Chapter V: Part 5

It happened one day, gentlemen, that the Earl of Fife was travelling up this glen, on his way over to his house of Mar Lodge, in Braemar, and having stopped at Caochan-Seirceag over by yonder, he sent one of his people across the meadow here, to tell Inchrory that he meant to honour him with a visit. The gentleman knocked at the door, was admitted by the goodwife, and ushered into Inchrory's presence. He found him seated in his arm-chair, in the position which he always occupied, that is, on the most comfortable side of the fire.

"Good day to you, Inchrory," said the gentleman, bowing.

"The same to you sir," said Inchrory, bowing his head very grandly and ceremoniously, but without stirring.

"My Lord the Earl of Fife, who is halting at Caochan-Seirceag, on his road to Braemar, has sent me over to tell you, that he means to step aside from his way to visit you," said the gentleman.

"Well, sir," said Inchrory, proudly, "what of that? Tell him he is welcome."

The gentleman, astonished with his reception, bowed and retired, as an ambassador might have done from a royal presence.

"Well, sir," said Lord Fife to him, after he had rejoined him, "is Inchrory at home?"

"He is at home, my Lord," replied the gentleman; "but he is the surliest churl I ever came across."

"As how?" demanded the Earl.

"Why, my Lord, the little wretch never rose from his chair," replied the gentleman; and then he repeated the conversation he had had with Inchrory. "If your Lordship would take my council, you would e'en continue your journey, and leave the bear to suck his own paws in his own den."

"Why do you not flit [3] that insolent fellow," said Lord Fife to James MacGrigor of Pitiveach, his factor, who happened to be with him; "you are tacksman of this farm, and so you have it in your power to turn him out."

"Why, my Lord," replied MacGrigor, "he and his forebears [4] have been there for generations; and, though he certainly is a great original, he is no bad fellow for all that."

"So, so," replied the Earl, laughing, "the fellow is an original, is he? Then I must see him. It is something to discover so great a potentate, holding his undisputed reign in wilds like these, so many miles from any other human dwelling. I must visit him directly."

The fact was, that the Earl had but recently become possessed of these Highland estates, and Inchrory looked upon him as a new man--a Lowlander--whom it was his duty, as it was very much his inclination, to despise; whilst the Earl, for his part, knowing that such was a feeling which naturally enough pervaded the minds of the Highlanders, even on his own newly acquired lands, was determined to do it away, by using all manner of courtesy to every one with whom he might come into contact. Above all things, he felt that the opportunity which he now had of overcoming the prejudice of such a man as Inchrory, was by no means to be lost. To Inchrory, therefore, he went without a moment's delay, was admitted into the house, and ushered into the presence.

"Good day to you, Inchrory," said the Earl, bowing.

"Good day to you, Lord Fife," replied Inchrory, bowing with the same formality as formerly, but still keeping his seat. "Sit down, my Lord--sit down. Here is a chair beside me; for I always keep the benmost [5] seat in my own house."

"Very right, Inchrory," said the Earl, smiling, and seating himself accordingly beside his host; "and a very comfortable seat it seems to be."

"Very comfortable," said Inchrory, setting himself more firmly into it; "and I hope that one is easy for your Lordship."

"Very easy indeed," said Lord Fife; "a long ride, such as I have had, would make a hard stone feel easy, and much more this chair beneath your hospitable roof of Inchrory, and before your good fire, in this bitter cold day."

"Well, well, my Lord," replied Inchrory, for the first time shaking the Earl heartily by the hand, and very much pleased with the familiar manner in which his visitor had so unexpectedly comported himself,--"Well, all I can say is, that you are heartily welcome to it.--Here, gudewife! Bring out the bottle. Lord Fife must taste Inchrory's bottle; and bestir yourself, do you hear, and see what you can give his Lordship to eat."

The whisky bottle was brought, and Inchrory drank the Earl's health, who, without any ceremony, hobernobbed with him in turn. Mutton, ham, cheese, broiled kipper salmon, bannocks and butter, were produced, and put down promiscuously. The Earl ate like a hill farmer, and partook moderately of the whisky, which Inchrory swallowed in large and repeated bumpers to his Lordship's good health. He talked loud and joyously, and the Earl familiarly humoured him to his full bent. They were the greatest friends in the world. The Earl particularly delighted Inchrory by praising, caressing, and feeding a great rough deer-hound, which, roused from his lair in front of the fire by the entrance of the eatables, put his long snout and cold nose into his Lordship's hand, and craved his attention. But this dog had very nearly ruined all; for the Earl was so much taken with the animal, that having left the house after a very warm parting with Inchrory, he sent back his factor to him, to offer to purchase the animal at any price.

"What!" cried Inchrory, drawing himself up in his chair, and looking thunderbolts,--"What! does Lord Fife take me for a dog-dealer? I would not sell my dog to any Lord in the land. I would not sell my dog to the King on the throne. Tell his Lordship, I would as soon sell him my wife!"

"What a stupid fellow I am, Inchrory!" said the factor. "Did I say that it was the Earl that sent me? If I did, I was quite wrong. No! no! his Lordship did no such thing. He only admired the dog so much, that he could speak of nothing else as he crossed the meadow to join his people. It was my mistake altogether. Hearing him admire your dog so much, I thought it would be a kind act from me to you, my old friend, just to ride back quietly, and give you a hint of it. 'I thought I had the best dogs in all Scotland,' said the Earl, 'but that dog of Inchrory's beats them all clean. He is worth them all put together. He is a prince among dogs, as his master is a prince among men. Where could you find a master worthy of such a dog but Inchrory himself--the best fellow I have met with in all this country.'"

"Did the Earl of Fife say that?" cried Inchrory. "Here, bring me a leash. Now," added he after having fastened it about the hound's neck, "take hold of that, and lead the dog with you to the Earl, and tell him that Inchrory begs he will accept of him as a present."

The Earl was delighted with the dog, as well as with the able conduct of his ambassador who brought him; and he was no sooner fairly established in his own house at Mar Lodge, than he sent an especial messenger over the hill to Inchrory, with a letter from himself, thanking him for his noble present, and requesting him to come and pay him a visit. Inchrory most graciously accepted the invitation; and the Earl took care to be prepared to give him a proper reception.

Inchrory, dressed in his best Highland costume, accoutred with sword, dirk, and pistols complete, mounted his long tailed garron, and rode over to Mar Lodge. When he arrived at the door, two grooms of the Earl's were ready, one to hold his horse's head, and the other his stirrup whilst he dismounted, and he was ushered into the house by the house-steward, and through an alley of footmen, all richly attired in the Earl's livery, till he was shewn into the room where his Lordship was seated. Inchrory had never seen anything the least like this before. But he was too proud to manifest the smallest surprise--and holding up his head, he strode in with a dignified air, and took all this pomp as if it had belonged to him of course. The Earl was seated, amidst all his magnificence, in a great arm-chair next the fire, with an empty one placed at his left hand.

"Good day to you, Inchrory," said the Earl to him as he entered, and at the same time nodding his head familiarly as he spoke, but without rising from his seat.

"Good day to you, my Lord," said Inchrory, strutting forward like a turkey cock.

"Come away, and sit down beside me here, Inchrory," said the Earl, "for I always keep the benmost seat in my own house."

"Right!--right, my Lord!" said Inchrory, seating himself beside the Earl, and taking his hand and shaking it heartily, without any sort of ceremony; "you are quite right, my Lord; that is exactly my rule. Every man should have the benmost seat in his own house."

"You see that Luath hath not forgotten you," said the Earl, as the great dog was manifesting his joy at seeing his old master.

"By my faith you have him in good quarters here!" said Inchrory, observing that a quadruple fold of carpet had been spread for the animal close in front of the fire.

"The best I can give him, Inchrory," said the Earl; "as, next to his late master, he deserves the best at my hands. Here, bring the bottle! Inchrory must taste the Earl of Fife's bottle! And, do you hear, bring something for Inchrory to stay his hunger with after his long ride!"

Immediately, as if by magic, several footmen entered with a table covered with the richest viands and wines, which was placed close to Inchrory's chair and that of the Earl. By especial order a bottle of whisky appeared among the other liquors.

"Here's to ye, Inchrory!" said the Earl, after filling himself a glass of whisky, and drinking to his guest with a hearty shake of his hand. And,--

"Here's to you, my Lord," cried Inchrory, following his example in a bumper of the same liquor.

Inchrory had no reason to complain of his entertainment during the time he was at Mar Lodge. The Earl gave orders that every thing should be done to please him; and the little man was highly pleased, and as proud as a peacock. Amongst other things, hunting parties were made in all directions through the neighbouring forests; and although these were by no means expressly got up for him, yet he was always brought so prominently forward on all such occasions, that, in his pride, he believed, like the fly on the pillar, that the very world was moving for him, and for him alone.

It happened that a Tenchil, or a driving of the woods for game of all kinds, was one day held at Alnac. Inchrory was posted in a pass with Farquharson of Allargue and Grant of Burnside in Cromdale, who was one of Lord Fife's factors. This last mentioned gentleman, having only arrived at Mar Lodge that morning, knew nothing of Inchrory personally, though Inchrory knew something of him. So that, whilst Farquharson, who was by this time well acquainted with Inchrory and all his peculiarities, was treating him with all that respect, which was at all times paid him by a universal agreement among Lord Fife's friends then assembled as his guests, the little man was left quite unnoticed by Burnside, and treated by him as nobody. Inchrory was severely nettled at this apparently marked neglect on the part of Burnside towards him. As usual on such occasions, the people who had surrounded a large portion of the forest, gradually contracted their circle, and their shouts increasing, and the dogs beginning to range through the coverts, and to give tongue, game of all kinds came popping singly out through the different passes where the hunters were stationed. A short-legged, long-bodied, rough, cabbage-worm-looking terrier, of the true Highland breed, came yelping along towards the point where Burnside, Allargue, and Inchrory were posted near to each other. All was anxiety and eager anticipation. A hart of the first head was the least thing that was looked for. When,--lo, and behold, out came an enormous wild-cat, the very tigger of our Highland woods. Burnside had a capital chance of him, but fired at him, and missed him. Inchrory immediately levelled his piece, and shot him dead.

"There's at you, clowns of Cromdale!" cried Inchrory, leering most triumphantly and provokingly over his shoulder at Burnside.

"What do you mean by that, you rascal?" cried Burnside, firing up at this insult, and at the same time striding towards Inchrory with every possible demonstration of active hostility. "What do you mean by that, you little shrimp?"

"Sir," said Inchrory, standing his ground boldly and proudly, "what do you mean? I know nothing of you; and, it appears by your insolent manners, that you know nothing of me."

"Stop, stop, gentlemen!" cried Allargue, running in between them; "the fault is mine for having neglected to introduce you to each other. Burnside, this is Inchrory, the particular friend of the Earl of Fife;--and, Inchrory, this is Burnside, also a particular friend of your friend, the Earl. This, I hope, is enough to put a stop to any thing unpleasant between you."

"Oh!" said Burnside, who had caught the intelligent wink of the eye which Allargue had secretly conveyed to him, whilst going through this pompous introduction, and who had heard enough of Inchrory to enable him to guess at the case and the character of the animal he had to deal with, as well as to pick up his cue as to the proper way in which he should treat him. "Oh, that is altogether another affair! Had I only known the person in whose company I had the good fortune to be, I should not have presumed to have fired a shot before him. But if I have said any thing amiss, I am sure Inchrory will have the magnanimity to forgive me, seeing that I have been already sufficiently punished by the exhibition of bad gunning which I have unwittingly ventured to make in presence of him, who is by all acknowledged to be the best marksman in Scotland."

"Sir," said Inchrory, rising full a couple of inches higher in his brogues, and coming forward to Burnside with extended palm, and with a manner full of dignified condescension. "You are a gentleman of the first water! I beg you will forget and forgive any expression which in my ignorance I may have let fall, that may by chance have given you offence."

"Sir, I am proud to shake hands with you," said Burnside, advancing to give him a cordial squeeze.

"Sir," said Inchrory with a proud air, but at the same time shaking him heartily by the hand, "any friend of my friend the Earl of Fife, is my friend. Henceforth, sir, I am your sworn friend."

I daresay, gentlemen, I have given you enough of Inchrory to make you sufficiently well acquainted with his character. But I have yet one more anecdote of him, which I think brings it out more than all the others. His wife, Ealsach, was one morning occupied in tending the cattle at the shieling of Altanarroch. Lonely as you already know this place of Inchrory to be, its loneliness was nothing when compared to that of the shieling of Altanarroch, where even the cattle themselves could only exist for a month or two during the finest part of the year. Now, it happened that Ealsach, being in the family way, became extremely anxious and unhappy as her time of confinement approached, and her anxiety went on increasing daily, till at last she began to think it very expedient to go home to Inchrory. The distance was considerable, and the way rough enough in all conscience. But, having the spirit of a Highland woman within her, she set out boldly on foot, and arrived at Inchrory at an early hour in the morning. Her husband met her at the door of the house, where she looked for a kind welcome from him, and modestly signified the cause of her coming.

"Ha!" exclaimed he proudly, and with anger in his eye. "How is this that you come on foot? How dared you to come home till I sent a horse for you, that you might travel as Inchrory's wife ought to do?"

"No one saw how I came," replied his wife meekly. "I met nothing but the moor-cocks and the pease-weeps on the hill."

"No matter," said Inchrory, "even the moor-cocks and the pease-weeps should not have it to say, that they saw the wife of Inchrory tramping home a-foot through the heather. Get thee back this moment every foot of the way to Altanarroch, that I may send for thee as Inchrory's wife ought to be sent for."

The poor woman knew that argument with him was useless. Without entering the house, therefore, she was compelled to turn her weary steps back to Altanarroch; and she was no sooner there, than a servant appeared, leading by the bridle a horse, having a saddle on its back covered with a green cloth, on which she was compelled to mount forthwith, in order to ride home over the barren and desert moors and mosses, in such style, as might satisfy the moor-cocks and the pease-weeps, that she was the wife of Inchrory.

DRUM-HEAD COURT-MARTIAL AND SENTENCE ON INCHRORY.

Dominie.--What a vain windy-wallets of a body the creature must have been! My humble opinion is, that he would have been much benefited by a gentle tasting of my tawse.

Clifford.--Or the drummer's cat-o-nine-tails, Mr. Macpherson. But come, gentlemen, who tells the next tale? I have nothing now on my book but Old Stachcan, and Turfearabrad, both, as I understand, adjourned to time and place more fitting. Come, I must beat up for a volunteer.

Author.--The circumstance of Mr. Macpherson having incidentally mentioned Ticonderoga, towards the end of his account of the adventures of Serjeant John Smith, has brought to my mind a legend of the family of Campbell of Inverawe, which I had from a friend of mine, the story of which is intimately connected with that most disastrous affair. If you like I shall be happy to give it to you.

Clifford.--Andiamo dunque, Signore mio!--let's have it without more delay.

THE LEGEND OF THE VISION OF CAMPBELL OF INVERAWE.

Perhaps you are all acquainted with the history of the Black Watch, which, as Mr. Macpherson has already told you, was afterwards formed into that gallant corps now immortalized by its actions as the Forty-Second Highlanders? General Stewart of Garth, in his interesting account of the Highland Regiments, tells us that it was originally composed of independent companies, which were raised about 1725 or 1730. These were stationed in small bodies in different parts of the country, in order to preserve the peace of the Highlands. It was, in some sort, a great National Guard, and it was considered so great an honour to belong to it, that most of the privates were the sons of gentlemen or tenants. Most of them generally rode on horseback, and had gillies to carry their arms at all times, except when they were on parade or on duty. They were called Freiceadan Dubh, or the Black Watch, from the dark colour of their well-known regimental tartan, in opposition to the Seider-Deargg, or Red Soldiers, who were so named from the colour of their coats. You may probably remember the circumstance of their having been most unfairly marched to London, under the pretence that they were to be reviewed by the King,--of their having been ordered abroad,--of their refusal to go,--of their having been moved, as if by one impulse pervading every indignant bosom among them, to make that most extraordinary and interesting march of retreat which they effected to Northampton,--of their having been ultimately brought under subjection,--and, finally, of their brave conduct in Flanders, from which country they returned in October 1745.

After their return to Great Britain, the Black Watch were ordered into Kent, instead of being sent into Scotland with the other troops under General Hawley, to act against those who had risen for Prince Charles. This arrangement probably arose entirely from great consideration and delicacy on the part of the government, who, fully aware of the high honour of the individuals of the corps, never entertained the smallest doubt of their loyalty, but who felt the cruelty of exposing men to the dreadful alternative of fighting against their friends and relatives, many of whom were necessarily to be found in the ranks of the insurgents. There were, however, three additional companies raised in the Highlands, a little time before the return of the regiment from abroad. These were kept in Scotland, and however distressing to their feelings the duty was which they were called upon to perform, on the side for which they were enlisted, they did that duty most honourably. One of these was recruited and commanded by Duncan Campbell, laird of Inverawe.

After various services in their own country during the period that the rest of the corps was abroad for the second time, these three companies were ordered to embark, in March 1748, to join the regiment in Flanders. But the preliminaries of peace having been soon afterwards signed, the order was countermanded, and they were reduced.

During the time that Campbell of Inverawe's company was occupied in the unpleasant duty to which I have alluded, he had been on one occasion compelled to march into the district of Lorn, and to burn and destroy the houses and effects of a few small gentlemen, who were of that resolute description that they would have sacrificed all they had, and even life itself, rather than yield to what they held to be the government of an usurper. Having been thus led to pursue his route, in a certain direction, for many a mile, he happened, on his return, to be detained behind his men by some accidental circumstance, and having lost his way after night-fall, he wandered about alone for several hours, until he became considerably oppressed with hunger and fatigue. With the expectation of gathering some better knowledge of his way, he left the lower grounds, where the darkness of night had settled more deeply and decidedly down, and he climbed the side of a hill with the hope of benefiting, in some degree, by the half twilight which lingers longer upon these elevations, continuing to rest upon them sometimes for hours after it has altogether deserted their lower regions. With the dogged perseverance of one who labours on because he has no other alternative, he blindly pursued his hap-hazard course in a diagonal line along the abrupt face, always rising as he proceeded, until his way became every moment more and more difficult. The side of the hill became steeper and steeper at every step, until he began to be satisfied that he had no chance of reaching its brow, except by retracing his steps, in order to discover some other means of ascending to it. To any such alternative as this he could by no means make up his mind. He cursed his own folly for allowing his company to march on without him. He uttered many a wish that he was with them. He felt sufficiently convinced that he had acted imprudently in having thus exposed himself alone, in the midst of a district which was yet reeking with the vengeance which his duty had compelled him so unwillingly to pour out upon it. But his courage was indomitable, and his way lay onwards, and onwards he without hesitation resolved to go.

He had not proceeded far, until high cliffs began to rear themselves over his head, whilst, from his very feet, perpendicular precipices shot down into the deep night that prevailed below. The goat or deer track that he followed became every moment more and more blocked up with stony fragments, until at length it offered one continuous series of dangerous steps, requiring his utmost care and attention to preserve him from a slip or fall that might have been fatal.

Whilst he was thus proceeding, with his whole attention occupied in self-preservation, he was suddenly challenged in Gaelic by a rough voice in his front.

"Who comes there?"

"A friend," replied Inverawe, in the same language in which he was addressed.

"I am not sure of that," said the same voice hoarsely and bitterly. "Is he alone?"

"He is alone," said a voice a little way behind Inverawe; "We are quite safe."

"Come on then, sir," said the voice in front, "you have nothing to fear."

"Fear!" cried Inverawe, in a tone which implied that any such feeling had ever been a stranger to him; "I fear nothing."

"I know you to be a brave man, Inverawe!" said the man who now appeared in front of him. "Come on then without apprehension. You need not put your hand into the guard of your claymore, for no one here will harm you. But what strange chance has brought you here?"

"The loss of my way," replied Inverawe. "But how do you come to know me so well?"

"It is no matter how I know you," replied the other. "It is sufficient that I do know you, and know you to be a brave man, to whom, as such, I am prepared to do what kindness I can. What are your wants then, and what can I do for you?"

"My wants are, simply to find my lost way, and then to procure some food, of which I stand much in need," replied Inverawe.

"Be at ease then, for I shall help you to both," replied the person with whom he was conversing; "but methinks your last want requires to be first attended to, as the most urgent; so follow me, and look sharply to your footing." Then, speaking in a louder tone to some individuals, who, though unseen, were posted somewhere in the obscurity to the rear of Inverawe, he said, "Look well to your post, lads, I shall be with you by and bye." And then again turning to Inverawe, he added--"Come on, sir, you must climb up this way; the ascent is steep, and you will require to use hands as well as feet. Goats were wont to be the only travellers here, and even they must have been hardy ones. But troublous times will often people the desert cliffs themselves with human beings, and scare the very eagle from her aerie, that she may yield her lodging to weary man."

Inverawe now began to clamber after his guide up a steep, tortuous, and dangerous ascent, where in some places they were compelled to pull up their bodies by the strength of their hands and arms. It lasted for some time; and he of the Black Watch, albeit well accustomed to such work, was beginning to be very weary of it, when at length they landed on a tolerably wide natural ledge, where Inverawe perceived that the cliffs that arose from the inner angle of it so overhung their base as to render it self-evident that all farther ascent in this direction was cut off by them. Rounding a huge fallen mass of rock, which lay poised on the very edge of the precipice, they came suddenly on a ravine, or rift, in the face of the cliff above, on climbing a few paces up which, they discovered the low, arched mouth of a cave, whence issued a faint gleam of light, and an odour of smoke. His guide stooped under the projection of the cliff that hung over it, and let himself down through the narrow entrance. Inverawe followed his example without fear, and found himself in a cavern of an irregular form, from ten to twenty feet in diameter. This he discovered partly by the light of a fire of peats that smouldered near the entrance, and partially filled the place with smoke, but more perfectly by a torch of bog-fir which his guide immediately lighted. But he felt no curiosity about this, in comparison with that which he experienced in regard to the figure and features of his guide, with which he was intensely anxious to make himself acquainted.

He was a tall and remarkably fine looking man, considerably below middle age. He was dressed in a grey plaid and kilt, betokening disguise, but with the full complement of Highland armour about him. His hair hung in long black curls around his head. His face was very handsome, his nose aquiline, his mouth small and well formed, having its upper lip graced by a dark and well-trimmed moustache. His eyes, and his whole general expression, were extremely benignant. After scanning his face with great attention, Inverawe was satisfied that he never had seen him before, and he had ample opportunity of ascertaining the reverse, if it had been otherwise, for the man stood with the bog-fir torch blazing in his hand, as if he wished to give his guest the fullest advantage of it in his scrutiny of him, and then, as if guessing the conclusion to which that scrutiny had brought him, he at last began to speak.

"Aye," said he calmly, "you are right, Inverawe. Your eyes have never beheld me until this moment. But I have seen you to my cost. I was looking on all the while that you and your men were burning and destroying my house, goods, and gear, this blessed morning, and I can never forget you."

"I know you not, that is certain," replied Inverawe; "and the cruel duty we were on to-day was so extensive in its operation, that I cannot even guess whom you are."

"You shall never know it from me, Inverawe," replied the other.

"And why not?" demanded Inverawe.

"From no fear for myself," replied the stranger; "but because I would not add to that remorse, which you must feel, from being compelled to execute deeds which are as unworthy of you, as I know they are contrary to your generous and kindly nature. I have suffered from you deeply--deeply indeed have I suffered. But I look upon you but as an involuntary minister of the vengeance of a cruel Government, and perhaps as an agent in the hand of a just God, who would punish me for those sins and frailties which are inherent in my human nature. I blame not you, and I can have no feeling of anger against you, far less of revenge. Give me, then, the right hand of fellowship."

"Willingly, most willingly!" said Inverawe, cordially shaking hands with him. "You are a noble high-minded man; for certainly I can imagine what your feelings might have very naturally been against me, and I know that I am now in your power."

"All I ask, Inverawe, is this," continued the stranger; "that as I have been, and will continue to be honourable towards you, you will be the same to me; and in asking that, I know that I am asking what is sure to be granted. The confidence in your honour which I have shown by bringing you here, will not be betrayed."

"Never!" said Inverawe, with energy. "Never while I have life!"

"I know I can rely upon you," said the stranger; "and now let me hasten to give you such refreshment as I possess. Sit down, I pray you, as near to the ground as possible, you will find that the smoke will annoy you less."

Inverawe did as his host had recommended, and, seating himself on some heather which lay on the floor of the place, the stranger opened a wicker pannier that stood in a low recess, and speedily produced from it various articles of food, of no mean description, together with a bottle of French wine, and, spreading the viands before his guest, he seated himself by him, and they ate and drank together. They had little conversation; and the stranger no sooner saw that Inverawe's hunger was satisfied, than he arose, and proposed that he should now guide him on his journey. Creeping from the hole, therefore, they descended the crags together, with all that care which the steepness of the declivity rendered necessary, until they came to the spot where they had first encountered each other, and then the stranger began to guide Inverawe onwards in the same direction he had been formerly pursuing.

They had not proceeded far, until they were challenged by voices among the rocks, showing that his host's place of retreat was protected by sentinels in all quarters. His guide answered the challenge, and they then went on without molestation. After about an hour's walk over very rugged ground, during which they wound over the mountain, and threaded their way through various bogs and woods, that completely bewildered Inverawe, his guide suddenly brought him out upon a road which he well knew, and then shaking hands with him, and bidding him farewell, he dived again into the wood, and disappeared.

Inverawe rejoined his company at their night's quarters. They had spent an anxious time, regarding him, during his absence, and they were clamorous in their enquiries as to what had become of him. He gave them an account of the circumstance of his losing his way; but he told them not a syllable of his adventure with the stranger, resolving that it should be for ever buried in his own bosom. There, however, it produced many a thought; and often did he earnestly hope, that chance might again bring him into contact with the man who had taken so noble a revenge of him--to whom he felt as an honest bankrupt might do towards his generous and forgiving creditor; and whose person and features he had engraven so deeply on his recollection, to be embalmed there amidst the warmest and kindliest affections of his heart.

It was soon after the disbanding of his company, that Campbell of Inverawe returned to his own romantic territory, and to his ancient castle, standing in the midst of beautiful natural lawns, surrounded by wooded banks and knolls, lying at the north-western base of the mighty Ben-Cruachan. Speaking in a general way, the country around was thickly covered with oak and birch woods, giving double value, both in point of beauty and utility, to the rich, glady pastures, which were seen to spread their verdant surface to the sun, along the course of the river Awe. Behind the grey towers of the building, broken rocks arose here and there, in bare masses, in the direction of the mountain,--whilst the blue expanse of Loch Etive stretched away from the eye towards the north-east, as well as to the west. To the south-west, the groves, and grassy slopes, were abruptly broken off by the perpendicular crags of the romantic ravine through which the river makes its way, to pour itself across the open haughs of Bunawe, and into Loch Etive. To sketch out the remainder of the neighbourhood, so that you may be fully aware of the nature of the country, which was the scene, where one of the most important circumstances of my tale took place, I may add, that about a mile above the ravine, the river has its origin from a long narrow arm of Loch Awe, which presents one of the most romantic ranges of scenery in Scotland. The lake in the bottom, is there every where about eighty or an hundred yards wide only; and whilst a bare, rocky mountain front, furrowed by many a misty cataract, rises sheer up out of the water on its western side, the steep, lofty, and rugged face of Cruachan shuts it in on the eastern side, forming the grand and wild pass of Brandera. Here the mountain exhibits every variety of picturesque form,--of prominent crag, and half-concealed hollow, among which the grey mists are continually playing and producing magical effects; together with deep torrent beds, and innumerable waterfalls, thundering downwards unseen, save in glimpses, amid the thick copse which, generation after generation, has sprung from the stools of those giant oaks, which were once permitted to rear their spreading heads, and to throw their bold arms freely abroad, athwart the rocky steeps that rear themselves so high up above, as to be softened by distance and air, till they almost melt from human vision.

Having thus put you in possession of the scenery, I shall now proceed to tell you, that Campbell of Inverawe, after his long absence from home on military duty, felt all the luxury of enjoyment which these his own quiet scenes could bestow, and his mind expanding to all his old friendships, he largely exercised all the hospitalities of life. Frequently did he fill the hall of his fathers with gay and merry feasters, and his own hilarious disposition, always made him the very soul of the mirth that prevailed among them.

On one occasion, it happened that he had congregated a large party together. The wine circulated freely. The fire bickered on the hearth, and threw a cheerful blaze over the walls of the hall, reddening the very roof, and gleaming on the warlike weapons that hung around. The wine was good,--the jests were merry,--and the conversation sparkling, so that the guests were as loath to depart as their kind host was unwilling to let them go. His lady had retired to her chamber--but still they sat on, making the old building ring again with their jocund laughter. But all things must have an end. The parting cup, to their host's rooftree, was proposed by a certain young man called George Campbell, and it was filled to the brim. But as all were on their legs to drain it, with heart and good will, to the bottom,--a rattling peal of thunder rolled directly over their heads. There was not a man of them that did not feel that the omen was appalling. Some hardy ones tried to laugh it off, as a salvo from heaven in homologation of their good wishes to the house of Inverawe. But the pleasantry went ill down with the rest. Servants were called for,--horses were ordered, and out poured their owners to mount them,--when they were all surprised to see the heavens quite serene and tranquil. But not a word of remark was ventured by any one on this so very strange a circumstance. Their hospitable entertainer saw every man of them take his stirrup cup; and they galloped away, one after the other.

After they were all gone, Inverawe paced about in the court-yard for some time, in sombre thought, which stole involuntarily upon him. He then sought his way up stairs, and lifting an oaken chair towards the great hearth, where the billets had by this time begun to burn red, and without flame, he sat down in it for a while, listlessly to ponder over the events of the evening. The weary servants had gladly stolen away to bed, and the whole castle was soon as silent as the grave. Not a sound was to be heard within the walls, but the dull, drowsy buzzing of a large fly, which the flickering light of a solitary lamp, left on the table, had prevented from retiring to some cranny of repose. The master of the mansion smiled for a moment, as the whimsical idea crossed him, that this tiny insect was perhaps the only thing of life, which, at that time, kept watch with him within the castle.

Inverawe's thoughts reverted to the last toast which had been given by his young friend Campbell, and the strange circumstances by which it had been accompanied. He had an only son, called Donald, a promising young man, who was the prop of his house, and to whose future career in life he looked forward with all a father's anxiety. He had been long accustomed to weave a silken tissue of anticipated happiness, and honours, for the young man, and to view him, in his mind's eye, as the father of many generations to come. The youth was at that time from home; and this was the very first moment of his life that the notion of there being any chance of his being one day left childless, had ever occurred to him. He tried to shake off these gloomy presentiments, but still they returned, and clung to him, with a force and pertinacity that no reason could conquer. He would fain have risen to go to his chamber, but he felt as if some powerful, though unseen hand, had held him down to his chair,--and he continued to sit on, absorbed in contemplative musings on these gloomy and painful dreams, till the billets on the hearth had consumed themselves to their red embers.

Suddenly all such thoughts were put to flight from his mind. He distinctly heard the great outer door of the castle creak upon its hinges. He remembered, that although he had not locked it, he had shut it behind him when he came in. It now banged against its doorway, and sent a hollow sound echoing up the long turnpike stair. Faint, quick, and stealthy footsteps, were then heard ascending. One or two other doors were moved in succession. The footsteps approached with cautious expedition. And as Inverawe listened with breathless attention, the door of the hall was thrust open,--a human countenance appeared for an instant in the dusky aperture--and then a man, with a naked dirk in his hand,--his clothes dripping wet--his long hair hanging streaming over his shoulders, and half veiling his glaring eyes, and pale and haggard countenance, rushed in, and made straight up to him.

Inverawe started to his feet, drew his dirk, and prepared to defend himself from this unlooked for attempt at assassination. But ere he had well plucked it forth from its sheath, the intruder assumed the attitude of a suppliant.

"For mercy's sake pardon my unceremonious entrance, Inverawe!" said the stranger, in a hollow, husky, and exhausted voice. "And be not alarmed, for I come with no hostile intention against you or yours. I am an unfortunate wretch, who, in a sudden quarrel, have shed the blood of a fellow-creature. He was a man of Lorn. I have been hotly pursued by his friends, and though I have thrown those who are after me considerably out, during the long chase they have kept up, yet they are still pressing like blood-hounds on my track. To baffle them, if possible, I threw myself into the river, and swam across it, and I now claim that protection, and that hospitality, which no one ever failed to find within the house of Inverawe."

"By Cruachan!" cried Inverawe, sheathing his dirk, and slapping it smartly with the open palm of his hand. "By Cruachan, I swear that you shall have both!"

Now, I must tell you, that this was considered as the most solemn pledge that a Campbell of Inverawe could give. Their war-cry was, "Coar-a-Cruachan," that is, "Help from Cruachan." And this expression had a double meaning, inasmuch as the word Cruachan had reference both to the mountain of that name, and to the hip where the dirk hung. To swear by Cruachan, therefore, and to strengthen the oath by slapping the dirk with the open palm, was to utter an oath, which must, under all circumstances, be for ever held inviolable.

"But tell me," said Inverawe, "how happened this unlucky affair?"

"We were all met to make merry at a wedding," replied the stranger, "when, as I was dancing with---- But hold!--I hear voices! They approach the castle! I am lost if you do not hide me immediately."

"This way," said Inverawe, leading him to a certain obscure part of the hall. "Aid me to lift this trap.--Now, down with ye and crouch there.--They come."

Inverawe had barely time to drop the trap-door into its place, to resume his seat at the fire, and to affect to be in a deep sleep, when the voices and the sound of human footsteps were heard ascending the stairs. Three men entered the hall in reeking haste--claymores in hand. They rushed towards the fire-place, where he was sitting. Inverawe started up as if just awaked by the noise they made, and drew his dirk, as if to defend himself from their meditated attack.

"Ha!" cried he, with well-feigned surprise. "Assassins: Then must I sell my life as dearly as I can."

"Not assassins!" cried they. "We are not assassins, Inverawe. We crave your pardon for this apparently rude intrusion, but we are in pursuit of an assassin. We come to look for a man who has murdered another. Have we your permission to search for him?"

"Certainly," said Inverawe, "wherever you please."

"He cannot be here," said one of the men. "I told you that he could not be here. Don't you see plainly that he could not have come in here without awaking Inverawe. We lose time here. We had better on after our friends."

"Depend on't he has run up Loch Etive side," said another of them.

"What are all these wet foot-steps on the floor?" said the first of them that spoke. "He might have been here without Inverawe's knowledge."

"Don't you see that Inverawe has had a feast, and that wine, and water, and whisky too, have been flowing in gallons in all directions?" said the second man. "See there is a large pool of lost liquor. I verily believe that some of these footsteps are my own, made this moment, by walking accidentally through it. I tell you he never could have come here."

"It is true that I have had a feast," said Inverawe, carelessly, "as you may see from the wrecks of it that still remain on the table."

"I told you so," said the second man. "We only lose time here. If you had only been guided by my counsel we might have been hard at his heels by this time, as well as the rest."

"Haste, then, let us go!" said the first man.

"Away! away!" cried his companions, and, without waiting for farther parley, they rushed out of the hall, and Inverawe heard with some satisfaction, their footsteps hurrying down stairs, and the shouts which they yelled forth after their companions, growing fainter and fainter, until they were altogether lost in the direction of Loch Etive.

Inverawe was no sooner certain that they were fairly gone, without all risk of returning, than he proceeded, in the first place, to secure the outer door of the castle, and then returning to the hall, he went to the trap-door, and calling softly to the man concealed below it, he desired him to aid him in raising it, by applying his strength to force it upwards, and thus their united strength enabled them speedily to open it, and to lift it up.

"Come forth now, unfortunate man," said Inverawe; "your pursuers are gone."

"I come," said the stranger, in his husky hoarse voice, and as he raised himself from the trap-door, his haggard countenance, and his blood-shot eyes, that glared with the horror of his situation, half seen as they were through his long moist locks, chilled Inverawe's very heart as he looked upon him.

"Now, sir," said Inverawe, "you are safe for the present, your pursuers have passed on."

"Thanks! thanks!" replied the man; "I know not how sufficiently to thank you."

"Aye--all is so far well for you," said Inverawe; "but concealment for you here is impossible. You must remove into a place of more certain safety, and no time is to be lost. At present you may remove without observation or suspicion; but no one can say how soon the search for you hereabouts may be renewed. Here," continued he, setting before him some of the remains of the feast, which the tired servants had not removed from the sideboard; "take what refreshment circumstances may allow, whilst I go for a basket, in which to carry food enough to last you during to-morrow. We must go to Ben-Cruachan, with as much secrecy and expedition as we can."

The stranger, thus left for a few minutes by himself, hastily devoured some of the viands, of which he had so much need, and having swallowed a full cup of wine, he was rejoined by Inverawe with a basket, into which he hastily packed some provisions, and, without a moment's delay, they quietly and stealthily quitted the hall, and the castle, and the moment they found themselves in the open air, Inverawe led the way diagonally up the slope, on the western side of Ben-Cruachan.

Their way was long, and their path rough, and they moved on through woods, and over rocks, without uttering a word. Many a half expressed exclamation, indeed, burst involuntarily from the stranger, betraying a mind ill at ease with itself, and many a start did he give, as if he apprehended surprise from some lurking pursuer; and Inverawe shuddered to think, that the haggard appearance of the man, and these his guilty-like apprehensions, were more in accordance with the accusation of murder, or unfair slaughter, which seemed to have been made against him, by the expressions of some of those who had come into the hall in search of him, than with the chance-medley killing of a man in an affray, which was the complexion he had himself wished to put on the matter. Be this as it might, however, his most solemn pledge had been given for his security, and accordingly he determined honourably to fulfil it, at all hazards to himself. His reflections, as he went with this man, were of any thing but a pleasing nature.

After a long and painful walk, or rather race, for their pace had been more like that, than walking, Inverawe began to climb up the abrupt face of Cruachan, till he came to that part of it which hangs over the northern entrance of the Pass of Brandera, where the river Awe breaks away from the end of the narrow branch of the lake, and there, after some scrambling, he led the stranger high up the face of the mountain, to a cave that yawned in the perpendicular cliff. The concealment here was perfect, for its mouth was masked in front by a cairn of large stones, which might have been accidentally accumulated by falling during successive ages from the rocks above, or perhaps artificially piled up there in memory of some person or event long since forgotten. It was moreover surrounded by trees of all sorts of growth; indeed, the universal wooding which prevailed over the surrounding features of nature, of itself rendered any object on the ground of the mountain side difficult to be discovered by any creature that did not, like an eagle, mount into the sky. In addition to this, the great elevation of the position, added to the security of the place, and the ravine-seamed front of the perpendicular mountain of rock that guarded the western side of the pass, immediately opposite to the face of Cruachan, precluded all chance of observation from that quarter.

"This is not exactly the place where Campbell of Inverawe would wish to exercise his hospitality, to any one who deigns to ask for his protection," said the Laird, whilst he was engaged in striking a light; "but in your circumstances it is the best retreat in which I can extend it towards you. Here is a lamp; and I will leave this tinder-box, and this flask of oil with you. The cave is dry enough, and there is abundance of heather to be had around you. Use your lamp only when you may find it absolutely necessary so to do; for its light might betray you; and take care to show yourself as little as possible during the daylight of to-morrow. I have promised you protection by Cruachan, and by Cruachan you shall have it. You must be contented with this my assurance for the present, for your safety demands that I shall not see you again, until I can do so without observation, under the veil of to-morrow-night's darkness. Till then, you must e'en do with such provisions as this basket contains, and you may reckon on my bringing a fresh supply with me when I return. Farewell, for I must hurry back, so as to escape discovery."

"Thanks! thanks! kind Inverawe!" said the man, in a state of extreme agitation and excitement,--"a thousand thanks! But, must you--must you leave me thus alone? Alone, for a whole night, on this wild mountain side, with that yawning hole for my place of rest, and with nothing but the roar of these eternal cataracts, mingled with the wild howl of the wind through the pass to lull me to repose! That cairn, too!--may not that be a cairn which marks the spot where--where--where some murder has been done? Can you assure me that no ghosts ever haunt this wild place?"