Chapter IX: Part 9

Angus M'Intyre was a native of the Island of Skye, in the West Highlands of Scotland, and was, at the period of our story (now a pretty old one, as it happened in the year 17--), an officer of excise in Glasgow. At this period, the Highland character had not lost all its original ferocity, and, consequently, the circumstance of an officer of excise, who was a Highlander, wearing a dirk, even in the discharge of the peaceable duties--though they were not always so either--that fell to his lot in a large town, was not by any means considered so very extraordinary a thing as it would be now. M'Intyre, as we have said, was a native of the West Highlands of Scotland, and an admirable specimen of the hardy and intrepid race from which he sprang. He was a very handsome man, and of the most daring courage, as had been often proved in the perilous adventures in which his profession occasionally engaged him. He was, however, of a remarkably quiet disposition, though fiery and irascible when provoked; but so much did the former prevail in his nature, that no one who did not know him intimately would have guessed how fiery a spirit lay couched underneath this thin covering of placidity, nor deemed, unless they saw that spirit roused, how formidable a man in his anger its possessor was. Yet, withal, was he a man of a kind and generous heart. The habit of carrying the deadly weapon to which we have alluded, Angus had acquired when a youth in the Highlands, where it was then common to be so armed; and this habit had adhered to him, notwithstanding the entire change of life to which his new occupation as an excise officer had introduced him. Angus, in short, although they had made him a clergyman, would, it was believed by those who knew him, have carried his skean dhu with him to the pulpit. He made no boast, however, of being possessed of this weapon. On the contrary, as we have already in part shown, he very much disliked any allusion to it; for it was known by a few of his most intimate friends that he did carry such a thing about with him, and by these such allusions were sometimes made; but the former, although they had often seen his naturally fiery temper put to very severe test, never knew an instance of his having taken advantage of his concealed arms, even to the extent of a threat, excepting in the single instance of which we are about to speak; but that alone is sufficient to show--in a very striking light, we think--the miserable effects of introducing or maintaining barbarous habits--more especially that of wearing secret weapons--into civilised and social life.

Of Sommerville, we have not much to say in the way of description. He was in the same service with M'Intyre--that is, the excise; and was about the same age--thirty-two or thirty-three. They were intimate friends, and as frequently together as the nature of their duties would permit; and were both unmarried. On the same day on which the conversation with which we opened our story took place, it happened that Angus and Sommerville were invited together to a tavern-dinner in the Saltmarket, with some mutual friends. About an hour previous to that appointed for the festive meeting, Sommerville called on M'Intyre at his lodgings, with the view of waiting for him, that they might go together to the house where they were to dine. A few minutes before they left M'Intyre's lodgings for this purpose, Sommerville said, playfully,

"By the by, Mac, I hope you do not intend taking that infernal weapon with you to-night?"

"Tuts, man," replied M'Intyre, somewhat testily, "never mind it. What need ye always harp on that string? Did you never know of a gentleman wearing a dirk before? It's no such extraordinary or terrible thing, surely."

"Terrible enough in reckless hands," said Sommerville.

M'Intyre looked more and more displeased, as his friend continued to cling to the subject; but his only reply was,

"Nonsense, John! Come, let us be going--it's near the hour."

"Well, I tell you what it is, Angus," remarked his friend, banteringly, and still pertinaciously dwelling on the skean dhu, "I won't sit beside you to-night--I'll take care of that; no, nor within arm's-length of you either."

"Sit where you please," replied M'Intyre, angrily, and he flung out of the apartment, followed by Sommerville.

On their reaching the tavern, the company were already assembled, and were waiting their presence before sitting down to table. As soon as they entered, however, places were taken; and it happened by chance that the only vacant chair left for Sommerville was one next his friend M'Intyre. On observing this, the former jokingly declined it, saying,

"No, no, Mac--I won't sit near you, as I said before. Ye're no canny--I have discovered that." And he winked significantly; and, following up the jesting resolution which he had just expressed, he eventually took his place at a different part of the table. M'Intyre said nothing in reply to his friend's remarks; but there was a frown upon his brow that showed pretty plainly, though none present observed it, that he was very far from being pleased with them. In truth, he was highly irritated at what appeared to him the it; and that this, instead of being considered by him as a reason for refraining, was deemed directly the reverse--an excellent source of small annoyance. What followed on this fatal night will, we think, be most graphically related in the words of a person, another intimate friend of M'Intyre's, who was present:--

At the close of the entertainment (said the person alluded to), which was protracted to a pretty late hour, some high words suddenly arose between M'Intyre and Sommerville; the former being evidently predisposed, from some cause or other, to quarrel with the latter; but so few were they, that I paid but little attention to them, and had no difficulty in reconciling the parties, as I imagined; but in this, at least in so far as regarded M'Intyre, I was mistaken. No more words, however, of an angry nature passed between them. At length the party broke up--M'Intyre, Sommerville, and myself remaining a short time behind, when we also left. Sommerville went first, M'Intyre followed, and I went last. In this order we were passing through the entrance, which was quite dark, to gain the street, when I was suddenly horror-struck by hearing Sommerville utter a loud shriek, and, in a moment after, saying, in a hoarse, unearthly tone, as he staggered against the wall, "I am a murdered man!--M'Intyre has stabbed me!"

Guessing precisely what had taken place, I rushed to the mouth of the entrance, and saw M'Intyre crossing the street with as calm and deliberate a step as if nothing had happened; and, immediately after, he turned a corner and disappeared. I now returned to Sommerville, whom I found still leaning against the wall, with his hand upon his wound. In an instant after, he fell, groaned heavily, and, when I stooped down to assist him, I found he was gone. Several persons had, by this time, assembled round us; and, by the assistance of two or three of these, we had the body of the unfortunate man conveyed to his lodgings. Next morning, having occasion to be abroad very early, and to pass the residence of the procurator-fiscal, I saw three men, whom I knew to be criminal officers, just entering the house. In an instant it crossed my mind that this untimous visit of these gentlemen to the functionary above named was, in some way or other, connected with the melancholy event of the preceding night, and that my unfortunate friend M'Intyre was about to be apprehended. Fully impressed with this idea, I instantly hastened to his lodgings, taking such short cuts and by-ways as I knew would give me several minutes' start of his pursuers--if the men I saw really were to become such--and the sequel will show they did. On entering M'Intyre's room, which I did in considerable agitation, I found him, to my great amazement, sound asleep.

"M'Intyre," said I, shaking him violently by the shoulder, "I fear there is a warrant out against you, or at least that there will be one out immediately; so, for God's sake, rise, and let us see whether we cannot find a hiding-place for you." I then hastily mentioned to him the grounds of my suspicions of such being the case. While I was speaking, the unhappy man looked at me with an expression of extreme surprise, and as if he did not at all comprehend what I meant. In truth, neither he did; for he had at the moment no recollection whatever of the dreadful deed he had perpetrated--a circumstance which left no doubt of his having been greatly under the influence of liquor when it was done, although I did not at the time think so. By degrees, however, the horrible truth flashed upon him; and the painful realities of the preceding night stood before him. His, however, was a stout heart. His firm nerves shook not under the pressure of the dreadful circumstances in which he was placed. He made no remarks on my communication, but immediately rose, and put on his clothes; and this he did with a coolness and deliberation that both amazed and irritated me; for I was afraid that the officers of justice would be in upon us every moment. Having at length dressed, we both sallied out, although I did not at all know which direction I should recommend my unfortunate friend to take; neither had he himself any idea whither he should go. We, however, proceeded down the street in which he lived; and, just as we were about turning the corner at the foot, happening to look round, we saw the officers in the act of entering the street at the opposite end. At this alarming sight, we of course quickened our pace, although we calculated that some time would be gained by the search to which we did not doubt the officers would subject the house in which M'Intyre lived. I could not but admire the coolness and presence of mind which my unfortunate friend exhibited under these trying circumstances, although I certainly could have wished the exhibition made in a better cause, and on a more honourable occasion. In his manner there was not the least flurry nor agitation. He remained perfectly calm and collected, although an ignominious death was now staring him in the face. After we had proceeded a little way, M'Intyre suddenly stopped, and, addressing me, remarked that my accompanying him could serve no good end, but rather increase the difficulty of his escape, and that therefore I had better leave him. To the propriety of this remark I could not but subscribe; and I therefore, though reluctantly--for, notwithstanding the rash and indefensible act he had committed, I could not forget the character which my unfortunate friend had formerly borne, which was that of an honest, honourable, and warmhearted man--agreed to leave him. Before we parted, he told me that he now recollected that, previously to his returning to his lodgings, after he had stabbed Sommerville, he had gone down to the Clyde, and tossed the fatal weapon with which he had done the deed as far as he could throw it into the river; but whether this was merely a precautionary measure, to break at least one link in the chain of evidence, or the result of a feeling of horror at what he had done, he did not explain; but my impression was, that it was the latter. Having agreed in the propriety of my friend's remark as to the additional danger to which my accompanying him further would expose him, we parted--I to return to my lodgings, and he to seek shelter where he might, for he had not at the moment the smallest idea whither he should direct his steps.

For about ten days after this, I heard nothing of my unhappy friend; but, at the end of that period, I learned that he had been apprehended, and was then in Glasgow Jail. This intelligence was subsequently confirmed by a note from himself, which I received, intimating his apprehension, and requesting me to call upon him. With this request I complied, and found my unfortunate friend in the dreadful circumstances of an imprisoned criminal. He was, however, still calm and collected; and appeared perfectly resigned to the fate which, he had not the smallest doubt, awaited him--namely, that he should die upon the scaffold; and, indeed, no reasonable man could have expected any other issue; nor could it be denied that he deserved it. Our interview was short, as it was necessarily carried on in the presence of a turnkey, and therefore confined to merely general topics. The unhappy man himself, besides, showed no disposition to prolong it; and, observing this, I withdrew, after obtaining his promise to apply to me for anything he might want, and for any service it might be in my power to render him.

About three weeks after this, while I was at breakfast one morning, my landlady came into my room, to inform me that there was a young woman at the door who wished to speak with me. I desired her to be shown in. She entered; and a more interesting-looking girl I have rarely seen. She appeared to me about one-and-twenty years of age, and was extremely graceful, both in person and manner. The latter, indeed, bespoke a much more elevated condition than her dress--which was that of a domestic servant--seemed to indicate. Her style of language, too, discovered the same contradiction to appearances.

Curtseying as she entered, and blushing as she spoke--"You are, sir, I believe," said she "a friend of poor M'Intyre's, just now in Glasgow Jail, for--for----" And here her emotion prevented her further utterance.

"I was," replied I, interposing to save her feelings, which I saw were painfully excited, "and I still am, his friend. Would to God I had some way of showing him, in his misfortune, how sincerely I am so!"

This I said with a degree of earnestness and fervour that seemed to make a strong impression on my fair, but mysterious visiter. She became pale and agitated, and I thought I could even discover a tear glittering in her eye. When this momentary emotion had passed away--

"Then," she said, "I need not hesitate to trust you with a secret." And she glanced towards the door, to see that it was shut. "This night," she resumed, "M'Intyre will escape from prison."

"Escape!--how?--by what means?" I exclaimed, in amazement.

"By mine," she replied, calmly.

"By yours!" I said, with increased astonishment.

"Yes, sir, by mine. This night at twelve o'clock he will be without the prison walls, and at liberty, and you must then do him the last service he is ever likely to require at your hands. You will have a chaise waiting at the hour I have mentioned, at the first mile-stone on the Greenock road. Will you do this, and save the life of your unfortunate friend?"

Although a good deal confused by the suddenness and singularity of the whole affair, I, without a moment's hesitation or reflection, replied that I would; and, having made this promise, I asked my visiter if she would further confide in me, by telling me all the particulars connected with the proposed escape of my friend.

"Not now--not now," she said, gathering a tartan plaid, which she wore, round her, as if to depart; "but you will probably learn all afterwards. In the meantime, farewell! and, as you would have a friend do to you in similar circumstances, so do you to your friend. Be faithful to your promise."

And, ere I could make any further remark, or put any other question, she hurried out of the apartment, hastily opened the street door, rushed out, and disappeared.

Interrupting this personal narrative for a time, we will shift the scene, on the eventful night in question--eventful, at least, to the unfortunate subject of our story--to the house of the jailer in whose custody he was; and here we shall find, in the capacity of a domestic servant, a young woman, bearing a very striking resemblance to her who visited M'Intyre's friend, as above described. Indeed, there can be no doubt that they are the same. It was the jailer's custom, at this time, to make the rounds of the prison precisely at nine o'clock every night, to see that all was secure; and when this survey was completed, to carry all the keys with him to his own house, which was included in the general building, and had interior communication with that portion of it where prisoners were confined. On bringing up the keys, as usual, on the night of which we are speaking, the jailer gave them in charge to his wife, as he was invited out to join a party of friends on some occasion of merry-making--a circumstance which had been previously known to his family, and, amongst the rest, to the servant girl a short while since alluded to. Having received the keys from her husband, the jailer's wife carried them to her own bedroom for greater safety, and there deposited them in a drawer. In less than two hours after, this drawer was secretly visited by the young woman just spoken of, and a particular key carefully selected, detached from the rest, and transferred from the drawer in which it had lain into her pocket, when she withdrew with her prize. Shortly after this, the jailer returned, and retired to bed. When the whole was still, the purloiner of the key might have been seen stealing, with cautious steps, down the staircase that led into the principal passage of the prison, where were stationed two turnkeys--one at the outer door, and one at the inner. Advancing to the former--

"James," said the girl, "Mr Simpson" (the name of the jailer) "desires to see you up-stairs immediately. Go to the little parlour, and wait for him there, and he'll come to you directly."

"Lassie," said the man, "I canna leave the door richtly; but if he wants me, I suppose I maun gang."

"I'll keep the key till you return," said the former, "and tell Andrew" (meaning the inner turnkey) "to look after the door till you return, James."

"Ay, do, like a dear," replied the unsuspecting turnkey, handing her the key, and hastening away to attend the call of his superior.

On his departure, the girl went, as she had promised, to the other turnkey; but it was to deliver a very different message from that she had undertaken. To him, in truth, she made precisely the same communication as she had done to his neighbour, with a difference of destination--him she directed to wait his master in the kitchen. This guardian, trusting in the vigilance of him of the outer door, of whose absence he was unaware, made no difficulty whatever of obeying, but instantly ascended to the jailer's kitchen, where he patiently awaited the appearance of his superior. Having thus disposed of the two turnkeys, the girl now, with a beating heart, flew to the door of the apartment in which M'Intyre was confined, applied the key to the lock, turned its huge bolt, and the way was clear.

"Angus M'Intyre," she said, on flinging up the door, "come forth, come forth, and fly instantly for your life! There are none to oppose you."

"In the name of God, who are you?" said M'Intyre, instinctively obeying the call to liberty and freedom. "I should know that voice," he added, endeavouring to obtain a glimpse of the face of his deliverer, but in vain, as she was carefully hooded, and the place profoundly dark.

"Hush! hush!--not a word!" said the latter. "What does it signify to you who I am? Off, off instantly!--you have not a moment to lose. This way, this way." And she hurried the astonished prisoner, though now no longer so, through the deserted passage of the jail, till they reached the outer door, to which she applied the key with which its simple guardian had intrusted her, and in the next instant M'Intyre and his deliverer were in the street. On gaining it--

"Now, fly, Angus," said the latter, thrusting, at the same time, a purse of money into his hand. "At the first mile-stone on the Greenock road, you will find a chaise waiting you. In that you will proceed to Greenock, where you will find a ship to sail to-morrow for New York. Embark on board of her; and you will then, I trust, escape the vengeance of man--it must be your own business, Angus, to deprecate that of your God." And without waiting for any reply, or permitting herself to be known to her companion, she hastened away in the opposite direction to that she had pointed out to M'Intyre, and disappeared. The latter, bewildered with the suddenness and strangeness of the proceeding which had thus so mysteriously led to his liberation, stood for a second confused, irresolute, and undetermined. His first idea was to pursue this deliverer, and to insist on ascertaining who she was; but even the moment he took to deliberate had put this out of his power, for the night was dark, and she was already out of sight; and where there were so many ready places of concealment, the pursuit was a hopeless one. M'Intyre perceived this; and aware, at the same time, how necessary it was that he should instantly quit the vicinity of the jail, he hastened to the place where he had been told a chaise would be waiting him. The chaise was there; M'Intyre flung himself into it, reached Greenock in about four hours afterwards, and, before another sun had sunk in the west, he was sailing down the Frith of Clyde, on his way to the opposite shores of the Atlantic.

Three years after the occurrence of the events just related (continued the narrator whom we have already quoted), during which time I had heard nothing more of M'Intyre than that he had effected his escape, nor anything whatever of his deliverer, I was removed, by order of the Board of Excise, to the Island of Skye, where I was settled, perhaps, about a year, when, one day, as I was crossing the country from Portree to Meystead--a place celebrated in the wanderings of Prince Charles--I met a party of ladies and gentlemen coming in the opposite direction. They were a merry squad, with the exception of one of the ladies, who seemed to take but little share in the obstreperous mirth of her companions; and it was owing to this circumstance, perhaps, that I found her engrossing a greater share of my attention than the others; for, in that hospitable country, we were friends the moment we met, although we had never seen each other before; and the party, having some provisions with them, I was requested to favour them with my company to a dejeune, which, they informed me, they had been on the eve of making before I joined them. Readily accepting their kind invitation, I accompanied my new friends in search of a suitable spot for the proposed entertainment. This was soon found; and we all sat down on the grass to partake of the good things provided for the occasion. During the repast, I could not keep my eyes off the lady whose melancholy had first attracted my attention; for I felt an impression that I had seen the face somewhere before; but when, where, or under what circumstances, I could not at all recollect. She seemed also to recognise me; for there was a marked confusion and agitation, both in her countenance and manner, from the moment I joined the party to which she belonged. Guessing, from these expressions, that it would not be agreeable to her that I should make any attempt at renewing our acquaintance, of whatever nature that might have been, in the presence of her friends, I forbore; but determined, if an opportunity was afforded me, of doing so before we parted, as I felt all that curiosity and uneasiness which such vague and imperfect recognition of a person's identity is so apt to create. The opportunity I desired, the lady, of her own accord, subsequently afforded me.

When our repast was concluded, she said, addressing me--

"We are going, sir, to see the falls of Lubdearg, about a mile from this. It is a very magnificent one; and, if you have never seen it before, and are in no great hurry to prosecute your journey, you will perhaps accompany us. My friends here, I am sure, will be glad of such an addition to their party."

The falls she alluded to I had never seen; and for this reason, but still more for that before hinted at, I gladly accepted the proposal of becoming one of the party to Lubdearg. While we were proceeding thither, my inviter contrived to drop a little way behind her friends; which perceiving, and conjecturing that she did so for the especial purpose of affording me an opportunity of speaking with her, I availed myself of it, with a degree of caution that prevented all appearance of connivance, and joined her. Being considerably apart from the others, she said, smiling--

"You have recognised me, I rather think, sir; but do you recollect where and under what circumstances it was that you saw me?"

"I do not indeed; I have not the most distant idea," I said; "but I certainly do recollect having seen you before."

"And I, too, recollect well of having seen you. It is impossible I should ever forget either you or the occasion that introduced me to you. Do you," she added, "recollect of a young woman calling on you one morning at your lodgings, to request of you to have a chaise in readiness, on the Greenock road, to aid"--and here she paused a moment, and betrayed great emotion--"the escape," she resumed, "of Angus M'Intyre."

I need hardly say that, short as this sentence was, I knew ere it was half concluded that it was the deliverer of my unhappy friend who stood before me.

"I do, I do, perfectly," I replied--"you are the very person. This is, indeed, strange--most singular--our meeting here again, and in this way. But who, in Heaven's name, are you?" I added; "that I have never yet known."

The lady smiled sadly. "Did you ever hear your unfortunate friend speak of one Miss Eliza Stewart?" she said.

"Often, often," I replied; "to that lady I always understood he was to have been married, had not that deplorable occurrence taken place, which so miserably changed his destiny, and marred all his prospects in life."

"It was so," said my fair companion, with increased emotion. "I am that person."

"Impossible!"

"It is true; I am Eliza Stewart."

"Then, here is more perplexity and mystery," said I. "How, in all the world, came you to appear to me in the dress and character of a servant girl--you, who are a lady both by birth and education?" (this I knew from M'Intyre) "and how, above all, did you effect the escape of our unfortunate friend?"

The lady again smiled with a melancholy air. "I will inform you of all," she said, "in a very few words. At the time of Angus' misfortune, I lived, as you may probably know, with my father at ----, in Skye here. On hearing of what had taken place, and of Angus' apprehension, I hastened to Glasgow on pretence of visiting a friend, and got into the house of the jailer in the character of a domestic servant. I will not say by whose means I effected this, as it might still bring ruin on their heads." And here my fair informant gave me the details which are already before the reader. "On effecting his escape," she went on, "I immediately resumed my own dress, and returned to my father's house, where it was next to impossible to detect, in his daughter, the servant girl of the Glasgow jailer. Our remote situation, besides, further secured me from the chance of discovery; and I have not yet been discovered, nor do I suppose I ever will now."

"And why," said I, laughingly, "did you not share the fortunes of the man in whom you thus took so deep an interest?"

"No, no," said the heroic girl, with an expression of deep feeling; "I loved M'Intyre, I confess it, with the most sincere and devoted affection--what I did for him proves it; but I could not think of uniting myself to a man whose hand was red with the blood of a fellow-creature; for it cannot be denied that our unfortunate friend, notwithstanding all his good qualities, was--there is no disguising it--a----" Here her emotions prevented her finishing the sentence--nor did she afterwards finish it; but I had no doubt the word she would have supplied was "murderer."

"Now, sir, you know all," she continued, on recovering from her perturbation; "but you will make no allusion, I beg of you, to anything I have told you, to my friends here, amongst whom are my father, mother, and a sister, who know nothing whatever of the part I acted in effecting M'Intyre's escape."

With this request I promised compliance. We reached the falls of Lubdearg. I parted with Eliza Stewart; and we never met again, as, in a few days afterwards, I left the island; and with this event terminated all connecting circumstances on my part with "The Skean Dhu."

THE SEVEN YEARS' DEARTH.

It was a good many years before the accession of King William III. to the throne of Britain, that a farmer of the name of William Kerr rented a farm in the parish of Minniegaff, in the county of Wigton, on the great road to Port-Patrick. The farm lay at some distance from the road, at the foot of the hills--a wild and secluded spot, possessing few beauties, save to a person who had been reared in the neighbourhood, whose earliest associations were blended with the scenes of his youth.

This farm of Kerr's was of far greater extent than importance, only a few acres of it being in cultivation; but his flock of sheep was pretty extensive, and his black cattle numerous. He was looked upon as a wealthy man at the period of which we speak, had been married for many years, but had no children to enjoy that wealth which increased from year to year. This was the only drawback to his earthly happiness; but he never repined, or let a word escape his lips, to betray the wish of his heart. Even the rude taunts of his more fortunate neighbours he bore with unruffled countenance, though he felt them keenly; and he still loved Grizzel his wife with all the fervour of his first affection--an affection that was returned with usury.

Such was the situation of the worthy farmer, when, one morning in harvest, he went out with the earliest dawn to look after some sheep he had upon a hill in a distant part of the farm. He had counted them, and was returning to join the reapers, accompanied by Colin, his faithful dog, who, in devious excursions, circled round the large grey stones that lay scattered about. He had proceeded for some way without missing the animal, when he stopped and whistled for him. Colin, contrary to his usual custom, did not come bounding to his side, but answered by a loud barking--a circumstance which a little surprised him; but he proceeded homeward, thinking that he was amusing himself with some animal he had discovered; and being in haste to join his reapers, paid no further attention to this act of disobedience in his favourite. Breakfast passed, and mid-day came, and still Colin did not make his appearance. His master was both angry and uneasy at his absence; but, in the bustle and laughter of the harvest field, again forgot the occasional thoughts of his useful dog that obtruded themselves on his mind. It drew towards evening, and still no Colin came. The circumstance was becoming unaccountable; none had seen the dog; and uneasiness succeeded to anger. He now left his reapers, and went to the house to inquire of Grizzel if the animal had been in the house; but she answered that she had only seen him once in the early part of the day, for a minute or two, when, after receiving a piece of cake, he had ran off with it in his mouth, nor stopped to eat it, contrary to his usual custom. This, with the circumstance of his leaving him in the morning, and his unaccountable absence, confirmed William Kerr in his opinion that something uncommon must have happened to him. As he could ill do without his assistance to gather his sheep for the night, without returning to his reapers, he set out for the spot where the dog had left him, ever and anon calling him by his well-known whistle and name. The large grey stones and barren muir echoed the call; but no Colin appeared. At length he came to the place, and was surprised and overtaken with fear, as he observed the animal stretched upon the ground, with something close beside him, which he seemed to watch.

"Colin, Colin!" he called; "poor Colin!"

The dog did not rise: he gave every mute token of joy and pleasure at the sight of his master, looking over his bushy shoulder, and wagging his tail; but he made no effort to stir--fearful, apparently, of disturbing the object that lay beside him.

"Surely," said his master, "my poor dog is bewitched. Colin, you rascal, what have you there? Come with me to the sheep." But Colin moved not.

The farmer stood rooted to the spot; he had neither the power to advance nor retreat; a superstitious fear took possession of him; his hair moved upon his head; a tingling feeling seemed to excite every muscle of his body, and deprive it of voluntary motion. The fear, in fact, of the fairies was upon him; he conceived himself the victim of fascination--a conception well justified by his own conduct, for he could not, for a time, withdraw his eyes from the object of his alarm. When the subject was considered, there was ground for his fear. Before him, under the shadow of a large grey boulder stone, within a few yards, lay his faithful dog--a creature that had never before required a second call from him--now deaf to that voice it was his former pleasure to obey at every hazard. He was supporting something that had the appearance of a lovely child sound asleep, nestled close into his bosom, the head resting upon his shaggy side, and its curly, golden hair appearing like rays of light on the pillow upon which it rested. The face appeared more beauteous than anything of this earth he had ever seen--so delicate, so clear, so beautifully blended was rose and lily; but the eyes were swollen and red with weeping, pearly drops stole in slow succession from its dark eyelashes, while a heavy sob swelled its little bosom as if it would awaken it. The farmer, with his eyes almost starting from their sockets, incapable of motion or cool reflection, stood gazing upon the pair as they lay before him--the one unconscious, the other, while showing every symptom of joy he could silently express at sight of his master, yet seemingly fearful as an anxious mother of disturbing his sleeping charge. As William Kerr's surprise began to abate, his fears, if possible, increased.

"Surely," he said to himself, "this is one of the children of the fairies. God protect me! I am bewitched as well as my poor dog. I never felt thus before in the presence of mere earthly being. I cannot move--my knees can scarce support me--I cannot withdraw my eyes from that fearful object. God deliver me from the power of the enemy!" And he shut his eyelids by a convulsive effort.

He then attempted to pray, but memory had fled; nor psalm nor prayer could he call up to his aid, the palsy of fear had so completely unhinged him. The very beauty of the object increased his alarm; for he had heard that Satan is never more to be feared than when he appears as an angel of light. With his eyes shut by a nervous effort, he turned himself round, and ran to his reapers.

As he approached them, and the distance increased between him and the object of his fears, his natural firmness returned; but his countenance still betrayed the agitation of his mind. The reapers were just quitting the field, having accomplished the labours of the day; and, seeing him running towards them, crowded round him, eagerly inquiring the cause of his alarm. It was some time before he could recover his breath (so swiftly had he run), to give them an account of what he had seen, and express his regret for the loss of Colin, whom he never more expected to see. The whole group were struck with fear and amazement, gazing alternately at the farmer and each other--not knowing what to think of the strange case; but all agreed that some effort ought to be made for the recovery of the dog. John Bell, an elder of the church, and a neighbour farmer, spoke and said--

"My brethren, the power of the evil one is great; but it is overruled by One greater and more glorious. Let us employ His aid; then we shall go forth in the strength of our faith, and Satan shall flee from before us."

He then prayed, and the reapers kneeled. When his address was finished, he arose with a firm assurance in the divine protection.

"I will go forth," said he, "in the strength of His name, and see what new delusion of Satan this is. William Kerr, send to the house for the ha' Bible, that I may carry it as a shield between us and the wiles of him who will vanish before the holy Book, like mist before the wind."

One of the young men ran to the house, and soon returned, with his mistress, she herself carrying the important volume, which she delivered into the hands of John Bell; and the latter, opening it, read aloud to them that beautiful chapter, the fourteenth of St John's Gospel. They then proceeded to the spot pointed out by the farmer, chanting a psalm, which the elder gave out, as they walked behind him. All, excepting the elder, were unnerved by fear--casting many a timid glance around, and ready, at the least alarm, to run back. Curiosity to see the conclusion, and shame, more than firmness, compelled them to advance. Before they reached the stone where the farmer had seen his dog and his charge, Colin came bounding to them, barking for joy, and fawning upon his master and mistress; while the former, in a burst of joy at the recovery of his favourite, exclaimed--

"Great is the power of the Word! The charm is broken! Colin, Colin, I am rejoiced to have rescued you from the evil powers. Come, lad, let us to the hill, and weer in the ewes." And, with his usual whistle, he pointed to the hill.

Colin would not yet obey the wonted order, but ran back towards the large grey stone, barking in an unusual manner, returning, again running towards it, and looking back as if he wished his master to follow. The whole group were in amazement, and knew not what to think of these strange actions of the dog; but they had yet more to be surprised at; for, taking the end of his master's plaid in his mouth, the creature endeavoured gently to drag him towards the stone. As the party thus stood irresolute, the faint wailing of a child was distinctly heard, and a babe, supporting its feeble arms upon the stone, was seen to emerge from the other side of it. It was the same the farmer had previously seen: his fears returned--several of the most timid fled; but Colin ran to the little stranger, and licked the tears that streamed down its cheeks, while the child put its arms around his neck, and leaned its head upon its new friend. That they witnessed something out of the usual order of nature, no one present had the smallest doubt; for how, by earthly means, could a child of man have reached a spot so lonely and secluded? The farmer and his wife both endeavoured, by the most endearing terms, to induce Colin to leave it; but in vain.

"What can this mean?" exclaimed Grizzel. "Colin, Colin, you never before refused to obey my voice; surely nothing good could induce you to disregard it. Come, come, and leave that unearthly creature."

John Bell, who had been occupied in mental devotion, at length broke silence--

"Let us not judge harshly," said he; "perhaps it is a Christian child, dropped here by the fairies as they were bearing it away from its parents, who now mourn for its loss, and nurse a changeling in its place. It may have been rescued by the prayer of faith, or some other means, from their power. In the strength of His name, I will be convinced of its real nature, either by putting it to flight if it is unearthly, or rescuing it from death if it is human; for we must not leave it here to perish through cold and want, and prove ourselves more cruel than the dumb animal."

As he spoke, the eye of the child turned towards them; it gave a feeble cry, and stretched out its arms, still supported by the dog. The elder advanced to it, and placing the Bible upon its head, it smiled in his face, and grasped his leg. The tears came into the good man's eyes, while Colin bounded for joy, and licked his hand as it rested upon the head of the child.

"Come forward, my friends," he said; "it is a lovely child, a Christian babe, for it smiles at the touch of the blessed Word. It is weak and sore spent, and calls for attention and kindness."

All the woman was kindled in the heart of the farmer's wife; she ran to the babe, and pressed it to her bosom, kissing it as it smiled in her face, and lisped a few words in a language none present could understand. The fears of all were now nearly dissipated; those who had fled returned; all the females in turn embraced the babe; but the fondness of William Kerr for the foundling was now equal to his former fears. He at once resolved to adopt it as his own, until its sorrowing parents should reclaim it. Grizzel concurred in the sentiment and resolution; and he and Colin, who now had resumed all his wonted obedience, set off for the hill, while the other returned to the house. As Grizzel carried the child home, she felt her love for it increase; and the void that had existed in her bosom ever since her marriage was fast filling up. The child's eyes were of a deep hazel, and gave indications of beauty; and its clothes were of a far finer texture than those worn by children of humble rank, and bespoke a good origin. Of all the females present, she alone felt assured that it was a proper child, because she wished it to be so; the others looked upon it still with some misgivings; revolving, doubtless, in their minds, the strangeness of all the circumstances attending the affair--and not the least of these was the locality of the child's position. It was a lonely spot, bearing no good name, close by a beautiful green knoll, standing by a spring of pure water, and covered with daisies; while all around was heather or stunted grass, resembling an oasis in the desert. Strange sights were reported to have been seen near it; and the shepherd lads, in the still evenings of summer, were wont to hear there strange humming noises, mixed with faint tinklings--sure signs, of course, of the presence of the fairies. It was called the Fairy Knowe, while the stone was called the Eldrich Stone--names of bad omen, and sufficient to scare all visiters after nightfall. The newly-awakened feelings of Grizzel deprived all these ideas and recollections of that weight which operated with the other females, and warped their opinions; and, while they concluded that nothing good could be found in such a spot, they cautioned Grizzel, in their kindness, to be wary that the creature did her no harm. Grizzel herself was not without some misgivings; but she clung to the babe that lay in her bosom, and resolved to put to the test, as soon as she reached home, whether it was really a fairy, or a child stolen by these kidnappers. She believed her test to be sufficient to make it, if a fairy, leave her presence; if a human babe, to place it beyond their power to recover it, cleanse it from any spell they might have put upon it, secure it from the evil eye, and prevent its being forespoken. For these most important purposes she borrowed a piece of money (without assigning a reason for wanting it) from one of her neighbours, and, as soon as she reached home, secured herself in the spence with the babe (for no one must see her in the act), put the piece of money into some clean water with salt, stripped the child to the skin, washed it carefully, then took its shift and passed it thrice through the smoke of the fire, and put it on again, with the wrong side out. All this was done not without fear and trembling on the part of Grizzel; but her new-found treasure was unchanged, and smiled sweetly in her face as she proceeded in her superstitious operation. Having supplied its little wants, now fully assured, she put it to bed with joy and satisfaction, and looked on it till it fell into a sweet sleep. Scarce had she accomplished this, when William Kerr entered with John Bell, upon whom he had called as he returned from the hill, to aid him with his counsel and advice.

"Well, Grizzel," said he, "is it a lad or a lass bairn we hae found; for I am convinced (for a' the fear it gae me), by what our elder has said, that it is nae fairy, but an unchristened wean the elves had been carryin awa frae its parents, wha, I hae nae doot, are noo mournin its loss."

"Indeed, guidman," replied Grizzel, "it is as sonsie a lass bairn as ever I saw in my life, and a's richt. It is nae fairy, I'm satisfied, and I'm richt glad on't; for she'll be a great comfort to us, now that we are getting up in years, if her ain mother doesna come to take her to her ain bosom; but o' that I think there is little chance; for, by the few words it spoke, it is nae child o' oor land."

"William Kerr," said the elder, "if, as your wife proposes, you mean to keep this child, there is one duty to perform, both for its sake and your own--and that is, it must be baptised; for there is no doubt this sacred right has either been withheld or neglected, or the enemy would not have had the power to do as he has done. To-morrow I will go myself to the minister and talk with him; and next Lord's-day you or I must present it to be admitted into the visible church, of which I pray it may be a worthy member. Are you content?"

"Far mair than content," replied the farmer; "I will rejoice, and bless God, for the occasion as fervently as if she were my ain. While I hae a bit or a bield she shall neither feel hunger nor cold."

The parties separated for the night, and the new-found stranger slept in the bosom of the farmer's wife. On the following Sabbath it was taken to the church of Minniegaff to be baptised. The church was crowded to excess. Every one that could, by any effort, get there, attended to witness the christening of a fairy, all expecting something uncommon to occur. The farmer and his wife, they thought, were too rash to harbour it in their house, for it was not chancy to be at feud with "the good people," who, out of revenge, might shoot his cattle; and, verily, during that summer, a good many had already died of elve shots. As the christening party approached the church, every one was anxious to get a peep at the young creature. It was so beautiful that it could not, they said, be a common child; neither was it a changeling, for changelings are weazened, yammering, ill-looking things, that greet night and day, and never grow bigger. Contrary to the expectations of almost all the congregation, when the farmer and his party entered the church, the child neither screamed nor flew off in a flash of fire, but smiled as beautiful as a cherub. The service went on as usual. The farmer stood up and took the holy vows upon himself, and gave the lovely babe the name of Helen. The girl throve, and became the pride of her foster-parents, who loved her as intensely as if she had been their own child; and Colin became, if possible, more beloved by them, as Helen's playfellow.

A few months after the finding of Helen, as Grizzel was one day examining the silken dress which she wore when discovered on the muir, and which had never been put on since--being soiled and damp when taken off--she discovered a piece of paper in one of the folds, much creased, as if it had been placed there by some one in a state of great agitation. It was written in French. Neither the farmer nor herself could read it, but William, on the first opportunity, took and showed it to the minister, who translated it as follows:--"Merciful God! protect me and my child from the fury of my husband, who has returned, after his long absence, more gloomy than ever. Alas! in what have I offended him? If I have, without any intention, done so, my dear baby, you cannot have given offence. Good God! there are preparations for a journey making in the court-yard--horse, saddle, and pillion. Where am I to be carried to? My babe! I will not be parted from you but by death. His feet are on the stairs: I hear his voice. Alas! I tremble at that sound which was once music to my soul. Holy Virgin! he approaches!" Here the writing ceased. It threw no light upon the event, further than it showed that the mother of the child was unhappy, and above the lower ranks of life. The paper William left with the minister, at his request.