"Most women like show, Eachin; but I think my daughter Catharine
be an exception. She would rejoice in the good fortune of her
household friend and playmate; but she would not value the splendid
MacIan, captain of Clan Quhele, more than the orphan Conachar."

"She is ever generous and disinterested," replied the young chief.
"But yourself, father, have seen the world for many more years than
she has done, and can better form a judgment what power and wealth
do for those who enjoy them. Think, and speak sincerely, what would
be your own thoughts if you saw your Catharine standing under yonder
canopy, with the command over an hundred hills, and the devoted
obedience of ten thousand vassals; and as the price of these
advantages, her hand in that of the man who loves her the best in
the world?"

"Meaning in your own, Conachar?" said Simon.

"Ay, Conachar call me: I love the name, since it was by that I have
been known to Catharine."

"Sincerely, then," said the glover, endeavouring to give the least
offensive turn to his reply, "my inmost thought would be the earnest
wish that Catharine and I were safe in our humble booth in Curfew
Street, with Dorothy for our only vassal."

"And with poor Conachar also, I trust? You would not leave him to
pine away in solitary grandeur?"

"I would not," answered the glover, "wish so ill to the Clan
Quhele, mine ancient friends, as to deprive them, at the moment
of emergency, of a brave young chief, and that chief of the fame
which he is about to acquire at their head in the approaching
conflict."

Eachin bit his lip to suppress his irritated feelings as he replied:
"Words--words--empty words, father Simon. You fear the Clan
Quhele more than you love them, and you suppose their indignation
would be formidable should their chief marry the daughter of a
burgess of Perth."

"And if I do fear such an issue, Hector MacIan, have I not
reason? How have ill assorted marriages had issue in the house of
MacCallanmore, in that of the powerful MacLeans--nay, of the Lords
of the Isles themselves? What has ever come of them but divorce
and exheredation, sometimes worse fate, to the ambitious intruder?
You could not marry my child before a priest, and you could only
wed her with your left hand; and I--" he checked the strain of
impetuosity which the subject inspired, and concluded, "and I am
an honest though humble burgher of Perth, who would rather my child
were the lawful and undoubted spouse of a citizen in my own rank
than the licensed concubine of a monarch."

"I will wed Catharine before the priest and before the world, before
the altar and before the black stones of Iona," said the impetuous
young man. "She is the love of my youth, and there is not a tie in
religion or honour but I will bind myself by them! I have sounded
my people. If we do but win this combat--and, with the hope of
gaining Catharine, we SHALL win it--my heart tells me so--I
shall be so much lord over their affections that, were I to take
a bride from the almshouse, so it was my pleasure, they would hail
her as if she were a daughter of MacCallanmore. But you reject my
suit?" said Eachin, sternly.

"You put words of offence in my mouth," said the old man, "and may
next punish me for them, since I am wholly in your power. But with
my consent my daughter shall never wed save in her own degree. Her
heart would break amid the constant wars and scenes of bloodshed
which connect themselves with your lot. If you really love her,
and recollect her dread of strife and combat, you would not wish
her to be subjected to the train of military horrors in which you,
like your father, must needs be inevitably and eternally engaged.
Choose a bride amongst the daughters of the mountain chiefs, my
son, or fiery Lowland nobles. You are fair, young, rich, high born,
and powerful, and will not woo in vain. You will readily find one
who will rejoice in your conquests, and cheer you under defeat. To
Catharine, the one would be as frightful as the other. A warrior
must wear a steel gauntlet: a glove of kidskin would be torn to
pieces in an hour."

A dark cloud passed over the face of the young chief, lately animated
with so much fire.

"Farewell," he said, "the only hope which could have lighted me to
fame or victory!"

He remained for a space silent, and intensely thoughtful, with
downcast eyes, a lowering brow, and folded arms. At length he raised
his hands, and said: "Father,--for such you have been to me--I
am about to tell you a secret. Reason and pride both advise me to
be silent, but fate urges me, and must be obeyed. I am about to
lodge in you the deepest and dearest secret that man ever confided
to man. But beware--end this conference how it will--beware
how you ever breathe a syllable of what I am now to trust to you;
for know that, were you to do so in the most remote corner of
Scotland, I have ears to hear it even there, and a hand and poniard
to reach a traitor's bosom. I am--but the word will not out!"

"Do not speak it then," said the prudent glover: "a secret is
no longer safe when it crosses the lips of him who owns it, and I
desire not a confidence so dangerous as you menace me with."

"Ay, but I must speak, and you must hear," said the youth. "In this
age of battle, father, you have yourself been a combatant?"

"Once only," replied Simon, "when the Southron assaulted the Fair
City. I was summoned to take my part in the defence, as my tenure
required, like that of other craftsmen, who are bound to keep watch
and ward."

"And how felt you upon that matter?" inquired the young chief.

"What can that import to the present business?" said Simon, in some
surprise.

"Much, else I had not asked the question," answered. Eachin, in
the tone of haughtiness which from time to time he assumed.

"An old man is easily brought to speak of olden times," said Simon,
not unwilling, on an instant's reflection, to lead the conversation
away from the subject of his daughter, "and I must needs confess
my feelings were much short of the high, cheerful confidence, nay,
the pleasure, with which I have seen other men go to battle. My
life and profession were peaceful, and though I have not wanted
the spirit of a man, when the time demanded it, yet I have seldom
slept worse than the night before that onslaught. My ideas were
harrowed by the tales we were told--nothing short of the truth
--about the Saxon archers: how they drew shafts of a cloth yard
length, and used bows a third longer than ours. When I fell into
a broken slumber, if but a straw in the mattress pricked my side
I started and waked, thinking an English arrow was quivering in my
body. In the morning, as I began for very weariness to sink into
some repose, I was waked by the tolling of the common bell, which
called us burghers to the walls; I never heard its sound peal so
like a passing knell before or since."

"Go on--what further chanced?" demanded Eachin.

"I did on my harness," said Simon, "such as it was; took my mother's
blessing, a high spirited woman, who spoke of my father's actions
for the honour of the Fair Town. This heartened me, and I felt
still bolder when I found myself ranked among the other crafts,
all bowmen, for thou knowest the Perth citizens have good skill
in archery. We were dispersed on the walls, several knights and
squires in armour of proof being mingled amongst us, who kept a
bold countenance, confident perhaps in their harness, and informed
us, for our encouragement, that they would cut down with their
swords and axes any of those who should attempt to quit their post.
I was kindly assured of this myself by the old Kempe of Kinfauns,
as he was called, this good Sir Patrick's father, then our provost. He
was a grandson of the Red Rover, Tom of Longueville, and a likely
man to keep his word, which he addressed to me in especial, because
a night of much discomfort may have made me look paler than usual;
and, besides, I was but a lad."

"And did his exhortation add to your fear or your resolution?" said
Eachin, who seemed very attentive.

"To my resolution," answered Simon; "for I think nothing can make
a man so bold to face one danger at some distance in his front as
the knowledge of another close behind him, to push him forward.
Well, I mounted the walls in tolerable heart, and was placed with
others on the Spey Tower, being accounted a good bowman. But a
very cold fit seized me as I saw the English, in great order, with
their archers in front, and their men at arms behind, marching
forward to the attack in strong columns, three in number. They came
on steadily, and some of us would fain have shot at them; but it
was strictly forbidden, and we were obliged to remain motionless,
sheltering ourselves behind the battlement as we best might. As
the Southron formed their long ranks into lines, each man occupying
his place as by magic, and preparing to cover themselves by large
shields, called pavesses, which they planted before them, I again
felt a strange breathlessness, and some desire to go home for a
glass of distilled waters. But as I looked aside, I saw the worthy
Kempe of Kinfauns bending a large crossbow, and I thought it pity
he should waste the bolt on a true hearted Scotsman, when so many
English were in presence; so I e'en staid where I was, being in
a comfortable angle, formed by two battlements. The English then
strode forward, and drew their bowstrings--not to the breast,
as your Highland kerne do, but to the ear--and sent off their
volleys of swallow tails before we could call on St. Andrew. I winked
when I saw them haul up their tackle, and I believe I started as
the shafts began to rattle against the parapet. But looking round
me, and seeing none hurt but John Squallit, the town crier, whose
jaws were pierced through with a cloth yard shaft, I took heart of
grace, and shot in my turn with good will and good aim. A little
man I shot at, who had just peeped out from behind his target,
dropt with a shaft through his shoulder. The provost cried, 'Well
stitched, Simon Glover!' 'St. John, for his own town, my fellow
craftsmen!' shouted I, though I was then but an apprentice. And if
you will believe me, in the rest of the skirmish, which was ended
by the foes drawing off, I drew bowstring and loosed shaft as
calmly as if I had been shooting at butts instead of men's breasts.
I gained some credit, and I have ever afterwards thought that, in
case of necessity--for with me it had never been matter of choice
--I should not have lost it again. And this is all I can tell
of warlike experience in battle. Other dangers I have had, which
I have endeavoured to avoid like a wise man, or, when they were
inevitable, I have faced them like a true one. Upon other terms a
man cannot live or hold up his head in Scotland."

"I understand your tale," said Eachin; "but I shall find it difficult
to make you credit mine, knowing the race of which I am descended,
and especially that I am the son of him whom we have this day laid
in the tomb--well that he lies where he will never learn what
you are now to hear! Look, my father, the light which I bear grows
short and pale, a few minutes will extinguish it; but before it
expires, the hideous tale will be told. Father, I am--a COWARD!
It is said at last, and the secret of my disgrace is in keeping of
another!"

The young man sunk back in a species of syncope, produced by the
agony of his mind as he made the fatal communication. The glover,
moved as well by fear as by compassion, applied himself to recall
him to life, and succeeded in doing so, but not in restoring him
to composure. He hid his face with his hands, and his tears flowed
plentifully and bitterly.

"For Our Lady's sake, be composed," said the old man, "and recall
the vile word! I know you better than yourself: you are no coward,
but only too young and inexperienced, ay, and somewhat too quick
of fancy, to have the steady valour of a bearded man. I would hear
no other man say that of you, Conachar, without giving him the lie.
You are no coward: I have seen high sparks of spirit fly from you
even on slight enough provocation."

"High sparks of pride and passion!" said the unfortunate youth;
"but when saw you them supported by the resolution that should have
backed them? The sparks you speak of fell on my dastardly heart
as on a piece of ice which could catch fire from nothing: if my
offended pride urged me to strike, my weakness of mind prompted me
the next moment to fly."

"Want of habit," said Simon; "it is by clambering over walls that
youths learn to scale precipices. Begin with slight feuds; exercise
daily the arms of your country in tourney with your followers."

"And what leisure is there for this?" exclaimed the young chief,
starting as if something horrid had occurred to his imagination.
"How many days are there betwixt this hour and Palm Sunday, and
what is to chance then? A list inclosed, from which no man can stir,
more than the poor bear who is chained to his stake. Sixty living
men, the best and fiercest--one alone excepted!--which Albyn can
send down from her mountains, all athirst for each other's blood,
while a king and his nobles, and shouting thousands besides, attend,
as at a theatre, to encourage their demoniac fury! Blows clang and
blood flows, thicker, faster, redder; they rush on each other like
madmen, they tear each other like wild beasts; the wounded are
trodden to death amid the feet of their companions! Blood ebbs, arms
become weak; but there must be no parley, no truce, no interruption,
while any of the maimed wretches remain alive! Here is no crouching
behind battlements, no fighting with missile weapons: all is hand
to hand, till hands can no longer be raised to maintain the ghastly
conflict! If such a field is so horrible in idea, what think you
it will be in reality?"

The glover remained silent.

"I say again, what think you?"

"I can only pity you, Conachar," said Simon. "It is hard to be
the descendant of a lofty line--the son of a noble father--the
leader by birth of a gallant array, and yet to want, or think you
want, for still I trust the fault lies much in a quick fancy, that
over estimates danger--to want that dogged quality which is
possessed by every game cock that is worth a handful of corn, every
hound that is worth a mess of offal. But how chanced it that, with
such a consciousness of inability to fight in this battle, you
proffered even now to share your chiefdom with my daughter? Your
power must depend on your fighting this combat, and in that Catharine
cannot help you."

"You mistake, old man," replied Eachin: "were Catharine to look
kindly on the earnest love I bear her, it would carry me against the
front of the enemies with the mettle of a war horse. Overwhelming
as my sense of weakness is, the feeling that Catharine looked on
would give me strength. Say yet--oh, say yet--she shall be mine
if we gain the combat, and not the Gow Chrom himself, whose heart
is of a piece with his anvil, ever went to battle so light as I
shall do! One strong passion is conquered by another."

"This is folly, Conachar. Cannot the recollection of your interest,
your honour, your kindred, do as much to stir your courage as the
thoughts of a brent browed lass? Fie upon you, man!"

"You tell me but what I have told myself, but it is in vain,"
replied Eachin, with a sigh. "It is only whilst the timid stag is
paired with the doe that he is desperate and dangerous. Be it from
constitution; be it, as our Highland cailliachs will say, from the
milk of the white doe; be it from my peaceful education and the
experience of your strict restraint; be it, as you think, from an
overheated fancy, which paints danger yet more dangerous and ghastly
than it is in reality, I cannot tell. But I know my failing, and
--yes, it must be said!--so sorely dread that I cannot conquer
it, that, could I have your consent to my wishes on such terms,
I would even here make a pause, renounce the rank I have assumed,
and retire into humble life."

"What, turn glover at last, Conachar?" said Simon. "This beats the
legend of St. Crispin. Nay--nay, your hand was not framed for
that: you shall spoil me no more doe skins."

"Jest not," said Eachin, "I am serious. If I cannot labour, I will
bring wealth enough to live without it. They will proclaim me
recreant with horn and war pipe. Let them do so. Catharine will love
me the better that I have preferred the paths of peace to those of
bloodshed, and Father Clement shall teach us to pity and forgive
the world, which will load us with reproaches that wound not. I
shall be the happiest of men; Catharine will enjoy all that unbounded
affection can confer upon her, and will be freed from apprehension
of the sights and sounds of horror which your ill assorted match
would have prepared for her; and you, father Glover, shall occupy
your chimney corner, the happiest and most honoured man that ever
--"

"Hold, Eachin--I prithee, hold," said the glover; "the fir light,
with which this discourse must terminate, burns very low, and I
would speak a word in my turn, and plain dealing is best. Though it
may vex, or perhaps enrage, you, let me end these visions by saying
at once: Catharine can never be yours. A glove is the emblem of
faith, and a man of my craft should therefore less than any other
break his own. Catharine's hand is promised--promised to a man
whom you may hate, but whom you must honour--to Henry the armourer.
The match is fitting by degree, agreeable to their mutual wishes,
and I have given my promise. It is best to be plain at once; resent
my refusal as you will--I am wholly in your power. But nothing
shall make me break my word."

The glover spoke thus decidedly, because he was aware from experience
that the very irritable disposition of his former apprentice yielded
in most cases to stern and decided resolution. Yet, recollecting
where he was, it was with some feelings of fear that he saw the
dying flame leap up and spread a flash of light on the visage of
Eachin, which seemed pale as the grave, while his eye rolled like
that of a maniac in his fever fit. The light instantly sunk down
and died, and Simon felt a momentary terror lest he should have
to dispute for his life with the youth, whom he knew to be capable
of violent actions when highly excited, however short a period his
nature could support the measures which his passion commenced. He
was relieved by the voice of Eachin, who muttered in a hoarse and
altered tone:

"Let what we have spoken this night rest in silence for ever. If
thou bring'st it to light, thou wert better dig thine own grave."

Thus speaking, the door of the hut opened, admitting a gleam of
moonshine. The form of the retiring chief crossed it for an instant,
the hurdle was then closed, and the shieling left in darkness.

Simon Glover felt relieved when a conversation fraught with offence
and danger was thus peaceably terminated. But he remained deeply
affected by the condition of Hector MacIan, whom he had himself
bred up.

"The poor child," said he, "to be called up to a place of eminence,
only to be hurled from it with contempt! What he told me I partly
knew, having often remarked that Conachar was more prone to quarrel
than to fight. But this overpowering faint heartedness, which
neither shame nor necessity can overcome, I, though no Sir William
Wallace, cannot conceive. And to propose himself for a husband to
my daughter, as if a bride were to find courage for herself and
the bridegroom! No--no, Catharine must wed a man to whom she may
say, 'Husband, spare your enemy'--not one in whose behalf she
must cry, 'Generous enemy, spare my husband!"

Tired out with these reflections, the old man at length fell asleep.
In the morning he was awakened by his friend the Booshalloch, who,
with something of a blank visage, proposed to him to return to his
abode on the meadow at the Ballough. He apologised that the chief
could not see Simon Glover that morning, being busied with things
about the expected combat; and that Eachin MacIan thought the residence
at the Ballough would be safest for Simon Glover's health, and had
given charge that every care should be taken for his protection
and accommodation.

Niel Booshalloch dilated on these circumstances, to gloss over
the neglect implied in the chief's dismissing his visitor without
a particular audience.

"His father knew better," said the herdsman. "But where should
he have learned manners, poor thing, and bred up among your Perth
burghers, who, excepting yourself, neighbour Glover, who speak
Gaelic as well as I do, are a race incapable of civility?"

Simon Glover, it may be well believed, felt none of the want of
respect which his friend resented on his account. On the contrary, he
greatly preferred the quiet residence of the good herdsman to the
tumultuous hospitality of the daily festival of the chief, even if
there had not just passed an interview with Eachin upon a subject
which it would be most painful to revive.

To the Ballough, therefore, he quietly retreated, where, could
he have been secure of Catharine's safety, his leisure was spent
pleasantly enough. His amusement was sailing on the lake in a little
skiff, which a Highland boy managed, while the old man angled. He
frequently landed on the little island, where he mused over the
tomb of his old friend Gilchrist MacIan, and made friends with the
monks, presenting the prior with gloves of martens' fur, and the
superior officers with each of them a pair made from the skin of
the wildcat. The cutting and stitching of these little presents
served to beguile the time after sunset, while the family of the
herdsman crowded around, admiring his address, and listening to
the tales and songs with which the old man had skill to pass away
a heavy evening.

It must be confessed that the cautious glover avoided the conversation
of Father Clement, whom he erroneously considered as rather the
author of his misfortunes than the guiltless sharer of them. "I
will not," he thought, "to please his fancies, lose the goodwill
of these kind monks, which may be one day useful to me. I have
suffered enough by his preachments already, I trow. Little the
wiser and much the poorer they have made me. No--no, Catharine
and Clement may think as they will; but I will take the first
opportunity to sneak back like a rated hound at the call of his
master, submit to a plentiful course of haircloth and whipcord,
disburse a lusty mulct, and become whole with the church again."

More than a fortnight had passed since the glover had arrived
at Ballough, and he began to wonder that he had not heard news of
Catharine or of Henry Wynd, to whom he concluded the provost had
communicated the plan and place of his retreat. He knew the stout
smith dared not come up into the Clan Quhele country, on account
of various feuds with the inhabitants, and with Eachin himself,
while bearing the name of Conachar; but yet the glover thought Henry
might have found means to send him a message, or a token, by some
one of the various couriers who passed and repassed between the court
and the headquarters of the Clan Quhele, in order to concert the
terms of the impending combat, the march of the parties to Perth,
and other particulars requiring previous adjustment. It was now
the middle of March, and the fatal Palm Sunday was fast approaching.

Whilst time was thus creeping on, the exiled glover had not even
once set eyes upon his former apprentice. The care that was taken
to attend to his wants and convenience in every respect showed that
he was not forgotten; but yet, when he heard the chieftain's horn
ringing through the woods, he usually made it a point to choose
his walk in a different direction. One morning, however, he found
himself unexpectedly in Eachin's close neighbourhood, with scarce
leisure to avoid him, and thus it happened.

As Simon strolled pensively through a little silvan glade, surrounded
on either side with tall forest trees, mixed with underwood, a white
doe broke from the thicket, closely pursued by two deer greyhounds,
one of which griped her haunch, the other her throat, and pulled
her down within half a furlong of the glover, who was something
startled at the suddenness of the incident. The ear and piercing
blast of a horn, and the baying of a slow hound, made Simon aware
that the hunters were close behind, and on the trace of the deer.
Hallooing and the sound of men running through the copse were heard
close at hand. A moment's recollection would have satisfied Simon
that his best way was to stand fast, or retire slowly, and leave
it to Eachin to acknowledge his presence or not, as he should see
cause. But his desire of shunning the young man had grown into a
kind of instinct, and in the alarm of finding him so near, Simon
hid himself in a bush of hazels mixed with holly, which altogether
concealed him. He had hardly done so ere Eachin, rosy with exercise,
dashed from the thicket into the open glade, accompanied by his
foster father, Torquil of the Oak. The latter, with equal strength
and address, turned the struggling hind on her back, and holding
her forefeet in his right hand, while he knelt on her body, offered
his skene with the left to the young chief, that he might cut the
animal's throat.

"It may not be, Torquil; do thine office, and take the assay thyself.
I must not kill the likeness of my foster--"

This was spoken with a melancholy smile, while a tear at the same
time stood in the speaker's eye. Torquil stared at his young chief
for an instant, then drew his sharp wood knife across the creature's
throat with a cut so swift and steady that the weapon reached the
backbone. Then rising on his feet, and again fixing a long piercing
look on his chief, he said: "As much as I have done to that hind
would I do to any living man whose ears could have heard my dault
(foster son) so much as name a white doe, and couple the word with
Hector's name!"

If Simon had no reason before to keep himself concealed, this speech
of Torquil furnished him with a pressing one.

"It cannot be concealed, father Torquil," said Eachin: "it will
all out to the broad day."

"What will out? what will to broad day?" asked Torquil in surprise.

"It is the fatal secret," thought Simon; "and now, if this huge
privy councillor cannot keep silence, I shall be made answerable,
I suppose, for Eachin's disgrace having been blown abroad."

Thinking thus anxiously, he availed himself at the same time of
his position to see as much as he could of what passed between the
afflicted chieftain and his confidant, impelled by that spirit of
curiosity which prompts us in the most momentous, as well as the
most trivial, occasions of life, and which is sometimes found to
exist in company with great personal fear.

As Torquil listened to what Eachin communicated, the young man sank
into his arms, and, supporting himself on his shoulder, concluded
his confession by a whisper into his ear. Torquil seemed to listen
with such amazement as to make him incapable of crediting his ears.
As if to be certain that it was Eachin who spoke, he gradually roused
the youth from his reclining posture, and, holding him up in some
measure by a grasp on his shoulder, fixed on him an eye that seemed
enlarged, and at the same time turned to stone, by the marvels he
listened to. And so wild waxed the old man's visage after he had
heard the murmured communication, that Simon Glover apprehended
he would cast the youth from him as a dishonoured thing, in which
case he might have lighted among the very copse in which he lay
concealed, and occasioned his discovery in a manner equally painful
and dangerous. But the passions of Torquil, who entertained for
his foster child even a double portion of that passionate fondness
which always attends that connexion in the Highlands took a different
turn.

"I believe it not," he exclaimed; "it is false of thy father's
child, false of thy mother's son, falsest of my dault! I offer my
gage to heaven and hell, and will maintain the combat with him that
shall call it true. Thou hast been spellbound by an evil eye, my
darling, and the fainting which you call cowardice is the work of
magic. I remember the bat that struck the torch out on the hour
that thou wert born--that hour of grief and of joy. Cheer up,
my beloved. Thou shalt with me to Iona, and the good St. Columbus,
with the whole choir of blessed saints and angels, who ever favoured
thy race, shall take from thee the heart of the white doe and return
that which they have stolen from thee."

Eachin listened, with a look as if he would fain have believed the
words of the comforter.

"But, Torquil," he said, "supposing this might avail us, the fatal
day approaches, and if I go to the lists, I dread me we shall be
shamed."

"It cannot be--it shall not!" said Torquil. "Hell shall not prevail
so far: we will steep thy sword in holy water, place vervain, St.
John's Wort, and rowan tree in thy crest. We will surround thee,
I and thy eight brethren: thou shalt be safe as in a castle."

Again the youth helplessly uttered something, which, from the
dejected tone in which it was spoken, Simon could not understand,
while Torquil's deep tones in reply fell full and distinct upon
his ear.

"Yes, there may be a chance of withdrawing thee from the conflict.
Thou art the youngest who is to draw blade. Now, hear me, and thou
shalt know what it is to have a foster father's love, and how far
it exceeds the love even of kinsmen. The youngest on the indenture
of the Clan Chattan is Ferquhard Day. His father slew mine, and
the red blood is seething hot between us; I looked to Palm Sunday
as the term that should cool it. But mark! Thou wouldst have thought
that the blood in the veins of this Ferquhard Day and in mine would
not have mingled had they been put into the same vessel, yet hath
he cast the eyes of his love upon my only daughter Eva, the fairest
of our maidens. Think with what feelings I heard the news. It was
as if a wolf from the skirts of Farragon had said, 'Give me thy
child in wedlock, Torquil.' My child thought not thus: she loves
Ferquhard, and weeps away her colour and strength in dread of the
approaching battle. Let her give him but a sign of favour, and well
I know he will forget kith and kin, forsake the field, and fly with
her to the desert."

"He, the youngest of the champions of Clan Chattan, being absent,
I, the youngest of the Clan Quhele, may be excused from combat"
said Eachin, blushing at the mean chance of safety thus opened to
him.

"See now, my chief;" said Torquil, "and judge my thoughts towards
thee: others might give thee their own lives and that of their sons
--I sacrifice to thee the honour of my house."

"My friend--my father," repeated the chief, folding Torquil to
his bosom, "what a base wretch am I that have a spirit dastardly
enough to avail myself of your sacrifice!"

"Speak not of that. Green woods have ears. Let us back to the camp,
and send our gillies for the venison. Back, dogs, and follow at
heel."

The slowhound, or lyme dog, luckily for Simon, had drenched his
nose in the blood of the deer, else he might have found the glover's
lair in the thicket; but its more acute properties of scent being
lost, it followed tranquilly with the gazehounds.

When the hunters were out of sight and hearing, the glover arose,
greatly relieved by their departure, and began to move off in the
opposite direction as fast as his age permitted. His first reflection
was on the fidelity of the foster father.

"The wild mountain heart is faithful and true. Yonder man is more
like the giants in romaunts than a man of mould like ourselves;
and yet Christians might take an example from him for his lealty.
A simple contrivance this, though, to finger a man from off their
enemies' chequer, as if there would not be twenty of the wildcats
ready to supply his place."

Thus thought the glover, not aware that the strictest proclamations
were issued, prohibiting any of the two contending clans, their
friends, allies, and dependants, from coming within fifty miles
of Perth, during a week before and a week after the combat, which
regulation was to be enforced by armed men.

So soon as our friend Simon arrived at the habitation of the
herdsman, he found other news awaiting him. They were brought by
Father Clement, who came in a pilgrim's cloak, or dalmatic, ready
to commence his return to the southward, and desirous to take leave
of his companion in exile, or to accept him as a travelling companion.

"But what," said the citizen, "has so suddenly induced you to return
within the reach of danger ?"

"Have you not heard," said Father Clement, "that, March and
his English allies having retired into England before the Earl of
Douglas, the good earl has applied himself to redress the evils of
the commonwealth, and hath written to the court letters desiring
that the warrant for the High Court of Commission against heresy be
withdrawn, as a trouble to men's consciences, that the nomination
of Henry of Wardlaw to be prelate of St. Andrews be referred to
the Parliament, with sundry other things pleasing to the Commons?
Now, most of the nobles that are with the King at Perth, and with
them Sir Patrick Charteris, your worthy provost, have declared
for the proposals of the Douglas. The Duke of Albany had agreed to
them--whether from goodwill or policy I know not. The good King
is easily persuaded to mild and gentle courses. And thus are the
jaw teeth of the oppressors dashed to pieces in their sockets, and
the prey snatched from their ravening talons. Will you with me to
the Lowlands, or do you abide here a little space?"

Neil Booshalloch saved his friend the trouble of reply.

"He had the chief's authority," he said, "for saying that Simon
Glover should abide until the champions went down to the battle."

In this answer the citizen saw something not quite consistent with
his own perfect freedom of volition; but he cared little for it at
the time, as it furnished a good apology for not travelling along
with the clergyman.

"An exemplary man," he said to his friend Niel Booshalloch, as soon
as Father Clement had taken leave--"a great scholar and a great
saint. It is a pity almost he is no longer in danger to be burned,
as his sermon at the stake would convert thousands. O Niel Booshalloch,
Father Clement's pile would be a sweet savouring sacrifice and a
beacon to all decent Christians! But what would the burning of a
borrel ignorant burgess like me serve? Men offer not up old glove
leather for incense, nor are beacons fed with undressed hides, I
trow. Sooth to speak, I have too little learning and too much fear
to get credit by the affair, and, therefore, I should, in our homely
phrase, have both the scathe and the scorn."

"True for you," answered the herdsman.



CHAPTER XXX.


We must return to the characters of our dramatic narrative whom we
left at Perth, when we accompanied the glover and his fair daughter
to Kinfauns, and from that hospitable mansion traced the course of
Simon to Loch Tay; and the Prince, as the highest personage, claims
our immediate attention.

This rash and inconsiderate young man endured with some impatience
his sequestered residence with the Lord High Constable, with
whose company, otherwise in every respect satisfactory, he became
dissatisfied, from no other reason than that he held in some
degree the character of his warder. Incensed against his uncle and
displeased with his father, he longed, not unnaturally, for the
society of Sir John Ramorny, on whom he had been so long accustomed
to throw himself for amusement, and, though he would have resented
the imputation as an insult, for guidance and direction. He therefore
sent him a summons to attend him, providing his health permitted;
and directed him to come by water to a little pavilion in the High
Constable's garden, which, like that of Sir John's own lodgings,
ran down to the Tay. In renewing an intimacy so dangerous, Rothsay
only remembered that he had been Sir Join Ramorny's munificent friend;
while Sir John, on receiving the invitation, only recollected, on
his part, the capricious insults he had sustained from his patron,
the loss of his hand, and the lightness with which he had treated
the subject, and the readiness with which Rothsay had abandoned
his cause in the matter of the bonnet maker's slaughter. He laughed
bitterly when he read the Prince's billet.

"Eviot," he said, "man a stout boat with six trusty men--trusty
men, mark me--lose not a moment, and bid Dwining instantly come
hither.

"Heaven smiles on us, my trusty friend," he said to the mediciner.
"I was but beating my brains how to get access to this fickle boy,
and here he sends to invite me."

"Hem! I see the matter very clearly," said Dwining. "Heaven smiles
on some untoward consequences--he! he! he!"

"No matter, the trap is ready; and it is baited, too, my friend,
with what would lure the boy from a sanctuary, though a troop
with drawn weapons waited him in the churchyard. Yet is it scarce
necessary. His own weariness of himself would have done the job.
Get thy matters ready--thou goest with us. Write to him, as I
cannot, that we come instantly to attend his commands, and do it
clerkly. He reads well, and that he owes to me."

"He will be your valiancie's debtor for more knowledge before he dies
--he! he! he! But is your bargain sure with the Duke of Albany?"

"Enough to gratify my ambition, thy avarice, and the revenge
of both. Aboard--aboard, and speedily; let Eviot throw in a few
flasks of the choicest wine, and some cold baked meats."

"But your arm, my lord, Sir John? Does it not pain you?"

"The throbbing of my heart silences the pain of my wound. It beats
as it would burst my bosom."

"Heaven forbid!" said Dwining; adding, in a low voice--"It would
be a strange sight if it should. I should like to dissect it, save
that its stony case would spoil my best instruments."

In a few minutes they were in the boat, while a speedy messenger
carried the note to the Prince.

Rothsay was seated with the Constable, after their noontide repast.
He was sullen and silent; and the earl had just asked whether it
was his pleasure that the table should be cleared, when a note,
delivered to the Prince, changed at once his aspect.

"As you will," he said. "I go to the pavilion in the garden--
always with permission of my Lord Constable--to receive my late
master of the horse."

"My lord!" said Lord Errol.

"Ay, my lord; must I ask permission twice?"

"No, surely, my lord," answered the Constable; "but has your Royal
Highness recollected that Sir John Ramorny--"

"Has not the plague, I hope?" replied the Duke of Rothsay. "Come,
Errol, you would play the surly turnkey, but it is not in your
nature; farewell for half an hour."

"A new folly!" said Errol, as the Prince, flinging open a lattice
of the ground parlour in which they sat, stept out into the garden
--"a new folly, to call back that villain to his counsels. But he
is infatuated."

The Prince, in the mean time, looked back, and said hastily:

"Your lordship's good housekeeping will afford us a flask or two of
wine and a slight collation in the pavilion? I love the al fresco
of the river."

The Constable bowed, and gave the necessary orders; so that Sir John
found the materials of good cheer ready displayed, when, landing
from his barge, he entered the pavilion.

"It grieves my heart to see your Highness under restraint," said
Ramorny, with a well executed appearance of sympathy.

"That grief of thine will grieve mine," said the Prince. "I am sure
here has Errol, and a right true hearted lord he is, so tired me
with grave looks, and something like grave lessons, that he has
driven me back to thee, thou reprobate, from whom, as I expect
nothing good, I may perhaps obtain something entertaining. Yet,
ere we say more, it was foul work, that upon the Fastern's Even,
Ramorny. I well hope thou gavest not aim to it."

"On my honour, my lord, a simple mistake of the brute Bonthron. I
did hint to him that a dry beating would be due to the fellow by
whom I had lost a hand; and lo you, my knave makes a double mistake.
He takes one man for another, and instead of the baton he uses the
axe."

"It is well that it went no farther. Small matter for the bonnet
maker; but I had never forgiven you had the armourer fallen--there
is not his match in Britain. But I hope they hanged the villain
high enough?"

"If thirty feet might serve," replied Ramorny.

"Pah! no more of him," said Rothsay; "his wretched name makes the
good wine taste of blood. And what are the news in Perth, Ramorny?
How stands it with the bona robas and the galliards?"

"Little galliardise stirring, my lord," answered the knight. "All
eyes are turned to the motions of the Black Douglas, who comes with
five thousand chosen men to put us all to rights, as if he were
bound for another Otterburn. It is said he is to be lieutenant
again. It is certain many have declared for his faction."

"It is time, then, my feet were free," said Rothsay, "otherwise I
may find a worse warder than Errol."

"Ah, my lord! were you once away from this place, you might make
as bold a head as Douglas."

"Ramorny," said the Prince, gravely, "I have but a confused
remembrance of your once having proposed something horrible to me.
Beware of such counsel. I would be free--I would have my person
at my own disposal; but I will never levy arms against my father,
nor those it pleases him to trust."

"It was only for your Royal Highness's personal freedom that I
was presuming to speak," answered Ramorny. "Were I in your Grace's
place, I would get me into that good boat which hovers on the Tay,
and drop quietly down to Fife, where you have many friends, and
make free to take possession of Falkland. It is a royal castle; and
though the King has bestowed it in gift on your uncle, yet surely,
even if the grant were not subject to challenge, your Grace might
make free with the residence of so near a relative."

"He hath made free with mine," said the Duke, "as the stewartry
of Renfrew can tell. But stay, Ramorny--hold; did I not hear
Errol say that the Lady Marjory Douglas, whom they call Duchess of
Rothsay, is at Falkland? I would neither dwell with that lady nor
insult her by dislodging her."

"The lady was there, my lord," replied Ramorny; "I have sure advice
that she is gone to meet her father."

"Ha! to animate the Douglas against me? or perhaps to beg him to
spare me, providing I come on my knees to her bed, as pilgrims say
the emirs and amirals upon whom a Saracen soldan bestows a daughter
in marriage are bound to do? Ramorny, I will act by the Douglas's
own saying, 'It is better to hear the lark sing than the mouse
squeak.' I will keep both foot and hand from fetters."

"No place fitter than Falkland," replied Ramorny. "I have enough
of good yeomen to keep the place; and should your Highness wish to
leave it, a brief ride reaches the sea in three directions."

"You speak well. But we shall die of gloom yonder. Neither mirth,
music, nor maidens--ha!" said the heedless Prince.

"Pardon me, noble Duke; but, though the Lady Marjory Douglas be
departed, like an errant dame in romance, to implore succour of her
doughty sire, there is, I may say, a lovelier, I am sure a younger,
maiden, either presently at Falkland or who will soon be on the road
thither. Your Highness has not forgotten the Fair Maid of Perth?"

"Forget the prettiest wench in Scotland! No--any more than
thou hast forgotten the hand that thou hadst in the Curfew Street
onslaught on St. Valentine's Eve."

"The hand that I had! Your Highness would say, the hand that I
lost. As certain as I shall never regain it, Catharine Glover is,
or will soon be, at Falkland. I will not flatter your Highness by
saying she expects to meet you; in truth, she proposes to place
herself under the protection of the Lady Marjory."

"The little traitress," said the Prince--"she too to turn against
me? She deserves punishment, Ramorny."

"I trust your Grace will make her penance a gentle one," replied
the knight.

"Faith, I would have been her father confessor long ago, but I have
ever found her coy."

"Opportunity was lacking, my lord," replied Ramorny; "and time
presses even now."

"Nay, I am but too apt for a frolic; but my father--"

"He is personally safe," said Ramorny, "and as much at freedom as
ever he can be; while your Highness--"

"Must brook fetters, conjugal or literal--I know it. Yonder comes
Douglas, with his daughter in his hand, as haughty and as harsh
featured as himself, bating touches of age."

"And at Falkland sits in solitude the fairest wench in Scotland,"
said Ramorny. "Here is penance and restraint, yonder is joy and
freedom."

"Thou hast prevailed, most sage counsellor," replied Rothsay; "but
mark you, it shall be the last of my frolics."

"I trust so," replied Ramorny; "for, when at liberty, you may make
a good accommodation with your royal father."

"I will write to him, Ramorny. Get the writing materials. No, I
cannot put my thoughts in words--do thou write."

"Your Royal Highness forgets," said Ramorny, pointing to his
mutilated arm.

"Ah! that cursed hand of yours. What can we do?"

"So please your Highness," answered his counsellor, "if you would
use the hand of the mediciner, Dwining--he writes like a clerk."

"Hath he a hint of the circumstances? Is he possessed of them?"

"Fully," said Ramorny; and, stepping to the window, he called
Dwining from the boat.

He entered the presence of the Prince of Scotland, creeping as if
he trode upon eggs, with downcast eyes, and a frame that seemed
shrunk up by a sense of awe produced by the occasion.

"There, fellow, are writing materials. I will make trial of you;
thou know'st the case--place my conduct to my father in a fair
light."

Dwining sat down, and in a few minutes wrote a letter, which he
handed to Sir John Ramorny.

"Why, the devil has aided thee, Dwining," said the knight. "Listen,
my dear lord. 'Respected father and liege sovereign--Know that
important considerations induce me to take my departure from this
your court, purposing to make my abode at Falkland, both as the
seat of my dearest uncle Albany, with whom I know your Majesty
would desire me to use all familiarity, and as the residence of one
from whom I have been too long estranged, and with whom I haste to
exchange vows of the closest affection from henceforward.'"

The Duke of Rothsay and Ramorny laughed aloud; and the physician,
who had listened to his own scroll as if it were a sentence of death,
encouraged by their applause, raised his eyes, uttered faintly his
chuckling note of "He! he!" and was again grave and silent, as if
afraid he had transgressed the bounds of reverent respect.

"Admirable!" said the Prince--"admirable! The old man will apply
all this to the Duchess, as they call her, of Rothsay. Dwining, thou
shouldst be a secretis to his Holiness the Pope, who sometimes, it
is said, wants a scribe that can make one word record two meanings.
I will subscribe it, and have the praise of the device."

"And now, my lord," said Ramorny, sealing the letter and leaving
it behind, "will you not to boat?"

"Not till my chamberlain attends with some clothes and necessaries,
and you may call my sewer also."

"My lord," said Ramorny, "time presses, and preparation will but
excite suspicion. Your officers will follow with the mails tomorrow.
For tonight, I trust my poor service may suffice to wait on you at
table and chamber."

"Nay, this time it is thou who forgets," said the Prince, touching
the wounded arm with his walking rod. "Recollect, man, thou canst
neither carve a capon nor tie a point--a goodly sewer or valet
of the mouth!"

Ramorny grinned with rage and pain; for his wound, though in a
way of healing, was still highly sensitive, and even the pointing
a finger towards it made him tremble.

"Will your Highness now be pleased to take boat?"

"Not till I take leave of the Lord Constable. Rothsay must not slip
away, like a thief from a prison, from the house of Errol. Summon
him hither."

"My Lord Duke," said Ramorny, "it may be dangerous to our plan."

"To the devil with danger, thy plan, and thyself! I must and will
act to Errol as becomes us both."

The earl entered, agreeable to the Prince's summons.

"I gave you this trouble, my lord," said Rothsay, with the dignified
courtesy which he knew so well how to assume, "to thank you for your
hospitality and your good company. I can enjoy them no longer, as
pressing affairs call me to Falkland."

"My lord," said the Lord High Constable, "I trust your Grace
remembers that you are--under ward."

"How!--under ward? If I am a prisoner, speak plainly; if not, I
will take my freedom to depart."

"I would, my lord, your Highness would request his Majesty's
permission for this journey. There will be much displeasure."

"Mean you displeasure against yourself, my lord, or against me?"

"I have already said your Highness lies in ward here; but if you
determine to break it, I have no warrant--God forbid--to put
force on your inclinations. I can but entreat your Highness, for
your own sake--"

"Of my own interest I am the best judge. Good evening to you, my
lord."

The wilful Prince stepped into the boat with Dwining and Ramorny,
and, waiting for no other attendance, Eviot pushed off the vessel,
which descended the Tay rapidly by the assistance of sail and oar
and of the ebb tide.

For some space the Duke of Rothsay appeared silent and moody, nor
did his companions interrupt his reflections. He raised his head
at length and said: "My father loves a jest, and when all is over
he will take this frolic at no more serious rate than it deserves
--a fit of youth, with which he will deal as he has with others.
Yonder, my masters, shows the old hold of Kinfauns, frowning above
the Tay. Now, tell me, John Ramorny, how thou hast dealt to get the
Fair Maid of Perth out of the hands of yonder bull headed provost;
for Errol told me it was rumoured that she was under his protection."