As, however, the glee woman could not be found, the real circumstances
of the case were easily guessed at; and the steward went to inform
Sir John Ramorny and Dwining, who were now scarcely ever separate,
of the escape of one of their female captives. Everything awakens the
suspicions of the guilty. They looked on each other with faces of
dismay, and then went together to the humble apartment of Catharine,
that they might take her as much as possible by surprise while they
inquired into the facts attending Louise's disappearance.

"Where is your companion, young woman?" said Ramorny, in a tone of
austere gravity.

"I have no companion here," answered Catharine.

"Trifle not," replied the knight; "I mean the glee maiden, who
lately dwelt in this chamber with you."

"She is gone, they tell me," said Catharine--"gone about an hour
since."

"And whither?" said Dwining.

"How," answered Catharine, "should I know which way a professed
wanderer may choose to travel? She was tired no doubt of a solitary
life, so different from the scenes of feasting and dancing which
her trade leads her to frequent. She is gone, and the only wonder
is that she should have stayed so long."

"This, then," said Ramorny, "is all you have to tell us?"

"All that I have to tell you, Sir John," answered Catharine, firmly;
"and if the Prince himself inquire, I can tell him no more."

"There is little danger of his again doing you the honour to speak
to you in person," said Ramorny, "even if Scotland should escape
being rendered miserable by the sad event of his decease."

"Is the Duke of Rothsay so very ill?" asked Catharine.

"No help, save in Heaven," answered Ramorny, looking upward.

"Then may there yet be help there," said Catharine. "if human aid
prove unavailing!"

"Amen!" said Ramorny, with the most determined gravity; while
Dwining adopted a face fit to echo the feeling, though it seemed
to cost him a painful struggle to suppress his sneering yet soft
laugh of triumph, which was peculiarly excited by anything having
a religious tendency.

"And it is men--earthly men, and not incarnate devils, who thus
appeal to Heaven, while they are devouring by inches the life blood
of their hapless master!" muttered Catharine, as her two baffled
inquisitors left the apartment. "Why sleeps the thunder? But it will
roll ere long, and oh! may it be to preserve as well as to punish!"

The hour of dinner alone afforded a space when, all in the castle
being occupied with that meal, Catharine thought she had the best
opportunity of venturing to the breach in the wall, with the least
chance of being observed. In waiting for the hour, she observed
some stir in the castle, which had been silent as the grave ever
since the seclusion of the Duke of Rothsay. The portcullis was
lowered and raised, and the creaking of the machinery was intermingled
with the tramp of horse, as men at arms went out and returned with
steeds hard ridden and covered with foam. She observed, too, that
such domestics as she casually saw from her window were in arms.
All this made her heart throb high, for it augured the approach of
rescue; and besides, the bustle left the little garden more lonely
than ever. At length the hour of noon arrived; she had taken care
to provide, under pretence of her own wishes, which the pantler
seemed disposed to indulge, such articles of food as could be
the most easily conveyed to the unhappy captive. She whispered to
intimate her presence; there was no answer; she spoke louder, still
there was silence.

"He sleeps," she muttered these words half aloud, and with a shuddering
which was succeeded by a start and a scream, when a voice replied
behind her:

"Yes, he sleeps; but it is for ever."

She looked round. Sir John Ramorny stood behind her in complete armour,
but the visor of his helmet was up, and displayed a countenance more
resembling one about to die than to fight. He spoke with a grave
tone, something between that of a calm observer of an interesting
event and of one who is an agent and partaker in it.

"Catharine," he said, "all is true which I tell you. He is dead.
You have done your best for him; you can do no more."

"I will not--I cannot believe it," said Catharine. "Heaven be
merciful to me! it would make one doubt of Providence, to think so
great a crime has been accomplished."

"Doubt not of Providence, Catharine, though it has suffered the
profligate to fall by his own devices. Follow me; I have that to
say which concerns you. I say follow (for she hesitated), unless
you prefer being left to the mercies of the brute Bonthron and the
mediciner Henbane Dwining."

"I will follow you," said Catharine. "You cannot do more to me than
you are permitted."

He led the way into the tower, and mounted staircase after staircase
and ladder after ladder.

Catharine's resolution failed her. "I will follow no farther," she
said. "Whither would you lead me? If to my death, I can die here."

"Only to the battlements of the castle, fool," said Ramorny,
throwing wide a barred door which opened upon the vaulted roof of
the castle, where men were bending mangonels, as they called them
(military engines, that is, for throwing arrows or stones), getting
ready crossbows, and piling stones together. But the defenders
did not exceed twenty in number, and Catharine thought she could
observe doubt and irresolution amongst them.

"Catharine," said Ramorny, "I must not quit this station, which is
necessary for my defence; but I can speak with you here as well as
elsewhere."

"Say on," answered Catharine, "I am prepared to hear you."

"You have thrust yourself, Catharine, into a bloody secret. Have
you the firmness to keep it?"

"I do not understand you, Sir John," answered the maiden.

"Look you. I have slain--murdered, if you will--my late master,
the Duke of Rothsay. The spark of life which your kindness would
have fed was easily smothered. His last words called on his father.
You are faint--bear up--you have more to hear. You know the
crime, but you know not the provocation. See! this gauntlet is
empty; I lost my right hand in his cause, and when I was no longer
fit to serve him, I was cast off like a worn out hound, my loss
ridiculed, and a cloister recommended, instead of the halls and
palaces in which I had my natural sphere! Think on this--pity
and assist me."

"In what manner can you require my assistance?" said the trembling
maiden; "I can neither repair your loss nor cancel your crime."

"Thou canst be silent, Catharine, on what thou hast seen and heard
in yonder thicket. It is but a brief oblivion I ask of you, whose
word will, I know, be listened to, whether you say such things
were or were not. That of your mountebank companion, the foreigner,
none will hold to be of a pin point's value. If you grant me this,
I will take your promise for my security, and throw the gate open
to those who now approach it. If you will not promise silence, I
defend this castle till every one perishes, and I fling you headlong
from these battlements. Ay, look at them--it is not a leap to be
rashly braved. Seven courses of stairs brought you up hither with
fatigue and shortened breath; but you shall go from the top to
the bottom in briefer time than you can breathe a sigh! Speak the
word, fair maid; for you speak to one unwilling to harm you, but
determined in his purpose."

Catharine stood terrified, and without power of answering a man
who seemed so desperate; but she was saved the necessity of reply
by the approach of Dwining. He spoke with the same humble conges
which at all times distinguished his manner, and with his usual
suppressed ironical sneer, which gave that manner the lie.

"I do you wrong, noble sir, to intrude on your valiancie when
engaged with a fair damsel. But I come to ask a trifling question."

"Speak, tormentor!" said Ramorny; "ill news are sport to thee even
when they affect thyself, so that they concern others also."

"Hem!--he, he!--I only desired to know if your knighthood proposed
the chivalrous task of defending the castle with your single hand
--I crave pardon, I meant your single arm? The question is worth
asking, for I am good for little to aid the defence, unless you
could prevail on the besiegers to take physic--he, he, he!--
and Bonthron is as drunk as ale and strong waters can make him;
and you, he, and I make up the whole garrison who are disposed for
resistance."

"How! Will the other dogs not fight?" said Ramorny.

"Never saw men who showed less stomach to the work," answered Dwining
--"never. But here come a brace of them. Venit extrema dies. He,
he, he!"

Eviot and his companion Buncle now approached, with sullen resolution
in their faces, like men who had made their minds up to resist that
authority which they had so long obeyed.

"How now!" said Ramorny, stepping forward to meet them. "Wherefore
from your posts? Why have you left the barbican, Eviot? And you
other fellow, did I not charge you to look to the mangonels?"

"We have something to tell you, Sir John Ramorny," answered Eviot.
"We will not fight in this quarrel."

"How--my own squires control me?" exclaimed Ramorny.

"We were your squires and pages, my lord, while you were master of
the Duke of Rothsay's household. It is bruited about the Duke no
longer lives; we desire to know the truth."

"What traitor dares spread such falsehoods?" said Ramorny.

"All who have gone out to skirt the forest, my lord, and I myself
among others, bring back the same news. The minstrel woman who left
the castle yesterday has spread the report everywhere that the Duke
of Rothsay is murdered, or at death's door. The Douglas comes on
us with a strong force--"

"And you, cowards, take advantage of an idle report to forsake your
master?" said Ramorny, indignantly.

"My lord," said Eviot, "let Buncle and myself see the Duke of Rothsay,
and receive his personal orders for defence of this castle, and if
we do not fight to the death in that quarrel, I will consent to be
hanged on its highest turret. But if he be gone by natural disease,
we will yield up the castle to the Earl of Douglas, who is, they
say, the King's lieutenant. Or if--which Heaven forefend!--the
noble Prince has had foul play, we will not involve ourselves in
the guilt of using arms in defence of the murderers, be they who
they will."

"Eviot," said Ramorny, raising his mutilated arm, "had not that
glove been empty, thou hadst not lived to utter two words of this
insolence."

"It is as it is," answered Evict, "and we do but our duty. I have
followed you long, my lord, but here I draw bridle."

"Farewell, then, and a curse light on all of you!" exclaimed the
incensed baron. "Let my horse be brought forth!"

"Our valiancie is about to run away," said the mediciner, who had
crept close to Catharine's side before she was aware. "Catharine,
thou art a superstitious fool, like most women; nevertheless thou
hast some mind, and I speak to thee as one of more understanding
than the buffaloes which are herding about us. These haughty barons
who overstride the world, what are they in the day of adversity?
Chaff before the wind. Let their sledge hammer hands or their
column resembling legs have injury, and bah! the men at arms are
gone. Heart and courage is nothing to them, lith and limb everything:
give them animal strength, what are they better than furious bulls;
take that away, and your hero of chivalry lies grovelling like the
brute when he is hamstrung. Not so the sage; while a grain of sense
remains in a crushed or mutilated frame, his mind shall be strong
as ever. Catharine, this morning I was practising your death; but
methinks I now rejoice that you may survive to tell how the poor
mediciner, the pill gilder, the mortar pounder, the poison vender,
met his fate, in company with the gallant Knight of Ramorny, Baron
in possession and Earl of Lindores in expectation--God save his
lordship!"

"Old man," said Catharine, "if thou be indeed so near the day
of thy deserved doom, other thoughts were far wholesomer than the
vainglorious ravings of a vain philosophy. Ask to see a holy man
--"

"Yes," said Dwining, scornfully, "refer myself to a greasy monk,
who does not--he! he! he!--understand the barbarous Latin he
repeats by rote. Such would be a fitting counsellor to one who has
studied both in Spain and Arabia! No, Catharine, I will choose a
confessor that is pleasant to look upon, and you shall be honoured
with the office. Now, look yonder at his valiancie, his eyebrow
drops with moisture, his lip trembles with agony; for his valiancie
--he! he! he!--is pleading for his life with his late domestics,
and has not eloquence enough to persuade them to let him slip.
See how the fibres of his face work as he implores the ungrateful
brutes, whom he has heaped with obligations, to permit him to get
such a start for his life as the hare has from the greyhounds when
men course her fairly. Look also at the sullen, downcast, dogged
faces with which, fluctuating between fear and shame, the domestic
traitors deny their lord this poor chance for his life. These
things thought themselves the superior of a man like me! and you,
foolish wench, think so meanly of your Deity as to suppose wretches
like them are the work of Omnipotence!"

"No! man of evil--no!" said Catharine, warmly; "the God I worship
created these men with the attributes to know and adore Him, to
guard and defend their fellow creatures, to practise holiness and
virtue. Their own vices, and the temptations of the Evil One, have
made them such as they now are. Oh, take the lesson home to thine
own heart of adamant! Heaven made thee wiser than thy fellows, gave
thee eyes to look into the secrets of nature, a sagacious heart,
and a skilful hand; but thy pride has poisoned all these fair gifts,
and made an ungodly atheist of one who might have been a Christian
sage!"

"Atheist, say'st thou?" answered Dwining. "Perhaps I have doubts
on that matter--but they will be soon solved. Yonder comes one
who will send me, as he has done thousands, to the place where all
mysteries shall be cleared."

Catharine followed the mediciner's eye up one of the forest glades,
and beheld it occupied by a body of horsemen advancing at full
gallop. In the midst was a pennon displayed, which, though its
bearings were not visible to Catharine, was, by a murmur around,
acknowledged as that of the Black Douglas. They halted within arrow
shot of the castle, and a herald with two trumpets advanced up to
the main portal, where, after a loud flourish, he demanded admittance
for the high and dreaded Archibald Earl of Douglas, Lord Lieutenant
of the King, and acting for the time with the plenary authority
of his Majesty; commanding, at the same time, that the inmates of
the castle should lay down their arms, all under penalty of high
treason.

"You hear?" said Eviot to Ramorny, who stood sullen and undecided.
"Will you give orders to render the castle, or must I?"

"No, villain!" interrupted the knight, "to the last I will command
you. Open the gates, drop the bridge, and render the castle to the
Douglas."

"Now, that's what may be called a gallant exertion of free will,"
said Dwining. "Just as if the pieces of brass that were screaming
a minute since should pretend to call those notes their own which
are breathed through them by a frowsy trumpeter."

"Wretched man!" said Catharine, "either be silent or turn thy
thoughts to the eternity on the brink of which thou art standing."

"And what is that to thee?" answered Dwining. "Thou canst not, wench,
help hearing what I say to thee, and thou wilt tell it again, for
thy sex cannot help that either. Perth and all Scotland shall know
what a man they have lost in Henbane Dwining!"

The clash of armour now announced that the newcomers had dismounted
and entered the castle, and were in the act of disarming the small
garrison. Earl Douglas himself appeared on the battlements, with
a few of his followers, and signed to them to take Ramorny and
Dwining into custody. Others dragged from some nook the stupefied
Bonthron.

"It was to these three that the custody of the Prince was solely
committed daring his alleged illness?" said the Douglas, prosecuting
an inquiry which he had commenced in the hall of the castle.

"No other saw him, my lord," said Eviot, "though I offered my
services."

"Conduct us to the Duke's apartment, and bring the prisoners with
us. Also should there be a female in the castle, if she hath not
been murdered or spirited away--the companion of the glee maiden
who brought the first alarm."

"She is here, my lord," said Eviot, bringing Catharine forward.

Her beauty and her agitation made some impression even upon the
impassible Earl.

"Fear nothing, maiden," he said; "thou hast deserved both praise and
reward. Tell to me, as thou wouldst confess to Heaven, the things
thou hast witnessed in this castle."

Few words served Catharine to unfold the dreadful story.

"It agrees," said the Douglas, "with the tale of the glee maiden,
from point to point. Now show us the Prince's apartment."

They passed to the room which the unhappy Duke of Rothsay had been
supposed to inhabit; but the key was not to be found, and the Earl
could only obtain entrance by forcing the door. On entering, the
wasted and squalid remains of the unhappy Prince were discovered,
flung on the bed as if in haste. The intention of the murderers
had apparently been to arrange the dead body so as to resemble a
timely parted corpse, but they had been disconcerted by the alarm
occasioned by the escape of Louise. Douglas looked on the body of
the misguided youth, whose wild passions and caprices had brought
him to this fatal and premature catastrophe.

"I had wrongs to be redressed," he said; "but to see such a sight
as this banishes all remembrance of injury!"

"He! he! It should have been arranged," said Dwining, "more to
your omnipotence's pleasure; but you came suddenly on us, and hasty
masters make slovenly service."

Douglas seemed not to hear what his prisoner said, so closely did
he examine the wan and wasted features, and stiffened limbs, of the
dead body before him. Catharine, overcome by sickness and fainting,
at length obtained permission to retire from the dreadful scene,
and, through confusion of every description, found her way to her
former apartment, where she was locked in the arms of Louise, who
had returned in the interval.

The investigations of Douglas proceeded. The dying hand of the
Prince was found to be clenched upon a lock of hair, resembling,
in colour and texture, the coal black bristles of Bonthron. Thus,
though famine had begun the work, it would seem that Rothsay's
death had been finally accomplished by violence. The private stair
to the dungeon, the keys of which were found at the subaltern
assassin's belt, the situation of the vault, its communication with
the external air by the fissure in the walls, and the wretched lair
of straw, with the fetters which remained there, fully confirmed
the story of Catharine and of the glee woman.

"We will not hesitate an instant," said the Douglas to his near
kinsman, the Lord Balveny, as soon as they returned from the dungeon.
"Away with the murderers! hang them over the battlements."

"But, my lord, some trial may be fitting," answered Balveny.

"To what purpose?" answered, Douglas. "I have taken them red hand;
my authority will stretch to instant execution. Yet stay--have
we not some Jedwood men in our troop?"

"Plenty of Turnbulls, Rutherfords, Ainslies, and so forth," said
Balveny.

"Call me an inquest of these together; they are all good men and
true, saving a little shifting for their living. Do yon see to the
execution of these felons, while I hold a court in the great hall,
and we'll try whether the jury or the provost marshal do their
work first; we will have Jedwood justice--hang in haste and try
at leisure."

"Yet stay, my lord," said Ramorny, "you may rue your haste--will
you grant me a word out of earshot?"

"Not for worlds!" said Douglas; "speak out what thou hast to say
before all that are here present."

"Know all; then," said Ramorny, aloud, "that this noble Earl had
letters from the Duke of Albany and myself, sent him by the hand
of yon cowardly deserter, Buncle--let him deny it if he dare--
counselling the removal of the Duke for a space from court, and
his seclusion in this Castle of Falkland."

"But not a word," replied Douglas, sternly smiling, "of his being
flung into a dungeon--famished--strangled. Away with the
wretches, Balveny, they pollute God's air too long!"

The prisoners were dragged off to the battlements. But while the
means of execution were in the act of being prepared, the apothecary
expressed so ardent a desire to see Catharine once more, and, as
he said, for the good of his soul, that the maiden, in hopes his
obduracy might have undergone some change even at the last hour,
consented again to go to the battlements, and face a scene which her
heart recoiled from. A single glance showed her Bonthron, sunk in
total and drunken insensibility; Ramorny, stripped of his armour,
endeavouring in vain to conceal fear, while he spoke with a priest,
whose good offices he had solicited; and Dwining, the same humble,
obsequious looking, crouching individual she had always known him.
He held in his hand a little silver pen, with which he had been
writing on a scrap of parchment.

"Catharine," he said--"he, he, he!--I wish to speak to thee on
the nature of my religious faith."

"If such be thy intention, why lose time with me? Speak with this
good father."

"The good father," said Dwining, "is--he, he!--already a
worshipper of the deity whom I have served. I therefore prefer to
give the altar of mine idol a new worshipper in thee, Catharine.
This scrap of parchment will tell thee how to make your way into
my chapel, where I have worshipped so often in safety. I leave the
images which it contains to thee as a legacy, simply because I hate
and contemn thee something less than any of the absurd wretches
whom I have hitherto been obliged to call fellow creatures. And
now away--or remain and see if the end of the quacksalver belies
his life."

"Our Lady forbid!" said Catharine.

"Nay," said the mediciner, "I have but a single word to say, and
yonder nobleman's valiancie may hear it if he will."

Lord Balveny approached, with some curiosity; for the undaunted
resolution of a man who never wielded sword or bore armour and was
in person a poor dwindled dwarf, had to him an air of something
resembling sorcery."

"You see this trifling implement," said the criminal, showing the
silver pen. "By means of this I can escape the power even of the
Black Douglas."

"Give him no ink nor paper," said Balveny, hastily, "he will draw
a spell."

"Not so, please your wisdom and valiancie--he, he, he!" said
Dwining with his usual chuckle, as he unscrewed the top of the
pen, within which was a piece of sponge or some such substance, no
bigger than a pea.

"Now, mark this--" said the prisoner, and drew it between his
lips. The effect was instantaneous. He lay a dead corpse before
them, the contemptuous sneer still on his countenance.

Catharine shrieked and fled, seeking, by a hasty descent, an escape
from a sight so appalling. Lord Balveny was for a moment stupified,
and then exclaimed, "This may be glamour! hang him over the
battlements, quick or dead. If his foul spirit hath only withdrawn
for a space, it shall return to a body with a dislocated neck."

His commands were obeyed. Ramorny and Bonthron were then ordered for
execution. The last was hanged before he seemed quite to comprehend
what was designed to be done with him. Ramorny, pale as death,
yet with the same spirit of pride which had occasioned his ruin,
pleaded his knighthood, and demanded the privilege of dying by
decapitation by the sword, and not by the noose.

"The Douglas never alters his doom," said Balveny. "But thou shalt
have all thy rights. Send the cook hither with a cleaver."

The menial whom he called appeared at his summons.

"What shakest thou for, fellow?" said Balveny; "here, strike me
this man's gilt spurs from his heels with thy cleaver. And now, John
Ramorny, thou art no longer a knight, but a knave. To the halter
with him, provost marshal! hang him betwixt his companions, and
higher than them if it may be."

In a quarter of an hour afterwards, Balveny descended to tell the
Douglas that the criminals were executed.

"Then there is no further use in the trial," said the Earl. "How
say you, good men of inquest, were these men guilty of high treason
--ay or no?"

"Guilty," exclaimed the obsequious inquest, with edifying unanimity,
"we need no farther evidence."

"Sound trumpets, and to horse then, with our own train only;
and let each man keep silence on what has chanced here, until the
proceedings shall be laid before the King, which cannot conveniently
be till the battle of Palm Sunday shall be fought and ended. Select
our attendants, and tell each man who either goes with us or remains
behind that he who prates dies."

In a few minutes the Douglas was on horseback, with the followers
selected to attend his person. Expresses were sent to his daughter,
the widowed Duchess of Rothsay, directing her to take her course
to Perth, by the shores of Lochleven, without approaching Falkland,
and committing to her charge Catharine Glover and the glee woman,
as persons whose safety he tendered.

As they rode through the forest, they looked back, and beheld the
three bodies hanging, like specks darkening the walls of the old
castle.

"The hand is punished," said Douglas, "but who shall arraign the
head by whose direction the act was done?"

"You mean the Duke of Albany?" said Balveny.

"I do, kinsman; and were I to listen to the dictates of my heart,
I would charge him with the deed, which I am certain he has
authorised. But there is no proof of it beyond strong suspicion,
and Albany has attached to himself the numerous friends of the house
of Stuart, to whom, indeed, the imbecility of the King and the ill
regulated habits of Rothsay left no other choice of a leader. Were
I, therefore, to break the bond which I have so lately formed with
Albany, the consequence must be civil war, an event ruinous to
poor Scotland while threatened by invasion from the activity of the
Percy, backed by the treachery of March. No, Balveny, the punishment
of Albany must rest with Heaven, which, in its own good time, will
execute judgment on him and on his house."



CHAPTER XXXIII.

The hour is nigh: now hearts beat high;
Each sword is sharpen'd well;
And who dares die, who stoops to fly,
Tomorrow's light shall tell.

Sir Edwald.


We are now to recall to our reader's recollection, that Simon
Glover and his fair daughter had been hurried from their residence
without having time to announce to Henry Smith either their departure
or the alarming cause of it. When, therefore, the lover appeared
in Curfew Street, on the morning of their flight, instead of the
hearty welcome of the honest burgher, and the April reception,
half joy half censure, which he had been promised on the part of
his lovely daughter, he received only the astounding intelligence,
that her father and she had set off early, on the summons of a
stranger, who had kept himself carefully muffled from observation. To
this, Dorothy, whose talents for forestalling evil, and communicating
her views of it, are known to the reader, chose to add, that
she had no doubt her master and young mistress were bound for the
Highlands, to avoid a visit which had been made since their departure
by two or three apparitors, who, in the name of a Commission
appointed by the King, had searched the house, put seals upon such
places as were supposed to contain papers, and left citations for
father and daughter to appear before the Court of Commission, on a
day certain, under pain of outlawry. All these alarming particulars
Dorothy took care to state in the gloomiest colours, and the only
consolation which she afforded the alarmed lover was, that her
master had charged her to tell him to reside quietly at Perth, and
that he should soon hear news of them. This checked the smith's
first resolve, which was to follow them instantly to the Highlands,
and partake the fate which they might encounter.

But when he recollected his repeated feuds with divers of the
Clan Quhele, and particularly his personal quarrel with Conachar,
who was now raised to be a high chief, he could not but think, on
reflection, that his intrusion on their place of retirement was
more likely to disturb the safety which they might otherwise enjoy
there than be of any service to them. He was well acquainted with
Simon's habitual intimacy with the chief of the Clan Quhele, and
justly augured that the glover would obtain protection, which his
own arrival might be likely to disturb, while his personal prowess
could little avail him in a quarrel with a whole tribe of vindictive
mountaineers. At the same time his heart throbbed with indignation,
when he thought of Catharine being within the absolute power of
young Conachar, whose rivalry he could not doubt, and who had now
so many means of urging his suit. What if the young chief should
make the safety of the father depend on the favour of the daughter?
He distrusted not Catharine's affections, but then her mode of
thinking was so disinterested, and her attachment to her father so
tender, that, if the love she bore her suitor was weighed against
his security, or perhaps his life, it was matter of deep and awful
doubt whether it might not be found light in the balance. Tormented
by thoughts on which we need not dwell, he resolved nevertheless
to remain at home, stifle his anxiety as he might, and await the
promised intelligence from the old man. It came, but it did not
relieve his concern.

Sir Patrick Charteris had not forgotten his promise to communicate
to the smith the plans of the fugitives. But, amid the bustle
occasioned by the movement of troops, he could not himself convey
the intelligence. He therefore entrusted to his agent, Kitt Henshaw,
the task of making it known. But this worthy person, as the reader
knows, was in the interest of Ramorny, whose business it was to
conceal from every one, but especially from a lover so active and
daring as Henry, the real place of Catharine's residence. Henshaw
therefore announced to the anxious smith that his friend the glover
was secure in the Highlands; and though he affected to be more
reserved on the subject of Catharine, he said little to contradict
the belief that she as well as Simon shared the protection of the
Clan Quhele. But he reiterated, in the name of Sir Patrick, assurances
that father and daughter were both well, and that Henry would best
consult his own interest and their safety by remaining quiet and
waiting the course of events.

With an agonized heart, therefore, Henry Gow determined to remain
quiet till he had more certain intelligence, and employed himself
in finishing a shirt of mail, which he intended should be the best
tempered and the most finely polished that his skilful hands had
ever executed. This exercise of his craft pleased him better than
any other occupation which he could have adopted, and served as an
apology for secluding himself in his workshop, and shunning society,
where the idle reports which were daily circulated served only to
perplex and disturb him. He resolved to trust in the warm regard
of Simon, the faith of his daughter, and the friendship of the
provost, who, having so highly commended his valour in the combat
with Bonthron, would never, he thought, desert him at this extremity
of his fortunes. Time, however, passed on day by day; and it was not
till Palm Sunday was near approaching, that Sir Patrick Charteris,
having entered the city to make some arrangements for the ensuing
combat, bethought himself of making a visit to the Smith of the
Wynd.

He entered his workshop with an air of sympathy unusual to him,
and which made Henry instantly augur that he brought bad news. The
smith caught the alarm, and the uplifted hammer was arrested in its
descent upon the heated iron, while the agitated arm that wielded
it, strong before as that of a giant, became so powerless, that
it was with difficulty Henry was able to place the weapon on the
ground, instead of dropping it from his hand.

"My poor Henry," said Sir Patrick, "I bring you but cold news; they
are uncertain, however, and, if true, they are such as a brave man
like you should not take too deeply to heart."

"In God's name, my lord," said Henry, "I trust you bring no evil
news of Simon Glover or his daughter?"

"Touching themselves," said Sir Patrick, "no: they are safe and
well. But as to thee, Henry, my tidings are more cold. Kitt Henshaw
has, I think, apprised thee that I had endeavoured to provide
Catharine Glover with a safe protection in the house of an honourable
lady, the Duchess of Rothsay. But she hath declined the charge,
and Catharine hath been sent to her father in the Highlands. What
is worst is to come. Thou mayest have heard that Gilchrist MacIan
is dead, and that his son Eachin, who was known in Perth as the
apprentice of old Simon, by the name of Conachar, is now the chief
of Clan Quhele; and I heard from one of my domestics that there
is a strong rumour among the MacIans that the young chief seeks
the hand of Catharine in marriage. My domestic learned this--
as a secret, however--while in the Breadalbane country, on some
arrangements touching the ensuing combat. The thing is uncertain
but, Henry, it wears a face of likelihood."

"Did your lordship's servant see Simon Glover and his daughter?"
said Henry, struggling for breath, and coughing, to conceal from
the provost the excess of his agitation.

"He did not," said Sir Patrick; "the Highlanders seemed jealous,
and refused to permit him to speak to the old man, and he feared
to alarm them by asking to see Catharine. Besides, he talks no
Gaelic, nor had his informer much English, so there may be some
mistake in the matter. Nevertheless, there is such a report, and
I thought it best to tell it you. But you may be well assured that
the wedding cannot go on till the affair of Palm Sunday be over;
and I advise you to take no step till we learn the circumstances
of the matter, for certainty is most desirable, even when it is
painful. Go you to the council house," he added, after a pause,
"to speak about the preparations for the lists in the North Inch?
You will be welcome there."

"No, my good lord."

"Well, Smith, I judge by your brief answer that you are discomposed
with this matter; but, after all, women are weathercocks, that is
the truth on't. Solomon and others have proved it before you."

And so Sir Patrick Charteris retired, fully convinced he had discharged
the office of a comforter in the most satisfactory manner.

With very different impressions did the unfortunate lover regard
the tidings and listen to the consoling commentary.

"The provost," he said bitterly to himself, "is an excellent man;
marry, he holds his knighthood so high, that, if he speaks nonsense,
a poor man must hold it sense, as he must praise dead ale if it be
handed to him in his lordship's silver flagon. How would all this
sound in another situation? Suppose I were rolling down the steep
descent of the Corrichie Dhu, and before I came to the edge of the
rock, comes my Lord Provost, and cries: 'Henry, there is a deep
precipice, and I grieve to say you are in the fair way of rolling
over it. But be not downcast, for Heaven may send a stone or a bush
to stop your progress. However, I thought it would be comfort to
you to know the worst, which you will be presently aware of. I do
not know how many hundred feet deep the precipice descends, but
you may form a judgment when you are at the bottom, for certainty
is certainty. And hark ye! when come you to take a game at bowls?'
And this gossip is to serve instead of any friendly attempt to
save the poor wight's neck! When I think of this, I could go mad,
seize my hammer, and break and destroy all around me. But I will
be calm; and if this Highland kite, who calls himself a falcon,
should stoop at my turtle dove, he shall know whether a burgess of
Perth can draw a bow or not."

It was now the Thursday before the fated Palm Sunday, and the
champions on either side were expected to arrive the next day,
that they might have the interval of Saturday to rest, refresh
themselves, and prepare for the combat. Two or three of each of
the contending parties were detached to receive directions about
the encampment of their little band, and such other instructions as
might be necessary to the proper ordering of the field. Henry was
not, therefore, surprised at seeing a tall and powerful Highlander
peering anxiously about the wynd in which he lived, in the manner
in which the natives of a wild country examine the curiosities
of one that is more civilized. The smith's heart rose against the
man on account of his country, to which our Perth burgher bore a
natural prejudice, and more especially as he observed the individual
wear the plaid peculiar to the Clan Quhele. The sprig of oak leaves,
worked in silk, intimated also that the individual was one of those
personal guards of young Eachin, upon whose exertions in the future
battle so much reliance was placed by those of their clan.

Having observed so much, Henry withdrew into his smithy, for the
sight of the man raised his passion; and, knowing that the Highlander
came plighted to a solemn combat, and could not be the subject of
any inferior quarrel, he was resolved at least to avoid friendly
intercourse with him. In a few minutes, however, the door of the
smithy flew open, and flattering in his tartans, which greatly
magnified his actual size, the Gael entered with the haughty step
of a man conscious of a personal dignity superior to anything which
he is likely to meet with. He stood looking around him, and seemed
to expect to be received with courtesy and regarded with wonder.
But Henry had no sort of inclination to indulge his vanity and kept
hammering away at a breastplate which was lying upon his anvil as
if he were not aware of his visitor's presence.

"You are the Gow Chrom?" (the bandy legged smith), said the
Highlander.

"Those that wish to be crook backed call me so," answered Henry.

"No offence meant," said the Highlander; "but her own self comes
to buy an armour."

"Her own self's bare shanks may trot hence with her," answered
Henry; "I have none to sell."

"If it was not within two days of Palm Sunday, herself would make
you sing another song," retorted the Gael.

"And being the day it is," said Henry, with the same contemptuous
indifference, "I pray you to stand out of my light."

"You are an uncivil person; but her own self is fir nan ord too;
and she knows the smith is fiery when the iron is hot."

"If her nainsell be hammer man herself, her nainsell may make her
nain harness," replied Henry.

"And so her nainsell would, and never fash you for the matter; but
it is said, Gow Chrom, that you sing and whistle tunes over the
swords and harnishes that you work, that have power to make the
blades cut steel links as if they were paper, and the plate and
mail turn back steel lances as if they were boddle prins?"

"They tell your ignorance any nonsense that Christian men refuse to
believe," said Henry. "I whistle at my work whatever comes uppermost,
like an honest craftsman, and commonly it is the Highlandman's 'Och
hone for Houghman stares!' My hammer goes naturally to that tune."

"Friend, it is but idle to spur a horse when his legs are ham
shackled," said the Highlander, haughtily. "Her own self cannot
fight even now, and there is little gallantry in taunting her thus."

"By nails and hammer, you are right there," said the smith, altering
his tone. "But speak out at once, friend, what is it thou wouldst
have of me? I am in no humour for dallying."

"A hauberk for her chief, Eachin MacIan," said the Highlander.

"You are a hammer man, you say? Are you a judge of this?" said our
smith, producing from a chest the mail shirt on which he had been
lately employed.

The Gael handled it with a degree of admiration which had something
of envy in it. He looked curiously at every part of its texture,
and at length declared it the very best piece of armour that he
had ever seen.

"A hundred cows and bullocks and a good drift of sheep would be e'en
ower cheap an offer," said the Highlandman, by way of tentative;
"but her nainsell will never bid thee less, come by them how she
can."

"It is a fair proffer," replied Henry; "but gold nor gear will never
buy that harness. I want to try my own sword on my own armour, and
I will not give that mail coat to any one but who will face me for
the best of three blows and a thrust in the fair field; and it is
your chief's upon these terms."

"Hut, prut, man--take a drink and go to bed," said the Highlander,
in great scorn. "Are ye mad? Think ye the captain of the Clan Quhele
will be brawling and battling with a bit Perth burgess body like
you? Whisht, man, and hearken. Her nainsell will do ye mair credit
than ever belonged to your kin. She will fight you for the fair
harness hersell."

"She must first show that she is my match," said Henry, with a grim
smile.

"How! I, one of Eachin MacIan's leichtach, and not your match!"

"You may try me, if you will. You say you are a fir nan ord. Do
you know how to cast a sledge hammer?"

"Ay, truly--ask the eagle if he can fly over Farragon."

"But before you strive with me, you must first try a cast with one
of my leichtach. Here, Dunter, stand forth for the honour of Perth!
And now, Highlandman, there stands a row of hammers; choose which
you will, and let us to the garden."

The Highlander whose name was Norman nan Ord, or Norman of the
Hammer, showed his title to the epithet by selecting the largest
hammer of the set, at which Henry smiled. Dunter, the stout
journeyman of the smith, made what was called a prodigious cast;
but the Highlander, making a desperate effort, threw beyond it by
two or three feet, and looked with an air of triumph to Henry, who
again smiled in reply.

"Will you mend that?" said the Gael, offering our smith the hammer.

"Not with that child's toy," said Henry, "which has scarce weight
to fly against the wind. Jannekin, fetch me Sampson; or one of you
help the boy, for Sampson is somewhat ponderous."

The hammer now produced was half as heavy again as that which the
Highlander had selected as one of unusual weight. Norman stood
astonished; but he was still more so when Henry, taking his position,
swung the ponderous implement far behind his right haunch joint,
and dismissed it from his hand as if it had flown from a warlike
engine. The air groaned and whistled as the mass flew through it.
Down at length it came, and the iron head sunk a foot into the
earth, a full yard beyond the cast of Norman.

The Highlander, defeated and mortified, went to the spot where the
weapon lay, lifted it, poised it in his hand with great wonder,
and examined it closely, as if he expected to discover more in it
than a common hammer. He at length returned it to the owner with a
melancholy smile, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head as
the smith asked him whether he would not mend his cast.

"Norman has lost too much at the sport already," he replied. "She
has lost her own name of the Hammerer. But does her own self, the
Gow Chrom, work at the anvil with that horse's load of iron?"

"You shall see, brother," said Henry, leading the way to the
smithy. "Dunter," he said, "rax me that bar from the furnace"; and
uplifting Sampson, as he called the monstrous hammer, he plied the
metal with a hundred strokes from right to left--now with the
right hand, now with the left, now with both, with so much strength
at once and dexterity, that he worked off a small but beautifully
proportioned horseshoe in half the time that an ordinary smith would
have taken for the same purpose, using a more manageable implement.

"Oigh--oigh!" said the Highlander, "and what for would you
be fighting with our young chief, who is far above your standard,
though you were the best smith ever wrought with wind and fire?"

"Hark you!" said Henry; "you seem a good fellow, and I'll tell you
the truth. Your master has wronged me, and I give him this harness
freely for the chance of fighting him myself."

"Nay, if he hath wronged you he must meet you," said the life
guardsman. "To do a man wrong takes the eagle's feather out of the
chief's bonnet; and were he the first in the Highlands, and to be
sure so is Eachin, he must fight the man he has wronged, or else
a rose falls from his chaplet."

"Will you move him to this," said Henry, "after the fight on Sunday?"

"Oh, her nainsell will do her best, if the hawks have not got her
nainsell's bones to pick; for you must know, brother, that Clan
Chattan's claws pierce rather deep."

"The armour is your chief's on that condition," said Henry; "but I
will disgrace him before king and court if he does not pay me the
price."

"Deil a fear--deil a fear; I will bring him in to the barrace
myself," said Norman, "assuredly."

"You will do me a pleasure," replied Henry; "and that you may
remember your promise, I will bestow on you this dirk. Look--if
you hold it truly, and can strike between the mail hood and the
collar of your enemy, the surgeon will be needless."

The Highlander was lavish in his expressions of gratitude, and took
his leave.

"I have given him the best mail harness I ever wrought," said the
smith to himself, rather repenting his liberality, "for the poor
chance that he will bring his chief into a fair field with me; and
then let Catharine be his who can win her fairly. But much I dread
the youth will find some evasion, unless he have such luck on Palm
Sunday as may induce him to try another combat. That is some hope,
however; for I have often, ere now, seen a raw young fellow shoot
up after his first fight from a dwarf into a giant queller."

Thus, with little hope, but with the most determined resolution,
Henry Smith awaited the time that should decide his fate. What made
him augur the worst was the silence both of the glover and of his
daughter.

"They are ashamed," he said, "to confess the truth to me, and
therefore they are silent."

Upon the Friday at noon, the two bands of thirty men each,
representing the contending clans, arrived at the several points
where they were to halt for refreshments.

The Clan Quhele was entertained hospitably at the rich abbey
of Scone, while the provost regaled their rivals at his Castle of
Kinfauns, the utmost care being taken to treat both parties with
the most punctilious attention, and to afford neither an opportunity
of complaining of partiality. All points of etiquette were, in the
mean while, discussed and settled by the Lord High Constable Errol
and the young Earl of Crawford, the former acting on the part of the
Clan Chattan and the latter patronising the Clan Quhele. Messengers
were passing continually from the one earl to the other, and
they held more than: six meetings within thirty hours, before the
ceremonial of the field could be exactly arranged.

Meanwhile, in case of revival of ancient quarrel, many seeds of
which existed betwixt the burghers and their mountain neighbours,
a proclamation commanded the citizens not to approach within half
a mile of the place where the Highlanders were quartered; while on
their part the intended combatants were prohibited from approaching
Perth without special license. Troops were stationed to enforce
this order, who did their charge so scrupulously as to prevent Simon
Glover himself, burgess and citizen of Perth, from approaching the
town, because he owned having come thither at the same time with
the champions of Eachin MacIan, and wore a plaid around him of their
check or pattern. This interruption prevented Simon from seeking
out Henry Wynd and possessing him with a true knowledge of all
that had happened since their separation, which intercourse, had
it taken place, must have materially altered the catastrophe of
our narrative.

On Saturday afternoon another arrival took place, which interested
the city almost as much as the preparations for the expected combat.
This was the approach of the Earl Douglas, who rode through the
town with a troop of only thirty horse, but all of whom were knights
and gentlemen of the first consequence. Men's eyes followed this
dreaded peer as they pursue the flight of an eagle through the
clouds, unable to ken the course of the bird of Jove yet silent,
attentive, and as earnest in observing him as if they could guess
the object for which he sweeps through the firmament; He rode
slowly through the city, and passed out at the northern gate. He
next alighted at the Dominican convent and desired to see the Duke
of Albany. The Earl was introduced instantly, and received by the
Duke with a manner which was meant to be graceful and conciliatory,
but which could not conceal both art and inquietude. When the first
greetings were over, the Earl said with great gravity: "I bring you
melancholy news. Your Grace's royal nephew, the Duke of Rothsay,
is no more, and I fear hath perished by some foul practices."

"Practices!" said the Duke' in confusion--"what practices? Who
dared practise on the heir of the Scottish throne?"

"'Tis not for me to state how these doubts arise," said Douglas;
"but men say the eagle was killed with an arrow fledged from his
own wing, and the oak trunk rent by a wedge of the same wood."

"Earl of Douglas," said the Duke of Albany, "I am no reader of
riddles."

"Nor am I a propounder of them," said Douglas, haughtily, "Your
Grace will find particulars in these papers worthy of perusal. I
will go for half an hour to the cloister garden, and then rejoin
you."

"You go not to the King, my lord?" said Albany.

"No," answered Douglas; "I trust your Grace will agree with me that
we should conceal this great family misfortune from our sovereign
till the business of tomorrow be decided."