And first appeared Simon Glover, on a pacing palfrey, which had
sometimes enjoyed the honour of bearing the fairer person as well
as the lighter weight of his beautiful daughter. His cloak was
muffled round the lower part of his face, as a sign to his friends
not to interrupt him by any questions while he passed through the
streets, and partly, perhaps, on account of the coldness of the
weather. The deepest anxiety was seated on his brow, as if the more
he meditated on the matter he was engaged in, the more difficult
and perilous it appeared. He only greeted by silent gestures his
friends as they came to the rendezvous.

A strong black horse, of the old Galloway breed, of an under size,
and not exceeding fourteen hands, but high shouldered, strong
limbed, well coupled, and round barrelled, bore to the East Port
the gallant smith. A judge of the animal might see in his eye a
spark of that vicious temper which is frequently the accompaniment
of the form that is most vigorous and enduring; but the weight, the
hand, and the seat of the rider, added to the late regular exercise
of a long journey, had subdued his stubbornness for the present.
He was accompanied by the honest bonnet maker, who being, as the
reader is aware, a little round man, and what is vulgarly called
duck legged, had planted himself like a red pincushion (for he
was wrapped in a scarlet cloak, over which he had slung a hawking
pouch), on the top of a great saddle, which he might be said rather
to be perched upon than to bestride. The saddle and the man were
girthed on the ridge bone of a great trampling Flemish mare, with
a nose turned up in the air like a camel, a huge fleece of hair at
each foot, and every hoof full as large in circumference as a frying
pan. The contrast between the beast and the rider was so extremely
extraordinary, that, whilst chance passengers contented themselves
with wondering how he got up, his friends were anticipating with
sorrow the perils which must attend his coming down again; for the
high seated horseman's feet did not by any means come beneath the
laps of the saddle. He had associated himself to the smith, whose
motions he had watched for the purpose of joining him; for it
was Oliver Proudfute's opinion that men of action showed to most
advantage when beside each other; and he was delighted when some wag
of the lower class had gravity enough to cry out, without laughing
outright: "There goes the pride of Perth--there go the slashing
craftsmen, the jolly Smith of the Wynd and the bold bonnet maker!"

It is true, the fellow who gave this all hail thrust his tongue
in his cheek to some scapegraces like himself; but as the bonnet
maker did not see this byplay, he generously threw him a silver
penny to encourage his respect for martialists. This munificence
occasioned their being followed by a crowd of boys, laughing and
hallooing, until Henry Smith, turning back, threatened to switch
the foremost of them--a resolution which they did not wait to
see put in execution.

"Here are we the witnesses," said the little man on the large horse,
as they joined Simon Glover at the East Port; "but where are they
that should back us? Ah, brother Henry! authority is a load for an
ass rather than a spirited horse: it would but clog the motions of
such young fellows as you and me."

"I could well wish to see you bear ever so little of that same
weight, worthy Master Proudfute," replied Henry Gow, "were it but
to keep you firm in the saddle; for you bounce aloft as if you were
dancing a jig on your seat, without any help from your legs."

"Ay--ay; I raise myself in my stirrups to avoid the jolting. She
is cruelly hard set this mare of mine; but she has carried me in
field and forest, and through some passages that were something
perilous, so Jezabel and I part not. I call her Jezabel, after the
Princess of Castile."

"Isabel, I suppose you mean," answered the smith.

"Ay--Isabel, or Jezabel--all the same, you know. But here comes
Bailie Craigdallie at last, with that poor, creeping, cowardly
creature the pottingar. They have brought two town officers with
their partizans, to guard their fair persons, I suppose. If there
is one thing I hate more than another, it is such a sneaking varlet
as that Dwining."

"Have a care he does not hear you say so," said the smith, "I tell
thee, bonnet maker, that there is more danger in yonder slight
wasted anatomy than in twenty stout fellows like yourself."

"Pshaw! Bully Smith, you are but jesting with me," said Oliver,
softening his voice, however, and looking towards the pottingar,
as if to discover in what limb or lineament of his wasted face and
form lay any appearance of the menaced danger; and his examination
reassuring him, he answered boldly: "Blades and bucklers, man, I
would stand the feud of a dozen such as Dwining. What could he do
to any man with blood in his veins?"

"He could give him a dose of physic," answered the smith drily.

They had no time for further colloquy, for Bailie Craigdallie
called to them to take the road to Kinfauns, and himself showed
the example. As they advanced at a leisurely pace, the discourse
turned on the reception which they were to expect from their provost,
and the interest which he was likely to take in the aggression which
they complained of. The glover seemed particularly desponding, and
talked more than once in a manner which implied a wish that they
would yet consent to let the matter rest. He did not speak out very
plainly, however, fearful, perhaps, of the malignant interpretation
which might be derived from any appearance of his flinching from
the assertion of his daughter's reputation. Dwining seemed to agree
with him in opinion, but spoke more cautiously than in the morning.

"After all," said the bailie, "when I think of all the propines
and good gifts which have passed from the good town to my Lord
Provost's, I cannot think he will be backward to show himself. More
than one lusty boat, laden with Bordeaux wine, has left the South
Shore to discharge its burden under the Castle of Kinfauns. I have
some right to speak of that, who was the merchant importer."

"And," said Dwining, with his squeaking voice, "I could speak
of delicate confections, curious comfits, loaves of wastel bread,
and even cakes of that rare and delicious condiment which men call
sugar, that have gone thither to help out a bridal banquet, or
a kirstening feast, or suchlike. But, alack, Bailie Craigdallie,
wine is drunk, comfits are eaten, and the gift is forgotten when
the flavour is past away. Alas! neighbour, the banquet of last
Christmas is gone like the last year's snow."

"But there have been gloves full of gold pieces," said the magistrate.

"I should know that who wrought them," said Simon, whose professional
recollections still mingled with whatever else might occupy his
mind. "One was a hawking glove for my lady. I made it something
wide. Her ladyship found no fault, in consideration of the intended
lining."

"Well, go to," said Bailie Craigdallie, "the less I lie; and if
these are not to the fore, it is the provost's fault, and not the
town's: they could neither be eat nor drunk in the shape in which
he got them."

"I could speak of a brave armour too," said the smith; "but, cogan
na schie! [Peace or war, I care not!] as John Highlandman says--
I think the knight of Kinfauns will do his devoir by the burgh in
peace or war; and it is needless to be reckoning the town's good
deeds till we see him thankless for them."

"So say I," cried our friend Proudfute, from the top of his mare.
"We roystering blades never bear so base a mind as to count for
wine and walnuts with a friend like Sir Patrick Charteris. Nay,
trust me, a good woodsman like Sir Patrick will prize the right
of hunting and sporting over the lands of the burgh as an high
privilege, and one which, his Majesty the King's Grace excepted,
is neither granted to lord nor loon save to our provost alone."

As the bonnet maker spoke, there was heard on the left hand the
cry of, "So so--waw waw--haw," being the shout of a falconer
to his hawk.

"Methinks yonder is a fellow using the privilege you mention, who,
from his appearance, is neither king nor provost," said the smith.

"Ay, marry, I see him," said the bonnet maker, who imagined the
occasion presented a prime opportunity to win honour. "Thou and I,
jolly smith, will prick towards him and put him to the question."

"Have with you, then," cried the smith; and his companion spurred
his mare and went off, never doubting that Gow was at his heels.

But Craigdallie caught Henry's horse by the reins. "Stand fast by
the standard," he said; "let us see the luck of our light horseman.
If he procures himself a broken pate he will be quieter for the
rest of the day."

"From what I already see," said the smith, "he may easily come by
such a boon. Yonder fellow, who stops so impudently to look at us,
as if he were engaged in the most lawful sport in the world--I
guess him, by his trotting hobbler, his rusty head piece with the
cock's feather, and long two handed sword, to be the follower of
some of the southland lords--men who live so near the Southron,
that the black jack is never off their backs, and who are as free
of their blows as they are light in their fingers."

Whilst they were thus speculating on the issue of the rencounter
the valiant bonnet maker began to pull up Jezabel, in order that
the smith, who he still concluded was close behind, might overtake
him, and either advance first or at least abreast of himself. But
when he saw him at a hundred yards distance, standing composedly
with the rest of the group, the flesh of the champion, like that
of the old Spanish general, began to tremble, in anticipation of
the dangers into which his own venturous spirit was about to involve
it. Yet the consciousness of being countenanced by the neighbourhood
of so many friends, the hopes that the appearance of such odds
must intimidate the single intruder, and the shame of abandoning
an enterprise in which he had volunteered, and when so many persons
must witness his disgrace, surmounted the strong inclination which
prompted him to wheel Jezabel to the right about, and return to
the friends whose protection he had quitted, as fast as her legs
could carry them. He accordingly continued his direction towards
the stranger, who increased his alarm considerably by putting his
little nag in motion, and riding to meet him at a brisk trot. On
observing this apparently offensive movement, our hero looked over
his left shoulder more than once, as if reconnoitring the ground
for a retreat, and in the mean while came to a decided halt. But the
Philistine was upon him ere the bonnet maker could decide whether
to fight or fly, and a very ominous looking Philistine he was. His
figure was gaunt and lathy, his visage marked by two or three ill
favoured scars, and the whole man had much the air of one accustomed
to say, "Stand and deliver," to a true man.

This individual began the discourse by exclaiming, in tones as
sinister as his looks, "The devil catch you for a cuckoo, why do
you ride across the moor to spoil my sport?"

"Worthy stranger," said our friend, in the tone of pacific
remonstrance, "I am Oliver Proudfute, a burgess of Perth, and a
man of substance; and yonder is the worshipful Adam Craigdallie,
the oldest bailie of the burgh, with the fighting Smith of the Wynd,
and three or four armed men more, who desire to know your name,
and how you come to take your pleasure over these lands belonging
to the burgh of Perth; although, natheless, I will answer for
them, it is not their wish to quarrel with a gentleman, or stranger
for any accidental trespass; only it is their use and wont not to
grant such leave, unless it is duly asked; and--and--therefore
I desire to know your name, worthy sir."

The grim and loathly aspect with which the falconer had regarded
Oliver Proudfute during his harangue had greatly disconcerted him,
and altogether altered the character of the inquiry which, with
Henry Gow to back him, he would probably have thought most fitting
for the occasion.

The stranger replied to it, modified as it was, with a most
inauspicious grin, which the scars of his visage made appear still
more repulsive. "You want to know my name? My name is the Devil's
Dick of Hellgarth, well known in Annandale for a gentle Johnstone.
I follow the stout Laird of Wamphray, who rides with his kinsman
the redoubted Lord of Johnstone, who is banded with the doughty
Earl of Douglas; and the earl and the lord, and the laird and I,
the esquire, fly our hawks where we find our game, and ask no man
whose ground we ride over."

"I will do your message, sir," replied Oliver Proudfute, meekly
enough; for he began to be very desirous to get free of the embassy
which he had so rashly undertaken, and was in the act of turning
his horse's head, when the Annandale man added:

"And take you this to boot, to keep you in mind that you met the
Devil's Dick, and to teach you another time to beware how you spoil
the sport of any one who wears the flying spur on his shoulder."

With these words he applied two or three smart blows of his riding
rod upon the luckless bonnet maker's head and person. Some of them
lighted upon Jezabel, who, turning sharply round, laid her rider
upon the moor, and galloped back towards the party of citizens.

Proudfute, thus overthrown, began to cry for assistance in no very
manly voice, and almost in the same breath to whimper for mercy;
for his antagonist, dismounting almost as soon as he fell, offered
a whinger, or large wood knife, to his throat, while he rifled the
pockets of the unlucky citizen, and even examined his hawking bag,
swearing two or three grisly oaths, that he would have what it
contained, since the wearer had interrupted his sport. He pulled
the belt rudely off, terrifying the prostrate bonnet maker still
more by the regardless violence which he used, as, instead of taking
the pains to unbuckle the strap, he drew till the fastening gave
way. But apparently it contained nothing to his mind. He threw it
carelessly from him, and at the same time suffered the dismounted
cavalier to rise, while he himself remounted his hobbler, and looked
towards the rest of Oliver's party, who were now advancing.

When they had seen their delegate overthrown, there was some laughter;
so much had the vaunting humor of the bonnet maker prepared his
friends to rejoice when, as Henry Smith termed it, they saw the
Oliver meet with a Rowland. But when the bonnet maker's adversary
was seen to bestride him, and handle him in the manner described,
the armourer could hold out no longer.

"Please you, good Master Bailie, I cannot endure to see our
townsman beaten and rifled, and like to be murdered before us all.
It reflects upon the Fair Town, and if it is neighbour Proudfute's
misfortune, it is our shame. I must to his rescue."

"We will all go to his rescue," answered Bailie Craigdallie; "but
let no man strike without order from me. We have more feuds on our
hands, it is to be feared, than we have strength to bring to good
end. And therefore I charge you all, more especially you, Henry
of the Wynd, in the name of the Fair City, that you make no stroke
but in self defence."

They all advanced, therefore, in a body; and the appearance of
such a number drove the plunderer from his booty. He stood at gaze,
however, at some distance, like the wolf, which, though it retreats
before the dogs, cannot be brought to absolute flight.

Henry, seeing this state of things, spurred his horse and advanced
far before the rest of the party, up towards the scene of Oliver
Proudfute's misfortune. His first task was to catch Jezabel by
the flowing rein, and his next to lead her to meet her discomfited
master, who was crippling towards him, his clothes much soiled
with his fall, his eyes streaming with tears, from pain as well as
mortification, and altogether exhibiting an aspect so unlike the
spruce and dapper importance of his ordinary appearance, that the
honest smith felt compassion for the little man, and some remorse
at having left him exposed to such disgrace. All men, I believe,
enjoy an ill natured joke. The difference is, that an ill natured
person can drink out to the very dregs the amusement which it
affords, while the better moulded mind soon loses the sense of the
ridiculous in sympathy for the pain of the sufferer.

"Let me pitch you up to your saddle again, neighbour," said the
smith, dismounting at the same time, and assisting Oliver to scramble
into his war saddle, as a monkey might have done.

"May God forgive you, neighbour Smith, for not backing of me! I
would not have believed in it, though fifty credible witnesses had
sworn it of you."

Such were the first words, spoken in sorrow more than anger, by
which the dismayed Oliver vented his feelings.

"The bailie kept hold of my horse by the bridle; and besides,"
Henry continued, with a smile, which even his compassion could not
suppress, "I thought you would have accused me of diminishing your
honour, if I brought you aid against a single man. But cheer up!
the villain took foul odds of you, your horse not being well at
command."

"That is true--that is true," said Oliver, eagerly catching at
the apology.

"And yonder stands the faitour, rejoicing at the mischief he has
done, and triumphing in your overthrow, like the king in the romance,
who played upon the fiddle whilst a city was burning. Come thou
with me, and thou shalt see how we will handle him. Nay, fear not
that I will desert thee this time."

So saying, he caught Jezabel by the rein, and galloping alongside
of her, without giving Oliver time to express a negative, he rushed
towards the Devil's Dick, who had halted on the top of a rising
ground at some distance. The gentle Johnstone, however, either
that he thought the contest unequal, or that he had fought enough
for the day, snapping his fingers and throwing his hand out with
an air of defiance, spurred his horse into a neighbouring bog,
through which he seemed to flutter like a wild duck, swinging
his lure round his head, and whistling to his hawk all the while,
though any other horse and rider must have been instantly bogged
up to the saddle girths.

"There goes a thoroughbred moss trooper," said the smith. "That
fellow will fight or flee as suits his humor, and there is no use
to pursue him, any more than to hunt a wild goose. He has got your
purse, I doubt me, for they seldom leave off till they are full
handed."

"Ye--ye--yes," said Proudfute, in a melancholy tone, "he has got
my purse; but there is less matter since he hath left the hawking
bag."

"Nay, the hawking bag had been an emblem of personal victory, to
be sure--a trophy, as the minstrels call it."

"There is more in it than that, friend," said Oliver, significantly.

"Why, that is well, neighbour: I love to hear you speak in your own
scholarly tone again. Cheer up, you have seen the villain's back,
and regained the trophies you had lost when taken at advantage."

"Ah, Henry Gow--Henry Gow--" said the bonnet maker, and stopped
short with a deep sigh, nearly amounting to a groan.

"What is the matter?" asked his friend--"what is it you vex
yourself about now?"

"I have some suspicion, my dearest friend, Henry Smith, that the
villain fled for fear of you, not of me."

"Do not think so," replied the armourer: "he saw two men and fled,
and who can tell whether he fled for one or the other? Besides,
he knows by experience your strength and activity: we all saw how
you kicked and struggled when you were on the ground."

"Did I?" said poor Proudfute. "I do not remember it, but I know
it is my best point: I am a strong dog in the loins. But did they
all see it?"

"All as much as I," said the smith, smothering an inclination to
laughter.

"But thou wilt remind them of it?"

"Be assured I will," answered Henry, "and of thy desperate rally
even now. Mark what I say to Bailie Craigdallie, and make the best
of it."

"It is not that I require any evidence in thy favour, for I am as
brave by nature as most men in Perth; but only--" Here the man of
valour paused.

"But only what?" inquired the stout armourer.

"But only I am afraid of being killed. To leave my pretty wife and
my young family, you know, would be a sad change, Smith. You will
know this when it is your own case, and will feel abated in courage."

"It is like that I may," said the armourer, musing.

"Then I am so accustomed to the use of arms, and so well breathed,
that few men can match me. It's all here," said the little man,
expanding his breast like a trussed fowl, and patting himself with
his hands--"here is room for all the wind machinery."

"I dare say you are long breathed--long winded; at least your
speech bewrays--"

"My speech! You are a wag--But I have got the stern post of a
dromond brought up the river from Dundee."

"The stern post of a Drummond!" exclaimed the armourer; "conscience,
man, it will put you in feud with the whole clan--not the least
wrathful in the country, as I take it."

"St. Andrew, man, you put me out! I mean a dromond--that is, a
large ship. I have fixed this post in my yard, and had it painted
and carved something like a soldan or Saracen, and with him I breathe
myself, and will wield my two handed sword against him, thrust or
point, for an hour together."

"That must make you familiar with the use of your weapon," said
the smith.

"Ay, marry does it; and sometimes I will place you a bonnet--an
old one, most likely--on my soldan's head, and cleave it with
such a downright blow that in troth, the infidel has but little of
his skull remaining to hit at."

"That is unlucky, for you will lose your practice," said Henry.
"But how say you, bonnet maker? I will put on my head piece and
corselet one day, and you shall hew at me, allowing me my broadsword
to parry and pay back? Eh, what say you?"

"By no manner of means, my dear friend. I should do you too much
evil; besides, to tell you the truth, I strike far more freely at
a helmet or bonnet when it is set on my wooden soldan; then I am
sure to fetch it down. But when there is a plume of feathers in it
that nod, and two eyes gleaming fiercely from under the shadow of
the visor, and when the whole is dancing about here and there, I
acknowledge it puts out my hand of fence."

"So, if men would but stand stock still like your soldan, you would
play the tyrant with them, Master Proudfute?"

"In time, and with practice, I conclude I might," answered Oliver.
"But here we come up with the rest of them. Bailie Craigdallie
looks angry, but it is not his kind of anger that frightens me."

You are to recollect, gentle reader, that as soon as the bailie
and those who attended him saw that the smith had come up to the
forlorn bonnet maker, and that the stranger had retreated, they gave
themselves no trouble about advancing further to his assistance,
which they regarded as quite ensured by the presence of the redoubted
Henry Gow. They had resumed their straight road to Kinfauns, desirous
that nothing should delay the execution of their mission. As some
time had elapsed ere the bonnet maker and the smith rejoined the
party, Bailie Craigdallie asked them, and Henry Smith in particular,
what they meant by dallying away precious time by riding uphill
after the falconer.

"By the mass, it was not my fault, Master Bailie," replied the
smith. "If ye will couple up an ordinary Low Country greyhound
with a Highland wolf dog, you must not blame the first of them for
taking the direction in which it pleases the last to drag him on.
It was so, and not otherwise, with my neighbour Oliver Proudfute.
He no sooner got up from the ground, but he mounted his mare like
a flash of lightning, and, enraged at the unknightly advantage which
yonder rascal had taken of his stumbling horse, he flew after him
like a dromedary. I could not but follow, both to prevent a second
stumble and secure our over bold friend and champion from the chance
of some ambush at the top of the hill. But the villain, who is a
follower of some Lord of the Marches, and wears a winged spur for
his cognizance, fled from our neighbour like fire from flint."

The senior bailie of Perth listened with surprise to the legend
which it had pleased Gow to circulate; for, though not much caring
for the matter, he had always doubted the bonnet maker's romancing
account of his own exploits, which hereafter he must hold as in
some degree orthodox.

The shrewd old glover looked closer into the matter. "You will
drive the poor bonnet maker mad," he whispered to Henry, "and set
him a-ringing his clapper as if he were a town bell on a rejoicing
day, when for order and decency it were better he were silent."

"Oh, by Our Lady, father," replied the smith, "I love the poor
little braggadocio, and could not think of his sitting rueful and
silent in the provost's hall, while all the rest of them, and in
especial that venomous pottingar, were telling their mind."

"Thou art even too good natured a fellow, Henry," answered Simon.
"But mark the difference betwixt these two men. The harmless little
bonnet maker assumes the airs of a dragon, to disguise his natural
cowardice; while the pottingar wilfully desires to show himself
timid, poor spirited, and humble, to conceal the danger of his temper.
The adder is not the less deadly that he creeps under a stone. I
tell thee, son Henry, that, for all his sneaking looks and timorous
talking, this wretched anatomy loves mischief more than he fears
danger. But here we stand in front of the provost's castle; and a
lordly place is Kinfauns, and a credit to the city it is, to have
the owner of such a gallant castle for its chief magistrate."

"A goodly fortalice, indeed," said the smith, looking at the broad
winding Tay, as it swept under the bank on which the castle stood,
like its modern successor, and seemed the queen of the valley,
although, on the opposite side of the river, the strong walls of
Elcho appeared to dispute the pre-eminence. Elcho, however, was
in that age a peaceful nunnery, and the walls with which it was
surrounded were the barriers of secluded vestals, not the bulwarks
of an armed garrison.

"'Tis a brave castle," said the armourer, again looking at the
towers of Kinfauns, "and the breastplate and target of the bonny
course of the Tay. It were worth lipping a good blade, before wrong
were offered to it."

The porter of Kinfauns, who knew from a distance the persons and
characters of the party, had already opened the courtyard gate
for their entrance, and sent notice to Sir Patrick Charteris that
the eldest bailie of Perth, with some other good citizens, were
approaching the castle. The good knight, who was getting ready for
a hawking party, heard the intimation with pretty much the same
feelings that the modern representative of a burgh hears of the
menaced visitation of a party of his worthy electors, at a time
rather unseasonable for their reception. That is, he internally
devoted the intruders to Mahound and Termagaunt, and outwardly gave
orders to receive them with all decorum and civility; commanded
the sewers to bring hot venison steaks and cold baked meats into
the knightly hall with all despatch, and the butler to broach his
casks, and do his duty; for if the Fair City of Perth sometimes
filled his cellar, her citizens were always equally ready to assist
at emptying his flagons.

The good burghers were reverently marshalled into the hall, where the
knight, who was in a riding habit, and booted up to the middle of
his thighs, received them with a mixture of courtesy and patronising
condescension; wishing them all the while at the bottom of the Tay,
on account of the interruption their arrival gave to his proposed
amusement of the morning. He met them in the midst of the hall,
with bare head and bonnet in hand, and some such salutation as the
following:

"Ha, my Master Eldest Bailie, and you, worthy Simon Glover, fathers
of the Fair City, and you, my learned pottingar, and you, stout
smith, and my slashing bonnet maker too, who cracks more skulls
than he covers, how come I to have the pleasure of seeing so many
friends so early? I was thinking to see my hawks fly, and your
company will make the sport more pleasant--(Aside, I trust in
Our Lady they may break their necks!)--that is, always, unless
the city have any commands to lay on me. Butler Gilbert, despatch,
thou knave. But I hope you have no more grave errand than to try
if the malvoisie holds its flavour?"

The city delegates answered to their provost's civilities by
inclinations and congees, more or less characteristic, of which the
pottingar's bow was the lowest and the smith's the least ceremonious.
Probably he knew his own value as a fighting man upon occasion. To
the general compliment the elder bailie replied.

"Sir Patrick Charteris, and our noble Lord Provost," said Craigdallie,
gravely, "had our errand been to enjoy the hospitality with which
we have been often regaled here, our manners would have taught us
to tarry till your lordship had invited us, as on other occasions.
And as to hawking, we have had enough on't for one morning; since
a wild fellow, who was flying a falcon hard by on the moor, unhorsed
and cudgelled our worthy friend Oliver Bonnet Maker, or Proudfute,
as some men call him, merely because he questioned him, in your
honour's name, and the town of Perth's, who or what he was that
took so much upon him."

"And what account gave he of himself?" said the provost. "By St.
John! I will teach him to forestall my sport!"

"So please your lordship," said the bonnet maker, "he did take
me at disadvantage. But I got on horseback again afterwards, and
pricked after him gallantly. He calls himself Richard the Devil."

"How, man! he that the rhymes and romances are made on?" said the
provost. "I thought that smaik's name had been Robert."

"I trow they be different, my lord. I only graced this fellow with
the full title, for indeed he called himself the Devil's Dick, and
said he was a Johnstone, and a follower of the lord of that name.
But I put him back into the bog, and recovered my hawking bag,
which he had taken when I was at disadvantage."

Sir Patrick paused for an instant. "We have heard," said he, "of
the Lord of Johnstone, and of his followers. Little is to be had
by meddling with them. Smith, tell me, did you endure this?"

"Ay, faith did I, Sir Patrick, having command from my betters not
to help."

"Well, if thou satst down with it," said the provost, "I see not
why we should rise up; especially as Master Oliver Proudfute, though
taken at advantage at first, has, as he has told us; recovered
his reputation and that of the burgh. But here comes the wine at
length. Fill round to my good friends and guests till the wine leap
over the cup. Prosperity to St. Johnston, and a merry welcome to
you all, my honest friends! And now sit you to eat a morsel, for
the sun is high up, and it must be long since you thrifty men have
broken your fast."

"Before we eat, my Lord Provost," said the bailie, "let us tell you
the pressing cause of our coming, which as yet we have not touched
upon."

"Nay, prithee, bailie," said the provost, "put it off till thou hast
eaten. Some complaint against the rascally jackmen and retainers
of the nobles, for playing at football on the streets of the burgh,
or some such goodly matter."

"No, my lord," said Craigdallie, stoutly and firmly. "It is the
jackmen's masters of whom we complain, for playing at football with
the honour of our families, and using as little ceremony with our
daughters' sleeping chambers as if they were in a bordel at Paris.
A party of reiving night walkers--courtiers and men of rank, as
there is but too much reason to believe--attempted to scale the
windows of Simon Glover's house last night; they stood in their
defence with drawn weapons when they were interrupted by Henry
Smith, and fought till they were driven off by the rising of the
citizens."

"How!" said Sir Patrick, setting down the cup which he was about
to raise to his head. "Cock's body, make that manifest to me, and,
by the soul of Thomas of Longueville, I will see you righted with
my best power, were it to cost me life and land. Who attests this?
Simon Glover, you are held an honest and a cautious man--do you
take the truth of this charge upon your conscience?"

"My lord," said Simon, "understand I am no willing complainer in
this weighty matter. No damage has arisen, save to the breakers of
the peace themselves. I fear only great power could have encouraged
such lawless audacity; and I were unwilling to put feud between my
native town and some powerful nobleman on my account. But it has
been said that, if I hang back in prosecuting this complaint, it
will be as much as admitting that my daughter expected such a visit,
which is a direct falsehood. Therefore, my lord, I will tell your
lordship what happened, so far as I know, and leave further proceeding
to your wisdom."

He then told, from point to point, all that he had seen of the
attack.

Sir Patrick Charteris, listening with much attention, seemed
particularly struck with the escape of the man who had been made
prisoner.

"Strange," he said, "that you did not secure him when you had him.
Did you not look at him so as to know him again?"

"I had but the light of a lantern, my Lord Provost; and as to
suffering him to escape, I was alone," said the glover, "and old.
But yet I might have kept him, had I not heard my daughter shriek
in the upper room; and ere I had returned from her chamber the man
had escaped through the garden."

"Now, armourer, as a true man and a good soldier," said Sir Patrick,
"tell me what you know of this matter."

Henry Gow, in his own decided style, gave a brief but clear narrative
of the whole affair.

Honest Proudfute being next called upon, began his statement with
an air of more importance. "Touching this awful and astounding
tumult within the burgh, I cannot altogether, it is true, say with
Henry Gow that I saw the very beginning. But it will not be denied
that I beheld a great part of the latter end, and especially that
I procured the evidence most effectual to convict the knaves."

"And what is it, man?" said Sir Patrick Charteris. "Never lose time
fumbling and prating about it. What is it?"

"I have brought your lordship, in this pouch, what one of the rogues
left behind him," said the little man. "It is a trophy which, in
good faith and honest truth, I do confess I won not by the blade,
but I claim the credit of securing it with that presence of mind
which few men possess amidst flashing torches and clashing weapons.
I secured it, my lord, and here it is."

So saying, he produced, from the hawking pouch already mentioned,
the stiffened hand which had been found on the scene of the skirmish.

"Nay, bonnet maker," said the provost, "I'll warrant thee man enough
to secure a rogue's hand after it is cut from the body. What do
you look so busily for in your bag?"

"There should have been--there was--a ring, my lord, which was
on the knave's finger. I fear I have been forgetful, and left it
at home, for I took it off to show to my wife, as she cared not to
look upon the dead hand, as women love not such sights. But yet I
thought I had put it on the finger again. Nevertheless, it must,
I bethink me, be at home. I will ride back for it, and Henry Smith
will trot along with me."

"We will all trot with thee," said Sir Patrick Charteris, "since I
am for Perth myself. Look you, honest burghers and good neighbours
of Perth; you may have thought me unapt to be moved by light
complaints and trivial breaches of your privileges, such as small
trespasses on your game, the barons' followers playing football in
the street, and suchlike. But, by the soul of Thomas of Longueville,
you shall not find Patrick Charteris slothful in a matter of this
importance. This hand," he continued, holding up the severed joint,
"belongs to one who hath worked no drudgery. We will put it in a
way to be known and claimed of the owner, if his comrades of the
revel have but one spark of honour in them. Hark you, Gerard; get
me some half score of good men instantly to horse, and let them take
jack and spear. Meanwhile, neighbours, if feud arise out of this,
as is most likely, we must come to each other's support. If my poor
house be attacked, how many men will you bring to my support?"

The burghers looked at Henry Gow, to whom they instinctively turned
when such matters were discussed.

"I will answer," said he, "for fifty good fellows to be assembled
ere the common bell has rung ten minutes; for a thousand, in the
space of an hour."

"It is well," answered the gallant provost; "and in the case of
need, I will come to aid the Fair City with such men as I can make.
And now, good friends, let us to horse."



CHAPTER IX.

If I know how to manage these affairs,
Thus thrust disorderly upon my hands,
Never believe me--

Richard II.


It was early in the afternoon of St. Valentine's Day that the prior
of the Dominicans was engaged in discharge of his duties as confessor
to a penitent of no small importance. This was an elderly man, of
a goodly presence, a florid and healthful cheek, the under part of
which was shaded by a venerable white beard, which descended over
his bosom. The large and clear blue eyes, with the broad expanse
of brow, expressed dignity; but it was of a character which seemed
more accustomed to receive honours voluntarily paid than to enforce
them when they were refused. The good nature of the expression was
so great as to approach to defenceless simplicity or weakness of
character, unfit, it might be inferred, to repel intrusion or subdue
resistance. Amongst the grey locks of this personage was placed a
small circlet or coronet of gold, upon a blue fillet. His beads,
which were large and conspicuous, were of native gold, rudely
enough wrought, but ornamented with Scottish pearls of rare size
and beauty. These were his only ornaments; and a long crimson robe
of silk, tied by a sash of the same colour, formed his attire.
His shrift being finished, he arose heavily from the embroidered
cushion upon which he kneeled during his confession, and, by
the assistance of a crutch headed staff of ebony, moved, lame and
ungracefully, and with apparent pain, to a chair of state, which,
surmounted by a canopy, was placed for his accommodation by the
chimney of the lofty and large apartment.

This was Robert, third of that name, and the second of the ill
fated family of Stuart who filled the throne of Scotland. He had
many virtues, and was not without talent; but it was his great
misfortune that, like others of his devoted line, his merits
were not of a kind suited to the part which he was called upon to
perform in life. The king of so fierce a people as the Scots then
were ought to have been warlike, prompt, and active, liberal in
rewarding services, strict in punishing crimes, one whose conduct
should make him feared as well as beloved. The qualities of Robert
the Third were the reverse of all these. In youth he had indeed seen
battles; but, without incurring disgrace, he had never manifested the
chivalrous love of war and peril, or the eager desire to distinguish
himself by dangerous achievements, which that age expected from
all who were of noble birth and had claims to authority.

Besides, his military career was very short. Amidst the tumult of
a tournament, the young Earl of Carrick, such was then his title,
received a kick from the horse of Sir James Douglas of Dalkeith,
in consequence of which he was lame for the rest of his life, and
absolutely disabled from taking share either in warfare or in the
military sports and tournaments which were its image. As Robert
had never testified much predilection for violent exertion, he did
not probably much regret the incapacities which exempted him from
these active scenes. But his misfortune, or rather its consequences,
lowered him in the eyes of a fierce nobility and warlike people.
He was obliged to repose the principal charge of his affairs now
in one member, now in another, of his family, sometimes with the
actual rank, and always with the power, of lieutenant general of
the kingdom. His paternal affection would have induced him to use
the assistance of his eldest son, a young man of spirit and talent,
whom in fondness he had created Duke of Rothsay, in order to give
him the present possession of a dignity next to that of the throne.
But the young prince's head was too giddy, and his hand too feeble to
wield with dignity the delegated sceptre. However fond of power,
pleasure was the Prince's favourite pursuit; and the court was
disturbed, and the country scandalised, by the number of fugitive
amours and extravagant revels practised by him who should have set
an example of order and regularity to the youth of the kingdom.

The license and impropriety of the Duke of Rothsay's conduct was
the more reprehensible in the public view, that he was a married
person; although some, over whom his youth, gaiety, grace, and good
temper had obtained influence, were of opinion that an excuse for
his libertinism might be found in the circumstances of the marriage
itself. They reminded each other that his nuptials were entirely
conducted by his uncle, the Duke of Albany, by whose counsels the
infirm and timid King was much governed at the time, and who had
the character of managing the temper of his brother and sovereign,
so as might be most injurious to the interests and prospects of the
young heir. By Albany's machinations the hand of the heir apparent
was in a manner put up to sale, as it was understood publicly that
the nobleman in Scotland who should give the largest dower to his
daughter might aspire to raise her to the bed of the Duke of Rothsay.

In the contest for preference which ensued, George Earl of Dunbar
and March, who possessed, by himself or his vassals, a great part
of the eastern frontier, was preferred to other competitors; and
his daughter was, with the mutual goodwill of the young couple,
actually contracted to the Duke of Rothsay.

But there remained a third party to be consulted, and that was
no other than the tremendous Archibald Earl of Douglas, terrible
alike from the extent of his lands, from the numerous offices and
jurisdictions with which he was invested, and from his personal
qualities of wisdom and valour, mingled with indomitable pride, and
more than the feudal love of vengeance. The Earl was also nearly
related to the throne, having married the eldest daughter of the
reigning monarch.

After the espousals of the Duke of Rothsay with the Earl of
March's daughter, Douglas, as if he had postponed his share in the
negotiation to show that it could not be concluded with any one but
himself, entered the lists to break off the contract. He tendered
a larger dower with his daughter Marjory than the Earl of March
had proffered; and, secured by his own cupidity and fear of the
Douglas, Albany exerted his influence with the timid monarch till
he was prevailed upon to break the contract with the Earl of March,
and wed his son to Marjory Douglas, a woman whom Rothsay could
not love. No apology was offered to the Earl of March, excepting
that the espousals betwixt the Prince and Elizabeth of Dunbar had
not been approved by the States of Parliament, and that till such
ratification the contract was liable to be broken off. The Earl
deeply resented the wrong done to himself and his daughter, and was
generally understood to study revenge, which his great influence
on the English frontier was likely to place within his power.

In the mean time, the Duke of Rothsay, incensed at the sacrifice of
his hand and his inclinations to this state intrigue, took his own
mode of venting his displeasure, by neglecting his wife, contemning
his formidable and dangerous father in law, and showing little
respect to the authority of the King himself, and none whatever
to the remonstrances of Albany, his uncle, whom he looked upon as
his confirmed enemy.

Amid these internal dissensions of his family, which extended
themselves through his councils and administration, introducing
everywhere the baneful effects of uncertainty and disunion, the
feeble monarch had for some time been supported by the counsels of
his queen, Annabella, a daughter of the noble house of Drummond,
gifted with a depth of sagacity and firmness of mind which exercised
some restraint over the levities of a son who respected her, and
sustained on many occasions the wavering resolution of her royal
husband. But after her death the imbecile sovereign resembled
nothing so much as a vessel drifted from her anchors, and tossed
about amidst contending currents. Abstractedly considered, Robert
might be said to doat upon his son, to entertain respect and awe
for the character of his brother Albany, so much more decisive
than his own, to fear the Douglas with a terror which was almost
instinctive; and to suspect the constancy of the bold but fickle
Earl of March. But his feelings towards these various characters
were so mixed and complicated, that from time to time they showed
entirely different from what they really were; and according to
the interest which had been last exerted over his flexible mind,
the King would change from an indulgent to a strict and even cruel
father, from a confiding to a jealous brother, or from a benignant
and bountiful to a grasping and encroaching sovereign. Like the
chameleon, his feeble mind reflected the colour of that firmer character
upon which at the time he reposed for counsel and assistance. And
when he disused the advice of one of his family, and employed the
counsel of another, it was no unwonted thing to see a total change
of measures, equally disrespectable to the character of the King
and dangerous to the safety of the state.

It followed as a matter of course that the clergy of the Catholic
Church acquired influence over a man whose intentions were so
excellent, but whose resolutions were so infirm. Robert was haunted,
not only with a due sense of the errors he had really committed,
but with the tormenting apprehensions of those peccadilloes which
beset a superstitious and timid mind. It is scarce necessary,
therefore, to add, that the churchmen of various descriptions had
no small influence over this easy tempered prince, though, indeed,
theirs was, at that period, an influence from which few or none
escaped, however resolute and firm of purpose in affairs of a temporal
character. We now return from this long digression, without which
what we have to relate could not perhaps have been well understood.

The King had moved with ungraceful difficulty to the cushioned chair
which, under a state or canopy, stood prepared for his accommodation,
and upon which he sank down with enjoyment, like an indolent man,
who had been for some time confined to a constrained position. When
seated, the gentle and venerable looks of the good old man showed
benevolence. The prior, who now remained standing opposite to the
royal seat, with an air of deep deference which cloaked the natural
haughtiness of his carriage, was a man betwixt forty and fifty years
of age, but every one of whose hairs still retained their natural
dark colour. Acute features and a penetrating look attested the
talents by which the venerable father had acquired his high station
in the community over which he presided; and, we may add, in the
councils of the kingdom, in whose service they were often exercised.
The chief objects which his education and habits taught him to
keep in view were the extension of the dominion and the wealth of
the church, and the suppression of heresy, both of which he endeavoured
to accomplish by all the means which his situation afforded him.
But he honoured his religion by the sincerity of his own belief,
and by the morality which guided his conduct in all ordinary
situations. The faults of the Prior Anselm, though they led him
into grievous error, and even cruelty, were perhaps rather those
of his age and profession; his virtues were his own.

"These things done," said the King, "and the lands I have mentioned
secured by my gift to this monastery, you are of opinion, father,
that I stand as much in the good graces of our Holy Mother Church
as to term myself her dutiful son?"

"Surely, my liege," said the prior; "would to God that all her
children brought to the efficacious sacrament of confession as
deep a sense of their errors, and as much will to make amends for
them. But I speak these comforting words, my liege, not to Robert
King of Scotland, but only to my humble and devout penitent, Robert
Stuart of Carrick."

"You surprise me, father," answered the King: "I have little check
on my conscience for aught that I have done in my kingly office,
seeing that I use therein less mine own opinion than the advice of
the most wise counsellors."

"Even therein lieth the danger, my liege," replied the prior. "The
Holy Father recognises in your Grace, in every thought, word, and
action, an obedient vassal of the Holy Church. But there are perverse
counsellors, who obey the instinct of their wicked hearts, while
they abuse the good nature and ductility of their monarch, and,
under colour of serving his temporal interests, take steps which
are prejudicial to those that last to eternity."

King Robert raised himself upright in his chair, and assumed an air
of authority, which, though it well became him, he did not usually
display.

"Prior Anselm," he said, "if you have discovered anything in my
conduct, whether as a king or a private individual, which may call
down such censures as your words intimate, it is your duty to speak
plainly, and I command you to do so."

"My liege, you shall be obeyed," answered the prior, with an inclination
of the body. Then raising himself up, and assuming the dignity of
his rank in the church, he said, "Hear from me the words of our Holy
Father the Pope, the successor of St. Peter, to whom have descended
the keys, both to bind and to unloose. 'Wherefore, O Robert of
Scotland, hast thou not received into the see of St. Andrews Henry
of Wardlaw, whom the Pontiff hath recommended to fill that see?
Why dost thou make profession with thy lips of dutiful service to
the Church, when thy actions proclaim the depravity and disobedience
of thy inward soul? Obedience is better than sacrifice."