Chapter LVII: The Closing Scene

The health and strength of Rob Roy decayed rapidly after this, and the winter of 1734, with its unusual severity, sorely affected his shattered form. Helpless as a child, he was confined to bed at last by extreme old age rather than illness, at his house of Inverlochluvig.

On an evening towards the end of December he sunk rapidly. Helen, then an aged woman, was his constant attendant, and he requested her to throw open the windows that he might take a last farewell of the sun, then setting in his ruddy splendour, and casting the purple shadows of Ben More far across the snowclad braes of Balquhidder.

In the clear, frosty atmosphere of the winter eve he could hear the cattle lowing in the fold, and the laughter of the children ringing merrily from the adjacent clachan, and both were music to the old man's ear.

"Death is at hand, Helen--close--close!" said he, sadly, to his wife; "I may at times have been harsh--sharp with you."

"Oh, never--never to me, Rob," said she, sobbing heavily.

"If ever so, forgive me!"

"Forgive you, my poor old Rob!" she exclaimed, and threw her arms around him.

"I have never asked forgiveness save from those I loved, and most of them have gone before us, Helen. The hands of my forefathers beckon me; I can see their dim forms amid the blue mist on the hill! Has the sun set, Helen?"

"No--why?"

"It is growing so dark--so very dark--open the window!"

"It _is_ open," said Helen, in a broken voice.

"Oh that I could but have again the sweet perfume of the yellow broom and purple heather-bell; or hear the hum of the mountain-bee and the voice of the cushat-dove! But who comes?" he added, as a step approached softly.

'Twas old Alpine, who entered to say that MacLaren of Invernentie had called to inquire for him.

Then there came over Rob Roy something of the same impulse which, according to the English legend, animated the brave freebooter Robin Hood, when he was propped up on his death-bed, to shoot a last clothyard shaft with his trusty yew.

"MacLaren!" he exclaimed, rallying all his failing powers, while his sunken eyes flashed with light; "raise me up, Helen! Coll! Hamish! Robin Oig! bring me my bonnet and plaid, my pistols, dirk, and claymore, and _then_ admit him; for never shall it be said that a foeman saw Rob Roy defenceless and unarmed!"

His commands were immediately obeyed. MacLaren entered and paid his compliments by inquiring after the health of his formidable neighbour, who maintained a cold and haughty civility during their brief conference.

After MacLaren's departure Rob still sat up in bed, with his plaid about him, and his sword in his hand, and he muttered scraps of Ossian with his prayers.

"The winds shall whistle in my grey hair and not awake me. The sons of future years shall pass away--another race shall rise, for the people are like the waves of ocean: like the leaves of woody Morven, they pass away in the rustling blast, and _other_ leaves lift their green heads on high.* Now, Helen--wife," he added, "all is over! Strike up, Alpine, _Ha til mi tulidh!_ (We return no more!)"

* Berrathon.

Old and blind almost, like his dying leader, Alpine, while the hot tears streamed over his withered cheeks, played that solemn dirge, and ere it was over Rob Roy had passed away, and Helen MacGregor and her five sons were on their knees around a breathless corpse.

He expired on the 28th of December, 1734, in about the eightieth year of his age, and his demise is recorded thus simply in the _Caledonian Mercury_ newspaper of 9th January following:--

"_On Sunday se'nnight died at Balquhidder, in Perthshire, the famous Highland partizan, ROB ROY._"

* * * * *

His funeral was the last in Perthshire at which a piper was employed, according to General Stewart.

Helen did not survive him long.

The future of their sons--that future which had filled the soul of poor Rob Roy with so many fears and anxieties--was varied, and the fate of two was dark and tragic.

History tells us that Hamish commanded the MacGregors in the army of Prince Charles, and that he had his leg broken by a cannon-ball at the battle of Gladsmuir. He escaped from the Castle of Edinburgh with characteristic daring, and fled to France, where a free pardon was offered him if he would betray another fugitive, named Allan Breac Stewart; but he declined, saying,--

"I was born a Highland gentleman, and can never accept that which would make me the disgrace of my family and the scoff of my country."

Shortly afterwards he died of _starvation_ in the streets of Paris, when George III. was king.

In his thirteenth year Robin Oig shot MacLaren of Invernentie dead between the stilts of his plough, for insulting his mother; and the gun with which he perpetrated this terrible act is now at Abbotsford. He fled, became a soldier in the 42nd Regiment, and fought gallantly at Fontenoy, where he was wounded and taken prisoner by the French; but five years after the battle, by an overstrained power of the officers of the Crown, he died on the scaffold at Edinburgh. For the others, I must refer my readers to Burke's "Landed Gentry."

"Happily, now-a-days," says a recent writer, "the Celt and the Sassenach--Scotsman and Englishman--fight side by side, under one standard. _How_ the brave soldiers of the Highlands fight has been shown in many a glorious struggle--at Talavera, Salamanca, and Waterloo; nor will history forget _the thin red line_ of Balaclava, or the shrill pibroch of Havelock's small but gallant force, which came like home-music to the ears and hearts of those who defended Lucknow!"

* * * * *

At the east end of the old church of Balquhidder, within an enclosure formed by the foundations of the more ancient Catholic place of worship, lies the grave of Rob Roy.

It is covered by a rough stone of hard mica, on which a number of emblems are rudely sculptured. Among these the figure of a Highlander and a large broadsword can be distinctly traced.

Under this stone, in February, 1754, were also interred the remains of his son, Robin Oig.

Such is the story of ROB ROY the Outlaw.

THE END.

WYMAN AND SONS, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON.