Chapter XXIV: The White Stag

The excitement of this temporary separation over, my thoughts now reverted to Laura Everingham, whom I had not seen since the day of my mother's funeral, and from whom I was now on the verge of being separated for ever--separated so hopelessly, that my heart sickened at the contemplation.

Oh how different were my fate, my fortune and position from those of that bright and happy girl, whose sunny English face and beaming eyes spoke only of a heart that had never known care or thought or bitterness. Now budding from the spring of youth into the summer of womanhood, her figure, though rather undersized, was beautiful and graceful, lithe and faultless, as all her pretty little ways were amiable and winning. There was a romance in loving her--a desperation in it that excited all my ardour; and (as Washington Irving says) 'do not let us consider whatever is romantic as incompatible with real life.'

My hitherto isolated existence had given me few opportunities of seeing much of the world; hence, unhackneyed in its ways, I loved Laura more deeply and devotedly than I was quite aware of until this time of separation came.

Rambling erratically and in silence, Callum and I reached a sequestered part of the banks of the Ora, which had escaped the fires of the late conflagration.

The sun was setting now, and its golden rays played upon the water, above the surface of which the salmon rose at times, while the heron stalked among the sedges. A few corn-patches, sown by those whose hands would _never reap them_, were turning from pale green to warm yellow on the southern slope of the hills; the heather about us was in bloom; the wild flowers spread their fragrant garlands over the volcanic rocks, and the honey-bee hummed drowsily in the summer sunshine.

The scarlet berries of the mountain-ash kissed the sparkling current of this beautiful river, which teemed with spotted salmon; but these were all bought up for the southern markets, and it was as much as a man's life was worth to drop a line into its waters. All was solemn silence round us now. An occasional deer scrambling along a ridge of rocks, and rolling the loose stones down the slope, where they continued to rebound until the sound died in the hollow below; or the splash of a large salmon, attempting to leap _up_ the falls of the Ora, alone woke the echoes of the solitude.

A huge grey polecat, about three feet long, gazed at us from a fragment of rock without moving, and with an expression of wonder in its savage eyes; for by the result of the game-restrictions and other Draconian laws of our Highland feudatories, God's image was becoming somewhat as scarce in these districts as in Breadalbane, Sutherland, or on the Braes of Lochaber.

As the sunset lingered on our magnificent native mountains, Callum and I gazed about in silence. Every spot had its old and quaint--its terrible or beautiful--associations and traditions. On one side lay an inlet of the sea, blue, deep and overshadowed by the impending rocks, which were alleged in the days of our fathers to have been the haunt of the _Mhaidan Mhare_, or Water Virgin, a being with snow-white skin and flowing golden hair, and having a melodious voice, which mingled with the ripple of the waves, and foretold the coming rain. On the other side, deeper and darker still, lay a lonely mountain pool, from the oozy depth of which the _Taru Uisc_, or Water Bull, was wont to rise at midnight, to bellow horribly at the waning moon, and to scare the little fairies who danced among the velvet grass and blue bells, which covered the Sioth Dhunan, or Hills of Peace, which Druid hands had formed perhaps three thousand years ago, by the margin of their holy lake. Between us and the flush of the western sky rose the stupendous circle of their temple, the blocks of which were said to be enchanted, so that one might count them a hundred times, and never find the same number twice. Farther off rose a ridge named Druim-na-dears, or the Hill of Tears; for there two hundred of our men, who joined the 42nd Highlanders, had waved their bonnets in farewell for the last time, and of that two hundred only _one_ came back to tell how his comrades had all perished with Brigadier Howe, before the ramparts of Ticonderoga.

Thus every stone, and rock and linn around us, had their memories, their poetry, their imaginary tenants or their terrors--their tales of the times of old--and all these we were leaving for ever!

Our occasional communings and regrets, with many a long pause between, were suddenly arrested by a shrill cry of terror. We started from the grassy bank on which we had been seated, and saw a lady, wearing a broad hat and feather, and mounted on a little mountain pony, coming at full speed down a narrow path towards the deep and rapid stream, pursued by a furious stag--the far-famed _white stag_ of Loch Ora!

With something of fear I gazed upon this gigantic animal, which, since my infancy, I had been taught to believe had a supernatural existence, and to be the forerunner of evil to the race of Mac Innon; but the reiterated cry of the fair fugitive filled my heart with other thoughts, on recognizing Laura Everingham, when wild with terror, and pale, as the fear of a dreadful death could make her, she rushed past me on her fierce little Highland garron. My resolution was formed in a moment; and before the stronger and perhaps braver Callum Dhu, had arranged his thoughts on the subject, I had sprung forward and unsheathed the skene which I always wore in my right garter. Rising superior to the flood of gloomy and despairing thoughts which had made me their victim, and heedless whether the terrible and traditionary stag slew me and ended all my sorrows at the feet of Laura, I rushed upon it with my skene-dhu--a weapon only four inches long.

The fury of my thoughts gave me treble strength, and insured me victory.

The aspect of this animal was appalling; its red eyes shot fire; a moment it paused, bellowing, roaring, and raking and stabbing, as it tore up the purple heather with its giant antlers; but with a cry of triumph I rushed full at him, and escaping by a blessed mercy his terrible array of points, buried my sharp skene-dhu in his broad chest.

Back went the noble head with its lofty antlers, the fore-legs were extended, and the knees bent as the red life-blood gushed out in torrents; but again and again my black knife was buried to its hilt in the snow-white chest of the stag--the wondrous stag of the Mac Innons!

His head rose and fell; his whole frame vibrated; he lolled out a hot steaming tongue, and sank at my feet, dead--this strange creature of a hundred gloomy legends--leaving me covered with gore--panting with excitement, and with the hilt of my skene-dhu glued to my right hand by the hideous puddle that had gushed upon it at each successive death-blow.

Laura was saved, and by _me_!