Chapter X: Part 10

"Men like ourselves!" cried Charley. "I trow such like as ourselves are not to be furnished from the banks of either Aven or Spey, aye, or from those of any other river or stream that I wot of. Give me another tug of thy most virtuous flask there, Duncan. Hah! I say again that the power of clergy and holy water is nothing to this. It would stir a man up to lay the very devil himself. What sayest thou and thy red nose, old Archy Dhu?"

"I say that I think thou art speaking somewhat unadvisedly," replied Archy, stretching out his hand at the same time, and taking the flask from Charley as he was about to apply it to his lips for the third time in succession.

"Stay thy hand, man. Methinks it is my turn to drink."

"Silence!" said one who had command over them. "Can ye not moderate your voices, and speak more under breath? Your gabbling will spoil all."

"Master Donald Bane hath good reason with him, gentlemen," said Archibald Dhu, in a subdued tone. "For my part, I shall be silent;" and well might he say so, seeing that at that moment he turned aside to hold long and sweet converse with the flask.

"I tell ye, we must be quiet as mice," said Master Donald. "Even our half-whispers might be heard by any one stealing towards the walls, amidst the unbroken stillness of this night."

The night was indeed still as the grave. Not a leaf was stirring. Even the drowsy hum of the beetle was hushed, and no sound reached their ears but the tinkling music of the tiny rill that ran through the little runnel near them, in its way towards the ravine in the bank, and the soft murmur of the stream of the Aven, coming muffled through the foliage from below; when, on a sudden, a mighty rush of wind was heard to arise from the distant top of Ben Rinnes, which terribly grew in strength as it came rapidly sweeping directly towards them. So awfully terrific was the howl of this whirlwind, that the very hairs of the heads of even the boldest of these hardy spearmen stood stiff and erect, as if they would have lifted up their iron skull-caps. Every fibre of their bodies quivered, so that the very links of their shirts of mail jingled together, and Aves and Paternosters came not only from the mouths of such brave boasters as Charley, but they were uttered right glibly by many a bold bearded lip to which, I warrant me, they had been long strangers. On came the furious blast. The sturdy oak under which they had taken shelter, beat every man of them to the ground by the mere bending of its bole and the writhing of its boughs and branches. Wild shrieks were heard in the air amid the yelling of the tempest, and a quick discharge of repeated plunges in the Aven below announced to them that some heavy materials had been thrown into it. Again, the whirlwind swept instantaneously onwards; and as it was dying away among the mountains to the north of the Spey, an unearthly laugh, loud as thunder, was heard over their heads.

No sooner had this appalling peal of laughter ceased, than all was again calm and still as death. The great oak under which the discomfited men of the watch lay, heaped one on another, immediately recovered its natural position. But fear had fallen so heavily on these bruised and prostrate men-at-arms, that they dared not even to lift their bodies to the upright position; but creeping together around the root of the tree, they lay quivering and shaking with dread, their teeth chattering together in their heads like handfuls of chucky stones, till the sun arose to put some little courage into them with his cheering rays. Then it was that they discovered, to their horror and dismay, that the whole work done by the masons during the preceding day at the new building had been as completely razed and obliterated as it had ever been upon any of the previous nights. You may believe, gentlemen, that it required some courage to inform their stern master of the result of their night's watch; and with one consent they resolved that Ian Grant, the laird's henchman, should be first informed; and he was earnestly besought to be their vehicle of communication.

"Psha!" cried the laird impatiently, when the news reached him. "I cannot believe a word of this, Ian. The careless caitiffs have trumped up this story as an apology for their own negligence in keeping a loose watch. I'll have every mother's babe of them hanged. A howling tempest and an elrich laugh, saidst thou? Ha! ha! ha! Well indeed might these wicked unfriends of mine, who have so outwitted these lazy rascals, laugh till their sides ached, at the continued success of their own mischief. I'll warrant it has been some of Tullochcarron's people; and if my fellows had been worth the salt that they devour at my expense, assuredly we might have had the culprits swinging on the gallows-tree by this time. So our men may e'en swing there in their stead."

"If Tullochcarron's people have done these pranks, they must be bolder and cleverer men than I take them for," said Ian calmly. "But before we set these poor fellows of ours a-dancing upon nothing, with the gallows-tree for their partner, methinks we may as well take a peep into the stream of the Aven, where the wonderful clearness of the water will show a pebble at the depth of twenty feet. Certain it is that there came a strange and furious blast over these valleys last night; and there may be no harm in just looking into the Aven, to see if any of the stones of the work be lying at the bottom."

"There can be no harm in that," said the laird, "so let us go there directly."

They went accordingly; and to the great surprise of both master and man, they saw distinctly that the bed of the river was covered over with the new hammer-dressed stones; and yet, on examining the high banks above, and the trees and bushes that grew on them, not a trace appeared to indicate that human exertions had been employed to transport them downwards thither from the site of the new building. The laird and his attendant were filled with wonder. Yet still he was not satisfied that his conjectures had been altogether wrong.

"If it has been Tullochcarron's people," said he doubtingly, "they must have enlisted the devil himself as their ally. But let them have whom they may to aid them, I am resolved I shall unravel this mystery, cost what it will. I'll watch this night in person."

"I doubt it will be but a tempting of powers against which mortal man can do but little," said Ian. "But come what come may, I'll watch with thee, Ballindalloch."

"Then haste thee, Ian, and set the workmen to their labour again with all their might," said the laird, "and let the masons raise the building as high as they possibly can from the ground before night; and thou and I shall see whether we shall not keep the stones from flying off through the air like a flight of swallows."

The anxious laird remained all day at the work himself; and as you know, gentlemen, that the master's eye maketh the horse fat, so hath it also a strange power of giving double progress to all matters of labour that it looketh upon. The result was, that when the masons left off in the evening, the building was found to have risen higher than it had ever done before. When night came, the same watch was again set about the walls; for the laird wished for an opportunity of personally convicting the men of culpable carelessness and neglect of duty. To make all sure, he and his henchman took post on the embryo peel-tower itself.

The air was still, and the sky clear and beautiful, as upon the previous night, and, armed with their lances, Ballindalloch and his man Ian walked their rounds with alert steps, throwing their eyes sharply around them in all directions, anxiously bent on detecting anything that might appear like the semblance of treachery. The earlier hours, however, passed without disturbance; and the confidence of the laird and Ian increased, just as that of the men of the guard diminished when the hour began to approach at which the entertainments of the previous night had commenced. As this hour drew near, their stolen applications to their cordial flasks became more frequent; but sup after sup went down, and so far from their courage being thereby stirred up, they seemed to be just so much the more fear-stricken every drop they swallowed. They moved about like a parcel of timid hares, with their ears pricked up ready to drink in the first note of intimation of the expected danger. A bull feeding in the broad pastures stretching between them and the base of Ben Rinnes bellowed at a distance.

"Holy Mother, there it comes!" cried Charley. In an instant that hero and all the other heroes fled like roe-deer, utterly regardless of the volley of threats and imprecations which the enraged laird discharged after them like a hailstorm as they retreated, their ears being rendered deaf to them by the terror which bewildered their brains, and in the twinkling of an eye not a man of them was to be seen.

"Cowards!" exclaimed the laird, after they were all gone. "To run away at the roaring of a bull! The braying of an ass would have done as much. Of such stuff, I warrant me, was that whirlwind of last night composed, of which they made out so terrible a story."

"What could make the fellows so feared?" said Ian. "I have seen them stand firm in many a hard fought and bloody field. Strange that they should run at the routing of a bull."

"And so the villains have left you and me alone, to meet whatever number of arms of flesh may be pleased to come against us! Well, be it so, Ian; I flinch not. I am resolved to find out this mystery, come what may of it. Ian, you have stood by me singly ere now, and I trust you will stand by me again; for I am determined that nothing mortal shall move me hence till morning dawns."

"Whatever you do, Ballindalloch," replied his faithful henchman, "it shall never be said that Ian Grant abandoned his master. I will"----

"Jesu Maria! what sound is that?" exclaimed the laird, suddenly interrupting him, and starting into an attitude of awe and dread.

And no marvel that he did so; for the wail of the rising whirlwind now came rushing upon them from the distant summit of Ben Rinnes. In an instant its roar was as if a tempestuous ocean had been rolling its gigantic billows over the mountain top; and on it swept so rapidly as to give them no further time for colloquy. A lurid glare of light shot across the sky from south to north. Shrieks,--fearful shrieks,--shrieks such as the mountain itself might have uttered, had it been an animated being, mingled with the blast. It was already upon them, and in one moment both master and man were whirled off through the air and over the bank, where they were tossed, one over the other, confounded and bruised, into the thickest part of a large and wide-spreading holly bush; and whilst they stuck there, jammed in among the boughs, and altogether unable to extricate themselves, they heard the huge granite stones, which had been that day employed in the work, whizzing through the air over their heads, as if they had been projected from one of those engines which that warlike people, the ancient Romans, called a balista or catapult; and ever and anon they heard them plunged into the river below, with a repetition of deep hollow sounds, resembling the discharge of great guns. The tempest swept off towards the north, as it had done on the previous night; and a laugh, that was like the laugh of a voice of thunder, seemed to them to re-echo from the distant hills, and made the very blood freeze in their veins. But what still more appalled them, this tremendous laugh was followed by a yet more tremendous voice, as if the mountain had spoken. It filled the whole of the double valley of the Aven and the Spey, and it repeated three times successively this whimsical command, "Build in the Cow-haugh!--Build in the Cow-haugh!--Build in the Cow-haugh!" and again all nature returned to its former state of stillness and of silence.

"Saint Mary help me!" cried Ian from his position, high up in the holly bush, where he hung doubled up over the fork of two boughs, with his head and his heels hanging down together like an old worsted stocking. "Saint Mary help me! where am I? and where is the laird?"

"Holy St. Peter!" cried the laird, from some few feet below him, "I rejoice to hear thy voice, Ian. Verily, I thought that the hurricane which these hellish--no--I mean these good people raised, had swept all mortals but myself from the face of this earth."

"I praise the Virgin that thou art still to the fore, Ballindalloch," said Ian. "In what sort of plight art thou, I pray thee?"

"In very sorry plight, truly," said the laird, "sorely bruised and tightly and painfully jammed into the cleft of the tree, with my nose and my toes more closely associated together than they have ever been before, since my first entrance into this weary world. Canst thou not aid me, Ian?"

"Would that I could aid thee, Ballindalloch," said Ian mournfully; "but thou must e'en take the will for the deed. I am hanging here over a bough, like a piece of sheep's tripe, without an atom of fushon [4] in me, and confined, moreover, by as many cross-branches as would cage in a blackbird. I fear there is no hope for us till daylight."

And in good sooth there they stuck maundering in a maze of speculation for the rest of the night.

When the morning sun had again restored sufficient courage to the men of the watch, curiosity led them to return to ascertain how things stood about the site of the building which they had so precipitately abandoned. They were horrorstruck to observe, that in addition to the utter obliteration of the whole of the previous day's work, the laird himself, and his henchman Ian Grant, had disappeared. At first they most naturally supposed that they had both been swept away at once with the walls of the new building on which they stood, and that they could never hope to see them again, more than they could expect to see the stones of the walls that had been so miraculously whirled away. But piteous groans were heard arising from the bank below them; and on searching further, Ballindalloch and his man Ian were discovered and released from their painful bastile. The poor men-at-arms who had formed the watch were mightily pleased to observe that the laird's temper was most surprisingly cooled by his night's repose in the holly bush. I need not tell you that he spoke no more of hanging them. You will naturally yemagine, too, that he no longer persevered in pressing the erection of the ill-starred keep-tower on the proud spot he had chosen for it, but that he implicitly followed the dread and mysterious order he had received to "Build in the Cow-haugh!"

He did, in fact, soon afterwards commence building the present Castle of Ballindalloch in that beautiful haugh which stretched between the Aven and the Spey, below their junction, which then went by the name of the Cow-haugh; and the building was allowed to proceed to its conclusion without the smallest interruption.

Such is the legend I promised you, gentlemen, and however absurd it may be, I look upon it as curious; for it no doubt covers some real piece of more rational history regarding the cause of the abandonment of those old foundations, which has now degenerated into this wild but poetical fable.

SOMNOSALMONIA.

Clifford (asleep).--Ha! ha! ha! There he comes! What a noble fish! Didn't I tell you I would do for him? Ha! there--there now--I shall land him beautifully at last.

Author.--Why, he's asleep, Grant; give him a good shake, will you.

Clifford (half-awaking).--Oh! oh! oh! what are you at? Will you throw me into the water, you scoundrels? Hah! what are you at? Aw--a--a! what a magnificent salmon I had caught when you snapt my line. Eh!--hah--aw--a--aw. I believe I have been dozing.

Grant.--Nay, not dozing only, but snoring; and, finally fishing in your sleep.

Clifford.--Then am I a fool--aw--a--a--to stay here awake doing nothing, when I might go to bed and there so happily continue the sport which you so cruelly interrupted,--aw--a--aw, so good night to you,--I'm off.

Taking up his candle, Clifford quickly disappeared, and following his example, we broke up for the night; and having agreed to devote the next day to our friend's favourite sport, we invited our new acquaintance, the schoolmaster, to dine with us again.

Next day Grant and I spent five or six hours in thrashing the river without being gratified even with a single rise, whilst Clifford killed no less than three large salmon and one grilse. We expected that he would have crowed mightily over us, and we accordingly exhibited great humbleness of aspect in his presence. But he was magnanimous beyond our hopes.

Clifford.--Don't be downcast, my dear friends, your fate had been mine and mine yours, had we only exchanged our fly-boxes in the morning. Your flies have been made by some Cockney for fishing in the New River. These Limerick hooks are the things; they never fail. You shall try them next time, and I'll warrant your success.

Clifford picked out the best fish for our dinner, and after a liberal provision of those ingredients which are supposed to contribute to the sociality of an evening,

Author (to Clifford).--Come along, Mr. Secretary, how stands your book?

Clifford.--Mr. Macpherson is down two or three times over. But, for aught I know, he may have told all his tales last night while I slept. By the by, I have to apologise to him for having done so.

Dominie.--Hout no, sir, I am sure I am well pleased if my tales can in any manner of way contribute to your happiness, whether it may be by exciting your interest or mirth, or by lulling you to sweet repose. I am not the first story-teller whose tales have had a soporific yeffeck.

Clifford.--Can you favour us then; you will yourself recollect which of your stories comes first in the list.

Dominie.--'Pon my word, sir, my memory does not serve me in that respeck. But I have another story altogether, in which the Laird of Ballindalloch was also concerned; and, as it has been brought to my mind, nay, I may say, into my vurra mouth at this moment, by the pleasing flavour of Mr. Clifford's excellent fish, on which we have all dined so heartily, I may as well give you that.

Clifford.--You are a perfect mine of legendary lore, Mr. Macpherson.

LEGEND OF THE LAST GRANT OF TULLOCHCARRON.

In my legend of yesternight, gentlemen, I think I told you, that one of Ballindalloch's yespecial reasons for selecking the site he did for his peel tower was the commanding view which he thence enjoyed all over the lands of Tullochcarron, lying above the fork of the Aven and the Spey, and which then belonged to another family of Grants, with whom he was liable to be frequently at daggers drawn. It is of the last laird of Tullochcarron, that I am now going to tell you.

In the earlier part of his life, this laird of Tullochcarron lost a younger brother, who was killed while fighting bravely by his side in a feudal skirmish with a former laird of Ballindalloch. Tullochcarron had a strong affection for this brother, and would have been inconsolable for his death, had he not left an only son behind him, called Lachlan Dhu. Tullochcarron was then unmarried, and he therefore instantly transferred all that which had been his fraternal affection to his orphan nephew. Accordingly, he set himself to nurture the boy with all the care and solicitude he could bestow, and with the full intention of making him his heir. But you are well enough aware, gentlemen, that yeddication in those days must have been a mere farce. Indeed, judging from the worthy Dame Julian Berner's Boke of St. Alban's, the which, I take it for granted, was the gentleman's vade mecum in its day, it was worse than a farce, nothing being taught there but hawking and hunting, and the mysteries thereof; as, for example, how to physic a sick falcon, and such like follies, with all the foolish vanities of coat armour, and the frivolities of fishing. Eh! I beg your pardon, Mr. Clifford! I see you are not just altogether pleased with that observe of mine. But I meant no offence,--as sure as death I did not. Where was I? Well, as the lad, Lachlan Dhu, grew up, certain indications of ane evil disposition began to manifest themselves, and these unpromising buds did so bourgeon through time, that after trying to prune away the wicked shoots that sprang from them, and finding, as is often the case, that they only sprouted forth the thicker and the stronger for the lopping, like the poisonous heads of the hydra, the good Tullochcarron found himself compelled to abandon his kind intentions towards the young man, so far as regarded the heirship. But he still continued to make his house his home, and likewise to show him all such kindness as an uncle might be expected to use towards a nephew.

Being thus disappointed in his views of a successor, the worthy man set himself to the serious consideration of another plan, and having cast his eyes about him, they fell upon a fair leddy, whom he resolved, with her consent, to make his wife, and accordingly, after a reasonable courtship, they were married. No couple could have been happier than they were, and his joy was, in due time, rendered complete by the birth of a son and heir, who was called Duncan. But, alas! what is yearthly felicity? Fleeting as the wintry sunbeam on a wall. His beloved wife died soon after the birth of her infant boy, whom she left as the only remaining hope of his family.

Lachlan Dhu had nearly reached manhood before his uncle's marriage, but Tullochcarron had taken especial care, from the very first, never to allow his nephew to know that he ever had any intention of leaving him the succession of his estate. There was therefore no ostensible cause for disappointment or jealousy in Lachlan. But the youth was sharp enough to have seen the position in which he had so long stood, and to have drawn his own conclusions; and certain it was, that jealousy and disappointment did follow his uncle's marriage and the birth of his cousin Duncan. But young though he might be, he was already so profound a master of the art of dissimulation, that he not only most perfectly concealed them, but he actually contrived to produce so great a seeming change for the better in his own character, that he gradually succeeded in vurra much effacing the recollection of his former errors and iniquities from the memory of his kind and forgiving uncle.

Duncan Bane, as the young Tullochcarron was called from his fair complexion, was, in every respect, a contrast to Lachlan Dhu, or Black Lachlan. Tullochcarron had committed his infant boy to be nursed and fostered by a respectable lady, a distant relation of the family, who, though low in circumstances, was high in piety and virtue. To this lady the infant Duncan opportunely came to supply the place of a child she had just then lost, and as the little fellow drew his nourishment from her bosom, all the strength of a mother's attachment fell in tender sorrow upon him; and he who never knew any other mother, repaid it with corresponding affection. Tullochcarron was too conscious of the failure in his attempt at yeddication, in the instance of his nephew, to risk a repetition of it in the still more interesting case of his son. He therefore gladly left the tutoring of the boy to the care of his excellent nurse, who appears to have been as intellectually gifted as any woman of those barbarous times could have been. It is true that she must, in all probability, have been tinctured with some portion of the learning of Dame Julian. For, although nothing remains to establish that the young man had studied hawking and hunting, the legend certainly informs us, that he had a complete knowledge of, and an ardent love for,--hum--ha--I would say for that art of which it would ill become me to speak dispraisingly, seeing that we have had this evening so much reason to thank Mr. Clifford for having so ably and successfully exerceesed it. But--what was much better--under her godly care the boy's heart was filled with all the best feelings of religion and humanity. He was amiable, generous, and kind-hearted, and ever ready on all occasions to sacrifice his own little interests to those of others; and he was so utterly devoid of guile himself, that he felt it almost impossible to imagine its existence in others. It was not wonderful, therefore, that he grew up with the warmest attachment to his cousin, Lachlan Dhu, who was the very prince of deceivers, and who well knew how to put on the mask of kindness. He allowed no opportunity of gaining his young cousin's affections to pass unprofitably, and so unremitting was his attention to the young Duncan, that he even succeeded in throwing sand into the eyes of old Tullochcarron himself, who began to thank Heaven for the happy change that had taken place on his nephew, and to trust that he might yet look to him as the future protector of his son's youth and inexperience, in the very probable event of his being called from this world before his boy had grown to the years of manhood.

But the old man was still a hale and hearty carle when his boy's seventeenth birthday came round. He had indeed been a marvellously stout and healthy man all his life. The only disease, indeed, with which he had ever been afflicted was an almost insatiable appetite for food, which no endeavours of his own could restrain. It was a never-ending ravenous hunger, for which the poor man was by no means morally responsible, and from the gnawing effects of which he must have died, if it had not been frequently and largely administered to. Nor did he ask for dainties, although there certainly was one species of food which he preferred to all others when he could get it in its season, and that was--salmon. Tullochcarron's complaint, as you may very naturally conceive, grew with his growth, which was immense, and increased with every additional year that he lived. But, old as he was, and enormous as he became in bulk, his great strength remained unimpaired, and he was still able to move about with wonderful activity in the superintendence of his concerns.

I have already told you, that although he and Ballindalloch were not at absolute war, yet there did exist between them that ancient grudge and jealousy, left by the ill-salved, though apparently bandaged up wounds of a peace, patched together when both parties had suffered too much to continue the war. And although the then existing Ballindalloch was not the man in whose reign and under whose attack Tullochcarron's much-loved brother had fallen, yet those were times in which the son was made answerable for his father's sins. The then laird of Ballindalloch, therefore, succeeded to all that secret animosity which his father had so industriously laboured to earn. Thus, as one might say, the military precaution, as well as the civil management of Tullochcarron's little kingdom, required ane active superintendence and administration. But although he now scrupled not to employ his nephew in all duties where he thought his services might be useful to him, and although he had even begun of late to give occasional occupation to his son, yet, as they used to say in those days, he was aye upon the head of his own affairs himself, watched everything with his own eye, and gave every order of importance from his own mouth.

Lachlan Dhu, then, having but little else in which to employ himself, spent most of his time in the chase, and the venison which he slew was always sure to procure him a blessing from his hungry uncle. As for Duncan Bane, his whole attention was directed to fishing, and the salmon which he caught were always sure to be more highly prized than the best buck that his cousin ever brought from the forest. In strict attention to the fack, as well as in justice to the character of the youth himself, I must tell you, that the desire of procuring savoury dishes for his father, to whom his devoted attachment was excessive, was one great reason, as well as in some measure an apology,--that is, I mean, a-a to say, Mr. Clifford, if fishing ever required any apology at all, which I must confess your excellent salmon of this day hath led me vurra much to doot; I say it was a good reason for his following out that quieter sort of sport, instead of that of the chase, which some of your wild Nimrods would look upon as by much the more active and manly. But I must likewise inform you, that there was also a secondary cause that contributed to make him prefer this occupation to all others. This cause, you will doubtless consider of inferior strength to the other; but still it is a cause which is in itself supposed by many to be very powerful in some of its effecks; the cause I mean was--love.

Anna Gordon was the eldest of three orphans who were left to the care of their aunt, who was the vurra lady whom I have already introduced to you as the nurse and female preceptor of the youth Duncan Bane. Anna was but a year younger than the young laird of Tullochcarron. They had grown up together, and had loved one another like companions, until their attachment insensibly assumed a warmer character. The penury to which the Gordons and their aunt had been reduced by circumstances, had hitherto induced Duncan to keep the mutual passion that subsisted between him and Anna a secret from his father, who never ceased to talk of some splendid alliance for his son as one of his most favourite schemes. But as this love of the young man for the lady waxed stronger, his fondness for fishing was most strangely and marvellously augmented in a similar proportion. Were I to attempt to guess at the cause of this whimsical combination of two predilections apparently so inconsistent with one another, I should say, that he began daily more and more to take to fishing, because it furnished him with an apology for more frequently visiting his nurse's cottage, that was situated on a beautifully wooded knoll rising on the north bank of the river Aven. It was, moreover, an amusement which he could pursue without losing the society of her he loved. For as he loitered along the river's bank with his angle-rod in his hand, Anna Gordon was ever at his side; and I am doubting much that they wasted many a good hour in idle talk rather than in fishing. But I am no more than the simple historian of their tale, therefore it is no business of mine to defend either him or her from the charge which you will of necessity bring against both of them for such a mis-spending of their precious time. However, I'm thinking, gentlemen, that they must have had some peculiar pleasure in one another's conversation, or they never would have stolen secretly away thus by them two selves, as they were continually wont to do, even escaping from Anna's little sister and brother. The boy, poor little fellow, had been born deaf and dumb, and could have understood no other language but that of the eyes; and let me tell you, gentlemen, that learned as I am in tongues, both ancient and modern, that is one of which I must confess myself to have no knowledge, though they do say that there is much eloquence in it when it is rightly comprehended. It was not always an easy matter to jink these two children, for Duncan Bane had been so kind to both of them, especially to the poor dumb boy, that wherever he went, they ran after him like two penny doggies; and as he had too much good feeling in his composition to allow him to treat them harshly, he was often obliged to steal their sister Anna away from them when he wished to have a private saunter with her.

The lovers had one day escaped from them and all the world in this manner, for Duncan was anxiously desirous to be alone with Anna, that he might learn from her why it was that her fair brow wore an unwonted cloud upon it, and why her large blue eyes seemed to have been dimmed by recent tears. He was impatient till they reached a grove by the river's side, which was their ordinary place of retreat when they wished to be free from all vulgar or prying eyes.

"Anna," said the youth, the moment they had got within its shade, "something unpleasant has befallen thee; though thy face cannot be robbed of its loveliness, yet it wants to-day that smile which is wont to be the sunshine of my heart."

"I must try to call it up, then," said she, with an effort to be playful that could not be mistaken. "I would not have thy heart chill if I can help it."

"Nay, but I entreat thee to tell me what has vexed thee, my love!" said he tenderly. "If I cannot relieve thy distress, let me at least share it with thee!"

"I would fain tell thee, Duncan," replied she, "for I would fain shut up no secrets from thee in that heart which is so entirely thine; but"----

"But what, my dearest?" cried Duncan impatiently; "do not keep me longer in suspense. There ought, indeed, to be no secrets with either of us that are not shared between us."

"There never shall be any on my part," said Anna, throwing down her eyes. "And yet--and yet I have much difficulty in uttering what I would now tell thee."

"Keep me on the rack no longer, my love, I beseech thee!" said Duncan.

"I will take courage to tell thee, then," said she, "but thou must first give me a solemn promise."

"What! of secrecy?" said Duncan. "Methinks thou mayest safely enough trust to me in that respect."

"The promise I would exact of thee goes somewhat beyond that of mere secrecy," said she gravely. "Thou must promise me that thou wilt not act upon what I have to tell thee, but in such manner as prudence may permit me to sanction."

"And dost thou think, my Anna," replied Duncan, "that I could ever do, or desire to do, anything that thou couldst wish me not to do?"

"But promise me, solemnly promise me!" said Anna, persevering with unwonted eagerness in her demand; "do promise me, I entreat thee!"

"Well, well, I do promise thee,--thus solemnly promise thee," replied Duncan, kissing the hand which he held. "And now, come! relieve my anxiety, what is this gloomy secret? This is the first time I have seen traces of tears in thine eyes since the death of the poor thrush I gave thee."

"The present matter is somewhat more serious," said Anna, with a gravity and dignity of manner which he had never seen her assume before. "Your cousin, Lachlan Dhu, dared this morning to address me in odious terms, which he called love. I answered him with a scorn and a reproof which I had hardly believed my young, weak, and untaught tongue could have used to one of his manhood. But the Blessed Virgin lent me language; and he stood so abashed before me, that I trust I have reason to hope that he will not again dare to repeat his offence."

"My cousin Lachlan!" exclaimed Duncan, overwhelmed with astonishment. "My cousin Lachlan, didst thou say? Did my ears hear thee aright? Impossible!"

"I grieve to say it is too true," said Anna Gordon.

"O villain, villain!" cried Duncan. "Most deep and consummate villain! Can so much apparent goodness be but the mask of deceit and villainy? But--I must straightway question him! I will drag him from the disguise which he wears, and--and then!"

"Remember that solemn promise which you have this moment made to me," said Anna, calmly taking his hand. "You see how wise it was in me to secure it. To be the innocent cause of awakening feud between kinsmen of blood so near, would indeed be a heavy affliction to me; and were any of that blood to be spilled--were thy blood to flow--but thou must keep thy solemn engagement to me; and thou must now pledge me thy word, that never till I give thee leave to do so wilt thou, even by a look, discover to anyone what I have now told thee."

"Anna," said Duncan, after some little hesitation, "I will promise you what you desire; but my promise is given on the faith of a counter-pledge, which I now expect to have from thee. Promise me, on thy part, that no such cause of offence shall be again offered to thee that thou dost not instantly tell me of it."

"My present frankness should be my best pledge that I will do as thou wouldst have me," said Anna. "But the promise thou hast given me must then be held as consequently renewed."

"I am content," said Duncan. "I am content to trust that you will not tie me down too rigidly."

Guileless as Duncan Bane naturally was, he felt it no easy task to commence and to carry on a train of dissimulation with one with whom he had been on terms of open and unreserved intercourse of mind from his childhood, as I may say, save on the one subject of his love alone. Duncan dreaded that the very next meeting he should have with his cousin would throw him off his guard. He, therefore, proceeded forthwith to school himself as to the face and manner he should wear, and the words he should utter? and so successfully did he do so in his own judgment, that, after the first interview with his cousin was over, he congratulated himself that the deep dissatisfaction which he secretly felt had been entirely shrouded from him who had excited it. And certainly, whether it was so or not, the crafty Lachlan Dhu gave him no reason to believe that it was discovered.

It was on the vurra night after this, however, that the Laird of Ballindalloch was seated in the cap-house of the great round tower of the castle he had so lately built, engaged in some confidential talk with his faithful henchman, Ian Grant, when his favourite old sleuth-hound, that lay beside his chair, raised up his long heavy ears and growled; and soon afterwards a step was heard ascending the narrow screw stair leading to the small apartment where they were.

"See who is there, Ian," said the laird, in answer to a gentle tap at the door.

Ian obeyed, and on opening it one of the domestics appeared to announce that a stranger, who refused to tell his name, had been brought, at his own request, to the castle guard-room, having expressed a wish to be admitted to a private conference with the laird.

"A stranger demands to have an interview with me after the watch is set, and yet refuses to tell who or what he is!" cried Ballindalloch. "By Saint Peter, but this smells of treachery, methinks! Yet let him appear, we fear him not; let him appear, I say," repeated he, waving off the attendant. "Ian," continued he after the man was gone, "look that your dirk be on your thigh."

"My dirk is here, sir, and sharp," readily replied the henchman, as he moved towards the door, and planted himself beside it, to be prepared to strike, if any sudden emergency should require him to do so.

Again steps were heard ascending the stair, the door opened, and the doorway was filled by the bulky figure of a man, whose dark features were almost entirely hid by a blue Kelso bonnet of more than ordinary breadth, and the ample web of a large hill plaid, of the red Grant tartan, put on as Highlanders know how to do when they would fain conceal themselves, completely enveloped the whole of his figure, as well as the lower part of his face, leaving little more visible than the tip of his nose and his dark moustachios. For some moments he stood silent before Ballindalloch.

"Speak!" said the laird at length. "Thy name and thine errand at this untimeous hour!"

"Ballindalloch," replied the stranger, looking around him, and glancing at Ian, "thou shalt have both incontinently, but it must be in thine own particular ear alone."

"Leave us then, Ian," said Ballindalloch, waving him away, whilst at the same time he stretched forth his hand to lift his claymore within easier reach of the place where he sat. "Leave us, I say, Ian! I would be private with this stranger."

"Uve! uve!" said Ian under his breath; then he moved, hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, looked at the stranger as if he would have penetrated him, plaid and all, to the very soul; then he shifted his position--yet still he did not quit the chamber, but stood and threw an imploring look of remonstrance towards the laird.

"Begone, Ian!" said Ballindalloch in a voice of impatience; and Ian at last vanished at the word.

"Sir stranger!" said Ballindalloch, "I hope I may now ask thee to rid me of all this mystery."

"I am most ready to do so, Ballindalloch," said the other, laying aside his bonnet and plaid, and showing himself, to all appearance, entirely unarmed.

"Lachlan Dhu Grant of Tullochcarron?" exclaimed the laird with astonishment; "what stirring errand has moved thee hither at such an hour?"

"I come to thee but on peaceful private conference," replied Lachlan Dhu, with a respectful obeisance: "and I use this secrecy because it is for the interest of both of us, that what I have to treat of should reach no other ears but our own."

"Proceed," said Ballindalloch, "thou mayest speak safely here, for in this place we are beyond all earshot."

"I need not tell thee, Ballindalloch," continued Lachlan Dhu, "I need not tell thee, I say, that which is sufficiently notour to all, that mine uncle, old Tullochcarron's patrimony, would have been mine as a fair succession, had he not married on purpose to disappoint me."

"I know this much," said Ballindalloch, not altogether dissatisfied to see something like discontent in what he naturally held to be the enemy's camp. "Perhaps thou hast had but scrimp justice in this matter."

"Justice!" exclaimed Lachlan Dhu, catching eagerly at his words. "Justice! I have been deeply wronged. Bred up and cockered by the old man for a time as his successor, as if it had been with the very intent of throwing me the more cruelly off, and rendering the blasting of my hopes the more bitter, from the very fairness of those blossoms which his pretended warmth of affection had fostered!"

"'Twas not well done in the old man," said Ballindalloch; "but now, methinks, 'tis past all cure."

"Nay," said Lachlan Dhu sternly, "I hope there is yet ample room for remede."

"As how, I pr'ythee?" said Ballindalloch.

"Mark me, and thou shalt quickly learn," said Lachlan Dhu. "But first of all I must tell thee, that I now come to offer myself to thee as thy vassal on this simple condition, that thou wilt give me thine aid and countenance against all questioners to help me to keep what shall be mine own after I shall have fairly won it."

"And how dost thou propose to win it?" demanded Ballindalloch, with a grave and serious air that seemed to argue a most attentive consideration of a proposal in itself so inviting to him.

"By secretly ridding myself of mine uncle's sickly stripling boy, whenever favouring fortune may yield me fitting opportunity," replied Lachlan Dhu, approaching his head nearer to Ballindalloch, and sinking his voice to a low sepulchral tone, and with a coolness that might have befitted a practised murderer.

"What!" exclaimed Ballindalloch, with an air of surprise. "What hath the youth done to deserve so much of thy hatred?"

"Twice hath he crossed my path," continued Lachlan Dhu, his features blackening, and his dark eyeballs rolling as he spoke. "He hath twice crossed my path; first when he came into this world, and now a second time by thwarting me in my love."

"And what have I to do with all this?" demanded Ballindalloch.

"Much," replied Lachlan Dhu earnestly. "I am now thy sworn vassal. The feudal superiority of Tullochcarron will henceforth insure to thee friendship and strength, where thou hast long had to deal with open or secret foes, and"----

"Thou speakest as if thou wert already Laird of Tullochcarron," said Ballindalloch, interrupting him.

"That young foulmart once disposed of, I soon shall be," said Lachlan Dhu, with fiend-like expression. "Mine uncle's time cannot now be long, even were nature left to take its course; or,--it may be shortened. Sudden death to a man of his gross form and purfled habit could never seem strange; and then"----

"True," said Ballindalloch calmly; "but how can I aid thee in thy scheme?"

"I lack no present aid while I have this arm," replied Lachlan Dhu; "it is the support and defence of thy faithful vassal, Lachlan Dhu Grant, Laird of Tullochcarron, that I require of thee, if unhappily some unlucky circumstance should awaken idle suspicions against him."

"I trust I shall always know how to defend my vassals," said Ballindalloch proudly.

"Then am I safe," said Lachlan Dhu; "but in the meanwhile secrecy is essential to our purpose."

"I hope I have prudence enough to know how to conduct myself in all cases of delicacy," replied Ballindalloch.

"'Tis well," said Lachlan Dhu, again folding his plaid around him, and putting on his bonnet. "Now I must begone; for time presses. Farewell! I shall trust to thee, and thou mayest trust to me."

"I shall not forget what is due to thee, when thou art my vassal," said the laird, "nor shall I ever forget what ought at all times to be expected from Ballindalloch. Here, Ian Dhu, see this stranger safe beyond the walls and outposts."

The night I speak of seemed to be quite pregnant with strange visitations; for, at a still later hour, after old Tullochcarron had himself seen that the guard at the barbican of his small place of strength was on the alert, and had secured the iron doors of the entrance of the peel-tower, and had finally retired to his apartment to go to rest, he was surprised to see a packet lying on his table, of which no one of his attendants could give him any account. It was tied with a morsel of ribbon, the ends of which were secured with wax, but without any impression. It was simply addressed:--

"To Tullochcarron."

And on cutting it open, he found that it contained the following letter, with a broad seal at the end of it.

"Tullochcarron,--I write this private communication, to tell thee that thou hast a traitor in thy house, that thou dost nourish a viper in thy bosom that would sting thee. The life of thine only son is certain to be taken, if thou dost not secure it by the instant seizure of thy nephew, Lachlan Dhu. Thine own murder will speedily follow. The cold-blooded villain came to me secretly under the cloud of this night, and did unfold his devilish plans, offering to me the feudal superiority of thy lands of Tullochcarron, provided I should protect him as my vassal against all after question. I seemed to listen, and yet I evited direct promise; and I now hasten to certiorate thee of these facts through ane trusty messenger, who engages, by certain means best known to himself, to have these placed upon thine own private table before thou sleepest. This traitorie is as yet alone known to thee, to me, to the foul faitour who planned, and to the devil who prompted it. And that thou mayest have no doubt left in thee of the truth of what I have here written, I do hereto affix my sign-manual, as well as the seal, the which is attached to the last instrument of pacification that passed between our houses.--Ballindalloch."

You may conceive, gentlemen, that this letter, read alone, at midnight in his chamber, dreadfully alarmed old Tullochcarron. He started from the large oaken chair in which he had seated himself to peruse it, and snatching his lamp, he rushed to his son's apartment, where he held up the light, and gazed with fear and trembling on his son's couch, almost expecting to see his boy foully murdered, and weltering in his blood. Stretched on his bed, he did indeed find him; but his eyes were closed in the sweet slumbers that attend the pillow of pure and spotless youth. He gazed on him in silent anxiety for some time, till he was really certain that he breathed; and then the old man's lip quivered, and his eyes were dimmed by the big drops that rapidly distilled over his eyelids. Stooping gently down, he kissed Duncan's cheek, and then quitting the room upon tiptoe, he called up an old and tried domestic.

"Hamish," said he, "I had a strange and troubled dream, as I dozed in mine arm-chair."

"Thou didst sup somewhat of the heaviest, Tullochcarron," replied Hamish. "After so many pounds' weight of salmon, 'tis but little wonder if the foul hag on her nightmare should have been riding over and over thee."

"Psha!" said Tullochcarron in a vexed tone and manner that showed he was too seriously affected to be trifled with. "My dream touched the safety of thy young master. Hark ye! I bid thee watch his couch, and let no one approach it with impunity."

"My young master!" said Hamish with energy. "These grey hairs shall be trodden under foot ere the latch of his door shall be touched."

"I know thy fidelity," said Tullochcarron. "Be sure thou givest me the alarm if aught extraordinary should occur."

Having taken this hasty precaution, the old Laird of Tullochcarron again seated himself in his arm-chair to read over for the second time the alarming communication he had received. Ballindalloch's name and seal were the first things his eyes rested on after opening it. Doubts and suspicions instantly flashed across his mind.

"What a silly fool am I after all," said he, "to let any information from such a quarter so agitate me! What truth is to be expected from a house so full of hereditary enmity against mine of Tullochcarron! And is not Lachlan Dhu the son of that very brother of mine who worked so much sore evil to the house of Ballindalloch? And is he not at this moment the best, the stoutest, and the sharpest arrow I have in my quiver? And are not these reasons enough to prompt such a secret enemy to urge me to whet my knife against him? Dull old idiot that I was! but now I see it all! I see it all! What a trap was I about to run my head into! But stay, let me think what is best to be done. Prudent precautions with regard to my son can do no harm. I shall put him well on his guard; and that secured, the best thing I can do is to bury the contents of this paper in mine own bosom."

With such determinations as these, Tullochcarron retired to rest; but his repose was disturbed and put to flight by visions which were not altogether to be laid to the account of the heavy meal he had taken ere he retired to rest. He was early visited by his son Duncan.

"Father," said the young man, "how was it that old Hamish took post in my chamber last night? I found him sitting by my bedside at daybreak this morning, and all the explanation I could extract from him was that he had the laird's orders for being there."