Ormiston whistled dubiously, and then continued his ditty--

"The Frog cam to the Myll doore,

And a low bow made he, O!

Saying, 'Gie, Sir Miller, a scrap o' thy store

To a Frog of gentle degree, O!'"

*CHAPTER XII.*

*THE ISLE OF WESTERAY.*

'Tis evening quick;----'tis night:----the rain

Is towing wide the fruitless main;

Thick, thick;--no sight remains the while

From the farthest Orkeny Isle,

No sight to seahorse or to seer,

But of a little pallid sail

That seems as if 'twould straggle near.

_Leigh Hunt._

The course of the Earl's ship lay westward; but heavy gales blew her far

to the north, and for many days she beat about in that tempestuous ocean

which roars around the hundred Isles of Shetland, pouring its foam upon

their bluff precipices and into the vast and resounding caverns that

perforate their stern shores, many of which have never seen other

inhabitants than the gigantic erne that built its nest in the cliffs,

the wild horse that browsed on the moor, and the whiskered walrus that

basked on the beach below.

On others lie the rude towers and dwellings of the hardy Udallers, the

ruined forts and runic tombs of those old ocean kings, who were so long

the terror of Britain, of Belgium, and of Gaul--the temples of the

Druids, the uncouth crosses and gothic chapels of that later creed which

Columba preached, and for which Saint Erick died--and the obelisks that

mark the lonely graves of the old Kuldei overlook the reedy moors, the

foaming maelstroms, and the rushing surges of the Ultima Thule.

For fourteen days dark grey clouds had overhung that struggling ship.

The sullenness of the sailors at the continuance of an adverse wind was

communicated to the Earl, who became petulant; for Anna and her

attendant were very unwell, and nothing cures love so much as a dose of

sea-sickness. On the fifteenth day the sun rose brightly from the ocean,

and tipped with light the dreary hills of Unst; the clouds dispersed, a

fair wind swept over the water, and the _Fleur-de-lys_ bore away merrily

for Westeray, an isle of Innistore, where stood the stronghold of

Noltland, possessed by one of Bothwell's chief friends and adherents,

Sir Gilbert Balfour, a powerful baron, and cadet of the house of

Monkquhanny, in Fifeshire.

Anna, we have said, was very sick and sorrowful. The Earl scarcely left

the side of her couch in the little tapestried cabin; and though in her

pallor and helplessness she was as beautiful as ever, the Magister

Absalom records, in his stiff, dry way, that Bothwell could not resist

the bitter and obtruding reflection, that it might have been better

(considering the turn of fortune in his favour at home) if his vessel

had not been driven into the harbour of Bergen, on the night in which

this history opened.

In their bud he endeavoured to crush these ungenerous and ungrateful

thoughts; but they recurred to him again and again, till one glance of

Anna's pleading eyes, one smile of her pretty mouth, would put them all

to flight, and he felt that he could brave both Huntly and the queen for

her sake. Yet whenever he was alone, or beyond the immediate influence

of her charms, ambition, as of old, began to whisper in his ear and to

gnaw at his heart; pride and self-interest were on one hand--love and

generosity on the other.

The first flush of love was over.

Though he did not as yet entirely repent his strange espousal of this

fair northern girl, he foresaw that it would prove a formidable barrier

to his gaining any permanent ascendency over the faction of Moray and

Morton, as the principal strength of the Catholic lords consisted in

their unanimity, which was certain of being at an end, whenever Huntly

learned how Bothwell had broken his promise to his sister, Lady Jane

Gordon.

Ormiston had mentally been making similar reflections; and when a dark

cloud gathered on the broad and noble brow of Bothwell, or an expression

of deep meditation veiled the brightness of his fine dark eyes, he knew

well what visions were struggling for mastery in his bold and ambitious

heart. But the knight never intruded a remark of his own; and

remembering how often, when in the full glow of his new amour, the Earl

had so scornfully rejected his more sage advice, he resolved quietly to

let fate have its own way.

At the close of a stormy day, the isle of Westeray, like a dark blue

cloud, arose from ocean on their lee. Dark and louring, the sky

communicated its inky hue to the sea, which was flecked by spots of

white, that marked the crests of the waves. Like snow, their surf was

poured upon the jutting rocks and hidden reefs that fringe the island;

and thus, when night closed in, a white line of breakers alone indicated

where it lay.

As the sun set, his sickly rays poured a yellow light along the waste of

waters, and lit up with a parting gleam the gigantic facade of the

castle of Noltland, which towered above the rocks of Westeray, with its

heavy battlements and tourelles at the angles, its broad chimneys and

stone-flagged tophouses gleaming redly and duskily against the murky sky

beyond. The light faded away from its casements, one by one they grew

dark, and an hour after the sun had set, the _Fleur-de-lys_ anchored on

that side of the isle which is sheltered from the waves of the Atlantic.

Joyously the Earl and his companions sprang upon the rude pier,

alongside of which their vessel was hauled after great labour, and much

swearing and vociferation by the seamen. The night was now intensely

black, but the darkness of the beach was partially dispelled by the

blaze of ten or twelve torches, which were upheld by the retainers of

the Baron of Noltland, who hastened to the pier to receive the Earl.

Sir Gilbert Balfour of Westeray, who, to the office of master of the

household to Queen Mary, united the captaincy of the royal castle of

Kirkwall, was a man above the middle height, strongly made, powerfully

limbed, and well browned by constant exposure to the weather. His hair

and beard, which were trimmed very short, were of the deepest black. He

was richly attired in a doublet of yellow satin, embroidered with

Venetian gold; a scarlet mantle lined with white silk hung from his left

shoulder, and a small ruff fringed the top of a bright steel gorget that

encircled his neck. His bonnet and trunk-hose were of black velvet. He

carried a walking-cane, but was without other arms than one of those

long daggers such as were then made at the Bowhead of Edinburgh. The

magnificence of his attire, which glittered in the torchlight,

contrasted forcibly with that of his islesmen who crowded about him.

Four or five, who seemed to act as a bodyguard, wore iron helmets

adorned with eagles' feathers, coats-of-mail composed of minute rings of

steel linked together, and reaching nearly to their ankles. They

carried battle-axes and short but powerful handbows slung on their

backs, and crossed saltirewise by sheafs of barbed arrows. Others were

clad in sealskin doublets, with plaids of purple and blue check, and

kilts of dark-brown stuff; but all were barefooted, barelegged, and

barearmed--strong, muscular, red-haired, and savage-looking men--whose

hazel eyes glistened through their matted locks in the light of the

streaming torches.

"Noble Bothwell--welcome to Westeray!" exclaimed Sir Gilbert, vailing

his bonnet. "I knew thy banner at a mile distant, when it glittered in

that brief blink of sunshine. Ha! stout Ormiston, I have not seen thee

since the day we fought side by side at the battle of Corrichie!

Welcome home!"

"Balfour, I thank thee!" said Ormiston; "but dost thou call this home?

By Jove! I deem that we have many a long Scottish mile to travel yet,

ere we find ourselves under our own rafters."

"And if the same mischances attend me," said Bothwell, "I may cruise

about in these northern seas like another Ulysses, but without acquiring

his wisdom. However, I have brought my Calypso with me. Ha! ha! now I

warrant, my trusty Gib Balfour, thou hast never read of this same Sir

Ulysses!"

"Read! St. Mary forefend! though my brother, the Lord President, hath

compiled a notable book of 'Practiques,' I never could read nor write

either, praise God! and by his aid never shall. I can bite the pen and

make my mark, in sign of the blessed cross, like my father, the stout

knight of Monkquhanny, before me. Of what service are booklear or

scholar-craft to a knight or gentleman of coat-armour? Nay, pshaw! I

leave all such to monks and scribes--to knaves and notaries--and content

me with the knowledge of arms, stable-craft, and falconrie, siclike as

becometh me; but this Sir Ulysses--what manner of knight was he? came he

from the Mearns or the west country?"

"A wise warrior he was, who fought valiantly at Troy, and he loved an

enchantress such as I have with me now."

"Thou, my lord!"

"Ay, in yonder vessel."

"A sorceress--God forebode!" said Balfour, stepping back a pace; "we

must have her burnt! The sheriff court of Kirkwall meets at

Lammas-tide. 'Tis well!" Bothwell laughed.

"Thou mistakest me, honest Balfour! The enchantress I mean, is a fair

girl whom I have brought with me from Norway, and who deals in no spells

save such as win the heart. She is a lady of high birth and rare beauty

too; so brush up thy rusty chivalry, Sir Gilbert, and let me have a

litter forthwith for her conveyance."

"A lady! forsooth such brittle ware will find but rough accommodation

among us isles-men here at Noltland, where a silken kirtle hath not been

seen these ten good years, ha! ha!"

At that moment, Anna, supported by Ormiston and Christina her attendant,

appeared at the side of the vessel, about to cross a broad plank that

extended to the rough wooden pier, overlooked by the great donjon tower

of Noltland. She was very pale; but the torchlight shed a tinge of red

on her cheek, and caused her heavy locks to glitter as the night wind

waved them to and fro.

The plank shook, and a half-stifled cry of fear escaped from Anna.

Bothwell advanced to her assistance, but at the instant a young man

sprang from the crowd of islesmen behind Sir Gilbert Balfour, dropped

into the water, seized the plank with both hands to steady it, while

presenting his shoulder for the lady to lean on.

She touched it lightly with her hand, and murmured her thanks as she

passed.

A low sigh fell upon her ear; and, with that quick apprehension of

sorrow and interest which is so characteristic of women, Anna turned to

her supporter, but his face was bent down and concealed, and she felt

agitated--she knew not why.

The young man trembled so much that he almost sank when she touched him.

He looked up once; there was a rustling of satin--a dreamy sense of

perfume and starched lace, and the vision passed away. He was Konrad!

Ah! had Anna seen the deep and earnest, the sorrowful and affectionate

expression that lit his soft and upturned eyes, her heart would

assuredly have smote her; but the splendid Earl of Bothwell seized her

hand, and led her towards Sir Gilbert Balfour, by whom she was hurried

away.

Lighted by torches that streamed and sputtered in the night wind, and

flared on the rugged rocks that reared from the frothy ocean, the group

ascended the narrow and winding pathway that led to the castle. Konrad

gazed wistfully after them, with his hands pressed upon his forehead,

and with the air of one who struggles to preserve his senses.

When drifting about at the sport of the waves of the Christiana fiord,

and almost insensible from cold and misery, he had been picked up by a

small galliot bound for Kirkwall, and the crew had landed him in

Westeray a week before the arrival of Bothwell.

He had been protected by Balfour, who, being kind-hearted and

hospitable, felt interested in the young man on witnessing the dejection

and utter prostration of spirit under which he laboured.

The despair of a heart that has loved truly, and been deceived, is

sometimes so deep that no one can imagine its intensity. So it was with

Konrad.

The deep, dark consciousness of desolation that had been settling over

him, might have become in time a more subdued and morbid feeling of

regret; but now this sudden meeting brought back all his first hopes and

emotions to their starting-place, and renewed in poignancy all the agony

of that hour, in which he learned that he had lost her for ever.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

*NOLTLAND.*

The nicht followis, and every weary wicht

Throwout the Erde has caucht anone richt,

The sound pesund slepe them liket beat

Woddis and rayeand sels war at rest.

And the Sterne, thair myd coursis rollis doun,

All the fieldis still othir, but noyis or soun.

_The AEneid of Douglas_, 1518.

The long twilight of the northern eve had passed away, and the darkness

of an October night had closed over Westeray.

Tall and grim and dark, save where lit by an occasional ray from a

window, the Keep of Noltland towered in massive outline above the rocky

isle.

This magnificent castle was built by Thomas de Tulloch, bishop and

governor of Orkney under Erick king of Denmark, about 1422. It was

surrounded by massive walls and outworks; the sides of the great keep

were perforated by a series of loopholes for quarrelles or cannon,

rising tier above tier like the gun-ports of a line-of-battle ship.

Many parts of this vast baronial hold are richly decorated by the skill

and fancy of the architect, whom tradition avers to have found his grave

within its walls, and a large stone, shaped like a coffin, is still

pointed out at the foot of the great staircase, as covering the place of

his last repose.

The stately hall of the Bishop's castle glowed cheerfully in the blaze

of the fire that crackled in the arched fireplace, where a pile of

driftwood blazed, the fragments of old wrecks that, could they have

spoken, might have told many a tale of suffering and of war, with logs

of resinous pine brought from Norway, or washed on the beach from the

savage and then unknown coasts of the Labrador.

From the roof hung a large brazen chandelier, in which the flames of

twelve tall candles were streaming in the currents of air that swept

through the vast apartment. The floor was paved with stone, which,

though originally of red rock like the walls, was carefully whitened and

sanded. The great oak girnels and cabinets, the tables and chairs, were

all of the fashion of James III.; and behind them, on rusty tenterhooks,

hung long pieces of rude and carpet-like tapestry, representing, in dark

and gigantic figures, the voyage of AEneas, and other passages from

Virgil. As the wind moved the arras, the great mishapen figure of the

pious Trojan, his long-haired Creusa and chubby Ascanius, seemed at

times as if starting into life. At the lower end of the hall, and

almost lost in the shadow of its vast vacuity, were several retainers of

Westeray, clad in their mail shirts and brown kilts, lolling on hard

wooden settles, conversing in guttural whispers, or sleeping under the

side tables rolled up in their plaids, looking like bundles of tartan

with a mop stick through them--the latter being represented by their

shock heads of hair.

A trivet table, marked with a diagram for playing the old chivalric game

of Troy, was placed near the fire, and thereon lay cards and dice, and a

tall pewter tankard of malmsey wine, from which the silver-mounted horns

were incessantly replenished by Bothwell, Ormiston, and the Knight of

Noltland, who, with their doublets unbuttoned and their gorgets and

swordbelts flung aside were lounging by the ruddy fire and conversing

with animation, but marked by a gravity rather unusual for the two

first-named personages.

Anna, who, with her attendant, had been conducted to suitable

apartments, had retired for the night, leaving Bothwell and his friends

to pursue their political conversation, and to drink their wine

undisturbed, which they did with the devotion of three Germans quaffing

for a wager.

"And this is all thou knowest of the machinations of Moray? Ah! false

bastard, I shall live to mar thee yet!" exclaimed the Earl, with

kindling eyes, on hearing Balfour unfold the web of intrigue that

surrounded the young Queen Mary. "And my barony of Crichtoun too!

saidst thou, Sir Gilbert, that Morton had cast his gloating eyes on

that?"

"Yea, and but for this late raid at Holyrood, had added it to his

adjacent fiefs of Dalkeith and Vogrie."

"And so they have slain this Rizzio! I remember him well--a

smooth-tongued old Italian, somewhat gay in his garb, but crooked in

form, and weasoned in visage. Did he not succeed Monsieur Raulet as

foreign secretary?"

"The same."

"And they slew him, poor knave!"

"It was on the evening of the 9th of March last, when the Queen's Grace

sat at supper with her sister, the Countess Jane of Argyle, and Rizzio

seated between their tabourettes twangling on his ghittern, when the

High Chancellor seized the palace gates at the head of a hundred and

fifty tall spearmen, in corselets and steel bonnets, while my Lords of

Lindesay and Ruthven, with King Henry and a hundred more, in their

armour, ascended by the secret stair to the turret chamber in James V.'s

tower. The poor Italian skipped about like a maukin, and cried aloud in

his native gibberish for mercy; but, by the mass! he found little of

that, for they dragged him from the skirt of the shrieking Queen, and

slew him within earshot of her Majesty, whom Andrew Kerr"----

"Of Fawdounside?" said Ormiston; "a stout man, and a bold--I know tall

Andrew well."

"Is said to have handled somewhat roughly, for he bent a cocked

pistolette against her breast."

"Of Mary?--of a woman about to become a mother!" said the Earl, grasping

his poniard. "Would to St. Paul I had been within arm's length of him!

but what hath drawn the ire of his most sapient Majesty and the

Protestant Lords upon this poor Italian?"

"Heaven alone knoweth,[*] unless it be that her Majesty favoured him

greatly for his superior scholarcraft; which, like witchcraft and every

other craft, is often like unto a sharp sword that cutteth its own

scabbard. Royal favour, as thou well knowest, Bothwell, will soon make a

man hated by his compeers; and thus Rizzio was hated, and so slain, for

they left him in the adjoining chamber, gashed by six-and-fifty sword

and dagger wounds, with the King's poniard driven to the hilt in his

brisket, to show by whose mandate the deed was done."

[*] At this date, the calumnies recorded by Buchanan were yet

uncirculated. H. le Guyon and _Blackwood_ expressly state David Rizzio

to have been an _old man_.

"'Twas right Venetian that."

"And further, knowest thou that Master Craig, the minister of St. Giles,

that Master Knox, and the father of that buxom bride whom he won by his

damnable sorceries--even the pious and godly lord of Ochiltree--are all

art and part in the assassination of this poor stranger, whom they

deemed their only barrier to the ear and eye of her Majesty?"

"How!" said Bothwell ironically, "darest thou thus malign our Scottish

apostles?"

"Nay, I malign none; but this is well known to my brother the President,

who, as thou art aware, is ever fishing in troubled waters, that they

were in the conspiracy. Ha!" he added, with a dark frown, "thinkest

thou that this knave Knox, who leagued with the sacrilegious murderers

of my kinsman, the great Cardinal of St. Stephen, would quail at

crushing this harmless bookworm--this poor Italian violer? I trow not!"

"'Tis nothing to me," replied the Earl; "for Master Knox was never

friend of mine."

"Nor mine!" added Ormiston, with a furious oath; "he ever gave me the

breadth of the causeway, as if there was contamination in the touch of

my cloak; and so he, too, can league with murderers--with jackmen, and

men-at-arms, eh?"

"Doubtless," replied Balfour with a sneer, "when, as he hath it, 'God

raiseth them up to slay those whom the kirk hateth;' since Rizzio's

death, Morton, Lindesay, Ochiltree, Fawdounside, and others, have been

exiles in England; the Catholic lords are again in the ascendant, and

want but the appearance of Huntly and yourself at court (united by other

ties, as I have no doubt you soon will be,) to crush by the strong hand,

and perhaps for ever, those dark and dour-visaged Protestants. God's

murrain on their long prayers and Geneva cloaks! for the sound of one

and sight of the other, gives me a fit of the spleen. But we have had

enough of these matters--fill thy wine-bicker, noble Bothwell; here's to

black-eyed Jane of Huntly--drink, Ormiston, a fair carouse to the Lady

of Hailes and Bothwell-hall!"

The Earl drank his wine in silence, and black Hob did so too, twirling

his mustache the while, with his eyes half-closed by a leer.

"Odsbody! thou receivest this sentiment rather coldly!" said Sir

Gilbert, setting down his horn with surprise.

"Thou forgettest there is this lady of Norway," said the Earl.

"By St. Magnus! dost thou speak of letting thy gay lemane stand in the

way of thine advancement, to an eminence more glorious than ever

Scottish subject (save this lordling of Lennox) attained to; for thou

and Huntly shall govern the realm, and the King and Queen will be but as

painted puppets in thy hands; for the memory of Rizzio's bloody corpse,

and that night of horror in the turret-chamber, will ever rise in Mary's

mind as a barrier between thee and the exiles. Bethink thee! Thou hast

many a wrong to revenge on the tribe that have triumphed in thine

absence."

"True, true," replied Bothwell, with a louring eye; "but I have promised

to this girl"----

"Not marriage! thou wouldst not say that," laughed Sir Gilbert. "No,

no; thou wouldst not be such a jack-a-lent (the blood rushed to the

Earl's brow). But if thou fearest that Jane Gordon should hear of thy

wandering fancies, why, bethink thee that Noltland is a strong castle,

and that the rocks of this islet are washed by the deep salt sea. It

would form a prison for the giants of Amadis, then how much more for one

poor fragile girl?"

Whatever Bothwell thought of this insidious advice, or how much it

coincided with the ideas that were then beginning to obtrude on his

mind, we shall not say, but now return to Konrad.

He sat by the lonely shore, and its waves rolled up the shelving rock to

his feet. He was in a waking dream, and felt neither the cold night

wind or the misty spray of the sea as they blew on his fevered cheek. A

sense of desolation pressed heavily on his heart, and it was not

unmingled with a desire of vengeance on Bothwell. But Konrad was alike

brave and generous, and the sentiments of jealousy and rage, that made

him at one time grip the haft of his Norwegian knife, were almost

immediately stilled by those of a gentler nature--pity and

commiseration.

He now felt both for Anna, and felt acutely, though she had so

heedlessly and ruthlessly cast him from her heart and remembrance.

Chance had thrown them together on a foreign shore, and feeling, he knew

not why, an intense distrust of the sincerity of that gay and glittering

noble, whom she had preferred to an earlier and better lover, he

resolved to watch over her safety and interests in secresy, and with the

affection of a friend; for he now deemed her no longer worthy of a

deeper sentiment of regard--and yet withal he felt that he loved her

still--yea passionately, as of old, though hope was dead for ever.

The moon arose at the distant horizon, and cold and pale its light fell

on the restless ocean; clearly and brightly the stars sparkled in the

dark blue sky, and at times the red wavering streamers of the north shot

across it.

High and grim in all its baronial pride and feudal strength, the

embattled keep of the Scottish stronghold towered above the slimy

rocks--slimy with drifting spray and drenched seaweed. Three long

flakes of yellow lustre streamed out into the night from the grated

windows of the hall. One starlike ray shone from a chamber in the

guest-row, and long and wistfully Konrad gazed at it, for he believed it

was the apartment of Anna, and his conjecture was right.

Young and enthusiastic, he felt that many a vision of future fame and

happiness had perished now, and passed away for ever, with the passion

that had cherished such dreams--dreams that arise only in the noon of

life and love.

The moon went down into the dark blue ocean; the diamond stars faded one

by one, and the first rays of the early morning began to play upon the

floating clouds, to tinge the east with orange hues, and tip the turrets

of Noltland with warm light; but Konrad was still seated by the

murmuring sea.

All sense of time and place had been forgotten, or were merged in one

idea.

And that idea was Anna.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*THE SEPARATION.*

Why no tender word at parting----

Why no kiss, no farewell take?

Would that I could but forget thee--

Would this throbbing heart might break!

Is my face no longer blooming?

Are my eyes no longer bright?

Ah! my tears have made them dimmer,

And my cheeks are pale and white.

_Edmonstoune-Aytoun._

"I have resolved!" exclaimed the Earl, breaking a long silence, as he

walked to and fro with Ormiston on the bartisan of Noltland next

morning. "With a prospect before me so magnificent--the attainment of

the administration, the civil and military power on one hand, the sweets

of successful rivalry and vengeance on the other! Oh! I would be worse

than mad to forego it, by marring my union with the sister of Huntly,

and for what? This love so suddenly conceived, and for a foreign girl!"

"Cocknails! but now thou speakest like a man of mettle!" growled Hob

through his coal-black beard.

"If," said the Earl musingly; "if I could love her as I once loved one

who--pshaw! why these old thoughts? Anna is not my first love; and have

I not felt how feeble, how falling, how sickly, have been the sentiments

entertained for all who have succeeded _her_?"

"Then thou wilt sail"----

"From Westeray; and, like AEneas, leaving my Dido behind me."

"Right! Sir Gilbert shewed me letters from Lethington the secretary,

and his brother Sir James of Pittendriech, wherein they state that her

Majesty is most anxious for your return, and daily groweth more weary of

her husband; that Huntly (the moment thou art fairly espoused to his

sister) will strike some vigorous blow to lay for ever prostrate the

adherents of Morton and of Moray."

"What a jack-a-lent! what a blockhead I have been, to give way thus to

my passion for the niece of Rosenkrantz! I have done myself, and so may

mar a thousand giant schemes of triumph and ambition."

"I thought that sense would return when perhaps too late; but the affair

is not irredeemable."

"Ha!--how?"

"A marriage tie blessed by yon mad priest cannot be very indissoluble,

and the damsel may easily be got rid of."

"Dog of hell!" exclaimed the Earl furiously, "wouldst thou counsel me to

murder her?"

"Nay," replied Hob sternly; "may God forgive thee the thought, so freely

as I do this foul offence; but as Sir Gilbert offers to keep thy

troublesome lemane, let him do so a-God's name. He is a gay man and a

gallant, this old Balfour--we know him well; and, cock and pie! I

warrant he will soon find means to turn this damsel's sorrow into joy."

At this probability a darker frown gathered on the brow of Bothwell;

for, though half tired of Anna, and wholly repenting of his intrigue

with her, he felt a pang at the idea of another supplanting his image in

her heart.

"Thou art but a cold-blooded and iron-hearted mosstrooper, Hob," said

he; "one inured to rapine and cruelty; nursled and nurtured among wilds

and morasses, and thirty years of incessant feud and foray, stouthrief

and bloodshed, and cannot judge of my feelings in this matter. I will

myself see Anna, and break the matter to her--bid her adieu, and will

meet thee here, if thou tarriest for me."

"See her, and be lost! one smile--one tender word--a few tears--will

seal thy fate; and while thou playest the lover and the laggard here at

Westeray, Morton, Lindesay, and their allies, aided by the English

Queen, regain place and power, and reverse thy pardon and recall.

Yonder lieth the _Fleur-de-lys_, with her canvass flapping in the

friendly gale, that streams her pennons towards the Caithness coast. Be

wise--be wary; away, and see not Anna again!"

"Trust me, Ormiston. In my youth I was the plaything of a proud, a

cold, and calculating beauty; the slave of her charms and caprice in

hall and bower--the upholder of her name and loveliness amid the dust

and blood of the battle and tiltyard; but these follies have passed with

the years and the passion that produced them; and now thou shalt see,

that, like that woman, I can be cold as ice, and impassible as marble,

when my interest jars with my love. In half an hour I will meet thee

here; till then, adieu!"

One of the numerous boys, who fed like the dogs on the offals at the

hall-table of the great island baron, conducted the Earl to the chamber

of Anna. He was little, but strong and active as a deer. His whole

attire was a kilt of brown stuff belted about him, a sealskin vest, and

the leathern fillet confining the masses of his thick red hair, which,

from the hour of his birth, a comb had never touched. Leading the way,

he sprang like a squirrel up the steps of the great stair, his bare and

sinewy legs taking three steps at a time.

The space and magnificence of the staircase made the Earl pause as he

ascended, notwithstanding the bitter thoughts that oppressed him. The

great stone column upon which the steps turn, is a yard in diameter, and

has a capital decorated with a statue of the Bishop of Orkney, Thomas de

Tulloch. The nature of the times of which we write, was evinced by the

architecture of this grand stair; for, at every turn of the ascent,

there are concealed loopholes pointing inwards, to gall the foe who

might penetrate thus far; while, at the summit, there is still remaining

the guard-room, where five or six islesmen, who formed the body-guard of

Balfour, clad in their shirts of mail, and armed with bow and

battle-axe, lay stretched on the stone benches dozing listlessly, like

sleepy dogs.

The Earl stood within the apartment where Anna had passed the night; it

was wainscoted with fir-wood, and on the centre of each pannel was

carved a quaint device, the design of some rude genius of the Orcadian

Isles. These were principally of a religious nature, and the hands and

feet of our Saviour, pierced by the nail-holes and encircled by a crown

of thorns, appeared alternately with the _otter-head_ of Balfour, and

satyr-like visages that grinned from bunches of gothic leaves. The

stone fireplace was surmounted by a bishop's mitre, and a fire of

driftwood was still smouldering on the hearth.

Christina, who had been watching her mistress, retired on the entrance

of the Earl.

He approached the bed where Anna, still oppressed by the illness and

lassitude consequent to her voyage, was reposing and slumbering soundly,

unaware that her lover was bending over her.

Raised upon a dais, and having a heavy wooden canopy supported by four

grotesque columns, the bed resembled a gothic tomb rather than a couch,

and Anna might have passed for a statue, as her face and bosom were

white as Parian marble. On each cheek her hair fell in heavy braids,

which glowed like bars of gold when the rays of the morning sun streamed

through the embrasured casement on her placid face.

More than usual was revealed of a bosom that, in its whiteness and

roundness, was, like that face, surpassing beautiful. The colour came

and went in the cheek of the Earl, and he became irresolute as he gazed

upon her. He sighed deeply, and, animated by a sudden tenderness,

pressed his lip to her cheek; she awoke, and twined her arms around him.

"My dear Lord!" said she, in a faint voice, "so thou art come to me

again!"

"I have come, Anna, but to bid thee farewell." Her large eyes dilated

with sudden alarm and grief.

"I told thee, Anna, that in Orkney we might have to separate for a time,

ere I could convey thee to my household and my home. The wind is blowing

right across the stormy Frith toward the mainland of Scotland, and

though love cries ho! my skipper is urgent, and still more so is stern

necessity. Farewell for a time--for a brief time, sweet Anna, I must

leave thee," continued the Earl kissing her repeatedly to pacify her.

Her beauty was very alluring, and until that moment he knew not how deep

was his passion for her.

"In that busy world of turmoil and intrigue on which thou art about to

re-enter--I will be forgotten. Thou mayest not return to me, and I--I

will"----

"What?"

"Die!"

"Speak not, think not thus, dearest Anna!" replied Bothwell, who felt

his resolution wavering, though the thoughts of ambition and the taunts

of Ormiston urged him on the path he had commenced. "We must

separate--but we must meet again."

"Well, be it so!" she said, bending her eyes that were blinded with

tears upon him; "but O, Bothwell! thou art dearer to me than life, and

knowest all that I have sacrificed for

thee,--home--friends--myself--every thing"----

"True--true, Anna;" he was touched to the soul by her manner and accent.

"Then leave me not--but take me with thee. I will go happily in the

meanest disguise thou mayest assign me--O, I will never be discovered!"

"It may not be, Anna; it is impossible. By St. Paul! I tell thee it is

impossible at present."

"In the confidence of thy love I have been dreaming a pleasant dream,

and now perhaps am waking from it. Wilt thou love me in thine absence

as thou dost now?"

"After my solemn espousal of thee before that holy hermit--canst thou

doubt it?" rejoined the Earl, in a voice that faltered with very shame,

though to Anna it seemed that grief had rendered it tremulous in tone.

The supposed emotion inspired her with sudden confidence in him, and she

said--

"Go--and never again will I suspect thy love; but oh! when wilt thou

return to me?"

"By Yule-tide, dear Anna, if I am in life;" and, kissing her once again,

he hurried from her presence like one who had been guilty of a crime,

and--returned no more!

"Oh! how base, how ignoble is this duplicity!" he exclaimed on rejoining

Hob Ormiston, who with folded arms had been leaning on the parapet,

whistling the "Hunts of Cheviot" to wile away the time. "She weeps so

bitterly at my departure, and speaks so trustingly of my return, that my

heart is wrung with the misery my damnable deceit and criminal ambition

will bring upon her."

"Whew! yet she cared not to deceive one who loved her earlier, longer,

and better than thee."

"True," replied the Earl; he became silent for a moment, and while the

idea of her ever having loved another caused a pang of mortification in

his breast, it was mingled with a coldness from which he drew a

consolation for the part he was about to act.

"By cock and pie!" continued Hob, pursuing the advantage his sophistry

had gained; "ten thousand women should never stand in my path. I never

pursued love so fast as to lose a stirrup by the way; and what the foul

fiend matters it whether thou weddest Jane Gordon or not? Thou canst

still come and see thy Norwegian sometimes, and I warrant ye Sir Gilbert

will prevent her from feeling thine absence much. He is a courtier of

jolly King James the Fifth; and he, as thou knowest, kept a dame at

every hunting lodge to manage the household. Ha! nay, nay, do not

chafe; 'tis but marrying the Lady Jane, and handfasting the Lady Anna;

and methinks I need not cite examples among our nobility and

knighthood."

"In the days when I was young, generous, and unspotted in honour and

faith, I was alternately the tool and the plaything of a woman, of that

female fiend, Catherine of Medicis, who saw my love for--pshaw! since

then I have grown wiser. I have, as we say at chess, turned the tables

upon the sex, and view them merely as the objects of my pleasure--the

tools of my ambition. Yet I feel that I am on the eve of taking a step,

that, however cruel, must make or mar my fortune."

"Fortune! defy her, and the fickle jade will favour thee. I love a bold

fellow, who, with his helmet on his brow and a whinger by his side,

becomes the artificer of his own fortune."

"Ah! could we but have a glimpse through that thick veil that ever

involves the future. Hast thou ever read Cicero?"

"Nay, thank God! I never could read aught save my missal, and, without

spelling, very little of that; but since 1560, when missal and mass went

out of fashion together, I have done nothing in that way. But this

book"----

"'Tis a man, Marcus Tullius Cicero, an illustrious Roman."

"A sorcerer, by his name, I doubt not; well, and what said he?"

"There is a fine passage in his works, wherein he speaks of the

capability of seeing effects in their _causes_; and supposes that Priam,

and Pompey, and Caesar, had each laid before them their pages in the

great book of fate, in the noonday of their prosperity--ere the first

fell with his Troy, ere the second was defeated at Pharsalia, and the

third perished by the dagger of Brutus. But I warrant thou canst not

fathom this."

"No--an it had been a winepot I might; but, cock and pie! 'tis all Greek

to me. See! yonder cometh Sir Gilbert from the shore to announce that

our ship is ready; and so, once more, my Lord, let us seaward, ho!"

The sun was setting that evening on the Firth of Westeray. Its

impetuous waves, that rolled in saffron and purple, broke in golden

breakers crested with silver surf upon the shining rocks. The distant

peaks of Rousay were bathed in yellow light, but, mellowed by distance,

the sea lay cold and blue around their bases. The sky was clear and

cloudless, and the purity of the atmosphere imparted many beautiful

tints to the ocean, that rolled its restless tides around these lonely

isles. Like a white bird floating on the distant azure, afar off at the

horizon's verge, a sail was visible from the keep of Noltland about

sunset. It was the _Fleur-de-lys_, that had borne Bothwell away from

the arms of Anna Rosenkrantz. The whole day, with tear-swollen eyes,

she had watched its course through the Firth of Westeray; now it had

diminished to a speck in the distance, and ere the sun dipped into the

Atlantic, had disappeared behind the fertile Isle of Eglise-oy, where

then, as now, the pyramidal spire of the chapel of Saint Magnus rose

above the verdant holms, as a landmark to the fishers of the isles.

As slowly the sail vanished round that dim and distant promontory, a low

cry almost of despair burst from Anna, and she clung to the weeping

Christina. The waiting-woman wept from mere sympathy; but the grief of

her mistress (sudden, like all her impulses) was of that violent kind

which can only find relief in tears and loud ejaculations.

Near her stood one of Sir Gilbert's retainers, clad in a long shirt of

mail, such as was then common in the Orcades; he was leaning on his long

axe, and regarding her attentively through the horizontal slit in his

salade, a species of helmet with an immovable visor which completely

concealed the face; but beneath the impassible front of that iron

casque, were features distorted by the grief and anguish that wrung the

wearer's generous heart. He was Konrad, who, thus disguised, had the

mortification of beholding the wildness of her grief for another.

Often he made a motion, as if to approach her, and as often retired; for

though on one hand the most sincere pity urged him to comfort her, the

invidious whispers of anger and disdain on the other, together with the

necessity of preserving his incognito, withheld him. And there,

scarcely a lance's length apart, were the lover and his idol, with the

night descending on their sorrows.

From Rousay's hills, and on the distant sea, the sunlight died away.

The Firth of Westeray turned from saffron to purple, and from purple to

the darkest blue, in whose vast depths were reflected the star-studded

firmament, till the moon arose, and then once more its waters rolled in

light of the purest silver; and each breaker, as its impetuous wrath was

poured upon the bluffs of basalt, fell back into the ocean a shower of

brilliants.

*CHAPTER XV.*

*DOUBT AND DESPAIR.*

_Antony_ -------------- How I loved,

Witness ye nights and days, and all ye hours

That danced away with down upon your feet,

As all your business were to count my passion.

_All for Love, or the World well lost._

Yule-tide came--and passed away.

Three months rolled on, and in that time Anna heard no tidings of

Bothwell.

Those who, like her, have waited in all the agony of anxiety and love,

degenerating into fear and doubt, can alone know how long those weary

months appeared.

In that lonely island her amusements were few. Kind-hearted, honest,

and bluff in manner, Sir Gilbert Balfour, though having been something

of a courtier in his youth, had gradually acquired much of that rude

austerity, with which the Reformation had impressed the manners of the

Scottish people, and, being unable to converse with his fair prisoner

either in French or Norse, he soon abandoned in despair any attempts to

soothe her melancholy, either by signs or condolences offered in the

Scottish tongue, which was quite unknown to her.

She soon grew tired of watching the sails that now and then appeared in

the narrow strait between Rousay and Westeray. At first she had been

wont to hail them with delight, and to watch their approach with a

beating heart, full of hope that each successive one might be his

returning to her; but hope and exultation died away together, when the

ship passed on towards her Scandinavian home; and then she thought of

old Sir Erick Rosenkrantz, sitting lonely in his hall at Bergen; and

bitter were the tears she wept, at the memory of that kind old face she

might never behold again.

The walrus and the sea-dog, that at times arose in droves from the

waves, with their round heads breasting the foam; the vast whale that

floundered in the shallows, and blew clouds of water in the air; the

shoals of finless porpoises, that rushed through the surge like a flock

of ocean devils, failed, after a time, to interest or amuse her. Week

succeeded week;--there were days of storm, when the grey clouds and the

white mists came down from the Arctic circle; when the waves roared and

foamed through the narrow strait, and the lightning flashed afar off

among the heath-clad hills of Rousay--days of cloudless sunshine, or of

listless calm, succeeded each other; and nothing marked the time, which

passed by unmarked, even as the wind that swept over the pathless

ocean,--but there came no word of Bothwell. The spring of 1566

approached, and all hope in the bosom of Anna began to die away.

Konrad still preserved his incognito most rigidly; but though life

seemed to stagnate on the little Isle of Westeray, and in its great but

dreary baronial castle, the world beyond it was busy as ever. One night

a messenger arrived from the lieutenant-governor of Kirkwall, bearing

despatches for Sir Gilbert, who, without taking leave of Anna, but

merely giving strict orders to his bailie, that "she was to be kept in

sure ward, and treated with every respect," had thrown himself on board

a small crayer, and sailed for the mainland of Orkney.

Then passing fishermen brought rumours of civil war and bloodshed--of

battles fought and castles stormed; and Anna, when she heard the name of

Bothwell, looked anxiously in the faces of those around her, to read in

their expression those tidings she was dying with eagerness to learn,

but which it was impossible for her to gather from the barbarous, and

half Gaelic half Pictish, jargon of the speakers.

The festival of Easter passed away--summer drew on; yet Bothwell did not

come, and then the heart of poor Anna began to sicken within her.

The evening was declining drearily, as many others had declined, on

Westeray.

A prey to the deepest dejection, Anna reclined on a stone seat in an

angle of the battlement, through an embrasure of which she was watching

the setting sun. Christina sat near her on the steps of this stone

sofa, and her eyes were anxiously fixed on the pallid face of her

mistress, whose fine but humid eyes were bent on the distant horizon;

but their expression was dreamy, sad, and vacant. The eyes of another

were fixed on her, with an intensity of which she was unaware; and

indeed she knew not that any one was near save her female attendant.

Leaning against the battlement, and but a few paces distant, stood

Konrad of Saltzberg, clad in the same long shirt of mail, and wearing

the same salade that have already been described. For more than an hour

he had been regarding Anna as a lover alone could have regarded her; but

she was thinking only of her absent Earl, and watching the passing

ships.

Many had been visible that day; for the vessels of Elizabeth, the

English queen, were then sailing to the shores of Iceland, where her

people had been permitted by the Danish king to fish for cod. The sun

was dipping into the Atlantic, and, when half his circle was hidden by

the horizon, the crimsoned waves became as an ocean of blushing wine,

but their breakers were glittering in green and gold where they burst on

the rocky beach of the isle.

The sun set; his rays died away from land and sea; the pink that edged

the changing clouds, and the flush that reddened the water, grew paler

and yet more pale, and the stars began to twinkle in the yet sunny blue

of the sky. The last white sail, diminished to the size of a nautilus,

had faded away in the distance, and Anna covered her face with her

hands, and wept; from beneath the lappets of her little velvet cap, her

bright hair fell forward in masses, and Konrad, though he saw not her

tears, felt all his sympathy and his old love glow within him.

Resolving at all risks to discover himself, he removed his salade and

advanced towards her. Anna raised her head at the clink of the shirt of

mail, and, starting up, gazed upon him with astonishment while clinging

to the parapet, for her strength almost left her. She would have become

paler were it possible; but she was already so colourless, that death

could not have made her more so.

Konrad expected a greater ebullition of fear, or joy, or astonishment,

at his presence and safety; but Anna, who imagined he had merely

expatriated himself from Aggerhuis, according to his threat at their

last interview, expressed only the latter emotion in her features; and

Konrad could not help feeling a little piqued, at her supposed

indifference to the dangers he had run, and the watery grave he had so

miraculously escaped.

"Konrad," she faltered--"thou here!"

"Anna, dear Anna!" exclaimed the unhappy young man, deeply moved by the

sound of her voice, which, like an old and beloved air, stirred the

inmost chords of his heart. "I did not expect to hear your lips again

utter my name so tenderly."

He covered his eyes with his hand, and then the girl in turn was moved;

she laid her hand gently on his arm, but he trembled so much that she

withdrew it.

"Poor Konrad! you seem indeed changed; your eyes are hollow, and your

cheek--it is very pale!"

"I have endured great grief; God alone knoweth how much agony has been

concentrated in a heart that felt too narrow to contain it."

"I do pity thee, Konrad!"

"It is too late now. Thou didst love me once, Anna, and I feel bitterly

how cold a substitute is pity. Oh! thou alone wert the link that bound

me to the world; the link is snapped, and I am very desolate now!"

Anna sighed. She would have said _forgive me_; but her pride forbade

it.

"The memory of hopes that are blighted, and wishes that were futile,

presses heavily on me now," continued Konrad, whose brave spirit seemed

to be completely broken; "and, at times, I feel nothing but despair."

"Ah, Konrad!" she replied, with a sickly attempt to smile, "in a few

years we learn to laugh at the love of our youth, just as we do at an

old-fashioned dress."

"With some it may be so, and 'tis a sad reflection; but, oh Anna!

(pardon me repeating that well-loved name as of old,) in all my dreams

of the future, I had so entwined our lives, and thoughts, and feelings,

into one--I had so long viewed thee as my--my wife--that"----

"I must listen no more to this," said Anna, turning away with a

reddening cheek.

"Thou art angry with me; but there was a time--and hast thou forgotten

it quite?--when that word _wife_ fell otherwise on thine ear. I trifle,

lady. I have tidings to tell thee."

"I will not--I cannot--listen."

"For Heaven sake and your own, hear me!"

"This is alike sinful and insulting--this from the captain of my uncle's

archers! Leave me, Konrad of Saltzberg!"

"By my past grief, by my blighted hope and present sorrow, I conjure

thee, Anna, to hear me! I would speak to you of this man"----

"My husband?"

"The Lord of Bothwell," said Konrad, with a smile of scorn.

"Hah--well!" continued Anna in a breathless voice, while all her pride

and petulance became immediately merged in intense eagerness.

"Thou hast not heard from him since his departure for the court of

Scotland?"

"No--not one message hath come to Noltland, at least so sayeth the

castellan."

"The castellan hath lied!" replied Konrad, with sparkling eyes; "he hath

heard daily, and knows that this false Earl, whom he is now going to

join and assist, hath been espoused, with every magnificence, to the

sister of the Lord Huntly."

"And I--I"--gasped Anna.

"Thou art a captive for life in this island castle."

Anna clasped her hands passionately above her head, and would have

fallen backward had not Konrad sprung to her assistance; but, unable to

trust himself with the part of upholding her almost inanimate form, he

seated her gently, and hung over her with the utmost tenderness.

"Konrad," she said, with pale and quivering lips, but firm and tearless

earnestness; "thou, thou didst never deceive me in word, in deed, or

thought--say, how didst thou learn this?"

"How, matters not--'tis the sad verity."

"Thou triflest!" she said, with sudden passion and stamping her foot,

while her eyes filled with tears, and she endeavoured to control the

unutterable anguish that was expressed in every feature. "From whom, I

demand, heardst thou these evil tidings?"

"From Hans Knuber, Lady Anna," replied Konrad, lowering his voice. "He

trades, as thou knowest, with certain udallers of Shetland and Orkney,

and this night his little crayer, the Skottefruin, (for so has he named

her to please the Scots,) is about to sail for the river Clyde. The

night is closing--if thou wouldst escape, an hour will set thee free."

"I do not--O no! I cannot--believe this tale; yet I will go with

Hans--and whither? Is not anywhere better than this island prison?

Yes--land me once in Scotland, and I will soon make my way to Bothwell."

"Thou art perhaps without money, and knowest not the Scottish tongue."

"Love and despair will sustain me without the first, and I shall soon

acquire the second. How I will upbraid, how I will implore him; but he

cannot have deceived me--Hans must be mistaken."

"But if he is not," said Konrad, piqued at the excess of her regard for

another.

"Then I will throw myself at the feet of his sovereign; she is a woman,

and, feeling as a woman, will do me justice."

"Wherever thou goest, Anna, permit me to be thy protector; and I will

go, for am I not wedded to thee in spirit--thy brother, thy friend, if I

cannot be thy lover? Unhappy one! thou dost now experience for another,

the pangs that I endured for thee; thou who didst betray me, art now in

thy turn betrayed. But think not, gentle one, that I upbraid thee," he

continued, on seeing that she wept bitterly, "for now I am thy brother,

Anna, since God denies me to be more; and by his blessed name I swear

that I will lead, protect, and avenge thee! Come--be once again the

daughter of stout old Svend of Aggerhuis, the conqueror of Lubeck--be

once again a Norwegian!"

Like a ray of sunlight across a cold sky, a faint and sickly smile

spread over Anna's face, and she kissed the hand of Konrad, who was

deeply moved by the humility of the action.

"In an hour the night will be dark; have all prepared for flight, and

then I will meet thee here. Meanwhile I go to Hans."

"Ah! if Hans should be mistaken, and Bothwell returning find me gone."

"Honest Hans is not mistaken; for Bothwell's marriage is known

throughout all Scotland and the isles. Bethink thee, Anna! Hans' ship

is bound for the Clyde, a river of that country, and he tells me that

Bothwell's princely dwelling overlooks that very water; thus, with him,

thou goest direct to the castle gates of thy deceiver."

"Enough! enough! Come triumph or death, despair or joy, I will go with

thee. Away to Hans; bid him hasten our departure; he knows how well I

can reward him when we are at home in dear Norway. In an hour from this

time, Konrad, I will meet thee here."

As she hurried away, accompanied by her attendant, who had withdrawn

during this painful interview, Konrad gazed wistfully after her, and,

clasping his hands, convulsively muttered--

"O Anna! by what fatality did I ever love thee?".......

That night the moon shone brightly upon the strait of Westeray, and the

snow-white sails of the Norwegian ship were bellying in the breeze that

curled the impetuous waves. Above, was the blue and star-studded sky;

below, was the shining sea. Afar off, the full-orbed moon was rising

like a silver shield from the ocean, and between lay a black speck--it

was the Keep of Noltland.

On their lee lay the isle of Eglise-oy, with its green holms and yellow

sands shining in the merry light of the summer moon, that turned to

silver and emerald the waves that murmured on its pebbled shore.

A bell was heard to toll in the distance; its tone was deep and solemn,

as it swung in the vaulted spire of old St. Magnus' church, that crowned

a rocky headland. It was the signal of nocturnal prayer; for in those

remote isles God was still worshipped as of old--the new creed of the

Reformers, the clang of their hammers and levers, had been as yet

unheard.

The outline of the old gothic church, with its solid tower and pointed

spire, stood darkly out in bold relief upon the sea-beat promontory; the

stars gleamed through the painted windows of its vaulted aisles;

beneath, the waves were rolling in light, and the deep tones of the

nocturnal bell were mingled with their hollow murmur.

Hans doffed his Elsinore cap, and prayed for the intercession of the

friend and patron of the Orcadian mariner, Saint Tradewell of Papay;

while Anna, in attendance to the distant call to prayer, knelt down on

the deck with her crucifix and rosary.

Konrad was beside her.

She prayed intently for herself and for Bothwell, but Konrad offered up

his orisons for her alone.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*BLANTYRE PRIORY.*

I fain would sing, but will be silent now,

For pain is sitting on my Lover's brow;

And he would hear me, and though silent, deem

I pleased myself, but little thought of him,

While of nought else I think; to him I give

My spirit, and for him alone I live.

_Pop. Poetry of Servia._

An evening of June was closing upon the "apple-bowers" of Clydesdale and

the woods of Bothwellhaugh, when two pedestrians, a male and a female,

pursued the ancient Roman way, that by a high and narrow bridge of one

arch, which had been constructed by the warriors of Agricola, spanned

the stream named the South Calder, a tributary of the Clyde. Fair in

complexion and athletic in figure, the young man was attired somewhat

like a lowland yeoman. He wore a plain black breastplate and headpiece,

for at that time in Scotland, no man ever ventured beyond his own door

without armour; he carried a sealskin wallet and pouch, and was armed

with a sword, dagger, and quarterstaff. His breeches and hose were of

coarse red sarcenet, his gloves and boots of yellow buff.

He partly led and partly supported the companion of his journey, a young

lady, whose unusually pale complexion had been rendered yet more pallid

by fatigue; but her velvet hood being well drawn forward, almost

concealed her features. Though light and graceful, her figure was

veiled in one of those ample plaids of purple and blue check which were

then (and for two hundred years after) so common in the Lowlands of

Scotland. She wore it over her head, and pinned under the chin, from

whence it fell over her shoulders and enveloped her whole form. Her

white gloves were fringed with black lace, and her wrists and arms,

where visible, were remarkably white and delicate.

Konrad and Anna--for doubtless the reader has recognised them--were

wearied and covered with dust, having travelled on foot from the old

Stockwell bridge of Glasgow. The commercial capital of the West was then

but a small trading town, clustered round the great church, which, four

hundred years before, the pious David had founded on the bank of the

Molendinar burn.

There the crayer of Hans Knuber had anchored, and was discharging her

cargo of tar and stockfish, for which Hans received in exchange cottons,

and silks, and tanned leather, which he sold to the best advantage in

the cities on the Baltic; and there Anna heard the sequel of Konrad's

tidings, and the confirmation of Bothwell's falsehood beyond a doubt.

They found themselves in Clydesdale almost penniless; but, rough and

turbulent though the times were, neither in baron's hall nor peasant's

cottage were food, fire, and shelter, refused to the wayfarer or the

unfortunate; and in the assumed character of French travellers on their

way to court, to seek the patronage of Le Crocque, the ambassador of

Charles IX., or the Marquis d'Elboeuff, they had reached the district of

Bothwell with comparative ease and safety. Though the mass of the

people, under terror of the act of 1555, "Anent speaking evill of the

Maist Christian Kingis subjectis," and that of the following year, which

defined the naturalization of the French in Scotland, treated all

strangers with respect, Anna and Konrad were frequently reviled at

wayside hostels as "massmongers and idolaters, worshippers of Baal, and

followers of the shavelings of hell!" for Anna had the temerity and

enthusiasm to wear openly on her bosom, that emblem against which, by

word and deed, the preachers of the Reformation had poured forth their

wrath and fury--a crucifix.

Evening was closing, and the woods of Bothwellhaugh were throwing their

darkening shadows on the winding Calder. The foliage was in all the

vivid green of July, and the perfume of the summer blossoms from the

groves of apple-trees loaded the balmy air. The day had been one of

intense heat; there was not a breath of wind upon the uplands, every

leaf was still, and nothing was stirring save the busy gnats, that

revolved in swarms where the sunlight pierced the leafy vistas.

So still was the atmosphere, that nothing was heard save the gurgle of

the glittering stream, or the hum of the mountain bees as they floated

over the grass, and sought the wild violets and pansies that grew in the

dewy shades.

The sunlight died away along the deep glen sides, that were fringed with

leafy woodlands; on trees bending with foliage and fruit, on the

white-walled and moss-roofed cottages, with their light smoke curling

through the coppice, on the river that glided past, placidly in one

part, hoarse and brawling between its scaured banks in another, on rocks

tufted with purple heather, or yellow with ripening corn, fell the dying

sunlight, blending all with hazy softness, till the last rays faded from

the tree-tops and the castle turrets, that overlooked them; and then, as

the blue sky became veiled by dun clouds, which the set sun edged with

the most brilliant golden light, the air became dense and oppressive,

and a dusky crimson tinged the whole woodland scenery with the hue of

blood. Perched on its rifted rock, the old square tower of Clelland

turned to brick red; the Calder flowed below like a stream of purple

wine, and the beechwood copse became like a grove of the red-leaved

ilex.

The atmosphere soon became darker; a few heavy drops of rain plashed on

the dusty causeway of the Roman road, and spread wide circles on the

wooded stream that flowed beneath the bridge; the tops of the lofty

trees were tossed, as the wind arose, and the summer thunder rumbled

among the green and russet hills that overlook the fruitful valley of

the Clyde.

"A storm is gathering, Anna!" said Konrad, gazing tenderly on her pale

features; "and thou art growing faint and weary. Overtasked as it has

been, thy little strength is completely exhausted; let me beseech thee

once again to pause. There is a tower yonder that overhangs the river;

and there, I doubt not, due hospitality will be gladly extended to two

poor and unfriended foreigners!"

"No--no! On--on!" muttered Anna.

"We are, I believe, yet far from our destination; and, ere it is

reached, thou wilt assuredly die of fatigue!"

"Then, O God! grant that it may be at Bothwell's castle gate!" said

Anna, bursting into a passion of tears; "that the sight of my silent

corpse might upbraid him with his perfidy. Assure me that he will

behold me lying dead upon his threshold, and I will yield up my soul

without a sigh. Life hath no longer any charm for me!"

"Nor for me!" murmured Konrad; but how different was the tone! The girl

spoke in all the bitterness of rage; the young man with the accents of

desolation. Anna read the emotion in his eyes, as she glanced hurriedly

and pityingly upon him; and, repressing her own grief, still continued

to totter forward. The feebleness of her steps became more and more

apparent; but her spirit was strong and indomitable.

As they descended into the bosky woodlands, the red lightning began to

gleam behind the trunks of the distant trees, and the Calder, as it

jarred between ledges of rock, became covered with white foam. These

signs of a coming tempest caused them to hasten on, and with both hands

the trembling Anna clung to Konrad's arm. The woods grew dark as the

plumes of a hearse, and the starless sky was crowded with masses of inky

vapour;--but there was one dense cloud that came up from the westward,

and in it the whole fury of the storm seemed to be concentrated. Onward

it came, laying the corn flat to the earth, while the strong trees bent

like willows beneath its sulphureous breath; for it was charged with all

the electric fluid of the summer storm.

Konrad paused, and looked upward.

For a moment the aspect of the heavens was magnificent!

Forth from the bosom of that dark cloud broke one broad flash of forky

lightning, resplendent, green, and lurid. For an instant it lit the

whole firmament, and the earth beneath it, revealing the tossing forests

and deep broad waters of Clyde, which was covered with snow-white foam,

and poured on between its steep and wooded banks, making one bold sweep

round Bothwell's dark red towers, that rose above them in massive

magnificence.

In strong outline, tower and turret stood forth against the flaming sky,

the lightning seeming to play among their summits, and all the leaves of

Bothwell's blooming bank gleamed like filigree-work--but for an instant,

and then all became darkness.

Another flash, brighter than the first, revealed the opposite bank of

the stream, and the ruins of Blantyre Priory. Brightly, for a moment,

pinnacle and pointed window, buttress and battlement, gleamed in the

phosphorescent light--but to fade away; and then terrifically the

thunder rolled along the beautiful and winding valley of the Clyde.

All became still--and though the foliage was agitated, the wind had

passed away. Nothing was heard save the rush of the river, and the

ceaseless hiss of the drenching rain, as noisily and heavily it poured

down on the broad summer leaves.

Stunned for a moment by the thunder-peal, Konrad, in the confusion of

the time, had thrown an arm round Anna as if to protect her, while she

in turn clung to him convulsively for support; and even in that moment

of consternation, the warm embrace of that loved bosom sent through his

a thrill of pain and delight.

The thick foliage still protected them from the rain; but the necessity

of seeking other shelter became immediately apparent, for Anna,

exhausted by terror and fatigue, was almost speechless. Konrad

supported her up the ascent, which is crowned by the ruins of Blantyre

Priory; and there, in that desolate place, which the lightning had

revealed to them, he found a place of shelter, under the arch of a

vault, where the ivy clung and the wallflower flourished, for the place

was utterly ruined. Seven years had elapsed since the sons of rapine

and reformation had been there.

The gloom of the ruins impressed Konrad with a horror that he could

scarcely repress; for thick and fast on his glowing fancy, came many a

dark and terrible legend of the wild and frozen north--but the danger of

Anna compelled him to think of other things.

The rain and the wind were over; the thunder had died away on the

distant hills, and nothing was heard now but the rush of the adjacent

stream, and the patter of the heavy drops as they fell from the

overcharged foliage on the flattened grass. Occasional stars gleamed

through the pointed windows and shattered walls of the Priory, and the

long creeping ivy waved mournfully to and fro. The edifice was much

dilapidated; for the sacrilegious builders of many a barn and cottage,

had torn the best stones from the places where they had rested for ages,

and where, doubtless, the pious Alexander II. deemed they would remain

for ever; now the wild-rose, the sweetbrier, and the mountain ash grew

thickly in the hospitium, where of old the sick were tended and the poor

were fed--in the chapel aisles where the good had prayed, and the dead

of ages lay.

Anna had become almost insensible; and, from being animated by activity

and energy, had become passive in spirit and supine in body. The change

had affrighted Konrad; her pulses beat like lightning, and her hands and

brow were burning. Gently, as if she had been a sick child, he laid her

in a corner of that vaulted apartment, which appeared to have been a

cellar of the Priory. There the strewn and crisped leaves of the last

autumn lay thick and soft, and thinking only of death, in her utter

exhaustion of mind and body, she made no reply to his tender and

reiterated inquiries.

Konrad adjusted her damp dress over her beautiful person, and, full of

solicitude and anxiety, seated himself near her. He listened--her

breath was becoming fainter and more rapid; excessive fatigue and

over-excitement had evidently done their worst upon her tender frame.

"Oh, how thy hands burn!" said Konrad, as he took them in his with the

fondness of other days. "Speak, Anna--for the love of mercy speak to

me!"

"I am very pettish and ungracious," she said faintly; "but forgive me,

Konrad. I deserve not thy care--leave me to die; for God, I think, has

deserted me!"

"Ah, speak not thus, Anna! God will never desert one so good--so gentle

as thee. Hath he not led us to this chamber, where we are safe from the

wind, and the rain, and the chill night-dew? but here thou canst not

pass a night. The storm hath died away--one effort more"----

"I cannot rise, Konrad," said Anna, in a breathless voice.

"Then I must fly for succour!"

"No--no--O, do not leave me! I will die of terror; there may be demons,

and wolves, and bears in these Scottish woods, as in those at home."

"But thou hast thy piece of the blessed cross, Anna. I go but to wind

my bugle for succour at the foot of the hill, and surely some one in

yonder castle by the river, will hear and attend to me."

"Then hasten, for my heart is sickening, and my strength is failing fast

with the fever that burns within me."

Konrad sprang to his feet in an agony of anxiety.

"Oh Bothwell, Bothwell!" said Anna; "my dear lord--may heaven forgive

thee, freely as I do, all the misery and suffering thou hast caused to

this poor heart!"

These words fell like ice on the young man's heart, and he said

hurriedly--

"Be of good cheer, and pray to thy patron, the mother of the virgin--I

will bring thee succour anon."

"Konrad," said Anna, in her low, soft voice, "my words have stung thee,

for thine accent is changed. Pardon me!" she added tremulously, "and

remember that I, too, am desolate now. Dost thou cease to love me? Am

not I thy sister, Konrad?"

"Thou art, indeed!" replied her lover, whose heart was crushed by his

emotion; "and I regard thee with a love more pure and pitying than ever.

I am thy friend, Anna--a lover no longer."

"Then, Konrad, kiss and forgive me--for I may die ere thou returnest."

Konrad trembled. A gush that cannot be described--sorrow, love, agony,

and despair, swelled up in his breast on hearing this singular and

artless request, and, stooping down, he pressed his lips to hers long

and passionately.

It was the first time he had ever kissed her, and it was a strange

salute.

Anna's lips were burning and parched--Konrad's were cold and quivering,

while a palsy seemed to possess his heart; but he sprang from her side,

vaulted over the ruined wall, and, giddy with the whirl of his thoughts,

rushed down the hill to the margin of the river, and wound his bugle

furiously.

Deep, broad, and rapid, between its steep and beautifully wooded banks,

the noble Clyde was flowing at his feet, and the bright stars were

twinkling in its depth. Afar off, at one end of the silvan dell, the

moon was rising red and fiery after the recent storm, and full on the

imposing facade of the neighbouring castle fell its fitful gleam.

Flanked by two enormous circular towers of massive dark red stone, it

presented a bold front to the south, and overlooked the wooded declivity

so famed in song, as--

"Bothwell'e bank that bloom'd so fair."

around which, like a great moat, the girdling Clyde made one bold sweep.

The area of this vast and princely fortress, where, in other years, the

Norman knights of Aymer of Valence, and the bonneted vassals of

Archibald the Grim, kept watch and wassail, occupies a space of two

hundred and thirty feet; towering with its magnificent battlements above

the river on one side, and overlooking a beautiful lawn on the other.

It occupies the most prominent and picturesque locality amid all the

scenery traversed by the Clyde.

Darkly in the fitful light loomed the tourelles of the keep, and the

ramparts of the Valence and Wallace towers, and darkly fell their giant

shadows on the bosom of the starlit river. Amid its gloomy mass Konrad

saw lights twinkling from windows strongly grated and deeply recessed in

the thick walk; but the gates were closed, and the bridges up.

_Now_--how different from then--

"The tufted grass lines Bothwell's ancient hall,

The fox peeps cautious from the ruin'd wall;

Where once proud Moray, Clydesdale's ancient lord,

A mimic sovereign, held the festive board."

Ignorant that the stately castle before him was the stronghold of his

rival, again and again Konrad poured the shrill blasts of his ivory

bugle to the gusty wind; and, finding that he was unheard or unheeded by

the inmates, his anxiety to procure aid for Anna would admit of no

longer delay, and heavily encumbered as he was with half armour, he

threw himself into the river, and, with his sword in his teeth,

endeavoured to swim over. Though a strong, active, and practised

swimmer, he no sooner found himself buffeting the fierce current of that

rapid river, than an invocation to God burst from his lips; for he was

swept away like a reed by the violence and impetuosity of the summer

_speat_.

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*THE COUNTESS OF BOTHWELL.*

Load roars the north round Bothwell hall,

And fast descends the pattering rain;

But streams of tears yet faster fall,

From thy blue eyes, O bonny Jane!

Hark! hark! I hear the mournful yell,

The wraiths of angry Clyde complain;

But sorrow bursts with louder swell.

From thy toft heart, O bonny Jane!

_M. G. Lewis._

Within the stateliest chamber of that stately castle sat James, Earl of

Bothwell, and his countess Jane, the bride of a few months. The

apartment was long and lofty; in the daytime it was lighted by six

grated windows that overlooked Bothwell bank, but now it was lit by two

gigantic gilded chandeliers of wax candles. The ceiling was of panelled

oak, and the floor was of the same material, but lozenged, and minutely

jointed. The walls were completely hung with tapestry (made by the

Countess of old Earl Adam, who fell at Flodden), and represented on one

side the "_Hunts of Cheviot_," so famed in ancient song; and on the

other, the miracles of the blessed St. Bothan, the cousin and successor

of St. Colme of Iona. The spaces between were filled up by gorgeous

flower-pieces, and the armorial coats of the Earl's alliances on trees

covered with shields; but chief of all appeared the blazon of the house

of Hailes. Now little known, the arms of Bothwell are worth recording,

as they appeared above the stone chimney of that apartment. _Gules_ on

a cheveron argent, two Scottish lions rending an English rose, (which

had been the characteristic cognisance of Patrick Hepburn of Hailes at

the great battle of Otterburn,) quartered azure with a golden ship;

three cheveronels on a field ermine for the lordship of Soulis, with a

bend azure for Vauss, lord of Dirltoun. His shield was supported by two

lions gardant, crested by a horse's head bridled, and bearing on an

escroll the motto--

Keepe Tryste.

The whole of this gorgeous armorial blazon was upborne by a gilded

anchor, significant of Bothwell's office as Lord High Admiral of

Scotland and the Isles.

Though the season was summer, a fire burned on the marble hearth; for

the stone chambers of those ancient dwellings were often cold and

chilly. Two silver lamps, lighted with perfumed oil, and having each a

golden tassel appended to them, hung on each side of the mantelpiece, by

the same chains that, ten years before, had swung them before St.

Bothan's shrine, in Blantyre Priory. Their odour was mingled with that

of the fresh flowers that, in vases of Italian glass, were piled upon

the cabinets, and diffused a delightful fragrance through that noble

apartment.

A wine vase, or flask of Venetian crystal, grained with gold, and of

that peculiar fashion then very common in the dwellings of the Scottish

noblesse, (so common, indeed, that the Regent Moray was wont to have

them broken before visiters in a spirit of pure vanity,) stood upon the

table, and the glow of its purple contents was thrown on the silver

cups, the grapes, that were piled in baskets of mother-of-pearl, and the

embossed salvers of confections that stood around it.

The Earl, richly attired, as when we last saw him, in a suit that

admirably displayed the strength and symmetry of his limbs, was lounging

on an ottoman, or low-cushioned settle, with his feet on a deer's skin,

and seemed wholly occupied in caressing a large wiry hound of the

Scottish breed, while the Countess had played to him on her ghittern,

and sung that song so common at the court of Mary, but of which the

title alone is known to us now--

"My love is layed upone ane knycht."

The old game of Troy had succeeded; and then they paused a while to

listen to the fury of the storm that has been described hi the preceding

chapter; and, during the pause, we will take a view of this fair and

unfortunate lady, who was sacrificed by her lover and brother to the

evil spirit of statecraft and ambition. But when Bothwell gazed on her,

which he did from time to time, his dark eyes filled with softness, as

hers did with love and languor.

The outline of her little figure (for she was of low stature) was

singularly graceful, as she half reclined on the seat of crimson velvet,

with the deep colour of which her neck and arms contrasted so admirably.

Her eyes were of the deepest and most sparkling black; and when they

dilated at times, seemed almost larger than her cherry mouth.

She was a gentle and excitable creature.

The fineness of her nervous temperament, might have been read in the

thinness and exquisite fairness of her skin, in the slender blue veins

of her snowy temples, and the lustre of her large dark orbs, which, with

every emotion of joy, tenderness, or grief, seemed to swim in tears.

Her very laughter had something strangely clear, ringing, and hysterical

in it. Her small white hand, at which the Earl almost unconsciously

gazed more than at the diagram of the game, from its thinness and

delicacy, was alike indicative of her nature and disposition.

Jane of Huntly was every way the _belle_-ideal of that description of

high-born beauty, upon whose soft cheek not even the wind of heaven had

been permitted to blow "too roughly."

She was richly attired in black velvet, flowered with silver thread; her

raven hair was braided with a string of pearls, and wreathed in a

coronal round her head; while a necklace of Scottish topazes and Arran

stones, set in gold, sparkled on her bosom and sustained a silver

crucifix, the dying gift of the stout Earl her father, who, four years

before, had fallen in his armour on the battle-field of Corrichie.

When Bothwell gazed upon his countess, there was more of admiration,

perhaps, than love in his expression. He loved her well enough after

the fashion of the world, but not so devotedly and well as that gentle

being deserved. Anna had almost been forgotten; his flexible heart had

been so frittered away among his innumerable loves, that he seemed to

have become incapable of any lasting impression. However, he loved his

bride better than he expected; for, as we have before stated, this

marriage had, on his part, been strictly one of policy.

At times when Jane's dark eyes met his with their clear full gaze, there

was a keen and searching expression in their starlike depth, that made

the reckless noble quail, he knew not why; but her whole soul seemed to

light them up with a vivid expression that troubled him.

"Another flash--and another!" she exclaimed, watching the lightning and

clasping her hands, while her swimming eyes glittered with childlike

joy. "Oh, mother of God!--how beautiful--how brilliant! Ah, that I

were among the woods where the lightning is flashing, or at the linn

where the Clyde is pouring in foam from the rocks!"

"By the Holy Rood!" replied the Earl, with surprise, "I think thou art

better here, my bonnibel. None but a water-kelpie could live abroad

to-night, and one half hour of such a storm would send thee to the

company of the saints."

"And again thou wouldst be free to woo and win another," rejoined the

Countess, laughing.

"I never wooed, and shall not win another, my bonny Jane!" said the

lying Earl; while lounging on the velvet cushions he caressed his little

countess, and played with her dark glossy hair, thinking as he did so,

"Ah, how could I ever love any woman but a dark one!"

"And wilt thou always love me as thou dost now?" asked the Countess with

the most engaging playfulness.

"Love thee!" stammered the Earl, perplexed by a question so pertinent to

his thoughts. "My ladybird, why that thought?"

"Because," replied Jane, in a voice that was tremulous from the excess

of her emotion; "if thou didst cease to love, O my dear lord! I

would"----

"What?"

"Die!" and her beautiful head drooped on his shoulder.

"Anna's very words!" thought the conscience-stricken Earl, as he gazed

upon her with anxiety and astonishment. Her expression startled him;

but he knew not that it was the wild animation and over-excitement that

in a little time would be developed in a terrible malady, which was

already preying upon the fragile form and ardent mind of the

Countess--madness!

"Why dost thou doubt my love, Jane?" said the Earl; "it is four years

since the Bishop of Dunblane betrothed thee unto me, and in that time my

heart hath never wandered from thee."

"Ah! I don't doubt it--mother of God forefend that I should!" exclaimed

the little Countess, while her eyes filled with tears, and she clung

closer to her husband, "for thou wert the first love and the idol of

me."

Bothwell's heart was touched; a pang shot through it when contemplating

the deceit he had practised towards this loving and trusting creature,

in winning her young heart and still retaining his own, and he kissed

her tenderly.

"And thou, too, art mine idol, Jane; for since I first met thee, the

fairest faces in the halls of Holyrood and Linlithgow have been without

one attraction for me."

"And yet, dost thou know, there was one of whom, until her marriage, I

was wont to be jealous; for thou wert ever engaged with her in

conversations full of wit and laughter and repartee."

"Hah!" said Bothwell, colouring perceptibly.--"Thou meanest Mary Beaton,

I warrant."

"Nay! Nay!" laughed the Countess; "naughty varlet! thou knowest well

whom I mean."

"Mary Fleming, then, whose father fell at Pinkie-cleugh."

"Nay, God forbid! she is the wife of thy friend, the secretary; another,

and a fairer Mary, still."

"By St. Abb on the Nab! little fairy, thou meanest the Queen herself!"

exclaimed Bothwell with a loud laugh, as if he had no previous idea of

who was meant. "This would be to make me a rival of Henry Darnley--a

proper squire, and a tall fellow, too--Ha! ha! thou art a merry wag, my

bonnibel," added the Earl, as he turned to the grape basket, for the

purpose of hiding the deep colour that crimsoned his face from beard to

temple. "Thou mistakest, dear Jane; my thoughts never soared so high,

and it may prove dangerous to--hark! is not that the blast of a

hunting-horn?"

"And by the river-side?"

"Some belated wayfarer."

"I see no one," said the Countess, who had run to a window.

"It may be Lauchope and his jackmen--there was some whisper abroad of

their riding tonight, anent his feud with the Laird of Clelland

concerning their meithes and marches. Seest thou aught like lances or

steel caps glittering in the moonlight, for now the storm has died

away?"

"There is a man by the river-side. Hark! he winds his bugle again and

again; the poor soul seemeth in some sad jeopardy."

"Ho! Calder--Bertram--French Paris--ho there, without!" cried the Earl;

and two pages, the younger sons of the neighbouring lairds of

Southcalder and Bertram-shotts appeared, rubbing their eyes, for they

had both fallen asleep in the antechamber over tric-trac and Rochelle.

"Quick! ye little guzzling varlets--summon the Gate-ward and his

yeoman--away to the river, and see what aileth yonder fellow that he

winds his horn so dolorously!"

"Mother Mary!" cried the Countess, clinging to the Earl; "see--see! he

is about to plunge into that rapid stream--he is in! God--now--now! see

how he buffets with the current! Oh, how small, how feeble, he seems

amid that hoarse and foaming river! Oh, save him! for the love of Heaven

and of heavenly mercy: away, my lord, away!"

"'Tis more than likely this fellow is some rascally Egyptian. There

hath been a band of such knaves on Bothwellmuir for this month past; but

should it be Johnnie Faa himself--hurry the Gate-ward--and his

grooms"----

"Now--now he is gone--he is down! how fast the current sweeps him on! I

can look no more!" and, burying her face in her hands, the excitable

little Countess fell on her knees, exclaiming passionately, "Fie on thy

boasted valour, Lord of Bothwell! for thou hast stood idly by and seen

this poor man drowned!"

"By cross and buckler! since thou art so free with thy husband's life,

Lady Jane," said the Earl angrily, "'tis alike at the service of thee

and this knave-errant. Follow me, Calder and French Paris!" and,

raising the arras that concealed a door which communicated with a

staircase and postern leading to Bothwellbank, the Earl rushed away.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*THE RESCUE.*

Then on they hurried, and on they hied,

Down Bothwell's slope, so steep and green;

And soon they reach'd the river Clyde,

Alas! no Edgar still is seen.

_M. G. Lewis._

Attended only by two of his pages, Bothwell left the postern door at the

foot of the Valence Tower, and hurried down the _bank_, or wooded

declivity, at the base of which the Clyde, swollen by the recent rains,

was foaming past with a hoarse and ceaseless roar, rending the rough

whin boulders and red earth from its scaured banks, and hurrying trees,

and turf, and bushes--the debris of its hundred tributaries--to the

waves of the western sea.

"Use thine eyes, Calder! Dost thou see him, Paris?" said the Earl,

stooping low to pierce the gloomy shade thrown by the copse-wood upon

the river.

"He struggles yonder, my lord!" cried Nicholas Hubert, or French Paris,

as he was usually named.

"Nay, thou glaiket mole!" said little Calder; "'tis a tree. Seest thou

not that he buffets the water a furlong further down?"

"Right, my little fellow! thou hast the very eyes of a true huntsman!"

said the Earl; "'tis a man's head; I see him; he floats like a cork on

the strong current. Shout, boys, while I wind my bugle, to let him know

that aid is nigh!"

The pages placed their hands to their mouths, and uttered a loud hunting

holloa, while Bothwell repeatedly wound his silver bugle. Then a faint

cry came from the hissing water, and the drowning man waved an arm with

the action of despair.

"He points to the Priory," said Paris; "now, what may that import?"

"By Saint Paul! he is in harness!" exclaimed the Earl; "and the weight

of it is sinking him fast. Shall we stand here, like base runnions, and

see him perish? Never!"

"Good, my lord--be wary!" urged Calder.

"Sweet, my noble master--have a care!" said Paris; "he may only be some

drunken trooper of Lauchope or Clelland's, whom his comrades have lost

when fording the river!"

"But to die, and unaided, under my hall windows! No! no! that would be

a blight upon my name for ever," cried the Earl as he unbuckled his

belt, and throwing down his mantle, bugle, and poniard, leaped without a

moment's hesitation into the watery tumult, exclaiming as he did so,

"Saint Bothan of Bothwell for me!"

He plunged in a few yards above where the man was struggling with the

current, that was foaming past him with the speed of a swollen

mill-race.

Exhausted with his efforts, the unfortunate swimmer clung to an ash-tree

that had sunk into the stream by having the soil partly washed away from

its root, and the foam-bells were dancing white and frothy around it.

The current bore the Earl close to him; he grasped him by the scarf, and

then, both yielding a little to the impetuous current, swam together to

a point of rock close by, where the Earl, strong, active, and fresh,

dragged the rescued man ashore, and he was immediately supported by the

pages, who were very vociferous in praise of their lord's courage and

address.

"Praise God, and not me!" he replied; "for a moment more had seen the

poor man perish. Behold the tree to which he clung!"

At the moment he spoke, the tough ash was rent from its tenacious

rooting, and swept by the swollen stream like a withered reed round the

wooded promontory, which is crowned by the castle of Bothwell.

"'Twas a brave feat and a perilous!" said Paris.

"A gallant deed and a godly!" chorused young Calder, though both were

laughing in secret to see their lord shaking himself like a

water-spaniel.

"Enough," said he, "from both, and thou in especial, Master Calder, for

thou hast the very snuffle of a preacher in thy nostrils. Remove this

man's steel bonnet--faith! he seems quite speechless; but lead him by

the postern to the hall, while I don me another doublet and shirt, for I

am wet as a water-dog."

A few minutes sufficed to change the Earl's attire, and to find him

lounging on the crimson settle in that luxurious chamber, toying with

the countess's raven ringlets, and listening to her praises of his

strength and courage, and her regrets and agonies, &c., for the danger

on which her taunts had hurried him.

Her dark eyes were again sparkling with light and love; but the

tenderness and engaging fondness of her manner failed as before to

enliven or win the attention of her husband.

In his mind there was, he knew not why, a sad presentiment of impending

evil; his heart was oppressed by that kind of dead calm that in some men

precedes a tempest of passion. The childlike fondling of the beautiful

countess was now lavished in vain. Ceasing to address him, she sighed

and drooped her head; while her fairy fingers patted and played with the

strong hand and arm, that more from habit than from love had almost

unconsciously encircled her.

French Paris, the Earl's favourite and most trusted page, now raised the

arras and presented his saucy and ruddy face.

"Well," asked the Earl, "how fares it with the person whom I fished out

of the river?"

"He will be well, and with you anon, my Lord."

"What manner of man is he?"

"French, my lord, I think; but he has not yet spoken."

"Good! by his sleeves of fluted plate I deemed him a gentleman. He will

be one of d'Elboeuff's retinue."

"Monsieur le Marquess has been hunting with the Hamiltons in the wood of

Orbiestoun, so 'tis very likely."

"Well, bring the stranger hither with all speed."

"We have hung him heels uppermost to run the water out of him; and when

we have reversed him, and replaced the said water by a bicker of wine,

we will present him to your lordship."

"A forward March chick!" said the Earl, as the page disappeared. "By

the mass! when I carried the helmet of old John of Albany, I dared not

have spoken so flippantly even to a simple squire or archer as this

saucy imp doth to me, who am a belted Earl."

"'Tis the influence of Calvinism," said the Countess; "but Heaven be

praised that thou, my dear lord, and my gallant brother, with Arran,

Errol, and Herries, shall again raise up those blessed altars which the

frenzy and fanaticism of an hour hath destroyed!"

"That is just as may suit my ambition," thought the Earl; "but hush, my

ladybird," he added aloud; "talk not thus in the hearing of our people,

for knowest thou----How now!" he exclaimed, as the arras was shaken and

raised; "Paris, is it thee?"

"Yes, my lord. The stranger is a gentleman of Norway, and he earnestly

craves a brief audience."

The Earl started and arose; he grew pale, and his eyes sparkled with

anger and confusion; but he had still sufficient tact to avert his face,

that the countess might not perceive his emotion.

"Saidst thou a gentleman of Norway?" he stammered; "now, what in the

fiend's name brought him to swim in the Clyde at midnight?"

"I know not, my lord."

"The fool--in armour, too!"

"That was the only wise part of his proceedings; for no man ventures

abroad in these days without his iron case."

"Silence, sirrah! Norway," muttered Bothwell, in great confusion; "ass

and jolt-head that I have been! Had I known he was of Norway, he had

been tossing over the steepest falls of Clyde by this time for aught

that I had cared. 'Tis some demon from the north I suppose--some devil

of the wood, or the rocks, or the ice--some kinsman of Anna--(Nippen

himself, perhaps,)--ha! ha! come to beard Bothwell in his own hall.

God's blood!" he muttered, setting his teeth on edge, while his eyes

glared with a fury suitable to his terrible oath; "he must be a stout

fellow, and a rare one, who, knowing me, will bruit abroad my dangerous

_secret_."

He trod hastily to and fro, while, alarmed and filled with curiosity,

the countess approached, and, taking his hands in hers, said---

"My sweet lord--my dear lord--now prithee tell me what is all this

about?"

"What thou hadst better not hear, my bonnibel," replied the Earl,

turning abruptly from her; but on seeing that her dark eyes filled with

tears, he added gently--"'Tis the stranger, Jane--a man-at-arms--one of

Hob Ormiston's vassals, who would speak with me on matters unbefitting a

lady's ear; so, I pray thee to retire!"

"Hast thou any secrets from me--from me, who loves thee so well--whose

life is thy love?"

"I keep nothing secret that thou shouldst hear; but this"----

"Concerneth a woman, doth it not?" said the Countess, growing pale,

while her dark eyes filled with a strange and dusky fire.

"A woman, sayest thou?" stammered the Earl, grasping her arm; "who can

have told thee that?"

"Thine own lips did so! Did I not hear thee speak of one called

_Anna_?"

"Confusion! no!--go! go! thou art mistaken; I swear to thee, thou art;

and anon I will explain how. Retire, lady, for this man would speak

with me alone, on matters which concern the state. Paris! raise the

arras, and lead him in; but, on peril of thy neck, see that thou keepest

beyond earshot!"

The Countess retired, with an expression of face in which surprise and

chagrin were blended with the hauteur that seemed to dilate her little

figure, as she swept out of the apartment, and the heavy tapestry fell

behind her.

"Jealous, by St. Paul!" said the Earl; "but how can she have divined my

secret, or learned the name of Anna? Poor Anna! I dream much of her!

Now, Heaven forefend I should mutter of her in my sleep, and thus reveal

my heart's most deadly secret! But there was jealousy in the eye of

Jane, or I am immensely mistaken. There can be none without love, say

the casuists. Well! but this maudlin love of hers becomes at times

excessively tiresome; and yet I cannot help liking the little dame. Her

eyes, St. Mary! how they shone! Ho, there, Calder! lead in this

merman--this water-kelpie--and let us know what he would have of James

Hepburn!"

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*THE REJECTED AND THE RIVAL.*

When fix'd to one, Love safe at anchor rides,

And dares the fury of the winds and tides;

But losing once that hold, to the wide ocean borne,

It drives at will, to every wave a scorn.

_Dryden._

Though the Earl spoke aloud with an air of careless bravado, he was not

without sincere apprehension for the issue of this visit; and when

contemplating what might ensue, if his rash and foolish espousal of the

Norwegian lady became known to Lord Huntly, various dark ideas of

threats, of dule-tree and dungeon, were suggested as the surest means of

procuring silence. The malice and gibing of his highborn enemies at

court--the queen's indignation--the countess' grief and anger--Huntly's

pride and scorn!

"Devil!" muttered Bothwell, playing with his Parmese dagger; "it may be

old Rosenkrantz himself! Would that Black Ormiston were here to advise

me!"

His heart beat like lightning as footsteps crossed the antechamber; they

came nearer; a hand grasped the arras, and the stranger (whom the pages

had attired in one of Bothwell's own suits, but who still had his sword,

dagger, and corselet) stooped as he entered, and stood erect before him,

with head drawn back, his breast heaving, his eyes kindling, and his

cheek flushing.

Save a fierce glance, no other greeting was exchanged between them.

"I see that the gay Lord of Bothwell has not forgotten me," said Konrad

in French.

"The lover of Anna Rosenkrantz--Konrad of Saltzberg--here, within the

walls of Bothwell!"

"Ay, proud noble, here!--beard to beard with thee; yet, believe me, had

I known that the fortress, whose round towers rose so grimly above the

river, were those of my greatest foe, I had rather have perished among

its foaming waters than, given one cry for succour, save to God!"

"I disclaim all enmity, Sir Konrad--but, if this be thy spirit, why seek

my presence? My gates are open, and thy course is free."

"I come but to thank thee for having saved a life which, though

worthless now to me, I have for a time dedicated to the service of

another."

"Thou didst save mine from the waves of the Skager Rack," said the Earl.

"Would to Heaven I had left thee to perish!" muttered Konrad, in a burst

of anguish.

"Thou didst then establish a claim to my eternal gratitude, and I thank

God that he hath this night enabled me to repay my debt. We are now

equal."

"'Tis well! I would not be _thy_ debtor for all the silver in the mines

of Bergen; thou art alike faithless and base--yea, Lord of Bothwell, I

tell thee in thine own hall, that thou art a dishonoured villain."

The Earl started as if a serpent had stung him, and made a movement as

if to sound his bugle.

"I am here beneath thy roof," continued Konrad; "within thy lofty towers

and gates of strength, and I fearlessly repeat, that thou art the

villain this sword shall one day proclaim thee, in the midst of

assembled thousands."

"Thou art stark mad, young fellow!" said the Earl, making an effort to

restrain his passion, from a sense of the injury he had done the

speaker, and the deceit practised towards Anna, of whose escape and

immediate vicinity he had not the most remote idea. "Konrad, I am aware

that I have wronged thee deeply, for I have acted most unwittingly to

thee, the part another acted once to me; for in my hot and ardent youth,

I loved one who neglected me with a coquetry and a cruelty that, to this

hour, have cast a shadow over my fortune and my days, I have loved many

since then; but, as God knoweth, none with the ardour and passion that

welled up in my boyish bosom for that young girl, my first and earliest

love. Since then, a morbid and mischievous spirit has led me--in

vengeance, as it were--to make women my playthings and my toys, each

after each to be won, thrown aside, and forgotten, when I tired of

them--yea, thrown aside like flowers whose perfume is gone."

Touched by the Earl's gentleness, the eyes of Konrad filled with tears;

and, clasping his hands, he said with great bitterness--

"Oh! Lord of Bothwell, in pursuit of this ideal vengeance thou hast

destroyed me."

"Forgive me," said the Earl, laying a hand kindly upon his shoulder;

"forgive one who has endured all that you now feel; but, mark me, a time

will come when thou wilt despise the woman who could so coldly desert

thee for another."

"Oh, never!" said the young man earnestly--"never!"

"Remember the old saw that sayeth, 'There are as good fish in the sea as

ever came out of it.' Thou art still young, Konrad; thy years"----

"Have scarcely numbered two-and-twenty, and already I am tired of life."

"Thou art mistaken; the old man may weary of existence, but the young

man never. The ardour of thy love will die"----

"Never, my lord--I tell thee, never!"

"Ha! ha!--how, dost thou love her still?"

"God alone knows how deeply and how dearly."

"Jesu! after she hath so misused thee? This is indeed the love of

romance," said the Earl, who thought he now saw some hope of ridding

himself of Anna, and so doing both himself and her lover a service.

"Well, Konrad, if thy passion is the same, and if Anna might be restored

to thee"----

"What! now--when in heart and soul she is the wife of another? Never!

Much as I love her still, though on her bended knees she implored that

love, I swear to thee, Sir Earl, by God and St. Mary, I would withhold

it! I love her, 'tis true--but oh! not with the same passion as of old.

Thou hast rifled my flower of its perfume, and broken the chain that

love and innocence cast around it. Though Anna still, she is no longer

the Anna who was the idol of my first day-dreams. No, my lord, to me her

love would now be but a mockery and an insult."

"By the mass! but I love thy spirit, and if I could be thy friend"----

"Friend!" reiterated Konrad with a bitter smile; "no, my lord--that thou

never canst be!"

"Then what devilish errand brings thee now to Scotland?"

Konrad hesitated in replying, for he was so much in the Earl's power

that some subterfuge was necessary.

"Is it to seek vengeance on me, or to compel me to do some manner of

justice to thy false lemane?" asked Bothwell, haughtily.

"Justice? hast thou not wedded another after thy deliberate espousal of

her?"

"Dost thou deem the mock blessing of yon mad hermit a spousal rite?"

exclaimed the Earl, laughing; "what passed well enow for a marriage on

the half-barbarian shores of thy native fiord, will scarcely be deemed

one in this reformed land of stern superintendents, ruling elders, and

wrathful ministers--ha! ha!"

Konrad repressed his rising passion, and his hand involuntarily sought

the pommel of his dagger; but the recollection of Anna, lying helpless

and faint among the ruins of the desolate Priory, made him adopt the

less hostile course.

"I go to push my fortune under the banner of some of your border chiefs

and turbulent nobles, for thou hast made me loathe the land of my birth,

though there I have garnered up my heart; and sadly the memory of its

dark blue hills and waving woods cometh ever to my mind; and if, Lord of

Bothwell, in the strife that all men say will soon convulse this land,

thou meetest Konrad of Saltzberg in his helmet--look well to thyself;

for by the bones of Olaus! in that hour thou mayest need the best of thy

mail and thy manhood to boot."

"Be it so!" replied the Earl with bold frankness. "If that time ever

comes, Sir Konrad, the memory that I have wronged thee deeply will alone

make me blench. But go thy way, and God be with thee! for Bothwell hall

hath scarcely space enow to contain two such spirits as thou and I, even

for one night. Ho, there!--French Paris, lead this gentleman to the

gates. He is the first who hath rejected with scorn the proffered

friendship of the house of Hepburn, and bent a dark brow on a lord of

Bothwell under his own rooftree!"

*CHAPTER XX.*

*KONRAD AND THE COUNTESS.*

Oh, Bothwell bank! that blooms so bright

Beneath the sun of May;

The heaviest cloud that ever blew,

Is bound for you this day.

_Aytoune's Lays._

Konrad was now doubly anxious to return to Anna, on learning the

dangerous nature of the predicament in which she was placed, and the sad

truth that, beyond a doubt, the faithless Earl had really cast her off

for ever, by his marriage with the Lady Jane Gordon. Under these

circumstances, the young man knew how much there was to dread should she

rashly seek the presence of the Earl, who might be compelled to adopt

some dark and desperate course to silence her for ever, in dread of her

accusations and clamour, which might so seriously injure his public

character and domestic peace.

While the interview recorded in the last chapter was taking place, the

Countess of Bothwell was sitting in her bower, with her dark eyes full

of tears; for the manner of the stranger, and certain expressions

uttered by the Earl, had roused her jealousy, and wounded her

self-esteem. Old stories of Bothwell's innumerable intrigues and

gallantries floated dimly and painfully through her mind, and her vivid

imagination filled up a dark tableau of--she knew not what--but which

her wilful and impetuous nature prompted her, at all risks, to fathom.

"Come hither, French Paris," she said to the youngest page, a pretty

lad, who had been presented to the Earl by the young Queen Mary; "come

hither," she continued, with one of her most engaging smiles. "Lead

that strange man to my presence on the first opportunity; for I must see

him before he leaves the castle!"

"Lady--the stranger?" stammered the lad.

"I said the stranger, sirrah! Didst thou not hear me?" she replied,

pettishly.

"I dare not, lady; for it seemeth to my poor comprehension that there

lurketh some mystery"----

"For that very reason, thou prevaricating little varlet, I wish to

converse with him."

"I dare not, madam; for well thou knowest that our lord, the Earl, is

not to be trifled with."

"'Tis mighty well, this, Master Paris! can I neither tempt nor oblige

thee to obey me, and keep my secret?"

"Thou canst well do both, sweet madam," replied the gallant page, with a

coy glance.

"Then here, thou little miser, are ten golden unicorns," said the

Countess, taking her purse from her girdle; but the pert boy drew back,

saying--

"How, Lady Bothwell! wouldst thou think to bribe the son of a French

knight like the spawn of a rascally clown? If I am paid for keeping a

secret, St Mary! 'twill be with no other coin than Cupid's."

The Countess reddened; but finding it necessary to humour the lad, who

had her so completely in his power,--

"Thou forward imp!" she replied; "one may easily discern thy court

education. I will give thee one kiss now, and another after I have seen

this stranger. But see to it, sirrah, that thou art secret and sincere,

or the kiss may be more fatal than that of Judas."

"Sweet lady!" replied the saucy boy, blushing with pleasure as the lip

of the beautiful Countess touched his blooming cheek, "at the risk of my

life will I serve thee; and in the hour I fail, may Heaven fail me!"

He sprang away, and, coiling himself up in his mantle, watched near the

door of the Earl's chamber till he was summoned to lead forth the

unwelcome visiter.

"Boy," said Konrad, "I will give thee a silver crown, if thou wilt lead

to the first and nearest bridge that crosses yonder river."

"Fair sir, follow me!" said the page; and, cap in hand, by a narrow

spiral stair, which ascended to the second story of the Valence tower,

he led Konrad straight to the bower of the countess.

"Where art thou leading me, boy?" asked Konrad suspiciously; while

keeping one hand on his dagger, and the other on the page's mantle, as

they stumbled up the dark stair, through the slits of which the night

wind blew on their faces, and they heard the endless rush of the

adjacent Clyde.

"I lead thee where silence is best, else thou mayest come down with the

aid of other legs than thine own."

"How, varlet! what jade trick is this?" exclaimed the young man with

surprise, on being suddenly ushered into a magnificent little boudoir,

where he found himself in presence of a lady.

"'Tis the Countess of Bothwell," whispered French Paris, "who would

learn from thee"----

"What thou art not to hear," interrupted the Countess; "so, begone! and

if thou wouldst keep that head on thy shoulders, retire behind the

arras, and muffle it well in thy mantle."

French Paris immediately retired; and Konrad, whose anxiety for the

safety of Anna (when he remembered the half-dying state in which he left

her,) amounted now to agony, stood silent and confused, gazing with

irresolution on the Countess. He bowed with the deepest respect; for

her beauty and dignity, notwithstanding her diminutive stature, were

very striking.

The position she occupied, and the splendour by which she was

surrounded, contrasted forcibly, in his mind, with the forlorn condition

of Anna Rosenkrantz, stretched on the couch of leaves among the ruins

like a homeless outcast; and he felt, he scarcely knew why, a sentiment

of hostility struggling with pity for the Countess.