The news of the expected landing of Prince Charles Edward Stuart in
Scotland to attempt to recover the crown of his forefathers had reached
a secluded glen, and many were the hopes and fears that animated the
breasts of the Highlanders.
There dwelt in a small sheeling on the hill-side a young girl of
eighteen, the only daughter of a Highlander. Her rare beauty and gentle
manners had won her the admiration and approval of both young and
old in the glen; many were the suitors that had sought young Flora's
hand, and many were the sad hearts that had left the sheeling with the
gentle yet firm refusal of the Highland lassie. Her companion from
childhood had been young Donald of the clachan. The children had grown
up together from their earliest years, had wandered among the bonnie
heather braes, and sat beside each other in the primitive school of the
glen, for years before either had known the meaning of the word love.
On stormy days, when winds were high and the blinding snow-drift swept
over the glen, young Donald would wrap the pretty child in his plaid,
and though only two years her senior, seemed to consider himself the
guardian of the mitherless bairn.
Thus years had passed away in all the innocent attachment of childhood.
When the hours for play came, these children, instead of romping with
the others in the school, would wander to some sunny brae and twine
the purple heather in a necklet for the fair white neck of the little
Flora, or to deck the blue bonnet of young Donald. Their natures seemed
formed in the same mould--calm loving natures, cheerful and sunny, yet
not impulsive, nor boisterous, nor cruel. Years had fled without a
cloud to darken the sky of their young existence; Flora had fulfilled
the promise of her childhood, and had grown in beauty both of person
and mind. Hers was the same innocent and loving nature that had nestled
in childhood beneath the plaid of the young Donald, who had now grown
to manhood. A finer specimen of a young Highlander could not be seen;
strength, agility, comeliness, and the proud bearing which is so native
to the mountaineer, were his; but the artless confidence of childhood
had been usurped by the deep strong power of love, and they met with
more reserve as time went on.
Flora's father was proud of his only child, who so reminded him of her
mother, his first and only love, that he had laid in the grave years
ago. Proud of the admiration and respect that his child met with on
all hands, he reasoned with himself that it was his duty as a father
to endeavour to get his daughter to make a good match, which to his
idea was a wealthy one. He had liked Donald, and encouraged him when
they were children in the care he took of young Flora. But Donald was a
shepherd, the only son of a widowed mother; and why should any foolish
feeling on the part of Flora prevent her marrying some one of the
well-to-do farmers who had sought her hand?
It was a winter's night; the fire was burning brightly on the hearth;
and Donald, who had been spending the evening with them, had just left,
when the first shadow came over young Flora's life. Her father spoke
words which went like arrows to her heart, and brought tears to her
glorious eyes. Donald was forbidden to come to the house again; and the
name of a wealthy man whose suit she had rejected, but who had again
asked her father for her hand, was pronounced with the sternness of
parental authority to be the one he had selected for her future husband.
Flora loved her father, and at first only gazed at him with a look
of incredulity; but the words were repeated, harsher and more stern
than formerly. The tears were gone; there was an expression in Flora's
eyes, not of anger, but it spoke volumes. She rose, kissed her father's
forehead, and left the room.
Long hours passed ere sleep closed the tear-dimmed eyes of young Flora.
Her love, her duty to her father on one side; her deep, pure, and
virgin love for young Donald on the other: hard fate to have to choose
between. But the conflict was over; her decision was made. She had been
truthful as the sun from childhood; and without thinking of it perhaps,
her father had asked her to swear a lie at the altar of God, in
pronouncing the marriage vows to a man whom she did not even respect,
when her heart, her life, her love, were given to young Donald. It
could not be.
'What am I to say to Errick of the Bracken Braes, Flora?' said her
father, in his most winning way, the following morning.
'Tell him, I hae nae heart to gie him, and that my heart and my hand
gang thegither,' was the reply.
The Highlander swore an oath, and muttering he would have his own way,
left the sheeling.
Next day was Sunday, and Donald and Flora met at the little chapel in
the glen. He observed that his lassie looked sad, and was even more
reserved than usual. 'Meet me at the Eagles' Cairn to-morrow, Donald,
when I gang to milk the goats; ye ken the hour;' and with a smile she
passed on.
At the Eagles' Cairn young Flora told her lover the stern decree her
father had made. 'So ye mustna be coming again, Donald,' she said,
struggling in vain to hide her emotion.
At the Eagles' Cairn there was a tableau: the distant mountains, the
murmuring burn, the goats grouped around, and the collie dogs reposing
amongst the heather; in the centre a youth and a maiden, his arm round
her waist, her head resting on his breast. The first kiss of love had
been given; their troth was plighted, and the fire-god shone on the
scene.
The standard of the Stuarts had been raised, and the clans were
marshalling to strike the most chivalrous blow that was ever struck
on behalf of a fallen dynasty. Every sheeling was sending forth its
men capable of bearing arms; and with heavy hearts, yet with all the
pride of their race, the Highland wives, mothers, and sweethearts were
placing the white cockade in the bonnets of their darlings. Sad was
the heart of young Flora when Donald told her the news; she made his
white cockade in secret, and gave it to him with a parting kiss at the
Eagles' Cairn the night before that sad morning that saw all that was
dear to her in this world, her father and lover, march down the glen.
Donald has asked Flora to take care of his mother, now that she would
be left alone; and she had gone to live with the poor old widow, whose
heart was nearly broken; but she shed not a tear as her handsome boy,
arrayed in his tartan, marched away to fight for bonnie Prince Charlie.
Donald's Highland pride had felt bitterly the conduct of Flora's
father, but for the sake of his heart's idol, he could not hate him.
They fought side by side in the first battle at which the Highland
army encountered the English forces. At a critical period of the
fight, Donald beheld the stalwart form of Flora's father engaged in a
hand-to-hand encounter with an English soldier; he had little doubt of
the result of the contest, and the smoke that enveloped the scene hid
them from his sight; as it for a moment cleared away, he saw the brave
Highlander hard pressed by three of the enemy, and he rushed to his
assistance. Ere he reached the scene of conflict, two of the English
soldiers were lying on the ground; but in giving the blow that felled
the second, the brave Highlander had lost his footing; and before he
could recover himself, the third closed with him and had him down. With
a wild Highland yell, Donald sprang forward like a tiger, and buried
his dirk between the shoulders of the English soldier, as he was in the
act of using the prostrate Highlander's dirk, while he firmly grasped
his throat with the right hand. It was the work of a moment to hurl
the dead soldier off the Highlander; and Flora's father sprang to his
feet, to recognise in the boy he had so harshly treated, the saviour of
his life. 'Donald!' he exclaimed; but the brave boy had not waited for
thanks, but hurried on to join his clan, in pursuit of the now routed
and disorganised English army.
Time passed on, and Highland pride on both sides had maintained the
coldness that existed between the two Highlanders. It was a lovely
morning when the two armies were again drawn up in order of battle,
eager for the coming fray; the wild slogan of the bagpipe, the waving
plumes, and flowing tartans on the one side, and the serried ranks and
scarlet uniforms of the English army on the other. Its tale has oft
been told. The fight was over; the impetuous charge of the Highlanders
had carried everything before it, and the English army was in full
retreat.
Beside a rude couch sat young Donald, who with the exception of a
sabre-cut on the shoulder, had come scathless through that day of
battle and victory. Not so Flora's father; he lay mortally wounded, his
handsome features pale, and his broad chest heaving. He had clasped
the boy's hand in his own, and spoke with difficulty: 'Donald, forgive
me,' he exclaimed. 'I am wearing away: never shall I see the bonnie
glen and the sheeling, or clasp again to my breast my ain dear lassie.
Tell her that my dying words were seeking forgiveness from her, from
you. Tell her that in health and strength, I thought mair o' riches
than her happiness. God forgive me! Tell her that you saved my life; I,
the wretch that would have wrecked both your young lives for gold; I
that was so harsh with you. O Donald! tell her you gladdened the dying
moments of her father, and that he gave her to you, with a dying man's
blessing, as freely as she gave herself.' Here a spasm convulsed his
paleness, and he ceased from exhaustion. Donald sat with tear-dimmed
eyes; his heart was full, and his thoughts were far away.
The dying Highlander's lips moved; his voice for a moment regained its
old tone: 'Tell them in the glen that Alister died the proudest death a
Highlander can die--fighting for his chief, his Prince, and Scotland.'
A slight tremor over his frame, and the brave heart had ceased for ever.
We will not trace the varying fortunes of the Highland army; the sun
of Culloden had set in disaster, the Prince was a wanderer, the clans
routed and dispersed.
A young Highlander, pale and haggard, with his arm in a sling, was
resting on a bed in the clachan; an old woman counting her beads, and
a young and beautiful girl, were the only inmates of the room. The
sad tale of death and defeat had been told. 'Yes, Flora,' said young
Donald (for he it was); 'he gied ye to me on his death-bed. Will ye
still hae me?' Young Flora's lips pressed those of the wounded soldier
in reply. And Donald and Flora parted no more, till Death called one
away; but the parting was not for long--within three days Death called
the other. Stalwart lads and bonnie lasses laid their parents beneath
the old rowan-tree in the glen, full of years, and mourned by the
country-side.