Chapter III: Part 3

"What an you have?" replied Gilliesh; "'tis but a poor prize I have gotten after all, and hardly worth your tramping so far for. You had surely enough, without grudging me this bit dwining beast."

"Such base thievery cannot be suffered," said Ewan, "besides, I have reasons of my own for what I do. Come away, then, and give me the rope; and bless your stars that you escape, for this time at least, being hanged by one. The beast must back with me, and you may take your own way home to Dulnan side at your leisure, and thank your good fortune that you get there in a whole skin."

"Well may you speak so bold indeed," said Gilliesh bitterly, "with that big black gun in your hand, ready to bring me down in a moment like a muir-cock off a hillock. But by the great oath, ye would crack less crouse if ye stood there before me with nothing but your claymore by your side."

"Ye lie, ye thieving vagabond," cried Ewan, "I'll stand at all times before you or a better man with this good sword alone. See here, my gun shall rest against this rock; and on the word and honour of a gentleman, I'll never touch stock or lock of it till I shall have chastised thee to thy heart's content, if thou wilt so have it."

"Be it so," said the crafty Gilliesh; "and I'll tether the quey to this moss-fir stump here, and let her stand by to see the stour, and to be the prize of him who may prove himself to be the better man."

It would have been a sight of some interest to have watched the preparations for this very extraordinary single combat. On the part of Ewan they consisted merely in his placing his gun against the rock with great tranquillity and with great care, and then drawing his claymore from its scabbard, and twisting the folds of his plaid tightly over his left arm, ere he put himself into the proper position for action. As for Gilliesh, he had no sooner tied the end of the quey's halter to the moss-fir stump, than he drew a broadsword of a magnitude so tremendous, as well corresponded with his almost Philistian height. The bare, flat, mossy piece of ground already noticed was the arena on which they were to contend; and if it was free from prints of any kind when Ewan examined it a brief space before, it was now destined ere long to have enow of them impressed upon it by the coming struggle. Aware of the great advantage which Gilliesh had over him from his superior height, and still more from the greater sweep of his arm and sword, Ewan approached his adversary very cautiously at first. On the other hand, numerous, and rash, and awkward, were the cuts and the thrusts which Gilliesh attempted to make; but they were given with a force and a fury that rendered it necessary for Ewan to use all the skill of which he was master, to enable him to dodge and to parry them. Now and then their blades came into fearful contact; and when they did so, the shearing of them together produced a sheet of flame that gave a temporary illumination to the deep shadow which a projecting bank threw over that part of the lake immediately below. As their desperate play went on, the clashing of the glowing steel struck terror into the timid animal that had occasioned the fight; and the powerful efforts which her fear impelled her to make having at last burst her tether from its fastening, she fled away beyond hearing of the fray. Meanwhile, the combat continued to rage, and as it went on the combatants gradually shifted their ground until they had changed places. On the part of Gilliesh this was not done without its intention; for no sooner did he find himself within reach of Ewan's gun, than he seized it up, and presented it without scruple at its owner, and without one shadow of remorse drew the trigger. But the hammer fell harmless into the empty pan. Ewan sprang upon him in a moment, and, ere he could recover the use of his sword, he gave him one desperate cut across the temple that brought him to the earth with his face bathed in blood.

"Villain!" cried Ewan, as he stood over his prostrate foe with the point of his sword at his throat. "Traitor that thou art, wouldst thou have been a murderer as well as a thief? Had not a stray stag crossed me at a distance as I came over the hill, and tempted me to take an idle chance shot in the twilight, when my haste would not allow me to load again, I should have been at this moment stretched out a corpse by thy treachery."

"Spare my life!" cried the wretch piteously.

"Spare thy life!" replied Ewan contemptuously, as he quietly picked up his gun, and proceeded to load it; "I have no mind that thy worthless and cowardly life should stain this good sword of mine with dishonour, nor do I choose that it should be the means of cheating the gallows of what so justly belongs to it. Gather thyself up, then, as thou mayest, and take thy way to Dulnan side; for, by all that is good, if thou dost show thine ugly visage again to me, like a grim ghost on the moor, I'll not miss thy big body as I did that of the stray stag, but I'll open a door in it wide enough to allow thy rascally soul to issue forth and to join its kindred malignant spirits of the swamp and the fen."

With these words Ewan threw his gun over his shoulder, and set out in search of the stray heifer. It was some time before he found her, and a still longer time after he had found her before he caught her, and after he had caught her it was but the commencement of a most toilsome night with her, ere he could compel her, tired as she was, to travel through bog and mire to the place of her destination. But be this as it may, Ewan saw that the reaver's word was made good,--next morning the dun quey was seen grazing with the rest of the herd on the farm of the Aitnoch. Nobody could tell how she came there; but the eagerness with which she plucked at the pasture, and her jaded and draggled appearance, afforded sufficient evidence of the length and nature of the night journey she had been compelled to perform.

It was not very long after this that Mr. Russel happened accidentally to have ridden up to his farm here one morning, and, as he was engaged in moving about looking at his stock, his attention was attracted by a long drove of cattle, which he observed straggling up yonder opposite bank of the Dorback branch of the river Divie, to the eastward there, evidently with the intention of crossing at a ford a little way above. At first sight there appeared to be little remarkable in this, for he well knew that to be a common track, travelled by all whose route lay through this country, stretching up the south side of the Findhorn. But the drovers and their herd had no sooner passed the Dorback, and gained its western bank, and begun to advance in a direction pointing towards the course of the Findhorn, than Mr. Russel recognised the same Highland party and the same bold leader from whom he had so recently recovered his own cattle. Some of the men who were about him were led, from certain circumstances, to know that the drove of beasts which they now saw had been carried off from Gordonston, the seat of Sir Robert Gordon, about thirty miles distant in the Laigh of Moray. Mr. Russel was in habits of friendship with Sir Robert, and he quickly came to the resolution that he should allow no such hostile and predatory act to be done to him if he could help it, and above all that he should not facilitate it by permitting a passage for the robbers and their booty through his territory. He was here not only in the midst of his own people, but he was, moreover, in the very centre of Lord Moray's estate of Brae-Moray, of which he had the entire management, and accordingly he resolved to avail himself of these circumstances, and he determined immediately to arrest them. With this intention he hastily collected all the dependants who were within his reach, and, before the robbers came up with their booty, he found himself at the head of double their number of well-armed men.

When the party arrived within hearing, Mr. Russel hailed the leader, and at once plainly told him that he could not stand by and suffer the cattle of his friend Sir Robert Gordon to be thus harried, far less could he tamely permit them to be thus driven through his farm. He therefore called upon the robber to halt, assuring him that if he offered to advance with his party, or to persist in driving the cattle one step farther, it should be at his own peril, and he must take the consequences; for that nothing but force should compel him to give them way.

"Mr. Russel!" cried the leader, stepping before the rest with a haughty air, "this is not what I expected from you after what has already passed between us. You stopped and recovered your own beasts, and nobody could blame you; but, sir, it is not like a gentleman to offer to hinder me from taking cattle from anybody else."

"My principles are very different," said Mr. Russel, with great coolness.

"I tell you again," cried the little man, "that you will be acting unjustly if you persevere, and that you have no right to do so."

"I am determined to persevere notwithstanding," said Mr. Russel, with great strength of emphasis and firmness of expression.

"Then, sir, I must caution you that you had better take care what you do," said the Highlander.

"I am prepared for all consequences," said Mr. Russel.

"Well, well, sir," said the Highlander frowning, "we cannot help it; you are in your own kingdom here, and you must have your own way; but, I bid you take heed--you'll rue this yet,--look well to yourself." So saying, he called to his followers in Gaelic, who, with much apparent dissatisfaction, abandoned the cattle, and the whole party took the road to the hills, muttering dark threats and half-smothered imprecations against Mr. Russel.

These denunciations were little heeded, and were probably soon forgotten by him against whom they were uttered, or if they were remembered at all it was only to produce greater vigilance on the part of those who had the charge of his stock. But it so happened that, during the course of the ensuing winter, some express business, connected with his charge of Lord Moray's affairs, carried Mr. Russel to Edinburgh. When he was on his return homewards, he arrived late one stormy and tempestuous night at the solitary inn of Dalnacaerdoch, situated, as everybody knows, at the southern extremity of that part of the great Highland road leading through the savage pass of Drumouachter. Seeing that it was quite hopeless to think of prosecuting his journey that night in such weather, he took a hasty supper and went to bed, with the resolution of rising as early next day as the lack of light at that season would permit.

He was accordingly up in the morning, and in the saddle before he could well see his horse's ears, and he set out through the snow for the inn of Dalwhinnie, situated at the northern end of the pass, attended only by a single servant. He had not proceeded far into the wild and savage part of that solitary scene, where high poles, painted black, are erected along the edge of the road to serve as beacons during winter, to prevent travellers from deviating from the road and being engulphed in the snow-wreaths, when by the light of the dawn, he descried a man, at some two or three hundred yards' distance, who came riding towards him. As he came onwards, Mr. Russel had time to remark that he exhibited a thin spare figure which was enveloped in a long dark brown cloak or greatcoat. He rode one of the loose made garrons of the country, of a dirty mouse colour, having no saddle, and no other bridle than a halter made of small birchen twigs, twisted into a sort of rope, called by the common people a woodie. In spite of himself, the recollection of the Highland reaver and his angry threats darted across Mr. Russel's mind; and he was somewhat alarmed at first, when he observed that he who approached carried in his hand, poised by the middle, a very long fowling-piece, of that ancient character and description which gave our ancestors excellent hope of killing a wild duck sitting in the water half-way across a lake of half a mile broad. Mr. Russel instinctively pulled out his pistols and examined their locks, and he made his servant do the same by his; but the inequality of such weapons, compared with that which I have this moment described, was only thereby rendered the more woefully apparent to both of them. Mr. Russel rode slowly but resolutely on however, with his eyes intently watching every motion of him who came, and who was now drawing nearer and nearer to them. The stranger himself seemed to advance cautiously; but no sooner had he come close enough to enable him to recognise a human countenance, than he pushed up his shying steed by the application of ardent and repeated kicks; and, when he had at length succeeded in compelling him forward, to Mr. Russel's no inconsiderable relief, he recognised in him--the landlord of the inn of Dalwhinnie!

"Keep us a', I'm glad I ha'e forgathered wi' ye in time, Mr. Russel!" he exclaimed in a south country tone and dialect, and without waiting for the ordinary preliminary salutations.

"Why, what's the matter?" demanded Mr. Russel.

"Matter!" replied the man; "a matter o' murder, gif I'm no far mistane."

"Mercy on me! Who has been murdered?" cried Mr. Russel.

"I didna say that ony body was murdered," answered the man; "but, an ye persevere on your road through the pass, I'm thinkin' that somebody will be murdered."

"What makes you fancy so?" asked Mr. Russel.

"Were ye no to hae been at my hoose last night?" demanded the Dalwhinnie landlord.

"I did so intend," said Mr. Russel; "but the road turned out to be so much heavier than I had anticipated, that all I could do was to reach Dalnacaerdoch, and that at a late hour."

"It was the yespecial providence o' Heevin that you didna get forrit," said the landlord, throwing up his eyes as if in thanksgiving, "for, if you had, you would have been assuredly a cauld corp at this precious moment."

"A corpse!" exclaimed Mr. Russel, "what has put that into your head?"

"Troth, as sure as ye are noo sittin' on your horse," replied the landlord, "ye wad hae been murdered, though you had had mair lives nor a cat."

"Explain yourself, I entreat you!" said Mr. Russel.

"It's an awfu' story," said the landlord, shuddering at the mere recollection of it. "It was at the dead hour o' the night, ye see, whan we war a' sound sleepin' in our beds, we war a' alarumed wi' a sudden noise and rissellin' in the yard, an' afore we kent whar we wuz, the hoose was filled wi' better nor twa dizzen o' great muckle armed hillan'men, wi' blackit faces. Aweel! they lighted great big lunts o' moss-fir at the kitchen fire, and cam' straught to my bedside, brandishin' their pistols and durks, and lookin' as if they wad eat me up.--'Whar's Mr. Russel sleepin'?' cries they.--'Gentlemen,' says I, 'as sure as death, Mr. Russel's no in this hoose.'--'We ken better,' says they, 'we ken he was to be here this night.'--'Some mistak, gentlemen,' says I, 'I'm dootin' that ye maun hae made some mistak, for Mr. Russel's not only no here, but, an' ye'll believe me, troth I didna even expeck him.'--A' this only made them waur. They threatent and swoore at me like very rampawgin deevils, and then they begud to search ilka hole and bore and cranny and corner in the hoose; an' no contented wi' the hoose, they rummaged a' the oothooses, lookin' even into places whaur it was just simply impossible that a very cat could ha'e concealed hersel', an' forcin' me alang wi' them a' the time, half naked, an' near hale dead wi' fear. And syne, whan they could find neither you nor your horses, preserve us a' what a furious hillant yell they did set up!--they war just a'thegither mad wi' rage and disappointment; an' some o' them war for burnin' the very hoose, that they might mak' sure that ye warna lurkin' somewhere aboot it after a'. At length, a stiff, stern wee body, wha seemed to be their captain, seelenced them in a moment; and having spoken to them for some time in Gaelic, their violence was moderated, or rather it seemed to be converted into downright hunger and drouth, for they begud to look for bread and cheese, and ither eatables, and whisky, for themsel's. Weel I wot, I gied them what they wanted wi' gude heart and wull, houpin' to get the sooner quite o' them; and little payment, I trow, did I expeck for my cheer. But what think ye, sir? As I'm a sinner, they honestly paid me every farden o' their shot afore they ga'ed awa."

"Have you any notion as to whither they went after they left your house?" demanded Mr. Russel.

"Some o' our herds war sayin' that their tracks i' the snaw lay towards Loch Ericht," replied the landlord; "and gif so be the case, I'se warrant that they have darned themsel's in some o' the queer hidy-holes aboot the craigs there awa'. And, I'll be bailed, they'll be ready to come back again or e'er ye ken whaur ye are, to murder you clean oot o' hand; for surely they maun contrive somehoo or ither to ha'e gude information."

"It is certainly most strange how they could have known so well what my plans were," said Mr. Russel.

"Troth, sir, they're just deevils incarnate," continued the landlord; "but ye maun on no account think o' gaein' on, Mr. Russel, for, gif ye do, ye gang to certain death. Gae ye yere ways back to Blair or Dunkeld, for I'm dootin' ye'll no be safe nae gate else, and I'll send ower into Morayshire for some o' your ain fouk, weel accoutred and furnished, to convoy ye safe hame."

Mr. Russel was no coward, but he well knew the nature of the Highlanders he had to deal with. And what could the pistols of two men do against two dozen of well-armed assassins, springing on them at unawares by the way, or attacking them in their beds? After some little consideration, therefore, he deemed it most prudent to take the landlord's advice; and, accordingly, after he had thanked the honest fellow for the zeal he had manifested for his safety, and after the landlord had looked suspiciously around him and scanned the faces of the hills to their very tops with strong signs of apprehension, earnestly praying to God that their interview might not have been overlooked and watched by any of the robbers or their spies, they parted; and Mr. Russel and his servant retraced their steps at a good round pace.

After nearly a week's delay at Dunkeld, Mr. Russel was enabled to renew his journey at the head of a well-armed party of between thirty and forty of his own people, who came to escort him. They travelled along with great caution, but they did not perceive the smallest show of hostility till they got into the middle of the Pass of Drumouachter. Then, indeed, they observed that they were reconnoitred from the rough face of one of the hills overhanging the road, by a body of more than twenty armed mountaineers. They seemed to have issued from the recesses of one of those Corries, or ravines, which there yawn over the valley like gashes on the lofty brow of a warrior; and after some minutes apparently spent in consultation, they began to move along the steep acclivity in a line parallel to the road which Mr. Russel pursued. Their dark tartans waved in the wind, and their figures were boldly relieved against the glazed and brilliant surface of the snow they trod on. A certain degree of hesitation seemed to mark all their movements, which appeared to have a manifest reference to those of the party below. Mr. Russel marched on with a steady and resolute pace, his men keeping a sharp lookout in all directions, and being perfectly prepared to resist any sudden attack. But the mountaineers, being conscious of an inferiority of strength which rendered any open attempt on their part quite hopeless, did not venture to assault so large and so well armed a band. After skirting along the hill-sides for five or six miles, they seemed gradually to slacken their pace, till the whole body came to a halt on a prominent point of the mountain, where they remained, following Mr. Russel and his people with their eyes, and probably with their curses also, so long as they remained within sight. Mr. Russel thought it prudent to halt but for a short time at Dalwhinnie; and well was it for him that he did not tarry there all that night, for the house was again surrounded and searched by an overwhelming force, whilst Mr. Russel was urging his way homewards with an expedition that enabled him to reach his residence in perfect safety.

Whether a natural or accidental death, or some other cause, put an end to any further attempts on the part of the vindictive mountaineer, I know not; but certain it is, that Mr. Russel was never more troubled either by him or by his people.

SCENERY OF THE FINDHORN.

Clifford.--In justice to your story, I must say that it is much more interesting than the scene where it was enacted, if we may judge from the specimen at this moment before us.

Grant.--Nay, but take the trouble to carry your eyes entirely over the foreground, and behold the sun gleaming afar off yonder on the broad sheet of the Moray Firth, with those bold dark headlands called the Sutors defending the entrance of the Bay of Cromarty beyond, backed by the blue mountains of Ross-shire and Sutherland in the distance.

Clifford.--These are indeed features that would give dignity to any scene; but you must admit that this unmeaning flat which stretches everywhere from under our feet is sufficiently tiresome, notwithstanding the laudable efforts that are making to cover it with plantations.

Author.--It is monotonous enough, to be sure; but how often do we find inestimable worth concealed under an unpretending exterior. The apparently dull stretch of country before you is a pregnant example of this; for the charms of the river Findhorn that bisects it from west to east are so buried in its bosom as to be quite overlooked from hence. Grant will tell you, that if you were to follow the river upwards through all the mazes of its deep and shadowy glen, you would find that it exhibits scenery of the wildest and most magnificent character.

Grant.--Nay, it is hardly fair to refer him to me; for although I have a full impression of its grandeur upon my mind which will not easily be effaced, I can give him no very accurate account of its pools or its streams, as regards their excellence for salmon angling.

Clifford.--Pho! none of your jokes, Mr. Grant. Although I like fishing and shooting, you know very well that I enjoy wild nature as much as either of you.

Grant.--Ha! ha! ha! I know you do, my dear fellow.

Clifford.--And, moreover, I have so much admired the scenery, as well as the fishing-pools of the river lower down, that if what you now speak of equals that with which I am already so familiar, it must be magnificent indeed.

Author.--I think that it in many respects surpasses all that you have hitherto seen. In truth, I know no river scenery in Great Britain at all to be compared in sublimity to that of the Findhorn about Ferness. Indeed, it rises more into that great scale of grandeur exhibited by some of the Swiss gorges than anything I have ever met with at home. But you must take the first opportunity of visiting it, Clifford. And then, in addition to the treat that nature will yield you during your ramble, and the good fishing which you will certainly have, I think you will be much gratified by the inspection of that interesting relic of antiquity, The Cairn and Pillar of the Lovers, which you will find there.

Clifford.--What! ha! ha! ha! some Pyramus and Thisbe,--some Petrarch and Laura,--among your heroes and heroines of the pemmican, I suppose!

Author.--No, no. The lonely obelisk, and the cairn from which it rises, may indeed have stood on the green holm of Ferness, with the rapid Findhorn sweeping around them, for ages. They may have been there whilst the great forests still spread themselves thickly over the country, but you would judge wrong if you supposed them to have co-existed with my savages of the pemmican; for there must have been some considerable approach to civilisation amongst a people who could have cut and transported that great mass of rough-grained sandstone, of which the obelisk is formed, from the nearest quarries of the same rock, some fifteen or twenty miles off, to the spot where it has ever since stood, not to mention the beautiful hieroglyphical carvings with which it has been ornamented.

Clifford.--Is there no legend attached to the monument?

Grant.--There is; and our friend has woven it into a little poem, which he once repeated to me.

Clifford.--Poem! come, let's have it! You need not fear to give it to me now, you know; for there is no birch at hand to punish you for your false quantities.

Author.--To tell you the truth, I am quite tired of repeating the story in prose; so, lame though my stanzas may be, I shall prefer risking your criticism. But you must remember, that it is one thing to climb a rugged heathery hill like this, and another thing to mount Parnassus.

THE CAIRN OF THE LOVERS.

The raven of Denmark stretched his broad wing,
And shot his dark flight o'er Moray's fair fields;
And Findhorn's wild echoes were heard to ring
With ill-omened croak, and the clash of shields.
And the yelling shouts of the conflict broil,
As Dane and Scot met in mortal toil,--
And cruel and fierce was the battle tide
That raged on rocky Findhorn's side;
And red was his wave, as it wailed away,
By that plain where his slaughtered warriors lay.

Yet stark stern in death was each hero's frown!
Each fell not till crushed by an hundred foes!
But, though hordes of Norsemen had borne them down,
Dire vengeance had soothed their dying throes.
For the bloody fight had not been won
Till drooped to the west the slanting sun,
And his golden beams a bright glory shed
Around each dying hero's head,
And lighted his soul with a cheering ray,
E'er his dim eye closed on the parting day.

But Findhorn's dark heights, and his wizzard wave,
Were lighted anon by far fiercer rays,
Calling bosoms abroad, that beat warm and brave,
To muster around the tall beacon's blaze.
And now, as afar o'er the plains they look,
Where glistens with flame each winding brook,
Red ruin enwraps both tower and town,
And wild Norsemen's shouts reach the beacon Doun;
And by shrieks of woe their hearts are wrung,
Till each Scottish breast to revenge is strung.

Whose steed-tramp resounds down the woody glen?
Who bears, as he rides, his proud crest so high,
His brow circled with gems, as chief of men,
And gold shining bright on his panoply?
'Tis Fergus the King! The broad signal fire,
And the Norsemen's ravage, have roused his ire;
And, see how his clustering horsemen sweep
From the forest dark and the dingle deep!
And, hark to the tread of the many feet
That crowd to those heights where the waters meet!

Full little does Sewyn, the Norse King, know,
As his ruthless Danes rifle the peaceful plain,
That the Pass of the Dhuie conceals a foe
Of far other mould than the shepherd swain.
And far other herds, and far other flocks
Than shepherds may feed, lie hid by these rocks.
He doubts not but all who a spear could wield
Have fall'n in the strife of one bloody field.
Onward he presses, and, blindly led,
Go his Norsemen, with hopes of plunder fed.

The current was rapid, the stream was deep,
And the cumbered waters foamed high and flashed,
As horsemen and foot, from the shore so steep,
Through the Dhuie in thick confusion dashed.
But scarce were they rid of the rushing tide,
Nor yet had they formed on the meadow's side,
When by bursting yells the skies were rent,
With the gleam of arms glowed the firmament,
And down, like the lightning's fiery shower,
Came King Fergus' force on King Sewyn's power.

And quailed the black raven of Denmark then,
And he cowered his wing, and he croaked his fear;
And wide with the eagle's scream rang the glen,
As eager she snuffed up her feast so near;
And each Norseman's heart, though ne'er so bold,
With panic-dread grew sick and cold,
Nor dared they abide the battle shock,
But fled away like some startled flock,
Or some scattered herd of timid deer,
When the howl of the gaunt mountain wolves they hear.

The slaughter was wide, and the vengeance deep,
That the Moray-men took of their Danish foes;
But yet deeper revenge did Findhorn reap
As high, in his anger, his billows rose.
For he had wailed that his wave before
The dye of his children's life's-blood bore;
But now, full glutted with hostile dead,
He reared him aloft, shook his oak-crowned head,
And, roaring with fearful revelry,
He swept off his spoils to his kindred sea.

Who sits her and sighs on the castled isle
That on Loch-an-Dorbe's dark breast doth float?
And why lights her eye with a radiant smile
As the moonbeam falls soft on that little boat?
A fairy thing it seems to be,
It glides o'er the wave so silently;
And like such sprites of witching power
It vanished beneath a shadowy tower,
As its slender side lost the moonbeam's ray,
Nor left it one trace of its liquid way.

That maiden who sat in the castled isle
Scanned that little boat with no idle gaze;
And I ween that her eyes with their radiant smile
Had hope blent with love in their glowing rays.
Malvina she was that maiden fair,
King Fergus' daughter, who sat her there.
She's gone!--and her pulse may hardly beat,
As in silence move her trembling feet
To the dungeon where lonely her lover lies,
And wastes the night in despairing sighs,
The son of King Sewyn in battle ta'en,
The gallant Prince Harrold, the brave young Dane.

She unlocked the bolts with a master key,
And Prince Harrold sprang forth to his lady's side.
"Love favours our flight!" softly whispered she,
"At the postern stairs doth the boat abide."
Then they stole away by the shadowy wall.
Yet she sighed to quit her father's hall,
And her bosom heaved, and she dropped a tear,
Whilst her lover essayed to hush her fear,
And she clung to his arm as the little boat
Did o'er the wide lake in silence float.

'Twas a right trusty page that gave them way,
And he landed them 'neath the greenwood tree,
Where tied to the oak was a courser grey;
Prince Harrold to saddle sprang merrily.
The fair Malvina behind him placed,
With snow-white arms her lover embraced.
The sun rose to welcome the bonny bride,
As they fled them straight to the Findhorn's side;
But its stream was swollen and barred their flight,
And drove them for refuge to Dulsie's height.

"Go, bring me Prince Harrold," King Fergus cried,
His royal eyes sparkling with beams of joy,
"My daughter Malvina shall be his bride,
And Moray be freed from the Dane's annoy.
Envoy to me hath King Sewyn sent,
And peace shall their bridal knot cement."
But Harrold was gone and Malvina fair!
Yet a sharp-witted page could teach him where,
And quick spoke the boy; for the King had told
Such glad tidings, I ween, as made him bold.

"To boat!" cried King Fergus, with eager haste,
And--"To horse!" when he touched the farther shore,
And furious he spurred through the forest waste,
As to Findhorn's stream his swift course he bore.
The lovers from Dulsie's wooded height
Saw Moray's lord coming in kingly might.
'Twas better to tempt the swollen tide,
Than captive be torn from his bonny bride.
Harrold lifted Malvina to saddle again,
And down Dulsie's slope urged his steed amain.

Oh, Findhorn shrieked loud to warn them away!
But louder yet did the water-fiends yell,
Rebellious they laughed at his empty sway,
As vainly he strove their wild rage to quell.
And the sire's despairing cry was vain,
"Malvina! my child! oh, turn again!"
But the lovers, twined on the courser grey,
Were swept from his outstretchd eyes away,
And he smote his bosom and tore his hair
As adown the big stream he sought the pair.

Why tarries the knight in his lonely way
At yon cairn on flowery Ferness holm?
Why scans he yon pillar, so rough and grey,
That rises from out its rudely-heaped dome?
'Twas there the love-twined youth and maid,
Unsevered in death, were sadly laid;
And there did King Fergus and Sewyn weep
When they found them locked in death's cold sleep,
And Findhorn still lingers around their grave,
And sighs for their fate with repentant wave.

HILL OF THE AITNOCH.

Author.--See now how innumerable the stumps of the trees are here. They are peeping up through the moss in every direction. Conceive what a thick pine wood this must have once been.

Grant.--You were certainly guilty of no great exaggeration when you said that a deer could hardly have penetrated it whilst it was standing in all its gloomy grandeur.

Clifford.--It is well for our comfort that we can now pass so easily over its fallen majesty; and methinks the sooner we escape from so dreary a scene the better.

Author.--Let us keep more this way, then. A short walk will now bring us to the southern brow of the hill, whence a new scene will open on us.

Clifford, who first reaches the point.--Ha! what have we here? A dark lake,--its waves rolling sluggishly eastward, and breaking gently on a narrow stripe of yellow gravelly beach,--bare rocky hills without a tree,--and an island covered with the ruins of a very extensive castle. What do you call this wild and lonely scene?

Author.--That is Loch-an-Dorbe, with its ruined castle.

Grant.--The remains of the castle seem to be very extensive.

Author.--They are said to occupy a space of not less than an hundred yards square.

Clifford.--This, then, is the very castle whence your Danish prince escaped with his lady-love. Let me tell you, that if their grey steed had not gone with a somewhat freer pace than your verses do, the old king of the castle would have caught them ere they had covered half the way to Dulsie.

Grant.--I'll warrant me those huge round towers and massive curtains have many strange and eventful histories attached to them.

Clifford.--Come, Signore Cicerone, prelect to us about it, if you please.

Author.--Loch-an-Dorbe was one of the few royal or national fortresses which Scotland possessed. When Edward the First traversed this country with his army in 1303, he came to Loch-an-Dorbe in the month of September, and occupied it for some time; and Edward the Third considered it as a place of so much importance, that he and Edward Baliol marched all the way from Perth to its relief in August, 1336, when Catherine de Beaumont, widow of David de Hastings, Earl of Athol, and her son were besieged in it by the brave Sir Andrew Moray, then Governor of Scotland. Sir Andrew would have been overwhelmed by the superior force of the English monarch, had he not baffled pursuit by crossing the river Findhorn at the celebrated pass, the Brig of Randolph, so called, as you know, from Randolph, Earl of Moray, Regent of Scotland. Another important historical fact is connected with this castle. It was here that William Bullock was confined. After abandoning the cause of Baliol, and after having risen to high honours under David the Second, he was enviously and maliciously accused of treason; and having been thrown into one of the dungeons within these massive walls, he was cruelly allowed to perish of cold and hunger. We also know that the famous Alexander Stewart, son of King Robert the Second, and who, from his ferocious disposition, was surnamed the Wolf of Badenoch, possessed and inhabited this castle. It was from hence he is supposed to have issued when he made his famous descent into the low country of Moray, and fired the Cathedral of Elgin, reducing that magnificent structure, that speculum patriæ et decus regni, as it was called, and many other religious edifices in the town, to a heap of ruins.

Clifford.--Oh, you have told us enough, in all conscience, about that wild beast; "adesso parliamo d'altro."

Author.--I am at a stand, so far as the history of Loch-an-Dorbe is concerned, excepting that I may add, that in more recent times it was possessed by the Earls of Moray, and passed from their hands into those of the Campbells of Cawdor, and thence to the Grants of Grant. I have seen at Cawdor Castle a massive iron gate, believed to have been that of the Castle of Loch-an-Dorbe, which tradition says was carried off from thence by Sir Donald Campbell of Cawdor, who bore it on his back all the way across the moors till he set it down where it is now in use, the distance being not less than some twelve or fifteen miles. But this is a story much too marvellous for belief in these matter-of-fact days of ours.

Clifford.--It is incredible enough, to be sure. Yet I have a story, a well authenticated story too, which I think will almost match it.

Grant.--Out with it then.

Clifford.--No, I promise you you don't get my stories at so very easy a rate; and for this simple reason, that they are by no means so plenty as yours. Besides, I have just been thinking that with this warm breeze, that so gently ripples the surface of the lake, I could kill a handsome dish of trouts this afternoon, if trouts there be within its watery world. Why might we not loiter off the remainder of the day about this lake?

Grant.--I like the idea much. I perceive a nice looking cottage on the other side, where I dare to say we may find lodging for the night.

Author.--That cottage is a shooting-lodge belonging to the proprietor; and were he there in person, we should not lack a kind and hospitable reception. But at present its doors are locked, and its rooms void.

Clifford.--There is a house, then, here on the nearer shore, immediately below us; why should we not go there?

Author.--'Tis but a smoky uncomfortable place; but it may do well enough for a shelter for one night, and if you are content to abide there, so am I.

Clifford.--Pho! as to comfort, I am a soldier, and can rough it. I have lain out all night to kill the enemies of my country, and would do no less at any time for a good day's shooting or fishing.

Author, addressing gilly, who was leading a pony with panniers,--Go down thither, then, and see our quarters made as comfortable as may be.

Clifford.--Aye, that will do. Come along, let us to work without more hesitation or talk. I am all impatience.

Having sent round to borrow the proprietor's boat, we embarked on the lake, and were soon intensely occupied in all the exciting anxieties of the angle. Our success was various and unequal, like that of man in the great lottery of human life. It was not always when basking in the sunshine that we were most successful. Sometimes a warm shadow would cross the lake, and the trouts would rise and hook themselves three at a time on our lines. The bottom of the boat became alive, and shone and glittered with the growing numbers of our golden and silver captives. Anon, every cast we made was in vain; and then, when the foolish fish began again to bite, our eagerness was such, that we forgot each other's lines; and the loss of hooks, the destruction of the finer parts of our tackle, and the fracture of delicate top pieces, became the result of our numerous and grievous entanglements. Poor Clifford could not account for a sudden cessation of his luck at the very time that ours appeared to be doubled, and he went on in no very good humour, flogging the water unsuccessfully, whilst Grant and I were catching two and three at each cast; till at last, to his great chagrin, he found that he had been all the while fishing without flies, which were uselessly and most provokingly sticking in the rough coat and around the neck and head of my great Newfoundland dog Bronte, to the poor brute's great inconvenience. He did not fail to make up very quickly for this bad luck, however. Our evening was altogether most delightfully spent; for when we grew tired of the angle, we landed on the island, and wandered among the extensive ruins which cover it. We then sat on the mouldering walls of the castle till we saw the sun sink behind the western hill; after which we returned to the shore, and sought our place of retreat.

It was a small old-fashioned house, once used as a sort of hunting lodge. It consisted of two stories, with little else than one ruinous room in each, the whole being filled with the great smoke that arose from the kitchen fire. But the exercise we had had, added to our hunger, prepared us for being pleased with any accommodation; and after a supper well eked out by a fritto of the delicious trouts we had taken, we drew our stools around the fire, to enjoy a temperate cup of pure Highland whisky, diluted with water from a neighbouring spring.

Grant.--Now for your story, Clifford.

Clifford.--'Tis of a famous Highlander, called John Mackay, of Ross-shire. I got the narrative, with all its nationalities, from an old Scottish brother officer of mine, a certain major of the name of Macmillan, who knew the hero of it well.

Grant.--I should have hardly looked for such a story from a Sassenach like you.

Clifford.--Tut. You know very well that my mother was a Highlandwoman, and that I have moreover always had a strong feeling for Scotland, and especially for the Highlands, as well as for everything connected with these romantic regions, where, let me tell you, I have had some wanderings as well as you.

Author.--We admit your right to tell your story. So now, come away with it without further preface.

Clifford.--If I tell you anything, I must very nearly tell you all honest John's life. Have you patience for so long a narrative?

Grant.--We shall give you the full duration of the burning of these moss-fir faggots. Will that serve you?

Clifford.--I think my story will have expired before them. And by that time we shall all be nearly ready for our blankets and heather; for such, I presume, will be our fate to-night.

LEGEND OF JOHN MACKAY OF ROSS-SHIRE, CALLED IAN MORE ARRACH, OR BIG JOHN THE RENTER OF THE MILK OF THE COWS.

My old Highland major told me, what perhaps you know better than I do, I mean, that some half century or more ago, before sheep were quite so much in fashion in the Highlands as I believe they now are, and when cattle were the only great staple of the country, the proprietors of the glens had them always well filled with cows. In those times it was the custom in Ross-shire to allow one calf only to be reared for each two cows of the herd. Each calf with its pair of cows was called a Cauret; and these caurets were let to renters, who, as they might find it most advisable, took one or more of them in lease, as it were, according as their circumstances might dictate; and the renter being obliged to rear one calf for the landlord for each cauret he held, he was allowed the remainder of the milk for his own share of the profit. These milk-renters were called arrachs; and John Mackay, the hero of my story, was called Ian More Arrach, from his lofty stature, and from his being one of these milk-renters. According to my informant the major, who personally knew him, Ian well merited the addition of More; for he declared that he was the most powerful man he had ever beheld.

It so happened that Ian went down on one occasion into Strath-Connan, to attend a great market or fair that was held there, probably to dispose of his cheese; and as he was wandering about after his business was over, his eye was caught, exactly like those of some of our simple trouts of the lake here, by the red and tinsel, and silk and wool, and feather glories of a recruiting sergeant and his party. He had never seen anything of the kind before, and he stood staring at them in wonderment as they passed. Nor did his solid and substantial form fail to fill the sergeant's eye in its turn; but if I am to give you a simile illustrative of the manner in which it did so, I must say that it was in the same way that the plump form of a well-fed trout might fill the greedy eye of a gaunt pike. He resolved to have him as a recruit. The party was accordingly halted immediately opposite to the spot where Ian was standing; and after one or two shrill shrieks of the fife, and a long roll of the drum, the martial orator began an oration, which lasted a good half-hour, in which he largely expatiated on the glories of a soldier's life, and the riches and honours it was certain one day or other to shower on the heads of all those who embraced it. The greater part of this harangue was lost upon Ian More Arrach, partly because he but very imperfectly understood English, and partly because his senses were too much lost in admiration. But when the grand scarlet-coated gentleman approached him with a smiling air, and gaily slapping him on the back, exclaimed,--

"Come along with us, my brave fellow, and taste the good beef and mustard, and other provender, that King George so liberally provides for us gentlemen of his army, and drink his Majesty's health with us in his own liquor. Come, and see how jollily we soldiers live!"

His wits returned to him at once, and he quickly understood enough of what was said to him, to make him grin from ear to ear, till every tooth in his head was seen to manifest its own particular unmingled satisfaction, and his morning's walk from his distant mountain residence having wonderfully sharpened his appetite, he followed the sergeant into a booth with all manner of alacrity, and quietly took his seat at a table that groaned beneath an enormous round of beef, flanked by other eatables, on which the hungry recruits fell pell-mell, and in demolishing which Ian rendered them his best assistance. The booth or tent was constructed, as such things usually are, of some old blankets stitched together, and hung over a cross-stick, that was tied horizontally to the tops of two poles fixed upright in the ground. It was the ambulatory tavern of one of those travelling ale and spirit sellers who journey from one fair or market to another, for the charitable purpose of vending their victuals and drink to the hungry and thirsty who can afford to pay for them. The space around the interior of the worsted walls of this confined place was occupied with boxes, vessels, and barrels of various kinds; and whilst the landlord, a knock-kneed cheeseparing of a man, who had once been a tailor, sat at his ease in one corner reckoning his gains, his wife, a fat, bustling, red-nosed little woman, was continually running to and fro to serve the table with liquor. Many were the loyal toasts given, and they were readily drank by Ian, more, perhaps, from relish of the good stuff that washed them down, than from any great perception he had of their intrinsic merit. His head was by no means a weak one. But the sergeant and his assistants were too well acquainted with all the tricks of their trade not to take such measures as made him unwittingly swallow three or four times as much liquor as they did.

"Now, my gallant Highlander," exclaimed the sergeant, when he thought him sufficiently wound up for his purpose, "see how nobly his Majesty uses us. Starve who may, we never want for plenty. But this is not all. Hold out your hand, my brave fellow. See, here is a shilling with King George's glorious countenance upon it. He sends you this in his own name, as a mark of his especial favour and regard for you."

"Fod, but she wonders tat sae big an' braw a man as ta King wad be thinkin' on Ian Arrach at a', at a'," said the Highlander, surveying the shilling as it lay in the palm of his hand; "but troth, she wonders a hantel mair, tat sin King Shorge was sendin' ony sing till her ava, she didna send her a guinea fan her hand was in her sporran at ony rate. But sic as it be, she taks it kind o' ta man," and saying so, he quietly transferred into his own sporran that which he believed to have come from the King's.

"That shilling is but an arnest of all the golden guineas he will by and bye give you," said the sergeant; "not to mention all those bags of gold, and jewels, and watches which he will give you his gracious leave to take from his enemies, after you shall have cut their throats."

"Tut, tut, but she no be fond o' cuttin' trotts," replied Ian; "she no be good at tat trade at a', at a'."

"Ha! no fears but you will learn that trade fast enough," said the sergeant. "You mountaineers generally do. You are raw yet; but wait till you have beheld my glorious example--wait till you have seen me sheer off half a dozen heads or so, as I have often done, of a morning before breakfast, and you will see that there is nothing more simple."

"Och, och," exclaimed Ian, with a shrug of his shoulders that spoke volumes.

"Aye, aye," continued the sergeant, "'tis true you cannot expect that at the very first offer you are to be able to take off your heads quite so clean at a blow as I can do. Indeed, I am rather considered a rare one at taking off heads. For example, I remember that I once happened to take a French grenadier company in flank, when, with the very first slash of my sword, I cut clean through the necks of the three first file of men, front rank and rear rank, making no less than six heads off at the first sweep. And it was well for the company that they happened only to be formed two deep at the time, for if they had been three deep, no less than nine heads must have gone."

"Keep us a'!" cried some of the wondering recruits.

"Nay," continued the sergeant; "had it not been for the unlucky accident that by some mistake the fourth front rank man was a leetle shorter than the other, so that the sword encountered his chin-bone, the fourth file would have been beheaded like the rest."

"Och, och!" cried Ian again.

"But," continued the sergeant, "as I said before, though you cannot expect to take up this matter by nattral instinck, as it were, yet I'll be bail that a big stout souple fellow like you will not see a month's sarvice before you will shave off a head as easily as I shave this here piece of cheese, and----confound it, I have cut my thumb half through."