Chapter XXXVII: The Haunted Well

Rob Roy was instantly roused by MacAleister, who, in an excess of terror, related the vision of the past night, and begged that they might retire from Glengyle at once, as his soul was filled with dismay.

Rob, though deeming the whole affair a dream, as it was no doubt, felt somewhat disturbed by the story; for MacAleister maintained that it was a warning of his last hour being at hand; and still on his pale, blanched face he seemed to feel the icy breath of the phantom MacLaren.

Rob was too deeply imbued with the superstition of his time and country not to feel unpleasantly impressed by the whole affair, and fearing that something might be wrong at Portnellan, or that his presence there might be necessary, he and his follower set forth at once from the tower of Glengyle.

They proceeded quickly down the valley, passing through a dense old wood, which had grown there for ages.

In this wood was a clear and silvery fountain, which flowed into a tributary of Loch Katrine, and near it stood a little stone cross, covered with green moss and grey lichens. It had a great reputation for sanctity, and though frequently removed and cast elsewhere by the Presbyterians, by some means it always found its way back to the well, which was said to have been haunted of old by a beautiful fairy, with long flowing golden hair and shining garments--a water spirit like the Undine of the German romance.

Seeking the old fountain, Rob took a long draught of its pure cool stream, and drew aside a little way while MacAleister took off his bonnet and proceeded to say a prayer, for the adventure of the past night pressed heavy on his heart: but he had only uttered a single sentence, when he started back in terror, exclaiming that the pale grey face of MacLaren appeared under the water of the well, with the old malignant smile on his lips and in his eyes.

"Your dreams have bewildered you, Callam," said Rob Roy; "take courage--anon you will forget them."

But he had scarcely spoken, when there was a shout that woke every echo in the wood, and bursting through the trees and bushes about twenty dismounted troopers fell upon them, sword and carbine in hand.

MacGregor's claymore flashed from its sheath in a moment; and opposing his shield to them, he was about to break through and escape, when six levelled their carbines, and Colonel Grahame called upon him to "surrender, or he would be shot down without mercy!"

"I know how to die, but not how to yield," replied MacGregor, proudly.

"Then die in your obstinacy!" exclaimed the colonel; "fire!"

But the troopers paused, on which the faithful MacAleister exclaimed to his foster-brother in Gaelic.

"Let them fire at _me_, and when their guns are empty do thou break through, thou who wert nursed at my mother's breast--and God speed!"

With these words MacAleister threw himself, sword in hand, upon the troopers, who fired their carbines, and, pierced by four bullets, the devoted foster-brother of Rob Roy fell dead on the grass!

The heart of the latter was wrung within him on witnessing this sad catastrophe, and instead of flinging himself with fury on the soldiers and breaking away, as his foster-brother had expected, and had exhorted him to do, he stood for a minute with irresolution, gazing at the corpse, from which the blood was yet welling, with rage and sadness on his face and in his soul.

That minute of irresolution and grief lost all!

From every quarter of the wood, soldiers whom the firing had summoned, came hurrying in, and hemmed round on every side by swords, by levelled bayonets, halberts, and clubbed carbines, Rob Roy was beaten to the ground, and when well-nigh senseless was disarmed and bound with strong ropes, as if he had been a madman or a wild animal.

Then, on being dragged to his feet, he found himself the prisoner of the Duke of Montrose, who surveyed him with a fierce and exulting expression in his proud and haughty face.

"Oh!" exclaimed MacGregor, with a groan, "oh, eternal infamy! a prisoner, and Montrose--_to thee_!"