(_By the author of Waverley_.)
[We have the pleasure of submitting to our readers, (almost entire,)
one of the stories of the forthcoming _Chronicles of the Canongate_,
it being the second narrative, and the last in the first volume, and
as well as the others, founded on true incidents. The _Chronicles_
are domestic tales; but the _Two Drovers_ should not be taken as a
specimen of the work. Slender as are its incidents, it proves that
"Richard (or Walter) is himself again," for in no vein of writing is
the author of Waverley more felicitous than in delineating scenes of
actual life, splendid as are his narratives of the fairy scenes and
halls of romance: and in the prevailing taste for this description of
writing, we think the Chronicles of the Canongate bid fair to enjoy
popularity equal to any of Sir Walter's previous productions.]
_The Two Drovers_.
It was the day after the Doune Fair when my story commences. It had
been a brisk market, several dealers had attended from the northern
and midland counties in England, and the English money had flown so
merrily about as to gladden the hearts of the Highland farmers. Many
large droves were about to set off for England, under the protection
of their owners, or of the topsmen whom they employed in the tedious,
laborious and responsible office of driving the cattle for many
hundred miles, from the market where they had been purchased, to the
fields or farm-yards where they were to be fattened for the shambles.
Of the number who left Doune in the morning, and with the purpose we
have described, not a _Glunamie_ of them all cocked his bonnet more
briskly, or gartered his tartan hose under knee over a pair of more
promising _spiogs_ (legs), than did Robin Oig M'Combich, called
familiarly Robin Oig, that is Young, or the Lesser, Robin. Though
small of stature, as the epithet Oig implies, and not very strongly
limbed, he was as light and alert as one of the deer of his mountains.
He had an elasticity of step, which, in the course of a long march,
made many a stout fellow envy him; and the manner in which he busked
his plaid and adjusted his bonnet, argued a consciousness that so
smart a John Highlandman as himself would not pass unnoticed among the
Lowland lasses. The ruddy cheek, red lips, and white teeth, set off a
countenance which had gained by exposure to the weather, a healthful
and hardy rather than a rugged hue. If Robin Oig did not laugh,
or even smile frequently, as indeed is not the practice among his
countrymen, his bright eyes usually gleamed from under his bonnet
with an expression of cheerfulness ready to be turned into mirth.
The departure of Robin Oig was an incident in the little town, in
and near which he had many friends male and female. He was a topping
person in his way, transacted considerable business on his own behalf,
and was intrusted by the best farmers in the Highlands, in preference
to any other drover in that district. He might have increased his
business to any extent had he condescended to manage it by deputy; but
except a lad or two, sister's sons of his own, Robin rejected the idea
of assistance, conscious, perhaps how much his reputation depended
upon his attending in person to the practical discharge of his duty
in every instance. He remained, therefore, contented with the highest
premium given to persons of his description, and comforted himself
with the hopes that a few journeys to England might enable him to
conduct business on his own account, in a manner becoming his birth.
For Robin Oig's father, Lachlan M'Combich, (or, _son of my friend_,
his actual clan surname being M'Gregor,) had been so called by the
celebrated Rob Roy, because of the particular friendship which had
subsisted between the grandsire of Robin and that renowned cateran.
Some people even say, that Robin Oig derived his Christian name from a
man, as renowned in the wilds of Lochlomond, as ever was his namesake
Robin Hood, in the precincts of merry Sherwood. "Of such ancestry,"
as James Boswell says, "who would not be proud?" Robin Oig was proud
accordingly; but his frequent visits to England and to the Lowlands
had given him tact enough to know that pretensions, which still gave
him a little right to distinction in his own lonely glen, might be
both obnoxious and ridiculous if preferred elsewhere. The pride of
birth, therefore, was like the miser's treasure, the secret subject of
his contemplation, but never exhibited to strangers as a subject of
boasting.
Many were the words of gratulation and goodluck which were bestowed on
Robin Oig. The judges commended his drove, especially the best of them,
which were Robin's own property. Some thrust out their snuff-mulls for
the parting pinch--others tendered the _doch-an-dorrach_, or parting
cup. All cried--"Good-luck travel out with you and come home with
you.--Give you luck in the Saxon market--brave notes in the
_leabhar-dhu_, (black pocket-book,) and plenty of English gold in the
_sporran_ (pouch of goat-skin.)"
The bonny lasses made their adieus more modestly, and more than one,
it was said, would have given her best brooch to be certain that it
was upon her that his eye last rested as he turned towards his road.
Robin Oig had just given the preliminary "_Hoo-hoo!_" to urge forward
the loiterers of the drove, when there was a cry behind him.
"Stay, Robin--bide a blink. Here is Janet of Tomahourich--auld Janet,
your father's sister."
"Plague on her, for an auld Highland witch and spaewife," said a
farmer from the Carse of Stirling; "she'll cast some of her cantrips
on the cattle."
"She canna do that," said another sapient of the same
profession--"Robin Oig is no the lad to leave any of them, without
tying Saint Mungo's knot on their tails, and that will put to her
speed the best witch that ever flew over Dimayet upon a broomstick."
It may not be indifferent to the reader to know, that the Highland
cattle are peculiarly liable to be _taken_, or infected, by spells and
witchcraft, which judicious people guard against by knitting knots of
peculiar complexity on the tuft of hair which terminates the animal's
tail.
But the old woman who was the object of the farmer's suspicion, seemed
only busied about the drover, without paying any attention to the
flock. Robin, on the contrary, appeared rather impatient of her
presence.
"What auld-world fancy," he said, "has brought you so early from the
ingle-side this morning, Muhme? I am sure I bid you good even, and had
your God-speed, last night."
"And left me more siller than the useless old woman will use till you
come back again, bird of my bosom," said the sibyl. "But it is little
I would care for the food that nourishes me, or the fire that warms
me, or for God's blessed sun itself, if aught but weal should happen
to the grandson of my father. So let me walk the _deasil_ round you,
that you may go safe out into the far foreign land, and come safe
home."
Robin Oig stopped, half embarrassed, half laughing, and signing to
those around that he only complied with the old woman to soothe her
humour. In the meantime, she traced around him, with wavering steps,
the propitiation, which some have thought has been derived from the
Druidical mythology. It consists, as is well known, in the person who
makes the _deasil_, walking three times round the person who is the
object of the ceremony, taking care to move according to the course
of the sun. At once, however, she stopped short, and exclaimed, in a
voice of alarm and horror, "Grandson of my father, there is blood on
your hand." "Hush, for God's sake, aunt," said Robin Oig; "you will
bring more trouble on yourself with this Taishataragh (second sight)
than you will be able to get out of for many a day."
The old woman only repeated, with a ghastly look, "There is blood on
your hand, and it is English blood. The blood of the Gael is richer
and redder. Let us see--let us--"
Ere Robin Oig could prevent her, which, indeed, could only have been
by positive violence, so hasty and peremptory were her proceedings,
she had drawn from his side the dirk which lodged in the folds of his
plaid, and held it up, exclaiming, although the weapon gleamed clear
and bright in the sun, "Blood, blood--Saxon blood again. Robin Oig
M'Combich, go not this day to England!"
"Prutt, trutt," answered Robin Oig, "that will never do neither--it
would be next thing to running the country. For shame, Muhme--give me
the dirk. You cannot tell by the colour the difference betwixt the
blood of a black bullock and a white one, and you speak of knowing
Saxon from Gaelic blood. All men have their blood from Adam, Muhme.
Give me my skenedhu, and let me go on my road. I should have been half
way to Stirling brig by this time--Give me my dirk, and let me go."
"Never will I give it to you," said the old woman--"Never will I quit
my hold on your plaid, unless you promise me not to wear that unhappy
weapon."
The women around him urged him also, saying few of his aunt's words
fell to the ground; and as the Lowland farmers continued to look
moodily on the scene, Robin Oig determined to close it at any
sacrifice.
"Well, then," said the young drover, giving the scabbard of the weapon
to Hugh Morrison, "you Lowlanders care nothing for these freats. Keep
my dirk for me. I cannot give it you, because it was my father's; but
your drove follows ours, and I am content it should be in your
keeping, not in mine. Will this do, Muhme?"
"It must", said the old woman--"that is, if the Lowlander is mad
enough to carry the knife."
The strong westlandman laughed aloud.
"Good wife," said he, "I am Hugh Morrison from Glenae, come of the
Manly Morrisons of auld langsyne, that never took short weapon against
a man in their lives. And neither needed they; they had their
broadswords, and I have this bit supple (showing a formidable
cudgel)--for dirking ower the board, I leave that to John Highlandman.
Ye needna snort, none of you Highlanders, and you in especial, Robin.
I'll keep the bit knife, if you are feared for the auld spae-wife's
tale, and give it back to you whenever you want it."
Robin was not particularly pleased with some part of Hugh Morrison's
speech; but he had learned in his travels more patience than belonged
to his Highland constitution originally, and he accepted the service
of the descendant of the Manly Morrisons, without finding fault with
the rather depreciating manner in which it was offered.
"If he had not had his morning in his head, and been but a
Dumfries-shire hog into the boot, he would have spoken more like a
gentleman. But you cannot have more of a sow but a grumph. It's a
shame my father's knife should ever slash a haggis for the like of
him."
Thus saying, (but saying it in Gaelic,) Robin drove on his cattle, and
waved farewell to all behind him. He was in the greater haste, because
he expected to join at Falkirk a comrade and brother in profession,
with whom he proposed to travel in company.
Robin Oig's chosen friend was a young Englishman, Harry Wakefield by
name, well known at every northern market, and in his way as much
famed and honoured as our Highland driver of bullocks. He was nearly
six feet high, gallantly formed to keep the rounds at Smithfield, or
maintain the ring at a wrestling-match; and although he might have
been overmatched, perhaps, among the regular professors of the Fancy,
yet as a chance customer, he was able to give a bellyful to any
amateur of the pugilistic art. Doncaster races saw him in his glory,
betting his guinea, and generally successfully; nor was there a main
fought in Yorkshire, the feeders being persons of celebrity, at which
he was not to be seen, if business permitted. But though a _sprack_
lad, and fond of pleasure and its haunts, Harry Wakefield was steady,
and not the cautious Robin Oig M'Combich himself was more attentive to
the main chance. His holidays were holidays indeed; but his days of
work were dedicated to steady and persevering labour. In countenance
and temper, Wakefield was the model of Old England's merry yeomen,
whose clothyard shafts, in so many hundred battles, asserted her
superiority over the nations, and whose good sabres, in our own time,
are her cheapest and most assured defence. His mirth was readily
excited; for, strong in limb and constitution, and fortunate in
circumstances, he was disposed to be pleased with every thing about
him; and such difficulties as he might occasionally encounter, were,
to a man of his energy, rather matter of amusement than serious
annoyance. With all the merits of a sanguine temper, our young English
drover was not without his defects. He was irascible, and sometimes to
the verge of being quarrelsome; and perhaps not the less inclined to
bring his disputes to a pugilistic decision, because he found few
antagonists able to stand up to him in the boxing-ring.
It is difficult to say how Henry Wakefield and Robin Oig first became
intimates; but it is certain a close acquaintance had taken place
betwixt them, although they had apparently few common topics of
conversation or of interest, so soon as their talk ceased to be of
bullocks. Robin Oig, indeed, spoke the English language rather
imperfectly upon any other topics but stots and kyloes, and Harry
Wakefield could never bring his broad Yorkshire tongue to utter a
single word of Gaelic. It was in vain Robin spent a whole morning,
during a walk over Minch-Moor, in attempting to teach his companion to
utter, with true precision, the shibboleth _Llhu_, which is the Gaelic
for a calf.
The pair of friends had traversed with their usual cordiality the
grassy wilds of Liddesdale, and crossed the opposite part of
Cumberland, emphatically called the Waste. In these solitary regions,
the cattle under the charge of our drovers subsisted themselves
cheaply, by picking their food as they went along the drove-road, or
sometimes by the tempting opportunity of a _start and owerloup_, or
invasion of the neighbouring pasture, where an occasion presented
itself. But now the scene changed before them; they were descending
towards a fertile and enclosed country, where no such liberties could
be taken with impunity, or without a previous arrangement and bargain
with the possessors of the ground. This was more especially the case,
as a great northern fair was upon the eve of taking place, where both
the Scotch and English drover expected to dispose of a part of their
cattle, which it was desirable to produce in the market, rested and in
good order. Fields were therefore difficult to be obtained, and only
upon high terms. This necessity occasioned a temporary separation
betwixt the two friends, who went to bargain, each as he could, for
the separate accommodation of his herd. Unhappily it chanced that both
of them, unknown to each other, thought of bargaining for the ground
they wanted on the property of a country gentleman of some fortune,
whose estate lay in the neighbourhood. The English drover applied to
the bailiff on the property, who was known to him. It chanced that the
Cumbrian Squire, who had entertained some suspicions of his manager's
honesty, was taking occasional measures to ascertain how far they were
well founded, and had desired that any inquiries about his enclosures,
with a view to occupy them for a temporary purpose, should be referred
to himself. As, however, Mr. Ireby had gone the day before upon a
journey of some miles distance to the northward, the bailiff chose
to consider the check upon his full powers as for the time removed,
and concluded that he should best consult his master's interest
and perhaps his own, in making an agreement with Harry Wakefield.
Meanwhile, ignorant of what his comrade was doing, Robin Oig, on his
side, chanced to be overtaken by a well-looked smart little man upon a
pony, most knowingly hogged and cropped, as was then the fashion, the
rider wearing tight leather breeches, and long-necked bright spurs.
This cavalier asked one or two pertinent questions about markets and
the price of stock. So Donald, seeing him a well-judging, civil
gentleman, took the freedom to ask him whether he could let him know
if there was any grass-land to be let in that neighbourhood, for the
temporary accommodation of his drove. He could not have put the
question to more willing ears. The gentleman of the buckskins was the
proprietor, with whose bailiff Harry Wakefield had dealt, or was in
the act of dealing.
"Thou art in good luck, my canny Scot," said Mr. Ireby, "to have
spoken to me, for I see thy cattle have done their day's work, and I
have at my disposal the only field within three miles that is to be
let in these parts."
"The drove can pe gang two, three, four miles very pratty weel
indeed--" said the cautious Highlander; "put what would his honour pe
axing for the peasts pe the head, if she was to tak the park for twa
or three days?"
"We wont differ, Sawney, if you let me have six stots for winterers,
in the way of reason."
"And which peasts wad your honour pe for having?"
"Why--let me see--the two black--the dun one--yon doddy--him with the
twisted horn--and brockit--How much by the head?"
"Ah," said Robin, "your honour is a shudge--a real shudge--I couldna
have set off the pest six peasts petter myself, me that ken them as if
they were my pairns, puir things."
"Well, how much per head, Sawney," continued Mr. Ireby.
"It was high markets at Doune and Falkirk," answered Robin.
And thus the conversation proceeded, until they had agreed on the
_prix juste_ for the bullocks, the Squire throwing in the temporary
accommodation of the enclosure for the cattle into the boot, and Robin
making, as he thought, a very good bargain, providing the grass was
but tolerable. The Squire walked his pony alongside of the drove,
partly to show him the way, and see him put into possession of the
field, and partly to learn the latest news of the northern markets.
They arrived at the field, and the pasture seemed excellent. But what
was their surprise when they saw the bailiff quietly inducting the
cattle of Harry Wakefield into the grassy Goshen which had just been
assigned to those of Robin Oig M'Combich by the proprietor himself.
Squire Ireby set spurs to his horse, dashed up to his servant, and
learning what had passed between the parties, briefly informed the
English drover that his bailiff had let the ground without his
authority, and that he might seek grass for his cattle wherever he
would, since he was to get none there. At the same time he rebuked his
servant severely for having transgressed his commands, and ordered him
instantly to assist in ejecting the hungry and weary cattle of Harry
Wakefield, which were just beginning to enjoy a meal of unusual
plenty, and to introduce those of his comrade, whom the English drover
now began to consider as a rival.
The feelings which arose in Wakefield's mind, would have induced him
to resist Mr. Ireby's decision; but every Englishman has a tolerably
accurate sense of law and justice, and John Fleecebumpkin, the
bailiff, having acknowledged that he had exceeded his commission,
Wakefield saw nothing else for it than to collect his hungry and
disappointed charge, and drive them on to seek quarters elsewhere.
Robin Oig saw what had happened with regret, and hastened to offer
to his English friend to share with him the disputed possession. But
Wakefield's pride was severely hurt, and he answered disdainfully,
"Take it all man--take it all--never make two bites of a cherry--thou
canst talk over the gentry, and blear a plain man's eye--Out upon you,
man--I would not kiss any man's dirty latchets for leave to bake in
his oven."
Robin Oig, sorry but not surprised at his comrade's displeasure,
hastened to entreat his friend to wait but an hour till he had gone
to the Squire's house to receive payment for the cattle he had sold,
and he would come back and help him to drive the cattle into some
convenient place of rest, and explain to him the whole mistake they
had both of them fallen into. But the Englishman continued indignant:
"Thou hast been selling, hast thou? Ay, ay--thou is a cunning lad for
kenning the hours of bargaining. Go to the devil with thyself, for I
will ne'er see thy fause loon's visage again--thou should be ashamed
to look me in the face."
"I am ashamed to look no man in the face," said Robin Oig, something
moved; "and, moreover, I will look you in the face this blessed day,
if you will bide at the Clachan down yonder."
"Mayhap you had as well keep away," said his comrade; and turning his
back on his former friend, he collected his unwilling associates,
assisted by the bailiff, who took some real and some affected interest
in seeing Wakefield accommodated.
After spending some time in negotiating with more than one of the
neighbouring farmers, who could not, or would not, afford the
accommodation desired, Henry Wakefield, at last, and in his necessity,
accomplished his point by means of the landlord of the alehouse at which
Robin Oig and he had agreed to pass the night, when they first separated
from each other. Mine host was content to let him turn his cattle on a
piece of barren moor, at a price little less than the bailiff had asked
for the disputed enclosure; and the wretchedness of the pasture, as well
as the price paid for it, were set down as exaggerations of the breach
of faith and friendship of his Scottish crony. This turn of Wakefield's
passions was encouraged by the bailiff (who had his own reasons for
being offended against poor Robin, as having been the unwitting cause of
his falling into disgrace with his master), as well as by the innkeper,
and two or three chance guests, who soothed the drover in his resentment
against his quondam associate,--some from the ancient grudge against the
Scots, which, when it exists any where, is to be found lurking in the
Border counties, and some from the general love of mischief, which
characterizes mankind in all ranks of life, to the honour of Adam's
children be it spoken. Good John Barleycorn also, who always heightens
and exaggerates the prevailing passions, be they angry or kindly, was
not wanting in his offices on this occasion; and confusion to false
friends and hard masters, was pledged in more than one tankard.
In the meanwhile, Mr. Ireby found some amusement in detaining the
northern drover at his ancient hall. He caused a cold round of beef
to be placed before the Scot in the butler's pantry, together with a
foaming tankard of home-brewed, and took pleasure in seeing the hearty
appetite with which these unwonted edibles were discussed by Robin Oig
M'Combich. The squire himself lighting his pipe, compounded between his
patrician dignity and his love of agricultural gossip, by walking up and
down while he conversed with his guest.
"I passed another drove," said the squire, with one of your countrymen
behind them, they were something less beasts than your drove--doddies
most of them; a big man was with them--none of your kilts though, but
a decent pair of breeches;--d'ye know who he may be?"
"Hout ay--that might, could, and would pe Hughie Morrison--I didna
think he could hae peen sae weel up. He has made a day on us; put his
Argyle-shires will have wearied shanks. How far was he pehind?"
"I think about six or seven miles," answered the squire, "for I passed
them at the Christenbury Cragg, and I overtook you at the Hollan Bush.
If his beasts be leg-weary, he will be may be selling bargains."
"Na, na, Hughie Morrison is no the man for pargains--ye maun come to
some Highland body like Robin Oig hersell for the like of these;--put
I maun be wishing you good night, and twenty of them, let alane ane,
and I maun down to the Clachan to see if the lad Henry Waakfelt is out
of his humdudgeons yet."
The party at the alehouse were still in full talk, and the treachery
of Robin Oig still the theme of conversation, when the supposed
culprit entered the apartment. His arrival, as usually happens in
such a case, put an instant stop to the discussion of which he had
furnished the subject, and he was received by the company assembled
with that chilling silence, which more than a thousand exclamations
tells an intruder that he is unwelcome. Surprised and offended, but
not appalled by the reception which he experienced, Robin entered with
an undaunted, and even a haughty air, attempted no greeting as he saw
he was received with none, and placed himself by the side of the fire,
a little apart from a table, at which Harry Wakefield, the bailiff,
and two or three other persons, were seated. The ample Cumbrian
kitchen would have afforded plenty of room even for a larger
separation.
Robin, thus seated, proceeded to light his pipe, and call for a pint
of twopenny.
"We have no twopenny ale," answered Ralph Heskett, the landlord; but
as thou find'st thy own tobacco, its like thou may'st find thine own
liquor too--it's the wont of thy country, I wot."
"Shame, goodman," said the landlady, a blithe, bustling housewife,
hastening herself to suply the guest with liquor--"Thou knowest well
enow what the strange man wants, and it's thy trade to be a civil man.
Thou shouldest know, that if the Scot likes a small pot, he pays a
sure penny."
Without taking any notice of this nuptial dialogue, the Highlander
took the flagon in his hand, and, addressing the company generally,
drank the interesting toast of "Good markets," to the party assembled.
"The better that the wind blew fewer dealers from the north," said one
of the farmers, and fewer Highland runts to eat up the English
meadows."
"Soul of my pody, put you are wrang there, my friend," answered Robin,
with composure, "it is your fat Englishmen that eat up our Scots
cattle, puir things."
"I wish there was a summat to eat up their drovers," said another;
"a plain Englishman canna make bread within a kenning of them."
"Or an honest servant keep his master's favour, but they will come
sliding in between him and the sunshine," said the bailiff.
"If these pe jokes," said Robin Oig, with the same composure, "there
is ower mony jokes upon one man."
"It is no joke, but downright earnest," said the bailiff. "Harkye,
Mr. Robin Ogg, or whatever is your name, it's right we should tell you
that we are all of one opinion, and that is, that you, Mr. Robin Ogg,
have behaved to our friend, Mr. Harry Wakefield here, like a raff and
a blackguard."
"Nae doubt, nae doubt," answered Robin with great composure; "and you
are a set of very feeling judges, for whose prains or pehaviour I wad
not gae a pinch of sneeshing. If Mr. Harry Waakfelt kens where he is
wranged, he kens where he may be righted."
"He speaks truth," said Wakefield, who had listened to what passed,
divided between the offence which he had taken at Robin's late
behaviour, and the revival of his habitual acts of friendship.
He now rose and went towards Robin, who got up from his seat as he
approached, and held out his hand.
"That's right, Harry--go it--serve him out!" resounded on all
sides--"tip him the nailer--show him the mill."
"Hold your peace, all of you, and be----," said Wakefield; and then
addressing his comrade, he took him by the extended hand, with
something alike of respect and defiance. "Robin," he said, "thou hast
used me ill enough this day; but if you mean, like a frank fellow, to
shake hands, and take a tussel for love on the sod, why I'll forgie
thee, man, and we shall be better friends than ever."
"And would it not pe petter to be cooed friends without more of the
matter?" said Robin; "we will be much petter friendships with our
panes hale than broken."
Harry Wakefield dropped the hand of his friend, or rather threw it
from him.
"I did not think I had been keeping company for three years with a
coward."
"Coward belongs to none of my name," said Robin, whose eyes began to
kindle, but keeping the command of his temper. "It was no coward's
legs or hands, Harry Waakfelt, that drew you out of the fords of
Fried, when you was drifting ower the place rock, and every eel in the
river expected his share of you."
"And that is true enough, too," said the Englishman, struck by the
appeal.
"Adzooks!" exclaimed the bailiff--"sure Harry Wakefield, the nattiest
lad at Whitson Tryste, Wooler Fair, Carlisle Sands, or Stagshaw Bank,
is not going to show white feather? Ah, this comes of living so long
with kilts and bonnets--men forget the use of their daddies."
"I may teach you, Master Fleecebumpkin, that I have not lost the use
of mine," said Wakefield, and then went on. "This will never do,
Robin. We must have a turn-up, or we shall be the talk of the country
side. I'll be d----d if I hurt thee--I'll put on the gloves gin thou
like. Come, stand forward like a man."
"To pe peaten like a dog," said Robin; "is there any reason in that?
If you think I have done you wrong, I'll go before your shudge, though
I neither know his law nor his language."
A general cry of "No, no--no law, no lawyer! a bellyful and be
friends," was echoed by the bystanders.
"But," continued Robin, "if I am to fight, I have no skill to fight
like a jackanapes, with hands and nails."
"How would you fight then?" said his antagonist; "though I am thinking
it would be hard to bring you to the scratch any how."
"I would fight with proadswords, and sink point on the first plood
drawn----- like a gentlemans."
A loud shout of laughter followed the proposal, which indeed had
rather escaped from poor Robin's swelling heart, than been the
dictates of his sober judgment.
"Gentleman, quotha!" was echoed on all sides, with a shout of
unextinguishable laughter; "a very pretty gentleman, God wot--Canst
get two swords for the gentleman to fight with, Ralph Heskett?"
"No, but I can send to the armoury at Carlisle, and lend them two
forks to be making shift with in the meantime."
"Tush, man," said another, "the bonny Scots come into the world with
the blue bonnet on their heads, and dirk and pistol at their belt."
"Best send post," said Mr. Fleecebumpkin, "to the squire of Corby
Castle to come and stand second to the _gentleman_."
In the midst of this torrent of general ridicule, the Highlander
instinctively griped beneath the folds of his plaid.
"But it's better not," he said in his own language. "A hundred curses
on the swine-eaters, who know neither decency nor civility!"
"Make room, the pack of you," he said, advancing to the door.
But his former friend interposed his sturdy bulk, and opposed his
leaving the house; and when Robin Oig attempted to make his way by
force, he hit him down on the floor, with as much ease as a boy bowls
down a nine-pin.
"A ring, a ring!" was now shouted, until the dark rafters, and the
hams that hung on them, trembled again, and the very platters on the
_bink_ clattered against each other. "Well done, Harry."--"Give it him
home, Harry."--"Take care of him now--he sees his own blood!"
Such were the exclamations, while the Highlander, starting from the
ground, all his coldness and caution lost in frantic rage, sprung at
his antagonist with the fury, the activity, and the vindictive purpose
of an incensed tiger-cat. But when could rage encounter science and
temper? Robin Oig again went down in the unequal contest; and as the
blow was necessarily a severe one, he lay motionless on the floor of
the kitchen. The landlady ran to offer some aid, but Mr. Fleecebumpkin
would not permit her to approach.
"Let him alone," he said, "he will come to within time, and come up to
the scratch again. He has not got half his broth yet."
"He has got all I mean to give him though," said his antagonist, whose
heart began to relent towards his old associate; "and I would rather by
half give the rest to yourself, Mr. Fleecebumpkin, for you pretend to
know a thing or two, and Robin had not art enough even to peel before
setting to, but fought with his plaid dangling about him.--Stand up,
Robin, my man! all friends now; and let me hear the man that will speak
a word against you, or your country, for your sake."
Robin Oig was still under the dominion of his passion, and eager to
renew the onset; but being withheld on the one side by the
peace-making Dame Heskett, and on the other, aware that Wakefield no
longer meant to renew the combat, his fury sunk into gloomy
sullenness.
"Come, come, never grudge so much at it, man," said the brave-spirited
Englishman, with the placability of his country; "shake hands, and we
will be better friends than ever."
"Friends!" exclaimed Robin Oig with strong emphasis--"friends!--Never.
Look to yourself, Harry Waakfelt."
"Then the curse of Cromwell on your proud Scots stomach, as the man
says in the play, and you may do your worst and be d----; for one man
can say nothing more to another after a tussel, than that he is sorry
for it."
On these terms the friends parted; Robin Oig drew out, in silence, a
piece of money, threw it on the table, and then left the alehouse. But
turning at the door, he shook his hand at Wakefield, pointing with his
fore-finger upwards, in a manner which might imply either a threat or
a caution. He then disappeared in the moonlight.
(_To be concluded in our next_.)
* * * * *