"Yes--respect; and who pays any respect to me?" said the haughty
young lord. "A miserable artisan and his daughter, too much honoured
by my slightest notice, have the insolence to tell me that my notice
dishonours them. Well, my princess of white doe skin and blue silk,
I will teach you to rue this."

As he murmured thus, the glover and his daughter entered the
Dominican church, and their attendant, Conachar, in attempting to
follow them closely, jostled, it may be not unwillingly, the young
nobleman. The gallant, starting from his unpleasing reverie, and
perhaps considering this as an intentional insult, seized on the
young man by the breast, struck him, and threw him from him. His
irritated opponent recovered himself with difficulty, and grasped
towards his own side, as if seeking a sword or dagger in the place
where it was usually worn; but finding none, he made a gesture of
disappointed rage, and entered the church. During the few seconds
he remained, the young nobleman stood with his arms folded on his
breast, with a haughty smile, as if defying him to do his worst.
When Conachar had entered the church, his opponent, adjusting his
cloak yet closer about his face, made a private signal by holding
up one of his gloves. He was instantly joined by two men, who,
disguised like himself, had waited his motions at a little distance.
They spoke together earnestly, after which the young nobleman retired
in one direction, his friends or followers going off in another.

Simon Glover, before he entered the church, cast a look towards the
group, but had taken his place among the congregation before they
separated themselves. He knelt down with the air of a man who has
something burdensome on his mind; but when the service was ended,
he seemed free from anxiety, as one who had referred himself and
his troubles to the disposal of Heaven. The ceremony of High Mass
was performed with considerable solemnity, a number of noblemen
and ladies of rank being present. Preparations had indeed been made
for the reception of the good old King himself, but some of those
infirmities to which he was subject had prevented Robert III
from attending the service as was his wont. When the congregation
were dismissed, the glover and his beautiful daughter lingered
for some time, for the purpose of making their several shrifts in
the confessionals, where the priests had taken their places for
discharging that part of their duty. Thus it happened that the
night had fallen dark, and the way was solitary, when they returned
along the now deserted streets to their own dwelling.

Most persons had betaken themselves to home and to bed. They who
still lingered in the street were night walkers or revellers, the
idle and swaggering retainers of the haughty nobles, who were much
wont to insult the peaceful passengers, relying on the impunity
which their masters' court favour was too apt to secure them.

It was, perhaps, in apprehension of mischief from some character of
this kind that Conachar, stepping up to the glover, said, "Master,
walk faster--we are dogg'd."

"Dogg'd, sayest thou? By whom and by how many?"

"By one man muffled in his cloak, who follows us like our shadow."

"Then will it never mend my pace along the Couvrefew Street for
the best one man that ever trode it."

"But he has arms," said Conachar.

"And so have we, and hands, and legs, and feet. Why, sure, Conachar,
you are not afraid of one man?"

"Afraid!" answered Conachar, indignant at the insinuation; "you
shall soon know if I am afraid."

"Now you are as far on the other side of the mark, thou foolish
boy: thy temper has no middle course; there is no occasion to make
a brawl, though we do not run. Walk thou before with Catharine,
and I will take thy place. We cannot be exposed to danger so near
home as we are."

The glover fell behind accordingly, and certainly observed a person
keep so close to them as, the time and place considered, justified
some suspicion. When they crossed the street, he also crossed it,
and when they advanced or slackened their pace, the stranger's
was in proportion accelerated or diminished. The matter would have
been of very little consequence had Simon Glover been alone; but
the beauty of his daughter might render her the object of some
profligate scheme, in a country where the laws afforded such slight
protection to those who had not the means to defend themselves.

Conachar and his fair charge having arrived on the threshold
of their own apartment, which was opened to them by an old female
servant, the burgher's uneasiness was ended. Determined, however,
to ascertain, if possible, whether there had been any cause for it,
he called out to the man whose motions had occasioned the alarm,
and who stood still, though he seemed to keep out of reach of the
light. "Come, step forward, my friend, and do not play at bo peep;
knowest thou not, that they who walk like phantoms in the dark are
apt to encounter the conjuration of a quarterstaff? Step forward,
I say, and show us thy shapes, man."

"Why, so I can, Master Glover," said one of the deepest voices that
ever answered question. "I can show my shapes well enough, only I
wish they could bear the light something better."

"Body of me," exclaimed Simon, "I should know that voice! And is
it thou, in thy bodily person, Harry Gow? Nay, beshrew me if thou
passest this door with dry lips. What, man, curfew has not rung
yet, and if it had, it were no reason why it should part father
and son. Come in, man; Dorothy shall get us something to eat, and
we will jingle a can ere thou leave us. Come in, I say; my daughter
Kate will be right glad to see thee."

By this time he had pulled the person, whom he welcomed so cordially,
into a sort of kitchen, which served also upon ordinary occasions
the office of parlour. Its ornaments were trenchers of pewter,
mixed with a silver cup or two, which, in the highest degree of
cleanliness, occupied a range of shelves like those of a beauffet,
popularly called "the bink." A good fire, with the assistance of a
blazing lamp, spread light and cheerfulness through the apartment,
and a savoury smell of some victuals which Dorothy was preparing
did not at all offend the unrefined noses of those whose appetite
they were destined to satisfy.

Their unknown attendant now stood in full light among them, and
though his appearance was neither dignified nor handsome, his face
and figure were not only deserving of attention, but seemed in some
manner to command it. He was rather below the middle stature, but
the breadth of his shoulders, length and brawniness of his arms,
and the muscular appearance of the whole man, argued a most unusual
share of strength, and a frame kept in vigour by constant exercise.
His legs were somewhat bent, but not in a manner which could be
said to approach to deformity, on the contrary, which seemed to
correspond to the strength of his frame, though it injured in some
degree its symmetry.

His dress was of buff hide; and he wore in a belt around his waist
a heavy broadsword, and a dirk or poniard, as if to defend his
purse, which (burgher fashion) was attached to the same cincture.
The head was well proportioned, round, close cropped, and curled
thickly with black hair. There was daring and resolution in the dark
eye, but the other features seemed to express a bashful timidity,
mingled with good humor, and obvious satisfaction at meeting with
his old friends.

Abstracted from the bashful expression, which was that of the moment,
the forehead of Henry Gow, or Smith, for he was indifferently so
called, was high and noble, but the lower part of the face was less
happily formed. The mouth was large, and well furnished with a set
of firm and beautiful teeth, the appearance of which corresponded
with the air of personal health and muscular strength which the
whole frame indicated. A short thick beard, and mustachios which
had lately been arranged with some care, completed the picture.
His age could not exceed eight and twenty.

The family appeared all well pleased with the unexpected appearance
of an old friend. Simon Glover shook his hand again and again,
Dorothy made her compliments, and Catharine herself offered freely
her hand, which Henry held in his massive grasp, as if he designed
to carry it to his lips, but, after a moment's hesitation, desisted,
from fear lest the freedom might be ill taken. Not that there was
any resistance on the part of the little hand which lay passive
in his grasp; but there was a smile mingled with the blush on her
cheek, which seemed to increase the confusion of the gallant.

Her father, on his part, called out frankly, as he saw his friend's
hesitation: "Her lips, man--her lips! and that's a proffer I
would not make to every one who crosses my threshold. But, by good
St. Valentine, whose holyday will dawn tomorrow, I am so glad to
see thee in the bonny city of Perth again that it would be hard to
tell the thing I could refuse thee."

The smith, for, as has been said, such was the craft of this
sturdy artisan, was encouraged modestly to salute the Fair Maid,
who yielded the courtesy with a smile of affection that might
have become a sister, saying, at the same time: "Let me hope that
I welcome back to Perth a repentant and amended man."

He held her hand as if about to answer, then suddenly, as one who
lost courage at the moment, relinquished his grasp; and drawing
back as if afraid of what he had done, his dark countenance glowing
with bashfulness, mixed with delight, he sat down by the fire on
the opposite side from that which Catharine occupied.

"Come, Dorothy, speed thee with the food, old woman; and Conachar
--where is Conachar?"

"He is gone to bed, sir, with a headache," said Catharine, in a
hesitating voice.

"Go, call him, Dorothy," said the old glover; "I will not be used
thus by him: his Highland blood, forsooth, is too gentle to lay
a trencher or spread a napkin, and he expects to enter our ancient
and honourable craft without duly waiting and tending upon his
master and teacher in all matters of lawful obedience. Go, call
him, I say; I will not be thus neglected."

Dorothy was presently heard screaming upstairs, or more probably
up a ladder, to the cock loft, to which the recusant apprentice
had made an untimely retreat; a muttered answer was returned, and
soon after Conachar appeared in the eating apartment. There was a
gloom of deep sullenness on his haughty, though handsome, features,
and as he proceeded to spread the board, and arrange the trenchers,
with salt, spices, and other condiments--to discharge, in short,
the duties of a modern domestic, which the custom of the time imposed
upon all apprentices--he was obviously disgusted and indignant
with the mean office imposed upon him.

The Fair Maid of Perth looked with some anxiety at him, as if
apprehensive that his evident sullenness might increase her father's
displeasure; but it was not till her eyes had sought out his for a
second time that Conachar condescended to veil his dissatisfaction,
and throw a greater appearance of willingness and submission into
the services which he was performing.

And here we must acquaint our reader that, though the private
interchange of looks betwixt Catharine Glover and the young mountaineer
indicated some interest on the part of the former in the conduct
of the latter, it would have puzzled the strictest observer to
discover whether that feeling exceeded in degree what might have
been felt by a young person towards a friend and inmate of the same
age, with whom she had lived on habits of intimacy.

"Thou hast had a long journey, son Henry," said Glover, who had
always used that affectionate style of speech, though no ways akin
to the young artisan; "ay, and hast seen many a river besides Tay,
and many a fair bigging besides St. Johnston."

"But none that I like half so well, and none that are half so
much worth my liking," answered the smith. "I promise you, father,
that, when I crossed the Wicks of Baiglie, and saw the bonny city
lie stretched fairly before me like a fairy queen in romance, whom
the knight finds asleep among a wilderness of flowers, I felt even
as a bird when it folds its wearied wings to stoop down on its own
nest."

"Aha! so thou canst play the maker [old Scottish for poet] yet?"
said the glover. "What, shall we have our ballets and our roundels
again? our lusty carols for Christmas, and our mirthful springs to
trip it round the maypole?"

"Such toys there may be forthcoming, father," said Henry Smith,
"though the blast of the bellows and the clatter of the anvil make
but coarse company to lays of minstrelsy; but I can afford them no
better, since I must mend my fortune, though I mar my verses."

"Right again--my own son just," answered the glover; "and I trust
thou hast made a saving voyage of it?"

"Nay, I made a thriving one, father: I sold the steel habergeon
that you wot of for four hundred marks to the English Warden of the
East Marches, Sir Magnus Redman. He scarce scrupled a penny after
I gave him leave to try a sword dint upon it. The beggardly Highland
thief who bespoke it boggled at half the sum, though it had cost
me a year's labour."

"What dost thou start at, Conachar?" said Simon, addressing himself,
by way of parenthesis, to the mountain disciple; "wilt thou never
learn to mind thy own business, without listening to what is passing
round thee? What is it to thee that an Englishman thinks that cheap
which a Scottishman may hold dear?"

Conachar turned round to speak, but, after a moment's consideration,
looked down, and endeavoured to recover his composure, which had
been deranged by the contemptuous manner in which the smith had
spoken of his Highland customer.

Henry went on without paying any attention to him. "I sold at
high prices some swords and whingers when I was at Edinburgh. They
expect war there; and if it please God to send it, my merchandise
will be worth its price. St. Dunstan make us thankful, for he was
of our craft. In short, this fellow (laying his hand on his purse);
who, thou knowest, father, was somewhat lank and low in condition
when I set out four months since, is now as round and full as a
six weeks' porker."

"And that other leathern sheathed, iron hilted fellow who hangs
beside him," said the glover, "has he been idle all this while?
Come, jolly smith, confess the truth--how many brawls hast thou
had since crossing the Tay?"

"Nay, now you do me wrong, father, to ask me such a question
(glancing a look at Catharine) in such a presence," answered the
armourer: "I make swords, indeed, but I leave it to other people to
use them. No--no, seldom have I a naked sword in my fist, save
when I am turning them on the anvil or grindstone; and they slandered
me to your daughter Catharine, that led her to suspect the quietest
burgess in Perth of being a brawler. I wish the best of them would
dare say such a word at the Hill of Kinnoul, and never a man on
the green but he and I."

"Ay--ay," said the glover, laughing, "we should then have a fine
sample of your patient sufferance. Out upon you, Henry, that you
will speak so like a knave to one who knows thee so well! You look
at Kate, too, as if she did not know that a man in this country
must make his hand keep his head, unless he will sleep in slender
security. Come--come, beshrew me if thou hast not spoiled as many
suits of armour as thou hast made."

"Why, he would be a bad armourer, father Simon, that could not
with his own blow make proof of his own workmanship. If I did not
sometimes cleave a helmet, or strike a point through a harness,
I should not know what strength of fabric to give them; and might
jingle together such pasteboard work as yonder Edinburgh smiths
think not shame to put out of their hands."

"Aha, now would I lay a gold crown thou hast had a quarrel with
some Edinburgh 'burn the wind' upon that very ground?"

["Burn the wind," an old cant term for blacksmith, appears in Burns:

Then burnewin came on like death,
At every chaup, etc.]


"A quarrel! no, father," replied the Perth armourer, "but a measuring
of swords with such a one upon St. Leonard's Crags, for the honour
of my bonny city, I confess. Surely you do not think I would quarrel
with a brother craftsman?"

"Ah, to a surety, no. But how did your brother craftman come off?"

"Why, as one with a sheet of paper on his bosom might come off from
the stroke of a lance; or rather, indeed, he came not off at all,
for, when I left him, he was lying in the Hermit's Lodge daily
expecting death, for which Father Gervis said he was in heavenly
preparation."

"Well, any more measuring of weapons?" said the glover.

"Why, truly, I fought an Englishman at Berwick besides, on the old
question of the supremacy, as they call it--I am sure you would
not have me slack at that debate?--and I had the luck to hurt
him on the left knee."

"Well done for St. Andrew! to it again. Whom next had you to deal
with?" said Simon, laughing at the exploits of his pacific friend.

"I fought a Scotchman in the Torwood," answered Henry Smith, "upon
a doubt which was the better swordsman, which, you are aware, could
not be known or decided without a trial. The poor fellow lost two
fingers."

"Pretty well for the most peaceful lad in Perth, who never touches
a sword but in the way of his profession. Well, anything more to
tell us?"

"Little; for the drubbing of a Highlandman is a thing not worth
mentioning."

"For what didst thou drub him, O man of peace?" inquired the glover.

"For nothing that I can remember," replied the smith, "except his
presenting himself on the south side of Stirling Bridge."

"Well, here is to thee, and thou art welcome to me after all these
exploits. Conachar, bestir thee. Let the cans clink, lad, and thou
shalt have a cup of the nut brown for thyself, my boy."

Conachar poured out the good liquor for his master and for Catharine
with due observance. But that done, he set the flagon on the table
and sat down.

"How now, sirrah! be these your manners? Fill to my guest, the
worshipful Master Henry Smith."

"Master Smith may fill for himself, if he wishes for liquor,"
answered the youthful Celt. "The son of my father has demeaned
himself enough already for one evening."

"That's well crowed for a cockerel," said Henry; "but thou art so
far right, my lad, that the man deserves to die of thirst who will
not drink without a cupbearer."

But his entertainer took not the contumacy of the young apprentice
with so much patience. "Now, by my honest word, and by the best
glove I ever made," said Simon, "thou shalt help him with liquor
from that cup and flagon, if thee and I are to abide under one
roof."

Conachar arose sullenly upon hearing this threat, and, approaching
the smith, who had just taken the tankard in his hand, and was raising
it to his head, he contrived to stumble against him and jostle him
so awkwardly, that the foaming ale gushed over his face, person,
and dress. Good natured as the smith, in spite of his warlike
propensities, really was in the utmost degree, his patience failed
under such a provocation. He seized the young man's throat, being
the part which came readiest to his grasp, as Conachar arose from
the pretended stumble, and pressing it severely as he cast the lad
from him, exclaimed: "Had this been in another place, young gallows
bird, I had stowed the lugs out of thy head, as I have done to some
of thy clan before thee."

Conachar recovered his feet with the activity of a tiger, and
exclaimed: "Never shall you live to make that boast again!" drew a
short, sharp knife from his bosom, and, springing on Henry Smith,
attempted to plunge it into his body over the collarbone, which
must have been a mortal wound. But the object of this violence was
so ready to defend himself by striking up the assailant's hand,
that the blow only glanced on the bone, and scarce drew blood. To
wrench the dagger from the boy's hand, and to secure him with a
grasp like that of his own iron vice, was, for the powerful smith,
the work of a single moment.

Conachar felt himself at once in the absolute power of the formidable
antagonist whom he had provoked; he became deadly pale, as he had
been the moment before glowing red, and stood mute with shame and
fear, until, relieving him from his powerful hold, the smith quietly
said: "It is well for thee that thou canst not make me angry; thou
art but a boy, and I, a grown man, ought not to have provoked thee.
But let this be a warning."

Conachar stood an instant as if about to reply, and then left the
room, ere Simon had collected himself enough to speak. Dorothy was
running hither and thither for salves and healing herbs. Catharine
had swooned at the sight of the trickling blood.

"Let me depart, father Simon," said Henry Smith, mournfully, "I
might have guessed I should have my old luck, and spread strife
and bloodshed where I would wish most to bring peace and happiness.
Care not for me. Look to poor Catharine; the fright of such an
affray hath killed her, and all through my fault."

"Thy fault, my son! It was the fault of yon Highland cateran, whom
it is my curse to be cumbered with; but he shall go back to his
glens tomorrow, or taste the tolbooth of the burgh. An assault upon
the life of his master's guest in his house! It breaks all bonds
between us. But let me see to thy wound."

"Catharine!" repeated the armourer--"look to Catharine."

"Dorothy will see to her," said Simon; "surprise and fear kill not;
skenes and dirks do. And she is not more the daughter of my blood
than thou, my dear Henry, art the son of my affections. Let me see
the wound. The skene occle is an ugly weapon in a Highland hand."

"I mind it no more than the scratch of a wildcat," said the armourer;
"and now that the colour is coming to Catharine's cheek again, you
shall see me a sound man in a moment."

He turned to a corner in which hung a small mirror, and hastily
took from his purse some dry lint to apply to the slight wound he
had received. As he unloosed the leathern jacket from his neck and
shoulders, the manly and muscular form which they displayed was not
more remarkable than the fairness of his skin, where it had not,
as in hands and face, been exposed to the effects of rough weather
and of his laborious trade. He hastily applied some lint to stop
the bleeding; and a little water having removed all other marks
of the fray, he buttoned his doublet anew, and turned again to the
table, where Catharine, still pale and trembling, was, however,
recovered from her fainting fit.

"Would you but grant me your forgiveness for having offended you
in the very first hour of my return? The lad was foolish to provoke
me, and yet I was more foolish to be provoked by such as he. Your
father blames me not, Catharine, and cannot you forgive me?"

"I have no power to forgive," answered Catharine, "what I have no
title to resent. If my father chooses to have his house made the
scene of night brawls, I must witness them--I cannot help myself.
Perhaps it was wrong in me to faint and interrupt, it may be, the
farther progress of a fair fray. My apology is, that I cannot bear
the sight of blood."

"And is this the manner," said her father, "in which you receive my
friend after his long absence? My friend, did I say? Nay, my son.
He escapes being murdered by a fellow whom I will tomorrow clear
this house of, and you treat him as if he had done wrong in dashing
from him the snake which was about to sting him!"

"It is not my part, father," returned the Maid of Perth, "to decide
who had the right or wrong in the present brawl, nor did I see what
happened distinctly enough to say which was assailant, or which
defender. But sure our friend, Master Henry, will not deny that he
lives in a perfect atmosphere of strife, blood, and quarrels. He
hears of no swordsman but he envies his reputation, and must needs
put his valour to the proof. He sees no brawl but he must strike
into the midst of it. Has he friends, he fights with them for love
and honour; has he enemies, he fights with them for hatred and
revenge. And those men who are neither his friends nor foes, he
fights with them because they are on this or that side of a river.
His days are days of battle, and, doubtless, he acts them over
again in his dreams."

"Daughter," said Simon, "your tongue wags too freely. Quarrels and
fights are men's business, not women's, and it is not maidenly to
think or speak of them."

"But if they are so rudely enacted in our presence," said Catharine,
"it is a little hard to expect us to think or speak of anything
else. I will grant you, my father, that this valiant burgess of
Perth is one of the best hearted men that draws breath within its
walls: that he would walk a hundred yards out of the way rather
than step upon a worm; that he would be as loth, in wantonness,
to kill a spider as if he were a kinsman to King Robert, of happy
memory; that in the last quarrel before his departure he fought
with four butchers, to prevent their killing a poor mastiff that
had misbehaved in the bull ring, and narrowly escaped the fate of
the cur that he was protecting. I will grant you also, that the poor
never pass the house of the wealthy armourer but they are relieved
with food and alms. But what avails all this, when his sword makes
as many starving orphans and mourning widows as his purse relieves?"

"Nay, but, Catharine, hear me but a word before going on with a
string of reproaches against my friend, that sound something like
sense, while they are, in truth, inconsistent with all we hear
and see around us. What," continued the glover, "do our King and
our court, our knights and ladies, our abbots, monks, and priests
themselves, so earnestly crowd to see? Is it not to behold the
display of chivalry, to witness the gallant actions of brave knights
in the tilt and tourney ground, to look upon deeds of honour
and glory achieved by arms and bloodshed? What is it these proud
knights do, that differs from what our good Henry Gow works out in
his sphere? Who ever heard of his abusing his skill and strength
to do evil or forward oppression, and who knows not how often it
has been employed as that of a champion in the good cause of the
burgh? And shouldst not thou, of all women, deem thyself honoured
and glorious, that so true a heart and so strong an arm has termed
himself thy bachelor? In what do the proudest dames take their
loftiest pride, save in the chivalry of their knight; and has the
boldest in Scotland done more gallant deeds than my brave son Henry,
though but of low degree? Is he not known to Highland and Lowland
as the best armourer that ever made sword, and the truest soldier
that ever drew one?"

"My dearest father," answered Catharine, "your words contradict
themselves, if you will permit your child to say so. Let us thank
God and the good saints that we are in a peaceful rank of life,
below the notice of those whose high birth, and yet higher pride,
lead them to glory in their bloody works of cruelty, which haughty
and lordly men term deeds of chivalry. Your wisdom will allow that
it would be absurd in us to prank ourselves in their dainty plumes
and splendid garments; why, then, should we imitate their full blown
vices? Why should we assume their hard hearted pride and relentless
cruelty, to which murder is not only a sport, but a subject of
vainglorious triumph? Let those whose rank claims as its right such
bloody homage take pride and pleasure in it; we, who have no share
in the sacrifice, may the better pity the sufferings of the victim.
Let us thank our lowliness, since it secures us from temptation.
But forgive me, father, if I have stepped over the limits of my
duty, in contradicting the views which you entertain, with so many
others, on these subjects."

"Nay, thou hast even too much talk for me, girl," said her father,
somewhat angrily. "I am but a poor workman, whose best knowledge
is to distinguish the left hand glove from the right. But if thou
wouldst have my forgiveness, say something of comfort to my poor
Henry. There he sits, confounded and dismayed with all the preachment
thou hast heaped together; and he, to whom a trumpet sound was
like the invitation to a feast, is struck down at the sound of a
child's whistle."

The armourer, indeed, while he heard the lips that were dearest
to him paint his character in such unfavourable colours, had laid
his head down on the table, upon his folded arms, in an attitude
of the deepest dejection, or almost despair.

"I would to Heaven, my dearest father," answered Catharine, "that
it were in my power to speak comfort to Henry, without betraying
the sacred cause of the truths I have just told you. And I may--
nay, I must have such a commission," she continued with something
that the earnestness with which she spoke and the extreme beauty
of her features caused for the moment to resemble inspiration.

"The truth of Heaven," she said, in a solemn tone, "was never
committed to a tongue, however feeble, but it gave a right to that
tongue to announce mercy, while it declared judgment. Arise, Henry
--rise up, noble minded, good, and generous, though widely mistaken
man. Thy faults are those of this cruel and remorseless age, thy
virtues all thine own."

While she thus spoke, she laid her hand upon the smith's arm, and
extricating it from under his head by a force which, however gentle,
he could not resist, she compelled him to raise towards her his
manly face, and the eyes into which her expostulations, mingled
with other feelings, had summoned tears.

"Weep not," she said, "or rather, weep on, but weep as those who
have hope. Abjure the sins of pride and anger, which most easily
beset thee; fling from thee the accursed weapons, to the fatal and
murderous use of which thou art so easily tempted."

"You speak to me in vain, Catharine," returned the armourer: "I
may, indeed, turn monk and retire from the world, but while I live
in it I must practise my trade; and while I form armour and weapons
for others, I cannot myself withstand the temptation of using them.
You would not reproach me as you do, if you knew how inseparably
the means by which I gain my bread are connected with that warlike
spirit which you impute to me as a fault, though it is the consequence
of inevitable necessity. While I strengthen the shield or corselet
to withstand wounds, must I not have constantly in remembrance the
manner and strength with which they may be dealt; and when I forge
the sword, and temper it for war, is it practicable for me to avoid
the recollection of its use?"

"Then throw from you, my dear Henry," said the enthusiastic girl,
clasping with both her slender hands the nervous strength and
weight of one of the muscular armourer's, which they raised with
difficulty, permitted by its owner, yet scarcely receiving assistance
from his volition--"cast from you, I say, the art which is a
snare to you. Abjure the fabrication of weapons which can only be
useful to abridge human life, already too short for repentance,
or to encourage with a feeling of safety those whom fear might
otherwise prevent from risking themselves in peril. The art of
forming arms, whether offensive or defensive, is alike sinful in
one to whose violent and ever vehement disposition the very working
upon them proves a sin and a snare. Resign utterly the manufacture
of weapons of every description, and deserve the forgiveness of
Heaven, by renouncing all that can lead to the sin which most easily
besets you."

"And what," murmured the armourer, "am I to do for my livelihood,
when I have given over the art of forging arms for which Henry of
Perth is known from the Tay to the Thames?"

"Your art itself," said Catharine, "has innocent and laudable
resources. If you renounce the forging of swords and bucklers,
there remains to you the task of forming the harmless spade, and
the honourable as well as useful ploughshare--of those implements
which contribute to the support of life, or to its comforts. Thou
canst frame locks and bars to defend the property of the weak against
the stouthrief and oppression of the strong. Men will still resort
to thee, and repay thy honest industry--"

But here Catharine was interrupted. Her father had heard her declaim
against war and tournaments with a feeling that, though her doctrine
were new to him, they might not, nevertheless, be entirely erroneous.
He felt, indeed, a wish that his proposed son in law should not
commit himself voluntarily to the hazards which the daring character
and great personal strength of Henry the Smith had hitherto led
him to incur too readily; and so far he would rather have desired
that Catharine's arguments should have produced some effect upon
the mind of her lover, whom he knew to be as ductile when influenced
by his affections as he was fierce and intractable when assailed
by hostile remonstrances or threats. But her arguments interfered
with his views, when he heard her enlarge upon the necessity of his
designed son in law resigning a trade which brought in more ready
income than any at that time practised in Scotland, and more profit
to Henry of Perth in particular than to any armourer in the nation.
He had some indistinct idea that it would not be amiss to convert,
if possible, Henry the Smith from his too frequent use of arms, even
though he felt some pride in being connected with one who wielded
with such superior excellence those weapons, which in that warlike
age it was the boast of all men to manage with spirit. But when he
heard his daughter recommend, as the readiest road to this pacific
state of mind, that her lover should renounce the gainful trade in
which he was held unrivalled, and which, from the constant private
differences and public wars of the time, was sure to afford him a
large income, he could withhold his wrath no longer. The daughter
had scarce recommended to her lover the fabrication of the implements
of husbandry, than, feeling the certainty of being right, of which
in the earlier part of their debate he had been somewhat doubtful,
the father broke in with:

"Locks and bars, plough graith and harrow teeth! and why not
grates and fire prongs, and Culross girdles, and an ass to carry
the merchandise through the country, and thou for another ass to
lead it by the halter? Why, Catharine, girl, has sense altogether
forsaken thee, or dost thou think that in these hard and iron days
men will give ready silver for anything save that which can defend
their own life, or enable them to take that of their enemy? We want
swords to protect ourselves every moment now, thou silly wench,
and not ploughs to dress the ground for the grain we may never see
rise. As for the matter of our daily bread, those who are strong
seize it, and live; those who are weak yield it, and die of hunger.
Happy is the man who, like my worthy son, has means of obtaining
his living otherwise than by the point of the sword which he makes.
Preach peace to him as much as thou wilt, I will never be he will
say thee nay; but as for bidding the first armourer in Scotland
forego the forging of swords, curtal axes, and harness, it is enough
to drive patience itself mad. Out from my sight! and next morning
I prithee remember that, shouldst thou have the luck to see Henry
the Smith, which is more than thy usage of him has deserved, you
see a man who has not his match in Scotland at the use of broadsword
and battle axe, and who can work for five hundred marks a year
without breaking a holyday."

The daughter, on hearing her father speak thus peremptorily, made
a low obeisance, and, without further goodnight, withdrew to the
chamber which was her usual sleeping apartment.



CHAPTER III.

Whence cometh Smith, be he knight, lord, or squire,
But from the smith that forged in the fire?

VERSTEGAN.


The armourer's heart swelled big with various and contending
sensations, so that it seemed as if it would burst the leathern
doublet under which it was shrouded. He arose, turned away his
head, and extended his hand towards the glover, while he averted
his face, as if desirous that his emotion should not be read upon
his countenance.

"Nay, hang me if I bid you farewell, man," said Simon, striking the
flat of his hand against that which the armourer expanded towards
him. "I will shake no hands with you for an hour to come at least.
Tarry but a moment, man, and I will explain all this; and surely
a few drops of blood from a scratch, and a few silly words from a
foolish wench's lips, are not to part father and son when they have
been so long without meeting? Stay, then, man, if ever you would
wish for a father's blessing and St. Valentine's, whose blessed
eve this chances to be."

The glover was soon heard loudly summoning Dorothy, and, after some
clanking of keys and trampling up and down stairs, Dorothy appeared
bearing three large rummer cups of green glass, which were then
esteemed a great and precious curiosity, and the glover followed with
a huge bottle, equal at least to three quarts of these degenerate
days.

"Here is a cup of wine, Henry, older by half than I am myself; my
father had it in a gift from stout old Crabbe, the Flemish engineer,
who defended Perth so stoutly in the minority of David the Second.
We glovers could always do something in war, though our connexion
with it was less than yours who work in steel and iron. And my
father had pleased old Crabbe, some other day I will tell you how,
and also how long these bottles were concealed under ground, to
save them from the reiving Southron. So I will empty a cup to the
soul's health of my honoured father--May his sins be forgiven
him! Dorothy, thou shalt drink this pledge, and then be gone to
thy cock loft. I know thine ears are itching, girl, but I have that
to say which no one must hear save Henry Smith, the son of mine
adoption."

Dorothy did not venture to remonstrate, but, taking off her glass,
or rather her goblet, with good courage, retired to her sleeping
apartment, according to her master's commands.

The two friends were left alone.

"It grieves me, friend Henry," said Simon, filling at the same time
his own glass and his guest's--"it grieves me from my soul that
my daughter retains this silly humor; but also methinks, thou
mightst mend it. Why wouldst thou come hither clattering with thy
sword and dagger, when the girl is so silly that she cannot bear
the sight of these? Dost thou not remember that thou hadst a sort
of quarrel with her even before thy last departure from Perth,
because thou wouldst not go like other honest quiet burghers, but
must be ever armed, like one of the rascally jackmen that wait on
the nobility? Sure it is time enough for decent burgesses to arm at
the tolling of the common bell, which calls us out bodin in effeir
of war."

"Why, my good father, that was not my fault; but I had no sooner
quitted my nag than I run hither to tell you of my return, thinking,
if it were your will to permit me, that I would get your advice
about being Mistress Catharine's Valentine for the year; and then
I heard from Mrs. Dorothy that you were gone to hear mass at the
Black Friars. So I thought I would follow thither, partly to hear
the same mass with you, and partly--Our Lady and St. Valentine
forgive me!--to look upon one who thinks little enough of me. And,
as you entered the church, methought I saw two or three dangerous
looking men holding counsel together, and gazing at you and at
her, and in especial Sir John Ramorny, whom I knew well enough,
for all his disguise, and the velvet patch over his eye, and his
cloak so like a serving man's; so methought, father Simon, that, as
you were old, and yonder slip of a Highlander something too young
to do battle, I would even walk quietly after you, not doubting,
with the tools I had about me, to bring any one to reason that might
disturb you in your way home. You know that yourself discovered
me, and drew me into the house, whether I would or no; otherwise, I
promise you, I would not have seen your daughter till I had donn'd
the new jerkin which was made at Berwick after the latest cut;
nor would I have appeared before her with these weapons, which she
dislikes so much. Although, to say truth, so many are at deadly feud
with me for one unhappy chance or another, that it is as needful
for me as for any man in Scotland to go by night with weapons about
me."

"The silly wench never thinks of that," said Simon Glover: "she
never has sense to consider, that in our dear native land of Scotland
every man deems it his privilege and duty to avenge his own wrong.
But, Harry, my boy, thou art to blame for taking her talk so much
to heart. I have seen thee bold enough with other wenches, wherefore
so still and tongue tied with her?"

"Because she is something different from other maidens, father
Glover--because she is not only more beautiful, but wiser, higher,
holier, and seems to me as if she were made of better clay than we
that approach her. I can hold my head high enough with the rest
of the lasses round the maypole; but somehow, when I approach
Catharine, I feel myself an earthly, coarse, ferocious creature,
scarce worthy to look on her, much less to contradict the precepts
which she expounds to me."

"You are an imprudent merchant, Harry Smith," replied Simon, "and
rate too high the goods you wish to purchase. Catharine is a good
girl, and my daughter; but if you make her a conceited ape by your
bashfulness and your flattery, neither you nor I will see our wishes
accomplished."

"I often fear it, my good father," said the smith; "for I feel how
little I am deserving of Catharine."

"Feel a thread's end!" said the glover; "feel for me, friend Smith
--for Catharine and me. Think how the poor thing is beset from
morning to night, and by what sort of persons, even though windows
be down and doors shut. We were accosted today by one too powerful
to be named--ay, and he showed his displeasure openly, because I
would not permit him to gallant my daughter in the church itself,
when the priest was saying mass. There are others scarce less
reasonable. I sometimes wish that Catharine were some degrees less
fair, that she might not catch that dangerous sort of admiration, or
somewhat less holy, that she might sit down like an honest woman,
contented with stout Henry Smith, who could protect his wife against
every sprig of chivalry in the court of Scotland."

"And if I did not," said Henry, thrusting out a hand and arm which
might have belonged to a giant for bone and muscle, "I would I may
never bring hammer upon anvil again! Ay, an it were come but that
length, my fair Catharine should see that there is no harm in a man
having the trick of defence. But I believe she thinks the whole
world is one great minster church, and that all who live in it
should behave as if they were at an eternal mass."

"Nay, in truth," said the father, "she has strange influence over
those who approach her; the Highland lad, Conachar, with whom I
have been troubled for these two or three years, although you may
see he has the natural spirit of his people, obeys the least sign
which Catharine makes him, and, indeed, will hardly be ruled by
any one else in the house. She takes much pains with him to bring
him from his rude Highland habits."

Here Harry Smith became uneasy in his chair, lifted the flagon,
set it down, and at length exclaimed: "The devil take the young
Highland whelp and his whole kindred! What has Catharine to do to
instruct such a fellow as he? He will be just like the wolf cub
that I was fool enough to train to the offices of a dog, and every
one thought him reclaimed, till, in an ill hour, I went to walk on
the hill of Moncrieff, when he broke loose on the laird's flock, and
made a havoc that I might well have rued, had the laird not wanted
a harness at the time. And I marvel that you, being a sensible man,
father Glover, will keep this Highland young fellow--a likely
one, I promise you--so nigh to Catharine, as if there were no
other than your daughter to serve him for a schoolmistress."

"Fie, my son--fie; now you are jealous," said Simon, "of a poor
young fellow who, to tell you the truth, resides here because he
may not so well live on the other side of the hill."

"Ay--ay, father Simon," retorted the smith, who had all the narrow
minded feelings of the burghers of his time, "an it were not for
fear of offence, I would say that you have even too much packing
and peiling with yonder loons out of burgh."

"I must get my deer hides, buckskins, kidskins, and so forth
somewhere, my good Harry, and Highlandmen give good bargains."

"They can afford them," replied Henry, drily, "for they sell nothing
but stolen gear."

"Well--well, be that as it may, it is not my business where they
get the bestial, so I get the hides. But as I was saying, there
are certain considerations why I am willing to oblige the father of
this young man, by keeping him here. And he is but half a Highlander
neither, and wants a thought of the dour spirit of a 'glune amie'
after all, I have seldom seen him so fierce as he showed himself
but now."

"You could not, unless he had killed his man," replied the smith,
in the same dry tone.

"Nevertheless, if you wish it, Harry, I'll set all other respects
aside, and send the landlouper to seek other quarters tomorrow
morning."

"Nay, father," said the smith, "you cannot suppose that Harry
Gow cares the value of a smithy dander for such a cub as yonder
cat-a-mountain? I care little, I promise you, though all his clan
were coming down the Shoegate with slogan crying and pipes playing:
I would find fifty blades and bucklers would send them back faster
than they came. But, to speak truth, though it is a fool's speech
too, I care not to see the fellow so much with Catharine. Remember,
father Glover, your trade keeps your eyes and hands close employed,
and must have your heedful care, even if this lazy lurdane wrought
at it, which you know yourself he seldom does."

"And that is true," said Simon: "he cuts all his gloves out for
the right hand, and never could finish a pair in his life."

"No doubt, his notions of skin cutting are rather different," said
Henry. "But with your leave, father, I would only say that, work
he or be he idle, he has no bleared eyes, no hands seared with the
hot iron, and welked by the use of the fore hammer, no hair rusted
in the smoke, and singed in the furnace, like the hide of a badger,
rather than what is fit to be covered with a Christian bonnet. Now,
let Catharine be as good a wench as ever lived, and I will uphold
her to be the best in Perth, yet she must see and know that these
things make a difference betwixt man and man, and that the difference
is not in my favour."

"Here is to thee, with all my heart, son Harry," said the old man,
filling a brimmer to his companion and another to himself; "I see
that, good smith as thou art, thou ken'st not the mettle that women
are made of. Thou must be bold, Henry; and bear thyself not as if
thou wert going to the gallows lee, but like a gay young fellow, who
knows his own worth and will not be slighted by the best grandchild
Eve ever had. Catharine is a woman like her mother, and thou thinkest
foolishly to suppose they are all set on what pleases the eye.
Their ear must be pleased too, man: they must know that he whom
they favour is bold and buxom, and might have the love of twenty,
though he is suing for theirs. Believe an old man, woman walk more
by what others think than by what they think themselves, and when
she asks for the boldest man in Perth whom can she hear named but
Harry Burn-the-wind? The best armourer that ever fashioned weapon
on anvil? Why, Harry Smith again. The tightest dancer at the maypole?
Why, the lusty smith. The gayest troller of ballads? Why, who but
Harry Gow? The best wrestler, sword and buckler player, the king of
the weapon shawing, the breaker of mad horses, the tamer of wild
Highlandmen? Evermore it is thee--thee--no one but thee. And
shall Catharine prefer yonder slip of a Highland boy to thee? Pshaw!
she might as well make a steel gauntlet out of kid's leather. I
tell thee, Conachar is nothing to her, but so far as she would fain
prevent the devil having his due of him, as of other Highlandmen.
God bless her, poor thing, she would bring all mankind to better
thoughts if she could."

"In which she will fail to a certainty," said the smith, who, as
the reader may have noticed, had no goodwill to the Highland race.
"I will wager on Old Nick, of whom I should know something, he being
indeed a worker in the same element with myself, against Catharine
on that debate: the devil will have the tartan, that is sure enough."

"Ay, but Catharine," replied the glover, "hath a second thou knowest
little of: Father Clement has taken the young reiver in hand, and
he fears a hundred devils as little as I do a flock of geese."

"Father Clement!" said the smith. "You are always making some new
saint in this godly city of St. Johnston. Pray, who, for a devil's
drubber, may he be? One of your hermits that is trained for the
work like a wrestler for the ring, and brings himself to trim by
fasting and penance, is he not?"

"No, that is the marvel of it," said Simon: "Father Clement eats,
drinks, and lives much like other folks--all the rules of the
church, nevertheless, strictly observed."

"Oh, I comprehend!--a buxom priest that thinks more of good living
than of good life, tipples a can on Fastern's Eve, to enable him
to face Lent, has a pleasant in principio, and confesses all the
prettiest women about the town?"

"You are on the bow hand still, smith. I tell you, my daughter
and I could nose out either a fasting hypocrite or a full one. But
Father Clement is neither the one nor the other."

"But what is he then, in Heaven's name?"

"One who is either greatly better than half his brethren of St.
Johnston put together, or so much worse than the worst of them, that
it is sin and shame that he is suffered to abide in the country."