Chapter X: Part 10

Our tale of humble life now draws to a close. In the course of a few months, the indisposition of Mr. Douglas assumed all the symptoms of a settled consumption, which continued to present to his family and friends the alternations of hope and of fear, that are the unfailing companions of that subtle visitation. A sea voyage, native air, and all other expedients suggested by skill or affection, were tried in vain; and, in the fiftieth year of his age, the minister of Eccleshall returned to the bosom of his family, with a full anticipation that the distemper under which he lingered would, ere long, prove fatal. His eyes sparkled with more than wonted lustre--his benevolent and intelligent countenance glowed with the delicate hectic flush which so often marks the progress of consumption--and the healthy, but not robust frame of its victim, became emaciated and feeble. The fall of the year 179-, brought the chilling blasts of November to quench the flickering spark of life in his bosom.

I was despatched one cold morning on the pony for Mr. Blythe, a neighbouring clergyman and friend, to pay my father a visit. We rode together from his manse to Eccleshall; and, on his arrival, he remained alone with my father, engaged in those hallowed communings betwixt a dying man and his spiritual comforter which it is unseemly and sacrilegious in any case to disclose to mortal eyes. After a considerable space thus spent, the whole family, including the servants, were, by my father's directions, summoned to the side of his couch, in the Red Room, where he reposed. When all were assembled, he intimated, with composure and resignation, that he was conscious of the near approach of death, and addressed a few sentences of admonition and affection to them all; and, having done so, he requested Mr. Blythe to unite with his household in prayer and praise--requesting that the last hymn in the beautiful collection of sacred lyrics attached to our national psalmody, might be sung. My father's pulpit psalm-book was brought to Mr. Blythe. It is now before me, and I transcribe, from its page, with a vivid recollection of the scene now referred to, one of the solemn stanzas of that touching anthem:--

"The hour of my departure's come,
I hear the voice that calls me home;
At last, O Lord! let troubles cease,
And let thy servant die in peace!"

Mr. Blythe breathed, rather than sung the hymn, in the notes of Luther's hundredth psalm; and he did it with the accompaniment of tremulous and broken accents from all around the couch. The tears of unutterable sorrow were shed by all, save my mother, whose grief could not find a vent in tears. The voice of psalms was quenched amid the sobs which burst from every heart; and, during the singing of the last portion of it, the pious man who guided these orisons, sympathized so deeply in the passion of lamentation which encompassed him, that his accents were scarcely audible. The overpowering scene was closed by a brief and pathetic prayer to the Most High, that to His dying servant he would "stretch out His everlasting arms," and "to the friendless prove a friend."

A few hours more, and the scene of life had passed away from the mortal vision of William Douglas. I saw him die. It was the first deathbed I had ever seen. There are many occurrences in life which fill the mind with awe; but I have never been conscious of any emotion so profound and solemn as that which possessed me during the last day of my father's life. I witnessed the expiring flame in those dread moments when time is blent with eternity, and when the last sigh seems to waft the immortal spirit into a state of existence of which no adequate conception can be formed. After all was over, and the breath of life had fled, I could not believe my senses, that the prop of my affections was gone from my love and my embrace, and that all which remained on earth of my father, protector, and gentle monitor, was a lifeless wreck on the shore of time. The world appeared to my young eye and heart as a wide scene of mere darkness and desolation.

I will not dwell on subsequent events. The funeral obsequies performed, the family councils were of a melancholy description. As to worldly matters, it was ascertained that there was very little debt--not more than could be fully paid by the current stipend and other limited means; but, beyond this, all was a dreary blank. The only means of subsistence to which my widowed mother could look with certainty, was her small annuity of £25 a-year; while one only of the family (the eldest boy, who had been educated as a surgeon, and had got an appointment in the East India Company's service) could do ought to eke out the means of life for the family. In the depth of her affliction, she would say, with pious confidence, in the language of scripture, "I have never seen the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread."

But, leaving these painful retrospects, it may not be inappropriate to note briefly the career of the earl of Bellersdale, whom I had occasion to advert to in the earlier part of this story. He survived my father many years, and spent his life devoid of domestic happiness or public respect, in the accumulation of wealth and the pursuits of sordid ambition. He lived detested and despised of mankind; and, dying unlamented by any one human being, he destined the vast treasures which he had amassed, to constant accumulation, not to be enjoyed fully by his heirs, but for the creation of a princedom of indefinite extent and wealth. But the honours of the Bellersdale family were speedily tarnished. A spendthrift successor squandered all the revenues which he could touch; and the last time I visited that part of the country, the splendid mansion of Bellersdale Castle was stripped of all its movables; the collections of many years of aristocratic pride--the pictures, the statues, the very board destined for baronial hospitality--were all brought to the hammer for payment of a tailor's bill for gewgaws to grace a court pageant; and the nominal inheritor of the wide domains and honours of his lordship's house, is an obscure and useless, though good-natured dependent upon Hebrew usurers and Gentile pettifoggers--a mere cumberer of the ground--a sycophant of the vulgar!

I need not point the moral of my tale.

THE SEERS' CAVE.

"The desert gave him visions wild--
The midnight wind came wild and dread,
Swell'd with the voices of the dead;
Far on the future battle-heath
His eye beheld the ranks of death:
Thus the lone seer, from mankind hurl'd,
Shap'd forth a disembodied world."
SCOTT.

In a certain wild and romantic glen in the Highlands of Scotland, there is a cave opening beneath the brow of a huge overhanging cliff, and half concealed by wreathed roots and wild festoons of brier and woodbine. Several indistinct traditions remain of this cave's having been, in former days, the abode of more than one holy hermit and gifted seer. From these it derived the name which it commonly received, Coir-nan-Taischatrin, or, The Cave of the Seers. At a little distance within the glen, upon its sunny side, stood Castle Feracht. The elevation on which it was built, gave it a prospect of the whole glen, without detaching it from the hills and woods around; and a space had been cleared of trees, so that, though completely surrounded, their leafy screen only curtained, not obscured it.

Castle Feracht had long been the residence of a powerful branch of the Macphersons. In that far retirement repeated generations of that daring family had grown up and rushed forth, like young eagles from their mountain-eyrie, to the field of strife; and not unfrequently never to return. Such had been the fate of Angus Macpherson, in consequence of an accidental encounter with the Gordons, between whom and the Macphersons there had long subsisted a deadly feud. The death of his father had the effect of fixing upon the mind of his son Ewan Macpherson a feeling of stern and deadly resentment against all who had ever been the foes of his turbulent clan. The stripling seemed to fret at the slow pace of time, and to long for those years in which his arm might have sufficient force to wield his father's broadsword, that he might rush to vengeance. Such had often been his secret thoughts, when he at length reached a period of life which made him able to put the suggestions of his vindictive mind into execution; but a strong and arousing spirit, to which we need not farther allude, passed over the land, and he forgot for a time his personal animosities, in feelings and purposes of a more general and absorbing nature. The powerful sympathy of thousands, lending all their united energies towards one point, and laying aside their individual pursuits, in order to contribute to the advancement of that all-engrossing aim, laid its influence upon his soul, and he joined the company, and aided in the general plans of those whom he would have joyed to have met in deadly combat. Those against whom his hostility had been less violent, he had learned to meet almost on terms of friendship, though dashed at times with looks of coldness.

Among those half-forgiven foes, was Allan Cameron, a younger son of that family of the Camerons which stood next in hereditary dignity to the chief. The feud between the Macphersons and Camerons had never been very deadly, and might, perhaps, have been forgotten, had Macpherson been less accustomed to "rake up the ashes of his fathers." Cameron, though still a very young man, had been obliged early to mingle with the world, and had acquired that habit of ready decision which gives its possessor an ascendancy over almost all with whom he has any intercourse. Notwithstanding his youth, therefore, he was of considerable influence, and being brought repeatedly into contact with Macpherson, there was something of a shy and distant friendship between them. Cameron soon perceived the coldness of Macpherson; but, as his own generous and cultivated mind was far superior to the influence of prejudices, such as had thrown a gloom over the whole being of Macpherson, he knew not, never dreamt, that he was an object of secret dislike to him; and, with his usual frank kind-heartedness, exerted himself to win the favour of a man so distinguished for personal daring as the dark-browed lord of Glen Feracht.

During the course of the operations in which they were engaged, the decisive resolution and activity of Cameron had repeatedly attracted the notice of Macpherson. Several times had he said to himself, "Were he not a Cameron, he would be a gallant fellow!" At length, one day Macpherson was severely wounded, and rescued from immediate death by the fearless intrepidity and fiery promptness of Cameron. Macpherson's stern sullenness was subdued. Ere yet recovered from his wounds, he clasped Cameron's hand in token of cordial friendship; and so far laid aside his distant coldness, as to invite Allan Cameron to accompany him to Glen Feracht, when their present enterprise should have come to a termination.

That termination came sooner than had been expected; and Cameron found it not only convenient but prudent to accompany his fellow soldier to the secret retreat of Castle Feracht. Cameron, an ardent admirer of nature's beauties, yielded all his soul to the emotions inspired by the wild and rugged entrance to Glen Feracht; nor could he suppress repeated exclamations of delight when all the softer beauties of the quiet glen opened upon his sight. Macpherson observed his admiration, and paced over the daisied sward of his own valley with a more lofty step. Nor was there less proud satisfaction in his heart and eye as he conducted his guest to the hall of his fathers, and presented to him his only sister, bidding her, at the same time, know in Allan Cameron the preserver of her brother's life.

Elizabeth Macpherson rose and stepped blushing forward to receive her young and gallant guest. She was just on the verge of womanhood--that most fascinating period, when the tender and deep sensibilities of the woman begin to give a timid dignity to the liveliness of the girl. The open and rather ardent expression of her happy countenance was sweetly repressed and tempered by the pure veil of maidenly modesty; yet her graceful and commanding stature, the fire of her bright blue eye, and her free and stately step and gesture, told that the spirit of her fathers dwelt strong in the bosom of their lovely daughter. The heart of Allan Cameron bounded and fluttered in his breast, as he advanced to salute this beautiful mountain-nymph. He had braved, undaunted, the brow of man when darkened with the frown of deadly hostility, but he shrank with a new and undefinable tremor before the blushing smile of a youthful maiden's cheek and eye. His self-possession seemed for once to have forsaken him; and had Macpherson been acquainted with the human heart, he must have seen that a new and irresistible feeling was rapidly taking possession of his generous preserver's bosom. He saw in it, however, but the awkwardness of a first interview between two strangers of different sexes; and, in order to relieve Cameron, led him away to see all the beautiful and romantic scenery of the glen, particularly Coir-nan-Taischatrin.

But it was not long ere the graceful person and fascinating manners of Cameron made an impression upon the artless and warm-hearted maiden. At first, her brother's intimate friend, the preserver of his life, had, in her view, just claims to her attention and grateful kindness; but she soon felt that she esteemed, not to say loved him for himself. The preserver of her brother would at all times have been dear to her; but Allan Cameron woke in her heart a feeling inexpressibly more deep, more tender, more intense.

Art had little influence in directing the conduct of the youthful lovers; and it was not long till they experienced all that heaven of delight which arises in the heart upon being assured of the mutual return of affection. They had, however, kept their love hid from Ewan Macpherson; both because his dark and gloomy manner forbade all approaches to familiar confidence, and because, from the peculiar nature of love, mystery and concealment are necessary to give it its highest zest. Whatever might be the cause, certain it was that Allan Cameron and Elizabeth Macpherson planned the little excursions, which they now frequently made together, in such a manner that they might, as much as possible, avoid being seen by Ewan.

At length, however, the suspicions of the proud chieftain were aroused. It had never entered into his mind that Cameron might, by any possibility, raise his presumptuous hopes so high as to dream of loving the sister of Ewan Macpherson; and no sooner did he suspect the truth, than he dashed from his mind every friendly and grateful feeling towards the man who had saved his life; and saw in Allan Cameron only the hereditary foe of his clan, whose daring insolence had attempted to disgrace the name of Macpherson, by seeking to win the heart of its most loftily descended maiden. Full of resentment at what he deemed so deep an insult, he was ranging the groves and thickets of Glen Feracht in quest of Cameron, like a wolf prowling for his unconscious victim.

The evening sun was at that time throwing his long lines of slanting glory across the summits of the mountains, and lighting the clouds of the west with a radiance too dazzling to be gazed upon, yet too magnificent to permit the eye and the excited soul to wander for a moment from the contemplation of its celestial splendour. Upon a gentle eminence, whence the castle and the greater part of the glen might be distinctly viewed, stood the lovers. They gazed with silent delight on the beauty and magnificence of the scene around them; yet, amidst their engrossing raptures, they had still enough of individual feeling remaining to be sensible of that warm palpitation of the heart, which, in the presence of a beloved object, so greatly enhances every feeling of delight. On a sudden, they were startled by a rustling noise in the adjoining thicket; and immediately forth bounded Bran, Macpherson's staghound, his master's constant attendant.

"My brother must be near," said Elizabeth, in an anxious whisper; "and we shall be discovered. Good Heavens! what shall we do?"

"Perhaps he may not have seen us," replied Cameron: "you can hasten to the castle, and I shall attempt to detain him here till you shall have reached it."

She gave no answer; but, casting around a glance of great alarm, and fixing one tender, anxious look for one moment upon Cameron, she hastened away through secret but well-known paths. She did not, however, escape the eye of Ewan Macpherson, who had thus unseasonably approached the lovers in their retirement. At this discovery, madness swelled in his heart and boiled along his veins; but, suppressing his passion, he approached with haughty stateliness the spot where Cameron stood, apparently fixed in deep and all-engrossing admiration of the glowing beauties of earth and heaven.

"The beauties of animated nature appear to have charms in the tasteful eyes of Allan Cameron," said Macpherson, as he advanced.

"They have," replied Cameron; "and who could stand on this lovely spot and witness so much beauty and magnificence, without feeling a glow of rapture pervade his whole frame, and chain him to the place in delighted admiration! How happy ought the man to be who can call a place of such loveliness and grandeur his own!"

"Stay! hold! Allan Cameron; let us understand each other. Does Allan Cameron mean to say that these woods and streams of Glen Feracht, the lofty mountains around him, the tints of the evening sky over his head, and these alone, have stirred up his soul to this pitch of enthusiasm? Or must Ewan Macpherson flatter himself that his sister's charms have also had some slight influence in producing these rapturous emotions?"

Uncertain whether Macpherson was in earnest or in jest, Cameron hesitated to answer; and continued gazing on the mountain top, bright, and crimson, and airy, as if it terminated in an edge of flame.

"Dishonour blast the name of Macpherson, if I endure this!" exclaimed the fierce Ewan, bursting into a tumult of fury. "Proud Cameron! dost thou disdain to answer the chief of the Macphersons? Are we fallen so low that a Cameron shall despise us? Speak! answer me! else I strike thee to my foot like a base hound! Hast thou dared to mention love--even to think of love for the sister of Macpherson?"

"And where were the mighty offence, though a Cameron should aspire so high as to love the sister of Macpherson?"

"Where were the offence?--I tell thee, boy, he had better never have seen the light. But I will not trifle with thee. Hast _thou_ so dared?"

"I am little used to answer such interrogations. But I would not willingly quarrel with Ewan Macpherson. My heart must have been colder than it is, could I have enjoyed the company of Elizabeth Macpherson without yielding me to that influence of witching beauty which softens and subdues the soul."

"Thou hast not said--thou dost not dare to say--thou lovest her! Cameron, I have felt friendship for thee. Thou hast resided in the hall of my fathers. My hand is withheld from thee. But, if thou dost not renounce, at once and for ever, all pretensions to the love of Elizabeth Macpherson, thou hast looked thy last on this green earth and those glorious heavens."

"Renounce all pretensions to the love of Elizabeth Macpherson! I tell thee, proud man, that the daughter of the highest Macpherson might think herself honoured by an alliance with a Cameron."

"Insolent serf! unsay thy words, or maintain them with thy sword!--Crouch, like a low-born slave as thou art, and beg Macpherson's pardon, if thou darest not bare thy coward blade."

"Macpherson, thou didst not call me slave or coward, when, side by side, we two stemmed the stream of battle in its wildest rage;--nor was it a coward blade that hewed out a safe retreat for thee, when thine own arm waxed weak and thy steps were unequal on the field of the slain."

"Thou dost well to speak of what thou knowest will prevent me from chastising thy base treachery. 'Tis what I might have expected;--'tis done like a cowardly Cameron!"

"But that thou hast a sister, Macpherson, that taunt had cost thee dear. Thou knowest that thou speakest falsely."

"Falsely!--defend thee, villain, or die like a slave! The feud of our fathers is but renewed--their spirits behold our strife!" cried Macpherson, and, drawing his claymore, rushed upon Cameron almost before his blade was bared for the combat.

Macpherson, transported to a pitch of frenzy, thought not of artful skill, dreamt not of personal danger. He showered blow on blow with the intemperate fury of a maniac; all his aim, every effort, being directed to destroy his foe. Cameron, with less bodily strength, was possessed of calm and dauntless courage, superior skill in the use of his weapon, and unmatched personal activity. Unwilling to harm the brother of the object of his affection, he only defended himself, retiring and warding off the furious but aimless blows of Macpherson. The frowning cheek and brow of the baffled chief waxed grimmer with disappointed hate; and, changing his mode of attack, he swept circling round his young and agile antagonist, endeavouring thus to throw him off his guard. Cameron, turning dexterously on his heel, held him still at the sword's point, and allowed him to expend his strength in desperate efforts of fierce but ineffectual violence. During their combat, however, some of Macpherson's _gillies_ approached the spot; and Cameron perceived them nearing him with kindling eyes, and holding in their impatient hands the _skean dhu_ half unsheathed. He knew that Macpherson was as honourable as brave; and he knew that he might with perfect safety trust his life to the honour of any highlander, under any circumstance where the peculiar honour of his clan was not concerned. But he also knew that no clansman would esteem any deed a crime which should preserve the life or the reputation of his chief. There was, he saw, but one means of saving his life. Collecting all his strength, he beat aside one of Macpherson's furious blows, and bounding upon him as a crouching tiger springs upon his prey, he wrenched his claymore from his hand, dashed him to the earth with the mere violence of the assault; wielding a weapon in either hand, he struck to the ground two of the opposing clansmen, plunged into the thickets as a mountain stag bursts through his covert when the opening pack is near, and disappeared in an instant among the crashing and closing boughs of the underwood. Foaming with disappointed rage, Macpherson sprung from the ground, snatched a _skean dhu_ from one of his prostrated followers, and shouting, "Revenge!" rushed into the thickets in headlong pursuit. In vain. A fleeter foot than that of Allan Cameron never pressed the mountain heath, and, in a short time, he was far beyond all danger from his enraged pursuer; who, after ranging every dell and nook in vain, returned to Castle Feracht, chafing and foaming with impotent rage, and uttering dire but unavailing threats of vengeance.

What would it avail to relate the chieftain's wrath, when he found himself compelled to forego his hopes of sweet revenge, and to endure what he esteemed a new and a more daring insult? Fret and chafe as he might, he knew that his high-souled sister would not be deterred, by threats of personal injury, from following the bent of her own inclination. He therefore assembled his followers in her presence, and caused them all to bind themselves, by a deep oath, to avenge the quarrel of their chief upon Allan Cameron, should he ever dare to set foot within Glen Feracht; enforcing his commands by threats of deadliest vengeance, should any clansman show him favour, hold intelligence with him, or meet him in terms of peace. Elizabeth Macpherson saw his purpose; but she scorned to display her emotion. A flush indeed mantled her brow, and her eye shed one sparkle of indignation--but she remained silent. Fraternal affection was banished the halls of Castle Feracht. An increasing gloom and moodiness of heart began to sink upon the rugged chief; and, at length, to prevent his dark soul's loneliness from becoming altogether insupportable, he began to take an interest in the affairs, first of his own clan, next of the neighbouring clans, and finally of the nation. He thus became acquainted with many a wild and many a wondrous legend, which might otherwise never have reached his observation; and his rather uncultivated mind was not able to resist the encroachments of superstition. Among others, a firm belief in the reality of the _taisch_, or second-sight, took possession of his mind; and he listened to the many almost incredible relations concerning it, with a wild excitement of spirit. These changes in the manners and pursuits of Macpherson, were, from time to time, reported to Allan Cameron, in spite of the stern threats which had been denounced against all who should hold intercourse with him. A youth, the cho-alt (foster brother) of Allan Cameron, had repeatedly, under the assumed character of a wandering hunter, entered within the precincts of Glen Feracht, where he was unknown; and, picking up all the information that could be obtained, without awakening suspicion, returned with it to his youthful chief.

Ewan Macpherson was one day informed, by his aged _henchman_, Ranald Glas, that a second-sighted man had arrived in the glen, conducted, according to his own account, by the power of the taisch: that he was extremely old, and his visions were appallingly vivid: his thoughts were terror, and his words were fire. The revelations of things to come passed frequent and powerful across his soul, bright and living as realities; and his language was that of one who constantly held strange communication with scenes and beings not of this world. Though his foot had never before trod the heath of Glen Feracht, he described, with the most perfect accuracy, its castle, stream, and cave; saying that he was come to lay his bones beside those of the ancient seers and holy men who had inhabited Coir-nan-Taischatrin. This was enough to rouse the curiosity of Macpherson. Pursuing his inquiries, he learned that the seer had taken up his abode in the cave, and that he had already foretold to some of the clan things, part of which were accomplished, and the rest expected with the utmost confidence. In order to satisfy his curiosity, Macpherson determined to visit the hoary seer, and learn from himself the nature of his visions.

The shadows of the pine and oak were stretching far across the ravine in the slant evening sunshine, when Ewan Macpherson appeared in front of the cave. His eye could not penetrate the deep darkness within it; and, yielding to a feeling of indescribable awe which crept over his soul, he remained for some time silent and motionless before its entrance. At length he ordered one of his gillies to acquaint the wondrous inmate that Ewan Macpherson wished to hold some converse with him. Forward came the venerable man; and his appearance, in the dimming twilight, had no tendency to diminish the strange delirium of superstitious feelings which had absorbed the whole mind of the bewildered chief. The sage bent one searching glance upon his visitor; and, seeming to have penetrated the state of his mind, advanced into more open view.

A long and squared rod seemed to support his shaking frame as he came forward, tottering and halting at every step. The shaggy hide of an enormous wolf, thrown loosely over his shoulders, served partly to clothe him, partly to disguise his form by the air of savage wildness which a garment so uncouth gave its wearer. From his belt depended some instruments, with the use of which Macpherson was entirely unacquainted; together with a _skean dhu_ of exquisite and uncommon workmanship. His bonnet alone was like that of other men; for what could a true highlander substitute for the blue bonnet? but he neither doffed it, nor made any motions of obeisance as he approached. A long white beard flowed half down his bosom, waving heavily and solemnly as he moved. The fire of an intensely bright eye was half hid by his deep, grey, shaggy eyebrows; yet, from beneath that grim penthouse, they emitted occasional sparklings like diamonds in the dark.

"Chief of Macpherson!" said he, in a deep hollow voice, "man of the dark brow and ruthless hand! what seekest thou with Moran of the Wild?" But, ere Macpherson could reply, the sage cast the wolf hide back from his right shoulder--extended the long square rod in his firmly clenched hand--raised himself up to his full height, while his eyes seemed starting from their sockets, and gleaming like two balls of living fire, and his whole frame agitated, and as if it were dilating with the internal workings of his wild visionary spirit. Macpherson shook and shrunk in his presence.

"They come! they come!" exclaimed the seer--"the wild, the dreadful, the undefinable, the unutterable, the shadowy forms and seemings of things and actions to be! They crowd upon me in powers and numbers unendurable, inconceivable! Words never formed by human breath sound within my heart, and tell of things that mortal tongue may never utter. Eyes, clear, cold, dead, bright, and chill as winter moonshine, look into my soul, and fill it with all their lucid meanings! Oh, scene of blood and woe! when wilt thou end? Thou bright-haired angel, must the doom be thine! Fair lady of the stately brow! oh! let me see no more!" His lips quivered, but he uttered not another word. He remained fixed, rigid, statue-like, as if chilled into stone, bereft of life and motion, by the terrible vision. At length his extended arm dropped by his side; and, heaving a long, shuddering sigh, he leaned his drooping frame upon his rod, trembling and exhausted.

After a considerable pause, Macpherson ventured to address him, with the intention of inquiring into the nature of his vision. "Speak not to me, Ewan Macpherson," said he. "Seek not to know the fate thou wilt and must know all too soon. Thy path through life has been blood-stained and devious. No warnings may now avail thee. But that lady--might she be rescued from misery and horror! Chief! if the safety and happiness of thy father's daughter be dear to thee, bid her assume the spirit of her race, and come alone to Coir-nan-Taischatrin. Tell her that Moran of the Wild has that to reveal to her which concerns her, and thee, too, deeply. And mark me, Chief! unless thou ceasest to pursue the feuds of thy fathers, thy course will be brief, and bloody will be its close." Thus saying, he turned and feebly dragged his spent and tottering form into the dark and awe-inspiring cave.

Stunned and bewildered, incapable of thought or reflection, and staggering like one who walks in his sleep, Macpherson wandered back towards Castle Feracht. With a strange expression of vague astonishment and hesitation he gazed upon his sister. At length he found words: "Elizabeth Macpherson, if the honour of thy name, if thy own safety and happiness can move thee; if thy brother's life--but that is a trifle--assume the spirit of thy fathers, and go alone to Coir-nan-Taischatrin. Moran of the Wild has that to tell thee which deeply concerns thy safety and happiness. Canst thou execute his desire? He is a fearful man!" At his first words the blood forsook her cheek, and her heart sank within her; but, ere he ceased speaking, a wild surmise flashed gleaming across her soul.

"Brother!" replied she, "the daughter of Angus Macpherson dare go alone to Coir-nan-Taischatrin, and hear whatever the sage may have to tell. Fear not for me. Do not, by impatience or needless anxiety for my safety, rashly interrupt our interview. Ere long, you shall know what warnings or what information the seer has to impart." Then, with a stately and determined step, and an eye kindled with an ambiguous expression of ardent hope or daring resolution, she bent her way to the dreaded cave.

The fearless maiden approached the cave. She spoke; but the voice that answered was that of Allan Cameron. The wolf's hide was soon thrown aside, and he stood before her in the graceful garb of a mountain warrior; his noble countenance beaming with courage and triumphant love. Taking advantage of the time which Macpherson would delay at the castle, awaiting the expiration of their interview, they hastily fled from the hostile glen, and soon reached a concealment where the faithful cho-alt had horses prepared for their escape. Words would be feeble to express the fury of Ewan Macpherson when, after waiting till his patience was exhausted, he explored the cave, and found that he had been deceived, and that by the man whom he had begun to consider as his deadliest foe. He determined to take fearful vengeance upon Cameron, and all of his clan whom he might be able to overpower. Before he could get his purpose put in execution, he chanced to meet a small party of the Gordons; when, forgetting every other thought but that of his burning desire of vengeance on those who slew his father, he rushed upon them; and, bursting into the midst of them, was assailed on all sides, and wounded so severely that, though he was rescued by his own followers, and was completely victorious, he died ere he could be brought back to Castle Feracht. Dying unmarried, his estate and power passed to his sister, and from her to one of her younger sons, upon his dropping the name of Cameron, and retaining that of Macpherson alone. An amicable termination was thus put to the feud between the two families. A descendant from this auspicious union still resides in Castle Feracht, and occasionally relates, with considerable pleasure, the tradition of Coir-nan-Taischatrin.

THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON HEUGH.

A TALE OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS.

"Word went east, and word went west,
And word is gone over the sea,
That a Laidley Worm in Spindleston Heugh
Would ruin the north countrie.

"All folks believe within the shire
This story to be true,
And they all run to Spindleston
The cave and trough to view.

"This fact now Duncan Frazier,
Of Cheviot, sings in rhyme,
Lest Bamboroughshire-men should forget
Some part of it in time."--_Ancient Ballad._[J]

[J] The popular Ballad of the Laidley (or loathly) Worm of
Spindleston Heugh, was composed by Duncan Frazier, the Cheviot bard,
more than five hundred years ago, and had rendered the legend familiar
far beyond the Borders. The tradition has doubtless been commemorated by
the ancient Saxon bards, when old Duncan turned it into rhyme; and it is
under this supposition that the present tale is told, the narrator being
understood to be a wandering bard of the Saxon race.

"Tell me, old man," said a Northumbrian chief to a Saxon bard who claimed his hospitality, "tell me a tale of the olden time--a legend of the race of Woden."

The bard bowed his head and began:--Great was Ida, the flame-bearer, above all the kings of the isles. His ships covered the sea in shoals, and his warriors that launched them on the deep were stronger than its waves. He built the towers of Bamborough on the mighty rock whose shadow darkens the waters. He reared it as a habitation for his queen, and he called it by her name.[K] Wheresoever he went, strong places were consumed, kings were overthrown and became his servants, and nations became one. But Ida, in the midst of his conquests, fell in battle, by the red sword of Owen, the avenging Briton. Then followed six kings who reigned over Bernicia, from the southern Tyne even to the Frith of Dun Edin. But the duration of their sovereignty was as a summer cloud or morning dew. Their reigns were as six spans from an infant's hand, and peaceful as an infant's slumber.

[K] According to the venerable Bede, the name of Ida's queen
was Bidda, and the original name of Bamborough, Biddaburgh.

But to them succeeded Ethelfrith the Fierce--the grandson of Ida--the descendant of the immortal Woden. His voice, when his ire was kindled, was like the sound of deep thunder, and his vengeance fleeter than the lightning. He overthrew princes as reeds, and he swept armies before him as stubble. His conquests extended from where clouds sleep on the brow of Cheviot, to where the heights of terrific Snowdon pierce heaven. Men trembled at his name; for he was as a wolf in the fold, as an eagle among the lesser birds of heaven.

Now, the wife of Ethelfrith's bosom died; she departed to the place of spirits--to the company of her fathers. She left behind her a daughter, Agitha,[L] with the tresses of the raven's wing; and she was beautiful as sunbeams sparkling from morning dew amongst the flowers of spring. Her eyes were bright as the falcon's, but with their brightness was mingled the meekness of the dove's. The breath of sixteen summers had fanned her cheeks. Her bosom was white as the snow that lay in winter on the hills, and soft as the plumage of the sea-fowl that soared over the rocks of her lofty dwelling.

[L] In the old ballad she is called Margaret.

A hundred princes sighed for the hand of the bright-haired Agitha; but their tales of love had no music for her ear, and they jarred upon her soul as the sounds of a broken instrument. She bent her ear only to listen to the song of affection from the lips of the Chylde Wynde--even to Chylde Wynde of the sharp sword and the unerring bow, who was her own kinsman, the son of her father's brother. His voice was to her as the music of water brooks to the weary and fainting traveller--dear as the shout of triumph to a conquering king. Great was the Chylde Wynde among the heroes of Bernicia. He had honoured the shield of his father. He had rendered his sword terrible. Where the battle raged fiercest, there was his voice heard, there was his sword seen; war-horses and their riders fell before it--it arrested the fury of the chariots of war. Bards recorded his deeds in immortal strains, and Agitha sang them in secret.

Yet would not Ethelfrith listen to the prayer of his kinsman, but his anger was kindled against him. The fierce king loved his daughter, but he loved dominion more. It was dearer to him than the light of heaven, than the face of the blessed sun. He waded through blood as water, even the blood of his victims, to set his feet upon thrones. He said unto himself--"Agitha is beautiful--she is fairer than her mother was. She is stately as a pine, lifting its head above the sacred oaks. She is lovely as the moon when it blesseth the harvest fields. A king only shall possess her hand, and give a kingdom in exchange for it."

Thus spoke her father, the mighty Ethelfrith, whose word was power, and whose purpose was fixed as the everlasting rocks on which the foundations of the earth are built. He said, therefore, unto the Chylde Wynde--"Strong art thou in battle, son of my brother; the mighty bend before thy spear, and thy javelins pierce through the shields of our enemies. As an eagle descendeth on its prey, so rusheth my kinsman to the onset. But thou hast no nation to serve thee--no throne to offer for my daughter's hand. Whoso calleth himself her husband, shall for that title exchange the name of king, and become tributary unto me--even as my sword, before which thrones shake and nations tremble, has caused others to do homage. Go, therefore, son of my brother, take with thee ships and warriors, and seek thee a people to conquer. Go, find a land to possess; and when with thy sword and with thy bow thou hast done this, return ye to me, bringing a crown in thy left hand, and in thy right will I place the hand of Agitha with the bright hair, whose eyes are as stars."

"O king!" answered the Chylde--"thou who holdest the fate of princes in thy hands, and the shadow of whose sceptre stretcheth over many nations--the uplifting of whose arm turneth the tide of battle--swear unto me, by the spirit of mighty Woden, that while I am doing that which thou requirest, and ere I can return to lay a crown at thy feet, swear that thou will not bless another king, for an offered kingdom, with the hand of Agitha, in whom my soul liveth!"

Then did the wrath of the king wax terrible; his eyes were as consuming fires, even as the fire of heaven when it darteth from the dark clouds of midnight. His countenance was fierce as the sea, when its waves boil and are lifted up with the tempest. In his wrath he dashed his heel upon the floor; and the armour of conquered kings, the spoils of a hundred battles, rang round the halls of Ida.

"Shall the blood of my brother," he cried "stain the floor of his father? Boy! ask ye an oath from a king, the descendant of Woden?[M] Away! do as I command thee, lest ye perish!"

[M] It may be necessary to mention, that the imaginary deities
of the Saxons were named Woden, Tuisco, Thor, Frea, and Seator. They
also worshipped the sun and moon. Woden was their god of war; and from
him Ida and his descendants professed to spring. We need hardly add that
it is after these objects of pagan worship that we still name the days
of the week; as Woden's day (Wednesday), Thor's day (Thursday), Frea's
day (Friday), &c. &c.

Then did the Chylde Wynde withdraw from before the anger of the great king, in the presence of whom, in his wrath, the life even of his kindred was as a spider's thread. He sought Agitha with the rainbow smile, where she sat with her maidens, in the groves of Budle, ornamenting a robe of skins for her father, the mighty Ethelfrith. The sea sang its anthem of power along the shore, and the caves of the rocks resounded with the chorus of the eternal hymn. The farthest branches of the grove bent over the cliff that overhung the sounding sea. The birds of heaven sang over her head, and before her the sea-birds wheeled in myriads, countless as the sand upon the shore, like burnished clouds over the adjacent isles. Their bright wings flashed in the sun, like the fitful fires that light the northern heavens.

The warrior Chylde drew near where the princess sat. There was gloom and sorrow on his brow. The echoes of the grove answered to his sighs. Agitha heard them. She beheld the cloud of anguish that was before his countenance. The robe of skins dropped from her hand. Her eyes, that were as the morning light, became dim. She arose and went forward to meet him.

"Wherefore," she inquired, "does my hero sigh, and why sits heaviness on the brightness of his face? Art not thou renowned in song as the warrior of the dauntless heart and the resistless sword? Art not thou the envy of princes--the beloved of the people--the admired by the daughters of kings? And can sadness dwell upon thy soul? Oh! thou who art as the plume of my father's warriors, and as the pride of his host, if grief hath entered into thy bosom, let it be buried in mine."

Then thus replied the warrior Chylde:--"Agitha--thou that art fairer, milder than the light that plays around the brows of the summer moon, and dearer to me than a mother's milk to the lips of her babe--it is for thee that my countenance is sad, and my soul troubled. For thy father has pierced my spirit with many arrows; yea, even with the poisoned arrows of a deadly foe. He hath wrung my soul for thee, Agitha. Thou didst give me thy heart when the sacred moon rose over the rocky Ferns and beheld us; and while the ministering spirits that dwell in its beams descended as a shower of burning gold upon the sea, and, stretching to the shore, heard us. We exchanged our vows beneath the light of the hallowed orb, while the stars of heaven hid their faces before it. Then, Agitha, while its beams glowed on my father's sword, upon that sword I swore to love thee. But our vows are vain. Daughter of kings! our love is sorrow. Thy father hath vowed, by the mighty Woden, that thou shalt be the wife of a king, and that a kingdom shall be the price of thy hand. Yet will I gather my warriors together. They number a thousand spears; they have a thousand bows. The charge of their spears is as the rushing of the whirlwind. The flight of their arrows hides the face of the sun. Foes perish at their approach. Victory goeth before their face. Therefore will I go forth into a far country. I will make war upon a strange people, that I may take the kingdom from their ruler, and present his crown unto thy father for the hand of my Agitha."

The maiden wept. Her head sank on her bosom like a fair flower weighed down with dew. Tears stood in the eyes of the warrior.

"Weep not, daughter of heroes!" he said; "the tide of battle is in the hands of Woden. He will not turn it against a descendant of his race. I will return to thee in triumph. I will throw a crown at thy father's feet, and rush to the arms of Agitha. Thou wilt greet me again with thy smile of love--with thy voice that is sweeter than the music of spring. Thy heart, which is dearer than life, shall be my kingdom; and thy bosom, that is whiter than the breast of the wild swan, my throne. I will fly to thee as the hunted deer to its covert--as a bird to its nest where its young await it."

Thus departed the warrior, and Agitha returned to her maidens; she sat down amongst them and mourned.

Gormack, the weird, a thane of the Pictish race, had his dwelling near the giddy cliffs where the young eagles scream to the roar of the dark waters of the Forth. He had a daughter whose beauty was the theme of all tongues. Her fame went over the land like the sound of shells--yea, like the sound of shells when the wind is hushed, and the moon is bright in the heavens. Fair was the daughter of Gormack as the lily that groweth by the brook. Her hair was as the finest fleece when it is purified. It fell down her back in ringlets. It was bright as the golden clouds that encircle the throne of the rising sun--as the golden clouds when they are dipped in silver. Her father held counsel with spirits of evil. They were obedient to his will. He invoked them to endue his daughter with more than mortal beauty, that she might inflame the soul of princes, and sit upon their throne. Such was the tale of men. Her beauty was the burden of the song of bards. In their chorus to swell the praise of others, they said that they were "lovely as the fair daughter of Gormack."

The tale of her charms was heard by Ethelfrith. It was heard by the fierce in war--the impetuous in love--the victor in battle--yea, even by Ethelfrith, king of Bernicia. "I will see the fair daughter of the thane," said the proud king, to whose will even war and the mighty in war did homage. Moreover, Gormack the thane was his vassal. He had sworn to his obedience.

The king went forth to the dwelling of Gormack, among the cliffs. Ealdormen,[N] comites,[O] and thanes,[P] attended him. The weird thane came forth to meet him; he bowed his head and made obeisance.

[N] Earls.

[O] Companions.

[P] Thanes signified men high in power, of various degrees of rank.

Ethelfrith beheld Bethoc the Beautiful; and the songs that he had heard in her praise were as an idle tale, for her loveliness exceeded the power of song. The soul of the fierce king melted within him. It was subdued by the sorcery of her charms.

"Give me," said he unto her father--and commandments ever fell from his lips--"give me Bethoc to be my wife; for she is more lovely than the morning star. She is fit for a warrior's bride; she shall be THE LADY[Q] of Bernicia."

[Q] THE LADY was the appellation given to a queen amongst the
Anglo-Saxons.

Again the weird bowed his head. He knelt upon his knee. He presented his daughter to the king. Then did Ethelfrith take her by the hand. He led her forth to his chariot of war, through the midst of his ealdormen, his comites, and his thanes, who were in great power and resistless in war, and they made obeisance to her as she passed through the midst of them. They saluted her as their queen. Her breast swelled with exultation. Pride flashed from her eyes, as the sun bursting from a cloud dazzleth the eye of the gazer. The king gazed upon her beauty as a dreamer upon a fair vision.

Now, the beauty of Bethoc was sin made lovely. Her bosom was as a hill where the vine and the cedar grew, and where flowers shed forth perfume; but beneath which a volcano slept. To the eye was beauty, beyond were desolation and death. Pride, hatred, and envy, encircled her soul. She was sold unto evil, even as her father was. The spirit of destruction, in answer to her father's prayer, had formed her a beautiful destroyer. Whatsoever was lovely that she looked upon in envy, withered as though an east wind passed over it--the destroying wind which blighteth the hopes of the husbandman.

At the going down of the sun, the king, and his fair queen, Bethoc, with his mighty men, drew near to the tower which Ida had built on the mountain-rock, and all the people of the city came forth to meet him, and to greet their queen.

The bards lifted up their voice; they styled her the fairest of women.

"Fair is the wife of the king," replied an aged thane, "but fairer is Agitha, his daughter! Bethoc, the queen, is a bright star, but Agitha is the star of the morning--fairest of the heavens!"

Queen Bethoc heard the words of the aged thane, and she hated Agitha because of them. The spirit of evil spread his darkness over her soul. He filled her breast with the poison of asps, her eyes with the venom of the adder that lures to destruction.

At the entrance of the tower of kings stood Agitha, lovely as the spirits that dwell among the stars, and give beauty to the beings of earth. She knelt before the queen. She offered her a daughter's homage.

"Rise, beautiful one! inspirer of song!" said the queen; "kneel not to me, for I am but a star--thou art the star of the morning. Hide not thy face from before men. Let them serve and worship thee."

Cold were her words as water which droppeth from the everlasting icicles in the caves of the north. As is the mercy of the tears of the crocodile, so was the kindness of her looks. Envy and hatred gleamed in her eyes, like lightnings round the sides of a dark cloud.

The countenance of Agitha fell; for she knew that her father in his wrath was fiercer than the wild boar of the forest when at bay; and she feared to reply to the sneer of the wife in whom his eyes delighted.

Queen Bethoc, the daughter of Gormack, knew that men said she was less beautiful than Agitha, the daughter of the king. When they walked by the clear fountains or the crystal brooks together, the fountains and the brooks whispered to her the words which men spoke--"Agitha is the most lovely." Therefore did the queen hate Agitha with a great and deadly hatred. As the sleuth-hound seeketh its prey, so did she seek her destruction. As the fowler lureth the bird into his net, so did she lie in wait for her. Yet she feared to destroy her openly, because that she was afraid of the fierce anger of her husband Ethelfrith, and his love for his daughter was great.