Chapter III: Misticot's Grave

The hour of going to meet the boat was now approaching, and Edie conducted Lovel by a solitary path through the woods to the sea-shore. There in the first level beams of the rising sun, they saw the little gun-brig riding at anchor in the offing. Taffril himself met his friend, and eased Lovel's mind considerably by telling him that Captain MacIntyre's wound, though doubtful, was far from desperate, and that he trusted a short cruise would cover all the consequences of his unfortunate encounter.

Lovel offered gold to the beggar, but Edie once more refused it, declaring that he thought all the folk had "gone clean daft."

"I have had more gold offered to me these last two or three weeks," he said, "than I have seen in all my life before. Na, na, take back your guineas, and for luck let me have but one lily-white shilling!"

The boat put off toward the lieutenant's brig, impelled by six stout rowers. Lovel saw the old beggar wave his blue bonnet to him, before turning slowly about as if to resume his customary wanderings from farm to farm, and from village to village.

* * * * *

So excellently well did Captain MacIntyre progress toward recovery that in a little while the Antiquary declared it clean impossible for him to get a single bite of breakfast, or have his wig made decent, or a slice of unburnt toast to eat--all because his womenfolk were in constant attendance upon the wounded Captain, whose guns and spaniels filled the house, and for whom even the faithful Caxon ran messages, while his own master waited for him in his chamber, fuming and stamping the while.

But as his sister often said, and as all who knew him, knew--"Monkbarns's bark was muckle waur than his bite."

But an unexpected visit from Sir Arthur soon gave the Antiquary other matters to think about. The Baronet came, so he said, to ask his old friend's advice about the disposal of a sum of money. The Antiquary drew from a right-hand corner of his desk a red-covered book, of which Sir Arthur hated the very sight, and suggested that if he had money to dispose of, it might be as well to begin by clearing off encumbrances, of which the debt marked in his own red book accounted for no less than eleven hundred and thirteen pounds. But Sir Arthur put away the red book as if Monkbarns had offered him so much physic, and hastened to say that if the Antiquary would wait a few days, he would have the sum in full--that is, if he would take it in bullion.

The Antiquary inquired from what Eldorado this treasure was forthcoming.

"Not far from here," said Sir Arthur, confidently, "and now I think of it, you shall see the whole process in working, on one small condition."

"And what is that?" inquired the Antiquary.

"That it will be necessary to give me your friendly assistance, by advancing the small sum of one hundred pounds."

The Antiquary, who had been rejoicing in the hope of getting both principal and interest of a debt which he had long thought desperate, could only gasp out the words, "Advance one hundred pounds!"

"Yes, my good sir," said Sir Arthur, "but upon the best possible security of having it repaid in the course of a few days."

To this the Antiquary said nothing. He had heard the like before from Sir Arthur's lips. So the Baronet went on to explain. "Mr. Dousterswivel having discovered--"

But the Antiquary would not listen. His eyes sparkled with indignation. "Sir Arthur," he said, "I have so often warned you against that rascally quack, that I wonder you quote him to me!"

But this time Sir Arthur had something to show for his faith in the expert. He placed a large ram's horn with a copper cover in his friend's hand. It contained Scottish, English, and foreign coins of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Most were silver but some were of gold, and, as even the Antiquary allowed, of exceeding rarity.

"These," said the Baronet, "were found at midnight, at the last full moon, in the ruins of St. Ruth's Priory, in the course of an experiment of which I was myself the witness."

"Indeed," said Oldbuck, "and what means of discovery did you employ?"

"Only a simple suffumigation," said the Baronet, "accompanied by availing ourselves of a suitable planetary hour."

"Simple suffumigation! Simple nonsensification! Planetary hour--planetary fiddlestick! My dear Sir Arthur, the fellow has made a gull of you under ground, and now he would make a gull of you above ground!"

"Well, Mr. Oldbuck," said the Baronet, "I am obliged to you for your opinion of my discernment, but you will at least give me credit for seeing what I say I saw!"

"I will give you credit for saying that you saw what you _thought_ you saw!"

"Well, then," said the Baronet, "as there is a heaven above us, Mr. Oldbuck, I saw with my own eyes these coins dug out of the chancel of St. Ruth's at midnight! And if I had not been there, I doubt if Dousterswivel would have had the courage to go through with it!"

The Antiquary inquired how much the discovery had cost.

"Only ten guineas," said the Baronet, "but this time it is to cost a hundred and fifty pounds, but of course the results will be in proportion. Fifty I have already given him, and the other hundred I thought you might be able to assist me with."

The Antiquary mused.

"This cannot be meant as a parting blow," he said; "it is not of consequence enough. He will probably let you win this game also, as sharpers do with raw gamesters. Sir Arthur, will you permit me to speak to Dousterswivel? I think I can recover the treasure for you without making any advance of money."

Dousterswivel had on his part no desire to see the Laird of Monkbarns. He was more in fear of him than even of the spirits of the night. Still he could not refuse, when summoned to leave Sir Arthur's carriage and face the two gentlemen in the study at Monkbarns.

The Antiquary then and there told him that he and Sir Arthur proposed to trench the whole area of the chancel of St. Ruth, in plain daylight, with good substantial pickaxes and shovels, and so, without further expense, ascertain for themselves the truth as to the existence of this hidden treasure.

"Bah," said the German, "you will not find one copper thimble. But it is as Sir Arthur likes--once I have showed him the real method. If he likes to try others, he only loses the gold and the silver, that is all!"

The journey to the Priory was made in silence, each of the party having enough on his mind to employ his thoughts. Edie Ochiltree joined them at the ruins, and when the Antiquary pulled out of his pocket the ram's horn in which the coins had been found, Edie claimed it at once for a snuff-box of his which he had bartered with a miner at Mr. Dousterswivel's excavations in Glen Withershins.

"And that brings it very near a certain friend of ours," said the Antiquary to Sir Arthur. "I trust we shall be as successful to-day without having to pay for it."

It was decided to begin operations at the tomb with the carven figure on top--the same which Sir Arthur and Dousterswivel had disturbed on a former occasion, but which neither the Antiquary nor Edie ever remembered to have seen before. It appeared, however, that a large pile of rubbish, which had formerly filled up the corner of the ruins, must have been dispersed in order to bring it to light.

But the diggers reached the bottom of the grave, without finding either treasure or coffin.

"Some cleverer chield has been before us," said one of the men.

But Edie pushed them impatiently aside, and leaping into the grave, he cried, "Ye are good seekers, but bad finders!"

For the first stroke of his pike-staff into the bottom of the pit hit upon something hard and resisting.

All now crowded around. The labourers resumed their task with good-will, and soon a broad surface of wood was laid bare, and a heavy chest was raised to the surface, the lid of which, being forced with a pickaxe, displayed, beneath coarse canvas bags and under a quantity of oakum, a large number of ingots of solid silver.

The Antiquary inspected them one by one, always expecting that the lower layers would prove to be less valuable. But he was at last obliged to admit that the Baronet had really and truly possessed himself of treasure to the amount of about one thousand pounds.

It chanced that Edie Ochiltree had observed Dousterswivel stand somewhat disconsolate and sad, looking into the open grave. Age had not dulled Edie's wit, nor caused him to relish less a boyish prank. His quick eye had caught some writing on the lid of the box of treasure, and while all were admiring the solid ingots of precious metal laid bare before them, Edie kicked the piece of wood aside without being observed by any one.

Then, with all due caution, he whispered to Dousterswivel that there must certainly be more and better treasure yet to be brought to light in the place where the silver had been found, and that if he would wait only a little behind the others he would show him proof of it. When they were alone he showed him on the lid of the treasure-chest the words, written in black letter:

"=Search--Number One="

Dousterswivel at once agreed to meet Edie at midnight within the ruins of the Priory, and he kept his word. It was a stormy night, great clouds being hurried across the face of the moon, and the woods were bending and moaning in the fierce blast. Edie marched up and down while he waited for the German, shouldering his pike-staff, and dreaming that he was back again on the outposts with a dozen hostile riflemen hidden in front of him.

After a little, Dousterswivel arrived, having brought with him a horse and saddle-bags in which to carry away the expected treasure. Edie led him once more to the place of the former search--to the grave of the Armed Knight. On the way he told his companion the tale of that Malcolm Misticot whose treasure was supposed to have been found and rifled that day.

"There is a story that the Misticot walks," said Edie; "it's an awesome nicht and an uncanny to be meeting the like of him here. Besides he might not be best pleased to come upon us when we were trying to lift his treasure!"

"For the love of Heaven," said Dousterswivel, "say nothing at all, either about somebodies or nobodies!"

Edie leaped into the grave and began to strike; but he soon tired or pretended to tire. So he called out to the German that turn and turn about was fair play. Whereupon, fired with the desire for wealth, Dousterswivel began to strike and shovel the earth with all his might, while Edie encouraged him, standing very much at his ease by the side of the hole.

"At it again," he cried; "strike--strike! What for are ye stopping, man?"

"Stopping," cried the German, angrily, looking out of the grave at his tormentor; "I am down at the bed-rock, I tell you!"

"And that's the likeliest place of any," said Edie; "it will just be a big broad stone laid down to cover the treasure. Ah, that's it! There was a Wallace stroke indeed! It's broken! Hurrah, boys, there goes Ringan's pickaxe! It's a shame o' the Fairport folk to sell such frail gear. Try the shovel; at it again, Maister Dousterdeevil!"

But this time the German, without replying, leaped out of the pit, and shouted in a voice that trembled with anger, "Does you know, Mr. Edie Ochiltree, who it is you are putting off your gibes and your jests upon? You base old person, I will cleave your skull-piece with this shovels!"

"Ay," said Edie, "and where do ye think my pike-staff would be a' the time?"

But Dousterswivel, growing more and more furious, heaved up the broken pickaxe to smite his tormentor dead--which, indeed, he might have done had not Edie, suddenly pointing with his hand, exclaimed in a stern voice, "Do ye think that heaven and earth will suffer ye to murder an auld man that gate--a man that might be your father? _Look behind you, man!_"

Dousterswivel turned, and beheld, to his utter astonishment, a tall dark figure standing close behind him. Whether this was the angry Misticot or not, the newcomer certainly lifted a sturdy staff and laid it across the rascal's back, bestowing on him half-a-dozen strokes so severe that he fell to the ground, where he lay some minutes half unconscious with pain and terror.

When the German came to himself, he was lying close to Misticot's open grave on the soft earth which had been thrown out. He began to turn his mind to projects of revenge. It must, he thought, be either Monkbarns or Sir Arthur who had done this, in order to be revenged upon him. And his mind finally deciding upon the latter, as most likely to have set Edie Ochiltree on to deceive him, he determined from that moment to achieve the ruin of his "dear and honoured patron" of the last five years.

As he left the precincts of the ruined Priory, he continued his vows of vengeance against Edie and all associated with him. He had, he declared aloud, been assaulted and murdered, besides being robbed of fifty pounds as well. He would, on the very next day, put the law in motion "against all the peoples"--but against Edie Ochiltree first of all.

A QUITE SUPERFLUOUS INTERLUDE

The snow was now deep in the woods about the
library. It lay sleek and drifted upon the paths,
a broad-flaked, mortar-like snow, evidently
produced on the borderland between thawing and
freezing.

"It is fine and buttery," said Hugh John, with a
glance of intention at Sir Toady Lion, which was
equal to any challenge ever sent from Douglas to
Percy--or even that which Mr. Lesley carried for
Hector MacIntyre to Mr. Lovel's Fairport lodgings.

Sir Toady nodded with fierce willingness. He
scented the battle from afar.

"Ten yards then, twenty snowballs made before you
begin, and then go as you please. But no rushing
in, before first volley!"

"And no holding the balls under the drip of the
kitchen roof!" said Hugh John, who had suffered
from certain Toady Lionish practices which
personally he scorned.

"Well, then," said I, "out you go in your jerseys
for one hot half-hour. But no standing about,
mind!"

Sweetheart and Maid Margaret looked exceedingly
wistful.

"Of course," I said, "Sweetheart will want to go on
with her knitting, but if she likes, the Maid can
watch them from the window."

"Oo-oh!" said Maid Margaret, "I _should_ like to go
too!"

"And I should not mind going either," admitted
Sweetheart, "just to see that they did not hurt the
Maid. They are such rough boys!"

So it was arranged, as I had known it would be from
the first. The snow was still falling, but the wind
had gone down. There was to be no standing still,
and afterward they were to change immediately for
dinner. These were the conditions of permitted
civil strife.

"Please, is rolling in the snow permitted?" said
Hugh John, to whom this was a condition of
importance.

"Why, yes," said I, "that is, if you catch the
enemy out of his intrenchments."

"Um-m-m-m!" said Hugh John, grimly rubbing his
hands, "I'll catch him." In a lower tone he added,
"And I'll teach him to put snowballs in the drip!"

As he spoke, he mimicked the motions of one who
shoves snow down inside the collar of his
adversary.

The cover of a deal box, with a soap advertisement
on it, made a very fair intrenching tool, and soon
formidable snow-works could be seen rising rapidly
on the slopes of the clothes' drying ground,
making a semicircle about that corner which
contained the big iron swing, erect on its two tall
posts. Hugh John and Maid Margaret, the attacking
party, were still invisible, probably concocting a
plan. But Sweetheart and Sir Toady, laughing and
jesting as at some supreme stratagem, were busily
employed throwing up the snow till it was nearly
breast-high. The formation of the ground was in
their favour. It fell away rapidly on all sides,
except to the north, where the position was made
impregnable by a huge prickly hedge.

Nominally they were supposed to be enacting _The
Antiquary_, but actually I could not see that the
scene without bore any precise relation to what
they had been hearing within. Perhaps, however, the
day was too cold and stormy for standing upon the
exactitudes of history.

I did not remain all the time a spectator of the
fray. The stated duel of twenty balls was over
before I again reached the window. The combatants
had entered upon the go-as-you-please stage.
Indeed, I could gather so much even at my desk, by
the confusion of yells and slogans emitted by the
contending parties.

Presently the cry of "It's not fair!" brought me to
the window.

Hugh John and Maid Margaret had evidently gained a
certain preliminary success. For they had been able
to reach a position from which (with long poles
used at other times for the protection of the
strawberry beds) they were enabled, under shelter
themselves, to shake the branches of the big tree
which overshadowed the swing and the position of
the enemy. Every twig and branch was, of course,
laden with snow, and masses fell in rapid
succession upon the heads of the defenders. This
was annoying at first, but at a word from Sir
Toady, Sweetheart and he seized their intrenching
tools, calling out: "Thank you--thank you! It's
helping us so much! We've been wanting that badly!
All our snow was gone, and we had to make balls off
the ramparts. But now it's all right. Thank
you--thank you!"

The truth of this grew so evident that the baffled
assailants retired to consult. Nothing better than
a frontal attack, well sustained and driven home to
the hilt, occurred to Hugh John; and, indeed, after
all, that was the best thing that could happen on
such a day. A yell, a charge, a quick batter of
snowballs, and then a rush straight up the
bank--Maid Margaret, lithe as a deer-hound,
leading, her skirts kilted "as like a boy" as on
the spur of the moment she could achieve with a
piece of twine. Right on Sweetheart she rushed,
who,--as in some sort her senior and legal
protector,--of course, could not be very rough with
her, nor yet use the methods customary and licensed
between embattled brothers.

But while the Maid thus held Sweetheart in play,
Hugh John developed his stratagem. Leaning over the
ramparts he seized Sir Toady by the collar, and
then, throwing himself backward down the slope,
confident in the thick blanketing of snow
underneath, he dragged Sir Toady Lion along with
him.

"A prisoner--a prisoner!" he cried, both of them,
captor and captive alike, being involved in a misty
flurry of snow, which boiled up from the snowbank,
in the midst of which they fraternally embraced, in
that intimate tangle of legs and arms which only
boys can achieve without breaking bones.

"Back--come back!" rang out the order of the
victorious Hugh John. "Sit on him--sit on him
hard!"

Thus, and not otherwise, was Sir Toady captured
and Sweetheart left alone in the shattered
intrenchments, which a little before had seemed so
impregnable. Now in these snow wars, and, indeed,
in all the combattings of the redoubtable four, it
was the rule that a captive belonged to the side
which took him, from the very moment of his giving
in. He must utterly renounce his former allegiance,
and fight for his new party as fiercely as formerly
he had done against them. This is the only way of
decently prolonging strife when the combatants are
well matched, but various prejudices stand in the
way of applying it to international conflicts.

In this fashion was Sweetheart left alone in the
fort which she and Sir Toady had constructed with
such complete confidence. She did not, however,
show the least fear, being a young lady of a
singularly composed mind. On the other hand, she
set herself to repair the various breaches in the
walls, and so far as might be to contract them, so
that she would have less space to defend. Then she
sat sedately down on the swing and rocked herself
to and fro to keep warm, till the storm should
break on her devoted head.

It broke! With unanimous yell, an army, formidable
by being exactly three times her own numbers,
rushed across the level space, waving flags and
shouting in all the stern and headlong glory of the
charge. Snowballs were discharged at the bottom of
the glacis, the slope was climbed, and the enemy
arrived almost at the very walls, before Sweetheart
made a motion. There was something uncanny about
it. She did not even dodge the balls. For one thing
they were very badly aimed, and her chief safety
was in sitting still. They were, you see, aiming at
her.

It soon became evident, however, that the works
must be stormed. Still Sweetheart had made no
motion to resist, except that, still seated on the
broad board of the swing, she had gradually pushed
herself back as far as she could go without losing
her foothold on the ground.

"She's afraid!--She is retreating! On--on!"

No, Hugh John, for once your military genius has
been at fault. For at the very moment when the
snowy walls were being scaled, Sweetheart suddenly
lifted her feet from the ground. The swing, pushed
back to the limit of its chains, glided smoothly
forward. One solidly shod boot-sole took Hugh John
full on the chest. Another "plunked" Sir Toady in a
locality which he held yet more tender, especially,
as now, before dinner. Both warriors shot backward
as if discharged from a petard, disappearing from
view down the slope into the big drifts at the
foot. Maid Margaret, who had not been touched at
all, but who had stood (as it were) in the very
middle of affairs, uttered one terrified yell and
bolted.

"Time!" cried the umpire, appearing in the
doorway.

The baffled champions entered first. While
changing, they had got ready at least twenty
complete explanations of their downfall.
Sweetheart, coming in a little late, sat down to
her sewing, and listened placidly with a faint,
sweet, far-away smile which seemed to say that
knitting, though an occupation despised by boys,
does not wholly obscure the intellect. But she did
not say a word.

Her brothers somehow found this attitude
excessively provoking.

* * * * *

Thus exercised in mind and body, and presently also
fortified by the mid-day meal, the company declared
its kind readiness to hear the rest of _The
Antiquary_. It was not _Rob Roy_, of course--but a
snowy day brought with it certain compensations. So
to the crackle of the wood fire and the click and
shift of the knitting needles, I began the final
tale from _The Antiquary_.

THE THIRD TALE FROM "THE ANTIQUARY"