sixty paces long and forty broad, stood the
young and resolute challenger, on foot, at the eastern end, and
Preston at the western, all according to the custom of judicial
combats.  Each was in full armour of unpolished but highly-tempered
steel, with open helmets; each bore a Scottish target, a sword, and
dagger.

They were sworn solemnly by the constable, "That they had not brought
into the lists other armour or weapons than such as were allowed by
Scottish law, or any firework engine, witch's spell or enchantment,
and that they trusted alone to their own valour, as God and His holy
Evangelists should help them!"

It was then proclaimed that no man should speak or utter a cry, under
penalty of a fine equal in value to twenty cattle; or put forth hand
or weapon, under pain of forfeiting limb and life to the queen--the
poor little unconscious queen, who was then in her cradle, in
time-hallowed Holyrood.

The constable rose from his seat, and waved his white truncheon
thrice, exclaiming,

"Let them go!  Let them go!  Let them go, and do their worst!"

This was the usual formula; and then they rushed on each other.

Preston fought warily; but the fury of his adversary and the wounds
he inflicted soon raised the old man's blood, and, by one tremendous
stroke of his two-handed sword, he clove the widow's son--her
boasted, her fair and comely Willie--through helmet and bone, to the
chin, slaying him in a moment; as the quaint records of the lord high
constable's court have it, "cleaving him through harnpan and harns to
ye bearde with ane straik of his quhinger."

His body was sent home for burial, but denuded of his armour,--every
buckle of which had been that morn adjusted by his mother's
hands,--of his jewels and rings, which, according to the form of
judicial combats in Scotland, became, together with the posts and
rails of the lists, the fees of the constable's servants.

Lady Alison was on her knees at her husband's altar-tomb in Tranent
Church, imploring God to aid and to protect her son, when old Roger
of Westmains arrived, with his eyes swollen by weeping, and his heart
swollen by rage and sorrow, to detail the death of her eldest boy by
the same relentless sword that slew his father!  The fierce, stern
woman heard him to an end, and then fell prostrate on the tomb, in a
paroxysm of grief, and perhaps of remorse.

If the latter found way in her breast, it did not linger long.  Three
days she remained in a darkened chamber, without speaking to any one;
on the morning of the fourth she came out, graver, more gloomy, and,
if possible, paler than before, and said briefly to Westmains--

"Write to France--to the chateau of Anne of Vendome, and desire
Florence to come home without delay.  I have yet the bullets that
were found in the body of his father; and if the widow of John of
Albany hath kept her royal word, I may yet have sure vengeance on
yonder murderer and his brood!"

"The tenants have brought their herezelds," said Westmains in a low
voice.

"Remit them; but say, to put their swords to the grindstone, for the
day cometh when I, Alison Kennedy, shall need them all."

The bailie referred to the gift given in case of death to the heir of
an over-lord, generally the best cow, yielded by those who held of
the said lord an oxgang of land.

There were now TWO places vacant at the hearth, two platters unused
on the table, and two scutcheons hung in the kirk of Tranent; but the
mangled images of those who were gone remained enthroned more darkly
than ever in the heart of the widow and mother!




CHAPTER IV

AN OLD SCOTTISH MATRON.

  Can Christian love, can patriot zeal,
    Can love of blessed charity--
  Can piety the discord heal,
    Or stanch the death feud's enmity?
                                      _Scott._


Lady Alison of Fawside had been a beauty in her youth, when the stout
and buirdly knight Sir John had wooed and won her, in the Castle of
Calzean; and in memory of this alliance, the cognisance of the
Kennedys, a chevron _gules_, between three cross-crosslets, fitched
sable, may still be traced on the roof of the hall; but in the year
when our story opens few traces remained of those charms which
Huchown Clerk of Tranent, the old macker (_i.e._ troubadour) extolled
in his poems, and for which he was rewarded yearly by a silver chain
an ell long, three French crowns, and a camlet gown lined with
Flemish silk, until his death, which happened about the close of the
reign of King James V.

The widow was of great stature, yet her figure was graceful, noble,
and commanding; her features were fine; her nose was straight; and
her black eyebrows, which met above it, together with the peculiar
lines of her mouth and chin, expressed firmness and unflinching
resolution.  Her complexion was deadly pale.  Her once-black hair was
grey and escaped in grizzled locks from under her escallop or
shell-shaped cap, which was made of thick point-lace, like her
close-quilled ruff and ruffles.  Her attire was always a black damask
dress, buttoned by small silver knobs, from the lower peak of her
long stomacher, up to her ruff.  She wore a rosary and cross of
ebony, and a black locket containing the hair of her late husband and
his slaughtered son; but no other ornament.  Her pocket sun-dial, or
perpetual almanac, a brass plate inscribed, "This table beginneth in
1540, and so on for ever," with her keys (and huge antique keys they
were), her scissors and huswife hung at her girdle; and she used a
long ivory-mounted cane to assist her in walking, and as gossips
averred, wherewith to chastise her lacqueys and serving-men.  Her
busk was of hard wood, and contained a bodkin.  This was literally a
dagger seven inches long, and worn for defence in those stirring and
perilous times.

Four-and-thirty years ago this stern woman, without shedding a tear,
had seen her husband and all his kinsmen ride forth on that invasion
of England which terminated at Flodden; but she welcomed him with
transports of joy when he returned.  Alas! old Westmains, covered
with wounds, was the sole representative of forty stout men of
Lothian, well horsed, with jack and spear, who had followed Fawside's
pennon to the field.  After this catastrophe, they had a few years
peace with the Hamiltons of Preston, whose men had all escaped, being
a portion of those many thousand Scots who melted away a week before
the battle, and left King James with his knights and nobles to
confront the foe alone.

Lady Alison was a Scottish matron of a very "old school" indeed, and
possessed a stern and Spartan spirit incident to the times of war and
tumult, raid and feud, amid which she had been born and bred.  The
annals of her country record the names of many such, who, in
extremity of danger, possessed that resolute spirit with which Scott
has gifted his imaginary Helen MacGregor, and the coolness of the
Lady of Harden, who, when the larder was bare, placed a pair of Ripon
spurs in her husband's plate at dinner, as a hint to mount and ride
for England, where the fat beeves browsed on the green hills of
Cumberland.  There was black Agnes Randolph, the Countess of March,
who, for five months defended her castle of Dunbar against the troops
of Edward III., and foiled them in the end; there was the Lady of
Edinglassie, who, after her husband had been slain by the Laird of
Invermarkie, had the head of the latter cut off, in September, 1584,
and conveying it "by its hoar locks" to Edinburgh, cast it at the
feet of the startled James VI., as a token that she could avenge her
own wrongs without appeal to Lowland judge or jury; there was the
Lady Johnstone, of Annandale, who, after the battle of the
Dryffesands, where, in 1593, seven hundred Maxwells fell beneath the
spears and axes of her clan, is accused of dashing out the Lord
Maxwell's brains with her own white hand, when she found that brave,
humane, and courteous noble lying mortally wounded on the field, and
when his silver locks were exposed by the loss of his helmet, which
had been struck off in the _mêlée_; and this terrible deed she is
said to have perpetrated with the ponderous iron key of Lochmaben
Kirk, at the old thorn tree on the green holm of Dryffe.  There was
also that grim patriot, the old Marchioness of Hamilton, who, when
her son entered the Firth of Forth, in 1639, at the head of six
thousand Englishmen, rode to the beach with a pair of pistols at her
saddlebow, vowing to God that she would shoot him as a traitor and a
parracide, if he dared to land on Scottish ground under a foreign
flag--a hint, which the recreant marquis, her son, fully understood
and obeyed.

We believe few men now-a-days would relish having such fiery "and
termagant Scots," as the partners of their bed and board; but the
spirit and nature of these women were the development of the age in
which they lived--an age when every house was a barred or moated
garrison,--when every man was a trained soldier, and when a day
seldom passed in city or hamlet without blood being shed in public
fray or private feud; but these grim matrons, and such as these, were
the mothers of the brave who led the line of battle at Ancrumford and
Pinkey-cleugh, at Sark and Arkinhome, at Chevy Chase, Bannockburn,
Haldenrig, and Northallerton, and on a thousand other fields, where
Scottish men without regret--yea, perhaps, with stern joy--gave their
swords, and lives, and dearest blood for the mountain-land that bore
them.

It was this feudal and warlike spirit which made the resolute Lady
Alison prosecute the quarrel against Preston with such determination
and vindictiveness.

She wept in secret for her slaughtered son; but his death seemed to
be only one other item in that heavy debt of hatred and thirst for
vengeance which every drop of blood in the veins of Claude Hamilton
could not assuage, even if poured out at her feet--a debt which she
had no object in life but to pay with all the interest of her stern
soul.

Tiger-like, she panted with eagerness for the return of her second
son, Florence, doubting not that when the death of his father and
brother were added to the old and inborn hatred of the House of
Preston, his younger and more skilful hand could never fail in the
combat to which she had resolved the slayer should be invited and
goaded by every taunt, if he proved unwilling.

To her confessor, the old vicar of Tranent, who strove in vain to
soothe this unchristian spirit, she would say fiercely,--"Peace! am I
to forego my just feud at the behest of a book-i'-the-bosom monk?  I
trow not!  I am a Kennedy of Colzean.  Oh that this boy were back to
me, that he might unkennel and slay the old wolf who bydes in yonder
tower,--even as his ancestor slew the wolf of Gulane."  "_He_ has no
son," she was wont to say with savage exultation, while grinding her
strong white teeth and beating the floor with her cane; "his wife
left him childless--he has no cub to transmit his blood with the feud
to future times; so with him it must end.  The sword of my Florence
will end the strife with Preston's godless career and grasping
race--black dool and pyne be on them!"

"But he has a niece," urged the white-haired vicar gently.

"A niece----" a

"His ward and heiress,--a ward of the crown, too."

"Mean ye that moppet the Countess of Yarrow, whose father drew the
sword in pure wantonness on the day my husband fell?"

"Yes, Claude Hamilton's sister was an earl's wife."

"Why tell me that? what care I for his niece's coronet?  We were
belted knights and landed barons ere surnames were known in the
North,--yea, a hundred years and more before a Hamilton was heard of.
And this niece--what of her?"

"She may marry."

"Well--well."

"And her husband may--though Heaven forfend it--take up the feud."

"Had she a hundred husbands, we'll find cold iron for them all,
priest--and in the sword is all my trust."

"Alas, lady! trust alone in God," replied the vicar, shaking his
head; "He giveth much, and yet hath nought the less."

"Oh that my brave bairn were back.  The French are skilful masters of
the sword; and Anne of Albany promised me that Florence should have
the best; that his hand should--if my Willie's failed--redress the
wrongs of ages."

But, as already related, several days elapsed after the arrival of
the ship, yet there came to Fawside tower no tidings of her son,
whom, as he bears a part of some importance in our history, we must
now introduce to the reader.




CHAPTER V

THE "GOLDEN ROSE."

_Leo._--What would you have with me, honest neighbour?

_Dog._--Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you, that
decerns you nearly.

_Leo._--Brief, I pray you; for, you see, 'tis a busy time with me.

                                      "_Much Ado about Nothing._"


The sun was setting in the westward--for in the year of grace 1547 it
set in the westward just as it does now, though history omits to
record the fact.  Seven had tolled from the square towers of St. Mary
and of the Commanderie of St. Anthony at Leith, on the evening of the
first of August, the same on which we left a mother seated in the old
tower upon the hills waiting anxiously for her son, when the
latter--to wit, Florence Fawside--left the ship of the Sieur Nicolas
de Villegaignon, knight of Rhodes, and admiral of the galleys of
France, and landing with all his luggage, which consisted of three
large leathern mails, found himself once more on _terra firma_, after
a long but prosperous voyage from Brest; and, with a glow of
satisfaction on his nut-brown visage, he stamped on the ground, to
assure himself that it was not a planked deck, but the land--and good
Scottish land too,--as he hurriedly approached the quaint wooden
porch of "Ye Gowden Rois" (_i.e._ the "Golden Rose"), an hostel which
bore that emblem painted on a huge signboard that swung between two
wooden posts.

The latter were placed near the bank of the river, for although, to
the eastward, there lay the charred remains of a wooden pier, burned
by the English in 1544, Leith was destitute of a quay in those days;
and thus a row of little gardens extended along the eastern bank
between the water and the street of quaint Flemish-like mansions
which faced it.  These plots, or kailyards, were divided by privet or
holly hedges, and among them lay fisher-boats, tar-barrels, rusty
anchors, brown nets, and bladders, with other _débris_ of the
mercantile and fisher craft, which lay moored on both sides of the
stream below Abbot Ballantyne's Bridge, the three stone arches of
which spanned the Leith, where the pathway led to the church and
burying-ground of St. Nicholas, and where stood a gate, at which a
somewhat lucrative toll was levied by the monks of the Holy Cross.

Passing between the signposts and up the bank, Florence Fawside found
himself before the "Golden Rose," a long irregular house three
stories in height, built all of polished stone, yet having a front of
elaborate timberwork forming two galleries, supported on carved
pillars, and surmounted by three gables, whose acute apex sharply cut
the sky-line, and gave the edifice a quaint and striking aspect.
Cloaks of velvet and of camlet, horse-cloths, crimson saddles, belts
of gold or buff leather, with one or two huge pieces of gaudy
tapestry, were hung carelessly over the oak rails of the galleries,
in which many persons were lounging, for the house and the
stable-yard behind it were alike full of guests and bustle.  The
"Golden Rose" was the principal hostelry in Leith, and had been built
for the accommodation of travellers, a few years before, by Logan of
Restalrig, Lord Superior of the barony.  Hence, the landlord, Ralf
Riddel, being one of his vassals, was bound to give "up-putting to
all the laird's retinue, man and horse, when they chanced to pass
that way," a contingency which happened more frequently than the said
Master Riddel, with all his inbred respect for the house of Logan,
perhaps relished, especially as no overcharge could be made upon
other visitors, for, by a statute of the late King James V., the
bailies of royalties and regalities made a regular tariff of prices
to be observed by all hostellers throughout the realm, and by this
tariff the charges for corn, hay and straw, fish, flesh, bread, wine
and ale, were all regulated and enforced under high penalties; but,
by the same law, persons travelling with much money in their
possession are wisely advised to reside with their _friends_.  As
Fawside entered, he observed a group of gentlemen, richly dressed,
observing him narrowly from a dark gallery above the porch.

Though the arrival of a stranger, especially one on foot, did not
usually excite much attention at the establishment of Master Ralf
Riddel, the air and bearing, the handsome figure, and fine features
of the young laird of Fawside, with his short-clipped beard and black
moustache, _à la_ François I., his magnificent crimson-velvet
doublet, which was profusely embroidered with gold, and stiff as
buckram and lace could make it, his enormous ruff and long sword, his
little French cap of blue velvet, adorned by a long white feather,
and diamond aigrette, the gift of Anne of Albany, his long black
riding-boots, the tops of which joined his short trunk-hose,
altogether caused the tapster and ostlers to make so favourable a
report of his appearance that he was speedily waited on by the
gudeman of the establishment in person.

He was conducted to an apartment the grated windows of which
overlooked the stable-yard.  The latter was full of pages, liveried
lackeys, and armed troopers in iron-jacks, steel bonnets, and plate
sleeves; horses, saddled and unsaddled, were led to and fro; and
clumps of tall spears were reared here and there against the walls.
The clamour of voices and clatter of hoofs, together with the
neighing of steeds and barking of dogs, made the place instinct with
life.  The hostel was occupied by several of the noblesse and their
retinues--for then no great lord could travel with out a troop of
horse in his train; but, all unmindful of the bustle below, young
Florence of Fawside, when the landlord returned, was gazing earnestly
to the eastward, where, upon the crown of the high green eminence or
sloping upland that overlooked the spacious bay of Musselburgh and
stretched far away into Haddingtonshire, all bathed in gold and
purple by the setting sun, he could discern, some ten miles distant,
the outline of his old paternal home rising above the thicket of
trees by which it was environed.

On turning, as he heard a step behind, he saw, on the roughly-hewn
fir boards which formed the floor of the apartment, an ominous black
stain, nearly a foot in circumference, to remind him that he dwelt in
a land of swords and danger.

"I require a horse, gudeman," said he, divesting himself of his
velvet mantle and rich sword-belt.

"A horse!--at this hour, sir?"

"Even so, my friend, for in less than an hour I must ride hence.  You
have, doubtless, a swift nag to spare?"

"Yea, sir, ten, if ye lacked them--ten, than whilk my Lord Regent
hath none better in stall."

"'Tis well; and now for supper.  I have been long in the land of
kickshaws and frogs, where bearded men sup fricassees bedevilled with
garlic and onions, in lieu of porridge and sturdy kailbrose; so,
gudeman of mine, I long for a right Scottish dish."

"That shall ye have, fair sir, and welcome, with a stoup of Canary,
Bourdeaux, or Alicant----"

"Nay, I am no bibber, believe me."

"We get brave gude wine hereawa in Leith, sir, by our trade with the
Flemings of the Dam."

"After seven years in a foreign land, gudeman," said Florence,
slapping the hosteller kindly on the back, while his heart swelled
and his eyes filled, "your Scottish tongue comes like music to my
ear--yea, like the melody o' an auld song, man; and I snuff up my
native air like a young horse turned out to grass; for, save once a
year, by a letter given me by a passing traveller hastening
Paris-ward, I have heard naught from home, or of aught that passed in
Scotland here."

"Nocht, said ye?"

"Naught--so the term of my absence seems marvellously long--naught
but evil," he added, with a darkening expression of face.

"Evil!"

"Yea; for I have returned to avenge the death of a dear kinsman."

"Such errands are nothing new in Scotland," said Ralf Riddel, sighing
and shrugging his shoulders.

"No--in these hot days of feud and endless quarrelling.  'Tis a heavy
task I have in hand, gudeman; but it must be done, when I have obeyed
the behests of those I left in France."

"Belong you to hereawa, sir?"

"I do," replied Fawside, smiling.

"May I be pardoned for--for----"

"For what?" asked Florence, while the hosteller smoothed down his
front hair, and twirled his bonnet on his fingers; "for what should I
pardon you?"

"For speiring your name?"

"You may be pardoned, but not gratified, gudeman," replied Florence,
laughing.  "There are over-many under your rooftree to make it safe
for me to utter my name aloud, alone as I am; for though I have been
wellnigh seven years away, I have not forgotten the danger of rashly
telling one's name in fiery Scotland."

"You are right, sir; yet my house is one without reproach."

"What says this dark stain on the floor?"

"That there I slew an Englishman, in the May of '44, when all Leith
was in flames--houses, ships, and and piers--and ten thousand of his
comrades, under the Lord Hertford, were on the march for Edinburgh.
Yea, sir, I slew him there by one blow of my jeddart staff, for
making his quarters good at sword's point.  The 'Gowden Rose' is a
house without reproach."

"But its visitors may not be so, despite their silken doublets and
gilded coats of mail.  Whose jackmen and lacqueys are these in the
stable-yard?"

"The followers of the Earl of Glencairn, and of his son, the Lord
Kilmaurs; of the Lord Gray and his son, the Master, with others whom
I ken not; but they muster eighty horsemen in all."

"The English faction!" muttered Fawside.  "By Heaven, 'tis high time
I had the water of Esk behind my horse's heels.  And these lords----"

"Are all on their way to Stirling, to keep tryste with the Lord
Regent."

"Fool that I was, not to know at once the shakefork of the stable
worn by the ruffians of Glencairn," said Fawside, referring to the
cognizance of the Cunninghames, which is argent, a shakefork _sable_,
granted to Henry of Kilmaurs, who was master stabler to King
Alexander III.

"And those fellows in pyne doublets and cuirasses?"

"With the oak branch in their burganets, and morsing horns at their
girdles?"

"Yes."

"They are the liverymen of the laird of Preston."

"Of Claude Hamilton of Preston!" exclaimed Fawside, instinctively
assuming his sword.

"Yes."

"By St. Giles, I was right to speak below my beard, and utter not my
name."  Then, in a fierce whisper, he added, "Is _he_ here?"

"No."

"So much the better.  But get me supper and a swift horse.  Sumpter
nags will come anon for my leathern mails, which I leave in your
care, gudeman.  Beware how you let men handle them, though my
_papers_ and _valuables_ I carry on my own proper person, where my
sword can easier answer any kind friend who inquires after them."

"My house, I have said, is stainless and sakeless."

"And now for supper," said Florence impatiently.

"I can let you have a pie of eels, from Lithgow Loch; a hash of Fife
mutton, yea, mutton from Largo, where they say every tooth in a
sheep's head is worth a French crown."

"Good!--the supper quick, the horse quicker," said Fawside
laughing;--for it was a superstition in those days, and for long
after, that the teeth of the flocks which browsed on the conical hill
of Largo were turned to solid silver by its herbage.

He then turned once more to the window, to gaze on his mother's
distant dwelling,--on those hills from whence the last gleam of
sunlight had now died away.  He drew from a pocket in the breast of
his beautiful doublet two letters, tied with white ribbons
saltirewise, and sealed with yellow wax, impressed by three
_fleur-de-lys_.  One was addressed--

  "_A Madame ma soeur, la Seine d'Ecosse._"


The other bore--

"_For Monseigneur the Earl of Arran, Lord Hamilton, Knight of St.
Andrew and St. Michael, Regent of Scotland._"


The young traveller surveyed these important missives with a smile of
satisfaction, and once more consigned them to the secret pocket of
his doublet.  While left thus to himself and his own thoughts,
certain parties in an adjoining apartment were taking a particular
interest in his affairs.




CHAPTER VI.

CURIOSITY.

                              "Who's he?
  I know not--Duke Humphrey, mayhap;
  But this I know, my sword will test it soon."
                                          _Old Play._


This apartment, which was next to that in which Florence Fawside was
testing the merits of the eels of Linlithgow Loch (which are still
much prized) and Ralf Riddel's Largo mutton and Alicant wine, opened
off the shady gallery wherein we left a gaily-attired group, who had
watched the traveller enter the "Golden Rose."

This group, which had also been observing a number of poor lepers,
who, under a guard of men-at-arms, were on the sands waiting the
boats which were to convey them to banishment on Inch Keith, and had
made them the subject of various cruel and ribald jokes--this group,
was composed of several men of better position than conduct, for it
consisted of that Earl of Glencairn, who had slain one of his nearest
relations under tryst; of the Earl of Cassilis; of Patrick Lord Gray
of Kinfawns, and his son the master; John Lord Lyle of Duchal, and
his son James the Master of Lyle, who had together slain Sir John
Penny, an unarmed priest.  Several gentlemen of their different
surnames were with them--all men who had more or less shed blood in
the private quarrels and open feuds of that wild and lawless time.
All were richly dressed, for the age was one of profusion and
ostentation; the splendour of the third and fourth James was yet
remembered in the land, which had not as yet suffered by the civil
wars and depression subsequent to the Reformation.  Many of those to
whom we are about to introduce the reader had their coats of arms
embroidered on the breasts of their gorgeous doublets; but the
greater number wore half armour, gorgets, breast-plates, and plate
sleeves; and all, without distinction, had long swords, Scottish
daggers, and Italian pistols or calivers at their girdles; and they
were all, in secret, members of the anti-national or English
faction--of which more anon.

"I have a presentiment that yonder young galliard in the crimson
velvet bravery bodes us no good," said the Lord Kilmaurs in an
undertone.  He was a stern and reckless noble, whose brown-velvet hat
had already been perforated by two bullets in a brawl that day.

"Why think you so, son?" asked his father the earl, whose cold grey
eye ever suggested the idea that his lordship said one thing while
thinking another.

"He came from yonder gilded galley of the Sieur de Villegaignon--and
see! here come the admiral's own bargemen, with the lilies of France
upon their pourpoints, bearing his mails.  By my soul, sirs, this
spark is served like a king's ambassador!"

"And may he not be the envoy of Henry of France?" asked some one.

"Nay, for he is only young Florence Fawside of that ilk, as I
understand," said the Lord Kilmaurs, to whose right eye a savage
glare was imparted, together with a spasmodic contortion of that side
of his face, by a dreadful sword-wound, which he received at the
defeat of the English at Ancramford.

"_Only!_" reiterated his father, with an accent upon the word;
"Mahoun! art thou sure of this?"

"Sure as I am a living man."

"But men say he is still in France," urged the Lord Lyle.

"Nay, my lord," began the Master of Lyle, "for the old beldame his
mother----"

"She is a Kennedy of Colzean, and my near kinswoman," interrupted
Lord Cassilis haughtily.

"I crave your pardon, though fortunately we are not of Carrick, where
all men court St. Kennedie," replied the other, bowing with a smile
on his lip and a sneer in his eye; "but Dame Alison hath written
letters into France to the Duchess Anne of Albany and Vendome,
desiring her to send back the youth, that he might avenge the death
of his brother, whom Claude Hamilton of Preston slew at the king's
barresse, and in fair fight, as we all can testify."

"Ay, old Preston's sword hath been reddened alike in the blood of
father and son, a strange but not uncommon fatality."

"Consanguinity, my Lord Lyle, should make that quarrel ours too,"
said the Earl of Cassilis; "but fortunately, I have no wish to
embroil myself with Preston, and the old dame Alison hath ever
disdained our aid and alliance."

"If that bedizened spark be really Fawside her son, he has been long
in the service of Anne de la Tour of Vendome, widow of the late
Regent Albany," said one who had not yet spoken, and whose accent
marked his country as England, though he wore the badges and livery
of the house of Glencairn; "and rede me, sirs, he hath some other
mission to Scotland here than his mother's feud with the Prestons."

"Thou art right, Master Shelly," said James Master of Lyle, as a
sudden gleam shot athwart his sinister visage; "in these days, when
trusty messengers are scarce and bribes high, falsehood dear and
fidelity dearer, I doubt not he hath letters from Henry of Valois to
the Queen-Mother, and from the grasping princes of the house of Guise
to the Regent Arran--and these letters must be inimical to us.  Is it
thus thou wouldst say, my valiant captain of the Boulogners?"

"It is," replied the disguised English soldier, whose steel salade
was worn well over his handsome face, for concealment.

"Such letters would let us see their game, which 'twere well to know
ere they can learn ours," said Glencairn.  "But if they are concealed
in the lining of his doublet, in the scabbard of his sword, in the
quills of his feathers, or perhaps indited with invisible necromantic
ink by Catherine de Medicis--for I have known all these plans
resorted to--we may kill the poor knave for nothing, and raise a
pestilent hubbub in the burgh to boot."

"Kill him here, then," said Kilmaurs, his son.

"What, in the hostel?" said his father, starting.

"Yes," was the brief and fierce response.

"'Twould embroil us with Logan, whose property it is.  But every
thread of his garments shall be searched.  'Twas a shrewd thought of
thine, Master Edward Shelly, for time presses in the matter of our
baby-queen's marriage to thy baby-king."

"If we find such letters on him," said Kilmaurs with a ferocious
glance at each of his companions in succession, "by the five wounds
of God he shall swallow them ere he die.  I made an English spy eat
five on the night before the battle of Ancramford."

"And how fared he after?" asked Shelly laughing.

"Ill enough, I trow."

"How?"

"He straightway swelled up like a huge ball, and burst, whereby I
opined that the letters had been written with poisoned ink."

"And these letters----"

"Were all anent the ransom of a friend of mine, who shared in England
the exile of Mathew of Lennox, and whose lands had been gifted by the
late James to me."

"Let us see to this man at once," said Lord Lyle; "for I assure you,
sirs, that if this fellow beareth letters out of France to mar our
lucrative plans, by my father's soul I will slay him, even as I slew
that shaveling mass-priest Penny!"

"And how slew ye him?" asked Master Shelly, an Englishman of pleasing
countenance and good presence, who seemed amused by the quaint
ferocity of these Scottish lords.

"I slew him like a faulty hound, because I liked him not," replied
Lyle with a fierce grimace; "and hewed off his shaven head with my
whinger.  Then my son reminded me that a soothsayer, the prior of
Deer, who now sleeps in Roslin chapel, had foretold by his cradle
that in days to come his head should be the highest in Scotland.  In
sooth, it shall be so, quoth I; and, fixing it on my spear, which was
six Scottish ells in length, I rode home with it thus through all the
Carse of Gowrie to my castle of Duchal, where you may yet see the
bare pyked bones of it grinning on the bartizan wall."

"And what answer made you to the law?"

The other drew himself up with ineffable hauteur, and briefly
replied--

"I am the Lord Lyle!"

"Hush, sirs," said Glencairn; "our man is in the next room, perhaps,
and may overhear us."

"Let us see to him," said Kilmaurs, loosening his dagger in its
sheath.

"Stay, sirs," said Shelly the Englishman; "and excuse me if I am less
reckless in bloodshed than you; for, under favour, and with all due
deference be it said, I came from a more peaceful land, where if the
sword is drawn, it is usually for some weightier reason than because
one man wears a dress striped with red and another wears it striped
with green, or because one man wears a tuft of heather in his steel
cap and another sports a sprig of laurel; and so, ere you proceed to
violence in this matter, I would pray your lordship to be well
assured of who this stranger is."

"If we suspect this knight of the crimson suit of being a spy of the
Valois or the Guises, what matter is it who he is?" replied the
master of Lyle impatiently.  "But there is the landlord in conference
with one of Preston's followers, so, let us inquire of him."

"Ralf Riddel!--gudeman, come hither," said Kilmaurs.

Thus commanded, Riddel ascended to the gallery, with several low
bows, while the man with whom he had been conversing, and who was no
other than Symon Brodie the butler of Preston, an unscrupulous and
bloodthirsty swashbuckler, remained, bonnet in hand, on the steps a
little lower down, to listen greedily to all he might overhear from a
group so gaily attired.

"Did not yonder gay galliard come from a ship in the roads?" asked
Lord Kilmaurs.

"Who?" responded Riddel, with evident reluctance.

"He of the crimson-velvet doublet and long French boots."

"Yes, sir," replied Riddel, with increasing hesitation, for he read
mischief in the eyes of all.

"From the galley of Nicolas de Villegaignon?"

"Yes, my lords."

"He hath come from France, then!" said Kilmaurs sternly.

"It would seem so."

"Seem!  Speak to the point," continued the fiery heir of Glencairn,
"or, by the horns of Mahoun! we will burn thy house to the
groundstone.  It is so!"

"Yes--my lords,--yes."

"Speak out, cullionly knave," thundersd the Lord Kilmaurs, the long
scar on whose visage became purple as his anger increased; "his
name----"

"I ken it not."

"How--ye ken it not?"

"No."

"Why!"

"He conceals it."

"Hah! that betokens secrecy!" exclaimed Lord Lyle.

"And as we have secret projects," added his son, "we must suspect all
of having the same; so doubt not that he hath letters.  All who come
from the vicinity of the Louvre, or the Hotel de Guise, bring
dangerous letters to Holyrood, dangerous at least to us, and we must
have them."

"He _has_ come from France, my lords,--from France direct," said
Symon Brodie, approaching and speaking in a whisper, as the abashed
landlord withdrew.  "Mairower, he is Florence Fawside of that ilk."

"You know him, then?" said several.

"Yea, and a' the race; I ken their dour dark look, and wha but he
could wear on his breast, _gules_, a fess between three besants _or_?"

"Right, by Heaven!" said the master of Lyle.

"A follower of Anne of Vendome must have letters from which we may
glean what France or the Lorraine princes mean to do," said Shelly
bluntly; "cut him off if you will, but not here,--it must be done
secretly."

"To horse, then," said Glencairn hoarsely, as if, wolf-like, he
already scented blood on the soft evening breeze that came from the
glassy river; "to horse, and beset all the roads--Leith-loan, the
Figgate Muir, and every path to the southward and the east,--for if
he passes the brig of Esk to-night our cause perhaps is lost.  He
bears, doubtless, letters to the Regent and Queen, with promises of
war with England and succour from France.  Pietro Strozzi, the
Marechal Duke de Montmorenci, or the Comte de Dammartin, with twenty
thousand arquebusiers and gendarmes, thrown into the scale against
us, would leave our cause and the boy King Edward's but a
feather-weight.  To horse, sirs, and away; for this August gloaming
darkens fast, and night will be on us anon!"

As the earl spoke, they all hurried to the stables, and proceeded to
saddle and mount their horses for the deadly purpose in view, and
none were more active than Symon Brodie and seven other armed lackeys
of the Laird of Preston, who joined in the affair, with no other
interest or intention than to cut off the poor youth, in prosecution
of the wretched quarrel between their master's house and his; for men
joined in such deadly things in those days, as readily as now we go
to see a horse-race, a fire, or an election row.

Master Edward Shelly, the Englishman, who was disguised as a follower
of the House of Glencairn, joined in the plot also, but with some
unwillingness; for he ran considerable risk.  By the laws of James
II., any Englishman found in Scotland became the lawful captive of
the first man who discovered him; and any Scottish subject who met an
English man under tryst, as these noblesse were doing, was liable to
imprisonment during the king's pleasure, and to the forfeiture of all
he possessed.

Such was the law passed by the parliament at Stirling, in 1455.




CHAPTER VII.

THE BRAWL.

  My sword, my spear, my shaggy shield,
    They make me lord of all below;
  For he who dreads the lance to wield
    Before my shaggy shield must bow;
  His lands, his vineyards must resign,
  For all that cowards have is mine.
                                    _Dr. Leyden._


Being a married man, Ralf Riddel went straightway to his spouse, and
in whispers--lest the panelled walls might have ears--he communicated
his suspicions of the deadly intentions of his titled guests.  A
landlady of the nineteenth century would instantly, on learning such
tidings, have made an outcry and summoned the police; but Euphemia
Riddel received them with the coolness incident to those days, when
every other morning a man slashed by sword or dagger was found dead
or dying somewhere in the streets of Edinburgh.

"And what mean ye to do, gudeman?" she asked.

"Leave the event to Providence, gudewife."

"To Providence and their whingers!" she exclaimed.

"Hush, or the hail hive will be on us!" said he in a terrified
whisper.

"Foul fa' ye, Ralf Riddel, if ye permit this wicked slaughter of a
winsome young man!"

"But they would ding their daggers into me in a trice."

"What of that?" she asked sharply.

"A sma' matter to you perhaps, but mickle to me; and if I was pinked
below the ribs by these bullies, Symon Brodie, that bluidthirsty and
drunken butler o' auld Preston's would soon be drawing in his chair
at the ingle.  That chield is ower often here, gudewife, and I dinna
like it.  It is no aye for ale and up-putting he comes to the 'Golden
Rose.'  But what shall I do anent Fawside?"

"Gowk! do that whilk is right."

"And that is----?" queried Ralf, scratching his head--

"To send a saddled horse to the Burgess close, and let the young
laird out by the back yett while these lords and loons are busy in
the yard.  Take the horse round by your own hand while I see to the
puir gentleman."

The matter was thus arranged at once; and while the gudeman of the
hostel led the nag through a narrow by-lane to the place indicated,
an old and narrow alley of dark and lofty houses which opened
eastward off the bank of the river, his better half acquainted the
young traveller with the danger which menaced him.  With the boldness
of his race, he at first refused to fly, and resolved to confront
these men and fight them.  Then he thought of his mother, and yielded
to the entreaties of the good woman, his preserver.

"I will owe you a brooch of gold for this, gudewife," said he,
kissing her hand and buckling on his sword.

It was the first time so brave and handsome a gentleman had done her
this courtesy, and the heart of the woman swelled anew with pride and
sympathy.

"Away! away!" she exclaimed, "lest dool and wae light on thy house
and home to-night!"

"I thank you, gudewife--thank you kindly; I would not for worlds,
were they mine, be maimed in a night-brawl by swashbucklers such as
these, for I have greater and nobler work to perform than crossing my
sword with such a rabble rout."

"Ay, the defence of our holy Kirk of Rome?"

"Nay; I shall not be slow in defending that if the time come; but I
have a beloved father's murder under tryst and a tender brother's
death in mortal combat to avenge, with the wrongs of centuries, upon
the Hamiltons of Preston!" replied Florence, who, instead of having
his ardour cooled by the fate of his relatives, longed with intense
eagerness to see unsheathed against him the same sword by which they
fell, that he might slay its wielder without mercy or remorse.

"And now, fair sir, away!"

"And the horse----"

"Is at the Burgess Close foot, nigh unto the loan-end.  Ride straight
for Edinburgh, lest the eastward road to the Abbey Hill be beset."

"Thanks, madam," replied Florence, with a low French bow, as he
loosened his long sword in its sheath, left the inn by a private
door, and piloting his way in the twilight between hedgerows and low
thatch-roofed cottages, reached the place where Riddel stood, holding
the horse by its bridle.  The hosteller would not listen to a word of
thanks from Fawside, but urged him to "ride swiftly;" and assuredly
time pressed, for he was barely in the saddle when at least forty
armed and mounted men issued with scabbards, petronels, and hoofs
clattering, from the stable-yard, and, separating into parties,
proceeded at a rapid trot to beset the paths in every direction.

Fawside gave his horse the spur, and Riddel saw the sparks of fire
fly from the flinty road as it sprang away towards the city.

When again the hosteller of the "Golden Rose" saw his fair roan nag,
it was pierced by bullets, half-disembowelled, and lying drowned in
the lake which then formed the northern moat of Edinburgh.

The darkness had now completely set in; and, save where a few trees,
turf fences, or low dykes of stone and earth inclosed the fields, the
whole country between the city and its seaport was open, but varied
by many undulations and eminences covered by furze, tufted broom, and
dark-green whin, or broken by hollows that were swampy, where the
coot squatted in the oozy pools and the heron sent up its lonely cry
from amid the thick rushes and masses of the broad-leaved water-dock.

Leaving Leith, which was then without those strong walls and iron
gates by which it was engirt during the stormy regency of Mary of
Lorraine, Fawside, after tracking his way almost instinctively
through narrow alleys of thatched cottages and kail-gardens, ascended
the brae above the Abbot's Bridge, and reached the road that led by
the Bonny-toun (or Bonnie-haugh), a little hamlet where, in
after-years, old Bishop Keith wrote his "History of the Scottish
Church;" but the hum of the river, which there poured over a ledge of
rough rocks, had scarcely died away in his rear, when swiftly and
furiously he heard the clatter of iron hoofs upon the dusty
bridle-road he was traversing.

At that moment the near hind shoe of his nag gave way, but by
adhering to the hoof by a nail or two for some paces, nearly brought
the animal down on its haunches, and even this trivial occurrence
served to lessen the distance between Fawside and his pursuers, who
cared not to disguise their purpose, as they shouted, halloed, and
taunted him by all the epithets and scurrility incident to the vulgar
of the time; and foremost of all this rout, who were becoming excited
with a thirst for blood and all the ardour of a hunt or race, rode
Symon Brodie, the butler of Preston, mounted on a blood horse which
belonged to his master, and had more than once borne at its neck the
_silver bell_, the prize of the winner at Lanark races.

"Come on! come on!" he was exclaiming; "and look, lads, to your
whingers and spur-whangs, for we win on him fast!  Turn ye, Fawside!
turn ye! and face, if ye dare, the same men that slew your kinsmen!
Through! through!--a Hamilton! a Hamilton!"

These taunts made Fawside's blood boil within him, and a storm of
hatred at these enemies of his family now tracking him with the most
deadly intentions, gathered with stern ferocity in his heart: but the
odds were too many against him; and though his cheek glowed and every
pulse quickened with passion, he held on his way towards the city
without swerving or casting a single glance behind.  His pursuers
were now so close, that he could hear them encouraging each other and
laughing at those whom they distanced.

"Spur on--spur on!" cried the butler; "this gay galliard has nine
golden targets at his velvet hat."

"They will blink brawly at our bonnet-lugs in the morning sun!"
exclaimed another, goring his horse on hearing this fabricated
incentive to blood and robbery.  "I have plundered Dame Alison's
eel-arks in the Howmire for a month past, and grazed my nowte on
Birsley brae, but I must e'en change a' that if the laird win hame."

"The auld devil in the tower will burst her bobbins wi' spite if we
slay her son!" said a third.

"On, on," cried others, "ere he gain the town-gates, for then the
watch and the craftsmen will be raised like a hornet's nest on us,
and the provost has but one word for brawlers--the _Wuddie_!"

"Sooth ay!" panted Brodie, pricking his horse with his dagger to
increase its speed; "beware o' the Buith-holders and armed burgesses,
for he is a landed man, and if we slay him----"

"Aver that we took him for a brawler, a dustifute, or fairand man."

"Havers!" exclaimed the savage butler; "wit ye, lads, 'tis our
master's just feud.  The young wolf hath come from France to slay our
master.  Preston is auld now, while he is lithe and young; no battle
could be fair between them, so let us cut him off ere we ride
homeward to-night--cut him off I say!"

"By my father's hand!" exclaimed another horseman who came abreast of
them, and panted as he spoke, "I will venture both craig and weason
to drive my dagger in his brisket.  I will teach Scottish men to
become the spies of France."

"Or the paid hirelings of England," retorted Fawside, now turning for
the first time, and with his wheel-lock petronel discharging a flying
shot at haphazard among his pursuers.  One by the side of the last
speaker, who was the Lord Kilmaurs, fell prone with a loud cry on the
narrow path.  Whether he was killed outright, or merely wounded, his
comrades never tarried to inquire; but with a shout of rage and
defiance, continued the race for death and life in the dark.

This episode occurred near a mill belonging to the monks of
Holyrood--a quaint old edifice, having enormous buttresses, and in
which King Robert I., when well stricken in years, is said by
tradition to have found shelter on a stormy winter night, when the
path to Edinburgh was buried deep under the drifted snow.

Skirting a little loch, the waters of which turned the mills of the
canons of Sanctæ Crucis, the fugitive continued his flight towards
the city, up the undulating slope now covered by the New Town of
Edinburgh, but then a wilderness of furze and broom, till he reached
the North-loch, which formed a moat or protection for the capital of
the James's; for on that side there was no other defence than this
artificial sheet of water, which the magistrates could at all times
deepen by closing the sluice at the eastern extremity, between the
Dow-Craig, or Calton, and the Craig-end gate.

Before Fawside the long and lofty ridge of the ancient city on its
steep of rock and hill, upreared its rugged outline against the
starry sky, broken into a hundred fantastic shapes, and terminating
at the westward in the black and abrupt bluffs, crowned by the
ancient castle, which then consisted of four huge donjons or masses
of mason-work, the towers of King David, of St. Margaret, of the
constable, and the royal lodging; but all were black and grim, for
neither in the guarded fortress nor the walled city did a single ray
of light shine out to vary the dusky gloom of the scenery.  Our
fathers went to bed betimes in the year 1547.

In the bosom of the long and narrow loch which spread before him, the
reflected stars were twinkling, and headlong down its grassy slope he
rode, and, without a moment's hesitation, plunged in his panting
horse, with knee and spur, voice and bridle, urging it to gain the
opposite bank; then plunge after plunge resounded on both sides, as
nearly a score of horsemen leaped in after him, dashing the waters
into a myriad foamy ripples, and resolved to follow him to the last;
while others, less determined, or less interested in his destruction,
or the capture of the supposed French missives, reined up their
chargers on the bank, and fired their wheel-lock petronels at him, as
his roan horse breasted the dark water bravely, and snorted, swimming
with its head aloft and flanks immersed.  Ere it was mid-way across,
the poor animal uttered a wild cry, writhed under the rider, and by
throwing back its head in agony, announced that it was mortally
wounded, for it sank almost immediately, leaving Fawside to
disentangle his feet from the stirrups and strike out for the
opposite bank.  Fortunately he had learned to swim expertly in the
Loire, when at Vendome; thus he soon gained the opposite bank, but
not without considerable difficulty, as its steep slope was covered
by rushes, slime, and weedy grass.

The wheel-lock, or pistol, used by the men-at-arms of those days, was
an invention of the Germans, and we have a minute description of it
in Luigi Collados' treatise on Artillery, published at Venice in
1586, when it was deemed a firearm as perfect as now we deem our
boasted Enfield or Lancaster rifle.  The lock was composed of a solid
wheel of fine steel revolving on an axle, to which a chain was
attached.  On being wound, this wheel drew up a strong chain, which,
on the trigger being pulled, whirled the wheel with such velocity
that the friction of its notched edge struck fire from a flint
screwed into a cock which overhung the priming-pan.  The wheels took
some time to wind up or span, as it was technically termed, by a
spanner or key, which the pistolier carried by a ribbon at his neck;
but after all this preparation, like many better inventions of a more
modern time, this weapon occasionally hung fire, and refused to
explode at all.

However, on the present occasion, the wheel-locks of Florence's
pursuers did their duty fatally for the poor horse he rode, and,
boiling with a fury which he could no longer restrain, panting and
breathless with his rapid ride, his recent immersion and present
danger, he unsheathed his sword, determined to kill the first who
came ashore, ere he turned once more to fly.

The first who came within his reach proved to be a follower of the
Lord Glencairn, Hobbie Cunninghame, or Hobbie of the Kuychtsrig, who,
in the preceding year, had been nearly hanged for abstracting "the
provost's ox"--a fat bullock presented annually by the town-council
to their chief magistrate,--and whom he cut down by a single
backhanded stroke.  The second he slew at the third pass, and he
felt, as he ran him through the body, something of a shudder when the
man's hot blood poured through the cut-steel network of his
swordhilt, and mingled with the cold water of the loch which dripped
from his doublet sleeves.  But he thought, perhaps, little more about
it, as he turned and rushed up the nearest close or alley, pursued by
a dozen of his untiring enemies, who abandoned their horses, and,
with an ardour which their recent swim in the water failed to cool,
followed him on foot up the steep slope, with swords and daggers
drawn.

To quote a French writer when describing a similar incident--

"Let not our readers have the least bad opinion of our hero, who,
after having killed a man, feared the police, but not God; for in
1547 all men were alike in this.  They thought so little in that age
of dying, that they also thought little of killing.  We are brave
now; but they were rash.  People then lost, sold, or gave away their
lives with profound carelessness."

Remorse or regret has nothing to do with this kind of killing; and
any man who enjoyed a day or two shooting during the siege of
Lucknow, or in the rifle-pits at Sebastopol, will tell you the same
thing.

Fawside's blood was now fairly up, and he felt that with fierce joy
he could make mince-meat of them all.  The struggle was not merely a
life for a life, but twelve lives for his--twelve swords against one!
He reached the High Street, which traverses the crest of the lofty
ridge occupied by the ancient city: it was involved in almost total
darkness; for though in the reign of the late king the citizens had
been ordained to hang out oil lanterns at certain hours, under the
weaker rule of the Regent Arran they preferred alike to save their
oil and the trouble.  A vast breadth of opaque shadow enveloped this
great thoroughfare, which was then encumbered by piles of timber and
peat-stacks for fuel, as each citizen had one before his door; and
there also--as in the streets of London and Paris at the same
free-and-easy period--were huge mounds of every kind of household
_débris_, amid which the pigs occupying the sties under fore-stairs
and out-shots, revelled by day, as the kites and gleds did in the
early morning before the booths were unclosed and the business of the
day began; for these sable tenants of the adjacent woods swarmed then
in the streets of Edinburgh, just as we may see them still about
sunrise.

Between these piles of obstruction the skirmish continued, and
Florence Fawside, finding that nearly all the arches of the various
closes and wynds were closed and secured by massive iron-studded
doors, which had been hung upon them as a security since the late
invasion of '44, was compelled to continue his retreat through the
Landmarket towards the Castle Hill; and then, having distanced
several of his pursuers, he turned in wild desperation to face three
who were close upon him, and whose swords there was no avoiding.

"They seek my letters or my life," thought he; "but my letters are
more precious than my life--ay, more precious to Scotland and her
little queen than the lives of fifty brave men.  My mother--oh, my
mother! what will be her thoughts if these assassins succeed in
destroying me--hunting me thus to death like a mad dog.  Oh, what a
welcome home to my country!--the first night I tread again on
Scottish ground.  Hold your hands, sirs!" he exclaimed aloud.  "I am
on the queen's service, and the Lord Regent's too.  Hold!--this is
stoutrief, open felony and treason!"

"Fellow, thou makest a devil of a noise!" said the young Lord
Kilmaurs, making a deadly thrust, which Florence parried, and almost
by the same movement cut one of his companions across both legs, and
for a moment brought the ruffian down upon his knees; but he started
up and thrust madly at Fawside, whose back was now close to the wall
of a house on the northern verge of the street, which there became
narrow, as it approached the spur-gate of the Castle.

"Fie! armour--armour fie!" he exclaimed, using the cry of alarm then
common in Edinburgh.

"Ding your whingers into him," said Kilmaurs furiously, as he paused
for a moment to draw breath and let his companions' swords have full
play, while his livid visage seemed by the starlight pale and green,
as that of one who had been a corpse many days, and his dark eyes
glittered like those of an incarnate demon.  "At him to the hilt," he
continued, "lest he rouse the burgh on us; for the common bell will
be rung in five minutes, and then every bloated burgess and rascally
booth-holder will be at the rescue, with halbert, jack and steel
bonnet.  At him, I say!"

"Are you Egyptians or thieves," said Fawside tauntingly; "if so, take
my purse among ye and begone, in the name of the devil your master."

"No thieves or Egyptians are we," said Kilmaurs, again handling his
sword with a savage laugh; "but Scottish gentlemen, who would fain
know what paper news you bring out of France."

"From the three princes of the League," added Glencairn.

"The bloody Cardinal de Lorraine, and that foul kite of Rome, the Duc
de Guise."

"And the Duc de Mayenne," added others, falling on with their swords.

"Ah!--'tis my letters rather than my life they seek," muttered
Fawside.  "Let me be wary--oh, let me be wary, blessed Heaven!"

He had now his single blade opposed at least to four; but, thanks to
his own skill and the improvements made by a French master-at-arms on
the earlier tuition he had received from old Roger of the Westmains,
he kept them all in play, though his wrist began to fail and his
sword-arm tingled to the shoulder.  There shot a sharp and sudden
pang through his left side, and on placing his hand there he felt the
warm blood flowing from a wound.  The sword of his first adversary,
Lord Kilmaurs, had glanced along the ribs, and at the same moment a
Cunningham gave him a stab between the bones of the sword-arm with a
species of dagger, then named a Tynedale knife.  There is an old
saying that a Scotsman always fights best after seeing his own blood.
Be that as it may, Fawside, on finding the current of his life now
pouring from two wounds, that he was becoming weary, that there was a
singing in his ears, a cloud descending on his eyes, and that the men
with whom he fought seemed opaque shadows whose numbers were
multiplying, and whose sword-blades his weapon sought and parried by
mere instinct rather than by efforts of vision and skill--and, more
than all, that many other merciless adversaries were coming
clamorously and hastily up the street, a wild emotion of despair
gathered with fury in his heart, at the prospect of never seeing his
grey-haired mother more, and of being helplessly butchered on the
first night he had set foot in the streets of Edinburgh after an
absence of well-nigh seven years--butchered by men whom he knew not,
and had never offended.  Yet, with all this, he now disdained to cry
for aid, but fought in silence and despair.

"He sinks at last!" said Symon Brodie with savage exultation.  "A
Hamilton! a Hamilton!  Fawside, ye shall die!"

"Be it so.  Then I to God and thou to the devil, false cullion!" he
exclaimed, and by two well-directed thrusts he ran the half-tipsy
butler and another knave through the body; but their steel caps had
scarcely rung on the causeway when five or six other swords flashed
before his eyes, and he received a third wound in the breast.  On
this a cry of agony, which was received by a shout of derision,
escaped him.

"Kilmaurs, is not this fellow killed yet?" asked the Master of Lyle,
who was one of the new-comers.  "Devil bite me! is this French
trafficker to keep twelve swordsmen in play and kill them all at his
leisure!"

"Upon him now, his guard is down!" exclaimed the ferocious Kilmaurs,
exasperated by the taunt of his compatriot, as he rushed forward to
despatch the poor lad, whose head and hands were drooping as he
reclined against the wall of a dark shadowy house, and felt that life
and energy were alike passing away from him; when suddenly a tall man
mingled his voice in the combat, and being armed with one of those
poleaxes which all citizens were bound to possess for the purpose of
"redding frays" within the burgh, he beat them back, shouting the
while,

"Armour! armour! fie--to the rescue--fie!"

"What villain art thou?" demanded Glencairn imperiously, grasping his
right arm.

"Fie! gar ding your whingers into him!" cried the others.  "What
matters it who he is?"

"Speak, rash fellow, lest I kill thee!" said the lofty noble.  "I am
the Lord Glencairn!"

"And I am Dick Hackerston, a burgess and free craftsman--a hammerman
of Edinburgh.  Fie!--have at ye a'!  Is this fair play or foul, my
lords and masters?" he exclaimed, as he swept them aside by
describing a circle vigorously with his poleaxe.

At that moment blindness came upon the eyes of Florence, and a
faintness overspread his limbs.  The stone wall against which he
reclined seemed to yield and give way; he felt the atmosphere change:
a red light seemed to shine before his half-closed eyelids; and
voices, gentle, softly modulated, and full of tender commiseration,
floated in his ears.

He sank down--down he knew not, recked not where.  ......... He heard
a door closed violently.........  A stupor like death came over him,
and he remembered no more! ........




CHAPTER VIII.

THE REGENCY OF ARRAN.

  Yet if the gods demand her, let her sail,--
  Our cares are only for the public weal:
  Let me be deem'd the hateful cause of all,
  And suffer, rather than my people fall.
  The prize, the beauteous prize, I will resign,
  So dearly valued, and so justly mine.
                                          _Iliad_, i.


It has already been stated that the Regent of Scotland at this time
was James Hamilton, Earl of Arran, better known amid the civil wars
and woes of future years as the Duke of Chatelherault, a fief in
Poitou, and formerly capital of the duchy of Chatelheraudois.  His
father was the first who obtained the earldom of Arran, and his
mother was Janet Beaton, of Creich, niece of the unfortunate cardinal
who was slain in the Castle of St. Andrew's.  The French dukedom he
received for the spirit with which he maintained Scottish and French
interests against the valour of England and the machinations of that
degraded and anti-national party the Scottish peers of King Henry's
faction, a few of whom have already been introduced to the reader in
the preceding chapter.

The little queen was a child in her fifth year; and Henry VIII., that
wily and ferocious monarch, during his latter days left nothing
untried, by subtle diplomacy, by open war, by hired assassins, and by
bands of foreign _condottieri_ leagued with his own troops, to remove
from his path all obstruction to a marriage between his son Edward
and the young queen of Scotland.  He proposed to Arran, if he would
deliver her person into his blood-imbrued hands, to assist him with
all the power of England and Ireland to make for himself a new
kingdom beyond the Forth, and to give his daughter Elizabeth, the
future queen of England, in marriage to Arran's heir, the young Lord
James Hamilton, then captain of the Scottish Archers in France; but
the Regent knew how little Henry's boasts would avail him at the foot
of the Grampians, or had patriotism enough to reject a proposal so
wild and so disastrous with the disdain it merited; and so, in time,
the English Bluebeard was gathered to his wives and to his fathers,
bequeathing to the Duke of Somerset, Protector of England during the
minority of Edward VI., the pleasant task of arranging, by fair means
or foul, a matrimonial alliance between that prince and the little
queen of "the rugged land of spearmen."

Cardinal Beaton, long a faithful and a formidable enemy to Scottish
treason and to English guile, had perished by the hands of assassins,
whose secret projects were better understood at Windsor than at
Holyrood.  The invasion of Scotland, and the almost total destruction
of Edinburgh--the burnings and the devastations in the fertile
Lothians by Lord Hertford's army, with the rout of the English at the
bloody battle of Ancrum--ended for a time all hope of Somerset ever
accomplishing the perilous work so rashly bequeathed to him by his
grasping and imperious master; yet, being a brave and high-spirited
noble, he still continued the attempt in secret, as he could never
despair of having the nation ultimately betrayed while that faithless
class, its nobility, existed.

The Scottish peers were now, as usual, divided into two factions, one
who adhered to the old treaty with France, and the other--the basest,
most venal, and corrupt--composed of those who urged the advantages
of the matrimonial alliance between the infant Queen Mary and the boy
King Edward.  These men, though bearing names of old historic memory,
the

        "Seed of those who scorn'd
  To stoop the neck to wide imperial Rome,"

were mean enough to receive in secret sums of money, first from Henry
of England, secondly from the Protector Somerset, and by written
obligations to bind themselves to further the selfish and aggressive
schemes of both; while, in the same spirit of political perfidy, they
gave to the Scottish Regent Arran the most solemn assurances of their
entire concurrence with him, in his conservative measures for obeying
the will of the late King James V.--whose noble heart they
broke,--and in defending the realm of his daughter against all
foreign enemies, more especially their ancient foemen of the south.
On one hand they openly announced their resolution to support the
Church of their fathers, and the faith that came from Rome; on the
other, they secretly leagued with those who slew the primate of
Scotland in his archiepiscopal castle at St. Andrews, and plotted for
the plunder of the temporalities.

The noble Earl of Huntly, with Arran and the more patriotic--the
unblemished and unbribed,--looked towards France for a husband for
their queen, and for troops to enable them to resist the combined
strength of Cassilis, Glencairn, Kilmaurs, and more than two hundred
titled Scottish traitors, when backed by the military power of
England, and those Spanish and German mercenaries under Don Pedro de
Gamboa and Conrad Baron of Wolfenstein, whom the Protector maintained
in Norham, Carlisle, and other strongholds near the border.

The weakness of Arran's government, the feeble power of the
newly-instituted courts of law, the licentious lives of a hierarchy
whose Church and power were nodding to their fall, the gradual
declension of an ancient faith, and the dawn of a new one divested of
all that was striking or attractive to the imagination, and which,
from its grim novelty, the people neither loved nor respected at
heart,--all tended to arrest the rapid progress which Scotland had
made in art and science, music and poetry, architecture, literature,
printing, and commerce, under the fatherly care of the six last kings
of the Stuart race.  Hence there was generated, about the epoch of
our story, a greater barbarism among the feudal aristocracy and their
military followers, all of whom were ever but too fierce, turbulent,
and prone to bloodshed.  Thus outrages, feuds, raids, and combats,
the siege and storm of castles and towers, were mere matters of
every-day life; and a fight of a few hundred men-at-arms a side, with
lance and buckler, sword and arquebuse, in the streets of Edinburgh,
Perth, or Aberdeen, occasioned less excitement among their warlike
citizens than an election row, a casual fire, or a runaway horse, in
these our jogtrot days of peace societies and Sabbatarian twaddle.

The more ancient laws of Scotland, by which a man's life might be
redeemed for nine times twenty cattle, or when for shedding blood
south of the Scottish Sea (_i.e._ Firth of Forth) a penalty of
twenty-five shillings was levied, or when, for committing the same
offence north of the same sea the value of six cattle was
exacted--had now been succeeded by a regular code of stricter
statutes, to be enforced by regular courts of law and justice.  Yet
blood was shed and life taken more often than before, in sudden
quarrel and old hereditary feud, daily--yea, hourly,--without other
punishment or remedy than such as the nearest clansman or kinsman
might inflict with the sword and torch--and these were seldom idle.

The times were wild and perilous!

All men wore arms, and used them on the most trivial occasions.  Even
James V., so famous for his justice and lenity, when a boy in his
eleventh year, with his little Parmese dagger, stabbed a warder at
the gate of Stirling Castle, because the man would not let him out to
ramble in the town.

Hence such outrages as the murder of Cardinal Beaton in his own
castle, the slaughter of Sir John Fawside by Claude Hamilton of
Preston, on the skirts of Gladsmuir.  The besieging of John Lord
Lindesay, sheriff of Fife, when in the execution of his office, by
the lairds of Clatto, Balfour, and Claverhouse, with eighty
men-at-arms, while at the same time the Grants amused themselves by
sacking and burning the manor-house of Davy, in Strathnavern, and
making a clean sweep of everything on the lands of Ardrossiere.  Even
the king's artillery, when _en route_ from Stirling to Edinburgh, in
1526, were attacked, the gunners killed or dispersed, and the guns
taken, by Bruce of Airth, who required a few field-pieces for his own
mansion.  Hence the slaughter of the Laird of Mouswaldmains by Bell
of Currie, and of the Laird of Dalzel by the Lord Maxwell.  Hence the
abduction of Lady Margaret Stewart, daughter of Matthew Earl of
Lennox, by her lover, the young Laird of Boghall, and the death of
her husband John Lord Fleming, great chamberlain of Scotland, by the
sword of John Tweedie, Baron of Drummelzier, who slew him when
hawking, on the 1st November, 1524.  Hence the slaughter of the Laird
of Stonebyres by the rector of Colbinton; of two gentlemen named
Nisbet, in the king's palace and presence, by Andrew Blackadder of
that ilk; the murder of the Laird of Auchinharvie by the Earl of
Eglinton; the assassination of that fine old priest and poet, Sir
James Inglis, abbot of Culross, by the Baron of Tulliallan, in 1531,
and the firing of the thatched kirk of Monivaird, in Strathearn, by
the Drummonds, who destroyed therein "six score of the Murrayes, with
their wives and childraine, who were all burned or slaine except one."

These little recreations of the Scottish landed gentry and their
retainers were occasionally varied by branking scolding wives with
iron bridles, or ducking them in ponds; burning witches and Lollards;
hanging gipsies, and boring the tongues of evil-speakers with hot
iron;--so that seldom a day passed, in town or country, without some
stirring novelty of a lively nature.

One tract of land, where, in the year of Flodden, one thousand and
forty-one ploughs had usually turned up the teeming soil, was now, as
the Lord Dacre says, "clearly wasted, and had no man dwelling
therein,"--wasted by his wanton inroads; and this desolated tract lay
in the middle Marches, on the banks of the Leader, the Euse, and the
Ale--the lovely border-land,--the land of war and song--of the sword
and lyre; but there grew little grass, and less corn, where the hoof
of the moss-trooper's steed left its iron print in the soil.

Superstition was not wanting to add to the terror of warring clans
and those English devastators who, in 1544, laid Edinburgh in blazing
ruin, and swept all the fair Lothians, as if the land had been burned
up--tree, tower, and corn-field, hamlet, church, and hedgerow--by the
fire which fell of old on the cities of the plain.  Lady Glammes, a
young and beautiful woman, was burned alive at Edinburgh, for
treason, and some say sorcery; and in the year of our story, 1547,
there was buried in the beautiful chapel of Roslin, Father Samuel,
the prior of St. Mary of Deir, who was deemed a wizard so terrible
that all the sanctity of the place could scarcely keep his bones from
rattling in their stone sarcophagus.

Wonderful things were seen and heard of in those quaint old times.

In 1570, a monstrous fish, having two human heads, each surmounted by
a royal crown of gold, swam up Lochfyne; and seven years after, a
swarm of fish, each having a monk's hood on its head, came up the
Firth of Forth.  In Glencomie, a gentleman of the house of Lovat slew
a veritable scaly dragon, which vomited fire like that encountered by
St. George of old, and set the purple heather in a flame.  The
northern sky was nightly brightened by ranks of glittering spears and
waving pennons.  In the woful year of Pinkey-cleugh, a calf was
brought forth with two heads, on Robert Ormiston's farm, in Lothian;
and if other omen of evil to come were wanted, on the Westmains of
Fawside, a huge bull which belonged to our friend Roger the Baillie,
and was the pride of the parish, when browsing on the green
brae-side, turned suddenly into a black boulder-stone, which may yet
be seen by those who take the trouble of inquiring after it; while a
"fierce besom" or comet that blazed o' nights in the southern quarter
of the sky, portended evil coming from England, and made old men and
grandmothers cower with affright in their cosy ingles beyond the
fire, and tell their beads as their minds became filled with
forebodings of dolor and woe: for though hardy and brave, they were
simple souls--our Scottish sires, three hundred years ago.

Such was the state of the kingdom in the year of our story, and
during the regency of Arran.




CHAPTER IX.

MISTRUST.

It will be great, thou son of pride!--I have been renowned in battle;
but I never told my name to a foe.--_Ossian._


Consciousness returned slowly to Florence Fawside, and when his eyes
unclosed, he saw first the huge misshapen figures of a large
green-and-russet-coloured tapestry, which covered the walls of a
dimly-lighted room, the four carved posts of a bed, the magnificent
canopy of which spread its shadow over him, and the soft laced
pillows whereon his head reposed.  Then he became sensible of the
presence of persons moving about him on tiptoe, speaking in gentle
whispers.

There were two women, young, beautiful, and richly dressed; and with
them was a man whose white beard flowed over the front of his long
and sable robe.  Then came again the sensation of faintness--the
sinking sensation of one about to die,--with the agony of his
sword-wounds, which felt like the searings of a red-hot iron, when
the hands of his fair attendants--soft, kind, and "tremulously
gentle" hands they were--unbuttoned his doublet, untied his ruff,
drew aside the breast of his lace shirt, and a handkerchief which he
had thrust under it when first wounded, and which were now both
soaked with blood.  This caused his wounds to stream anew.  He felt
the current of his life gush forth, and while a faint cry of pity
from a female voice came feebly to his ear, the sufferer, when making
a futile effort to grasp the pocket which contained his fatal
letters, became once more totally insensible.

The early dawn of a clear August morning was stealing through the
iron-grated windows of the apartment in which he lay, when Florence
awoke again to life, and, raising himself feebly on an elbow, looked
around him.

He was in a chamber the walls of which were hung with beautiful
tapestry; the ceiling was painted with mythological figures, and the
oak floor was strewn with green rushes and freshly-cut flowers--for
carpets were yet almost unknown in Britain.  From a carved beam of
oak, which crossed the ceiling transversely, hung a silver
night-lamp, fed with perfumed oil, amid which the light was just
expiring.  In a shadowy corner of the room was an altar, bearing a
glittering crucifix, before which were two flickering tapers, two
vases of fresh roses, and an exquisitely-carved _prie-Dieu_ of
walnut-wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

The hangings of his bed were of the finest crimson silk, festooned by
gold cords and massive tassels.  On one side, through the window, he
could see the green northern bank of the loch which bordered the
city, and through which on the night before he had striven to swim
his horse; beyond it were yellow fields, green copsewood, and purple
muirland, stretching to the shores of the azure Forth.  On the other
side were the quaint figures of the old tapestry which represented a
Scottish tradition well known in the days of Hector Boece--that on
the day when the battle of Bannockburn was fought and won, a knight
in armour that shone with a marvellous brilliance, mounted on a black
steed, all foamy with haste and bloody with spurring, appeared
suddenly in the streets of Aberdeen, and with a loud voice announced
Bruce's victory to the startled citizens.  Passing thence to the
north with frightful speed, over hill and valley, this shining
warrior was seen to quit the land and spur his steed across the
raging waves of the Pentland Firth, and to vanish in the mist that
shrouded the northern isles.  Hence some averred he was St. Magnus of
Orkney, while the more aspiring maintained that he was St. Michael
the Archangel.

"Where am I?" was the first mental question of the sufferer, as he
pressed his hand across his swimming forehead.  "My letters!" was his
next thought.  On a chair near him hung his doublet: he made a great
effort to ascertain if they were untouched, but sank back upon his
pillow, exhausted by the attempt.

Morning was far advanced when he revived again.  He found something
cold and sharp in flavour poured between his lips; it refreshed him,
and on looking up he became inspired with new energy on seeing again
the two ladies whose forms he believed last night to have been the
portions of a feverish dream, or to have been conjured by his fancy
from those upon the tapestry.

One was a tall and beautiful woman, of a noble and commanding
presence, about thirty years of age; her forehead was rather broad
than high; her nose, long and somewhat pointed, might have been too
masculine, but for the charming softness of her other features,
especially her clear hazel eyes, which were full of sweetness, and
expressed the deepest commiseration.  That her rank was high, her
attire sufficiently announced.  She was dressed in a delentera of
cloth-of-gold, the opened skirts of which displayed her petticoat of
crimson brocade; her sleeves were of crimson satin tied by strings of
pearl; her girdle was of gold surrounded by long pearl pendants;
while a cross of diamonds sparkled on her breast.

Her companion seemed fully ten years younger: her stature was rather
less; her complexion was equally fair; but her hair was of that deep
brown which seems black by night; her features were so regular that
nothing prevented them from being perhaps insipid; but the darkness
of her eyebrows, with the vivacity of her deep violet-coloured blue
eyes; and as she bent over the sufferer's bed, the rose-leaf tinge in
her soft cheek came and went rapidly.  She wore a loose robe of
purple taffeta, trimmed with seed pearls; and among her dark hair
there sparkled many precious stones; for the attire of people of rank
in those days was gorgeously profuse in quality of material and
elaboration of ornament.

"Mon Dieu!--he faints again!" said the former lady, in a soft but
foreign accent, and with a tone of alarm.

"Nay, he only sleeps," whispered the other; "and see--now he wakens
and recovers!"

"Saint Louis prie pour moi! but the pale aspect of this wounded boy
so terrifies me!"

"Am I still in France?" murmured Fawside.

"Oh, he speaks of France!" exclaimed the elder, drawing nearer.

"Where am I, madame--in Paris?" asked Fawside faintly.

"Nay, you are safe in the city of Edinburgh."

"Safe!  And who are you who condescend to treat me so humanely, so
tenderly?  Oh!  I cannot dream.  Last night--I now remember me,--I
left the ship of the Sieur de Villegaignon, and was pursued by armed
men,--by men who sought to murder me, and Heaven and they alone know
why, for unto them I had done no wrong.  I fell, wounded, I remember;
but how came I here?"

"You must not speak, fair sir," replied the elder lady, placing her
white and faultless hand upon the hot and parched mouth of the youth.
"But listen, and I shall tell you.  We heard the clash of swords
(nothing singular in Edinburgh), and cries for 'help' beneath our
windows; from whence we saw a man beset by many, who beat him down at
last, though he fought valiantly with his back to the postern door of
our mansion."

"A door!--methought it was a stone wall.

"Nay, sir, fortunately it was _not_ the stone wall, but a door: my
servants opened it; you fell inwards.  It was instantly shut and
barricaded, by nay orders, and thus we saved you."

"And this was last night?"

"Nay," replied the beautiful lady, smiling, and using her
 sweetest foreign accent, "it was three nights ago."

"Three!"

"I have said so, monsieur."

"You are of France, dear madame?"

"So are many ladies at the Scottish court."

"And I--I----"

"Have been in sleep under the opiates of my physician, or at times
delirious; but now, thanked be kind Heaven, and his judicious skill,
all danger of fever is past."

"Three days and nights!  Oh! madame, to how much inconvenience I must
have put you."

"Say not so.  To have saved your life is reward sufficient for my
friend and me."

"Thanks, madame, thanks; not that I value life much, but for the sake
of one I love dearly, and for the task I have to perform."

"One!--a lady, doubtless?" asked the younger, smiling.

"My mother!" replied Fawside, as his dark eyes flashed and suffused
at the same moment!

"And your task is probably a pilgrimage?" continued she with the
violet-blue eyes.

"Nay, lady, nay; no pilgrimage, but a behest full of danger and
death, and inspired by a hate that seems at times to be a holy
one--for the blood of a slain father inspires it."

"Madame," began the younger lady uneasily, "may it please your----"

"_Stay!_" exclaimed the other, interrupting the title by which she
doubtless was about to be addressed;--and then they whispered
together.

Fawside now remarked mentally that this was the third occasion on
which she had been similarly interrupted.

"Here lurketh some mystery," thought he, glancing at his doublet, in
the secret pocket of which his letters were concealed, "so let me be
wary."

"These are exciting thoughts for one so weak and so severely wounded
as you are," resumed the matron, for such she evidently was.  "Know
you who those outrageous assailants were?"

"Too well!--the men who slew my father under tryst, and my brave
brother too, by falsity and secrecy, as 'tis said."

"And they?" faltered the lady.

"Who?"

"Your father and brother?"

"Were good men and leal."

"I doubt not that, sir.  But their names?"

"Were second to none in the three Lothians."

"You are singularly wary, fair sir," said the elder lady proudly, and
with an air of pique.

"And your father fell----," began the younger in a tremulous voice,
as if the young man's vehemence terrified her.

"He fell so many years ago that the interest of my debt of blood and
vengeance----"

"Is, I doubt not, doubled!"

"Yea, madame, quadrupled; and I shall have it rendered back duly,
every drop."

"Oh! say not so," said the young lady, shuddering.  "Think of all you
have escaped, and how, on that fatal night, kind Heaven spared you."

"To avenge my family feud on those who would have slain me."

"And you have been in France?" said the lady in the cloth-of-gold, to
change the subject.

"Yes, madame."

"And came from thence with Nicholas de Villegaignon?"

"Yes, madame."

"Ah, _mon Dieu!_--dear, dear France!" she exclaimed; "and you were
there how long?"

"Seven happy years, lady."

"In the army, of course?"

"No."

"At the court of Henry of Valois?"

"No--with Anne de la Tour."

"The Duchess of Albany--a proud and haughty old widow."

"But a mistress kind and gentle to me.  I had the honour to kiss King
Henry's hand on my way home through Paris."

"Had you any letters or messages for Scotland?" asked the lady
anxiously.

"Nay, I had no letters," he replied gloomily and briefly; "but tell
me, pray, your names, your rank, ladies--in pity tell me!"

"Pardon us, sir," said the elder, patting his forehead kindly with
her soft white hand; "in that you must hold us excused.  We tell not
our names lightly to a stranger--a wild fellow who fights with every
armed man, and, for aught we know, makes love to every pretty woman,
and who, moreover, shrouds in such provoking mystery his own name and
purpose.  So adieu, sir--a little time and we shall be with you
again."

"Stay, madame--stay, and pardon me," he exclaimed, as they retired
through the parted arras, and disappeared when its heavy fold closed
behind them.  Then he sank upon his pillow, exhausted even by this
short interview.

"I am right," he muttered, as he lay with his eyes closed, in a
species of half-stupor, or waking dream; "my name shall never pass my
lips until I have the barbican gate of Fawside Tower behind me.  And
yet--and yet--how hard to mistrust that lovely girl with the
dark-blue eyes and deep-brown hair!"

Rendered cautious by his late adventure, he tore off and defaced the
armorial bearings, which, in the French fashion, he wore on the
breast of his beautiful doublet, and resolved studiously to conceal
alike his name, his purpose, and his letters, to say no more of
whence he had come or whither he was bound, lest those two charming
women, who so kindly watched and tended his sick couch, and who so
sedulously concealed _their_ names and titles, might be the wives,
the loves, or kindred of his enemies.

Such were his resolves.  But how weak are the resolves even of the
brave and wary, when in the hands of a beautiful woman!




CHAPTER X.

IN WHICH THE PATIENT PROGRESSES FAVOURABLY.

  His qualities were beauteous as his form,
    For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free;
  Yet, if men moved him, he was such a storm
    As oft twixt May and April we may see.
                                      _A Lover's Complaint._


Aided by his youth and strength, and doubtless by his native air,
which blew upon his pale face through the northern windows of his
chamber, when the breeze waved the ripening corn and wafted the
perfume of the heather and the yellow broom-bells across the North
Loch, Florence recovered rapidly.  His wounds soon healed, under the
soothing influence of the medicinal balsams applied to them, and of
the subtle opiates which he received from the hands of his two fair
attendants, and from those of the white-bearded physician, who, with
a pardonable vanity, cared not to conceal _his_ name, but soon
announced himself to be Master Peter Posset, chirurgeon to the late
King James V. of blessed memory (whose deathbed he had soothed at
Falkland Palace), and deacon of the chirurgeon-barbers of
Edinburgh--a body who, in virtue of their office, were exempted by
their charter from serving on juries, and from the duties of keeping
watch and ward within the city.

Master Posset was a man of venerable aspect, with a voluminous white
beard.  He was measured in tone, pedantic in manner, and bled and
blistered, according to the rule of the age, only when certain stars
and signs which were believed to influence the human body, were in
certain mansions of the firmament,--for he was a deep dabbler alike
in alchemy and astrology.  Yet in 1533 he had studied and practised
at Lyons as hospital physician under Rabellais, and been the medical
attendant of Jean du Bellay, Bishop of Paris, when that distinguished
prelate travelled to Rome concerning the divorce of Henry VIII. of
England in 1534.  The residence of Master Posset was at the head of a
forestair in the Lawn-market, where his uncouth sign,--a dried
alligator, swung from an iron bracket, exciting fear and awe in the
heart of country folks who came to buy or sell, and where the
armorial cognizance of his craft,--_argent_, a naked corpse fessways
_proper_, between a hand with an eye in its palm, the thistle and
crown,--informed all that it was the domicile of the Deacon of the
Chirurgeon-Barbers.

By his pedantry and prosy recollections of MM. Rabellais and Jean du
Bellay, this worthy leech proved an intolerable bore to his patient;
but he had evidently received due instructions to be reserved; for by
no effort of cunning, of tact, and by no power of entreaty, could
Fawside draw from him the secret of whose house they were in, and who
were these two women so highly bred, so courtly, and so beautiful who
attended him like sisters, and to whom he owed his life and rapid
recovery.  From a French valet who also attended him he was likewise
unable to extract a syllable; for M. Antoine, though an excellent
musician on the viol, made signs that he was dumb.

"Master Posset, good, kind Master Posset," said Florence one day, "I
have exhausted all offers of bribes such as a gentleman in my present
circumstances might make, and you have nobly rejected them all.  Now
I cast myself upon your pity, your humanity, to tell me who and what
those two kind fairies are!"

"Who they are I dare not tell; _what_ they are I may," replied the
cautious leech.

"Say on, then.  What are they?"

"A widow and a maid."

"The widow?" asked Florence impetuously.

"Is she with the hazel eyes and chestnut hair."

"The maid?"

"Of course the other, she with the darker hair and violet-blue eyes,
and who, violet-like, secludes herself from all."

"The loveliest, thank Heaven!"

"Why thank you Heaven so fervently?" asked Master Posset with
surprise.

"Ask me not!--ask me not!" exclaimed Fawside, in whose heart every
glance, every action, and every trivial question or remark of the
younger lady had made a deep impression.

"Their rank?"

"I may not, must not tell you," interrupted the physician hastily.

"It is high?"

"Few are nobler in the land."

"Ah!  Master Posset, each looks like a queen."

"Perhaps they are so,--queens of Elfen," replied Master Posset, with
a smile which his heavy white moustache concealed.

"You are most discreet, Master Apothecary," sighed Florence with
impatience.

"To be discreet was one of my chief orders, and I am in the mansion
of those who brook no trifling; and, as the great Rabellais was wont
to say, discretion to a physician was as necessary as a needle to a
compass."

"All this mystery seems rather peculiar and unnecessary; but thus
much I can discern, that the younger gentlewoman treats the other
with such deference and respect, that her rank must be inferior,
though her beauty is second to none that I have seen even at the
court of France."

"You are an acute observer, sir," replied the leech, reddening, and
with some alarm; "but may not such deference and respect arise from
her junior years?"

"Scarcely; for I can perceive that the elder is barely thirty years
of age."

"Yet she has buried a second husband and at least two children."

"I shall soon discover _her_ if you give me but one or two more such
other details," said Florence laughing.

"You will not attempt it, I hope," said Master Posset, with growing
alarm, and preparing to withdraw.

"Most worthy doctor, what is that which succeeds best in this world?"

"I know not."

"Shall I tell you?"

"Yes."

"_Success_.  I have great faith in it."

"The very words of the great Rabelais!"

"The devil take Rabelais!" said Florence with annoyance.

"Shame on you, young sir!" said Master Posset, who considered this
rank blasphemy.

"Pardon me; but by this faith in success I shall never fail," replied
Fawside laughing.  "I shall soon be gone from here, where I have
played the owl too long, and when well enough I shall soar like the
lark.  Ah! good Master Posset, most worthy deacon, dost think I have
spent seven years of my life between Paris and Vendome without being
able to discover a pretty demoiselle's name when I had the wish to do
so.  She cannot conceal herself long from me, be assured of that."

"Is it gallant to talk thus of those gentlewomen whose roof shelters
you, and from whom you also conceal your own name?" asked Posset
angrily.

"It is not; and yet, by my faith, _three_ sword wounds have given me
more reason for caution than I ever thought would fall to my lot.
But I will take patience, for time unravelleth all things."

"As I have heard the divine Jean de Bellay preach in Notre Dame at
Paris many a time--yea, sir, verily time unravelleth all things."

"Yea, and _avengeth_ all things," said a soft voice on the other side
of his couch; and on turning, Fawside met the bright eyes of the lady
and her friend fixed upon him.

The young man was very handsome.  His features were regular, but
striking and marked; his hair was cut short, but was black and curly;
his nose was straight, with a well-curved nostril; his chin was well
defined, and fringed by a short-clipped French beard.  His
shirt-collar being open, displayed a muscular chest, white as the
marble of Paros, but crossed by the ligatures and bandages which
retained the healing balsams on his wounds.  His features had all the
freshness and charm of youth, but over them was spread the languor of
recent suffering and loss of blood; thus his fine eyes were
unnaturally bright and restless.  Finding that the noble lady had
overheard his heedless remarks, Fawside made efforts to rise to bow,
and, reddening deeply, said,--

"Pardon me, madam, I knew not that you were so near; nor _you_, sweet
mistress," he added in a tremulous voice, as he addressed the younger
and more beautiful of those striking women, in whose charming society
he had been thrown, and to whose care he had found himself confided
for more than a week.

Long conscious of the power of her beauty, it was impossible for this
young lady not to perceive and feel pleased with the interest she was
exciting in the breast of Florence, the expression of whose dark eyes
and the tone of whose voice too surely revealed it.

This morning her sweetly feminine face was more than usually lovely
in an ermined triangular hood, trimmed with Isla pearls from Angus,
and these were not whiter than her delicate neck and ring-laden
fingers; she seldom spoke, save when addressed by her friend, and her
replies were always brief.

"I heard you mention Paris and the Vendomois," said the latter to the
patient, as she bent her clear hazel eyes upon him, and as Master
Posset respectfully withdrew from the chamber by retiring backwards
through the arras.  "I know the latter well, and every bend of the
beautiful Loire, with the old castle of the Comtes de la Marche and
the ducal mansion of Charles of Bourbon----"

"And the great old abbey of the Holy Trinity, with its huge towers,
its pointed windows, and the reliquary----"

"Where the Benedictines keep in a crystal case the Holy Tear----"

"Wept by our Blessed Saviour over the grave of Lazarus."

"Ah, I see we shall have some recollections in common," said the
proud lady, smiling; "and fair Paris--how looketh it?"

"Gay and great as ever, forming, to my eyes,--in its life, bustle,
and magnitude,--a wondrous contrast to our grim Scottish burghs, with
their barred houses, their walls and gates, and steep streets
encumbered by stacks of peat and fuel and heather."

"_Mon Dieu_, yes; one may caracole a horse along the Rue St. Jacques
or the Rue St. Honore without meeting such uncouth obstructions as
these.  Is the Hotel de Ville finished yet?"

"Nearly so."

"Are those four delightful monsters of M--M--oh, I forget his
name--completed on the tower of St. Jacques de la Boucharie?"

"Yes, madam, and grin over Paris all day long."

"You see, I know Paris, sir."

"Madame is doubtless only Scottish by adoption."

The lady smiled sadly, while her friend laughed aloud.

"I can see it before me now, in fancy," said she while her fine eyes
dilated and sparkled, "smiling amid the plain that is covered with
golden corn, and bounded by the vine-clad hills that spread from Mont
l'Hery to Poissy; Paris with its busy streets of brick-fronts and
stone-angles, of slated roofs and many-coloured houses--the huge
masses of the _cité_, the _ville_, the great Bastile, and the double
towers of mighty Notre Dame!  I see them all glittering in the
cloudless sun of noon, as one day my little daughter shall see them
too!"

"A daughter--you have a daughter, madam," said Fawside with growing
interest, "and are a widow; in pity tell me who you are?"

"We two have our little secrets, fair sir," she replied, holding up a
slender finger with a waggish expression.

"By the cross on my dagger, I swear to you, madam----"

"But your dagger is lost."

"I regret that deeply, for it was the present of a noble dame."

"Since we are so bent on fruitlessly questioning each other, may I
ask _her_ name?" said the younger lady.

"Diana de Poictiers, the Duchess of Valentinois; it bears her three
crescents engraved upon the hilt; but I left it in some knave's body
on the night of the brawl.  If he lives, the diamonds in the pommel
may perhaps prove a salve for his sores; if he dies, a fund for his
funeral--but a pest on't! my brave dagger is gone."

"Accept this from me," said the taller lady, taking from an ebony
buffet that stood near, a jewelled poniard, and presenting it to
Florence.

"A thousand thanks, madam--a lady's gift can never be declined; but
what do I see?  The cipher of James V.--of his late majesty."

"'Twas his dagger," said the lady gloomily, "and with it he
threatened to stab Sir James Hamilton of Finnart, the
inquisitor-general of Scotland; but I arrested his hand and took away
the weapon; for the gentle King James would never refuse aught to a
woman, a priest, or a child."

"And so you were known to the fair mistress of Francis I.?" asked the
young lady with a slightly disdainful pout on her pretty lip.

"Nay, madam, I cannot say that she knew me; but once when she and her
royal lover quarrelled, I bore a letter from her to Francis, and at a
time when no other person would venture to approach him, his majesty
being furious on the arrival of tidings that his fleet before Nice
had been destroyed by the galleys of Andrew Doria."

"This was three years ago."

"I was loitering one day in the gallery of the Louvre, when she
approached me, 'M. le Page,' said she, placing a little pink note in
my hand, 'will you do a service for me?'

"'I belong to Madame la Duchesse d'Albany,' said I; 'yet I shall
gladly obey you, madam.'

"'Then you shall have ten golden crowns.'

"'Ten crowns!  Ah, madam,' said I, gallantly, 'I would rather have
ten gifts less tangible.'

"'You shall have both, boy,' said she, laughing merrily; 'the crowns
now and the kisses hereafter.'

"Her note to Francis proved successful: in less than ten minutes that
princely monarch was at her feet.  But with her kiss, she gave me a
Parmese dagger, which she wore at her girdle, the gift of her present
lover, Henry of Valois, and which you, madam, have so nobly replaced
by this."

As he spoke, Florence, with the true loyal devotion of the olden
time, kissed the cipher which was engraved on its hilt.

At that moment Master Posset reappeared, and whispered in the ear of
the lady of the mansion.

"Excuse me, sir," said she; "there are those without who would speak
with me."

And on her retiring suddenly with the physician, Florence, somewhat
to his confusion, found himself for a time left alone with the
younger and, as we have more than once said, more attractive of his
two attendants, and in whom, though as yet nameless, we have little
doubt the sagacious reader has already recognized the heroine of our
story.




CHAPTER XI.

THE OPAL RING.

  Late my spring-time came, but quickly
    Youth's rejoicing currents run,
  And my inner life unfolded
    Like a flower before the sun.
  Hopes, and aims, and aspirations,
    Grew within the growing boy;
  Life had new interpretations;
    Manhood brought increase of joy.
                                _Mary Howitt._


After a pause their eyes met, and the lady's were instantly averted;
the cheeks of both were suffused by a blush, for they "were so young,
and one so innocent," that they were incapable of feeling emotion
without exhibiting this charming, but, at times, most troublesome
symptom of it.

The lady spoke first.

"And so, sir, you are still resolved to preserve your _incognito_--to
maintain your character of the unknown knight?"

"Yes, madam," said he in the same spirit of banter, "while in the
castle of an enchantress--for here, indeed, am I under a spell.  And,
more than all, my wounds have made me cautious to the extent,
perhaps, of ingratitude."

"So you actually mistrust us!" exclaimed the lady colouring deeply,
while her dark-blue eyes sparkled with mingled amusement and surprise.

"I will risk anything rather than lie longer under an imputation such
as your words convey," replied the young man impetuously: "I am
Florence Fawside of that ilk.  And, now that you know my name, I pray
you tell not my enemies of it, for I might be slaughtered here
perhaps, without once more striking a gallant blow in my own defence.
I have told you my name," he added, lowering his voice to an accent
of tenderness, while attempting to take her hand; but she started
back; "and now, dear lady, honour me with yours."

But the lady had grown deadly pale; her fine eyes surveyed the
speaker with an expression of gloomy and startled interest, mingled
with pity and alarm.  Florence, on beholding this emotion, at once
detected that he had made a mistake by the sudden revelation of his
name, and a vague sense of helplessness and danger possessed his
heart.

"I shall never forget the kindness, the humanity, and the tenderness
with which you have treated me, lady; but why all this strange
mystery--for _you_ cannot be unfriended and alone here, as I at
present am?  Why have I been concealed even from your servants?  None
have approached me but Master Posset the leech, and a Frenchman,
Antoine, who pretends--as I suspect--to be deaf or dumb.  All
betokens some mystery, if not some pressing danger.  Oh, that I were
again strong enough to use my sword--to sit on horseback and begone!"

"To all these questions I can only reply by others.  Why all these
complaints--whence this alarm?"

"I must begone, lady," said Florence with a tremulous voice; for
though dazzled and lured by the beauty of the speaker on one hand, he
dreaded falling into some deadly snare on the other; "I long to see
my aged mother--and I have letters----"

"_Not_ for the Regent, I hope?" said the young lady, coming forward a
pace.

"Probe not my secrets, lady.  I have told you my name--I am the last
of an old race that never failed Scotland or her king in the hour of
need or peril.  I shall be faithful to you----"

"To _me_!" reiterated the beautiful girl in a low voice, while
blushing deeply.  "I need not your faith, good sir?"

"To you and to my royal mistress; but I long to leave this--to see
once more the aged mother who tended my infant years----"

"A harsh and stern woman, who, if men say true, will urge you to the
committal of dreadful deeds!"

"Say not so--she was ever gentle and loving to me, and to my brave
brother Willie, who now, alas! sleeps in his father's grave."

"Gentle and loving!--so are the bear or the tigress to their cubs;
but their fierce nature still remains."

"Remember that she you speak of is my mother, lady," said Florence,
colouring with vexation.

"Pardon me--I speak but from report."

"I long, too, to see honest old Roger of the Westmains, with his
white beard and hale nut-brown visage--my tutor in the science of
defence, he who taught me to handle sword and dagger, arquebuse and
pike, as if I had come into the world cap-a-pie; and next there is
Father John of Tranent, the kind old vicar, who was wont in the long
nights of winter to take me on his knee, and tell me such wondrous
tales of Arthur's round table, of William Wallace, of Alexander, and
of Hector--the prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer, and how they never
fail to be fulfilled--the story of Red Ettin, the giant who had three
heads, and of the Gyre Carlin, the mother-witch of all our Scottish
witches, till my hair stood on end with terror of men so bold and
people so weird and strange.  I long to see my old nurse Maud, who
was wont to rock me to sleep in the old turret, and sing me the
'Flowers of the Forest,' or the sweet old song of 'Gynkertoun;' and I
long once more to find myself under the moss-covered roof of the old
tower, where my mother waits and, it may be, weeps for me--that grim
old mansion, with its barred gate, its dark loopholes, and narrow
stairs, whose steps have been hallowed by time, and by the feet of
generations of my forefathers who are now gone to God, and whose
bones sleep under the shadow of His cross in the green kirkyard of
Tranent."

"In short," said the lady, with a very decided pout on her beautiful
red lips, "you are tired of dwelling here, and long to be gone."

"Here--ah, madam, say not so!  Here, here with you, could I dwell for
ever; but I have beloved ties and stern duties, that demand my
presence elsewhere."

The dark-haired girl smiled and drooped her eyelids, while her
confusion increased; for affection soon ripened in young hearts in
those old days of nature and of impulse, before well-bred folks had
learned to veil alike their hatred and their love under the same calm
and impenetrable exterior.

The ice was now fairly broken, but their conversation became broken
too.

After a pause, during which Florence had succeeded in capturing the
little hand of the unknown, and kissing it at least thrice.

"You mean still to conceal your name from me!" said he with a tone of
tender reproach.

"I act under the orders of another----"

"Another!--to whom do you yield this obedience?  To me you seem
inferior to none on earth."

"To none, I trust, in your estimation," said she, coquettishly.

"But to esteem, to love you as I do--to have intrusted you with my
name, and yet to know not yours, is unkind, unfair, and subjecting me
to torture and anxiety."

"I cannot give you my name--oh, pardon me, for in this matter, be
assured, I am not my own mistress," said she, in a trembling voice.

"This is most strange, and like a chapter of Amadis, or some old
romance.  Then how shall I name you?"

"'Urganda the unknown,'[*] or aught you please," she replied, smiling
to conceal her confusion as she withdrew her hand; and, taking from
one of her fair and slender fingers a ring, she dropped it on the
pillow of Florence, adding, "take this trinket--it has a _secret_ by
which one day you may know me.  Take it, Florence Fawside, and wear
it in memory of one who will never cease to regard you with most
mournful interest, but who can never even be your--friend!"


[*] A famous enchantress in _Amadis de Gaul_.


"In memory--as if I could forget you while life and breath remained?"
exclaimed Florence, bending over the jewel (an opal) to kiss it.

When he looked up the fair donor was gone.  A tremulous motion of the
arras in the twilight--eve had now closed in--indicated where she had
vanished, before he could arrest her by word or deed, and implore an
explanation of the strange and enigmatical words which had
accompanied a gift so priceless to a lover.

She was gone; and, exhausted by the excitement of the interview, by
the sudden turn it had taken, and the mutual revelation of a mutual
interest in each other's hearts, Florence fell back upon his pillow,
and lay long with his eyes closed and his whole being vibrating with
joy, while the sober shadows of evening deepened in the tapestried
room around him.

He was filled with a new happiness, his soul roved far away in the
land of sunny dreams, his whole pulses seemed to quicken, and, with
the conviction that this beautiful unknown loved him, he suddenly
discovered there was in the world something else to live for than
feudal vengeance.

"To-morrow I shall see her again," thought he; "to-morrow I shall
hear her voice, and see her dear dove-like eyes assure me that she
loves me still; and her name--oh, she must assuredly reveal it to me
then.  But are this interview and this ring, her gift, no fantasies
of mine?  Oh, to solve this strange mystery and concealment!"

As he thought thus, and gave utterance to his ideas half audibly, a
red light flashed across the tapestried walls of the room.  It came
from the outside, and on raising himself he saw the wavering gleam of
several torches on the well-grated windows, while the voices of men,
one of whom, uttered hoarsely several words of command, the clatter
of horses' hoofs, and the clank of iron-shod halberds and arquebuses,
rang in the adjacent street.  What did all these unusual sounds mean?

A vague emotion of alarm, filled his breast; he glanced round for his
sword, and kept it in his hand in case of a sudden attack; but anon
the gleam of the torches faded away, and the clatter of hoofs and
spurs seemed to pass up the narrow street, and to lessen in distance.

Then all became still in the mansion and around it; and a foreboding,
that portended he knew not what, fell upon the heart of the listener.




CHAPTER XII

MASTER POSSET.

  I am thy friend, thy best of friends;
    No bud in constant heats can blow--
  The green fruit withers in the drought,
    But ripens where the waters flow.
                                      _Mackay._


The morrow came with its sunshine; but the two fair faces which had
been wont to shed even a more cheering influence over the couch of
the wounded youth were no longer there.  Hour after hour passed, yet
they did not come; and Fawside recalled with anxiety the too evident
sounds or signs of a rapid departure on the preceding evening.

So passed the day.  Dumb Antoine alone appeared; but from his
grimaces nothing could be gathered.  Night came on, and with it
sleep, but a sleep disturbed by more than one dream of a fair face,
with dark-blue eyes and lashes black and long, deep thoughtful
glances and alluring smiles.

At last there came a sound that roused the dreamer; a ray of light
flashed through the parted arras from another room.

"She comes!" was the first thought of Florence.  "At this hour,
impossible!" was the second.

There was a light step.  Dawn was just breaking; but the good folks
of that age were ever afoot betimes.  At last the arras was parted
boldly, and Master Posset, bearing a lamp, with his long silvery
beard glittering over the front of his black serge gown, which hung
in wavy folds to his feet, approached, bearing on a silver salver the
patient's usual breakfast of weak hippocras, with maccaroon biscuits.
He felt the youth's pulse, looked anxiously at his eyes and wounds,
pronounced him infinitely better, and added that he "might on this
day leave his couch."

"And the ladies?" asked Florence, unable to restrain his curiosity
longer.

"What ladies?" queried the discreet Master Posset.

"Those who for so many days have watched my pillow like sisters--the
hazel-eyed and the blue-eyed--for, alas!  I know not their names.
Where were they all yesterday, and where are they to-day?"

"Gone!"

"_Gone!_" faintly echoed Florence;--"but whither?"

"To Stirling."

"But why to Stirling?" asked Florence impetuously.

"Because they have business with the Lord Regent."

"I will follow them.  My doublet--my boots and hose.  Good Master
Posset, your hand.  Ah! great Heaven! how my head swims, and the room
runs round as if each corner was in pursuit of the other!" exclaimed
Florence, who sprang from bed, and would have fallen had not the
attentive leech caught him in his arms.

"We must creep before we walk; and you must walk, sir, before you can
ride a horse."

"When may I sit in my saddle?"

"In three days, perhaps."

"In three days I shall be in Stirling!" said the other impetuously.

"You had better go home," said Posset bluntly.  "'Tis the advice of a
sincere friend, who would not have you ride to Stirling on a bootless
errand."

"Why bootless, Master Possett, when I tell you that I love, dearly
love, one of those who have so abruptly forsaken me."

Master Posset's face, at least so much of it as his voluminous beard
and moustache permitted one to see, underwent various expressions at
this sudden announcement---astonishment and perplexity, alarm, and
then merriment.

"Fair sir," said he, laughing and shrugging his shoulders (a habit he
had probably acquired from M. Rabelais), "you forget yourself."

"Wherefore, forsooth?  Are they so high in rank above a landed baron?"

"In Scotland few are higher."

"Do not say these discouraging things, but tell me their names; for
the hundredth time I implore you."

"I dare not."

"If I used threats, what would you say?"

"As my friend Rabelais said to a French knight at Lyons, when
similarly threatened."

"And what said your devil of a Rabelais?"

"That threats ill became a sick man, when used to his friend; and
worse still from one of your junior years, to a man in whose beard so
few black hairs can be reckoned as in mine."

"Most true--forgive me; but when once free of this house, I shall
soon solve the mystery.  A woman so lovely as the younger lady must
be well known, and must have many lovers."

"Doubtless."

"Thou art a most discreet apothecary, Master Posset--yea, a most
wonderful apothecary!" said Fawside, gnawing the end of his
moustache, and continuing to attire himself during this conversation;
"and you really think she has _many_?"

"Yes; yet from her strength of character, I am assured she is a woman
who in her lifetime will have but _one_ love."

"One; come, that is encouraging!"

"Though little more than a girl in years, she is a woman in heart, in
soul, and in mind.  Do you understand me?"

"Yes--truss me those ribbons--thanks, Master Posset--I understand
you, but only so far that if I am not the love referred to, I shall
pass my sword through the body of the other who may occupy that
position.  Her faintest smile is worth a hundred golden crowns!"

"A sentiment worthy of Rabelais; but as your friend, Florence
Fawside--one your senior in life and experience by many years--cease
to speak or think of her thus."

"Why, if I love her?" demanded the young man, with a mixture of
sadness and that impetuosity which formed one of the chief elements
of his character.

"Because there are (as I call Heaven to witness!) barriers between
you----"

"Grace me guide! mean you to say she is married?"

"No; but still there are barriers insuperable to the success of such
a love."

"To the brave?" asked Florence proudly.

"Yea, to the bravest."

"God alone knoweth what you all mean by this cruel enigma; but in
three days I will set forth to solve it--to solve it or to die!"

The old doctor smiled at the young man's energy, and kindly offered
the assistance of his arm to enable him to walk about the chamber,
after obtaining from him his parole of honour, that without
permission duly accorded he would not attempt to leave it or
penetrate into other parts of the mansion.

The evening of the third day had faded into night, and night was
passing into morning, when Master Posset appeared and said,--"Come,
sir, horses are in waiting; we leave this immediately."

"In the dark?" asked Florence, with surprise.

"'Tis within an hour of dawn."

"A fresh mystery!--for whence--Stirling?"----"No."

"Whither then?"

"Fawside Tower--have you no ties there?"

"My mother--yes, my mother," said Florence, with a gush of tenderness
in his heart, as he hastily dressed; "but once to embrace her, and
then for Stirling--ho!"

"You may spare yourself the toil of such a journey; for I assure you,
on the word of an honest man, that in less than three days perhaps
those you seek will be again in Edinburgh."

To this the sole reply of Florence, was to kiss the opal ring, the
secret of which he had as yet failed to discover.

"You must permit me to muffle your eyes."

"Wherefore, Master Posset? this precaution savours of mistrust, and
becomes an insult."

"Laird of Fawside, I insist upon it; and she whose orders we must
both obey also insists upon it."

"She--who?"

"The giver of the opal ring," whispered the doctor.

"Lead on--I obey," replied the young man, suddenly reduced to
docility; "all things must end--and so this mystery."

Posset tied a handkerchief over the eyes of Florence, and taking his
hand led him from the chamber, wherein he had suffered so much, and
which he had now occupied for more than thirteen or fourteen days.
He became conscious of the change of atmosphere as they proceeded
from a corridor down a cold, stone staircase, and from thence to a
street, evidently one of those steep, but paved closes of the ancient
city, as they continued to ascend for some little distance.  Then an
iron gate in an archway (to judge by the echo) was opened and shut;
then they walked about a hundred yards further, before Posset removed
the muffling and permitted Fawside to gaze around him.  On one side
towered the lofty and fantastic mansions of the Landmarket[*] rising
on arcades of oak and stone.  Near him the quaint church of St. Giles
reared its many-carved pinnacles and beautiful spire.  Within its
lofty aisles scarcely a taper was twinkling now; for already the
careless prebendaries were finding other uses for their money than
spending it in wax for its forty altars.  Even the great brazen
shrine in the chancel was dark; the money gifted so vainly by the
pious and valiant men of old, to light God's altar until the day of
doom--for so they phrased it--had been pounced upon by Lollard
bailies for other purposes, and thirteen years later were to behold
the shrine itself fall under the axe and hammer of the iconoclast,
with the expulsion of the faith and its priesthood.


[*] An abbreviation of _In_land-market.


The wide and lofty thoroughfare was dark.  Here and there an
occasional ray shot from some of the grated windows, pouring a stream
of light athwart the obscurity, which the stacks of peat, heather,
and timber, already referred to as standing before almost every door,
according to common use and wont, made more confusing to a wayfarer.
Fawside recognized the spot where Kilmaurs and his pursuers on that
eventful night first overtook him, where he received his first wound,
and where he made his first resolute stand against them, before he
was beaten further up the street.

On a signal from Master Posset, a groom leading two saddled horses
came from under the stone arcade of a lofty mansion, then occupied by
Robert Logan of Coatfield, who in 1520 was provost of Edinburgh, and
was the first official of that rank who had halberds carried before
him.  This groom, whom Fawside suspected to be no other than the
Frenchman Antoine, lifted his bonnet respectfully and withdrew.

"Fawside, the white or grey nag is yours," said the physician;
"mount, and let us be gone, for the morning draws on apace, and my
time is precious."

Almost trembling with eagerness, if not with weakness, Florence
leaped into the saddle of the white horse, which was a beautiful
animal, as he could easily perceive by the amplitude of its mane and
tail, by the action of its proud head and slender fore-legs; and as
he vaulted to his seat, without even using a stirrup, he felt all his
wounds twinge, as if they would burst forth anew, for they were
merely skinned over.

In ten minutes more they had left the city, after tossing a gratuity
(a few _hardies, i.e._ liards of Guienne, worth three halfpence each
in Scotland, where they were then current) to the warder at the
Watergate, and were galloping by the eastern road towards the tower
of Fawside.  The stars were still shining brightly, and their light
was reflected in the glassy bosom of the estuary that opened on the
north and east, beyond a vast extent of desert beach and open moor.
The steep and ancient bridge of Musselburgh was soon reached, and
then Master Posset drew his bridle, saying,--

"Here, Fawside, I must bid you farewell."

"Farewell! you who have treated me so kindly, so
generously--farewell, when we are within three Scots miles of my
mother's hearth!  Nay, nay, good Master Posset, this can never be."

"It must--I repeat.  Entreaties and invitations are alike needless.
I obey but the instructions of those I serve, and they are dames who
brook no trifling."

"Bethink you, dear sir, of the danger of being abroad at this early
and untimeous hour, when broken men, Egyptians and all manner of
thieves, beset every highway and hover in every thicket."

The physician smiled, and, opening the breast of his furred cassock,
showed beneath it a fine shirt of mail, which was flexible, and
fitted him closely as a kid glove.  "I _have_ thought cf all that,"
said he, "and I have, moreover, my dagger and a pair of wheel-lock
petronels at my saddle-bow.  So now, adieu."

"But my fees to you, and this horse, Master Posset----"

"You will find it a beautiful grey, though he looks milky-white under
the stars."

"To whom am I to return it?"

"To none--it is a free gift to you."

"To me--a gift," said Florence with astonishment; "from whom?"

"The lady----"

"Who--which lady?"

"The taller, with the hazel eyes and blonde hair; and you must
accept; for 'twere ungallant to refuse."

"All this but bewilders and perplexes me the more.  Would it had been
the gift of the other!  Ah, Master Posset, I have but one dread."

"Come," said the physician, laughing, "that is fortunate--lovers
usually have many."

"One ever present dread, common to every lover--that she does not
love me in return, but may be playing with my affection to prove the
power of her own charms."

"Take courage--you have seen no rival."

"No; yet she must have many admirers of her beauty, and more
aspirants to her hand and wealth; and one of these might soon become
a formidable rival."

"Then you have your sword."

"In such a case a poor resource."

"But one that never fails," responded the warlike apothecary, turning
his horse; and, after reiterating their adieux, they separated, and
in a short space Florence Fawside found himself cantering up the
steep crowned by the church of St. Michael, and thence by a narrow
bridle-road that led up the hill-side to his mother's tower.

Fourteen nights had elapsed since last we saw her sitting lonely by
her hearth; and now she had long since learned to weep for her only
son as for one who was numbered with the dead.




CHAPTER XIII.

HOME.

  Hail, land of spearmen! seed of those who scorn'd
  To stoop the proud crest to imperial Rome!
  Hail! dearest half of Albion sea-wall'd!
  Hail! state unconquer'd by the fire of war,--
  Red war that twenty ages round thee blazed!
                                            _Albania._


Some thoughts such as these which inspired this now forgotten
Scottish bard filled the swelling heart of Florence Fawside, as he
urged his horse up the winding way which led to his paternal tower.
The morning sun had now risen brightly above the long pastoral ridges
of the Lammermuir, and he could see the widening Forth, with all its
rocky isles, and the long sweep of sandy beach which borders the
beautiful bay that lies between the mouth of the Esk and the green
links of Gulane, whereon, in those days, there stood an ancient
church of St. Andrew, which William the Lion gifted unto the monks of
Dryburgh.  The blue estuary was studded by merchant barks and fisher
craft, with their square and brown lug-sails, beating up against the
ebb tide and a gentle breeze from the west.

The sky was of a light azure tint, flecked by floating masses of
snowy cloud, which, on their eastern and lower edges, were tinged
with burning gold.

The hottest days of the summer were now gone, the pastures had become
somewhat parched, and the shrivelled foliage that rustled in the
woods of Carberry seemed athirst for the rains of autumn.  Amid the
coppice, the corn-craik and the cushat dove sent up their peculiar
notes.  The corn-fields were turning from pale green to a golden
brown; and, as the morning breeze passed over it, the bearded grain
swayed heavily to and fro, like ripples on the bosom of a yellow
lake.  The white smoke curled from the green cottage roofs of moss
and thatch; the blue-bonneted peasants were at work in the sunny
fields--the women with their snooded hair, or their white Flemish
curchies (that came into fashion when James II. espoused Mary the
Rose of Gueldres), were milking the cattle, grinding their
hand-mills, or busy about their little garden-plots; and to Florence
all seemed to illustrate his country, and speak to his heart with
that love of _home_, which _then_, even more than now, was the purest
passion of the Scottish people, and which, in all their wanderings,
they never forget, however distant the land in which their lot in
life may be cast.

Florence felt all this as he spurred up the green braeside, and heard
the people in his mother-tongue cry, "God him speed;" for though they
knew him not, they saw that he was a handsome youth, a stranger,
nobly mounted and bravely apparelled.

Every step he took brought some old recollection to his heart.  The
gurgling brooks in which he had fished and the leafy thickets in
which he had bird-nested, the old trees up which he had clambered,
were before him now, and the days of his boyhood, the familiar voices
and faces of his slaughtered father and brother, came vividly to
memory.  The song of a farmer who was driving his team of horses to
the field, the lowing of the cattle, the barking of the shepherds'
collies, the perfume of the broom and the harebell on the upland
slope, all spoke of country and of home.  But with this emotion
others mingled.

With all the genuine rapture of a boyish lover, he kissed again and
again his opal ring, the gift of that beautiful unknown, who had
filled his heart with a secret joy and given life a new impulse.

"What can its secret be?  Oh! to unravel all this mystery!" he
exclaimed to himself a hundred times; but the ring baffled all his
scrutiny and ingenuity.

He had now four projects to put in force immediately after his return
home.

First, to deliver his letter to the Regent, Earl of Arran.

Second, to deliver the other missive of Henry of Valois to the
queen-mother, Mary of Lorraine.

Third, to discover his unknown mistress.

Fourth, to avenge his father's feud and fall by ridding the world of
Claude Hamilton of Preston, the Lord Kilmaurs, and a few others;
after which he would settle soberly down in his mother's house, and,
for a time, lead the quiet life of a country gentleman--at least,
such a life as they led in those days, when their swords were never
from their sides.

And now, as he surmounted the long ridge of Fawside, the landscape
opened further to the south and eastward, and he saw the old square
keep of Elphinstone, in which George Wishart had been confined in the
preceding year by Patrick, Earl of Bothwell, and the wall of which
had rent with a mighty sound--rent from battlement to basement, as we
may yet see it, at the moment of his martyrdom before the castle of
St. Andrews.

The heart of Florence beat six pulses in a second as he drew nearer
home, and saw the huge column of smoke ascending lazily from the
square chimney of the hall, and the black crows and white pigeons
fraternizing together on the stone ridge of the copehouse; and now he
passed old Roger's thatched domicile, the Westmains or Grange, from
whence the inmates of the castle were supplied with farm produce.  It
was all under fine cultivation save one wild spot named the Deilsrig,
which was set aside, or left totally unused, for the propitiation of
evil spirits; and none in the neigbourhood doubted that cattle which
strayed or grazed thereon were elf-shot by the evil one, for they
were frequently found dead within the turf boundary of this infernal
spot, as their huge bones whitening among the dog-grass remained to
attest; and there, too, lay the unblessed graves of certain
Egyptians, who, despite the protections granted by James IV to
"Anthony Gavino, Lord and Earl of Little Egypt," had been judicially
drowned in the river Esk by Earl Bothwell, the sheriff of Haddington.

Florence glanced at the place, which had so many terrors for him as a
child, and dashed up to the arched gate of the tower, where his
emotion was such, that it was not until after three attempts he could
sound the copper horn which hung by a chain to the wall; for such was
the fashion then, when door-bells and brass knockers, like gas and
steam and electricity, were still in the womb of time.

In a minute more he had sprung from his horse and rushed up the stair
to the hall, where his mother, with a cry of mingled fear and joy,
clasped him to her breast, and wept like a true woman rather than the
stern and Spartan dame she usually seemed.  Then old Roger of the
Westmains, in the exuberance of his joy, flung his bonnet in the fire
and danced about the hall table; and the grey-haired nurse, Maud,
contended with the vicar, Mass John of Tranent, for the next and
longest embrace of the returned one; for all welcomed him back to his
home as one reprieved from the dead; for surmise had been exhausted,
and all ingenuity had failed to afford a clue to his mysterious
disappearance after landing at Leith from the galley of M. de
Villegaignon.

After the first transports of her joy had subsided--and, indeed, they
subsided soon, for her natural sternness of manner and ferocity of
purpose soon resumed their sway in her angry and widowed heart, his
mother kissed him thrice upon the forehead, held him at arm's length
from her breast, surveying his features with an expression of mingled
love, tenderness, anxiety, and anger.

"Thou hast been ill, Florence; thy cheeks are pale, wan, and hollow.
Thou hast been suffering, my son--yea, suffering deeply.  How came
this about?  Say!--thou hast no secrets from thine old mother!"

"Ask these wounds, dear mother; they have kept me for fourteen days
a-bed and absent from you," he replied, as he tore open his crimson
doublet, and shirt, and displayed on his bosom the sword-thrust,
which was scarcely skinned over.

"Kyrie eleison!" muttered the white-haired vicar, lifting up his thin
hands and hollow eyes.

Roger of the Westmains uttered a shout of rage and grasped his dagger.

"My bairn--my braw, bonnie bairn!" exclaimed the old nurse with
tender commiseration.

"Florence," said his mother through her clenched teeth, "whose sword
did this?"

"Can you ask me, mother?"

"_His!_--would you say?" she asked in a voice like a shriek, while
pointing with her lean white hand to Preston Tower, the walls of
which above the level landscape shone redly in the morning sun.

"Nay, not his, but the swords of his followers."

"Of Symon Brodie and Mungo Tennant?"

"Even so; I heard their names in the _mêlée_."

"Accursed be the brood; for their swords were reddest and readiest in
the fray in which your father fell!"

"They and others dogged me close on the night I landed.  I fought
long and bravely----"

"My own son!--my dear dead husband's only son!"

"But what could one sword avail against twenty others?  Struck down
at last, I would have been hewn to pieces but for the stout arm of a
friendly burgher and the kindness of----of----those who salved my
wounds and tended me--yea, mother, kindly and tenderly as you would
have done," he added, while the colour deepened in his face, and he
sank wearily into the chair in which his slain father had last sat,
and which since that day none had dared to occupy, as his widow would
have deemed it a sacrilege.

It required but the description of this last outrage to rouse the
blood of Dame Alison and of all her domestics to boiling heat.

"Be calm, dear mother, be calm," said Florence, pressing her
trembling hand to his heart.  "In three days I shall be well enough
to handle my sword, and then I shall scheme out vengeance for all I
have endured."

"Thou hearest him, vicar?" exclaimed Lady Alison, striking her hands
together, while her dark eyes shot fire.  "The spirit of my buried
husband lives again in his boy!"

"Lord make us thankfu' therefor!" muttered the listening servants,
who shared every sentiment of their mistress.

"Be wary, madam!" said the tall thin priest.  "Whence still this mad
craving for revenge?"

"In the presence of this poor lamb, who has so narrowly escaped a
dreadful death, weak, pale, and wounded, dost thou ask me this, thou
very shaveling?" she exclaimed with scornful energy.  "My husband's
feud and fall!--Oh, woe is me!--and my winsome Willie's death----"

"Demand a fearful reprisal!" said Florence, with a vehemence
increased by his mother's presence and example; "and fearful it shall
be!"

"Vengeance," replied the priest firmly, but meekly, "is ever the
offspring of the weakest and least tutored mind."

"Father John!" exclaimed the pale widow.

"I say so with all deference, my son, and with all respect for our
good lady your mother.  In her thirst for vengeance, like the last
stake of a gamester, she will risk you, her only son--risk you by
invading the province of God; for to Him alone belongeth vengeance.
Remember the holy words, Dame Alison: 'Vengeance is mine, saith the
Lord, and I will repay it.'"

"So priests must preach," said Florence; "but, under favour, father,
laymen find forgiveness hard to practise."

"So hard," hissed Lady Alison through her sharp and firm-set teeth,
"that for each drop of Preston's blood I would give a rood of
land--yea, for every drop a yellow rig of corn!  'Twas but three
weeks ago, come the feast of Bartholomew, he followed a thief with a
sleuth-hound of Gueldreland within the bounds of our barony."

"He dared?" said Florence, sharing all his mother's anger.

"He or some of his people; and without asking our license, took and
hanged him on a thorn-tree at the Bucklea.  Did not his swine root
holes in the corn on our grange, destroying ten rigs of grain and
more, and he scornfully refused our demands to make the damage good?
Yet he burned the byres of our kinsman Roger for taking a deer in his
wood at Bankton, though any man may hunt in any forest--even a royal
one--so far as he may fling his bugle-horn before him; yet he broke
Roger's bow and arrows, took away his arquebuse, and hanged all his
dogs.  And wherefore?  Because he was a Fawside and a kinsman of
thine.  And now they would have slain thee, my son--thee, in whom my
joy, my hope, my future all are centred!" she added, embracing
Florence, the expression of whose handsome face had completely
changed to gloom and anger under her influence.  "But while fish swim
in yonder Firth, and mussels grow on its rocks, our hatred shall
live!"

The vicar, a priest of benign and venerable aspect, smiled sadly, and
shook his white head with an air of deprecation.

"I fear me, madam," said he, "that the fish and the mussels are races
that bid fair to outlive alike the Fawsides of that Ilk and the
Hamiltons of Preston, their folly, feuds, and wickedness."

"On Rood-day in harvest, a year past, as I sat here alone by my
spinning-wheel, my husband's armour clattered where it hangs on
yonder wall,--and wot ye _why_?  Preston was riding over the hill,
and near our gate.  Preston! and alone!  Could I have got the old
falcon ready on the bartizan, he had been shot like a hoodiecrow, as
surely as the breath of heaven was in his nostrils!"

"Fie! madam--fie!  I cannot listen to language such as this!" said
the vicar, erecting his tall figure and preparing to retire.

"The wrongs I have endured in this world, yea, and the sorrows,
too----"

"Should teach you to look for comfort in that which is to come," said
the priest, with asperity.

"Not till I have had vengeance swift, sure, and deep on the house of
Preston.  No, friar! preach as you may, Alison Kennedy will never
rest in the grave where her murdered husband lies, but with the
assurance that Claude Hamilton lies mangled in his shroud--mangled by
the sword of her son Florence!  And he may slay him in open war; for
so surely as the souls and bodies of men are governed by stars and
climates, we shall have war with the English ere the autumn leaves
are off the trees, and so surely shall that traitor Hamilton join
them, for he was one of those whom Henry took at Solway, and feasted
in London, to suit his own nefarious ends--like Cassilis, Lennox, and
Glencairn."

Roger of the Westmains heard with grim satisfaction all this
outpouring of bitterness of spirit; for he shared to the full her
animosity to the unlucky laird of Preston.  To Roger, old Lady Alison
was the greatest potentate on earth.  Had the Regent Arran, or Mary
of Lorraine, commanded him to ride with his single spear against a
brigade of English, he might have hesitated; but had Lady Alison
desired him to leap off Salisbury Craigs, he would probably have done
so, without the consideration of a moment, and had his old body
dashed to pieces at the foot thereof.

In joy for her son's return, the lady of the tower ordered the bailie
to distribute drink-silver (as it was then termed) to all her
servants and followers; largesses to the town piper and drummer of
Musselburgh, and to the poor gaberlunzies who sat on the kirk styles
of Tranent and St. Michael.  She then directed all the harness and
warlike weapons to be thoroughly examined, preparatory to commencing
hostilities against the grand enemy, who, as we shall shortly see,
was in his tower of Preston, thinking of other things than the
mischief she was brewing against him.

A few days slipped monotonously away.

After Paris--the Paris of Francis I. and Henry II.,--and after the
busy chateau of the Duchess of Albany at Vendôme, the quiet and gloom
of the little tower of Fawside soon became insupportable to its young
proprietor.  Thus, instead of remaining at home, attending to the
collection of his rents in coin and kain, conferring with old Roger
anent green and white crops on the mains of the Grange, listening to
the stories of his nurse, holding bloodthirsty councils of war with
his mother, concerning the best mode of invading with fire and sword
the territories of a neighbour, only separated from his own by a turf
dyke, or weaving deadly snares for cutting him off by the strong
hand, he spent his whole days in Edinburgh, caracoling his beautiful
grey horse up and down the High-street, through the courts of the
palace, before the house of M. d'Oysell, the French ambassador, in
the Cowgate, in the Greyfriars' Gardens, in the royal park, and in
every place of public resort, with a plume in his velvet bonnet and a
hawk on his left wrist, as became a gallant of the time, in the hope
of discovering, even for a moment, his lost love, the donor of the
opal ring.  Daily he visited the dwelling of Master Posset, at the
sign of the Stuffed Alligator, in the Lawnmarket, to prosecute his
inquiries there; but either from accident or design, that most
discreet of apothecaries was never at home.  Thus daily the young
Laird of Fawside was doomed to return disappointed, weary, and
dispirited to his gloomy antique hall, or to his gloomier old
bed-chamber in the northern portion of the tower--a portion
concerning which the following tradition is related by Father John:--

Sir Thomas de Fawsyde, who, in 1330, married Muriella, daughter of
Duncan, Earl of Fife, when quarrelling with her one day about a
favourite falcon, which she had permitted to escape in the wood of
Drumsheugh, in the heat of passion, drew off his steel glove and
struck her white shoulder with his clenched hand.  Muriella, though
tender and gentle, was proud and high-spirited.  She felt this
unkindness and affront so keenly and bitterly, that, without a tear
or reproach, she retired from his presence and secluding herself in
the northern chamber, never spoke again, and refusing all food and
sustenance, literally starved herself to death.  Upon this Earl
Duncan, before King David II., accused the rude knight of having
slain his daughter.

"And because it was notour and manifest," says Sir John Skene of
Curriehill, in his quaint "Buke of the auld Lawes," printed in 1609,
"that he did not slae hir, nor gave hir a wound of the quhilk she
died; bot gave her ane blow with his hand to teach and correct hir,
and also untill the time of hir death dearly loved hir, and treated
hir as a husband weill affectionate to his wife, the king pronounced
him clene and quit."

But the spirit-form of this lady, dressed in quaint and ancient
apparel, of that rustling silk peculiar to all ghostly ladies, with
her long hair dishevelled, weeping and mourning, was averred, for
ages, to haunt the room where now her descendant lay nightly on his
couch, dreaming of the secret love he was more intent on discovering,
than of pursuing the hereditary quarrel of his race, and oblivious of
delivering to the Regent Arran and Mary of Lorraine the letters with
which he was charged from the court of France.

The reason of the last remissness was simply this; he believed his
fair one to be in Edinburgh, while the queen-mother was occasionally
at Stirling, and the regent was at his country castle, in Cadzow
Forest, in Clydesdale.




CHAPTER XIV

PRESTON TOWER.

Then the Count of Clara began in this manner: "Sirs, it is manifest
that men in this world can only become powerful by strengthening
themselves with men and money; but the money must be employed in
procuring men, for by men must kingdoms be defended and
won."--_Amadis of Gaul_.


On the evening of the same day when Florence Fawside returned home,
and his mother, like a spider in its hole, sat in her elbow-chair in
the grim old tower upon the hill, weaving plots to net and destroy
her feudal adversary, that detested personage in his equally grim old
tower upon the lea, was forming plans of a similarly desperate, but
much more extensive description.

The paved barbican of his residence was filled by nearly the same
horses and horsemen, liverymen and pages, wearing the oak branch in
their bonnets or the shakefork sable on their sleeves, and by many
men-at-arms in helmet, jack, and wambeson, whom we formerly saw in
the courtyard of the Golden Rose, at Leith, and whom we left in hot
pursuit of Florence.  As the shades of evening deepened on the
harvest fields and bordering sea, the narrow slits and iron-grated
windows of the old castle became filled with red light, for it was
crowded by visitors; and the echoes of voices, of laughter, and
shouts of loud and reckless merriment rang at times under the arched
vaults of its ancient chambers.

Near Preston, a burgh of barony, composed of old houses of rough and
rugged aspect, that cluster along a rocky beach of broken masses of
basalt, denuded long ago of all earthy strata, stands this high
square donjon tower of the Hamiltons of Preston, in later years a
stronghold of the attainted Earls of Winton.  The adjacent beach is
now covered with shapeless ruins of redstone, from which, ever and
anon, the ebbing sea sweeps a mass away; but in the time of our story
these ruins were the flourishing saltpans of the enterprising monks
of St. Marie de Newbattle, who, since the twelfth century, had pushed
briskly the trade of salt-making; and nightly the broad red glares of
their coal-fed furnaces were wont to shed a dusky light upon the
rocky land and tossing sea--hence its present name, of the
Priest-town-pans; though in days older still, when King Donald VII.
was pining a blind captive in his prison, the locality was called
Auldhammer.  In 1547, its church was an open ruin, having been burned
by the English three years before.

As a double security, within the barbican gate, this tower is entered
by two arched doors on the east.  One leads to the lower vaults
_alone_; another, in the first story, reached by a ladder or bridge,
gives access to the hall and sleeping apartments.  Those who entered
here, drew in the long ladder after them, and thus cut off all means
of access from below.  The vast pile of Borthwick, in Lothian, the
tower of Coxton, near Elgin, the tower of Half-forest, near
Inverurie, and many other Scottish castles of great antiquity, are
constructed on this singular plan, where _security_ was the first
principle of our domestic architects.  Preston had additions built to
it in 1625; and a huge crenelated wall of that date still surmounts
the simple machicolated battlements of the original edifice, making
it one of the most conspicuous objects on the level land on which its
lofty mass is reared.  The original tower was one of the chain of
fortresses garrisoned by Lord Home in the 15th century, and having
been burned by the English army in 1650, after all the rough
vicissitudes of war and time, it presents a mouldering, shattered,
and venerable aspect.

The arched gate on the east was surmounted by the three cinque-foils
pierced ermine of Hamilton; and on each side of it a large brass gun
called a basilisk peered through a porthole, to "hint that here at
least there was no thoroughfare."  In short, Preston Tower is a
mansion of those warlike, but thrifty and hearty old times when, by
order, of the Scottish parliament, it was "statute and ordained that
all lords should dwell in their castles and manors, and expend _the
fruit of their lands in the counterie where the said lands lay._"

It had other tenants besides old Claude Hamilton and his cuirassed
and turbulent retainers; as it was alleged to be haunted by a brownie
and evil spirit; and for the latter Symon Brodie, the castle butler,
nightly set apart a cup of ale.  If Symon failed to perform this
duty, the spirit, like a vampire bat, sucked the blood of one of the
inmates.  The little squat figure of the brownie, wearing a broad
bonnet and short scarlet cloak, had been seen at times, especially on
St. John's Night, to flit about the kitchen-door, watching for the
departure of the servants, who always left to him, unmolested, his
favourite haunt, the warm hearth of the great arched fireplace, where
the livelong night he crooned a melancholy ditty, which sounded like
the winter wind through a keyhole, as he swung above the _griesoch_,
or gathering peat, from the iron cruik whereon by day, as Father John
of Tranent records, "the mickle kail-pot hung."

The merriment was great in the old hall; for the supper, which had
been a huge engagement or onslaught of knives and teeth upon all
manner of edibles, was just over.  People always fed well in those
old times, if we may judge of the abundance which filled their boards
three times per _diem_; yet what were they, or the Saxon gluttons of
an earlier age, when compared to the youth who, unrestrained by the
silly fear of civilized society, discussed before the Emperor
Aurelian a boar, a sheep, a pig, and a hundred loaves; with beer in
proportion; or to his imperial majesty Maximus Caius Julius,
who--long live his memory--ate daily sixty-four pounds of meat, and
drank therewith twenty-four quarts of rare old Roman wine!

The supper, a meal taken at the early hour of six in 1547, was over
in Preston Hall.  The long black table of oak had been cleared of all
its trenchers and platters of silver, delft, tin, and wood; but a
plentiful supply of wine--Alicant, Bordeaux, and Canary,--with ale
and usquebaugh for those who preferred them, was substituted, in tall
black-jacks which resembled troopers' boots, being made of strong
leather, lined with pewter and rimmed with silver.  Each of these
jolly vessels held two Scottish pints (_i.e._ two quarts English);
and drinking-vessels of silver for the nobles, horn for gentlemen,
and wooden quaichs, cups, or luggies for their more favoured
retainers, were disposed along the table by Symon Brodie (who had
partly recovered from his sword-wound): we say more favoured
retainers, for, as the drinking bout which succeeded the supper in
Preston was a species of political conclave, a gathering of
conspirators, the doors were carefully closed, and not a man, save
those on whom the Scottish lords of the English faction could
thoroughly rely, was permitted to remain within earshot; and hence,
at each massive oak door of the hall stood an armed jackman, with his
sword drawn; and on the dark pyne doublets, the dinted corslets and
burganets, the brown visages and rough beards of these keen-eyed and
listening sentinels, the smoky light of ten great torches which were
ranged along the stone wall, five on each side, near the spring of
the arched roof, flared and gleamed with a wavering radiance.

Nor were the party at the table less striking and picturesque.

In his elbow-chair old Claude of Preston occupied the head of the
long board.  His voluminous grey beard flowed over his quilted
doublet, and concealed his gorget of fine steel; his bald head
glanced in the light, and his keen, bright basilisk eyes surveyed the
faces and seemed to pierce the souls of the speakers, as each in turn
gave his suggestion as to the best mode of subverting that monarchy
for the maintenance of which so many of their sires had died in
battle.

There were present the Earl of Cassilis, he of abbot-roasting
notoriety; the Earl of Glencairn and his son Lord Kilmaurs; the Lord
Lyle and his son the Master; the Lord Gray; with two others whom we
have not yet fully introduced to the reader; to wit, Patrick Hepburn
Earl of Bothwell, abhorred by the Protestants as the first captor of
George Wishart (and father of that Earl James who wrought the
destruction of Mary Queen of Scots), and William Earl Marischal, the
constable of Kincardine, both peers of a goodly presence, clad in
half-armour, and wearing the peaked beard, close-shorn hair, and
pointed moustache of the time.

Bothwell wore one of those curious thumb-rings concerning which bluff
Jack Falstaff taunts King Hal.  It was a gift from Mary of Lorraine,
whom he once vainly believed to be in love with him, and whose
slights had now driven him into the conspiracy against her.  He had a
golden girdle, which glittered in the light, and thereat hung the
long sword which had been found clenched in the hand of his noble
grandsire,

  "Earl Adam Hepburn--he who died
  At Flodden, by his sovereign's side,"

and which was popularly believed to have been charmed by a wizard,
the late prior of Deer, in suchwise that the wielder of it should
never have his blood drawn nor suffer harm, a spell which the wizard
priest performed by kissing the hilt four times in the name of
Crystsonday.  Bothwell had been two years a prisoner in a royal
fortress, for assisting in the raids and rapine of the late Earl of
Yarrow; and after being many years banished from Scotland, had lived
at Florence and Venice, where his natural turn for mischief and
deep-laid plotting had been developed to the full.

Among these intriguers were two men of a very different kind, clad as
followers of that master of treachery and statecraft, the fierce Earl
of Glencairn, viz., Master Patten, who afterwards wrote the history
of Somerset's hostile expedition into Scotland, and Master Edward
Shelly, a brave English officer, whom we have already mentioned, and
who was captain of a band of English soldiers known as the
Boulogners.  He had been at the capture and garrisoning of
Boulogne-sur-Mer in 1544, where he superintended the rebuilding of
the famous _Tour de l'Ordre_, a useless labour, as Edward VI.
restored the town to France six years after.  These two Londoners
were still disguised in the livery of the Cunninghames, and, further
to complete the imposture, wore peasants' coarse blue bonnets and
those cuarans, or shoes of undressed hide, which obtained for our
people the sobriquet of rough-footed Scots.

"Symon, ye loon, attend to the strangers," said Claude Hamilton.
"Fill your bicker from the jack of Alicant, Master Shelly; or like
you better a silver tassie, my man?  I trust that you and worthy
Master Patten, your secretary or servitor (we style such-like both in
Scotland), have supped well?"

"Well, yea, and heartily sir," replied Shelly, wiping his curly beard
with a napkin.  "But Master Patten was whispering that he must teach
your Scots cooks to make that which he loves as his own life--a jolly
Devonshire squab and white-pot."

"Hah!  And how make ye such, Master Patten?"

"With a pint of cream," replied Master Patten, "four eggs, nutmeg,
sugar, salt, a loaf of bread, a handful of raisins, and some sweet
butter.  Then boil the whole in a bag, and seek a good tankard of
March beer to wash it down with."

"God willing, sir, we shall learn your southern dishes, among other
things, when, haply, we bring this marriage about with little King
Edward VI.  Each royal alliance hath brought some unco' fashion among
us here in Scotland.  Furred doublets came in with Margaret of
Oldenburg; the Flemish hood with Mary of Gueldres; the velvet hat
with Margaret Tudor; the French beard with Magdalene of Valois----"

"And please heaven, worthy sir," snuffled Master Patten, "accession
of wealth and strength with his majesty Edward VI."

"Right!" said Glencairn gruffly; "and your Devonshire squab to boot.
And now, my lords and gentles, to business; for the night wears on,
and we must keep tryst with my Lord Regent betimes at Stirling, for
you know that he would confer with some of us previous to a
convention of the estates.  Let Master Shelly speak; for Master
Patten hath brought new letters and tidings from the Lord Protector
of England."

"Well, sirs," said Shelly bluntly, "to resume where we last left off.
The Protector of England pledges himself to invade Scotland with an
army sufficient to bear down all opposition, provided you and your
armed adherents cast your swords into the scale with him."

"Agreed!" said Claude Hamilton, glancing round the table.

"Agreed!" added all, in varying tones of approval.

On the table lay a map of Scotland,--one of those so quaintly
delineated by M. Nicholas d'Arville, chief cosmographer to the most
Christian king; and to this reference was made from time to time by
members of the worthy conclave, who sat around it or lounged in the
hall.

"How many fighting-men can you raise in that district named the
Lennox, to aid our cause?" asked Shelly, placing a finger on the part
which indicated that ancient county.

"Its hereditary sheriff, Matthew Earl of Lennox, is one of _us_,"
replied Bothwell; "and he can bring into the field eight thousand
soldiers."

"And then there are the Isles," began Glencairn.

"Yea, my lord," said Shelly, with an approving smile, "of old a very
hotbed of revolt against the Scottish crown."

"And the place wherein our Edwards readily fermented treason," added
Patten, "and stirred their lords to war against your kings, as
independent princes of the Hebrides."

"Trust not to the islesmen," said Bothwell; "the vanity of their
chiefs was crushed a hundred years ago, on the field of Harlaw."

"But haply the spirit lives there yet," said Shelly, making a
memorandum; "and if we sent a few war-ships through the Western Sea
under the Lord Clinton or Sir William Wentworth, our two best
admirals, it might be no difficult task to rouse it once again to
action."

"You deceive yourself," said Lord Lyle coldly; "the sovereign of
Scotland is now, both by blood and position, hereditary Lord of the
Isles, and the chiefs remember with love and veneration the chivalry
of James IV., and patriotism of his son, who died at Falkland."

"Now, my lords, to the terms of your adherence with England," said
Shelly, unfolding a parchment, to which several small seals were
attached by pieces of ribbon; and after hemming once or twice, he
arose and read aloud:--

"It is covenanted and written between us, Edward Duke of Somerset,
Earl of Hertford, Viscount Beauchamp, Lord Seymour, uncle to the king
our sovereign, lord high treasurer and earl-marshal of England,
captain of the isles of Guernsey and Jersey, lieutenant-general of
all his majesty's forces by sea and land, governor of his highness's
most royal person, and protector of all his domains and subjects,
knight of the most illustrious order of the Garter, and certain lords
and barons of the realm of Scotland--to wit--Gilbert Kennedy, Earl of
Cassilis----"

"Enough of this," said Cassilis bluntly, and with some alarm depicted
in his face; "there are other peers who take precedence of me in
parliament; so why not in this parchment of thine? moreover, we care
not to hear our titles so rehearsed."

"In so dangerous a document as this," added some one.

"How, my lords," exclaimed Shelly with astonishment and something of
scorn; "you dare not recede----"

"Dare not?" reiterated Cassilis, with a fierce frown.

"No," replied the Englishman bluntly.

"And wherefore, sirrah?"

"Because the Protector of England holds in his hand a document which,
if sent to the Regent of Scotland, would hang seven among you as high
as ever Haman hung of old."

"A document," repeated Kilmaurs, the gash on whose pale cheek grew
black, while his eyes flashed fire; "is there another bond than this!"

"Yea, one written by Master Patten, and signed in the Star-chamber at
London, by seven Scottish lords, then prisoners of war, after the
field of Solway."

"And _they_--" queried Lyle, with knitted brow and inquiring eye.

"Bound themselves to assist King Henry VIII., of happy memory, in all
his secret designs against their own country, promising to invest him
with the government of Scotland during the little queen's minority;
to drive out Arran and Mary of Lorraine; to admit English garrisons
into all the fortresses; and, in short, to play the old game of
Edward Longshanks, Comyn, and Baliol over again, in a land," added
Shelly with an ill-disguised sneer, "that is not likely to display
another Wallace, or to boast another field of Bannockburn."

"And those seven--" asked Lyle impetuously.

"Are the Earls of Cassilis and Glencairn, the Lords Somerville, Gray,
Maxwell, Oliphant, and Fleming."

"Englishman, thou liest!" exclaimed the Master of Lyle, grasping his
dagger; "the Lord Oliphant is my near kinsman."

"Peace, he lies not," said Cassilis; "I signed that bond, and by it
will I abide."

"Yea, Master of Lyle," said Shelly blandly, with a glance of sombre
scorn and fury in his eye; "and other documents there are, which, if
known, would raise in Scotland such a storm that there is not an
urchin in the streets of Edinburgh but would cast stones at you, and
cry shame on the betrayers of his queen and country!"

"Silence, sirs," exclaimed old Claude Hamilton with alarm, "the
conversation waxeth perilous."

"I am here on the crooked errand of the Duke of Somerset," said
Shelly, rising with an air of lofty disdain, "no soldier's work it
is, and rather would I have been with my stout garrison at Boulogne,
than clerking here with worthy Master Patten."

"Thrice have you come hither on such errands, Master Shelly, and they
seem to pay well," said Kilmaurs tauntingly.

The Englishman clenched his hand and blushed with anger, as he said
imprudently,--

"Thrice I have ridden into Scotland since that red day at Ancrumford,
and each time have I gone home with a prouder heart than when I
crossed the northern border."

"Prouder?" reiterated the fiery Kilmaurs, coming forward with a
resentful expression in his lowering eye.

"Yes," replied the Englishman boldly, and grasping the secret
petronel which he wore under his mantle; "for each time I asked
myself, for _what sum_ would an English yeoman sell his fatherland,
his father's grave, or his king's honour, even as these Scottish
earls, lords, and barons do, for this accursed lucre?"  With these
words, Shelly tore the purse from his girdle and dashing it on the
table, continued: "When I bethink me of the truth and faith, the
unavailing bravery and the stanch honesty of the stout Scottish
commons I am here to betray through those whom they trust and honour,
my heart glows with shame within me!  Assuredly 'tis no work this for
an English captain; so do thou the rest, in God's name, good Master
Patten."

As Shelly sat sullenly down, and twisted from side to side in his
chair, as if seated on the hot gridiron of St. Lawrence, it was high
time for the more politic Patten to speak; for savage glares were
exchanged on all sides of the table; Kennedies and Cunninghames
closed round, each by his chieftain's side; swords and daggers were
half-drawn, and Shelly's life was in evident jeopardy; for his
taunts, alike unwise and daring, had found an echo in the venal
hearts of those at whom they were levelled.

"Whence this indignation, most worthy emissary?" asked Kilmaurs,
whose insolence and hauteur were proverbial.

"I am an _envoy_--not an emissary," replied Shelly, eyeing him firmly
from his plumed bonnet to his white funnel boots; "I am a soldier,
and have the heart of a soldier--I thank God, not of a diplomatist.
I know more of gunnery and the brave game of war, than the subtlety
of statecraft.  I am here to obey orders: these are to confer with
you on what your lordships consider a salable matter--your
allegiance; had it been, as it may one day be, to cut your throats,
'twere all one to Ned Shelly."

"Hear _me_, my most honourable and good lords," began Master Patten,
in his most wily and seductive manner; "you cannot recede, so allow
me to go on.  The promises of the English Protector must naturally
meet the fondest wishes of all.  Listen to our indenture.  Patrick
Earl of Bothwell promises, on the faith of a true man, to transfer
his allegiance to the young king of England, and to surrender unto
English troops his strong castle of Hermitage, on condition that he
receives the hand of an English princess----"

"Princess?" muttered several of the traitor conclave inquiringly, as
they turned to each other.

"Who may _she_ be?" asked Claude Hamilton with surprise.

"Katherine Willoughby, widow of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk,"
continued Patten, reading.

Bothwell smiled proudly, as he thought of his triumph over Mary of
Lorraine.

"But," said the Earl of Glencairn, "what sayeth this dainty dame to
be sold thus, like a bale of goods?"

"What she may say can matter little," replied Patten.

"'Tis said she affects one named Bertie."

"My lord, the Duke of Somerset will amend that."

"A worthy successor to the poor Countess Agnes Sinclair of
Ravenscraig!" said the Master of Lyle with something of scornful
commiseration.

"My first countess sleeps in the kirk of St. Denis, at Dysart," said
Bothwell coldly, "so I pray you to proceed, Master Patten; this
espousal is _my_ matter."

"The Lord Glencairn and Claude Hamilton of Preston," continued the
scribe, "offer to co-operate in the invasion of Scotland, and at the
head of three thousand men, their friends and vassals, to keep the
Regent Arran in check until the English army arrive; the former to
receive a hundred thousand crowns in gold on the day the infant queen
of Scotland is delivered into Somerset's hand, and the latter to
obtain a coronet, with the titles of Earl of Gladsmuir and Lord
Preston of Auldhammer."

"Agreed!" said Preston, glancing round with an air of satisfaction
and curiosity to see how the announcement was received.

"On that day, sirs," added Master Patten, "the infant queen of
Scotland shall share the glory of being joint sovereign of a realm
containing the English, Irish, and Welsh, the Cornishmen, and the
French of Jersey, Guernsey, and Calais."

"But," said Glencairn, "what if our devil of a regent, with a good
array of Scottish pikes, standeth in the way of all this?"

"Then, by heaven, sirs, black velvet will be in demand among the
surname of Hamilton!" exclaimed Kilmaurs.

"How?" asked Claude of Preston angrily.  "Would you dare----"

"Exactly so!" interrupted Kilmaurs with his deadly smile.

"And the said Claude Hamilton, laird of Preston," continued poor
Master Patten, reading very fast to avoid further interruptions,
"hereby binds and obliges himself to bestow in marriage upon Master
Edward Shelly, captain of the King of England's Boulogners, in reward
for his services touching these state matters, the hand and estates
of his niece, the Lady Madeline Hame, Countess of Yarrow, now his
ward, and according to law in his custody as overlord, by the will of
her late father the earl, who bound her to remain so until the age of
twenty-one years."

"Thou art in luck, Master Shelly," said Kilmaurs, "for the lady is
said to be beautiful."

"But suppose she will not have me?" suggested Shelly, who now smiled
and played with the feather in his bonnet.

"Dare she refuse!" growled Claude Hamilton, gnawing his wiry
moustache.

"We can get thee a love philtre from Master Posset," said Bothwell,
laughing.

"As men say thou didst for Mary of Lorraine, what time she wellnigh
died at Rothesay," whispered Glencairn.

"Then I philtred her with small avail," said the High Admiral,
grinding his teeth, for he had really loved the widowed queen, while
she had tolerated his addresses solely for political purposes of her
own.

"But, Master Shelly, I know of one (a witch) who deals in
love-charms, and who----"

"Nay, my Lord Glencairn," replied the English soldier laughing, "I
will have none of this damnable ware.  A pretty Scots lass is witch
enough for me.  And now that we have concluded this paction, to which
also the Earls of Athole, Crawford, Errol, and Sutherland have given
their adhesion on the promise of being '_honestly entertained_,' I
will drink one more tankard to its final success."[*]


[*] The political villany of which this chapter is descriptive is
authentic.  See Tytler, and particularly "Acta Regia," vol. iii.


"I have no heirs male," said Preston, almost with sadness; "and if
this alliance be happily concluded, I will give away to the husband
of my niece my lands of Over-Preston, if, during my lifetime, the
said Edward Shelly shall give to me, as chief lord of the feu, a pair
of gilt spurs and three crowns yearly at the feast of St. Barnabas."

"More luck still, Master Shelly!" said Bothwell.

"And I will grant to God and the church of St. Giles at Edinburgh,
and to the monks serving God therein, for the health of my own soul,
the souls of all my ancestors, the souls of the two Fawsides whom I
slew, and for the souls of all the faithful dead, my wood and lands
of Bankton for the yearly payment of a rose in Bleuch Farm."

"'Tis well!" said Shelly, with a singular smile, for he was alike
indifferent to the old creed and the new.  "But _remember_ that by
proclamations the Scottish people must be everywhere informed that
we, the army of England, are coming to free them from the tyranny of
the bishop of Rome--from the exorbitant revenues demanded by his
church, whose meadows and pastures are to become the property of the
barons, and that money shall no longer be levied among the poor by
full-fed bishops and shorn shavelings for the celebration of masses
and marriages, for burials and holy-bread, for wax and wine, vows and
pilgrimages, processions, and prayers for children and fair weather,
or for curses by bell, book, and candle, and all such Roman
superstition.  Say everywhere that we come with the sword, not to woo
your queen, but to crush at once the falling hierarchy of Rome, even
as we have crushed it in England!  You understand me, sirs.  And now,
Master Patten, get your waxen taper ready.  My lords, your seals and
signatures to the bond; and remember, that a month hence the bridge
of Berwick will be ringing to the tramp of armed feet on their
northern march; and ere that time I shall have exchanged this
Scottish bonnet for the steel burganet of my sturdy Boulogners."

The seals and the signatures of the few who could accomplish the
(then) difficult task of affixing their degraded autographs to this
rebellious _bond_ were soon completed, and Master Shelly was
consigning it to a secret pocket of his dagger-proof doublet, when
Master Patten whispered waggishly,

"In sooth, sir, methinks a fair dame should have been also provided
for _me_ in this parchment."

"In good faith, Patten," said Shelly, laughing, "I love a lass at
home in England--a fair jolly dame, who lives near Richmond; I have
other two, who are as good as wives to me, at Calais and Boulogne; to
wed a fourth, in Scotland here, were but to act King Harry over
again, save that I don't shorten them by the head."

At that moment Symon Brodie, the butler, entered hastily, and
whispered in the ear of his master, who exclaimed, while his
nut-brown cheek grew pale,

"Fawside of that ilk has come home, say ye?"

"This morning our herdsmen on the Braehead saw him ride into the
tower just as Tranent bell rang for the first mass."

"The devil!--Sayst thou so?" cried Kilmaurs, starting up.  "Hath that
fellow come alive again?"

"It wad seem sae, my lord," replied Symon, rubbing his half-healed
sword-wound.

"Then we must have his French letters, even should we sack his house."

"Nay, sirs," said old Claude of Preston, "no such work as _that_
shall be hatched here.  I have had enough of the auld feud, and of
Dame Alison, too--enough, and to spare.  Not content with setting her
husband and madcap eldest son upon me to their own skaith, she pays
that auld gowk, Mass John of Tranent, to curse me daily, and consorts
with witches and warlocks nightly for my destruction.  Oh, 'tis a
pestilent hag, this Dame Alison of Fawside!"

"A witch-carlin!" muttered the butler.  "I hope some fine day to see
the iron branks on her jaws."

"'Tis said she rambles about in the likeness of a brown tyke, to work
evil on us," added Mungo Tennant.  "If I had her once in that form,
within range of my arquebuse----"

"Silence!" said the laird sternly; "the blood of her house is red
enough upon my hands already!"

"Well, well.  But the letters--the letters!" urged Kilmaurs
impatiently; "are we to lose them?"

"If he ever had any, he must have delivered them long ere this," said
Shelly.

"Under favour, sir," said Glencairn, "he left not Edinburgh (for the
gate-wards are in our pay) until this day at dawn, or late last
night, when one answering to his description rode through the
Water-gate on a white horse.  Word came tardily to the warder at the
Brig of Esk; we had killed or taken him else at the Howmire."

"Let the tower of Fawside be watched narrowly," said Kilmaurs; "for
these letters we must have ere we meet Arran and the Queen at
Stirling, to know _their_ plans as well as our own; for men should
play warily who risk their heads in a game like ours, my lords."

"And now once more to the black jack, sirs," exclaimed the laird of
Preston; "see to the wine-bickers, Symon, and fill--fill, while we
drink thrice to the three fair brides whom this bond will soon make
wedded wives--the Queen of Scots, the Countesses of Bothwell and
Yarrow!"

That night the rebel lords and their retainers drank deep in Preston
Tower; but tidings of an irruption of certain feudal enemies into
Carrick, Kyle, and Cunninghame, giving all to fire and sword in these
fertile districts, compelled Cassilis, Glencairn, Kilmaurs, and
others, to depart on the spur ere mid-day; and hence it was that, as
related in the preceding chapter, Florence Fawside found himself at
such perfect liberty to ride daily to the city in his gayest apparel,
and almost without armour, to prosecute a futile search for his fair
unknown; while his fiery mother chafed and scoffed at his delay in
commencing hostilities with the Hamiltons of Preston.




CHAPTER XV

THE LETTER OF THE VALOIS.

  Madame, I was true servant to thy mother,
    And in her favour aye stood thankfullie,
  And though that I to serve be not so able
    As I was wont, because I may not see--
  Yet that I hear thy people with high voice
    And joyful hearts cry continuallie--
  _Viva!  Marie, tre noble Reyne d'Ecosse!_
                                _SIR RICHARD MAITLAND._


For seven consecutive days our hero traversed the streets of his
native capital, poking his nose under the velvet hood of every lady
whose figure or air resembled in any way those of his fair
_innmorata_; and in these seven days he ran at least an average of
eight-and-twenty risks of being run through the body for his
impudence; but his handsome face, his suave apologies and brave
apparel, obtained him readily the pardon of those he followed,
jostled, or accosted.  One evening he was just about to leave the
city by the gloomy arch of the Pleasance Porte, above which grinned
the skulls of those who had abetted the Master of Forbes in his
wicked attempt upon the life of James V., when the booming of Mons
Meg and of forty other great culverins from the castle-wall made the
windows of the city shake; while the clanging bells in every church,
monastery, and convent, gave out a merry peal.

He asked one who passed him, "What caused these signs of honour and
acclaim?"

"The return of the Queen-Mother from Falkland," replied this person,
a burgher, who was hastening from his booth, clad in his steel bonnet
and jazarine jacket, with an arquebuse on his shoulder.

"The Queen-Mother!"

He paused, and, with an emotion of alarm; he remembered his
dispatches from Henry of Valois to Mary of Lorraine and the Regent
Arran, and resolved on the morrow to atone for his delay.  As the
armed citizen left him and mingled with the gathering crowd, the tone
of his voice, and something in his air, brought to Fawside's memory
that man of the stout arm and long axe who had so suddenly befriended
him on that night, the desperate events of which seemed likely to
influence the whole of his future career.  Here was a key, perhaps,
to the name and dwelling of his unknown beauty; but the chance was
scarcely thought of ere it was gone!--already the armed stranger was
lost amid the crowd that hurried up the adjacent close, to mingle, in
the High Street, with the masses who greeted Mary of Lorraine with
shouts of applause.  She entered in the dusk, surrounded by
torch-bearers and guarded by a body of mounted spearmen, led by
Errol, the lord high constable of Scotland, a peer who was secretly
in league with England against her.  She was preceded by a long train
of merchants, wearing fine black gowns of camlet, lined with silk and
trimmed with velvet, according to the rule for all above ten pounds
of stent; by the provost in armour, and the city officers and piper
wearing doublets of Rouen canvas, and black hats with white strings,
and all armed with swords, daggers, and partizans.

Arrived in the city on the morrow, Fawside rode at once to the
residence of the Queen-Mother.  He was well mounted, carefully
accoutred, and armed to the teeth; for in those days no man knew what
manner of men or adventures he might meet if he ventured a rood from
his own gate.

His armour was a light suit of that species of puffed or ribbed mail
which was designed as an imitation of the slashed dresses of the age.
On his head was one of those steel caps known as a coursing-hat,
adorned by a white feather.  The mail was as bright as the hands of
the first finisher in Paris (M. Fourbisser, Rue St. Jacques, armourer
to the Garde du Corps Ecossais) could render it; and the cuirass was
inlaid in gold, with a representation of the Crucifixion, as a charm
against danger--a style introduced by Benvenuto Cellini, and named
_damasquinée_; and Dame Alison, who, with a deep and deadly interest
in her louring but affectionate eyes, had watched her son equipping
himself and loading his petronels, sighed with anger that it was only
for the city he was departing again.

"Edinburgh," she muttered; "ever and always Edinburgh!  What demon
lures thee there?  Is it but to prance along the causeway, or flaunt
before the saucy kimmers at the Butter Tron and Cramers-wives, thou
goest with all this useless iron about thee?"

"Useless?" reiterated Florence with surprise.

"Yes---useless to thee, at least!" she said, almost fiercely.

"Speak not so unkindly to me, dear mother; I am going elsewhere than
to Edinburgh."

"Hah--whither?" she demanded, with some alarm.

"To the regent, on the business of the King of France; and in the
wilds of the Torwood, or of Cadzow Forest, I may not find this
_iron_, as you stigmatize the best of Milan plate, perhaps so useless
a covering."

For the first time, the mother and son parted with coldness on her
side; for the delay he exhibited in challenging Preston to mortal
combat, or assaulting and sacking his farms, if not his tower, filled
her angry heart with doubt and with disdain; for her long-cherished
hope seemed on the eve of being dissipated.

These bitter emotions gave place to anxiety when, about nightfall,
she heard news of the enemy.  Roger of the Westmains hurriedly
entered the hall, and, after paying his devoirs as usual to the
ale-barrel, announced that, while driving a few stirks home from
Gladsmuir--the fatal land of contention,--he had seen Claude Hamilton
depart at the head of an armed train of at least twenty mounted men,
by the road direct for Edinburgh.

"And my son is _there_ alone!" was her first thought; for, in his
anxiety to depart, and that he might with more freedom prosecute the
search after his unknown, he had galloped westward from Fawside,
without other friends than his sharp sword and his stout young arm.

"By this time--yea, long ere this," said Roger, looking at the
sundial on the window-corner, "he will be far on the way to the Lord
Arran's house of Cadzow, and not a horse in the barony could overtake
him."

"Pray Heaven he may be so," replied the grim mother, crossing herself
thrice; "he will be here to-morrow."

But many a morning dawned, and many a night came on, before she again
saw her son, whose adventures we will now rehearse.

He soon ascertained that her majesty the queen-mother was at her new
private residence (on the north side of the Castle-Hill Street),
which, with its little oratory and guard-house, she had erected after
the almost total destruction of Edinburgh by the English army in
1544.  Holyrood Palace was burned on that occasion.  Thus, at the
time of our story, many of its southern apartments were in ruin; and
hence Mary of Lorraine was compelled to find a more secure habitation
within the walls of the city, and in the vicinity of the fortress, of
which the gallant Sir James Hamilton of Stain-house was governor,
until he was slain in a bloody tumult by the French.

Several persons, apparently of good position, were loitering near
this little private palace, and to one of these--a page
apparently--Fawside addressed himself; and on receiving a somewhat
supercilious answer, he exclaimed angrily,--

"Quick, sirrah--announce me, for I must speak with the queen ere I
ride for the lord regent's."

These words were overheard by two gentlemen richly dressed and
brilliantly armed in gorgets and cuirasses of fine steel, with their
swords and daggers glittering with precious stones.  They were each
attended by two pages, and jostled so rudely past Fawside, who had
now dismounted, and held his horse by the bridle, that, had he not
been amply occupied by his own thoughts, he would have called them
severely to account, as an insult was never tolerated in those days.

"Bothwell!"

"Glencairn!" were the exclamations, as these worthies recognized and
cautiously saluted each other.

"'Tis our man Fawside," whispered the latter; "doubtless he goes now
to deliver his missives.  Accursed folly that spared him; but 'tis
too late now; let the queen receive hers."

"And he goeth hereafter to Arran.  I heard him say so."

"He shall never pass through Cadzow Wood alive.  I have a
thought--stay--get me a clerk to write.  Where lodges Master Patten?"

"At the upper Bow Porte--not a pistol-shot from this."

"This way, then," said Glencairn, twitching his friend's mantle; and
they hurried away together, while the unfortunate Fawside, without
the least idea that he was watched so narrowly, approached the Guise
Palace, as it was named by the citizens.

This edifice, which was built of polished stone, was three stories in
height; the access to it was by a turnpike stair, above the carved
doorway of which were the cipher of the queen, "M.R.," and the pious
legend, _Laus et honor Deo_, to exclude evil.  On the opposite side
of the narrow close was the guard-house, where a party of thirty
men-at-arms, under Livingstone of Champfleurie, an esquire, all
equipped by the queen, and brought from her own lands as private
vassals, furnished sentinels for her modest dwelling.  These men were
armed with sword, dagger, and arquebuse, and bore on their
doublets--which were of the royal livery of Scotland, scarlet faced
with yellow--the arms of the queen-dowager, _or_ bendwise _gules_,
charged with the three winglets of Lorraine, and quartered with the
Scottish arms,--_sol_ a lion rampant within a double treasure, flory,
and counter-flory, _mars_.

In those simple times, people of rank were easily accessible; thus,
there was not much ceremony observed by royal personages.  In a very
brief space of time, Fawside found himself treading the oak floors of
Mary of Lorraine's dwelling, as he was ushered by a page into a large
apartment, the sombre tapestry of which was rendered yet darker by
the narrow and ancient alley into which its three tall windows
opened.  This room was furnished with regal magnificence.  The arras,
which had formed a portion of the dowry of Yolande of Anjou, depicted
the career of Garin the Wild Boar, who figures in the romance of
"Gaharin de Lorraine."  The chairs were covered with crimson velvet
fringed with silver, and all bore the royal crown and cipher.  The
door and panelling, some of which are still preserved, were all of
dark oak exquisitely carved, and in each compartment was a device, an
armorial bearing, or a likeness of some member of the royal family;
James V., with his pointed moustache, and bonnet smartly slouched
over the right ear, being most frequently depicted.  The ceiling,
which is still preserved at Edinburgh, is of wood, and very
singularly decorated.  In the centre is the figure of our Saviour,
encircled by the legend,--

  _Ego sum via, veritas, et vita._

In each compartment is an allegorical subject, such as the Dream of
Jacob, the Vision of Death from the Apocalyse, &c., and one
representing the Saviour asleep in the storm, with a view of
Edinburgh, its castle and St. Giles's church in the background, His
galley being afloat, _not_ in the Sea of Galilee, but, curiously
enough, in the centre of the North Loch.

Within a stone recess, canopied like a Gothic niche, and secured
thereto by a chain of steel, stood the famous old tankard known as
the _Fairy Cup_ of King William the Lion.

Delrio relates, from Gulielmus Neubrigensis, that a peasant, one
night, when passing near a rocky grotto, heard sounds of merriment;
and on peeping in, beheld a quaint-looking company of dwarfish elves
dancing and feasting.  One offered him a cup to drink with them; but
he poured out the bright liquor it contained, and rode off with the
vessel, which was of unknown material and strange of fashion.  It
became the property of Henry the Elder, of England, and was presented
by him to King William the Lion, of Scotland; after whom it became an
heirloom of our kings,[*] and was now in the custody of Mary of
Lorraine.


[*] "Discovrse of Miracles in the Catholic Chvrch."  Antwerp, 1676.


Florence Fawside had barely time to observe all this, to unclasp his
coursing-hat, glance at his figure in a mirror, and give that last
and most satisfactory adjust to his hair, which every man and woman
infallibly do previous to an interview, when the arras at the further
end of the apartment was suddenly parted by the hands of two pages.
Two ladies in rich dresses advanced, and our hero knew that he was in
the presence of the widow of James V.  He sank upon his right knee,
and bowed his head, until she desired him to rise and approach, with
a welcome, to her mansion, in a voice, the tones of which stirred his
inmost heart, by the emotions and recollections they awakened.

Mary of Lorraine was the sister of Francis, Duc de Guise, and widow
of Louis of Orleans, Duc de Longueville, before her marriage with
James V. of Scotland.  She was beautiful and still young, being only
in her thirty-second year.  She was fair-complexioned, with a pale
forehead and clear hazel eyes, which were expressive alike of
intelligence, sweetness, and candour.  Her red and cherub-like mouth
ever wore the most charming smile; her hair was partly concealed by
her lace coif; her high ruff came close round her dimpled chin; and
on the breast of her puffed yellow satin dress, which was slashed
with black velvet, and trimmed with black lace, sparkled a diamond
cross, the farewell gift of her sister, who was prioress of the
convent of St. Peter, at Rheims, in Champagne.

"Rise, monsieur--rise, sir," said she, smiling; "it seems almost
strange when a gentleman kneels to me now."

"Alas, madam, that the widow of James V. should find it so in the
kingdom of her daughter."

"Or a daughter of Lorraine; but so it is, sir--treason and heresy are
spreading like a leprosy in the land; nor need I wonder that those
decline to kneel in a palace, who refuse to do so before the altar of
their God!  _Mon Dieu_, M. de Fawside; but we live in strange and
perilous times.  You tremble, sir--are you unwell?"

Mary of Lorraine might well have asked this, for Florence grew pale,
and tottered, so that he was compelled to grasp a chair for support,
when, in the queen who addressed him, and in the lady her attendant,
who remained a few paces behind, holding a feather fan partly before
her face, he recognized those who had tended, nursed, and cured him
of his wounds--she of the hazel, and she of the dark-blue eyes:

To the beautiful queen, and her still more beautiful friend and _dame
d'honneur_, he was already as well known as if he had been the
brother of both.  In this bewilderment he gazed from one pair of
charming eyes to the other, and played with the plume in his
coursing-hat, utterly unable to speak; till the queen laughed
merrily, and said,--

"Monsieur is most welcome to my poor house in l'Islebourg,"--for so
the French named Edinburgh, from the number of lakes which surrounded
its castle; "so our little romance is at an end--monsieur recognizes
us, Madeline--all is discovered!"

"Madeline!" whispered Florence in his heart; "that name shall ever be
a spell to me."

"Well, Laird of Fawside--so you have business with us.  But first, I
pray you, be seated, sir; your wounds cannot be entirely healed.  I
remember me, they were terrible!"

"Ah, madam!" said he, in a voice to which the fulness of his heart
imparted a charming earnestness and richness of tone, as he again
knelt down, "how shall I ever repay the honour you have already done
me?  The services of a life--a life of faith and gratitude--were
indeed too little.  But whence, came all this mystery?"

"For reasons which I disdain to acknowledge almost to myself," said
the queen, with an inexplicable smile, which, whatever it meant,
prevented the bewildered young man from saying more.

This royal lady seemed never to forget her lofty position when among
those whom she knew to be the most uncompromising of the Scottish
peers;--every graceful gesture, every proud glance of her clear and
beautiful eyes, seemed to say,--

"I am Mary of Guise--Lorraine, Queen of Scotland!  I cannot forget
that I am the widow of James V., and the mother of Mary Queen of
Scots."

But a gracious condescension, with a sweet gentleness of manner, to
those whom she loved and trusted, made her wear a very different
expression at times, and imparted to her features that alluring
loveliness which, with her sorrows, became the dangerous inheritance
of her daughter.

Like that unhappy daughter, her tastes were refined and exquisite;
she was as passionately fond of music and poetry as the late king her
husband, and maintained a foreign band of musicians and vocalists.
Among the latter were five Italians, each of whom received from her
privy purse thirteen pounds yearly, with a red bonnet and livery coat
of yellow Bruges satin, trimmed and slashed with red,--the royal
colours.  M. Antoine (our pretended dumb valet), a Parisian, and her
most trusted attendant, was master of this band, which included four
violers, four trumpeters, two tabourners, and several Swiss drummers.

Danger, and the desperate game of politics as played by the Scottish
noblesse, compelled this fair widow to use her beauty as a means of
strengthening herself.  Thus she pretended to receive the addresses
of Lennox, Argyle, and Bothwell, luring them all to love her, while
she deceived them all with hopes of a marriage, to gain time, till
armed succour reached her court from France.  She was fond of
card-playing, and frequently lost a hundred crowns of the sun at one
sitting to Bothwell, to Arran, and other peers; and now the former,
filled with rage on discovering the emptiness of his hopes, had
joined the faction of Somerset, who flattered his spirit of revenge
and cupidity to the full by offering him the hand and fortune of the
beautiful Katharine Willoughby.

His half-mad love for Mary of Lorraine was well known in Scotland,
where, after his return from Venice, it prompted him to commit a
thousand extravagances.  It is yet remembered how, when sheathed in
full armour, he galloped his barbed charger down the steep face of
the Calton Hill, and made it leap, like another Pegasus, the barriers
of the tilting-ground, that he might appear to advantage before her
and the ladies of her court, when patronizing a great tournament near
the old Carmelite monastery of Greenside.

But amid these historical details, which, as the Scots read all
histories but their own, will no doubt be new to them, we are
forgetting the bewildered young gentleman, who has just kissed the
white jewelled hand of Mary of Lorraine, and risen to his feet by her
command.

"And now, fair sir, that you have discovered us, you are no doubt
come to proffer us your thanks for being your leeches and nurses,"
said the queen, laughing; "but we must insist upon sparing you all
that; for, be assured, sir, we were performing but an act of simple
Christian charity."

"I swear to your majesty, that until this moment I knew not who had
so honoured me with protection and hospitality.  I came but to place
in your hands a paper----"

"Monsieur!"

"A paper, the possession, or supposed possession, of which, on the
night that first brought me here, so nearly cost me my life; though
by what means those ruffians guessed I was intrusted with it, I know
not."

"'Tis a notice of some conspiracy, perhaps?"

"Nay--'tis a letter from his majesty the King of France."

"A letter from the Valois!" reiterated Mary, starting, while her eyes
flashed with expectation.

"From Henry II.," replied the youth; and, drawing from his doublet
the missive of the Most Christian king, he knelt again on presenting
it to Mary of Lorraine.

"Thanks, sir, thanks.  How droll, to think that I might have had this
letter weeks ago, but for our little romance," she said merrily,
while her hazel eyes seemed to dance in light, as she cut open the
ribands by the scissors which hung at her gold chatelaine.  She
hastily read over the letter, the envelope of which, was spotted by
the bearer's blood.

"If it please your grace--the news?" said the young lady, her
attendant, in a soft voice.

"Countess, approach!" said the queen.

"She's a countess!" said Fawside inaudibly, and his heart sank at the
discovery.

"'Tis brave news," exclaimed the queen with a tone of triumph; "Henry
of Valois promises me succour; so my daughter shall never wed the son
of English Henry--the offspring of a wretch who lived unsated with
lust and blood, who put to death seventy-two thousand of his people,
and who died at enmity with God and man.  Read, Madeline, _ma belle!
ma, bonne!_--read for yourself."

The lady read the letter, and presented it to the queen, who, ere she
could speak, turned to Florence, saying,--

"Sir, as a faithful subject and true Scottish gentleman, it is but
polite and just that you should know the contents of a letter with
which you have been intrusted, and the defence of which has cost you
so dear.  But I rely on your honour--be secret and wary.  Our schemes
are great, for we are opposed to powerful and subtle schemers."

"Oh, madam, who would not die for your majesty?" exclaimed Florence
in a burst of enthusiasm; for the beauty and condescension of the
queen filled his soul with joy and pride, kindling within it a
fervour which he had never known before.

The letter of Henry II. ran thus:--


"_Madame ma Soeur, la Reine d'Ecosse:_

"None in our kingdom of France can be better satisfied than we are
with the good-will you have shown in the cause of our holy faith and
common country; and knowing well the great need you have of
assistance to further the great project of uniting our dear son the
Dauphin to our kinswoman, your royal daughter the Queen of
Scotland--to crush treason within and enemies without her realm, and
ultimately to make you what you ought to be, Regent thereof, a
portion of our valiant French army, veterans of the war in Italy,
under wise and skilful captains, shall ere long land upon your
shores.  We would beseech you to keep in memory our notable plan of
stirring up Ireland against the government of Edward VI., by
supplying the O'Connors with arms, and proposing your young queen as
a wife to Gerald, the youthful Earl of Kildare, to lure him to revolt
against the aggressive English; though ere long the Sieur de Brezé,
hereditary grand seneschal of Normandy, and M. le Chevalier de
Villegaignon, admiral of our galleys, will be in the Scottish seas to
convey her to France, of which--when I am borne by my faithful
Scottish archers to my fathers' tomb at St. Denis--she shall be
queen.  Beseeching our Lord to give you, madame my sister, good
health, a long life, and all you desire, we remain, your good brother,

  "_From St. Germain-en-Laye_,     "HENRI R.
      "10 _April_, 1547."


"With ten thousand good French soldiers, united to the vassals of
Huntley and other loyal peers, I shall be able alike to defy the
power of England, of Arran, whom Somerset seeks to corrupt, and of
those false Scots whom we have no doubt he has already corrupted,"
said the queen.  "I must write at once to Arran, though he suspects
me of aiming at the regency.  A queen, a mother--I shall triumph!  I
will teach those rebel peers that Mary of Lorraine will struggle
rather than stoop, and perish rather than yield!
Champfleurie!--where is M. Champfleurie?"

"He is with the guard, madam," said the countess.  "Shall I send for
him?"

Now Livingstone of Champfleurie was a West-Lothian laird, who enjoyed
the reputation of being one of the handsomest, but at the same time
most dissipated men in Scotland; and on hearing him spoken of by the
beautiful young countess, Florence experienced an unaccountable
uneasiness; so he said hastily,--

"Madam, will you intrust me with your letter?  I am on my way to the
lord regent at Cadzow."

"A thousand thanks, sir; you shall be its bearer.  And pray accept
from me this chain in memory of your good service."

With these words, Mary of Lorraine, with an air of exquisite grace,
took from her slender neck a chain of fine gold--the same chain which
René II. of Lorraine wore in his famous battle with Charles the
Bold,--and threw it over the bowed head of Florence.

"And you were presented to King Henry?" she asked.

"In the gallery of the Louvre, madam."

"By whom?"

"The Lord James Hamilton, captain of the archers of the Scottish
Guard; and by M. le Comte d'Anguien."

"Ah! that brave old soldier, with his face of bronze and heart of
steel!  He is still alive?"

"Alive, and hale and well, madam; and most likely will command the
troops destined for Scotland."

"The victor of Cerizoles, the conqueror of the Marquis del Vasto in
Piedmont.  And who else is to lead the troops that succour me?"

"M. le Comte de Martigues, say some; M. d'Essé d'Epainvilliers, say
others."

"A brave soldier is d'Essé.  According to the astrologer of Francis
I., Mars was the shining lord of his nativity.  Thus it was his
destiny to lead the armies of France."

"Ah, madam," said the young countess, "is not this heathenish, like
the preaching of the Lollards?"

"Of course; yet it was believed at the court of the Most Christian
King.  And what say they of our lord regent in France?"

"That he is true to French and Scottish interests, and hostile to the
English alliance."

"That I well believe; but truer to his own interests than either."

"But they suspect him of wishing to secure the entire power of the
kingdom, so that ere long Scotland may be governed by Hamiltons and
nothing but Hamiltons; for already they hold the archbishopric of St.
Andrew's and other sees; they govern half the royal castles, and hold
priories and abbeys innumerable."

"That I know too well," said Mary, curling her proud red lip.

"And that, while printing the Bible in the Scottish tongue, and thus
defying the bishops and disseminating heresy in Scotland, at Rome he
seeks a cardinal's hat for his brother John, the archbishop of St.
Andrew's."

"So--so; he would keep well with his Holiness there and well with the
Lollards here!  Has he yet to be taught that a man cannot serve two
masters?  Mon Dieu! poor M. l'Archevêque de Saint André should
consider well what he seeks.  Since Kirkaldy of Grange and the
Melvilles slew David Beaton, the red barretta is a perilous cap for a
Scot to wear.  But when do you ride for Cadzow Castle?"

"The moment I am honoured with the missive of your majesty."

"That you shall shortly be, sir," replied Mary, sweeping up her train
with one hand, while she joyously waved the other.  "Oh, 'tis brave
news this, of succour from France!  I shall crush these traitors at
last, and defy this insolent duke of Somerset.  Dares he think that
Mary of Scotland and Lorraine would peril her daughter's soul for his
kingdom of England, with its lordship of Ireland to boot?  Queen of
Scotland she is, and queen of France and Navarre she shall be!  I
would rather don armour and die in the field by the side of d'Essé
than yield up my child to the paid traitors of Henry VIII. and his
successor, this boasting duke of Somerset.  A queen, a mother, a
woman, I shall appeal to all the gentlemen of Scotland; and if they
fail me, I have still the noble chivalry of France!"

As the queen spoke, with a gesture of inimitable grace she withdrew
through the arras, leaving Florence and the young countess together.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE COUNTESS.

  Thy voice--oh, sweet to me it seems,
    And charms my raptured breast;
  Like music on the moonlit sea,
    When waves are lull'd to rest.
  The wealth of worlds were vain to give,
    Thy sinless heart to buy;
  Oh, I will bless thee while I live,
    And love thee till I die.
                                  _Delta._


The young man was pale, mortified, and sick at heart; for the sudden
discovery of the exalted rank of one whom he had learned to think his
friend, and of the other whom he fondly believed to love him, made
him lose all hope at once.  He stood silent and embarrassed; but he
remembered the opal ring, and gathering courage with that memory, he
turned his eyes on the beautiful donor.

They filled with the soft light of love and tenderness as he gazed
upon her.  She caught, perhaps, the magnetic infection from his
glance, for her long lashes drooped and a flush crossed her cheek; so
from her confusion he gathered courage.

"Lady--Lady Madeline,--you see I have learned your name," began
Florence, who knew not what to say.

"Well, sir, I am glad you have spoken; for our pause, to say the
least of it, was very embarrassing," replied the young lady, playing
with the point lace which edged the sleeve of her dress.

"If you will permit me, I have a question to ask."

"Say on," said she, laughing.

"What was the origin, or whence the purpose, of that strange mystery
in which you enveloped me when I had lost the happiness of being
here?  Why did you conceal from me your rank--your name? and why was
I conducted hence blindfold, like a spy from an enemy's camp?"

"Fair sir," said the countess, smiling, "I gave you permission to ask
but one question; you have already run over four."

"And I implore you to answer me."

"All was done by order of her majesty the queen."

"But wherefore such foolish mystery?" asked Florence almost
impetuously.

"Foolish!" reiterated the other, holding up a taper finger.  "Oh,
fie!--Said I not it was the queen's desire?"

"Pardon me; but I cannot resist emotions of mortification and deep
sorrow."

"The queen-mother has many enemies in Scotland," said the countess,
with a pretty little blush,--"Lollard preachers and disaffected
peers, men who live by trafficking in court scandal and the
circulation of wicked rumours: thus seeking to undermine her
influence and to do her evil among the people.  Do you understand me?"

"Under favour, I do not."

"Had these men, or such as these, known that a gentleman of your age
and appearance was wounded or slain under her windows, all Scotland
had declared him to be a lover, attacked by a rival or by the queen's
guard; and, believe me, the spies of Somerset and the adherents of
Bothwell and Lennox would readily multiply the fatal rumour.  Had
they learned that a poor wounded youth whom she had rescued from
destruction was concealed in her chamber for many days, then still
more had he been reputed a lover, and a man devoted to die a cruel
death.  Do you understand me now?"

"Oh, yes; and feel deeply her most generous clemency, which perilled
her reputation for me."

"Mary of Guise and Lorraine was not reared at the court of Catharine
de Medicis, nor was she wife of Louis de Longueville, without
acquiring the virtues of patience and prudence," said the lady,
smiling.

"But you, lady--you, at least, had no such reason for concealment."

"My secret involved that of my mistress; moreover, I had most serious
reasons for greater secrecy."

"A jealous husband, perhaps?"

"Nay," said she, laughing, and showing the most beautiful little
teeth in the world; "thank Heaven, I have no husband."

Florence began to breathe a little more freely.

"A lover, perhaps?" said he, affecting to smile.

"Nay, nor even a lover."

"St. Giles!--in what did your secrecy originate?"

"In yourself."

"You are a beautiful enigma," faltered Florence, taking her hands in
his, while his heart trembled; "but--but whatever be the result of
such an avowal, believe me from my soul when I say, that I had not
been here three days before I learned to love you, Lady
Madeline--love you dearly, fondly, truly!" he continued, in an almost
breathless voice.

She grew very pale, abruptly withdrew her hands, and averted her
face; for she felt that the voice of Fawside, like the voices of all
who have a sincere and impassioned heart, had a powerful effect upon
her.

"Speak to me--speak!" he urged; "do not, for pity's sake, look so
coldly, or turn from me."

"I do not look coldly; but spare me the pain of hearing this avowal,"
she replied, while trembling.

"Spare you the pain--oh, Madeline! my love for you----"

"Is futile," she replied, with her eyes full of tears.

"Futile!"

"Yes."

"Why--oh, what mean you, Madeline?  Who are you, that it should be
so?"

"I am--I am----"

"Who--who?"

"One whom you must ever know for your deadly enemy," she replied, in
a voice half-stifled by emotion.

Had a bomb exploded at the feet of Florence, he could not have been
more astounded than by this strange relation.

"She is a kinswoman of Glencairn or Kilmaurs," thought he; "well, I
can forgive her even that."

For a minute he was silent, as if overwhelmed by sadness and
astonishment.  At last he said,--

"My enemy--you?"

"By the solemn truth which I tell you, by the words I have said, we
are separated for ever!"

"For the love of pity, say not so, I implore you!"

"What I say can matter little," she replied in a low broken voice; "I
do love you, dear Florence; but our fate is in the hands of others."

"Others!" he exclaimed impetuously.

"Yes."

"What can control us, who are free agents?"

"Fatality.  Thus our paths in life, like our graves in death, must
lie far apart.  But never, while breath remains, shall I forget you,
Florence!"

"Oh, 'tis insanity or a dream this!" he exclaimed, and struck his
forehead with a bewildered air; and, after bowing his face upon her
hand, had barely time, to withdraw, when the heavy folds of the arras
parted again, and the queen-mother stood before him, with a letter in
her hand, and a smile almost of drollery on her beautiful lip; for
she saw plainly, in the confusion of both, that a scene had taken
place.

"You will convey this to my lord regent.  It tells that I will meet
him at the Convention of Estates in Stirling."

"Thanks for this high honour, madam," said Florence, kneeling for the
double purpose of kissing the seal of the missive and veiling the
deep colour which he felt was too evident in his face.

"And now, sir, ere you go, I shall have the pleasure of presenting
you to the Queen of Scotland.  I trust her majesty's noonday nap is
over by this time."

The young man felt his eyes and heart fill at these words, for the
loyalty of the olden time was a passion, strong and enthusiastic as
that of a lover for his love.

Mary of Lorraine, with her white hand, drew back the tapestry, and
revealed the inner apartment, the walls of which were hung with
yellow Spanish leather stamped with crowns and thistles, and the oak
floor of which was covered by what was then a very unusual luxury--a
Persian carpet.  Passing in, Florence found himself in the royal
nursery.

In a cradle of oak, profusely carved, and having a little canopy
surmounted by a crown, lay a child--a little white-skinned and
golden-haired girl, in her fifth year, asleep, with her dark lashes
reposing on a cheek that bore the pink tint we see at times in a
white rose-leaf.

This child was Mary Queen of Scots!

The nurse, Janet Sinclair, wife of John Kemp, a burgess of
Haddington, arose at their entrance.

The young man knelt down, and, with reverence and affection, pressed
his lips to the child's dimpled hands, which were folded together
above its little lace coverlet.  The emotions of his heart would be
difficult alike to analyze or portray.

How little could those four persons who stood by the cradle of that
beloved and beautiful little one, foresee the dark shadows which
enveloped her future!

"The little bride of the son of France!" said Mary of Lorraine; "she
sleeps, alike oblivious of crowns and kingdoms."

At that moment the child opened her dark-grey eyes, and smiled to her
mother.

"If this should be, how strange shall be her destiny!" said the
countess thoughtfully.

"How?" reiterated the queen-mother anxiously.

"Yes--for what said True Thomas of Ercildoun more than three hundred
years ago?"

"What said he?"

Then the countess replied,--

  "A queen of France shall bear a son,
    Britain to brook from sea to sea;
  And she of Bruce's blood shall come,
    As near as to the ninth degree."


"I pray that Heaven may so shape out the future that your verse shall
prove better than an idle rhyme," said Mary of Lorraine, clasping her
delicate hands; "for the royal child of my dead husband is the
_ninth_ in descent from the hero of Bannockburn."

Future events, in the birth of James VI., fulfilled this old
prophecy, which, in the days of our story, was in the mouths of all
the people.

"And now, until I have the honour of again paying my devotion to your
majesty, perhaps at Stirling, farewell," said Fawside.

"Adieu, monsieur--may God keep you!"

A glance full of sad meaning from the countess was all the adieu he
received from her; and next moment he found himself in the narrow
alley, where a soldier in the livery of the queen's guard held his
grey horse by its bridle.




CHAPTER XVII.

A SNARE.

  Oh what a tangled web we weave,
  When first we practise to deceive.
                                _Scott._


In a preceding chapter we left two right honourable lords--to wit,
the earls of Bothwell and Glencairn--in search of Master Patten, the
scribe or secretary to Edward Shelly, the captain of the Boulogners.
These gentlemen, as supposed followers of the house of Glencairn,
resided in a quaint old-fashioned stone house, then known as
Cunninghame's Land, which had been galleried and fronted with timber
in the time of James IV.  It was situated above the Upper Bow Porte,
and there they were found readily enough by the two nobles, who had
free entrance at all times.  On this occasion, however, the earls, on
coming in, hurriedly and unannounced, found the Englishmen seated at
a table, immersed among letters, dockets of papers, maps, and
manuscripts: they were both busy writing.  Glencairn, who had a
supreme contempt for such work, gave a hasty and impatient glance at
Bothwell, whose only literary efforts had been to make his mark or
fix his seal to a notary's deed; for, like Bell-the-Cat, of whom we
read in "Marmion," or his majesty King Cole of the popular ditty,
this untutored lord

  "Quite scorn'd the fetters of four-and-twenty letters,
    And it saved him a _vast deal of trouble_."

On their abrupt entrance, Patten and Shelly started in alarm from
their work.  The former spread his hands over the papers, as if to
protect them; but the valiant captain of the Boulogners drew his
sword, with the first instinct of a soldier, to protect his
compatriot and himself.

"Uds daggers! what new plot art thou hatching, worthy scribe, to put
men's weasons in peril?" asked Glencairn; "how many human souls are
bartered in these piles of scribbled paper--eh?"

"Up with thy sword, Master Shelly," said Bothwell, laughing, and
twisting up his large black moustache.  "Did you think we were the
provost halberds or the queen's guard come to arrest you?"

"Either had found me ready, my lord.  But I knew not what to think,"
replied Shelly with some displeasure, as he dropped his long straight
sword into its scabbard, swept the papers into a drawer, and locked
it.  "Master Patten and I were deeply engaged----"

"Plotting--eh?"

"Nay, my Lord of Bothwell; I have had enough of that," replied the
soldier coldly.  "We were simply reducing the bulk of our
correspondence to suit the compass of our cloak-bags, committing some
papers to the flames, and selecting others for conveyance to England,
for whither we set out----"

"Not before the convention at Stirling, I hope?"

"No."

"When?"

"Immediately after.  Our work will then be completed, for peace or
for war--for good or for evil."

"But time presses, and our man is not yet gone," said Glencairn,
glancing anxiously from the window.

"What would your lordships with us?" asked Shelly; "and to what do we
owe the honour of this visit?"

"To our lack of skill in the perilous art of clerking like worthy
Master Patten," replied Glencairn.

"And to our zeal in the young king your master's service," added
Bothwell, with his quiet mocking smile.

"To the point, my lords!" said Shelly haughtily, while he drew
tighter, by a hole or two, the silver buckle of his sword-belt.

"Florence Fawside, the French envoy, spy, or what you will, is even
now with Mary of Lorraine!"

"Art sure of this?" asked Shelly in a low voice, full of interest, as
he gazed through the barred window.

"Sure as my name is Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell; we both saw
him enter her residence; and a soldier of her guard holds the bridle
of his grey horse at the door--a soldier, who says he departs
thereafter for Cadzow--dost thou see, _for Cadzow_!"

"To the lord regent.  This must not be!" said Master Patten, starting
up.

"Let us follow and cut him off--'tis the simplest plan," said Shelly.

"Nay--nay!"

"Why, thou, Bothwell, art not wont to be wary!"

"Our trains are scattered abroad throughout the city, and if we fared
ill----"

"Four to one?"

"He might still cut his way through us; and, if once he reaches
Arran, with promises of French succour, the Hamiltons in the west and
Huntly in the north will take the field at once against all
malcontents: thus, the sooner we begin our _Miserere mei Dominus_,
and commit our neckverse to memory, the better."

"If a long sword will not keep me from having a long neck, or my head
from rolling among the sawdust, I shall e'en submit; I were not my
father's son else!" said the grim Earl of Glencairn, frowning till
his black eyebrows met over his fierce nose.

"But what can I do in this matter, my lords?" asked Shelly with
impatience.

"Simply this.  Desire Master Patten to write, with all speed, a note
to a friend of mine.  This note Champfleurie, captain of the queen's
guard, a gentleman in our interest, will prevail upon Fawside to
deliver, as he rides westward, to a friend of mine, mark you; and
this friend will place him in sure ward till we arrive.  Then, after
investigating his cloak-bags and pockets to our hearts' content, if
we do not find what will satisfy us, we can roast him over the
potcruicks and baste him well with grease till his tongue tells us
all he knows of the Guises and their desperate game."

"Agreed!" said Shelly, with a disdainful smile.  "And this friend----"

"Is Allan Duthie, laird of Millheugh, whose tower, a strong but
sequestered place, standeth near the highway that leads through
Cadzow Forest.  Quick!--indite me this note.  We have no time to
lose, for every moment I expect to see him come forth and betake him
to horse, and then our plot will fail."

Patten with great deliberation selected a sheet of the coarse
brown-tinted paper then used, and dipping his quill in the ink-horn,
wrote to Bothwell's dictation the following note:--


"RIGHT TRUSTY FRIEND,--I greet you well and heartillie.  It will be
for the furtherance of our great cause if the bearer hereof, a spy of
the Guises, who is on his way to Cadzow, be detained at your house
until such time as I and my friends arrive.  These with my hand at
the pen,

"BOITHWELLE."

"For the Right Hon. the Laird of Millheugh.  _These_."


"Can your friend read?" asked Shelly.

"Like Duns Scotus himself," replied Bothwell; adding, "Master Patten,
I thank you.  When I am the husband of Katharine Willoughby, I will
requite this and other services as they deserve.  And now for our
messenger, who must receive this from the hand of Champfleurie to
lull all suspicion."

"Fawside is quite unsuspecting," said Glencairn.

"And therefore, the more open to guile and to attack, poor fellow!"
added Shelly with some commiseration, though not much afflicted with
tender scruples at any time.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DEATH-ERRAND.

My lord hath sent you this note; and by me this farther charge, that
you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time,
matter, or circumstance.--_Measure for Measure_.


Florence, with his heart beating wildly, from the conflicting
revelations of his late interview, had placed his foot in the silver
stirrup of his saddle, and was in the act of grasping his horse's
flowing mane preparatory to mounting, when a gauntleted hand was laid
bluntly on his shoulder, and on turning he met the dark and handsome,
but somewhat crafty, face of John Livingstone of Champfleurie,
captain of the queen's guard, a man who had been long enough about
courts and among Scottish and French courtiers to acquire the habit
of veiling every emotion of life under a bland and well-bred smile,
from which nothing could be gathered.  Though faithful enough to the
queen, as faith went at court, he was also disposed to be not
unfriendly to his kinsman the Earl of Bothwell, and, heedless whether
the missive given him by the latter purported good or evil to the
bearer, he undertook that Fawside should deliver it.  It was a
favourite proverb of this time-serving soldier, "as long as one is in
the fox's service, one must bear up his tail."

"Under favour," said he, "I would speak with you, laird."

"Then speak quickly, for I am in haste," replied the young man,
gathering up his reins.

"Pardon me, sir, but 'tis said that a traveller should carry two
bags,--one of patience and one of crowns."

"I carry neither; so to the point, sir."

"I believe I have the honour of being known to you."

"Yes; John Livingstone of Champfleurie, captain of the queen's
guard," replied Florence, bowing.

"'Tis said you ride westward."

"True.  But how know you that?"

"My sentinels overheard it from the pages of the queen."

"Well?"

"Pass you by the tower of Millheugh, in Cadzow Wood?"

"Perhaps; but the country thereabout is strange and new to me," said
Florence impatiently.

"There are wild bulls, broken men, sloughs, pitfalls, and swamps in
plenty.  But will you do a fair lady of the court a favour?"

"That will I blithely," replied Fawside, whose heart beat quicker at
the request.

"She is in sore trouble, and lacks a messenger to her kinsman, the
laird of Millheugh.  As you pass his tower, will you please to
deliver this little letter, and tarry a moment to refresh?"

"And the lady?--her name?--who is she?"

"Inquire not, as a gallant man."

"Mystery again!" thought Florence, as he took the note, and his mind
immediately reverted to the lady he had just left.

Who was this fair woman, so beautiful, so graceful, so gentle in
breeding and manner, that avowed herself his enemy, and yet admitted
that she loved him; who gave him an opal ring in token of that love,
and yet repelled further advances; and who now, he fondly believed,
intrusted him with a letter?

"Champfleurie," said he, "I presume you know all the great people
about the queen-mother's court?"

"Ay, from the great Earl of Huntly down to yonder little foot-page,
who is clanking his spurs at the Close-head; for your court page is a
great man too."

"Then pray tell me who are the queen's ladies?"

The captain smiled; for, if court scandal could be trusted, he stood
high in favour with more than one of them; so he said evasively,--

"You seek to discover of whose letter you are bearer?"

"Nay, on my honour I do not!"

"Her ladies?" queried the cunning captain, pausing for a reply.

"Yes, what countesses has she about her?"

"There are the countesses of Huntly, Monteith, Mar, and Crawford."

"Pshaw! all these are old, or well up in years."

"Well, I said not otherwise," replied the arquebusier, laughing.

"The young and beautiful?"

"Are Errol, Orkney, and Argyle."

"Nay, 'tis none of these I ask for.  I am assured, Laird of
Champfleurie, that you are a most discreet man; but fare you well,
sir--so now for Cadzow ho!" and putting his Ripon spurs to his
impatient horse, he rode hastily off.

Champfleurie looked after the fated young man, who trotted his grey
charger through the time-blackened arch of the Upper Bow Porte, and
disappeared down the winding descent of the ancient street which lay
beyond, and athwart the picturesque mansions of which the meridian
sun was pouring its broad flakes of hazy light, that varied its mass
of shadows.

"Poor fool!" said the captain of the guard with his crafty smile; "he
rides on his _death-errand_."

* * * * * *

The dawn of the next day was breaking, when a mounted man reined up
his horse at the turnpike-stair, which gave access to a quaint
tenement on the Castle-hill, known as the _Bothwell Lodging_ (not far
from where Master Posset's dried aligator swung daily in the wind),
and demanded, at once to see his lordship on business of importance.
In a scarlet gown trimmed with black fur, under which he carried his
unsheathed dagger as a safeguard, the earl, who had just sprung from
bed, appeared in his chamber of dais before the messenger, who was a
rough and weather-beaten fellow, in a morion and plated jack, and who
seemed half-trooper, half-brigand, and wholly desperado.

"Well, varlet," said the earl angrily, "you rouse us betimes!  What
the devil is astir?  Have the English taken my castle of Hermitage,
or are the Lord Clinton's war-ships off Dunbar Sands--eh?"

"Neither, lord earl," replied the man, in a strong Clydesdale accent;
"I hae come in frae the west country, and been in my stirrups since
twa past midnight."

"From Millheugh?"

"Direct."

"The spy----"

"Bound hand and foot, is safely lodged in Millheugh Tower, where the
laird bade me say he shall bide in sure ward until ye come west; or
if ye wished it, he would bind him to the pot-cruicks ower the low in
the kitchen, and smeik his secret out o' him by dint o' green-wood
boughs, and wet bog peats."

"Right--I shall reward him for this, and thee too," said the earl,
with fierce triumph.  "Thank St. Bryde of Bothwell, or the devil more
likely, we have nailed this knavish messenger at last.  Get thee a
horn of Flemish wine, my man, a fresh horse, and order all my train;
I shall ride for Millheugh, and leave the West Porte behind me, ere
the sun be up!"

Bothwell made such expedition, that in reality, ere the sun rose
above Arthur's Seat, he and Glencairn, with Millheugh's messenger and
a train of twenty well-armed horsemen, had galloped through the
western gate of the city, skirted the hill of Craiglockart, the
ancient manors of Meggatland and Red Hall, and taken the old Lanark
road, direct to the country of the Hamiltons.

Meanwhile, let us see how fared it with the solitary messenger of
Mary of Lorraine.




CHAPTER XIX.

CADZOW FOREST.

  Mightiest of the beasts of chase,
    That roam in woody Caledon,
  Crashing the forest in his race,
    The mountain bull comes thundering on!
                                        _Scott._


The evening of the day on which he left the metropolis was closing,
when, after a ride of many miles, Florence found himself, with a
sorely jaded horse, on the borders of the ancient forest of Cadzow,
in that district which was named of old Machinshire, from the chapel
of St. Machin.

The nature of the roads, which in those days were mere bridle-paths,
narrow, rough, and stony, being carried straight over hill and
through valley, irrespective of all local obstacles, and were
rendered dangerous by the uncultivated morasses and lonely wastes
they traversed, and by the fords or deep and bridgeless torrents
which intersected them--the nature of such paths for travelling from
Lothian to Lanarkshire, had impaired the energies of the fine charger
which had been the gift of Mary of Lorraine; and, in a wild and
solitary place, near which no dwelling could be perceived, and where,
on all sides, nothing was visible but the great gnarled stems of the
oak forest, Florence dismounted, just as the solemn gloaming drew on;
and while his foam-flaked horse cropped the herbage that grew deep
and rich under the shade of the trees, he sat down for a time, to
consider in which direction he should seek the Tower of Millheugh,
where he was to deliver the pretended court lady's letter, and
wherein he mentally proposed to remain until the morrow, when he
could choose a more fitting time to appear before the Regent of
Scotland, one of whose country residences, the Castle of Cadzow, was
but a few miles distant.

At this time the town habitation of the Hamilton family was in the
Kirk-of-field Wynd at Edinburgh, a steep, narrow, and ancient street,
the name of which has since been changed.

A sensation of lassitude came upon Florence, who felt weary after his
long and rough ride; and as the red flush of the August sun faded
away behind the purple hills, and its warm tints grew cold on the
rugged stems and crisping leaves of the Druid oaks of Cadzow, his
mind became impressed by the sylvan beauty and intense solitude of
the scenery, and reverted to those whose faces he had that morning
left behind him; and, like all who have travelled, far and rapidly,
he felt the difficulty of realizing the extent of distance that
actually lay between him and them.  With the last light of evening
lingering on his glittering coat of mail, and the bridle of his white
horse drooping over his right arm, he sat under a shady oak, like a
knight errant of old, waiting for adventures; but though witches and
fairies remained in Scotland, the age of giants and dwarfs and genii
had passed away.

He thought of his mother, pale, austere, and reproachful; loving him
well, fondly,--yea, madly,--and yet, withal, so ready to peril his
life in maintaining her old hereditary feud, in the fulfilment of her
savage vow, and for the gratification of her morbid vengeance--a life
which might yet be useful to her queen and country--a young life,
which the possessor of it had suddenly found to be invested with a
new charm, a hitherto unknown value; and here, drawing off his long
glove, he gazed on the opal ring of Madeline--Madeline _who_?

"Oh, perplexity!" he exclaimed; "'tis a romance with which our
coquettish French queen is amusing herself, and of which she wishes
to make me and this beloved girl the hero and heroine."

And, sunk in one of those reveries so natural to a lover, when he
seems to talk to, and have responses from, the object beloved; when a
thousand things are said that were omitted when last with her,--for
when the heart is full, thoughts come quicker than language, Fawside
remained in the twilight and in the forest, with the gloaming
deepening around him, heedless alike of the outlaws who were averred
to make their haunt there, and of the ferocious white bulls (_Bos
sylvestris_), the famous red-eyed, black-horned, black-hoofed, and
snowy-maned mountain bison of old Caledonia, herds of which have
frequented the Forest of Cadzow from pre-historic days, long anterior
to the Roman invasion, down to the present time.

On every hand spread the vast wilderness of oaks, some of which still
measure twenty-five and twenty-eight feet in circumference, and are
of an antiquity so great that they must have witnessed the rites of
the Druids; being the last remains of that immense forest which
anciently covered all the south of Scotland, from the waves of the
Atlantic to those of the German Ocean.

In the wildest part of this wild wood--the Caledonia Sylva--stood the
tower of Allan Duthie of Millheugh, in a little dell near a ruined
and mossgrown mill, the fragments of which were overshadowed by an
oak of stupendous dimensions, known as King Malcolm's Tree, from the
following little legend, which (as we dearly love all that pertained
to Scotland "in the brave days of old") we will take the liberty of
inserting here.

A few years after the fall of Macbeth and the destruction of his
castle of Dunsinane, Queen Margaret, Evan, the chancellor and
Christian bishop of Galloway, revealed to King Malcolm III. a design
which Duthac, one of his thanes, on whom he had bestowed many
favours, had formed against his life, and which he resolved to put in
execution as soon as he came to court.

"Be silent," said the king, "and leave me to deal with this matter in
my own way."

Ere long, the accused noble came to court with a numerous train of
half-savage warriors, barelegged and barearmed, from the wilds of
Galloway, and on the day thereafter, Malcolm, who was residing in the
Castle of Stirling, proclaimed a great hunting-match, and set forth
for Cadzow Forest to hunt the mountain bull.  In the most secluded
part of the wood, he contrived to separate Duthac from the rest of
the royal party, and drawing him into a gloomy little dell, under the
shadow of a mighty oak, he leaped from his saddle and said,--

"Thane, dismount!"

Duthac at once alighted from his saddle, which, like his bridle, was
hung with little silver bells.

"Draw!" said the king sternly; but Duthac hesitated.

"Draw, lest I kill thee, by the holy St. Kessoge!--kill thee
defenceless!" exclaimed the brave king, unsheathing his long
cross-hilted and double-edged broadsword, which was of a fashion
then, and for long after, worn by the Scots, and the guards of which
were turned down for the purpose of locking in and breaking an
adversary's blade.

Duthac grew pale on hearing the vow of Malcolm; for St. Kessoge was
then in great repute, so much so that in the sixth century his name
was the war-cry of the Scots and Irish.  Casting on the ground his
green hunting-mantle, which had been embroidered by the white hands
of his Saxon queen, St. Margaret, the king exclaimed,--

"Thane!--behold, we are here alone, and armed alike, with none to
give one aid against the other.  No ear can hear, nor eye can see us,
save those of God!  If you are still the brave man you have approved
yourself in battle against the English and the Normans, and have the
courage to essay your secret purpose, attempt it now!  If you deem me
deserving of death, where can you deal it better, more manfully, or
more opportunely, than _here_, in this secluded forest?  You
linger--you falter--_you_, Duthac the Thane!  Hast thou prepared a
poison for me?" demanded the king, with increasing energy;--"that
were the treason of a woman.  Wouldst thou murder me in my sleep, as
Malcolm II. was slain at Glammis?--an adultress might do that.  Hast
thou a hidden dagger, to stab me in secret?--'twere the deed of a
coward and slave; and, Duthac, I hold thee to be neither.  Fight me
here, hand to hand, like a soldier--like a true Scottish man, that
your treason at least may be freed from a baseness that will consign
you and your race to future infamy!"

Struck to the soul by this valiant and magnanimous spirit, Duthac
presented his sword-hilt to Malcolm, and, kneeling before him (as
Mathew Paris relates), implored pardon.

"Fear nothing, Thane," said Malcolm III., taking his hand; "for, by
the Black Rood of Scotland, thou shalt suffer no evil from me.
Henceforward we are comrades--we are friends, as in other days we
were soothfast fellow-soldiers."

From that hour Duthac became a most faithful subject.  He received
from Malcolm the land whereon they stood, and in confirmation thereof
his charter was touched by the silver battle-axe which our kings
carried before sceptres were known (and which was long preserved in
the Castle of Dunstaffnage); and from this episode the vast oak by
the brook was named King Malcolm's Tree.

Duthac was slain by his side at the siege of Alnwick, and was buried
in the chapel of St. Machin; but his descendants, bearing the name of
Duthie, inherited the lands of Millheugh, in Cadzow, for long after
the period of our story: but to resume----

The reverie of Fawside was broken by a sudden shout that rose from
the dingles of the forest.

It was evidently a cry for succour; there was a rushing sound, and a
riderless horse came galloping wildly past, but stopped near the grey
of Fawside, who adroitly caught the bridle which was trailing on the
ground, and thus arrested the steed, by skilfully securing the rein
to one of its fore legs.

Again he heard the cry, and it had a strange weird sound, being like
that of a man in terror or in mortal agony.  Florence hastened
towards the place from whence it seemed to come, and by the dim
twilight, which the thick foliage of the oaks rendered yet more
dusky, he perceived a man stretched on the ground, and one of the
wild bulls of the district plunging at him with his wide-spread
horns, which the victim strove to elude, by rolling from side to
side, so that the bull beat his armed head against the earth or the
roots of the trees.

"Help! for God's love and St. Mary's sake--help!" cried the
dismounted man.

On seeing Florence approach, the bull, which was of vast height and
bulk, and of milk-white colour, with its muzzle, horns, and hoofs of
the deepest jet-black, uttered a species of grunting roar, and
tossing his lion-like mane, which was white as the foam on the crest
of a wave, lowered his broad head to attack this new enemy.  Like
that bull which bore away the fair Europa,--

  "Large rolls of fat about his shoulders hung,
  And to his neck the double dewlap clung;
  His skin was whiter than the snow that lies
  Unsullied by the breath of southern skies;
  Huge shining horns on his curled forhead stand,
  As polish'd and turn'd by the workman's hand."


This formidable enemy turned all his wrath on Florence; but the
latter unhooked the wheel-lock petronel from his girdle, and, by a
well-directed bullet shot right into the curly forehead of this king
of the forest, laid him bleeding and powerless on the turf, where he
lolled out his long red tongue, beat the air wildly with his hoofs
for a moment, and then stretching his great bony limbs with a
convulsive shudder, lay still and lifeless.

"Kind Heaven sent you just in time, fair sir; by my father's bones,
'tis the narrowest of all narrow escapes!" said the rescued man,
staggering up.  "That foreign firework engine of thine hath done me
gude service."

Florence could now perceive that the speaker was a gentleman,
apparently well up in years.  His face was partly concealed by the
aventayle of his helmet, which had become twisted or wedged, as he
stated, by his horse having stumbled on seeing the bull, and thus
thrown him against the root of a tree; but this protection for the
face being partly open, Florence could perceive that his eyes were
keen and fiery, and that his beard and moustache were white as winter
frost.

Like all who travelled or went to any distance, however short from
their own doors, in these ticklish times, he wore a suit of
half-armour that reached to the knees, below which his legs were
encased in long black riding-boots, which were ribbed with tempered
iron.

"In the wood I outrode and missed my train, of nearly a score of
horsemen," he continued; "and as the neighbourhood has an indifferent
reputation for honesty, I shall be glad to remain with you, sir, till
we find a place of shelter for the night; but may I ask your name?"

"You may," replied Florence, "but under favour, sir, in these times
of feud and mistrust, is it safe for me, a stranger, who has no
friend near but his single sword, to mention _his_ name to one who
speaks so freely of having some twenty horse or so within call?"

"You have somewhat of a foreign accent?"

"Perhaps so--I have been these seven years past in France."

"France--umph!  Hence your mistrust."

"Exactly so.  The land of Catholics and Huguenots, bastiles and
gendarmerie, was exactly the place to teach prudence to the tongue
and patience to the hand."

"Then I claim the same right to mistrust and reserve," said the
stranger haughtily; "though when only man to man I see but little
reason for it, especially as I am an auld carle, and thou art lithe
and young."

Florence felt a glow of anger at this remark; but he thought of his
letters, his recent wounds, of Bothwell, Glencairn, &c., and merely
replied evasively,--

"Your horse awaits you here--so let us mount."

"Whither go you; or is that a secret too?"

"Nay--I ride for Cadzow."

"To the house of my lord regent?"----"Yes."

The stranger muttered something in the hollow of his helmet, and it
was to this purpose,--

"From France, and for Cadzow!  Cogsbones! can this be the Guise
messenger our party wot of?"

"Go you so far?" asked Florence.

"Nay, I am only on my way to visit the house of a remote kinsman--the
Laird of Millheugh."

"Indeed!  I am bound for the same mansion, could I but find it.  We
may proceed together, and I shall trust me to your guidance."

"With pleasure."

"I have a letter for the laird from a kinsman of his, a great lady at
court, and I propose to leave it at the tower to-night, that I may
reach Cadzow at a more suitable hour on the morrow."

"Now, this sounds passing strange to me," said the old gentleman,
peering keenly at Fawside under the peak of his helmet, and
endeavouring to scan his features closely.  "Millheugh hath no
kinswoman at court.  From whom had you the billet?"

"Champfleurie, captain of the queen's guard."

"Hah!  A master in the art of intrigue, I warrant him!  Let me see
this note, if it please you?"

Florence placed it in the right hand of the stranger, whose left now
grasped his horse's bridle.

"It bears on the seal the anchor and chevrons of Bothwell."

"Of Earl Patrick?" exclaimed Florence, changing colour.

"Yea; and his coronet, as I can see plainly enough, even by this
twilight.  Herein lies some mystery, but no evil, I trust; for the
Lord Bothwell is my assured friend.  So let us forward, for yonder
are the lights in Millheugh Towershining, about a mile distant."

"A _mystery_, say you, sir?" reiterated Florence angrily.  "I have
nothing to do with court secrets; and if this laird of Champfleurie
has trepanned me into one, I shall read him a severe lesson, were he
the last Livingstone in Scotland.  And now, sir, as I have no
intention of further concealing my name, know that I am Florence
Fawside of Fawside and that ilk in Lothian, and fear no man
breathing!"

The stranger, with a startled air, drew back a pace, and after a
pause said, in a low and changed voice,--

"I have heard of you, and of your old feud with Claude Hamilton of
Preston anent the right of pasturage and forestry."

"Then you have only heard that which all in Scotland know, and that I
am under vow to slay him!"

"Has this old man--for he is old, this Claude of Preston, ever given
you personal cause for hatred?"

"Personally none," said Florence, with hesitation.

"And yet you hate him?"

"Yea, with an impulse that fiends alone might comprehend!" was the
impetuous reply.

"Wherefore?"

"Ask my suffering mother, who reared me from infancy in this deadly
hate!  Ask my dead father, and ask my dead brother, who sleep
together in the old aisle of Tranent Kirk, and they might tell you
why!  They died--those two brave and faithful ones--by Preston's
bloody hands, bequeathing to me, as the chief part of mine
inheritance, hatred--and well have I treasured it!  This sword was my
father's; this dagger was poor Willie's; and in Preston's blood I am
bound by a hundred vows to dye them both!"

"He is old," said the other gravely; "I tell thee, old."

"Then Scotland can the better spare him," was the stern response.

"Enough of this," said the stranger haughtily.  "I am a Hamilton; and
here in Cadzow Wood, in the heart of the country of the Hamiltons,
bethink you that your words are alike unwary and unwise.  Here is
your letter for Millheugh; and now let us proceed.  I have quarrels
enough of my own, without adding yours to my care."

The elderly stranger restored the sealed note to Florence, and on
mounting was about to speak again, when his horse, which was still
restive and unruly after the late occurrence and report of the
pistol-shot, on being touched by the spur reared wildly back, and
snorted as it cowered twice upon its haunches and tossed up its head;
then throwing forward its fore feet, it sprang away like an arrow
from a bow, and vanished with its rider in the darkened vista of the
forest.  Fawside's first impulse was to hallo aloud, and, for a time,
to search after his new acquaintance; but this proved unavailing, for
the echo of each far-stretching dingle alone replied.

"This stranger spoke truth," thought he.  "I have been both unwary
and unwise in disclosing my name and my feud to one I knew not--to
one who proves to be a Hamilton,--and here in Cadzow Wood, too!
So-ho for Millheugh; fortunately yonder are the tower lights still
glinting through the foliage."

Directing his horse's steps by the red stripes of vertical light
which shone through the narrow windows of the tower that had been
indicated by the stranger as the fortalice of Millheugh, Florence
threaded his way along the narrow dell the leafy monarch of which was
the giant oak of King Malcolm, and soon reached the outer gate of the
barbican.




CHAPTER XX.

MILLHEUGH.

"Without principle, talent, or intelligence, he is ungracious as a
hog, greedy as a vulture, and thievish as a jackdaw."--_Humphrey
Clinker._


Such, indeed, was the character of the person upon whose rustic
privacy Fawside now intruded himself.  The tower, though built four
centuries before, by Duthac the Thane, was indicative of the
character of Allan, his descendant.  It was grim, narrow, and
massively constructed.  The walls were enormously thick; the windows
were small, placed far from the floors of the chambers they lighted,
and were thickly grated without and within.  The stone sill of each
was perforated, to permit the emission of arrows or arquebuse shot
for defence; and these perforations, when not required, were, as
usual in Scotland, closed temporarily by wooden plugs.  A high
barbican wall enclosed the court of the tower on all sides save
towards the brook, the waters of which were collected to form a moat
that was crossed by a drawbridge directly under the base of the keep.

The laird was coarse in manner, rough and unlettered, but subtle in
spirit, strong of limb, hardy by nature, keen-eyed, and heartless.
In his time he had perpetrated many outrages, but always in form of
raid; and secluded in the fastnesses of Cadzow Wood, under the wing
and authority of the House of Hamilton, to whom--though a fierce
tyrant to others--he was a pretended slave, and (while in the pay of
its enemies) a most obsequious and useful vassal, he had long eluded
and braved the feeble power of the newly-created courts of
law,--Scotland's last and best gift from James V.  He had barbarously
treated, for years, a poor girl to whom he had been handfasted, and
to be rid of her, had her accused of sorcery and drowned in the Avon;
nor had he even pity for her children, whom he was accused of
bestowing on Anthony Gavino, chief of the Egyptians, to be made
vagrants and thieves.  But the greatest outrage in which he was
concerned was the assassination of the gentle priest and poet, Sir
James Inglis of Culross.  When his accomplices fled to the Hill of
Refuge at Torphichen, and claimed the sanctuary of the Preceptor and
Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, he sought a safer shelter in his
own barred tower, where he lurked night and day, surrounded by pikes
and arquebuses, until the clamour occasioned by the sacrilege died
away, or some new outrage in other quarters attracted the attention
of the people.

His gatekeeper and butler, his valets and stablers, had all the
aspect of brigands, gypsies, or broken troopers.  Their manners were
coarse and sullen, or boisterous; patched visages, blackened eyes,
and broken noses, were common to them all; and when Florence, in his
rich suit of half-mail, with his jewelled poniard, his inlaid
petronel, and glittering spurs, was ushered into the dimly-lighted
hall, they surveyed him askance, with unpleasant but meaning looks
that seemed to say,--"If time and place fitted, by St. Paul, we would
soon ease thee of all this bravery!"

The stone walls of the hall were lighted by four large and coarse
yellow candles, that flared and sputtered in sconces of brass; but
more fully by an ample fire of pine-roots and turf that blazed on the
hearth under a wide-arched mantelpiece, from whence the flames cast
along the paved floor a lurid glow, as from the mouth of an opened
furnace.  The grated windows of this hall were arched, and sunk in
recesses whose depth was lost in shadow.  Several old weapons,
covered with rust and cobwebs, with a few tin and wooden trenchers of
the plainest description, were the only ornaments or appurtenances on
the walls of this rude old dwelling, while the furniture, which
consisted of a table, a few forms and tripod stools, was all of
common wood.  The floor was strewn with dried rushes, and eight or
ten men, retainers of the tower,--fellows rough, unshaven, and
uncombed in aspect, clad in shabby doublets, were lounging around two
who were engaged in a game of tric-trac.

They started up at the entrance of a stranger, and two others who had
been asleep on the stone seats within the glowing fireplace now came
forward, and cast aside the grey border plaids in which they had been
muffled.

They--the latter--wore gorgets of black iron, with pyne doublets,
swords, and Tyndale knives.  Their steel caps and bucklers lay near.
They were hardy and weatherbeaten men, but of brutal aspect; and one
whose visage was rosy-red, and whose nose was like a thick cluster of
red currants, proved to be no other than Symon Brodie, the drunken
butler of Preston Tower, while his companion was Mungo Tenant, the
warden of the same distinguished establishment.  Some recollection of
their faces--for Florence, when a boy, had once been unmercifully
beaten by this same butler,--or of their livery and badges, caused
him to be at once upon his guard, and to beware of what might ensue.

"Laird--laird Millheugh! a stranger would speak wi' ye," said several
voices officiously; and on one of the tric-trac players rising up,
with an oath and a growl on the interruption, Fawside found himself
confronted, rather than received, by the master of this free-and-easy
mansion.

"God save you, sir," said he, with a blunt country nod, and a leer in
his eye, as he surveyed the bright arms and gay apparel of his
visitor with an expression in which contempt and covetousness were
curiously blended; "whence come you?"

"From Edinburgh----"

"Ay, ay, I thought sae; a braw gallant--one of the galliards o'
Holyrood or Falkland Green--or of the regent, eh?  I have seen muckle
bravery o' this kind about Arran's house in the Kirk o' field Wynd."

"Nay, sir, you mistake," was the haughty reply of Florence, to whom
this bearing proved very offensive; "I have no connection with the
court, neither have I the honour to hold any post or place about the
person of the regent, but am a plain country gentleman of Lothian;
and being on my way to Cadzow, the captain of the queen's guard asked
me to deliver this letter here, where he was pleased to add, I should
be welcome to tarry and refresh."

"Welcome you are, and welcome are a' who like better to byde in
Millheugh than in the forest for a night; but what, in the black
devil's name, can the captain of the queen's guard, a painted and
scented loon like Champfleurie, have to say to me?"

"'Tis from a lady of the queen dowager's court."

"Whew!" said the laird, with a roar of laughter; "let me see the
letter, friend."

As Florence presented the note, the laird rudely and impatiently
snatched it from his hand, broke the seal, and proceeded to make
himself master of its contents.  But this mastery was a process by no
means speedily accomplished by this country gentleman of the year
1547.  He drew close to one of the wall-sconces, scratched his head,
viewed the writing from various points, and, after much delay,
perplexity, and muttering, under his ragged moustaches, many
maledictions on the writer and himself, he succeeded in deciphering
the few lines it contained.  On this, a smile of mingled cunning and
ferocity spread over his massive and vulgar face.

During this delay, Fawside, whom he had permitted to stand, had an
ample opportunity of observing him.

He was tall and, we have said, strongly formed.  His complexion was
pale and sallow, though his hair was black as jet.  His dark eyes had
ever a malicious twinkle, and a villanous expression was impressed on
his whole face by a wound received at the battle of Linlithgow, where
the sword of the bastard of Arran--the same ignoble steel that slew
the good and gentle Earl of Lennox--had laid his left cheek open, at
the same moment completely demolishing the bridge of his nose, which
had never at any time been very handsome.  His attire consisted of a
dirty and greasy doublet, formed of what had once been peach-coloured
velvet, discoloured in several places by perspiration, slops of wine,
and the rust of his armour.  It was rent under the arms, torn at the
slashes, and, in lieu of buttons, was tied by faded ribbons, and,
where these had failed, by plain twine.  His russet sarcenet trunk
hose were in the same condition.  He wore cuarans of rough hide on
his feet, and had a long horn-hafted dagger of butcherly aspect in
his calfskin girdle.  Add to all this black masses of elf-lock hair,
a shaggy beard and moustache, and we hope that the reader sees before
him Allan Duthie of the Millheugh.

A deep quiet laugh stole over his features on making himself master
of the contents of this letter, with the purport of which our
seventeenth chapter has made the reader familiar.  He gave a meaning
glance at his ruffianly and unscrupulous retainers, who were intently
eyeing the stranger as a prize or prey.  Then he surveyed the latter,
the aspect of whose lithe, stalwart, and well-armed figure made him
resolve that a little policy would be wiser than an open and
unprovoked assault, before securing him.  Moreover, he feared that in
a scuffle the gay suit of French plate armour, which he meant to
appropriate, and which, he flattered himself, would exactly fit his
burly figure, might suffer damage; and this he by no means desired,
especially when this unsuspicious visitor, who had brought his own
death-warrant, might be much more easily killed or captured without
it.  All this passed through his subtle mind in a moment.  Then he
turned to Florence, saying with an artful smile,--

"Ye are right welcome, fair sir, to the poor cheer o' Millheugh Ha';
but will ye no unstrap this braw harness, and draw nearer the ingle;
for though the month be August, the cauld wind soughs at the lumheid,
as if some wrinkled hag were byding there, on her way hame frae the
moon or the warlock-sabbath."

"I thank you," replied the young man; "and if one of your servitors
will so fer favour me as to undo the straps of this steel casing----"

"That will I, mysel', do blythely, Fawside," said the laird, who with
great readiness unfastened the various buckles of some portions of
the beautiful suit of mail, and removed them, with the shining and
embossed coursing-hat, to a side buffet, muttering while doing
so,--"By the deil's horns, he has a pyne doublet under a'; but a dab
wi a dirk may soon make a hole in that.  Look weel to this harness,
lads,--as if it were mine ain," he added aloud, with a wink to some
of his people, who seemed quite to understand the hint.  "And so ye
have come from Edinburgh----"

"Last," said Florence, laughing; "but a month since I was in Paris."

"Oho!--and what new plots are the bloody Guises hatching--for they
are aye up to some develrie anent us, eh?"

"I know of none, laird," said Florence with reserve; "I have come
from France certainly, but I have not the honour to be ranked either
as a friend or confidant of the Cardinal de Guise or the Duc de
Mayenne.  Indeed, I never saw them but once, for a few minutes, in
the gallery of the Louvre."

"Yet Bothwell styles you a spy of the Guises!" thought Millheugh.
"Well, well, sir," he added aloud; "'tis no matter o' mine.  Serve up
the supper quick; but, ere sitting down, sir, would ye take off your
braw belt and sword?"

"Nay, Millheugh," said Florence smiling, though certain undefined
suspicions occurred to him; "I am never unarmed even in my own house;
and you, I see, wear your belt and Tynedale knife."

"Oh, it matters nocht to me," said the laird with a cunning laugh;
"but I thocht ye might sup the easier without your lang iron spit and
braw baldrick."

A repast of the plainest kind, but great in quantity, consisting
mainly of brose, haggis, sowons, and porridge with prunes in it, was
now served up, with cold beef, and venison hams; and, while the two
retainers of Claude Hamilton sat somewhat apart, darting covert
scowls from under their shaggy brows at their master's feudal enemy,
they, as well as Millheugh's hungry foresters, made great havock
among the contents of the piled platters and ample cogies with which
the table was furnished--viands which were washed down by a river of
ruddy-brown ale, flowing from a large cask set upon a bin, in a stone
recess, the Gothic canopy of which showed that in the days of the
present proprietor's father therein had stood a crucifix and
holy-water font, wherein all were wont to dip their fingers before
sitting down to meals;--but the times were changing fast, and the
minds, manners, and morals of the people were changing with them.

When supper was over, Florence, weary with his long and rough ride of
so many miles, and heartily sick of the laird's coarse, if not brutal
conversation, retired to rest; and believing himself in perfect
security, divested himself of his attire, and was soon in a profound
and dreamless slumber--so profound, that he heard not at midnight
three very decided attempts which were made by certain parties
without to force his door, the many locks and bars of which, however,
fortunately stood firm and were his friends.  Soundly he slept,
though his couch was made only of soft heather, packed closely in on
an oblong frame, with the points uppermost, and a sheet spread over
it, in the old Scottish fashion.  But towards morning--all
unconscious that he was a prisoner--sounds of distant merriment came
floating to his ear, and awoke him for a time.

That night, and for hours after midnight had passed, Millheugh and
his men drank deeply in the rude and ancient hall, and their songs
and boisterous laughter, came to the ear of Florence by fits, upon
the weird howling of the morning wind.  One drunken ditty, composed
by some West Lothian (and long forgotten) song-writer, on Preston's
never sober butler, seemed an especial favourite, and a score of
voices made its chorus shake the vaulted roof of the old tower.  It
ran thus:--

  "Symon Brodie had a cow:
    When she was lost, he couldna find her;
  But he did a' that man could do,
    Till she cam' hame wi her tail behind her.
        Honest bald Symon Brodie,
        Stupid auld doitit bodie!
          Gin ye pass by Preston Tower,
        Birl the stoup wi Preston Brodie.

  "Symon Brodie had a wife,
    And wow! but she was braw and bonnie;
  A clout she tuik frae off the buik,
    And preened it on her cockernonie.
        Honest bald Symon Brodie,
        Stupid auld drunken bodie!
          For Claude, the laird o' Preston Tower,
        Has kiss'd the wife o' Symon Brodie."


Florence awoke late--at least, _late_ for 1547; the time-dial
indicated the hour of eleven; when he rose, dressed himself, and
descended to the hall, with his purse in his hand to scatter a
largess among the servants, to breakfast, and then begone with all
speed.

By various pretexts, the laird procrastinated the time for his
departure, till Fawside was at last compelled to order his horse
peremptorily.  Then Allan Duthie threw aside all disguise, and
laughed outright at him.

Florence started from the table, and with his hand on his sword
approached the door of the hall.

Then the laird snatched up an arquebuse with a lighted match, and at
the head of several domestics, variously armed, prepared to dispute
his exit, by completely barring the way; at this critical stage of
their proceedings the sound of a hunting-horn, blown loudly at the
gate, made even the most forward of the brawlers pause to a time.

"Is that thy master's horn, Symon?" asked the treacherous laird.

"I dinna ken, Millheugh," replied Symon, arming his right hand with a
tankard, the contents of which he had just drained, and the creamy
froth of which covered all his Bardolph nose and grizzly-grey
moustache; "but he must be here ere midday pass."!

"Claude Hamilton here!" thought Florence, as the blood rushed back
upon his heart; "one house can never hold us--with these people, too!
Oh, mother! to-morrow you may say your mass-prayers for my butchery.
Millheugh must know of our feud, and yet he told me not he was
expected here!"

"If he come not speedily," continued the jesting ruffian, "woe worth
all the breakfast he is likely to get; but the loss o' it will be a
just punishment, as I ken he eats beef and mutton in Lenten-time,
instead of kail and green herbs, for the gude o' his soul."

"What the deil hae our souls to do wi' kail, or beef, or mutton,
Millheugh, whate'er our appetites may?" asked Symon Brodie; "a gude
appetite is a sign o' a gude conscience.  There sounds the horn
again!"

"A Lollard, hey?" exclaimed Millheugh; "thou hast heard Friar Forest
preach, I warrant."

"I heard him preach, and saw him burned at a stake on the Castle
Hill."

"Take ye care then, Symon, for there are faggots for those who speak
like thee; and a butler will burn as well as a friar."

"Indubitably."

"Make way, fellows!" exclaimed Florence, lunging at Millheugh with
his sword; "make me way, or your lives are not worth a dog's ransom.
'Tis well for thee, and such as thee, Symon Brodie, that the terror
of the scoffer and the impious, Cardinal Beaton, is in his grave!"

"His eminence," said Millheugh, "aye deemed himself on better terms
with Heaven than other men."

"Weel, weel," said the impudent butler, "he hath since, peradventure,
discovered his mistake in that matter."

"Thou saucy varlet," exclaimed Fawside, making at him a blow, which
he eluded by leaping on one side, "darest thou speak of him so in the
presence of a loyal gentleman?"

"Peace, I command you," cried Millheugh; "for, by the hoof of Mahoun,
here come more visitors!"

As he spoke the jangle of spurs was heard on the stair that gave
access to the upper stories of the tower.  Several gentlemen, well
armed, and richly clad in riding-coats, with long boots of Spanish
leather, and having, mostly, helmets, cuirasses, and gorgets,
hurriedly thronged into the hall; and Fawside felt a momentary
emotion of alarm on recognizing among them the voices and figures of
Patrick Earl of Bothwell, the Earl of Glencairn, and the sinister
visage of his son, the Lord Kilmaurs.




CHAPTER XXI.

A BOTHWELL!  A BOTHWELL!

  Yet might not Aquilante's spirit fail,
  Though shivered was his shield, and gashed his mail!
  Cautious but firm he struck; no sign of dread,
  His aspect or his manly port displayed.
                                          _Roncesvalles._


With a burst of laughter these turbulent nobles and their armed
followers, who were numerous, unsheathed their swords; and Florence
boldly confronted them all, while his heart beat rapidly,---for he
knew that entreaty or concession would avail him nothing.  He knew,
too, that he had been foully ensnared.  He found himself in a
perilous predicament, for he soon recognized the voices, if not the
faces, of nearly all the same men by whom he had been so sorely beset
on the first night of his landing from the galley of M. de
Villegaignon.

"So, so!  Our worthy Millheugh has brought the boar to bay!"
exclaimed Kilmaurs, the wound on whose sinister visage grew purple in
his excitement as he pressed forward.

"Ha-ha!  Fawside, most worthy messenger," added Bothwell; "thou art
quite alone, eh!"

"Alone; but not as St. John was, in the Isle of Patmos; for he is
with his betters and much good company," said Glencairn.

"Do cease with this irreverence, Glencairn," said Bothwell, who, like
all that still adhered to Rome, was nervously sensitive of all that
appertained to the faith of his forefathers.

"Ye haver, my lord," was the surly rejoinder.  "That whilk our
forbears of auld deemed reverence we now term but rank idolatry, and
an abomination in the nostrils of the Lord."

"Like loyalty to the crown and faith to our country--folly, eh?  But
enough of this," said the selfish and blood-thirsty Kilmaurs.  "And
now for the matter in hand.  Worthy Master Florence Fawside----"

"A spruce young cock o' the game, my masters!" said Symon Brodie.  "I
warrant ye will find him tough enough."

"We should keep him for fighting on Fasterns e'en," added Millheugh,
who was not quite sober.

"Silence!" cried Kilmaurs.  "We have other ends in view for him, and
need not this ribaldry."

"What am I to understand by all this studied insolence, and by my
being thus beset?" demanded Florence, standing on his guard, sternly
eyeing them all, and waving his sword in a circle around him.
"Speak, sirs, lest I slay the most silent man among you."

"You have brought letters," began Kilmaurs.

"One to the laird of Millheugh, most certainly.  That letter I
delivered."

"Oh, yes; of a verity we doubt not that," continued his chief
tormentor Kilmaurs;--"the letter from a fair court lady--a countess,
at least, who was in sore trouble, and lacked a messenger to her dear
kinsman here.  We mean not that.  Ha-ha!  Champfleurie played his
cards well!"

"I have been snared and deluded!" said the poor youth, while his
heart beat like lightning; and he glanced round him vainly for means
of escape, or, at least, for a desperate and protracted resistance.

"Precisely so; you have been deluded.  Champfleurie----"

"Like each one of you, is a villain, whom, will God, I shall yet
unmask and slay!" exclaimed their victim.

"By St. Bride! poor devil, I almost pity thee!" said Bothwell.
"Thou'lt fare hardly enough at the hands of Millheugh and his ragged
Robins."

"Florence Fawside," said Kilmaurs, "we know thee to be a spy of the
Guises and bearer of their letters to Mary of Lorraine and the Regent
Arran.  We can easily slay thee, and obtain such papers as may be
concealed in secret pockets; but we care not, by cracking the nut, to
gain the kernel so hastily.  Ye may be the custodier of other and
more important secrets than men care to commit to paper, especially
such men as the Cardinal de Guise and Monseigneur the Duc de Mayenne:
and these secrets we must have!"

"Sirs, I swear to you, as a gentleman and a true Scottish man, I am
the depositary of no such secrets as you suppose," said the
unfortunate youth, with great earnestness; for though brave, even to
temerity, he thought of his old mother and his young love, while all
their swords seemed to glitter death before him, and his sinking
heart grew sad.

"A cock-laird like thee may swear to anything," said Kilmaurs
insolently.

"Thou, Kilmaurs, art an empty boaster, and a coward.  My race is
among the oldest in the land."

"Being descended, in the male line, direct from Adam."

"Despite this insolence, I repeat, my lords, that I tell you--truth!"

"Knave, thou dost not tell the truth," exclaimed Kilmaurs, who became
pallid with fury; "so, beware, lest we have thy tongue torn out by
the roots and nailed on Hamilton cross, to feed the gleds and
hoodicrows.  I have seen such done ere this."

"If he lieth, the event shall prove," said Glencairn; "let him be
disarmed, and bound to the iron cruick above the hall fire; then pile
on wetted wood and green boughs, till we smoke the secrets out of
him."

A shout of fierce and derisive acclamation greeted this suggestion of
an impromptu mode of torture not uncommon in those old lawless times;
and the tone of defiance assumed by the victim was lost amid the
bantering laughter and insults of more than thirty voices.
Surrounded on all hands, he had only power left to run one assailant
through the body, and before he could withdraw his sword to repeat
the thrust, a score of heavy hands were laid upon him, those of his
host, Allan of Millheugh, being among the most active.  His sword and
poniard were at once rent away, and he was dragged over the
blood-stained floor towards the large arched fireplace.  In the lust
of blood, the feudal, or political, or religious rancour which
animated those at whose mercy he was now so completely cast, they
struggled with each other for who should give him a blow or a buffet,
and contended vehemently for the office of binding him to the iron
beam that swung over the blazing fire.

Florence struggled also--but in vain.  The united strength and the
iron hands of his numerous enemies, noble and ignoble, were
irresistible and overpowering.

He strove to cry aloud, but whether for mercy or in defiance, in his
bewilderment, he knew not; his voice was gone, and he could scarcely
gasp for breath: then how much less was he able to articulate.

"A rope--a rope!" cried Millheugh; "weel wetted, too, lest it burn
when we birsel him.  Quick, ye loons, quick!"

"Heap damp boughs and green peats on the fire," said Glencairn.
"Quick--lest instead of only _smoking_ the secret out of him, we
roast him before the right time."

Bruised, bleeding, pale, and powerless, Florence now found himself
under the rough arch of the yawning fireplace and the flame of the
large pile of blazing fuel that lay heaped on the hearth was already
scorching him to the quick!  Above his head swung the smoke-blackened
bar of the cruick whereon occasionally large pots and cauldrons were
hung, and which moved outward or inward, in sockets, like a crane.

His hands were roughly forced behind him by the united strength of
several men, and held thus while Mungo Tennant, the warder of
Preston, proceeded to tie them.  Meantime others were piling green
boughs on the flame, partially to quench its heat, and to fill the
vast tunnel-like chimney with black smoke, amid which they seemed
like demons superintending infernal orgies.  While this was
proceeding, there was a snaky glare in the glistening and triumphant
eyes of Kilmaurs.  This fierce young lord was popularly believed to
possess an _evil eye_, and that his gaze had the power of blighting
whatever it fell upon.  Friend or foe, horse or sheep, were averred
to wither away.  In Cunninghame, it was said that corn died in the
ear, and the leaves of a tree shrivelled and dropped off, if he
looked at them fixedly; and this dangerous attribute made him a
source of terror to all--even to the irreverend Reformer, his father.

All was nearly complete: the fire, half suppressed by the damp fuel,
now emitted a dense column of black smoke, and a well-wetted rope was
already made fast to the iron bar.

"Up wi' him, now, to the cruick, by craig and heels," said Glencairn;
"and then let him sneeze in the reek, like a carlin in the mist."

"God have mercy on me; for men will have none!" was the mental prayer
of Florence, with a half-stifled groan, as he felt himself lifted off
the floor and held over the smoke:--but ere the principal cord was
made fast, a powerful man burst through the crowd around the vast
fireplace, and, forcing them asunder, commanded all, "on pain of
death, to hold their hands!"

"A Bothwell! a Bothwell!" cried Earl Patrick, in a voice of thunder.
"Who dares cry hold, when I command to strike?"




CHAPTER XXII.

THE SCORNED AMITY.

            Chieftains, forego!
  I hold the first who strikes, my foe.
  Madmen forbear your frantic jar!
                            _Lady of the Lake._


"Hold all your hands," exclaimed the new comer; "or by Heaven's
vengeance, I will run the foremost of you through the body!"

"Who dares to lift his voice thus under my roof-tree?" demanded
Millheugh savagely, forcing a passage, dagger in hand, through the
throng.

"I dare!--I, Claude Hamilton of Preston," replied the stranger, in
whom Florence (now released, and though reclining faint and feebly on
a bench) recognized, to his astonishment, the grey-bearded man whom,
in Cadzow Forest, he had rescued from mutilation and a dreadful death.

"And think you, carle, that we will obey you?" demanded the Earl of
Bothwell contemptuously.

"Perhaps not, were I alone; but when I tell you, lord earl, that I
have now a train of thirty horsemen, armed with jack and spear, in
the tower court, and that I have but to sound this horn to bring
every man to my aid, the face of affairs may be changed.  I lost my
train in the forest; but fortunately, it would appear, we have
reached this place together at a very critical time."

"Hark you, Laird of Preston," said Glencairn angrily; "what are we to
understand by all this?  Would you attempt to deprive us of a lawful
prisoner, whom we have captured at last, and after no small trouble,
too?  He--this Fawside--is your feudal enemy, and our political
opponent, being an emissary of the bloody-minded Guises.  Will you,
then, dare to befriend him?"

"Ay, even he will I befriend," replied the old man sternly.

"This is rank insanity," exclaimed the Earl of Bothwell; "does one of
our own party turn against us thus?  And have we ridden
five-and-thirty miles or more to find ourselves defrauded of our prey
by the mere bullying of an auld carle like this?  Forward! again, my
men, and string me yonder poppinjay up to the cruick with the
rope--not at his waist, but round his knavish neck!  Or, if you will
make still shorter work, let two take him by the hands, and two by
the heels, and by one fell swing dash out his brains against the
stone wall!  I have seen such done in Venice ere this.  I am Patrick
Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, and high sheriff of Haddington--who shall
dare to gainsay me?"

"Stand back, I command you," thundered the resolute old laird of
Preston, grasping his silver-mounted bugle with one hand, while
menacing all with one of those long and ponderous two-handed swords
then worn by the Scots;--"back, I say; or, by the arm of St. Giles
and all that is holy in heaven, I will make hawks' meat of the first
man who advances!  'Tis scarcely twelve hours since, when in Cadzow
Wood, this youth, though mine enemy, saved me from a frantic white
bull, when lying half stunned by a fall from my horse; and blessed be
God, who hath enabled me to come hither in time to prevent a deed so
foul as you, my lords, contemplate.  And now I tell ye, sirs, that
were he laden with a horse-load of letters from the Guises, from the
Cardinal, the Duke de Mayenne, and from Henry of Valois to boot, he
shall ride forth on his way, sakeless and free, escorted by my own
followers; and if thou, Allan o' Millheugh, (for weel do I ken thee
for a bully and a knave of auld, man!) restore not to him all of
which he has been deprived, I will light such a fire in Millheugh
Tower as Cadzow Wood hath never seen since its tallest oaks were
acorns!"

All present knew that Hamilton of Preston was a resolute man, who
would adhere to his word.  Defrauded of their prey, the three lords
muttered vengeance, and sheathing their swords, retired sullenly into
a corner of the hall.  The laird of Millheugh attempted to string
together a few awkward and absurd apologies, while restoring to
Fawside his much-coveted arms and armour, which he hastily put on in
silence, and with the sombre fury that filled his heart expressed in
every lineament of his agitated face, which was now deathly pale, and
marked by more than one wound or bruise, received in the recent
struggle.

"Drink, sir; you look faint and ill, after all this rough handling,"
said Claude of Preston, handing a cup of wine to his young feudal
enemy, whose handsome features he scrutinized with an expression of
sadness and interest,--for Florence was said to be the living image
of his father Sir John, whom Preston slew.

The youth drank the wine, and returned the cup, saying briefly,--

"Sir, I thank you: you, at least, are an honourable enemy--and brave
and humane as honourable."

"And such, young man, the Hamiltons of Preston ever found each
gentleman of your house to be."

"For that compliment, again I thank you."

He had now completed his arming, in which Preston courteously
assisted him; and on drawing his sword, he could no longer restrain
the rage and indignation with which his heart was bursting, and in
this tide of wrath he included his preserver with his enemies.

"Allen Duthie of Millheugh," said he sternly, while his eyes glared
under the peak of his helmet, "I brand thee as a false coward and
foul thief; and such I shall prove thee to be, in the face of all
men, at a fitting time.  I am now ready to depart; and gladly will I
do so," he added, with a furtive glance at Preston; "for, of a
verity, the air of this place suffocates me."

"Ere ye go," said Preston, drawing off his glove, "Florence Fawside,
in presence of these lords and gentlemen, for the good offices that
have passed between us, last night and to-day, I offer you my
friendship and alliance, to the end that our feud be stanched, and
committed to oblivion."

"You ask me this," said the young man with rising anger, "while
wearing at your side the same sword that slew my poor father and my
brother Willie!"

"Nay, if that be all, though with this sword, my forefather, with his
Scots, held the bridge of Verneuil, in Anjou, against Duke Clarence's
English billmen, I will shiver the blade to atoms----"

"Keep your sword, Preston," replied Florence; "ere long, you will
require it for other purposes.  Friendship cannot exist with
hatred,--alliance with mistrust."

"You will never live to comb a beard as grey as mine, if you speak
thus rashly through life," said Preston grimly.

"I speak like my father's son; and I care not for dying early, if I
die as my father lived and died--with honour!"

"'Tis said like the brave son of a brave father; but once more,
Fawside, remember you gave me life last night--to-day I give you life
and liberty."

"Taunt me not with the service, old man.  'Tis well we are still, I
thank God, equal!  My blood boils hotly, Preston; and, despite the
good you do me, I must remember my vow.  Our fathers' feud is but
renewed: draw--a life I have given--a life I will peril again, even
here; so, come on!"

"In this hostile hall?"

"Where place so fitting as this foul den of would-be murder and
robbery?"

"Rash fool!  If I am slain, your life will be forfeited," replied the
baron, drawing back a pace.

"I care not," replied the youth wildly and mournfully--for the events
of the morning had filled his soul with a fury which required an
object whereon to expend itself; "at my mother's knee as a child, at
the altar of God as a man, I have sworn a thousand times to slay
thee, even as ye slew my father under tryst, wherever and whenever I
met thee--and now the hour is come!"

During this new dispute, the three lords, and the group around them,
looked on and listened with approving smiles; for to them it seemed
that Preston had merely come in time to save them the trouble of
killing their prisoner.

"If he escape," said Glencairn, "we can beset the paths from Cadzow,
and watch for his departure.  Our squire-errant rides alone, and must
fall an easy prey."

"But," said his son, "if the letters be delivered, what then shall we
have?"

"Vengeance!"

"Preston changes colour," said Bothwell, with a sardonic smile;
"there will be such a raid in my sheriffdom, as Lothian hath not seen
since Sir Ralf Evers, the Englishman, knocked with his gauntlet on
the Bristo-gate, at Edinburgh."

"And thereafter had his brains knocked out at Ancrumford," said
Kilmaurs, who slew him there; "but, hush, the storm grows apace."

At Fawside's last remark, Preston's wrinkled cheek grew deathly pale.

"Bairn, begone," said he loftily, "lest I send thee to thy mother in
a colt's-halter.  Go--I scorn the accusation, as I scorn your anger.
If I took your father's life in feud, 'twas fairly done in open fray,
and _not_ under tryst; and that life I saved twice at Flodden, from
the Lord Surrey's band of pikemen.  Go--go, I say, and God bless
thee;--the wish may be all the better, that it cometh from the lips
of a man whose years are wellnigh three score and ten."

"The murderer of my father and my brother!  Draw, lest I smite ye
where ye stand!"

"Never! your blood is owre red on my hands already."

"Hah, 'tis a coward I am confronting."

"Shame on thee, Fawside, to say so," exclaimed the Earl of Bothwell,
who began to watch this strange scene with new and more generous
interest.

Preston became fearfully pale, and trembled with emotion, while his
staunch henchmen, Mungo Tennant and Symon Brodie, uttered a shout of
anger, and drew their swords.

"Recal that bitter word, boy?" said Hamilton, hoarsely.

"Coward, coward!" continued Florence, menacing his throat with the
point of his sword.

Preston struck it contemptuously aside with his bare hand, and gasped
for breath.  He then made an attempt to draw his sword; but
relinquishing the hilt, by a violent effort mastered his emotion.

"Boy," said he, "my pride and my spirit are passing away from me.
There was a time when, by a glance, I had almost slain thee for an
insult such as this--but that day is gone, yea, gone for ever!  A
coward, I?" he continued, with a wild, choking laugh, while the tears
started to his reddened eyes; "rash fool! thy brave father, whose
spirit may now witness this meeting, would never so have taunted me;
but I am old enough to bear even this from thee.  Go, I say, in
peace; for on this right Land of mine there is already more than
enough of the blood of your family."

In five minutes after this, Florence had left the tower of Millheugh,
and found himself riding through the green glades of Cadzow Forest,
the upper foliage of which was glittering in the noonday sun.

Mentally he rehearsed his late meeting with Preston, and now his own
heart--as his better passions resumed their wonted sway--began to
accuse him of acting harshly, and without grace or generosity.
Despite himself, his cheek began to redden with a glow of honest
shame, for the taunts he had hurled upon a gentleman whose years were
so many, and whose high valour had been so often and so undoubtedly
proved in battle; but these thoughts were immediately stifled, as the
tall form, and grave, resentful face of his stern mother seemed to
rise before him, and gave rise to other ideas; then, lest he might be
followed by the men of Bothwell or Glencairn, he spurred his fleet
grey to a gallop, and pushed on rapidly for the residence of the
regent.




CHAPTER XXIII.

CADZOW CASTLE.

  When princely Hamilton's abode
    Ennobled Cadzow's Gothic towers,
  The song went round, the goblet flow'd,
    And wassail sped the jocund hours.
                                    _Scott._


The Avon, a tributary of the Clyde, flows through a beautiful valley,
the sides of which are clothed with magnificent timber of great size
and age.  Embosomed amid the thickest part of this forest, surrounded
by trees which were planted during the reign of David I., and
overhanging a rushing torrent, the rocks of which are covered by
masses of dark ivy and luxuriant creeping-plants, stands the castle
of Cadzow, now an open ruin, having been dismantled in the wars of
Queen Mary's time, but which, at the epoch of our story, had banners
on its ramparts and cannon at its gate, being in all the strength and
pride of a feudal stronghold as the residence of a princely and
powerful chief, James Earl of Arran, who, by his position as regent,
was the first subject in the realm.

This castle is about a mile distant from the town of Hamilton, where
Florence was informed that the regent, though at Cadzow, was
preparing, with all his train, to depart for Stirling.  This
venerable fortress once gave a name to the whole district, and both
were anciently the property of the crown of Scotland, as there are
yet extant charters granted by Alexanders II. and III. dated at "our
Castle of Cadzow;" but David II. gifted to Walter, the son of Sir
Gilbert of Hamilton, his lands of Cadzow and Edelwood, in the county
of Lanark; and thereafter on the whole territory was bestowed the
present name of Hamilton, the castle and forest alone retaining their
ancient designation.

Many horses, saddled and richly caparisoned, held by grooms,
liverymen, pages, or men-at-arms, were grouped under the trees of the
park; and the bustle of preparation previous to departure was evident
in and about the castle as Florence rode up to the gate, where his
arrival attracted but little attention amid the throng of nearly a
hundred gay cavaliers, who were waiting for the appearance of the
regent.

After some inquiry, our new-comer found a page wearing the livery of
the house of Hamilton, and desired him to say that a gentleman from
Edinburgh requested the honour of an audience.

"You cannot see the regent," replied the page bluntly, while
switching a few specks of dust from his white leather boots with a
fine laced handkerchief.

"Why so?"

"His grace is at dinner," was the brief reply.

"He sits long; 'tis one by the dial."

"Kings are pleased to be hungry sometimes, and a regent may be so,
too."

"Thou saucy jackfeather, say instantly to the captain of the guard,
the usher, or whoever is in waiting, that I, Florence Fawside of that
ilk, bearer of letters from the queen-mother and the king of France,
am here at his castle gate, or, by the furies!  I will scourge you
with my bridle, were you the last, as I verily believe you are the
first, of your race in Scotland!"

This imperious speech crushed even the proverbial insolence of the
court page, who was a son of Hamilton of Dalserfe.  He reddened with
anger, and frowned; then he gave a saucy smile and withdrew, saying,--

"I shall do your bidding, sir."

In a few minutes after, the messenger found himself ushered into a
stately hall, and in the presence of the Regent of Scotland.

James, second earl of Arran and tenth in descent from the founder of
his house, who rose to favour under King Alexander II., was a peer of
noble presence.  He had been the loyal friend of the late King James
V., whom he accompanied in his expedition to the Orcades and Western
Isles in 1536, and with whom, in the September of that year, he
embarked for France, and was present at his nuptials with Magdalene
de Valois, the eldest daughter of Francis I., in the church of Notre
Dame at Paris.  She died soon after, a young and beautiful queen of
twenty summer days; and the king, about a year after, espoused the
daughter of René of Lorraine, Mary, whom we have already had the
pleasure of introducing to the reader.  As regent of Scotland, Arran
passed many patriotic laws, one of which, sanctioning the issue of
the new Bible which Father William, a Dominican, had translated into
the Scottish tongue, procured him, on one hand the affection of the
Reformers, and on the other the hatred of those who adhered to the
Church of Rome.

He was above the middle height; he had that peculiar length and
gravity of visage which the shorn hair and peaked beard imparted to
the faces of all the great and noble of his time, as we may see in
the portraits of Francis I., Philip II., James V., of Raleigh,
Morton, Murray, and others; his eyes and hair were dark; when he
smiled, it was haughtily, with his lips closed; while the troubles
incident to his time and government gave him a saddened and
preoccupied look.  He wore a hongreline of blue velvet laced with
gold braid, and so called from the pelisse of the Hungarians.  This
species of doublet was buttoned close under the chin, but was open
below, to display a cuirass of the finest steel inlaid with
magnificent carving.  It had been presented by Christian II. of
Denmark to his father, who had led five thousand Scots to succour
that monarch in the war of 1504.

He was attended by four pages, all sons of barons of the surname of
Hamilton--to wit, the young lairds of Dalserfe, Broomhall, Allershaw
(who in manhood and in after years fought at Langside "for God and
Queen Mary"), and Bothwellhaugh, a grave and resolute boy, who twenty
years later was to slay the regent Maray.  Clad in cloth-of-gold,
with gold chains at their necks, they had his armorial bearings
embroidered on the breasts of their doublets, and, though mere boys,
they were armed like men, with swords and daggers.

"Welcome to Cadzow," said the regent, presenting his hand, which
Fawside kissed respectfully.  "You have come from France, I am
informed?"

"With M. le Chevalier de Villegaignon."

"Villegaignon!" reiterated the regent coldly, but with surprise.  "He
hath come and been gone again these several weeks.  How comes it to
pass, young sir, that I have only now the honour of seeing you?"

"The honour is mine, Lord Arran.  As regent of Scotland, all honour
must, after our young queen, flow from you."

Arran gave a cold smile, and replied,

"This is well-timed flattery, and proves that you have not spent
seven years, as I have heard, with the Duchess Anne of Albany without
benefit."

Fawside bowed, and presented the letter of Henry II.

"What spots are these on the cover?" exclaimed Arran.  "Blood!  You
have been fighting, sir--been wounded!  Where was this?  And you have
delayed----"

"Three swords in one's body are likely enough to cause delay; and I,
my lord, have had these, with a stroke or so, from a partizan to
boot.  Hence the delay of which your grace complains."

"Indeed!  I must inquire into this.  But such brawls are now of
hourly occurrence.  Retire, gentlemen," said he to the four pages;
who at once withdrew to resume their game of primero in the
antechamber.

Florence briefly and modestly, but with an indignation that grew in
spite of himself, related the dangers he had undergone, first in the
streets of Edinburgh and latterly in the tower of Millheugh, to which
he had been snared by the letter given from the hand of Champfleurie;
and as he proceeded, the broad brow of Arran grew black as a
thunder-cloud, and his whole face assumed a sombre expression.

"Now, heaven grant me patience!" he exclaimed, striking his sword on
the floor; "there is more than a mere brawl in this: treason lies
under it--treason and a conspiracy; and, by my father's soul, I shall
hang them all!"

"Hang nobles?"

"Well, the more titled rascals shall have the perilous honour of
having their heads sliced off by an axe,--the grim privilege of
nobility; but the more common rogues I shall hang high and dry, like
scarecrows in a cornfield."

"My lord regent, I beseech you not to embroil yourself with powerful
peers like Cassilis, Bothwell, and Glencairn, for a small matter like
my three sword-cuts."

"Knaves who are at faith and peace with England, as I am told,"
continued Arran, pursuing his own thoughts.

"True, my lord; but when we find among them a man like Hugh Earl of
Eglinton, who is constable of Rothesay, bailie of Cunningham, and
chamberlain of Irvine, to attempt punishment would embroil your whole
government, and peril the Queen's authority."

"And both are so weak, that no later than last year, without the
assistance of the prior of Rhodes, and his galleys, I could not
dislodge a few sacrilegious rebels from the castle of St. Andrew's!
Yet we are strong,--we Hamiltons," continued the regent loftily; "the
blood of our house has mingled with that of our kings, and run over
Scotland in a thousand channels; but you counsel well and wisely,
Fawside; for there are times when I fear that the envy of these
malcontent lords will destroy me, and level even the throne."

"Fear them not, my lord; that man is worth little who excites not
envy."

"Faith, thou art right, boy!" said the regent cheerfully; "and though
those who wronged thee are perhaps too numerous and powerful for me
to punish at present, a time shall come; and meanwhile, I will not
the less reward your worth and bravery; and now, sir, for the letter
of the Valois."

As he read it, the contents seemed to please him; his eyes sparkled;
a glow suffused his cheek, and an expression of triumph spread over
all his features.

"We are to have auxiliaries from Henry II. to strengthen my
government, and enable me to resist the wiles and wishes of the
English protector, so that our young queen shall wed the heir of
France, and _not_ the son of the last Tudor!  Good--good!  Monsieur
d'Essé d'Epainvilliers is to be lieutenant-general; Monsieur
d'Andelot, colonel of two thousand French men-at-arms," he muttered,
reading the names of those soldiers who served at the siege of Leith,
and in the campaign of 1548; "the Rhinegrave will bring three
thousand Almayners armed with pike and arquebuse; Monsieur Etanges is
to be colonel of a thousand gendarmes on horseback; Signor Pietro
Strozzi will lead a thousand Italian veterans; M. le Chevalier de
Dunois is to be general of the ordnance; and the Sieur Nicholas de
Villegaignon, knight of Rhodez, and admiral of the galleys of France,
shall bring twenty-two war-ships, and sixty-two transports, all
bearing the red lion of Scotland.  'Tis good, 'tis noble of King
Henry, and worthy the spirit of the old alliance with France.

  'Fall--fall, whatever befall,
  _Our Lion shall be lord of all!_'

If we have war with England,--and hourly I expect a declaration of
it, the sooner these succours arrive the better, for there are many
men in Scotland so foully corrupted by English gold, that I tremble
at the prospect of leading a Scottish army to the field, lest it
crumble by the very corruption of our peers."

"The galleys and transports were lying in the harbour of Brest, where
I saw them when I sailed; and they wait----"

"Wait--for what?"

"The arrival of the troops, who are all chosen men, and are now on
their march from the frontiers of Italy; but I have yet another
letter for your grace."

"From whom?"

"Her majesty the queen-mother."

The brow of Arran darkened for a moment, as he opened and read the
missive.

"She exults at the prospect of having so many French men-at-arms to
fence her daughter's throne, and fight the English; but let me be
wary, lest they fight with Scottish men as well.  Sir, if you love
me----"

"Oh, your excellency!"

"And wish to serve me," resumed the regent, grasping the arm of
Fawside, and bending his keen dark eyes upon him, "you must avoid
that dangerous Frenchwoman."

"Who, my lord?" stammered Fawside.

"The widow of the late king; for she plots deeply to deprive me of
the regency, which is the darling object of her ambition, and the
hope of the Guises; and this I know so well, that I dare scarcely lay
my head on its pillow at night, for fear that a hand with a dagger is
concealed behind the arras,--avoid her, I say; avoid her!"

Florence coloured deeply as the beautiful face and form of the royal
widow seemed to rise before him, with the dearer image of her friend.
Arran now insisted on his visitor being seated; and the purport of
King Henry's letter having put him in the best of humours, he became
more conversational.  He walked about the room, and as he did so, or
stood with his back to the fire, he said,--

"I presume, sir, that you know how hard a task the loyal and faithful
have to perform here in Scotland, to maintain the national league
with France, in the face of secret treaties, formed, or _said_ to
have been formed, by certain of our lords, who were the prisoners of
King Henry after the field of Solway, and whose plots, by the seven
pillars of the house of wisdom, a wise man will be needed to unravel."

"In France, I heard such things talked of openly; and that Henry
VIII. had the audacity to propose, if you would put the little Queen
Mary into his murderous hands, to give his daughter Elizabeth in
marriage to your son, now captain of the Scottish guard, and, with an
army, to make you king of all Scotland beyond the river Forth."

"You heard rightly, sir," said Arran, with a scornful laugh; "'twas a
knave's hope--a madman's project; and then he tried gold; but had he
offered all the precious metal that Michael Scott cheated the devil
of, he would have failed with James of Arran!"

"And how did wise Sir Michael cheat the devil?"

"Know ye not the story?" asked the earl, smiling.

"No, my lord."

"The Evil One was as marvellously overreached as when Michael
employed him to make ropes of sea-sand.  He cut a hole in the crown
of his bonnet, and here, in Cadzow wood, holding it over the mouth of
a coalheugh, which the devil saw not, so curiously had the wizard
concealed it, he tauntingly offered to barter his soul for the said
bonnet full of gold-dust."

"And the devil----"

"Was outwitted, as he had to fill the pit ere he could fill the
bonnet.  So had Henry of England offered me all the gold which the
infernal pit of Michael of Balwearie contained, he had failed to
tempt me; though I fear that a less bribe has tempted many others,
who pretend to be merely averse to the residence of our queen in
France; but, after our conference at Stirling, I have resolved that
she sail for Brest; for I would rather see the daughter of James V.
lying by his side at Holyrood than wedded to son of him who, three
years ago, carried fire and sword into Scotland, and who broke the
gentle heart of Catharine of Aragon!"

"But what of the Protector Somerset?"

"He may meet us again in battle, when and where he will; and now,
sir, if you will accompany me to Stirling, whither I set forth in a
few minutes, you must refresh; for on my faith you look both weary
and worn."

Florence, in truth, felt and looked as the regent said; for after his
long ride from Edinburgh, and the adventures of the past day and
night, he was becoming faint and pale.  The regent sounded a silver
whistle, which lay on the table, and was then used in lieu of a
hand-bell.  The young laird, of Dalserfe, the senior page, appeared;
and to him Arran remitted the duty of attending to the wants of his
visitor.  The latter, though he would have preferred returning to
Edinburgh, _felt_ that the wish of Arran to have his company so far
as Stirling implied a command, obedience to which became more
palatable when he discovered that Mary of Lorraine and the ladies of
her court would be present at the intended conference.

The regent, a man of great penetration, though too quiet and
well-meaning to govern a people so turbulent as the Scots, saw in
Florence a young man, travelled, brave, intelligent, of good
position, of high spirit, and--what was much more remarkable in
1547--of education.  He felt that such a man might prove invaluable
to his household and government, and was anxious to attach him to his
person.

This idea proved fortunate; for, by accompanying the regent to
Stirling, he eluded the followers of Bothwell and Glencairn, some
twenty or so of whom, with loaded arquebuses, were at that moment
lurking in the forest of Cadzow, for the express purpose of cutting
him off, if he came forth from the castle alone.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE JOURNEY.

  Right hand they leave thy cliffs, Craigforth!
  And soon that bulwark of the north,
  Grey Stirling, with its tower and town,
  Upon their fleet career look'd down.
                                        _Scott._


On the way from Cadzow to Stirling, though frequently honoured by the
society of the regent, who requested him to ride near his person,
Florence was sad, sombre, and abstracted; for his heart was full of
fiery and bitter thoughts.  In Arran's train there rode a hundred
horse, mostly gentlemen, all well mounted, richly apparelled, and
splendidly armed.  As many of these were Hamiltons, they viewed with
some jealousy and mistrust the sudden familiarity which seemed to
exist between the stranger and their chief.  The events which had
taken place since the night of his landing at Leith had almost soured
his heart against his own countrymen; at least these events had
filled it with a thirst for vengeance on all who were in league
against the regent Arran; for with those, and such as those, he
correctly classed the men who had laid such deadly snares for his
destruction, and had pursued with such rancour one who had done them
no wrong.

Champfleurie he had resolved to slay, without much preface or
ceremony, on the first available opportunity.  He had similar
benevolent views regarding the laird of Millheugh, the Lord Kilmaurs,
and so many others, that, had he possessed the hands of Briareus, and
had in every hand a sword, he would not have found them too many to
fulfil his mental and hostile engagements.  His old inborn and
hereditary hatred of Preston was still unwavering, though tinged with
compunction; for he could not but remember and acknowledge the
generosity of the old man on whose grey hairs he had hurled his
scorn, his obliquy, and defiance.

And then came to memory his love--his unknown love--so beautiful and
so playfully mysterious--a countess, yet one whose name he had failed
to discover among the many countesses who, by the policy or loyalty
of their husbands, clustered about the person of Mary of Lorraine;
for it was becoming evident to all, that if a false move in the great
games of war and politics were made by Arran, she, when supported by
the Guises, a French army under D'Essé d'Epainvilliers, and those
Scottish lords who adhered to her, would not fail to obtain for
herself that which she prized more than life--the regency of Scotland.

The train of Arran rode rapidly, to reach Stirling in time, lest the
train of the queen-mother, who was coming from Edinburgh, might enter
the town before them; and on this journey Florence could perceive,
from incidents that occurred, how the people and the times were
changing.

The wild white bulls were seen in great numbers about the woods of
Cumbernauld, and the gentlemen of the regent's troop pursued and shot
one of great size and beauty for mere sport, while it was grazing on
the wild furzy heath of Fannyside-muir.  They assigned the carcass to
three of the Queen's bedesmen, or blue-gown beggars, who were
passing, and then rode heedlessly on their way; though on an oak by
the wayside there hung the festering and hideous remains of two poor
Egyptians, who had been put to death by Malcolm Lord Fleming of
Cumbernauld for having slain one of these useless white oxen for food.

At Templar-denny, they crossed the Carron by an ancient bridge of
four pointed Gothic arches, built by the Knights of the Temple in the
reign of David I.; and there, as the glittering train of Arran rode
through the village, the whole population were assembled on the bank
of the river, in wild commotion, to duck a woman accused of
witchcraft, while the air was rent by shouts of--

"A witch!  a witch!--banes to the bleeze, and soul to the deil!"

The victim was a hag, old enough, and ugly enough, to support the
character.  She had dwelt apart from all in a wretched hut upon the
haunted Hill of Oaks, and was accused of working much evil to a man
who once mocked her years.  By one spell she had stopped his mill for
nine days and as many nights; thus, though the Carron swept through
the mill-race with the fury of a summer flood, the old moss-encrusted
and wooden wheel stood still and immovable; but when it _did _turn,
it was with a vengeance indeed!  It whirled with such velocity that
the mill took fire and was soon reduced to ashes; and all this she
had achieved by the simple agency of burying a black cat alive, and
casting above it three handfuls of salt.

She shrieked piteously for aid and for mercy, as Arran's glittering
train swept past; but the age of chivalry was gone--vile superstition
had taken its place; and all these hundred lords, knights, and
gentlemen, rode on their way, abandoning this unhappy being to the
fury of a mob, who soon ended her sufferings in the waters of the
Carron, which swept her body to the Firth.

The Reformation, with the superstition of witchcraft, grew and
flourished side by side in Scotland.

As the regent's train traversed the district famed still as the
Scottish Marathon, a proof was seen of the progress the whole kingdom
was making towards a universal apostasy from Rome.  Though a body of
Cistercian nuns, on a pilgrimage from the priory of Emanuel, on the
Avon, were heard singing the _sexte_, or noonday service of their
order, in the chapel of St. Mary at Skoek, and the harmony of their
sweet voices came delightfully on the soft wind that swayed the
masses of wavy grain, and rustled the foliage of the Torwood at
Bannockburn, one of those crosses which piety of old had placed in
almost every Scottish village, had been overthrown in the night; the
arms of this symbol of redemption had been shattered, and the effigy
of the Great Martyr was dashed to fragments, which were strewed over
the roadway.

Florence was neither devout nor bigoted, yet, like many of the
regent's train, he felt that there was something in this new
spectacle and sacrilege which deeply wounded his heart, and all the
old traditions--if we may so name the solemn faith in which his
mother reared him, and in which so many of his ancestors had
died--rushed like a flood upon his soul.  Several gentlemen checked
their horses, and frowned or muttered; others smiled heedlessly and
covertly, for the day was coming when all reverence for the cross and
triple crown of Rome would be lost amid the stern opposition of one
portion of the Scottish nation and the apathetic indifference of the
other.




CHAPTER XXV

THE PROCESSION.

  And many a band of ardent youths were seen,
    Some into rapture fired by glory's charms,
  Or hurl'd the thundering car along the green,
    Or march'd embattled on in glittering arms.
                                              _Beattie._


The Regent Arran, with his gay train--their armour, jewels, and lace
all flashing in the sunshine--came at a gallop through the
magnificent glades of the old Torwood, and entered Stirling by its
lower gate, at the moment that the cannon from the lofty castle,
under the orders of Hans Cochrane, the Queen's master-gunner, began
to boom from the ramparts; and the bells of the Dominicans, in the
Friar Wynd, and of the Franciscans, among whom King James IV. was
wont to pass each Good Friday on his bare knees, "in sackcloth shirt
and iron belt," rang merrily; and the vast silver-toned bell which
King David hung in the great tower of Cambus Kenneth, on the green
links of Forth, replied in the distance.

The steep and narrow High Street of Stirling was so densely crowded
by the burgesses and population of the adjacent villages, by country
farmers and bonnet-lairds on horseback, each with his gudewife cosily
trussed on a pillow behind him--and also by the trains of the Queen
and Queen-mother, that it was with difficulty Arran could approach,
with his plumed hat in hand (he had given his helmet to young
Dalserfe), to pay his proper respects and take his place on the right
hand of Mary of Lorraine, while his retinue mingled with hers.

The day was beautiful, clear, and serene; and the charming purity of
the air, with the lofty situation of Stirling, rising on its ridge of
rock from a vast extent of fertile plain, curving hills, blue river,
and green forest scenery, that spread for miles around it, till
mellowed faint and far away in sunny mist and distance, might have
made one think that it was on some such August day that King William
the Lion, in his last sickness, when the prayers of the Church, and
when the subtle medicines drained from his fairy goblet, failed to
save him, thought of Stirling, and begged his courtiers to bear him
there, that he might inhale its delightful atmosphere, and live yet a
little longer.

Amid the ceaseless hum of conversation, the air rang with cries,
laughter, the confused clamour, caused by the trampling of thousands
of feet and iron hoofs in the narrow space, where this dense and
dusty throng, like the waves of a human sea, seemed to be broken
against the abrupt abutments of the houses, wynds, and alleys; the
towers of turnpike stairs and out-shots, or at times by the lowered
lance, the levelled arquebuse, or clenched hand of some exasperated
man-at-arms who became incommoded by the pressure upon his mailed
person.

Every window was full of faces, and every out-shot, fore-stair, and
doorhead, every ledge, moulding, and even the tops of some of the
houses, bore a freight of bare-headed and bare-legged urchins, who,
excited by the cannon, the bells, the crowd, the music, and the
general hubbub, waved their caps or bonnets, and lent their shrill
voices to swell the great chorus of sounds by which the Queen-mother,
her little daughter, and the Regent Arran, were welcomed into the
loyal and ancient burgh of Stirling, whose noble castle was to our
kings of old what Windsor was to the house of England, and Aranjuez
to the line of Castile, a summer palace, and--if such could be found
in stormy Scotland--a place for recreation and repose.

The Earl of Bothwell, outwardly still a loyal noble, with a troop of
spearmen, all cuirassed, helmeted, and on horseback, led the van;
then came the great officers of state, mounted on caparisoned horses,
each with his train of grooms and lackeys, many wearing their robes
or official insignia; thus Bothwell wore at his neck a silver
whistle, and on his banner an anchor, in virtue of his office as Lord
High Admiral of Scotland.

First came the Lord Chancellor, John Hamilton, archbishop of St.
Andrew's, a mild and gentle statesman, of great presence and dignity,
the _last_ Catholic primate of Scotland.  He was barbarously murdered
in 1571, at the bridge of Stirling, and in his last moments was
insulted by his enemies compelling him to wear his pontifical robes.

Then came the Lord High Treasurer, John Hamilton, abbot of Paisley,
brother of the Regent; and the Comptroller of Scotland, William
Commendator, of Culross, each in the robes of his order.  Then
followed the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal, bearing it in a velvet
purse embroidered with the royal arms.  This statesman was William
Lord Ruthven, of the fated line of Gowrie, and father of the stern
Ruthven, who looked so pale and ghastly through his barred helmet on
that night twenty years after, when David Rizzio was slain in the
north tower of Holyrood.

The Secretary of State, David Panater, bishop of Ross, keen-eyed and
shaggy-browed, bent his stern glance over the multitude.  This was a
learned prelate, poet, and statesman, who was once prior of St.
Mary's beautiful isle, and for seven years was Scottish ambassador in
France.  Then came the laird of Colinton, who was Lord Clerk
Register, but who handled his two-handed sword better than his pen,
riding beside the bishop of Orkney, who was lord president of the
Court of Session, and a dabbler in the literature of the day--a
scanty commodity withal.

The Great Chamberlain of Scotland came next.  He was Malcolm Lord
Fleming of Cumbernauld, a brave and proud peer, who possessed a vast
estate, having no less than twelve royal charters of lands and
baronies in various counties.  He was without armour, but wore a
doublet of shining cloth of gold, with a chain and medal, also of
gold, at his neck.  Thirty gentlemen in armour, and as many servants
in livery coats, armed with swords and petronels, and all bearing the
name, arms, and colours of Fleming, rode behind him.  Then, amid many
other gentlemen, rode Claude Hamilton, of Preston, with his train of
rough fellows, armed with helmet, jack, and spear, headed by his
drunken butler, Symon Brodie, who had encased his portly person in a
suit of remarkably rusty old iron, furnished with a capacious casque
of the fifteenth contury, from the hollow depths of which he swore at
the crowd as confidently as if he had been an arquebusier of the
royal guard.

Preceded by many barons of parliament, wearing their crimson-velvet
caps, which were adorned by golden circles, studded with six
equidistant pearls, and by many bishops, abbots, and priors, in
many-coloured robes, came M. d'Oysell, the ambassador of France, and
Monsignore Grimani, patriarch of Venice and legate of Pope Paul III.
A Venetian, feeble, nervous, sallow-visaged, and black-eyed, he had
come to urge upon the Scottish hierarchy "the necessity for crushing
the growing heresy, lest the church of God should fall."  As if he
had been a cardinal priest, two silver pillars were borne before him
by two Dominican friars, between whom rode a Scottish knight of
Rhodes or Malta, from the preceptory of Torphichen, armed on all
points, wearing the black mantle of his order, and bearing aloft the
Roman banner, on which were gilded the triple crown of the sovereign
pontiff and the symbolical keys of heaven.

The clamour of the populace was hushed as this solemn personage
approached; but it was no spirit of reverence that repressed them;
for, sullen and contemptuous, the Reformers as yet muttered only
under their beards, and scowled beneath their bonnets at the envoy of
"the pagan fu' o' pride;" for the time was one of change--the old
faith all but dead, and the new was little respected and less
understood.

We have said that the train of the Regent Arran joined that of the
Queen-mother.  He felt something of pique and envy at its splendour,
yet he courteously rode bareheaded by her side.  In taking his place
there, Fawside fell back, and, being pressed by the density of the
crowd against the corner of a house, was compelled to remain there
inactive on horseback while this glittering procession, amid which so
many of his personal enemies--such as Preston, Cassilis, Glencairn,
and Ealmaurs--bore a part, passed on.  The sight of these in
succession filled his heart with a longing for retributive justice
upon them--a longing so deep and high, that the emotion swelled his
breast till the clasps of his cuirass were strained to starting; yet,
remembering that he was there alone--but one among many, common
prudence compelled him to remain quiescent for a time.

Led by Champfleurie came the Queen's band of armed pensioners or
arquebusiers, wearing the arms and livery of Scotland and Lorraine.
These soldiers were first embodied by the widow of James V., and
existed as a portion of the Stirling garrison, wearing the Quaint
costume of her time until 1803, when they were incorporated with one
of the garrison battalions formed by George III.  On this day they
were preceded by the Queen's Swiss drummers, her trumpeters, violers,
and tabourners, all clad in yellow Bruges satin, slashed and trimmed
with red, and led by M. Antoine, in whom Florence immediately
recognized the pretended dumb valet of his mysterious habitation.

Then came the widowed queen herself, looking rather pale, but
beautiful as ever.  She was seated in a chariot, then deemed a
wonderful piece of mechanism.  It was twelve feet long by six wide,
and rumbled along on four elaborately-carved wheels.  It was drawn by
six switch-tailed Flemish mares, each led by a lackey in scarlet and
yellow, and was lined and hung with "doole-claith, or French black,"
as old Sir James Kirkaldy of Grange, her treasurer, styles it.
Before it, an esquire bore her husband's royal banner, for the
painting of which, in gold and fine colours, Andro Watson, limner to
King James V., received the sum of four pounds.

By her side was a little girl, whose sweet and childlike face was
encircled by a triangular hood of purple velvet edged with pearls.
This girl, with the dimpled cheeks and merry eyes, which dilated and
glittered with alternate delight, surprise, and alarm at the bustle
around her, was the queen of all the land, the only child of James
V.; and old men who had fought at Solway, at Flodden, and at
Ancrumford--aged soldiers, who had carried their white heads erect in
Scotland's bloodiest battles,--veiled them now, and prayed aloud that
God might bless her.

The conventional smile upon the beautiful face of Mary of Lorraine
was like the cold brightness of a winter sun, for many upon whom her
smiles were falling she loved little and suspected much; and thus she
smiled on Arran when he bowed to his horse's mane to kiss her gloved
hand.  But the childlike Queen Mary laughed aloud, and held out both,
her pretty hands to the bearded earl, with a smile so sweet and
natural, that even the cold and politic noble was moved, for it was
the simple greeting of youth to a familiar face; while with her
mother he was on the terms of two well-bred people who are shrewdly
playing a selfish game and quite understand each other.  Yet, as he
gazed on the clear bright limpid eyes and smiling face of the
beautiful child, he more than half repented the departure from that
treaty by which she was to have become the bride of his son, the Lord
Hamilton, who was then a soldier in France--a treaty which would have
placed the house of Arran on the Scottish throne.  Mary's object was
to obtain the regency, and with it the permanent custody of her
daughter till she came of age; while Arran, as next heir to the
throne, was resolved to hold both in his own hands, at all hazards
and at all perils.

In the Queen's chariot were four ladies, who, like herself, wore the
black velvet dool-cloak, the large hood of which, in the fashion of
the time, was pulled so far over the face as to impart to the wearer
the aspect of a mourner at a funeral.

While all his pulses quickened with eagerness and anxiety, Florence
strove to pierce the crowd that stood between him and this great
mis-shapen and slowly-moving vehicle, which contained the two queens
and their ladies; but under their capacious hoods he failed to
discover the face of her he sought.

Suddenly one raised her gloved hand and lightly threw back the front
of her hood.  The action gave Florence a start like an electric shock.

"'Tis she!" he exclaimed, on recognizing the soft features, the dark
eyebrows and hair of his unknown.  "And now I cannot fail to discover
her, as many here must know the names and rank of the ladies of the
tabourette."

He turned to a person who, like himself, was on horseback, but who,
being completely wedged in by the crowd, sat in his saddle gazing
passively at the pageant, which ascended the steep street towards the
castle of Stirling.  He was well armed, and wore the livery and
badges of a trooper of the house of Glencairn, yet seemed, withal, to
be a gentleman.  In short, this person, who was gazing, apparently,
with the vacant curiosity of a mere spectator, was one of the most
enterprising actors in our drama--Master Edward Shelly, the
Englishman.  To him, all this affair was but one other feature in the
perilous political game he had been ordered to play, and which, in
his soul, he despised.

He knew that the beautiful, noble, and wealthy wife proposed for him
by the Scottish malcontents, was among the attendants of the two
queens; and though, as a soldier, a Boulogner, tolerably indifferent
on the subject of matrimony in general, and, as an Englishman of
1547, especially indifferent on the matter of a Scottish wife, he
certainly had some curiosity again to see this lady, whom, as yet, he
had never addressed, but whom he had repeatedly passed in the
streets, or seen at mass, and once at a hawking-party on Wardie Muir,
when in attendance on Mary of Lorraine, like whom, she was a graceful
and expert horse-woman.

The eyes of these two men were lighted by smiles, and the colour in
their cheeks heightened as they saw the fair young face, so suddenly
revealed from the sombre shadow of the doole-cloak; but an
examination of their smiles will prove that they resulted from
different emotions.

Florence expressed in his moistened eyes all his soul felt of honest
joy and love on beholding one so dear to his heart--a heart as yet
unhackneyed in the ways of the world; and the warm flush came and
went on his smooth boyish cheek, while every pulse beat rapidly.

The smile that spread slowly over the handsome and sunburned face of
Edward Shelly, expressed only satisfaction, with (it might be) a dash
of triumph, that she was all we have described her to be.  Even in
that age he was past the years of romantic or sudden attachments.
Shelly was verging on forty; and his latter twenty years had been
spent in Calais and other English garrisons in France: thus, in some
respects, his morality, especially as regarded women, fitted him as
loosely as his leather glove.

"So ho, my future wife!" he muttered, twisting his thick moustache up
to his eyes, in the clear blue of which drollery was perhaps the
prevailing expression.

"My love, unknown love!" whispered Florence in the depth of his
heart, and then a sadness came over all his features and his soul, he
knew not why.

These two persons, the man and the youth, the careless and the
impassioned, the triumphant and the sad, conscious that the same face
attracted them, now turned towards each other, and spoke.

"Worthy sir, can you favour me with the name of that lady who has
just thrown back her hood?" asked Florence, in a voice that was
almost tremulous, as if he feared the secret of his heart would be
exposed.

"And who is now speaking to the little queen?"

"Yes."

"'Tis Madeline Home, the Countess of Yarrow."

"_Yarrow!_" reiterated Florence in a breathless voice.

"Yes, the niece, and some say, heiress, of Claude Hamilton of
Preston, who hath just passed upward with a train of horse, and his
butler, a drunken lout, like a huge lobster at their head."

Had a cannon exploded at his ear, Florence could not have been more
astounded than by this revelation of a relationship so fatal to the
romance and success of his love.

"She is beautiful, my friend," continued the Englishman, looking at
her, with his head on one side, with the air of a connoisseur
admiring a horse, a yacht, or a picture; "what think you of her?"

"That one so fair, so noble, must have many, perhaps too many
lovers," sighed the young man in a voice of bitterness, as he cast
down his eyes.

His manner was so strange, that Shelly now turned sharply towards
him, and from the expression of his face began to gather, or to fear,
that there were in Stirling more lovers already than were quite
necessary; but the Queen's great chariot passed on; the crowd
collapsed in its rear; the two horsemen were roughly separated, and
Florence, bewildered by what he had just heard, mechanically followed
the Regent's train towards the Castle of Stirling.  He had but one
thought:--

"Countess of Yarrow; she is the Countess of Yarrow, whose father's
sword was foremost on the day my father fell!"

This, then, was the reason why she and the Queen, with a tact and
secrecy which thus defeated the end in view, had so studiously
concealed her name from him.  But what availed their tact and secrecy
now?

To love the niece, the ward and successor, the nearest and only
kinswoman of Claude Hamilton, the man whom, since infancy, he had
been taught to abhor,--the slayer of his father, the slayer of his
brave brother Willie; he whom he had registered a thousand impious
vows to destroy whenever and wherever they met,--at church or in
market, in field or on highway; he whose name in Fawside Tower had
been a household word for all that was vile and hateful; he whose
friendship he had so totally scorned, and on whose white hairs he had
heaped obloquy and hurled defiance!

Alas! it produced a terrible chaos of thought and revulsion of
feeling.  Here Father John of Tranent would recognize the finger of
Heaven, pointing a way to soothe the angry passions of men, and to a
lasting peace between the rival races; but then Dame Alison, that
stern daughter of the gloomy house of Colzean, would only recognize a
snare of the Evil One, who was seeking to deprive her of her "pound
of flesh,"--of her just and lawful meed of vengeance!

Full of these distressing reflections, Florence followed the train of
the Queen into the Castle of Stirling, and, dismounting within the
arched gate, which is defended by round towers, that are still of
great strength, and were then surmounted by steeple-like roofs of
slate, he joined the Regent's suite, who were now all on foot.  Hence
the loud and incessant jingling of spurs of gold, of silver, and of
Ripon steel, upon the pavement of the yard, the staircases, and the
great hall, where the conference was to be held, proved how great was
the number of men of distinction who followed Mary of Lorraine and
the Regent to council.

As the former alighted from her chariot, there occurred (according to
the narrative of the vicar of Tranent) one of those incidents, which
were frequent in those simple times, when royalty was easier of
access than now.

An aged woman, wearing a curchie and tartan cloak, threw herself on
her knees, and lifting up her hands, exclaimed,--

"Heaven save your grace!"

"What seek you?" asked the Queen, pausing.

"Charity;--my gudeman died on Flodden Hill wi' his four sons and his
three brethren."

"My poor woman," said Mary of Lorraine, detaching a purse from her
girdle, and placing it in the hand of the mendicant, "then we have
each lost a husband for Scotland."

The Countess of Yarrow led the little Queen Mary by the left hand.

The Regent Arran gave his right hand, ungloved, to her mother; their
suites formed in procession; and, while the trumpets sounded shrill
and high, they ascended to the hall, between ranks of pikemen and
arquebusiers facing inwards.

The bells continued to toll; still the populace without shouted their
acclaim; still the iron culverins and brass moyennes thundered in
smoke and flame from the massive bastions and arched loopholes,
wreathing the grey turrets with fleecy vapour, and waking the distant
echoes of the Torwood and the Abbey Craig; while, that nothing might
be wanting to swell the combination of noises, two old lions, pets
and favourites of the late King James, to whom they had been sent by
the Emperor Charles V., roused angrily from their lethargic noonday
dose, were pawing, prancing, and bellowing in that small court,
which, from their presence there, is yet named the Lions' Den.




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE CONVENTION OF ESTATES.

  Oh, gentlemen of Scotland! oh, chevaliers of France!
  How each and all had grasp'd his sword and seized his angry lance,
  If lady-love, or sister dear, or nearer, dearer bride,
  Had been like me, your friendless queen, insulted and belied!
                                                        _Bon Gaultier._


This meeting took place in that magnificent hall which was built by
James III. for banquets and the meeting of parliament.  It is one
hundred and twenty feet long; and to the taste for architecture,
which led him to embellish it in a style of the most florid beauty
(long since destroyed by the utilitarian barbarism of the Board of
Ordnance), with his love for painting, poetry, music, and sculpture,
he owed much of that malignity which embittered his short life, and
ultimately led to his fatal and terrible end in the adjacent field of
Sauchieburn.

Unlike the rough, rude tower which crowns the tremendous precipice
that overhangs the valley, and from the small windows of which our
earlier monarchs, such as the four Malcolms, the three Alexanders,
and the three Roberts, were wont to survey the mighty landscape of
wood and wold, mountain and rock, through which the snaky Forth winds
far away to sea,--with the giant Grampians, deep, dark, and purple,
cut by the hand of God into a hundred splintered peaks, mellowing in
distance amid the skies of gold and azure,--unlike this rude tower,
we say, from the battlements of which men had seen Wallace win his
victory, by the old bridge, and Bruce sweep Edward's host from
Bannockburn,--the buildings of James III. in Stirling Castle are
covered by quaint pilasters, deep niches, elaborate carvings, and
rich mouldings; by columns and brackets, supporting statues of Venus,
Diana, Perseus, Cleopatra, James V., and Omphale.

The hall had a lofty roof of oak, from which hung English, Moorish,
and Portuguese banners, taken in battles at sea by the gallant
Bartons; by Sir Andrew Wood, of Largo, in his famous _Yellow
Frigate_; and by Sir Alexander Mathieson, the "old king of the sea."
Its walls were covered by gaudy frescoes, or pieces of tapestry, the
work of Margaret of Oldenburg and the ladies of her court.  At the
upper end stood the throne, under the old purple canopy of James IV.,
until whose reign the royal colour in Scotland had been purple; and
on a table, before this lofty chair, lay the sceptre, the sword of
state, and the crown,--that crown of thorns, and of sorrow, which
more than one valiant king of Scotland has bequeathed to his son on
the battlefield,--the fatal heritage of a fated line of kings.

During a flourish of trumpets, the little queen was placed upon the
throne, where she gazed about her smiling, while a mixture of
childlike wonder, alarm, and drollery glittered in her dark and
dilating eyes.  On her left hand sat Mary of Lorraine, a step lower
down; on her right stood the Regent, in his shining doublet, leaning
on his long sword.  Behind the former were grouped the Countesses of
Yarrow, Mar, Huntly, Errol, and Orkney, in their long dool-cloaks;
behind the latter was a gay suite of lesser barons and gentlemen of
the surname of Hamilton, gorgeously attired and armed.

With an emotion of irrepressible sadness, Mary of Lorraine gazed
round the beautiful hall, and on the splendid but silent crowd which
filled it; glittering in armour, lace, velvet, silk, jewellery,
plumage, and embroidery.  Then her fine eyes drooped on the child by
her side.

To her, Stirling Castle was a place of many sad and stirring
associations.  There, her husband, the magnificent and gallant James
V., was born, and crowned in the same year in which his father fell
in battle.  It was his favourite residence, and the scene of many of
his merry frolics, as the gudeman of Ballengeich; and there their
only surviving child, Queen Mary, had been crowned in 1543, when only
nine months old,--crowned queen of a people who were to cast her
forth as a waif upon the sea of misfortune; but on whose annals the
story of her sorrows, and of their shame has cast a shadow that may
never fade.

Many conflicting public and private interests were involved in the
result of this convention of estates, or conference at Stirling.

The marriage of the young queen with the heir of France, or with the
boy Edward VI.; and hence the great question of peace or war with
England; involving the lives of thousands, who were doomed never to
see the close of autumn.

Bothwell looked forward with confidence to the rejection of the
French marriage, and to himself obtaining the hand of an English
princess, when he could exult over Mary of Lorraine, who had trifled
with his love, as with the love of many others, as already related,
for reasons of her own, and slighted him in the end.

M. d'Oysell, the ambassador of Henry II., confidently anticipated the
successful issue of that diplomacy which would ultimately make him a
peer of France, knight of St. Michael, and perhaps lord of some
forfeited Huguenot seigneurie.

M. Grimani, the patriarch of Venice, had also in view the maintenance
of the ancient league between France and Scotland; that the
hydra-headed heresy of the latter might be destroyed by fire and
sword, if the power of the preacher failed.

Claude Hamilton, of Preston, already saw in imagination his coming
patent of the earldom of Gladsmuir, as others of his
faction--Cassilis, Glencairn, and Kilmaurs--did their pensions,
places, and profits, if the English marriage was achieved.

Edward Shelly, somewhat to his own surprise, felt a combination of
selfishness and delight, at the prospect of winning a rich and
beautiful wife--a young countess, and perhaps an earldom, as the
reward of _his_ diplomacy; while poor Florence Fawside, ignorant of
all these secret springs of action, which moved the wise and good, or
the titled knaves around him, looked gloomily forward to the sequel
of the feud he had yet to foster, and to the consequent loss, for
ever, of a love that was all the more seductive and alluring because
such a passion was new to his heart, and that she who was its origin,
had thrown much that was romantic around it.  Although the poor lad
knew it not, on the decision of these lords and barons, loyal and
true, or rebel and false, depended, perhaps, the sequel of his love;
for the object of it was to be bartered, as Shelly phrased it, "like
a bale of goods," to a foreign emissary, as the price of his services
in assisting to subvert the liberties of Scotland.  In his sudden
grief, on discovering the abyss of old hereditary hate that yawned
between himself and Madeline Home, he forgot even the wrongs he had
to avenge upon the Laird of Champfleurie and others, who had plotted
for his destruction.  He forgot all but her presence, and that she
was lost to him!

All Lowland Scotland stood on tiptoe, watching with anxiety the
result of a debate that was to give her an English king, or was still
further to cement the league of five hundred years, by placing the
French dauphin on the throne of the Stuarts; we say _Lowland_
Scotland, for the Celts, ever at war among themselves, viewed with
disdain or heeded not whatever was done, beyond their then impassable
boundary, the Grampians.

Arran looked forward to having the regency placed more securely in
his hands, and resolving that, if it passed, as ultimately it did,
into the firmer grasp of Mary of Lorraine, to resort at once to arms,
and hoist the standard of revolt on his castle of Cadzow.

Let us see how all this ended.

The debate was stormy, for many of the speakers were rude and brief
in speech, rough, unlettered, fierce, and turbulent.  Frowns were
exchanged, gauntleted hands were clenched, and more than once the
pommels of swords and poniards were ominously touched, among both
parties; for though the proud spirit and patriotism of many were
roused to fiery action by the great event at issue, there were
others, whom we need not name--the _Scottish utilitarians_ of
1547--whose cupidity and selfishness alone were enlisted in the
cause; but vain were their exertions.  The letter of Henry of Valois,
the production of which caused many an eye to lour on Florence, who,
absorbed in his own thoughts, was all unconscious that he was
observed at all,--the energy of his ambassador, M. d'Oysell, and the
eloquence of Mary of Lorraine, when united to her own beauty and her
husband's memory, bore all before them!  Hence the proposals of the
English Protector, Somerset, were abruptly rejected, with something
very much akin to disdain.  In his letters there was assumed a
dictatorial tone, which could not fail to offend the loyal portion of
the Scottish _noblesse_.

"By his holiness Pope Julius II.," said Arran with a kindling eye,
"it was ordained in 1504, that at his court the king of Scotland
should take precedence of the kings of Castile, of Hungary, Poland,
Navarre, of Bohemia, and Denmark; and that he should recognize no
superior but God and His vicegerent on earth: then whence this
grotesque loftiness of tone from a regent of England?"

The patriarch of Venice and the French ambassador beheld this growing
indignation with evident satisfaction; while glances of ill-concealed
anger and dismay were exchanged by those whose names were affixed to
the indenture which, at that moment, Shelly carried in the secret
pocket of his jazarine-jacket.  Cassilis, who had little patience and
less politeness, openly insulted the legate by terming Pope Julius "a
shaveling mass-monger and pagan priest."

"My lord, my lord!" exclaimed the Archbishop of St. Andrew's, growing
pale with anger; "beware lest he excommunicate thee with bell, book,
and candle!"

"I care not," replied the sullen earl, frowning at the primate under
the aventayle of his helmet; "for I am ready to maintain, wi' the
auld Lollards o' Kyle, that the pope is a pagan, who exalteth himself
against God, and above Him; that he can neither remit sins nor the
pains of purgatory by mumbling Latin, or scribbling on a sheep-hide;
that the blessing of a bishop is worth less than a brass bodle, and
that Paul III. is the head o' the crumbling kirk of Antichrist!"

The sallow Venetian trembled with horror and anger at these words,
and raised his thin white tremulous hands to heaven.

"Sancta Maria!" he exclaimed; "silence, thou false peer, lest I have
thee burned quick!"

Cassilis laughed aloud, till every joint in his armour rattled.

"I am Gilbert Kennedy," said he, "and can betake me to my auld house
in the wilds o' Carrick; so send your faggots there; and, hark ye,
sir legate, I, who have hanged a monk, may feed the crows with a
patriarch."

Cassilis was a stern and ferocious lord, so none dared to reply.  He
was a tyrant over his vassals, who found his avarice insatiable; yet
it was always exerted in form of feudal law.  Thus, on the marriage
of each of his daughters (he had two--Jean, married to the Earl of
Orkney, and Catherine, to the Laird of Banburrow), or the knighting
of his sons, the master, and Sir Thomas of Colzean; or for the
maintenance of feuds with his neighbours, he had mulcted them heavily
by the ordinance which made it "lesome to the lord to seek sic help
frae his men conforme to their faculties and the quantitie of their
lands;" in short, to tax them, and seize the best of the goods in
stable, byre, roost, and cheese-room, whenever the lord pleased, or
found an urgent necessity for so doing.

The arguments and energy of this avaricious peer, of Glencairn,
Kilmaurs, and others, who were in secret the agents or adherents of
Somerset, if they failed to convince the mass who heard them, of the
advantages that might accrue from a nuptial and political union with
England, succeeded at last in filling with undefined alarm the bosom
of Mary of Lorraine, whose finely nervous and aristocratic, yet soft
temperament, was as ill calculated to withstand the turbulence,
cupidity, and savagery of these atrocious peers, as in after-times
her daughter to withstand their sons.  She knew the falsehood of
those with whom she had to contend, and who were now collected in a
gloomy group near the council-table.  Her soft cheek, from having the
pink tinge of a sea-shell, crimsoned; her beautiful eyes filled with
light, and, with a hand white as marble, grasping an arm of her
innocent daughter's throne, she rose to speak, and then all were
hushed to silence, and every eye was turned towards her.

"My lords and gentlemen," said she, gathering courage from the
emergency of the moment and the presence of M. d'Oysell and the
patriarch of Venice, "the holy religion which was planted in this
soil a thousand years ago, and which flourished so broadly and so
well, yielding good fruit, has been all but uprooted!  A cardinal
priest, a prince of the Church, has been barbarously murdered in his
own archiepiscopal palace, and, gashed by wounds, his naked corpse
has been suspended from its ramparts in the light of noon!  Already,
by this tremendous act, the altar of God has been defiled and the
temple shaken to its foundation.  Through the dim vista of events to
come, I look forward with fear and sorrow to the future reign of my
little daughter, the child of the good King James V.--that King James
whom Pope Julius made defender of the faith, and girt with a sword
sharpened by his holy hand on the altar-stone of St. Peter, against
all heretics, especially those of England,--that James V., whose
young and noble heart was broken by the rebel spirit of his peers, by
their treason to Scotland in the cabinet, and their cowardice at the
battle of Solway.  Nay, never frown on me, or rattle your swords, my
lords of Cassilis and Glencairn," she added, waving her small white
hand, on which the jewels flashed like the scorn that lighted up her
eyes; "I am a woman, and claim a woman's privilege to speak; and thus
I repeat again, that I anticipate the future of my daughter, a Stuart
and a Guise, among you with grief and horror!  The Earls of Bothwell
and Glencairn have spoken well and plausibly; but apart from all, the
Duke of Somerset's conditions, which are unworthy the Scottish crown
and degrading to the Scottish people, what happiness could be my
daughter's in wedding the son of the apostate Henry,--he who was the
horror of all modest women,--he who espoused Anne Boleyn, knowing her
to be his own daughter, and yet laid her head on the block; who
violated his promises to Anne of Cleves, and sent her fair successor
also to the block; who murdered the aged Countess of Salisbury, and
sent more than seventy thousand of his subjects to await his
appearance before the judgment-seat of God; he who, by his lusts, and
by his treason to the Holy See, made all England turn, in one day,
heretic!  Yet it is to the son of this man you would wed her in
helpless infancy; and to the custody of his creature Somerset you
would yield her, the daughter of Scotland and of France!"

A deep silence succeeded this outburst.  At last Arran spoke.

"Fear not, madam," said he; "being the next kinsman to the crown, I
am, by the ancient custom of our mother country, the tutor or
custodian of its infant sovereign, and, with God's will, I shall
remain so!"

"None dare dispute this right, Lord Earl," said Mary.

"None, save the king of England or his representative," urged
Glencairn; "and he does so by the right of a treaty for the marriage
of Edward with the daughter of King James, a treaty----"

"Which we do not recognize," interrupted Arran.

"What cared Henry of England for treaties?" exclaimed Arran's
brother, the Archbishop of St. Andrew's,--"he who trampled on all
laws, human and divine?"

"He hath gone to the place of his reward, sir priest," replied the
rude Glencairn; "and now we have to deal, not with a dead king, but
with the Duke of Somerset."

"A heretic as stout," continued the incensed primate, "though perhaps
less lecherous and lustful."

"Lustful enough of our Scottish blood," said the gallant Earl of
Huntly, with a smile, "if we may judge of his campaign among us here
in '44, when we knew him as Edward Earl of Hertford."

"The result of all this chattering will be that we shall have war,"
said Glencairn.  "The English will come----"

"With their Spanish and German auxiliaries----"

"Well, let them come," retorted Arran.  "Our hills are steep, our
streams are deep and swift, our hearts, I hope, as stout, and the
swords bequeathed to us by our sires from a thousand bloody fields,
are sharp and sure as ever!  Let Somerset come, with his English
billmen, his German pikes, and Spanish arquebuses: when true to
herself, Scotland is unconquerable!"

"Thou art right, my lord," added the patriarch of Venice; "her people
are unconquerable.  But among her nobles are men ever ready to bend
their necks to any chain of gold, or sell their faith and honour to
the highest bidder!"

Perceiving that their design of having the English marriage
accomplished was on the eve of being hopelessly frustrated,--that the
proposals of the Valois were all but formally accepted by the regent
and Mary of Lorraine, those who were in secret league with England
became desperate, and Kilmaurs at last conceived the artful idea of
embroiling Arran with the Queen-mother on a point concerning which he
knew them to be remarkably sensitive.  The smile of this crafty young
lord was a mere twitch of the mouth, an unpleasant grimace at best;
yet such a smile his visage wore when, during a pause in this
strangely-conducted controversy, he said to Arran, in a low and stern
voice,--

"Beware, my lord regent, lest this French marriage be not a plot of
the Guises merely to involve us in a war with England."

"For that I care little.  But to what end would it be?"

"An alteration in the regency."

Arran changed colour, and eyeing the young lord askance, asked,
through his clenched teeth,

"That I may be succeeded by whom?"

"The Queen-mother, very probably."

"'Tis false, my Lord Kilmaurs!" exclaimed Mary of Lorraine,
haughtily, "I say so--I, Mary, Queen of Scotland!"

"Under favour, madam," said Arran, reddening with annoyance, "you are
neither Queen of Scotland nor the Scots, but simply queen-mother of
the sovereign.  There is a difference, you will pardon me.  Henry of
Valois is king of France; Edward VI. is king of England; but our
monarchs have ever been kings of the Scots; for the SOIL belongs to
the people."

"That whilk they soak so readily wi their gude red bluid, may weel be
theirs," said the aged Earl of Mar.

"Bravade as ye may," urged Kilmaurs, "'tis all a plot of the Guises;
and such I will maintain it to be."

"Now, grant me patience to scorn this base calumny!" said Mary of
Lorraine, growing alternately red and pale with anger; for though she
coveted this post in her heart, she knew too well the danger of
making an enemy of Arran.  "Good, my lords; I have made no struggle
for the regency, nor have ever ventured to compete with my cousin
Arran."

"Madam," said Arran coldly, "what right could you have pled?"

"Right enough," replied the Queen, veiling her anger by a smile; "nor
am I quite without precedents either."

"Indeed!" said Arran, while Kilmaurs twitched the velvet mantle of
Cassilis, and smiled to see the train on fire; "will you please to
state this right?"

"A mother's right to rear her tender offspring; and Heaven knows that
thought engrossed my whole heart, after the death of my two sons at
Bothesay, and of my late husband and beloved king."

"God sain him!  God rest him in his grave at Holyrood!" muttered the
loyal old Earl of Mar, raising his bonnet; "he was the father of the
poor."

"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!_




CHAPTER XXVII.

MADELINE HOME.

  '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 part
  Belonging 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.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAMPFLEURIE.

  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 demur
    At 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.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE DOUGLAS ROOM.

  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 of _The 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.




CHAPTER XXX.

THE ROMAN ROCK.

  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 come
_at 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.




CHAPTER XXXI.

THE JOURNEY HOME.

  By my faith, there be thieves i' the wood!
  Soho, sir,--straightway stand, and let us see
  What 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 my _left_ shoe 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:
  Sing _Honi 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, were _not_ Livingstones 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.




CHAPTER XXXII.

THE CHATELAINE 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 inciting _me_ to 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.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE NEISH'S HEAD.

  It fell about the Martimas time,
    When winds blow snell and cauld.
  That Adam o' Gordon said to his men,
    Where will we get a hauld?
  See ye not yon fair castle
    Stands on yon lily lea?
  The laird and I hae a deadly feud,
    And the lady I fain would see.
                                _Adam o' Gordon._


For ages, a feud had existed between the MacNabs and MacNeishes, two
tribes of considerable strength and influence, who, without having
any marked limits to their territories, possessed that wild and
mountainous district which lies around Lochearn.

The former of these clans was a bravich of the Siol Alpin, and took
its name (_i.e._, the sons of the abbot) from the ancient head of the
Kuldee Abbey of Glendochart; and, during the reign of James IV., they
had successfully carried fire and sword into the land of their
enemies, who possessed the district then known as the Neishes'
Country, lying between Comrie and Lochearn, comprising the Pass of
Strathearn, Dundurn, the Hill of St. Fillan, Glentiarkin, and part of
Glenartney.  Embittered by old traditionary wrongs, transmitted
orally by sire to son, from age to age, the rancour of these two
tribes was without a parallel, even in the annals of ancient Celtic
ferocity and lust of vengeance; and fired by the memory of a thousand
real or imaginary acts of aggression the boys of each generation,
while sitting on their fathers' knees, longed to be men, that they
might bend the bow or bear the tuagh and claymore against their
hereditary enemies.

On one occasion, the MacNeishes had carried off the holy bell of St.
Fillan, a relic of remote antiquity, which in those days stood on a
tombstone in the burial-ground of the saint's church, and was
venerated by all; but it was miraculously restored; for this bell,
like the old bells of Soissons, in Burgundy, and of St. Fillan's, in
Meath, had the strange power of extricating itself from the hands of
the spoilers, and came back through the air to Strathfillan, ringing
merrily all the way; but the circumstance of its abstraction greatly
increased the hostility between the rival tribes.

In this petty war, the chief of the MacNabs fell, being slain by an
arrow from the bow of Finlay MacNeish, his enemy; but he left twelve
sons and his widow, Aileen, a daughter of the clan Donald (the race
of the Sea) to carry on the feud; and animated by hate and fury, this
woman, stern by nature and savage in purpose, seemed to have no
thought, no hope for, or idea of, the future, but as they might serve
"to _feed_ her revenge," which aimed at the destruction of the
Neishes, root and branch, and the ultimate capture of their territory.

By her instigation, gathering all their fighting-men for one decisive
effort for the supremacy of the district, her sons marched from
Kennil House, and the two clans met in battle with nearly a thousand
swordsmen on each side, in a wild and pastoral vale, named
Glenboultachan, between two high and solitary mountains on the
northern shore of Lochearn.  Each was led by its chief, and they
rushed at once down the green slope to mingle in close and mortal
strife, with wild yells, bitter epithets and invectives, while the
war-cries rang and the pipers blew, as additional incentives to
slaughter and enthusiasm.  Plying their sharp broadswords or long
poleaxes with both hands, for greater freedom in the work of death,
they tossed targets and plaids, breastplates and lurichs of steel,
aside; and so that work, ever so rapid and terrible in a Highland
battle, went fearfully on.

This battle took place on St. Fillan's Day, 1522, and the MacNabs
bore with them the crook of the saint to ensure victory.  It was
borne by the MacIndoirs, who were the hereditary standard-bearers of
MacNab, and had been custodiers of the crook ever since the death of
St. Fillan, in 649, an office in which they were confirmed by a royal
charter of King James II., in 1437.  It is of solid silver, twelve
inches long, elaborately carved, and having on one side a precious
stone; on the other, the effigy of our Saviour, and was the same
relic which, with the saint's arm-bone, Robert the Bruce had with him
at the field of Bannockburn.[*]


[*] In 1818 the last of the MacIndoirs, a Highland emigrant, took
this valuable relic with him to America, and it is now preserved,
with the letters and charters of James II., in the township of
MacNab, in Canada.


The morning sun, when pouring his light between the parted clouds
athwart that gloomy mountain gorge, lighted up a terrible and
bewildering scene, which Aileen MacNab, from the summit of a rocky
peak, surveyed in gloomy joy, with her grey, dishevelled hair hanging
over her shoulders, as she knelt on ashes strewn crosswise on the
heather; and there, with a crucifix before her, and a rosary on her
wrist, she implored God and St. Fillan to grant her children and her
tribe a victory; and then she left her orisons, to shoot a shaft from
her dead husband's bow, among the press of combatants that fought
like a herd of tigers in the glen beneath her.  Then she would again
prostrate herself upon the ashes and before her cross, which was made
of the aspen--for of _that wood_, saith old tradition, the true cross
was made; hence the tree is accursed, and its leaves shall never rest.

Wedged together in a dense and yelling mass, the two clans were all
mingled pellmell in wild _mêlée_, fighting man to man, scorning to
seek quarter, and scorning to yield it.  Heads were cloven through
helmets of steel, bosoms pierced through lurichs of tempered rings,
while hands and limbs were swept off as the sharp wind may sweep the
withered reeds from a frozen brook in winter; and the long
sword-blades, that flashed in the sun, seemed to whirl without
ceasing, like a huge _chevaux de frize_, grinding all to death
beneath them.

Conspicuous above all this fiery throng, like the Destroying Angel or
the Spirit of Carnage, wearing three eagle's feathers in the cone of
his helmet, and clad in a lurich of shining rings, which covered his
whole bulky form from his neck to the edge of his kilt, towered the
eldest son of Aileen, named _Ian Mion, Mac an Abba_ (_i.e., smooth_
John, the son of the abbot), an ironical sobriquet bestowed upon him
in consequence of the roughness of his aspect and the coarse, grim,
unyielding nature of his character.  He bent all his energies to
capture the Neishes' banner, which bore their crest, viz., a cupid
with his bow in the dexter, and an arrow in the sinister hand, with
the motto, _Amicitiam trahit amor_.  The tall and bearded bearer was
soon cloven down by Ian Mion, and the embroidered banner became the
trophy of his prowess and daring.

On the other side, Finlay MacNeish, a chief of great age, but of
wondrous strength and activity, fought with unparalleled bravery; but
John MacNab and his eleven brothers bore all before them, and
repeatedly hewed a bloody lane through the ranks of their foemen.  At
last their followers began to prevail; and in wild desperation and
despair at the slaughter of his people, on beholding three of his
sons perish by his side, and on finding the disgrace of defeat
impending, the aged chief of the Neishes placed his back to a large
rude granite block, which still marks the scene of this conflict,
and, poising overhead his two-handed sword, stood like a lion at bay.
His vast stature, his known strength and bravery, as he towered above
the fray, with his white hair streaming in the wind (the clasps of
his helmet having given way, he had lost it); the wild glare of his
grey and haggard eyes; the blood streaming from his forehead, which
had been wounded by an arrow, and from his long, uplifted sword,
which (like the claymore of Alaster MacColl) had a remarkable
accessory, in the shape of an iron ball, that slid along the back of
the blade to give an additional weight to every cut,--all this
combined, made the bravest of the MacNabs pause for a moment ere they
encountered him; but after a dreadful struggle, in which he slew many
of his assailants, the brave old man sank at last under a score of
wounds inflicted by swords and daggers; and as his grey hairs mingled
with the bloody heather, and were savagely trampled down, the
triumphant yell of the MacNabs made the blue welkin ring and the
mountains echo; while his people were swept from the field, and
perished in scores as they fled, being hewed down on all sides by the
swords and axes of the MacNabs, or pierced by their arrows; and the
red lichens which spot the old grey stone in Glenboultachan are still
believed by the peasantry to be the encrusted blood of the chief of
the Neishes.

With MacCallum Glas, their bard, about twenty of the tribe escaped,
and took refuge on a wooded islet at the eastern end of Lochearn,
where, in wrath and sorrow, they could lurk and plan schemes of
revenge, which the all-but total extinction of their name and number
rendered futile; while the victorious MacNabs, after sweeping their
whole country of cattle, and destroying all their farms, cottages,
and dwellings, returned to hold high jubilee in Kennil House, the
fortified residence of their chief, which stands upon a rocky
isthmus, near the head of Loch Tay, and to inter their dead in the
old burial-place of the abbot's children, Innis Bui--a greenswarded
islet in the Dochart, where their graves are still shaded by a grove
of those dark and solemn pines which were always planted by the Celts
of old to mark where the tombs of their people lay; and there the
impetuous Dochart, after rushing in foam over a long series of
cascades, under the shadow of the giant Benlawers, ends its wild
career in the Tay.

The slain of the enemy were stripped by the victors, and, by order of
the remorseless Lady Aileen, were left as food for the wolf and
raven.  A few were interred by Alpin Maol (_i.e._ the Bald), an old
monk of Inchaffray, who officiated as priest of the church of St.
Fillan.  He came to survey that terrible field at the close of eve;
and of all the stately men who lay there on the blood-stained
heather, gashed by wounds, and with their glazing eyes upturned to
heaven, or lying half immersed in a tributary of Lochearn, towards
which, many had crawled in their thirst and suffering, he found only
_one_ who survived.  The rest, to the number of hundreds around, were
dead.  They lay in piles, amid vast gouts of blood and broken
weapons, and tufts of heather uptorn by the clutches of the dead in
their death-agony.

The wounded man proved to be the aged chief of the Neishes, whom the
priest, Father Alpin, with the assistance of his sacristan, bore to a
place of concealment, and, when his wounds were healed, conducted him
in secret to the islet in the loch, where the remnant of his people
were lurking, and where he found his daughter Muriel--a child of two
years of age--the sole survivor of all his once numerous household;
for in their mad fury the fierce MacNabs had spared no living thing,
but swept all the land from Comrie to the beautiful banks of
Lochearn, killing even the house and hunting-dogs of the vanquished.
In every dwelling the _clach-an-eorna_, or rude mortar, then used for
shelling barley by means of a wooden pestle, was broken and
destroyed.  The creel-houses, or wicker-work edifices, used as
hunting-lodges, and even every _baile mhuilainn_, or mill-town, was
burned and ruined, that never more might the Neishes find shelter or
food.  All the land was veritably burned up, as when ferns were
burned in autumn--a Celtic superstition long since forgotten.

The feeble old chief was received with tears by the relics of his
tribe; and these tears spoke more than a thousand languages of all
they had suffered, and were ready yet to endure, for him and the now
tarnished honour of their fallen race.

In a roughly-constructed hut, or creel-house, so named from being
formed of stakes driven into the earth, with turf and wattled twigs
between, the remnant of the MacNeishes lived the lives of outlaws;
and having secured the only boat that lay in Lochearn, they were wont
to make sudden and hostile descents on all sides of the lake, and
suddenly at night, when least expected, the cries of those they were
slaughtering without mercy arose with the flames of blazing cottages
amid the wooded wilderness, and marked where they were dealing out
vengeance on the spoilers.  Then by a sudden retreat to their boat,
they would gain the shelter of their isle, and there, defying all
pursuit, would subsist for days on the precarious plunder won in
these midnight creaghs or forays.

Penury, privation, and the despair of retrieving what they had lost,
or of ever being able to make any resolute stand against the
conquerors, made them wilder, more desperate, and savage, than any
other landless and broken tribe,--even than the MacGregors in the
days of James VI.  They subsisted entirely by plunder, winning their
daily food by the sword and the bow; and, ere a year was passed,
their garments consisted of little else than the skins of deer and
other wild animals.  Thinly peopled as that mountain district was at
all times, the operations of Finlay MacNeish and his twenty desperate
men rendered it more desolate than ever; for the MacNabs and their
adherents, finding the vicinity of Lochearn so troubled and
dangerous, removed their families, with their flocks and herds, to a
distance from its shores; but still, while the outlaws on the isle
kept possession of their boat, and destroyed every other that was set
afloat in the loch, they were enabled to lead their lawless life in
security; while the government of the regent, John Duke of Albany,
who had never much power at any time beyond the Highland border, gave
itself no concern whatever in the matter, for the duke resided
principally in France.

From the residence of these outlaws, the green islet which is in the
middle of the lower part of Lochearn is still named the Isle of the
Neishes.

The future fate of the few stout men who adhered to him, their chief,
cost him but little thought.  He knew that they would, too probably,
all die in detail, falling, as their forefathers fell, by the edge of
the sword; but the future of his little daughter, the last of all his
race, pressed heavy on the old man's soul, for he would rather have
seen her in her grave than the prisoner, it might be the bondswoman,
of the abhorred MacNabs.  He would gladly have committed her to the
care of Alpin Maol, the priest of St. Fillan, that she might be sent
to the abbot of Inchaffray, and by him be placed in the charge of
some noble lady or holy woman; but the priest abode where his church
stood, far from the isle of bondage, in the very heart of the enemy's
country, and the aged Finlay had no means of communicating with him
by message or letter.

Muriel was now three years old, and her beauty was expanding as her
days increased.  She was pale and colourless, but her hair was jetty
black, and her quiet dark eyes expressed only sadness and melancholy
thoughts, for, child though she was, the _sauvagerie_ which
surrounded her, and the sombre gloom of her white-haired sire, a man
whose whole heart and soul, whose every thought and plan and prayer
were dedicated to retributive vengeance, impressed her with awe; and
she shrank from all his grim followers save MacCallum Glas, or the
grey son of Columba the citharist, the bard of the tribe, to whose
care her mother had committed her on that night of horror in which
she perished in their burning mansion, the night succeeding the
defeat in Glenboultachan.

The darkness of Muriel's eyes contrasted powerfully with the dazzling
purity of her skin, which the tribe believed to be the result of a
charm given to her mother by a certain wise-woman, who advised her to
dip violets in goat's milk and morning dew, and to bathe the child
therewith; for, according to an old Celtic recipe, "Anoint thy face
with the milk of goats in which violets have been dipped, and there
is not a chief in the glens but will be charmed with thy beauty."

So said the citharist in his song; but MacNeish, as he made the sign
of the cross on her pure and innocent brow, exclaimed,--

"Thou art but a fool, grey Callum, for, by the great stone of
Glentiarkin! her beauty cometh from no other charm than the breath of
her Maker."

And in every foray he sought to bring some gaud or trinket of silver
or of gold to deck his daughter, the child of his old age, the last
of his doomed race; the little idol who shed a ray of light upon his
melancholy and desperate household in that wild and desolate isle.

So passed a year.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE NEISH'S HEAD--STORY CONTINUED.

  Thus to her children Luisa speaks--she cries,
  With you, my sons, my fate, my vengeance lies!
  Live for that cause alone, with it to fall,
  A bleeding mother's is a holy call.
                                    _Portugal: a Poem._


It was a year of danger, wounds, and rapine; still the MacNeishes, in
their wave-surrounded fortress, defied all, and escaped every attempt
to capture or destroy them; for still their boat was the only one
whose keel ploughed the waters of Lochearn.  And now approached St.
Fillan's Day, 1523, the first anniversary of their disastrous defeat
in Glenboultachan.  In honour of this returning day of victory, Lady
Aileen MacNab invited all the principal duine-wassals of her tribe to
a great feast or festival; and to procure various accessories for the
banquet and carousal MacIndoir, the standard-bearer, with other
adherents of trust, were sent to the town of Grieff, which is
situated on the slope of the Grampians.  Having made all their
purchases of provisions, wine and fruit, &c., they were returning
with four laden sumpter-horses; but when crossing the Ruchil; at a
place where it flowed through a thicket of pines, a shrill whistle
was heard.  Then followed shouts of wild fury and exultation, and
MacIndoir found himself surrounded by Finlay MacNeish and his
desperate followers, who by some means had obtained intelligence of
his journey to Crieff.  They were armed with rusty swords and
battered targets, and were clad in little else than skins of the wolf
and deer.  Gaunt men they were; hollow-eyed, fierce and savage in
aspect.  Their long unshaven beards flowed over their breasts, and
their matted hair, without covering or other dressing than a thong or
fillet of deerskin, waved in the breeze or streamed over their naked
shoulders like the manes of wild horses.

"The Neishes, by the arm of St. Fillan!" exclaimed MacIndoir, drawing
his sword in anger and dismay.

"Yes, the Neishes, by the mass, the pope, and St. Fillan to boot!"
replied the aged chief, with gloomy ferocity expressed in every
lineament of his face, as he turned up the sleeves of his tattered
doublet and grasped his two-handed sword; "we have long been supping
the poorest of bruith,[*] but now we shall have the good cheer of
those sons of the devil who oppress us.  Come on, my children--come
on!"


[*] Gaelic--hence the word _broth_.


A brief struggle ensued; and while defending himself bravely,
MacIndoir vainly threatened the caterans with the "kindly gallows of
Crieff," the power of William Earl of Monteith, who was then steward
of Strathearn; and, more more than all, with the dreadful retribution
which Lady MacNab and her sons would assuredly demand if their goods
were plundered or spoiled.

Shouts of derisive laughter were his sole reply, and they mingled
strangely with the cries of the wounded, the imprecations of the
victors, and the clash of blades, which at every stroke scattered
sparks of fire and blood-drops through the sunny air.  In a few
minutes MacIndoir was compelled to seek safety in flight; while his
followers were all cut down, and the four sumpter-horses, with their
burdens, captured.  Using their swords and dirks as goads, the
MacNeishes drove them at a furious pace down the hills towards
Lochearn, in a solitary creek of which, under a shroud of ivy,
willow, and waterdocks, they had concealed their boat, on board of
which they rapidly stowed their plunder.  The four horses were then
denuded of their trappings, hamstrung, and left to limp away or die
in the pine forest; while the MacNeishes, with a shout of defiance,
shipped their oars, and as their long fleet birlinn cleft the clear
waters of the lake and shot towards the little wooded isle, on the
summit of which pale Muriel, with a beating heart, awaited them, the
song of exultation raised by MacCallum Glas, as he sat harp in hand
in the prow, and the chorus of twenty voices that joined his at
intervals, reached the ears of the panting MacIndoir, when he paused
on the brow of a neighbouring rock, and pressing the blade of his
dirk to his trembling lips, swore to have a terrible revenge for the
affront they had put upon him and the stern wife of his late chief,
an affront which, to a Celt, seemed an outrage upon all laws divine
as well as human.

On reaching Kennil House he related to Lady MacNab the events of his
journey from Crieff, stating that the sumpter-horses with their
burdens were gone, and that his whole party, consisting of six men,
had been cut to pieces by caterans.

"By the Neishes?" she exclaimed in accents of rage.

"By the old wolf in the isle of Lochearn; and the blood of six of our
people has soaked the heather."

"Yet _thou_ returnest alive to tell the shameful story!" was her
fierce exclamation, as she smote him on the beard with her clenched
hand, and her twelve tall sons gathered round her, muttering threats
and growls of anger, all the deeper that they knew them to be futile,
as the deep lake rendered the isle impregnable.  They formed a
hundred fierce schemes of wholesale slaughter, and for the total
destruction of the wasps' nest--for so they termed the retreat of the
Neishes; but as the waters of the lake were too broad for armed men
to swim them, and no boat could be procured, their projects ended in
nothing but a settled wrath, all the deeper that it was without
resource or vent; so night closed in, and they sat in moody silence
in their mother's hall.  Its windows overlooked Loch Tay, the waters
of which were flushed in one place by the light that lingered in the
ruddy west; and in others its deep blue was studded by the tremulous
reflection of the stars.  From the margin of the loch the beautiful
and evergreen pines spread their solemn cones darkly over mountain
and valley, as far as the eye could reach.  Virgil praises their
beauty in gardens; but the Mantuan bard never saw the wiry-foliaged
and red-stemmed pine, that twists its knotty and tenacious roots
round the basaltic rocks of the Scottish mountains, or he had found a
fitter subject for his muse.

Aileen MacNab surveyed the darkening landscape with a gleam in her
stern grey eyes, and turned from time to time to observe her surly
and athletic sons, who were grouped near the large fire that blazed
on the hearth, and which cast from its deep archway, a lurid glow on
their bare muscular limbs, and floating red tartans; and then the
idea that an insult had been offered to her on the first anniversary
of their great victory,--that she had been obliged to despatch
messengers to her friends announcing that the banquet had been put
off,--and that at that very time too, probably, the wild caterans on
the islet were feasting on the good cheer which MacIndoir had
procured in Crieff, and were pouring her rare French and Flemish
wines down their brawny throats, made her tremble with wrath.

Repeatedly she addressed Ian Mion, her eldest son; but on this night,
John the Smooth, was unusually gloomy and abstracted, and made no
response.

It was averred that once, when hunting near the well of St. Fillan,
he had met and loved a beautiful fairy woman, who presented him with
a ruby ring, the rich colour of which would always remain deep and
bright while his love lasted, but would fade as his love faded, and
death come nigh the donor.  The well where he received this strange
gift, is still considered alike weird and holy in Strathfillan; and
there, even at this late age of the world, rags and ribbands are tied
to the twigs near it, and small propitiatory oblations in the form of
coin, are dropped into its limpid waters by the superstitious Celts
of the district.  Ian Mion had long ceased to visit the well, for the
love he had vowed was a passing one, and the ring had been growing
paler and more pale.  On this night, as he surveyed it by the red
glow of the bog-wood fire, the ruby had become white as snow,--a
token that the fairy was dead, and that danger was near _himself_.
He shuddered, and then the sharp, stern, voice of his mother roused
him, as she clenched her trembling and uplifted hands above her grey
head, and exclaimed bitterly,--

"A Dhia! oh that my husband was here, instead of lying in the place
of sleep at Innis Bui, for this night is the night for vengeance, if
his lads were but _the lads_!"

This significant mode of communicating a sentiment,--a mode strongly
characteristic of the genuine Celt, was immediately understood by the
twelve sturdy warriors at the fire.

"Taunt us not, mother," said Ian Mion, starting as if stung by a
serpent, "the night is _the_ night for a terrible deed, and your sons
are _the_ lads to achieve it, or may their bones never lie by their
father's side under the dark pines of Innis Bui."

He took his long claymore from the wall, and placed it in his broad
leather belt; he slung his target on his left shoulder, and grimly
felt the point of his sharp biodag, or Highland dagger; and his
eleven brothers followed his example, arming themselves with gloomy
alacrity, while Ian, with a smile of fierce exultation, surveyed
their stature and equipment.

"Now mother," said he, "we go to Lochearn."

"Achial! achial, am bata!" muttered his brother Gillespie.
(Alas--alas, a boat!)

"Why not take our birlinn from Loch Tay?" exclaimed Lady Aileen.

"And sail it over the hills to Lochearn!" added her son Malcolm, who
was somewhat of a jester.

"No--but carry it on your shoulders, my sons.  There are twelve of
you; and for what did I bear--for what did I suckle you, but to rear
you to act as your father expected, like men!"

"Our mother speaks wisely," said Gillespie.

"'Tis well and bravely thought of," added Ian Mion; "so, now for
vengeance on the Neishes, the accursed _ceathearne coille_!" (_i.e._,
woodmen, or outlaws.)

"Then go," exclaimed Lady Aileen, with uplifted hands; "and remember,
_the Neish's head_, or let me never see ye more, and may the curse of
your dead father dog ye to your graves!"

In a minute more the twelve brethren had left the castle, and rushed
to a little jetty in Loch Tay, where their birlinn or painted and
gilded pleasure-boat was moored.

It was soon beached, or drawn ashore, and raising it on their
shoulders they proceeded (six brothers relieving the other six at
every mile of the way) to ascend the steep, rocky, shelves of a
mountain, and descended from thence into a narrow and gloomy gorge,
that forms the avenue of Glentarkin.  Unwearied and resolute, the
twelve brothers bore thus the birlinn on their shoulders, over this
rough and rugged tract of mountain, and down the stony bed of a steep
and brawling torrent, which tore its way through a rift of marl and
clay, and serving as a guide for miles, poured its waters into
Lochearn.

"Quick, lads--quick," urged Ian Mion, pausing in a song by which he
had sought to cheer the way.

"Hurry no man's cattle, Ian," said Gillespie, as he panted under his
share of the burden.

"But hurry your lazy legs, for a storm is coming."

"How know you that?"

"This morning I came over Bendoran----"

"Aire Dhia!" exclaimed Malcolm; "an enchanted place, where storms are
foretold."

"So was I foretold it," replied Ian; "for I heard the hollow voice of
the wind sighing through the valley; the shepherds also heard it, and
were collecting all their flocks in bught and pen.  So, on, lads, on!
And now by St. Fillan, I can see Lochearn gleaming in the starlight
far down below us."

The moon, which had lighted them for some portion of the way,
imparting by her pale radiance a ghastly aspect to everything, now
waned behind the summit of Benvoirlich, and all became sombre, dark,
and solemn, amid the pine-woods, and on the water of Lochearn, when,
about one hour after midnight, the twelve MacNabs launched their
birlinn, stepped on board, and without waiting a moment to rest or
refresh, so resolute were they, and so determined to elude their
mother's malison and to fulfil their vows of vengeance, they slipped
their oars, and in silence shot their sharp-prowed vessel across the
calm and lonely lake, and soon reached the Neishes' islet, which
resembled a dense thicket or copsewood, as the stems of the trees
seemed to start sheer from the water.

With muffled oars they pulled around it, and all seemed still in its
woody recesses.  No sound was heard--not even the barking of a dog,
and so intense was the silence, that Ian Mion began to doubt whether
the foes he had taken so much trouble to reach, were now in the isle
or on the mainland, until he found their boat moored in a little
creek.  Driving his biodag again and again through its planks, he
soon scuttled it, and shoved it into the loch, where it filled and
sank, thus cutting off, for ever, all chance of flight for the foe,
if defeated, and of communication with the mainland, if victorious.
All this was performed in nervous haste, for, from this secluded
islet, the diabolical water-horse had been frequently seen to dash
into the lake; and it was long the abode of a _uirisk_, a being half
demon, half mortal, whose piercing shriek before a storm could make
all Lochearn echo.  Mooring their birlinn under the lower branches of
a large pine, the twelve brothers landed, braced on their arms their
targets, which were formed of coiled straw-rope, covered by
thrice-barkened bull-hide, and studded with round brass nails.  Then,
unsheathing their long and sharp claymores, they began warily to
approach a red light, which they now detected in the centre of the
isle, where it glimmered with wavering radiance between the stems of
the trees.  Advancing cautiously, they discovered it to proceed from
the window--if an open unglazed aperture can be so termed--of the
long and low-roofed creel-house or cottage built by the MacNeishes on
the isle, and the turf walls of which they had carefully loop-holed
for defence by arrows; but now, overcome by fatigue, very probably by
the unusual quantity of good food and rich foreign wines they had
imbibed, lulled too by the sense of perfect security, they kept no
watch or ward; and thus, on peeping in, Ian Mion and his brethren
beheld their enemies all asleep (save one) on the clay floor of the
wattled wigwam (the hovel was little better), rolled in skins of
deer, or coarse smoke-blackened plaids, the dull checks of which were
the simple dyes of wild herbs and of the mountain heather.

Ian Mion ground his teeth, and his fingers tightened on the hilt of
his claymore, when finding his hated enemies within arm's length at
last, and, to all appearance, a prey so easy.

The fire from which the light proceeded, was formed of guisse-monaye,
or bog oak from the morasses.  It burned cheerily in the centre of
the clay floor, from whence, in the old Highland fashion, the smoke
was permitted--after curling among the bronze-like cabers--to find
its way through an aperture in the roof.  Seated by this fire, upon a
block of wood, was the venerable Finlay MacNeish, of all that wearied
band the only one awake.  He was enveloped in a tattered plaid of
bright colours.  His white hair fell in curly masses around his
bronzed visage, and mingled with his noble beard; his chin rested on
his left hand, and his elbow was placed on his bare left knee.  He
was buried in thought; but a stern smile from time to time lit up his
hollow eye; for, warmed by the generous wine of France and of the
Flemings of the Dam, which his good sword had that day won from the
followers of his mortal enemy and oppressor, he was full of brilliant
waking dreams; though his thoughts chiefly wandered to the little
couch of furs and heath, whereon slept the pale child, Muriel, the
last of all his race, the flower of that wild islet, and the hope and
joy of all his desperate band.  For her, he planned out future
triumphs, and the memory of all he had lost in that one fatal battle,
the wild pass of Strathearn, the green Dundurn, the lone hill of St.
Fillan, and beautiful Glenartney; his ruined home; his plundered
flocks and herds; his wasted fields and ravaged farms,--all now, even
to the time-honoured burial-place of his fathers, the prey of the
MacNabs,--filled his soul with rage; and he saw before him the things
such stern dreamers only see, in the red, glowing and changing embers
of the fire, on which his gaze was fixed.

His thoughts were suddenly and roughly arrested by a shout of triumph
at the opening which served for a window.  He turned sharply, and on
beholding the face of a stranger, threw aside his plaid, and drew the
sword which was never for a moment from his side.

"Who are you?" he demanded, in astonishment and alarm; "speak, and
speak quickly!"

"Ian Mion Mac an Abba," replied the eldest son of Aileen, with a
smile of scorn and triumph.

"Smooth John of the accursed race, in the island of the Neishes!
What seek you, caitiff?"

"A just vengeance; so come on thou false cateran, or yield."

"MacNeish yields to the hand of the blessed God only; but never to a
MacNab of woman born!" replied the aged Finlay, with that air of
supreme grandeur which the old Celtic warriors could at times assume.
"Up, up to arms!" he added to his people; but wine, weariness, and
slumber heavily sealed their eyes, and he found neither response nor
succour, while he and Ian met hand to hand.

Their swords crossed, and by the light of the bog-wood fire, their
wild eyes glared into each other's faces; and while blade pressed and
rasped against blade, ere they struck or thrust, MacNeish said,--

"I am old, and thou, John MacNab, art lithe and young.  If I fall,
for the sake of our blessed Lady of Pity have mercy on my child--my
little Muriel; other boon than this have I none to ask."

"She shall have such mercy as brave men ever accord to women and
children," replied MacNab.

"I thank you, Ian Mion----"

"But for _thee_, there is----"

"Only death.  I know it--so come on!  It may be that I shall die, yet
I care not, if I can redeem my old life by having the best life among
ye--ye sons of a misbegotten cur!"

A thrust which he made full at the broad breast of Ian Mion, was
parried with such force, that his arm tingled to the shoulder; and
now the poor old man felt the weakness of his many years, and the
hopelessness of resistance.

"MacNeish, you fight without hope--a man foredoomed to evil," said
Ian mockingly.

"True; to evil and vengeance!" exclaimed the other gloomily, for his
mother had borne him on Childermas Day, 1467 (the 28th December) the
anniversary of Herod's slaughter of the innocents; a day of especial
ill omen in Scotland, for which it was deemed unlucky for a man to
put on a new doublet, to clip his beard, or attempt anything in this
world--then how much less to have the effrontery to come into it!

It was vain for the old man to contend with an antagonist so
formidable as Ian Mion, who soon beat him to the earth by a mortal
wound, trod upon his sword and broke it.  Then, twisting his fingers
through the silver locks of Mac Neish's ample beard, he dragged him
to the block of wood on which he had been so recently seated, and
there ruthlessly severed his head from his body by one slash of the
claymore.

Ere the combat had ended, by a catastrophe so sudden and terrible,
his eleven brothers had pierced and cut to pieces the whole band as
they lay in their drunken slumber, and incapable of resistance.  Of
all the tribe of MacNeish none escaped, but Muriel, his child, and a
little boy (the son of Grey Callum, the bard) who concealed himself
under a creel, and lay there in deadly fear, and drenched by the warm
blood which flowed more than an inch deep over the clay floor of this
frightful hut.

The summits of Benvoirlich, and of the wooded hills that look down on
lovely Lochearn, were tinged with gold and purple by the rising sun,
as, with panting hearts and bloody hands, the twelve brothers rowed
their birlinn from that isle of death towards the wooded shore,
bearing with them the white head of MacNeish; nor did they rest for a
moment until they reached the hall of Kennil House, where their pale,
grim mother, who had never once closed her blood-shot eyes in sleep,
awaited them.

"Mo mather--na biodh fromgh, oirbh!" ("My mother, fear nothing now!")
exclaimed Ian Mion, as he held aloft the ghastly head by its silver
locks; and from that hour the MacNabs took as their crest, "the
Neish's head," _affrontée_, with the motto _Dreid Nocht_.  Aileen
embraced her twelve savage sons, with stern exultation, and ordered
the head to be spiked on the summit of her mansion; while a banquet
was spread, and the piper marched before the door, making every
chamber ring to the notes of the clan salute, _Failte Mhic an Abba_.

Lady Aileen would not permit the slaughtered caterans to receive the
rights of sepulture.

"There, on the Neish's isle, let them lie unburied," she exclaimed,
"without aid from priest or prayer, torch or taper, mass-bell or
mourner,--that their bones may whiten as a terrible memorial to all
that would dare to withstand us!"

So said this fierce woman; but gentle Father Alpin Maol, the good old
monk of Inchaffray, had them interred in one grave, over which he
placed a cairn of stones, and one of those Celtic crosses of a
fashion which is only to be found in Scotland and Ireland.  On the
island the ruins of the Neishes' dwelling may still be traced, and on
Innis Bui there still stands a monument erected by the MacNabs in
commemoration of their savage triumph.

The son of Grey Callum, the bard, when he grew to manhood, settled in
Strathallan; and from him are descended all who at the present day
bear the names of Neish or MacIldiu.

Little Muriel, who was almost inanimate with grief and terror, Father
Alpin bore with him to Inchaffray, in Strathearn, where she chanced
to meet the eye of James V., when on a hunting expedition; so she
became the _protégée_ of that good king, and when she grew to woman's
estate, he bestowed her, with a portion in marriage, upon one of his
esquires--the laird of the Torwood--and she was the pale, sad widow
who, with her three children nestling about her skirts, related to
Florence, to Shelly, and their companions, this barbarous tale of a
Highland feud.

Florence listened to it with deep interest, and the narrative filled
his mind with melancholy reflections; for in the character of Lady
Aileen MacNab he too easily recognized a resemblance to his own
mother,--stern, implacable, and revengeful.

Shelly looked at Master Patten as Lady Muriel concluded, and shrugged
his shoulders, with an expression in his eye which seemed so much as
to say that he cared not how soon the waters of the Tweed, and the
Tyne and the Tees to boot, were between him and the land were such
events were matters of not uncommon occurrence.




CHAPTER XXXV

A RIVAL.

  Cast off these vile suspicions, and the fear
  That makes it danger!
                                          _Southey._


The limited accommodation of this small tower could only afford two
chambers for the unexpected visitors.  To Florence, as a gentleman of
known degree, was assigned the best; to Shelly and his companion
Master Patten, as strangers and travellers, was assigned the other;
while worthy Dick Hackerston and his friends, as mere "burgess
bodies," or landward merchants, were left to wrap themselves in their
cloaks and plaids, and to sleep on benches in the hall, after the
fire had been heaped with fresh fuel, bog-wood, peat, and coal; and
after the pale chatelaine and her children had withdrawn to rest.

The chamber of Florence was sombre in aspect.  On one side the arras
tapestry bore a representation of the Crucifixion, and before it
stood a prie-dieu and kneeling-stool of black oak; on the latter lay
a missal, richly gilded.  The bed had four twisted spiral columns;
which supported a gloomy entablature and canopy, adorned by
funeral-like plumes of black feathers.

Before retiring to rest, Florence for a time found a pleasure and
employment with the opal ring of Madeline, and a flame from the lamp
seemed to play amid its changing hues.

In the superstition of that and preceding ages, and according to the
ideas of those who practised the occult sciences, a mysterious and
malignant power was believed to exist in the opal.

"Malignant!" thought he, as the dark story of the Highland feud and
the memory of his mother's revengeful character occurred to him; "if
it really be, that this strange stone, in which the flames seem to
glow and waver, possesses any power over me, it can only be that of
irresistible fatality."

When he thus spoke, or rather reflected, he seemed to hear the name
and title of Madeline uttered by some one near him; or could it be
the imagined echo of his own unuttered thoughts?

He paused and listened.  Voices were speaking in an adjoining room;
and as it was only separated by an old wainscot partition, the joints
and panels of which were frail and gaping from age, he raised the
arras and placed his ear close to an opening.  The voices came from
the chamber of the two Englishmen, whom he could perceive through the
fracture in the boarding.  They had not undressed, but had merely
thrown off their doublets, and seemed resolved to sleep half ready
for any emergency with their drawn swords beside them.

"And so the prospect alarms you, my brave bully boy?" continued
Shelly, who was twisting his moustache before a mirror, and seemed to
be bantering his companion.

"It doth, of a verity," replied Master Patten; "so let us pray the
glorious Virgin Mary, that she keep us from witches, the Scots, and
the devil!"

"Thou hast no fear of the fires in Smithfield?" said Shelly;
"cogsbones! in old King Harry's time I have seen two fat citizens,
and a lean apothecary from Aldgate, all burning in one blaze for
saying little more.  But, worthy Master Patten, when I am the husband
of yonder sweet lady of Yarrow, what shall I make thee--seneschal,
comptroller, or steward of the household? or would you prefer a snug
place at court, where clerkly skill would avail thee?  But, by St.
George, thou wouldst need to sleep in a suit of mail, well tempered
and graven with saintly miracles; for the avenues of a Scottish
palace are well beset by swords and daggers."

"Marry come up!  Master Shelly, don't talk of such things," replied
Patten gravely.  "By my soul, if I ever set foot in this cursed
country of rough-footed and blue-capped heathens again, but under
harness, may I never more see London stone or hear the bell of St.
Paul's!"

"We found it more pleasant when mounting guard at Boulogne, making
love to the market wenches at Calais, and playing the devil in the
wine cabarets, eh?  Bluff King Harry's service had more pleasantries
and fewer perils than his son's--the little King Edward."

"Ugh! think of that devilish story of the Red-shanks who live but a
few miles off--those Nabs or Neishes, or whatever the barbarians
style themselves.  Why, 'twas like the tales that old mariners tell
us, at Puddle Wharf and London Bridge, of black devils and savages
who dwell beyond Cape Flyaway, in the kingdom of Prester John, or in
the Island of the Seven Cities, which can only be found, once in
every hundred years.  Nay, I shall settle me down somewhere within
the sound of Bow bells, and doubt not that, for what I have done in
the young king's service here in Scotland, our Lord Chancellor, Sir
William Paulet, now Lord St. John of Basing (and who is to be Marquis
of Winchester), or Sir William Petre, our most worthy Secretary of
State, will make me some honourable provision."

"If not, mine honest Bill Patten, thou hast still thy sword and the
scarlet-and-blue livery of a Boulogner; but, as I was saying, when I
am fairly wedded--ha! ha! droll, is it not?--to my sweet Lady Yarrow,
as the reward of my service here in Scotland----"

Florence did not wait to hear what the heedless Englishman proposed
to do after this happy event; but, dropping the arras, he took his
sword, and leaving the chamber, knocked roughly at the door of the
two strangers, who started to their weapons before they opened it.

"Sirs," said Florence sternly, "I have discovered you to be two spies
of the Protector Somerset."

"Discovered!  Then you have been listening?" said Shelly with
admirable coolness, though his nut-brown cheek grew pale with anger.

"How I have come to know it, matters not; but the plain fact stands
manifest--you are spies!"

"Spies?" reiterated Shelly, trembling with suppressed passion.

"I have said so."

"Be wary, sir--be wary; I wear a sword."

"Edward Shelly, captain of King Henry's Boulogners, need not remind
any one that he wears a sword, and can use it too.  His name has
found an echo even in the chambers of the Tournelles and the Louvre,
where I have heard him praised as a true and valiant soldier."

"I thank you, squire--I mean, laird of Fawside--for this compliment;
but----"

"To be a spy!"

"_Tudieu!_ as we used to say at Boulogne," exclaimed Shelly
furiously; "do not repeat that hateful word!--well?"

"Is to deserve the gallows."

"You are deceived, sir,--I tell you, deceived.  I am no spy, by all
that is sacred on earth!" replied Shelly hoarsely; for he was
striving to master his pride and passion.  "Remember," he added,
involuntarily placing his left hand upon the secret pocket which
contained his perilous despatches--"remember that _you_ were accused
of being a spy of the dukes of Guise and Mayenne."

"But falsely so."

"As I may be of being an emissary of Edward Duke of Somerset."

"Then what meaneth all I overheard about your services in
Scotland--of Sir William Petre and the Lord St. John of Basing, both
of whom are well-known intriguers and favourers of the mad schemes of
the late King Henry?"

"'Tis exceedingly probable that they are so," replied Shelly
evasively; "for you must know that one is Lord High Chancellor of
England, and the other is Secretary of State."

He spoke slowly, to gain time for thought, as he felt all the perils
of their position, and glanced down the dark corridor without,
surmising, if he suddenly slew Fawside, how he and Patten could get
out of the tower, and escape into the forest.  The project seemed too
desperate; for it scarcely occurred to him, when he relinquished it.

"Now, hark you, sir," said he.  "To make this matter short, is it
your purpose to make us prisoners?"

"No; for I would not wittingly bring two unfortunate men to a public
and infamous death, more especially he of whom I heard so much in
France, the brave leader of the English Boulogners."

"'Tis well, sir," replied Shelly, in a voice that seemed to falter
with honest emotion.  "You act generously; though, had you resolved
otherwise, you had got but two dead bodies for your pains."

"Dead bodies?" queried Master Patten anxiously.

"Yes," added Shelly firmly; "for I would have run _you_ through the
heart, my friend, to seal your lips for ever; and then I would have
fought to the last--yea, to the very death-gasp; for never shall a
pestilent Scot fix an iron fetter on this hand, which planted the red
cross of England on the Tour de l'Ordre!"

"In this chamber you have more than once to-night mentioned the name
of a lady," said Florence gravely.

"Exactly; the Countess of Yarrow--bonny Madeline Home," replied
Shelly gaily, and with a most provoking smile.  "But what then?"

"You actually aspire to her hand,--you, a stranger, a foreigner?"

"Cogsbones! yea, to more; and who shall dare to gainsay me?"

"I do," replied Florence, who felt himself growing alternately pale
and red with the anger that gathered in his heart.

"You!  On what pretence or principle?"

"As her accepted lover."

"Whew!" whistled Shelly.  "The deuce and the devil!  Dost thou say
so?  Then I suppose we shall come to blows, after all."

"Not here, at least," said Florence, with the calmness of
concentrated rage in his tone, though his brow was crimson and his
eyes were sparkling with light; "to fight here were to destroy you
and your companion.  I know not on what your presumptuous aspirations
are based; but if we meet not in battle ere thirty days from this be
passed, I shall send my cartel to the Marshal of Berwick, and
challenge you to a solemn single combat."

"Good!  I am easily found when wanted for such work; and so, until
that pleasant meeting be arranged----"

"Adieu, sirs."

"A good repose to you," said Shelly, closing the door of his room and
carefully securing it.

"What think you of all this?" asked Patten, with some alarm and
excitement in his face and manner.

"By St. John the Silent!  I was beginning to think we were to prate
at the door all night," yawned Shelly, with a tone of irritation, as
he threw himself upon his couch, spread his mantle over him, and went
to sleep with the readiness of a soldier--a readiness provoking to
Master Patten, who, after their late visitor's departure, felt doubly
anxious and wakeful.

In the morning, when Florence, with Hackerston, and the three
burgesses, bade their farewell to Lady Muriel, and left the tower of
the Torwood, they found that their two English friends (concerning
whose names and purpose Florence observed a steady silence) had
arisen by daylight, obtained a guide, betaken them to horse, and
three hours before had disappeared by the eastern road through the
forest.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE RETURN.

  What is the worst of woes that wait an age?
    What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
  To view each loved one blotted from life's page,
    And be on earth, alone, as I am now.
                                          _Byron._


As Florence and his companions took the same road that led towards
Lothian, he reflected on all that he had heard pass between Shelly
and Patten on the preceding evening; and though he humanely felt some
satisfaction that they were gone, and consequently, he hoped, in
safety, the circumstance of the English gentleman canvassing to his
comrade so openly and confidently the prospect of his marriage with
the Countess of Yarrow, occasioned ample food for reflection, and for
those perplexing and annoying thoughts which suggest themselves so
readily to the restless imagination of a lover.

"He has seen her, and knows she is beautiful, rich, and beloved by
Mary of Lorraine," thought he; "and a mere spirit of empty bravado
has made him speak thus.  Madeline may be able to solve the mystery;
if not, I have still my sword, and dearly shall Master Shelly pay for
his empty boasting."

As they passed through Falkirk, they found the whole population of
that place (then a little thatched burgh of barony) in the streets
and thronging the porch of the ancient church of St. Modan, where the
bell was being solemnly tolled in the old square steeple.  The faces
of all they met, were expressive of dismay and excitement.  A dead
body (of a recanted heretic, of course), which had been possessed by
an evil spirit, was on that day cast thrice out of its grave, in the
dark depth of which it could only be retained in peace at last by
Father Andrew Haig (the _last_ Catholic vicar of the church) placing
the consecrated Host upon the coffin, and having the earth heaped
over it.

This ghastly marvel furnished ample matter for conversation until the
travellers passed the Almond by a boat at Temple-Liston.  There the
river, which is now spanned by a bridge of very ordinary dimensions,
was then so broad that for centuries it was crossed by a regular
ferry-boat; and as the current was swollen and rolling rapidly, some
time elapsed before the little party of men and horses were safely
transported to its eastern bank.

Near this ferry, upon the soft yellow moss of a long lea-rig, sat a
party of ploughmen and shepherds, making a rustic banquet of rye and
soft scones, with milk, curds, and clouted cream, or sourkitts, as it
was named from the staved kitts in which it was held.  Some of these
peasants wore hoods of blue or brown cloth, buttoned under the chin,
and all had the grey plaid, or one of dull striped tartan, thrown
over the left shoulder.  Each had a knife at his girdle, and, in the
old Scotch fashion, a horn spoon, which dangled at his hood or bonnet
lug.  The peasant girls had their hair snooded, and were bare-legged,
though their feet were encased in cuarans of untanned hide, tied with
thongs above the ankle.

The morose gloom subsequent to the Reformation had not yet fallen
upon the people, and this peasant group, while their herds and horses
grazed near, before resuming labour in the fields, proceeded to amuse
themselves with the buck-horn and corn-pipe, and danced to the music
of these and the lilting of their own voices, for such were the
simple manners and enjoyments of the peasantry in the olden time.

The quiet aspect of the landscape, which possessed all the tints of
summer ripened and mellowed into autumn; the merry peasants dancing
on the greensward; the blue river flowing in front, and the herds
that dotted its banks basking in the sunshine; while on the steep
beyond rose the grey turreted preceptory and Norman church of the
Knights of St. John,--made Florence think with sorrow of the change a
month of war and havock might work here; and full of such reflections
and of his own affairs, his secret love, his hostile mother, and his
unfinished feud, he listened with some impatience to the prosing of
honest Dick Hackerston, who rehearsed the magnitude of his own
commercial transactions, to wit, how for my lord the Abbot Ballantyne
of Holyrood he sold the wool of all the sheep which ranged upon the
abbey lands at Liberton and Coldbrandspath, and the skins and hides
of all the animals slaughtered for the plentiful table of that great
monastery; and how he bought, bartered, or procured in return, from
the French, the Flemings, and the English, raisins, almonds, rice,
loaf-sugar, love-apples, oranges, olives, ginger, mace, and pepper;
for Master Peter Posset great boxes of dried herbs and apothecaries'
stuffs; for the court ladies bales of French romances; for Ralph
Riddle, of the "Golden Rose," cases of Rhenish, Malvoisie, and Gascon
wines, and so forth; till our young gentleman of 1547, who felt just
about as much interest in such matters as one of the present age
might feel in scrip and railway shares, bank-stock and bonds, yawned
with sheer weariness, when, at the west port of Edinburgh, he bade
adieu to his mercantile companions, and, without halting to refresh
his horse, took the road which, after passing the castles of
Craigmillar and Brunstane, led direct to his own secluded home.

The shades of evening were deepening on the level but fertile
landscape, on the distant hills, and on the darkening sea, when he
drew up in the court of Fawside tower, and on dismounting hastened to
meet his mother.  With a stern lip and tearful eye she received him,
and with a settled gloom, on her pale white brow; for, clad in her
deepest dooleweeds, she had spent the day in prayer and meditation
between the tombs Of her husband and her eldest son in the church of
Tranent; and now, with a sigh of bitter impatience, she beheld poor
Florence, who was oppressed by the sombre aspect of a home such as
she made it, toss aside his sword and steel coursing-hat, and sink
wearily and in silence into a chair near the hall fire.

"So, so, you are weary?" said she, supporting herself on her long
cane with one hand, while with grim kindness she patted his head with
the other.  "While ye have been wandering like a fule-bairn between
Edinburgh and Stirling, or Gude alane kens where, our tenants have
neglected, for the first time in their lives, to bring their Lammas
wheat into the barbican, whilk, as you ken, they are bound to send
duly tied in a sack to you as their overlord."

"Oh, mother, heed not the Lammas wheat; anon we shall have other
things to think of than the collecting of rent or kain."

"Hah!--say you so?  Then the news at Edinburgh Cross----"

"Is war?"

"'Tis well!  Our men have been turning to women since the fields of
Ancrum and Solway.  And this war is, of course, anent the marriage of
a boy king and a baby queen; a brave matter, truly, for bearded men
to fight about!"

"It would seem so; and now I almost begin to agree with the Lord
Huntly's view of this coming strife."

"Indeed!" said his mother, with more of scorn than curiosity in her
manner; "and what may _his_ view be?"

"That he dislikes not the match."

"The false Highland limmer!" she hissed through her set teeth; "so he
dislikes not the match----"

"But hates the manner of wooing."

"Now, by the souls of my ancestors who are in Heaven!" exclaimed Dame
Alison, striking her long cane fiercely on the paved floor of the
hall, "I love the manner of wooing, and thus may Scotland and England
ever woo each other, with hands gloved and helmets barred; for I hate
the accursed match, and would rather see the child Mary Stuart
strangled in the cradle, and her sceptre become the heritage of
Arran, than live to be the bride of the apostate Henry's son and the
crowned queen of our hereditary enemies!  And now, since we are
talking of foemen, saw ye aught in your gowk-like rambling of the
hell-brood who bide in the barred tower on yonder lea?"

"I did, mother," sighed Florence.

"Preston himself, perhaps."

"Yea, mother; thrice."

"Hath manhood gone out of the land!  And ye parted, as ye met,
sakeless and bloodless?"

"As you see me, mother," replied Florence, overwhelmed by the
bitterness of thoughts he dared not utter.

"Saints of God!" she exclaimed, and raised her clenched hand as if
she would have smote him on his sad but handsome face; then suddenly
repressing the fierce impulse, she turned abruptly and left the hall.

Florence thought of the sweet merry eyes of Madeline Home; and all
their memory was requisite to render life endurable with such a
welcome to his mother's hearth.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

LADY ALISON.

  Oh, get thee gone! thou mak'st me wrong the dead,
  By wasting moments consecrate to tears,
  In idle railing at a wretch like thee!
  A mother rarely will with patience hear
  A true reproach against a living son,
  Far less a taunt directed at the dead.
                                          _Firmillian._


Preparations for war between Scotland and England progressed rapidly.
Though the religious, and, in some degree, the political principles
of the Regent Arran were unsettled, he evinced the utmost activity in
his military arrangements; and in the south the Duke of Somerset was
scarcely less energetic.  Too well aware, by the history of the past,
that the designs of England were other than merely matrimonial, that
her inborn spirit of grasping ambition and aggression was abroad, and
that her kings and governors had never respected truce or treaty,
peace or promise, the Earl of Arran left nothing undone to attach the
malcontent nobles to his own person.  He ordered all the border
castles to be repaired, strengthened, and garrisoned; he ordained the
sheriffs of counties, the stewards of stewartries, the provosts of
cities, and all the great barons, to train the people to arms, to the
use of the bow and arquebuse, by frequent weapon-shows and musters.
Old seamen who had served under Sir Andrew Wood, the valiant Bartons,
and others, he encouraged to equip armed caravels and gallant
privateers, with orders to sink, burn, and destroy; while on land he
strove, by threats or entreaties, to crush the bitter feuds that
existed between clan and clan or lord and laird, that all might
reserve their united strength and sharpest steel for the common enemy.

Like the loyal lords, tue malcontents mustered and trained their
vassels, but were secretly watching the current of events; while
among the people, Catholic and Protestant, reformed and unreformed
(_i.e._, heretic and idolater, as they pleasantly stigmatized each
other), all for a time merged their disputes in the common cause, and
armed them side by side, for the defence of their mother country.
The reformers were undoubtedly in the interest of Reformed England,
and averse to Catholic France; hence "a miraculous shower of
puddocks" (_Anglicè_, frogs) which fell about this time somewhere in
Fife, tended greatly to perturb the souls of the pious and godly, as
being forerunners of a French army, headed by the Cardinal of
Lorraine, or "the popish and bloodie Duke of Guise."

Time passed, and the end of August drew nigh; but there came no
tidings from Scotland's faithless ally, of that armed force so
solemnly promised, by those letters which Florence had brought from
the Louvre, and at last the Regent Arran began to find that he must
trust to himself alone to crush traitors within, and face his foes
beyond the realm.

So energetic were the measures of Florence, that within three weeks
from the time of his leaving Stirling, a long line of such beacons as
the regent desired was established upon all the hills near the coast
of the German Sea, and from the high rocky bluff of St. Abb to the
summit of the palace of Linlithgow.  Another line of beacons was also
placed along the borders from sea to sea, on the highest eminences,
and on many of the castles and peels, which had been strengthened by
the engineers who came to Scotland two years before, with the five
thousand men-at-arms, sent over by Francis I., under George
Montgomerie, laird of Larges, in Ayrshire--famous in history as that
Comte de Larges who slew Henry II. of France in a tournament.  As in
the older time of James II., and by the ordinance of his twelfth
parliament, Florence posted armed watchmen between Roxburgh and
Berwick and on all the fords of Tweed, and built on Home Castle, the
greatest balefire.  One beacon was to be the warning that the enemy
were in motion; two, that they had begun to cross the river; and
four, "all at anis as foure candellis" (to quote Glendook) that they
were in great strength, and on their march for the Lothians.

He left mounted guards composed of the vassals of the loyal border
lords, whose sentinels were to convey instant intelligence of the
foe's advance by day; then by the regent it was ordained that none
should leave their residences, or remove their goods or cattle, as it
was his resolution to defend every hearth and foot of ground to the
last; and the cross of fire was to be the signal to arms!  After
completing these arrangements to the entire satisfaction of Arran, to
whom he made his report at Edinburgh, Florence, on one of the last
days of August, returned, with old Roger of Westmains, to his
secluded little fortlet, to muster his retinue, and await the summons
to the field.

Meanwhile, Glencairn, Cassilis, Kilmaurs, and other ignoble lords of
their party, were absent at their own estates, superintending the
fortification of their castles and array of their contingents, for
the queen or against her, as the tide of events might make it
suitable for them to act.  Bothwell was brooding over his captivity
in the castle of Edinburgh, and planning schemes of vengeance on
Arran, on Mary of Lorraine, and on our hero, whom he conceived to be
in some way implicated in his affairs.  Shelly and Patten had reached
London, from whence they joined the army of Somerset.

M. Antoine was composing a new piece of music, in honour of the
intended nuptial alliance with France, and had resolved that it
should rival the marriage ode or epithalamium of the servile
Buchanan.  Mary of Lorraine and her ladies were busy with a new
tapestry, as a present for the dauphine.  Champfleurie was salving
his sores at Stirling, and taking new lessons in the science of
defence ind destruction.  Old Claude Hamilton was also preparing for
war, by deepening the fosse of his tall, grim tower, and like other
barons, was storing up the grain, fuel, and provender of his tenants,
in its spacious vaults, and in the barns and granaries which stood
within its strong barbican while ten brass drakes, imported for him
from Flanders, by Dick Hackerston, peeped their round muzzles over
the parapet of the keep.

On the first evening of his return from the borders, Florence was
seated in the hall with his mother, who occupied her usual window
bench, where she guided her spindle, which whirled on the floor;
while he, dreading a recurrence to her everlasting topic, the
Hamiltons of.  Preston, and with his mind now, after an absence of
three weeks, more than ever full of the image of Madeline, affected
to be deeply immersed in the old black-lettered pages of "the
Knightly tale of Gologras and Gawaine," from the quaint press of
Chepman and Millar, printers to his late Majesty James IV., but his
mother soon began to open the trenches, for he heard her muttering,--

"Yes, yes, 'tis a basilisk I must get.  Let me see, Master Posset
said that basilisks are hatched from dwarf eggs laid by old cocks;
and that they grow to little winged dragons, whose eyes, as all the
world knoweth, can slay by a single glance.  I must get me one, if
all things fail, and let it loose in Preston tower--that one reptile
may destroy the others--yet Gude keep me from evil and witchcraft!"

While muttering thus, slowly and in a manner peculiar to all who live
much alone, or are in the habit of communing with themselves, she
glanced twice or thrice impatiently towards her son but he still read
on.  Finding her audible remarks produced no response, she addressed
him.

"Wit ye now, my son, that Preston's niece, the daughter of that foul
Earl of Yarrow, who drew his sword in the fray in which your father
fell, is even now in Preston tower."

"Madeline!" faltered Florence, closing his book.

"Yea, Madeline Home; ye know her name it seems.  So, when will there
be a better time than now to form a plan for destroying the whole
brood, root and branch?"

"A worse you mean, mother," said Florence, as the dark story of
Aileen MacNab occurred to him.

"A _better_--I mean what I say; for in the war and tumult of an
invasion, what matter a few lives more or less?"

"Mother, I dare not urge the feud at present," sighed poor Florence.

"Dare not--did I hear you aright? have two acts of common charity--it
may be of merest courtesy that passed between ye in the Torwood, so
blunted the keen resentment which hath lived for so many generations?"

"The regent----"

"Prate not to me of regents--nay, nor of kings," she persisted,
whirling her spindle like lightning.

"And Madel--this countess, she came to Preston----"

"Last night, and this morning she rode forth over Gladsmuir, with a
tasselled hawk on her dainty glove, and Mungo Tennant (oh that I had
him within range of an arquebuse!) in attendance upon her, with a
stand of birds, where a lash should be, on his knave's shoulders.
And they hawked over the whole muir, though 'tis ours if the sword
can fence what the king's charter hath failed to define.  So I tell
thee, son, that ere we lose men or harness in fighting the English,
let us have one brave onslaught at Preston tower, and end this matter
for ever."

"Its walls are high, its gate is yetlan iron."

"Pshaw!  Hear me: Hamilton expects no attack; what, then, so easy as
at midnight to surround the tower with forty resolute mounted men,
each with a windlan of straw trussed to his saddle-bow; force the
outer gate--John Cargill, the smith at Carberry, says he can ding it
to shivers wi' his forehammer, so e'en take the loon at his word;
kill the keeper; pile the straw at the tower doors, and fire it; set
bakehouse, and brewhouse, and mautkiln in a flame; then kill, by push
of spear and shot of arquebuse, all who seek to escape; smoke them to
death, even as wight Wallace smoked the English at the barns of Ayr.
You pause----"

"By an act of the secret council it was ordained that this matter
should end, mother; for such is the law."

"Hear him, Westmains!" said she with scornful pity, as the
ground-bailie entered, made a low bow, and, according to his wont,
marched straight to the ale-barrel.  "I talk of the feud in which his
father and his brother Willie fell; and he quotes law to me like one
of the ten sworn advocates, or a villanous notary of the new college
of justice.  I tell thee, malapert bairn, that all the secret
councils in the world cannot alter the ancient law of Scotland, as
written by David II., anent feuds.  What says it, Roger?"

"That 'gif the king grants peace to the slayer without the consent of
the nearest friends of him who is slain, these friends may seek
revenge----'"

"Mark ye that, Florence--_may seek revenge_!"

"'Lawfully of him or of them who slew their friend.'  Thus 'tis
lawful to prosecute our feud to the death," added the ground-bailie.

"And in this faith I reared thee since thou wert but a wee bairnie,
supping thy first porridge with Father John's apostle-spoon."

"Does not our Scottish law ordain that he who slays another shall be
dragged to trial?" asked Florence.

"Law again!  Oh, I shall go mad!" exclaimed Lady Alison, dashing her
spindle from her, and pressing her hands over her grey temples, while
her eyes flashed with fire.  "When your father had a doubt in law, he
consulted neither statute nor scrivener, but put his sword to the
grindstone in the yard.  Would you call it murder if we slew every
man in yonder tower upon the lea to-night?  I trow not.  'Twould be a
righteous act in the eyes of Heaven; and it would be styled by
men--even by those loons whose laws ye quote--a misfortune--a
slaughter committed in _chaud-melle_--even as thy father was slain by
the Hamiltons; and Willie--my brave, my true, my winsome Willie--how
died he?"

"In upholding that which the lord regent justly terms a curse to
Scotland--an hereditary feud."

"Oh, can it be God's desire that I should be driven mad!" exclaimed
Lady Alison, lifting up her voice, her eyes, and hands, with mingled
rage and pity.

"Mother, hear me," urged Florence, as the gentleness and beauty of
Madeline, with the open, honest advances of Claude Hamilton, and
those proffers of peace which were repulsed in an evil moment, and
under the influence of her who now spoke, all came vividly before him.

"Never did one of this house or race talk thus, like a lurdane monk,
like a mouthing abbot, or a craven wretch, but thee!  He who slays by
the sword, as Preston slew thy father, shall by the sword be slain;
for so in Holy Writ the blessed hand of God inscribed it.  Even Mass
John of Tranent admitteth that!"

Florence felt the truth of what she urged, and something of the old
traditionary hate made his cheek glow with red shame for a moment,
while his heart was heavy with sadness.

"Then, if I slay this man with my sword, mother," said he gently, "am
I in turn to perish by the steel of some one else?"

"Slave!" cried Lady Alison in a voice like a shriek; "did the brave
father to whom, for our shame, I bore thee--did thy brother, who died
in the feud like a true Scottish gentleman--reckon thus--how they
lived or when they died? whom they slew or by whom they were slain?
I trow not!  Thou hast become white-livered in France.  Anne of
Albany hath deceived me, and made thee a maudlin fool!  Out upon
thee--fie! fie!  Begone, lest I stain my old hands in blood by
dinging my bodkin into thee!"

With these fierce words, and seeming to concentrate the whole
energies of her wild spirit in a glance of combined scorn and fury,
she struck her right hand upon her busk, swept up the long black
skirt of her dooleweed with the left, and retired from the hall with
the bearing of a tragedy queen.

Roger of Westmains, who had never before witnessed such scenes
between Lady Alison and her son, or any of her family, gazed after
her wistfully, and then surveying the young laird with a perplexed
glance, he shook his white head in a way that might mean anything or
nothing, just as one might choose to construe it, and withdrew after
his fiery mistress.

Then, with the manner of one who had been thoroughly worried,
Florence laid aside his book, took his mantle, sword, and
coursing-hat; and ordering out his favourite grey, galloped from the
tower at a furious pace, he knew not and cared not whither--anywhere
to be rid of his mother's fierce taunts--of his own bitter thoughts
and perplexities.

He had but one fixed wish as he cast his eyes to the green ridge of
Soltra and the greener brow of Dunprender Law, that ere midnight the
red blaze of those beacons he had so recently erected thereon might
warn all Scotland of the coming foe!  War itself would be a relief
from the excitement or irritation he endured now.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE CHAPEL OF ST. MARTIN.

  With a graceful step and stately,
    Proud of heart and proud of mien;
  With her deep eyes shining grayly,
    Cometh Lady Madeline,
        Trembling as with cold;
    With cheek red-flush'd like daisy tip,
    And full-ripe pouting ruby lip,
        And hair of tawny gold.
                              _Household Words._


Plato asserted that hopes were the dreams of people waking; and
Thales the Milesian affirmed that hope was the most lasting of all
things; for when all seemed lost to man, it still remained.  Thus our
lover, like every other lover before the flood, or since, hoped on,
though prejudice, fortune, and hostility had raised between him and
Madeline Home barriers that seemed all but insurmountable.

Skirting the green hill of Carberry, he reached the banks of the
brawling and beautiful Esk, then a deeper and a broader river than
now.  He boldly swam his horse through it near Edmondstone Edge, and
spurred over the then open wastes known as the mains of Sheriff Hall,
where on the purple muir lay the green ridges and trenches of a Roman
camp, with a gallows-tree--an old and thunder-riven oak, on which
hung the bony fragments of one malefactor and the recently-executed
body of another, who had been doomed to death by the Douglasses of
Dalkeith.  Down the steep slope from Newton-kirk he rode heedlessly,
and passed the grey and ancient Ramparts of Craigmillar, where, with
beacon and culverin, barred gate and moated wall, old Sir Symon
Preston of that ilk, was preparing for the coming strife; then giving
his horse the reins, he let him wander on, or crop the grass by the
solitary way; for Florence was buried in sad thoughts, yet his eyes
failed not to linger from time to time on the distant outline of the
capital, upheaved upon its ridge of rock, all rugged, broken, and
fantastic; the castle, spires, and every clustered mass of building,
like the beetling brows of Salisbury and Arthur's bare round cone,
tinted by the deep red of the western sun--a tint that seemed the
brighter when contrasted with the fields of yellow corn that swayed
their full ripe ears in the foreground, and the green masses of oak
foliage that covered all the burghmuir in the middle distance of that
lovely landscape.

From the hill which is crowned by the ancient village of
Kirkliberton, he rode slowly on till he reached Kilmartin, a little
cell or chapel in a sequestered part of the eastern flank of the
broom-covered hills of Braid.  It was a plain edifice with lancet
windows, and had a cross on its gable; it was of great antiquity,
having been built by a baron of Mortonhall, who had gone to the Holy
Land, and who, when lying wounded by a poisoned arrow, on the shore
at Galilee, had made a vow to found a cell, if he ever saw his native
land again.  Two aged sycamores cast a sombre shadow over a few green
graves which lay within the low, half-ruined wall that enclosed the
precincts.  Those grass-covered mounds marked the last resting-places
of various hermits who had succeeded Father Martin, who though
locally canonized as a saint, is now forgotten (at least his history
is only known to ourselves), and who, like him, had occupied the
little cottage close by the chapel, and had drawn the element of
baptism from the spring of pure water that sparkled as it poured in
the sunshine over a ledge of whin rock, and gurgled in torquoise-blue
between the ripe corn-rigs, and under the yellow broom-bells, to join
the Burn of Braid.

The story of Father Martin is somewhat singular.  Among the five
thousand military pilgrims from Scotland, who accompanied David Earl
of Garioch to Palestine, there was a citizen of Edinburgh, named
Martin Oliver.  In the year 1191 he found himself with the army of
Richard of England, then besieging Ptolmais.  Having been guilty of
some crime, Oliver, to avoid punishment, deserted to the Saracens,
and became, outwardly, a renegade to his religion.  Tormented day and
night by his conscience, he endured the utmost misery, and on his
knees vowed to atone to God for his crime.  One day when posted as a
sentinel on the outworks of the town, he perceived not far from him a
Christian soldier, in whom he recognized a comrade, one of Earl
David's band, named John Durward, whom he addressed in the Scottish
tongue, telling him that he was weary of life, and longed to atone
for his pretended apostasy.  A communication was thus kept up from
time to time, and on a certain night, Martin Oliver introduced the
Scottish Crusaders "into a part of the city."  The English followed,
and Ptolmais was immediately captured.  So says Hector Boethius, and
Maimbourg, in his "Histoire des Croisades," adds, that assuredly the
Christian princes had a sure intelligencer within the town.  Oliver
returned to his native land, and in a hermitage amid the lonely hills
of Braid he passed his days in prayer and penance for his apostasy,
and to atone for serving the enemies of God, in a city where the true
cross was said to be destroyed.

Many little chapels like Kilmartin, and such as St. Catherine at the
Balm-well, St. John the Baptist on the Burghmuir, and of our Lady at
Bridge-end, studded all the fertile Lothians, and were each kept by
an old priest, who derived a scanty subsistence from the pious, the
charitable or the credulous; from farmers, for blessing their herds
and crops, for baptising their little ones, or praying for fine
weather,--even now, when Scotland was on the verge of that tremendous
change the Reformation.  To Florence, the calm seclusion of this old
chapel, which was situated in a green hollow of those wild and barren
hills, seemed soothing and inviting, and there he resolved to rest
awhile, and if possible to give himself up to deeper thought, that
under its calm influence he might discover some means of extrication
from his present difficulties.  Dismounting, he tied his horse to the
chapel door, and entered without observing that under the sycamores
there stood three richly-caparisoned horses, two of which were ridden
by armed grooms, in the royal livery, while the third, whereon was a
lady's pad of crimson velvet, was riderless.

A plain altar, with a stone step, well-worn by the knees of
generations of peasantry who had prayed there; a rude crucifix of
freestone, carved within a niche, and an old skull, which, if
abstracted, was said to have the power of always returning to the
chapel, were the sole features of the interior, unless we add a slab
in the centre, marked by a cross, and inscribed _Mater Dei memento
mei_.  This marked the grave of Father Martin, the repentant soldier
of Ptolmais, who lived to the age of ninety, and died when Alexander
III. was on the throne of Scotland.

Florence had scarcely entered, dipped his fingers in the stone font
at the door, and surveyed the bare, bleak little oratory, with the
listlessness of a pre-occupied man, when the rustling of silk and the
sound of a light step behind, made him turn, and lo! Madeline Home,
wearing over her usual dress a long blue riding-robe of Flemish
cloth, and having on her pretty head one of the prettiest of little
Anne Boleyn hoods of purple velvet, stood before him, with her long
skirt gathered up gracefully in her left hand, on which sat her
favourite hawk (the same bird which had excited Dame Alison's
indignation), and in her right she held a jewelled riding-switch.

On beholding a person in the little chapel, she paused; but when
their eyes met, a bright flush passed over her sweet delicate face,
with an expression of surprise and inquiry.  Her half-opened lips
revealed her little teeth, so white and closely set; and her dilated
eyes seemed to ask an explanation, but Florence pressed her hand, and
then they exchanged one of those long and tender kisses which are
never forgotten.

"Dearest Florence," she whispered, "how came you here?"

"At a time so strangely opportune, you would ask?"

"You did not follow me!"

"Follow you?  Heavens, no!--and yet had I known----"

"Then how came you here?"

"By fatality--happy fortune--which you choose.  God alone knoweth
how, for, my sweetest heart, I know not.  I rode forth from Fawside
to escape from a bitterness too deep for telling; and riding on,
on--I knew not, cared not whither; my grey--the grey the queen gave
me--tarried at the chapel-door, and so I am here."

"How strange--when I was here too!" said Madeline, whose fine eyes
sparkled with pleasure and drollery.

"A fortunate coincidence!" said Florence, caressing her hands.

"To-day I was in Edinburgh with the queen, and being on my way home
to Preston, she gave me an alms for the Franciscan at Kilmartin here,
with that which the good man values more,--a fragment of St. Martin's
garment, no larger than a testoon; but brought from her sister,
Madame the prioress of Rheims, by Monsieur d'Oysell, the ambassador."

"And you are returning----"

"To Preston Tower."

"And to your uncle Claude?"

"Yes."

"When, so near--our residences being within view of each other,--may
I hope to see you?" urged Florence; "may I hope that we shall meet,
in some place where none can see or interrupt us?"

A pressure of his hand and a sweet smile were his assuring reply.

"Thanks, dear, dear Madeline; then I may escort you eastward?" said
he anxiously.

"So far as Carberry you may.  Fortunately, I have the queen's
servants in attendance on me, and not my uncle's; so let us mount and
go, for the evening is drawing on, and probably we shall not ride
fast," she added, with a droll smile.

"I am with you so seldom, dearest Madeline, that I am loath to lessen
the joy of our happy meeting; do tarry with me here a little longer."

"But the queen's grooms----"

"Let them wait; for what do the varlets wear livery?  I have a matter
near my heart on which I must speak with you."

"That you love me," said Madeline playfully; "but you have told me
that often already."

"Love you, Lady Yarrow! oh, I love you--love you dearly; but----"

"But what?"

"My heart beats so fast, and love so bewilders me, that I know not
what I say."

"To the point--you have some secret, Florence."

"Know you a gentleman named Shelly?"

"No;--but wherefore?"

"Edward Shelly?"

"No," she replied, her bright eyes filling with wonder.

"Edward Shelly, captain of the English band named the Boulogners?"

"No--I tell you no; but why all these questions?"

"It is most inexplicable!" exclaimed Florence; and he hastily told
her what he had overheard Shelly saying to Master Patten, and the
astonishment and perplexity of poor Madeline was great.  Then she
switched the skirt of her riding-dress impatiently, and said
laughing,--

"'Tis the first time I have heard of this unknown lover.  I hope he
is handsome and gallant,--I should like much to see him; but--but
'tis impossible all this, dearest Florence; you dreamed it, or you
but jest with me."

"Nay, 'tis no dream or jest, sweet Madeline, as I am to fight a
solemn duel anent it, on the Border-side, with the same Edward
Shelly, unless----"

"What--what?" she asked, growing pale.

"We meet in battle before a month be past, and of that there is every
probability."

"This cannot be; his falsehoods must be seen to!  I shall know who
this impudent varlet is, who dares to use my name even in empty
jest!" said Madeline gravely; "but how truly spoke Mary of Lorraine
this morning, when she said that love is more transient than
friendship, for a lover is ever under delusions.  But think no more
of this saucy fellow, dear Florence.  We need not add jealousy to the
troubles that already environ our unfortunate passion.  I am so happy
when with you, that all existence seems a blank between each of our
meetings.  Poor dear Florence!  I do love to read in your kind eyes
the joy my presence excites in your bosom--the love of which I am the
source!"

Her manner, so soft, so suave and winning, when contrasted to the
harsh, stern, and imperious bearing of his mother, lent her a charm
far surpassing all the attractions of mere loveliness.  After a long
pause, during which her hot cheek was resting on his shoulder, and
his arm was pressed around her,--

"See," said she, "the sun has set, for the painted glass of the
windows has lost all its brilliance; we must go, Florence, lest
mischief befall us if we ride late,--and, of all things in the
world," she added, with a merry smile, "let us avoid that fated
place, the Elveskirk."

"What manner of kirk may it be?" he asked, as he led her forth.

"A place near this, where an ancestor of mine was borne away by a
fairy; so, beware of a damsel in green, Florence," said Madeline
merrily, as he lifted her to the saddle, and then, taking the bridle,
led her horse along the narrow road that traversed the Braid Hills.
He then mounted, and the two lackeys of Mary of Lorraine, dropping a
little to the rear, followed them at an easy pace.

"You see yonder steep knoll, so thickly covered by waving broom,"
said Madeline; "below it is a round hollow, called the Elveskirk,
where the grass is ever of the most brilliant and beautiful green, as
it is said to be mowed and watered by the fairies who dwell there,
and who, on the Eve of St. John, are wont to dance and hold their
revels in it.  Once upon a time, an ancestor of mine, a brave young
knight, who was lord of the manor of Morton Hall--yonder moated tower
among the dark old woods--had been dining with the abbot of St. Mary,
at Newbattle, and was returning home, over the hills, near
Kirkliberton.  This was long ago, in the days of James I.

"The night was clear, and the moon shone brightly, when he met by the
wayside a fair-skinned and golden-haired lady in green, whom he
addressed in the language of gallantry, and who beguiled him to spend
a few hours with her in the green hollow of the Elveskirk.  Swift
flew these hours, when love and pleasure chased them! and when the
moon was sunk behind the Pentlands, and the east was streaked with
grey, the lady suddenly disappeared, and in her place, the knight
found only a wild rose-tree, that waved in the morning breeze, as if
mocking him.  He turned to seek his horse, muttering the while, that
the father abbot's wine must have been over potent; but the steed had
disappeared; so he resolved to proceed homeward on foot.  As he
walked on, to his astonishment, he found the face of the country
changed.  The ridges of Braid, and the bluff, flinty brow of
Blackford, were the same as of old; but in some places where whilom
the purple heather grew with many a tuft of dark green whin, since
last night the yellow corn had sprung up, and was waving in the wind.
Cottages, which he knew to be his own property, had sunk into ruin,
and become mere piles of stones, or had totally disappeared; and
elsewhere others had sprung up as if by magic, and now large trees
were tossing their foliage where not a twig had grown the night
before!

"At the Burn of Braid, where he had been wont to cross by a dangerous
ford, and where a subtle kelpie had deluded and drowned many a
belated man, my ancestor found a goodly bridge of stone, and he
passed along it, as one in a dream.  The Inch House, which whilom had
been moated round by the river, stood now alone high and dry upon a
grassy eminence; and the river itself, had shrunk between its banks
to a mere mountain burn.

"Full of terror, the lord of Morton Hall turned to seek Kilmartin,
the little cell we have just, left, and he saw it standing, as we see
it now, all unchanged, on the brow of the hill, just where the saint
was buried of old.  He now discovered, that though yestereve he had
been close-shaven in the old Scottish fashion, his beard had grown to
a vast length, that it had become white as thistledown, and waved to
and fro as he walked.  His hands were changed too, as if with age,
and his limbs, once so straight and strong, bent under the weight of
his body, and seemed every moment to become more feeble.

"'Can this palsied wretch be myself--I who, at Dumbarton, struck down
by a single blow of my axe the Red Stuart of Dundonald?' he thought,
as he tottered on.

"A horror came over him, with the conviction that he had spent a long
lifetime in a night, and he hastened towards the lonely chapel, the
priest of which, Father Michael, was his chief friend and confessor.
At the little arched door of the holy cell he met a churchman, whose
face he knew not; but to whom he said, trembling,--

"'Is not Father Michael here?'

"The priest gazed upon him with surprise, and then replied, after a
pause,--

"'Father Michael Ochiltree, if it be he you mean, old man, is with
the saints, I trust.'

"'Dead!'

"'He became dean of Dunblane, and thereafter bishop of that see,'
continued the priest, with increasing surprise; ''tis an old story,
my son--Bishop Michael died in 1430, and is interred in the choir of
his cathedral.'

"'Holy father,' said the lord of Morton Hall, with greater agitation
and bewilderment; 'what year of God is this?'

"'It is 1520.'

"'Swear it.'

"'I swear it to thee, strange old man--it is the seventh year of our
king's reign.'

"'And he is named----'

"'James.'

"'But James what?'

"'The _Fifth_.'

"'Mother of God!' exclaimed the knight; 'I knew but James the
_First_.  I have been ninety years among the elves--my wife, my
children--yea, it may be my grandchildren, have all gone before me to
the grave!'

"Rushing past the startled priest, he threw himself in a paroxysm of
prayer at the foot of the altar.

"In terror, the father followed and entered; but only in time to see
the tall and reverend figure of the knight crumble away to a few
pieces of bone and impalpable dust.  The skull alone remained, and
you saw it lying upon the altar."

The anecdote or legend of the countess (one of a kind common to many
countries) produced others, for the age was one of fable and fairy
mythology; so the time passed swiftly as the shades of evening
deepened, and the lovers rode lingeringly on.

"So, war is at hand," said the countess, after a pause; "O Florence,
my soul trembles for you!"

"Fear not, dearest--for your sake I shall be wary."

"You can afford to be so, Florence; one of courage so approved, and
in a close helmet----"

"Ah," said he smiling, "you fear that my face may have a ghastly
scar, like my Lord Kilmaurs'!  But I can guard my head better than
he.  As the doughty Douglas said to the King of France, 'I can aye
gar my hands keep my face.'"

"What would you feel, Florence, were I laid before you,
mutilated--mangled--dead?"

"Ah, why a thought so horrible!" he exclaimed, impressed by her
strange manner.

"That you may imagine what I shall feel, if such should be your fate."

"For Heaven's love, Madeline, let us talk of other things."

The moon was rising from the glittering sea, when Florence, with a
sigh, drew the bridle of his horse, a mile eastward of Carberry; for
now they were close to the barony of Claude Hamilton, and to have
proceeded further with the young countess would have been alike
unwary and unwise.

"So here we part, dear Madeline!" said he sadly.

"And part, we know not when to meet again."

"Nay, I cannot leave you without knowing when that joy again awaits
me.  I must have promises, for they are better than hope."

"And I, Florence, have had a frightful dream, and dreams are said to
be warnings."

"Nay, Madeline; they are but the reflection of the past, and not the
foreshadowings of the future; so, no dream could scare me--but what
was yours?"

"That your mother--that Lady Alison was slaying me."

Florence felt a pang even at this improbable idea; though he smiled,
and to change the subject said,--

"May I hope that, at dusk to morrow, you will meet me--you pause--ah,
promise me----"

"Where!"

"In some secluded place--the church porch of Tranent--'tis always
open for vespers."

"I have a horror of that gloomy place, where so many dead are lying,
and at such an hour!"

"But what fear you, when I will be there?"

"I shall come--but Father John----"

"Will not betray us, dearest Madeline! be assured of that; the good
priest loves me well."

With some reluctance, she consented to meet him in the gloaming, at
the place appointed, on the morrow's eve.  He kissed her hand, and
they separated; but so long as her light figure and her waving
riding-skirt were visible, he continued to gaze after her, as slowly
and thoughtfully he rode up the winding way that led to the gate of
his home.  He gave a glance towards Soltra and Dumprender Law; still
their summits were dark, and no spark of light thereon as yet gave
token of the coming foe.

The evening was dark, and the tints of the landscape were sombre and
sad.  It was the autumn of the year, and in his heart the ripe autumn
of a love, that might have no spring or summer.

On this night the grim and indignant Lady Alison did not appear; and
Florence, who, by his recent unexpected interview, and the hope of
another with Madeline Home, felt as if he was in the midst of some
tremendous treason against the peace and honour of his own family,
experienced some relief in the absence of his mother; for such is the
power that may be attained by a strong temper and resolute will over
a gentle and affectionate, but better nature.  And now such was the
tender influence of Madeline, that Florence had returned with every
angry passion and bitterness soothed, and he became happy again, for
he seemed yet to hear her sweet voice lingering in his ear, and the
last Mss they had exchanged in the old chapel of St. Martin seemed
yet to be hovering on his lip and thrilling through his heart.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE LURE.

  I will have such revenges on you both,
  That all the world shall--I will do such things,--
  What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be
  The terrors of the earth.  You think I'll weep;
  No, I'll not weep.
                                              _King Lear._


Next day Lady Alison was moody, reserved, and sullen; she spoke
little, or muttered as she sat in the bay of the hall window whirling
her spindle, or secluded herself in her bower-chamber.  Maud, the old
nurse, who had lost a husband and two brothers in the feud with the
Hamiltons, alone shared her angry communings; and even Roger, the
bailie, who deemed himself one of the dame's chief counsellors and
prime minister, on this day found her morose and unapproachable.
Florence dreaded a renewal of the conversation of yesterday; thus,
avoiding the presence of his mother, he busied himself among the
horses of his retainers, seeing that all were carefully shod and
proved to be sound in wind and limb, while an armourer from Edinburgh
was at work on the iron trappings of steed and man.  The grindstone
was whirling in the court-yard; and songs were sung and tales told of
the wars of James IV; while blades were burnished and pike-heads
pointed and tempered anew: for now, like a thousand other castles in
Scotland, the little fortalice of Fawside resounded with the bustle
of military preparation.

So passed the noon of day.  Florence watched the western verging of
the sun as evening drew near, and the rays revolved round the dial.
Then his heart beat quicker with anticipated happiness; for the hour
of his meeting with Madeline drew nearer and more near.  Yet time
never seemed to pass so slowly.

As the hours of this long day succeeded each other, Lady Alison
strove to smother the angry scorn her son's too peaceful spirit
roused within her; but being loath to nurse this growing bitterness
against him, she sought him in the garden, which then lay on the
sloping bank to the southward of the tower wall.

On the face of a grassy terrace Florence reclined, with his head
supported on his elbow, and so lost in thought that he did not hear
her approach.  In the hollow of his left hand lay the opal ring of
Madeline; and it caught the keen eye of Lady Alison as she propped
herself on her long cane and stooped over him.  Startled by finding
his deep and fond reverie so suddenly interrupted, Florence hastily
placed the ring on one of his fingers, and resuming his volume of
"Gologras and Gawaine," which lay near, arose with a flush of
annoyance on his cheek.  Rapid though the action, it was not done
quickly enough to escape the keen eye of Dame Alison, and her sharp,
angry, and anxious glance was at once riveted on the trinket.  She
saw that it was an opal; and the mysterious and malignant power which
that stone was believed to possess and to exert over mortals at once
occurred to her, and gave her maternal heart a twinge of alarm.

"Here is some new and fatal mystery!" she muttered; "dool and plague
be on the hour I sent my only son to France!  What bauble is this,
Florence, that finds such favour in your sight?" she asked.  And, as
he expected the question, he replied calmly,--

"A trinket--only a trinket, mother; few gentlemen about the court are
without such."

"My bairn," said she, seating herself by his side on the grassy slope
of the terrace, and taking his hand in hers, while a fond smile
spread over her face to conceal the anxious and searching glance of
her grave grey eyes, "there was a time when a good sheaf of feathered
arrows, a gay baldrick with pasements of gold, a crossbow with a
stock inlaid with mother-o'-pearl, or a sword with a handsome guard,
were toys that pleased you better, but that was before----"

"What, mother?"

"Before ye went to France, and to that devilish place Vendome?  Ye
have been sairly changed, my bairn, sinsyne, nor like the name ye
inherit!"

"Dear mother," said he, kissing her hand with that combination of
gallantry and affection which went out with the age of periwigs, "may
I hope that I find more favour in your eyes to-day?"

"Favour, my winsome bairn!" she reiterated, while playing with his
curly locks and the tassels of his ruff, and smiling fondly in spite
of herself.

"Or am I still a lurdane and a maudlin fool?"

The old woman's brow darkened with an expression of care and trouble.

"I never thought ye either, Florence; but why has the just and
natural bitterness of your heart for him who slew the nearest and
dearest of your kinsmen turned all to peace and sweetness?  Was it
for this I brought ye hame frae France?--woe worth the day I ever
sent thee there!  There is magic in it; I tell thee, Florence, 'tis
sorcery, and thou art under spell!"

"Perchance I am, mother," said he sadly, but with a fond smile, for
he thought of Madeline.

"Perchance ye are?" she reiterated scornfully.  "Art puling again
like a yammering bairn, instead of acting like a bearded man--like
the son of that brave father whom Preston and his people foully
murdered in his harness, under tryst."

"Are you come again to taunt and to torment me?" said Florence,
attempting to rise; but she clutched his right hand with fiery energy.

"Sit ye there and listen!" she exclaimed.  "Ye are foully
bewitched--I know it.  Whence got ye that devilish bauble whilk ye
were worshipping even just now as if it were a saint's bone or the
true cross?  'Tis an opal; and know ye not the opal is a stone from
the pillars of hell, and ever worketh the destruction of the wearer?
Speak, ye witless one--speak!" she continued, raising her voice,
while her grey eyes flashed with fire, and her wrinkled hand struck
her cane again and again into the earth.  "Some cursed witch of
France hath wrought this mischief, and stolen alike thy manhood and
thy heart.  Give it me, that I may place it in the flames from whence
it came, and so destroy the spell by which Preston is spared and thou
art befooled.  The ring, Florence--the ring, I say!"

"Nay, mother; in this you must hold me excused.  But believe me, on
the honour of a gentleman, no woman or witch of France gave this
trinket to me."

His mother drew back a pace, and surveyed him with a singular
combination of expressions in her dark-grey eyes: maternal love,
rage, pity, and shame were there displayed by turns in all their
strength.

"In our house, degenerate boy, have been ten knights created, where
you will never kneel, under the king's banner, when its staff was
planted in a foughten field where dead men lay thick as harvest
sheaves; and of these ten, every man fell in battle with his belt and
spurs on; but I trow, my silken page, thou wilt die comfortably in
bed and with a whole skin."

Poor Florence felt the scorn of his mother deeply, and his anger at
her determined injustice now began to kindle.

"I am under no spell, mother," said he calmly; "but I love a lady who
is second to none in Scotland, save the queen herself."

"Indeed!" replied his mother, a new anxiety animating her breast.
"And who may this peerless one be who has captivated the timid and
peaceful heart of my renegade son?"

"Still so unkind and scornful!  Dearest mother----"

"Who is she?" she repeated angrily.

"One whom you have never seen, mother,"

"Her name!" she demanded imperiously.

Florence paused; to tell his mother _all_ would be perhaps to kill
her on the spot, or to draw her bitterest malediction on his head.

"Her name, I say!" she reiterated fiercely, while a flush came over
her wrinkled face; "say no ignoble name to me, Florence; but
remember, degenerate as ye are, that your blood is the reddest in
Scotland.  Still pausing--still quailing before me, eh!  'Tis a woman
you are ashamed of, and as a proof thereof, you dare not utter her
name to your own mother."

Florence felt that a crisis in his fate was coming fast; and that an
end should be put to a conversation so unseemly, so bitter and
humiliating; so he replied,--

"Her name is Madeline Home."

His mother glared at him with a startled expression, as if she deemed
him an enemy.

"Did I hear you aright?" she gasped in a low voice, while trembling
like an aspen bough; "what mean you?"

"Mean?" murmured Florence, dreading the effect of his communication.

"Yes," she replied, still surveying him as if she deemed him a
lunatic about to become troublesome.

"Mother, to end all this, I love Madeline Home, the Countess of
Yarrow."

"Love--love _her_?" she gasped, for she was too old and too excited
to raise her voice when suffering under deep emotion; but snatching
her bodkin from her busk, she would have stabbed him, had not the
nurse, Maud, arrested her hand and clung in terror upon her arm.
There was a long pause broken only by her sighs.  Florence attempted
to take her hand, but she fiercely thrust him aside; for had Claude
Hamilton appeared and made _her_ a proposal of marriage, her intense
disgust, bewilderment, and rage, could not have been greater.  "My
husband is in his grave," she said in a low and moaning voice; "the
sea of life ebbs and flows as it rolls round the place of his sleep;
but he hears its billows no more.  Blessed be Heaven that spared him
what I now feel; BUT, if the dead know aught that passes upon earth,
beware boy, lest his bones may clatter in their bloody shroud--for it
_was_ a bloody shroud in which I wound him,--and his soul, at the
foot of the throne of Him who died on Calvary, may curse thee,
Florence, curse thee for loving a daughter of the race of Preston!"

Her calmness was more oppressive to Florence than her usually
impotent anger.

"To love _her_--oh, to love _her_!" she continued,--"a wretch whose
father, Quentin Home of Yarrow, drew his sword by Preston's side, in
mere wickedness against your father, and may for aught I know, be one
of his slayers.  Boy, on thy peril, in thy raving, forget not our
righteous feud!"

"Unhappy feud; what good has it ever done us?"

"Who thinks of good, when speaking of an hereditary foe?  Shame on me
that I bore thee!  Shame on thy father that he begot thee! for by the
holy Lamp of Lothian--yea, by the cross of the true Church, thou art
fitted for naught in this world but to snuff candles, swing a censer
and mumble latin, like old Mass John of Tranent.  Oh, ungrateful,
undutiful, and false!  If ever thou hast a child, may it sting thy
heart to the quick, even as at this hour thou stingest me!  Thy
father is in his grave----"

"By its side, Claude Hamilton is ready to make every honourable and
religious amend; as Christians let us forgive----"

"'Tis the cant of shorn monks,--but is it the creed of a Scottish
gentleman?  Give me thy sword, and take my spindle and distaff; for
by the God who hears us, they will become thee better than any
warlike weapon.  Thanks be to Heaven that I am the mother of another
son who is there; but while on earth he knew his duty to his race and
name.  Hear me,--hear me!" she continued deeply, and wildly grasping
his right arm, as much to support her feeble form as to give energy
to her words: "With this right hand on the pale corpse of my husband,
and with the other raised to heaven, I swore to have a dreadful
vengeance on the house of Preston!  With the same hand on the corpse
of my Willie--that comely corpse,--sore gashed by Preston's curtal
axe, I swore again that deadly vow; by the tombs in which they
moulder side by side--that brave old father and most faithful
son,--and on bended knees, by God's holy altar, a thousand times have
I registered the same terrible vow,--registered it in _thy name_,
Florence!  I am a weak, very weak, and sorrow-stricken old woman; my
trust is in thee, Florence; and woe to thee, woe, if that trust be
unworthily placed!"

Exhausted by her emotions and this outburst, she sank upon a stone
bench that was near, her fingers convulsively clutching her long
cane, her pale lips quivering, and her bright but hollow eyes rolling
on vacancy.  After another long and painful pause, she spoke again
through her grinding teeth.

"She is said to be beautiful--this earl's daughter,--this border
churl's brat?"

"So beautiful and so winning, mother, that you could not fail to love
her----"

"What, I?"

"Yes; and so good and pious!  Ask Father John if she ever misses a
prayer, a mass, or other ordinance of the Church, and whether she is
the mother of the poor whereever she goes."

"Marry come up!" exclaimed the fierce old dame, pressing her hands
upon her throbbing heart; for this praise bestowed so ardently by her
son upon one of that hated race stung her to the soul.  "Oh that I
had her in the vault of the tower," thought she, "or in yonder
turret, or in my bower-chamber, gagged, and bound hand and foot!
Verily, a hot iron would soon efface all trace of the fatal beauty by
which this sorceress hath bewitched and spread a glamour ower thee!"

As _this terrible idea_ occurred to her, she deemed it a wiser mode
to dissemble with her son, than to quarrel with him, in attempting to
exert an authority which at his years was absurd, and could not be
enforced.  So, with the cunning, rather than the wisdom of age, she
gradually seemed to recover her composure; and for the purpose of
luring information from her son, began to speak with pretended
calmness, though her chest heaved with suppressed emotion, and when
_his_ face was averted, her eyes glared like those of a basilisk.

"These tidings of attachment are indeed something to startle and
amaze," said she through her clenched teeth.

"Nothing is new under heaven, mother," said Florence, with a sigh;
"the years and events that have passed are but the mirror of those to
come."

"This love of thine, where hatred was wont to be, belies such musty
morality.  Love Madeline Home, indeed?  It will be with the chance of
having a score of rivals."

"Well," replied Florence smiling, "a score are better than one."

"One thou couldst kill."

"A score shall not kill me, at all events.  And now, dear mother, if
Madeline loves me, may not an earl's coronet, if one day blazoned in
the old hall there, glint bravely in your old eyes?"

"The coronet of the Homes of Yarrow!" she said through her still
grinding teeth; "and this earl's mother--who was she?  An Achesson,
of Gosford, or the Guseford, for they made their money in the days of
the Regent Albany, by supplying the gluttons of Edinburgh with geese.
Oho! of a verity, a brave alliance for one whose fathers have borne
their crests on their helmets in battle five hundred years ago!  But
you see her frequently--this Countess of Yarrow?" she asked, on
remembering her new tactics.

"Alas, no."

"Indeed! how cometh this about?" she asked, taking her son's hand in
hers, with seeming fondness.

"Fate--yourself, mother, are alike adverse to us."

"When are ye to see her who hath so begowked thee--this bonnie bird,
again?"

"Mother, you do not mean her evil?" asked Florence suddenly, for the
expression of her eye bewildered him.

"Wherefore such a thought!" said she, as her withered cheek reddened;
"but when do you meet?"

"To-night," said he, after some hesitation.

"So soon--hah! and where?"

"In the old porch of Tranent Church."

"Where they are lying--a fitting place for such a tryst!" she
thought.  "At what time?" she asked in a husky voice and while
lowering her now stealthy eyes on the grass.

"The gloaming."

"'Tis two hours hence, by the dial.  We may sit and converse yet
awhile; but you look pale and weary, my bairn, and must take a cup of
my medicated cordial."

"I thank you, dear lady and mother," said the unsuspecting youth,
happy to perceive a change in the manner of the old lady, who
summoned the nurse Maud, and, while giving her a key, whispered in
her ear certain directions.  In a minute after the old woman came out
of the tower with a silver cup in her hand.

"Drink, my bairn--drink," said the nurse, patting the cheek of
Florence; and he, heedless of what the contents might be if he
pleased Lady Alison, drank them to the dregs, and turned with a smile
to resume the conversation on the subject that was nearest his heart.
He began to talk; but he knew not what, for his tongue seemed to
speak without his control; and within five minutes his utterance
became heavy and inarticulate; he made a strong effort to recover
himself, but his voice was gone; his eyes wandered--the tower, the
garden, the terraces, and trees, seemed to be multiplied by a
hundredfold, and to be chasing each other in a circle; then a deep
drowsiness, against which he strove in vain to contend, fell upon
him, and he lay motionless and still, but breathing heavily.

These two stern old women--the lady and the nurse--exchanged a glance
of triumph and satisfaction; but the latter kindly covered him up
with a mantle, and kissed his brow; while the former, in her fiery
energy, almost tore the opal ring from his finger, and in doing so
pressed the spring of the secret inclosure, which Madeline had
referred to, when she first gave it to Florence.  The stone arose,
and under it was a little coil of hair, with the ominous words--

  "_What ye resolve
  Death shall dissolve._"


"So may it fare with the resolve of the donor!" said Lady Alison.
"Maud, look ye to this moonstruck fool while I look to the false
witch who hath begowked him.  Now, ho! to keep this gay love-tryst at
the kirk of Tranent!"

In ten minutes after this, accompanied by Roger of Westmains and
three other armed men, who knew no will but hers, and had no scruple
in obeying it; for they regarded her with as much veneration and fear
as the dingy Hindoo does Brahma, or the miserable Persian does the
bearded shah, she had left the tower of Fawside, and taken the
eastern path direct to the church of the vicarage.




CHAPTER XL.

THE WAKENING.

  He kneel'd in prayer in a lonely room,
    Raised hand and streaming eye,
  With a swimming brain, and a burning heart,
    And a wild and bitter cry;
  And a light came down on his stormy fears,
    For a time; but the light grew dim:
  And now, through the gloom of the pitiless years,
    What hope, what hope for him?
                                  _Lyrics of Life._


The sun had set--the evening was grey and cloudy--when consciousness
slowly returned to Florence.  A swimming of the sight, a throbbing in
the head, with an intense cold over all his limbs, were his first
sensations on awakening from the long trance into which the potent
drug given him by his mother had cast him two hours before.

"My appointment--the meeting--Madeline!" were his first thoughts; and
he staggered up but to sink again upon his hands, with drooping head
and bewildered brain; for the garden with its walks, trees, terraces,
and shrubbery--the castle, with its grated windows and round
tourelles (of which the corbelling now alone remains), and its large
square chimneys--seemed to be all in pursuit of each other, as when
he saw them last; and, in short, some minutes elapsed before he
became fully conscious of existence, or able to stand erect and think
with coherence, if not with calmness.

"Madeline's ring?"  It was gone.

A sudden light seemed to break upon him.  He recalled his mother's
hatred and denunciations against her, and upon their love; her sudden
change to assumed placidity; her remarks upon the ring; and then the
cup of cordial--her own "medicated cordial"--given after a sudden
whisper to Maud, who for years had been in all her secrets, the
partner of her loves and hates, her sorrows and her joys.  He saw it
all; he had been duped--most foully duped--and his ring abstracted.
He rushed into the castle and sprang up-stairs in search of Lady
Alison; her bower chamber was vacant; she was not in the hall;
spindle, spinning-wheel, and distaff stood unused in the embayed
window; and he was informed by Maud that she and Roger of Westmains,
with three other armed men, had set out on horseback two hours ago.

"Strange and unusual this!" said he; "for, save to mass, my mother
never leaves her own gate.  Where has she gone?"

Maud replied, with eyes averted, she did not know.

"You do know!" exclaimed Florence impetuously,--"speak!"

The old woman fumbled with the lappets of her curchie, and
endeavoured to withdraw.

"Speak!" continued Florence, confronting her.  "I am the victim of
some vile plot.  Ye have half-poisoned me, beldame, by some damnable
philter; for at this moment there is a bitter sickness in my heart
and in my soul!  Speak, old nursie, speak, or, though your
foster-son, by Him who hears us on high, I will hang you over the
tower wall as I would a hag of Egypt!"

"Weel," replied the woman, trembling, "she gaed by the loan end to
the kirk."

"Hah--to Tranant!  I see it all.  Fool! fool!--dupe that I have been,
not to read the cruelty that glittered in her eye, while her lips
seemed to smile!  My horse--quick--my horse!" he exclaimed; but,
without waiting for the groom, he rushed bareheaded to the
stable-yard, saddled the first nag that stood at hand, leaped on its
back, and galloped madly over hedge and ditch, through field and
meadow, straight for the kirk-town of Tranant.

The whole affair seemed to unravel itself now.  Aware of the
appointment in the gloaming, his mother had gone in his place to meet
Madeline; and his heart trembled at the prospect of the terror, the
insult, if not the actual danger, to which the young countess might
be subjected by Lady Alison; his swollen heart beat painfully, and
wildly he rode, spurring his panting horse, and pricking it with his
poniard as it lingered at every desperate leap.

Much of the fine old wood which once covered the district has now
been cut down, rendering the landscape somewhat dreary and bare; but
though flat and (for Scottish scenery) unpicturesque, it was then,
and is still, fertile and well cultivated.

On this evening it seemed particularly gloomy.  The sun, long before
he set beyond the dark hills of Dunblane, had been thickly enveloped
in masses of dun and grey cloud, thus imparting a sombre aspect to
the waves that tumbled in the estuary of the Forth, and flecked its
breast with foam, while the breakers that roared and hissed upon the
rugged shore were spotless as winter snow.  The white sea-birds were
skimming over the harvest-fields, betokening a storm at hand; and the
red glare of the salt-pans, which belonged to the monks of St. Mary,
and were perched upon the bleak and rifted reefs of freestone that
jutted into the dashing sea, streaked the dull-grey background with
sudden gleams of vertical fire, imparting a weird aspect to the
scenery.

The gloom of the evening and the sombre aspect of nature inspired
Florence with vague alarm, and with a strange foreboding that
amounted to an emotion of horror, as he rode heedlessly and headlong
towards the old church of the vicarage.

It stands upon the southern verge or slope of a long narrow vale,
which was then covered by giant whins and wild gorse, and at the
bottom of which a brawling brook forced its way past all obstruction
to the sea.  Of old it was named Travernent, which, say some, meant
the hamlet in the valley; but, according to the writings of Father
John, was the battle-shout of certain stout Scots who routed a party
of Danish invaders and drove them into the sea.  The church, a plain
edifice of gloomy and forbidding aspect, built no one knows when or
by whom, has a square tower and vaulted roof, and belonged of old to
the monks of Holyrood.  Its windows were few, and, by the immense
number of dead interred for ages within and without its massive
walls, this sombre temple seemed to have sunk far below the original
level of the ground.  On the steeple was a weather-cock, which, as
the Hamiltons of Preston were wont to aver, tauntingly flapped its
wings whenever a Fawside died.

The door, as in the churches of all Catholic countries, stood open,
and when Florence dismounted and entered, the interior was so dark,
that the only light came from the little tapers that twinkled before
the altar which stood under the cross-arches of the rood-tower, and
from the altar-tomb of Thorwald Lord of Travernent, whose effigy,
cross-legged, for he had been a crusader, lay in the chancel, while
on the wall near it there hung his rusty sword and mouldering hood of
mail.

Florence passed the tombs of his father and brother with a hasty
glance and with a shudder; for the memory of their faces, their fate,
and the heritage of hatred they had bequeathed, came too vividly
before him--too vividly at this terrible hour.

"Madeline!" he exclaimed; but there was no reply.  The gloomy church
was open, vacant, bare, and silent, and its solemn aspect was
oppressive to his mind.

"Madeline!" he repeated, in a louder tone.

He was turning away to pursue his inquiries elsewhere.  when he
perceived, immediately under a monument on the wall, which still
bears the shield and name of his father,

  LORD Fawside of that Ilk.

and within the shadow caused by the tomb, on which his armed effigy
lay, the figure of a woman stretched without motion on the floor,
over which a dark stream of blood was flowing even to his feet; and
with a moan of agony, rather than a cry of alarm, he sprang towards
her.




CHAPTER XLI.

A BLOODY TRYST.

  O bide at hame, my lord, she said;
    O bide at hame my marrow,
  For my three brethren will thee slay,
    On the dowie dens o' Yarrow.
                                _Old Ballad._


On this gloomy evening, the 2nd of September, the tower of Preston,
like every other tower and fortalice in Scotland, presented a scene
of bustle and warlike preparation.  Clumps of tall Scottish lances,
newly shafted and freshly pointed, stood in rows against the barbican
wall: the clink of the smith's hammer, as he welded horse-shoes or
riveted armour that had been cut or broken in recent frays, was heard
in various quarters; the hands of Symon Brodie, of Mungo-Tennant, and
other sturdy vassals, were all busy, scouring breastplates,
burganets, and gauntlets; and here, as in Fawside, the red sparks
flew from the whirling grindstone, as the hard edge of the Jethart
axe or the long fluted blade of the broadsword were applied thereto
by those bronzed and bearded ploughmen whom the coming week was to
see transformed into helmeted men-at-arms following the laird to the
field for Scotland and her queen.

Amid this somewhat unwonted bustle the young Countess of Yarrow
easily and unseen reached the castle garden, and from thence, by a
private door, proceeded on foot to the place of rendezvous, attended
only by a little footboy, who bore her missal in a velvet bag, on
which her coat-of-arms was embroidered in the Scottish fashion for
ladies, _i.e._, without supporters, but surrounded by a cord of her
colours, all fairly emblazoned by Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,
and named in the courtly language of heraldry a cordeliere, or lace
of love.

On reaching the church, which was little more than one Scottish mile
from the gate of Preston, she sent her attendant on a message to the
thatched village, with some bodily comforts for certain of her poor
pensioners; and, without perceiving that Roger of Westmains, with
three armed men in helmets, jacks, and plate sleeves, with four
saddled horses, were half concealed in a thicket of thorns close by,
she entered the gloomy fane just as the sun set enveloped in clouds,
as already described, thus making more sombre the shadows of an
edifice, the aspect and memories of which made her shudder, and
blanched the beautiful smile which the hope of meeting her lover
spread over her face.

"Florence!" she exclaimed timidly, pausing at the entrance of the
church, which seemed so empty and desolate; and as she gazed
anxiously up the nave, the figures of none met her eyes but those of
armed men carved in stone, and stretched in death-like rigidity on
their Gothic biers, surrounded by little figures called weepers, in
niches--effigies all swept away by the mad fury of the Reformers,
twelve years after.

"Florence!" she repeated, in a lower and more agitated voice; still
there was no response; and she was about to withdraw with a mingled
emotion of pique and alarm, when suddenly, from between the tombs of
William Fawside and his father Sir John, there started up the tall
and weird-like figure of a woman clad in a long black dooleweed, on
the left shoulder of which was the usual mark of mourning, a white
velvet cross.  Her face was pale as that of a corpse, but her
features were convulsed with all the energy of fierce and
concentrated passion and venom.  Her mouth was open, but her close
rows of firm white teeth were clenched, and her hollow eyes shone
with a baleful light.  Towering above the shrinking Madeline, she put
forth a long arm, and, with a wild exclamation of triumph, grasped
her hand, and retained it with all the unyielding tenacity of an iron
vice, and shook her wrathfully the while.

"Madam, madam!" exclaimed the poor countess, who believed herself in
the power of an insane person, "what mean you by this?"

"That ye shall soon learn," hissed Lady Alison, shaking her more
violently than ever.

"Help--help!" cried Madeline!  "I will not be so abused!  Woman, who
are you, that dare to use me thus!"

"Dare?" she said; "dare?--ha! ha!"

"Yes, I repeat, dare!  I am a lady of honour--Madeline Countess of
Yarrow."

"And I am Alison of Fawside; and now, between these cold tombs, in
each of which there lieth a murdered man--the corpse of the husband
in whose kind bosom I slept for thirty years, and the corpse of the
son I bore unto him and suckled at these breasts--murdered by Claude
Hamilton of Preston, your nearest and only kinsman!  Need I tell more
to thee, Madeline Home?"

On this announcement Madeline remembered her recent dream; then a
deadly terror possessed all her faculties and for a time froze her
very utterance; while, as if feasting upon the fear her presence
excited, the fierce old woman like an enraged Pythoness, surveyed her
with gleaming eyes.

"Lady--Lady Alison, hear me; of all these horrors, I at least am
innocent," faltered Madeline.  "Release me, and on my knees I will
unite with you in prayer for the dead."

"Prayer! thou sorceress, thou hell-doomed witch, who would rob me of
my only living son!"

"Madam----"

"Nay, speak not, and crave no pity, for only such pity shall ye have
as my winsome Willie had when bleeding he lay under Preston's curtal
axe at the barriers of Edinburgh!  And so my bonnie Florence loves
thee?  Aha! aha!"

"Oh God! is there no succour near?" sighed the shrinking girl; for
there shone in the old woman's colourless face a pale and almost
infernal light.

"He loves thee--ha! and yet thy beauty is no such wondrous matter,
after all.  A poor and pale-faced moppet like thee would never bear
men to succeed the two stately knights who lie beside us!  So, so! it
is thou, witch, who wouldst rob me of the only son thy murderous race
have left me--rob me of him by necromancy?  Hah!  Wretch! whence got
ye that magic ring, that accursed opal, which I have thrown into the
flames, but which hath cast a glamour in his eyes and made him love
his enemies?  Or got ye a love-philter from that quack apothegar,
above whose door there swingeth a stuffed devil in the light of open
day, Master Posset?  Speak!  'Tis like the courtly ways of that woman
of the house of Guise and those who serve her.  Speak! thou
pale-faced Jezebel--speak! lest I strangle thee!"

"Oh!" murmured Madeline, sinking lower on her knees, overcome by the
horror of being an actor in such a scene as this.  And now, endued by
supernatural strength, this terrible dame dragged her between the
tombs of the Fawsides.  Then Madeline's spirit revolted against these
insults, and she strove to rise and free herself, but Dame Alison by
main strength held her down and retained her, kneeling at her feet.
"Lady," exclaimed the countess, "you are alike unjust and cruel,
insolent and wicked.  I am a lady, an earl's daughter----"

"And what am I?  A daughter of the house of Colean, whose sires were
knights and barons in Carrick since the days of Malcolm IV. and
William the Lion.  Listen, thou trembling minx!  My son came over the
salt sea from France, hating, with a hatred deep as its waters, all
who bore the name of Hamilton, and intent on slaying the man who slew
his father and brother under trust and tryst, foully, as Judas
betrayed his holy Master.  How is it now?  He is James of Arran's
soothfast man and tool, and thy plaything and toy--a puling
moonstruck fool!  And how came this to pass?  By the agency of Satan
and of such as thee; for, by St. Paul, I believe the holy water in
yonder font would hiss upon thy pallid face if I cast it there, as it
would do upon iron in a white heat?  Love thee, indeed!  Perchance he
would have wedded thee, too!  Ha! ha!"

"Madam," said Madeline, who was too patient and gentle not to be
brave and resolute in a good cause, and who blushed amid her terror,
"in that case he might, by the queen's grace, have shared the fair
coronet my father bequeathed to me from the field of Solway."

"Foul shame and fell dishonour blight the new-fangled toy!" exclaimed
Lady Alison with growing rage; "there were no earls in Yarrow when a
laird of Fawside saved King David's life amid the Saxon host at
Northallerton!  But 'tis thy face that hath bewitched my son; and if
a hot iron can mar and destroy the beauty he sees in it, by God's
wrath it shall soon perish and shrivel up like parchment in the fire!
Ho!  Roger--Westmains, come hither!"

At these terrible words the fear of Madeline could no longer be
controlled, and the recesses of the solitary church echoed with her
cries for succour--cries which there were none to hear; and now, in
the excitement of this struggle, a new idea seized the mind of Dame
Alison.  Wreathing her hands in the dishevelled hair of Madeline, she
madly dashed her repeatedly against the tombs on each side.  To save
herself, the poor girl caught the carved projections, and, clinging,
held them more than once; but such was the strength of Dame Alison,
that her victim's grasp was repeatedly torn away.

"Here," exclaimed the stern widow--"here, between the bones of my
dead husband and son, as on a shrine of vengeance, do I offer up your
blood, even as the pagans of old offered up their sacrifices to the
spirits of hatred and revenge!  Die--die! and by the hand of her
whose son ye sought by your damnable arts to ensnare and to destroy!"

With these words she drew the long steel bodkin from her busk, and
thrusting it twice into the bosom of Madeline, rushed from the
church, and left her stretched on the pavement gasping for breath,
and choking in warm and weltering blood.

Some accounts say this terrible deed was perpetrated with a poniard;
but the vicar of Tranent distinctly records that she used her "buske
bodkyne."




CHAPTER XLII.

THE PASSING BELL.

  Night-jars and ravens, with wide-stretch'd throats,
  From yews and hollies send their baleful notes;
  The ominous raven, with a dismal cheer,
    Through his hoarse beak, of following horror tells,
  Begetting strange imaginary fear,
    With heavy echoes like to Passing Bells.


With his heart filled by emotions of horror which the pen cannot
describe, Florence raised Madeline, whom, though stretched upon her
face, he knew instantly.  Ah, there was no mistaking the beautiful
contour of her head, from which the little triangular hood had been
torn so roughly; or those tresses of rich and silky hair, in which
Lady Alison had so ruthlessly twisted her fingers, that trembled
alike with wrath and rage.  Madeline was deathly pale; her eyes were
almost closed, and a crimson current flowed in a slender streak from,
her mouth; while her bosom, like the pavement on which she had lain
for some minutes, was covered with blood.  Her dress, which was of
pale yellow silk slashed with black, at the breast and shoulders was
covered with gouts of the same sanguine tint as the tiled floor of
the church.

Mechanically, as one in a dream, Florence raised her, and as he did
so, he recalled her strange and boding words of yesterday.  Then
something rolled under his foot.  He looked down; it was a long,
slender, and sharp-pointed bodkin--his mother's busk-bodkin!  Tinged
with blood, it told the whole terrible tale.  He uttered a moan of
mental agony, and, reeling against his father's tomb, remained for
some moments stupefied, and incapable of action or coherent thought.

Madeline was insensible, yet he pressed her to his heart; and while
his tears fell on her cheek, he kissed away the blood that flowed
from her lips.  Steps were now heard, and the old vicar, Father John,
with eyes dilated in horror of the inhuman deed, and at the sacrilege
committed in his secluded church, approached hastily; for the little
page had heard the cries of his mistress, and for succour had rushed
to the vicarage, which adjoined the burial-ground--but the succour
came too late.

"'Tis all over with us now, Father John?" exclaimed Florence in
broken accents; "by this cruel act my mother has broken my heart, and
cast eternal infamy upon our name; and in destroying Madeline she has
slain her son more surely and more wickedly than even the sword of
Preston could have done."

The priest knelt down and chafed the hands of Madeline; but they were
cold and passive.

"The blow--a double blow, good father--has been struck!  She is
dying!  Madeline!--Madeline!  The stab that slays you slays me too!
Oh, madness!--oh, agony!  Oh, fiendish mother, to work a sorrow so
deep as this!  Madeline, do you hear me?  For God's pity, grace, and
love, good vicar, say something--do something--for I cannot lose her
thus!  Speak, or I shall go mad, and dash my head against my father's
tomb!"

For a moment Madeline, roused by his voice and energy, opened her
eyes; and, on recognizing Florence, a sweet, sad smile passed over
her soft features.

"My mother did this, Madeline; say it was or it was not she; am I
mistaken--speak--speak!"

Loath to give pain where she loved so well and tenderly, and
believing herself to be dying, she did not answer, save with sad
smiles, to his earnest inquiries respecting her wounds, and his
unavailing protestations of love and sorrow.

At last, when he implored her to speak, she attempted to say
something; but her lips and tongue had lost their power; her eye grew
dull, and she became insensible; her hands and her head drooped, and
her long hair swept over the floor of the church as she was borne
away.

The alarm had now spread to the village; so, while this scene was
passing in the dusky and half-lighted church, and Florence in his
grief was uttering a succession of incoherences, a crowd, principally
of women, who viewed him with louring and hostile eyes, had gathered
round; and by them Madeline, amid many expressions of woe (for the
influence of her family was great in the neighbourhood), was borne
carefully and tenderly into the vicar's house; and while she was
undressed, and her wounds--two small but deep orifices--were
stanched, horsemen were sent at full speed to Preston-tower, to that
quaint compatriot of Rabelais, Master Posset, at Edinburgh, and to a
certain nun of Haddington, Christina Hepburn, prioress of the
Cistercians, a kinswoman of the Earl of Bothwell--a lady who had
great skill as a leech, and enjoyed a high reputation as a woman of
holiness.

Pressing his lips to the brow of Madeline, whose features were cold
and passive as her clammy hands, Florence left her in charge of the
vicar and her new attendants, and mounting his horse, which he knew
to be swift and strong, he prepared to follow, and if possible to
outride, the messenger for Edinburgh, as he had the greatest faith in
Master Posset's skill; and with something like a prayer to Heaven,
mingling on his lips with an imprecation on his mother, he leaped
into the saddle, urged his horse across the rugged ravine which the
old church and vicarage overlooked, and then galloped westward, blind
with grief and confusion of thought, for his brain was yet giddy with
the potent drug by which he had been so wickedly deluded, and a
half-stupor hung over his senses.

Darkness, dense and gloomy, had now set in.  The sky was without
stars, and the country was enveloped in obscurity.  As he rode on,
urging his horse from time to time, to get it well up in hand, a
light at the horizon caught his eye.  He turned, and felt a shock
like that of electricity: but they knew nought of electricity in
those days.

On the brow of Soltra the red beacon was in flame; and now another,
that rose on the summit of Dunprender, expanded from a star to a
sheet of fire; another and another, on many a tower and hill, were
lit up in rapid succession; and soon a chain of fires garlanded with
flame the far horizon of the night, from the southern borders,
sending to the distant Highland glens the tidings that the foe was
advancing and the day of battle was at hand.

A fierce sensation, almost of joy, glowed through the throbbing and
agonized heart of Florence.  He considered those certain signals of
the coming war--the war that in another week was to lay all Lothian
desolate, like the shores of the Dead Sea--as so many flaming lights
that would guide him to Madeline in the other world; for by her
changed aspect and dreadful pallor, he dared not hope that she would
survive the night.  As he paused a moment, to watch the beacons
kindling and blazing in succession on the murky sky, there came over
the open plain from Tranent, a sound which made him shudder, and
caused the pulses of his heart to stand still.

It was, indeed, a dreadful sound--the solemn tolling of the passing
bell, which informed him that Madeline Home was dying, or was already
no more!

By this old custom, which of course was abolished in Scotland at the
Reformation, all the faithful were invited to pray for the departing
soul; and its sound was also supposed to scare away the fiends who
were in waiting to wrest it from its guardian angels, as they winged
their way towards the stars.

He stood upon the bleak, open heath as if transformed to stone, every
knell of the solemn soul-bell seeming to echo in his heart and in his
brain; yet his thoughts were without coherence and his lips without
prayer.  His mother--his dreadful, blood-imbrued mother, with her
tall sombre figure, seemed to tower before his vision, like a
shadowed angel of destruction!  He dared not think of her.

The reins fell from his hands, and covering his hot, tearless eyes,
he groaned aloud in his agony, and felt as if under a horrible spell.

Still the solemn bell continued its monotonous tolling, and it came
to his ear by fits upon the hollow wind.  Had Florence not been too
certain that he was awake, he would have deemed that he was involved
in some hideous dream or vision of the night.

"Oh, to shut out that dreadful sound, and to forget it for ever!"
thought he.  "A thousand times I have heard it ring before, but never
with a cadence so dreadful as to-night."

At that moment he heard the galloping of a horse; its steps faltered
as it came along, for it seemed worn and faint by the speed to which
it was urged by whip and spur, and by the toil of the long journey it
had undergone.  On arriving near Florence, the rider reined suddenly
up, and then, as if the endurance of life could be no longer taxed,
the panting and foam-covered horse, sank lifeless, or nearly so, upon
the roadway.

"Who are you that sit idly on your horse, in an hour like this, when
every beacon in the land is in a flame?" asked the dismounted man
breathlessly, as he disengaged himself from his stirrups, and rushed
to the side of Florence; "speak, sir--who are you?"

"I am Florence of Fawside," replied the other; "and what then?"

"I am Livingstone of Champfleurie," said the other, stepping back
with his hand on his sword.

"Hah!--go, go; in an hour like this, I am at peace even with you,"
said Florence mournfully.

"This is no time to speak of peace," replied Livingstone, still
panting with his recent exertion; "I have ridden from Berwick on the
spur--more than fifty miles to-day, after seeing the English vanguard
close upon the Tweed, and when I last saw Home Castle, _four_ lights
were all ablaze upon its summit, as a token that they were in great
strength, and bound this way.  Through all the Merse and Lauderdale I
have borne this--the cross of fire!  Thou seest my horse, man--it can
no further go, nor well can I.  Take this, and ride to the Lord
Regent--rouse the country as you go, and say the foe are bound direct
for Lothian--you hear me, direct for Lothian!  On, on--I say, and
ride with this for Edinburgh.  Luckily thou art mounted--ride, ride,
for Scotland and the queen!"

With these words, which he poured forth all in a breath, Champfleurie
thrust into the hand of Florence the _fiery_ cross--the old Scottish
symbol of war, the summons to arms, and then incapable of further
action, he sank beside his dying horse, panting and breathless on the
heath.  Florence, as a loyal subject, knew at once what his duty
required him to do; and anxious to find relief from the agony of his
soul in any species of excitement, he turned his horse and rode off
madly towards the west; but the solemn sound of the passing bell
seemed to follow him, even when he drew up within the gates of
Edinburgh, amid the wild clamour and hurrahs of the mustering
craftsmen, the clanging of the alarm-bells, and the rattle of drums,
as, in the glare of torch and cresset, the provost, the deacons, and
magistrates, arrayed the bands of burgesses, under their various
banners, in that long and magnificent street which still forms the
main artery of life in the ancient city of the Stuarts; and there the
murmur of the gathering thousands rose into the midnight air like the
solemn chafing of a distant sea, or the wind passing through the
leaves of a mighty forest.

Ten minutes after his entrance into the city by the Kirk-o'-field
Porte, saw him in the presence of Arran, in the old Tower of
Holyrood, along the shadowy corridors and past the tall windows of
which lights were seen to flicker, and the glitter of armed figures,
with helmets and partisans, flitting to and fro, like spectres, half
seen and half lost in gloom, as gentlemen and men-at-arms betook them
to their harness with soldier-like alacrity.  Florence was introduced
to the regent in that old tapestried room where, in the nights of
after times, poor Mary Stuart wet many a pillow with her bitter
tears, and from where Rizzio was dragged forth to die.  He found the
regent just roused from bed by the clamour in the city.  He was clad
in a loose robe of scarlet trimmed with miniver; his sheathed sword
was in his hand, and around him were his brother, the lord
chancellor, and the Abbot of Paisley, with many nobles and officers
of state, who, on their first alarm, had hurried to the palace in
arms.

Pale as ashes, and feeling as if death was in his heart, Florence
entered the room, with his hands begrimed by the fire-scathed cross,
which he had long since consigned to another messenger to bear
elsewhere.  He approached the regent, but, overcome by his emotions,
tottered to a chair, and found himself incapable of speech or action.

"Wine--wine! 'tis Fawside, ever faithful and true; but faint and worn
now," exclaimed Arran.

Dalserfe, the page, promptly brought a flask of wine; but Florence
waved his hand, and again sank back; then fortunately there entered
at that moment another messenger, the loyal old Earl of Mar.

"The English are in motion, my Lord of Arran," he exclaimed.

"A thousand beacons are telling all Scotland quite as much, lord
earl," said Arran, with a quiet smile; "so they are advancing?"

"Their avant-garde, three thousand strong, under their
lieutenant-general, the brave Earl of Warwick, is already on the
march to Greenlaw; and their rear-guard, also three thousand strong,
under the Lord Dacres, hath reached Berwick.  I have ridden from the
Merse, old as I am, to bear these sure tidings, for I saw them cross
the Tweed to-day at noon!"

"Who hath them, under baton?"

"The duke--Edward of Somerset."

"Sit ye down, lord earl," said the Archbishop of St. Andrews; "for in
sooth you seem weary."

"Nay, my lord, pardon me," replied this peer, like all his race a
faithful adherent of the crown; "but in this room where last I knelt
to James V.----"

"James V. was too good a Scotsman to have kept an old soldier, a true
and valiant peer like thee, standing in thy seventieth year, like a
very foot-page."

"And after a fifty miles ride from the Merse."

"But we have no time for idle compliments," said Arran impatiently;
"summon the lords of council, and despatch couriers to every
sheriffdom, stewartry, and constabulary; _the muster-place is
Edmondstone Edge_.  Dalserfe, my pages and armour!"

With these words Arran abruptly closed the interview.




CHAPTER XLIII.

THE CROSS OF FIRE.

  Fast as the fatal symbol flies,
  In arms the huts and hamlets rise;
  From winding glen, from upland brown,
  They pour'd, each hardy tenant, down.
  Nor slack'd the messenger his pace;
  He show'd the sign, he named the place,
  And pressing forward like the wind,
  Left clamour and surprise behind.
                            _Lady of the Lake._


On this night the beacons blazed on continent and isle, athwart the
whole kingdom,--from the shores of the Atlantic to those of the
German Sea.  In every city, burgh, hamlet, and castle, cottage,
convent, and monastery, the tidings were known within an hour, that
the invasion had begun; and by day-dawn THE CROSS OF FIRE had spread
from hand to hand, with the summons to the muster-place, and it went
from glen to glen with incredible speed, each bearer naming the
gathering or rendezvous of his clan, burgh, or sheriffdom, with the
place where the array of the kingdom was to meet the Regent Arran.

The Crian Tarigh--the cross of fire, or of shame, for it bore both
names; first, from the circumstance of its arms being scathed with
fire, and then dipped in the blood of an animal; and second, from the
everlasting infamy attending all who disobeyed the bearer--was a
terrible Celtic symbol never before used in the lowlands of Scotland;
but on this occasion it proved most effectual.

It was usually borne by a messenger on foot.  On reaching a hamlet he
gave it to the first person he met, and the latter, on hazard of his
life, was bound to leave his occupation, be it at home or afield,--a
bridal or a burial,--a birth or a deathbed,--a scene of sorrow or a
scene of joy,--and to convey it till he met another, to whom he
simply mentioned the muster-place.  On beholding this terrible cross,
every man between the ages of sixteen and sixty, capable of bearing
arms, was compelled to appear at the rendezvous in his best harness;
and woe to the wretch who failed.  The utmost vengeance of fire and
sword, as indicated by the three burned and bloody arms of this
ancient symbol of our Celtic fathers, fell upon the false and
disobedient, the timid and untrue.

Thus by dawn next day the whole of Scotland was in arms!  The barons
and chiefs were all on the march, from every point, for Edmondstone
Edge, the royal muster-place; while in every walled city and town
throughout the realm the armed burghers kept watch and ward, or
filled the great castles in the neighbourhood with men, cannon, and
all the munitions of war.  The military measures of the Regent Arran,
at this important crisis, reflected the greatest credit upon his
personal activity, and upon his government, which had hitherto been
as weak and vacillating as his religious opinions, which wavered
alternately between the new and stern, bare creed of Calvin, and the
pictorial splendours of the Church of Rome.

On learning the tragic event which occurred in the church of Tranent,
Claude Hamilton of Preston became reanimated by what he had striven
to forget, or commit to oblivion, his feud with the Fawsides; and a
longing for the direst vengeance on Dame Alison and on her son
inspired him and all his followers.  He would have attacked, sacked,
and rased her little fortalice to its foundations, had not the Albany
herald arrived, bearing a special message from his lord and chief,
the Regent Arran, commanding him to forget his feud for the time, and
to bring his vassals to the muster-place to aid the general cause;
after the triumph of which, he should have all the satisfaction the
power of the Justician of Scotland could award.

His summons to attend the array of the kingdom ran thus, as we render
it in English.


"REGINA.  Well-beloved friend, we greet you well.  For so much as our
dearest cousin the regent, and the lords of our council, are surely
informed that our old enemies of England tend to invade our realm; he
resolves, with the support of all true barons and faithful lieges, to
resist them in our just defence.  It is our will, and we pray you, to
address you incontinent with your honourable household, all _bodin_
in array of war, to attend our royal standard, in all haste, at
Edmondstone Edge, as ye love the defence and common weal of our
realm, and under the pain and _tynsale_ of life, lands, and goods;
and as regards your outstanding feud with the Fawsides of that ilk,
and the cruel and bloody deed of the widow of the umquhile Sir John
Fawside, we promise you all manner of vengeance at the hands of the
Earl of Argyle, our lord justice general, and gage the honour of our
crown therein.  Written under our signet at Edinburgh, the 3rd day of
September, 1547.[*]

JAMES REGENT."

"To our well-beloved friend, the Laird of Preston--_These_."


[*] Father John's MSS.


Sternly Claude Hamilton read this missive, and gulping down his anger
and grief--for he dearly loved his beautiful kinswoman,--he stifled
his furious passion for a time; and, meanwhile, the grim Dame Alison,
with Roger of Westmains acting as her lieutenant-governor, watched
well in her moated tower, with gates barred, and every falcon and
arquebuse loaded; and though she secluded herself in her
bower-chamber, it is to be doubted whether, even in her quietest
hours of reflection, amid the still calm sleepless hours of the long
night-watch, she felt any remorse for the terrible deed she had done.
If she did feel it, she carefully veiled it under an exterior that to
ordinary eyes was unreadable and impenetrable.

Animated by a horror of his mother--an emotion too strange and
terrible for analysis or description,--sick at heart, and crushed in
spirit, poor Florence returned to Fawside tower no more; but resided
with Dick Hackerston, the hospitable and sturdy burgher, who occupied
a mansion in a broad-wynd on the north side of the city, nearly
opposite the hospital and chapel of La Maison Dieu, and the Black
Turnpike, so famous in the annals of 1567, all of which have now been
removed.  There he was provided with suitable arms and armour for man
and horse, and, until the army took the field, there he remained,
tended as a brother would have been, by the worthy merchant's wife,
who saw there was something noble and poignant in his sad and silent
sorrow, which held communion with none; and being young, handsome,
and gallant in bearing, it impressed her all the more.

But to return to the Regent Arran: by the grey dawn of that day, on
which the alarm of the coming foe first crossed the land with giant
strides of fire from mountain-top to mountain-top, the lords of the
royal privy council assembled in the tower of James V. at Holyrood.
There came the earls of Huntly, Mar, Argyle, Cassilis, and Glencairn;
the lords of Lyle, Fleming, and Kilmaurs (with his sinister visage,
his glistening eyes and teeth), and many other peers--those who were
loyal and true, and those who were base and venial--to reconsider and
debate upon the measures to be taken at the present emergency.
Despite their bonds and promises, when the hour of danger came, and
all the land was armed or arming, Glencairn, Cassilis, and others of
their infamous and corrupt faction, found themselves swept away by
the loyalty of the commons, as by a sea, the waves of which there was
no resisting; and they were compelled to lead their vassals to the
field, and to unsheath their swords, against those with whom they
were in secret league, and whose gold they had hoped to pocket; but
to that foul political leprosy--that inborn spirit of treason and
anti-nationality, which was characteristic of too many of the
Scottish nobles, and which they inherited with their titles and their
blood--were the future disasters of Pinkey, like too many other
national woes and degradations, distinctly traceable.

Even Claude Hamilton, for the time, forgot his proffered titles of
Lord Preston and Earl of Gladsmuir, and found himself marching at the
head of a goodly band of mounted spearmen, including Symon Brodie in
his suit of beaked armour, for the muster-place, the green sloping
braes of Edmondstone Edge; and now Ned Shelly's chance of obtaining a
young Scottish countess seemed as distant as the realization of his
leader's political hopes, or the chance of an English bride for
Bothwell, who heard the din of preparation in the castle of
Edinburgh, where he chafed like a caged lion at the external
commotion, in which he could bear no part, for good, for evil, or for
aggrandisement.

At the council board on this eventful morning, the peer whose advice
had the most weight was George Gordon, Earl of Huntly, a loyal and
noble lord, whose manners and education had been improved by study
and by foreign travel.  He had been made lieutenant of the north by
James V., and captain-general of those forces which defeated the
English at the battle of Haidonrig and baffled their next army under
the Duke of Norfolk.  When speaking of the matrimonial alliance with
England, a marriage which Somerset seemed determined to form by the
edge of the sword, he recommended that some accommodation might be
made by a temporary truce or treaty.

On this, Mary of Lorraine, who had come to the council, gave him a
glance of sorrowful reproach.

"My lords," said she, with a flush on her usually pale cheek, "when
my dear husband was dying in Falkland Palace, as Monseigneur le
Cardinal Beaton (who is now in heaven) told me, the setting sun shed
a stream of light into the room where he lay, and with brilliance lit
up the royal arms above the mantelpiece, the arms of Scotland, or,
the lion _gules_ within a double tressure, all were brightened as
with a transient glory; but as the life of my beloved lord and king
ebbed, and he sank lower on his pillow, dying--dying of a broken
heart,--and breathed his last, the sun went down beyond the hills of
Fife, and the arms of the kingdom became dark, so dark, in that
chamber of death and gloom, as to be invisible; and this the
cardinal, and all who were present, declared to be ominous of evil to
come; and the evil _has_ come upon the realm of my fatherless child
when my lord of Huntly hath eyes of favour to the alliance of those
who, for centuries, have striven, by the soldier's sword and the
scrivener's guile, to dishonour the name and subvert the liberties of
Scotland!"

As the beautiful Frenchwoman spoke, her fine hazel eyes became filled
with a sparkling light; her bosom heaved, and her cheek was crimsoned
by the excitement, that made her Valois blood course like lightning
through her veins.

"You wrong me, royal lady," said the Highland earl; "be assured,
madam, that the loyal spirit of my forefathers yet lives within me;
and I trust that all who hear me will remember the words of the
faithful and brave who, from the Abbey of Arbroath, addressed that
ignoble Pope, John XXII., who leagued himself with England against
them; and in the same spirit by which those Scottish barons adhered
to Robert Bruce will we adhere to his descendant, your royal
daughter.  'To _him_,' said they, 'we will adhere as our rightful
king, the preserver of our people and the guardian of our liberties;
but should he ever dream of subjecting us to England, then we will do
our utmost to expel him from the throne as a traitor and an enemy; we
will choose another king to rule over us, _for never, so long as one
hundred Scotsmen are alive, will we be subject to the yoke of
England_!  We fight not for glory, we strive not for riches or
honour, but for that liberty which no good man will consent to lose
but with his life.  We are willing to do anything for peace which may
not compromise our freedom.  If your Holiness disbelieve us, and
continue to favour England, giving undue credit to her false
assertions, then be sure that Heaven will impute to you all the
calamities which our resistance must inevitably produce; and we
commit the defence of our cause to God.'  So spoke the faithful men
of other days," continued the earl, "and, with the hand of that
blessed God above their banner, may such to the latest posterity ever
be the spirit of freedom which shall animate the Scottish people!"

These words filled the council with enthusiasm, and all separated to
prepare for the mortal strife.




CHAPTER XLIV.

THE INVASION.

  Our Scottish warriors on the heath,
    In close battalia stood;
  To free their country and their queen,
    Or shed their reddest blood.
  The Anglo-Saxons' restless band
    Has cross'd the river Tweed;
  And ower the hills o' Lammermuir
    They've march'd wi' mickle speed.
                            _Twinlaw--Old Ballad._


Edward Duke of Somerset, formerly and better known in Scotland as
that Earl of Hertford who led the invasion in the year 1544, had
arrived at Newcastle on the 27th of August at the head of fourteen
thousand two hundred Englishmen and many foreign auxiliaries, with
fifteen pieces of cannon drawn by horses, and nine hundred waggons
laden with stores.  Sir Francis Fleming was master of the ordnance,
and had fourteen hundred pioneers, under Captain John Brem, to clear
the way before the guns, to build fascines, and so forth.  Master
William Patten, who accompanied this army in the quality of judge
marshal, a post to which, he had been advanced by the interest of
Edward Shelly, in his history[*] of the "Expedition," has given us a
minute account of the campaign, and an accurate list of all the
commanders in the Protector's army, to aid which thirty-four ships of
war and thirty-two transports, under the pennon of Edward Lord
Clinton and Say (afterwards high admiral of England) and Sir William
Woodhouse, anchored at the mouth of the Tyne.


[*] "The Expedition into Scotland, of the most worthely fortunate
Prince Edward, Duke of Somerset, &c., made in the first yere of his
Maiestes most prosperous reign, and set out by way of diarie by W.
Patten, Londoner.  Vivat Victor!  Out of the Parsonage of St. Mary
Hill in London, this xxviii of January, 1548."


Lord Grey of Wilton, lieutenant of Boulogne, was high marshal and
captain-general of the horse, who were all cap-a-pie in full armour,
but of a light fashion.  Sir Ralf Vane commanded four thousand
men-at-arms and demi-lances; and Sir Francis Bryan (in the following
year chief governor of Ireland) was captain of two thousand light
horse.  Sir Thomas Darcy led King Edward VI.'s band of pensioners.

Sir Peiter Mewtas was commander of the Almayners, or German infantry,
who were all clad in buff coats and armed with arquebuses.

Don Pedro de Gamboa led the mounted Spanish arquebusiers; and these
foreigners, being trained soldiers of fortune, who had served in many
wars, were the flower of Somerset's forces.  Many of them were
veterans who had fought at the siege of Rhey, in 1521, when muskets
were first used by the Spaniards, whose infantry were then deemed the
finest in Europe.

Edward Shelly led the men-at-arms of Boulogne, who, like the
mercenaries, were all trained and veteran soldiers, but dressed in
blue doublets, slashed and faced with red.  The celebrated Sir Ralf
Sadler (whose papers were edited by Sir Walter Scott) was treasurer
of this well-ordered army, and Sir James Wilford was provost-marshal.

On the 2nd September the Duke of Somerset entered Scotland, and
marched along the eastern coast, keeping carefully in view of his
fleet of sixty-four sail, which accompanied him towards the Firth of
Forth.  Unopposed, he reached that tremendous ravine, the Peaths,
which is now spanned by a bridge that is perhaps the greatest in
Europe, as it is two hundred and forty feet high by three hundred
feet in length.  Abrupt, precipitous, and narrow, this ravine formed
one of the great passes into Scotland; and, being of easy defence,
was deemed "a kind of sluice, by which the tide of war could be
loosened or confined at pleasure."

For, an entire day Sir Francis Fleming and his gunners, and Captain
Brem with his pioneers, toiled in that narrow and savage gorge to
drag through the English artillery and waggons, while the Protector
was busy storming several fortresses in the neighbourhood.  Among
these were the castles of Thornton and Dunglass, belonging to the
Lord Home; and Inverwick, a house of the Hamiltons.  These
strongholds were blown up by gunpowder; but, "before we did so,"
saith Master Patten, "it would have rued any good housewife's heart
to have beholden the great and unmerciful slaughter our men made of
the brood geese and good laying hennes, which the wives had penned up
in the holes and cellars of the castle [of Dunglass].  The spoil was
not rich, to be sure; but of white bread, oaten cakes, and Scottish
ale, was indifferent good store, and soon bestowed among my lord's
soldiers accordingly."

The English marched in three great columns; each was flanked by horse
and artillery; and each piece of cannon had a band of pioneers to
guard it and clear the way before it.  Somerset led the main body;
Warwick still had the vanguard; and Thomas Lord Dacres of Gillesland,
Knight of the Garter, led the rear.

Leaving Dunbar on his right, the duke pushed forward through East
Lothian to the Tyne, which he crossed by the same old narrow bridge
that spans it still; but there not unopposed, for the vassals of the
house of Hepburn opened a cannonade of falcons and culverins from the
ramparts of Bothwell's castle of Hailes, while a brisk assault was
made upon the defiling columns by a famous border marauder named
Dandy Kerr, of the house of Fernyherst, whose moss-troopers, after a
rough encounter, were routed by the heavily-mounted men-at-arms of
Warwick; then, laying the whole country in flames as they advanced,
the English marched on until the 7th of September, when they halted
at Long Niddry, in Haddingtonshire.  There the coast is flat and low;
and thus Somerset was enabled to communicate with his fleet, which
came to anchor in the roads of Leith.

Somerset now became aware that a Scottish army was concentrated in
the neighbourhood, as bands of their prickers, or light-armed horse,
were seen galloping along all the eminences, hallooing and
brandishing their long and slender spears in defiance.  Despite these
hostile appearances, the Lord Clinton was brave enough to come on
shore and attend a council of war, at which it was arranged that he
should anchor the fleet near the mouth of the Esk, to co-operate with
the land forces, which Somerset proposed to halt finally eastward of
Musselburgh, on the green links of that town, and in the parks of
Wallyford and Drumore, where, on the evening of Friday, the 8th, he
came in view of the camp of the Scots, thirty-six thousand strong,
covering all the long green hill named Edmondstone Edge, at the base
of which flowed the Esk.

Around the camp of Somerset, who pitched his own tent near the
village of Saltpreston, the whole country was laid desolate by fire;
and all who failed to escape perished by the sword.  The tall square
tower of Preston was soon stormed from a few old men and boys, who
were headed by Mungo Tennant, and made a desperate resistance; but
they were all slain; then the house was sacked by the English band of
pensioners, and committed to the flames.  The village of Tranent was
burned, and its pretty little vicarage was gutted and destroyed;
while in the church the altars and the tombs of the Fawsides were
defaced and overthrown.  Father John had fled no one knew whither;
and for three days the whole landscape was shrouded in the smoke of
burning hamlets, granges, mills, and stackyards.  Amid this wicked
devastation the old tower of Fawside, perched on the summit of its
hill, escaped unscathed; but its time was coming.

All this destruction was visible from the Scottish camp, which
consisted of four long rows or streets of white tents, that lay from
east to west along the green slope of Edmondstone, surmounted by the
many-coloured banners of chiefs, nobles, and burghs; and from amid
these tents the weapons and armour of so many thousands of men caused
a glittering that seemed incessant to the eyes of the English, as
they surveyed the vast extent of ground occupied by the army of
Arran.  As at the battle of Falkirk in 1296, at that of Dunbar in
1650, and other fields, which the Scots have lost by the treason of
their nobles or the imbecility of their preachers, the _first_
position of the regent was strong and skilfully chosen.

In front flowed the beautiful Esk, between its steep rocky and wooded
banks, from which the feathery ash, the green alder, and the wild
rose-tree drooped to kiss the gurgling waters, which were deeper,
broader, and more rapid than now.  The old Roman bridge, so worn by
war and time, which still spans the stream, and which formed the only
avenue to their position, Arran had manned by archers and mounted
with cannon.  The left flank, towards the sea, was defended by an
intrenchment of turf, also mounted with cannon and lined by
arquebusiers; while a deep and pathless morass, through which nor
horse nor man might march, covered the right.

Such was the position of the Scots before the disastrous field of
Pinkey, or Inveresk--a battle, the issue of which was awaited
breathlessly by Mary of Lorraine, at Edinburgh.  By its strength,
Somerset found himself completely baffled.  To have assailed it would
have been a hopeless task, which he saw would only end in a retreat
that would cover his army with disgrace, if not with ruin and
slaughter.

Arran surveyed the approach of the foe with a confidence in which our
hero did not share; for he knew that the Scottish camp was filled by
titled traitors, and that the auxiliaries under D'Essé had not yet
left the coast of France.  He had but one thought--to join Madeline,
whom he believed to be in heaven, and to perish in the coming
defeat--for what hope was there of victory for an army led by peers
who in secret were the tools of Somerset!

From the slope of Edmondstone the Scots could see the high-pooped,
low-waisted, and gaily-painted caravels of England coming in
succession to anchor, by stem, and stern, off the mouth of the Esk,
with their red ports open, and their brass cannon pointed to the
shore.  All bore the red cross of St. George, together with the
banner of Thomas Lord Seymour of Sudley, K.G., high-admiral of
England, Ireland, Calais, Boulogne, and the marches thereof;
Normandy, Gascony, and Acquitaine; captain-general of the navy and
seas--all of which high-sounding titles, did not save him from having
his head ignominiously chopped off on the 20th January, 1549.

Amid the clamour, hurry, and bustle of the camp, Florence found but
little relief from the agony that preyed upon his spirit.  In the
prospect of the coming battle, lay all his hope of relief--by
plunging into the strife as into a raging sea, to drown his care, his
sorrows past and present.

On the evening before the English halted in sight of the Scottish
camp, he had left the hospitable mansion of bluff Dick Hackerston,
for the last time; and the earnest and tender farewell which that
good citizen took of his buxom wife, who laced on his mail with her
own trembling hands and placed as an amulet round his neck a holy
medal which an old grey friar had brought from Bethlehem; and the
kisses which he bestowed again and again on his laughing and
chubby-cheeked little ones, with the blessing which he knelt down to
receive from his blind father--a frail old man, who for the last few
years had vegetated in a huge leathern chair in the ingle-nook of the
dining-chamber,--all formed a strong contrast in the mind of Florence
to his desolate and friendless condition.

On this evening the old blind man was telling his beads,--for though
he had heard Knox preach, and seen Friar Forest burned, he was still
a devout Catholic; and by turns his withered fingers would quit the
cedar-wood rosary, to play with the iron hilt of a large sword, which
hung upon a knob of his chair.  When his son knelt before him, he
placed a hand upon his head, and a stern smile passed over the old
man's face, when he felt the cold steel of Dick's helmet.

"Take this sword, my bairn," said he, "and go forth, believing that
thine auld mother, who is now with the saints in heaven, is praying
for thee and for thine.  She lies in her grave in the kirkyard of St.
Giles; but she bore me sax braw sons, Dick, beside thee; three fell
by my side at Flodden, two at Ancrumford, and one at Haldonrig--all
sword in hand for Scotland and her king.  'Tis but the tale that owre
mony hae to tell.  Ye were our last, Dick--born unto me in auld age,
even as Isaac was born unto Abraham; but go forth--take this sword,
and use it as I would use it again had my years been few as thine.
Go--God and St. Mary bless you!  Die if it be your weird; but turn
not in battle, Dick Hackerston, lest the curse of thine auld blind
father fall upon thee!"

And in this spirit did our people go forth to battle, like the
Spartans of old!




CHAPTER XLV.

THE MEN-AT-ARMS.

  Up, comrades, and saddle! to horse and away
    To the field where freedom's the prize, sirs!
  There hearts of true mettle still carry the day,
    And men are the kings and the kaisers.
  No shelter is there where a skulker may creep;
  But each man's sword his own head must keep.
                                            _Schiller._


On the morning of the next day, when a bright sun was shining on the
wide blue basin of the Forth, and a light silvery mist was creeping
up from the low woods of Drumore and rolling along the green
hill-sides, a body of fifteen hundred Scottish Light Horse, with all
their helmets, their uplifted spears and bright appointments
flashing, as they galloped forth with George Lord Home at their head,
spread along the slope of Fawside Hill, in view of Somerset's camp.
Being principally Border-prickers, they were fleetly mounted on
strong and hardy horses, and were clad in open helmets with jacks of
splinted steel, iron gorgets, and gloves.  All had swords, Jethart
axes, and long spears, which they brandished as they galloped or
caracoled backwards and forwards in open squadrons, but irregularly
and far apart, whooping, huzzaing, and taunting the English to attack
them, by many injurious epithets.

Intent on meeting the earliest danger face to face, Florence joined
this band of Border cavalry, and repeatedly rode near the gate of his
own mansion.  He felt a shudder as he surveyed it, and on perceiving,
among many others on the bartizan of the tower, a dark figure which
he thought was his mother, he sighed bitterly, and turning his head
away, looked no more, save towards the masses of snow-white tents and
hastily-constructed huts of the English camp, on the right and rear
of which opened the beautiful Bay of Musselburgh, sweeping far away
until its eastern promontory was lost in haze and distance; and on
the left of which lay the wild ravine and smoke-blackened ruins of
Tranent.

With the green banner of his family, charged with a lion rampant
_argent_, armed and langued _gules_, borne by Home of Aytoune, the
Border lord rode so close to the English camp that the Lord Grey of
Wilton obtained the Duke of Somerset's permission to try the effect
of a charge of the heavily-armed English horse upon these bravadoers.
A long and glittering mass was then seen to defile from amid the
white tents and the green chesnut-trees which shaded them.  This mass
formed in long squadrons as it advanced, with helmets and lances
shining in the morning sun, and with pennons of every colour
streaming on the wind behind.  There were a thousand men-at-arms on
barbed horses, with the demi-lances of Sir Ralf Vane.  Among the
latter rode Edward Shelly and many other gentlemen as volunteers.  As
they came on with a cheer, which was distinctly heard in both camps,
the Border horse closed round Lord Home's green banner, and then,
rushing on each other at full speed, and with all their lances
levelled in the rest, the adverse columns met with a tremendous
shock, which strewed the open meadows with hundreds of killed and
wounded men and horses.  Among those who fell first were the laird of
Champfleurie and Allan Duthie of the Millheugh, who were slain side
by side.  The first was cloven down by a sword; the second had three
feet of a lance thrust through his body.

It was impossible for the lightly-armed Scottish troopers to
withstand the weight and fury of a charge from so many
completely-mailed and heavily-mounted cavalry; they were soon broken,
and after losing all order, continued a hand-to-hand conflict along
the whole slope of Fawside Hill.

In fighting desperately to save his banner from Edward Shelly, whose
gauntleted hand was placed thrice upon the pole, Lord Home was
severely wounded, and his son the Master of Home, whom M. Beaugue
styles a loyal Scottish chevalier, "inferior to none in the world,
either in conduct or courage," was struck from his horse, disarmed,
and with the laird of Garscadden and Captain Crawford of Jordanhill
(afterwards so famous in the wars of Queen Mary's reign), was taken
prisoner by Sir Ralf Vane and the Earl of Warwick.

In this conflict Florence ran his lance through the trunk hose of
Master Patten; and as these were extravagantly bombasted with several
pecks of bran, according to the English fashion, it continued to pour
through the orifice as from a sack in which a hole had been torn, and
to sow all the scene of the conflict, to the great amusement of
friends and foes.

Still the strife went on.  Surrounded by a mass of English
men-at-arms, who by their very number impeded each other's actions
and prevented his destruction, Florence Fawside, within a bowshot of
his own gate, and within a green hollow, found himself fighting with
all the resolution of a brave heart animated by despair, and coveting
death rather than escape,--for he cared not to fly.  His pressing
danger was observed by his old enemy Lord Kilmaurs, who leaped on
horseback, and, attended by three gentlemen in complete armour, was
leaving the Scottish vanguard, when his father, the Earl of
Glencairn, sternly exclaimed,--

"Whither go you, my lord?"

"To the front."

"But why almost alone?--and wherefore?"

"To the front, where the laird of Fawside is fighting those devilish
men-at-arms; see you not how sorely he is beset?"

"Beware of the odds."

"What care I for odds?" replied Kilmaurs, shortening his reins and
waving his lance, the pennon of which bore the hayfork sable, the
badge of his family.

"The danger----"

"It never deterred a Cunninghame."

"But remember the letters of the Guises and the Valois,--he is our
enemy."

"No Scotsman is my enemy to-day," exclaimed the reckless young lord;
"follow me, sirs!  I would rather share the death of yonder gallant
lad, than stand idly by and see it."

Kilmaurs and his three companions came along the hillside at full
speed, and, with levelled lances, burst into the fray just as
Florence had been struck from his saddle, and had placed his horse
between himself and the swords of the men-at-arms.  Thrice a
demi-lancer of Sir Ralf Vane's band had made a deadly thrust at him;
but thrice the weapon had been parried by the friendly sword of
Edward Shelly, who had just joined the _mêlée_, for the same kind
purpose that had brought hither Lord Kilmaurs.

"Mount, Fawside," exclaimed the Englishman, keeping between Florence
and the Boulogners; "mount while there is time, and leave me to deal
with my Lord of Kilmaurs,--another day will serve your turn and mine."

"Thanks," said Florence breathlessly, as he leaped on his horse; "for
this good deed I strike not at you to-day."

"But to-morrow----"

"And why to-morrow, Shelly?--alas, I have no one left to live or
fight for now; but to-morrow be it, for I warned you to avoid
Scottish ground."

"And in good sooth a few of us find its air unwholesome for our
English lungs to-day."

While Florence drew off for a few minutes to recover his breath, and
from the exhaustion of the late encounter, a rough and desperate
conflict took place between Shelly and Kilmaurs, whose former quarrel
gave acrimony to their hate and energy to their hands.

"Thou traitor and bondsman of Somerset!" exclaimed Shelly.

"Spy!" taunted the other, and their ringing swords struck fire at
every ward and cut.  Kilmaurs received a severe wound on the bridle
hand, and Shelly's helmet was nearly cloven in two, the vizor being
struck completely off; but now other hands and weapons mingled in the
combat, and here as in other portions of this extensive skirmish, the
Scots were beaten, and had to fly at full speed to reach their own
camp; but not until after the contest had been maintained for three
hours, with the greatest valour and desperation; and until they had
lost no less than thirteen hundred men and horses, did they entirely
give way; and then the remnant were pursued round Fawside Hill for
three miles to the right flank of the Scottish camp.

Fawside had his armour cut or riven in more than twenty places, by
the long swords of the men-at-arms of Boulogne; and his fine grey
charger, the gift of Mary of Lorraine, bore him through the Howemire
and back to the camp, but so covered was it with wounds as to be
disembowelled and dying.

Such was the result of this severe cavalry encounter, a prelude to
the greater strife of the morrow; it filled the Scots with greater
rancour, and the English (who knew that they must either win a battle
or be driven into the sea) with a glow of triumph, which they were at
no pains to conceal, for the livelong night their camp rang with
rejoicing, and shouts of acclamation.




CHAPTER XLVI.

THE PARLEY.

  Lo, I have ripen'd discord into war!
  So let them now agree and form the league;
  Since Trojan swords have spilt Ausonian blood;
  The war stands sure; and hand to hand they've fought:
  Such nuptial rites,--such Hymeneal feasts!
                                            _Æneid, viii._


After this conflict had been waged throughout the lower parts of the
ground between the hostile camps, the Duke of Somerset, attended by
Don Pedro de Gamboa, the Earl of Warwick, and others had ascended the
steep green eminence of Inveresk, where, within the trenches of a
Roman camp, stood the ancient church of St. Michael.  From this lofty
point, Somerset fully reconnoitred the position of the Scots; and he
became more than ever convinced that any attempt to dislodge them
would be attended with great loss, and perhaps by a total defeat.  As
he and his group of attendants were somewhat moodily descending the
hill towards their own camp, they heard the sound of a trumpet
issuing from a copsewood, and in a green lane which leads directly
from St. Michael's Church towards the hill of Fawside, they were met,
as we are told in history, by four Scotsmen.  The first of these was
a gentleman on horseback--Florence Fawside--in full armour except his
head, on which he wore a blue velvet bonnet adorned by a tall white
ostrich feather.  He bore a steel gauntlet on his lance, and was
attended by the Albany Herald in his tabard, the Ormond Pursuivant
with his silver collar of SS around his neck, and by a trumpeter in
the royal livery (red and yellow) who sharply blew the peculiar notes
which invite a parley.

Florence had scarcely reached the Scottish camp, after the recent
discomfiture of the Lord Home's mosstroopers, ere he was despatched
to the English Protector, on a delicate mission by the Regent Arran
and the Earl of Huntly.

"Well, Scots, what seek you?" asked Somerset, who was a stately man
of a noble presence, with a fine open countenance, and a
short-clipped beard, of the late King Henry's fashion.  Over his
armour, which was richly studded and inlaid with gold _damasquinée_,
he wore an open cassock-coat of crimson velvet, lined with white
ermine, and on his breast were the collar and order of the garter.
Dudley Earl of Warwick was nearly dressed in the same fashion, and
wore the same illustrious order.  "Come you hither to offer me
terms?" asked the duke.

"Such terms as your excellency may accept without dishonour," replied
Fawside, bowing low, for in manner and bearing the noble Somerset
looked every inch a prince, and indeed closely resembled his late
monarch Henry VIII. in face, figure, and dress.

"'Tis well," said he; "but in whose name come you?"

"In the name of James Earl of Arran, Lord Hamilton of Cadzow, knight
of the most Ancient Order of the Thistle, Chevalier of St. Michael in
France, regent of Scotland and the Isles, for our Sovereign Lady the
Queen, whom God long preserve!" replied the Albany Herald with due
formality.

"And his purpose is----"

"To receive back by cartel all the prisoners who may have been
captured by your men-at-arms, in the conflict which is just ended;
and on doing so, you will be permitted to retreat without molestation
into England."

"This we decline," said Somerset bluntly; "and now for _your_
purpose, fair sir?" he added, turning to Florence, whose pale and
saddened countenance could not fail to interest him.

"I came in the name of George Earl of Huntly, Lord of Badenoch,
Lochaber, and Auchindoune, also Chevalier of St. Michael, in France,"
replied Florence.

"And what would he with us?"

"This noble earl bids me say to you, Edward Duke of Somerset, that,
being solicitous to avoid the unnecessary effusion of Christian
blood, he is ready to decide this quarrel by single combat with you
alone, or to encounter you with ten or twenty gentlemen on each side,
on foot or on horseback, as may be arranged.  Here lies his glove.
Of these chosen combatants, I claim the honour of being one."

"And I, on the other side," exclaimed Don Pedro de Gamboa and several
gentlemen, pressing forward.

"Nay," said Somerset loftily; "this cannot be.  Knight, herald,
pursuivant, and trumpeter, return to those fool-hardy lords who so
unwisely sent you hither, and say that our quarrel, being a national
and not a personal one, can only be decided by a general appeal to
arms.  And _thou_, sir," he added, with increasing hauteur, to
Florence, "say to the Earl of Huntly, who sent thee, that in making
such a challenge to me, being of such estate, he seemeth to lack wit,
for, by the sufferance of God, I have committed to me the care of a
mighty and precious jewel, even such a charge as the Lord Arran
hath--the government of a youthful sovereign and the protection of a
realm, while there be in my army many noble gentlemen, the Lord
Huntly's equals, to whom he might have sent his cartel freely and
without chance of refusal."

"Your excellency speaketh wisely and well.  Here will I take up the
glove, and in return send mine," exclaimed the fiery Earl of Warwick,
drawing off his steel gauntlet, while his swarthy face glowed with
excitement; "and I tell thee, trumpeter, thou shalt have one hundred
silver crowns if thou bringest back a favourable answer from this
Lord of Huntly and Badenoch."

"Dudley, this may not be," said Somerset; "Huntly, an earl, I
believe, of a hundred years ago, is not peer to thee who representest
our Norman earls of the twelfth century."

"Then give _me_ the glove," exclaimed Don Pedro de Gamboa: "what care
I for earl or for emperor?"

"Nor may this be," replied Florence.  "The Earl of Huntly, a true and
valiant Catholic lord, will not meet in single combat a renegade
soldier of fortune, who, like Don Pedro, is beyond the pale of
country and religion, since he sells his sword to those who are the
avowed enemies of the faith of our fathers, the church of God and
Rome."

The Spaniard, who was a dark, sallow-visaged, and black-bearded free
companion, gave Florence a terrible frown, and his glowing eyes
seemed to flash within the four bars of his casquetel.  He had served
under the Admiral Don Diego de Velasquez when, with three hundred
Spaniards, that adventurous cavalier first landed in Cuba; and there
Gamboa first won a name as a ferocious and daring soldier in the war
with the natives, many of whom were roasted alive; others were torn
to pieces by wild dogs, and the rest were awed into submission.
Gamboa struck with his mailed hand the orders of our Lady of Montesa
and San Julian de Alcantara, which sparkled on his cuirass; then he
uttered a hoarse Spanish oath, and laid a hand on his sword.  On this
Florence lowered the point of his lance and reined back his steed to
defend himself; but Somerset and Warwick adroitly urged their horses
between them, and preserved the peace.

To end this interview, of which Master Patten and Father John of
Tranent have left us such a minute account, Somerset said,--

"Sirs, what command hath the Lord Bothwell in yonder host upon the
hill?"

"None," replied Florence; "he is now a prisoner in a royal castle,
and deservedly so."

"A prisoner?"

"Accused of crimes against the state and queen."

"Hah--discovered!" said Somerset to Warwick; but the deep glance they
exchanged was not unnoticed by Florence, who quite understood its
import, and how deeply Bothwell (like too many others) was implicated
with these invaders of his country.

"Tell the Regent Arran and the Earl of Huntly," resumed Somerset,
"that we have now spent some eight days in your country; and that
though your force far exceedeth ours, if they will march down into
the plain they will have fighting enough; and I will give you,
herald, and you, trumpeter, each one a thousand crowns for your
pains.  What say you, sir herald, to so fair a sum?"

"As Solon said to Croesus, king of Lydia."

"And what said he?"

"If another comes who hath more mettle, then he may be master of all
this gold; and before to-morrow night we must win or lose a battle,"
replied the herald.

"A man of wit, by St. George!  And to you, sir," added Somerset to
Florence, "will I give a chain of gold worth thrice the sum, and
knighthood from my sword, if you will take it from an Englishman."

"Knighthood could I have from no sword nobler than that of your
highness, if I survive the battle, which, in my present mood, I deem
most unlikely," replied Florence, with a stern and sombre air that
seemed strange on his youthful face, as he bowed, reined back his
horse, and, as if weary of the interview, withdrew to the Scottish
camp to report that his mission had proved unavailing.

The result of this interview was a letter sent by Somerset to Arran
about nightfall.  It was borne by Edward Shelly, and contained an
offer of retiring into England if the Scots would promise to keep
their young queen at home until she attained such an age as might
enable her to judge whether or not she would fulfil the original
engagement with Edward VI., who would then have attained manhood; but
so exasperated were the Scots by the unwarrantable aggressions of the
English, that they rejected with scorn proposals which they knew
arose rather from the pressing dictates of prudence, present danger,
and political selfishness, and from the doubts and difficulties of
Somerset's position, than from any sincere desire for peace, or for
the welfare of Mary and her kingdom; so, from one end of their camp
to the other, there rose a universal shout,--

"To battle! to battle!--no truce--no treaty!--to battle!"

And so the night closed in.




CHAPTER XLVII.

THE BLACK SATURDAY.

  Yet turn ye to the eastern hand,
    And wae and wonder ye shall see;
  How thirty thousand Scotsmen stand,
    Where yon rank river meets the sea.
  There shall the lyon lose the gylte,
    And the leopards hear it clean away;
  At Pinkycleuch there shall be spylte
    Much gentil blood that day.
                              _Thomas the Rhymer._


The dawn of the next day, the 10th of September, 1547--by the Scots
called, the Feast of St. Finian, by the English and others the
Festival of St. Nicholas of Tolentino--was singularly beautiful.
When the sun arose from his bed beyond the eastern sea, the waves
rolled and glittered in amber light; the spray seemed to rise and
fall in showers of snow and diamonds upon the rocky bluffs; while the
dew of the past night lay heavy on every leaf and shrub.  Between its
green and far-stretching shores of yellow sand and opening bays, of
mountain slopes and brown basaltic rocks, its grassy isles and
covered headlands, the Forth lay almost waveless like a sea of gold,
and receding far away as the eye could reach, until it melted into
the eastern horizon, where cloud and wave were blent together.

The fertile hills and upheaved bluffs of Fife were tinted by the
glory of the morning with saffron and purple, though mellowed by haze
and distance; while the capital, with its castle, its steep ridge of
towering mansions, St. Giles's tower, and Arthur's rocky cone, stood
clearly forth from the deep unbroken blue of the west.  As the sun
rose higher, seeming to mount into heaven, through successive bars or
horizontal lines of vapour, which turned to glowing gold and purple,
the beauty of the morning increased, for it exhibited one of those
glorious arrangements of massive cloud and blazing sunshine,
brilliant light and sudden shadow, peculiar to the lowlands of
Scotland.

Cleared of the grain, which was now stowed away in the vaults of
baronial towers or of fortified granges, or else consumed by the
flame and the troop-horses of the foe, the fields were bare now, and
yellow stubble covered all the upland slopes, from the margin of the
sea to the lonely Lammermuirs.  In some places, the plough that lay
now rusting and disused, had already been at work, and had turned up
the long, brown furrows, above which the ravening gled and the black
corbie, as if scenting the battle from afar, were wheeling in lazy
circles.  Westward, beyond the Esk, the stackyards were full of
yellow grain, and along the river's bank, and among the old coppice
that shrouded Pinkey House, Wallyford, and the Templar Hospital of
St. Germains, the leaves were assuming those varied tints of orange,
russet, green, and brown--the beautiful, but fading hues of the
Scottish forests in autumn.

Such was the aspect of the morning and the scenery, when, on this
Saturday in September, 1547, Florence Fawside reined up his horse on
the slope of Inveresk Hill, and saw before him the whole arena of a
battle-field; whereon manoeuvred the far-extended and glittering
lines of more than _fifty thousand_ Scots and Englishmen, prepared
for mortal strife!  And this was to gratify the mad ambition, of
Henry VIII., who, from his deathbed bequeathed, like the first
Edward, to his successors, the hopeless task of attempting to humble
a free and warlike people.

The English had first begun to move about dawn, by sending some of
their artillery to the summit of Inveresk and to Crookstone Loan,
from whence they could play upon the camp of the Scots, towards whom
their whole force moved in three great columns, Warwick still leading
the van; Somerset led the second column, and Lord Dacres the third,
or rear-guard; but on coming into the fertile plain, amid which the
little stream named Pinkey Burn, flows through a cleuch or hollow,
the English were astonished to find that the Scots, with singular
imprudence, had accepted the duke's challenge, and left their strong
position, to meet his better-trained and well-appointed army in the
open field.

The regent of Scotland had unwisely mistaken the first movements of
the English for an intention to seek safety in flight, by a
precipitate retreat from the sands of Musselburgh on board their
fleet.  Alarmed lest they should thus escape, after their
unwarrantable hostilities, and the devastations committed on their
northern march, he resolved at once to cross the Esk, and get between
them and their shipping, so as to cut off all chance of their
retiring towards the sea.  This movement he resolved to execute in
defiance of the advice of the most wary and skilful soldiers in his
army, which was armed almost entirely in the fashion of the middle
ages, with lances, bows, swords, and battle-axes; while the English
had many of the more modern appliances of warfare in the hands of
their well-trained and veteran bands of Spaniards, Germans, and the
garrisons of Calais and Boulogne, all of whom carried arquebuses or
hand-guns.

The Earls of Arran, Huntly, Angus, and Argyle, on this day appeared
each at the head of his division, sheathed in full armour, wearing
above their cuirasses the Order of the Thistle, together with the
Collar of St. Michael, which they had received from Francis I., two
years before.  Each wore around his helmet an earl's coronet, from
the centre of which, beneath a plume of feathers, rose his gilded
crest; thus, the first carried an oak-tree; the second, a
stag's-head; the third, a salamander _vert_ amid flames of fire; and
the fourth, the wild boar's head of the Campbells, showing its
ghastly tusks above his polished vizor.

"Reflect, lord regent," said the Earl of Huntly; "I pray you to
reflect on this measure."

"Reflect on what?" asked Arran sharply, through his golden helmet.

"The sequel of a movement so rash as this."

"A brave soldier never reflects," replied Arran proudly.

"But a skilful captain doth," was the pointed response.

"True, my Lord Huntly," said the Earl of Angus; "you are in the
right, and our friend Arran is most unwise to reject such prudent
counsel."

"Enough, sirs--enough!" said Arran, who was burning with impatience,
as he saw the long lines of the English glittering in the sunshine,
and a longing for vengeance on Somerset, whose invasion had convulsed
the realm, and whose plots, spies, assassins, and bribes, had so long
disturbed the Scottish government, gathered in his heart; "let us
attack them ere they escape by sea.  You smile, my Lord Kilmaurs!" he
added, turning wrathfully to that young lord.

"Nay, my lord regent--this is no time to smile; nor did I," replied
the other bluntly.

"Methought a strange expression crossed your face."

Kilmaurs grew pale with rage, for being in the English interest, he
_had_ felt some satisfaction on foreseeing the ruin of Arran's army.

"Your grace is scarcely well bred in reproaching me with a wound
received in the service of my country," said he, pointing to the scar
which traversed his cheek, and the spasmodic twitching of which was a
constant source of annoyance to him.  He then put spurs to his horse
and galloped to the head of his father's vassals, all stout yeomen of
Cunninghame and Kyle, who were arrayed in a dense and steely mass
under the banner with the hayfork sable, and were preparing to cross
the fatal river at a ford.

The rash movement of Arran was urged by the Earl of Glencairn and
many others, who are now known to have been the pensioners of
England, and in secret league with Somerset; but dearly did it cost
the earl and his Cunninghames.

"The lord regent is right," said he; "let us down at one fell swoop
upon them; for what is yonder host but a banded horde of English
clowns and Irish kerne--of Spanish robbers and German boors, come
hither in steel bonnets to seek for blood and beer?  Down at once, I
say, and bear me this horde of invaders at spear-point to the sea!"

"But the German infantry," said Huntly, "and those arquebuses of
Spain----"

"A rabble of tawny loons clad in armour so heavy, and mounted on
horses so gorgeously trapped, that they can never escape your
Highlandmen or the Lord Home's light Border-prickers."

The Earl of Angus now refused to advance, swearing "by St. Bryde of
Douglas it was rank madness to cast advantage at their horses' heels."

"On pain of treason to our lady the queen, I charge you, lord earl,
to pass forward with the van, or beware our speedy vengeance!" said
Arran.

"My fear is less of thee than for my queen and country," replied the
Douglas calmly, as he led his squadron girdle-deep through the
stream, which swept some of them through the arches of the bridge,
and away into the sea beyond.

"What says your leal and right-hand man, the young Laird of Fawside?"
asked the Earl of Cassilis with a scarcely perceptible sneer;
"doubtless that he is ready, on either side of the Esk, to die for
your grace and the queen."

"To say so, my lord, were an empty boast," replied Florence quietly
(his heart was too heavy for anger).  "In yonder plain are
six-and-thirty thousand Scots, who far excel me, I hope, in their
readiness to die."

"To battle, then!" exclaimed Arran, waving his truncheon.  "God and
St. Andrew are with us!"

By this time the whole Scottish army had defiled across the high
Roman bridge of Esk, and formed in dense columns of horse, foot, and
archers, as they advanced towards the foe, presenting a splendid
array, with all their polished helmets and cuirasses shining in the
sun--their many square, triangular, and swallow-tailed banners
waving, and their tall, uplifted lances, eighteen feet in length, and
not less than fifteen thousand in number, swaying heavily to and fro,
like a field of giant corn, as the close ranks marched on shoulder to
shoulder, until the whole thirty-six thousand men stood in firm order
of battle on the plain beyond the hill of Inveresk, which overlooked
their left flank, while the green upland slope of Fawside rose upon
their right.

With the shrill fife, the rattling drum (or _Almainie swesche_, as
the Scots named it), the droning bagpipe, the twanging bugle-horn,
the kettle, the clashing cymbal, and the sharp brass trumpet, filling
the air with harsh but martial music, the Scottish lines drew near
the English; and then the shouts, the cheers, the war-cries (the
_slogan_ of the Lowlanders, the _cathghairm_ of the Celts), by which
the soldiers of hastily-collected levies usually encourage each
other, or taunt the foe, began to load the air with a confusion of
sounds, after the deep boom of the first English cannon from the
green brow of Inveresk had pealed through the clear welkin, and made
a ghastly lane amid the nearest close column of Scottish infantry,
causing the silken banners to rustle, the ranks to swerve, and the
tall ash spears to sway like a corn-field bending beneath a blast of
wind; and then to heaven went up a louder and a deeper shout, as the
ranks closed over the mangled dead, and the forward march went on.

The centre was led by the Regent Arran in person.  It consisted of
the hardy clans from Stathearn, with the flower of the Scottish
infantry, the men of Lothian, of Kinross, and of Stirlingshire.  With
many barons, he had also at least eight hundred chosen citizens of
Edinburgh, led by William Craik, their provost.  In their centre,
Dick Hackerston bore the "Blue Blanket," or ancient banner of the
city--a great swallow-tailed pennon of azure silk, worked for the
burgesses by Margaret of Oldenburg.  Among the men of Strathearn were
the MacNabs, in their red, glaring tartans; and amid them were twelve
stately warriors, conspicuous in their long lurichs of steel.  These
were Ian Mion and his eleven brothers, the heroes of the savage story
of Lochearn, and on their banner was painted a human head _affrontée_.

The right wing consisted of six thousand western Highlanders, and
brave and hardy islesmen, inured to battle and to storm, under
MacLeod, MacGregor, and Archibald Earl of Argyle, the regent's
son-in-law.  On both its flanks and rear this column was covered by
artillery.  The other divisions presented the aspect either of dull
or uniform masses covered with shining steel or brown leather; but
this displayed the varied tartans of many Celtic tribes; and from its
marching masses, with the incessant brandishing of swords and round
targets, rose the wildest and most tumultuary shouts and outcries.

The left division of the Scots consisted of ten thousand infantry of
Fife, Mearn, and the eastern counties, led by Archibald Earl of
Angus, flanked by culverins and light horse.  In their centre there
marched a singular force, consisting of more than a thousand Scottish
monks, who had been drawn from their cloisters by a terror of the
Reformation (which Henry had so roughly established in England) being
spread into Scotland, if Somerset's expedition proved successful.
They were clad in plain black armour, and wore white or grey surcoats
with crosses on the breast and back, to distinguish them as
Dominicans, Cistercians, or Franciscans; and in their centre waved a
white silk banner, which had been consecrated with many solemn
ceremonies by the abbot of Dunfermline, after it had been made by
Mary of Lorraine and the Countesses of Yarrow and Arran.  Thereon was
depicted a female kneeling with dishevelled hair before a cross, and
around her was the motto--

  "Afflictæ Ecclesiæ ne Obliviscaris."


The great squares or close columns of Scottish infantry were formed
in admirable order, but in the ancient and somewhat unwieldy fashion
of their country.  Drawn up shoulder to shoulder, each soldier
carried his spear, which was six Scots ells (_i.e._ eighteen feet) in
length, pointing to the front; the first rank knelt, the next
stooped, the third stood erect; but _all_ had their weapons levelled
at three angles towards the foe; thus the Scots were "so completely
defended by the close order in which they were formed, and by the
length of their lances, that to charge them seemed to be as rash as
to oppose your bare hands to a hedgehog's bristles."

Lances, two-handed swords, and daggers, with mauls and Jethart
staves, were the arms of the cavalry, who were all in complete mail,
except the Borderers, who were always lightly armed, and seldom wore
more than a skull-cap and breastplate or splinted jack, with plate
sleeves and gloves of steel.  A few were armed with wheel-lock
pistols, which were brought from Italy or Flanders; but in the art of
war, in order, and, above all, in perfect obedience, as well as in
the discipline of the Boulogners and the new fashion of weapons,
arquebuse and culiver, by which their auxiliaries the foreign horse
and foot were armed, the English on this day were every way superior
to the Scots.




CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE BATTLE.

  Near Ilus' tomb, in order ranged around,
  The Trojan lines possess'd the rising ground;
  The sea with ships, the fields with armies spread,
  The victors rage, the dying and the dead.
                                        _Iliad_, book xi.


The joy of Somerset was great on perceiving that the Scots had
quitted their formidable position, and, between his fleet on one
flank and his artillery on the other, were deliberately marching into
a mouth of fire.  He and the Earl of Warwick warmly congratulated
each other, and then repaired to their posts.  The earl formed his
division on the slope of Inveresk hill; the duke formed his line from
thence till its other flank reached the plain.  The mounted
arquebusiers of Don de Gamboa and the men-at-arms of Lord Grey,
flushed by their victory of yesterday, formed the extreme left, while
Lord Dacres commanded the seaward line.

Being armed with shorter pikes than the Scots, the long and serried
array of the English looked compact and low; the sun was in their
rear, and above their long lines of glittering helmets poured aslant
his morning rays, in which every polished sword and point of steel
flashed and sparkled brightly.

On this day the royal standard of England was borne by Sir Andrew
Flammock, a gentleman of approved valour, who rode near Somerset, on
a magnificently caparisoned horse, and in the centre of the whole
army.  This scarlet banner, with its three yellow leopards, was the
mark of many an eye, the aim of many a Highland archer, and Lowland
cannonier; thus the unfortunate bearer had no sinecure of his office;
and on Arran saying to those about him,--

"Sirs, I would give a fair barony to have yonder standard in my hand!"

"I care not for baronies," said Florence, who rode by his side; "I
care not for life itself, lord earl,--and thou shalt have the banner,
if human strength can win it."

"Then," adds the vicar of Tranent, who records this episode, "ere the
Lord Arran could reply, the battaile began with a mighty furie."

As the chief intention of Arran was to throw the division of the Earl
of Angus--if not the whole Scottish army--between the English and
their fleet, the flank which marched near the sea, became (as
Somerset had foreseen) exposed to an immediate cannonade from the
whole line of the English ships, sixty-four in number.  The booming
of their artillery echoed along the indented shore with a thousand
reverberations, while the pale smoke enveloped all the line of
anchored ships, from their low-waisted and high-pooped hulls, to the
gaudy banners and long wavy streamers which decorated their masts;
and their shot of stone or iron, bowled with fatal precision among
the dense masses of the men of Fife and Mearn, making long and
terrible lanes of death and mutilation--of shattered limbs and
dismembered bodies.  This caused a flank movement by which the whole
Scottish line swerved south and westward towards the slope of Fawside
Hill.  On perceiving this, Somerset ordered the Lord Grey at the head
of his mailed men-at-arms, and Edward Shelly with his Boulogners to
charge the right wing of the Scots, to the end, that both their
flanks might be driven upon the centre.  With this body went the
bearer of the royal standard; and true to his pledge, Florence
galloped to join the right wing of the Scots, that he might be nearer
his intended prize.

"St. George!  St. George for England!  Come on, my valiant
Boulogners, my true-bred English fighting-cocks!" cried Shelly,
standing in his stirrups, and waving his lance as he spurred in front
of the line.

In solid squadrons, with their barbed horses making the ground shake
beneath their mighty rush, the men-at-arms all clad in shining steel,
with swords uplifted and their faces glowing through their barred
helmets with ardour and excitement, came furiously on, their trumpets
sounding, and the red cross of England waving above them.  On came
Edward Shelly at the head of his mounted Boulogners, the last of
those "five hundred light horsemen, cloathed in blue jackets with red
guards," whom King Henry had taken to Boulogne;[*] and with them came
Sir Ralf Vane, Sir Thomas Darcy, and the Lord Fitzwalter, all wearing
magnificent armour, streaming plumes, and gay colours, leading the
column of demi-lancers, a thousand heavy horse, and sixteen hundred
chosen infantry, to break that portion of the Scottish line.


[*] _Vide_ "Relations of the Most Famous Kingdoms."  1630.


The brilliant horsemen first gained the slope of Fawside Hill, and
then making a sweeping wheel to their right, like a rolling sea of
shining men and foaming chargers, they rushed with tremendous fury
down upon the Scottish flank.  There was a sudden and a fearful
shock; and again, like a rolling sea from the face of a flinty bluff,
this human tide of valour was hurled back upon itself in confusion
and disorder.

Foremost in the _mêlée_ fought Florence, with his eyes fixed on the
standard, and many a mounted man went down before him, till at last,
with a shout of triumph, he laid his hand upon the pole, as it swayed
to and fro, above the fighting and the falling.

"The standard!" cried Lord Grey; "by Heaven and King Harry's bones,
let us save the standard!"

He made a blow at the left hand of Florence, who gave him a severe
cut across the mouth just as his helmet flew open, and then by a
wound in the neck completed his discomfiture.  Sir Andrew Flammock
was roughly unhorsed by Sir George Douglas; but he retained the
standard, by tearing it (as he fell) from the pole, which remained in
the hand of Florence as a trophy of victory.

It was at the present farm-house of Barbauchly that this encounter
took place; and into its muddy ditch, back from the triple line of
gleaming Scottish pikes, there rolled two hundred of Somerset's best
cavaliers.  Ratcliff, Clarence, and many others were slain, many more
were wounded; while hundreds of riderless horses, wild with affright,
fled over the field in every direction, some with their entrails
hanging out, having been stabbed in the belly by the spears, the long
double-edged daggers, or Tynedale knives of the Scots.  "Rendered
furious by their wounds, many of these chargers carried disorder into
the English companies, which were thrown into such confusion (says an
historian) that the Lord Grey had the greatest difficulty in
extricating them and retreating."

While he drew off his discomfited cavalry to re-form them, there
lingered near the Scottish line a single horseman, whose blue
surcoat, trimmed with gold and slashed with scarlet, worn loosely and
open above his armour, and whose lofty plume, as well as his
trappings and bearing, marked him as an approved soldier and man of
distinction.  This was Edward Shelly, in the livery of a Boulogner.
Rising in his stirrups, he thrice waved his lance aloft; and
Florence, remembering their quarrel and appointed duel, rode forth at
once to meet him.  He had long since broken his lance; but he now
couched in the fashion of one the pole of the English standard, which
he still retained, and with it he rushed at full speed upon his
challenger.

They met with a furious concussion; but as Shelly's horse swerved,
his lance was broken in two athwart the breast-plate of Florence,
whose impromptu weapon was splintered into twenty fragments on the
right shoulder of the sturdy Englishman, who kept his saddle, but
with difficulty.  Each in a moment tossed aside the truncheon or
fragment which remained in his hand, reined up his horse, and drew
his sword; then, in full view of the Scottish right and of the
English left wing, began a sharp hand-to-hand conflict, in which the
utmost skill in the use of the bridle and sword was displayed by both
combatants.

Florence, being reckless alike of life and danger, had evidently the
best of it, as he drove his adversary, at every thrust and stroke,
further up the hill towards the right, until they were within a
bowshot of the tower of Fawside, the barbican of which was crowded by
women and by the old men of the barony, who were all armed, in case
of the place being attacked.  It soon became evident that they
recognized their young master, for shouts of

"Forth--forth, and feir nocht!" faintly reached his ear, mingled with
shrill cries of alarm.

Suddenly his horse stumbled and came heavily down on its knees,
throwing him prone to the earth.  Ere he could rise, while a shriek
burst from the women in the tower, Shelly had sprung from his horse,
and throwing the bridle over his arm, placed his sword at the throat
of the fallen.

"Here might I slay or capture you, Scot," said he; "but I have not
forgotten your generosity on the night we met in that lonely castle
of the Torwood.  Here ends our quarrel; and in this field let us meet
no more, unless it be that the fair one, whose name I jestingly
mentioned on that night----"

"Nay, speak not of her," said Florence mournfully.  "I seek not life,
Master Shelly, but rather death; and from so honoured a sword as
thine it were indeed more welcome!"

"Wherefore so sad?" said the Englishman.  "Up, man, and be doing;
for, by St. George! you Scots will have your hands full to-day.  Here
come our demi-lances again; away to your own band--you have not a
moment to lose!"

Shelly remounted; Florence saluted him, and leaped lightly on his own
horse.

"Farewell, Edward Shelly," exclaimed Florence with an emotion of
enthusiasm; "thou art a soldier as generous as brave.  I would rather
be thy friend than thine enemy."

"To-day you have been both, fair sir," replied Shelly, as he wheeled
his horse round.  At that moment there came a loud whiz through the
air, and struck by the ball of an arquebuse, which had been fired
from the tower of Fawside, the brave Shelly fell dead from his
terrified horse, which dragged him by the stirrup into the ditch
where so many English were already lying killed and wounded.

Florence cast his eyes upward to the tower-head, from whence the pale
light smoke was still curling.  He saw the tall dark figure of a
woman brandishing an arquebuse, and he knew in a moment that the hand
of his stern mother had fired the fatal shot.

"She again!--oh, ruthless hand!" he muttered with a half-smothered
groan; and turning his horse, galloped again to the Regent Arran.

On beholding Shelly's fall a shout of rage arose from his comrades
the Boulogners, and from the long array of demi-lances, whom the Duke
of Somerset once more ordered to attack the Scottish right.

"By my faith, duke, you might as well bid me charge a castle wall?"
was the angry reply of the Lord Grey, from whose face and neck the
blood was still streaming; but now, by the advice of the skilful Earl
of Warwick, the Spanish and German arquebusiers, with a body of
English archers, were ordered to assail the Scottish columns in
front, while several pieces of cannon played upon one flank from
Fawside Hill, and the shipping still swept the other with terrible
results.  The foreign auxiliaries, in ranks eight deep, poured in
their heavy shot, firing over forks or rests, full into the faces of
the Scottish infantry, who, by the destruction of their light cavalry
on the preceding day, were without means of attacking either the
cannoniers or the continental troops.  Thus the battle soon became
general along the whole plain, and the cry of the Scots,--

"Come on, ye dogs! ye heretics!" rose incessantly above the din of
the strife; for now there was the rancorous rivalry of creed to
inflame the rivalry of race, and the transmitted hatred of a thousand
years.  Moreover, in this engagement the English were burning to
avenge the defeat of their troops at Ancrumford and Paniershaugh,
where Sir Ralf Evers and many men had been cut to pieces by the Earl
of Angus; and now, filled with fury on beholding the destruction of
his castle and the pitiless devastation of his lands, no man in all
the army of Arran on this day of blood hewed a passage further into
the English host than old Claude Hamilton of Preston, who forgot all
about his proffered titles, and with his two-handed sword sent many a
younger man to his long home.

The combined movement of the Spaniards, under Gamboa, with the
Germans, under Sir Pietre Mewtas, seconded by a body of English
archers showering flight and sheaf arrows point-blank into the teeth
of the Scottish line, on which (as already related) the cannon were
playing from both flanks, drove it into confusion; and, after
suffering dreadful losses, the great column of Angus first began
insensibly to retire.

At this crisis the whole air seemed laden with sound; The booming of
cannon; the rattling explosion of arquebuses, hand-guns, and
calivers; the smoke of which rolled like carded wool before the wind;
the twang of bows; the whiz of passing arrows, which planted all the
turf as they stuck with feathers upward; the clang of swords on
swords or helmets; the galloping of horses; the voices of many
thousands of men uttering triumphant hurrahs, fierce and bitter
imprecations or cries of agony, as they were struck down wounded and
bleeding to the earth;--all were there to make a mighty medley of
uproar.  The air of the sunny morning became dusky with the dust
raised by the feet of men rushing in tens of thousands to the mortal
shock; and sulphureous with the smoke of gunpowder, which was then
almost a new element in Scottish war; and to this new ally in the
hands of their foreign auxiliaries on one side, and to the treason
and incapacity of the Scottish leaders on the other, England
eventually owed the victory.

The recoil of Lord Angus's division caused a panic to run along the
whole Scottish line.

It began to waver, to pause, and fall back!

"Treason! treason! to your ranks--to your standards!  forward and
follow me!" cried Arran, whose magnificent armour, covered with gold
embossings made him the aim of many an archer, as he galloped along
the line to restore order.  He had already had three horses killed
under him; the golden oak and pearl-studded coronet had been hewn
from his helmet; the diamond cross of St. Andrew and the golden
shells of St. Michael had been torn from his breast; he had broken
his sword and lance, and now wielded a steel truncheon; his eyes were
wild and bloodshot, and his voice had become hoarse by the reiterated
orders he had issued.  His efforts were vain; and vain also were
those of Florence, and a few who attempted to second them; for the
rapid advance of the Earl of Warwick's column, and another
well-directed volley from the foreign auxiliaries, completed the
discomfiture of the ill-led, ill-posted, and ill-disciplined Scots.
A total and most disastrous rout ensued!  The great army, which one
historian likens to "a steely sea agitated by the wind," after a few
moments was seen breaking into a thousand fragments, and dispersed in
all directions.

"They fly! they fly!" burst from the victors.

All became flight, chaos, confusion; and the fugitives, in their
haste to escape the English cavalry, threw aside all that might
encumber their movements.  More than twenty thousand spears and
partisans strewed the ground, with helmets, cuirasses, back-plates,
bucklers, gauntlets, swords, daggers, mauls, Jedwood axes, bows,
belts, sheafs of arrows, drums, banners, trumpets, cannon, pistols,
hand-guns, and all the _débris_ of a mighty host; and the pursuit of
the unarmed fugitives continued from one in the day until six in the
evening--nor even _then_ were the English sated with slaughter.

Exasperated by their first defeat, the demi-lances and the
men-at-arms of Boulogne, were especially severe in their actions.

"Remember Paniershaugh!" was their cry; and others shouted,--

"Shelly, Shelly! remember Ned Shelly!" for, says Master Patten, "On
the field we found that worthy gentleman and gallant officer,
pitifully disfigured, mangled, and discernible only by his beard."

In their haste to escape, many of the Scots cast aside their shoes
and doublets, and fled in their shirts and breeches.  Many concealed
themselves in the furrows of the fields, and were passed unseen by
the English cavalry, who swept on after others.  In short, it was one
of those routs or panics to which undisciplined troops are at all
times liable.

To Edinburgh the din of the distant battle had come by fits upon the
autumnal breeze; and when the English infantry reached Edmondstone
Edge, and found themselves among the plunder of the Scottish tents
and camp-equipage, the shout they raised was distinctly heard in the
streets of the capital, where that day's slaughter made three hundred
and sixty widows.  Among those who fell was the merchant John
Hamilton, mentioned in the thirty-first chapter of our story.

Thousands of the Scots threw themselves into the Esk, and perished
miserably under the cannon from the ships, the shot of the Spaniards,
or the swords of the English horsemen, when they scrambled ashore.
On the narrow Roman bridge, the press of fugitives was frightful, as
the Lord Clinton's great ship was pouring her broadsides upon it, and
on the defiling masses.  Here were slain the good Lord Fleming of
Cumbernauld; the Masters of Livingstone, Buchan, Ogilvy, and Erskine,
all sons of earls; the Lairds of Lochinvar, Merchiston, Craigcrook,
Priestfield, Lee, and many others, with their friends and followers,
till the barricade of mail-clad dead impeded the passage of the
living; and so little did their consecrated banner avail the band of
armed monks, that they nearly perished to a man, and the symbol of
"the afflicted Church" was found on the field, soaked in their blood,
torn and trampled under foot.  The Esk was literally crimsoned with
blood, for nearly half the Scottish army perished along its banks,
the English having made a vow before the battle, "that if victorious,
they would kill _many_ and spare _few_."

The aspect of the field, says Master Patten, was frightful; the
bodies lay so thick and close.

"Some without legs, some houghed and half-dead, others the arms cut
off, divers their necks half asunder, many their heads cloven, the
brains of sundry dashed out, others their heads quite off, with a
thousand kinds of killing.  In the chase," continues this minute
reporter, who writes of the affair with great gusto, "all, for the
most part, were killed either in the head or in the neck; for our
horsemen could not well reach them lower with their swords.  And
thus, with blood and slaughter, the chase continued five miles
westward from the place of their standing, which was in the
fallow-fields of Inveresk, unto Edinburgh Park (about the base of
Arthur's Seat), and well-nigh to the gates of the town itself, and
unto Leith; and in breadth, from the shore of the Firth up to
Dalkeith southward; in all of which space _the dead bodies lay as
thick as cattle grazing in a full-replenished pasture_.  The river
Esk was red with blood, so that in the same chase were counted, as
well by some of our men who diligently observed it, as by several of
the prisoners, who greatly lamented the result, upwards of fourteen
thousand slain.  It was a wonder to see how soon the dead bodies of
the slain were stripped quite naked, whereby the persons of the enemy
might be easily viewed.  For tallness of stature, cleanness of skin,
largeness of bone, and due proportion, I could not have believed
there were so many in all their country."

The Lord Chancellor, the Earl of Huntly, with fifteen hundred men,
were captured, and, with thirty thousand suits of mail found in the
camp and on the field, sent on board the fleet.

Previous to all this, Florence collected a few horsemen by the force
of example, and made three desperate charges, which kept Gamboa's
fiery Spaniards and the Lord Fitzwalter's demi-lances in check until
the regent and his train had passed the Esk.  On achieving this,
Arran, whose helmet was now completely cloven, and the housings of
whose horse were covered with blood, exclaimed,--

"Fawside, the day is totally lost, and I am living: and without a
single wound!"

"And I too, though seeking death everywhere."

"So much the better; I have for you a task of honour and peril to
perform."

"Name it--quick, my lord; we have not a moment to lose," cried
Florence breathlessly.

"Ride for Edinburgh--get forth the queen and queen-mother, and, with
whatever men you can collect, take the road for the north--there
await my orders--away!"

"Farewell; but I must have one other dash at these English
demi-lances," he exclaimed, wheeling round his horse.

Cold in the cause of Scotland, and heedless whether the field was
lost or won, too many of the peers showed but an indifferent example
to their soldiers; others, with an eye to the promised pensions,
gold, titles, and rewards, wished well to Somerset, and openly fled,
like traitors, as Arran called them.  Hence the rhyme, with which the
poor Scots consoled themselves,--

  _'Twas English gold and Scots traitors wan
  The field of Pinkey, but no Englishman._


According to Buchanan, the Highlanders escaped without loss, as they
formed themselves into a dense circle, and in this strange order
retreated over the most difficult and rocky ground, where no
men-at-arms could follow them.  Their retreat was covered by the
MacNabs, among whom the twelve tall sons of Aileen were conspicuous
by their vigour and bravery.

Arran retired with a body of fugitives to Stirling, and on the day
after the battle fresh scenes of disaster and devastation occurred in
Edinburgh.  In every street rapine and outrage were triumphant.
Holyrood was sacked, the churches were despoiled, and Leith was set
in flames.

There was one citizen of Edinburgh, who, after bearing himself
gallantly throughout that bloody day, on finding that he was unable
to bear away, like the pious Eneis, his blind and aged father, while
having a young wife and her babes to protect, stood for nearly an
hour amid the flames of rapine and a hundred weapons that gleamed
around him, defending with his two-handed sword the archway that led
to his house.  A horde of assailants, flushed with ale, wine,
triumph, and ferocity, opposed him; but valiantly he faced them all,
until a ball from the arquebuse of a Spaniard pierced his heart and
he fell dead.  This citizen was Dick Hackerston; but to this hour his
name is borne by the street or wynd which he so valiantly defended.

While the English were stripping the dead and slaying the wounded on
the field, the little garrison in Fawside tower fired on them
briskly, from bartizan and loophole, until they were environed by a
body of men-at-arms under Sir Ralf Vane, who on finding the defender
was a lady, tied a handkerchief to his sword and riding forward
called upon her to yield.

"Yield thou!--false kite, what make ye here?" was the scoffing reply
of the fierce Dame Alison, in whom the events of the day had kindled
the keenest excitement.  "I hold my house of the queen of Scotland,
and will yield it to no Englishman,--least of all to a popinjay
squire like thee."

"I am Sir Ralf Vane, madam, a captain of demi-lances, and ere now
have had a château yielded to me by a marshal of France."

"The more fool he," she replied; while Roger of Westmains, sent a
bullet close to Vane's right ear.

"Surrender to thee, indeed!" he exclaimed; "thou loon and heretic
tyke, I would as soon think of ploughing up the devil's croft."

A cannon was now brought up; a single shot blew the gate open; then
the tower was given to the flames; and as none were allowed to come
forth by the doors, and the windows were (as we may still see them)
grated with iron, all within perished miserably.

"The house was set on fire," saith Master Patten complaisantly in his
seventy-fourth page; "and for their good-will all were burnt or
smothered within."  So Lady Alison died by the same dreadful death,
which, but a few days before, she had devised for the Hamiltons of
Preston.

Roger of Westmains, many other old men, and the wives of all her
tenants perished with her: but, as already mentioned, the spirit of
this stern woman is still said to haunt the ruined tower on each
anniversary of that day of cattle and disaster, the Black Saturday of
1547.




CHAPTER XLIX.

THE FLIGHT.

  The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
  Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse;
  Be mute every string, and be hush'd every tone,
  That shall bid us remember the fame that has flown.
                                                        _Scott._


Such was this disastrous defeat on the 10th September; a defeat which
though less fatal than Flodden to a class whom Scotland well could
spare--her noble families--was severely felt by the commons; for
among the fourteen thousand dead, who lay on the field of Pinkey,
were no less than two thousand lesser barons and landed gentlemen.

The aspect of the plain next day, as the sun arose, was terrible,
when Master Posset and a few other good Samaritans, undeterred by the
dread of English plunderers and camp-followers, attempted the
herculean task of attending to the wants of the wounded and dying.

Great numbers of the English wounded had been borne to Pinkey House,
a fine old mansion of the Abbots of Dunfermline, which stands near
the field, embosomed among aged chestnuts and sycamores, above which
its round turrets and steep roofs still attract the eye of the
passer; and in one of its chambers, a place well suited to gloom and
spectral horrors, the blood of the wounded English could be traced
until effaced by some recent repairs.

Flowing from amid its coppiced banks towards the sea, the Esk lay
gleaming in the golden sunrise, but crimsoned still with the gashed
corpse of many an armed man, lying in its current, among the rocks,
the weeds, and sedges--the bread-winner of many a little brood,--the
pride and care of many a tender mother: for in its flood the fugitive
Scots perished by whole companies.  The shock and din of the battle,
with the confused murmur of the flight that whilom sounded like a sea
chafing, or a multitude cheering at a vast distance, had now died
away, and under the rising sun the dewy landscape, from which the
morning mists were rising, lay placid, still, and calm.  The green
clench of Pinkey in which the carnage had deepened most, the far
extent of stubble fields upon the upland slope over which the iron
squadrons of Gamboa's Spaniards and the demi-lancers of Vane and
Fitzwalter had swept yesterday, were silent and voiceless as the
roofless, windowless, black, and gaping ruins of the old tower of
Fawside on the hill; and where yesterday more than fifty thousand
gallant Britons had closed in the shock of battle, all was mournfully
still and deserted now.

On the pale upturned faces and glazed eyes of the dead, and the
distorted features of the dying, shone the level glory of the autumn
sun as he came up in his morning splendour from the German Sea.  On
that field, planted thick with arrows, furrowed by iron shot, and
trodden by charging squadrons, strewed by so many dead bodies, and
covered still with broken arms, crushed helmets, pikes, and torn
banners, so thickly that it seemed as if the clouds had rained them
down, the merry mavis and the laverock were twittering and singing,
as before they had sung and twittered among the yellow summer corn;
but now the black gled and obscene raven were wheeling in low
circles, or alighting where so many troopers and their steeds were
lying dead in the muddy ditch, or in the scroggy cleuch, where more
than one abandoned Scottish cannon lay with wheels broken, and the
corpses of the gunners piled around it.

From under the dewy grass myriads of insects came forth to batten in
those horrid purple pools, that lay where human hands and human
bravery had formed the greatest heaps of slain; and all this carnage,
which shed a horror over that lovely autumn landscape, was to
gratify, as we have said elsewhere, the mad ambition, and to fulfil
the dying bequest, of one who had already gone to his terrible
account--Henry VIII. of England.

In the distance rose the smoke and flames of Leith and its shipping;
and at various parts of the horizon there towered into the blue sky
tall columns of dusky vapour, that indicated where the work of rapine
was still proceeding; while a cloud of the same sombre nature, like a
funeral pall, shrouded all the ancient capital--a pall, however,
streaked with sudden and incessant fire, as the castle of Edinburgh
was vigorously defended by Sir James Hamilton of Stainhouse, whose
cannon completely repulsed the enemy.

When the latter retreated, a week after the battle, they found most
of the dead lying still unburied.  A few had been hastily covered up
by sods in the churchyards of Tranent and St. Michael at Inveresk;
and beside these uncouth graves the poor people "had set up," says
Master Patten, "a stick with a clout, a rag, an old shoe, or some
other mark thereon," by which the body within might be known, when
more leisure came for the rites of sepulture on the retirement of the
English from Scotland.

But to return to our hero.

On beholding the total rout of the army, he became heedless of all
that might ensue; and having now nothing that he cared to live for,
his first thought had been to seek death amid the masses of the
pursuing host; and hence the vigour and fury of the three desperate
charges, by which he was enabled for a time to repel the soldiers of
Don Pedro, of the Lord Fitzwalter, and of Sir Ralf Vane, and to cover
the retreat of Arran; nor was it until this was fully accomplished
that he perceived that, in this fortunate movement, he had put
himself at the head of the vassals of his enemy, Hamilton of Preston.
As the latter was nowhere visible, he was supposed to have perished
on the field or in the river.  The order of Arran to attend to the
safety of Mary of Lorraine and her daughter, gave a new turn to the
desperate thoughts of Florence, and made him remember that, in the
fulfilment of his duty to the queen and country, he still had
something which made existence valuable; though the loss of Madeline,
of whom for days before the battle he could discover no trace,--the
miserable fate of his mother, who, with all her stern peculiarities
and bitter prejudices, had loved him well,--the destruction of his
ancestral home and all his household, together with the shame and
slaughter of that disastrous day, filled him with mingled horror,
rage, and despair.

Swept away by a tide of fugitives, horse and foot, pikemen, archers,
and men-at-arms, he crossed the Esk near the Red Craigs, leaping his
horse in at a place where the stream was deepest, and then forcing it
up the opposite bank, he escaped, though the Earl of Glencairn,
Findlay Mhor Farquharson of Invercauld, who bore the royal standard,
and several others who accompanied him, perished under the shot of a
few German arquebusiers and Kendal archers who lined the river's
eastern bank, and nestled in security among the thick furze, beech,
and hazel trees, that covered it.  After this he found himself almost
alone, and rode slowly to breathe his horse, which, like himself, had
fortunately escaped without a wound.  Occasionally there crossed his
path or fled before him a fugitive foot-soldier, making off by the
nearest way towards his own home or locality, but denuded of helmet,
corslet, arms, and all that might impede his flight; for in their mad
panic the Scots cast aside everything, and fell the readier victims
in the pursuit.

To conduct the queen-mother and little queen from Edinburgh, he
required an escort; and among these fugitives an efficient one could
scarcely be formed.  The royal guard were all with the army; their
captain had been slain; and, like the army itself, his force had
doubtless been dissipated and disorganized.

Florence conceived he might obtain a few good men-at-arms from the
castles of Craigmillar, Dalkeith, or any other baronial fortress, for
the queen's service, and ride with them at once to Edinburgh, as
there was no time to lose now, and the sun was verging towards the
western horizon.  Keeping in the wooded hollow through which the Esk
winds to the Forth, he was riding towards the Douglas's castle of
Dalkeith, when a loud outcry and the report of firearms warned him
that some of Gamboa's mounted arquebusiers were on his track, and
forced him to spur on at the fullest speed.  Their ironical cheers,
taunting cries, and occasionally a shot, followed him; but still,
while rage filled his heart and made it beat with lightning speed,
Florence rode furiously on, intent on obeying the orders of Arran.
Closely the pursuers followed him; for after perceiving that his
armour and trappings were rich, they became intent on plunder, and,
being fleetly mounted on good Spanish horses, they easily kept pace
with the utmost speed of the animal he rode.  Down through the deep
wooded dell, where the south and north Esks unite below the old
castle of Dalkeith, and insulate the quaint old town of the same
name--through swamp and bog--through copse and den, and up the
river's bank by the Thorny-cruick--they followed him close; while
others joined in the pursuit from various points--through the leafy
oak woods and beautiful haugh of Newbattle Abbey they swept on the
spur; still with a boiling heart the Scot rode on, and still the
pursuing Spaniards followed; till in a dark, woody, and secluded
hollow, through which the Esk flows, after he had totally failed to
gain a shelter in the castle of Dalhousie, they shot his horse, and
it sank beneath him in the middle of the stream.  Fortunately it was
shallow there; he scrambled ashore, and sought a refuge in the
copsewood; but the Spaniards and the Kendal archers followed him
closely; and as the weight and joints of his armour impeded every
action, they gained upon him rapidly.  He dreaded the clothyard
shafts of the Kendal men more than the large leaden bullets of the
Spaniards, who levelled their ponderous arquebuses over their horses'
heads, and almost invariably shot wide of the mark they aimed at.
Still the balls which whistled past him every minute, stripping the
bark from the trees, and flattening out like stars as they crashed
upon the rocks, added spurs to his speed; while ever and anon, with a
whizzing or a humming sound, a feathered English arrow would quiver
in the trunk of a tree close by.

Thus his flight and their pursuit was continued through the oak woods
of Dryden till he entered the deeper and more sequestered glen,
where, between walls of rock, and shrouded in the densest foliage of
every kind, the Esk chafes and gurgles over its stony bed beneath
that abrupt and precipitous cliff which is crowned by the ancient
castle of Hawthornden, then in ruins, as it had been left by the
English during Somerset's previous invasion in 1544, but in after
years the poetical home of the loyal and gentle Drummond, one of
Scotland's sweetest bards.

Perched on the brow of a grey, detached, and stormbeaten mass of
limestone, nothing remained then of the old castle but two square
towers and the high arched windows of the hall which faced the south.
The cliff starts to a vast height above the bed of the stream, and in
every cleft of it and of the adjacent rocks where rooting could be
found were those hawthorns from which the _den_ receives its name
growing in wild luxuriance; and there, too, were the pink foxglove
and the blue harebells tossing their cups upon the wind.  The silver
hazel, the feathery ash, and the branching oak fringed all the cliffs
around the gorge--a gorge of rock that is undermined, or literally
honey-combed, by deep and tortuous caverns, which formed
hiding-places for the Scots of Lothian in the wars of other times;
and of their shelter, at this desperate crisis, Florence did not
hesitate to avail himself, as he knew the locality well.  Having
eluded his pursuers, whose shouts had now died away, he sought the
entrance of one of these subterranean retreats, and having found it
immediately under one of the square towers of the old ruin, he dashed
through the natural screen of wild briars, hazel, and hawthorn which
concealed it, and entering the cavern, threw himself upon its stony
floor, breathless, weary, and prostrated in energy and strength.

The time was evening now; and without a horse, without men, money, or
adherents, with the whole surrounding country in possession of an
army flushed by a sudden and bloody victory, what hope had he of
obeying Arran's order, and achieving the safety of the two queens,
who might fall into the hands of the conqueror?

He took off his hot helmet, and pressing his hands upon his throbbing
temples, closed his eyes and strove to shut out thought, memory, and
even the dim twilight that struggled into the damp cavern where he
lay, prostrate and weary in body and in spirit.




CHAPTER L.

HAWTHORNDEN.

  The hazel throws his silvery branches down.
  There, starting into view, a castled cliff,
  Whose roof is lichen'd o'er, purple and green,
  O'erhangs thy wandering stream, romantic Esk,
  And rears its head among the ancient trees.


These caverns are spacious and circuitous, and occupy the entire rock
under the ancient castle; and Scottish antiquaries (a hard and dry,
yet credulous race at all times) have been lost in a maze of
conjectures concerning their origin and use, as they are in a great
part artificial.  Tradition avers them to have been a stronghold and
place of retreat for the Pictish princes who once held the Lowlands;
and they still bear the names of "the gallery," "the guard-room," and
"the king's bedchamber;" for in these vaults, according to the Vicar
of Tranent, Lothus, who gave his name to Lothian, resided with his
queen, Anna, daughter of Aurelius Ambrosius, King of the Britons when
Hengist and his Saxons sorely troubled all the isle by their
invasion.  In one of the caverns is a deep draw-well, beautifully
hewn like a vast cylinder through the living rock, where, in the pure
cold depth of its water, the reflected stars are sometimes seen at
noonday.

The sun was setting now beyond the purple Pentland Hills, and
Florence, with the roar of the recent battle yet buzzing in his ears,
with sorrow, gloom, and bitterness in his aching heart, crushed in
soul and vague in purpose, lay watching the sinking beams through a
fissure in the rocks, around which the dark-green ivy, the fragrant
wild briar, and the dog-rose grew together.

Far westward spread the lovely landscape, tinted with the ruddy light
of eve and with autumnal brown; murmuring over its rocky bed, which
occupies the entire space between the wood-crowned cliffs or walls of
rock that border in the narrow vale, the Esk flowed ceaselessly on.
The dense foliage that covered its banks exhibited all the varying
tints of the season; while on the rent and fissured fronts of the
opposing bluffs, that start abruptly up like ruined towers or
fantastic feudal castles, the western sun poured a warm glow, that
faded slowly as his wavering rays shot upward and sank beyond the
summits of the Pentlands.  Grey lichens, green velvet moss, the
purple foxglove, the pink rose of Gueldres, and every species of wild
flower peculiar to the lowlands, covered the rugged banks and
freestone rocks, through the fissures of which many a tiny rill
poured down into the deep and lonely dell to join the Esk upon its
passage through a thousand windings, till it joined the sea near
Pinkey's corpse-strewn field.

Rock, wood, and water, silence and solitude, broken only by the
voices of the birds above and the brawl of the stream below, with the
deepening tints of the autumn evening--all that can make a sylvan
landscape charm, were there; but these accessories rendered the
thoughts of the wanderer more sad and bitter as he surveyed them, for
Florence loved his country well, and he had that day seen her banner
trodden in the dust.  Then he remembered how, two hundred and fifty
years before, it was in these same caverns that the valiant Sir
Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie and the Black Knight of Liddesdale,
during the memorable and disastrous wars of the earlier Edwards,
lurked with a band of young and desperate patriots, and thus were
enabled to elude the pursuit of the temporary victors; that from
thence they had sallied forth to destroy the Flemings under Guy of
Namur, Count of Gueldres, in battle on the Burghmuir; that from
thence they issued to storm the castles of Edinburgh and Dunbar, and
to perform a hundred other brilliant feats of chivalry.

As these old memories occurred to him, he arose, and thought that, as
the darkness was at hand, he might make his way to the capital unseen
and on foot; but now, hearing a sound near the cavern mouth, he drew
his sword, to be prepared for any emergency.

Steps were heard; the screen of ivy and hawthorn was hastily torn
aside; the gleam of the western sky glittered on the polished helmet
and cuirass of an armed man, who with difficulty, as if wounded or
weary, made several ineffectual efforts to reach the cavern.  None
but a native of the locality--one at least belonging to
Lothian--could know of this place, thought Florence, as he put forth
a hand to assist the stranger to clamber in, and found himself
confronted by the pale face and snow-white beard of Claude Hamilton
of Preston!

They surveyed each other in painful silence for nearly a minute.

The old baron was weary, wan, and by the blood-spots and dints which
his armour exhibited, his torn plume, and red sword-handle, had
evidently borne his full share in the dangers of that terrible field.
He, too, had been pursued by the stragglers of the foe, who were now
all mustering among the Scottish tents on Edmondstone Edge, previous
to an advance upon the capital, and its seaport.  His horse, which
had borne him from the conflict, pierced by many arrows, and half
disembowelled by a sword-thrust, had sunk under him at the ford near
Lasswade; and now he was fain to seek the sheltering caves of
Hawthornden, for age and toll had rendered him almost incapable of
further exertion.  But on recognizing Florence, his cheek crimsoned,
and his eyes sparkled with a sudden fury.

"We meet at last," said he, in a voice querulous with age, anger, and
weariness;--"meet after I have sought you everywhere, for these ten
days past; and now fortunately meet where there are none to see, and
none to separate us."

"Alas, sir!" replied Florence, "too well I know what you would say to
me."

"Thou whining loon, is it so with thee?" exclaimed the other
scornfully; "yes, I would speak of my kinswoman--of Madeline Home,
the Countess of Yarrow.  What hast thou done with her?  Where
secluded her if alive--where buried her if dead?  How hast thou
spirited her away from me?  Speak, lest I have thee riven at a
horse's tail!"

"What shall I say--what _can_ I say?" was the bewildered response of
Florence.

"Some say thy mother slew her, Florence Fawside," continued the old
man hoarsely, as he grasped the young man's arm, and shook him
vehemently in his grief and rage; "others say 'twas _thou_----"

"I--oh horror!"

"I care not which; but vengeance I will have, for the sake of my
sister who bore her, and of her father, that true and valiant earl,
who, on many a day since Flodden Field, has fought by my side, and
who loved me so well.  Vengeance, I say, thou accursed son of a
wicked beldame--dost hear me?"

"Slay me, Claude Hamilton, if you will--I resist not," replied
Florence mournfully.  "Weary of life, I sought death in every part of
yonder bloody field; but like that fated Jew who mocked his blessed
Lord upon the slope of Calvary in the days of old, he fled me
everywhere.  The arrows rained upon me, harmless as snowflakes; and
swords, and spears, and cannon-shot have alike failed to maim me; and
I live yet--live without a wounds; but without joy--without desire or
hope!"

"What is all this to me--I would speak of my dear kinswoman--my dead
sister's only child----"

"Alas!  I know nothing, and can say nothing of her."

"Nothing?" continued Hamilton, furiously drawing his dagger; "know ye
that stabbed--foully stabbed by the hand of the sacrilegious hag who
bore thee, her pure blood has stained the floor of the church of God!"

"The cause of your injurious words procures their pardon.  Stabbed!
oh, too well know I that, for her blood dyed my hands as I knelt by
her side; a dagger was there--a bodkin--my mother--Madeline...."
muttered Florence incoherently.  "God knows I am every way innocent,
sakeless, and free of Madeline's blood--my Madeline, whom I loved
with a love akin to worship!  You have your dagger, Claude
Hamilton--you and I are each the last of our races--strike! add one
more item to the gory catalogue of this day's slaughter.  Strike!" he
added, sinking on one knee; "I care not to leave the last and final
blow, with the triumph, if a triumph it is--and the fatal inheritance
of our houses--the hatred and the feud, to thee!"

Mad with a fury which rendered him pitiless as a hungry tiger,
Hamilton raised the dagger, and it flashed in the twilight which
straggled through the ivy screen that closed the cavern-mouth, when
his uplifted arm was arrested by the hand of some one behind, and the
_Countess of Yarrow_, with the vicar of Tranent, appeared before
them, as suddenly as if they had sprung from the floor of rock below.

"Guide me God, and every saint in heaven!" cried the old man, as he
dashed his poniard down; "am I going mad? or do I see before me
things that are not in existence!"




CHAPTER LI.

JOY.

  Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
    And threw gules on Madeline's fair breast,
  As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon;
    Rose-blossoms on her hands together prest.--_Keats_.


It was, indeed, Madeline, and no illusion or shadowy mockery, that
stood before them, smiling, and smiling sweetly; looking her own fair
self again, but paler, and, it might be, somewhat sickly in aspect;
for the skilful nun of Haddington, by her simples and leechcraft, had
really cured her; and barely was she able to be moved in a litter,
when the sudden advance of the English, and the destruction of the
village, the church, and vicarage of Tranent, compelled the vicar
with his charge to seek safety in flight.  Failing to reach the
capital, which was already crowded by thousands of fugitives from all
the southern and eastern towns and villages, on that very evening,
after wandering from place to place, by a strange coincidence they
had taken shelter in the same cavern to which Florence and her uncle
had been driven by the force of events, or by the tide of war.  Thus
rage on one hand, and grief on the other, gave place to mutual
explanations, and the details of dangers escaped and toils endured.

"But tell me, Father John," said Florence, "whence came the sound of
that passing bell, which on the fatal evening struck such a horror on
my heart?"

"It was a mistake of my sacristan."

"Blessed be Heaven that spared her----"

"To life and _you_," interrupted the good old priest, pressing his
hand.

Claude Hamilton was about to speak, when the vicar resumed hurriedly,
while lifting up his withered hands,--

"Alas, sirs! of a verity this hath been a black Saturday for
Scotland!"

"And our monks, with their grey frocks and white banner," added
Claude Hamilton bitterly; "what availed its solemn consecration, amid
incense and Latin, in the abbey of Dunfermline?  By the Black Rood of
Scotland!  I saw them lying round it as thick as leaves in autumn, in
their shaven crowns and black armour; and small mercy those heretics
of England gave them!"

"Our church, which my friend in youth, Dunbar the poet likens to a
ship--the holy bark of St. Peter--tossing on a tempestuous sea of
Lollardy, will yet ride out the storm; and on the next field where we
meet these heretical English, foot to foot and hand to hand, God will
make Himself manifest, and defend the right."

"I hope so.  Heaven taking all the monks to itself, however, seems a
sorry commencement.  But I begin to put more faith in stout
men-at-arms than in miracles, and more faith in a hackbut than a
homily."

"Yet thy kinswoman hath been restored to thee hale and sound," said
the vicar reproachfully.

"True, Father John; and for that good deed will I hang in your church
a lamp of silver, that shall light its altar till the day of doom, in
memory of my gratitude and devotion."

"But tell me of the field--this fatal, gory field,--and how it went,"
said the politic priest; "and meanwhile let us leave the young laird
to make some reparation to the young countess for the sore evil his
mother wrought her; so come this way with me, and I will show you how
the fires of these destroyers redden all the sky to the westward."

At first Claude Hamilton was unwilling to leave his niece, even for a
moment, as she hung affectionately on his breast; but the priest
gently separated them, and led him within the caverns to a point from
whence, through an orifice or fissure in the limestone rocks, they
could see all the valley to the westward lighted by a broad and lurid
blaze of light, that wavered, reddened, waned, and sank to rise and
glare again, upon the impending cliffs which overhung the river; on
its waters, which bore a hundred varying hues; and on all the
copsewood and thickets that fringed the sylvan glen.  This unwonted
blaze came from the princely castle of the Sinclairs of Roslin, which
some of Somerset's devastators had sacked and set in flames; and now
the conflagration shone far over all the valley of the Esk, like the
fated light of the legend, that bodes when death or evil menace the
"lordly line of high St. Clair."  Many wild animals fled before this
startling light.  The wolf sent up its wild baying cry from the
caverns in the glen; the red-deer and the timid hart fled down the
stream, as if the hunter's arrow and the shaggy, brown-eyed dogs were
on their trail; and the gled and the mountain-eagle were screaming as
they whirled and wheeled in mid air, as if in fury at being scared
from their eyry.

Claude Hamilton remembered that but lately he had seen the fire
rending and the smoke blackening the walls of his own baronial home:
he muttered a fierce malediction; and grasping the dagger which had
so recently menaced the life of Florence, he continued to gaze upon
the flames, and to listen to the shouts of armed stragglers, who, by
the frequent sound of horns, cries, and explosion of arquebuses,
seemed to be wandering in the valley of the Esk, exchanging signals
or slaying those who fell into their hands.  These alarming noises
became more frequent, and ultimately seemed to approach the place of
his concealment.

Meantime, though left thus together, though their tongues and hearts
were laden with inquiries, Florence and the young countess were
silent, and full of thoughts which could find but little utterance or
coherence; for the course of recent events had been so startling and
rapid that both were bewildered.

"You are well--restored--recovered, Madeline!" said the lover in a
low and earnest whisper, as he pressed her to his breast, closely and
convulsively.

"Restored and recovered by God's grace and the skill of sister
Christina of Haddington."

"Heaven bless her, Madeline!  My mother--what shall I say of my
mother!"

"Speak not of her now," said the countess in a low and agitated
voice; "I would not pain your heart for worlds."

"She wronged you deeply--cruelly, dearest!  But this day--God rest
her soul!--she died a horrible death."

"Died--did you say she died?"

"Amid the flames of our tower, which the English attacked and burned,
while I was disputing the passage of the Esk at the head of a few
horsemen; but she defended her house, by bow, pike, and arquebuse, to
the last, and died as she had lived, unflinching, resolute, and
unyielding,--died, as roof and rafter, cope and turret, went surging
down into the sea of fire below.  Oh, it was an awful end!  All her
animosities, her hate, her mistakes, and her faults, have passed
away; so let us think of them no more.  But the slaughter of to day,
the treason of our peers, and dispersion of the army, have plunged
the land in danger and dishonour, the end of which I cannot foresee!
A thousand times to-night I have said--would that I were dead!"

"Florence," said the countess softly, taking his hand in hers, "at
this miserable time, do not let us exaggerate our sorrows.  Let us
rather bear up together against our misfortunes.  All hope is not
dead for us.  Something yet remains, for Mary of Lorraine is my
friend, and hope whispers to me that we shall both be happy yet."

"Together, Madeline?"

"Together."

"And you my wife?"

She did not reply, but returned gently the pressure of his hand, and
then tenderly passed hers over his tearful and bloodshot eyes.

"Bless you, Madeline, for that assurance and the hope it gives me:
but your kinsman, Claude----"

"Remember only that I love you, Florence--for I do love you, dearly."

"These words should lighten everything.  When you are near me I no
longer seem to suffer aught from recollection of the past, or dread
of the future.  Even this dark, dank cavern becomes bright and
beautiful!"

Madeline smiled, for he could see her eyes sparkle, and her teeth
glitter like two rows of pearl in the twilight.

"You smile now, dear and merry one, even in this place, and after
such a day of woe."

"The joy of being restored to you counterbalances every evil," she
whispered in his ear.

"Mine own sweetheart!  Then think of the time when I shall be always
with you, and when we shall never be parted again."

There was a tender and mute embrace, which was suddenly interrupted
by a sound of alarm.

"Hark--what is that?" exclaimed Madeline starting back.

"The explosion of an arquebuse----"

"And voices----"

"Quite near us, too--be still--we are beset!"

"To your sword, Fawside," cried Claude Hamilton, coming hastily
forward; "some of these pestilent English stragglers are close by.
Remove the countess--Father John, lead her within, and leave the
young laird and me to make what service we may, and to keep the mouth
of this dark hole while life and blood and steel remain to us."

Madeline was led away, while Florence and the old knight of Preston,
with their swords drawn, crept close to the mouth of the cavern, from
whence, as the moon was now up, a clear, broad, and yellow one, for
the season was harvest, they could distinctly sec the coming danger.
Several of the enemy's pillagers had been passing near, and had too
evidently heard the sound of voices in these caverns, the echoes of
which repeat each other with many reverberations.




CHAPTER LII.

PEDRO DE GAMBOA.

The rascal who would not give cut and thrust for his country, as long
as he had a breath to draw or a leg to stand on, should be tied neck
and heels, without benefit of clergy, and thrown over Leith pier, to
swim for his life like a mangy dog.--_Mansie Wauch._


On looking through the screen of leaves which partially shrouded the
mouth or entrance of their remarkable hiding-place, they saw the
moonlight reflected from, the conical helmets, the globular
cuirasses, and long polished gun-barrels of some ten or twelve
arquebusiers, whom, by their black beards, swarthy countenances, and
strange language, they knew to belong to Gamboa's Spanish band; and,
indeed, that formidable Don himself, in a suit of black armour,
profusely engraved with gold, spurred his horse rapidly after them
from the river-side, and ascended the steep path that led to the
ruined castle on the limestone cliff.  With this party were a few
green-doubleted English archers and billmen, who had with them
several horses, linked together by halters; and these were laden with
all kinds of trappings and household goods, too evidently the plunder
of the village and castle of Roslin, the flames of which were now
beginning to waver and sink.  In short, this was evidently a party of
foragers or devastators, who were returning to Edmondstone Edge,
where the main body of Somerset's army were now encamped, and where
his soldiers were making merry among the Scottish tents; but having,
as I have said, heard voices in the echoing cave, or having
discovered by means of a hound which accompanied them, that some
unfortunate fugitives were concealed thereabout, the yet unsated lust
of blood, or hope of plunder, made the Spaniards resolve to have them
discovered, and killed or taken.

As they warily drew near, with the matches of their arquebuses
burning, and in every half-drawn bow an arrow-pointed, Florence
remembered the future safety of Madeline, the unobeyed orders of
Arran; and the hopelessness of achieving either filled his heart
again with sickness.

Perceiving nothing but the ivied face of the rock, and hearing no
sound, the Spaniards uttered a shout, and came more hastily up the
narrow path; then, most unhappily, Madeline, being unable to repress
her alarm, uttered an exclamation, which, however low, reached the
ears of Gamboa.

"_Voto á tal!_" he exclaimed; "there are women here--one, at least,
and I shall watch her as Argus did Io, that is, if she proves as
handsome."

"It may be a spirit guarding buried treasure," suggested one of his
soldiers, shrinking back.

"And which dost thou shrink from, Gil Alvarez, the spirit or the
treasure?" asked his leader.  "I have heard of such things in
Germany, and, by my beard and beads! this old place looketh like many
a castle we have seen upon the Rhine and in the Schwarzwald.  Push
on, _hombres_!  Diavolo! here are men-at-arms afraid of a few
ivy-leaves!"

There was another shout from the Spaniards, and he who was named Gil
Alvarez made a rush into the gloom that lay beyond the screen of ivy
and wild roses; but he found himself encountered by unseen enemies,
for at the same moment that Claude Hamilton wrenched away his
arquebuse, Florence tore off his collar of bandoleers, and bestowed a
sword-thrust into his open mouth, hurling him back, bleeding and
senseless, upon his comrades below.

This was an immediate signal for a general assault.

Whiz came the long arrows, to shiver and splinter on the walls of
rock; and with the flash of the arquebuses came their leaden bullets,
to crash and flatten on the same place; and then both the English and
Spaniards withdrew behind some masses of the fallen walls and the
trunks of trees, to consider the best means of assailing those hidden
defenders, of whose number and power they were ignorant.

"There are twenty charges of powder in the bandoleer," said Claude
Hamilton, counting them in the dark, "and there are not above twenty
of those cut-throats opposed to us.  Your eye is keener, Fawside, and
your hand more sure, than mine; take the arquebuse, and pick me off
these fellows as fast as they show themselves.  Two men to man this
cavern-mouth are as good as a hundred; let us fight bravely, lad, for
we know not but aid may come anon."

By the glitter of its beams on the polished armour of Gamboa's men,
the bright moon showed with fatal distinctness where they nestled
among the green hawthorns or behind the heaps of stones which had
fallen from the old castle above; thus Florence, when he loaded and
levelled by the silvery light without, felt that Madeline's safety,
honour, her life perhaps, depended upon the precision of his aim.

He almost trembled as he selected an object; and Claude Hamilton
could perceive that his face was pale, even in the usually ruddy
light of the match, in which his polished mail seemed to glitter with
a lambent glow, as his eye glared along the barrel.  He fired; and
the explosion, which made the cavern echo with seeming thunder, was
followed by a cry of agony, and then an armed man was seen rolling
down the slope towards the Esk.

"To thine arquebuse again, lad!" said Hamilton, sternly but cheerily,
and with grim satisfaction; "thou hast given one of these tawny loons
a shot in his stomach, and a weighty one, too; I warrant they go
four, at least, to the Lanark pound.  Couldst notch the helmet of
that pernicious heretic Pedro Gamboa, think you?  By St. Andrew! were
he within reach of _my_ hand I could spelder him by one stroke of my
axe, yea, spelder him as I would a haddock!" he added, as another
volley of shot and arrows whizzed and rattled on the rocks around
them.

A second bullet from the arquebuse of Florence, followed by the cry
of--

"Holy Virgin, I am a dead man!" announced that this time an English
billman had fallen; and with a yell of rage his comrades rushed
forward to storm the retreat of these hidden enemies.  While Florence
reloaded and blew the match of his arquebuse, Claude Hamilton with
his two-handed sword manned the cavern mouth, and being on firm
vantage ground (while the assailants required all their hands.  feet,
and energy, to clamber upward), he cut down three of them in
succession with ease, and by a single thrust tossed a fourth nearly
ten yards into the woody hollow below.  In a minute more two others
hac fallen, killed or wounded, under the deadly aim of Florence.

"How stands your bandoleer?" asked the laird of Preston, resting on
his long sword.

"I have shots enough for them all at this rate."

"Good--by the black rood of Scotland, good!  We'll beat them yet;
level low and true--we fight for our lives!"

"Oh, laird of Preston," exclaimed Florence, in a voice to which
emotion lent a chord that was soft and musical; "even in this hour of
terror hear me.  I fight only for Madeline, and for the love I bear
her--a love beyond the grave--see that she is in safety."

"Thanks, my ancient enemy--may Heaven nerve your eye and hand!"

Florence fired again, and while the deep vaults and the rocky glen
rang with a thousand echoes, a Spaniard fell, and was seen tossing
his arms in the moonlight, as he shrieked on "the Holy of Holies" (el
Santo de los Santos) to have pity upon him.  On beholding the
slaughter of his men, Gamboa uttered a dreadful oath in Spanish.

"Let us smoke forth these Scots!" he exclaimed.

"How, _smoke_ them say you?" asked an Englishman, who proved to be no
other than Master Patten, the future historian of the expedition, who
rode up at that moment.

"Exactly," rejoined the Spaniard, who spoke the English language with
great fluency: "many a brood of yellow Indians I have smoked out of
their holes in Hispaniola and Tortuga.  You know nothing of life in
Cuba--but I do.  There I have often roasted thirteen Indian devils
alive on a Good Friday, in honour of our blessed Lord and the twelve
Apostles.  God smite ye, fellows! cut brushwood--bring fire--fill the
cavern-mouth, and burn them as we would castanos in their shells."

This proposition, which made the blood of Florence run cold, was
received with a loud hurrah, and relinquishing their arquebuses, the
Spaniards drew their short swords, and together with the English
billmen, proceeded to form piles and bundles of wood, by uprooting
shrubs and bushes--cutting down small trees, and tearing branches
from firs and beeches; and now, from the ruins of the old castle
above (a place where they were secure from the arquebuse of
Florence), they began to throw down vast heaps of this
hastily-gathered fuel, together with an entire stack of straw, which
they found near; and as these combustibles accumulated about the
cavern-mouth, and gradually covered it up, excluding the moonlight
and the external air, the imminence of their danger could no longer
be concealed from the countess and the vicar; and to save them at
least from so horrible a death, Florence proposed that a capitulation
should be asked for.

"To capitulate is to be destroyed!" exclaimed Hamilton fiercely;
"what hope of quarter have we from mercenaries like these?"

"To remain here is also to be destroyed, and by a death too dreadful
for contemplation--suffocation in a dark pit," replied Florence,
pressing Madeline to his breast closely and tenderly.

"Bring hither a lighted match; but, by the Holy of Holies," they
heard the superstitious Don Pedro exclaiming; "I am loath to smother
a woman at the close of a day of victory--a woman whose name may be
_Mary_, too!"

"What matters it, whether her name be Mary or Maud--Giles or Joan?"
asked Master Patten, staring in wonder through the bars of his
helmet, and laughing the while.

"It matters much to me, Señor Inglese, for I was reared in Old
Castile, and on the banks of the Ebro, where my mother taught me it
was a sin to make love on a Friday, or to kiss a woman whose name was
Mary on a day of fasting; for though I serve King Edward's banner,
and fight against the Scots, I am nevertheless, thank Heaven! a good
Catholic and a true Castilian, without the taint of Jew, infidel, or
Morisco in my blood."

On hearing this, just as fire from a gunmatch was about to be put
into the vast pile of fuel, over which the arquebusiers had sprinkled
powder from their priming-flasks, the Vicar of Tranent rushed to the
entrance of the grotto, and tearing aside the screen of ivy with one
hand, waved a white handkerchief with the other, exclaiming,--

"_Gloria tibi, Domine!_ we shall be saved!  I am a priest, sir
Spaniard, and in the name of our holy Church and of Him I serve,
command you to spare me, and those who are with me!"  A shout of
derision from Patten's men was the sole reply to this.

"Command, quotha--what manner of ware have we here?" said one
mockingly.

"A priest and a woman in that dark hole! holy father how farest
thou?" said a second.

"By St. George, 'tis a rare one to eschew the world, the flesh, and
the devil!" added a third.

"Shoot, shoot!  Cogsbones--'twas no priest's hand that slew the best
lad in Kendal," exclaimed Patten, "or handled his arquebuse like one
of our men at Finsbury!"  Two archers drew each an arrow to their
heads; but Pedro de Gamboa interposed his drawn sword before them,
exclaiming:

"Hold--hold, sirs.  I will have naught to do with priests.  I have
seen enough in my time to prove that Heaven always avenges a
sacrilege."

"What!" asked Patten; "hast any qualms about killing a scurvy
shaveling--a Scot, too?  Don Spaniard, you should have smelled the
fires o' Smithfield in old King Harry's time.  Go to! we are not now
either in Old Castile or on the banks of the Ebro."

"Silence, Englishman!" replied the Spaniard gravely; "for though your
land hath become as a land of heathens, and, to my sorrow, I serve
it, I am a good Catholic, yet one, it may be, who is in the habit of
swearing more by the saints than of praying to them.  I am a soldier
of fortune, yet I war not on priests or women, but simply on such as
come armed against me; and 'tis the memory of _what I was_ in Old
Castile and on the banks of the Ebro that in an hour like this
prevents me from slaying a priest of that Church in the faith of
which my mother reared me.  For one act of sacrilege and blasphemy I
have seen nearly the whole population of a city perish in an hour."

"Fore George, this _must_ have been in Old Castile!" said Patten, in
a jibing tone.

"It was _not_," replied the Spaniard angrily, while his dark eyes
flashed under the peak of his helmet.  "But darest thou gibe me,
Englishman--I, who have fought by the side of Cortes in Mexico, and
by the order of Pizzaro slew Diego Almagro--I, who served with
Velasquez in distant climes that are far away, in the lands of gold
and silver, snow and fire, where the boasted red cross of your
country has never yet been seen by sea or shore; but there I have
seen that which this night forbids me to commit a sacrilege!"

In Spanish, he now commanded his soldiers to remove the pile of
brushwood and straw that lay before the cavern-mouth; and while they
obeyed with alacrity, he again turned sternly to Master Patten, and
said,--

"Listen!  In 1534 I was at San Iago de Guatemala, in old Mexico, and
resided with a noble Spanish gentlewoman of the city, named Doña
Maria de Castilia, or of Castile, for she came, like myself, from the
sunny banks of the Ebro.  In one week her husband was slain in battle
and her children were destroyed by the Mexican savages from Petapa.
Driven to frenzy by the loss of all she loved, she smote a priest who
attempted to console her, and in his presence blasphemed Heaven,
exclaiming, while she rent her garments,--

"'El Espiritu Santo, what more can it do to me now than has been
done, save take away a miserable life which I regard not!'

"As she spoke, there was heard a dreadful rushing sound.  For a time
we knew not whether it came from heaven above or the earth beneath
us; but anon there came also shouts of terror from a thousand
tongues, and lo! from the old volcano, a mountain nine miles in
height, which overhangs the city, there burst a mighty flood of
water, which drowned this impious woman and many hundreds of the
people, while streets and churches were alike overturned and swept
away.  A few persons escaped: among them I, by the speed of my horse:
but the ruins of La Cividad Vieja still remain to attest how
sacrilege may be punished.  And now, as I vowed to perform at least
one deed of charity to-day, if I escaped the battle scathless, I
release this priest and those who are with him.  Come forth, good
father, and fear not; I pledge my word for your safety--I, Don Pedro
de Gamboa."

The lofty air and determined manner of the Spaniard, together with
the knowledge that his veterans were the more numerous and
better-armed party, awed Master Patten and his petulant archers into
silent acquiescence; and the old vicar, leading the countess by the
hand, stepped forth into the moonlight, followed by Florence and
Claude Hamilton.

"Is this your whole party, señor padre?" asked the Spanish captain,
with a courteous salute.

"All; and in the name of Him I serve and the Church you still
venerate, I crave their liberty with me."

"It is granted."

"_Deo gratias_, sir Spaniard."

"I am too good a Castilian, _padre mio_, to refuse aught to a priest
or to a lady; and as neither you nor she can travel hence afoot, I
give you here two of our captured nags.  Go, reverend sir, and God
speed you!  If, between the night and morning, you can find time to
say an Ave or Credo for one who has long since forgotten how to pray
for himself, insert in your prayer the name of Pedro de Gamboa, the
poor soldier of fortune.  Adieu!"

In five minutes after this fortunate and sudden release our friends
found themselves alone, and pursuing, by the most sequestered paths,
as rapidly as possible, and lighted by the clear and brilliant moon,
the way to Edinburgh; while the cavalier, with his party of
arquebusiers and bowmen, with their train of horses and plunder,
proceeded to Somerset's new halting-place on Edmondstone Edge.

The vicar and the countess were mounted; and on each side of the
horse ridden by the latter, Florence and Claude Hamilton walked on
foot as hastily as their iron trappings would permit them.




CHAPTER LIII.

THE GUISE PALACE.

  Oh, these bright days are past,
    And their joys are buried deep;
  Sweet flowers that couldna last,
    They've gane with those we weep.
  The world is now grown cold,
    And the mirth and love and glee,
  That wont to cheer of old,
    We never mair can see.--_Anon._


In the pure splendour of that brilliant moon, when every herb and
leaf were gemmed with glittering dew--when the heaven above was all
one azure vault of stars, and the distant landscape mellowed far away
in silence and placidity--when a silver haze rose from every
hollow--and when, save their own voices, no sound came to the ears of
the countess and her three companions, it was difficult for them to
realize--the actual amount of danger through which they had
passed--that they were now free; and none who surveyed that quiet
moonlight scene, or the blue and star-studded sky over head, could
have imagined that more than fourteen thousand men, who when the sun
rose had been in all the prime of life and vigour, were now lying,
within a few miles' compass, as cold and pale as death could make
them.

Seeking the most secluded paths, the little party proceeded with all
speed towards Edinburgh, passing the ancient grange of Gilmerton,
through the deep and sylvan dell of the Staine-house, over the hills
of Braid, and past the cell of St. Martin, which had been sacked,
ruined, and stained by the blood of its poor hermit, who was slain by
the English.  From thence, after traversing the Burghmuir undisturbed
and unquestioned, they entered the city by the porte at the
Kirk-of-field Wynd.  There the gate was open; no guard or warder was
there now.  The town-house of the Regent Arran, which stood in this
steep, ancient, and narrow street (now known as the College Wynd),
was deserted and dark; but as they proceeded further into the city,
the effects of that day's defeat became everywhere painfully
apparent.  The bells in the numerous churches, oratories, and
monasteries, were being tolled mournfully; and at every altar were
people praying for the dead.  The streets were thronged by crowds,
principally of women, who wept and wailed as they bore forth their
children and most valuable goods and chattels by the light of
cressets, links, and torches, that sputtered in the night-wind and
flared on the reddened eyes and pale affrighted faces of the
multitude, as from the archways of the quaint narrow alleys and wynds
of that old "romantic town" they took their way towards the west, to
the Pentland hills, to the sea-shore, or anywhere to escape the
victorious foe, as all despaired of defending a city the flower of
whose men had fallen in that day's disastrous battle.

In answer to the anxious inquiries of Florence, as to whether the
queen-mother had quitted the city, and if so for where, none could
inform them; but on reaching the Guise Palace, as the citizens named
the little mansion and oratory of Mary of Lorraine on the north side
of the Castle Hill, they found a number of well-armed horsemen
arrayed in the street, with swords drawn, and bearing lighted
torches; while a train of horses, some of which were saddled, others
laden with trunks, mails, and bales of such valuables as the
queen-mother and the ladies of her suite wished to preserve, were
held by grooms and lackeys in the royal livery.  Among them was a
powerful Clydesdale nag, which was led by a groom, and had securely
strapped to its back a curtained horse-litter, which, as it was
surmounted by a royal crown, was evidently destined for the little
queen of Scotland.

The present was no time for ceremony, and as Mary of Lorraine stood
under the royal canopy in her presence-chamber, hooded, cloaked, and
ready for her journey to the north or west, according to the
recommendation of those about her, the Countess of Yarrow and those
who accompanied her were at once introduced.  Mary of Lorraine folded
Madeline in her arms and kissed her on both cheeks with great
emotion, receiving her as one restored from the dead; for she had
heard of the terrible episode in the church of Tranent--of her
mysterious disappearance; and she loved the young countess as a
sister.

The beautiful widow of James V. was pale, but calm, firm, and
collected.  In the chamber were many of her ladies--Helen Countess of
Argyle, Elizabeth Countess of Athole, and others, all prepared for
the road in their riding-dresses; and there, also, were several of
the noblesse, whose dinted and blood-stained harness or bandaged
visages afforded an index how they had maintained themselves in the
lost battle of the past day.  Some had lost their scabbards, and
still had their notched and discoloured swords in their hands; the
blade of one, that of the Lord Aboyne, was so bent that the sheath
would not receive it.

"Florence Fawside!" exclaimed the queen with emotion presenting her
hand, "M. Fawside and M. Hamilton of Preston!  I do rejoice to see
you together, and safe, at this most dreadful crisis?"

"You see us together, madam, because the present pressure of evil
makes all Scotsmen brothers, or at least comrades," replied Preston
coldly and sternly, while he coloured with shame and vexation on
being seen thus on quiet terms with one who was well known to be his
hereditary foe.

"Have you any tidings of your chief, the lord regent?" she asked.

"Tidings?" reiterated Hamilton with surprise.

"Yes, of this Earl of Arran, of whose utter incapacity to govern a
realm or lead an army we have had such fatal proofs to day; through
whom, by leaving his strong position, we have lost a battle by defeat
which else had been a glorious victory," said the Earl of Mar, with
stern vehemence.

"Yea--a fool--a very fool!" added the Lord Aboyne, whose son and heir
had perished on the field, and whose sentiments were consequently the
more bitter.

"Naught know I of him, but that he was to retreat with the main body
of the army towards Stirling," said Hamilton.

"Retreat for thirty miles through a country full of strong military
positions!" exclaimed the Earl of Mar with growing indignation.

"And leaving alike the queen and queen-mother behind.  Truly well and
wisely planned, most sapient regent!" said Mary of Lorraine bitterly.

"On seeing the field was lost," said Florence, "his last orders to
_me_, madam, were to get you forth the city and conduct you and your
royal daughter to a place of greater safety."

"I know not in whom to believe, M. Fawside," said the queen
mournfully; "or to whom to turn."

"Ah, turn to me, madam," said the young man, with a glance of honest
confidence and enthusiasm, as some of the ever-watchful courtiers
withdrew a little space to confer among themselves; "my counsel may
be feeble, it may even be unwise; but my sword is ever ready, my
heart steadfast and true."

"But a queen--especially a young queen (I am only thirty-two)," she
added with a charming French smile, "is always surrounded by so many
flatterers!"

Poor Florence now coloured absolutely crimson, for with all his love
for Madeline he felt how seductive and dangerous was this intimacy
and familiarity with Mary of Lorraine.  The latter saw the triumph of
her beauty, felt its power and smiled again; for amid all her
domestic and political troubles, she was too much of a Frenchwoman
and a Guise not to find a pleasure and consolation in this.

"Ah, monsieur," she added, "do you love your little queen?"

"I love her, madam, as becomes a Scottish gentleman and faithful
subject,--as the daughter of that good King James for whom my father
drew his sword at Falamuir, at Ancrumford, and Solway Moss!"

"She is yet a child--alas!----"

"A child in whose person are embodied all the destinies of Scotland,
past, present, and future; yea, and it may be the future destiny of
Britain itself!" said the Earl of Mar without knowing how truly he
spoke.

"Be it so," replied the queen, "fair sirs--look here!"

She drew back the arras, and there within a carved oak cradle, which
stood within a recess, and the canopy of which was surmounted by a
royal crown, lay the little queen of Scots asleep, with a white
kitten in her arms, and Janet Sinclair, her nurse, seated on a
tabourette close by.  The white-haired Earl of Mar raised higher the
visor of his helmet, and knelt down to kiss her tiny dimpled hands.

Then the tears sparkled in the eyes of Mary of Lorraine, as she saw
so many brave lords and gentlemen in their blood-spotted armour,
fresh from the terrors of that lost battle, follow the example of the
noble chief of the Erskines.  She placed her beautiful hand
caressingly on the old earl's shoulder, and said,--

"Thou good and faithful Mar! to thee her father turned his eyes, ere
he died at Falkland, when around him were Scotland's bravest and most
true, men whose advice had been faithful to him in council, and whose
swords had never failed him in peril, for in good sooth, Mar, he
loved thine old face well."

"Madam," said Claude Hamilton impatiently, "if indeed your grace is
to ride for Stirling, the sooner we set forth the better; for the
morning wears apace and dawn draws nigh.  The English will ere long
break up from their camp at Edmondstone Edge, and advance on the
city.  Methinks I hear the sound of their artillery already."

"The laird of Preston speaketh wisely, madam; let us to horse, for
ladies, litters, and sumpter-nags are a sore hindrance when men have
to cut a passage through a stand of pikes," said the laird of
Balmuto, a Fifeshire baron, whose suit of black armour was encrusted
with blood, and whose eyes were wandering, wild in expression,
tearless and bloodshot.

"You are wounded?" said the queen, with deep commiseration.

"Nay, madam, my hands could ever keep my head."

"But this blood?----"

"Is the blood of my enemies, and of--my ain bairns!" he added
bitterly.

"Your bairns!"

"Two of my sons gave up their lives on yonder field, the English
cannon slew them by my side, upon the bridge of Esk; but blessed be
God and their leal mother, I have three mair at hame, to handle their
swords when the time comes."

"Heaven may requite this devotion, my brave Balmuto, but Mary of
Lorraine never can!" replied the queen, with growing emotion.

"Madam, forth, I say, ere the day break, and we hear the English
trumpets in the Nether Bow--forth, and fear not," resumed Claude
Hamilton; "fear not, though we have lost the battle.  I have this
sword, which I drew at Flodden, and my father drew at Sark, and which
his sire drew at Vernuiel--'tis at your service still, and thus can
thirty thousand other Scotsmen say, who like me, are ready to peril
all for the child and crown of King James the Fifth!"

"To horse, then," said the queen; and giving her hand to the Earl of
Mar, she prepared to leave her favourite little palace, and surveyed
the apartment sadly as she withdrew.

Florence turned towards the Countess of Yarrow; but with a cold and
stern expression in his eye, Claude Hamilton, quick as thought,
anticipated him; and presenting his gauntleted hand to his niece and
ward, led her from the apartment to the street; and with a sinking
heart the young laird of the ruined tower followed them.

Deeming some explanation necessary, while the queen and her train
were mounting, Hamilton turned to him, and said in a low but
determined tone,--

"Here ends our temporary peace and truce.  You scorned my alliance
and every reparation to the dead as well as to the living, at a time
when, with a full heart and a purpose leal and true, I proffered it;
so think not to win my kinswoman's love, for that can never be the
prize of one whose kindred shed her pure and sinless blood so
wickedly as Dame Alison did, on that terrible night in the church of
Tranent.  Enough, sir--we now know each other--adieu!"

Florence, chilled by these stern and unexpected words, turned to
Father John, who stood near, regarding them both wistfully; but the
old priest shook his head with an air of sadness, and drew back,
while Madeline held her veil close to conceal the tears that filled
her eyes.




CHAPTER LIV.

THE DEPARTURE.

  Woe, woe to ye! ye haughty towers;
    No sound of sweetest strain,
  No music, song, nor roundelay
    Shall haunt your halls again;
  Naught--naught but sighs and groans,
    And tread of slaves in grim affright,
  Till, crush'd in dust and ashes,
    Ye feel the avenger's might!--_Uhland._


In the pale grey of the morning, when the moon was waning and the
stars fading out of the sky, when the cold, heavy shadows lay deep in
the high and narrow wynds and alleys of the city, from whose towering
mansions so many generations have looked down on scenes of wonder,
awe and terror, broil, bloodshed, and disaster, the child-queen of
Scotland (still tenaciously grasping her favourite kitten) was placed
in her warm litter, and its curtains were carefully drawn.  The
queen-mother, with the few nobles and ladies of her train, mounted;
the lackeys led all the spare and sumpter horses; and with a band of
some forty spearmen on horseback, an escort provided by the care of
the Earl of Mar, she set forth from Edinburgh.

The streets were still encumbered by crowds of fugitives and
terrified people, pale with weeping for the slain and watching in the
night.  Many surrounded the train of the queen, and strove to keep
pace with it, crying for aid, advice, or protection from the coming
English.

"Alms--largess--largess!" cried many, while poor women held aloft the
babes, whom the strife of yesterday had made fatherless.

"For alms and largess ye shall have the first rents I receive from my
lordship of Monteith and my castle of Doune," replied the queen, who
was moved to tears by the scenes she saw; but among the dense masses
at the city gate were many Reformers, who on seeing her began to
shout,--

"Down with the league with France--no French alliance!"

"Woe to the day that Mary of Lorraine brought forth a female bairn!"
cried one.

"And that our gude auld Scottish crown fell from the sword to the
distaff!" added another.

"Down with the bloody house of Guise!  A Hamilton--a Hamilton!"

The poor queen-mother grew deadly pale on hearing these hostile and
unexpected shouts from the populace, whose favour has ever been in
all ages variable as the wind; but Florence felt his blood boil!  He
had been reared in a land where gallantry was a science; he had heard
Francis I.--the most splendid of European monarchs--declare that a
court without ladies was like a spring without flowers; he had stood
by his side, bearing the train of Anne of Albany, when Laura's tomb
at Avignon was opened, and when flowers and verses were cast upon her
bones, as a tribute to her past beauty and to Petrarch's love and
muse.  The fourth and fifth Jameses were in their graves, and
Scotland no longer understood the sentiment of chivalry; but, filled
with indignation by the reiterated insults of a lank-haired fellow
who followed the queen's train, in a suit of sad-coloured clothes,
Florence drew his sword and would have smote him down, when she
quickly arrested his hand, and said, with one of her most alluring
smiles,--

"I pray you to spare the poor man, and I shall tell you a story.  One
day some drunken archers of Paris, in my hearing, insulted Catherine
de Médicis, and said a hundred bitter and abusive things to her, as
she was proceeding on foot under her canopy through the Rue de
l'Arbre Sec towards the Louvre.  Perceiving my kinsman, the Cardinal
de Lorraine, start angrily from her side, she grasped his scarlet
cope, saying,--

"'Whither goes your eminence?'

"'To see those poltroons hanged without delay!'

"'Nay, nay,' said she, 'not so; let them alone.  I will this day show
to after-ages that, in the same person, a woman, a queen, and an
Italian, controlled both pride and passion.'  If the terrible
Catherine could do this, why not may I, who have ever been deemed so
tender and gentle?"

"Most true, madam," replied Florence, bowing low as he sheathed his
sword; "your wish is law to me."

Her train left Edinburgh by the Lower Bow Porte, on the parapet of
which was a bare white skull, that seemed to grin mockingly at the
turmoil and terror of those who crowded the steep and winding street
below.  Mary shuddered as she saw it, for this poor relic of
mortality was the head of the terrible "Bastard of Arran," Sir James
Hamilton of Finnard, whilom captain of Linlithgow, royal cup-bearer,
and grand inquisitor of Scotland, executed for treason against James
V.; and all who passed the old arch beneath were wont to sign the
cross, for it was alleged that this head, after it was cut off, had
thrice cried "_Jesus Christus_" as it rolled about the scaffold, and
that no blood came from it; moreover, on the day it was first spiked,
a certain honest farmer, the gudeman of St. Giles's Grange, when
passing under the gate with a cartload of turnips to market, beheld
them all turn into human heads, which winked and grinned at him for
the full space of three minutes.

As the royal train issued forth upon the western road that led to
Stirling, the sun arose in his ruddy splendour and shed a blaze of
yellow light across the eastern quarter of the sky; and against this
glow Edinburgh uprose, with its castles, towers, and spires, its
hills and mass of roofs, its strange piles of gables and chimneys, in
outline, strongly and darkly defined.  Then the blue flag, with the
white cross of St. Andrew, was seen to wave upon the summit of King
David's keep; and the flash and boom of a culverin from the rampart
below it, as the light smoke floated away on the soft breeze of the
early morning, announced that the governor of the castle, Hamilton of
Stainhouse, had fired the first gun at the approaching foe.

A wail arose from the city beneath; for that hostile sound also
announced that the English, with sword and torch, flushed by victory
and fired by the spirits of rancour and devastation, were at hand;
but the queen and her train, warned by it of coming danger, added
spurs to their speed, as they galloped past the long shallow loch,
the ancient church, the rocky hills, and reedy marshes of
Corstorphine.




CHAPTER LV

SEQUEL TO THE INVASION.

  _Ayliffe._--'Tis bold--'tis very bold!
  _Restalrig._--              I tell you, sir,
        There be more Arrans and more Lennoxes
        On Scottish ground than you in England wot of.
                                    _Earl Gowrie--A Tragedy._


Four days after the battle, _i.e._, the 14th of September, Holyrood
Day, or the Festival of the Exaltation of the Cross, a time when
children were wont of old to commence nutting in the woods, the town
of Stirling, the great abbey of Cambus Kenneth, and all the
strongholds in their vicinity, were crowded with fugitives; and
masses of retreating soldiers occupied all the passages, fords, and
roads towards the north.  Mary of Lorraine, with her suite, and the
Regent Arran, attended by many officers of state and barons of his
house held a solemn and somewhat bitter council, to deliberate on the
future, in that vaulted chamber of the castle of Stirling wherein, a
hundred and eighteen years before, Queen Jane had brought James II.
into the world, and in which the traitor Walter, son of Murdoch Duke
of Albany, passed his last night on earth, the 18th of May, 1426.  On
this day many met who deemed each other had perished on the field.

Hither came the Lord Kilmaurs, now fifth Earl of Glencairn, wearing a
black scarf over his armour as mourning for his father's fall; hither
came also the regent's brother, John Abbot of Paisley, lord high
treasurer; William Commendator of Culross, the comptroller of
Scotland; and David Panater, the classic bishop of Ross, who was
still secretary of state; Lord Errol, the high constable; the Earls
of Cassilis, Mar, and many others, including the lairds of Fawside
and Preston.

Arran was pale, and his eye was red and feverish.  He still wore the
suit of hacked and dinted mail, which he had never put off since the
day on which he fought the fatal battle.  It had lost all its
brilliance; and he was now without his splendid orders of St. Andrew,
St. Michael, and the Golden Fleece, all of which he had lost in that
dreadful _mêlée_ when his main body closed with the English under the
Earl of Warwick.

"Taunt me not, my lords," said he bitterly, in reply to the angry
remarks of some who were present; "I feel too keenly my own position
and this crisis of the national affairs.  Alas!" he added, striking
his gauntleted hand on the oak table, "I can never more hold up my
crest in Scotland; and it is a crest, sirs, that has never yet
stooped, even to those kings with whom we have been allied."

"Say not so, my lord," said the gentle Mary of Lorraine, on whom the
countesses of Yarrow, Huntly, Mar, and Athole were in attendance, and
who felt a sympathy for the somewhat unmerited shame that stung the
proud heart of Arran; "do not blame yourself for having fought this
field of Pinkey."

"I do not blame myself for having fought, but for having lost it,
madam."

"After this admission, my lord, even your enemies can have nothing
more to urge."

"Nay," said the fierce young Earl of Glencairn, while his eyes shot a
baleful gleam, "lay the blame on those hireling Germans of Pieter
Mewtas and those heretical Spaniards, whose graves I hope to dig in
some deep glen between the Torwood and the Tweed.  What availed our
old-fashioned battle-axes, our mauls and maces, spears and bows,
against gunpowder and the close-volleyed shot of culverins and
arquebuses?"

"The English are loitering in Lothian still," observed the Earl of
Cassilis, "and the dead are yet unburied on the field."

"Woe is me!" added the abbot of Paisley, who fought there among the
band of monks, "how close and thick the slain were lying!"

"Yea, my lord abbot; Duke Somerset's plunderers may win a bushel of
golden spurs for the Lombard Jews in London, if they choose to glean
among the dead men's heels--my brave father's among the rest," said
Glencairn; "for, shot dead by a Spanish arquebuse, he fell by my
side, when together we attempted to ford the water of the Esk."

"But _you_ escaped, my Lord Kilmaurs," said Arran significantly; for
he knew well the secret treason of the father and son, and cordially
hated them both.

"Escaped by favour of the patron saint of Scotland," added the abbot
of Paisley, to soften the taunt of which he dreaded the result.

"Escaped by favour of a sharp sword and fleet horse," rejoined
Glencairn sourly; "for I may assure ye, sirs, that the patron saint
of Scotland seemed to have other business on hand than attending to
any of us on that day--my unworthy self in particular."

"Or it might be that the smoke of the gunpowder bewildered him, as it
did his grace the regent," was the taunting surmise of Cassilis.

"And now, my brave Fawside," said Arran, turning to Florence, as he
felt the earl's insolence, and wished to change the conversation,
"what recompense can I give you for your services--for your valour on
that fatal tenth of September."

"I have performed no services superior to those of other men, my
lord," said Florence modestly.

"Do you consider bearing to me the letters of Henry of Valois; that
covering our retreat at Inveresk, and routing by three desperate
charges the demi-lances of Vane and the Spaniards of Gamboa; that
saving the life of the Countess of Yarrow, and assisting to escort
the queen to Stirling, are no services?"

"Lord regent, they were but duties which every loyal gentleman owed
to the crown, and nothing more."

"I dispute while I admire your modest spirit.  You shall be a knight,
as your father was; though that is but a meagre recompense as
knighthoods go in these days of ours.  Have you no boon to ask?"

Florence glanced timidly towards the Countess of Yarrow, and was
silent, though his poor heart was beating with love and anxiety.
Claude Hamilton detected the glance, rapid and covert though it was,
and frowned so deeply, that Arran, though unable to understand what
new turn matters had taken between these troublesome and hereditary
enemies, was too politic to notice it, but held out his right hand to
the old baron, saying,--

"And thou, stout kinsman, I rejoice to see thee safe, for I heard
somewhat of a dangerous wound."

"Nay, Arran, I am free even of a scratch."

"'Twas not your fault, laird, if you escaped so well."

Preston felt the compliment these words conveyed, and bowed low in
reply.  These conversational remarks over, the regent and others were
about to resume the consideration of the present warlike and
political crisis, when the constable of the castle entered hurriedly
to announce "a messenger from Edinburgh, with tidings for my lord
regent."

"Admit him instantly," exclaimed Arran, starting from his seat; and
all eyes were turned towards the door.

The messenger appeared, clad still in his riding-cloak, armour, and
muddy boots, the spurs of which bore traces of blood, for he had
ridden hard and fast.

"The Master of Lyle!" exclaimed Arran.  "Speak, sir, are the English
advancing hither!"

"Nay, my lord regent--the reverse," replied the master smiling.

"Retreating?"

"Yes, as I myself have seen," replied Lyle gaily enough, though he
was one of the traitor faction, or had been so until the merciless
slaughter of Pinkey soured his heart against England.  "This day at
noon the Duke of Somerset broke up from his camp and commenced his
homeward march, drawing together all his ravagers and foraging
parties, while his fleet, under the Lord Clinton, has already left
the Firth of Forth, and sailed towards their own seas."

This intelligence, which other messengers soon confirmed, caused the
utmost rejoicing in the minds of all save Arran, who, covered with
shame and mortification by his late defeat, was longing for another
trial of strength with the foe, while Mary of Lorraine was desirous
of peace at any price, as she felt sure that _now_ the Scots would
never break their ancient league with France; and that the fatal
events of the 10th September, would soon place the regency of the
realm in her own hands, and thus enable her to advance the interest
of the House of Guise and the Church of Rome.

To keep Florence near her own person, as she found him useful,
faithful, and liked his society, she made him captain of her guard,
in place of Livingstone of Champfleurie; but the Countess of Yarrow
was no longer at court, as Claude Hamilton, in his capacity of tutor
or guardian, appointed by the will of her father the earl, had
removed her to Edinburgh.  Thus Florence felt an irrepressible gloom
over him, a moodiness of spirit, which not even the dazzling favour,
or seductive society of Mary of Lorraine could relieve.

The English Protector had fortunately neither the enterprise nor
firmness of mind to improve the victory he had won, by making a rapid
march to Stirling,--a movement by which he might perhaps have secured
the great object of his wanton and daring campaign, the person of the
young queen, before she could be sent to France.  Instead of this
decisive advance, which, at all events would have complicated and
protracted the war, he wasted his time in petty ravages throughout
the Lothians; and on hearing tidings of a conspiracy formed against
him in England, he made all preparations for a sudden retreat, and
finally did so, on the 18th September, thus remaining exactly one
week after the battle was won.

The events of this campaign, together with an inroad made on the 8th
September, by the Lord Wharton, and Mathew Stuart, the outlawed Earl
of Lennox, who with five thousand men, ravaged all the Western
Borders and stormed the stronghold of Castle-milk, destroyed the town
of Annan, and blew up its church, increased the general indignation
of the people at the rash attempts to force them into a matrimonial
alliance with England; and now, by the affectionate energy of Mary of
Lorraine, prompt measures were at once adopted for the transmission
of the little queen to France.

This proposal was warmly received by Monsieur d'Oysell the ambassador
of Henry II., who assured the Scottish peers that the House of Valois
would never fail in maintaining the ancient alliance which had
subsisted between the two countries since the days of Charlemagne.

"And be assured, my lords," added Mary of Lorraine, who had all the
boldness which characterized the House of Guise, "that the dauphin of
France, heir of the first kingdom in Europe, is a more suitable
consort for Mary of Scotland than this English king, whose
pretensions to her hand have been supported by every violence and
barbarity of which the worst of men are capable."

Soon after these proceedings, the Sieur Nicholas de Villegaignon, in
the same ship which brought Florence from France, anchored in the
Firth of Forth, to receive the queen, who, with her train, had been
removed to the sequestered priory of Inchmahoma, or "the Isle of
Rest" in the Loch of Menteith.

"Thus," according to one of our historians, "England discovered that
the idea that a free country was to be compelled into a pacific
matrimonial alliance amid the groans of its dying citizens, and the
flames of its cities and seaports, was revolting and absurd!"

Such was the _sequel_ to the campaign of 1547.




CHAPTER LVI.

THE ISLE OF REST.

  This dowry now our Scottish virgin brings,
  A nation famous for a race of kings,
  By firmest leagues to France for ages join'd,
  With splendid feats and friendly ties combined,
  A happy presage of connubial joy,
  Which neither time nor tempests shall destroy,
  A people yet in battle unsubdued,
  Though all the land has been in blood imbued.
                                            _Buchanan._


So wrote the most classic of Scottish scholars in his _Epithalamium_,
or "Ode on the marriage of Francis of Valois and Mary, sovereigns of
France and Scotland," the ungrateful Buchanan; but we are somewhat
anticipating history and our own narrative in the heading of our
chapter.

Inchmahoma, the secure and temporary abode of the two queens and
their court, is a singularly beautiful islet, so small and so green,
in the midst of the lake of Menteith, that when viewed from the
mountains it resembles a large emerald in the centre of a shield of
silver.

Of the Augustinian priory--which was founded in the twelfth century
by Edgar, King of Scotland (the son of Cean-mhor), a prince who
reigned only nine years, but lived "reverenced and beloved by the
good, and so formidable to the bad, that in all his reign there was
no sedition or fear of a foreign enemy,"--there remains _now_ but one
beautiful gothic arch, the dormitory, and the vaults embosomed in a
grove of aged and mossgrown timber.  These trees are all chestnuts,
and were planted by the canons before the Reformation.  A few
decaying fruit trees, and traces of a terrace, show where the garden
of these sequestered churchmen lay; and where, in her sportive glee,
the little queen of Scots with her auburn hair streaming behind her,
played for many an hour with the ladies of her mother's train; and
heard the white-bearded fathers of St. Augustine tell old tales of
their holy isle, and show the oak chair wherein the stout King Robert
sat when, in 1310, four years before Bannockburn, he came there to
visit them; and legends of the stalwart Earls of Menteith, whose
ruined castle stands on the Isle of Tulla, and whose graves are in
Mahoma; of Arnchly, or "the bloody field of the sword," where, at the
western end of the loch, stood a little chapel, wherein a monk said
mass daily for the souls of the slain.  And, in that terraced garden,
to lighten care and chase sad thoughts away, Florence spent many an
hour with this beautiful child, whose "pure and sinless brow" was
encircled by the Scottish crown of thorns, and with her four Maries,
who were the daughters of four loyal lords,--all women celebrated in
after life--by song, by tradition, and by Scotland's brave but
mournful history.

These young ladies--to wit, Mary Fleming, daughter of that Lord
Fleming who fell at Pinkey; Mary Livingstone, Mary Seaton, and Mary
Beaton (a kinswoman of the murdered cardinal), all received precisely
the same education as their beautiful mistress, and were taught every
language and accomplishment by the same instructors, and they all
loved each other with deep affection.

Their favourite amusement was _palm play_, which Florence taught them
as he had learned it at the Louvre and Vendome.  It is an old French
game, which simply consisted in receiving a ball in the palm of the
hand, and propelling it back again; but it became so fashionable in
the kingdom of the Louis, that the nobles, when they lost large sums,
and found their purses empty, to continue the play would stake their
mantles, armour, poniards, jewels, or anything, in the ardour with
which they pursued it.

On a little eminence close to the verge of the loch, there still
remains a box-wood summer-house, with a fine old hawthorn in its
centre; and in this the little queen and her mother, with the four
Maries, are said to have sat in the autumn evenings, and heard
Florence read the ancient chronicles of Scotland, the _Bruce_ of
Barbour, and tell old tales of wizards and fairies, giants and
dwarfs, till the light of day faded from the romantic summit of
Ghoille-dun; till the vesper lights began to twinkle through the
Gothic windows of the old priory upon the tremulous waters of the
lake, and the ancient tower of Tulla, on the Earl's Isle (where dwelt
Earl John, who in that year, 1547, was slain by the tutor of Appin)
cast its lengthening shadow to the shore.

Amid the romantic mountain scenery which surrounded this lake and
isle, Florence, while attending to the somewhat trivial and
monotonous duties which the queen-mother assigned him as captain of
her guard--duties which he varied occasionally by hawking on the
long, narrow, promontory that runs out from the southern shore, or by
fishing for pike by baited lines tied to the leg of a goose--a
strange custom then common in Monteith--longed to be once again in
the Scottish capital, for now he never saw, nor by rumour, letter, or
report, heard from the Countess of Yarrow.  His love affair seemed
literally to be an end!  The angry spirit of the old feud, thought
he, may have gathered again in the heart of her kinsman; and there
were times when he bitterly upbraided himself for having so sternly
declined that kinsman's proffered friendship and alliance; "but,
alas! what could I do?" he would exclaim--"the blood of my father,
the blood of my brother, were alike upon his hands."  Then he would
strive to recal some of the anger, bitterness, and antipathy that
filled his heart when he first left France on board of the galley of
Villegaignon, with no other thought but to fulfil the terrible
injunction of his mother's homeward summons--to slay the Laird of
Preston as he would have slain a snake or tiger--but the soft image
of Madeline arose before him, and he strove in vain!

If the sentiments of Claude Hamilton had really grown more hostile,
and Madeline Home had learned to share them, she might also gradually
learn to love _another_, or to wed in mere indifference, for she had
many suitors--but he thrust these ideas aside, and vainly strove to
think of other things.

So time passed slowly, heavily on, and brown October spread her
russet hues upon the foliage; the swallows disappeared, and the
woodcocks came through dark and misty skies from the shores of the
Baltic to replace them.

By the old chesnuts that cast at eve their shadows on the grey walls
of the ancient priory, and by the waves of the lake, poor Florence
sat and pondered, till the sweet voice of Madeline seemed to come to
his ear, amid the ripples that chafed on the little beach, and amid
the rustle of the dry leaves, as the autumn gusts shook them down
from the tossing branches.

Michaelmas came; but even in that remote Highland region, where,
_yet_, so many old customs linger, few traces remained of the feast
of St. Michael, as it was held of old; though Mary of Lorraine and
the prior of the isle, or Earl John of Monteith, in Tulla Hall,
partook of roasted goose, duly and solemnly, on the eleventh of the
month, as an indispensable ceremony--all unaware that it was the last
remnant of a creed that flourished long anterior to Christianity; for
on this day the Pagans of old sacrificed a goose to Proserpine, the
infernal goddess of Death.

'Twas November now; and the piercing wind that swept over the
mountains seemed as if anxious to tear the last brown leaves of
autumn from the naked trees; and then came snow to whiten the hills
and valleys--to bury deep the rocky passes; and with it came the
frost, to seal up the waters of the lake; for, unlike those of the
present age, the winters of the olden time were somewhat Arctic in
their aspect, with the strong and bitter Scottish frost, of which
Annsæus Julius Floras, the satirical Roman poet and historian, wrote,
when, armed with his pen, he entered the lists against the Emperor
Adrian:--

  "Ego nolo Cæsar esse,
  Ambulare per Brittanos,
  _Scoticas_ pati pruinas."

And so the Highland winter came on with all its dreariness; and amid
the cloistral seclusion of the Isle of Rest, and of Mary of
Lorraine's little court, Florence thought ever of Madeline Home, and
longed again to hear her voice--to see her smile--to touch her pretty
hand.  Mary of Lorraine saw that he was sad, pre-occupied, and
thoughtful; and, with the natural gaiety of a Frenchwoman, she
rallied him on the subject of his pensiveness, and bade him be of
good cheer; for though man proposed, God disposed, and all would yet
be well.

With early summer final preparations were made for the young queen's
departure to France; and after sailing from Leith, round the stormy
Pentland Firth, a gallant fleet of caravels dropped their anchors in
the waters of the Clyde.

On a bright July morning, when the wooded hills that rise around the
blue lake, the ancient priory, and the green Isle of Rest were
clothed in their heaviest summer foliage, Florence was seated in the
boxwood bower beside the old hawthorn-tree, reading to the little
queen.  With her dove-like eyes turned up to his face in wonder, she
heard how the valiant paladin, Sir Palomides, sorrowed for la Belle
Isonde--of the siege perilous, and the marvellous adventure of the
sword in a stone; but now Mary of Lorraine approached them with a
grave and mournful expression in her face; kissing her daughter, she
desired her to withdraw, and the young sovereign at once obeyed.  She
now desired Florence, who had instantly arisen and closed his book,
which was Sir Thomas Malori's romance of "King Arthur," to listen, as
she had a serious matter whereon to confer with him.

"In a week," said she, "my daughter sails for France."

"France, within a week--so soon!" he exclaimed, with regret and
surprise; "and in charge of whom, madam?"

"The lords Livingstone, Erskine, and a chosen and gallant train; but
more immediately would I confide her to the care of one whose
character I have studied carefully and closely, and in whom I can
repose implicit faith."

"Your grace is right; but who is this honoured person?"

"Yourself, fair sir," replied Mary with one of her most beautiful
smiles.

"I!" he exclaimed with astonishment.

"You, Florence Fawside."

"Oh, madam, you overwhelm me!" he replied, casting down his eyes: for
his first thought was the total separation from Madeline Home, that
was consequent to this important trust, which he durst not decline.

"You express more surprise than satisfaction," said the queen, who
was an acute reader of the human face, and could read all its varying
expressions.  "You dislike the high trust I would repose in you?" she
added, with a proud but peculiar smile.

"Oh, madam, do not say so--I but----"

"Or the journey by sea, or a residence in Paris, or I know not what.
_Mon Dieu!_ would that I could go with her to merry France again; but
that may never, never be.  I have her turbulent kingdom to watch over
as a sacred trust; and as its regent--for regent of Scotland I
_shall_ be!--I must bide any time in Holyrood."

"Your majesty must pardon me; I dislike neither the journey nor the
splendid trust you would repose in me; but--but----"

"But what?"  Florence coloured deeply, played with the plume in his
bonnet, and hesitated.

"Queens are unused to doubts; but since you seem so averse to my
offer, I must e'en repose the greater trust in the Countess of
Yarrow, who has already consented to go."

"Consented to go!--to leave me; has Madeline really consented?"
exclaimed poor Florence, in his desperation forgetting all his
prudence.

"She has," replied the smiling queen.

"Oh, madam, can she go thus and leave me behind--who love her so
tenderly--so well!"

"What would you have her to do!" said Mary of Lorraine; "it is
arranged that, in charge of the Lords Livingstone and Erskine,
together with the Earl and Countess of Yarrow, my daughter proceeds
to France in the ship of M. de Villegaignon."

"And this--this Earl of Yarrow?" muttered Florence in a breathless
voice, as he grew pale with sudden grief, fury, and confusion.

"Is----" the queen hesitated provokingly.

"Who--who?--pardon my vehemence!"

"Cannot you guess?"

"Madam, my heart is sick; I have neither wit nor skill for riddles!"
replied Florence, who trembled and became painfully agitated.

"Oh, thou man of little faith," said the queen merrily, as she patted
his cheek with her white hand; and then drawing two documents from
the velvet pouch which hung at her girdle--"Look here!" she added,
"and read."

Florence read them over hurriedly, and could scarcely believe his
eyes.  The first was a contract of marriage between himself and
Madeline, Countess of Yarrow, signed by Madeline's own hand, by her
uncle, and the Regent Arran; _his own_ signature alone being wanting.
The second document was a patent of nobility under the great seal of
Scotland, granting the title of Earl of Yarrow and Baron Fawside to
Florence Fawside, for the leal and true service rendered by his
father, umquhile Sir John of that ilk, at Flodden, and by the said
Florence at Pinkeycleuch; and for the good and leal services ever
rendered by his forbears to the throne and ancestors of our dearest
sovereign lady the queen.  With these documents was a letter from
Claude Hamilton, at least a letter written by a notary's hand and
signed by the signet ring of the old baron, who had but small skill
in clerking, and in it there occurred the following passage:--


"We have in sooth been owre near neighbours to be gude friends, as
our auld Scots proverb hath it; but all the reparation I promised in
the Torwood--reparation to the living and to the dead--am I still
willing to make Florence Fawside; and to end this old hereditary
feud, which hath been the curse of our forefathers, and all quarrels
anent our marches, rights of fuel and pasture, fishing and forestry,
let them henceforth become _one_; and let your wedding with my
kinswoman be the bond of amity between us, and Father John be the
notary who frames it.  'Tis well!  And my fair lands of Preston shall
be hers, after me, for pin-money for holding and her abulyements.
With the broad seas of Scotland and France between us, laird, we
shall be better friends than our forefathers when they could scowl
from their barred gates at ilk other owre the waste of Gladsmuir; and
so I commit you to God.  "PRESTON."


"Now, sir," said Mary of Lorraine; "will you sail to France with my
daughter, or will you stay at home?"

"Ah, madam, pardon me," exclaimed Florence, sinking on one knee; "I
am without thought or speech--I have no words, no voice to thank you."

"I want not thanks; but your signature to the contract, and the
benediction of the old vicar of Tranent on the marriage."

"Madam, who has done me all this kindness--all this most undeserved
honour?"

"Say not so--but your good angel has been your dearest friend--Mary
of Lorraine--from the first, my poor boy, I loved and valued your
worth."

"I knew it--I knew it!" he exclaimed, kissing her hands with ardour;
"but your grace must show me some mode by which I may requite this."

"In France be faithful to my daughter, be tender and be true," said
the queen in an imploring voice, that seemed full of soul.

"True to death,--true as I would be to Madeline Home!"

"Come, then, for the countess has arrived; she is now with the Abbot
of Inchmahoma, and awaits you in the priory," said the queen with a
winning smile, as she presented her hand to the bewildered young man.

* * * * * *

And thus our story, like a good old-fashioned comedy, ends by one
marriage, and opens the way to another.  After this, we have but
little more to add.

On a bright morning in July, 1548, when the hot sun exhaled a silver
mist from the broad blue bosom of the Clyde; when its fertile and
beautiful shores lay steeped in golden haze that mellowed each grey
rock, green wood, and purple hill, bay, beach, and headland that
stretched in distance, far, far away; and when the sunbeams played
gaily upon the long, swelling ripples that seemed to vibrate in the
heat, and churned the waves into little lines of foam as they rolled
on the pebbled shore, the thunder of brass cannon from "Balclutha's
walls of towers," the double peak of Dunbarton, boomed in the still
air, while the bells rang their farewell peal in the spire of many a
village church, as the fleet of the Sieur Nicholas de Villegaignon,
Knight of Malta, and Grand-admiral of France, got under weigh.

Above the lesser ships that spread their white sails to the eastern
breeze, his great caravel towered conspicuously.

High-pooped, with turrets of pepper-box aspect, she had three
enormous lanterns at her stern, which, like her bow, rose nearly
thirty feet above the water-line, and had a gilded iron gallery
before each row of painted windows.  This poop was covered with every
variety of cunning work in wood, painting, and gilding, with niches
containing saints with swords, wheels, and scourges, the emblems of
their martyrdom; while long carved mouldings ran along the bends
between the brass muzzles of the polished culverins that rose above
each other in tiers and glittered in the sun as its rays played upon
the rippling water.  Many a gay pennon and streamer floated
gracefully out like long and silken ribands on the breeze; but high
over all were the lion _gules_ of Scotland, the silver fleur-de-lis
of old France, and the family banner of the Grand-admiral de
Villegaignon, which floated from the mizzen-mast head, bearing two
anchors crossed behind his paternal shield.

On board of this gay caravel were Florence and his bride the
countess, with the little queen and her two noble preceptors, the
abbot of the Isle of Rest, and her three kinsmen, the Lord James
Stuart (afterwards Regent Moray), the commendator of Holyrood, and
the Lord Robert, Prior of Orkney, with a train of two hundred lords,
ladies, and gentlemen, all of the best families in Scotland.  The
young bride of France was weeping bitterly, and the arm of the
Countess of Yarrow was around her.

"The young queen," says the Captain Beaugue, a gallant French
officer, who witnessed the embarkation, "was at that time one of the
most perfect creatures the God of Nature ever formed, for her equal
was nowhere to be found, nor had the world another child of her
fortune and hopes."

As the ships got under weigh, and began to drop down the lovely river
in the sunshine, and enveloped in the smoke of their cannon, which
fired salutes, a cheer, which sounded somewhat like a wail of sorrow,
as it floated over the Clyde, arose from a group that stood upon its
shore, where Mary of Lorraine was lingering, to witness the departure
of the daughter she was never to behold again; and there she watched
the lessening sails until they melted into the haze and distance.

Escaping all the efforts of Somerset, who daringly sent out a fleet
to intercept her, the young queen and her train landed in safety at
Roscoff, three miles north of St. Pol de Leon, in the vicinity of
Cape Finisterre, and on the 20th of August arrived at Morlaix; from
there she proceeded to the palace of St. Germains, where Henry of
Valois received her with every demonstration of respect and
affection; and where he bestowed on the Earl of Yarrow, and the three
great lords who accompanied her, the collar of St. Michael.

Soon after this, the Earl of Arran, on being created Duke of
Chatelherault, in Poitou, and receiving the long-promised succours
from France under General d'Essé d' Epainvilliers, solemnly abdicated
the regency of Scotland in favour of Mary of Lorraine, who, by her
perseverance, her wisdom, and skill, attained that power and dignity
which had been so long the darling object of her wishes, and the
ambition of the House of Guise.




NOTES.


I.--FAWSIDE OF THAT ILK.

In the text I have not exaggerated the antiquity of this old family,
the ruins of whose fortalice are still existing in Haddingtonshire.

In the reign of David I., during a portion of the twelfth century,
the name of William de Ffauside occurs in Parliament, and Edmundo de
Ffauside witnesses the charter by which that monarch grants certain
lands to Thor, the son of Swan of Tranent; and in the time of William
the Lion, Gilbert de Fawside witnessed a charter of the monastery of
St. Marie of Newbattle.

In 1246, Donatus Sybald witnessed a charter by De Quincy, Earl of
Winton and Winchester, to Adam of Seaton, _de Maritagio hoeredis
Alani de Faside_ (Nisbet), and seven years afterwards Allan obliged
himself "to pay yearly to the monks of Dunfermline, _quinque solidas
argenti_," out of his lands.

In 1292 Robert de Fawside signed the Ragman Roll, and four years
after we find a Roger and William of the same name swearing fealty to
Edward I.  Roger obtained a grant of the lands from Robert Bruce.

In 1306 Sir Christopher Seaton (who married Bruce's sister) was
executed by Edward I.  He was succeeded by his son, Sir Alexander
Seaton, who obtained from his uncle, King Robert, the lands of
Tranent, including _Fawside_ and Lougniddry, which formerly belonged
to Alan de la Zouch.  He and his second son were slain in battle by
the English, near Kinghorn, in 1332, leaving a son, Sir Alexander,
eighth baron of Seaton, the gallant defender of Berwick, whose sons,
though given as hostages to Edward I., are alleged to have been
basely hanged by that ferocious prince, in their father's view,
before the walls of the town.

In 1350 a Sir Thomas of Fawside witnessed a charter of Duncan Earl of
Fife to the monastery of Lindores; and in 1366 a charter of Malcolm
of Fawside was witnessed by Symon Preston of Craigmillar, sheriff of
Edinburgh.  In 1371 William de Seaton granted to John of Fawside, for
true and faithful service, the whole lands of Wester-Fawside, in the
barony of Travernent,--a gift confirmed by Robert II. on the 20th of
June.

In 1425 William of Fawside and Marjorie Fleming his spouse obtained
the lands and will of Tolygart, and the lands of Wester-Fawside are
confirmed to John of that ilk (Great Seal Office) in June.

In 1472 John Fawside married Margaret, daughter of Sir John Swinton
of that ilk; and on his death, in 1503, she became prioress of the
Cistercian nunnery at Elcho.

In 1528 there is a remission under the great seal to their son George
Fawside of that ilk, for certain crimes committed by him; and in
1547, after the battle of Pinkey, as related in the story, his castle
was burned by the English, after a stout resistance, and all within
it were, as Patten relates, "brent and smoothered."

Twenty years after this, Thomas Fawside of that ilk signed the Bond
of Association, for defending the coronation and government of the
young king, James VI., against the supporters of his unfortunate
mother; and in 1570, he was one of the assyse who tried Carkettle of
Moreles for treason.  In 1579, he became surety for Alexander
Dalmahoy of that ilk, who, according to the fashion of the age, had
employed his leisure time in besieging the house of Somerville
(_Pitcairn_).

In 1600, on the occasion of the escape of James VI. from the plot of
the Earl of Gourie, "this night (6th August) bonfires were sett upone
Arthure Seate, _Fawside Hill_, and all places farre and neere"
(Calderwood's Historie).

Sixteen years after, we find James Fawside of that ilk becoming
pledge and surety for Sir Patrick Chirnsyde, of East Nisbet, who was
accused before the Justiciary Court of abducting a girl of thirteen
from Haddington; and in the same year (1616), his servitor, Robert
Robertson, was "delatit for the crewel slaughter of umquhile John
Fawside, in the barne of Fawside, with a knife or dagger, on the 10th
of November," for which he was beheaded on the Castle Hill of
Edinburgh (_Pitcairn_).  On a dormer window of the ruins at Fawside
are carved

  I F--I E. 1618.


In 1631, Robert Fawside of that ilk is one of a commission for
augmenting the stipend of Inveresk; and about this time the family
sold their estate to Hamilton, a merchant in Edinburgh.

In 1666, James, eldest son of the _deceased_ Fawside of that ilk,
witnessed a charter of George Earl of Haddington.  He would seem to
have been the last of the line.  Their lands belong to Dundas of
Arniston, and now nothing remains of this old Scottish family, but
their ruined tower upon the hill, and in the church of Tranent, a
half-defaced tablet inscribed

  "John Fawside of that Ilk."



II.--THE BATTLE OF PINKEY.

Of this great defeat no trace remains in Scotland but the memory of
its slaughter.  Upwards of two thousand nobles and landed gentlemen
fell, and the following list of a few of these, compiled from
authorities too numerous to mention, may interest our Scottish
readers, some of whom may find their ancestors therein:--William
Cunninghame, Earl of Glencairn; Malcolm Lord Fleming, Lord High
Chancellor; Allan Lord Cathcart; Alexander Lord Elphinstone; Henry
Lord Methven; Robert Lord Grahame; John Master of Buchan; Robert
Master of Erskine; John Master of Livingstone; Robert Master of
Rosse; Adam Gordon, son of the Lord Aboyne; Sir James Gordon, Knight,
of Lochinvar; Sir George Douglas, Knight, of the House of Angus; Sir
Robert Douglas, Knight, of Lochlevin; Sir George Home, Knight, of
Wedderburn; William Adamson of Craigcrook, near Edinburgh; Alexander
Napier of Merchiston, near Edinburgh; John Brisbane of Bishoptoun, in
Cunninghame; Alexander Frazer of Durris, Kincardine; Alexander
Halyburton of Pitcur, in Angus; John Buchanan of Auchmar and
Arnprior; John Norrie of Finarsie, Aberdeenshire; Gilbert MacIlvayne
of Grummet, Argyle; Thomas Corrie of Kelwood, James Montfoyd of
Montfoyd, Bernard Mure of Park, John Crawford of Giffertland, Quentin
Hunter of Hunterstoun, Ayrshire; Robert Bothwick of Gordonshall, John
Ramsay of Arbekie, John Strang of Balcaskie, William Barclay of
Rhyud, David Reid of Aikenhead, James Wemyss of Myrecairnie, Andrew
Anstruther (younger) of that ilk, Alexander Inglis of Tarvet, John
Airth of Strathour-Wester, David Wemyss of Caskieberry, Stephen
Duddingston of Kildinington, Fife; Ludovic Thornton of that ilk,
Forfarshire; Cuthbert Aschennan of Park, John Gordon of Blaiket, John
Ramsay of Sypland, Kirkcudbright; Thomas Hamilton of Priestfield,
near Edinburgh; David Anderson of Inchcannon, in the barony of Errol;
John Kincaid of Wester Lawes, in the barony of Kinnaird; John Leckie
of that ilk, Stirlingshire; John Macdoull of Garthland, Wigton;
Patrick Bissett of Lessindrum; Walter Macfarlane of Tarbet; Richard
Melville of Baldovie, parson of Marytown; David Arbuthnot (younger)
of that ilk, parson of Menmure; William Johnston of that ilk; Robert
Munro of Foulis; John Murray of Abercairnie; David Murray of
Auchtertyre; John Halket of Pitfirran; David and Robert Boswal, sons
of the laird of Balmuto; Allan Lockhart of the Lee; Duncan Macfarlane
of that ilk; Finlay Mhor, Farquharson of Invercauld, royal
standard-bearer; George Henderson of Fordelhenderson; Alexander Skene
of that ilk; James Innes of Rathmackenzie; Robert Leslie of Wardes;
John Kinnaird of that ilk; William Cunninghame of Glengarnock; John
and Arthur Forbes, sons of the Red Laird of Pitsligo; Cuthbert
Hamilton of Candor, David Hamilton of Broomhill;[*] Gabriel
Cunninghame of Craigends; John and Robert, sons of Sir Walter Lindsay
of Edzell, who fell at Flodden; John Ogilvie of Durn; John Hamilton,
merchant in the West Bow, Edinburgh; Walter Cullen, bailie of
Aberdeen, and twenty-eight burghers of that city.


[*] Two brothers, slain when attempting to rescue the Lord Semple,
who was taken prisoner.


The _seven_ sons of Sir Thomas Urquhart of Cromarty are also said to
have fallen, in this disastrous field; but their names do not appear
in the "Scottish Baronage."

It was frequently named the Field of Inveresk and of Musselburgh.

In Bunbury Church, Cheshire, is a monument to Sir George Beeston, who
was knighted by Queen Elizabeth for his bravery against the Armada in
1588.  He died in 1601, at the age of 102, and would seem to have
fought against the Scots at Pinkey.  "Contra Scotos apud
_Musselborrow_," is on his tomb.

In the following "Acquittaunce," rendered into English, the battle is
styled Inveresk:--

"I, Walter Scot of Branxholm, Knight, grant me to have received from
an honourable man, Sir Patrick Cheyne of Essilmont, Knight, the sum
of eight score English nobles, for which I was bound and obliged to
content and pay to Thomas Dacre of Lanercost, Knight, Englishman,
taker of the said Sir Patrick at the field of _Inveresk_, for his
ransom, of the which sum I hold me well-content and payed.  In
witness whereof, I have subscribed this my letter of acquittaunce
with my hand, at Edinburgh, the 2nd March, 1548."--_Aberdeen
Collections_, vol. ii.



THE END.



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