"Henry, my beloved son Henry!" said the old man. "Oh, what tempted
you to this fatal affray? Dying--speechless?"

"No--not speechless," said Henry. "Catharine--" He could utter
no more.

"Catharine is well, I trust, and shall be thine--that is, if--"

"If she be safe, thou wouldst say, old man," said the Douglas, who,
though something affronted at Henry's rejection of his offer, was
too magnanimous not to interest himself in what was passing. "She
is safe, if Douglas's banner can protect her--safe, and shall
be rich. Douglas can give wealth to those who value it more than
honour."

"For her safety, my lord, let the heartfelt thanks and blessings
of a father go with the noble Douglas. For wealth, we are rich
enough. Gold cannot restore my beloved son."

"A marvel!" said the Earl: "a churl refuses nobility, a citizen
despises gold!"

"Under your lordship's favour," said Sir Patrick, "I, who am knight
and noble, take license to say, that such a brave man as Henry Wynd
may reject honourable titles, such an honest man as this reverend
citizen may dispense with gold."

"You do well, Sir Patrick, to speak for your town, and I take no
offence," said the Douglas. "I force my bounty on no one. But," he
added, in a whisper to Albany, "your Grace must withdraw the King
from this bloody sight, for he must know that tonight which will
ring over broad Scotland when tomorrow dawns. This feud is ended.
Yet even I grieve that so many brave Scottishmen lie here slain,
whose brands might have decided a pitched field in their country's
cause."

With dignity King Robert was withdrawn from the field, the tears
running down his aged cheeks and white beard, as he conjured
all around him, nobles and priests, that care should be taken for
the bodies and souls of the few wounded survivors, and honourable
burial rendered to the slain. The priests who were present answered
zealously for both services, and redeemed their pledge faithfully
and piously.

Thus ended this celebrated conflict of the North Inch of Perth. Of
sixty-four brave men (the minstrels and standard bearers included)
who strode manfully to the fatal field, seven alone survived, who
were conveyed from thence in litters, in a case little different
from the dead and dying around them, and mingled with them in the
sad procession which conveyed them from the scene of their strife.
Eachin alone had left it void of wounds and void of honour.

It remains but to say, that not a man of the Clan Quhele survived
the bloody combat except the fugitive chief; and the consequence
of the defeat was the dissolution of their confederacy. The clans
of which it consisted are now only matter of conjecture to the
antiquary, for, after this eventful contest, they never assembled
under the same banner. The Clan Chattan, on the other hand, continued
to increase and flourish; and the best families of the Northern
Highlands boast their descent from the race of the Cat a Mountain.



CHAPTER XXXV.


While the King rode slowly back to the convent which he then
occupied, Albany, with a discomposed aspect and faltering voice,
asked the Earl of Douglas: "Will not your lordship, who saw this
most melancholy scene at Falkland, communicate the tidings to my
unhappy brother?"

"Not for broad Scotland," said the Douglas. "I would sooner bare
my breast, within flight shot, as a butt to an hundred Tynedale
bowmen. No, by St. Bride of Douglas! I could but say I saw the ill
fated youth dead. How he came by his death, your Grace can perhaps
better explain. Were it not for the rebellion of March and the
English war, I would speak my own mind of it."

So saying, and making his obeisance to the King, the Earl rode off
to his own lodgings, leaving Albany to tell his tale as he best
could.

"The rebellion and the English war!" said the Duke to himself. "Ay,
and thine own interest, haughty earl, which, imperious as thou art,
thou darest not separate from mine. Well, since the task falls on
me, I must and will discharge it."

He followed the King into his apartment. The King looked at him
with surprise after he had assumed his usual seat.

"Thy countenance is ghastly, Robin," said the King. "I would thou
wouldst think more deeply when blood is to be spilled, since its
consequences affect thee so powerfully. And yet, Robin, I love thee
the better that thy kind nature will sometimes show itself, even
through thy reflecting policy."

"I would to Heaven, my royal brother," said Albany, with a voice
half choked, "that the bloody field we have seen were the worst
we had to see or hear of this day. I should waste little sorrow on
the wild kerne who lie piled on it like carrion. But--" he paused.

"How!" exclaimed the King, in terror. "What new evil? Rothsay? It
must be--it is Rothsay! Speak out! What new folly has been done?
What fresh mischance?"

"My lord--my liege, folly and mischance are now ended with my
hapless nephew."

"He is dead!--he is dead!" screamed the agonized parent. "Albany,
as thy brother, I conjure thee! But no, I am thy brother no longer.
As thy king, dark and subtle man, I charge thee to tell the worst."

Albany faltered out: "The details are but imperfectly known to me;
but the certainty is, that my unhappy nephew was found dead in his
apartment last night from sudden illness--as I have heard."

"Oh, Rothsay!--Oh, my beloved David! Would to God I had died for
thee, my son--my son!"

So spoke, in the emphatic words of Scripture, the helpless and
bereft father, tearing his grey beard and hoary hair, while Albany,
speechless and conscience struck, did not venture to interrupt the
tempest of his grief. But the agony of the King's sorrow almost
instantly changed to fury--a mood so contrary to the gentleness
and timidity of his nature, that the remorse of Albany was drowned
in his fear.

"And this is the end," said the King, "of thy moral saws and religious
maxims! But the besotted father who gave the son into thy hands--
who gave the innocent lamb to the butcher--is a king, and thou
shalt know it to thy cost. Shall the murderer stand in presence of
his brother--stained with the blood of that brother's son? No!
What ho, without there!--MacLouis!--Brandanes! Treachery! Murder!
Take arms, if you love the Stuart!"

MacLouis, with several of the guards, rushed into the apartment.

"Murder and treason!" exclaimed the miserable King. "Brandanes,
your noble Prince--" Here his grief and agitation interrupted
for a moment the fatal information it was his object to convey. At
length he resumed his broken speech: "An axe and a block instantly
into the courtyard! Arrest--" The word choked his utterance.

"Arrest whom, my noble liege?" said MacLouis, who, observing the
King influenced by a tide of passion so different from the gentleness
of his ordinary demeanour, almost conjectured that his brain had
been disturbed by the unusual horrors of the combat he had witnessed.

"Whom shall I arrest, my liege?" he replied. "Here is none but your
Grace's royal brother of Albany."

"Most true," said the King, his brief fit of vindictive passion soon
dying away. "Most true--none but Albany--none but my parent's
child--none but my brother. O God, enable me to quell the sinful
passion which glows in this bosom. Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis!"

MacLouis cast a look of wonder towards the Duke of Albany, who
endeavoured to hide his confusion under an affectation of deep
sympathy, and muttered to the officer: "The great misfortune has
been too much for his understanding."

"What misfortune, please your Grace?" replied MacLouis. "I have
heard of none."

"How! not heard of the death of my nephew Rothsay?"

"The Duke of Rothsay dead, my Lord of Albany?" exclaimed the faithful
Brandane, with the utmost horror and astonishment. "When, how, and
where?"

"Two days since--the manner as yet unknown--at Falkland."

MacLouis gazed at the Duke for an instant; then, with a kindling
eye and determined look, said to the King, who seemed deeply engaged
in his mental devotion: "My liege! a minute or two since you left
a word--one word--unspoken. Let it pass your lips, and your
pleasure is law to your Brandanes!"

"I was praying against temptation, MacLouis," said the heart
broken King, "and you bring it to me. Would you arm a madman with
a drawn weapon? But oh, Albany! my friend--my brother--my bosom
counsellor--how--how camest thou by the heart to do this?"

Albany, seeing that the King's mood was softening, replied with
more firmness than before: "My castle has no barrier against the
power of death. I have not deserved the foul suspicions which your
Majesty's words imply. I pardon them, from the distraction of a
bereaved father. But I am willing to swear by cross and altar, by
my share in salvation, by the souls of our royal parents--"

"Be silent, Robert!" said the King: "add not perjury to murder.
And was this all done to gain a step nearer to a crown and sceptre?
Take them to thee at once, man; and mayst thou feel as I have done,
that they are both of red hot iron! Oh, Rothsay--Rothsay! thou
hast at least escaped being a king!"

"My liege," said MacLouis, "let me remind you that the crown and
sceptre of Scotland are, when your Majesty ceases to bear them,
the right of Prince James, who succeeds to his brother's rights."

"True, MacLouis," said the King, eagerly, "and will succeed, poor
child, to his brother's perils! Thanks, MacLouis--thanks. You have
reminded me that I have still work upon earth. Get thy Brandanes
under arms with what speed thou canst. Let no man go with us whose
truth is not known to thee. None in especial who has trafficked
with the Duke of Albany--that man, I mean, who calls himself my
brother--and order my litter to be instantly prepared. We will
to Dunbarton, MacLouis, or to Bute. Precipices, and tides, and my
Brandanes' hearts shall defend the child till we can put oceans
betwixt him and his cruel uncle's ambition. Farewell, Robert of
Albany--farewell for ever, thou hard hearted, bloody man! Enjoy
such share of power as the Douglas may permit thee. But seek not
to see my face again, far less to approach my remaining child; for,
that hour thou dost, my guards shall have orders to stab thee down
with their partizans! MacLouis, look it be so directed."

The Duke of Albany left the presence without attempting further
justification or reply.

What followed is matter of history. In the ensuing Parliament, the
Duke of Albany prevailed on that body to declare him innocent of
the death of Rothsay, while, at the same time, he showed his own
sense of guilt by taking out a remission or pardon for the offence.
The unhappy and aged monarch secluded himself in his Castle of
Rothsay, in Bute, to mourn over the son he had lost, and watch with
feverish anxiety over the life of him who remained. As the best
step for the youthful James's security, he sent him to France to
receive his education at the court of the reigning sovereign. But
the vessel in which the Prince of Scotland sailed was taken by an
English cruiser, and, although there was a truce for the moment
betwixt the kingdoms, Henry IV ungenerously detained him a prisoner.
This last blow completely broke the heart of the unhappy King Robert
III. Vengeance followed, though with a slow pace, the treachery
and cruelty of his brother. Robert of Albany's own grey hairs went,
indeed, in peace to the grave, and he transferred the regency which
he had so foully acquired to his son Murdoch. But, nineteen years
after the death of the old King, James I returned to Scotland, and
Duke Murdoch of Albany, with his sons, was brought to the scaffold,
in expiation of his father's guilt and his own.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba',
Has aye some cause to smile.

BURNS.


We now return to the Fair Maid of Perth, who had been sent from the
horrible scene at Falkland by order of the Douglas, to be placed
under the protection of his daughter, the now widowed Duchess of
Rothsay. That lady's temporary residence was a religious house called
Campsie, the ruins of which still occupy a striking situation on the
Tay. It arose on the summit of a precipitous rock, which descends
on the princely river, there rendered peculiarly remarkable by the
cataract called Campsie Linn, where its waters rush tumultuously
over a range of basaltic rock, which intercepts the current, like
a dike erected by human hands. Delighted with a site so romantic,
the monks of the abbey of Cupar reared a structure there, dedicated
to an obscure saint, named St. Hunnand, and hither they were wont
themselves to retire for pleasure or devotion. It had readily opened
its gates to admit the noble lady who was its present inmate, as
the country was under the influence of the powerful Lord Drummond,
the ally of the Douglas. There the Earl's letters were presented to
the Duchess by the leader of the escort which conducted Catharine
and the glee maiden to Campsie. Whatever reason she might have to
complain of Rothsay, his horrible and unexpected end greatly shocked
the noble lady, and she spent the greater part of the night in
indulging her grief and in devotional exercises.

On the next morning, which was that of the memorable Palm Sunday,
she ordered Catharine Glover and the minstrel into her presence.
The spirits of both the young women had been much sunk and shaken
by the dreadful scenes in which they had so lately been engaged;
and the outward appearance of the Duchess Marjory was, like that
of her father, more calculated to inspire awe than confidence. She
spoke with kindness, however, though apparently in deep affliction,
and learned from them all which they had to tell concerning the
fate of her erring and inconsiderate husband. She appeared grateful
for the efforts which Catharine and the glee maiden had made, at
their own extreme peril, to save Rothsay from his horrible fate. She
invited them to join in her devotions; and at the hour of dinner gave
them her hand to kiss, and dismissed them to their own refection,
assuring both, and Catharine in particular, of her efficient
protection, which should include, she said, her father's, and be
a wall around them both, so long as she herself lived.

They retired from the presence of the widowed Princess, and partook
of a repast with her duennas and ladies, all of whom, amid their
profound sorrow, showed a character of stateliness which chilled the
light heart of the Frenchwoman, and imposed restraint even on the
more serious character of Catharine Glover. The friends, for so we
may now term them, were fain, therefore, to escape from the society
of these persons, all of them born gentlewomen, who thought themselves
but ill assorted with a burgher's daughter and a strolling glee
maiden, and saw them with pleasure go out to walk in the neighbourhood
of the convent. A little garden, with its bushes and fruit trees,
advanced on one side of the convent, so as to skirt the precipice,
from which it was only separated by a parapet built on the ledge
of the rock, so low that the eye might easily measure the depth of
the crag, and gaze on the conflicting waters which foamed, struggled,
and chafed over the reef below.

The Fair Maiden of Perth and her companion walked slowly on a path
that ran within this parapet, looked at the romantic prospect, and
judged what it must be when the advancing summer should clothe the
grove with leaves. They observed for some time a deep silence. At
length the gay and bold spirit of the glee maiden rose above the
circumstances in which she had been and was now placed.

"Do the horrors of Falkland, fair May, still weigh down your spirits?
Strive to forget them as I do: we cannot tread life's path lightly,
if we shake not from our mantles the raindrops as they fall."

"These horrors are not to be forgotten," answered Catharine. "Yet
my mind is at present anxious respecting my father's safety; and I
cannot but think how many brave men may be at this instant leaving
the world, even within six miles of us, or little farther."

"You mean the combat betwixt sixty champions, of which the Douglas's
equerry told us yesterday? It were a sight for a minstrel to witness.
But out upon these womanish eyes of mine--they could never see
swords cross each other without being dazzled. But see--look
yonder, May Catharine--look yonder! That flying messenger certainly
brings news of the battle."

"Methinks I should know him who runs so wildly," said Catharine.
"But if it be he I think of, some wild thoughts are urging his
speed."

As she spoke, the runner directed his course to the garden. Louise's
little dog ran to meet him, barking furiously, but came back, to
cower, creep, and growl behind its mistress; for even dumb animals
can distinguish when men are driven on by the furious energy of
irresistible passion, and dread to cross or encounter them in their
career. The fugitive rushed into the garden at the same reckless
pace. His head was bare, his hair dishevelled, his rich acton and
all his other vestments looked as if they had been lately drenched
in water. His leathern buskins were cut and torn, and his feet marked
the sod with blood. His countenance was wild, haggard, and highly
excited, or, as the Scottish phrase expresses it, much "raised."

"Conachar!" said Catharine, as he advanced, apparently without
seeing what was before him, as hares are said to do when severely
pressed by the greyhounds. But he stopped short when he heard his
own name.

"Conachar," said Catharine, "or rather Eachin MacIan, what means
all this? Have the Clan Quhele sustained a defeat?"

"I have borne such names as this maiden gives me," said the fugitive,
after a moment's recollection. "Yes, I was called Conachar when
I was happy, and Eachin when I was powerful. But now I have no
name, and there is no such clan as thou speak'st of; and thou art
a foolish maid to speak of that which is not to one who has no
existence."

"Alas! unfortunate--"

"And why unfortunate, I pray you?" exclaimed the youth. "If I am
coward and villain, have not villainy and cowardice command over
the elements? Have I not braved the water without its choking me,
and trod the firm earth without its opening to devour me? And shall
a mortal oppose my purpose?"

"He raves, alas!" said Catharine. "Haste to call some help. He
will not harm me; but I fear he will do evil to himself. See how
he stares down on the roaring waterfall!"

The glee woman hastened to do as she was ordered, and Conachar's
half frenzied spirit seemed relieved by her absence.

"Catharine," he said, "now she is gone, I will say I know thee--
I know thy love of peace and hatred of war. But hearken; I have,
rather than strike a blow at my enemy, given up all that a man calls
dearest: I have lost honour, fame, and friends, and such friends!
(he placed his hands before his face). Oh! their love surpassed
the love of woman! Why should I hide my tears? All know my shame;
all should see my sorrow. Yes, all might see, but who would pity
it? Catharine, as I ran like a madman down the strath, man and woman
called 'shame' on me! The beggar to whom I flung an alms, that I
might purchase one blessing, threw it back in disgust, and with a
curse upon the coward! Each bell that tolled rung out, 'Shame on the
recreant caitiff!' The brute beasts in their lowing and bleating,
the wild winds in their rustling and howling, the hoarse waters in
their dash and roar, cried, 'Out upon the dastard!' The faithful
nine are still pursuing me; they cry with feeble voice, 'Strike
but one blow in our revenge, we all died for you!'"

While the unhappy youth thus raved, a rustling was heard in the
bushes.

"There is but one way!" he exclaimed, springing upon the parapet,
but with a terrified glance towards the thicket, through which one
or two attendants were stealing, with the purpose of surprising
him. But the instant he saw a human form emerge from the cover of
the bushes, he waved his hands wildly over his head, and shrieking
out, "Bas air Eachin!" plunged down the precipice into the raging
cataract beneath.

It is needless to say, that aught save thistledown must have been
dashed to pieces in such a fall. But the river was swelled, and the
remains of the unhappy youth were never seen. A varying tradition
has assigned more than one supplement to the history. It is said
by one account, that the young captain of Clan Quhele swam safe
to shore, far below the Linns of Campsie; and that, wandering
disconsolately in the deserts of Rannoch, he met with Father Clement,
who had taken up his abode in the wilderness as a hermit, on the
principle of the old Culdees. He converted, it is said, the heart
broken and penitent Conachar, who lived with him in his cell, sharing
his devotion and privations, till death removed them in succession.

Another wilder legend supposes that he was snatched from death
by the daione shie, or fairy folk, and that he continues to wander
through wood and wild, armed like an ancient Highlander, but
carrying his sword in his left hand. The phantom appears always in
deep grief. Sometimes he seems about to attack the traveller, but,
when resisted with courage, always flies. These legends are founded
on two peculiar points in his story--his evincing timidity and his
committing suicide--both of them circumstances almost unexampled
in the history of a mountain chief.

When Simon Glover, having seen his friend Henry duly taken care
of in his own house in Curfew Street, arrived that evening at the
Place of Campsie, he found his daughter extremely ill of a fever,
in consequence of the scenes to which she had lately been a witness,
and particularly the catastrophe of her late playmate. The affection
of the glee maiden rendered her so attentive and careful a nurse,
that the glover said it should not be his fault if she ever touched
lute again, save for her own amusement.

It was some time ere Simon ventured to tell his daughter of Henry's
late exploits, and his severe wounds; and he took care to make
the most of the encouraging circumstance, that her faithful lover
had refused both honour and wealth rather than become a professed
soldier and follow the Douglas. Catharine sighed deeply and shook
her head at the history of bloody Palm Sunday on the North Inch. But
apparently she had reflected that men rarely advance in civilisation
or refinement beyond the ideas of their own age, and that a headlong
and exuberant courage, like that of Henry Smith, was, in the iron
days in which they lived, preferable to the deficiency which had
led to Conachar's catastrophe. If she had any doubts on the subject,
they were removed in due time by Henry's protestations, so soon as
restored health enabled him to plead his own cause.

"I should blush to say, Catharine, that I am even sick of the
thoughts of doing battle. Yonder last field showed carnage enough
to glut a tiger. I am therefore resolved to hang up my broadsword,
never to be drawn more unless against the enemies of Scotland."

"And should Scotland call for it," said Catharine, "I will buckle
it round you."

"And, Catharine," said the joyful glover, "we will pay largely for
soul masses for those who have fallen by Henry's sword; and that
will not only cure spiritual flaws, but make us friends with the
church again."

"For that purpose, father," said Catharine, "the hoards of the
wretched Dwining may be applied. He bequeathed them to me; but
I think you would not mix his base blood money with your honest
gains?"

"I would bring the plague into my house as soon," said the resolute
glover.

The treasures of the wicked apothecary were distributed accordingly
among the four monasteries; nor was there ever after a breath of
suspicion concerning the orthodoxy of old Simon or his daughter.

Henry and Catharine were married within four months after the battle
of the North Inch, and never did the corporations of the glovers
and hammermen trip their sword dance so featly as at the wedding
of the boldest burgess and brightest maiden in Perth. Ten months
after, a gallant infant filled the well spread cradle, and was
rocked by Louise to the tune of--

Bold and true,
In bonnet blue.

The names of the boy's sponsors are recorded, as "Ane Hie and Michty
Lord, Archibald Erl of Douglas, ane Honorabil and gude Knicht, Schir
Patrick Charteris of Kinfauns, and ane Gracious Princess, Marjory
Dowaire of his Serene Highness David, umquhile Duke of Rothsay."

Under such patronage a family rises fast; and several of the most
respected houses in Scotland, but especially in Perthshire, and
many individuals distinguished both in arts and arms, record with
pride their descent from the Gow Chrom and the Fair Maid of Perth.