Chapter VI: Part 6

"I have but little more to say," continued the youth. "Gratitude to Sir Patrick Stewart, for having spared my life, when his own security might have required the taking of it, at once resolved me against betraying him to slaughter. Ewan Cameron marched us straight away to the hill, which rises above the track that leads from the little place of Tomantoul to the river Don, and there he kept us sitting, for some time, watching, till we espied three men coming along the way. Whilst they were yet afar off I knew one of them to be the very person whom the murderers were in search of. 'Is that Sir Patrick Stewart that comes first yonder?' demanded Ewan.--'I cannot tell at this distance,' said I; 'but I think the man I saw in the cave was much taller than that man.'--'That is a tall man,' said Ewan; 'take care what thou sayest, or thou mayest chance to have thy stature curtailed by the whole head.'--'I say what is true,' said I; 'no man could know his own father at that distance.'--'Then will I assert that thou sayest that which is a lie,' said one of the party; 'for great as the distance may be, I know that to be Sir Patrick Stewart. I mean that man who comes first of the three.'--'Let us down upon him without loss of time then,' cried Ewan; 'and do you come along, Sirrah! Thou shalt along with us; and, when our work is done, we shall see whether we cannot find the means of refreshing thy memory.' Having uttered these words, Ewan hurried us all down to the covert of a small patch of stunted pines, that grew on the flat ground below. There we lay in ambush till Sir Patrick Stewart, and his two attendants, came within bowshot, and there, as is already known to most here, the six assassins were speedily punished for their wicked attempt, and I became Sir Patrick Stewart's prisoner."

"Now," said the Lord of Curgarf, addressing himself to Murdoch, "what hast thou to say in answer to all this?--What hast thou to answer for thyself?"

"I say that the young caitiff is a foul liar!" cried Murdoch violently. "He is a foul liar, who hath been taught a false tale, to bear me down."

"He may be a liar," said the Lord of Curgarf; "but his story hangs marvellously well together."

"Who would dare to condemn me on his unsupported testimony?" demanded Murdoch, boldly.

"Here is one who is ready to support his tale," said Michael Forbes, pressing forward, and pushing before him a strange looking little man, with a long red beard, and a head of hair so untamed, that it hung over his sharp sallow features in such a manner, as, for some moments, to render it difficult for Sir Patrick Stewart to recognise in him, the man whom he had saved from his perilous position in the salmon creel, at the Lynn of Aven.

"Ha!--Grigor Beg!" cried Murdoch Stewart, betrayed by his surprise, at beholding him; "What a fiend hath brought thee hither?--But thou--thou can'st say nothing against me."

"I fear I can say nothing for thee, Murdoch Stewart," said the little man, darting a pair of piercing eyes towards him, from amidst the tangled thickets of his hair. "Nor is it needful for me now to say all I might against thee. But here, as I understand, thou hast basely and falsely accused thy brother Sir Patrick Stewart of murdering his elder brother Sir Walter. Now, I saw Ewan Cameron shoot down Sir Walter Stewart with an arrow; and it was done at thy bidding too, for I was by, on the hill-side, when thou didst give to Ewan Cameron his secret order to slay thy brother, and when thou didst teach him to do the deed, as if it were an idle act, done against a stranger."

"Lies!--lies!--a very net-work of lies, in which to ensnare me!" cried Murdoch. "But who can condemn me for another's death, who, for aught that we know truly, may yet appear alive and well?"

"Thou hadst no such scruple in condemning thine innocent brother, Sir Patrick," said the Lord of Curgarf; "yet shall no guilt be fixed upon thee, till thy brother's death be established beyond question. Meanwhile thou must be a bounden prisoner, till the truth be clearly brought to light."

"Men of Clan-Allan! will ye allow him who must be your chieftain to be laid hands on in the house of a stranger?" cried Murdoch Stewart aloud. "You are armed; use your weapons then, and leave not a man alive!"

A thrill of horror ran through every bosom. There were brave men enough of the Clan-Forbes there, to have made head against three times the number of Clan-Allans that now stood, armed to the teeth, and in a firm body, at the lower end of the hall; but there was not a man of the Forbeses, who, if not altogether unarmed, had any weapon at all to defend himself with but his dirk. Those who had such instruments were drawing them, whilst others were rushing to the walls, to arm themselves with whatsoever weapons they could most easily reach, and pluck down thence. The noise and bustle of the moment was great, when, all at once, there fell a hush over the turbulence of the scene.

"Stir not a man of Clan-Allan!" cried Sir Patrick to the Stewarts, who stood in their array, like a heavy and portentous thundercloud. "Stir not, men of Clan-Allan!--Stir not a finger, I command you!"

"Sir Patrick Stewart is our young chieftain!" broke like a roll of Heaven's artillery from the Clan-Allans. "Sir Patrick Stewart is our young chieftain! Murdoch is a foul traitor and murderer! Bind him, bind him! Let him be the prisoner, and let us have him forthwith justified!"

"Nay, nay," cried Sir Patrick; "bind him if you will, but lay not your hands upon his life. This day, my Catherine," said he, turning to the lady, and addressing her tenderly and sorrowfully; "This day, that was to have been to me so full of joy, must now, alas! be the first of that doleful time, which, in the bereavement of my heart, I must devote to mourning for my beloved brother Walter. My first duty is to go and seek for his remains; and in following out this most sad and anxious search, I must crave thy presence, my Lord of Curgarf, and thine, too, Arthur, with that of such of our friends as may be disposed to go forth with us, to aid us in so painful a quest."

The wishes of Sir Patrick Stewart were readily agreed to. The nuptials were for the present postponed; and instead of the marriage-feast, some hasty refreshment was taken, preparatory to their immediate departure on their melancholy search. The treacherous Murdoch Stewart was now given in charge, as a manacled prisoner, to those very Clan-Allans, at the head of whom he had come, so triumphantly, to fix a false accusation on his brother Sir Patrick. With them too went the youth, and the little man, Grigor Beg, who had given their evidence against Murdoch. The old Lord of Curgarf's quiet palfrey was led forth; and he set forward, attended by Arthur the Master of Forbes, Sir Patrick Stewart, and a considerable following of those who were led to accompany him by duty, or from curiosity.

They first visited the scene of the attempted assassination of Sir Patrick Stewart. The spot where the six Catteranes were slain, was easily discovered, by the flock of birds of prey that sat perched upon the tops of the dwarf pines, or that wheeled over them in whistling circles; whilst every now and then, some individual, bolder than the rest, would swoop down on the heath, to partake of the banquet which had been spread upon it for them. That some considerable share of courage was required to enable these creatures to do this, was proved to the party, who, on their nearer approach, scared away a brace of hungry, gaunt-looking wolves, who had been employed in ravenously tearing at the bodies, and dragging them hither and thither with bloody jaws; as well as an eagle, who had dared to sit a little way apart, to feed upon one of the carcases, in defiance of his ferocious four-footed fellow-guests. The spectacle was shocking to all who beheld it. But one object of their search was gained; for, on examination, Patrick recognised his brother Walter's sandals, which were removed from the feet of the corpse of Ewan Cameron, and taken care of--thus so far corroborating the testimony of the youth. Having completed their investigations in this place, they piled heaps of stones over the bodies on the spot where they lay, and the party then pursued their way, over the mountain, towards the alleged scene of Sir Walter Stewart's murder.

Providence seemed to guide their steps;--for, as they passed over the brow of the wooded hill that dropped down towards the Aven, they scared away two ravens from a hollow place in the heath; and, on approaching the spot, they discovered the well-picked bones of a deer. His head showed him to have been an unusually fine great hart of sixteen. An arrow was sticking so deeply fixed through the shoulder-blade, as to satisfy all present, that its point must have produced death, very soon after the animal had received it.

"As I hope for mercy, there is the very arrow that was lacking of Sir Patrick's three!" cried Dugald Roy, triumphantly. "See--there is the very eagle's feather which I put on it, with mine own hand! And, look--there is the cross, which I always cut on the shaft, to give them good luck. No shaft of mine, so armed, ever misses, when righteously discharged. But for foul or treacherous murther, I'll warrant me, that the most practised eye could never bring it to a true aim. But" added he, as he very adroitly dislocated out the shoulder-bone, as Highlanders are wont, and then possessed himself of the shoulder-blade, arrow and all--"I'll e'en take this arrow with me, with the bone just as it is, as a dumb but true witness in a righteous cause."

Led by the directions which they received from Grigor Beg, they now descended through the forest, till they came to that very well-eye you see yonder--for that was the very individual place, that both the old man and the youth had described as the scene of Sir Walter's murder. They had used the precaution to bring with them implements for digging; and, by means of these, a few sturdy fellows were soon enabled to make an opening into the lower end of the quaking bog, so as very quickly to discharge the pent-up water within it. The green surface then gradually subsided, and the legs of a human being, with hose on, but without sandals, began to appear, sticking out, with the feet upwards; and, by digging a little around it, they soon succeeded in bringing the body of Sir Walter Stewart fully to light. It was in all respects unchanged. The fatal arrow was deeply buried in his left breast; his bow was firmly grasped in his hand; and his three eagle-winged shafts were in his belt. The small unplumed bonnet which he usually wore, when dressed for following the deer, was fast squeezed down on his head, by the pressure which had been exerted to sink him. How differently were the two brothers, Patrick and Murdoch Stewart, affected by the harrowing spectacle which was now brought before their eyes! Murdoch shed no tear--yet his features were strongly agitated. He looked at the corpse with averted eyes, and shuddered as he looked; whilst his face became black, and again deadly pale, twenty times alternately. Sir Patrick Stewart, on the other hand, threw himself, in an agony of tears, on the cold and dripping body of his murdered brother, as it lay exposed on the bank; and, unable to give utterance to his grief, he clasped it to his bosom, and lavished fond, though unavailing caresses on it. In vain he essayed, with as much tenderness as if his brother could have still felt the pain he might thereby have given him, to pluck forth the arrow, deeply buried in the fatal wound. All present were overcome by this sad scene;--but poor Dugald Roy hung over them, and sobbed aloud, till the violence of his grief recalled Sir Patrick Stewart to himself again.

"Aye!" said Dugald Roy; "that is a murderous shaft indeed! A good cloth-yard in length, I'll warrant me; and feathered, too, from the wing of some ill-omened grey goose, that was hatched in some western sea-loch. This is no arrow of the make of Aven-side, else am I no judge of the tool. No cross upon this, I'll be sworn. No, no.--By St. Peter, but it hath murther in the very look of it! Aye, and there are the true arrows of the cross in his belt!--These are of my winging, every one of them. Little did I think, when I stuck them into my poor master's girdle, that this was to be the way in which I was to find them! Would that he had but gotten fair play! Would that he had but got his eye on the villains ere they slew him! If he had but gotten one glimpse of them, by the Rood, but every cross of these shafts would have been eager to have dyed itself red in the blood of their cowardly hearts!"

The body of Sir Walter Stewart was now wrapped up in a plaid, and fastened lengthwise upon two parallel boughs, and it was borne towards Drummin. Their movements were so slow, and so often interrupted, that it was dark night long ere they came to the place of their destination. Sir Patrick Stewart felt the necessity of preparing his father, Sir Allan, for the coming scene, as well as for the reception of the Lord of Curgarf, and his son, the Master of Forbes. He therefore resolved to hurry on before the party, that he might have a private meeting with the old Knight, before their arrival. But being fully aware that Sir Allan's mind had been already filled with those iniquitous falsehoods, which his wicked brother, Murdoch Stewart, had engendered against him, he thought it prudent to take with him Dugald Roy, and two other men of the Clan-Allans, that they might be prepared, if necessary, to support his justification of himself.

As Sir Patrick Stewart, and his small escort, approached the outer gate of the Castle of Drummin, they perceived that it was shut. Dugald had no sooner observed this circumstance, than he made a signal to the Knight to remain silent, and then he advanced quietly to the little wicket in the middle of the gate, and knocked gently.

"Who is there?" demanded the Warder, from within.

"Open the wicket, man, without a moment's tarrying," replied Dugald.

"Is that thee, Dugald Roy?" demanded the Warder.

"Who else could it be?" replied Dugald.

"It may be that any other might have done as well," replied the Warder gruffly. "Thou wentst not forth with Murdoch Stewart;--Art thou of his company at the present time?"

"What matter though I went not forth with him, if I come home in his company?" replied Dugald readily.

"Is he with thee, then?" demanded the Warder.

"To be sure he is," cried Dugald impatiently. "Come, man! he is close at hand, I tell thee. Come! art thou to keep us standing here all night? By all that's good, he is coming upon us;--and, if he be detained but the veriest fraction of a prod-flight, thou shalt surely have a cudgelling for thy supper. Come man!--open I tell thee."

The huge iron bolts were now withdrawn from their fastenings, the key grated among the rough wards of the lock, and the wicket was thrown back, whilst the Warder, peering through the opening, seemed as if he were inclined to know something more of those without, before he removed his own bulky person, that still blocked the passage. But Dugald, stooping his head, sprang through the low aperture, and throwing his skull right into the poor fellow's stomach, with the force of a battering-ram, he laid him sprawling on his back.

"Hech!" cried the Warder, as he fell. "Hech me!"

"Old fool that thou art!" cried Dugald, taking up the first word of quarrel with him; "who was to think that thou wert to be standing in the very midst of the way?--Yet I hope I have not hurt thee, for all that. Thou knowest, Rory, that I had rather hurt myself than thee."

"Nay, nay," said the old man, with a surly sort of acquiescence, as he was slowly raising himself from the ground by means of Dugald's assistance; during which operation Patrick Stewart, wrapped up in his plaid, and followed by the other two men, had made good his entrance into the court-yard. "Nay, nay, I am not hurt. I'm no such eggshells, i'faith. Yet what a fiend made thee so impatient? I behooved to be careful who I let in, seeing that I was strictly charged to open to none but Murdoch Stewart himself there," pointing to Sir Patrick, who was standing a few paces aloof. "More by token, I required to be all the warier, seeing that there was none living within the walls, besides myself, save the old Knight Sir Allan, and the Lady Stradawn."

"How comes that?" demanded Dugald; "Though so many went to Curgarf, there were still some left behind, surely."

"True enough, true enough," replied the Warder. "But I know not what hath possessed the lady. They have all been sent hither and thither, on some errand or another;--even the very women folk have all gone forth."

Sir Patrick Stewart stood to hear no more, but making a signal to Dugald and the others to follow him, he crossed the court-yard towards the door of the keep tower, where they stood aside, whilst he knocked gently, yet loud enough to be heard in the hall above. Soon afterwards, a timid and unsteady footstep was heard descending the stair.

"Open, good mother," said Sir Patrick.

"Oh, how thankful I am that thou art come!" said the Lady Stradawn, mistaking him for her son Murdoch, their voices being a good deal like to each other, and opening the door, pale and trembling, with a lamp in her hand, which the gust immediately extinguished. "A plague on the wind, my lamp is out! But oh, I am thankful that thou art come! 'Tis fearful to be left alone in the house with a dead man, and one, too----Oh 'twas fearful!"

"Dead!" cried Sir Patrick, with an accent of horror, which might have betrayed him, but for the agitation which then possessed her whom he addressed. "A dead man, saidst thou?"

"Aye!" replied the lady, in a hollow tone, "aye! I saw that thou hadst yearnings. Yet, after all, it was but giving him ease, by ridding him of a lingering life of pain. It was kindness, in truth, to help him away from such misery. Yet, 'tis no marvel that thou, who art his very blood, should have some compunction. But thou mayest be at rest now, for he is gone beyond thy help, or that of any one else."

"Gone!" exclaimed Sir Patrick again--"Gone! how did he die?"

"Horribly! most horribly!" replied the lady, shuddering. "It was fearful to behold him in his agonies! Knowing, as I did, the potency of the poison, I could hardly have believed that the old man would have taken so long to die."

"Horrible!" exclaimed Sir Patrick, involuntarily.

"Aye, it was horrible!" replied the lady; "horrible indeed, as thou wouldst have said if thou hadst seen it. For a moment, the poison seemed to have given him new strength, and he rose from his chair as if he would have done vengeance on me. 'Twas fearful to behold him!"

"Art sure he is quite dead?" said Sir Patrick again.

"Aye," replied the lady, "as dead as his son Walter; so dead, as to make thee surely the Laird of Stradawn, the moment that thou shalt have made as sicker of Patrick, as we may now soon hope thou wilt be able to do. I did but help him, as I was saying, out of the pains and wretchedness of old age and dotage. Yet it was an awful work for me. And oh, his last look was fearful! I wish I may ever be able to get rid of it! Would that thou couldst have steeled thyself up to have done it thyself Murdoch! But come in--come in quickly! Hast thou secured the prisoner?"

"I have," replied Sir Patrick, now exerting a certain degree of command over his feelings; "he will be here anon."

"That is well," replied the Lady Stradawn; "then all is thine own. His trial must be short, and his execution speedy. But come, we have much to do to make things seemly ere they arrive. He must appear to have died of a broken heart, caused by the wickedness of his son. Every thing suspicious must be removed from about him. I could not dare to touch him. Why stand ye so long hesitating? But 'tis no wonder, for I could not look upon him myself without fancying that the devil was grinning over my shoulder. 'Tis horrible to think on't! But come," continued she, as she at last seemed to summon up resolution to climb the stair; "lock the door, Murdoch, and follow me up quickly, for we have no time to lose."

Sir Patrick Stewart made a signal to Dugald and the others, and then ascended to the hall after the Lady Stradawn. A deathlike silence prevailed within it. A single lamp was glimmering feebly on a sconce at the upper end of it: and there stood the lady, pale and trembling, at that side of the chimney which was farthest from Sir Allan's chair. Sir Patrick, in his agitation, moved hurriedly forward; and the moment the light of the lamp fell upon his features, the lady uttered a loud scream, and swooned away upon the floor.

The spectacle that now met his eyes harrowed up his very soul. His father lay dead in his chair, with his features and his limbs fixed in the last frightful convulsion, by which the racking poison had terminated his existence. His mouth was twisted, his tongue thrust out, and his eyeballs so fearfully staring, that even his tenderly affectionate son felt it a dreadful effort to look upon that, which used to be to him an object of the deepest veneration and love. Beside his chair was the small table, on which he was usually served with his food. There stood a silver porringer containing the minced meat, which his extreme age required; and notwithstanding all that the Lady Stradawn had said to the contrary, the operation of the poison seemed to have been so quick, as to have mortally affected him, ere he had taken the fourth part of the mess that had been provided for him. Sir Patrick was overpowered by his feelings. He sank into a chair, and covering his face with his hands, he gave way to his grief, in which he remained so entirely absorbed, that neither the entrance of Dugald, nor the thundering which some time afterwards took place at the outer gate, nor the noise of the many voices of those who came pouring in, were sufficient to arouse him.

Dugald Roy had the presence of mind to hurry down to the court-yard, to prepare the Lord of Curgarf, and those who came with him, for the dreadful spectacle they were to witness. Thunderstruck and shocked by his intelligence, they crowded up to the hall, where the general horror was for some time so great, as to render every one incapable of acting; but at length they gathered sufficient recollection to bestir themselves. The poisoned porringer was first carefully preserved; the Lady Stradawn was carried off in strong fits to her apartment; the body of Sir Walter Stewart was borne up into the hall; and there, after undergoing the necessary preparations used on such occasions, the father and son were laid out in state together, and the couches on which the bodies rested were surrounded by so great a multitude of wax tapers, as to exchange the melancholy gloom of the place into a blaze of light, which, reflected as it was from the various pieces of armour that glittered in vain pomp upon the walls, shone but to produce a greater intensity of sadness. The good priest of Dounan was sent for; and the appalling news having spread quickly around, the retainers began to swarm into the Castle, from all quarters, in sorrowing groups, full of lamentation. Meanwhile the Lord of Curgarf and his son, the Master of Forbes, occupied themselves in soothing the afflicted Sir Patrick Stewart, and in aiding and encouraging him to go through with those trying and painful duties which this most afflicting occasion demanded of him.

Food and wine had been carried to the Lady Stradawn, where she sat alone in her bower, so deeply sunk in remorse, and dejection, and dread, as to be quite unconscious of the entrance or departure of those who brought her these comforts. Those who were compelled to be the bearers of them, gazed on her with fear, and hastened from her with expedition, and no one else could be persuaded to go near her, even her woman refused to remain with her, as something accursed, so that she was left abandoned by all, as a prey to her evil thoughts. Had any one ventured to look in upon her, as she sat motionless in her great chair, with a lamp flickering on a table beside her, and throwing an uncertain light by fits and snatches on her face, now pale and fixed as marble,--and on her glazed and tearless eyes, and her dry and withered lips, he might have fancied that she was already a corpse; yet deep, deep was the mental agony that she felt.

The midnight watch had been set, and all had been for some time silent within the walls of Drummin, save the distant hum of the subdued voices of those who, according to custom, sat waking the corpses in the hall, when the door of the Lady Stradawn's bower opened, and her son Murdoch appeared. If the spirit of her murdered husband had arisen before her eyes, she could not have started with more astonishment, or recoiled with greater apparent horror.

"Murdoch!" cried she, in a loud and agitated voice, "Is it thee, Murdoch?"--And then, sinking back into the same fixed and motionless attitude, whence she had been thus momentarily aroused, she added, in a faint, low, and feeble tone, "Murdoch!--would that thou hadst never been born!"

"Mother," said Murdoch, calmly shutting the door behind him, and taking a seat beside her chair, "I have heard all from Nicol, the playfellow of my boyhood, who chanced to be set to guard me, in the apartment below. I wished to see thee ere we die; and I purchased from the sordid wretch this midnight hour--this last hour of privacy with thee."

"Ha!" cried the Lady Stradawn, with a strange and sudden transition from the apathy and torpor of despair, to the most energetic anxiety of hope; "If Nicol did that for thee, why may we not bribe him to open a way for us through those who guard the gate?--Quick!--quick!--quick!--Oh, let us quickly escape!--Oh, let us not tarry one moment longer! There are my keys; we have treasure in that cabinet, which may well bribe him, and yet leave us rich!"

"Be composed, my most worthy mother," said Murdoch Stewart; "There is not the shadow of a chance for us in that way. The door of the keep is doubly barred, and doubly guarded, and no one leaves it unexamined beneath the light of a blazing torch. The whole men-at-arms and clansmen within the walls, infuriated against us, are of their own free will engaged in vigilant watching. The portcullis is down, the gate barricaded, the barbican manned, and the walls surrounded by patroles. Mother, cast aside all such hopes as useless, for as the guilt of both of us must soon appear as clear as to-morrow's noonday, so that sun, which shall certainly arise to-morrow morning, shall as surely look upon our graves ere he sets."

The Lady Stradawn sank again into the chair, from which the sudden impulse of hope had so energetically raised her, and, groaning deeply, she relapsed into her former state of deathlike stillness, broken only by the long drawn sob that at certain intervals convulsed her whole frame.

"Mother!" said Murdoch Stewart, after a pause; "Where are all the fruits of that career of crime for which thou nursed me as an infant, tutored me as a boy, and prompted me as a man? Have I not followed thy bidding through deceit, robbery, and murder, and where is now my reward?--Thine is locked up there in that secret cabinet of glittering toys, which to-morrow thou must leave, to go out to be hanged by the neck on the gallows-tree, with the son, whom thou wouldst have had Lord of the Aven, grinning at thee like a caitiff cur from the farther end of its beam--"

"Oh!--Oh--ho!" cried the agonized woman, shaken through every limb by the palsy of her fears; "Is there no--no deliverance for us?"

"Yes," said Murdoch Stewart, calmly; "yes, there is a deliverance, and a speedy one too."

"Oh, name it!" cried the frantic woman; "Oh, name it! and quickly let us avail ourselves of it!"

"Here it is," said Murdoch Stewart, quietly taking a small paper packet from his bosom; "Here it is, mother. A few small pinches of this powder, mingled in a cup of that wine, will snatch us both from the torture of being made a disgraceful public spectacle to-morrow--of being gazed at by the vulgar eyes, and pointed at by the vile fingers of those wretched serfs, and their grovelling mates and spawn, whom, a little better luck and better fortune for us, had by that time made the abject slaves of our will. See! here it is mingled, already it is dissolved, and now the draught is potent. Good mother, I pledge thee," said he, drinking down half of what the goblet contained; "and now here is thy share."

"No,--no,--no!--I cannot!--no, I cannot!" cried the Lady Stradawn, with frantic horror in her averted eyes.

"Then do I tell thee, mother mine," said Murdoch Stewart sternly; "thou hast not trained me up to deal in deeds of blood and death for naught. I shall never suffer thy womanish fears to bring the disgrace of the gallows upon thee. I love thee too much for that. See here, good mother! 'tis but a choice of deaths. Here is a concealed dagger, look you. Say! wouldst thou bring one more murder--the murder of a mother on my already overburdened soul, to sink it deeper in that sea of torment, to which these priests would fain have us believe that those, who, like us, have used the wit and the strength with which they have been gifted, for bettering their own condition in this world, must hasten from hence. Drink! or by every fiend that suffers there, thou diest in the instant!"

The Lady Stradawn glared at her son with a vacant stare, as if all reason had fled from her. She took the cup mechanically from his hand, and drained it to the bottom.

"What hast thou done?" cried the man-at-arms, who had been brought to the door by the violent tone of some of Murdoch Stewart's last words, and who rushed in just as the Lady Stradawn had swallowed the poison.

"Do what thou wilt now, Nicol," said Murdoch Stewart, with perfect composure; "We are both beyond thy power, or that of any one else within the castle of Drummin."

Nicol at once guessed at what had happened, and ran instantly for the Priest. The good Father of Dounan was deeply skilled in medicine, as well as in divinity. He called for assistance, and antidotes were forcibly given to Murdoch Stewart, and passively received by his mother the Lady Stradawn. Their wretched existence was thus prolonged, though death could not be altogether averted. They lingered on, in great pain, for many days, during which all judicial proceedings were suspended. The pious priest lost not one moment of this precious time. By exerting all his religious learning, and all his eloquence, he at length succeeded in bringing both of them to a full sense of the enormity of their guilt, as well as to an ample confession of all their crimes. It is not for us to interpret the decrees of the Almighty in such a case as theirs; but if the apparent deep contrition that followed was real, and heartfelt, we may trust that the mercy, as well as the benefit of the merits of that blessed Saviour, who died for us all upon the cross, even for the thief that was crucified with him, was extended to them, dreadful as their crimes had been.

My legend now draws to a hasty conclusion. The days of mourning were fully numbered by Sir Patrick Stewart, for his murdered father and brother. The kindness of the old Lord of Curgarf, and his son Arthur Master of Forbes, towards him, was unwearied and most consolatory. Nor were the delicate affections of the Lady Catherine Forbes less tenderly or unremittingly displayed, so that, in due time, by becoming her husband, he bound himself to both his friends by the closest and dearest ties. In pious remembrance of his brother Sir Walter's murder, he erected the pillar of stone I spoke of, as that which stood so long by the side of the well-eye where he was slain; but he refrained from inscribing any thing upon it, lest his doing so might have revived the recollection of Murdoch Stewart's atrocity. He likewise ordered a stone to be set up, where the proud Priest of Dalestie was burned, rather as a sort of expiation of the stern act of justice, which his brother Sir Walter had inflicted upon him, than to perpetuate the detested memory of the depraved wretch who suffered there.

FATE OF THE OULD AUNCIENT MONUMENTS.

Clifford.--(as we arose to pursue our journey.)--And what became of these two monuments, Serjeant Stewart?

Serjeant.--A certain gentleman, who was building a house somewhere in this neighbourhood, (for I had rather not designate him too particularly,) cast his eyes on the fine stone that stood by the well-eye, and perceiving that it would make an excellent lintel, he took immediate measures to get it carried off to his rising edifice. Having accomplished his intention, with no little difficulty, it was speedily employed in the building, where it promised to conduct itself with the same quiet and decorum which were observed by all the other stones of the edifice, after being put to rest, each in his separate bed of mortar. But no sooner did the house come to be inhabited, than it began to be haunted by strange and mysterious noises. Some of these were quite unintelligible, for they resembled no earthly sound that had ever been heard before. Then long conversations began, and were continued, in small sharp clear voices; but although the words fell distinctly enough on the ears of those who heard them, the language was as a sealed book to them. And ever and anon the seeming dialogue would be interrupted by strange uncouth fits of laughter, as if of several persons together, or in different parts of the premises, that were so far from creating a corresponding disposition to mirth or merriment in the listeners, that they froze up the very blood in their veins. But this was not all. The most dismal croaking of frogs arose in every part of the house. You would have sworn that the creatures were in the cup-boards--the presses--the chimnies--in the beds--on the floors--nay, on the very tables, and among the dishes which the good folks of the family had set before them. It was as if the frogs, that formed the great plague in Egypt, had filled the house with their hoarse voices. One would begin as if he were the leader of the band, and then others would start off, one after another, till the doleful chorus, resounding from all quarters, made the concert loud and sonorous. It was no uncommon thing, during the dark and dreary watches of the night, for the voice of the leader, which had something peculiarly striking in it, to arise of a sudden, as if he that uttered it was sitting astraddle on the nose of the goodman of the house. In vain was the hand applied to the organ, to drive off what, in reality, appeared to be the organist. There was nothing there; yet the sound continued as if it had come from the deepest pipe in the organ loft of some cathedral, yea, of that of the great organ of Haerlem itself. The more he rubbed the more it grew, and the louder and more universal became the chorus. His very nose itself increased in size, from the frequent and severe rubbings to which it was thus subjected, whilst he began to grow thin and emaciated in proportion, till his whole person at length appeared rather as if it had been an appendage to his nose, than his nose an appendage to his person. At last, being worn out in spirit, as he was very nearly in body also, he was fain to take out the stone from the building, and to carry it back to the hill-side again, and then, to be sure, he enjoyed perfect quiet.

Clifford.--A sensible man, truly. But what had evil spirits or fairies to do with a monumental stone?

Serjeant.--Nothing that I can see, sir, except that being guilty of so impious a deed as the removal of such a stone, he was for a time left unprotected by all good angels, and consequently he was altogether at the mercy of those evil ones.

Grant.--Very well made out, Mister Serjeant. But where is the stone now?

Serjeant.--Why, sir, I am sure you will hardly believe me when I tell you, that a few years ago it was wantonly destroyed by another gentleman, who shall be also nameless.

Grant.--What a Goth he must have been! Why should you conceal his name, Serjeant?--It deserves to be held up to public reprobation

Serjeant.--I know my own interest too well to be the officious person who shall publish it though. Yet I must own that it would have served him right that it should have been so marked. What do you think he did, gentlemen? Happening to be in this part of Strathdawn, he, without rhyme or reason, and out of sheer wickedness, ordered his people to break both that and the Clach-na-Tagart, or the Priest's stone, which shocking pieces of barbarism he took care to see executed in his own presence, whilst he stood by, like a mischievous baboon, chuckling over their destruction.

Clifford.--The fellow deserved to have been plunged over head and ears into the Wallee in the first place, and after being thus well soaked, he ought to have been leisurely consumed at the Priest's stone, like a well watered sack of Newcastle coals.

Serjeant.--Why, sir, I must allow that he has been punished severely enough. The whole people of the country cried out upon him, and every one declared that it was quite impossible that the fellow could thrive, after having demolished two such ould auncient antiquities. And so in truth it turned out, for not long afterwards he lost the whole fushon [6] of his side. As for the Clach-na-Tagart, the Roman Catholics, who form the chief population hereabouts, intended to have clasped it together with iron bands, but, (addressing author,) as you know very well, sir, from having recorded the fact in your book, the great flood of August 1829 saved them the trouble of doing so, for the Aven then carried the broken stone clean away, aye, and it swept off the best part of the haugh it stood upon into the bargain.

Grant.--But stay, my good friend, Archy. What do you mean by quitting the level path to climb this confounded steep hill, as the direction of your nose, at this moment, would seem to indicate your present intention to be?

Serjeant.--I would fain show you an extensive prospect, gentlemen. It is only a bit start of a pull up here. A mere breathing for you after the long rest you had by the water side yonder.--(Then addressing the gilly.)--My man, hold you on the road to Inchrory with the horse, and tell the gudewife there that we are coming.

Clifford.--'Tis a very stiff pull, Archy. But we shall be all the better for something of this sort to put us in wind. I calculate that we shall have some worse climbing than this before we are done with these mountains.

Serjeant.--Troth, you may well say that, sir; and as for this hill, we may be very thankful that we have not to climb it with a strong demonstration of the enemies' riflemen lining the ridge of it.

Clifford.--You are out there, serjeant. Depend upon it, if we saw an enemy lining the height, we should both of us climb it like roebucks, to be at them.

Serjeant.--I'm not saying but we might, sir; that is, if we saw that we were sufficiently well backed. But for all that, we might find our graves before we were half way up the hill; and then what the better should we be, of our comrades saying, as they passed by us, "Poor fellows, you are settled!" Would that be any consolation to us, as we lay writhing in the last agonies?

Grant.--Very small consolation indeed, Archy.

Serjeant.--I wot it would be little indeed, sir. Yet ought a man to do his duty for all that, simply because it is his duty. Many is the time I have heard my good friend Captain Ketley say that; and there were few words fell from his mouth that had not some good sense, or some good moral in them. And certain it is, that if we did not always keep this rule of our conduct in view, we should neither be good sodgers nor good Christians.

Clifford.--Right again, old boy.

Serjeant.--And yet, Mr. Clifford, as I reckon, there is some pleasure in coming out of the skrimmage in a whole skin, and with ears that can hear all the honest commendations that are bestowed upon your own brave and gallant conduct.

Grant--(after reaching the summit of the hill.)--That was indeed a breather; but now, Serjeant, for the prospect you promised us, I see nothing as yet but the bare flat moist moory hill-top.

Serjeant--(leading us to the eastern verge of the top of the hill.)--Come this way, then, gentlemen. See here what an extensive prospect you have down the course of the river Don. It looks but a small stream there, especially from this height.

Author.--What old castle is that which we see below us there, near yonder clump of trees?

Serjeant.--That is Curgarf Castle. That is the very spot to which so much of my legend referred, though I shall not pretend to say that the building you see there is precisely the same. But now, gentlemen, turn your eyes westward again. Is not that a fine mountain view? See how proudly the Cairngorms rise yonder! But, observe me--you don't see the very highest summits as yet, because those big black lumps opposite to us there, hide the highest tops from our eyes.

Author.--It is a magnificent scene notwithstanding, especially as viewed at present, under that splendid display of evening light, that is now shooting over those loftier ridges from the descending sun.

Grant.--A very grand scene indeed!

Clifford.--Aye, Grant, we shall have some climbing there, I promise you.

Grant.--There can be little doubt of that. But tell me, Serjeant, what solitary house is that we see in the valley below?

Author.--I can answer you that question. That is Inchrory, the small place, half farm-house, half hostel, where we are to sojourn to-night. It is used as a place of rest and refreshment, by the few travellers who pass on foot, or on horseback, by the rugged path which we left in the valley, and which goes hence southwards, up through the valley of the Builg--past the lake of that name,--so across what is there the rivulet of the Don,--and then onwards over the hills to Castleton of Braemar. That deep hollow in the mountains, that turns sharp westwards beyond Inchrory yonder, is what is more properly called Glenaven. The river Aven comes pouring down hitherwards through it, and our way lies up its course.

Clifford.--I should be sorry if it did so this evening. I am quite prepared to hail yonder house of Inchrory below, as a welcome place of refuge for this night.

Author.--Few places must be more welcome to a wayworn traveller than Inchrory, especially when first descried by the weary wayfarer from Castleton, in a winter's evening, as the sun is hasting downwards.

Serjeant.--You are not far wrong there, sir. A dreadful hill journey that is, indeed, from Castleton to Inchrory, amid the storms of winter. Not a vestige of a house by the way. Many a poor wretch has perished in the snow, amidst these trackless wastes. Not to go very far back, there was a terrible snow storm about the Martinmas time in the 1829. It roared, and blew, and drifted so fast, that it was mid-day or ever Mrs. Shaw of Inchrory ventured to put her head out beyond the threshold of her own door, to look at the thick and dreary shroud of white in which dead nature was wrapped, and which covered the whole lonely scene of hill and valley around her, and was in many places blown into wreathes of a great depth. There was not a speck of colour, nor any moving thing to vary the glazed unbroken surface, except on one distant hillock, where a single human figure was seen, wandering to and fro, as if in a maze, like some one bereft of reason. The male inhabitants of the house were all out looking after the stock belonging to the grazing farm; and, as Mrs. Shaw was in doubt whether the person she beheld might not in reality be some one who was deranged, as his movements rather seemed to indicate, she was afraid to venture to approach him. But curiosity as well as pity made her cast many a look towards him during that afternoon, as he still continued to move slowly round the hillock, and backwards and forwards, without any apparent sense or meaning, and stopping now and then, as if utterly bewildered. At length, as it was drawing towards night, Mrs. Shaw observed that the figure had either fallen, or lain down among the snow, and her charitable feelings then overcoming all her apprehensions, she proceeded to wade through the snow towards the hillock where he lay. Having, with very considerable difficulty, made her way to the spot, she found him lying on his back, as composedly as if he had lain down in his bed. The intense cold had so benumbed his intellects, indeed, that he did not seem to be in the least aware of his own melancholy situation.--"Wha are ye? and what are ye wantin?" said he, to Mrs. Shaw, with a faint smile on his emaciated face, as he beheld her stooping over him with an anxious gaze of inquiry. "I came to help you," replied Mrs. Shaw; "Will you let me try to lift you up?"--"Thank you, I can rise mysel'," replied he, making a vain effort to get up.--"You had better let me help you," said Mrs. Shaw.--"Ou, na, thank ye," replied he again; "I can rise weel eneugh mysel."--"Do so, then," said Mrs. Shaw, whilst at the same time she prepared herself for giving him her best assistance during his attempt. In this way, a strong effort on her part enabled her at last to succeed in getting the poor man on his legs; and then, after the expenditure of as much time as might have easily enabled her to have gone five or six miles, and with immense labour and fatigue, this heroic woman was finally successful in supporting him, or rather, I should say, in half carrying him to Inchrory. When she had got him fairly out of the snow, and into the house, she had the horror to discover, that not only were his shoes and stockings gone, but that even the very flesh was worn off his feet. When help arrived, they got him into bed, and did all for him that charitable Christians could do. Food was brought to him, but it was some time before he could be made to swallow any portion of it, and that only by feeding him like a child. The poor fellow turned out to be a young man of the name of Thomas Macintosh, servant to the Rev. Mr. MacEachan, the Roman Catholic priest at Castleton, which place he had left on the Wednesday morning, and he had wandered among the snow, without food or shelter, and becoming every moment more and more bewildered, until the Friday evening, when Mrs. Shaw's praiseworthy exertions brought him to her house. On the Saturday, the good people carried him down the valley to the next farm, on his way to the doctor. But, alas! no doctor was ever destined to do him any good, for he died that same evening. Two one pound notes, and a few shillings, were found in his pocket, which sum went to pay the expense of his interment in the newly made church-yard at Tomantoul, of which, as it so happened, he was the second tenant.

Grant.--What a melancholy fate!

Serjeant.--Sad, indeed, sir. But there are many stories of the same kind connected with this wild path through these desolate mountains.

Author.--Do you remember any more of them, Archy?

Serjeant.--Ou, yes, sir. It was upon that terrible night of drift, the 25th of November, 1826, no farther gone, when so many poor people perished, that a man, three women, and two horses, were buried in the snow upon yon hill, which is called Cairn Elsach, as they were on their way back from the Tomantoul market. So deep was the snow in many places, that one of the horses was found frozen stiff dead, and the beast was so supported in it, as to be sticking upright upon his legs, and a woman was discovered standing dead beside him. Some little time afterwards, a shepherd, who happened to have occasion to cross the hill, had his attention attracted by some long hair which was seen above the icy surface, waving in the wintry blast. On scraping away the snow, he found that it was attached to a woman's head, who had unfortunately perished. He procured the assistance of some of his friends, who were afraid to dig out the body for fear it might have become offensive. I, who chanced to be there, had no such scruples, first, because I knew very well that the snow must have preserved it, and, secondly, because, if it had been otherwise, I knew that I had lost my sense of smelling in consequence of the desperate wound in my jaw, of which I told you. When the snow was removed, the poor young woman's body was found quite fresh and entire, but it was perfectly blue in colour.

Author.--These are melancholy details; yet, it must be confessed, they are quite in harmony with the wild and lonely scenery now before our eyes.

Grant.--They remind one of the horrors of the Alps.

Clifford.--The gaunt wolves are wanting, though, to make up the picture completely.

Serjeant.--We had the wolves also ourselves once upon a time, sir; and now the corby, and the hill-fox, and the eagle, do their best to make up for the want of them. But such a wilderness as this, covered deep with snow, and the howling wind carrying the drift across it, has quite terrors enough in it for my taste.

Author.--I am quite of your opinion, Archy.