Chapter VI: Part 6

‘Few knew what Tarnaway was in those days—almost untrodden, except by the deer, the roe, the fox, and the pine-martin. Its green dells filled with lilies of the valley, its banks covered with wild hyacinths, primroses, and pyrolas, and its deep thickets clothed with every species of woodland luxuriance, in blossoms, grass, moss, and timber of every kind, growing with the magnificence and solitude of an aboriginal wilderness, a world of unknown beauty and silent loneliness, broken only by the sough of the pines, the hum of the water, the hoarse bell of the buck, the long wild cry of the fox, the shriek of the heron, or the strange, mysterious tap of the northern wood-pecker. For ten years we knew every dell, and bank, and thicket, and, excepting the foresters and keepers, during the early part of that time, we can only remember to have met two or three old wives, who came to crack sticks or shear grass, and one old man to cut hazels for making baskets. If a new forester ventured in to the deep bosom of the wood alone, it was a chance that, like one of King Arthur’s errant-knights, he took a tree as his host for that night, unless he might hear the roar of the Findhorn, and, on reaching the banks, could follow its course out of the woods before the fail of light. One old wife, who had wandered for a day and night, we discovered at the foot of a tree, where at last she had sat down in despair, like poor old Jenny Mackintosh, who, venturing into the forest of Rothiemurchus to gather pine cones, never came out again. Three years afterwards she was found sitting at the foot of a great pine, on the skirt of the Braeriach, her wasted hands resting on her knees, and her head bent down on her withered fingers. The tatters of her dress still clung to the dry bones, like the lichen upon the old trees, except some shreds of her plaid, which were in the raven’s nest on Craigdhubh, and a lock of her grey hair that was under the young eagles in the eyrie of Loch-an-Eilean.’

The grounds themselves are well worthy of examination, but the castle hall, 90 feet in length, and 35 feet broad, is inferior to none in Scotland, and resembles much the Parliament House of Edinburgh; the walls rise to a height of 35 feet, and a carved roof of solid black oak, divided by compartments, forms the arched ceiling; a suitable fire-place, that would roast a stalled ox; an enormous table, and some carved chairs, still garnish this hall, though the modern apartments in front of it ill correspond with its Gothic character. Here Mary, Queen of Scots, held her court in 1564. Among the pictures is one of the Bonnie Earl of Moray, and also a portrait of Queen Mary, disguised, by way of a frolic, in boy’s clothes, in long scarlet stockings, black velvet coat, black kilt, white sleeves, and a high ruff. The present hall was preceded by a hunting lodge, erected in the fourteenth century, by Randolph, first Earl of Moray, the nephew, friend, and companion of Robert the Bruce, and Regent of Scotland during the minority of David II., but it was not the Earl’s chief country residence, as in the charter of erection of the earldom, the Castle of Elgin, ‘Manerium de Elgyn,’ is appointed ‘pro capitali mansione comitatus Moraviœ.’ It appears from the charter of Robert III. to Thomas le Graunt, son of Jno. le Graunt, dated 1390 (Regist. No. 22, p. 473), that there was an older royal Castle of Tarnaway, which was previously in the keeping of the Cummings, and afterwards of the Grants, and, in fact, the Cumming family—Earls of March—seem to have been introduced from Forfarshire as the great instrument for exterminating, or at least suppressing, the early insurrections of the Clan Chattan, who were thus in all probability the aboriginal inhabitants of Moray. The lately published work on the ‘Name of Cawdor’ shows likewise that the present magnificent hall was erected under the auspices, if not at the cost, of King James II. of Scotland. After the suppression of the Douglas rebellion, the King turned his attention to establishing order and authority in the North, especially in the Earldom of Moray. He took up his residence sometimes at Inverness, sometimes at Elgin, held Justice Courts, and transacted state business. He felt also the fascination of the country, and took means to enjoy it. Mr Innes, the editor of the ‘Cawdor Annual,’ says ‘The Castle of Lochindorbh, a formidable Norman fortress, in a woodland loch, which had been fortified against his authority by Douglas, King James doomed to destruction, and employed the Thane of Cawdor to demolish it. But he chose Darnaway for his own hunting seat, as old Thomas Randolph had done a century before, and completed the extensive repairs and new erections which the Earl had begun. The massive beams of oak and solid structure of the roof described in those accounts are still in part recognisable in the great hall of Darnaway, which popular tradition, ever leaning towards a fabulous antiquity, ascribes to Earl Randolph, but which is certainly of this period. Here, for two years, the King enjoyed the sports of the chase; great territories, on both sides of the river, were thrown out of cultivation for the sport, and tenants sat free of rent while their lands were waste. What was the manner of the hunting we are not informed. The sport of hawking, indeed, might well be enjoyed on the river bank at Darnaway, but hawking could not require a whole district to be laid waste. The fox was not of old esteemed a beast of chase in Scotland, nor perhaps, so early, in England. There is no doubt the King’s chief game was the red-deer, the natives of those hills, and it is probable that the hart was shot with arrows, and hunted down with the old rough greyhound, still known among us as the deerhound, and until lately in Ireland as the wolf dog, with such help of slower dogs of surer scent, as the country could afford, for the English hound was hardly known in old Scotland. But riding up to hounds, or riding at all, must have been very partially used among the peat mosses and rocks of the upper valley of the Findhorn.’

The Earldom of Moray was conferred by King Robert the Bruce upon Sir Thomas Randolph, son of Lady Isabel Bruce, the eldest daughter of Robert, Earl of Carrick, by Thomas Randolph, Lord of Strathnith. This Earldom, along with many goodly heritages, lands, and baronies, was the guerdon of the services so gallantly performed by Randolph in the service of his uncle, King Robert the Bruce, and it remained in the Randolph family until 1455, when the then Earl of Moray was attainted ‘for fortifying the Castles of Lochindore and Tarnau (Lochindorbh and Tarnaway) against the King, and for other acts of treason, by which attainder the Earldom of Moray became vested in the Crown.’

The next possessor of the Earldom was James Stewart, natural son of King James IV., by Janet, daughter of John, Lord Kennedy. It was conferred upon him when he was but two years old, by charter dated the 15th June 1501, and his son dying without issue male, 14th June 1544, the Earldom reverted to the Crown, and was conferred on George, the fourth Earl of Huntly, 15th February 1549, but the grant was recalled in 1554. The Earldom was next bestowed in 1562 by Queen Mary upon her half-brother, Lord James Stuart, natural son of King James V., and afterwards Regent of Scotland. From real or imaginary contradictions in his titles, great perplexity was occasioned respecting their inheritance, and several charters were granted to the Regent more or less confusing each other. He married Lady Anne Keith, daughter of the fourth Earl Marshal, afterwards Countess of Argyll, and by her he had two daughters—Elizabeth, Countess of Moray, and Margaret, afterwards Countess of Errol. In 1580, the youngest son of Lord Doune James Stuart (as the name was generally spelt after Queen Mary’s return) received from James VI. the ward and marriage of the two daughters of the Regent Moray, and a few days thereafter he married the elder, Lady Elizabeth, and assumed the title of the Earl of Moray. As this claim to the Earldom was doubtful, a charter was given to him in 1592, by James VI., and the Scottish estates ratifying to him and to his son all that had been granted to the Regent and the Lady Elizabeth, and since then the Earldom has remained in the uninterrupted possession of his descendants.

The Earl of Moray, whose personal appearance and high accomplishments in the learning and manners of the day acquired for him the title of the ‘Bonnie Earl;’ and as son-in-law of the good Regent Moray, and the inheritor of his estates, he naturally possessed a high degree of consideration in the State, particularly with the Presbyterian party, of which the Regent had been so long one of the chief supporters and the acknowledged leader. The Earl’s character, independent of his possessions, was such as to win him universal esteem. To the attractive beauty of his countenance and form he added a most amiable disposition, and perfect skill in all the chivalric accomplishments of the age. It is, therefore, scarcely to be wondered at that he should have been one of the most popular noblemen of the day, especially as the nation in general had by that time attached itself to the religious party of which he was a leading member. To this party also King James VI. belonged, though he was under the necessity of holding the balance equally between the Presbyterians and that still numerous party of Catholics to which many of his most powerful noblemen belonged, and were active adherents. Among the Catholic peers, the Earl of Huntly was the chief—a man of determination, and at heart ambitious and vindictive, and who for years had nursed a feud between his own family and that of the Earl of Moray. The real grounds of the feud consisted in the claims of the Gordon family to the possessions and Earldom of Moray, of which they had been deprived when it was bestowed by Queen Mary upon her illegitimate brother the Regent. This deep-seated cause of animosity had been long gathering strength from many and various disagreements arising out of it, and was particularly aggravated by an act of the Earl of Moray against the legal power of Huntly. In his capacity as the King’s Justiciary, the Earl of Huntly endeavoured to bring to justice persons against whom he had obtained a Royal Commission, and who having fled to the Earl of Moray, were protected by him against the Earl of Huntly, on some grounds or for some reason not known. Huntly, thus defied, was highly displeased against Moray, and proceeded with a large party, principally of his clansmen, to Darnaway Castle, for the purpose of getting possession of the felons’ persons. The expedition unfortunately terminated in widening the breach between the noblemen, for in the attempt to enter the castle, John Gordon, a brother of Gordon of Cluny, who was in the expedition in attendance on the Earl of Huntly, was killed by a shot from the castle. Whether the shot was fired by the Earl of Moray or not was not known, but from that hour the hostility between the families became of a more decided character, was participated in by almost every member of the Gordon clan, and revenge became a study in Huntly’s mind. This event took place a short time previous to the year 1591, but it was not immediately followed by any decided act of retaliation.

In the meantime, Campbell of Cawdor, a friend of Moray, became an object of hostility to many of the principal men of the Clan Campbell because he had been appointed tutor to the young Earl of Argyll.

Uniting with these men, Huntly formed a concerted scheme, in which, strange to say, the Chancellor of the Kingdom, Lord Thirlstan, concurred, for taking off Moray and Campbell by one act of vengeance. In order to give a colour to their deeds, they persuaded the King that Moray had been concerned in the conspiracy of the turbulent Earl of Bothwell, his cousin, and Huntly obtained a commission to apprehend Moray, and bring him to Edinburgh for trial.

On the afternoon of the 8th of February 1592, Huntly, attended by a strong body of horse, set out from the house of the Provost of Edinburgh where the King then lodged for security. The object of his journey Huntly gave out to be to attend a horserace at Leith, instead of which he directed his course across the Queen’s Ferry to Donibristle House, where the Earl of Moray had taken up his residence for a time with his mother. About midnight, Huntly reached his destination, surrounded the house with his men, and summoned Moray to surrender. Even if this had been complied with immediately, the same consequences, it is clear, would have ensued, Huntly’s determination being fixed. Moray’s enemies and that of his house knocking at his gates at the dead of night, encompassing the walls with vindictive retainers, was not an event from which the young Earl would expect moderation or justice to follow. He therefore resolved to defend the house to the death. A gun fired from within severely wounded one of the Gordons, and excited the passions of the assailants and their leaders to the highest pitch. To force an entrance they set fire to the doors, and the house seemed on the point of being enveloped in flames. In this emergency Moray took council with his friend Dunbar, Sheriff of the county, who chanced to be with him that night. ‘Let us not stay,’ said Dunbar, ‘to be buried in the flaming house. I will go out first, and the Gordons, taking me for your Lordship, will kill me, while you will escape in the confusion.’ After giving utterance to this noble offer, the generous Dunbar did not hesitate an instant, but threw himself among the assailants, and fell immediately, as he had anticipated, beneath their swords. At first this act of heroic devotion seemed as if it would have accomplished its purpose. The young Earl had passed out immediately after his friend, and had the fortune to escape through the ranks of the Gordons. He directed his flight to the rocks of the neighbouring beach, and most probably would have got off in the darkness had not his path been pointed out to his foes by the silken tassels of his helmet, which had caught fire as he passed through the flames of the house. A revengeful cadet of the Huntly family, Gordon of Buckie, was the first who overtook the flying Earl, and wounded him mortally. While Moray lay in the throes of death at the feet of his ruthless murderer, Huntly himself came up to the spot, when Buckie exclaiming, ‘By Heaven, my Lord, you shall be as deep as I,’ forced his chief to strike the dying man. Huntly, with a wavering hand, struck the expiring Earl in the face, who, mindful of his superior beauty even at that moment of parting life, stammered out the dying words ‘You have spoiled a better face than your own.’

The perpetrators of this barbarous act hurried from the scene, leaving the corpse of the Earl lying on the beach, and the house of Donibristle in flames. Huntly did not choose to go to Edinburgh, and so be the narrator of what had occurred, but he chose, strange to say, as the messenger for this purpose the most guilty of the assassins, Gordon of Buckie. This bold man hesitated not to fulfil his Chief’s commands. He rode post to the King’s presence, and informed his Majesty of all that had occurred. Finding, however, that the night work was not likely to acquire for its doers any great credit, he hurriedly left the city. By some it is supposed that he never saw the King, for James, apparently unconscious of what had occurred, followed his sport for several hours in the early part of the day. On his return to the city, his Majesty found the streets filled with lamentations for the murder of Moray, and strong suspicions entertained that he himself had authorised Huntly to perpetrate the deed. Donibristle House being visible from the grounds of Inverleith and Wardie, where the King was hunting, it was alleged he must have seen the smoking ruins; nay, that he had chosen that quarter on that day for his sport in order to gratify his eye with the spectacle. The popularity of the late Earl, on account of his personal qualities and as a leading Presbyterian, rendered the people very severe against James, although they had but little known cause for supposing him accessory to the guilt of the Gordons. There is, however, one circumstance narrated in traditionary ballad lore which says that ‘Moray was the Queen’s luve.’ A traditional anecdote is the only support which the ballad receives for a circumstance utterly discredited by history. James, says the story, found the Earl of Moray sleeping in an arbour one day with a ribbon about his neck which his Majesty had given to the Queen. On seeking her Majesty’s presence, the King found the ribbon round her neck, and was convinced he had mistaken one ribbon for another; but, continues the story, the ribbon worn by Moray was indeed the Queen’s, and had only been restored to her in time to blind his Majesty by the agency of a friend of the Queen’s who had witnessed the King’s jealous observation of Moray asleep.

To return, however, from tradition to history, the ferment caused in Edinburgh by the news of Moray’s death was aggravated ten-fold when on the same day Lady Doune, mother of the ill-fated nobleman, arrived at Leith in a boat, carrying with her the bodies of her son and his devoted friend Dunbar. The mournful lady took this step in order to stimulate the vengeance of the laws against the murderers. When the news reached the King that Lady Doune was about to expose the mangled bodies to the public gaze, he forbade them to be brought into the city, conceiving justly that the spectacle was an unseemly one, and that the populace were excited enough already. Defeated in her first wish, Lady Doune caused a picture to be drawn of her son’s remains, and enclosing it in a lawn cloth, brought it to the King, uncovered it before him, and with vehement lamentations cried for justice on the slayers. She then took out three bullets, found in Moray’s body while being prepared for embalming, one of which she gave to the King, another to one of his nobles, and the third she reserved to herself ‘to be bestowed on him who should hinder justice’ (Annals, p. 232, vol. 1, Captain John Gordon, one of the King’s friends). The Earl himself had fled to the north, where he was much more powerful than James, King of Scotland though he was. After some time, however, to recover the royal favour, which James withheld until some atonement was made, Huntly surrendered himself, and was confined for a time in Blackness Castle. He was never brought to trial, and was liberated on bail. Gordon of Buckie, the true murderer, lived for nearly fifty years after Moray’s death, and in his latter days expressed great contrition for the act of which he had been guilty. From punishment at the hands of man, the power of his family, the unsettled state of society, and the laws succeeded in screening him. The melancholy fate of the Earl of Moray, which we have just been relating, has been embalmed in his country’s verse in a ballad deeply affecting in its pathos:—

Ye Highlands and ye Lowlands,
Oh, where have ye been?
They hae slain the Earl of Moray,
And laid him on the green.

Now wae be to you, Huntly,
And wherefore did ye say,
I bad you bring him wi’ you,
But forbade you him to slay.

He was a braw gallant,
And he rode at the ring,
And the bonnie Earl of Moray,
Oh, he micht hae been a king.

He was a braw gallant,
And he rode at the gluve,
And the bonnie Earl of Moray,
Oh! he was the Queen’s luve.

Oh, lang will his lady
Look o’er the Castle Doune,
E’er she see the Earl of Moray
Come sounding through the toun.

THE ROUT OF MOY.

The River Findhorn, which rises in the Monadh-liath Mountains, flows through the glen of Strathdearn. Its scenery passes from Alpine to Lowland, exhibits almost every variety of the picturesque, strikes the eye with force or delight all the way from the source to the sea, and is not excelled in aggregate richness by the scenery of any river or stream north of the Tay.

The river is remarkable for the rapidity with which it rises and falls, and for its swift torrent, which, when in flood, often takes a straight course at the cost of much injury to life and property. In 1829 Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, with powerful dramatic effect, told the story of the floods which then ravaged Morayshire along the courses of the rivers descending from the Monadh-liath and Cairngorm Mountains, notably the Findhorn and Spey, both of which rose to an unexampled height, in some parts of their course to fifty feet above their natural level.

The valley of Strathdearn will amply repay a visit. The Findhorn begins at the very head of the valley, and first issues forth through a remarkable rent in the rock called Clach Sgoilte, or the cloven stone. As it passes onwards it is joined by various small streams, proceeding from minor glens called shealings, into which the Highlanders were in the habit of driving their cattle to feed on abundance of the richest natural grass, sheltered from the scorching heat of the summer sun. There are, indeed, many lovely spots along the course of the river, and by the little rills among the hills, unknown now, save to the shepherd and the gamekeeper, servants of the sportsman who rents the district. There are the natural wood trees, ‘the oak and the ash, and the bonnie elm tree,’ the alder and the birch, the lady of the wood, and then the rivulets which drop from pool to pool, and anon hiding themselves among sandstone ledges deeply bedded in dark sedge and broad, bright burdoch leaves, and tall angelica, and tufts of king and crown and lady fern. Up the glens there are bits of boggy moor, all fragrant with the gold-tipped gale, and the turf is enamelled with the hectic marsh violet and the pink pimpernel, and the pale yellow-leaf stars of the butterwort, and the blue bells and green threads of the ivy-leaved campanula. And then to stop a few minutes and look around on the earth, like one great emerald, set round with heathery amethyst roofed with sapphire, in the distance the blue sea and blue mountains, and covering all the bright blue sky overhead; and under foot the wayside fringed with the purple vetch, the golden bed-straw, and the fragrant meadow-queen, while at intervals the wild rasp bushes, adorned with their crimson berries, offer a tempting refreshment to the passing bird, and the bare footed boy and girl ramblers. The time of the wild rose is past, but the hips and haws will soon put on their red, red coats, the coral beads are even now in cluster on the rowan tree, while the bramble trails over every ditch with its delicious load of juicy, purpling fruit. ‘Eheu fugaces labuntur anni!’ Well does the schoolboy love the rough skinned bramble, and often in the sunny days of boyhood do his fingers and lips know the stains of its luscious blobs:—

‘The bramble berries were our food,
The water was our wine,
And the linnet in the self same bush,
Came after us to dine.
And grow it in the woods sae green,
Or grow it on the brae,
We like to meet the bramble bush,
Where’er our footsteps gae.’

As the ramble proceeds, the surrounding country becomes highly picturesque. Now we have a crag robed in lichen cropping upwards, and crowned with heather and tangled foliage; now we have a little runlet jinking among the seggans, and singing a sweet undersong as it steals down its tiny glen; and now a landscape all yellow with ‘golden shields flung down from the sun,’ in the foreground, and the glorious hills backing all behind. Verily, Strathdearn is a lovely glen.

About a mile from the church of Moy there is a singular hollow, called ‘Ciste craig an eoin,’ (the Chest of the craig of the bird), surrounded by high rocks, and accessible only through one narrow entrance. Situated close to the Pass called ‘Starsach nan Gael’—the Doorstep of the Highlanders—it was used as a place of concealment for their wives and children by the Highlanders during their absence on predatory excursions into the low country. This is the scene of one of those romantic achievements which so marked the rebellion of ’45.

Previous to the battle of Culloden, Prince Charlie was for some days at Moyhall, the guest of Colonel Ann, as Lady Mackintosh was called. The Chief himself, with a prudence to be commended, took the Royalist side, leaving what in this case was hardly the weaker vessel to espouse the cause of the Prince, for whom the distant clans were arming. Mackintosh himself was absent in Ross-shire, in the King’s service, but his wife, who was a daughter of Farquharson of Invercauld, entertained the Prince, and was so enthusiastic in his cause that she afterwards raised a regiment of 400 of her husband’s clan and followers to support him.

With these she joined Lord Strathallan, who had been left by Prince Charles at Perth, to collect troops and military stores, and these Mackintoshes afterwards fought at Culloden. Her ladyship was no favourer of half measures. At times she rode at the head of her regiment, with a man’s hat on her head and pistols at her saddle-bow—hence her soubriquet of Colonel Ann.

That Prince Charles was at Moyhall, the guest of Lady Mackintosh, was well known to the Earl of Loudon, whose detachment of Royalist troops then occupied Inverness, about twelve miles distant. At breakfast his lordship, discussing his information with his officers, suddenly formed the decision to move on Moyhall in order to surprise the young Chevalier, gain the offered reward, and save the country from further bloodshed. A Highland lassie who waited at table in the ‘Horns’ overheard their plans, and at once, bare-footed and bare-headed, ran on to Moyhall to tell of the danger.

The tidings produced consternation and confusion, for there were no troops to defend the House of Moy, nor meet the coming foe. But Colonel Ann and the council of war she assembled were equal to the occasion. Donald Fraser, the Chief’s blacksmith, afterwards known as ‘Caiptin nan Cuignear,’ the Captain of the Five, at once left his forge, and taking along with him five men whom she named, hurried off with sword and musket to repel the 1500 invading troops.

It was in the dusk of the evening when they reached the narrow pass of Craig an Eoin, two miles from the Hall, and there they waited the approach of the foe. There was a quantity of turf divots and peats set up to dry in small hillocks or stacks, and Donald and his men, in order the better to watch the motions of the troops, placed themselves a few hundred yards asunder among these heaps, concealed by the shadows of the hills rising on either side.

They were hardly in ambush when they became aware of the approach of the soldiers. It was the dusk of the evening. Now was the time for action. Fraser waited until the army was within 100 yards, when, starting up, the command was passed from Donald, and then from man to man, in a loud voice, along a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile—‘The Mackintoshes, the Macgillivrays, the Macbeans to form instantly the centre; the Macdonalds on the right, and the Frasers on the left.’ All this in the hearing of the commander-in-chief of the Royal army, accompanied by the firing of the muskets of the concealed party. Macrimmon, the piper in the advanced guard of the Macleods, fell, and this, coupled with the fear that masses of Highlanders were ready to surround them, and cut them to pieces, caused the troops to flee back precipitately to Inverness, where Lord Loudon, not considering himself safe, continued his route to Sutherlandshire, a distance of seventy miles, where he took up his quarters.

Fraser returned quietly with the dirk of the fallen piper, and was locally promoted to the rank of captain. He fought afterwards bravely at Culloden, and his sword is still kept, with many another piece of rusty armour, at Tomatin House.

Thus ended what has been humorously called the Rout of Moy.

A LEGEND OF LOCH-MAREE.

Of all the many beautiful places in Scotland, none can surpass Loch-Maree (Loch-ma-righ, or the King’s Loch), so called from the incidents related in the following legend:—Some centuries ago there lived near the loch an old woman and her son. Her husband and three elder sons had been slain, their humble home burnt, and their cattle driven off, during one of the fierce clan feuds which were only too common in those days. The poor woman had fled with her youngest son to this lonely secluded spot, where they found shelter, and after a while lived comfortably enough; for Kenneth grew a fine active lad and keen sportsman, and with his bow and arrow and fishing-rod supplied plenty food. They also possessed a small herd of goats, which rambled at will among the mountains surrounding the loch, returning to the widow’s cottage at milking-time. Among them was a very beautiful dun coloured one, which gave more milk than any of the others. This, together with her docile habits, made her a great favourite with the widow. One evening Kenneth, returning home laden with the spoils of the chase, met his mother at the cottage door. The good woman was carrying the milk she had just taken from the goats, wearing a very dissatisfied look on her usually placid countenance. On her son asking what was the matter, she replied tartly, ‘Matter enough; see the small quantity of milk I have got to-night; the dun goat, who used to give more than any of the others, hardly gave a spoonful, and it has been the same the last two nights. I can’t make out what ails the creature.’ Kenneth, tired after a long day’s sport, answered lightly, that perhaps the goat was ill, or that she had not received food enough. His mother made no reply; she, however, gave the goat a double allowance of food that night, and saw that she took it well; but the next evening not a drop of milk did she give—indeed, it was evident she had been newly milked. The old woman was at her wits end; and directly her son came in, she began to complain loudly. ‘We must do something about that dun goat, Kenneth; not a drop of milk did she give again to-night; I am sure the fairies suck her, and if we don’t stop it, I shant be able to make a single cheese to put by for the winter. You really must help me to find out all about it. Kenneth, who began to miss his usual allowance of milk at supper-time, professed his willingness to assist his mother. ‘But,’ said he, ‘What can I do to prevent it? Would it not be better to tie the goat up?’ ‘No, no, that would never do,’ replied his mother, ‘she has never been tethered, and would not stand it. The best thing for you to do will be to follow her to-morrow, and see where she goes.’ To this proposal Kenneth agreed, and early next morning started off after the dun goat, who soon separated herself from the rest of the herd, and made straight for a pass between two high rocks, bleating as she went. ‘Oh, oh!’ said Kenneth to himself, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if she has picked up some motherless fawn, which she suckles, for I have heard of such things before, and that is more likely than the fairies that mother talks about.’ He found it, however, no easy matter to keep the goat in sight, and her colour being so peculiar, it was nearly impossible to see her at a little distance. Kenneth persevered manfully, springing from rock to rock almost as nimbly as the goat herself; but at last a sudden turn hid her for a minute from his sight, and try as he would, he could not again catch sight of her. So he had to own himself beaten; but he determined to wait until the usual time for milking, thinking he would be sure to see where she came from, so he waited patiently, but to no purpose. Not a glimpse did he get of her until he arrived at home, and saw her taking her food among the rest. His mother was anything but pleased at his non-success, more especially as she again did not get a single spoonful of milk from her. Terribly chagrined, Kenneth vowed he would solve the mystery if it took him a week to do so. Rising with the sun next morning, and taking some provisions and his bow and arrows with him, he started off in the same direction the goat had led him the day before. When he came to the place at which he lost sight of her, he concealed himself and waited. Before long he saw her pass, and immediately followed her, but the sagacious animal seemed to know that she was being traced, and redoubled her speed; so, in spite of Kenneth’s utmost exertions, he again lost sight of her.

Heated and vexed, he threw himself on the ground, and exclaimed, ‘Confound the beast, I believe mother is right after all in saying the fairies have something to do with her. I’ll give her up for this day.’ Having rested a while and taken some food, he strung his bow, for, said he, ‘’Twill never do to go home empty handed a second day.’ He spent the day among the hills with fair success, and was turning towards home, when endeavouring to recover a bird he had shot, he scrambled on to a small grass-covered platform in front of a natural cave in the rock, and much was his astonishment to see his lost goat standing at the entrance of the cave. He called her, and held out his hand, but instead of running to him and licking his hand as usual, she stamped with her feet, and, lowering her head, stood in a state of defence. Convinced there was something in the cave, Kenneth tried to enter, but the goat stood firm, giving him some hard knocks with her horns. Finding she was so resolute, and not wishing to hurt her, he desisted for the present, marking the place well so as to find it easily again. The goat was again home before him, but not a drop of milk did she give. His mother was pleased he had discovered so much, and said, ‘To-morrow I will go with you, and surely between us we shall manage to get a sight of the inside of the cave.’ Next morning the old woman and her son started, taking a rope with them to secure the goat if she should prove unmanageable. When they arrived at the cave, the goat was standing at the entrance, evidently angry, and determined to oppose them. In vain the widow called her pet names, and held out sweet herbs; the stubborn animal would not budge an inch for all their entreaties or threats. ‘Well,’ said Kenneth, ‘its no use standing here all day; I’ll throw the rope over her, and drag her from the cave, and you shall go in mother, and see what she is hiding inside.’ No sooner said than done, and the poor goat was struggling on the ground, bleating loudly. As if in answer to her piteous cries, there issued from the cave, crawling on all fours, a beautiful boy about a year old, who scrambled at once to the goat, and putting his little arms round the animal’s neck, laid his face against its shaggy coat. She appeared delighted at the caress, and licked the hands and face of the child with evident affection.

At this unexpected sight, Kenneth and his mother were lost in astonishment and admiration. He at once satisfied himself, from the fairness and beauty of the child, and its being dressed in green, that it was indeed a veritable fairy, and his admiration for the goat was somewhat damped by a feeling of superstitious awe at being brought in such close proximity to one of ‘the good people.’ But the warm, motherly heart of the widow at once opened to the helpless infant, and, forgetting her natural fear of the supernatural, as well as her annoyance at the loss of her milk supply, she rushed forward, and catching the child in her arms, covered it with kisses, mingled with blessings on its beauty, and pity for its forlorn condition, vowing she would take it home, and cherish it as her own child.

Kenneth did not altogether approve of this proceeding, and exclaimed with some heat, ‘Mother! mother! what are you saying; don’t you see it is a fairy? Put it down, put it down, or perhaps you will get bewitched, and changed into some animal or other. How could a child like that, unless it was a fairy, live alone among these wild mountains, with no one to see after it? and where did it come from? No, no! mother; it is nothing but a fairy, and we had better leave it alone, and the goat too, for she is also, no doubt, bewitched, and we shall only get ourselves into mischief by meddling with her; or, if you must needs have the goat, just hold the rope while I throw the fairy creature down the face of the rock, out of the animal’s sight.’

Before, however, Kenneth could lay hold of the child, he was arrested, and startled, by hearing a voice from the interior of the cave exclaiming, ‘Touch him if you dare! he is no fairy, but far better flesh and blood than you are.’ The next instant there rushed from the cave a young woman, scarcely out of her girlhood; fair enough, but with privation written in every feature of her face, while her torn dress and dishevelled hair told a tale of want and exposure. Withal, there was a certain dignity about her that made Kenneth and his mother give way when she approached to take possession of the child, who clung to her with every mark of affection.

With an air of respect, mingled with astonishment, the widow asked who she was? and how she came there?

The stranger explained how she had been menaced with great danger in her own country, and had fled with her child for concealment to this secluded spot, and should have perished from absolute want if it had not been for the good-natured goat, whom she had enticed to the cave, and on whose milk she and the child had subsisted for several days.

The kind-hearted widow at once offered them shelter and protection at her cottage, adding that she knew from sad experience what it was to be hunted from her own country like a wild animal.

Strange to say, Kenneth offered not the slightest objection to his mother’s kind invitation. His dread of, and dislike to the fairies seemed to evaporate at the sight of a good-looking young girl. He offered no objection this time to the exercise of his mother’s hospitality, which Flora gladly accepted, and they all wended their way to the widow’s cottage, followed by the sagacious goat, who seemed to perfectly understand how matters stood.

Thus they for a time lived happily and safely, and the widow found her visitors no encumbrance; for Kenneth exerted himself with such good will in hunting and fishing that he supplied more than sufficient for them all. The boy grew a strong, sturdy fellow; and Flora, by good nourishment and mind at ease as to the safety of herself and charge, expanded into a most lovely woman, as amiable as she was beautiful, and assisted the widow in all her household duties, although it was very evident she belonged to a far higher class than that of her protectors.

Kenneth was the only one of the small circle who was not perfectly at ease. He who used to be one of the most happy and careless of mortals, with no higher ambition than to be a good sportsman, now became dissatisfied with himself and discontented with his lot in life. When out on the hills alone he would fall into moods of abstraction, building castles in the air, wishing he were a soldier—ah! if so, what wonderful feats of valour would he not perform; he would surpass all comrades in courage and dexterity; he would be rewarded with knighthood; and then he would have the right to mingle with the best and noblest of the land; and then—then there would flash across his mind a vision of a brave knight fighting to assert the lawful claims of a fair lady, of his being successful, of his being rewarded by the hand and heart of the beautiful heroine; and then—then poor Kenneth would find his fine castle crumbling away, and standing alone with empty game-bag. So, with a sigh, he would wake to the commonplace world, and hasten to redeem the idle time already wasted; and besides, did not Flora prefer one sort of game, which he must get, and did she not also admire a wild flower he had taken home yesterday, and he must scale the highest rocks to find more for her to-day. On his return home he would present the flowers shyly, blushing and stammering at the graceful thanks he received for them. He would scarcely taste his food, but sit quietly, following with his eyes every movement of the bewitching Flora, until little MacGabhar—for so they named the boy—would come and challenge him to a game of romps.

One day, when alone with his mother, Kenneth suddenly asked her ‘if she thought Flora was really the mother of the boy?’ ‘Foolish boy,’ answered she, ‘do you think I have lived all these years and not know a maid from a wife? No, no; Flora is no more his mother than I am. And, son Kenneth, I wish to give you some advice: don’t you go and fall in love with Flora—you might as well fall in love with the moon or the stars. Don’t you see she is some great lady, perhaps a princess, although now obliged to live in concealment. I expect little MacGabhar is her brother, and heir to some great lord. What we must do is to treat her with respect and kindness, and perhaps some day, if she gets her rights, you may be her servant, if she will accept your services. Though she never told me who she was, she showed me a very handsome sword and a beautiful scarlet velvet mantle trimmed with fur, which she said belonged to the boy’s father, and she was keeping them to prove his birth some day.’

This sensible, though unpalatable, advice fell like lead upon Kenneth’s heart, but still, thought he, ‘it will be something to be even her servant. I shall at least see her, and hear her voice.’

Matters went on thus at the cottage for some time, until one day Kenneth came home hastily with the news that the Lord of Castle Donain, the chief of that part of the country, was come on a grand hunting expedition to the neighbourhood, and would probably call at the cottage, as he had done on former occasions. For themselves Kenneth had no fear, for although they did not belong to the chief’s clan, he knew of their living on his estate, and had never offered any objection. It was only on Flora’s account that he had hastened with the news. She, poor girl, seemed dreadfully agitated, and said, ‘that Lord Castle Donain was one of the last men she wished to know of her whereabouts,’ and suggested that she and MacGabhar should again take refuge in the cave until the danger was past; but, alas, it was too late. Already some of the foremost clansmen were in sight. In another minute the chief himself appeared, calling out to Kenneth to come as their guide, as he knew the ground so well. Kenneth hurried out, closing the door of the cottage after him. This, Lord Castle Donain noticed, as also the uneasiness of the young man’s manner. ‘How now, Kenneth,’ he exclaimed, eyeing him suspiciously, ‘what have you in hiding there? where is your mother? and why do you not ask me in to take a drink of milk as you used to do?’ Kenneth confusedly muttered something about his mother not being well, and offered to fetch some milk for his lordship. The chief was now convinced that there was a secret, and determined to find it out. He entered the cottage without ceremony, exclaiming angrily, ‘What is the meaning of this, old dame? Do you not know you are only living on my estate on sufferance, and if you don’t render me proper respect as your chief, I will soon pack you and your son off again.’ Then perceiving Flora, and being struck with her exceeding loveliness, he involuntarily altered his tone, and continued in a more gentle voice, ‘Ah! I now see the cause; you have a stranger with you. Who is she, Kenneth?’

Now this was a very puzzling question for poor Kenneth to answer, as he did not know himself, and being fearful of saying anything that might injure Flora. However, he answered as boldly as he could that she was his wife. ‘Your wife, Kenneth?’ said the Chief, ‘impossible, where did you get her from? I am sure she does not belong to this part of the country, or I should have noticed her before; however, I must claim the privileges of a chief, and give her a salute.’ But when he approached Flora, she waved him off with conscious dignity, saying ‘he must excuse her, as it was not the custom in her country to kiss strangers.’ Her voice and manner, so different to what he expected from one in her seeming position, more than ever convinced the chief there was a mystery in the case, and when in answer to his inquiries she told him her name was Flora, he exclaimed, ‘Kenneth, I am sure you are deceiving me, she is not your wife; her voice, her manner, and, above all, her name, convince me that she is of high birth, and most probably of some hostile clan, consequently she must return with me to Castle Donain until I fathom the mystery surrounding her, and you may think yourself lucky that I do not order you to be strung up on the nearest tree for a traitor.’

This speech threw them all into the greatest consternation. In vain Flora pleaded to be left alone with her husband and child; in vain the widow and Kenneth asserted their innocence of wishing harm to the chief; he remained inexorable. To Castle Donain she must and should go. The widow, in the extremity of her grief, caught up the child, to whom she was greatly attached, and exclaimed, ‘Oh! little MacGabhar, what will become of you?’

On hearing this, Lord Castle Donain started as if an adder had stung him, and with agitated voice cried out, “MacGabhar! whence got he that name, for it is a fatal one to my family. Hundreds of years ago it was prophesied that—

“The son of the goat shall triumphantly bear
The mountain in flame; and the horns of the deer—
From forest of Loyne to the hill of Ben-Croshen—
From mountain to vale, and from ocean to ocean.”

So, little blue-eyed MacGabhar, you must come with me too, for I am sure you are a prize worth having.’

Again poor Flora pleaded hard to be allowed to remain in her humble home; urging, what a disgrace it would be for him to tear her and her child away from her husband and home; but all vain. The chief refused to believe the story of her being the wife of Kenneth, and insisted in no very measured terms on her at once accompanying him to the Castle of Islandonain.

Finding all her appeals and supplications of no avail, Flora began to grow desperate. Drawing the child to her, she faced the chief with a look as haughty as his own, and producing a small, richly ornamented dirk, which she had concealed about her dress, vowed she would rather kill herself and the boy, too, than that they should be taken prisoners.

This bold mien and determined speech of Flora somewhat confused the chief, as he was far from wishing to offer any violence to one whom he was convinced was of high birth. It was consequently with a gentler voice and more respectful manner that he now addressed her, saying, ‘I do not wish to use any force towards you, and will therefore waive the question of you leaving your seclusion at present, but as I am thoroughly convinced there is a mystery about you, I will, as a precaution for my own safety, require to know more of your future movements.’ He accordingly directed one of his clansmen, Hector Dubh Mackenzie, to remain meantime as her guard; and then, to the great relief of the whole of the inmates, he retired from the cottage.

Though left unmolested for a time, poor Flora knew well that she was in the power of the Lord of Castle Donain, and her distress and perplexity of mind was extreme. She had the wit, however, to hide it from Hector, who was now a constant and unwelcome visitor at the cottage,—and chatted and laughed with him and Kenneth, when they came home in the evening, as though she was quite careless and contented. Hers was not a nature to sit down quietly under danger. No, the greater the danger, the higher her courage seemed to rise, and she determined to effect her escape. She arranged with the widow that they should pack up a few necessaries, take the boy and the goat, and again have recourse to the cave for a present refuge. Unfortunately, however, she could find no opportunity to confide her plans to Kenneth, for the vigilance of Hector was so great that neither she nor his mother ever had a chance of speaking to him alone even for a moment. She was anxious to give him a clue, however slight, to their intended movements, so on the morning of the day they had fixed upon for the attempt, before the men went out, she carelessly said to him, ‘Oh Kenneth, I wish you would try to get me some more of these flowers, they are so beautiful,’ at the same time exhibiting a bit of a plant which Kenneth and herself well knew grew only in the neighbourhood of the cave, ‘but,’ she continued, ‘you need not trouble about it to-day, as you are going fishing; to-morrow, when you go to the hills, will be quite soon enough.’ These simple words, so frankly spoken, caused no suspicion to cross the mind of Hector, but to Kenneth, accompanied as they were with a quick expressive glance of her beautiful eyes, they were fraught with meaning, and he felt assured that she wished him to go to the neighbourhood of the cave on the morrow, though for what reason he could not surmise. As he promised to endeavour to procure the flowers, he gave her a look, intelligent as her own, which at once convinced her that he understood some plot was hatching.