Chapter VI: Part 6

The boat was moored; but the adventurer had not observed that it contained another passenger. Underneath a plank, laid artfully along its bottom, and shrouded in his plaid of the darkest green, another man had been lurking more than an hour before the owner of the boat entered it, and remained hidden by the darkness of the night.

His purpose was answered. He had now discovered--what he had sacrificed many a perilous night to obtain a knowledge of--the mode by which the owner of the Tower of Gloom gained access to his impregnable fortress unsuspected. He instantly unmoored the boat, and rowed slowly back across the loch to an island near the centre. He rested on its oars, and looked down into the transparent water. "It is there still," he said to himself; and drawing close among the rocks, leaped on dry land. A dog of the true shepherd breed sat waiting under the bushes, and ran before him till they descended together under an archway of stones and withered branches. "Watch the boat," said the Highlander to his faithful guide, who sprang immediately away to obey him. Meanwhile his master lifted up one of the grey stones, took a bundle from beneath it, and equipped himself in such a suit as a trooper of Campbell's regiment usually wore. He then looked at the edge of his dirk, and returned to his boat.

Having thus acquired an accurate knowledge of the secret mode of access to the tower, the stranger returned to the place where he had seen the basket descending for the purpose of conveying its present possessor to the tower; climbing up its rough face with the activity acquired by mountain warfare, he hung among furze and broken rocks like a wild cat, till he found the crevice through which the basket had seemed to issue. It was artfully concealed by tufts of heather; but creeping on his hands and knees, he forced his way into the interior. There the deepest darkness confounded him, till he had laid his hands on a chain which he rightly guessed to be the same he had seen hanging on the side of the lake when Campbell landed. One end was coiled up; but he readily concluded that the end must have some communication with the keep; and he followed its course, till he found it inserted in what seemed a subterraneous wall. A crevice behind the pulley admitted a gleam of light; but, striving to raise himself, he leaned too forcibly on the chain, and he was somewhat startled to hear the sound of a deep-toned bell.

Donald Campbell was sitting alone in the chamber, from the windows of which, fifteen years before, his betrayed friend, Reginald Grahame, had precipitated himself into the lake below. His eyes were fixed on the blazing logs on the hearth. The thoughts of former times were flitting before him: he pondered on the days of his youth, before ambition and avarice had fixed their poisoned arrows in his heart; ere the world had banished those notions of virtue and religion that his excellent parents had, in his boyhood, so unceasingly inculcated. Many minor delinquencies had he committed; but the crime which now preyed upon his mind was the betrayal of his friend, embittered as it was by the reflection of the sordid motive that induced it.

In this state of mind he was startled by one of those figures which fancy so frequently suggests to a disordered mind. In the masses of the burning embers, he traced the outline of a face: imagination lent its aid; and he recognised a resemblance of Reginald. He started up:--"Avaunt, base mockery; am I to be daunted with a mere figment of the brain? Alas! trifles now disturb me. If I have sinned, I have suffered: the loss of my only son has been the penalty. I have paid for my misdeeds." So saying, he sat back on his chair quite exhausted; and at that moment the bell rung. At the deep and hollow sound he cast his eyes fearfully round, but made no attempt to rise, though he stretched his hand towards a staff which lay near him. The stranger saw the tremor of the dismayed Lord of the Tower; and, putting his lips to the crevice, murmured, "Father," in a low and supplicating tone. That word made Campbell tremble. But when the other added, "Father! father! save me," he sprang to the wall, drew back the iron bolts of a narrow door, invisible to any eye but his own, and gave admission to the muffled man, who leaped eagerly in. Years had passed since Campbell had seen his son, and many rumours had been spread that the younger Campbell had not really perished, but had engaged in the service of the Pretender. The hopes and love of the father all revived in one moment; and the sudden apparition--the appeal for mercy--had full effect on his imagination. The voice, eyes, and figure of the stranger resembled his son: all else might and must be changed by the lapse of so many years. He wept like an infant on his shoulder, grasped his hand a hundred times, and forgot to blame him for the rash disloyalty he had shown to his father's cause.

Roderick, in explanation, mentioned a variety of circumstances explanatory of the reasons of his evasion: how he had escaped, after the battle of Culloden, to France, where he had endeavoured to earn a scanty livelihood; and how he had at last resolved to revisit his native land, in hopes of obtaining the forgiveness of his father. His narrative was much abridged, by the fond delight of the old man weeping and rejoicing over the return of his prodigal son.

Old Campbell eagerly asked by what happy chance he had discovered the secret entrance, and whether any present danger threatened him. Roderick answered the first question by repeating what our readers are already acquainted with; and he added, in answer to the second, that he feared nothing but the emissaries of the government, from whom he could not be better concealed than in the Tower of Gloom. Old Campbell agreed with joyful eagerness, but presently added--

"Roderick, my boy, we must trust in Annette: she's too near in kin to betray you; and ye were to have been her spouse."

Then he explained that his niece was the only one person in his household acquainted with the secret of the basket and the bell; that by her help he could provide a mattress and provisions for his son; but without it he would be forced to hazard the most dangerous inconveniences.

Roderick was commanded to return into the cavern passage, while his delighted father prepared his kinswoman for her new guest; and he listened greedily to catch the answers Annette gave to her uncle's tale. He heard the hurry of her steps preparing, as he supposed, a larger supper for the old laird's table, with the simplicity and hospitality of a Highland maiden. He was not mistaken. When the bannocks, and grouse, and claret were arranged, Campbell presented his restored son to the mistress of the feast. Roderick was pale and dumb as he looked upon her. She came before him like a dream of some lovely picture remembered in his youth; and with her came some remembrance of his former self. The old laird, forgetting that his niece had been but a child, and his son a stripling, when they parted, indulged the joy of his heart, by asking Annette a thousand times whether she remembered her betrothed husband; and urging his son, since he was still unmarried, to pledge his promised bride.

Annette, whose predilections in favour of her cousin had been created by association--for she remembered him as far back as her recollections went--rejoiced at his reappearance, after so long an interval, and seemed by no means disinclined to listen to her uncle's proposition.

Besides the persons just mentioned, there were present in the apartment an old woman, and a dog, also evidently advanced in years. The latter, upon the entrance of Roderick, saluted him with a loud bark; but, strange to say, suddenly paused in the middle of his hostile demonstrations, and, after smelling for half-a-minute, as if he was investigating what sort of person the intruder was, quietly retreated to his place by the fireside, apparently satisfied that all was right.

The fire on the hearth was replenished, and burned cheerfully. Immediately opposite to the dog, on one side of the ingle, sat the woman. She was aged, and bent almost double, with no apparent sense of sight or hearing, though her eyes were fixed on the spindle she was twirling; and sometimes, when the laird raised his voice, she put her lean hand on the hood that covered her ears.

"Do you not remember poor old Moome?" said Annette; and the laird led his supposed son towards the superannuated crone, though without expecting any mark of recognition. Whether she had noticed anything that had passed, could not be gathered from her idiot laugh; and she had almost ceased to speak. Therefore, as if only dumb domestic animals had been sitting by his hearth, Campbell pursued his arrangements for his son's safety, advising him to sleep composedly in the wooden panelled bed that formed a closet off this chamber, without regarding the half-living skeleton, who never left her corner. He gave him his blessing, and departed, taking with him his niece and the key of this dreary room, promising to return and watch by his bedside. He came back in a few minutes; and, while Roderick couched himself on his mattress, took his station by the fire and fell fast asleep, overcome with joy.

The embers gradually sunk on the hearth, and the light diminished in proportion. Roderick, who had lain awake for some time, began to feel the approach of sleep; and, whilst in a state of transition, he observed, by the dying embers of the fire, the old woman cautiously rise, and, removing the dirk from the side of her sleeping master, approach his bed with cautious step and silent tread. The astonishment of Roderick at beholding this infirm creature advance, with a purpose so evidently hostile, was so great, that, in place of jumping from his couch, and wresting the weapon from the hands of its weak and attenuated possessor, he lay fascinated, as birds are said to be by the eyes of the rattlesnake, until the actual advent of the apparent assassin. The motions of the beldame were carefully watched in a quarter which she little suspected; for she barely reached the couch on which her intended victim reposed, and was about to raise her arm to strike, than the aged dog sprang at her throat, and brought her to the ground, from which she never rose again: the frail thread of her existence had been snapped by the suddenness of the onset.

This unexpected occurrence awoke the lord of the tower, who, springing up, beheld the nurse lying on the ground, with the dog growling over her.

This at once aroused Roderick from his trance; and he briefly explained to his father the singularly mysterious scene he had witnessed, and the fact of his rescue by the wonderful sagacity of the dog.

The father was perfectly amazed that such an attempt should have been made on the life of his son by one whom he naturally supposed would, as his vassal, have rather died a thousand deaths than have touched a hair of the head of the son of her chief. The only plausible ground he could assign for this murderous attempt was the insanity of the old woman, who, perhaps, perplexed by the unexpected appearance of a stranger in a place where none had heretofore been, had, by some hallucination, fancied him a robber; and, under this impression, had boldly gone forward to do battle for the laird.

"Dear Roderick," said the father, "this is a sad welcome to the Tower of Gloom. If I was superstitious, I should augur something bad from this event. Poor Moome! she had long been a faithful servant, and I could have wished her fate different. We must conceal it from Annette. She will be sufficiently unhappy as it is; and it would be cruel to add to her annoyance by disclosing the strange fact that she had perished in attempting the life of her benefactor's son. Once more, good-night, dear boy."

So saying, he pressed his son's forehead to his lips, and, removing the body, left Roderick to his own thoughts.

Poor Annette was shocked exceedingly by the unexpected death of the nurse; but sorrow is said to be near akin to love; and, in the delicate attentions of her cousin Roderick, the fair Celt felt her grief strangely soothed, and her bosom experience sensations to which it had previously been a stranger.

Old Campbell witnessed the progress of this passion with great delight, and gave the young couple every opportunity for studying "_la belle passion_:" indeed, the necessary confinement of Roderick in the tower threw them so much together, that it was no wonder they became attached to each other.

The scene from the top of the tower was magnificent: the clear and pellucid water of the fairest of Scotland's lakes at its feet; the isles with which its glassy bosom was studded, looked like so many fairy bowers; and the magnificent range of mountains to the northward, added to the grandeur of a scene, the beauty of which words can but inadequately express. Often, at night, by the light of the silvery moon, the cousins would repair to this favourite seat, where Roderick would speak

"Of moving accidents by flood and field;
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery;"

whilst Annette listened breathless, but delighted, to his words.

It was here that he first ventured to breathe of love. Seizing the guitar from his cousin's hand, he poured forth his feelings in the following verses:--

"Impell'd by angry fate's decree
In foreign lands to roam,
With heavy heart I bid adieu
To happiness and home.

"I braved the perils of the land,
The dangers of the sea;
But every suffering is repaid
By one kind look from thee."

It is unnecessary to trouble our readers with all the love-passages between the two lovesick swains, which, although exceedingly interesting to the parties themselves, is anything but agreeable to any one else. It is sufficient to say, that Annette yielded her heart to her cousin, and that her uncle rejoiced at the surrender. A change for the better was evident in Roderick. He was no longer the gloomy repulsive individual that he once was. His manners gradually softened; and even the coldness with which he originally repelled his father's kindness began to disappear. He had been barely a fortnight in the tower, when he expressed an urgent desire to be allowed to leave it for a short time. Old Campbell was not a little surprised at this, and represented the great risk he ran in leaving a place of security, and exposing himself to the chance of apprehension: he also expressed some curiosity to know what engagement could lure him from his father's house at such a time. Roderick replied, that, were the business his own, he would not have scrupled to have explained everything to his father; but, as any disclosure would compromise other persons, he could not, as a man of honour, betray a trust that had been confided in him. The laird, whose notions of honour were somewhat lax, was not altogether convinced by this reasoning; but he did not press his opposition farther, and Roderick was allowed to depart.

After the absence of a week, Roderick returned, and was welcomed in the most affectionate manner by his father and cousin. Some time afterwards he again left the tower for a few days; but these absences became less and less, as his love prospered. One day his father, who had been from home for some time, returned, and calling his son and niece to his presence, said--

"My dear Roderick, you are now a free man--I hold here a free pardon for all offences. The interest of our chief with government has effected this. The Duke of Argyle is ever ready to assist his clansmen; and the faults and errors of the son have been overlooked in the services of the father. No obstacle longer remains to your nuptials with my beloved niece: take her from my hand as the greatest treasure I can give you."

Roderick's passion was equal to her rapture. Here was every obstacle removed. He could again appear in the world as a free agent, and the husband of one whose beauty was her least recommendation.

"Father," he exclaimed, "I know not how to express my gratitude for these favours. Henceforth you shall----" And here he paused--a blush came over his haughty features, and the sentence was left unfinished.

A week before the nuptials, the old man took his son aside.

"Roderick, I have something for your private ear."

"I attend."

"It is painful for a father to declare his unworthiness to his own offspring; but it must be. A bitter remorse has for many years soured my existence. My wealth is considerable; but it is a burden to me, because it originated in--blood!"

Roderick answered not.

"You must have heard that this tower once belonged to another?"

The son started.

"I have."

"I betrayed my friend. He perished, not by my hands, but by my fault; and from that moment deep remorse has filled my bosom: but of that no more. A sense of justice induces me to act decisively. Reginald Grahame had a son."

Roderick rose from his seat, but made no reply.

"It is of him I would speak. Circumstances have induced me to believe that the leader of the caterans who pursued me so long--who harried my lands, and injured my crops--was that son. His feelings towards me must be deadly; but I forgive him. It is but natural that he should hate the destroyer of his father. Would that he knew the pangs I have suffered--the anguish I have felt!"

"And is this true? Was your remorse so great? Have you repented of this cruel act?"

"Deeply--deeply, my son; but what avails it?"

"Much; for contrition----" And he paused.

"Proceed."

"I mean to say, that a contrite heart is acceptable to Heaven."

"I hope it is--I believe it is. But, to proceed:--I have enough to make you and Annette comfortable; and it is my wish to return to my own estate, now redeemed from the burdens which once pressed heavily upon it. If young Grahame lives, as I suspect he does, I will surrender his father's lands. I ask not his forgiveness--that I expect not--but I request him to take back his own. Have I your consent?"

"Most cordially."

"Then all is right. I must see the gipsy chief. I will place myself in his hands."

"Nay, nay, think not of that. I will myself see him."

"No, no; if he slays me, he but extinguishes a light that soon must be quenched; but if he murder you, I am left desolate, and Annette miserable."

"Feel no alarm: he knows me not. As a stranger I will seek him; and, be assured, no harm will befall me."

After much resistance, the old man yielded; and Roderick left the tower that night. The only companion that accompanied the messenger of peace was the dog who had so strangely rescued Roderick from the maniacal attempt of the old nurse. This escort was accidental, and was not discovered until the traveller had crossed the lake in the boat, which his own hand rowed; when, to his great surprise, as he jumped ashore, the animal, who had quietly slipped aboard, made his appearance.

"Poor fellow," said Roderick, patting him on the head, "what has brought you here? Your old limbs are more fitted for the fireside than for the devious path I must tread. I fear you will regret exchanging the comforts of the tower for the scanty food of the mountain glen."

The distance Roderick had to go was considerable; and, although a good walker, and accustomed to traverse districts as wild, if not wilder, he was unable to accomplish more than thirty miles of his journey; for, as the dog gave evident tokens of fatigue, and was unable to keep up with him, he slackened his pace, and proceeded with less rapidity. The night was dark, and the traveller had wandered considerably from the right path; he saw no traces of civilisation about him; he was apparently in the midst of a large and boundless moor.

"Well, it is not the first time that the heath has been my bed--probably it will not be the last; and, if it must be, I will roll myself up in my plaid, and sleep till dawn. O Oscar, you old fool! why did you not remain where you were? You have deprived me of at least ten miles of my journey, and a comfortable bed to boot."

At this moment the horizon was illumined by a flash of what is termed sheet-lightning, and Roderick observed what appeared to be a dwelling about a quarter-of-a-mile distant. The discovery was certainly far from displeasing; and although the place was much out of the way, Roderick naturally enough conjectured it to be some little snug dwelling, admirably adapted for the purpose of illicit distillation.

After the ordinary pleasure frequently enjoyed by those who wander in unknown paths through Highland districts, of plunging knee-deep in quagmires, and getting thoroughly drenched by the cooling mists from the mountains, Roderick, with some difficulty, arrived at the wished-for haven. It was a small and tolerable-looking bothy, containing, so far as the wanderer could ascertain, a butt and ben. Peeping through a clink in the small orifice intended for a window, it was with no ordinary delight he beheld a capital peat-fire, burning with more than accustomed briskness. As the door was fastened, he "tirled at the pin," as the old ballads term it. A hoarse, but evidently female, voice exclaimed--

"Wha's that, to disturb an honest woman at this time o' nicht?"

"A stranger, who has lost his way."

"Awa wi' ye; we've nae room for strangers in this kintry; gang your ways."

"But, my good woman, I really can do no such thing. Have you the conscience--can you think of sending me back to the bleak moor through which I have been passing, when you have such a capital fire blazing away here? Come, now, have some compassion."

"Let him in, Christie," exclaimed another voice, proceeding evidently from one of a different gender; "perhaps he may come from Macpherson."

The mandate was obeyed; and Roderick found himself in presence of two men, dressed in military attire, and a middle-aged woman of somewhat repulsive aspect. The warlike individuals were making themselves comfortable over a bottle of mountain-dew; and the potency of the "fire-water," as the Indians term it, was pretty evident, from the flushed countenance and thick utterance of the drinkers.

"I am sorry to intrude on you, gentlemen," apologised Roderick; "but I lost my way on the neighbouring moor, and my good stars guided me to this habitation, where I hope----"

"No apologies--no apologies, sir. I have seen service, sir; I receive his majesty's pay; and know how to treat a gentleman as he ought to be treated, sir. Will you join us in a glass, sir?"

Roderick was by no means desirous of partaking of the offer thus so ostentatiously offered; but, as it was his wish to conciliate rather than offend, he pocketed his pride, and took his place at the deal board, which, placed on the top of an old whisky cask, served for a table.

"May I be bold enough, sir, to ask whom I have the honour of pledging?" quoth the inviter, filling his glass. "My name, sir, is Serjeant Patullo--Serjeant Patullo, of his Majesty's fifth troop of cavalry."

With some hesitation, the name of Campbell was uttered by Roderick.

"Campbell, sir? good name--loyal subjects to his gracious Majesty. Mr. Campbell, allow me to introduce Private Kincaid. Your health, Mr. Campbell. Are you in the army, Mr. Campbell? Pardon me for the question, sir; but you have a fine military look."

"I am not presently employed, although, at one period, I saw a good deal of service; but pray, sir--question for question--may I ask to what accident I am to attribute the presence of two military gentlemen in this out-of-the-way place in the Highlands?

"You may well call it out of the way, sir; but a soldier's duty, sir, requires his presence where his country calls him, sir. I am sorry, sir, that I cannot divulge to so polite a gentleman (more especially, sir, as, with your leave, there is somewhat a scant of good breeding in this petticoat country) the cause of our presence here; but state secrets, sir, must not be divulged."

"Certainly," replied Roderick. "I cannot press you further. You will forgive me for pleading fatigue; but, with your leave, I must take a hurried nap, as I require to be early on my road to-morrow morning. Good-night, gentlemen." So saying, he threw himself on a bed in a corner of the room, wrapping himself up in his plaid. The dog took his place beside him.

Roderick soon fell asleep. How long he slumbered he did not know; but he was awakened at last by a confused Babel of voices. Opening his eyes, he saw a third person present, and discovered a face which seemed familiar. The discovery was anything but pleasant; and, he deemed it prudent to remain quiet, and to counterfeit that repose which he certainly was far from feeling.

The parties engaged in altercation had evidently been drinking deeply. The serjeant had thrown by his precision, and was talking volubly.

"I'll tell you, ye Highland blackguard, the man's a gentleman, and you shall not disturb him."

"But," replied the stranger, "I'm no going to be a fule, if ye are ane, serjeant. If ony o' the band get an inkling o' what I'm about, ye'll never put saut on their tails."

"Nonsense," quoth Private Kincaid; "the man's asleep, and never dreaming of caterans, or the Glen of Benvorlich. I wish the Highland devils may be as sound as he is when we get there."

"Just let him be quiet, Macpherson," said the serjeant. "I wish I was as sure of fifty guineas as you are. Come, let's be jolly--fill your tumbler and don't shirk."

Roderick, who, on other occasions, would have scorned to have become an eavesdropper, was impelled by strong and urgent reasons to be a listener; and he easily gathered, from the broken and disjointed conversation of the parties, that Macpherson had been connected with the band of caterans of whom the titular Inshannock was the leader; that, from a quarrel, he had resolved to betray his companions; and induced by a government reward and promise of pardon, had made the bothy a trysting-place, from whence he was to be conducted to a village some few miles distant, where a detachment of the king's troops was stationed, from whence he was to guide them to the hiding-place of those who were sought.

By this time the small hours were gradually becoming larger, and daylight was beginning to creep through the crevices in the diminutive window. The revellers were thoroughly inebriated; and Macpherson, no longer awed by his commander-in-chief, again vowed his determination of rousing the object of his curiosity. The serjeant hiccupped a negative, to which no attention was paid; and Macpherson advanced, as steadily as the effect of his libations would permit, to the side of the bed were Roderick lay, apparently fast asleep. The man of curiosity tottered onward towards the bed; but fate had willed that he should be baffled; for Oscar, who had been watching his footsteps with jealous care, sprang upon him, as he put forth his hand to remove the plaid from the head of the supposed sleeper. The suddenness of the attack brought the intruder to the ground; and the fall entirely removed any glimmerings of reason which his previous inebriety had left him. There he lay all his length in a state of hopeless intoxication.

"Served him right," mutually exclaimed the serjeant and the private; "but what can you expect from a Mac?"

"The Macphersons, Macgregors, and all, are not much better than savages," added the serjeant; who, being a Lowlander, felt that contempt for the Highlanders so common amongst the more southern inhabitants of Scotland.

It is a curious fact--perhaps affording better evidence of the distinctiveness of the two races inhabiting North Britain than any other--that the dislike of the Lowlanders, especially among the lower orders, towards their brethren of the mountains, was extreme, both at the period when the events here related occurred, and long previously: even in these modern times, some portion of the leaven remains. This feeling Serjeant Patullo, a native of Dalkeith, shared with his compatriots.

Roderick rose from the bed not much refreshed, but infinitely delighted by the unexpected manner in which the attempt of Macpherson had been frustrated. Shaking hands with the two military personages, who were just able to keep their feet, and giving his repulsive hostess a gratuity for her night's lodgings, he proceeded on his journey, accompanied by his faithful companion.

"Oscar, twice you have saved me; and your last service was greater than your first. Henceforward we never part."

The rest of the journey was accomplished with speed and safety. The glen of Benvorlich was reached. Two days afterwards the king's troops arrived; but the nest was cold, and not one trace of the caterans could be found. Little did the worthy serjeant imagine through whose timely information the well-arranged scheme had proved abortive. On the contrary, his suspicions rested on Macpherson, who was taken back in custody, to the port of Monteith, and there dismissed with ignominy. A week or two afterwards, he was found murdered, with a label on his breast, bearing these words--"The proper reward of a traitor."

The day preceding that fixed for the nuptials, Roderick returned in safety--Oscar following at his heel. He made no mention of his adventure in the bothy, or his second obligation to his canine attendant; he merely observed that his journey had been prosperous.

"Father, I have seen him; and in the leader of the caterans, the heir of Inshannock was detected. He knew me not as your son. I told him your sorrow and your proffer; and here is his answer."

Here he delivered a letter to Campbell, who, hastily unfolding it, read as follows:--

"DONALD CAMPBELL,--In vain you seek, by offering back my own,
to extinguish my hatred. It is not by gifts that you could
deter me from my revenge. Repent; and if the remorse your
messenger so forcibly describes is genuine, it will do more to
procure my forgiveness than all the wealth you could heap upon
me. I shall watch over you; and if--as I shall learn--your
repentance is sincere, you may yet escape my vengeance."

"Strange--very strange!" exclaimed the old man. "Then he rejects my offer. But how could I expect otherwise! The last scion of a noble race, he will not compromise the name of Grahame by accepting even his own from the hand of a Campbell. Well, Roderick, Inshannock shall be your marriage-portion with Annette; and you shall hold these lands under the condition that they shall be replaced by others whensoever William Grahame shall demand them from you."

"Sir, I accept your gift: the lands of Inshannock are mine so long as unclaimed by the lawful proprietor."

"Agreed. Thus one weight is off my mind; and, my dear Roderick, may I hope that the burden will press less heavily on you than it has on me; and that some day, I trust not very remote, shall witness the surrender of your stewardship to the rightful owner?"

"That Inshannock may devolve on him who has best right to it, is as much my wish as yours."

The ensuing day, the minister of Kilmun united Roderick Campbell to Annette Gordon. The marriage was kept quite private, contrary to the usual custom in the Highlands; but this was at the express desire of Roderick, who told his father that it ill became one who had so recently received a pardon for his transgressions to make any public display, even on such an occasion.

Everything, therefore, was quietly managed--two or three friends only being present, to whom the old laird introduced his son for the first time.

In place of returning to the Tower of Gloom, the married couple and the father proceeded to Dungyle, where the honeymoon was spent. Matrimony acts differently upon different people; in some cases it sweetens, in others it sours, the temper. With Roderick it operated in the former manner; for our hero had entirely divested himself of that gloom and melancholy which characterised his conduct upon his first return to the house of his parent. With his father it was different. As his life drew near a close, his despondency increased. It was in vain that Annette soothed him, or that Roderick offered him comfort. No longer was he hunted by the cateran chief--no more were his lands devastated, or his cattle carried off. All was quiet, save the workings of his conscience. He grew weaker and weaker, till at last he was compelled to keep his bed. Medical advice was procured, but in vain. The skill of the physician could not retard the approach of death.

One beautiful evening, as his son sat beside his bedside--

"Roderick," he feebly exclaimed, "my last hour is at hand. One thing I could wish; but that, I fear, is impossible."

"What is it, sir?"

"That William Grahame could witness my sufferings--could satisfy himself of my penitence, and ease my soul by his forgiveness."

"And could his forgiveness afford you relief?"

"It would."

"Then you are forgiven."

"What mean you?"

"I AM William Grahame; and I forgive you from the bottom of my heart."

"My son, what has come over you?"

"Farther concealment would add to my crime. Hear me. I am the son of Reginald Grahame, and the intended avenger of his wrongs. It was I who pursued you, and ravaged your lands. It was to satisfy my vengeance that I stole into the Tower of Gloom. I represented myself as your long-lost son, that I might make you drink the cup of bitterness even to the dregs. I saw Annette: her gentle but affectionate manners, her kind attentions, made a deep impression. When I retired to rest, my breast was strangely perplexed, and the feeling of revenge predominated. Then came the attempt by Moome upon my life, which was averted by the noble animal I had once consigned to destruction, and whose reappearance in the tower filled me with astonishment. The nurse, by some singular instinct, to me inexplicable, had discovered me. Her death preserved my secret.

"This incident again made my purpose waver. I continued in the Tower, where the influence of Annette softened my vindictive feelings. Still I could not bring myself to bear with patience your paternal kindness. I left you, to join my followers, resolving to fly; still Annette drew me back again. Then came the pardon, to me of inestimable value, as under it I could shelter myself from all consequences, even had any one recognised the cateran chief in the heir of the Laird of Dungyle and Inshannock.

"I saw before me a happiness I could never, even in my most imaginative moments, have previously contemplated. It was necessary to visit the band, of which I was still nominally the leader. By a singular mean, I became accidentally aware of a plan to surround and capture my brave companions. A miscreant of the name of Macpherson, who had been with me for some time, and had acquired a knowledge of all our places of retreat, for the sake of lucre, betrayed his associates. I was very nearly in his power; and, but for my faithful Oscar, would have been recognised as the bandit chief, and delivered up to justice. I escaped in time to warn my friends. They fled; and the military sent for the capture were entirely baffled.

"I seized on this moment to devolve the command on the lieutenant, and to resign my sceptre for ever. I parted from my old followers, with deep regret; for they were, to a man, attached to me. Although I had strictly forbidden the shedding of blood, except in self-defence, I afterwards learned that they had avenged themselves on Macpherson, who was watched, seized, reproached, and dirked.

"After I ceased to rule, the band ceased to prosper. Less cautious than heretofore, the captain and the greater part were surprised and slain; some few were taken prisoners, who were tried, convicted, and sent to the plantations. Much as I regretted the loss of so many faithful adherents, still my sorrow was tempered by the reflection that now my secret was safe, and that I was a free agent. I could hardly bring myself to forgive you, for revenge is dear to a Highlander. Time gradually lessened my hatred; but it was not till subsequent events had shown the deepness of your regret, and the reality of your self-reproach, that my resentment finally gave way. I even began to pity; and though, at one time, I should have rejoiced and gloried in my imposture, now I regard it in a different light; and, so far from your asking my forgiveness, it is I ought to be a suppliant to you."

"Roderick--for so I must still call you," ejaculated the old man--"it is not for me to complain. Your presence and your pardon have eased the mental torment I suffered. To me you have acted as a son; continue to do so; let the secret die with us. No one is injured; and the rightful heir resumes the lands of his ancestors without any one to oppose him; for Annette, failing issue of my own body, is my next heir."

"Your will is mine: if such is your command, it shall be obeyed."

"Give me your hand. I shall now die content. It is needless to distress Annette: let her never know that you are not her cousin."

The old laird lingered a few days, and then died in peace and charity with all.

Some twenty-five years after the death of the old Laird of Dungyle, the estates came into the possession of his grandson, Donald. Roderick had gone the way of all flesh; Annette survived him; and in the education of her daughter Isabella sought oblivion for her sorrows. Donald was a fine young man; fond of his mother and sister; but by no means under petticoat government. Whilst at Edinburgh College, he formed an intimacy with the Master of Methven--the eldest son of Lord Methven, a peer of ancient family--and to the friendship thus formed it is more than probable that a love for the Honourable Emma Methven not a little contributed.

As Donald was an excellent match for the daughter of a by-no-means-opulent nobleman, the intimacy was cultivated by the parents; and Roderick, whose great object was the happiness of his son, gave a sanction, before his demise, to the projected union. After the period of mourning had elapsed, preparations were made for the marriage, and the lawyers were busy with the settlements.

One morning, about a fortnight before the day fixed for the nuptials, Donald received a letter, the contents of which excited the most lively astonishment. It was as follows:--

"SIR,--We are instructed by our client, Mr. Roderick Campbell,
of Dungyle, to take legal steps against you to recover the
estates wrongfully held by you, and which belong to him. We
have, therefore, to intimate to you, unless they are
surrendered in the course of a fortnight, legal steps will be
adopted.--We are, sir, your obedient servants,

"SHARPE & SWIFT, W.S.

"ST. JAMES' COURT,

"_20th March, 17--._"

"Sharp and Swift, with a vengeance!" exclaimed the bewildered youth. "Sharp work, to insist upon my giving up my estate; and swift work to do so in a fortnight. What title can this man set up to my grandfather's estate? None that I can conceive; for the descent from him to my father, and from him to me, is undoubted."

Donald, however, lost no time in communicating this unexpected requisition to his intended father-in-law, to whom he handed the letter. Lord Methven read the epistle carefully.

"Was not Roderick your father's name?"

"It was, my lord."

"He was implicated in the rebellion of 1745?"

"He was, but he got a remission from the late king of all crimes and offences. He was never attainted."

"Then," rejoined his lordship, "I am quite at fault. It certainly did occur to me that this claim might have been rested upon his supposed attainture. With your permission I will place this document in the hands of my family agents, Messrs. Slow & Sure, W.S., and direct them to enter into a communication with the agents of your unknown adversary."

It would not be very interesting to our readers to detail the legal game of chess played by these skilful men of law against each other; and it may suffice to mention, that the claim, which extended to all the large estates of the old Laird of Dungyle, was based upon the fact, that the competitor was neither more nor less than the son, whose place had been filled by Roderick.

As the imposture of Roderick Grahame had been carefully concealed, and the secret had apparently died with him, his son and widow naturally viewed the claim as purely fictitious, and characterised the demand as an attempt to extort money; nevertheless, they were staggered by the bold steps adopted by their opponent, who proceeded to get himself served, before the bailies of the Canongate, as only lawful son of Donald Campbell, of Dungyle and Inshannock. The proof was apparently conclusive: the identification of the claimant was dependent upon the testimony of two witnesses, who swore distinctly to the fact. It was proved that young Campbell went to France, held a situation in the court of Prince Charles, commonly called the Pretender, and that he left it suddenly. This had occurred upwards of twenty years before; but no evidence was given of where he had been after that period, although he gave out that he had been captured at sea by a Barbary corsair, sold as a slave, and had only recently escaped.

The jury--being composed in the manner usual with ordinary Canongate juries--gave themselves little trouble in cross-examination; and, as almost uniformly occurs, served the claimant in terms of his brief, and thus invested him with the legal status of son and heir of the deceased Laird of Dungyle.

Donald was dreadfully grieved by the success of this initiatory proceeding, which was instantly followed up by a reduction of the titles vesting the estates in the person of his father and himself. Painful as the step was, he saw the necessity of breaking off the marriage with his beloved Emma. He waited on Lord Methven, and explained to him the measures adopted on the other side, and his apprehension that there was more in the case of his adversary than he had previously imagined; nay, he added his own impression that the event would turn out adverse to him. "How this has happened, I know not; my father ever was the reputed son and heir of old Dungyle; my mother recognised him as her cousin; and yet this man has made out, to the satisfaction of a jury, that he is the heir of Dungyle.

"But, my dear lord, the worst part of the communication is to come; I dare not any longer aspire to the hand of your daughter, at least until everything is cleared up; although the words nearly choke me, they shall come out--this marriage must proceed no further."

Unable to retain his feelings, he burst into tears.

The peer was deeply moved by the evident sorrow of the young man.

"Donald," said he, "you have acted like a man of honour. I respect you more at this moment than I ever did. Be not cast down; all is not lost; and if the worst come to the worst, have patience, and Emma may yet be yours."

"Bless you, my lord, for these words; they have infused new vigour into me, and they will the better enable me to bear my discomfiture."

"Donald, you must now act as a man of the world. That there is something radically wrong, I am persuaded; for I cannot conceive how a man should wilfully refrain claiming his inheritance for so long a time."

"His capture and sale as a slave may explain this."

"Fiddle-de-dee! this is affirming what is not proved. It is easy enough to circulate such a report; but what does Solomon Slow say to all this, and his worthy partner, Simon Sure?"

"Nothing satisfactory. They merely hum and ha--ask questions, but give no answers. They have sent for the charter-chest from Dungyle, and I expect it here to-day."

The legal proceedings went on with vigour; the reduction was called in court; taken to see, as it is termed; returned and enrolled; and order taken for producing the writings called for. All this was Hebrew to the defender; but he trusted everything to his agents. They, on the other hand, raised a counter-reduction of the service of the claimant, on the ground that the evidence was insufficient. This step was bold, but judicious; for Messrs Sharpe &, Swift began to think, that although the expense of these double proceedings might not be much to a party in possession, it was very different when they had to advance the necessary outlay, as they had taken up the cause on speculation. It was hinted that a _douceur_, properly applied, might settle the contest; but Donald peremptorily refused any such compromise, by remarking that--

"If I have justice on my side, why pay this man for troubling me? and, if he has justice on his side, it shall never be said that I took advantage of his poverty to compel him into a relinquishment of his just rights. If, upon proper examination, I find that he is the lawful owner of these estates, I will surrender them."

The charter-chest arrived safely, was deposited in the office of Messrs Slow & Sure, and opened in the presence of the young laird. The more recent titles--those called for in the summons--lay on the top. Mr Sure then took up one parcel, and next another.

"Ha! hum!" muttered he, taking off his spectacles, carefully rubbing his glasses with his handkerchief, and then replacing them.--"Marriage contract: so there was a marriage contract? Ha! 'Gives, grants, and dispones'--what--'to Annette Campbell, for her liferent use allenarly, and to her issue male by her marriage with Roderick Campbell, or by any other marriage, lawfully begotten, in fee, all and whole the lands and barony of Dungyle.' This is wonderful! This extinguishes any claim to Dungyle. The lands are validly conveyed. So, if this man is what he calls himself, which I doubt, the game is up with him as to Dungyle. I wish Inshannock was equally safe. So it is," lifting another parcel. "'Disposition and assignation, by D. Campbell, Esq., to Roderick Campbell, Esq., in trust for William Grahame; and, failing the said William, to the trustee and his heirs.' But what is this?" And he lifted a parcel carefully sealed, and addressed to Donald.

On opening the mysterious packet, a paper was discovered, in the handwriting of his father, detailing the facts previously narrated, with a postscript, from which it appeared that, after the death of old Dungyle, his reputed son, having learned that the real son had been alive at least a year previously, proceeded to France, and there ascertained that the true Roderick, upon learning his father's death, had left Paris, had been taken ill on the road, and died. Fortunately, the priest who gave him absolution (for he was a Catholic) was traced; and there was found, wafered to the paper, a certificate of burial under the hands of the proper officials--thus proving to demonstration that the present claimant was an impostor.

In face of such evidence, it was plain that even the skill of Messrs Sharpe & Swift could avail little; and the pretended Dungyle having found it convenient to be off, and "leave no wreck behind," these reputable writers to the signet, or, as the High School boys term them, wicked sinners, made something like a total loss by their speculation. Who the impostor was never transpired; but it was shrewdly suspected that he was an individual to whom the deceased heir of Dungyle had lost various sums of money, besides some family trinkets, in play; and this suspicion was confirmed by the very articles having been brought forward in support of the identity.

We have only to add, that Donald was made happy in the hand of Emma; and of this marriage are sprung the Barons of Inshannock and the Earls of Dungyle.

THE MOSSTROOPER.

"I am determined to gie up this thievin trade, Dick. If I can only escape Sir Robert Cary this time, I'll turn honest man, hing up jack and spear, steel-cap and whinger, and lead the life o' a saint." This was said by Geordie Bourne--one of the most noted freebooters on the Borders, who flourished, in wickedness, about the end of the seventeenth century--and was addressed to one of his associates in crime. But how think you, good reader, was Geordie employed when he expressed this laudable resolution of abandoning his evil ways? Why, in driving before him a score of cattle which he had just harried in Northumberland. "If he could escape Sir Robert Cary!" Ay, but there was the rub. There was scarcely any escaping Sir Robert Cary, who was warden of the East March, on the English side--a generous-minded and high-spirited man, but the especial terror of all those gentlemen who practised the art of living at the expense of their neighbours. As warden of a march, this was his duty; and he performed it with a zeal and activity that threatened to ruin the trade altogether. His men were constantly abroad, on the look-out for visiters from the Scottish side, and those who were brought to him were hanged without mercy; and this would have been Geordie's fate long preceding the period of our story, had he not been an especial favourite with Sir Robert Kerr, the opposite warden, for whom Sir Robert Cary entertained a high respect.

At this period, the latter person lived in the Castle of Witherington, in Northumberland, and it was thither that all the Scottish freebooters were carried who were taken--and it was there that they suffered the penalty of their crimes. The residence of a warden was then, in every sense of the word, a garrison. It was filled with soldiers, both horse and foot, but chiefly the former. These were called the warden's men, and were dressed in a peculiar livery, to denote the service to which they belonged. They were placed under his command, to enable him to keep the peace of the district over which he presided, to repel aggressions, and to apprehend and bring to justice the lawless marauders with which the Borders were then infested. His men, as has been already said, were constantly employed in patrolling the country, and looking out for defaulters; so that the profession of the freebooter was one of great peril, for he had not only to brave the weapons of those whom he spoiled, but the halter of justice, which was always dangling over his head.

To return, however, to Geordie Bourne. In the little we have yet said of this gallant, we have by no means done full justice to his merits. Geordie was not simply a noted character in the times in which he lived, but an extraordinary one. The feats he had performed were the talk and the marvel of the Borders; and certainly, if all was true that was said of him--nay, if the half of it was true (and there is little doubt that fully that proportion at least was so)--he was one of the most daring and desperate ruffians that ever lived. He was, moreover, a man of great personal strength, of large stature, and ferocious courage. Altogether, he stood preeminent, even in those wild and lawless times, for everything that was evil in, and peculiar to, the Border character. But, from what Geordie said on the occasion with which our story opens, it would appear that he had determined to reform. Whether Geordie was in earnest when he announced this resolution, and whether, if he was, it arose from compunctions of conscience, or from the terror of Sir Robert Cary's halter, it would not be easy to say. That he was serious, however, was a thing very much doubted by his friend and associate, Dick Johnston, or Long Dick, as he was more picturesquely styled, who received his communication, on the delicate subject in question, with a very hearty and a very unequivocal burst of laughter.