of these wanderings of mine. You think I am taming down into some such
animal as a Lowland shopkeeper or Wanshaw weaver--and perhaps it is so,
in some measure; but I cannot help it. I acknowledge that the whole
energies of my nature--all the feelings of my heart--have undergone a
total change, both in character and direction. I certainly am not the man
I was. I feel it, and therefore feel that I am no longer fit to be your
leader."
"Macpherson," said one of the men, "you guess part of our feelings
towards you just now, but not all. There is in these feelings at least
as much of fear for your safety in these excursions of yours, as
displeasure with your neglect of us and our common interest. You know
that we love you, Macpherson, for yours is the generous and open
hand--yours is the hand that was never raised in anger against the
unoffending or the helpless, and never closed in hard-heartedness
against the needy."
"No, thank God," replied the person thus eulogized--"much evil as I have
done, the shedding of blood is no part of it. Personal injury I have
never yet done to any man, nor to any man shall I ever do it, unless in
self-defence. Neither can the poor ever say they asked from me in vain.
But, my friends," went on the speaker, "this is but a melancholy strain.
Come, let us have something of a livelier spirit, and let me see if I
cannot introduce it." Having said this he went to a corner of the
cavern, where lay a large wooden chest. This he opened, and drew out a
violin. It was a favourite instrument, and well could the person who now
held it, employ it. Seating himself on an elevated bench of stone, which
had been erected by the inmates of the cavern against the wall, he
commenced playing some cheerful airs, and with such effect that he very
soon dissipated the angry feelings of his auditors, and brought
expressions of benevolence and good will into these rugged countenances,
that had been but a little before lowering with gloom and discontent.
The skilful minstrel, perceiving the effect of his music--an effect,
indeed, which former experience had taught him to anticipate with
perfect certainty--now changed his strain, and launched into a series of
the most thrilling and pathetic airs, all of which he played with
exquisite taste and expression.
Had any one at this moment watched the fierce and weather-beaten faces
of those who were listening in breathless silence to the delightful
tones of his violin, they might have marked in the eye of more than one,
an unbidden tear, and on all an expression of deep sympathy with the
spirit of the music. At length the musician ceased; but it was some time
before the spell which he had thrown over his auditors was broken. For
some seconds, there was not a word or a movement amongst them--all
continuing to remain in the fixed and pensive attitude in which the
melancholy strains had bound them.
Having brought his performances to a close, the musician, half in
earnest and half playfully, hugged his violin, as if exulting in its
power, to his bosom, embraced it as if it had been a living thing, and
hurried with it to the chest from which he had originally taken it, and
there again carefully deposited it. His reception on now returning to
the party whom he had just been entertaining with his music, was very
different from what it had been on his first entrance. Their better and
kindlier feelings had been touched by his strains--a sympathetic chord
in each bosom had been struck; and the effects were sufficiently visible
in the altered manner of those who were thus affected towards him whose
skill had produced the change. The transition of the feelings of
admiration was natural and easy from the music to the musician; and
looks and words of kindness and forgiveness now greeted the mountain
Orpheus, who took his place among the rest, to share in some refreshment
which had been, in the meantime, in preparation.
Leaving the katherans employed in discussing this repast, which
consisted simply of roasted kid, we will proceed to divulge the whole of
that secret regarding the chief personage of our tale, which we have
hitherto so carefully kept. This personage, then, was no other than the
celebrated freebooter, Macpherson. This man, as is well known, was the
illegitimate son of a gentleman of family and property in
Inverness-shire, by a woman of the gipsy race. He was brought up at his
father's house; but, on the death of the latter, was claimed and carried
away by his mother; when, joining the wandering tribe to which she
belonged, he acquired their habits, and finally became the character
which we have represented him--namely, a leader of a band of katherans.
He was a person of singular talents and accomplishments, of uncommonly
handsome form and feature, of great strength, yet, though of a lawless
profession, of kind and compassionate disposition. Such was the hero of
our tale--such the lover of Ellen Martin, although little did that poor
girl yet know how unhappily her affections had been placed.
Having nothing whatever to do with the proceedings of Macpherson and his
band during the interval between the parting of the former with Ellen
and the period of the proposed meeting--these having but little interest
in themselves, and being in no way connected with our story--we will at
once pass this space of time, and bring up our narrative to the day on
which Macpherson was again to set out for the trysting place. His motive
and feelings in this matter he confided only to one friend out of all
his comrades. This man, whose name was Eneas Chisholm, was the son of
the person at whose house the reader will recollect the party, of which
Ellen was one, was so hospitably entertained on the night they had lost
their way on the mountains. It was he, also, who had eulogized the
generosity and clemency of Macpherson, as we a short while since
recorded. He was a young man, and, both in manner and disposition, much
like Macpherson himself. He possessed all his warmth and sincerity of
heart, katheran as he was; but was greatly his inferior in talents and
in personal appearance. Taking an opportunity when none else were near,
Macpherson informed this person that he intended on that evening
repeating his visit to Banff.
"It is madness, Macpherson," said Eneas--"downright madness. You surely
do not calculate on the risk you run, in these desperate adventures of
yours, of falling into the hands of the sheriff. You are well known, and
it is next to a miracle that you escape."
"No danger, Eneas, none at all man," replied Macpherson, in the
confidence of his own prowess, and not a little perhaps, in that of his
agility. "I have done more daring things in my day on far less
inducement; and," he added, proudly, "give me fair play, Eneas, my sword
in my hand, and not any six men in Banff will take James Macpherson
alive."
"But they may take him dead, though, Macpherson," said Eneas, "and you
can hardly call that escaping, I think."
"Cheer up, cheer up my bonny, bonny May
Oh, why that look of sorrow?
He's wise that enjoys the passing hour--
He's a fool that thinks of the morrow!"
exclaimed Macpherson, slapping his friend jocosely on the shoulder. "Why
man, Ellen Martin I must see, and Ellen Martin I will see, let the risk
be what it may--ay, although there were a halter dangling on every tree
between this and Banff, and every noose were gaping for me."
"Then, at least, allow three or four of us to accompany you, Macpherson,
in case of accidents," said Eneas.
"No, no; not one, Eneas," replied Macpherson--"no life shall be perilled
in this cause but my own. If I am unfortunate, I shall be so alone. I
alone must pay the penalty of my own rashness and imprudence. I would
not put a dog's life in jeopardy, let alone yours, in such a matter as
this. But I'll tell you what," he added: "I'll exact a promise from you,
Eneas."
"What is that?" said the latter.
"It is," replied Macpherson, "that, if I am taken, and taken alive, you
will do what you can to have my violin conveyed to me to whatever place
of confinement I may be carried."
"It is an odd fancy," said Chisholm, smiling; "but I promise you it
shall be done, since you desire it."
"I do," replied Macpherson. And here the conversation between him and
his friend terminated; and, shortly after, the former having carefully
armed himself, set out alone on his perilous journey. The sun, when he
left the glen, had already sank far down into the west; while his
slanting rays were yet beating with full fervour and intensity on those
sides of the rocks and hills that looked towards the setting luminary,
their opposite fronts were involved in a rapidly deepening shade, and
the valleys were beginning to be darkened with a premature twilight. But
Macpherson had calculated his time and distance accurately. Three hours
of such walking as his would bring him to the goal he aimed at, and then
the gloaming would be on the verge of darkness. And it was so, in each
and all of these particulars. He arrived at the trysting-place precisely
at the time and in the circumstances he desired. On reaching the
appointed spot, Ellen was not yet there. Neither did he expect she
should; but he felt assured that she would very soon appear. Under this
conviction, he seated himself on a small green bank, closely surrounded
with thick shrubbery or copsewood, and, thus situated, awaited her
arrival.
Leaving Macpherson thus disposed of for a time, we shall advert to a
circumstance of which he was but little aware, although it was one which
deeply, fatally concerned him. He had been seen and recognised. The
persons--for there were two--who made the discovery, dogged the
ill-starred freebooter to the place of his appointment with Ellen,
where, seeing him stop, one of them hurried away to communicate the
important intelligence to the sheriff, while the other remained to keep
watch on the motions of the unsuspecting outlaw. On the former's being
introduced to the presence of the dreaded officer just named--
"What would you give, Mr. Sheriff," he said, "to know where Macpherson
the freebooter is at this moment?"
"Why, not much, man," replied the sheriff, "unless he were so situated
as to render it probable that I could take him. I have known where he
was myself a hundred times, but dared not touch him."
"But I mean as you say--I mean in a situation where he may be easily
taken," rejoined the man. "I know where he is at this instant, and all
alone too--not one with him."
"You do!" exclaimed the Sheriff, with great animation for the capture of
Macpherson had been long one of the most anxious wishes of his heart.
"Where, where is he, man?" he added, impatiently.
"Let me have half-a-dozen well-armed men with me," replied his
informant, "and for fifty merks I will make him your prisoner."
"Done!" said the Sheriff, exultingly--"fifty merks shall be yours, of
well and truly told money, the instant you put Macpherson into my power;
and, instead of half-a-dozen men, you shall have a whole dozen, and I
myself will accompany you. Is he far distant?"
"Not exceeding a mile."
"So much the better--so much the better," said the Sheriff, rubbing his
hands with glee. "If we take him, a worthier deed has not been done in
Scotland this many a day. It were worth a thousand merks a-year to the
shire of Banff alone."
In less than fifteen minutes after this conversation had passed, a
sudden bustle might have been seen about the old town-house of Banff.
This was occasioned by a number of men, amongst whom was the sheriff,
hurriedly ransacking the town armoury for such warlike weapons as it
contained, each choosing and arming himself with the best he could find.
This choice, however, was neither very extensive nor varied; the stock,
chiefly consisting of some rusty Lochaber axes, and a few equally rusty
halberds and broadswords, kept for the array of the civic guard on
great occasions--sometimes of love and sometimes of war.
The party having all now armed themselves, were drawn up in front of the
town-house, when the sheriff, placing himself at their head, gave the
word to march; and the whole moved off under the guidance of the person
whose intelligence had been the cause of their turning out. After they
had proceeded about a mile, the latter called a halt of the party, and
taking the sheriff two or three paces in advance, pointed out to him the
spot in which he had left Macpherson, and where, as they were informed
by the man who had remained to watch his motions, and who at this moment
came up to them, he still was.
A consultation was now held as to the best mode of proceeding to the
capture of the dreaded outlaw--a feat by no means considered either a
safe or an easy one by those by whom it was now contemplated; for all
were aware of his prowess, and of the desperate courage for which he was
distinguished.
Macpherson, in the meantime, wholly unconscious of his danger, was still
quietly seated on the small green bank where we left him. Ellen had not
yet appeared, and he was listlessly employed in drawing figures on the
ground with the point of his scabbard, when he was suddenly startled by
a similar noise amongst the bushes with that which had alarmed him on a
former occasion. He sprung to his feet, drew a pistol from his belt with
his left hand, and his sword from its sheath with his right, and, thus
prepared, awaited the result of the motion, which he now saw as well as
heard. The rustling increased, the foliage rapidly opened in a line
approaching him, and, in an instant afterwards, his friend, Eneas
Chisholm, stood before the astonished freebooter.
"Eneas!" he exclaimed, under breath, but in a tone of great surprise.
"Hush, hush!" said Eneas, seizing his friend by the arm--"not a word. In
five minutes you will be surrounded. You have been recognised and
dogged. There are a dozen of the sheriff's men within five hundred yards
of you, planning your capture. Let us be off--off instantly,
Macpherson," he continued, urging the latter onwards. "If we can gain
the town, we may escape. I know a place of concealment there."
"Nay, but Ellen--Ellen, Eneas!" said Macpherson, hanging backwards, and
resisting the efforts of his friend to drag him away.
"Fool, fool, man!" said Eneas, passionately, and still urging him
forcibly along. "An instant's delay, and both you and I are in the hands
of our deadliest enemies."
"We can fight, Eneas."
"Ten times a fool!" exclaimed the latter, with increasing anger. "Fight
a dozen men, all as well armed as ourselves!--and observe, besides," he
added, "your obstinacy will sacrifice me as well as yourself."
"Ay, there you have me," replied Macpherson. "That shall not be--God
forbid!" And he hurried along with his friend.
At this instant, a shrill whistle was heard from the copsewood.
"They are on us," exclaimed Eneas, as, with one bound, he cleared a five
feet wall that intervened between them and the highway that led to the
town of Banff.
He was instantly followed by Macpherson, who, having thrown his sword
over before him, cleared the impediment with yet greater ease. Having
gained the road, the two outlaws hurried towards the town. No pursuer
had yet appeared; and it seemed as if they had already effected their
escape. In this fancied security, the fugitives slackened their pace,
that they might not incur the risk which would attach to a suspicious
haste. During all this time, not a word more than we have recorded had
passed between them. They had pursued their way in silence, and were
thus just entering the town, when Macpherson suddenly felt himself
seized by both arms from behind. Their route had been marked, and they
were intercepted.
Macpherson, exerting his great personal strength, with one powerful
effort freed himself from the grasp of his assailants--for there were
two--flinging both, at the same instant, to the ground by a sudden and
violent extension of his arms. Having thus set himself at liberty, he
hastily drew his sword, and stood upon the defensive. His friend, Eneas,
also drew, when they found themselves opposed to at least a dozen--the
two who had sprung on Macpherson, being now joined by their comrades.
Undaunted by the number of their enemies, and aware of what would be
their fate if taken, the intrepid outlaws determined on a desperate
resistance. Macpherson, with his other accomplishments, was an admirable
swordsman, and he felt that he had not much to fear from the unskilled
rabble to whom he was opposed, so long as he could keep them from
closing with him--and in this conviction he coolly awaited their onset.
It was some minutes before this took place; for their opponents, awed by
their fierce and determined bearing, hung back. At length, however, they
seemed to be gathering courage by degrees, as they came gradually moving
on, till they were within two or three paces of Macpherson and his
comrade, when two of the boldest of them made a sudden rush on the
former, with the view of rendering his weapon useless, by closing on
him; but the attempt was fatal to the assailants. With a fierce shout of
defiance and determination, Macpherson struck down the foremost, with a
blow that split his head to the chin, while his comrade despatched the
other by running him through the body. Both the outlaws, on striking,
leapt back a pace or two, so as to maintain the necessary distance
between them and their enemies, who were still pressing on. But,
panic-stricken by this, the first results of the encounter, they now
paused, and entered into a hasty consultation, which ended in the
resolution of their attacking simultaneously, and in a body, and thus,
by mere force, bearing down their opponents. Acting on this resolution,
the whole rushed forward, with loud shouts, when a desperate conflict
took place. For a long time, both Macpherson and his friend not only
warded off the numerous cuts and thrusts that were made at them, but
brought down several of their assailants, one after the other; and the
issue of the contest seemed very doubtful, great as the odds were
against them.
In the meantime, however, Macpherson, though fighting desperately, was
compelled to yield ground, to avoid being closed upon and surrounded;
for the pressure of the crowd was now greatly increased by an accession
of town's people, who, having heard the din of the conflict, hastened to
the scene to witness it, and to assist in the capture of the
freebooters. Finding himself in danger of being assailed from behind, he
rushed to one side of the street, and, placing his back to the wall of a
house, flourished his sword, and defied the whole host of enemies who
pressed upon him; and out of that whole host there was not one who would
come within reach of the courageous outlaw thus desperately at bay. For
fully a quarter of an hour he kept a circle of several yards clear
around him, and having in this interval gained breath, it seemed
extremely doubtful that he should be captured at all; for it was
possible that, by a desperate effort, he might cut his way through his
assailants and effect his escape. In truth, seeing the timidity of his
enemies from the circumstance of none of them daring to approach him,
some such proceeding he now actually contemplated. But a counter
measure was at this moment in operation, which prevented its execution,
and placed the outlaw in the hands of his enemies.
A person from the crowd entered the house, against the wall of which
Macpherson was standing, by a back door, and proceeded to an apartment,
one of whose windows was immediately above and within a few feet of him.
Opening this window cautiously, this person having previously provided
himself with a large heavy Scotch blanket, threw it, as broadly extended
as possible, over the outlaw, thus blinding him and disabling him from
using his weapon. The crowd beneath--marking the proceeding which
Macpherson, from his position, could not--watching the moment when the
blanket descended, rushed in upon him, threw him to the ground,
disarmed, and secured him; his friend, Eneas, who had been early
separated from him in the melee, and who had not attracted, during any
period of the conflict, so much of the attention of their common
enemies, having contrived, previous to this, to effect his escape.
On being captured, he was bound, conveyed to prison, and a strong guard
placed over him. On the following day, an elderly woman, dressed in the
antique garb of her country--the Highlands--was seen walking up and down
in front of the jail in which Macpherson was confined, and ever and anon
casting a look of anxious inquiry towards the building. A nearer view of
this person discovered that her eyes were red with weeping; but all her
tears had been already shed, and the first excess of grief had passed
away; for both her look and manner, though still expressive of deep
sorrow, were grave, staid, and composed--nay, even stern. Occasionally,
however, she might be seen, as she stood gazing on the prison-house of
the unfortunate outlaw, rocking to and fro with that slow and silent
motion so expressive of the intensity of mental suffering.
Occasionally, too, a low murmuring of heart-rending anguish might be
heard issuing from her thin parched lips. But she held communion with no
one, and seemed heedless of the passers by. At length she crossed the
street, and having knocked at the massive and well-studded outer-door of
the prison, inquired if she might see the principal jailor. He was
brought to her. On his appearing--
"The deer of the mountain," said his strange visiter, "is in the toils
of the hunter. Oh! black and dismal day that that proud and gallant
spirit that was wont to roam so wild and so free should be cooped up
within the four stone walls of a loathsome dungeon--that those swift and
manly limbs should be fettered with iron--and that the sword should be
denied to that strong arm which was once so ready to defend the
defenceless!"
"What mean ye, honest woman?" said the jailor, who was a good deal
puzzled to discover a meaning in this address.
"What mean I?" exclaimed his visitor, sternly. "Do not I mean that the
brave is the captive of the coward--that the strong has fallen before
the weak--that the daring and fearless has been circumvented by the
timid and the cunning? Do not I mean this?--and is it not true? Is not
James Macpherson a prisoner within these walls, and are not you his
keeper?"
"It is so," replied the astonished functionary.
"I know it," said his visitor. "Then will you convey this to him?" she
said, bringing out a violin from beneath her plaid.
The jailor looked in amazement, first at the woman, and then at the
instrument.
"What!" he at length said, "take a fiddle to a man who's going to be
hanged! That is ridiculous."
"It is his wish," said the former, briefly. "The wish of a dying man.
Will you convey it to him?"
"Oh, if it be his wish, he shall surely have it," said the jailor; "but
it is the oddest wish I ever heard."
"You _will_ convey it to him, then?" replied the stranger, with the same
sententious brevity as before.
"I will," was the rejoinder.
The woman curtsied and withdrew in the same cold, stern, and formal
manner she had maintained throughout the interview. On her departure,
the jailor proceeded to Macpherson's dungeon with the extraordinary
commission with which he had been charged. The latter, on seeing the
well-known instrument, snatched it eagerly and delightedly from its
bearer, exclaiming--"Welcome, welcome! thou dear companion of better
days! thou solacer of many a heavy care! thou delight of many a happy
hour! Faithful Eneas!" And with the wild, strange, and romantic
recklessness of his nature, he immediately began to play in the sweetest
tones imaginable--tones which seemed to have acquired additional pathos
from the circumstances of the performer--some of the melancholy airs of
his native land; and from that hour till the hour of the minstrel's
doom, these strains were almost constantly heard pouring through the
small grated window of his dungeon. But they were soon to cease for
ever. Macpherson was, in a few days afterwards, brought to trial, and
condemned to be hanged at the cross of Banff.