'Ay, but when, Captain? when and how? that's the question, or rather the
twa questions,' said the jailor.

'When I am delivered, and get my remittances from England,' answered the
prisoner.

Mac-Guffog shook his head incredulously.

'Why, friend, you do not pretend to believe that I am really a
malefactor?' said Bertram.

'Why, I no ken,' said the fellow; 'but if you ARE on the account, ye're
nae sharp ane, that's the daylight o't.'

'And why do you say I am no sharp one?'

'Why, wha but a crack-brained greenhorn wad hae let them keep up the
siller that ye left at the Gordon Arms?' said the constable. 'Deil fetch
me, but I wad have had it out o' their wames! Ye had nae right to be
strippit o' your money and sent to jail without a mark to pay your fees;
they might have keepit the rest o' the articles for evidence. But why,
for a blind bottle-head, did not ye ask the guineas? and I kept winking
and nodding a' the time, and the donnert deevil wad never ance look my
way!'

'Well, sir,' replied Bertram, 'if I have a title to have that property
delivered up to me, I shall apply for it; and there is a good deal more
than enough to pay any demand you can set up.'

'I dinna ken a bit about that,' said Mac-Guffog; 'ye may be here lang
eneugh. And then the gieing credit maun be considered in the fees. But,
however, as ye DO seem to be a chap by common, though my wife says I lose
by my good-nature, if ye gie me an order for my fees upon that money I
daresay Glossin will make it forthcoming; I ken something about an escape
from Ellangowan. Ay, ay, he'll be glad to carry me through, and be
neighbour-like.'

'Well, sir,' replied Bertram, 'if I am not furnished in a day or two
otherwise, you shall have such an order.'

'Weel, weel, then ye shall be put up like a prince,' said Mac-Guffog.
'But mark ye me, friend, that we may have nae colly-shangie afterhend,
these are the fees that I always charge a swell that must have his
lib-ken to himsell:--Thirty shillings a week for lodgings, and a guinea
for garnish; half a guinea a week for a single bed; and I dinna get the
whole of it, for I must gie half a crown out of it to Donald Laider
that's in for sheep-stealing, that should sleep with you by rule, and
he'll expect clean strae, and maybe some whisky beside. So I make little
upon that.'

'Well, sir, go on.'

'Then for meat and liquor, ye may have the best, and I never charge abune
twenty per cent ower tavern price for pleasing a gentleman that way; and
that's little eneugh for sending in and sending out, and wearing the
lassie's shoon out. And then if ye're dowie I will sit wi' you a gliff in
the evening mysell, man, and help ye out wi' your bottle. I have drank
mony a glass wi' Glossin, man, that did you up, though he's a justice
now. And then I'se warrant ye'll be for fire thir cauld nights, or if ye
want candle, that's an expensive article, for it's against the rules. And
now I've tell'd ye the head articles of the charge, and I dinna think
there's muckle mair, though there will aye be some odd expenses ower and
abune.'

'Well, sir, I must trust to your conscience, if ever you happened to hear
of such a thing; I cannot help myself.'

'Na, na, sir,' answered the cautious jailor, 'I'll no permit you to be
saying that. I'm forcing naething upon ye; an ye dinna like the price, ye
needna take the article. I force no man; I was only explaining what
civility was. But if ye like to take the common run of the house, it's a'
ane to me; I'll be saved trouble, that's a'.'

'Nay, my friend, I have, as I suppose you may easily guess, no
inclination to dispute your terms upon such a penalty,' answered Bertram.
'Come, show me where I am to be, for I would fain be alone for a little
while.'

'Ay, ay, come along then, Captain,' said the fellow, with a contortion of
visage which he intended to be a smile; 'and I'll tell you now--to show
you that I HAVE a conscience, as ye ca't--d--n me if I charge ye abune
six-pence a day for the freedom o' the court, and ye may walk in't very
near three hours a day, and play at pitch-and-toss and hand ba' and what
not.'

With this gracious promise he ushered Bertram into the house, and showed
him up a steep and narrow stone staircase, at the top of which was a
strong door, clenched with iron and studded with nails. Beyond this door
was a narrow passage or gallery, having three cells on each side,
wretched vaults, with iron bed-frames and straw mattresses. But at the
farther end was a small apartment of rather a more decent appearance,
that is, having less the air of a place of confinement, since, unless for
the large lock and chain upon the door, and the crossed and ponderous
stanchions upon the window, it rather resembled the 'worst inn's worst
room.' It was designed as a sort of infirmary for prisoners whose state
of health required some indulgence; and, in fact, Donald Laider,
Bertram's destined chum, had been just dragged out of one of the two beds
which it contained, to try whether clean straw and whisky might not have
a better chance to cure his intermitting fever. This process of ejection
had been carried into force by Mrs. Mac-Guffog while her husband parleyed
with Bertram in the courtyard, that good lady having a distinct
presentiment of the manner in which the treaty must necessarily
terminate. Apparently the expulsion had not taken place without some
application of the strong hand, for one of the bed-posts of a sort of
tent-bed was broken down, so that the tester and curtains hung forward
into the middle of the narrow chamber, like the banner of a chieftain
half-sinking amid the confusion of a combat.

'Never mind that being out o' sorts, Captain,' said Mrs. Mac-Guffog, who
now followed them into the room; then, turning her back to the prisoner,
with as much delicacy as the action admitted, she whipped from her knee
her ferret garter, and applied it to splicing and fastening the broken
bed-post; then used more pins than her apparel could well spare to fasten
up the bed-curtains in festoons; then shook the bed-clothes into
something like form; then flung over all a tattered patch-work quilt, and
pronounced that things were now 'something purpose-like.' 'And there's
your bed, Captain,' pointing to a massy four-posted hulk, which, owing to
the inequality of the floor, that had sunk considerably (the house,
though new, having been built by contract), stood on three legs, and held
the fourth aloft as if pawing the air, and in the attitude of advancing
like an elephant passant upon the panel of a coach,--'there's your bed
and the blankets; but if ye want sheets, or bowster, or pillow, or ony
sort o' nappery for the table, or for your hands, ye 'll hae to speak to
me about it, for that's out o' the gudeman's line (Mac-Guffog had by this
time left the room, to avoid, probably, any appeal which might be made to
him upon this new exaction), and he never engages for ony thing like
that.'

'In God's name,' said Bertram, 'let me have what is decent, and make any
charge you please.'

'Aweel, aweel, that's sune settled; we'll no excise you neither, though
we live sae near the custom-house. And I maun see to get you some fire
and some dinner too, I'se warrant; but your dinner will be but a puir ane
the day, no expecting company that would be nice and fashious.' So
saying, and in all haste, Mrs. Mac-Guffog fetched a scuttle of live
coals, and having replenished 'the rusty grate, unconscious of a fire'
for months before, she proceeded with unwashed hands to arrange the
stipulated bed-linen (alas, how different from Ailie Dinmont's!), and,
muttering to herself as she discharged her task, seemed, in inveterate
spleen of temper, to grudge even those accommodations for which she was
to receive payment. At length, however, she departed, grumbling between
her teeth, that 'she wad rather lock up a haill ward than be fiking about
thae niff-naffy gentles that gae sae muckle fash wi' their fancies.'

When she was gone Bertram found himself reduced to the alternative of
pacing his little apartment for exercise, or gazing out upon the sea in
such proportions as could be seen from the narrow panes of his window,
obscured by dirt and by close iron bars, or reading over the records of
brutal wit and blackguardism which despair had scrawled upon the
half-whitened walls. The sounds were as uncomfortable as the objects of
sight; the sullen dash of the tide, which was now retreating, and the
occasional opening and shutting of a door, with all its accompaniments of
jarring bolts and creaking hinges, mingling occasionally with the dull
monotony of the retiring ocean. Sometimes, too, he could hear the hoarse
growl of the keeper, or the shriller strain of his helpmate, almost
always in the tone of discontent, anger, or insolence. At other times the
large mastiff chained in the courtyard answered with furious bark the
insults of the idle loiterers who made a sport of incensing him.

At length the tedium of this weary space was broken by the entrance of a
dirty-looking serving-wench, who made some preparations for dinner by
laying a half-dirty cloth upon a whole-dirty deal table. A knife and
fork, which had not been worn out by overcleaning, flanked a cracked delf
plate; a nearly empty mustard-pot, placed on one side of the table,
balanced a salt-cellar, containing an article of a greyish, or rather a
blackish, mixture, upon the other, both of stoneware, and bearing too
obvious marks of recent service. Shortly after, the same Hebe brought up
a plate of beef-collops, done in the frying-pan, with a huge allowance of
grease floating in an ocean of lukewarm water; and, having added a coarse
loaf to these savoury viands, she requested to know what liquors the
gentleman chose to order. The appearance of this fare was not very
inviting; but Bertram endeavoured to mend his commons by ordering wine,
which he found tolerably good, and, with the assistance of some
indifferent cheese, made his dinner chiefly off the brown loaf. When his
meal was over the girl presented her master's compliments, and, if
agreeable to the gentleman, he would help him to spend the evening.
Bertram desired to be excused, and begged, instead of this gracious
society, that he might be furnished with paper, pen, ink, and candles.
The light appeared in the shape of one long broken tallow-candle,
inclining over a tin candlestick coated with grease; as for the writing
materials, the prisoner was informed that he might have them the next day
if he chose to send out to buy them. Bertram next desired the maid to
procure him a book, and enforced his request with a shilling; in
consequence of which, after long absence, she reappeared with two odd
volumes of the 'Newgate Calendar,' which she had borrowed from Sam
Silverquill, an idle apprentice, who was imprisoned under a charge of
forgery. Having laid the books on the table she retired, and left Bertram
to studies which were not ill adapted to his present melancholy
situation.






CHAPTER XVI
     But if thou shouldst be dragg'd in scorn
       To yonder ignominious tree,
     Thou shall not want one faithful friend
       To share the cruel fates' decree.

          SHENSTONE.


Plunged in the gloomy reflections which were naturally excited by his
dismal reading and disconsolate situation, Bertram for the first time in
his life felt himself affected with a disposition to low spirits. 'I have
been in worse situations than this too,' he said; 'more dangerous, for
here is no danger; more dismal in prospect, for my present confinement
must necessarily be short; more intolerable for the time, for here, at
least, I have fire, food, and shelter. Yet, with reading these bloody
tales of crime and misery in a place so corresponding to the ideas which
they excite, and in listening to these sad sounds, I feel a stronger
disposition to melancholy than in my life I ever experienced. But I will
not give way to it. Begone, thou record of guilt and infamy!' he said,
flinging the book upon the spare bed; 'a Scottish jail shall not break,
on the very first day, the spirits which have resisted climate, and want,
and penury, and disease, and imprisonment in a foreign land. I have
fought many a hard battle with Dame Fortune, and she shall not beat me
now if I can help it.'

Then bending his mind to a strong effort, he endeavoured to view his
situation in the most favourable light. Delaserre must soon be in
Scotland; the certificates from his commanding officer must soon arrive;
nay, if Mannering were first applied to, who could say but the effect
might be a reconciliation between them? He had often observed, and now
remembered, that when his former colonel took the part of any one, it was
never by halves, and that he seemed to love those persons most who had
lain under obligation to him. In the present case a favour, which could
be asked with honour and granted with readiness, might be the means of
reconciling them to each other. From this his feelings naturally turned
towards Julia; and, without very nicely measuring the distance between a
soldier of fortune, who expected that her father's attestation would
deliver him from confinement, and the heiress of that father's wealth and
expectations, he was building the gayest castle in the clouds, and
varnishing it with all the tints of a summer-evening sky, when his labour
was interrupted by a loud knocking at the outer gate, answered by the
barking of the gaunt half-starved mastiff which was quartered in the
courtyard as an addition to the garrison. After much scrupulous
precaution the gate was opened and some person admitted. The house-door
was next unbarred, unlocked, and unchained, a dog's feet pattered
upstairs in great haste, and the animal was heard scratching and whining
at the door of the room. Next a heavy step was heard lumbering up, and
Mac-Guffog's voice in the character of pilot--'This way, this way; take
care of the step; that's the room.' Bertram's door was then unbolted, and
to his great surprise and joy his terrier, Wasp, rushed into the
apartment and almost devoured him with caresses, followed by the massy
form of his friend from Charlie's Hope.

'Eh whow! Eh whow!' ejaculated the honest farmer, as he looked round upon
his friend's miserable apartment and wretched accommodation--'What's this
o't! what's this o't!'

'Just a trick of fortune, my good friend,' said Bertram, rising and
shaking him heartily by the hand, 'that's all.'

'But what will be done about it? or what CAN be done about it?' said
honest Dandie. 'Is't for debt, or what is't for?'

'Why, it is not for debt,' answered Bertram; 'and if you have time to sit
down, I'll tell you all I know of the matter myself.'

'If I hae time?' said Dandie, with an accent on the word that sounded
like a howl of derision. 'Ou, what the deevil am I come here for, man,
but just ance errand to see about it? But ye'll no be the waur o'
something to eat, I trow; it's getting late at e'en. I tell'd the folk at
the Change, where I put up Dumple, to send ower my supper here, and the
chield Mac-Guffog is agreeable to let it in; I hae settled a' that. And
now let's hear your story. Whisht, Wasp, man! wow, but he's glad to see
you, poor thing!'

Bertram's story, being confined to the accident of Hazlewood, and the
confusion made between his own identity and that of one of the smugglers
who had been active in the assault of Woodbourne, and chanced to bear the
same name, was soon told. Dinmont listened very attentively. 'Aweel,' he
said, 'this suld be nae sic dooms desperate business surely; the lad's
doing weel again that was hurt, and what signifies twa or three lead
draps in his shouther? if ye had putten out his ee it would hae been
another case. But eh, as I wuss auld Sherra Pleydell was to the fore
here! Od, he was the man for sorting them, and the queerest rough-spoken
deevil too that ever ye heard!'

'But now tell me, my excellent friend, how did you find out I was here?'

'Od, lad, queerly eneugh,' said Dandie; 'but I'll tell ye that after we
are done wi' our supper, for it will maybe no be sae weel to speak about
it while that lang-lugged limmer o' a lass is gaun flisking in and out o'
the room.'

Bertram's curiosity was in some degree put to rest by the appearance of
the supper which his friend had ordered, which, although homely enough,
had the appetising cleanliness in which Mrs. Mac-Guffog's cookery was so
eminently deficient. Dinmont also, premising he had ridden the whole day
since breakfast-time without tasting anything 'to speak of,' which
qualifying phrase related to about three pounds of cold roast mutton
which he had discussed at his mid-day stage--Dinmont, I say, fell stoutly
upon the good cheer, and, like one of Homer's heroes, said little, either
good or bad, till the rage of thirst and hunger was appeased. At length,
after a draught of home-brewed ale, he began by observing, 'Aweel, aweel,
that hen,' looking upon the lamentable relics of what had been once a
large fowl, 'wasna a bad ane to be bred at a town end, though it's no
like our barn-door chuckies at Charlie's Hope; and I am glad to see that
this vexing job hasna taen awa your appetite, Captain.'

'Why, really, my dinner was not so excellent, Mr. Dinmont, as to spoil my
supper.'

'I daresay no, I daresay no,' said Dandie. 'But now, hinny, that ye hae
brought us the brandy, and the mug wi' the het water, and the sugar, and
a' right, ye may steek the door, ye see, for we wad hae some o' our ain
cracks.' The damsel accordingly retired and shut the door of the
apartment, to which she added the precaution of drawing a large bolt on
the outside.

As soon as she was gone Dandie reconnoitred the premises, listened at the
key-hole as if he had been listening for the blowing of an otter, and,
having satisfied himself that there were no eavesdroppers, returned to
the table; and, making himself what he called a gey stiff cheerer, poked
the fire, and began his story in an undertone of gravity and importance
not very usual with him.

'Ye see, Captain, I had been in Edinbro' for twa or three days, looking
after the burial of a friend that we hae lost, and maybe I suld hae had
something for my ride; but there's disappointments in a' things, and wha
can help the like o' that? And I had a wee bit law business besides, but
that's neither here nor there. In short, I had got my matters settled,
and hame I cam; and the morn awa to the muirs to see what the herds had
been about, and I thought I might as weel gie a look to the Touthope
Head, where Jock o' Dawston and me has the outcast about a march. Weel,
just as I was coming upon the bit, I saw a man afore me that I kenn'd was
nane o' our herds, and it's a wild bit to meet ony other body, so when I
cam up to him it was Tod Gabriel, the fox-hunter. So I says to him,
rather surprised like, "What are ye doing up amang the craws here,
without your hounds, man? are ye seeking the fox without the dogs?" So he
said, "Na, gudeman, but I wanted to see yoursell."

'"Ay," said I, "and ye'll be wanting eilding now, or something to pit
ower the winter?"

'"Na, na," quo' he, "it's no that I'm seeking; but ye tak an unco concern
in that Captain Brown that was staying wi' you, d'ye no?"

'"Troth do I, Gabriel," says I; "and what about him, lad?"

'Says he, "There's mair tak an interest in him than you, and some that I
am bound to obey; and it's no just on my ain will that I'm here to tell
you something about him that will no please you."

'"Faith, naething will please me," quo' I, "that's no pleasing to him."

'"And then," quo' he, "ye'll be ill-sorted to hear that he's like to be
in the prison at Portanferry, if he disna tak a' the better care o'
himsell, for there's been warrants out to tak him as soon as he comes
ower the water frae Allonby. And now, gudeman, an ever ye wish him weel,
ye maun ride down to Portanferry, and let nae grass grow at the nag's
heels; and if ye find him in confinement, ye maun stay beside him night
and day for a day or twa, for he'll want friends that hae baith heart and
hand; and if ye neglect this ye'll never rue but ance, for it will be for
a' your life."

'"But, safe us, man," quo' I, "how did ye learn a' this? it's an unco way
between this and Portanferry."

'"Never ye mind that," quo' he, "them that brought us the news rade night
and day, and ye maun be aff instantly if ye wad do ony gude; and sae I
have naething mair to tell ye." Sae he sat himsell doun and hirselled
doun into the glen, where it wad hae been ill following him wi' the
beast, and I cam back to Charlie's Hope to tell the gudewife, for I was
uncertain what to do. It wad look unco-like, I thought, just to be sent
out on a hunt-the-gowk errand wi' a landlouper like that. But, Lord! as
the gudewife set up her throat about it, and said what a shame it wad be
if ye was to come to ony wrang, an I could help ye; and then in cam your
letter that confirmed it. So I took to the kist, and out wi' the pickle
notes in case they should be needed, and a' the bairns ran to saddle
Dumple. By great luck I had taen the other beast to Edinbro', sae Dumple
was as fresh as a rose. Sae aff I set, and Wasp wi' me, for ye wad really
hae thought he kenn'd where I was gaun, puir beast; and here I am after a
trot o' sixty mile or near by. But Wasp rade thirty o' them afore me on
the saddle, and the puir doggie balanced itsell as ane of the weans wad
hae dune, whether I trotted or cantered.'

In this strange story Bertram obviously saw, supposing the warning to be
true, some intimation of danger more violent and imminent than could be
likely to arise from a few days' imprisonment. At the same time it was
equally evident that some unknown friend was working in his behalf. 'Did
you not say,' he asked Dinmont, 'that this man Gabriel was of gipsy
blood?'

'It was e'en judged sae,' said Dinmont, 'and I think this maks it likely;
for they aye ken where the gangs o' ilk ither are to be found, and they
can gar news flee like a footba' through the country an they like. An' I
forgat to tell ye, there's been an unco inquiry after the auld wife that
we saw in Bewcastle; the Sheriff's had folk ower the Limestane Edge after
her, and down the Hermitage and Liddel, and a' gates, and a reward
offered for her to appear o' fifty pound sterling, nae less; and Justice
Forster, he's had out warrants, as I am tell'd, in Cumberland; and an
unco ranging and ripeing they have had a' gates seeking for her; but
she'll no be taen wi' them unless she likes, for a' that.'

'And how comes that?' said Bertram.

'Ou, I dinna ken; I daur say it's nonsense, but they say she has gathered
the fern-seed, and can gang ony gate she likes, like Jock the
Giant-killer in the ballant, wi' his coat o' darkness and his shoon o'
swiftness. Ony way she's a kind o' queen amang the gipsies; she is mair
than a hundred year auld, folk say, and minds the coming in o' the
moss-troopers in the troublesome times when the Stuarts were put awa.
Sae, if she canna hide hersell, she kens them that can hide her weel
eneugh, ye needna doubt that. Od, an I had kenn'd it had been Meg
Merrilies yon night at Tibb Mumps's, I wad taen care how I crossed her.'

Bertram listened with great attention to this account, which tallied so
well in many points with what he had himself seen of this gipsy sibyl.
After a moment's consideration he concluded it would be no breach of
faith to mention what he had seen at Derncleugh to a person who held Meg
in such reverence as Dinmont obviously did. He told his story
accordingly, often interrupted by ejaculations, such as, 'Weel, the like
o' that now!' or, 'Na, deil an that's no something now!'

When our Liddesdale friend had heard the whole to an end, he shook his
great black head--'Weel, I'll uphaud there's baith gude and ill amang the
gipsies, and if they deal wi' the Enemy, it's a' their ain business and
no ours. I ken what the streeking the corpse wad be, weel eneugh. Thae
smuggler deevils, when ony o' them's killed in a fray, they 'll send for
a wife like Meg far eneugh to dress the corpse; od, it's a' the burial
they ever think o'! and then to be put into the ground without ony
decency, just like dogs. But they stick to it, that they 'll be streekit,
and hae an auld wife when they're dying to rhyme ower prayers, and
ballants, and charms, as they ca' them, rather than they'll hae a
minister to come and pray wi' them--that's an auld threep o' theirs; and
I am thinking the man that died will hae been ane o' the folk that was
shot when they burnt Woodbourne.'

'But, my good friend, Woodbourne is not burnt,' said Bertram.

'Weel, the better for them that bides in't,' answered the store-farmer.
'Od, we had it up the water wi' us that there wasna a stane on the tap o'
anither. But there was fighting, ony way; I daur to say it would be fine
fun! And, as I said, ye may take it on trust that that's been ane o' the
men killed there, and that it's been the gipsies that took your pockmanky
when they fand the chaise stickin' in the snaw; they wadna pass the like
o' that, it wad just come to their hand like the bowl o' a pint stoup.'

'But if this woman is a sovereign among them, why was she not able to
afford me open protection, and to get me back my property?'

'Ou, wha kens? she has muckle to say wi' them, but whiles they'll tak
their ain way for a' that, when they're under temptation. And then
there's the smugglers that they're aye leagued wi', she maybe couldna
manage them sae weel. They're aye banded thegither; I've heard that the
gipsies ken when the smugglers will come aff, and where they're to land,
better than the very merchants that deal wi' them. And then, to the boot
o' that, she's whiles cracked-brained, and has a bee in her head; they
say that, whether her spaeings and fortune-tellings be true or no, for
certain she believes in them a' hersell, and is aye guiding hersell by
some queer prophecy or anither. So she disna aye gang the straight road
to the well. But deil o' sic a story as yours, wi' glamour and dead folk
and losing ane's gate, I ever heard out o' the tale-books! But whisht, I
hear the keeper coming.'

Mac-Guffog accordingly interrupted their discourse by the harsh harmony
of the bolts and bars, and showed his bloated visage at the opening door.
'Come, Mr. Dinmont, we have put off locking up for an hour to oblige ye;
ye must go to your quarters.'

'Quarters, man? I intend to sleep here the night. There's a spare bed in
the Captain's room.'

'It's impossible!' answered the keeper.

'But I say it IS possible, and that I winna stir; and there's a dram t'
ye.'

Mac-Guffog drank off the spirits and resumed his objection. 'But it's
against rule, sir; ye have committed nae malefaction.'

'I'll break your head,' said the sturdy Liddesdale man, 'if ye say ony
mair about it, and that will be malefaction eneugh to entitle me to ae
night's lodging wi' you, ony way.'

'But I tell ye, Mr. Dinmont,' reiterated the keeper, 'it's against rule,
and I behoved to lose my post.'

'Weel, Mac-Guffog,' said Dandie, 'I hae just twa things to say. Ye ken
wha I am weel eneugh, and that I wadna loose a prisoner.'

'And how do I ken that?' answered the jailor.

'Weel, if ye dinna ken that,' said the resolute farmer, 'ye ken this: ye
ken ye're whiles obliged to be up our water in the way o' your business.
Now, if ye let me stay quietly here the night wi' the Captain, I'se pay
ye double fees for the room; and if ye say no, ye shall hae the best
sark-fu' o' sair banes that ever ye had in your life the first time ye
set a foot by Liddel Moat!'

'Aweel, aweel, gudeman,' said Mac-Guffog, 'a wilfu' man maun hae his way;
but if I am challenged for it by the justices, I ken wha sall bear the
wyte,' and, having sealed this observation with a deep oath or two, he
retired to bed, after carefully securing all the doors of the bridewell.
The bell from the town steeple tolled nine just as the ceremony was
concluded.

'Although it's but early hours,' said the farmer, who had observed that
his friend looked somewhat pale and fatigued, 'I think we had better lie
down, Captain, if ye're no agreeable to another cheerer. But troth, ye're
nae glass-breaker; and neither am I, unless it be a screed wi' the
neighbours, or when I'm on a ramble.'

Bertram readily assented to the motion of his faithful friend, but, on
looking at the bed, felt repugnance to trust himself undressed to Mrs.
Mac-Guffog's clean sheets.

'I'm muckle o' your opinion, Captain,' said Dandie. 'Od, this bed looks
as if a' the colliers in Sanquhar had been in't thegither. But it'll no
win through my muckle coat.' So saying, he flung himself upon the frail
bed with a force that made all its timbers crack, and in a few moments
gave audible signal that he was fast asleep. Bertram slipped off his coat
and boots and occupied the other dormitory. The strangeness of his
destiny, and the mysteries which appeared to thicken around him, while he
seemed alike to be persecuted and protected by secret enemies and
friends, arising out of a class of people with whom he had no previous
connexion, for some time occupied his thoughts. Fatigue, however,
gradually composed his mind, and in a short time he was as fast asleep as
his companion. And in this comfortable state of oblivion we must leave
them until we acquaint the reader with some other circumstances which
occurred about the same period.






CHAPTER XVII
     Say from whence
     You owe this strange intelligence? or why
     Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
     With such prophetic greeting?
     Speak, I charge you.

          Macbeth.


Upon the evening of the day when Bertram's examination had taken place,
Colonel Mannering arrived at Woodbourne from Edinburgh. He found his
family in their usual state, which probably, so far as Julia was
concerned, would not have been the case had she learned the news of
Bertram's arrest. But as, during the Colonel's absence, the two young
ladies lived much retired, this circumstance fortunately had not reached
Woodbourne. A letter had already made Miss Bertram acquainted with the
downfall of the expectations which had been formed upon the bequest of
her kinswoman. Whatever hopes that news might have dispelled, the
disappointment did not prevent her from joining her friend in affording a
cheerful reception to the Colonel, to whom she thus endeavoured to
express the deep sense she entertained of his paternal kindness. She
touched on her regret that at such a season of the year he should have
made, upon her account, a journey so fruitless.

'That it was fruitless to you, my dear,' said the Colonel, 'I do most
deeply lament; but for my own share, I have made some valuable
acquaintances, and have spent the time I have been absent in Edinburgh
with peculiar satisfaction; so that on that score there is nothing to be
regretted. Even our friend the Dominie is returned thrice the man he was,
from having sharpened his wits in controversy with the geniuses of the
northern metropolis.'

'Of a surety,' said the Dominie, with great complacency, 'I did wrestle,
and was not overcome, though my adversary was cunning in his art.'

'I presume,' said Miss Mannering, 'the contest was somewhat fatiguing,
Mr. Sampson?'

'Very much, young lady; howbeit I girded up my loins and strove against
him.'

'I can bear witness,' said the Colonel; 'I never saw an affair better
contested. The enemy was like the Mahratta cavalry: he assailed on all
sides, and presented no fair mark for artillery; but Mr. Sampson stood to
his guns notwithstanding, and fired away, now upon the enemy and now upon
the dust which he had raised. But we must not fight our battles over
again to-night; to-morrow we shall have the whole at breakfast.'

The next morning at breakfast, however, the Dominie did not make his
appearance. He had walked out, a servant said, early in the morning. It
was so common for him to forget his meals that his absence never deranged
the family. The housekeeper, a decent old-fashioned Presbyterian matron,
having, as such, the highest respect for Sampson's theological
acquisitions, had it in charge on these occasions to take care that he
was no sufferer by his absence of mind, and therefore usually waylaid him
on his return, to remind him of his sublunary wants, and to minister to
their relief. It seldom, however, happened that he was absent from two
meals together, as was the case in the present instance. We must explain
the cause of this unusual occurrence.

The conversation which Mr. Pleydell had held with Mr. Mannering on the
subject of the loss of Harry Bertram had awakened all the painful
sensations which that event had inflicted upon Sampson. The affectionate
heart of the poor Dominie had always reproached him that his negligence
in leaving the child in the care of Frank Kennedy had been the proximate
cause of the murder of the one, the loss of the other, the death of Mrs.
Bertram, and the ruin of the family of his patron. It was a subject which
he never conversed upon, if indeed his mode of speech could be called
conversation at any time; but it was often present to his imagination.
The sort of hope so strongly affirmed and asserted in Mrs. Bertram's last
settlement had excited a corresponding feeling in the Dominie's bosom,
which was exasperated into a sort of sickening anxiety by the discredit
with which Pleydell had treated it. 'Assuredly,' thought Sampson to
himself, 'he is a man of erudition, and well skilled in the weighty
matters of the law; but he is also a man of humorous levity and
inconsistency of speech, and wherefore should he pronounce ex cathedra,
as it were, on the hope expressed by worthy Madam Margaret Bertram of
Singleside?'

All this, I say, the Dominie THOUGHT to himself; for had he uttered half
the sentence, his jaws would have ached for a month under the unusual
fatigue of such a continued exertion. The result of these cogitations was
a resolution to go and visit the scene of the tragedy at Warroch Point,
where he had not been for many years; not, indeed, since the fatal
accident had happened. The walk was a long one, for the Point of Warroch
lay on the farther side of the Ellangowan property, which was interposed
between it and Woodbourne. Besides, the Dominie went astray more than
once, and met with brooks swoln into torrents by the melting of the snow,
where he, honest man, had only the summer recollection of little
trickling rills.

At length, however, he reached the woods which he had made the object of
his excursion, and traversed them with care, muddling his disturbed
brains with vague efforts to recall every circumstance of the
catastrophe. It will readily be supposed that the influence of local
situation and association was inadequate to produce conclusions different
from those which he had formed under the immediate pressure of the
occurrences themselves. 'With many a weary sigh, therefore, and many a
groan,' the poor Dominie returned from his hopeless pilgrimage, and
weariedly plodded his way towards Woodbourne, debating at times in his
altered mind a question which was forced upon him by the cravings of an
appetite rather of the keenest, namely, whether he had breakfasted that
morning or no? It was in this twilight humour, now thinking of the loss
of the child, then involuntarily compelled to meditate upon the somewhat
incongruous subject of hung beef, rolls, and butter, that his route,
which was different from that which he had taken in the morning,
conducted him past the small ruined tower, or rather vestige of a tower,
called by the country people the Kaim of Derncleugh.

The reader may recollect the description of this ruin in the
twenty-seventh chapter, as the vault in which young Bertram, under the
auspices of Meg Merrilies, witnessed the death of Hatteraick's
lieutenant. The tradition of the country added ghostly terrors to the
natural awe inspired by the situation of this place, which terrors the
gipsies who so long inhabited the vicinity had probably invented, or at
least propagated, for their own advantage. It was said that, during the
times of the Galwegian independence, one Hanlon Mac-Dingawaie, brother to
the reigning chief, Knarth Mac-Dingawaie, murdered his brother and
sovereign, in order to usurp the principality from his infant nephew, and
that, being pursued for vengeance by the faithful allies and retainers of
the house, who espoused the cause of the lawful heir, he was compelled to
retreat, with a few followers whom he had involved in his crime, to this
impregnable tower called the Kaim of Derucleugh, where he defended
himself until nearly reduced by famine, when, setting fire to the place,
he and the small remaining garrison desperately perished by their own
swords, rather than fall into the hands of their exasperated enemies.
This tragedy, which, considering the wild times wherein it was placed,
might have some foundation in truth, was larded with many legends of
superstition and diablerie, so that most of the peasants of the
neighbourhood, if benighted, would rather have chosen to make a
considerable circuit than pass these haunted walls. The lights, often
seen around the tower, when used as the rendezvous of the lawless
characters by whom it was occasionally frequented, were accounted for,
under authority of these tales of witchery, in a manner at once
convenient for the private parties concerned and satisfactory to the
public.

Now it must be confessed that our friend Sampson, although a profound
scholar and mathematician, had not travelled so far in philosophy as to
doubt the reality of witchcraft or apparitions. Born, indeed, at a time
when a doubt in the existence of witches was interpreted as equivalent to
a justification of their infernal practices, a belief of such legends had
been impressed upon the Dominie as an article indivisible from his
religious faith, and perhaps it would have been equally difficult to have
induced him to doubt the one as the other. With these feelings, and in a
thick misty day, which was already drawing to its close, Dominie Sampson
did not pass the Kaim of Derncleugh without some feelings of tacit
horror.

What, then, was his astonishment when, on passing the door--that door
which was supposed to have been placed there by one of the latter Lairds
of Ellangowan to prevent presumptuous strangers from incurring the
dangers of the haunted vault--that door, supposed to be always locked,
and the key of which was popularly said to be deposited with the
presbytery--that door, that very door, opened suddenly, and the figure of
Meg Merrilies, well known, though not seen for many a revolving year, was
placed at once before the eyes of the startled Dominie! She stood
immediately before him in the footpath, confronting him so absolutely
that he could not avoid her except by fairly turning back, which his
manhood prevented him from thinking of.

'I kenn'd ye wad be here,' she said, with her harsh and hollow voice; 'I
ken wha ye seek; but ye maun do my bidding.'

'Get thee behind me!' said the alarmed Dominie. 'Avoid ye! Conjuro te,
scelestissima, nequissima, spurcissima, iniquissima atque miserrima,
conjuro te!!!'

Meg stood her ground against this tremendous volley of superlatives,
which Sampson hawked up from the pit of his stomach and hurled at her in
thunder. 'Is the carl daft,' she said, 'wi' his glamour?'

'Conjuro,' continued the Dominie, 'abjuro, contestor atque viriliter
impero tibi!'

'What, in the name of Sathan, are ye feared for, wi' your French
gibberish, that would make a dog sick? Listen, ye stickit stibbler, to
what I tell ye, or ye sail rue it while there's a limb o' ye hings to
anither! Tell Colonel Mannering that I ken he's seeking me. He kens, and
I ken, that the blood will be wiped out, and the lost will be found,
     And Bertram's right and Bertram's might
     Shall meet on Ellangowan height.
Hae, there's a letter to him; I was gaun to send it in another way. I
canna write mysell; but I hae them that will baith write and read, and
ride and rin for me. Tell him the time's coming now, and the weird's
dreed, and the wheel's turning. Bid him look at the stars as he has
looked at them before. Will ye mind a' this?'

'Assuredly,' said the Dominie, 'I am dubious; for, woman, I am perturbed
at thy words, and my flesh quakes to hear thee.'

'They'll do you nae ill though, and maybe muckle gude.'

'Avoid ye! I desire no good that comes by unlawful means.'

'Fule body that thou art,' said Meg, stepping up to him, with a frown of
indignation that made her dark eyes flash like lamps from under her bent
brows--'Fule body! if I meant ye wrang, couldna I clod ye ower that
craig, and wad man ken how ye cam by your end mair than Frank Kennedy?
Hear ye that, ye worricow?'

'In the name of all that is good,' said the Dominie, recoiling, and
pointing his long pewter-headed walking cane like a javelin at the
supposed sorceress--'in the name of all that is good, bide off hands! I
will not be handled; woman, stand off, upon thine own proper peril!
Desist, I say; I am strong; lo, I will resist!' Here his speech was cut
short; for Meg, armed with supernatural strength (as the Dominie
asserted), broke in upon his guard, put by a thrust which he made at her
with his cane, and lifted him into the vault, 'as easily,' said he, 'as I
could sway a Kitchen's Atlas.'

'Sit down there,' she said, pushing the half-throttled preacher with some
violence against a broken chair--'sit down there and gather your wind and
your senses, ye black barrow-tram o' the kirk that ye are. Are ye fou or
fasting?'

'Fasting, from all but sin,' answered the Dominie, who, recovering his
voice, and finding his exorcisms only served to exasperate the
intractable sorceress, thought it best to affect complaisance and
submission, inwardly conning over, however, the wholesome conjurations
which he durst no longer utter aloud. But as the Dominie's brain was by
no means equal to carry on two trains of ideas at the same time, a word
or two of his mental exercise sometimes escaped and mingled with his
uttered speech in a manner ludicrous enough, especially as the poor man
shrunk himself together after every escape of the kind, from terror of
the effect it might produce upon the irritable feelings of the witch.

Meg in the meanwhile went to a great black cauldron that was boiling on a
fire on the floor, and, lifting the lid, an odour was diffused through
the vault which, if the vapours of a witch's cauldron could in aught be
trusted, promised better things than the hell-broth which such vessels
are usually supposed to contain. It was, in fact, the savour of a goodly
stew, composed of fowls, hares, partridges, and moor-game boiled in a
large mess with potatoes, onions, and leeks, and from the size of the
cauldron appeared to be prepared for half a dozen of people at least. 'So
ye hae eat naething a' day?' said Meg, heaving a large portion of this
mess into a brown dish and strewing it savourily with salt and pepper.
[Footnote: See Note 4.]

'Nothing,' answered the Dominie, 'scelestissima!--that is, gudewife.'

'Hae then,' said she, placing the dish before him, 'there's what will
warm your heart.'

'I do not hunger, malefica--that is to say, Mrs. Merrilies!' for he said
unto himself,' the savour is sweet, but it hath been cooked by a Canidia
or an Ericthoe.'

'If ye dinna eat instantly and put some saul in ye, by the bread and the
salt, I'll put it down your throat wi' the cutty spoon, scaulding as it
is, and whether ye will or no. Gape, sinner, and swallow!'







Sampson, afraid of eye of newt, and toe of frog, tigers' chaudrons, and
so forth, had determined not to venture; but the smell of the stew was
fast melting his obstinacy, which flowed from his chops as it were in
streams of water, and the witch's threats decided him to feed. Hunger and
fear are excellent casuists.

'Saul,' said Hunger, 'feasted with the witch of Endor.' 'And,' quoth
Fear, 'the salt which she sprinkled upon the food showeth plainly it is
not a necromantic banquet, in which that seasoning never occurs.' 'And,
besides,' says Hunger, after the first spoonful, 'it is savoury and
refreshing viands.'

'So ye like the meat?' said the hostess.

'Yea,' answered the Dominie, 'and I give thee thanks,
sceleratissima!--which means, Mrs. Margaret.'

'Aweel, eat your fill; but an ye kenn'd how it was gotten ye maybe wadna
like it sae weel.' Sampson's spoon dropped in the act of conveying its
load to his mouth. 'There's been mony a moonlight watch to bring a' that
trade thegither,' continued Meg; 'the folk that are to eat that dinner
thought little o' your game laws.'

'Is that all?' thought Sampson, resuming his spoon and shovelling away
manfully; 'I will not lack my food upon that argument.'

'Now ye maun tak a dram?'

'I will,' quoth Sampson, 'conjuro te--that is, I thank you heartily,' for
he thought to himself, in for a penny in for a pound; and he fairly drank
the witch's health in a cupful of brandy. When he had put this copestone
upon Meg's good cheer, he felt, as he said, 'mightily elevated, and
afraid of no evil which could befall unto him.'

'Will ye remember my errand now?' said Meg Merrilies; 'I ken by the cast
o' your ee that ye're anither man than when you cam in.'

'I will, Mrs. Margaret,' repeated Sampson, stoutly; 'I will deliver unto
him the sealed epistle, and will add what you please to send by word of
mouth.'

'Then I'll make it short,' says Meg. 'Tell him to look at the stars
without fail this night, and to do what I desire him in that letter, as
he would wish
     That Bertram's right and Bertram's might
     Should meet on Ellangowan height.
I have seen him twice when he saw na me; I ken when he was in this
country first, and I ken what's brought him back again. Up an' to the
gate! ye're ower lang here; follow me.'

Sampson followed the sibyl accordingly, who guided him about a quarter of
a mile through the woods, by a shorter cut than he could have found for
himself; then they entered upon the common, Meg still marching before him
at a great pace, until she gained the top of a small hillock which
overhung the road.

'Here,' she said, 'stand still here. Look how the setting sun breaks
through yon cloud that's been darkening the lift a' day. See where the
first stream o' light fa's: it's upon Donagild's round tower, the auldest
tower in the Castle o' Ellangowan; that's no for naething! See as it's
glooming to seaward abune yon sloop in the bay; that's no for naething
neither. Here I stood on this very spot,' said she, drawing herself up so
as not to lose one hair-breadth of her uncommon height, and stretching
out her long sinewy arm and clenched hand--'here I stood when I tauld the
last Laird o' Ellangowan what was coming on his house; and did that fa'
to the ground? na, it hit even ower sair! And here, where I brake the
wand of peace ower him, here I stand again, to bid God bless and prosper
the just heir of Ellangowan that will sune be brought to his ain; and the
best laird he shall be that Ellangowan has seen for three hundred years.
I'll no live to see it, maybe; but there will be mony a blythe ee see it
though mine be closed. And now, Abel Sampson, as ever ye lo'ed the house
of Ellangowan, away wi' my message to the English Colonel, as if life and
death were upon your haste!'

So saying, she turned suddenly from the amazed Dominie and regained with
swift and long strides the shelter of the wood from which she had issued
at the point where it most encroached upon the common. Sampson gazed
after her for a moment in utter astonishment, and then obeyed her
directions, hurrying to Woodbourne at a pace very unusual for him,
exclaiming three times, 'Prodigious! prodigious! pro-di-gi-ous!'






CHAPTER XVIII
     It is not madness
     That I have utter'd, bring me to the test,
     And I the matter will re-word, which madness
     Would gambol from.

          Hamlet.


As Mr. Sampson crossed the hall with a bewildered look, Mrs. Allan, the
good housekeeper, who, with the reverent attention which is usually
rendered to the clergy in Scotland, was on the watch for his return,
sallied forth to meet him--'What's this o't now, Mr. Sampson, this is
waur than ever! Ye'll really do yoursell some injury wi' these lang
fasts; naething's sae hurtful to the stamach, Mr. Sampson. If ye would
but put some peppermint draps in your pocket, or let Barnes cut ye a
sandwich.'

'Avoid thee!' quoth the Dominie, his mind running still upon his
interview with Meg Merrilies, and making for the dining-parlour.

'Na, ye needna gang in there, the cloth's been removed an hour syne, and
the Colonel's at his wine; but just step into my room, I have a nice
steak that the cook will do in a moment.'

'Exorciso te!' said Sampson; 'that is, I have dined.'

'Dined! it's impossible; wha can ye hae dined wi', you that gangs out nae
gate?'

'With Beelzebub, I believe,' said the minister.

'Na, then he's bewitched for certain,' said the housekeeper, letting go
her hold; 'he's bewitched, or he's daft, and ony way the Colonel maun
just guide him his ain gate. Wae's me! Hech, sirs! It's a sair thing to
see learning bring folk to this!' And with this compassionate ejaculation
she retreated into her own premises.

The object of her commiseration had by this time entered the
dining-parlour, where his appearance gave great surprise. He was mud up
to the shoulders, and the natural paleness of his hue was twice as
cadaverous as usual, through terror, fatigue, and perturbation of mind.

'What on earth is the meaning of this, Mr. Sampson?' said Mannering, who
observed Miss Bertram looking much alarmed for her simple but attached
friend.

'Exorciso,' said the Dominie.

'How, sir?' replied the astonished Colonel.

'I crave pardon, honourable sir! but my wits---'

'Are gone a wool-gathering, I think; pray, Mr. Sampson, collect yourself,
and let me know the meaning of all this.'

Sampson was about to reply, but finding his Latin formula of exorcism
still came most readily to his tongue, he prudently desisted from the
attempt, and put the scrap of paper which he had received from the gipsy
into Mannering's hand, who broke the seal and read it with surprise.
'This seems to be some jest,' he said, 'and a very dull one.'