Chapter II: Part 2

John Smith was, in truth, all that M'Taggart had called him, being a handsome, good looking man, as brave as a lion, and not altogether devoid of a certain natural ambition. But he was ignorant, thoughtless, and credulous, owing to his having been, up to that day, entirely without experience. He had never before seen anything like military array, and irregular and deficient, in many respects, as that was which he now beheld, still it was enough to captivate his unpractised eye. John had a strong attachment to his master and mistress, who had always been very kind to him. But his devotion to the Prince, whom he had never seen, was of a higher and holier order. Bestowing a few moments of reflection on the ceaseless and profitless plodding, and slavish drudgery of his present duties, all, in themselves, absolutely repugnant to the very nature of a Highlander, and comparing them with the ideal picture he had drawn to himself, of the gallant, gentlemanlike service of the Prince, whose soldiers, he believed, had not only daily opportunities of enriching themselves with honourable plunder,--a small specimen of which he had just witnessed--but who had the prospect opened to them of one day becoming great men, the contrast was by far too flattering in favour of the latter not to dazzle him. But if it had not had that effect, the promise which M'Taggart made him of introducing him to Prince Charles, the son of the true and legitimate King of Scotland, was enough of itself to have gained John's consent in a moment.

"Ou, troth, she'll no be lang o' gangin' wi' her," said John, "an she'll but stop till she clean hersel' a wee frae ta durt o' ta fulthy bog, tat ta soo beast pat her intill,--and syne bids fereweel to ta leddy."

"Whoo!" exclaimed M'Taggart.--"The lady! What, then, the Pensassenach is somewhere about the place after all, and you know where she is?--By holy St. Mary, but I will burn every house here, and force the rancorous whig she-devil to unkennel out of her hiding place!"

"Teel purn her nane sell's fooliss tongue for namin' ta leddy ava ava!" said John bitterly. "But she may e'en purn ta hale toon gin she likes--fint a bit o' ta leddy can she purn."

"Ha, my good fellow," said M'Taggart, "since you have the secret knowledge of her place of concealment locked up in your bosom, what is to hinder me to use a thumbikin as a key to unlock it.--I have a great mind to try."

"She may e'en puts ta toomkin on her nanesell's neck, and she'll no tell after a'," said John resolutely. "And ponny pounties tat wad be surely for Shon Smiss to serve ta Prince."

"Nay, my good fellow, I was only joking," said M'Taggart, afraid to lose so good a volunteer; "trust me I meant you no harm."

"Gin she purns ta toon, or gin she do ony mair ill aboot ta place, fouk wull be sayin' tat Shon Smiss bid her do it," continued John--"an tat wad be doin' Shon mockell harm. Teevil ae stap wull Shon be gangin' wi' her at a' at a', an she do ony mair bad sings here."

"Well well," said M'Taggart, soothing him, "go in and dress yourself, and make your mind easy; and the sooner we are away from here the better."

John thought so too. He ran to the stable for his breachcan; [2] put on his best coat, kilt, and hose; tied up his only two shirts, and a spare pair of hose, in a napkin, and placed the bundle into the fold of his plaid; and then seizing a trusty old broad-sword, he put on his new Sunday's bonnet, smartly cocked up,--and he strode so erectly forth to M'Taggart, and with so martial an air, that, added to the wonderful change created in his personal appearance by his dress, made the captain hesitate for a moment in believing him to be the same man.

"She be ready noo," said John; "put fare be ta rest o' ta men, Captain!"

"They are hunting the Pensassenach," replied M'Taggart with a careless laugh.

"She pe verra idle loons tan," said John, "for gin she wad seek a' tay she wad na' find her." And then, by way of diverting the Captain's attention from the search by a joke, he pointed to Morag, who stood at the door, weeping bitterly at the prospect of his departure, and added,--"see, tat pe ta Pensassenach."

"That the Pensassenach!" said M'Taggart.--"That's a good joke truly. I know well enough that's not the Pensassenach that we are after."

"She pe a verra ponny Pensassenach," said John, going up to Morag, and hastily delivering to her, in a Gaelic whisper, directions how and when she should relieve her mistress from her confinement, and also where she was to look for the packman, that she might get him taken out of the water.

"That Pensassenach seems to be a favourite of yours, John," said the Captain.

"She wunna say put she is," replied John, his heart filling a little with sympathy for Morag's tears, and at the prospect of leaving her.--"Petter tak tiss Pensassenach wi' huss,"--and then, rather as a parting word of kindness than anything else, he added, "will she go, Morag?"

This was too much for poor Morag. Her heart was too full for her to command words to reply. She rushed forward, and threw her arms around John. She fixed her hands into the folds of that breachcan, in which, in their days of herding, when she was but a lassie, and he but a boy, she had been so often wrapped by her lover as a shelter from the stormy elements, and she gave way to a burst of grief that at length enabled her to find utterance for her feelings. She implored him, in all the anguish of despair, not to leave her. John's heart was softened by her words, and her tears, and he blubbered like a child. M'Taggart, fearing that the martial influence in John's soul might be overpowered and extinguished by that of love, and setting a much greater value on him as a recruit, than on the capture of the Pensassenach, he thought it advisable to put an end to this tender interview as speedily as might be. He ordered the piper to play up therefore, and the men, abandoning their fruitless search after the English wife, were speedily gathered around him. The train of carts and horses, with the plunder, were driven on--the order of march was formed. John, after a severe struggle with his heart, rent himself away from the arms of Morag, and followed M'Taggart, without daring to speak, or to look behind him; whilst the poor girl, bereft of her support, fell upon the green--where she lay beating her breast and tearing her hair in utter despair, till the sound of the distant pipe died away, and the presence of some of her fellow-servants brought her back to her reason.

Morag was no sooner sufficiently calm and collected, than she hastened to execute John Smith's last injunctions. The poor Pensassenach was taken from the killogie more dead than alive. Morag would have had her to go to bed, but, having recovered herself a little, she became too much excited to rest; and, having arranged her dress, she began to bustle about her affairs, and to take a full note of her loss. It was, indeed, severe. But she felt that she endured it for a glorious cause, and that reflection made her bear it with wonderful philosophy. She was grieved, and even angry to learn that John Smith had enlisted with the Prince's men, but she felt deeply grateful to him for having saved her life; and especially so, when she heard from Morag the story of the packman's treachery, and John's ingenuity in defeating it, as well as of the whole of his exertions for her preservation.

"Where has John bestowed the villain?" demanded the Pensassenach.

"Toon in ta lint pot, memm," replied Morag; "I maun gang toon an get him oot o' ta holl noo."

"I'll go with you, Morag," said the Pensassenach; and so mistress and maid proceeded together towards the pond. "What noise is that?" cried the Pensassenach, as they drew near to it.

"Aw--yaw!--yaw--aw!" cried the packman from the pool.

"Where are you, wretched man?" cried the Pensassenach.

"Yaw--aw!--yaw--aw!" replied Mr. Dallas.

"Why don't you speak distinctly?" demanded the lady.

"Aw--aw!--yaw--aw!" replied Dallas again.

"The sound would seem to come from under that loose heap of rushes at the margin of the pool yonder," said the Pensassenach.

"Oich aye, she's here memm," cried Morag, removing the covering from the packman's head.

"Ya--aw!--aw--aw!" cried Dallas, raising his eyes with an expression of intense agony.

"Ah, I see how it is," said the Pensassenach; "John has gagged him, to prevent his vile tongue from betraying me. Loosen that string, Morag, and take out the gag."

"Oh, Heeven be praised that I hae fand freends at last," cried the packman in a hoarse voice. "Hech, my jaws are stiff, stiff, and sair, sair, wi' that plaguit bit o' a rung that John Smith pat into my mooth. Hech me! kind souls that ye are, pu' me oot, pu' me oot o' this, or I maun e'en drap awthegither owerhead into the pool, for I haena mair poor to stand on this ae leg o' mine, and I canna rest ony at a' on the short ane, mind ye, without sinkin' my mooth below the water. Och, memm, pu' me out!"

"How can you ask me to assist you, base wretch that you are?" cried the Pensassenach; "you who would have sold my life to have saved your own. I shall push you as gently under the water as I can, but drowned you must be."

"Oh, for the love o' Heeven hae mair charity!" cried the packman most piteously. "I'm a sad sinner, nae doot. But I'm a puir, wake, nervish craytur,--and fan that deevil incarnate, Captain M'Taggart, spak o' hangin' me, my brains whurled sae i' my head, that I didna ken what I was sayin'. But I'm sure I never thocht o' doin' harm till you or ony o' your hoose. Pu' me oot, memm; pu' me oot for the love o' Heeven, or the very life'll leave my legs wi' cauld."

"Pull you out," exclaimed the Pensassenach; "pull you out,--you who would have helped the Highlanders to my murder: pull you out, who wilfully spoke treason, to aid, abet, and comfort the rebel Captain. My loyalty to my King and my country forbids me to assist you, and compels me to make a sacrifice of you immediately. So, prepare for instant death."

"Och, hae mercy on my puir sowl," cried the packman in despair; "surely, surely, ye're no gawin' till droon me?"

"What can you say in exculpation of your treason?" demanded the Pensassenach, laying hold of the upper part of the sack with both her hands, and giving Mr. Dallas a gentle shake.

"Och, naething--naething ava," cried Mr. Dallas. "Oh, I'm a dead man--a dead man: hae mercy--hae mercy upon me. I'm a great sinner--a wicked, and hardened sinner."

"Perhaps it were well to allow you a few moments, wretch that you are, to confess your sins and repent, before you are sent into the other world," said the Pensassenach. "So make haste--lose not the fleeting space of time which I thus mercifully grant to you, and lighten your soul of as much load as you can."

"Oh, hae mercy--hae mercy on me!" cried Dallas.

"I'll have no mercy on you, more than this," cried the Pensassenach, in a terrible voice. "If you will not confess yourself, your last moment is at hand;" and so saying, she ducked Mr. Dallas's head under the water.

"O! O! O! Oh!--hech! ech!" cried Mr. Dallas, panting for breath; "I'm a dead man! I'm a dead man! Oh, Lord forgie me for sellin' pastes for precious stanes."

"Come! is that all?" cried the Pensassenach, shaking him again.

"Hae mercy on me for sellin' rock crystal for diamunts," cried Dallas.

"Come! out with it all!" said the Pensassenach.

"Oh! Och! Forgie me for sellin' bits o' ayster shells for pearls," cried Dallas again, "and pinchbeck for gold; and watches wi' worn out auld warks for new anes."

"Come! nothing else to confess?" said the Pensassenach.

"Oh, yes. Heaven help me, and hae mercy on me, for keepin' fause weights and a fause ell-wand," cried Dallas.

"Are these all your sins, villain?" exclaimed the Pensassenach.

"Oh, hey, aye, aye," said Dallas piteously, "and ower muckle, gude kens."

"Well, then," said the Pensassenach, taking a more determined grasp of the sack; "now, that you have duly confessed, here goes."

"Oh, stop, stop!" cried Dallas, in great fear. "Stop, stop! no yet! no yet! I hae mair to tell o' yet. I hae noo an' than picked up an odd silver spoon, or sae, or ony siccan wee article whan it cam in my way, just tempin' me like, in ony o' the hooses whaur I had quarters. But I never was a great fief--no, no."

"'Twas you belike who stole my silver punch-ladle," said the Pensassenach. "I missed it immediately after you were last here."

"I canna just charge my memory wi' the punch-ladle," said Mr. Dallas, unwilling to admit that he had in any way wronged the Pensassenach.

"Nay, then, your thefts must have been too numerous for you to note such a trifling item as that," said the Pensassenach; "but it is clear you did steal my punch-ladle, so now you shall die for not confessing. Now!"

"Oh, stop, stop, for mercy's sake!" cried Dallas, in livid apprehension. "I mind noo! I mind noo! I did tak' it--I did tak' the ladle! It shined sae tempin' through the glass door o' the bit corner cupboard, and the door was open, sae that I may amaist say that the deevil himsel' handed it oot till me, and pat it intil my very pack. But I'll never wrang you ony mair."

"I'll take good care you shall not," said the lady; "you shall never wrong me, nor any one else more. So now, prepare, for this is your last moment."

"Oh, mercy, mercy," cried the packman again. "I hae mair yet to confess! Oh, dinna droun me just yet!"

"Well, be quick," said the Pensassenach; "what more have ye to tell?"

"Oh, mercy, mercy!" cried Dallas. "That woman that I telled ye o' yestreen; that woman that I clippit out o' the Spey, was na just awthegither dead--"

"What!" exclaimed the Pensassenach, in horror; "wretch that you are, did you murder the woman?"

"Eh, na, na!" cried Dallas; "ill as I am, I didna do that. I just took her roklay and her gown, an some ither wee things aperteenin' till her, and syne I gade aff wi' mysel', leaving her to come roond to life at her nain leisure and convenience."

"Leaving her to die without help you mean, you murdering thief!" said the Pensassenach, shrinking back with horror from the very touch of him. "Wretch, you are unworthy of life! But I shall not be your executioner. You will grace a gallows yet, I'll warrant you. I shall now leave Morag to pull you out of the water. But hark ye, Mr. Dallas, before I leave you, I may as well tell you, that though I have spared your life, as indeed I never had the least intention of taking it, I advise you never to darken my door again; for, if you do, I promise you that you shall have another and a deeper taste of this lint-pot."

"Oh, bless you, memm!" cried Mr. Dallas, with an earnestness which showed how much he was relieved by her words; "I'll never come within five miles o' your farm. Noo, Morag, my dawty," continued he, addressing the maid after the mistress was gone; "gudesake, woman, be quick an' pu' me oot; or, as sure as death, I'll dee o't awthegither."

"Fawse loons tat she is," said Morag, looking terribly at him. "She will no pu' her oot; she wull pit her toon in ta holl, an' troon her! She is a wicked vullian--she wull pit her toon in ta holl an' troon her wissout nae mercy at a' at a'."

"Oh!" cried the terrified Dallas, with his eye-balls again starting from his head with apprehension. "Oh, dinna droon me, noo that your mistress has spared me! I wus ragin' fu' wi' brandy last nicht, and I didna ken what I wus doin'; and maybe I wus a wee unceevil till ye, or the like. But oh, hae mercy, hae mercy on me!"

"She'll no be ta waur o' a gude tooky tan," said Morag, seizing the sack, and plunging the gasping Mr. Dallas two or three times successively under the water; "tat'll cool ta hot speerits in her stamick, or she pe far mistane."

"Oh! O! O! Och! hech! och! oh!--O!" cried Dallas, gasping and panting. "O, mercy, mercy! an' I hadna drucken a' yon oceans o' brandy yester nicht, I had assuredly been a dead man this day, just frae very cauld itsel'. But the brandy o' yestreen has saved me frae a' the water that my body has imbibit frae this nasty lint-pot, by actuwully makin' a kind o' wake punch o' me. Oh, gude lassie that ye are, pu' me oot, pu me oot!"

"Its mair nor she's weel deservan'," said Morag, now putting forth all her strength to pull the sack and its contents up out of the water; "but Morag canna let a man be trooned an she can help it, pad man so she pe."

Having hauled up the sack, she laid it upon the grass, undid the fastenings of its mouth, and, with some difficulty, extricated Mr. Dallas from its durance vile. The worthy packman arose to his feet, and, shaking himself heartily, and stretching out first his short, and then his long leg, two or three times alternately, to relieve that killing cold cramp which possessed them, he hobbled off without uttering a word of thanks, and shivering so, that his teeth were rattling in his head, as if his jaws had contained a corps of drummers, beating the rogue's march. Morag looked after him with a hearty laugh, and then picking up the wet sack, she hastened to join her mistress.

Let us now follow the march of John Smith.

COMFORTS OF A LONDON CLUB-HOUSE.

Author.--Pray, stop for one moment, Mr. Macpherson, if you please. Let me throw a few more peats on the fire. With the rain still beating thus without, and the picture of the half-drowned shivering chapman brought so vividly before our mind's eyes by your description, we shall have our teeth rattling in our jaws from very sympathy, if we don't keep up the caloric we have already generated.

Grant.--It is right not to allow it to be too much reduced, certainly. But I declare I am as comfortable here in Inchrory, as if I were in my club-house in London.

Clifford.--Much more so, my good fellow, take my word for it. Where is the London club-house in which we could have been so quiet as we are here, especially in such weather as this. Think of the noise in the streets; think, I say, of the eternal thunder of the carriages of all kinds, the hackney-coaches, stage-coaches, omnibusses, and cabs, with the Cherokee yelling, and whooping of the drivers, uttering strange and horrible oaths; and, to complete the instrumental part of this mechanical concert, to have it grounded with the grating double bass of the huge carts, drays, and waggons. The mellow roar of the Aven is like the soft music of a flute, compared to so terrific a combination of ear-rending sounds. Then think of the crowd of dull and damp fellows, dry to talk to, but wet enough to the touch, who are continually coming in and going out, restless and unhappy--miserable when condemned to the house, and yet more wretched when out in the rain--giving you hopes of enjoying a glimpse of the fire at one moment, and then shutting you out entirely from it at the next, with persons so steeped, as to make the very evaporation from their bodies, by the heat, fill the room with clouds of steam,--talking, and chattering, and recognizing each other--disputing about politics, or the merits of the last opera, or opera singer, or ballet, or dancer. In vain you try to have some rational talk with some sensible man, or to listen to something of the greatest possible interest, which he has to tell you--for you have hardly begun so to do, when up comes some fool of a fellow, who, at some unfortunate time or another, has sworn eternal friendship to you, and who now, to your great discomfiture, as well as to the imminent peril of your good temper and manners, breaks boisterously in upon your tete-a-tete, to prove to you how well he keeps his oath, by nearly shaking your hand off, or perhaps dislocating your shoulder, by loudly protesting how rejoiced he is to see you, and by most heroically sacrificing himself, and his own valuable time, in kindly bestowing his fullest tediousness upon you, that he may give you the whole history of his life since he last saw you. Then, suppose you sit down to read some important speech, or leading article, in your favourite newspaper, or something which you wish to devour out of some much-talked-of pamphlet or review of the day, it is ten to one but you experience a similar interruption from some such kind and much attached friend. But the height of your misery is only attained, when you come to take refuge in the writing-room, in order to write a letter of more than ordinary importance, and requiring great care in the arrangement of its subject, as well as in the choice of its expressions. Then it is, that among those employed at the different tables, you are certain to find some two or more idle scribblers, who go not there really to write, but who, notwithstanding, waste more of the writing materials belonging to the club, than all the rest of its members put together, in order to give themselves importance, by an affectation of much business, and high correspondence. Amongst these there is probably one, who, after allowing you to get down to the bottom of your first page, and fairly into your subject, suddenly, and as if accidentally descries you, and rushing across to salute you, rivets himself on the floor close to your chair, and goes on ear-wigging you with his important secrets, whilst he is all the time curiously drinking in your's, from your half-written letter, which lies open before him. Or, if you should have the good fortune to escape from such a jackal as this, then you will find the other men of his kidney, who may be sitting at the different tables with the affectation of writing, carrying on such a battery of loud talk across the room, as altogether to distract your attention. In vain do you try to control your thoughts within their proper current. They are continually jostled aside by some half-caught sentence, which sets your mind working in some wrong direction, merely to have it again driven off at a tangent into some other, which is equally foreign to that subject to which you would confine it. In vain do you rub your brow, cover your eyes, and gnaw your pen; every thought but the right thought is forced upon you, until at last, in utter despair, you start to your feet, snatch up your blotted and often corrected letter, tear it into shreds, commit it to the flames, and, seizing your hat, you abruptly hurry homewards, duly execrating, as you go, all club-houses, and those many men of annoyance with which clubs are so universally afflicted.

Grant.--Your picture is a lively one, Clifford, and in its general features most just. Though our London clubs have many advantages, this lonely house of Inchrory is certainly better for our present purpose.

Author.--Gentlemen, unless you mean to enact here the part of some of those London club-annoyance-givers, which you, Clifford, have so well described, I think you had better drop your conversation, and allow Mr. Macpherson to proceed with his story.

Clifford.--I stand corrected;--then allow me to light a fresh cigar; and now, Mr. Macpherson, pray go on with Serjeant John Smith.

THE LEGEND OF SERJEANT JOHN SMITH'S ADVENTURES CONTINUED.

You will remember, gentlemen, that when I was interrupted, I was about to follow John Smith on his march with Captain M'Taggart. Well, you see, Prince Charles Edward chanced to be at this time at Kilravock Castle, the ancient seat of the Roses. Thither the sagacious captain thought it good policy to present himself, with the motley company, the greater number of the individuals of which he had himself collected. There he received his due meed of praise for his zeal, with large promises of future preferment for his energetic exertions in the Prince's cause. But although the Captain thus took especial care to serve himself in the first place, he made a point of strictly keeping his own promise to John Smith, for he did present him to the Prince, along with some five or six other recruits, whom he had cajoled to follow him, somewhat in the way he had cajoled John. But this their presentation was more with a view of enhancing the value of his own zeal and services, for his own private ends, than for the purpose, or with the hope of benefiting them in any way. The Prince came out to the lawn with M'Taggart, and some of his own immediate attendants. The men were presented to him by name; and John Smith was especially noticed by him. He spoke to each of them in succession; and then, clapping John familiarly on the shoulder,--

"My brave fellows," said he, "you have a glorious career before you. The enemy advances into our very hands. I trust we shall soon have an opportunity of fighting together, side by side. Meanwhile, go, join the gallant army which I have so lately left at Culloden, eagerly waiting the approach of our foes. I shall see you very soon, and I shall not forget you." So saying, he took off his Highland bonnet; and, whilst a gentle zephyr sported and played with his fair curls, he bowed gracefully to the men, and then retired into the house.

"She's fichts to ta last trap o' her bluids for ta ponny Princey!" cried John, with an enthusiasm which was cordially responded to by shouts from all present.

M'Taggart then gave the word, and the party wheeled off on their march in the direction of Inverness, in the vicinity of which town the Prince's army was encamped. Their way lay down through the parish of Petty, and past Castle-Stuart. As they moved on, they were every where loudly cheered by the populace--men, women, and children, who turned out to meet them, and showered praises and blessings upon them; and this friendly welcome seemed to await them all along their route, till they joined the main body of their forces, which lay about and above the mansion house of Culloden.

John Smith would have much preferred to have placed himself under the standard of the Mackintosh, whom the Smiths or Gowe, the descendants of the celebrated Gowin Cromb, who fought on the Inch of Perth, held to be their chief, as head of the Clan-Chattan. But M'Taggart was unwilling to lose the personal support of so promising a soldier. Perhaps also he began to feel a certain interest in the young man; and he accordingly advised him to stick close to him at all times.

"Stick you by me, John," said he--"stick close by my side; I shall then be able to see what you do, as well as to give a fair and honest, and I trust not unfavourable report of the gallant deeds which your brave spirit may prompt you to perform. Depend upon it, with my frequent opportunities of obtaining access to the Prince, I can do as much good for you, at least, as any Mackintosh."

On the night of the 14th of April then, John Smith lay with M'Taggart and his company, among the whin and juniper bushes in the wood of Culloden, where the greater part of the Jacobite army that night disposed of themselves. Whatever might have been the ill-provided state of the other portions of the Prince's troops, that with which John was now consorted, had no reason to complain of any want of those refreshments which human nature requires, and which are so important to soldiers. Large fires were speedily kindled; and the Pensassenach's great sow, with all her little pigs, and the poor woman's poultry of all kinds, together with some few similar delicacies which had elsewhere been picked up here and there, were soon divided, and prepared to undergo such rude cookery as each individual could command; and these, with the bread and cheese, and other such provisions, which they had carried off from the Pensassenach, as well as from some other houses, enabled them to spread for themselves what might be called a vurra liberal table in the wilderness. But the savoury odour which their culinary operations diffused around, brought hungry Highlanders from every quarter of the wood, like wolves upon them, so that each man of their party was fain to gobble up as much as he could swallow in haste, lest he should fail to secure to himself enough to satisfy his hunger, ere the whole feast should disappear under the active jaws of those intruders. The liquor was more under their own control. The flask was allowed to circulate through the hands of those only to whom it most properly belonged by the right of capture. John, for his part, had a good tasse of the Pensassenach's brandy; and the smack did not seem to savour the worse within his lips, because it was prefaced with the toast of--"Success to the Prince, and confusion to the Duke of Cumberland!"

After this their refreshment, the men and officers disposed themselves to sleep around the fires of their bivouac, each in a natural bed of his own selection, John Smith, being a pious young man, retired under the shelter of a large juniper bush, and having there offered up his evening prayer to God, he wrapped himself up in his plaid, and consigned himself to sleep. How long he had slept he knew not; when, as he turned in his lair to change his position, his eye caught a dim human figure, which floated, as it were, in the air, stiff and erect, immediately under the high projecting limb of a great fir tree, that grew at some twenty paces distant from the spot where he lay. The figure seemed to have a preternatural power of supporting itself; and as the breeze wailed and moaned through the boughs, it appeared alternately to advance and to recede again with a slow tremulous motion. John's heart, stout as it was against every thing of earthly mould, began to beat quick, and finally to thump against his very ribs, with all manner of superstitious fears. He gazed and trembled, without the power of rising, which he would have fain done, not for the purpose of investigating the mystery, but to take the wiser course of looking out for some other place of repose, where he might hope to escape from the appalling contemplation of this strange and most unaccountable apparition. He lay staring then at it in a cold sweat of fright, whilst the faint glimmering light from the nearest fire, as it rose or fell, now made it somewhat more visible, and now again somewhat more dim. At length, an accidental fall of some of the half burnt fuel, sent up a transient gleam that fully illuminated the ghastly countenance of the spectre, when, to John's horror, he recognised the pale and corpse-like features of Mr. William Dallas, the packman, whom he had left so ingeniously inserted into the sack, and deposited in the Pensassenach's lint-pot. Though the gag was gone, the mouth was wide open, and the large, protruded, and glazed eye-balls, glared fearfully upon him. Though the light was not sufficient to display the figure correctly, John's fancy made him vividly behold the sack. He would have spoken if he could; but he felt that the apparition of a murdered man was floating before him. His throat grew dry of a sudden. He gasped--but could not utter a word. He doubted not that the packman had been forgotten by Morag, and that, having fallen down into the water through cold and exhaustion, the wretch had at last miserably perished; and he came very naturally to the conclusion, that he who had put the unfortunate man there, was now doomed to be henceforth continually haunted by his ghost. Fain would he have shut out this horrible sight, by closing his eyes, or by drawing his plaid over them; but this he was afraid to do, lest the object of his dread should swim towards him through the air, and congeal his very life's-blood by its freezing touch. Much as he loved Morag, he had some difficulty in refraining from inwardly cursing her, for her supposed neglect of his express injunctions to relieve the packman from the pool. As he stared on this dreadful apparition, the flickering gleam from the faggot sunk again, and the countenance again grew dim; but John seemed still to see it in all its intensity of illumination. No more rest had he that night. Still, as he gazed on the figure, he again and again fancied that he saw it gradually and silently gliding nearer and nearer to him. The only relief he had was in fervent and earnest prayers, which he confusedly murmured, from time to time, in Gaelic. He eagerly petitioned for daylight, hoping that the morning air might remove all such unrealities from the earth. At length, the eastern horizon began to give forth the partial glimmer of dawn; but John was somewhat surprised to find, that, instead of the apparition fading away before it, the outlines of its horrible figure became gradually more and more distinct as it advanced, until even the features were by degrees rendered visible. But although John, by this time, began to discover that his fancy had supplied the sack, he now perceived something which he had not been able to see before, and that was, a thin rope which hung down from the horizontal limb of the fir tree, and suspended, by its lower extremity, the body of the poor packman by the neck. John was much shocked by this discovery. But he could not help thanking God that he was thus acquitted of the wretched man's death; and after the misery that he had suffered from the supposed presence of the apparition of a man who had been drowned through his means, however innocently, the relief he now experienced was immense. He called up some of his comrades to explain the mystery; and from them he learned, that Mr. Dallas had been caught in the early part of the night, in the very act of attempting to carry off Captain M'Taggart's horse from its piquet, and that he had been instantly tucked up to the bough of the fir tree, without even the ceremony of a trial.

The young Prince Charley was in the field by an early hour on the morning of the 15th, and being all alive to the critical nature of his circumstances, and by no means certain as yet how near the enemy might by this time be to him, he judged it important to collect, and to draw up his army on the most favourable ground he could find in the neighbourhood. He therefore marched them up the high, partly flattish, and partly sloping ridge, which, though commonly called Culloden Moor, from its being situated immediately above the house and grounds of that place, has in reality the name of Drummossie. He led them to a part of this ground, a little to the south eastward of their previous position in the wood of Culloden, and there he drew them up in order of battle. There they were most injudiciously kept lying on their arms the whole day, and if Captain M'Taggart's men had feasted tolerably well the previous night, their commons were any thing but plentiful during the time they occupied that position. It was not in the nature of things, that subordination could be so strictly preserved in the Prince's army, as it was in that of the Duke of Cumberland. I, who am well practeesed in the discipline of boys, gentlemen, know very well that it would be impossible to bring a regiment of them under immediate command, if the individuals composing it were to be collected together all at once, raw and untaught, from different parts of the district. It is only by bringing one or two at a time, into the already great disciplined mass, that either a schoolmaster, or a field-marischal can promise to have his troops always well under control. By the time evening came, the officers, as well as the men of the Prince's army, began to suffer under the resistless orders of a commander to whom no human being can say nay. Hunger, I may say, was rugging at their vurra hearts, and as they all saw, or supposed that they saw, reason to believe that there was no chance of the enemy coming upon them that night, many of them went off to Inverness and elsewhere, in search of food. M'Taggart himself could not resist those internal admonitions, which his stomach was so urgently giving him from time to time, and accordingly, John Smith conceived he was guilty of no great dereliction of duty, in strictly following the first order which his captain had given him, viz., to "stick by his side," which he at once resolved to do, as he saw him go off to look for something to support nature.

But the captain and his man had hardly got a quarter of a mile on the road to Inverness, when they, with other stragglers, were called back by a mounted officer, who was sent, with all speed, after them, to tell them that they must return, in order to march immediately. The object of their march was that ill-conceived, worse managed, and most unlucky expedition for a night attack on the Duke of Cumberland's camp at Nairn, which had that evening been so hastily planned. Hungry as they were they had no choice but to obey, and accordingly they hurried to their standards. The word was given, and after having been harassed by marching all night, without food or refreshment of any kind, they at last got only near enough to Nairn just to enable them to discover that day must infallibly break before they could reach the enemy's camp, and that consequently no surprise could possibly take place. Disheartened by this failure, they were led back to their ground, where they arrived in so very faint and jaded a condition, that even to go in search of food was beyond their strength, so that they sank down in irregular groups over the field, and fell asleep for a time. Awakened by hunger after a very brief slumber, they arose to forage. M'Taggart, and some of his party, and John Smith amongst the rest, went prowling across the river Nairn, which ran to the south of their position, and there they caught and killed a sheep. They soon managed to kindle a fire, and to subdivide the animal into fragments, but ere each man had time to broil his morsel, an alarm was given from their camp. Like ravenous savages they tore up and devoured as much of the half raw flesh as haste would allow them to swallow, and hurrying back, they reached their post about eight o'clock in the morning, when they found that the Duke of Cumberland was approaching with his army in full march.

The position chosen by the Prince as that where he was to make his stand on that memorable day, the 16th of April, was by no means very wisely or very well selected. It was a little way to the westward of that which his army had occupied on the previous day. Somewhat in advance, and to the right of his ground, there stood the walls of an enclosure, which the experienced eye of Lord George Murray soon enabled him to perceive, and he was at once so convinced that they presented too advantageous a cover to the assailing enemy, to be neglected by them, that he would fain have moved forward with a party to have broken them down, had time remained to have enabled him to have effected his purpose. But the Duke of Cumberland's army was already in sight, advancing in three columns, steadily over the heath, from Dalcross Castle, the tower of which was seen rising towards its eastern extremity. The Highlanders were at this time dwindled to a mere handful, and some of the best friends of the cause of the Stewarts who were present, and perhaps even the young Prince himself, began to believe that he had been traitorously deserted. But the alarm had no sooner been fully spread by the clang of the pipes, and the shrill notes of the bugles, than small and irregular streams of armed men, in various coloured tartans, were seen rushing towards their common position, like mountain rills towards some Highland lake, and filling up the vacant ranks with all manner of expedition. Many a brave fellow, who had gone to look for something to satisfy the craving of an empty stomach, came hurrying back with as great a void as he had carried away with him, because he preferred fighting for him whom he conscientiously believed to be his king, to remaining ingloriously to subdue that hunger which was absolutely consuming him. No one was wilfully absent who could possibly contrive to be present, but yet the urgent demands of the demon of starvation, to which many of them had yielded, had very considerably thinned their numbers, and, in addition to this source of weakness, there was another obvious one, arising from the physical strength of those who were present being wofully diminished by the want they had endured, and the fatigue they had undergone. But with all these disadvantages the heroic souls of those who were on the field remained firm and resolute.

John Smith's military knowledge was then too small to allow him to form any judgment of the state of affairs, far less to enable him to carry off, or to describe, any thing like the general arrangement of the order of battle on both sides. He could not even tell very well what regiments his corps was posted with: he only knew this, that according to the order he had received he stuck close to Captain M'Taggart. He always remembered with enthusiasm, indeed, that the Prince rode through the ranks with his attendants, doing all that he could to encourage his men, and that when he passed by where John himself stood, he smiled on him like an angel, and bid him do his duty like a man.

"Och, hoch!" cried John, with an exultation, which arose from the circumstance of his not being in the least aware that every individual near him had, like him, flattered himself that he was the person so distinguished.--"Fa wad hae soughts tat ta ponny Princey wad hae mindit on poor Shon Smiss? Fod, but she wad fichts for her till she was cut to collops!"

But John had little opportunity of fighting, though he appears to have borne plenty of the brunt of the battle. There were two cannons placed in each space between the battalions composing the first line of the Duke of Cumberland's army, and these were so well served as to create a fearful carnage among the Highland ranks. To this dreadful discharge John Smith stood exposed, with men falling by dozens around him, mutilated and mashed, and exhibiting death in all his most horrible forms, till, to use his own very expressive words,--"She was bitin' her ain lips for angher tat she could not get at tem." But before John could get at them, the English dragoons, who, under cover of the walls of the enclosure I have mentioned, had advanced by the right of the Highland army, finally broke through the fence, and getting in behind their first line, came cutting and slashing on their backs, whilst the Campbells were attacking them in front, and mowing them down like grass. Then, indeed, did the melee become desperate, and then was it that John began to bestir himself in earnest. Throwing away his plaid, and the little bundle that it contained, he dealt deadly blows with his broad-sword, everywhere around him. He fought with the bravery and the perseverance of a hero. At length his bonnet was knocked from his head, and although he was still possessed with the most anxious desire to obey Captain M'Taggart's order to stick to his side, he was surprised on looking about him to find that there was no M'Taggart, no, nor any one else left near him to stick to but enemies.

John Smith's spirit was undaunted, so that, seeing he had no one else to stick to, he now resolved to stick to his foes, to the last drop of life's blood that was within him. Furiously and fatally did he cut and thrust, and turn and cut and thrust again, at all who opposed him; but he was so overwhelmed by opponents, that in the midst of the blood, and wounds, and death which he was thus dealing in all directions, he received a desperate sabre cut, which, descending on him from above, entirely across the crown of his bared head, felled him instantaneously to the ground, and stretched him senseless among the heather, whilst a deluge of blood poured from the wound over both his eyes.

When John began partially to recover, he rubbed the half-congealed blood from his eyelids with the back of his left hand, and looking up and seeing that the ground was somewhat clear around him, he griped his claymore firmly with his right hand, and raising himself to his feet, he began to run as fast as his weak state would allow him. He thought that he ran in the direction of Strath Nairn, and he ran whilst he had the least strength to run, or the least power remaining in him. But his ideas soon became confused, and the blood from the terrible gash athwart his head trickled so fast into his eyes, that it was continually obscuring his vision. At length he came to a large, deep irregular hollow hag, or ditch, in a piece of moss ground, which had been cut out for peats, and there, his brain beginning to spin round, he sank down into the moist bottom of it to die, and as the tide of life flowed fast from him, he was soon lost to all consciousness of the things or events of this world.

Whilst John was lying in this senseless state, he was recognised by one of the fugitives, who, in making his own escape, chanced to pass by the edge of the ditch in the moss where the poor man lay. This was a certain Donald Murdoch, who had long burned with a hopeless flame for black-eyed Morag. With a satisfaction that seemed to make him forget his present jeopardy in the contemplation of the death of his rival, he looked down from the edge of the peat hag upon the pale and bloody corpse, and grinned with a fiendish joy.

"Ha! there you lie!" cried he in bitter Gaelic soliloquy.--"The fiend a bit sorry am I to see you so. You'll fling or dance no more, else I'm mistaken.--Stay!--is not that the bit of blue ribbon that Morag tied round his neck, the last time that we had a dance in the barn? I'll secure that, it may be of some use to me;" and so saying he let himself down into the peat hag, hastily undid the piece of ribbon,--and then continued his flight with all manner of expedition.

Following the downward course of the river Nairn, running at one time, and ducking and diving into bushes, and behind walls at another, to avoid the stragglers who were in pursuit, he by degrees gained some miles of distance from the fatal field, and coming to a little brook, he ventured to halt for a moment, to quench his raging thirst. As he lay gulping down the crystal fluid, he was startled by hearing his own name, and by being addressed in Gaelic.

"Donald Murdoch!--Oh, Donald Murdoch, can you tell me is John Smith safe? Oh, those fearful cannons how they thundered!--Oh, tell me, is John Smith safe?--Oh, tell me! tell me!"

"Morag!" cried Donald, much surprised, but very much relieved to find that it was no one whom he had any cause to be afraid of,--"Morag!--What brought you so far from home on such a day as this?"

"Oh Donald!" replied Morag, "I came to look after John Smith;--oh, grant that he be safe!"

"Safe enough, Morag," replied Donald, galled by jealousy. "I'll warrant nothing in this world will harm him now."

"What say you?" cried Morag. "Oh, tell me! tell me truly if he be safe?"

"I saw John Smith lying dead in a moss hole, his skull cleft by a dragoon's sword," replied Donald with malicious coolness.

"What?" cried Morag, wringing her hands, "John Smith dead! But no! it is impossible!--and you are a lying loon, that would try to deceive me, by telling me what I well enough know you would wish to be true. God forgive you, Donald, for such cruel knavery!"

"Thanks to ye, Morag, for your civility," replied Donald Murdoch calmly; "but if you wont believe me, believe that bit of ribbon--see, the very bit of blue ribbon you tied round John Smith's neck, the night you last so slighted me at the dance in the barn. See, it is partly died red in his life's blood."

"It is the ribbon!" cried Morag, snatching it from his hand with excessive agitation, and kissing it over and over again, and then bursting into tears. "Alas! alas! it must be too true! What will become of poor Morag!--why did I not go with him! What is this world to poor desolate Morag now?--And yet--he may be but wounded after all. It must be so--he cannot be killed. Where did you leave him?--quick, tell me!--oh, tell me, Donald. Why do we tarry here? let us forward and seek him!--there may be life in him yet, and whilst there is life there is hope. Let me pass, Donald; I will fly to seek him!"

"I love you too well to let you pass on so foolish and dangerous an errand," said Donald, endeavouring to detain her. "I tell you that John Smith is dead; but you know, Morag, you will always find a friend and a lover in me. So think no more----"

"I will pass, Donald," cried Morag, interrupting him, and making a determined attempt to rush past him.

"That you shall not," replied Donald, catching her in his arms.

"Help, help!" cried Morag, struggling with all her might, and with great vigour too, against his exertions to hold her.

At this moment the trampling of a horse was heard, and a mounted dragoon came cantering down into the hollow. His sabre gleamed in the air--and Donald Murdoch fell headlong down the bank into the little rill, his skull nearly cleft in two, and perfectly bereft of life.

"A plague on the lousy Scot!" said the trooper, scanning the corpse of his victim with a searching eye. "His life was not worth the taking, had it not been, that the more of the rascally race that are put out of this world, the better for the honest men that are to remain in it, and therefore it was in the way of my duty to cut him down. There is nought on his beggarly carcase to benefit any one but the crows.--And so the knave would have kissed thee against thy will, my bonny black-eyed wench. Well, 'tis no wonder thou shouldst have scorned that carotty-pated fellow; you showed your taste in so doing, my dear: and now you shall be rewarded by having a somewhat better sweetheart.--Come!" continued he, alighting from his charger, and approaching the agitated and panting girl--"Come, a kiss from the lips of beauty is the best reward for brave deeds; and no one deserves this reward better than I do, for brave deeds have I this day performed. Why do you not speak, my dear? Have you no Christian language to give me? Can it be possible that these pretty pouting lips have no language but that of the savages of this country?--Come, then, we must try the kissing language; I have always found that to be well understood in all parts of the world."

"Petter tak' Tonald's pig puss o' money first," said Morag, pointing down to the corpse in the hollow.