"Does the sight please you?" said M'Aulay.

"It is hideous!" said Annot, covering her eyes with her hands; "how can
you bid me look upon it?"

"You must be inured to it," said he, "if you remain with this destined
host--you will soon have to search such a field for my brother's
corpse--for Menteith's--for mine---but that will be a more indifferent
task--You do not love me!"

"This is the first time you have taxed me with unkindness," said Annot,
weeping. "You are my brother--my preserver--my protector--and can I then
BUT love you?--But your hour of darkness is approaching, let me fetch my
harp--"

"Remain," said Allan, still holding her fast; "be my visions from heaven
or hell, or from the middle sphere of disembodied spirits--or be they,
as the Saxons hold, but the delusions of an over-heated fancy, they
do not now influence me; I speak the language of the natural, of the
visible world.--You love not me, Annot--you love Menteith--by him you
are beloved again, and Allan is no more to you than one of the corpses
which encumber yonder heath."

It cannot be supposed that this strange speech conveyed any new
information to her who was thus addressed. No woman ever lived who could
not, in the same circumstances, have discerned long since the state of
her lover's mind. But by thus suddenly tearing off the veil, thin as it
was, Allan prepared her to expect consequences violent in proportion to
the enthusiasm of his character. She made an effort to repel the charge
he had stated.

"You forget," she said, "your own worth and nobleness when you insult so
very helpless a being, and one whom fate has thrown so totally into
your power. You know who and what I am, and how impossible it is that
Menteith or you can use language of affection to me, beyond that of
friendship. You know from what unhappy race I have too probably derived
my existence."

"I will not believe it," said Allan, impetuously; "never flowed crystal
drop from a polluted spring."

"Yet the very doubt," pleaded Annot, "should make you forbear to use
this language to me."

"I know," said M'Aulay, "it places a bar between us--but I know also
that it divides you not so inseparably from Menteith.--Hear me, my
beloved Annot!--leave this scene of terrors and danger--go with me to
Kintail--I will place you in the house of the noble Lady of Seaforth--or
you shall be removed in safety to Icolmkill, where some women yet devote
themselves to the worship of God, after the custom of our ancestors."

"You consider not what you ask of me," replied Annot; "to undertake such
a journey under your sole guardianship, were to show me less scrupulous
than maiden ought. I will remain here, Allan--here under the protection
of the noble Montrose; and when his motions next approach the Lowlands,
I will contrive some proper means to relieve you of one, who has, she
knows not how, become an object of dislike to you."

Allan stood as if uncertain whether to give way to sympathy with her
distress, or to anger at her resistance.

"Annot," he said, "you know too well how little your words apply to
my feelings towards you--but you avail yourself of your power, and you
rejoice in my departure, as removing a spy upon your intercourse with
Menteith. But beware both of you," he added, in a stern tone; "for when
was it ever heard that an injury was offered to Allan M'Aulay, for which
he exacted not tenfold vengeance?"

So saying, he pressed her arm forcibly, pulled the bonnet over his
brows, and strode out of the apartment.



CHAPTER XXI.

     --After you're gone,
     I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd,
     What stirr'd it so.--Alas!  I found it love.
     Yet far from lust, for could I but have lived
     In presence of you, I had had my end.--PHILASTER.

Annot Lyle had now to contemplate the terrible gulf which Allan
M'Aulay's declaration of love and jealousy had made to open around her.
It seemed as if she was tottering on the very brink of destruction, and
was at once deprived of every refuge, and of all human assistance. She
had long been conscious that she loved Menteith dearer than a brother;
indeed, how could it be otherwise, considering their early intimacy, the
personal merit of the young nobleman, his assiduous attentions,--and his
infinite superiority in gentleness of disposition, and grace of manners,
over the race of rude warriors with whom she lived? But her affection
was of that quiet, timid, meditative character, which sought rather a
reflected share in the happiness of the beloved object, than formed
more presumptuous or daring hopes. A little Gaelic song, in which she
expressed her feelings, has been translated by the ingenious and unhappy
Andrew M'Donald; and we willingly transcribe the lines:--

     Wert thou, like me, in life's low vale,
     With thee how blest, that lot I'd share;
     With thee I'd fly wherever gale
     Could waft, or bounding galley bear.
     But parted by severe decree,
     Far different must our fortunes prove;
     May thine be joy--enough for me
     To weep and pray for him I love.

     The pangs this foolish heart must feel,
     When hope shall be forever flown,
     No sullen murmur shall reveal,
     No selfish murmurs ever own.
     Nor will I through life's weary years,
     Like a pale drooping mourner move,
     While I can think my secret tears
     May wound the heart of him I love.

The furious declaration of Allan had destroyed the romantic plan which
she had formed, of nursing in secret her pensive tenderness, without
seeking any other requital. Long before this, she had dreaded Allan, as
much as gratitude, and a sense that he softened towards her a temper so
haughty and so violent, could permit her to do; but now she regarded him
with unalloyed terror, which a perfect knowledge of his disposition, and
of his preceding history, too well authorised her to entertain. Whatever
was in other respects the nobleness of his disposition, he had never
been known to resist the wilfulness of passion,--he walked in the house,
and in the country of his fathers, like a tamed lion, whom no one dared
to contradict, lest they should awaken his natural vehemence of passion.
So many years had elapsed since he had experienced contradiction, or
even expostulation, that probably nothing but the strong good sense,
which, on all points, his mysticism excepted, formed the ground of his
character, prevented his proving an annoyance and terror to the whole
neighbourhood. But Annot had no time to dwell upon her fears, being
interrupted by the entrance of Sir Dugald Dalgetty.

It may well be supposed, that the scenes in which this person had passed
his former life, had not much qualified him to shine in female society.
He himself felt a sort of consciousness that the language of the
barrack, guard-room, and parade, was not proper to entertain ladies.
The only peaceful part of his life had been spent at Mareschal-College,
Aberdeen; and he had forgot the little he had learned there, except the
arts of darning his own hose, and dispatching his commons with unusual
celerity, both which had since been kept in good exercise by the
necessity of frequent practice. Still it was from an imperfect
recollection of what he had acquired during this pacific period, that
he drew his sources of conversation when in company with women; in other
words, his language became pedantic when it ceased to be military.

"Mistress Annot Lyle," said he, upon the present occasion, "I am just
now like the half-pike, or spontoon of Achilles, one end of which could
wound and the other cure--a property belonging neither to Spanish pike,
brown-bill, partizan, halberd, Lochaber-axe, or indeed any other modern
staff-weapon whatever." This compliment he repeated twice; but as Annot
scarce heard him the first time, and did not comprehend him the second,
he was obliged to explain.

"I mean," he said, "Mistress Annot Lyle, that having been the means
of an honourable knight receiving a severe wound in this day's
conflict,--he having pistolled, somewhat against the law of arms, my
horse, which was named after the immortal King of Sweden,--I am desirous
of procuring him such solacement as you, madam, can supply, you being
like the heathen god Esculapius" (meaning possibly Apollo), "skilful
not only in song and in music, but in the more noble art of
chirurgery-OPIFERQUE PER ORBEM DICOR."

"If you would have the goodness to explain," said Annot, too sick at
heart to be amused by Sir Dugald's airs of pedantic gallantry.

"That, madam," replied the Knight, "may not be so easy, as I am out
of the habit of construing--but we shall try. DICOR, supply EGO--I
am called,--OPIFER? OPIFER?--I remember SIGNIFER and FURCIFER--but
I believe OPIFER stands in this place for M.D., that is, Doctor of
Physic."

"This is a busy day with us all," said Annot; "will you say at once what
you want with me?"

"Merely," replied Sir Dugald, "that you will visit my brother knight,
and let your maiden bring some medicaments for his wound, which
threatens to be what the learned call a DAMNUM FATALE."

Annot Lyle never lingered in the cause of humanity. She informed herself
hastily of the nature of the injury, and interesting herself for the
dignified old Chief whom she had seen at Darnlinvarach, and whose
presence had so much struck her, she hastened to lose the sense of her
own sorrow for a time, in the attempt to be useful to another.

Sir Dugald with great form ushered Annot Lyle to the chamber of her
patient, in which, to her surprise, she found Lord Menteith. She could
not help blushing deeply at the meeting, but, to hide her confusion,
proceeded instantly to examine the wound of the Knight of Ardenvohr, and
easily satisfied herself that it was beyond her skill to cure it. As
for Sir Dugald, he returned to a large outhouse, on the floor of which,
among other wounded men, was deposited the person of Ranald of the Mist.

"Mine old friend," said the Knight, "as I told you before, I would
willingly do anything to pleasure you, in return for the wound you have
received while under my safe-conduct. I have, therefore, according to
your earnest request, sent Mrs. Annot Lyle to attend upon the wound of
the knight of Ardenvohr, though wherein her doing so should benefit you,
I cannot imagine.--I think you once spoke of some blood relationship
between them; but a soldado, in command and charge like me, has other
things to trouble his head with than Highland genealogies."

And indeed, to do the worthy Major justice, he never enquired after,
listened to, or recollected, the business of other people, unless it
either related to the art military, or was somehow or other connected
with his own interest, in either of which cases his memory was very
tenacious.

"And now, my good friend of the Mist," said he, "can you tell me what
has become of your hopeful grandson, as I have not seen him since he
assisted me to disarm after the action, a negligence which deserveth the
strapado?"

"He is not far from hence," said the wounded outlaw--"lift not your hand
upon him, for he is man enough to pay a yard of leathern scourge with a
foot of tempered steel."

"A most improper vaunt," said Sir Dugald; "but I owe you some favours,
Ranald, and therefore shall let it pass."

"And if you think you owe me anything," said the outlaw, "it is in your
power to requite me by granting me a boon."

"Friend Ranald," answered Dalgetty, "I have read of these boons in silly
story-books, whereby simple knights were drawn into engagements to their
great prejudice; wherefore, Ranald, the more prudent knights of this
day never promise anything until they know that they may keep their
word anent the premises, without any displeasure or incommodement to
themselves. It may be, you would have me engage the female chirurgeon
to visit your wound; though you ought to consider, Ranald, that the
uncleanness of the place where you are deposited may somewhat soil the
gaiety of her garments, concerning the preservation of which, you may
have observed, women are apt to be inordinately solicitous. I lost the
favour of the lady of the Grand Pensionary of Amsterdam, by touching
with the sole of my boot the train of her black velvet gown, which
I mistook for a foot-cloth, it being half the room distant from her
person."

"It is not to bring Annot Lyle hither," answered MacEagh, "but to
transport me into the room where she is in attendance upon the Knight of
Ardenvohr. Somewhat I have to say of the last consequence to them both."

"It is something out of the order of due precedence," said Dalgetty, "to
carry a wounded outlaw into the presence of a knight; knighthood having
been of yore, and being, in some respects, still, the highest military
grade, independent always of commissioned officers, who rank according
to their patents; nevertheless, as your boon, as you call it, is so
slight, I shall not deny compliance with the same." So saying, he
ordered three files of men to transport MacEagh on their shoulders
to Sir Duncan Campbell's apartment, and he himself hastened before
to announce the cause of his being brought thither. But such was the
activity of the soldiers employed, that they followed him close at the
heels, and, entering with their ghastly burden, laid MacEagh on the
floor of the apartment. His features, naturally wild, were now distorted
by pain; his hands and scanty garments stained with his own blood, and
those of others, which no kind hand had wiped away, although the wound
in his side had been secured by a bandage.

"Are you," he said, raising his head painfully towards the couch where
lay stretched his late antagonist, "he whom men call the Knight of
Ardenvohr?"

"The same," answered Sir Duncan,--"what would you with one whose hours
are now numbered?"

"My hours are reduced to minutes," said the outlaw; "the more grace, if
I bestow them in the service of one, whose hand has ever been against
me, as mine has been raised higher against him."

"Thine higher against me!--Crushed worm!" said the Knight, looking down
on his miserable adversary.

"Yes," answered the outlaw, in a firm voice, "my arm hath been highest.
In the deadly contest betwixt us, the wounds I have dealt have been
deepest, though thine have neither been idle nor unfelt.--I am Ranald
MacEagh--I am Ranald of the Mist--the night that I gave thy castle to
the winds in one huge blaze of fire, is now matched with the day in
which you have fallen under the sword of my fathers.--Remember the
injuries thou hast done our tribe--never were such inflicted, save
by one, beside thee. HE, they say, is fated and secure against our
vengeance--a short time will show."

"My Lord Menteith," said Sir Duncan, raising himself out of his bed,
"this is a proclaimed villain, at once the enemy of King and Parliament,
of God and man--one of the outlawed banditti of the Mist; alike the
enemy of your house, of the M'Aulays, and of mine. I trust you will
not suffer moments, which are perhaps my last, to be embittered by his
barbarous triumph."

"He shall have the treatment he merits," said Menteith; "let him be
instantly removed."

Sir Dugald here interposed, and spoke of Ranald's services as a guide,
and his own pledge for his safety; but the high harsh tones of the
outlaw drowned his voice.

"No," said he, "be rack and gibbet the word! let me wither between
heaven and earth, and gorge the hawks and eagles of Ben-Nevis; and so
shall this haughty Knight, and this triumphant Thane, never learn the
secret I alone can impart; a secret which would make Ardenvohr's
heart leap with joy, were he in the death agony, and which the Earl of
Menteith would purchase at the price of his broad earldom.--Come hither,
Annot Lyle," he said, raising himself with unexpected strength; "fear
not the sight of him to whom thou hast clung in infancy. Tell these
proud men, who disdain thee as the issue of mine ancient race, that thou
art no blood of ours,--no daughter of the race of the Mist, but born in
halls as lordly, and cradled on couch as soft, as ever soothed infancy
in their proudest palaces."

"In the name of God," said Menteith, trembling with emotion, "if you
know aught of the birth of this lady, do thy conscience the justice to
disburden it of the secret before departing from this world!"

"And bless my enemies with my dying breath?" said MacEagh, looking at
him malignantly.--"Such are the maxims your priests preach--but when,
or towards whom, do you practise them? Let me know first the worth of my
secret ere I part with it--What would you give, Knight of Ardenvohr, to
know that your superstitious fasts have been vain, and that there still
remains a descendant of your house?--I pause for an answer--without it,
I speak not one word more.

"I could," said Sir Duncan, his voice struggling between the emotions of
doubt, hatred, and anxiety--"I could--but that I know thy race are like
the Great Enemy, liars and murderers from the beginning--but could it be
true thou tellest me, I could almost forgive thee the injuries thou hast
done me."

"Hear it!" said Ranald; "he hath wagered deeply for a son of
Diarmid--And you, gentle Thane--the report of the camp says, that you
would purchase with life and lands the tidings that Annot Lyle was no
daughter of proscription, but of a race noble in your estimation as your
own--Well--It is for no love I tell you--The time has been that I would
have exchanged this secret against liberty; I am now bartering it for
what is dearer than liberty or life.--Annot Lyle is the youngest, the
sole surviving child of the Knight of Ardenvohr, who alone was saved
when all in his halls besides was given to blood and ashes."

"Can this man speak truth?" said Annot Lyle, scarce knowing what she
said; "or is this some strange delusion?"

"Maiden," replied Ranald, "hadst thou dwelt longer with us, thou wouldst
have better learnt to know how to distinguish the accents of truth.
To that Saxon lord, and to the Knight of Ardenvohr, I will yield such
proofs of what I have spoken, that incredulity shall stand convinced.
Meantime, withdraw--I loved thine infancy, I hate not thy youth--no eye
hates the rose in its blossom, though it groweth upon a thorn, and for
thee only do I something regret what is soon to follow. But he that
would avenge him of his foe must not reck though the guiltless be
engaged in the ruin."

"He advises well, Annot," said Lord Menteith; "in God's name retire!
if--if there be aught in this, your meeting with Sir Duncan must be more
prepared for both your sakes."

"I will not part from my father, if I have found one!" said Annot--"I
will not part from him under circumstances so terrible."

"And a father you shall ever find in me," murmured Sir Duncan.

"Then," said Menteith, "I will have MacEagh removed into an adjacent
apartment, and will collect the evidence of his tale myself. Sir Dugald
Dalgetty will give me his attendance and assistance."

"With pleasure, my lord," answered Sir Dugald.--"I will be your
confessor, or assessor--either or both. No one can be so fit, for I had
heard the whole story a month ago at Inverary castle--but onslaughts
like that of Ardenvohr confuse each other in my memory, which is besides
occupied with matters of more importance."

Upon hearing this frank declaration, which was made as they left the
apartment with the wounded man, Lord Menteith darted upon Dalgetty a
look of extreme anger and disdain, to which the self-conceit of the
worthy commander rendered him totally insensible.



CHAPTER XXII.

     I am as free as nature first made man,
     Ere the base laws of servitude began,
     When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
     --CONQUEST OF GRANADA

The Earl of Menteith, as he had undertaken, so he proceeded to
investigate more closely the story told by Ranald of the Mist, which was
corroborated by the examination of his two followers, who had assisted
in the capacity of guides. These declarations he carefully compared with
such circumstances concerning the destruction of his castle and family
as Sir Duncan Campbell was able to supply; and it may be supposed he had
forgotten nothing relating to an event of such terrific importance. It
was of the last consequence to prove that this was no invention of
the outlaw's, for the purpose of passing an impostor as the child and
heiress of Ardenvohr.

Perhaps Menteith, so much interested in believing the tale, was not
altogether the fittest person to be intrusted with the investigation of
its truth; but the examinations of the Children of the Mist were simple,
accurate, and in all respects consistent with each other. A personal
mark was referred to, which was known to have been borne by the infant
child of Sir Duncan, and which appeared upon the left shoulder of Annot
Lyle. It was also well remembered, that when the miserable relics of the
other children had been collected, those of the infant had nowhere
been found. Other circumstances of evidence, which it is unnecessary to
quote, brought the fullest conviction not only to Menteith, but to the
unprejudiced mind of Montrose, that in Annot Lyle, an humble dependant,
distinguished only by beauty and talent, they were in future to respect
the heiress of Ardenvohr.

While Menteith hastened to communicate the result of these enquiries
to the persons most interested, the outlaw demanded to speak with his
grandchild, whom he usually called his son. "He would be found," he
said, "in the outer apartment, in which he himself had been originally
deposited."

Accordingly, the young savage, after a close search, was found lurking
in a corner, coiled up among some rotten straw, and brought to his
grandsire.

"Kenneth," said the old outlaw, "hear the last words of the sire of
thy father. A Saxon soldier, and Allan of the Red-hand, left this camp
within these few hours, to travel to the country to Caberfae. Pursue
them as the bloodhound pursues the hurt deer--swim the lake-climb the
mountain--thread the forest--tarry not until you join them;" and then
the countenance of the lad darkened as his grandfather spoke, and he
laid his hand upon a knife which stuck in the thong of leather that
confined his scanty plaid. "No!" said the old man; "it is not by thy
hand he must fall. They will ask the news from the camp--say to them
that Annot Lyle of the Harp is discovered to be the daughter of Duncan
of Ardenvohr; that the Thane of Menteith is to wed her before the
priest; and that you are sent to bid guests to the bridal. Tarry
not their answer, but vanish like the lightning when the black cloud
swallows it.--And now depart, beloved son of my best beloved! I shall
never more see thy face, nor hear the light sound of thy footstep--yet
tarry an instant and hear my last charge. Remember the fate of our race,
and quit not the ancient manners of the Children of the Mist. We are now
a straggling handful, driven from every vale by the sword of every clan,
who rule in the possessions where their forefathers hewed the wood, and
drew the water for ours. But in the thicket of the wilderness, and in
the mist of the mountain, Kenneth, son of Eracht, keep thou unsoiled the
freedom which I leave thee as a birthright. Barter it not neither for
the rich garment, nor for the stone-roof, nor for the covered board, nor
for the couch of down--on the rock or in the valley, in abundance or in
famine--in the leafy summer, and in the days of the iron winter--Son of
the Mist! be free as thy forefathers. Own no lord--receive no law--take
no hire--give no stipend--build no hut--enclose no pasture--sow no
grain;--let the deer of the mountain be thy flocks and herds--if these
fail thee, prey upon the goods of our oppressors--of the Saxons, and of
such Gael as are Saxons in their souls, valuing herds and flocks more
than honour and freedom. Well for us that they do so--it affords the
broader scope for our revenge. Remember those who have done kindness to
our race, and pay their services with thy blood, should the hour require
it. If a MacIan shall come to thee with the head of the king's son
in his hand, shelter him, though the avenging army of the father were
behind him; for in Glencoe and Ardnamurchan, we have dwelt in peace
in the years that have gone by. The sons of Diarmid--the race of
Darnlinvarach--the riders of Menteith--my curse on thy head, Child of
the Mist, if thou spare one of those names, when the time shall offer
for cutting them off! and it will come anon, for their own swords shall
devour each other, and those who are scattered shall fly to the Mist,
and perish by its Children. Once more, begone--shake the dust from thy
feet against the habitations of men, whether banded together for peace
or for war. Farewell, beloved! and mayst thou die like thy
forefathers, ere infirmity, disease, or age, shall break thy
spirit--Begone!--begone!--live free--requite kindness--avenge the
injuries of thy race!"

The young savage stooped, and kissed the brow of his dying parent; but
accustomed from infancy to suppress every exterior sign of emotion,
he parted without tear or adieu, and was soon far beyond the limits of
Montrose's camp.

Sir Dugald Dalgetty, who was present during the latter part of this
scene, was very little edified by the conduct of MacEagh upon the
occasion. "I cannot think, my friend Ranald," said he, "that you are in
the best possible road for a dying man. Storms, onslaughts, massacres,
the burning of suburbs, are indeed a soldier's daily work, and are
justified by the necessity of the case, seeing that they are done in the
course of duty; for burning of suburbs, in particular, it may be said
that they are traitors and cut-throats to all fortified towns. Hence it
is plain, that a soldier is a profession peculiarly favoured by Heaven,
seeing that we may hope for salvation, although we daily commit actions
of so great violence. But then, Ranald, in all services of Europe, it is
the custom of the dying soldier not to vaunt him of such doings, or
to recommend them to his fellows; but, on the contrary, to express
contrition for the same, and to repeat, or have repeated to him, some
comfortable prayer; which, if you please, I will intercede with his
Excellency's chaplain to prefer on your account. It is otherwise no
point of my duty to put you in mind of those things; only it may be for
the ease of your conscience to depart more like a Christian, and less
like a Turk, than you seem to be in a fair way of doing."

The only answer of the dying man--(for as such Ranald MacEagh might now
be considered)--was a request to be raised to such a position that he
might obtain a view from the window of the Castle. The deep frost mist,
which had long settled upon the top of the mountains, was now rolling
down each rugged glen and gully, where the craggy ridges showed their
black and irregular outline, like desert islands rising above the ocean
of vapour. "Spirit of the Mist!" said Ranald MacEagh, "called by our
race our father, and our preserver--receive into thy tabernacle of
clouds, when this pang is over, him whom in life thou hast so often
sheltered." So saying, he sunk back into the arms of those who upheld
him, spoke no further word, but turned his face to the wall for a short
space.

"I believe," said Dalgetty, "my friend Ranald will be found in his heart
to be little better than a heathen." And he renewed his proposal
to procure him the assistance of Dr. Wisheart, Montrose's military
chaplain; "a man," said Sir Dugald, "very clever in his exercise, and
who will do execution on your sins in less time than I could smoke a
pipe of tobacco."

"Saxon," said the dying man, "speak to me no more of thy priest--I die
contented. Hadst thou ever an enemy against whom weapons were of no
avail--whom the ball missed, and against whom the arrow shivered, and
whose bare skin was as impenetrable to sword and dirk as thy steel
garment--Heardst thou ever of such a foe?"

"Very frequently, when I served in Germany," replied Sir Dugald. "There
was such a fellow at Ingolstadt; he was proof both against lead and
steel. The soldiers killed him with the buts of their muskets."

"This impassible foe," said Ranald, without regarding the Major's
interruption, "who has the blood dearest to me upon his hands--to this
man I have now bequeathed agony of mind, jealousy, despair, and sudden
death,--or a life more miserable than death itself. Such shall be the
lot of Allan of the Red-hand, when he learns that Annot weds Menteith
and I ask no more than the certainty that it is so, to sweeten my own
bloody end by his hand."

"If that be the case," said the Major, "there's no more to be said; but
I shall take care as few people see you as possible, for I cannot
think your mode of departure can be at all creditable or exemplary to
a Christian army." So saying, he left the apartment, and the Son of the
Mist soon after breathed his last.

Menteith, in the meanwhile, leaving the new-found relations to their
mutual feelings of mingled emotion, was eagerly discussing with Montrose
the consequences of this discovery. "I should now see," said the
Marquis, "even had I not before observed it, that your interest in
this discovery, my dear Menteith, has no small reference to your own
happiness. You love this new-found lady,--your affection is returned. In
point of birth, no exceptions can be made; in every other respect,
her advantages are equal to those which you yourself possess--think,
however, a moment. Sir Duncan is a fanatic--Presbyterian, at least--in
arms against the King; he is only with us in the quality of a prisoner,
and we are, I fear, but at the commencement of a long civil war. Is this
a time, think you, Menteith, for you to make proposals for his heiress?
Or what chance is there that he will now listen to it?"

Passion, an ingenious, as well as an eloquent advocate, supplied the
young nobleman with a thousand answers to these objections. He reminded
Montrose that the Knight of Ardenvohr was neither a bigot in politics
nor religion. He urged his own known and proved zeal for the royal
cause, and hinted that its influence might be extended and strengthened
by his wedding the heiress of Ardenvohr. He pleaded the dangerous state
of Sir Duncan's wound, the risk which must be run by suffering the young
lady to be carried into the country of the Campbells, where, in case of
her father's death, or continued indisposition, she must necessarily
be placed under the guardianship of Argyle, an event fatal to his
(Menteith's) hopes, unless he could stoop to purchase his favour by
abandoning the King's party.

Montrose allowed the force of these arguments, and owned, although the
matter was attended with difficulty, yet it seemed consistent with the
King's service that it should be concluded as speedily as possible.

"I could wish," said he, "that it were all settled in one way or
another, and that this fair Briseis were removed from our camp before
the return of our Highland Achilles, Allan M'Aulay.--I fear some fatal
feud in that quarter, Menteith--and I believe it would be best that Sir
Duncan be dismissed on his parole, and that you accompany him and his
daughter as his escort. The journey can be made chiefly by water, so
will not greatly incommode his wound--and your own, my friend, will be
an honourable excuse for the absence of some time from my camp."

"Never!" said Menteith. "Were I to forfeit the very hope that has so
lately dawned upon me, never will I leave your Excellency's camp while
the royal standard is displayed. I should deserve that this trifling
scratch should gangrene and consume my sword-arm, were I capable
of holding it as an excuse for absence at this crisis of the King's
affairs."

"On this, then, you are determined?" said Montrose.

"As fixed as Ben-Nevis," said the young nobleman.

"You must, then," said Montrose, "lose no time in seeking an explanation
with the Knight of Ardenvohr. If this prove favourable, I will talk
myself with the elder M'Aulay, and we will devise means to employ his
brother at a distance from the army until he shall be reconciled to his
present disappointment. Would to God some vision would descend upon his
imagination fair enough to obliterate all traces of Annot Lyle! That
perhaps you think impossible, Menteith?--Well, each to his service; you
to that of Cupid, and I to that of Mars."

They parted, and in pursuance of the scheme arranged, Menteith, early on
the ensuing morning, sought a private interview with the wounded Knight
of Ardenvohr, and communicated to him his suit for the hand of his
daughter. Of their mutual attachment Sir Duncan was aware, but he was
not prepared for so early a declaration on the part of Menteith. He
said, at first, that he had already, perhaps, indulged too much in
feelings of personal happiness, at a time when his clan had sustained
so great a loss and humiliation, and that he was unwilling, therefore,
farther to consider the advancement of his own house at a period so
calamitous. On the more urgent suit of the noble lover, he requested a
few hours to deliberate and consult with his daughter, upon a question
so highly important.

The result of this interview and deliberation was favourable to
Menteith. Sir Duncan Campbell became fully sensible that the happiness
of his new-found daughter depended upon a union with her lover; and
unless such were now formed, he saw that Argyle would throw a thousand
obstacles in the way of a match in every respect acceptable to himself.
Menteith's private character was so excellent, and such was the rank and
consideration due to his fortune and family, that they outbalanced, in
Sir Duncan's opinion, the difference in their political opinions. Nor
could he have resolved, perhaps, had his own opinion of the match been
less favourable, to decline an opportunity of indulging the new-found
child of his hopes. There was, besides, a feeling of pride which
dictated his determination. To produce the Heiress of Ardenvohr to the
world as one who had been educated a poor dependant and musician in the
family of Darnlinvarach, had something in it that was humiliating. To
introduce her as the betrothed bride, or wedded wife, of the Earl of
Menteith, upon an attachment formed during her obscurity, was a warrant
to the world that she had at all times been worthy of the rank to which
she was elevated.

It was under the influence of these considerations that Sir Duncan
Campbell announced to the lovers his consent that they should be married
in the chapel of the Castle, by Montrose's chaplain, and as privately as
possible. But when Montrose should break up from Inverlochy, for which
orders were expected in the course of a very few days, it was agreed
that the young Countess should depart with her father to his Castle, and
remain there until the circumstances of the nation permitted Menteith to
retire with honour from his present military employment. His resolution
being once taken, Sir Duncan Campbell would not permit the maidenly
scruples of his daughter to delay its execution; and it was therefore
resolved that the bridal should take place the next evening, being the
second after the battle.



CHAPTER XXIII.

     My maid--my blue-eyed maid, he bore away,
     Due to the toils of many a bloody day.--ILLIAD.

It was necessary, for many reasons, that Angus M'Aulay, so long the kind
protector of Annot Lyle, should be made acquainted with the change in
the fortunes of his late protege; and Montrose, as he had undertaken,
communicated to him these remarkable events. With the careless and
cheerful indifference of his character, he expressed much more joy than
wonder at Annot's good fortune; had no doubt whatever she would merit
it, and as she had always been bred in loyal principles, would convey
the whole estate of her grim fanatical father to some honest fellow who
loved the king. "I should have no objection that my brother Allan should
try his chance," added he, "notwithstanding that Sir Duncan Campbell was
the only man who ever charged Darnlinvarach with inhospitality. Annot
Lyle could always charm Allan out of the sullens, and who knows whether
matrimony might not make him more a man of this world?" Montrose
hastened to interrupt the progress of his castle-building, by informing
him that the lady was already wooed and won, and, with her father's
approbation, was almost immediately to be wedded to his kinsman, the
Earl of Menteith; and that in testimony of the high respect due to
M'Aulay, so long the lady's protector, he was now to request his
presence at the ceremony. M'Aulay looked very grave at this intimation,
and drew up his person with the air of one who thought that he had been
neglected.

"He contrived," he said, "that his uniform kind treatment of the young
lady, while so many years under his roof, required something more upon
such an occasion than a bare compliment of ceremony. He might," he
thought, "without arrogance, have expected to have been consulted. He
wished his kinsman of Menteith well, no man could wish him better;
but he must say he thought he had been hasty in this matter. Allan's
sentiments towards the young lady had been pretty well understood, and
he, for one, could not see why the superior pretensions which he
had upon her gratitude should have been set aside, without at least
undergoing some previous discussion."

Montrose, seeing too well where all this pointed, entreated M'Aulay
to be reasonable, and to consider what probability there was that the
Knight of Ardenvohr could be brought to confer the hand of his sole
heiress upon Allan, whose undeniable excellent qualities were mingled
with others, by which they were overclouded in a manner that made all
tremble who approached him.

"My lord," said Angus M'Aulay, "my brother Allan has, as God made us
all, faults as well as merits; but he is the best and bravest man of
your army, be the other who he may, and therefore ill deserved that his
happiness should have been so little consulted by your Excellency--by
his own near kinsman--and by a young person who owes all to him and to
his family."

Montrose in vain endeavoured to place the subject in a different view;
this was the point in which Angus was determined to regard it, and he
was a man of that calibre of understanding, who is incapable of being
convinced when he has once adopted a prejudice. Montrose now assumed
a higher tone, and called upon Angus to take care how he nourished
any sentiments which might be prejudicial to his Majesty's service. He
pointed out to him, that he was peculiarly desirous that Allan's efforts
should not be interrupted in the course of his present mission; "a
mission," he said, "highly honourable for himself, and likely to prove
most advantageous to the King's cause. He expected his brother would
hold no communication with him upon other subjects, nor stir up any
cause of dissension, which might divert his mind from a matter of such
importance."

Angus answered somewhat sulkily, that "he was no makebate, or stirrer-up
of quarrels; he would rather be a peacemaker. His brother knew as well
as most men how to resent his own quarrels--as for Allan's mode of
receiving information, it was generally believed he had other sources
than those of ordinary couriers. He should not be surprised if they saw
him sooner than they expected."

A promise that he would not interfere, was the farthest to which
Montrose could bring this man, thoroughly good-tempered as he was on all
occasions, save when his pride, interest, or prejudices, were interfered
with. And at this point the Marquis was fain to leave the matter for the
present.

A more willing guest at the bridal ceremony, certainly a more willing
attendant at the marriage feast, was to be expected in Sir Dugald
Dalgetty, whom Montrose resolved to invite, as having been a confidant
to the circumstances which preceded it. But even Sir Dugald hesitated,
looked on the elbows of his doublet, and the knees of his leather
breeches, and mumbled out a sort of reluctant acquiescence in the
invitation, providing he should find it possible, after consulting with
the noble bridegroom. Montrose was somewhat surprised, but scorning to
testify displeasure, he left Sir Dugald to pursue his own course.

This carried him instantly to the chamber of the bride-groom, who,
amidst the scanty wardrobe which his camp-equipage afforded, was
seeking for such articles as might appear to the best advantage upon the
approaching occasion. Sir Dugald entered, and paid his compliments, with
a very grave face, upon his approaching happiness, which, he said, "he
was very sorry he was prevented from witnessing."

"In plain truth," said he, "I should but disgrace the ceremony, seeing
that I lack a bridal garment. Rents, and open seams, and tatters
at elbows in the apparel of the assistants, might presage a similar
solution of continuity in your matrimonial happiness--and to say truth,
my lord, you yourself must partly have the blame of this disappointment,
in respect you sent me upon a fool's errand to get a buff-coat out of
the booty taken by the Camerons, whereas you might as well have sent me
to fetch a pound of fresh butter out of a black dog's throat. I had no
answer, my lord, but brandished dirks and broadswords, and a sort of
growling and jabbering in what they call their language. For my part, I
believe these Highlanders to be no better than absolute pagans, and have
been much scandalized by the manner in which my acquaintance, Ranald
MacEagh, was pleased to beat his final march, a little while since."

In Menteith's state of mind, disposed to be pleased with everything,
and everybody, the grave complaint of Sir Dugald furnished additional
amusement. He requested his acceptance of a very handsome buff-dress
which was lying on the floor. "I had intended it," he said, "for my own
bridal-garment, as being the least formidable of my warlike equipments,
and I have here no peaceful dress."

Sir Dugald made the necessary apologies--would not by any means
deprive--and so forth, until it happily occurred to him that it was much
more according to military rule that the Earl should be married in his
back and breast pieces, which dress he had seen the bridegroom wear at
the union of Prince Leo of Wittlesbach with the youngest daughter of old
George Frederick, of Saxony, under the auspices of the gallant Gustavus
Adolphus, the Lion of the North, and so forth. The good-natured young
Earl laughed, and acquiesced; and thus having secured at least one merry
face at his bridal, he put on a light and ornamented cuirass, concealed
partly by a velvet coat, and partly by a broad blue silk scarf, which
he wore over his shoulder, agreeably to his rank, and the fashion of the
times.

Everything was now arranged; and it had been settled that, according
to the custom of the country, the bride and bridegroom should not again
meet until they were before the altar. The hour had already struck that
summoned the bridegroom thither, and he only waited in a small anteroom
adjacent to the chapel, for the Marquis, who condescended to act as
bride's-man upon the occasion. Business relating to the army having
suddenly required the Marquis's instant attention, Menteith waited his
return, it may be supposed, in some impatience; and when he heard
the door of the apartment open, he said, laughing, "You are late upon
parade."

"You will find I am too early," said Allan M'Aulay, who burst into the
apartment. "Draw, Menteith, and defend yourself like a man, or die like
a dog!"

"You are mad, Allan!" answered Menteith, astonished alike at his sudden
appearance, and at the unutterable fury of his demeanour. His cheeks
were livid--his eyes started from their sockets--his lips were covered
with foam, and his gestures were those of a demoniac.

"You lie, traitor!" was his frantic reply--"you lie in that, as you lie
in all you have said to me. Your life is a lie!"

"Did I not speak my thoughts when I called you mad," said Menteith,
indignantly, "your own life were a brief one. In what do you charge me
with deceiving you?"

"You told me," answered M'Aulay, "that you would not marry Annot
Lyle!--False traitor!--she now waits you at the altar."

"It is you who speak false," retorted Menteith. "I told you the
obscurity of her birth was the only bar to our union--that is now
removed; and whom do you think yourself, that I should yield up my
pretensions in your favour?"

"Draw then," said M'Aulay; "we understand each other."

"Not now," said Menteith, "and not here. Allan, you know me well--wait
till to-morrow, and you shall have fighting enough."

"This hour--this instant--or never," answered M'Aulay.

"Your triumph shall not go farther than the hour which is stricken.
Menteith, I entreat you by our relationship--by our joint conflicts and
labours--draw your sword, and defend your life!" As he spoke, he seized
the Earl's hand, and wrung it with such frantic earnestness, that his
grasp forced the blood to start under the nails. Menteith threw him off
with violence, exclaiming, "Begone, madman!"

"Then, be the vision accomplished!" said Allan; and, drawing his dirk,
struck with his whole gigantic force at the Earl's bosom. The temper of
the corslet threw the point of the weapon upwards, but a deep wound
took place between the neck and shoulder; and the force of the blow
prostrated the bridegroom on the floor. Montrose entered at one side of
the anteroom. The bridal company, alarmed at the noise, were in equal
apprehension and surprise; but ere Montrose could almost see what had
happened, Allan M'Aulay had rushed past him, and descended the
castle stairs like lightning. "Guards, shut the gate!" exclaimed
Montrose--"Seize him--kill him, if he resists!--He shall die, if he were
my brother!"

But Allan prostrated, with a second blow of his dagger, a sentinel who
was upon duty---traversed the camp like a mountain-deer, though pursued
by all who caught the alarm--threw himself into the river, and, swimming
to the opposite side, was soon lost among the woods. In the course of
the same evening, his brother Angus and his followers left Montrose's
camp, and, taking the road homeward, never again rejoined him.

Of Allan himself it is said, that, in a wonderfully short space after
the deed was committed, he burst into a room in the Castle of Inverary,
where Argyle was sitting in council, and flung on the table his bloody
dirk.

"Is it the blood of James Grahame?" said Argyle, a ghastly expression
of hope mixing with the terror which the sudden apparition naturally
excited.

"It is the blood of his minion," answered M'Aulay--"It is the blood
which I was predestined to shed, though I would rather have spilt my
own."

Having thus spoken, he turned and left the castle, and from that moment
nothing certain is known of his fate. As the boy Kenneth, with three of
the Children of the Mist, were seen soon afterwards to cross Lochfine,
it is supposed they dogged his course, and that he perished by their
hand in some obscure wilderness. Another opinion maintains, that Allan
M'Aulay went abroad and died a monk of the Carthusian order. But nothing
beyond bare presumption could ever be brought in support of either
opinion.

His vengeance was much less complete than he probably fancied; for
Menteith, though so severely wounded as to remain long in a dangerous
state, was, by having adopted Major Dalgetty's fortunate recommendation
of a cuirass as a bridal-garment, happily secured from the worst
consequences of the blow. But his services were lost to Montrose; and it
was thought best, that he should be conveyed with his intended
countess, now truly a mourning bride, and should accompany his wounded
father-in-law to the castle of Sir Duncan at Ardenvohr. Dalgetty
followed them to the water's edge, reminding Menteith of the necessity
of erecting a sconce on Drumsnab to cover his lady's newly-acquired
inheritance.

They performed their voyage in safety, and Menteith was in a few weeks
so well in health, as to be united to Annot in the castle of her father.

The Highlanders were somewhat puzzled to reconcile Menteith's recovery
with the visions of the second sight, and the more experienced Seers
were displeased with him for not having died. But others thought the
credit of the vision sufficiently fulfilled, by the wound inflicted by
the hand, and with the weapon, foretold; and all were of opinion, that
the incident of the ring, with the death's head, related to the death
of the bride's father, who did not survive her marriage many months.
The incredulous held, that all this was idle dreaming, and that Allan's
supposed vision was but a consequence of the private suggestions of his
own passion, which, having long seen in Menteith a rival more beloved
than himself, struggled with his better nature, and impressed upon him,
as it were involuntarily, the idea of killing his competitor.

Menteith did not recover sufficiently to join Montrose during his brief
and glorious career; and when that heroic general disbanded his army and
retired from Scotland, Menteith resolved to adopt the life of privacy,
which he led till the Restoration. After that happy event, he occupied
a situation in the land befitting his rank, lived long, happy alike in
public regard and in domestic affection, and died at a good old age.

Our DRAMATIS PERSONAE have been so limited, that, excepting Montrose,
whose exploits and fate are the theme of history, we have only to
mention Sir Dugald Dalgetty. This gentleman continued, with the most
rigorous punctuality, to discharge his duty, and to receive his pay,
until he was made prisoner, among others, upon the field of Philiphaugh.
He was condemned to share the fate of his fellow-officers upon that
occasion, who were doomed to death rather by denunciations from the
pulpit, than the sentence either of civil or military tribunal; their
blood being considered as a sort of sin-offering to take away the guilt
of the land, and the fate imposed upon the Canaanites, under a special
dispensation, being impiously and cruelly applied to them.