Chapter VII: Part 7

Having thus disposed of his clerical friend, David betook himself to the duties of the house: to the filling of measures of wine, brandy, and ale, to the running hither and thither, supplying the wants of one party of customers, soothing the impatience of another, and joining in the drunken laughter of a third.

David was thus employed, when he was attracted to the door by an alarming outcry on the street. On reaching the latter, he saw a boy approaching at his utmost speed, and bawling out--

"A priest, a priest! For the love o' God, a priest to shrive a dying sinner. A priest, a priest!"

"What are ye screaming at, ye young rascal?" exclaimed David, intercepting the boy, and catching him by the breast. "Wha wants a priest?"

"It's a French offisher, sir, that has just been struck enow wi' a cannon-shot on the ramparts," replied the boy; "and, as I was passing at the time, he bade me rin for a priest."

"Was there naebody beside him?" inquired David.

"No ane, sir; and there's naebody yet--for he's lyin doon at the east end o' the rampart, whar never a shot was kent to come before, as neither town's folk nor Englishers is ever in that quarter."

"Is he sair hurt?" said David.

"I'm thinking he is," replied the boy. "But I maun awa up to St. Anthony's, and get ane o' the brethren." "Ye needna fash, my man," said mine host of "The Ship." "Hae, there's a groat to ye. There's ane o' the brethren in my house, and I'll send him up immediately to the puir man."

The boy, well enough satisfied with this conclusion to his mission, went his ways, seeking to have nothing farther to do with the matter.

Now, good reader, would you suspect it, that our friend David Wemyss was at this moment acting under the influence of one of the most wicked temptations that ever led an unhappy wight from the paths of righteousness? You would not; yet it is true--too true. Tempted by the exhibition of the bequests confided to brother Drinkhooly by the two wounded French officers, David Wemyss, beguiled by the devil, conceived the atrocious idea of arraying himself in the hat and gown of the unconscious churchman, and of officiating as father confessor to the dying gentleman on the ramparts, in the hope that he too would leave something to the preceptory, and make him the interim recipient of the bequest. Circumstances, David thought, were favourable to the adventure. The night was dark, and the wounded man was lying at a remote part of the rampart, where there was no great chance of his being annoyed with many witnesses. The whole affair, besides, he calculated, would not occupy many minutes.

Encouraged to the sacrilegious undertaking by this combination of happy circumstances, David Wemyss hastened, on tiptoe, to the chamber of the sleeping brother, and, in a twinkling, had himself bedight in the gown and hat of the latter.

Thus arrayed, he stole out by the back door, and, taking all the by-ways he could, hastened, as fast as his legs could carry him, towards the south-eastern extremity of the ramparts, where, as described to him, the wounded man was lying. David was thus pushing along, when he suddenly felt himself slapped on the shoulder by some one behind. He turned round, and beheld a man closely muffled up in a cloak, who thus addressed him:--

"Your pardon, holy father, for this somewhat uncourteous interruption; but the urgency of my case must plead my apology. An expiring sinner, holy father, claims your instant attendance. I will conduct you to her. Will you have the goodness to accompany me?"

"Impossible--impossible," replied the counterfeit monk, in great perturbation at this most unexpected interruption, and threatened expose. "I'm juist gaun on an errand o' the same kind enow, and canna leave ae sinner for anither."

"You will oblige me by accompanying me, good father," said the stranger, in a mild tone, but with a firmness of manner that was rather alarming. "You will oblige me by accompanying me, good father," he said, _looking_ a little surprised at the style of the holy father's language, but making no remark on the subject.

"Canna, sir--canna, canna, canna, on ony account," repeated the unhappy brother of St. Anthony, with great volubility, and endeavouring to push past the stranger, who stood directly in his way, and who kept dodging in his front to prevent his succeeding in any attempt of this kind.

"Nay, now, good father, if you please--now, if you please, and without more bandying of words; for the case is urgent, and there is not a moment to lose."

"Man, it's oonpossible--utterly oonpossible," replied David, with desperate energy. "I tell ye it's oonpossible."

"Do not compel me to use force, good father," said the stranger, calmly but determinedly.

"Force--force!" reiterated the horror-stricken monk. "Wad ye use force to a holy brither o' the preceptory? That wad be an awfu like thing."

"I must; you drive me to it," said the stranger--"Heaven knows how unwillingly. My orders were peremptory. They were to accost the first of your brethren I met; to entreat him to accompany me; and, if he refused, to compel him. The first I have done; the latter I must proceed to do; but, rest assured, no personal injury shall be done you; and you shall, moreover, be well rewarded for your trouble."

Having said this, the stranger gave a low whistle, when he was immediately joined by two men, who had been concealed in a dark passage close by, and who the unhappy monk saw were well armed.

"Now, good father," resumed the person by whom the latter had been first accosted, "I trust you will see the folly of any attempt at resistance, should you--which God forfend!--be indiscreet enough to entertain any such idea. Excuse me hinting farther, holy father, that any attempt at outcry, or at giving the slightest alarm of any kind, will be attended with unpleasant consequences."

"But--but--but"--exclaimed the distracted innkeeper, with rapid utterance.

"No buts, if you please, good father, but follow me," interrupted the stranger; and, saying this, he moved off, while his two companions placed themselves one on either side of their charge, and requested him to proceed.

Scarcely knowing what he did, but seeing very clearly that there would be imminent personal danger in farther remonstrance or resistance, the unlucky monk obeyed. This, however, he did only until he should have had time to reflect on his best course of proceeding--that is, until he should have taken it into due consideration whether he had not better brave exposure, and at once avow himself as no brother of St. Anthony, but David Wemyss, landlord of "The Ship," on the Coal Hill of Leith--reserving to himself, however, the right of keeping the secret of his purpose in assuming the garb of the brotherhood. Having weighed the matter well, and taken all probable and possible consequences into account, David finally determined on making the confession above alluded to--hoping by this means to put an end to the awkward proceedings now in progress and to accomplish, of course, at the same time, his own liberation. Having come to this resolution--

"Hey! hey!" he exclaimed, in a slightly raised voice, to draw the attention of the principal of his three guards or captors, who was still walking a little way in advance.

The person thus hailed stopped until David came up. The latter took him aside a little way, and whispered in his ear--

"I say, man, this is a' a mistak thegither. I'm no a monk. I'm no ane o' the brotherhood at a', man."

The man stared at him with surprise for a few seconds, without saying a word. At length, a satirical, or perhaps rather incredulous smile playing on his countenance--

"Come, come, now, father; that will never do," he said. "But I excuse your attempt, though a clumsy one, to impose on me; for the duties of your office have now become dangerous, and I do not wonder that you should seek to avoid them as much as possible. I was prepared for this--I was prepared for reluctance; and hence the precautions I took to compel, in case of failing to persuade."

"But I assure ye, sir, most seriously, that it's true I hae tell't ye," exclaimed David, with desperate eagerness, "I'm nae mair a monk than ye are."

"And, pray, who the devil are you then?" exclaimed the stranger.

"'Deed, to tell you a Gude's truth, I'm juist plain Davy Wemyss o' 'The Ship,' on the Coal Hill."

"Umph! oh! Don't know such a person; never heard of him."

"Od! that's queer," here interposed David, hastily. "I thocht everybody kent me."

"Not I for one," replied the stranger drily; "but, to cut this matter short, in the first place, I am not bound, good father, or hosteller, or whatever you are, to believe you; in the next, my orders were peremptory: I was instructed to accost the first person I met in clerical garb, and entreat him to accompany me; and, if he did not do so willingly, to compel him, as I told you before. So, there's an end of it. If you really be not what you appear to be, I can't help it. That's a point you must settle with others, not with me; I have nothing to do with it. My duty's done when I have brought you along with me; and that duty I am determined to do."

Saying this, the speaker, without waiting for farther remark or remonstrance, walked on, having previously made a sign to his two assistants to look to their charge.

What mine host of "The Ship's" feelings or reflections were, on finding himself thus cut off from all chance of escape from his awkward predicament, it would be rather tedious to describe. The reader will believe that they could not be very pleasant; and that is enough.

Whatever these feelings were, however, they did not hinder David Wemyss from entering, or rather attempting to enter, into conversation with the two men to whose charge he was confided.

"Od, men," he said, on their resuming their march, "this is an awkward sort o' business. I'm sure ye ken me weel aneuch--dinna ye?"

The only reply was a shake of the head.

"Davy Wemyss o' the Coal Hill? Ye canna but ken me, I should think," added the latter.

"No voord Ainglish," at length replied one of the men.

"Oh, ye're Frenchmen; ye belang to the Queen's Guard?" said David, now enlightened on the subject of their silence. "Weel, this is waur and mair o't," he continued. "Sma chance noo o' makin oot my case."

In the meantime, the party, who had taken their way by the quietest and most circuitous routes, were rapidly approaching the wooden bridge over the Water of Leith, which, in these days, formed the only communication between the opposite sides of the river.

Having gained the bridge, they proceeded alongst it; and, thereafter, made for a certain outlet in the ramparts situated in this quarter. This outlet, as might be expected, seeing that the town was at this moment under siege, was strongly guarded, and no egress or ingress permitted excepting to persons properly accredited.

Of such, however, seemed to be the person who had captured the unlucky hero of our story; for, on David and his escort coming up to the gate, they found the way prepared for them by the former, who, keeping still in advance, had arrived there before them.

Without word or question, then, they were permitted to pass through.

At this point, David was strongly tempted to make his case known to the guard at the gate; but, perceiving that they too were all Frenchmen, he thought it would be of no use, as they would not understand him. So he held his tongue.

The guard--who, we need hardly say, were staunch Catholics to a man--were, in the meantime, sadly annoying David with reverences to his clerical character. They formed themselves into two lines, that he might pass out at the gate with all due honour, and kept touching their caps to him, with the most respectful obeisance, as he walked on between their ranks.

Having gained the outside of the wall, Wemyss' escort, still led on by their principal, conducted him, by circuitous routes, towards the mills of Leith, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from the town.

Here, under a shed, they found four horses ready saddled and bridled, in charge of a groom, who seemed to have been waiting their arrival. So soon as the party came up, the latter, without waiting for orders, disappeared for an instant; and, in the next, presented himself leading forth the four horses, two by each hand. On one of these David, notwithstanding his most earnest entreaties to the contrary, which he backed by earnest assurances that "he was nae horseman," was immediately mounted. His guards mounted one a-piece of the others; and the whole cavalcade now proceeded, at a round trot, towards Edinburgh--poor Wemyss bouncing terribly with the roughness of the motion, to which he had been but little accustomed.

On approaching the city, the leader of the party, who, on horseback as on foot, still kept in advance, suddenly drew bridle, and waited the coming up of the holy brother and his escort.

On the former drawing near--

"Our route, father, lies through Edinburgh," he said. "Now, as these are troublesome times for persons of your cloth, I would recommend your conducting yourself, for your own sake, as warily as possible. We shall take the quietest routes, in order to avoid observation; and I beg that you will neither say nor do anything while we are passing through the city calculated to defeat our caution or attract notice."

Having said this, and without waiting for any reply, the speaker rode on, leaving his charge to follow with his escort.

The party had now passed the village of Broughton, when, turning in an easterly direction, they passed round the eastern base of the Calton Hill, descended to the south back of the Canongate, traversed its whole length, and finally entered the city by Leith Wynd.

For some time, the horsemen passed along without attracting any particular notice; and, very probably, would have continued to do so, had it not been for an idle boy, who, catching a glimpse of the brother of St. Anthony's flowing gown and slouched hat, just as the party had turned into the High Street, set up a loud cry of--

"Prelacy's mounted! prelacy's mounted! Hurra! hurra! Prelacy's mounted! and riding to----."

Continuing to follow the cavalcade, and continuing his clamour also, the mischievous little rascal soon had a crowd at the heels of the horsemen. The boy's exclamations spoke the spirit of the times; so that others of a similar character soon arose from twenty different quarters, and from as many different voices.

"Doon wi' the limb o' Satan!" shouted one.

"Doon wi' the man o' sin!" shouted another.

"Pu' Papery frae its throne o'iniquity!" exclaimed a third.

"Strike your spurs into your horse's sides, and let us shew them clean heels for it," said the leader of the party, addressing his unhappy charge, by whose side he was now riding, and speaking in a low but firm and earnest tone.

"But, man," began the latter, who appeared to be in great trepidation.

"You'll be murdered else," said the former, interrupting him sharply, and, at the same moment, striking the spurs into his horse's sides--a proceeding which instantly carried him clear of the crowd, and, shortly after, out of sight and out of danger.

The prudent example of their leader was quickly followed by the other two men, who, also, clapping spurs to their horses, soon found themselves out of the tumultuous throng by which they were surrounded, to whose tender mercies they left their unhappy charge, who being, as he said himself, no horseman, was unable to extricate himself from the now fast-thickening crowd.

Despairing of being able to effect his escape by any effort of horsemanship, the poor innkeeper, though with little hope of being believed, determined on divulging the facts of his case to the mob--always, however, of course, reserving to himself the original purpose for which he had assumed the unfortunate dress he now wore, the cause of all his trouble.

Having come to this resolution, he began to address the mob, some of whom had already laid hands on him, for the purpose of dragging him from his horse.

"Guid folks," began David, "I'm nae mair a munk than ony o' ye. I'm"----

At this moment, a well-aimed brick-bat took the unfortunate speaker on the right temple, and tumbled him senseless from his horse.

The mob, somewhat appalled by the suddenness of this catastrophe, and imagining that the unhappy man was killed outright, stood aloof for a few seconds, when David, almost instantly recovering from the stunning effect of the blow, which had unhorsed him, started to his feet, and, finding the press around him not very dense, pushed his way through it, and took to his heels.

This proceeding was the signal for a general chace, and it instantly took place. Relieved from the apprehension of having a murder to answer for, the mob, with shouts of exultation, started after the fugitive at full speed. Down Leith Wynd went David, instinct taking him in the direction of home; and down after him, like an avalanche, or raging torrent, went the mob, whooping and yelling as they rushed along.

Maddened and distracted with terror, David's progress was splendid, and, had nothing occurred to interrupt it, would soon have carried him out of the reach of his enemies; but the steepness of the street, which had aided his velocity, also increased its perils. For a long while he kept his feet on the abrupt declivity, like a winged Mercury; but a treacherous inequality in the pavement brought him suddenly, and with dreadful violence, down on his face, while, partly over and partly on him, went half-a-dozen of the foremost of the pursuers, tripped up by his abrupt and unlooked-for prostration.

Those who fell on the unhappy victim of popular fury, now instantly, and, as they lay, betook themselves to avenging their fall by tearing and worrying at the unlucky cause of their accident; while others coming up, added to his punishment by an unmerciful infliction of kicks and buffets, that quickly deprived him of all consciousness.

It was at this critical moment that a person, apparently of consideration, approached the crowd, and asked some of those who were hovering around it, what was the meaning of the uproar.

"They're bastin a Papist--a fat priest o' Baal, they hae gotten hand o'," said a burly fellow who, from the leathern apron he wore, appeared to be a shoemaker. "Giein him a taste o' Purgatory before they send him to ----, just by way o' seasonin."

"What, is this more of the accursed doings of the spoilers and persecutors of the church," exclaimed the stranger, in a tone of deep indignation. "Are they about to add murder to robbery;" and, drawing his sword, he rushed into the crowd, calling out--"Stand aside, ye caitiffs! shame on ye; would ye murder a defenceless man? Would ye bring Heaven's wrath upon your heads by so foul a deed?"

The crowd, either awed by the bold bearing of the stranger, or taken by surprise by the suddenness of his assault, readily opened a way for him, so that, in an instant, he stood by the bruised, battered, and senseless body of our unhappy brother of St. Anthony.

Seeing that the latter was in a state of utter unconsciousness, though still living, the stranger, after clearing a circle around the prostrate man, addressing those near him, said--

"Ten crowns will I give to any three or four amongst ye who will bear this unfortunate person whither I shall conduct them. It is not far: only to the southern side of the city."

For a few minutes there was no answer to this invitation; but it was heard with a silence which shewed that it had made an impression--that religious zeal and hatred were giving way to cupidity.

At length, a brawny-armed smith, with shirt rolled up to his shoulders, stepping out of the crowd, said--

"Well, I'm your man for one. I say, Bob, and you Archy," he continued, turning round, and selecting two persons from the mob, "will ye no join us in giein a lift to the carrion? Ten croons are no to be fand at every dike-side."

Without making any reply in words to this appeal, the two persons named came forward, although with a somewhat dogged and sullen air, and were about to seize limbs a-piece of the still unconscious victim of popular hatred, with the view of thus transporting him, as if he had been a dead dog, to the destination proposed for him, when the person who had now taken the unfortunate man in charge, objected to the unseemly and inhuman proceeding, and offered an additional crown for a bier or litter on which to place him.

The activity of the smith, stimulated by the increased reward, quickly produced the conveniency wanted. It was but a coarse and clumsy article; being nothing more than a few rough boards hastily put together; but it answered its purpose indifferently well.

On this latter, then, the body of our unlucky brother was now placed--his face dreadfully swollen and disfigured; and the procession moved off, with a shouting and laughing mob at its heels.

Leaving David thus disposed of, we will return to Leith for a space, to see how Drinkhooly came on, denuded as he was of his shovel hat and his gown.

On awaking from his nap, the worthy churchman, not well pleased that David had not come to rouse him as he promised, started up in great uneasiness, lest the gates of the preceptory should be shut, and his character as a regular living man be thereby injured.

What was the surprise of the good man, however, to find that he had been stripped of his gown while he slept, and left in his shirt sleeves. Alarmed at the circumstance, brother Drinkhooly began searching the apartment for the missing garment, and also for his hat, which he now found had likewise gone astray.

Being able to discover no trace of the missing articles, he commenced rapping on the door to bring some one to his assistance, although very unwilling to expose himself in his present predicament to any but his well-beloved crony, David Wemyss. He could not help himself, however. His gown and hat he must have. He could not leave the house without them, and without assistance they could not be got.

The worthy brother's rapping on the door being unattended to, he commenced with his heel on the floor, a proceeding which he had often found, as it has been facetiously termed, an "_effectual calling_."

In the present instance, it brought mine host's wife into his presence. On her entering--

"Good woman, good Mrs. Wemyss, I would say, know ye anything of mine outer garment? My gown, know ye where it has been deposited? I likewise lack my hat, good Mrs. Weymss; know ye what has become of it?"

"Truly, your reverence, I dinna ken," replied Mrs. Weymss, beginning to bustle about the apartment in search of the desiderated articles; "but they canna be far aff, surely. Does your reverence no mind whar ye laid them?"

"My hat, I recollect perfectly--there being no reason why I should not recollect it--I laid on this chair by the bedside here. Now it is gone. My gown I laid nowhere, but kept on me. So, of that garment I must have been denuded even while I slept. It is strange. Is my good friend David not in the way? He would, doubtless, explain all, and help me to mine outer covering and head-gear?"

"Indeed, no, your reverence, David's no in the way; and I canna tell whar he is. He's been missing oot o' the house thae three hours; and gaed aff without telling ony o' us whar he was gaun, or what he was gaun aboot. Indeed, nane o' us kent when he gaed. Sae he maun hae slippit aff unco cannily."

In the meantime, the search for the missing articles of dress went on vigorously, but without any good result. They were nowhere to be found.

"What's to be done?" said the good father in a despairing tone, as he threw himself into a chair. "I cannot go through the streets in this indecent condition, and, if I remain longer, I will be deemed a disregarder of canonical hours. What is to be done?"

"Deed it's an awkward thing, your reverence, and how ye are to gae hame in your sark sleeves, and your bald head to the win, I dinna see."

"I'll tell you what you'll do for me, my good Mrs. Weymss," said the worthy father, after thinking a moment: "You'll send up your little girl to the preceptory, and I'll give her a message to Brother Christie. I think he'll oblige me in a strait. He'll send me down a gown and hat wherewith I may hie me home, and your good husband, and my good friend, David, will, doubtless, find me mine own garments when he returns."

"Surely, your reverence, surely; Jessy'll be but owre prood to do your reverence's biddin," replied Mrs. Weymss, and she hastened to call her daughter.

On the girl making her appearance, the worthy brother gave her her instructions.

He desired her to go to the preceptory; to ask a private word of Brother Christie; and to say to him that he, Drinkhooly, had got into tribulation. That, having some matters of private concernment to talk over with mine host of "The Ship," he had called on him, and that, while there, overcome with exhaustion, in consequence of his late fatiguing duties, he had fallen asleep, and that, while he slept, some one had removed his gown and hat, and that he could nowhere find the same, and could not therefore return to the preceptory unless his good brother, Christie, would furnish him with the loan of these two articles, the which, he had no doubt, he would readily do.

Charged with this rather long-winded message, the girl departed on her mission. In less than a quarter of an hour she returned, but brought neither hat nor gown.

"Has he refused them?" inquired the worthy brother, with a look of grievous discomfiture, when he saw the girl enter without the much-desired articles. "What did he say?"

"He said, sir," replied the girl, who was both too young and too single-minded to think of saving any one's feelings at the expense of truth, "that, if ye had drank less o' David Wemyss' claret, ye wad hae kenned better what had become o' your gown and hat."

"_O scandalum magnatum!_" exclaimed the indignant priest. "Doth he--doth Brother Christie accuse me of vinous indulgences? Him whom I have, a hundred times, helped to his dormitory, when incapacitated therefrom by the excess of his potations. And he would not give thee the garments?"

"No, please you, sir; he said ye micht gang without the breeks for him. He wadna send ye a stitch."

It became now matter for serious consideration what was to be done. It was true that the good father might easily have been arrayed for the nonce in a coat and hat of his friend, David Wemyss', and might, so attired, pass unheeded through the streets. But how was he to account for his appearance in such an unseemly garb at the preceptory. It might lead to some awkward inquiries as to how the good brother had spent the evening.

There was no other way for it, however. So, equipped in the deficient articles from mine host of "The Ship's" wardrobe, Brother Drinkhooly stole out of the house, slunk along the streets, gained the gate of the preceptory, knocked thereat, whispered two or three words of explanation to the porter, with whom he was fortunately in good terms, and, finally, got snugly to his own dormitory without detection.

To return to mine host of "The Ship." It was not for nearly twelve hours after the occurrence of the tragical affair of Leith Wynd, that David Wemyss was restored to a consciousness of existence. When he was, conceive, if you can, reader, his surprise and amazement to find himself in a superb bed, hung round with rich crimson velvet curtains, and whose coverlets were of satin fringed with gold. The room, which was also gorgeously furnished, was so darkened when David awoke from the refreshing sleep which had restored him to the possession of his senses, that it was some time before he discovered all the splendours with which he was surrounded.

When these, however, had at length begun to take his eye, he started up on his elbow, and, with a mingled look of perplexity, consternation, and bewilderment, commenced a survey of the magnificent chamber of which he thus so strangely and inexplicably found himself an occupant.

How or when he had been brought there, he could not conceive; neither, for a good while, had he any recollection whatever of the pummelling with which he had been favoured in Leith Wynd. The operation, however, of certain physical effects of that incident--namely, a painful aching of the bones, and an almost total inability to move either leg or arm, gradually unfolded to him, although only in a dim and confused manner, the occurrence of the preceding night.

In the meantime, David went on with his survey of the apartment, during which he perceived two objects that convinced him that he was in the house of a Roman Catholic--of one of those who still clung to the ancient religion of the kingdom, and who held in detestation and abhorrence the doctrines of the new faith.

These objects were a large painting, over the fire-place, of the Saviour on the Cross, and a small silver crucifix which stood on a table close by the side of the bed; there was also lying on the floor, opposite the crucifix, and near to it, a crimson velvet cushion with gold tassels on which were such indentations as intimated its having been recently knelt upon.

Having completed the examination of his new premises, David Wemyss threw himself back on the bed, in order to take a deliberate survey in his own mind of his present strange position, and of all the circumstances connected therewith.

"'Od, but this is a most extraordinar affair, and a dooms awkward ane," thought David, to himself. "Wha wad hae dreamed o't. Wha wad hae dreamed that sae simple a thing as me putting on Drinkhooly's goun, wad hae led to a' this mischief.

"What'll they think's become o' me in Leith? And what'll I say for mysel whan I gae back? And what'll Drinkhooly do for his goun? Od, they'll excommunicat him; they'll ruin him. God help us, it's an awfu' business. But, whar am I?--Wha's house is this, and hoo got I till't? And hoo and whan am I to get hame again; for I fin' that I couldna keep a leg under me enow, an it were to mak me provost o' Edinburgh."

At this moment, David's somewhat disjointed, though pertinent enough reflections, were interrupted by the entrance of some one into the apartment.

The intruder, whoever he was, came in on tiptoe, as if fearful of disturbing the occupant of the apartment; and, on approaching the bed, peered cautiously into it, to see whether he was awake.

David, without saying a word, stared at the person, who appeared to be a serving man or cook, from his wearing a blue velvet cap on his head--the usual head-dress of such persons in those times, and his bearing a steaming silver posset dish in one hand.

David, as we have said, stared at the man, without saying a word--a line of proceeding which he adopted, in order that the other, by speaking first, might give him a sort of cue by which to guide himself in the impending colloquy.

Seeing that the patient was awake, the man, bowing respectfully, said:--

"I trust, holy father, I find you better. Here is a posset which has been prepared for you by the directions of our leech, worthy Dr. Whang o' the Cowgate Head, which you will be so good as take."

"My man," said David, without either accepting or refusing the proffered posset, "I'm misdoubtin that there's a sad mistak in this business a'thegither. Howsomever, let that flee stick to the wa' for the present. Can ye tell me whar I am, and hoo I cam here?"

"Most assuredly, holy father. You are just now in the house, and under the protection and guardianship of Lady Wisherton of Wisherton Mains, whose house is situated about two hundred yards south of the Kirk of Field. As to the manner of your coming here, holy father, it was this:--Her ladyship's son, Lord Boggyland, coming up Leith Wynd last night, found you in the midst of a crowd of sacrilegious ruffians, who were murdering you, and who had already, by their brutal treatment, deprived you of all consciousness. Seeing this, his lordship, who, as all his family--his good and pious mother included--are staunch adherents of the old religion, instantly interfered in your behalf, and had you conveyed to his mother's house, where, as I have already said, you are at the present moment."

"Umph," muttered David. "Is that the way o't. Then, I fancy, I'm juist oot o' the fryin-pan into the fire."

The serving-man, not perceiving the applicability of the remark, although somewhat surprised at it, made no reply, but again pressed the posset on the suffering martyr.

"Weel, weel, let's see't then," said David, raising himself up in the bed. "There can be nae great harm in that, I fancy. It'll no mak things muckle waur than they are. Is't onything tasty?"

His attendant assured him that he would find it very pleasant, being made by her ladyship's own hands, who long enjoyed a high reputation for manufacturing possets and comfits of all sorts.

Having raised the lid of the posset dish, and flavoured it contents, David pronounced it "savoury;" when, taking spoon in hand, he cleared out the vessel in a twinkling.

"A gusty mouthfu' that," said mine host of "The Ship," throwing himself luxuriously back on his pillow, "although I think it wadna been the waur o' a wee hair mair brandy in't."

The serving-man having done his errand, now left the room, retiring with the same careful step and respectful manner with which he had entered, and left David once more to his own reflections.

In these, however, he was permitted but a very short indulgence. His attendant had not been gone five minutes, when the door of the apartment was again gently opened, and an elderly lady, of tall and majestic form, arrayed in a close fitting dress of black velvet, with a gold chain round her neck, from which was suspended a large diamond cross, entered the sick man's chamber. It was Lady Wisherton herself. Approaching, with stately step, but with a look of tender concern, the bed on which her patient lay--

"It rejoices me much, holy father," she said, "to learn, from our good and faithful servitor, William Binkie, that your reverence begins to feel some symptoms of amendment."

"Ou, thank ye, mem, thank ye," replied David, with no small trepidation; for the dignified and stately appearance of his visiter had sadly appalled him. "I fin' mysel a hauntle better, thanks to your leddyship's kindness--takin' ye to be Leddy Wisherton hersel', as I hae nae doot ye are."

"You are right in your conjecture, good father," replied Lady Wisherton, rather taken aback by the very peculiar style of his reverence's language, which she did not recollect ever to have met with in any other person in holy orders before. The circumstance, however, only puzzled her; it did not, in the smallest degree, excite in her any suspicion of the real facts of the case. "You are right in your conjecture, good father," she said, "I am Lady Wisherton."

"So I was jalousin, mem," said David, who, by the way, we may as well mention here, had made up his mind to endeavour to avoid exposure, by not saying or doing anything to undeceive Lady Wisherton as to his real character, and to trust to some fortunate chance of getting, undetected, out of the house.

"O father!" said Lady Wisherton, bursting out into a sudden paroxysm of pious excitation, "what is to become of our poor persecuted church? When will a judgment descend on this unholy land, for the monstrous sins by which it is now daily polluted. Oh, dreadful times!--oh, unheard of iniquity! that a priest of God--a father of our holy church--should be attacked on the public streets of this city, and put in jeopardy of his life by a mob of heretical blasphemers! When will these atrocities cease? Oh, when, when, when?"

"Deed, mem, it's no easy sayin," replied the subject of this pathetic lamentation. "They're awfu' times. Nae man leevin ever saw or heard o' the like o' them. There, doon at Leith enow, they're murderin ane anither by the dizzen every day, and no comin a bit nearer the point after a'. Heaven kens whar it's to end. In the meantime, they hae gien me a confounded lounderin; I fin' that in every bane o' my body."

"You have been sorely abused by them, indeed, father," replied Lady Wisherton. "But a day of retribution is coming. You will be avenged, terribly avenged."

"There was ae fallow, in particular, amang them, that I wad like to see gettin a guid creeshin," replied David: "_that_ was a great big scounneril o' a blacksmith, wi' his shirt sleeves rowed up to his shouthers. He was the warst o' the lot. I got mair and heavier waps frae him than frae a' the rest put thegither."

Again, Lady Wisherton looked surprised at the style of language in which her reverend patient spoke, his last remarks being particularly rich in the homely vernacular of the country, and greatly was her perplexity increased by the discordance between his calling and his manner, which was every moment becoming more and more marked; still she did not, nor could suspect the truth.

"Was it not a blessing of Providence, father," resumed Lady Wisherton, "that my son, Lord Boggyland, happened to be in Leith Wynd at the time you were attacked by these sacrilegious ruffians?"

"Feth, my leddy, it was just that," replied David--"A Gude's mercy. They gied me a bonny creeshin as it was; but they wad hae dished me clean oot an it hadna been for him. Feth, yon fellows care nae mair for a man's life than they wad do for a puddock's."

"Your reverence's face is much swelled," said Lady Wisherton, suddenly attracted by the swollen and discoloured countenance of her patient. "Greatly swelled. You must allow me to bathe it with my lotion."

"Nae occasion, mem, nae occasion, thank ye; I dinna find it ony way painfu. Besides, I'll try and get up, towards the darkenin, and be steppin doon to Leith; for they'll be wonderin there what's come o' me."

It will be seen from this that our brother of St. Anthony contemplated an early retreat from his present quarters; and further, that he meant to avail himself of the obscurity of night to effect that retreat. But this was a point not to be so very easily managed as he thought.

"Leave my house this afternoon!" exclaimed Lady Wisherton, in the utmost amazement. "That, with your reverence's leave, indeed, you shall not do. You shall remain where you are, under my tendance, until you be perfectly recovered, which we dare not hope for under a fortnight, at the very least. But, in the meantime, good father, you shall have every attendance, every comfort which you can desire, or of which your situation will admit. My son and I are but too happy, although we deplore the cause, of having been presented with an opportunity of testifying our reverence and love for a minister of our holy religion.

"As to your fears," she continued, "for any uneasiness among your friends in Leith, on account of your absence, be not concerned about that, good father; I have provided for it. I have sent notice to the preceptory of your misfortune, relating all that has happened, and giving intimation that you are in my house, and in safety; so have no doubt that some of the brethren will be here in the course of the evening."

Here was a pretty piece of information for the already but too much perplexed martyr to the old faith. Intimation had been sent to the preceptory, and half-a-dozen of the brethren would be in upon him immediately, and a dreadful expose would, of course, follow. It was a most trying crisis, and David but too sensibly felt it to be so. He felt as if he could have wished the house to fall upon him, and bury him in its ruins.

Appalled and horrified, however, as he was at this impending catastrophe, he said nothing, but, anxious to be left alone, in order to have an opportunity of thinking over his position, and of taking into consideration what had best be done, he began to affect drowsiness; when his noble hostess, taking the hint, quietly left the apartment.

Hearing the door close, David first opened one eye cautiously, and then the other; then turning gently round, peered over the edge of the bed to see if the coast was clear. Discovering that it was, he threw himself again on his back, and, fixing his eyes on the roof, began thinking as hard as he could how he was to get out of his present dilemma. The sequel will tell the result of his deliberations.

On that same night, about twelve of the clock, David Wemyss' worthy spouse--who had been in great distress at his sudden disappearance, and who was fully impressed with the belief that he had fallen over the quay and had been drowned--was startled by a low tap-tapping at the back door of "The Ship." Thinking it might be some one with tidings of her lost husband, she instantly got up, lighted a candle, and, although under no little apprehension and alarm, opened the door, when, lo! who should enter but her beloved David himself. She instantly set up a scream of delight.

"Whisht, whisht, woman," said David, stealing into a back apartment as fast as he could. "This is no a business to blaw about. The calmer sough we keep the better."

"But, gude sake, David," said his wife, on rejoining him, after having secured the door, "whar hae ye been a' this time, and whar hae ye gotten that awfu-like face?"

"I hae gotten a hantle mair than that, guidwife, although ye dinna see't," replied David. "I dinna believe there's a hale bane in my entire buik. I hae had a bonny time since I left ye; aneuch to serve a man his hale life time; and yet it was a' crammed into ae four-and-twenty hours. But gie me a mouthfu o' brandy, guidwife, and I'll tell ye a' about it."

David now proceeded with his narration, giving his wife a detailed account of the series of adventures related in the foregoing pages. To these we have now to add only a reference to one or two points, which will be considered, probably, as requiring some explanation.

First, as to how our brother of St. Anthony escaped from Lady Wisherton's. This he effected by the simple process of stealing out of the house after dark. There was no other way for it, and he was fortunate enough to succeed in the somewhat hazardous attempt, by dropping himself from a window of a story in height, at the back part of the house.

Who the person was who first laid hands on mine host of "The Ship," on his first appearance in his new character, or by whom he was employed, he never certainly knew, but suspected afterwards that he was a retainer of Lord Borthwick's, who was then in Leith with the Queen Regent. Whither, however, he meant to have taken him, or who the sufferer was for whom the last duties of religion were wanted, he never learnt; nor, indeed, for obvious reasons, did he ever inquire. The whole, in short, was a subject on which David Wemyss always thought the less that was said the better; and, acting on this opinion, it was one which he carefully abstained from making matter of conversation.

All his caution, however, could not prevent some hints of his adventure from getting abroad. These hints some of the little ragged scapegraces of the Coal Hill wrought into the following rhymes, which, in dark nights, they were in the habit of shouting in at the door of "The Ship," to the great annoyance of its landlord, who might frequently be seen rushing out, stick in hand, to inflict summary punishment on the offenders:--

"Davie Wemyss gaed oot a priest,
By filthy lucre temptit;
Davie Wemyss cam hame again.
And thocht naebody kent it."

THE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS.

"The maid that loves,
Goes out to sea upon a shattered plank,
And puts her trust in miracles for safety."--_Old Play._

I am a peripatetic genius--a wanderer by profession--a sort of Salathiel Secundus, "doomed for a term," like the ghost of Hamlet's papa, "to walk the earth," whether I will or not. Here, however, the simile stops; for his aforesaid ghostship could traverse, if he chose, amid climes far away, while the circuit of my peregrinations is, has for sometime been, and must, for some short time more, necessarily be, confined to the northern extremity of "our tight little island"--_vulgo vocato_--Scotland. In my day I have seen many strange sights, and met with many strange faces--made several hairbreadth 'scapes, and undergone innumerable perils by flood and field. On the wings of the wind--that is, on the top of a stage-coach--I have passed through many known and unknown towns and villages; have visited, on foot and on horseback, for my own special edification and amusement, various ancient ruins, foaming cataracts, interesting rocks, and dismal-looking caves, celebrated in Scottish story. But better far than that, and dearer to my soul, my foot has trod the floors of, I may say, all the haberdashers shops north of the Tweed: in short, most patient reader, I am a travelling bagman.

In this capacity I have, for years, perambulated among the chief towns of Scotland, taking orders from those who were inclined to give them to me, and giving orders to those who were not inclined to take them from me, unless with a _douceur_ in perspective--viz., coachmen, waiters, bar-maids, _et hoc genus omne_. From those of the third class, many are the witching smiles lighting up pretty faces--many the indignant glances shot from deep love-darting eyes, when their under neighbours, the lips, were invaded without consent of parties--which have saluted me everywhere; for the same varied feelings, the same sudden and unaccountable likings and dislikings, have place in the breasts of bar-maids as in those of other women. As is the case too with the rest of their sex, there are among them the clumsy and the handsome, the plain and the pretty, the scraggy and the plump, the old and the young; but of all the bar-maids I ever met with, none charmed me more than did Mary of the Black Swan, at Altonby. In my eyes she inherited all the good qualities I have here enumerated--that is to say, she was handsome, pretty, plump, and young, with a form neither too tall nor too short; but just the indescribable happy size between, set off by a manner peculiarly graceful.

It was on a delightful evening in the early spring, that I found myself seated, for the first time, in a comfortable little parlour pertaining to the Black Swan, and Mary attending on me--she being the chief, nay, almost the only person in the establishment who could serve a table. I was struck with her loveliness, as well as captivated with her engaging manner, and though I had for thirty years defied the artifices of blind Cupid, I now felt myself all at once over head and ears in love with this village beauty. Although placed in so low a sphere as that in which I then beheld her, there was a something about her that proclaimed her to be of gentle birth. Whoever looked upon her countenance, felt conscious that there was a respect due to her which it is far from customary to extend to girls in waiting at an inn. Hers were

"Eyes so pure, that from their ray
Dark vice would turn abashed away."

Her feet were small and fairy-like, from which, if her voice, redolent of musical softness--that thing so desirable in woman--had not already informed me, I should have set her down as being of English extraction.

Several months elapsed ere it was again in my power to visit Altonby. During all that time, my vagrant thoughts had been of Mary--sleeping or waking, her form was ever present to my fancy. On entering the Black Swan, it was Mary who bounded forward to welcome me with a delighted smile. She seemed gratified at my return; and I was no less so at the cordiality of my reception. The month was July, and the evening particularly fine; so, not having business of much consequence to transact in the place, and Mary having to attend to the comforts of others, beside myself, then sojourning at the Black Swan, I sallied forth alone--

"To take my evening's walk of meditation."

When one happens to be left _per se_ in a provincial town, where he is alike unknowing and unknown--where there is no theatre or other place of amusement in which to spend the evening--it almost invariably happens that he pays a visit to the churchyard, and delights himself, for an hour or so, with deciphering the tombstones--a recreation extremely healthful to the body, and soothing to the mind. It was to the churchyard on that evening I bent my steps, thinking, as I went along, seriously of Mary.

"What is she to me?" I involuntarily exclaimed; "I have no time to waste upon women: I am a wanderer, with no great portion of worldly gear. In my present circumstances it is impossible I can marry her; and to think of her in any other light were villanous. No, no! I will no longer cherish a dream which can never be realized."

And I determined that, on the morrow, I should fly the fatal spot for ever. Who or what Mary's relations had been, she seemed to feel great reluctance in disclosing to me. All I could glean from her was, that she was an orphan--that she had had a sister who had formed an unfortunate attachment, and broken their mother's heart--that all of her kindred that now remained was a brother, and he was in a foreign land.

The sun was resting above the summits of the far-off mountains, and the yew trees were flinging their dusky shadows over the graves, as I entered the burial-place of Altonby. The old church was roofless and in ruins; and within its walls were many tombstones over the ashes of those who, having left more than the wherewithal to bury them, had been laid there by their heirs, as if in token of respect. In a distant corner, I observed one little mound over which no stone had been placed to indicate who lay beneath: it was evidently the grave of a stranger, and seemed to have been placed in that spot more for the purpose of being out of the way than for any other. At a short distance from it was another mound, overtopped with grass of a fresher kind. As I stood leaning over a marble tombstone, gazing around me, a figure slowly entered at the farther end of the aisle, and, with folded arms and downcast eyes, passed on to those two graves. It was that of a young man of perhaps five-and-twenty, though a settled melancholy, which overspread his countenance, made him look five years older. I crouched behind the stone on which I had been leaning, fearful of disturbing him with my presence, or rousing his attention by my attempting to leave the place.

After gazing with a vacant eye for a few moments upon the graves, he knelt down between them. His lips began to move, but I heard not what he said. I thought he was praying for the souls of the departed; and I was confirmed in this by hearing him at last say, with an audible voice:--

"May all good angels guard thee, Clara Douglas, and thou, my mother!"