"I have breakfasted already, and am in haste myself. I am for the
hills. Have you any message to my father?"

"None," replied the glover, in some surprise; "but art thou beside
thyself, boy? or what a vengeance takes thee from the city, like
the wing of the whirlwind?"

"My warning has been sudden," said Conachar, speaking with difficulty;
but whether arising from the hesitation incidental to the use of a
foreign language, or whether from some other cause, could not easily
be distinguished. "There is to be a meeting--a great hunting--"
Here he stopped.

"And when are you to return from this blessed hunting?" said the
master; "that is, if I may make so bold as to ask."

"I cannot exactly answer," replied the apprentice. "Perhaps never,
if such be my father's pleasure," continued Conachar, with assumed
indifference.

"I thought," said Simon Glover, rather seriously, "that all this
was to be laid aside, when at earnest intercession I took you under
my roof. I thought that when I undertook, being very loth to do so,
to teach you an honest trade, we were to hear no more of hunting,
or hosting, or clan gatherings, or any matters of the kind?"

"I was not consulted when I was sent hither," said the lad, haughtily.
"I cannot tell what the terms were."

"But I can tell you, sir Conachar," said the glover, angrily, "that
there is no fashion of honesty in binding yourself to an honest
craftsman, and spoiling more hides than your own is worth; and
now, when you are of age to be of some service, in taking up the
disposal of your time at your pleasure, as if it were your own
property, not your master's."

"Reckon with my father about that," answered Conachar; "he will
pay you gallantly--a French mutton for every hide I have spoiled,
and a fat cow or bullock for each day I have been absent."

"Close with him, friend Glover--close with him," said the armourer,
drily. "Thou wilt be paid gallantly at least, if not honestly.
Methinks I would like to know how many purses have been emptied
to fill the goat skin sporran that is to be so free to you of its
gold, and whose pastures the bullocks have been calved in that are
to be sent down to you from the Grampian passes."

"You remind me, friend," said the Highland youth, turning haughtily
towards the smith, "that I have also a reckoning to hold with you."

"Keep at arm's length, then," said Henry, extending his brawny arm:
"I will have no more close hugs--no more bodkin work, like last
night. I care little for a wasp's sting, yet I will not allow the
insect to come near me if I have warning."

Conachar smiled contemptuously. "I meant thee no harm," he said.
"My father's son did thee but too much honour to spill such churl's
blood. I will pay you for it by the drop, that it may be dried up,
and no longer soil my fingers."

"Peace, thou bragging ape!" said the smith: "the blood of a true
man cannot be valued in gold. The only expiation would be that thou
shouldst come a mile into the Low Country with two of the strongest
galloglasses of thy clan; and while I dealt with them, I would
leave thee to the correction of my apprentice, little Jankin."

Here Catharine interposed. "Peace," she said, "my trusty Valentine,
whom I have a right to command; and peace you, Conachar, who ought
to obey me as your master's daughter. It is ill done to awaken
again on the morrow the evil which has been laid to sleep at night."

"Farewell, then, master," said Conachar, after another look of scorn
at the smith, which he only answered with a laugh--"farewell! and
I thank you for your kindness, which has been more than I deserve.
If I have at times seemed less than thankful, it was the fault of
circumstances, and not of my will. Catharine--" He cast upon the
maiden a look of strong emotion, in which various feelings were
blended. He hesitated, as if to say something, and at length turned
away with the single word "farewell."

Five minutes afterwards, with Highland buskins on his feet and a
small bundle in his hand, he passed through the north gate of Perth,
and directed his course to the Highlands.

"There goes enough of beggary and of pride for a whole Highland
clan," said Henry. "He talks as familiarly of gold pieces as I would
of silver pennies, and yet I will be sworn that the thumb of his
mother's worsted glove might hold the treasure of the whole clan."

"Like enough," said the glover, laughing at the idea; "his mother
was a large boned woman, especially in the fingers and wrist."

"And as for cattle," continued Henry, "I reckon his father and
brothers steal sheep by one at a time."

"The less we say of them the better," said the glover, becoming
again grave. "Brothers he hath none; his father is a powerful man
--hath long hands--reaches as far as he can, and hears farther
than it is necessary to talk of him."

"And yet he hath bound his only son apprentice to a glover in
Perth?" said Henry. "Why, I should have thought the gentle craft,
as it is called, of St. Crispin would have suited him best; and
that, if the son of some great Mac or O was to become an artisan,
it could only be in the craft where princes set him the example."

This remark, though ironical, seemed to awaken our friend Simon's
sense of professional dignity, which was a prevailing feeling that
marked the manners of the artisans of the time.

"You err, son Henry," he replied, with much gravity: "the glovers'
are the more honourable craft of the two, in regard they provide
for the accommodation of the hands, whereas the shoemakers and
cordwainers do but work for the feet."

"Both equally necessary members of the body corporate," said Henry,
whose father had been a cordwainer.

"It may be so, my son," said the glover; "but not both alike
honourable. Bethink you, that we employ the hands as pledges of
friendship and good faith, and the feet have no such privilege.
Brave men fight with their hands; cowards employ their feet in
flight. A glove is borne aloft; a shoe is trampled in the mire.
A man greets a friend with his open hand; he spurns a dog, or one
whom he holds as mean as a dog, with his advanced foot. A glove
on the point of a spear is a sign and pledge of faith all the wide
world over, as a gauntlet flung down is a gage of knightly battle;
while I know no other emblem belonging to an old shoe, except that
some crones will fling them after a man by way of good luck, in
which practice I avow myself to entertain no confidence."

"Nay," said the smith, amused with his friend's eloquent pleading
for the dignity of the art he practised, "I am not the man, I
promise you, to disparage the glover's mystery. Bethink you, I am
myself a maker of gauntlets. But the dignity of your ancient craft
removes not my wonder, that the father of this Conachar suffered his
son to learn a trade of any kind from a Lowland craftsman, holding
us, as they do, altogether beneath their magnificent degree, and
a race of contemptible drudges, unworthy of any other fate than to
be ill used and plundered, as often as these bare breeched dunnie
wassals see safety and convenience for doing so."

"Ay," answered the glover, "but there were powerful reasons for--
for--" he withheld something which seemed upon his lips, and went
on: "for Conachar's father acting as he did. Well, I have played
fair with him, and I do not doubt but he will act honourably by me.
But Conachar's sudden leave taking has put me to some inconvenience.
He had things under his charge. I must look through the booth."

"Can I help you, father?" said Henry Gow, deceived by the earnestness
of his manner.

"You!--no," said Simon, with a dryness which made Henry so sensible
of the simplicity of his proposal, that he blushed to the eyes at
his own dulness of comprehension, in a matter where love ought to
have induced him to take his cue easily up.

"You, Catharine," said the glover, as he left the room, "entertain
your Valentine for five minutes, and see he departs not till my
return. Come hither with me, old Dorothy, and bestir thy limbs in
my behalf."

He left the room, followed by the old woman; and Henry Smith remained
with Catharine, almost for the first time in his life, entirely
alone. There was embarrassment on the maiden's part, and awkwardness
on that of the lover, for about a minute; when Henry, calling up
his courage, pulled the gloves out of his pocket with which Simon
had supplied him, and asked her to permit one who had been so highly
graced that morning to pay the usual penalty for being asleep at the
moment when he would have given the slumbers of a whole twelvemonth
to be awake for a single minute.

"Nay, but," said Catharine, "the fulfilment of my homage to St.
Valentine infers no such penalty as you desire to pay, and I cannot
therefore think of accepting them."

"These gloves," said Henry, advancing his seat insidiously towards
Catharine as he spoke, "were wrought by the hands that are dearest
to you; and see--they are shaped for your own."

He extended them as he spoke, and taking her arm in his robust
hand, spread the gloves beside it to show how well they fitted.

"Look at that taper arm," he said, "look at these small fingers;
think who sewed these seams of silk and gold, and think whether
the glove and the arm which alone the glove can fit ought to remain
separate, because the poor glove has had the misfortune to be for
a passing minute in the keeping of a hand so swart and rough as
mine."

"They are welcome as coming from my father," said Catharine; "and
surely not less so as coming from my friend (and there was an
emphasis on the word), as well as my Valentine and preserver."

"Let me aid to do them on," said the smith, bringing himself yet
closer to her side; "they may seem a little over tight at first,
and you may require some assistance."

"You are skilful in such service, good Henry Gow," said the maiden,
smiling, but at the same time drawing farther from her lover.

"In good faith, no," said Henry, shaking his head: "my experience
has been in donning steel gauntlets on mailed knights, more than
in fitting embroidered gloves upon maidens."

"I will trouble you then no further, and Dorothy shall aid me,
though there needs no assistance; my father's eye and fingers are
faithful to his craft: what work he puts through his hands is always
true to the measure."

"Let me be convinced of it," said the smith--"let me see that
these slender gloves actually match the hands they were made for."

"Some other time, good Henry," answered the maiden, "I will wear
the gloves in honour of St. Valentine, and the mate he has sent
me for the season. I would to Heaven I could pleasure my father as
well in weightier matters; at present the perfume of the leather
harms the headache I have had since morning."

"Headache, dearest maiden!" echoed her lover.

"If you call it heartache, you will not misname it," said Catharine,
with a sigh, and proceeded to speak in a very serious tone.

"Henry," she said, "I am going perhaps to be as bold as I gave you
reason to think me this morning; for I am about to speak the first
upon a subject on which, it may well be, I ought to wait till I had
to answer you. But I cannot, after what has happened this morning,
suffer my feelings towards you to remain unexplained, without the
possibility of my being greatly misconceived. Nay, do not answer
till you have heard me out. You are brave, Henry, beyond most men,
honest and true as the steel you work upon--"

"Stop--stop, Catharine, for mercy's sake! You never said so much
that was good concerning me, save to introduce some bitter censure,
of which your praises were the harbingers. I am honest, and so
forth, you would say, but a hot brained brawler, and common sworder
or stabber."

"I should injure both myself and you in calling you such. No, Henry,
to no common stabber, had he worn a plume in his bonnet and gold
spurs on his heels, would Catharine Glover have offered the little
grace she has this day voluntarily done to you. If I have at times
dwelt severely upon the proneness of your spirit to anger, and of
your hand to strife, it is because I would have you, if I could
so persuade you, hate in yourself the sins of vanity and wrath by
which you are most easily beset. I have spoken on the topic more
to alarm your own conscience than to express my opinion. I know as
well as my father that, in these forlorn and desperate days, the
whole customs of our nation, nay, of every Christian nation, may
be quoted in favour of bloody quarrels for trifling causes, of the
taking deadly and deep revenge for slight offences, and the slaughter
of each other for emulation of honour, or often in mere sport. But
I knew that for all these things we shall one day be called into
judgment; and fain would I convince thee, my brave and generous
friend, to listen oftener to the dictates of thy good heart, and
take less pride in the strength and dexterity of thy unsparing
arm."

"I am--I am convinced, Catharine" exclaimed Henry: "thy words
shall henceforward be a law to me. I have done enough, far too much,
indeed, for proof of my bodily strength and courage; but it is only
from you, Catharine, that I can learn a better way of thinking.
Remember, my fair Valentine, that my ambition of distinction in
arms, and my love of strife, if it can be called such, do not fight
even handed with my reason and my milder dispositions, but have
their patrons and sticklers to egg them on. Is there a quarrel,
and suppose that I, thinking on your counsels, am something loth
to engage in it, believe you I am left to decide between peace or
war at my own choosing? Not so, by St. Mary! there are a hundred
round me to stir me on. 'Why, how now, Smith, is thy mainspring
rusted?' says one. 'Jolly Henry is deaf on the quarrelling ear this
morning!' says another. 'Stand to it, for the honour of Perth,'
says my lord the Provost. 'Harry against them for a gold noble,'
cries your father, perhaps. Now, what can a poor fellow do, Catharine,
when all are hallooing him on in the devil's name, and not a soul
putting in a word on the other side?"

"Nay, I know the devil has factors enough to utter his wares,"
said Catharine; "but it is our duty to despise such idle arguments,
though they may be pleaded even by those to whom we owe much love
and honour."

"Then there are the minstrels, with their romaunts and ballads, which
place all a man's praise in receiving and repaying hard blows. It
is sad to tell, Catharine, how many of my sins that Blind Harry
the Minstrel hath to answer for. When I hit a downright blow, it
is not--so save me--to do any man injury, but only to strike
as William Wallace struck."

The minstrel's namesake spoke this in such a tone of rueful seriousness,
that Catharine could scarce forbear smiling; but nevertheless she
assured him that the danger of his own and other men's lives ought
not for a moment to be weighed against such simple toys.

"Ay, but," replied Henry, emboldened by her smiles, "methinks now
the good cause of peace would thrive all the better for an advocate.
Suppose, for example, that, when I am pressed and urged to lay
hand on my weapon, I could have cause to recollect that there was
a gentle and guardian angel at home, whose image would seem to
whisper, 'Henry, do no violence; it is my hand which you crimson
with blood. Henry, rush upon no idle danger; it is my breast which
you expose to injury;' such thoughts would do more to restrain my
mood than if every monk in Perth should cry, 'Hold thy hand, on
pain of bell, book, and candle.'"

"If such a warning as could be given by the voice of sisterly
affection can have weight in the debate," said Catharine, "do think
that, in striking, you empurple this hand, that in receiving wounds
you harm this heart."

The smith took courage at the sincerely affectionate tone in which
these words were delivered.

"And wherefore not stretch your regard a degree beyond these cold
limits? Why, since you are so kind and generous as to own some
interest in the poor ignorant sinner before you, should you not
at once adopt him as your scholar and your husband? Your father
desires it, the town expects it, glovers and smiths are preparing
their rejoicings, and you, only you, whose words are so fair and
so kind, you will not give your consent."

"Henry," said Catharine, in a low and tremulous voice, "believe me
I should hold it my duty to comply with my father's commands, were
there not obstacles invincible to the match which he proposes."

"Yet think--think but for a moment. I have little to say for
myself in comparison of you, who can both read and write. But then
I wish to hear reading, and could listen to your sweet voice for
ever. You love music, and I have been taught to play and sing as
well as some minstrels. You love to be charitable, I have enough to
give, and enough to keep, as large a daily alms as a deacon gives
would never be missed by me. Your father gets old for daily toil;
he would live with us, as I should truly hold him for my father also.
I would be as chary of mixing in causeless strife as of thrusting
my hand into my own furnace; and if there came on us unlawful
violence, its wares would be brought to an ill chosen market."

"May you experience all the domestic happiness which you can
conceive, Henry, but with some one more happy than I am!"

So spoke, or rather so sobbed, the Fair Maiden of Perth, who seemed
choking in the attempt to restrain her tears.

"You hate me, then?" said the lover, after a pause.

"Heaven is my witness, no."

"Or you love some other better?"

"It is cruel to ask what it cannot avail you to know. But you are
entirely mistaken."

"Yon wildcat, Conachar, perhaps?" said Henry. "I have marked his
looks--"

"You avail yourself of this painful situation to insult me, Henry,
though I have little deserved it. Conachar is nothing to me, more
than the trying to tame his wild spirit by instruction might lead
me to take some interest in a mind abandoned to prejudices and
passions, and therein, Henry, not unlike your own."

"It must then be some of these flaunting silkworm sirs about the
court," said the armourer, his natural heat of temper kindling
from disappointment and vexation--"some of those who think they
carry it off through the height of their plumed bonnets and the
jingle of their spurs. I would I knew which it was that, leaving his
natural mates, the painted and perfumed dames of the court, comes
to take his prey among the simple maidens of the burgher craft. I
would I knew but his name and surname!"

"Henry Smith," said Catharine, shaking off the weakness which
seemed to threaten to overpower her a moment before, "this is the
language of an ungrateful fool, or rather of a frantic madman. I
have told you already, there was no one who stood, at the beginning
of this conference, more high in my opinion than he who is now losing
ground with every word he utters in the tone of unjust suspicion
and senseless anger. You had no title to know even what I have
told you, which, I pray you to observe, implies no preference to
you over others, though it disowns any preference of another to
you. It is enough you should be aware that there is as insuperable
an objection to what you desire as if an enchanter had a spell over
my destiny."

"Spells may be broken by true men," said, the smith. "I would it
were come to that. Thorbiorn, the Danish armourer, spoke of a spell
he had for making breastplates, by singing a certain song while the
iron was heating. I told him that his runic rhymes were no proof
against the weapons which fought at Loncarty--what farther came
of it it is needless to tell, but the corselet and the wearer,
and the leech who salved his wound, know if Henry Gow can break a
spell or no."

Catharine looked at him as if about to return an answer little
approving of the exploit he had vaunted, which the downright smith
had not recollected was of a kind that exposed him to her frequent
censure. But ere she had given words to her thoughts, her father
thrust his head in at the door.

"Henry," he said, "I must interrupt your more pleasing affairs, and
request you to come into my working room in all speed, to consult
about certain matters deeply affecting the weal of the burgh."

Henry, making his obeisance to Catharine, left the apartment upon
her father's summons. Indeed, it was probably in favour of their
future friendly intercourse, that they were parted on this occasion
at the turn which the conversation seemed likely to take. For, as
the wooer had begun to hold the refusal of the damsel as somewhat
capricious and inexplicable after the degree of encouragement
which, in his opinion, she had afforded; Catharine, on the other
hand, considered him rather as an encroacher upon the grace which
she had shown him than one whose delicacy rendered him deserving
of such favour. But there was living in their bosoms towards each
other a reciprocal kindness, which, on the termination of the
dispute, was sure to revive, inducing the maiden to forget her
offended delicacy, and the lover his slighted warmth of passion.



CHAPTER VII.

This quarrel may draw blood another day.

Henry IV. Part I.


The conclave of citizens appointed to meet for investigating the
affray of the preceding evening had now assembled. The workroom
of Simon Glover was filled to crowding by personages of no little
consequence, some of whom wore black velvet cloaks, and gold chains
around their necks. They were, indeed, the fathers of the city;
and there were bailies and deacons in the honoured number. There
was an ireful and offended air of importance upon every brow as they
conversed together, rather in whisper than aloud or in detail.
Busiest among the busy, the little important assistant of the previous
night, Oliver Proudfute by name, and bonnet maker by profession,
was bustling among the crowd, much after the manner of the seagull,
which flutters, screams, and sputters most at the commencement of
a gale of wind, though one can hardly conceive what the bird has
better to do than to fly to its nest and remain quiet till the gale
is over.

Be that as it may, Master Proudfute was in the midst of the crowd,
his fingers upon every one's button and his mouth in every man's
ear, embracing such as were near to his own stature, that he might
more closely and mysteriously utter his sentiments; and standing
on tiptoe, and supporting himself by the cloak collars of tall men,
that he might dole out to them also the same share of information.
He felt himself one of the heroes of the affair, being conscious of
the dignity of superior information on the subject as an eyewitness,
and much disposed to push his connexion with the scuffle a few
points beyond the modesty of truth. It cannot be said that his
communications were in especial curious and important, consisting
chiefly of such assertions as these:

"It is all true, by St. John! I was there and saw it myself--was
the first to run to the fray; and if it had not been for me and
another stout fellow, who came in about the same time, they had
broken into Simon Glover's house, cut his throat, and carried his
daughter off to the mountains. It is too evil usage--not to be
suffered, neighbour Crookshank; not to be endured, neighbour Glass;
not to be borne, neighbours Balneaves, Rollock, and Chrysteson.
It was a mercy that I and that stout fellow came in, was it not,
neighbour and worthy Bailie Craigdallie?"

These speeches were dispersed by the busy bonnet maker into sundry
ears. Bailie Craigdallie, a portly guild brother, the same who
had advised the prorogation of their civic council to the present
place and hour, a big, burly, good looking man, shook the deacon
from his cloak with pretty much the grace with which a large horse
shrugs off the importunate fly that has beset him for ten minutes,
and exclaimed, "Silence, good citizens; here comes Simon Glover,
in whom no man ever saw falsehood. We will hear the outrage from
his own mouth."

Simon being called upon to tell his tale, did so with obvious
embarrassment, which he imputed to a reluctance that the burgh
should be put in deadly feud with any one upon his account. It
was, he dared to say, a masking or revel on the part of the young
gallants about court; and the worst that might come of it would
be, that he would put iron stanchions on his daughter's window, in
case of such another frolic.

"Why, then, if this was a mere masking or mummery," said Craigdallie,
"our townsman, Harry of the Wind, did far wrong to cut off a
gentleman's hand for such a harmless pleasantry, and the town may
be brought to a heavy fine for it, unless we secure the person of
the mutilator."

"Our Lady forbid!" said the glover. "Did you know what I do,
you would be as much afraid of handling this matter as if it were
glowing iron. But, since you will needs put your fingers in the
fire, truth must be spoken. And come what will, I must say, that the
matter might have ended ill for me and mine, but for the opportune
assistance of Henry Gow, the armourer, well known to you all."

"And mine also was not awanting," said Oliver Proudfute, "though I
do not profess to be utterly so good a swordsman as our neighbour
Henry Gow. You saw me, neighbour Glover, at the beginning of the
fray?"

"I saw you after the end of it, neighbour," answered the glover,
drily.

"True--true; I had forgot you were in your house while the blows
were going, and could not survey who were dealing them."

"Peace, neighbour Proudfute--I prithee, peace," said Craigdallie,
who was obviously tired of the tuneless screeching of the worthy
deacon.

"There is something mysterious here," said the bailie; "but I think
I spy the secret. Our friend Simon is, as you all know, a peaceful
man, and one that will rather sit down with wrong than put a friend,
or say a neighbourhood, in danger to seek his redress. Thou, Henry,
who art never wanting where the burgh needs a defender, tell us
what thou knowest of this matter."

Our smith told his story to the same purpose which we have already
related; and the meddling maker of bonnets added as before, "And
thou sawest me there, honest smith, didst thou not?"

"Not I, in good faith, neighbour," answered Henry; "but you are a
little man, you know, and I might overlook you."

This reply produced a laugh at Oliver's expense, who laughed for
company, but added doggedly, "I was one of the foremost to the
rescue for all that."

"Why, where wert thou, then, neighbour?" said the smith; "for I
saw you not, and I would have given the worth of the best suit of
armour I ever wrought to have seen as stout a fellow as thou at my
elbow."

"I was no farther off, however, honest smith; and whilst thou wert
laying on blows as if on an anvil, I was parrying those that the
rest of the villains aimed at thee behind thy back; and that is
the cause thou sawest me not."

"I have heard of smiths of old time who had but one eye," said
Henry; "I have two, but they are both set in my forehead, and so
I could not see behind my back, neighbour."

"The truth is, however," persevered Master Oliver, "there I was,
and I will give Master Bailie my account of the matter; for the
smith and I were first up to the fray."

"Enough at present," said the bailie, waving to Master Proudfute
an injunction of silence. "The precognition of Simon Glover and
Henry Gow would bear out a matter less worthy of belief. And now,
my masters, your opinion what should be done. Here are all our
burgher rights broken through and insulted, and you may well fancy
that it is by some man of power, since no less dared have attempted
such an outrage. My masters, it is hard on flesh and blood to submit
to this. The laws have framed us of lower rank than the princes
and nobles, yet it is against reason to suppose that we will suffer
our houses to be broken into, and the honour of our women insulted,
without some redress."

"It is not to be endured!" answered the citizens, unanimously.

Here Simon Glover interfered with a very anxious and ominous
countenance. "I hope still that all was not meant so ill as it
seemed to us, my worthy neighbours; and I for one would cheerfully
forgive the alarm and disturbance to my poor house, providing the
Fair City were not brought into jeopardy for me. I beseech you to
consider who are to be our judges that are to hear the case, and
give or refuse redress. I speak among neighbours and friends, and
therefore I speak openly. The King, God bless him! is so broken
in mind and body, that he will but turn us over to some great
man amongst his counsellors who shall be in favour for the time.
Perchance he will refer us to his brother the Duke of Albany, who
will make our petition for righting of our wrongs the pretence for
squeezing money out of us."

"We will none of Albany for our judge!" answered the meeting with
the same unanimity as before.

"Or perhaps," added Simon, "he will bid the Duke of Rothsay take
charge of it; and the wild young prince will regard the outrage as
something for his gay companions to scoff at, and his minstrels to
turn into song."

"Away with Rothsay! he is too gay to be our judge," again exclaimed
the citizens.

Simon, emboldened by seeing he was reaching the point he aimed at,
yet pronouncing the dreaded name with a half whisper, next added,
"Would you like the Black Douglas better to deal with?"

There was no answer for a minute. They looked on each other with
fallen countenances and blanched lips.

But Henry Smith spoke out boldly, and in a decided voice, the
sentiments which all felt, but none else dared give words to: "The
Black Douglas to judge betwixt a burgher and a gentleman, nay, a
nobleman, for all I know or care! The black devil of hell sooner!
You are mad, father Simon, so much as to name so wild a proposal."

There was again a silence of fear and uncertainty, which was at
length broken by Bailie Craigdallie, who, looking very significantly
to the speaker, replied, "You are confident in a stout doublet,
neighbour Smith, or you would not talk so boldly."

"I am confident of a good heart under my doublet, such as it is,
bailie," answered the undaunted Henry; "and though I speak but little,
my mouth shall never be padlocked by any noble of them all."

"Wear a thick doublet, good Henry, or do not speak so loud," reiterated
the bailie in the same significant tone. "There are Border men in
the town who wear the bloody heart on their shoulder. But all this
is no rede. What shall we do?"

"Short rede, good rede," said the smith. "Let us to our provost,
and demand his countenance and assistance."

A murmur of applause went through the party, and Oliver Proudfute
exclaimed, "That is what I have been saying for this half hour,
and not one of ye would listen to me. 'Let us go to our provost,'
said I. 'He is a gentleman himself, and ought to come between the
burgh and the nobles in all matters."

"Hush, neighbours--hush; be wary what you say or do," said a thin
meagre figure of a man, whose diminutive person seemed still more
reduced in size, and more assimilated to a shadow, by his efforts
to assume an extreme degree of humility, and make himself, to suit
his argument, look meaner yet, and yet more insignificant, than
nature had made him.

"Pardon me," said he; "I am but a poor pottingar. Nevertheless, I
have been bred in Paris, and learned my humanities and my cursus
medendi as well as some that call themselves learned leeches. Methinks
I can tent this wound, and treat it with emollients. Here is our
friend Simon Glover, who is, as you all know, a man of worship.
Think you he would not be the most willing of us all to pursue harsh
courses here, since his family honour is so nearly concerned? And
since he blenches away from the charge against these same revellers,
consider if he may not have some good reason more than he cares
to utter for letting the matter sleep. It is not for me to put
my finger on the sore; but, alack! we all know that young maidens
are what I call fugitive essences. Suppose now, an honest maiden
--I mean in all innocence--leaves her window unlatched on St.
Valentine's morn, that some gallant cavalier may--in all honesty, I
mean--become her Valentine for the season, and suppose the gallant
be discovered, may she not scream out as if the visit were unexpected,
and--and--bray all this in a mortar, and then consider, will
it be a matter to place the town in feud for?"

The pottingar delivered his opinion in a most insinuating manner;
but he seemed to shrink into something less than his natural tenuity
when he saw the blood rise in the old cheek of Simon Glover, and
inflame to the temples the complexion of the redoubted smith.

The last, stepping forward, and turning a stern look on the alarmed
pottingar, broke out as follows: "Thou walking skeleton! thou
asthmatic gallipot! thou poisoner by profession! if I thought that
the puff of vile breath thou hast left could blight for the tenth
part of a minute the fair fame of Catharine Glover, I would pound
thee, quacksalver! in thine own mortar, and beat up thy wretched
carrion with flower of brimstone, the only real medicine in thy
booth, to make a salve to rub mangy hounds with!"

"Hold, son Henry--hold!" cried the glover, in a tone of authority,
"no man has title to speak of this matter but me. Worshipful Bailie
Craigdallie, since such is the construction that is put upon my
patience, I am willing to pursue this riot to the uttermost; and
though the issue may prove that we had better have been patient,
you will all see that my Catharine hath not by any lightness or
folly of hers afforded grounds for this great scandal."

The bailie also interposed. "Neighbour Henry," said he, "we came
here to consult, and not to quarrel. As one of the fathers of the
Fair City, I command thee to forego all evil will and maltalent
you may have against Master Pottingar Dwining."

"He is too poor a creature, bailie," said Henry Gow, "for me to
harbour feud with--I that could destroy him and his booth with
one blow of my forehammer."

"Peace, then, and hear me," said the official. "We all are as much
believers in the honour of the Fair Maiden of Perth as in that of
our Blessed Lady." Here he crossed himself devoutly. "But touching
our appeal to our provost, are you agreed, neighbours, to put matter
like this into our provost's hand, being against a powerful noble,
as is to be feared?"

"The provost being himself a nobleman," squeaked the pottingar, in
some measure released from his terror by the intervention of the
bailie. "God knows, I speak not to the disparagement of an honourable
gentleman, whose forebears have held the office he now holds for
many years--"

"By free choice of the citizens of Perth," said the smith, interrupting
the speaker with the tones of his deep and decisive voice.

"Ay, surely," said the disconcerted orator, "by the voice of the
citizens. How else? I pray you, friend Smith, interrupt me not. I
speak to our worthy and eldest bailie, Craigdallie, according to
my poor mind. I say that, come amongst us how he will, still this
Sir Patrick Charteris is a nobleman, and hawks will not pick hawks'
eyes out. He may well bear us out in a feud with the Highlandmen,
and do the part of our provost and leader against them; but whether
he that himself wears silk will take our part against broidered
cloak and cloth of gold, though he may do so against tartan and
Irish frieze, is something to be questioned. Take a fool's advice.
We have saved our Maiden, of whom I never meant to speak harm, as
truly I knew none. They have lost one man's hand, at least, thanks
to Harry Smith--"

"And to me," added the little important bonnet maker.

"And to Oliver Proudfute, as he tells us," continued the pottingar,
who contested no man's claim to glory provided he was not himself
compelled to tread the perilous paths which lead to it. "I say,
neighbours, since they have left a hand as a pledge they will never
come in Couvrefew Street again, why, in my simple mind, we were
best to thank our stout townsman, and the town having the honour
and these rakehells the loss, that we should hush the matter up
and say no more about it."

These pacific counsels had their effect with some of the citizens,
who began to nod and look exceedingly wise upon the advocate
of acquiescence, with whom, notwithstanding the offence so lately
given, Simon Glover seemed also to agree in opinion. But not so
Henry Smith, who, seeing the consultation at a stand, took up the
speech in his usual downright manner.

"I am neither the oldest nor the richest among you, neighbours, and
I am not sorry for it. Years will come, if one lives to see them;
and I can win and spend my penny like another, by the blaze of the
furnace and the wind of the bellows. But no man ever saw me sit down
with wrong done in word or deed to our fair town, if man's tongue
and man's hand could right it. Neither will I sit down with this
outrage, if I can help it. I will go to the provost myself, if no
one will go with me; he is a knight, it is true, and a gentleman
of free and true born blood, as we all know, since Wallace's time,
who settled his great grandsire amongst us. But if he were the
proudest nobleman in the land, he is the Provost of Perth, and for
his own honour must see the freedoms and immunities of the burgh
preserved--ay, and I know he will. I have made a steel doublet
for him, and have a good guess at the kind of heart that it was
meant to cover."

"Surely," said Bailie Craigdallie, "it would be to no purpose
to stir at court without Sir Patrick Charteris's countenance: the
ready answer would be, 'Go to your provost, you borrel loons.'
So, neighbours and townsmen, if you will stand by my side, I and
our pottingar Dwining will repair presently to Kinfauns, with Sim
Glover, the jolly smith, and gallant Oliver Proudfute, for witnesses
to the onslaught, and speak with Sir Patrick Charteris, in name of
the fair town."

"Nay," said the peaceful man of medicine, "leave me behind, I pray
you: I lack audacity to speak before a belted knight."

"Never regard that, neighbour, you must go," said Bailie Craigdallie.
"The town hold me a hot headed carle for a man of threescore; Sim
Glover is the offended party; we all know that Harry Gow spoils
more harness with his sword than he makes with his hammer and our
neighbour Proudfute, who, take his own word, is at the beginning
and end of every fray in Perth, is of course a man of action. We
must have at least one advocate amongst us for peace and quietness;
and thou, pottingar, must be the man. Away with you, sirs, get your
boots and your beasts--horse and hattock, I say, and let us meet
at the East Port; that is, if it is your pleasure, neighbours, to
trust us with the matter."

"There can be no better rede, and we will all avouch it," said the
citizens. "If the provost take our part, as the Fair Town hath a
right to expect, we may bell the cat with the best of them."

"It is well, then, neighbours," answered the bailie; "so said,
so shall be done. Meanwhile, I have called the whole town council
together about this hour, and I have little doubt," looking around
the company, "that, as so many of them who are in this place have
resolved to consult with our provost, the rest will be compliant to
the same resolution. And, therefore, neighbours, and good burghers
of the Fair City of Perth, horse and hattock, as I said before,
and meet me at the East Port."

A general acclamation concluded the sitting of this species of
privy council, or Lords of the Articles; and they dispersed, the
deputation to prepare for the journey, and the rest to tell their
impatient wives and daughters of the measures they had taken
to render their chambers safe in future against the intrusion of
gallants at unseasonable hours.

While nags are saddling, and the town council debating, or rather
putting in form what the leading members of their body had already
adopted, it may be necessary, for the information of some readers,
to state in distinct terms what is more circuitously intimated in
the course of the former discussion.

It was the custom at this period, when the strength of the feudal
aristocracy controlled the rights, and frequently insulted the
privileges, of the royal burghs of Scotland, that the latter, where
it was practicable, often chose their provost, or chief magistrate,
not out of the order of the merchants, shopkeepers, and citizens,
who inhabited the town itself, and filled up the roll of the ordinary
magistracy, but elected to that preeminent state some powerful
nobleman, or baron, in the neighbourhood of the burgh, who was
expected to stand their friend at court in such matters as concerned
their common weal, and to lead their civil militia to fight, whether
in general battle or in private feud, reinforcing them with his
own feudal retainers. This protection was not always gratuitous.
The provosts sometimes availed themselves of their situation to an
unjustifiable degree, and obtained grants of lands and tenements
belonging to the common good, or public property of the burgh,
and thus made the citizens pay dear for the countenance which they
afforded. Others were satisfied to receive the powerful aid of
the townsmen in their own feudal quarrels, with such other marks
of respect and benevolence as the burgh over which they presided
were willing to gratify them with, in order to secure their active
services in case of necessity. The baron, who was the regular
protector of a royal burgh, accepted such freewill offerings without
scruple, and repaid them by defending the rights of the town by
arguments in the council and by bold deeds in the field.

The citizens of the town, or, as they loved better to call it, the
Fair City, of Perth, had for several generations found a protector
and provost of this kind in the knightly family of Charteris,
Lords of Kinfauns, in the neighbourhood of the burgh. It was scarce
a century (in the time of Robert III) since the first of this
distinguished family had settled in the strong castle which now
belonged to them, with the picturesque and fertile scenes adjoining
to it. But the history of the first settler, chivalrous and romantic
in itself, was calculated to facilitate the settlement of an alien
in the land in which his lot was cast. We relate it as it is given
by an ancient and uniform tradition, which carries in it great
indications of truth, and is warrant enough, perhaps, for it
insertion in graver histories than the present.

During the brief career of the celebrated patriot Sir William
Wallace, and when his arms had for a time expelled the English
invaders from his native country, he is said to have undertaken a
voyage to France, with a small band of trusty friends, to try what
his presence (for he was respected through all countries for his
prowess) might do to induce the French monarch to send to Scotland
a body of auxiliary forces, or other assistance, to aid the Scots
in regaining their independence.

The Scottish Champion was on board a small vessel, and steering
for the port of Dieppe, when a sail appeared in the distance, which
the mariners regarded, first with doubt and apprehension, and at
last with confusion and dismay. Wallace demanded to know what was
the cause of their alarm. The captain of the ship informed him that
the tall vessel which was bearing down, with the purpose of boarding
that which he commanded, was the ship of a celebrated rover, equally
famed for his courage, strength of body, and successful piracies.
It was commanded by a gentleman named Thomas de Longueville, a
Frenchman by birth, but by practice one of those pirates who called
themselves friends to the sea and enemies to all who sailed upon
that element. He attacked and plundered vessels of all nations,
like one of the ancient Norse sea kings, as they were termed,
whose dominion was upon the mountain waves. The master added that
no vessel could escape the rover by flight, so speedy was the bark
he commanded; and that no crew, however hardy, could hope to resist
him, when, as was his usual mode of combat, he threw himself on
board at the head of his followers.

Wallace smiled sternly, while the master of the ship, with alarm
in his countenance and tears in his eyes, described to him the
certainty of their being captured by the Red Rover, a name given
to De Longueville, because he usually displayed the blood red flag,
which he had now hoisted.

"I will clear the narrow seas of this rover," said Wallace.

Then calling together some ten or twelve of his own followers, Boyd,
Kerlie, Seton, and others, to whom the dust of the most desperate
battle was like the breath of life, he commanded them to arm
themselves, and lie flat upon the deck, so as to be out of sight.
He ordered the mariners below, excepting such as were absolutely
necessary to manage the vessel; and he gave the master instructions,
upon pain of death, so to steer as that, while the vessel had an
appearance of attempting to fly, he should in fact permit the Red
Rover to come up with them and do his worst. Wallace himself then
lay down on the deck, that nothing might be seen which could intimate
any purpose of resistance. In a quarter of an hour De Longueville's
vessel ran on board that of the Champion, and the Red Rover, casting
out grappling irons to make sure of his prize, jumped on the deck
in complete armour, followed by his men, who gave a terrible shout,
as if victory had been already secured. But the armed Scots started
up at once, and the rover found himself unexpectedly engaged with
men accustomed to consider victory as secure when they were only
opposed as one to two or three. Wallace himself rushed on the pirate
captain, and a dreadful strife began betwixt them with such fury
that the others suspended their own battle to look on, and seemed
by common consent to refer the issue of the strife to the fate of
the combat between the two chiefs. The pirate fought as well as
man could do; but Wallace's strength was beyond that of ordinary
mortals. He dashed the sword from the rover's hand, and placed him
in such peril that, to avoid being cut down, he was fain to close
with the Scottish Champion in hopes of overpowering him in the grapple.
In this also he was foiled. They fell on the deck, locked in each
other's arms, but the Frenchman fell undermost; and Wallace, fixing
his grasp upon his gorget, compressed it so closely, notwithstanding
it was made of the finest steel, that the blood gushed from his
eyes, nose, and month, and he was only able to ask for quarter by
signs. His men threw down their weapons and begged for mercy when
they saw their leader thus severely handled. The victor granted them
all their lives, but took possession of their vessel, and detained
them prisoners.

When he came in sight of the French harbour, Wallace alarmed the
place by displaying the rover's colours, as if De Longueville was
coming to pillage the town. The bells were rung backward, horns
were blown, and the citizens were hurrying to arms, when the scene
changed. The Scottish Lion on his shield of gold was raised above
the piratical flag, and announced that the Champion of Scotland was
approaching, like a falcon with his prey in his clutch. He landed
with his prisoner, and carried him to the court of France, where,
at Wallace's request, the robberies which the pirate had committed
were forgiven, and the king even conferred the honour of knighthood
on Sir Thomas de Longueville, and offered to take him into his
service. But the rover had contracted such a friendship for his
generous victor, that he insisted on uniting his fortunes with
those of Wallace, with whom he returned to Scotland, and fought by
his side in many a bloody battle, where the prowess of Sir Thomas
de Longueville was remarked as inferior to that of none, save of
his heroic conqueror. His fate also was more fortunate than that of
his patron. Being distinguished by the beauty as well as strength
of his person, he rendered himself so acceptable to a young lady,
heiress of the ancient family of Charteris, that she chose him
for her husband, bestowing on him with her hand the fair baronial
Castle of Kinfauns, and the domains annexed to it. Their descendants
took the name of Charteris, as connecting themselves with their
maternal ancestors, the ancient proprietors of the property, though
the name of Thomas de Longueville was equally honoured amongst
them; and the large two handed sword with which he mowed the ranks
of war was, and is still, preserved among the family muniments.
Another account is, that the family name of De Longueville himself
was Charteris. The estate afterwards passed to a family of Blairs,
and is now the property of Lord Gray.

These barons of Kinfauns, from father to son, held, for several
generations, the office of Provost of Perth, the vicinity of the
castle and town rendering it a very convenient arrangement for
mutual support. The Sir Patrick of this history had more than once
led out the men of Perth to battles and skirmishes with the restless
Highland depredators, and with other enemies, foreign and domestic.
True it is, he used sometimes to be weary of the slight and frivolous
complaints unnecessarily brought before him, and in which he was
requested to interest himself. Hence he had sometimes incurred the
charge of being too proud as a nobleman, or too indolent as a man
of wealth, and one who was too much addicted to the pleasures of
the field and the exercise of feudal hospitality, to bestir himself
upon all and every occasion when the Fair Town would have desired
his active interference. But, notwithstanding that this occasioned
some slight murmuring, the citizens, upon any serious cause of
alarm, were wont to rally around their provost, and were warmly
supported by him both in council and action.



CHAPTER VIII.

Within the bounds of Annandale
The gentle Johnstones ride;
They have been there a thousand years,
A thousand more they'll bide.

Old Ballad.


The character and quality of Sir Patrick Charteris, the Provost of
Perth, being such as we have sketched in the last chapter, let us
now return to the deputation which was in the act of rendezvousing
at the East Port, in order to wait upon that dignitary with their
complaints at Kinfauns.