Chapter X: Conclusion (5)

While this primitive mode of communication was going on, the man who had brought the child to Captain Clydesdale had returned to his wigwam, and now reappeared, carrying several articles in his hand, which he held up to the former. Mr Clydesdale took them in his hand, and found them to consist of fragments of a child's dress, made, as he thought, after the fashion of those in use in Scotland. On the corner of what appeared to be the remains of a little shift, he discovered the initials, J. E. But the most interesting relic produced on this occasion, was a small locket, containing some rich black hair on one side, and on the other the miniature of a young man in a military uniform, with the same initials, J. E., engraven on the rim. This locket, the man who brought it gave Captain Clydesdale to understand, had been found hanging around the neck of the child when first discovered.

Satisfied now, beyond all doubt, of the child's European descent, Mr Clydesdale approached her, took her kindly by the hand, and, hoping to make something of her own testimony, began to put some questions to her; but, to his great disappointment, found that she did not understand him, although he spoke to her both in French and English. The little girl, in truth, he soon discovered, neither understood nor spoke any language but that of the tribe in whose hands she was.

It appeared, however, sufficiently clear to Captain Clydesdale, that a shipwreck had taken place on the coast, and that at no very great distance of time, and that the child before him had been on board of the unfortunate vessel. Various circumstances, too, led him to the belief that the ship had been a British one; and in this opinion he was joined by the mate.

The result of the Captain's reflections on these points, was a determination to take the child to Scotland with him, if he could prevail upon her present possessors to part with her, and to take his chance of making some discovery regarding her on his return home.

Having come to this resolution, he hastened to make known to the natives his wish to have the little girl; and was well pleased to perceive that the proposal, which they seemed at once to comprehend, was not received with any surprise, far less indignation. Encouraged by this reception of his overture, Captain Clydesdale now addressed himself particularly to the man who appeared to be the guardian, or, perhaps, proprietor of the child, and, unbuckling his cutlass from his side, presented it to him--making him, at the same time, to understand that he offered it as the price of the little girl. The man demurred. Captain Clydesdale pulled a clasp-knife out of his pocket, and made signs that he would give that also, provided the locket and fragment of shift, with the initials on it, were given along with the child. This addition to the first offer had the desired effect. The cutlass and knife were accepted, the locket and shift given in exchange, and the little hand of the girl placed in Captain Clydesdale's, to signify that she was now his property. After some farther interchange of civilities with the natives, the captain, his mate, and the little Julia Elderslie--for, we presume, the reader has been all along perfectly aware that the child in question was no other than that unfortunate little personage--proceeded on their way towards the place where the watering party had been left. This spot they reached in safety, after about an hour's walking, and found the men waiting their return--the casks having been already all filled and shipped.

In half an hour after, the boat was alongside the _Dolphin_, and little Julia was handed upon deck; and, in less than another hour, the ship was under weigh, and prosecuting her voyage to the Cape, where she ultimately arrived in safety. During this time, Captain Clydesdale had discovered in his Ponakonta--the name given to little Julia by the Africans, and by which he delighted to call her--a disposition so docile and affectionate, and a manner so gentle and unobtrusive, that he already loved her with all the tenderness of a parent, and had secretly resolved that he would adopt her as his own, and as such bring her up and educate her, if no one possessed of a better right to discharge this duty to her should ever appear.

In about six months after the occurrence of the events just related, the good ship _Dolphin_ arrived safely at the harbour of Ayr, all well; and the little demi-savage, Ponakonta, in high spirits, and already beginning to jabber very passable English--an acquisition which still more endeared her to her kind-hearted protector, who took great delight in listening to her prattle, and in questioning her regarding her life amongst the Africans--of which she was now able to give a tolerably intelligible account. She had, however, no recollection whatever of the shipwreck, nor of any incident connected with it. Some dreamy reminiscences, indeed, she had of her mother; but, as might have been expected, considering how very young she was when that catastrophe happened which had deprived her of her parent, they were too vague and indefinite to be of the slightest avail towards throwing any light on her parentage.

On arriving at Ayr, Captain Clydesdale's first step, with regard to his little charge, was to avail himself of every means he could think of to make her singular history, with all its particulars, publicly known, in the hope that it might bring some one forward who stood in some relationship to her. The worthy man, however, took this step merely as one that was right and proper in the case, and not, by any means, from any desire to get rid of his little protegee. On the contrary, if truth be told, he would have been sadly disappointed had any one appeared to claim her. Nothing of this kind occurring, after a lapse of several weeks, Captain Clydesdale--who, although pretty far advanced in years, was unmarried, and had no domestic establishment of his own, being almost constantly at sea--placed little Julia under the charge of some female relatives, with instructions to give her every sort of education befitting her years; for all of which--boarding, clothing, and tuition--he came under an obligation to pay quarterly--giving a handsome sum, in the meantime, to account. Having thus disposed of his protegee, and satisfied that he had placed her in good hands, which was indeed the case, Captain Clydesdale went again to sea--his destination, on this occasion, being South America.

The worthy man, however, did not go away before having a parting interview with his little Ponakonta, whom he kissed a thousand times, nor before he had entreated for her every kindness and attention, during his absence, at the hands of those whom he had now constituted her guardians. It was upwards of two years before Captain Clydesdale returned from this voyage; for it included several trading trips between foreign ports; and thus was his absence prolonged.

Great was the good man's delight with the improvement which he found had taken place on his little charge since his departure. She now spoke English fluently; had made rapid progress in her education; and gave promise of being more than ordinarily beautiful. Captain Clydesdale had the farther satisfaction of learning that she was a universal favourite--her gentle manners and affectionate disposition having endeared her to all.

On first casting eyes on her protector, after his return from South America, little Julia at once recognised him, flew towards him, flung her arms about his neck, and wept for joy--calling him, in muttered sounds, her father, her dear father. Deeply affected by the warmth of the grateful child's regard, Captain Clydesdale, with streaming eyes, took her up in his arms, hugged her to his bosom, and kissed her with all the fervour of parental love. Soon after, Captain Clydesdale again went to sea; and, by and by, again returned. Voyage after voyage followed, of various lengths; and, after the termination of each, the worthy man found his interesting protegee still advancing in the way of improvement, and still strengthening her hold on the affections of those around her.

Time thus passed on, until a period of nine years had slipped away; and when it had, Julia Elderslie--who now bore, and had all along, since her arrival in Scotland, borne, the name of Maria Clydesdale--was a blooming and highly accomplished girl of sixteen.

It was about this period that Captain Clydesdale began to think of retiring from the sea, and of settling at home for the remainder of his life. He was now upwards of sixty years of age, and found himself fast getting incompetent to the arduous duties of his profession. Fortunately, he was in a condition, as regarded circumstances, to enable him to effect the retirement he meditated. He was by no means rich; but, having never married, he had accumulated sufficient to live upon, for the few remaining years that might be vouchsafed him.

Part of Captain Clydesdale's little plan, on this occasion, was to rent or purchase a small house in the neighbourhood of the village of Fernlee, his native place, in the west of Scotland; to furnish it, and to take his adopted daughter to live with him as his housekeeper. All this was accordingly done; a house, a very pretty little cottage, with garden behind, and flower-plot in front, was taken, furnished, and occupied by Mr Clydesdale and his protegee. Here, for two years, they enjoyed all the happiness of which their position and circumstances were capable--and it was a happiness of a very enviable kind. No daughter, however deep her love, could have conducted herself towards her parent with more tenderness, or with more anxious solicitude for his ease and comfort, than did Maria Clydesdale towards her protector. Nor could any parent more sensibly feel, or more gratefully mark the affectionate attentions of a child, than did Captain Clydesdale those of his Maria.

He doated on her, and to such a degree, that he never felt happy when she was out of his sight.

More than satisfied with her lot, Maria sought no other scenes of enjoyment than those of her humble home; and coveted no other happiness than what she found in contributing to that of her benefactor.

Thus happily, then, flew two delightful years over the old man and his adopted child; and, wrapped up in their felicity, they dreamt not of reverses. But reverses came; Misfortune found her way even into their lonely retirement. Within one week, Captain Clydesdale received intelligence of the total loss of two vessels of which he was the principal owner, and in which nearly all that he was worth was invested. The blow was a severe and unexpected one, and affected the old man deeply. Not on his own account, as he told his Maria, with a tear standing in his eye, but on hers. "I had hoped," he said, "to leave you in independence--an humble one indeed, but more than sufficient to place you far beyond the reach of want. But now----" And the old man wrung his hands in exquisite agony of grief.

Infinitely more distressed by the sight of her benefactor's unhappiness than by the misfortune which occasioned it, Maria flung her arms about his neck, and said everything she could think of to assuage his grief and to reconcile him to what had happened. Amongst other things, she told him that the accomplishments which his generosity had put her in possession were more than sufficient to secure her an independence, or, at least, the means of living comfortably; and that she would immediately make them available for their common support.

"There are a number of wealthy families around us, my dear father," she said, "from which I have no doubt of obtaining ample employment. I can teach music, drawing, French, sewing, etc.; and will instantly make application to the various quarters where I am likely to succeed in turning them to account. Besides, father," she continued, "it is probable that we shall soon have some great family in Park House; and, in such case, I might calculate on obtaining some employment there--perhaps enough of itself to occupy all my time."

To all this the old man made no reply--he could make none. He merely took the amiable girl in his arms, embraced her, and bade God bless her.

Although the mention by Miss Clydesdale of the particular residence above named appears a merely incidental circumstance, and one, seemingly, of no great importance, it is yet one, as the sequel will shew, so connected with our story, that a particular or two regarding it may not be deemed superfluous.

Park House was a large, a magnificent mansion, with a splendid estate attached, both of which were, at this moment, in the market. The house was within a quarter of a mile of Captain Clydesdale's cottage, and the reference in the advertisements to those who wished to see the house and grounds, was made to the captain, who, with his usual readiness to oblige, had undertaken this duty--a duty which he had already discharged towards several visitors--none of whom, however, had become purchasers. It was about a week after the period last referred to--namely, that marked by the circumstance of Mr Clydesdale's losses--that a gentleman's carriage drove up to the little gate which conducted to that worthy man's residence. From this carriage descended a tall military-looking man, of apparently about sixty years of age, who immediately advanced towards the house. Captain Clydesdale, who saw him approaching, hastened out to meet him. The latter, on seeing the captain, bowed politely, and said--

"Captain Clydesdale, I presume, sir?"

"The same, at your service, sir," replied the honest seaman.

"You are referred, to, sir, I think, as the person to whom those wishing to see Park House and grounds should apply."

"I am," replied Mr Clydesdale; "and will be happy to shew them to you, sir."

"Thank you," said the visitor. "It is precisely for that purpose I have taken the liberty of calling on you. I have some idea of purchasing the estate, if I find it to answer my expectations."

"Will you have the goodness to step into the house, sir, for a few moments, and I will then be at your service?" said Captain Clydesdale.

The gentleman bowed acquiescence, and, conducted by the former, walked into the house, and was ushered into a little front parlour, in which Miss Clydesdale was at the moment engaged in sewing. On the entrance of the visitor, she rose, in some confusion, and was about to retire, when the latter, entreating that he might not be the cause of driving her away, she resumed her seat and her work. Having also seated himself, the stranger now made some remarks of an ordinary character, by way of filling up the interval occasioned by the absence of Captain Clydesdale. Many words, however, had he not spoken, nor long had he looked on the fair countenance of his companion, when he seemed struck by something in her appearance which appeared at once to interest and perplex him. From the moment that this feeling took possession of the stranger, he spoke no more, but continued gazing earnestly at the downcast countenance of Maria Clydesdale; who, conscious of, and abashed by the gaze, kept her face close over the work in which she was engaged. From this awkward situation, however, she was quickly relieved by the entrance of Captain Clydesdale, who came to say that he was now ready to accompany his visitor to Park House. The latter rose, wished Miss Clydesdale a good morning; accompanying the expressions, however, with another of those looks of interest and perplexity with which he had been from time to time contemplating her for the last five or ten minutes, and followed the captain out of the apartment.

"That interesting and very beautiful young lady whom I saw at your house is your daughter, sir, I presume?" said the stranger to Captain Clydesdale, as they proceeded together towards Park House.

"Yes, sir, she is: that is, I may _say_ she is; for I have brought her up since she was a child; and she has never, at least, not since she was five or six years of age, had any other protector than myself. She never knew her parents."

"Ah! a foundling," said the gentleman.

"Yes, but under rather extraordinary circumstances. I found her amongst the savages of the coast of Guinea."

"On the coast of Guinea!" exclaimed the stranger, in much amazement. "Very extraordinary, indeed. What are the circumstances, if I may inquire?"

Captain Clydesdale related them as they are already before the reader; not omitting to mention the fragment of shift, with the initials on it, and the locket with hair and miniature, which he still carefully kept.

On Captain Clydesdale concluding, the stranger suddenly stopped short, and, looking at the former with a countenance pale with emotion, said--"Good God, sir, what is this? I am bewildered, confounded. I know not what to think. It is possible. Yet it cannot be. My name, sir, is Elderslie, General Elderslie. I have just returned from the East Indies, where I have been for the last seventeen years. Shortly after my going out, my wife and child, a daughter, embarked on board the _Isabella_ from Greenock, to join me at Calcutta. The ship never reached her destination; she was never more heard of; but there was a report that she was seen, if not bespoken, off the Gold Coast; and from there being no trace of her afterwards, it is more than probable that she was wrecked on these shores; and, O God! it is probable also, although I dare not allow myself to believe it, that this girl is--is my child! Let us return, let us return instantly," he added, with increasing agitation, and now grasping Captain Clydesdale by the arm, "that I may see this locket you speak of. I gave such a trinket to my beloved, my unfortunate wife. The initials you mention correspond exactly. My child's name was Julia Elderslie; my own Christian name is James; and the same initials are thus also on the rim of the locket."

"It is precisely so!" said Captain Clydesdale, with a degree of surprise and emotion not less intense than those of the general's. "There _are_ the initials of J. E. also on the locket; and now that my attention is called to the circumstance, there is a strong resemblance between the miniature it encloses, and the person now before me."

"Let us hasten to the house, for God's sake! captain," said the general, with breathless eagerness, "and have this matter cleared up, if possible."

They returned to the house. Captain Clydesdale put the locket and the fragment of the little shift, which bore the initials J. E., into the hands of the general. He glanced at the latter, examined the former for an instant with trembling hands, staggered backwards a pace or two, and sank into a chair. It was the identical locket which, some twenty years before, he had given to his wife. The miniature it contained, introduced into the trinket at a subsequent period, was his own likeness.

"Bring me my child, Captain Clydesdale," said the general, on recovering his composure; "for I can no longer doubt that your adopted daughter is, indeed, my Julia."

Captain Clydesdale left the apartment, and in a moment returned leading in Julia Elderslie, who had hitherto been kept in ignorance of what was passing. On her entrance the general rushed towards her, took her by the left hand, gently pushed the sleeve of her gown a little way up the wrist, saw that the latter exhibited a small brown mole, and exclaiming--"The proof is complete; you are--you are my daughter, the image of your darling but ill-fated mother," took her in his arms in a transport of joy.

The feelings of Julia Elderslie, on this extraordinary occasion, we need not describe, they will readily be conceived. Neither need we detain the reader with any further detail; seeing that, with the incident just mentioned, the interest of our story terminates.

It will be enough now, then, to say, that General Elderslie, who had amassed a princely fortune, bought the estate and mansion of Park House. That he took every opportunity, and adopted every means he could think of, of shewing his gratitude to Captain Clydesdale, for the generous part he had acted towards his daughter. That this daughter ultimately inherited his entire fortune; the general having never married a second time; and that she finally married into a family of high rank and extensive influence in the west of Scotland.

THE ASSASSIN.

At a late hour of an evening in the beginning of the year 1569, mine host of the Stag and Hounds--the principal hostelry of Linlithgow at the period referred to--was suddenly called from his liquor--the which liquor he was at the moment enjoying with a few select friends who were assembled in the public room of the house--to receive a traveller who had just ridden up to the door.

Much as Andrew Nimmo--for such was the name of mine host--much, we say, as Andrew loved custom, it was not without reluctance that he rose to leave his party to attend the duties of his calling on the present occasion. He would rather he had not been disturbed; for he was in the middle of an exceedingly interesting story, when the summons reached him, and was very unwilling to leave it unfinished. But business must be attended to; its demands are imperative; and no man, after all, could be more sensible of this than mine host of the Stag and Hounds. So, however reluctant, from his seat he rose, and, telling his friends he would rejoin them presently, hastened out of the apartment.

On reaching the door, Andrew found the traveller had dismounted. He was standing by the head of his horse--a powerful black charger--and seemingly waiting for some one to relieve him of the animal.

This duty Andrew now performed; he took hold of the bridle, after a word or two of welcome to his guest, and asked whether he should put up the horse and supper him?

"What else have I come here for?" replied the stranger, gruffly. "Surely put him up; but I must see myself to his being properly suppered and tended. If we expect a horse to do his duty, we must do our duty by him. So lead the way, friend!"

Damped by the uncourteous manner of the traveller, Andrew made no further reply than a muttered acquiescence in the justice of the remark just made, but instantly led the horse away towards the stable; calling out, as he went, on John Ramsay, the ostler, to come out with the buet--_i.e._ lantern; for it was pitch dark, and a light, of course, indispensable.

With the scrutinizing habits of his calling, mine host of the Stag and Hounds had been secretly but anxiously endeavouring to make out his customer; to arrive at some idea of his rank and profession, if he had any; but the darkness of the night had prevented him from noting more than that he was a man of tall stature, and, he thought, of a singularly stern aspect.

When Ramsay had brought the light, however, mine host obtained farther and better opportunities of pursuing his study of the stranger; and, besides having his former remarks confirmed, now discovered that he had the appearance of a person of some consideration, his dress being that of a gentleman.

"Fine beast that, sir!" adventured mine host, after a silence of some time, during which the latter and his guest had been standing together overlooking the operation of John Ramsay as he fed and littered the animal, whose noble proportions had elicited the remark. "Poorfu' beast, sir," continued Mr Nimmo. "I think I hae never seen a better."

"Not often, friend, I daresay," replied the stranger, who was standing erect, with folded arms, and carefully marking every proceeding of the ostler. "For a long run and a swift, he is the animal for a man to trust his life to."

Mine host was startled a little by the turn given to this remark: it smelt somewhat, he thought, of the highway; or, at any rate, seemed to carry with it a somewhat suspicious sort of reference. He was, however, much too prudent a man to exhibit any indication of an opinion so injurious to the character of his guest, and, therefore, merely said laughingly--

"That he weel believed that if a man war in sic jeopardy as required his trusting to horse legs for his life, he wad be safe aneuch on sic a beast as that, especially if he got onything o' a reasonable start."

"Yes, give him ten minutes of a start, and there's not a witch that ever rode over North Berwick Law on a broomstick that'll throw salt on his tail, let alone a horse and rider of flesh and blood!" replied the stranger, with a grim smile. "_I'll_ trust my life to him," he added, emphatically, "and have no fears for the result."

The tendence on the much prized animal which was the subject of these remarks having now been completed, mine host and his guest left the stable, and proceeded to the house, which having entered, the former ushered the latter into the public room, being the best in the house, and the only one fit for the reception, as our worthy landlord deemed it, of a personage of the stranger's apparent quality.

The latter at first shewed some reluctance to enter an apartment in which there was already so many people assembled; for it was still occupied by the company formerly alluded to; but, on being told by mine host that he should have a table to himself, in a distant part of the room, if he did not wish for society, he expressed himself reconciled to the arrangement, and, walking into the apartment, took his place at its upper end; then throwing himself down in a chair, having previously laid aside his hat, cloak, and sword, he commenced a vigilant but silent scrutiny of the party by which the table that occupied the centre of the apartment was surrounded. While he was thus employed, the landlord, who had gone for a moment about some household business, approached him to receive his orders regarding his night's entertainment. The result of the conference on this subject, was an order for supper, and for a measure of wine to be brought in, in the meantime, until the former should be prepared. The landlord bowed, and retired to execute his commissions. In a minute after, a pewter measure of claret, with a tall drinking glass, stood before the stranger. He filled up the latter from the former, drank it off, and again set himself to the task of scrutinizing the company before him--a task to which he now added that of listening to their conversation, which seemed to be of a nature to interest him much, if one might judge from the earnest intensity of his look, and the varying but strongly marked expression of countenance with which he listened to the various sentiments of the various speakers. The subject of the conversation was the Regent Murray--his proceedings, government, and character.

"Aweel, folk may say what they like o' the Regent," said one of the speakers, "but I think he's managing matters very weel on the whole, and I wish we may never hae a waur in his place. He's no a man to be trifled wi'; and if he keeps a tight rein hand, he doesna o'erride the strength o' his steed. He's a strict, justice-loving man; that I'll say o' him."

"Then ye say mair o' him than I wad, deacon," said another of the party. "His strictness I grant ye; but as to his justice, there was unco little o't, I think, in his treatment o' his sister: his conduct to that poor woman has been most unnatural, most savage, selfish, and unfeelin. That's my opinion o't, and it's the opinion o' mony a ane besides me."

"Weel, weel; every are has his ain mind o' thae things, Mr Clinkscales," replied the first speaker; "but for my part, I'll ay ride the ford as I find it; that's my creed."

"Has ony o' ye heard," here interposed another of the party, "o' that cruel case o' Hamilton's o' Bothwellhaugh? Ane o' the Queen's Hamilton's," added the querist.

Some said they had, others that they had not. For the benefit of the latter, the speaker explained. He said that Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was one of those who had been forfeited for the part he took at the battle of Langside. That the person to whom his property was given by the Regent, had turned Hamilton's wife out of her home, unclothed, and in a wild and stormy night; and that the poor woman had died in consequence of this cruel treatment.

"An' what's Hamilton sayin to that?" inquired one of the party.

"They say he's in an awfu takin about it," replied the first speaker, "an' threatenin vengeance, richt an' left; particularly against the Regent."

"I think little wonder o't," said another of the party. "It's a shamefu business, and aneuch to mak ony man desperate."

"But is't true?" here inquired another.

The reply to this question came from a very unexpected quarter: it came from the stranger, who, starting fiercely to his feet, and stretching towards the company with a look and gesture of great excitement, exclaimed--

"Yes, gentlemen, true it is--true as God is in heaven--true in every particular. An eternal monument to the justice and clemency of the tyrant Murray. The wife of Bothwellhaugh was turned naked out of her own house in a cold and bitter night, and died of bodily suffering and a broken heart. She did--she did. But"--and the stranger ground his teeth and clenched his fist as he pronounced the word--"there will be a day of count and reckoning. The vengeance, the deadly vengeance of a ruined, deeply injured, and desperate man, will yet overtake the ruthless, remorseless tyrant."

Having thus delivered himself, the stranger again retired to his former place, reseated himself, and relapsed into his former silence; although the deep and laboured respiration of recent excitement, which he could not subdue, might still be distinctly heard even from the farthest end of the apartment.

It was some time after the stranger had retired to his place before the company felt disposed to resume their conversation. The incident which had just occurred, the energy with which the stranger had spoken, and the extreme excitement he had evinced, had had the effect of throwing them all into that silent and reflective mood which the sudden display of anything surprising or interesting is so apt to produce even in our merriest and most thoughtless moments.

At length, however, the chill gradually wore off; the conversation was resumed, at first in an under tone, and by fits and starts; by and by it became more continuous; and, finally, began to flow with all its original volume and freedom. No more allusion, however, was made by any of the party to the case of Bothwellhaugh. This was a subject to which, after what had taken place, none seemed to care about returning. Neither did the stranger evince any desire to hold farther correspondence with the revellers; but, on the contrary, appeared anxious to avoid it; nay, one might almost have supposed that he regretted having obtruded himself upon them at all, and that he could have wished that what he had uttered in an unguarded moment had remained unsaid. Be this as it may, however, he sought no farther intercourse with the party, but having hastily despatched the supper which was placed before him, and finished his measure of wine, he glided unobserved out of the apartment, and, conducted by his host, retired to the sleeping chamber which had been appointed for him.

On the following morning, the stranger, who was sojourning at the Stag and Hounds, went out to transact, as he told his landlord, some business in the town; saying, besides, that he would not probably return till evening.

Strongly impressed by the manner and appearance of his guest, and not a little awed by his grim and fierce aspect, he of the Stag and Hounds could not help following him to the door, when he departed, and furtively looking after him as he stalked down the main street of the town; and much, as he looked at him, did he marvel what sort of business it could be he was going about. This, however, was a point on which the worthy man had no means of enlightening himself, and he was therefore obliged to be content with the privilege of muttering some expressions of the wonder he felt.

In the meantime, the stranger had turned an angle of the street, and disappeared--at least from the view of the landlord of the Stag and Hounds. Not from ours; for we shall follow and keep sight of him, and endeavour to make out what he was so curious to know.

Having passed about half-way down the main street of the town, the former suddenly halted before a large unoccupied house, with a balcony in front. It was a residence of the Archbishop of St Andrew's. Standing in front of this house, the stranger seemed to scan it with earnest scrutiny. He looked from window to window with the most cautious and deliberate vigilance, and appeared to be noting carefully their various heights and positions. While pursuing this inquiry, he might also have been frequently observed glancing, from time to time, on either side, as if to see that no one was marking the earnestness of his examination of the building.

Having apparently completed his survey of the front of the house, the stranger passed round to the back part of the building, and proceeded to the gate of the garden, which lay behind, and through which only was the house accessible on that side. On reaching the gate, the stranger paused, looked cautiously around him for a few seconds, when, observing no one in sight, he hastily plunged his hand beneath his cloak, drew out a key, applied it to the lock, opened the gate, passed quickly in, and closed the door cautiously behind him.

With hurried step the intruder now proceeded to the house, drew forth another key, inserted it into the lock of the main door, turned it round, applied his foot to the latter, pushed it open, and entered the building; having previously, as in the former instance, secured the door behind him. Ascending the stair in the inside of the house, the mysterious visitant now commenced a careful examination of the various apartments on the second floor; and at length adopting one--a small room, with one window to the front--made it the scene of his future operations. These were, the laying on the floor a straw mattress, which he dragged from another apartment, and hanging a piece of black cloth--which he also found in the lumber-room, from whence he had taken the mattress--against the wall of the apartment opposite the window.

Having completed these preparations, the secret workman went up to the window, knelt down on the mattress, and levelling a stick, or staff, which he found in the apartment, as if it had been a musket, seemed to be trying where he might be best situated for firing at an object without. This experiment he tried repeatedly; shifting his position from place to place, until he appeared to have hit upon one that promised to suit his purpose.

This ascertained, he rose from his knees; threw down the staff; glanced around the apartment, as if to see that all was right; descended the stair; came out of the house, locking the door after him; crossed the garden, and passed out at the gate, locking that also before he left, and with the same precaution that he had used at entering; that is, looking around him to see that no one marked his proceedings.

The guest of the Stag and Hounds now returned to his inn, from which he had been absent about two hours. At the door he was met by mine host, who, touching his cap, asked if "his honour intended dining at his house, as it was now about one of the clock," the general dinner-hour of the period.

Without noticing the inquiry of his landlord--

"Be there any armourers in this town of yours, friend?" he said, "where I could fit me with some weapons I want."

"Yes, indeed, there be one, and a main good one he is," replied the other. "Tom Wilson, I warrant me, will fit your honour with any weapon you can desire, from a pistolet to a culverin; from a two-handed sword of six feet long, to a dagger like a bodkin. And as for armour, you may have anything, everything from head-piece to leg-splent; all of the best material, and first-rate workmanship."

"Where is this man Wilson's shop?" inquired the stranger.

"See you, sir," replied the other; "see you yonder projecting corner, beyond the palace entrance?"

"I do."

"Well, sir, three doors beyond that, you will find Wilson's shop; and, if your honour chooses, you may use my name with him, and he will not serve you the worse, or the less reasonably, I warrant me. It is always a recommendation to Tom to be a guest at the Stag and Hounds."

Without saying whether or not he would avail himself of the privilege offered him of using his name, the mysterious stranger hastened away in the direction pointed out to him, and, in half a minute after, he was in the workshop of Wilson the armourer.

"Your pleasure, sir," said that person, advancing towards his customer from an inner apartment.

"Have you a good store of fire-arms, friend?" inquired the latter.

"Pretty fair, sir; pretty fair," replied the armourer "What description may you want?"

"Why, I want a carbine, friend--something of a sure piece--that will carry its ball well to the mark. None of your bungling articles, that first hang fire, and then throw their shot in every direction but the right one. I would have a piece of good and certain execution."

"Here, then, sir, here is your commodity," said the armourer, disengaging a short and heavy gun from an arms'-rack that occupied one side of the shop. "Here is a piece that I can recommend. It will be the fault of the hand or the eye when this barker misses its mark, I warrant ye. I'd take in hand myself to smash an egg with it, with single ball, at fifty yards distance. I have done it before now with a worse gun."

"I will not require any such feat from the piece as that, friend," said Wilson's customer, drily; and having taken the gun in his hand, he began to examine the lock, and to see that the piece was otherwise in serviceable condition. Being satisfied that it was, he demanded the price. It was named. The money was tendered, and accepted, and the stranger departed with his purchase; having, however, previously received from the armourer, in lieu of luck's-penny, although he offered to pay for them, half a dozen balls, and a few charges of powder, to put the capability of the gun to immediate trial. This, however, its new proprietor did not think necessary; but, instead, returned to the archbishop's house with it; and, after loading and priming it, placed it in a corner of the apartment, which we have described him as having put into so strange a state of preparation.

Leaving the house with the same cautious and stealthy step as before, the stranger again returned to his inn; but it was now to leave it no more for the night.

"What news stirring, friend?" said he to the landlord.

"Naething, sir," replied he, as he laid the cloth for his dinner; "only that the Regent will pass through the town to-morrow. I hear he'll be this way about twelve o'clock. The magistrates, I understand, hae gotten notice to that effect."

"So," replied the stranger. "Then we shall have a sight."

"A brave sight, sir, for he is to be accompanied by a gallant cavalcade, and the trades of the town are to turn out with banners and music to do him honour. It will be a stirring day, sir, and I trust a good one for my poor house here; for such doings make people as thirsty as so many dry sponges."

To these remarks the guest made no reply, but proceeded with his dinner; the materials for which having, in the meantime, been brought in, and placed on the table by another attendant.

On the following morning, the little town of Linlithgow exhibited a scene of unusual bustle. Hosts of idlers were seen gathered here and there, along the whole line of the main street; and persons carrying trades' banners--as yet, however, carefully rolled up--might be seen hurrying in all directions to the various mustering-places of their crafts. An occasional discharge of a culverin too; and, as the morning advanced, a merry peal of bells heightened the promise of some impending event of unusual occurrence. By and by, these symptoms of public rejoicing became more and more marked: the groups of idlers increased; the banners were unfurled; the firing of the culverins became more frequent; and the bells either really did ring, or appeared to ring more furiously.

It was when matters thus bespoke the near approach of a crisis--which crisis, we may as well say at once, was the advent of the Regent--that the mysterious lodger at the Stag and Hounds ordered his horse to be brought to the door. The horse was brought; the stranger settled his bill; and, saying to his landlord that he would witness the sight from horseback more advantageously than on foot, mounted, and rode off in the direction of the approaching cavalcade. In this direction, however, he did not ride far; for, on gaining the eastern extremity of the town, he suddenly wheeled round, and rode back in rear of the line of street, until he reached the gate of the garden behind the mansion of the Archbishop of St Andrew's, in which the mysterious preparation before described had been made.

Having arrived at the gate, he dismounted, opened it, led in his horse, and fastened him to a tree close by. This done, he removed the lintel, or cross-bar, over the gate. The latter, contrary to his practice on former occasions, he now left wide open, and proceeded towards the house, into which he disappeared.

In less than a quarter of an hour after, the Regent had entered the town. He was on horseback, surrounded by a number of friends, also mounted, and followed by a numerous party of armed retainers.

As the cavalcade penetrated into the town, the crowd, which the occasion had assembled, gradually became more and more dense, and the progress of the Regent and his party consequently more slow; until, at length, they were so packed in the narrow street, with the human wedges that were forcing themselves around them, that it was with great difficulty they could make any forward progress at all.

Becoming impatient with the delay thus occasioned, although carefully concealing this impatience, the Regent, who was now directly opposite the house of the Archbishop of St Andrew's, kept waving his hand to the crowd, as if entreating them not to press so closely, that he might pass on with more speed. The crowd endeavoured to comply with the wishes of the Regent, but their efforts only added to the confusion, without mending the matter in other respects. It was at this moment that all eyes were suddenly directed towards the house of the Archbishop of St Andrew's, in consequence of a shot being fired from one of the windows. When these eyes looked an instant after again towards the Regent, he was not to be seen; he had fallen from his horse, mortally wounded: a ball had passed through his body. It was Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh who had fired the fatal shot.

The friends and retainers of the Regent, seconded by the town's people, flew to the house of the archbishop, and endeavoured to force the door, in order to get at the murderer but it had been barricaded by the wily assassin, and resisted their efforts long enough to allow of his escaping from the house, mounting his horse, and darting through the garden gate at the top of his utmost speed. He was pursued; but, thanks to his good steed, pursued in vain, and subsequently escaped to France; having done a deed which the moralist must condemn, but which cannot be looked upon as altogether without palliation.

THE PRISONER OF WAR.

I had been preserved, through divine mercy, from one of the most lingering and fearful deaths. I was rescued, I scarce knew how, after the grim king of terror held me in his embrace, and all hope had fled. As consciousness returned, my heart thrilled at the recollection of the miseries I had endured while floating, a helpless being, on the bosom of the ocean.[3] I shuddered to think, while I lay feeble as an infant in the cabin of the vessel which was bearing me to my home, and whose humane crew had been the means of my deliverance, that I was still at the mercy of the winds and waves; but kind nursing, aided by youth and a good constitution, quickly brought strength; and I was enabled, after a few days, to come upon deck. On my first attempt, when my head rose above the deck as I ascended the companion-ladder, and my eyes fell upon the boundless waste of waters, a chill of horror shot through my frame. Like a lone traveller who had suddenly met a lion in his path, I stood paralysed; every nerve and muscle refused to act. I must have fallen back into the cabin, had not my hand instinctively clung to their hold for a few seconds. I could not withdraw my fixed gaze, while all I had suffered rushed upon me like a hideous dream. Slowly my faculties returned, when I ascended the deck, where I sat for a few hours. Each day after this brought additional strength; so that, before we made soundings, I was as strong and cheerful as I had ever been in my life. The weather was squally, and I assisted the crew as much as was in my power; and, when not so occupied, lay listlessly looking over the ship's bows that bravely dashed aside the waves that rolled between me and the home I now longed to reach, or walked the deck musing upon the joy my return would impart to my over-indulgent parents.

As we neared the shores of Scotland, a circumstance occurred that both greatly surprised and alarmed me. This was a sudden change in the manners and temper of the crew. Care and anxiety took the place of their wonted cheerfulness; the joyous laugh, or snatch of song, no longer broke the monotonous hissing of the waves that rippled along the sides of the vessel, or the dull whistle of the wind through the rigging. At the first appearance of every sail that hove in sight, I could perceive every eye turned to it with a look of alarm until she was made out. Fearful of giving offence to my benefactors, I made no remark on the subject for some time, although I felt disappointed at what I saw--attributing it to cowardice; yet they were all stout, young, resolute-looking fellows at other times. This scene of alarm, and appearance of a wish to skulk below or conceal themselves, had occurred twice in the course of the forenoon. After the last ship we encountered was made out to be a merchant-brig, I could no longer refrain from delivering my sentiments of the greater number of the crew, but addressing the mate, said--

"Mr Ross, it is fortunate for us that these strange sails have turned out to be British merchantmen. Had they proved to be French privateers, we should have made but a poor stand, I fear, notwithstanding our eight carronades."

"What makes you think so?" said he.

"Why, there is not a vessel that heaves in sight," said I, "but the men look as if they wished themselves anywhere but where they are."

"Avast there, my man!" said he. "What! do you mean to say that they would not stand by their guns while there was a chance? Yes, they would, and long after; and, if you think otherwise, all I say is, you form opinions and talk of what you know nothing about."

Casting an angry look at me--the only one he ever gave--he squirted his quid over the bulwarks, and was walking away, when I stopped him.

"If I have given you offence, Mr Ross, nothing was farther from my intention. I cannot but observe the alarm caused by every sail that heaves in sight until she is made out to be a friend. Now, the little time I was at sea, before I fell overboard and was saved by you, every sail that hove in sight made the hearts of all on board leap for joy."

"Ho! ho!" and he laughed aloud. "Are you on that tack, my messmate? You are quite out in your reckoning, and becalmed in a fog; but I shall soon blow it away. There is not a man on board with whom I would not go into action with the fullest reliance upon his courage; and, were we to meet a French privateer, you would quickly see such a change as would satisfy you that my confidence is not misplaced. Every face, that the moment before expressed anxiety and alarm, would brighten up with joy; every man would stand to his gun as cheerfully as to the helm. It is their liberty the poor fellows are afraid of being deprived of by our own men-of-war--the liberty to toil for their parents or wives where they can get better wages than the Government allows. Danger, in any form, they meet undaunted when duty calls; it is for their countrymen they quail. Were the smallest sloop-of-war in the British navy to heave in sight, and a boat put off from her with a boy of a midshipman and eight or ten men, every one on board, who had not a protection, would shake in his shoes at her approach; yet, against an enemy, every man would stand to his gun until his ship was blown out of the water."

A new and painful feeling came over me as he spoke. I was myself an entered seaman, and, of course, liable to impressment; but the idea of being taken had never occurred to me. I wondered that it had not, after the scenes I had witnessed in the frigate; but my longing for home had entirely engrossed my mind. I was, indeed, home-sick, and weary of the sea. From this moment, no one on board felt more alarm than I did at the sight of a top-royal rising out of the distant waters. My feelings were near akin to those of a felon in concealment.

At length we reached the Moray Firth, in the evening, and arrangements were made for as many of the crew as could be spared to be landed at Cromarty, where the vessel was to put in. This was to avoid the danger of impressment in the Firth of Forth. I gave the captain an order upon my father for my passage, and the expense he had been at on my account, as I was to leave, with the others in the boat, as soon as we were off the town, which we hoped to reach in the morning. My anxiety was so great that I had kept the deck since nightfall. It was intensely dark; nothing broke the gloom but the flashes of light that gleamed for a moment upon the waves, as they rippled along the sides of the vessel, and the dull rays of the binnacle-lamp before the man at the helm. Bell after bell was struck, still I stood at the bows, leaning upon the bowsprit, unmindful of the chill wind from under the foretopsail, anxiously watching for the first tints of dawn. Tediously as the night wore on, I thought, when morning dawned, it had fled far too fast.