CHAPTER XXI.

Ananias. I do not like the man: He is a heathen,

And speaks the language of Canaan truly.

Tribulation. You must await his calling, and the coming

Of the good spirit. You did ill to upbraid him.

The Alchemist.

We return to Henry Morton, whom we left on the field of battle. He was

eating, by one of the watch-fires, his portion of the provisions which

had been distributed to the army, and musing deeply on the path which he

was next to pursue, when Burley suddenly came up to him, accompanied by

the young minister, whose exhortation after the victory had produced such

a powerful effect.

“Henry Morton,” said Balfour abruptly, “the council of the army of the

Covenant, confiding that the son of Silas Morton can never prove a

lukewarm Laodicean, or an indifferent Gallio, in this great day, have

nominated you to be a captain of their host, with the right of a vote in

their council, and all authority fitting for an officer who is to command

Christian men.”

“Mr Balfour,” replied Morton, without hesitation, “I feel this mark of

confidence, and it is not surprising that a natural sense of the injuries

of my country, not to mention those I have sustained in my own person,

should make me sufficiently willing to draw my sword for liberty and

freedom of conscience. But I will own to you, that I must be better

satisfied concerning the principles on which you bottom your cause ere I

can agree to take a command amongst you.”

“And can you doubt of our principles,” answered Burley, “since we have

stated them to be the reformation both of church and state, the

rebuilding of the decayed sanctuary, the gathering of the dispersed

saints, and the destruction of the man of sin?”

“I will own frankly, Mr Balfour,” replied Morton, “much of this sort of

language, which, I observe, is so powerful with others, is entirely lost

on me. It is proper you should be aware of this before we commune further

together.” (The young clergyman here groaned deeply.) “I distress you,

sir,” said Morton; “but, perhaps, it is because you will not hear me out.

I revere the Scriptures as deeply as you or any Christian can do. I look

into them with humble hope of extracting a rule of conduct and a law of

salvation. But I expect to find this by an examination of their general

tenor, and of the spirit which they uniformly breathe, and not by

wresting particular passages from their context, or by the application of

Scriptural phrases to circumstances and events with which they have often

very slender relation.”

The young divine seemed shocked and thunderstruck with this declaration,

and was about to remonstrate.

“Hush, Ephraim!” said Burley, “remember he is but as a babe in swaddling

clothes.--Listen to me, Morton. I will speak to thee in the worldly

language of that carnal reason, which is, for the present, thy blind and

imperfect guide. What is the object for which thou art content to draw

thy sword? Is it not that the church and state should be reformed by the

free voice of a free parliament, with such laws as shall hereafter

prevent the executive government from spilling the blood, torturing and

imprisoning the persons, exhausting the estates, and trampling upon the

consciences of men, at their own wicked pleasure?”

“Most certainly,” said Morton; “such I esteem legitimate causes of

warfare, and for such I will fight while I can wield a sword.”

“Nay, but,” said Macbriar, “ye handle this matter too tenderly; nor will

my conscience permit me to fard or daub over the causes of divine wrath.”

“Peace, Ephraim Macbriar!” again interrupted Burley.

“I will not peace,” said the young man. “Is it not the cause of my Master

who hath sent me? Is it not a profane and Erastian destroying of his

authority, usurpation of his power, denial of his name, to place either

King or Parliament in his place as the master and governor of his

household, the adulterous husband of his spouse?”

“You speak well,” said Burley, dragging him aside, “but not wisely; your

own ears have heard this night in council how this scattered remnant are

broken and divided, and would ye now make a veil of separation between

them? Would ye build a wall with unslaked mortar?--if a fox go up, it

will breach it.”

“I know,” said the young clergyman, in reply, “that thou art faithful,

honest, and zealous, even unto slaying; but, believe me, this worldly

craft, this temporizing with sin and with infirmity, is in itself a

falling away; and I fear me Heaven will not honour us to do much more for

His glory, when we seek to carnal cunning and to a fleshly arm. The

sanctified end must be wrought by sanctified means.”

“I tell thee,” answered Balfour, “thy zeal is too rigid in this matter;

we cannot yet do without the help of the Laodiceans and the Erastians; we

must endure for a space the indulged in the midst of the council--the

sons of Zeruiah are yet too strong for us.”

“I tell thee I like it not,” said Macbriar; “God can work deliverance by

a few as well as by a multitude. The host of the faithful that was broken

upon Pentland-hills, paid but the fitting penalty of acknowledging the

carnal interest of that tyrant and oppressor, Charles Stewart.”

“Well, then,” said Balfour, “thou knowest the healing resolution that the

council have adopted,--to make a comprehending declaration, that may suit

the tender consciences of all who groan under the yoke of our present

oppressors. Return to the council if thou wilt, and get them to recall

it, and send forth one upon narrower grounds. But abide not here to

hinder my gaining over this youth, whom my soul travails for; his name

alone will call forth hundreds to our banners.”

“Do as thou wilt, then,” said Macbriar; “but I will not assist to mislead

the youth, nor bring him into jeopardy of life, unless upon such grounds

as will ensure his eternal reward.”

The more artful Balfour then dismissed the impatient preacher, and

returned to his proselyte.

That we may be enabled to dispense with detailing at length the arguments

by which he urged Morton to join the insurgents, we shall take this

opportunity to give a brief sketch of the person by whom they were used,

and the motives which he had for interesting himself so deeply in the

conversion of young Morton to his cause.

John Balfour of Kinloch, or Burley, for he is designated both ways in the

histories and proclamations of that melancholy period, was a gentleman of

some fortune, and of good family, in the county of Fife, and had been a

soldier from his youth upwards. In the younger part of his life he had

been wild and licentious, but had early laid aside open profligacy, and

embraced the strictest tenets of Calvinism. Unfortunately, habits of

excess and intemperance were more easily rooted out of his dark,

saturnine, and enterprising spirit, than the vices of revenge and

ambition, which continued, notwithstanding his religious professions, to

exercise no small sway over his mind. Daring in design, precipitate and

violent in execution, and going to the very extremity of the most rigid

recusancy, it was his ambition to place himself at the head of the

presbyterian interest.

To attain this eminence among the whigs, he had been active in attending

their conventicles, and more than once had commanded them when they

appeared in arms, and beaten off the forces sent to disperse them. At

length, the gratification of his own fierce enthusiasm, joined, as some

say, with motives of private revenge, placed him at the head of that

party who assassinated the Primate of Scotland, as the author of the

sufferings of the presbyterians. The violent measures adopted by

government to revenge this deed, not on the perpetrators only, but on the

whole professors of the religion to which they belonged, together with

long previous sufferings, without any prospect of deliverance, except by

force of arms, occasioned the insurrection, which, as we have already

seen, commenced by the defeat of Claverhouse in the bloody skirmish of

Loudon-hill.

But Burley, notwithstanding the share he had in the victory, was far from

finding himself at the summit which his ambition aimed at. This was

partly owing to the various opinions entertained among the insurgents

concerning the murder of Archbishop Sharpe. The more violent among them

did, indeed, approve of this act as a deed of justice, executed upon a

persecutor of God’s church through the immediate inspiration of the

Deity; but the greater part of the presbyterians disowned the deed as a

crime highly culpable, although they admitted, that the Archbishop’s

punishment had by no means exceeded his deserts. The insurgents differed

in another main point, which has been already touched upon. The more warm

and extravagant fanatics condemned, as guilty of a pusillanimous

abandonment of the rights of the church, those preachers and

congregations who were contented, in any manner, to exercise their

religion through the permission of the ruling government. This, they

said, was absolute Erastianism, or subjection of the church of God to the

regulations of an earthly government, and therefore but one degree better

than prelacy or popery.--Again, the more moderate party were content to

allow the king’s title to the throne, and in secular affairs to

acknowledge his authority, so long as it was exercised with due regard to

the liberties of the subject, and in conformity to the laws of the realm.

But the tenets of the wilder sect, called, from their leader Richard

Cameron, by the name of Cameronians, went the length of disowning the

reigning monarch, and every one of his successors, who should not

acknowledge the Solemn League and Covenant. The seeds of disunion were,

therefore, thickly sown in this ill-fated party; and Balfour, however

enthusiastic, and however much attached to the most violent of those

tenets which we have noticed, saw nothing but ruin to the general cause,

if they were insisted on during this crisis, when unity was of so much

consequence. Hence he disapproved, as we have seen, of the honest,

downright, and ardent zeal of Macbriar, and was extremely desirous to

receive the assistance of the moderate party of presbyterians in the

immediate overthrow of the government, with the hope of being hereafter

able to dictate to them what should be substituted in its place.

He was, on this account, particularly anxious to secure the accession of

Henry Morton to the cause of the insurgents. The memory of his father was

generally esteemed among the presbyterians; and as few persons of any

decent quality had joined the insurgents, this young man’s family and

prospects were such as almost ensured his being chosen a leader. Through

Morton’s means, as being the son of his ancient comrade, Burley conceived

he might exercise some influence over the more liberal part of the army,

and ultimately, perhaps, ingratiate himself so far with them, as to be

chosen commander-in-chief, which was the mark at which his ambition

aimed. He had, therefore, without waiting till any other person took up

the subject, exalted to the council the talents and disposition of

Morton, and easily obtained his elevation to the painful rank of a leader

in this disunited and undisciplined army.

The arguments by which Balfour pressed Morton to accept of this dangerous

promotion, as soon as he had gotten rid of his less wary and

uncompromising companion, Macbriar, were sufficiently artful and urgent.

He did not affect either to deny or to disguise that the sentiments which

he himself entertained concerning church government, went as far as those

of the preacher who had just left them; but he argued, that when the

affairs of the nation were at such a desperate crisis, minute difference

of opinion should not prevent those who, in general, wished well to their

oppressed country, from drawing their swords in its behalf. Many of the

subjects of division, as, for example, that concerning the Indulgence

itself, arose, he observed, out of circumstances which would cease to

exist, provided their attempt to free the country should be successful,

seeing that the presbytery, being in that case triumphant, would need to

make no such compromise with the government, and, consequently, with the

abolition of the Indulgence all discussion of its legality would be at

once ended. He insisted much and strongly upon the necessity of taking

advantage of this favourable crisis, upon the certainty of their being

joined by the force of the whole western shires, and upon the gross guilt

which those would incur, who, seeing the distress of the country, and the

increasing tyranny with which it was governed, should, from fear or

indifference, withhold their active aid from the good cause.

Morton wanted not these arguments to induce him to join in any

insurrection, which might appear to have a feasible prospect of freedom

to the country. He doubted, indeed, greatly, whether the present attempt

was likely to be supported by the strength sufficient to ensure success,

or by the wisdom and liberality of spirit necessary to make a good use of

the advantages that might be gained. Upon the whole, however, considering

the wrongs he had personally endured, and those which he had seen daily

inflicted on his fellow-subjects; meditating also upon the precarious and

dangerous situation in which he already stood with relation to the

government, he conceived himself, in every point of view, called upon to

join the body of presbyterians already in arms.

But while he expressed to Burley his acquiescence in the vote which had

named him a leader among the insurgents, and a member of their council of

war, it was not without a qualification.

“I am willing,” he said, “to contribute every thing within my limited

power to effect the emancipation of my country. But do not mistake me. I

disapprove, in the utmost degree, of the action in which this rising

seems to have originated; and no arguments should induce me to join it,

if it is to be carried on by such measures as that with which it has

commenced.”

Burley’s blood rushed to his face, giving a ruddy and dark glow to his

swarthy brow.

“You mean,” he said, in a voice which he designed should not betray any

emotion--“You mean the death of James Sharpe?”

“Frankly,” answered Morton, “such is my meaning.”

“You imagine, then,” said Burley, “that the Almighty, in times of

difficulty, does not raise up instruments to deliver his church from her

oppressors? You are of opinion that the justice of an execution consists,

not in the extent of the sufferer’s crime, or in his having merited

punishment, or in the wholesome and salutary effect which that example is

likely to produce upon other evil-doers, but hold that it rests solely in

the robe of the judge, the height of the bench, and the voice of the

doomster? Is not just punishment justly inflicted, whether on the

scaffold or the moor? And where constituted judges, from cowardice, or

from having cast in their lot with transgressors, suffer them not only to

pass at liberty through the land, but to sit in the high places, and dye

their garments in the blood of the saints, is it not well done in any

brave spirits who shall draw their private swords in the public cause?”

“I have no wish to judge this individual action,” replied Morton,

“further than is necessary to make you fully aware of my principles. I

therefore repeat, that the case you have supposed does not satisfy my

judgment. That the Almighty, in his mysterious providence, may bring a

bloody man to an end deservedly bloody, does not vindicate those who,

without authority of any kind, take upon themselves to be the instruments

of execution, and presume to call them the executors of divine

vengeance.”

“And were we not so?” said Burley, in a tone of fierce enthusiasm. “Were

not we--was not every one who owned the interest of the Covenanted Church

of Scotland, bound by that covenant to cut off the Judas who had sold the

cause of God for fifty thousand merks a-year? Had we met him by the way

as he came down from London, and there smitten him with the edge of the

sword, we had done but the duty of men faithful to our cause, and to our

oaths recorded in heaven. Was not the execution itself a proof of our

warrant? Did not the Lord deliver him into our hands, when we looked out

but for one of his inferior tools of persecution? Did we not pray to be

resolved how we should act, and was it not borne in on our hearts as if

it had been written on them with the point of a diamond, ‘Ye shall surely

take him and slay him?’--Was not the tragedy full half an hour in acting

ere the sacrifice was completed, and that in an open heath, and within

the patrols of their garrisons--and yet who interrupted the great work?--

What dog so much as bayed us during the pursuit, the taking, the slaying,

and the dispersing? Then, who will say--who dare say, that a mightier arm

than ours was not herein revealed?”

“You deceive yourself, Mr Balfour,” said Morton; “such circumstances of

facility of execution and escape have often attended the commission of

the most enormous crimes.--But it is not mine to judge you. I have not

forgotten that the way was opened to the former liberation of Scotland by

an act of violence which no man can justify,--the slaughter of Cumming by

the hand of Robert Bruce; and, therefore, condemning this action, as I do

and must, I am not unwilling to suppose that you may have motives

vindicating it in your own eyes, though not in mine, or in those of sober

reason. I only now mention it, because I desire you to understand, that I

join a cause supported by men engaged in open war, which it is proposed

to carry on according to the rules of civilized nations, without, in any

respect, approving of the act of violence which gave immediate rise to

it.”

Balfour bit his lip, and with difficulty suppressed a violent answer. He

perceived, with disappointment, that, upon points of principle, his young

brother-in-arms possessed a clearness of judgment, and a firmness of

mind, which afforded but little hope of his being able to exert that

degree of influence over him which he had expected to possess. After a

moment’s pause, however, he said, with coolness, “My conduct is open to

men and angels. The deed was not done in a corner; I am here in arms to

avow it, and care not where, or by whom, I am called on to do so; whether

in the council, the field of battle, the place of execution, or the day

of the last great trial. I will not now discuss it further with one who

is yet on the other side of the veil. But if you will cast in your lot

with us as a brother, come with me to the council, who are still sitting,

to arrange the future march of the army, and the means of improving our

victory.”

Morton arose and followed him in silence; not greatly delighted with his

associate, and better satisfied with the general justice of the cause

which he had espoused, than either with the measures or the motives of

many of those who were embarked in it.

[Illustration: Abbotsford--295]

OLD MORTALITY

By Walter Scott

[Illustration: Titlepage]

VOLUME II.

[Illustration: Bookcover]

[Illustration: Spines]

CHAPTER I.

And look how many Grecian tents do stand

Hollow upon this plain--so many hollow factions.

Troilus and Cressida.

In a hollow of the hill, about a quarter of a mile from the field of

battle, was a shepherd’s hut; a miserable cottage, which, as the only

enclosed spot within a moderate distance, the leaders of the presbyterian

army had chosen for their council-house. Towards this spot Burley guided

Morton, who was surprised, as he approached it, at the multifarious

confusion of sounds which issued from its precincts. The calm and anxious

gravity which it might be supposed would have presided in councils held

on such important subjects, and at a period so critical, seemed to have

given place to discord wild, and loud uproar, which fell on the ear of

their new ally as an evil augury of their future measures. As they

approached the door, they found it open indeed, but choked up with the

bodies and heads of countrymen, who, though no members of the council,

felt no scruple in intruding themselves upon deliberations in which they

were so deeply interested. By expostulation, by threats, and even by some

degree of violence, Burley, the sternness of whose character maintained a

sort of superiority over these disorderly forces, compelled the intruders

to retire, and, introducing Morton into the cottage, secured the door

behind them against impertinent curiosity. At a less agitating moment,

the young man might have been entertained with the singular scene of

which he now found himself an auditor and a spectator.

The precincts of the gloomy and ruinous hut were enlightened partly by

some furze which blazed on the hearth, the smoke whereof, having no legal

vent, eddied around, and formed over the heads of the assembled council a

clouded canopy, as opake as their metaphysical theology, through which,

like stars through mist, were dimly seen to twinkle a few blinking

candles, or rather rushes dipped in tallow, the property of the poor

owner of the cottage, which were stuck to the walls by patches of wet

clay. This broken and dusky light showed many a countenance elated with

spiritual pride, or rendered dark by fierce enthusiasm; and some whose

anxious, wandering, and uncertain looks, showed they felt themselves

rashly embarked in a cause which they had neither courage nor conduct to

bring to a good issue, yet knew not how to abandon, for very shame. They

were, indeed, a doubtful and disunited body. The most active of their

number were those concerned with Burley in the death of the Primate, four

or five of whom had found their way to Loudon-hill, together with other

men of the same relentless and uncompromising zeal, who had, in various

ways, given desperate and unpardonable offence to the government.

With them were mingled their preachers, men who had spurned at the

indulgence offered by government, and preferred assembling their flocks

in the wilderness, to worshipping in temples built by human hands, if

their doing the latter should be construed to admit any right on the part

of their rulers to interfere with the supremacy of the Kirk. The other

class of counsellors were such gentlemen of small fortune, and

substantial farmers, as a sense of intolerable oppression had induced to

take arms and join the insurgents. These also had their clergymen with

them, and such divines, having many of them taken advantage of the

indulgence, were prepared to resist the measures of their more violent

brethren, who proposed a declaration in which they should give testimony

against the warrants and instructions for indulgence as sinful and

unlawful acts. This delicate question had been passed over in silence in

the first draught of the manifestos which they intended to publish, of

the reasons of their gathering in arms; but it had been stirred anew

during Balfour’s absence, and, to his great vexation, he now found that

both parties had opened upon it in full cry, Macbriar, Kettledrummle, and

other teachers of the wanderers, being at the very spring-tide of

polemical discussion with Peter Poundtext, the indulged pastor of

Milnwood’s parish, who, it seems, had e’en girded himself with a

broadsword, but, ere he was called upon to fight for the good cause of

presbytery in the field, was manfully defending his own dogmata in the

council. It was the din of this conflict, maintained chiefly between

Poundtext and Kettledrummle, together with the clamour of their

adherents, which had saluted Morton’s ears upon approaching the cottage.

Indeed, as both the divines were men well gifted with words and lungs,

and each fierce, ardent, and intolerant in defence of his own doctrine,

prompt in the recollection of texts wherewith they battered each other

without mercy, and deeply impressed with the importance of the subject of

discussion, the noise of the debate betwixt them fell little short of

that which might have attended an actual bodily conflict.

Burley, scandalized at the disunion implied in this virulent strife of

tongues, interposed between the disputants, and, by some general remarks

on the unseasonableness of discord, a soothing address to the vanity of

each party, and the exertion of the authority which his services in that

day’s victory entitled him to assume, at length succeeded in prevailing

upon them to adjourn farther discussion of the controversy. But although

Kettledrummle and Poundtext were thus for the time silenced, they

continued to eye each other like two dogs, who, having been separated by

the authority of their masters while fighting, have retreated, each

beneath the chair of his owner, still watching each other’s motions, and

indicating, by occasional growls, by the erected bristles of the back and

ears, and by the red glance of the eye, that their discord is unappeased,

and that they only wait the first opportunity afforded by any general

movement or commotion in the company, to fly once more at each other’s

throats.

Balfour took advantage of the momentary pause to present to the council

Mr Henry Morton of Milnwood, as one touched with a sense of the evils of

the times, and willing to peril goods and life in the precious cause for

which his father, the renowned Silas Morton, had given in his time a

soul-stirring testimony. Morton was instantly received with the right

hand of fellowship by his ancient pastor, Poundtext, and by those among

the insurgents who supported the more moderate principles. The others

muttered something about Erastianism, and reminded each other in

whispers, that Silas Morton, once a stout and worthy servant of the

Covenant, had been a backslider in the day when the resolutioners had led

the way in owning the authority of Charles Stewart, thereby making a gap

whereat the present tyrant was afterwards brought in, to the oppression

both of Kirk and country. They added, however, that, on this great day of

calling, they would not refuse society with any who should put hand to

the plough; and so Morton was installed in his office of leader and

counsellor, if not with the full approbation of his colleagues, at least

without any formal or avowed dissent. They proceeded, on Burley’s motion,

to divide among themselves the command of the men who had assembled, and

whose numbers were daily increasing. In this partition, the insurgents of

Poundtext’s parish and congregation were naturally placed under the

command of Morton; an arrangement mutually agreeable to both parties, as

he was recommended to their confidence, as well by his personal qualities

as his having been born among them.

When this task was accomplished, it became necessary to determine what

use was to be made of their victory. Morton’s heart throbbed high when he

heard the Tower of Tillietudlem named as one of the most important

positions to be seized upon. It commanded, as we have often noticed, the

pass between the more wild and the more fertile country, and must

furnish, it was plausibly urged, a stronghold and place of rendezvous to

the cavaliers and malignants of the district, supposing the insurgents

were to march onward and leave it uninvested. This measure was

particularly urged as necessary by Poundtext and those of his immediate

followers, whose habitations and families might be exposed to great

severities, if this strong place were permitted to remain in possession

of the royalists.

“I opine,” said Poundtext,--for, like the other divines of the period, he

had no hesitation in offering his advice upon military matters of which

he was profoundly ignorant,--“I opine, that we should take in and raze

that stronghold of the woman Lady Margaret Bellenden, even though we

should build a fort and raise a mount against it; for the race is a

rebellious and a bloody race, and their hand has been heavy on the

children of the Covenant, both in the former and the latter times. Their

hook hath been in our noses, and their bridle betwixt our jaws.”

“What are their means and men of defence?” said Burley. “The place is

strong; but I cannot conceive that two women can make it good against a

host.”

“There is also,” said Poundtext, “Harrison the steward, and John Gudyill,

even the lady’s chief butler, who boasteth himself a man of war from his

youth upward, and who spread the banner against the good cause with that

man of Belial, James Grahame of Montrose.”

“Pshaw!” returned Burley, scornfully, “a butler!”

“Also, there is that ancient malignant,” replied Poundtext, “Miles

Bellenden of Charnwood, whose hands have been dipped in the blood of the

saints.”

“If that,” said Burley, “be Miles Bellenden, the brother of Sir Arthur,

he is one whose sword will not turn back from battle; but he must now be

stricken in years.”

“There was word in the country as I rode along,” said another of the

council, “that so soon as they heard of the victory which has been given

to us, they caused shut the gates of the tower, and called in men, and

collected ammunition. They were ever a fierce and a malignant house.”

“We will not, with my consent,” said Burley, “engage in a siege which may

consume time. We must rush forward, and follow our advantage by occupying

Glasgow; for I do not fear that the troops we have this day beaten, even

with the assistance of my Lord Ross’s regiment, will judge it safe to

await our coming.”

“Howbeit,” said Poundtext, “we may display a banner before the Tower, and

blow a trumpet, and summon them to come forth. It may be that they will

give over the place into our mercy, though they be a rebellious people.

And we will summon the women to come forth of their stronghold, that is,

Lady Margaret Bellenden and her grand-daughter, and Jenny Dennison, which

is a girl of an ensnaring eye, and the other maids, and we will give them

a safe conduct, and send them in peace to the city, even to the town of

Edinburgh. But John Gudyill, and Hugh Harrison, and Miles Bellenden, we

will restrain with fetters of iron, even as they, in times bypast, have

done to the martyred saints.”

“Who talks of safe conduct and of peace?” said a shrill, broken, and

overstrained voice, from the crowd.

“Peace, brother Habakkuk,” said Macbriar, in a soothing tone, to the

speaker.

“I will not hold my peace,” reiterated the strange and unnatural voice;

“is this a time to speak of peace, when the earth quakes, and the

mountains are rent, and the rivers are changed into blood, and the

two-edged sword is drawn from the sheath to drink gore as if it were

water, and devour flesh as the fire devours dry stubble?”

While he spoke thus, the orator struggled forward to the inner part of

the circle, and presented to Morton’s wondering eyes a figure worthy of

such a voice and such language. The rags of a dress which had once been

black, added to the tattered fragments of a shepherd’s plaid, composed a

covering scarce fit for the purposes of decency, much less for those of

warmth or comfort. A long beard, as white as snow, hung down on his

breast, and mingled with bushy, uncombed, grizzled hair, which hung in

elf-locks around his wild and staring visage. The features seemed to be

extenuated by penury and famine, until they hardly retained the likeness

of a human aspect. The eyes, grey, wild, and wandering, evidently

betokened a bewildered imagination. He held in his hand a rusty sword,

clotted with blood, as were his long lean hands, which were garnished at

the extremity with nails like eagle’s claws.

“In the name of Heaven! who is he?” said Morton, in a whisper to

Poundtext, surprised, shocked, and even startled, at this ghastly

apparition, which looked more like the resurrection of some cannibal

priest, or druid red from his human sacrifice, than like an earthly

mortal.

“It is Habakkuk Mucklewrath,” answered Poundtext, in the same tone, “whom

the enemy have long detained in captivity in forts and castles, until his

understanding hath departed from him, and, as I fear, an evil demon hath

possessed him. Nevertheless, our violent brethren will have it, that he

speaketh of the spirit, and that they fructify by his pouring forth.”

Here he was interrupted by Mucklewrath, who cried in a voice that made

the very beams of the roof quiver--“Who talks of peace and safe conduct?

who speaks of mercy to the bloody house of the malignants? I say take the

infants and dash them against the stones; take the daughters and the

mothers of the house and hurl them from the battlements of their trust,

that the dogs may fatten on their blood as they did on that of Jezabel,

the spouse of Ahab, and that their carcasses may be dung to the face of

the field even in the portion of their fathers!”

“He speaks right,” said more than one sullen voice from behind; “we will

be honoured with little service in the great cause, if we already make

fair weather with Heaven’s enemies.”

“This is utter abomination and daring impiety,” said Morton, unable to

contain his indignation.

“What blessing can you expect in a cause, in which you listen to the

mingled ravings of madness and atrocity?”

“Hush, young man!” said Kettledrummle, “and reserve thy censure for that

for which thou canst render a reason. It is not for thee to judge into

what vessels the spirit may be poured.”

“We judge of the tree by the fruit,” said Poundtext, “and allow not that

to be of divine inspiration that contradicts the divine laws.”

“You forget, brother Poundtext,” said Macbriar, “that these are the

latter days, when signs and wonders shall be multiplied.”

Poundtext stood forward to reply; but, ere he could articulate a word,

the insane preacher broke in with a scream that drowned all competition.

“Who talks of signs and wonders? Am not I Habakkuk Mucklewrath, whose

name is changed to Magor-Missabib, because I am made a terror unto myself

and unto all that are around me?--I heard it--When did I hear it?--Was it

not in the Tower of the Bass, that overhangeth the wide wild sea?--And it

howled in the winds, and it roared in the billows, and it screamed, and

it whistled, and it clanged, with the screams and the clang and the

whistle of the sea-birds, as they floated, and flew, and dropped, and

dived, on the bosom of the waters. I saw it--Where did I see it?--Was it

not from the high peaks of Dunbarton, when I looked westward upon the

fertile land, and northward on the wild Highland hills; when the clouds

gathered and the tempest came, and the lightnings of heaven flashed in

sheets as wide as the banners of an host?--What did I see?--Dead corpses

and wounded horses, the rushing together of battle, and garments rolled

in blood.--What heard I?--The voice that cried, Slay, slay--smite--slay

utterly--let not your eye have pity! slay utterly, old and young, the

maiden, the child, and the woman whose head is grey--Defile the house and

fill the courts with the slain!”

“We receive the command,” exclaimed more than one of the company. “Six

days he hath not spoken nor broken bread, and now his tongue is

unloosed:--We receive the command; as he hath said, so will we do.”

Astonished, disgusted, and horror-struck, at what he had seen and heard,

Morton turned away from the circle and left the cottage. He was followed

by Burley, who had his eye on his motions.

“Whither are you going?” said the latter, taking him by the arm.

“Any where,--I care not whither; but here I will abide no longer.”

“Art thou so soon weary, young man?” answered Burley. “Thy hand is but

now put to the plough, and wouldst thou already abandon it? Is this thy

adherence to the cause of thy father?”

“No cause,” replied Morton, indignantly--“no cause can prosper, so

conducted. One party declares for the ravings of a bloodthirsty madman;

another leader is an old scholastic pedant; a third”--he stopped, and his

companion continued the sentence--“Is a desperate homicide, thou wouldst

say, like John Balfour of Burley?--I can bear thy misconstruction without

resentment. Thou dost not consider, that it is not men of sober and

self-seeking minds, who arise in these days of wrath to execute judgment

and to accomplish deliverance. Hadst thou but seen the armies of England,

during her Parliament of 1640, whose ranks were filled with sectaries and

enthusiasts, wilder than the anabaptists of Munster, thou wouldst have

had more cause to marvel; and yet these men were unconquered on the

field, and their hands wrought marvellous things for the liberties of the

land.”

“But their affairs,” replied Morton, “were wisely conducted, and the

violence of their zeal expended itself in their exhortations and sermons,

without bringing divisions into their counsels, or cruelty into their

conduct. I have often heard my father say so, and protest, that he

wondered at nothing so much as the contrast between the extravagance of

their religious tenets, and the wisdom and moderation with which they

conducted their civil and military affairs. But our councils seem all one

wild chaos of confusion.”

“Thou must have patience, Henry Morton,” answered Balfour; “thou must not

leave the cause of thy religion and country either for one wild word, or

one extravagant action. Hear me. I have already persuaded the wiser of

our friends, that the counsellors are too numerous, and that we cannot

expect that the Midianites shall, by so large a number, be delivered into

our hands. They have hearkened to my voice, and our assemblies will be

shortly reduced within such a number as can consult and act together; and

in them thou shalt have a free voice, as well as in ordering our affairs

of war, and protecting those to whom mercy should be shown--Art thou now

satisfied?”

“It will give me pleasure, doubtless,” answered Morton, “to be the means

of softening the horrors of civil war; and I will not leave the post I

have taken, unless I see measures adopted at which my conscience revolts.

But to no bloody executions after quarter asked, or slaughter without

trial, will I lend countenance or sanction; and you may depend on my

opposing them, with both heart and hand, as constantly and resolutely, if

attempted by our own followers, as when they are the work of the enemy.”

Balfour waved his hand impatiently.

“Thou wilt find,” he said, “that the stubborn and hard-hearted generation

with whom we deal, must be chastised with scorpions ere their hearts be

humbled, and ere they accept the punishment of their iniquity. The word

is gone forth against them, ‘I will bring a sword upon you that shall

avenge the quarrel of my Covenant.’ But what is done shall be done

gravely, and with discretion, like that of the worthy James Melvin, who

executed judgment on the tyrant and oppressor, Cardinal Beaton.”

“I own to you,” replied Morton, “that I feel still more abhorrent at

cold-blooded and premeditated cruelty, than at that which is practised in

the heat of zeal and resentment.”

“Thou art yet but a youth,” replied Balfour, “and hast not learned how

light in the balance are a few drops of blood in comparison to the weight

and importance of this great national testimony. But be not afraid;

thyself shall vote and judge in these matters; it may be we shall see

little cause to strive together anent them.”

With this concession Morton was compelled to be satisfied for the

present; and Burley left him, advising him to lie down and get some rest,

as the host would probably move in the morning.

“And you,” answered Morton, “do not you go to rest also?”

“No,” said Burley; “my eyes must not yet know slumber. This is no work to

be done lightly; I have yet to perfect the choosing of the committee of

leaders, and I will call you by times in the morning to be present at

their consultation.”

He turned away, and left Morton to his repose.

The place in which he found himself was not ill adapted for the purpose,

being a sheltered nook, beneath a large rock, well protected from the

prevailing wind. A quantity of moss with which the ground was overspread,

made a couch soft enough for one who had suffered so much hardship and

anxiety. Morton wrapped himself in the horse-man’s cloak which he had

still retained, stretched himself on the ground, and had not long

indulged in melancholy reflections on the state of the country, and upon

his own condition, ere he was relieved from them by deep and sound

slumber.

The rest of the army slept on the ground, dispersed in groups, which

chose their beds on the fields as they could best find shelter and

convenience. A few of the principal leaders held wakeful conference with

Burley on the state of their affairs, and some watchmen were appointed

who kept themselves on the alert by chanting psalms, or listening to the

exercises of the more gifted of their number.

CHAPTER II.

Got with much ease--now merrily to horse.

Henry IV. Part I.

With the first peep of day Henry awoke, and found the faithful Cuddie

standing beside him with a portmanteau in his hand.

“I hae been just putting your honour’s things in readiness again ye were

waking,” said Cuddie, “as is my duty, seeing ye hae been sae gude as to

tak me into your service.”

“I take you into my service, Cuddie?” said Morton, “you must be

dreaming.”

“Na, na, stir,” answered Cuddie; “didna I say when I was tied on the

horse yonder, that if ever ye gat loose I would be your servant, and ye

didna say no? and if that isna hiring, I kenna what is. Ye gae me nae

arles, indeed, but ye had gien me eneugh before at Milnwood.”

“Well, Cuddie, if you insist on taking the chance of my unprosperous

fortunes”--

“Ou ay, I’se warrant us a’ prosper weel eneugh,” answered Cuddie,

cheeringly, “an anes my auld mither was weel putten up. I hae begun the

campaigning trade at an end that is easy eneugh to learn.”

“Pillaging, I suppose?” said Morton, “for how else could you come by that

portmanteau?”

“I wotna if it’s pillaging, or how ye ca’t,” said Cuddie, “but it comes

natural to a body, and it’s a profitable trade. Our folk had tirled the

dead dragoons as bare as bawbees before we were loose amaist.--But when I

saw the Whigs a’ weel yokit by the lugs to Kettledrummle and the other

chield, I set off at the lang trot on my ain errand and your honour’s.

Sae I took up the syke a wee bit, away to the right, where I saw the

marks o’mony a horsefoot, and sure eneugh I cam to a place where there

had been some clean leatherin’, and a’ the puir chields were lying there

buskit wi’ their claes just as they had put them on that morning--naebody

had found out that pose o’ carcages--and wha suld be in the midst thereof

(as my mither says) but our auld acquaintance, Sergeant Bothwell?”

“Ay, has that man fallen?” said Morton.

“Troth has he,” answered Cuddie; “and his een were open and his brow

bent, and his teeth clenched thegither, like the jaws of a trap for

foumarts when the spring’s doun--I was amaist feared to look at him;

however, I thought to hae turn about wi’ him, and sae I e’en riped his

pouches, as he had dune mony an honester man’s; and here’s your ain

siller again (or your uncle’s, which is the same) that he got at Milnwood

that unlucky night that made us a’ sodgers thegither.”

“There can be no harm, Cuddie,” said Morton, “in making use of this

money, since we know how he came by it; but you must divide with me.”

“Bide a wee, bide a wee,” said Cuddie. “Weel, and there’s a bit ring he

had hinging in a black ribbon doun on his breast. I am thinking it has

been a love-token, puir fallow--there’s naebody sae rough but they hae

aye a kind heart to the lasses--and there’s a book wi’a wheen papers, and

I got twa or three odd things, that I’ll keep to mysell, forby.”

“Upon my word, you have made a very successful foray for a beginner,”

said his new master.

“Haena I e’en now?” said Cuddie, with great exultation. “I tauld ye I

wasna that dooms stupid, if it cam to lifting things.--And forby, I hae

gotten twa gude horse. A feckless loon of a Straven weaver, that has left

his loom and his bein house to sit skirling on a cauld hill-side, had

catched twa dragoon naigs, and he could neither gar them hup nor wind,

sae he took a gowd noble for them baith--I suld hae tried him wi’ half

the siller, but it’s an unco ill place to get change in--Ye’ll find the

siller’s missing out o’ Bothwell’s purse.”

“You have made a most excellent and useful purchase, Cuddie; but what is

that portmanteau?”

“The pockmantle?” answered Cuddie, “it was Lord Evandale’s yesterday, and

it’s yours the day. I fand it ahint the bush o’ broom yonder--ilka dog

has its day--Ye ken what the auld sang says,

‘Take turn about, mither, quo’ Tam o’ the Linn.’

“And, speaking o’ that, I maun gang and see about my mither, puir auld

body, if your honour hasna ony immediate commands.”

“But, Cuddie,” said Morton, “I really cannot take these things from you

without some recompense.”

“Hout fie, stir,” answered Cuddie, “ye suld aye be taking,--for

recompense, ye may think about that some other time--I hae seen gay weel

to mysell wi’ some things that fit me better. What could I do wi’ Lord

Evandale’s braw claes? Sergeant Bothwell’s will serve me weel eneugh.”

Not being able to prevail on the self-constituted and disinterested

follower to accept of any thing for himself out of these warlike spoils,

Morton resolved to take the first opportunity of returning Lord

Evandale’s property, supposing him yet to be alive; and, in the

meanwhile, did not hesitate to avail himself of Cuddie’s prize, so far as

to appropriate some changes of linen and other triffling articles amongst

those of more value which the portmanteau contained.

He then hastily looked over the papers which were found in Bothwell’s

pocket-book. These were of a miscellaneous description. The roll of his

troop, with the names of those absent on furlough, memorandums of

tavern-bills, and lists of delinquents who might be made subjects of fine

and persecution, first presented themselves, along with a copy of a

warrant from the Privy Council to arrest certain persons of distinction

therein named. In another pocket of the book were one or two commissions

which Bothwell had held at different times, and certificates of his

services abroad, in which his courage and military talents were highly

praised. But the most remarkable paper was an accurate account of his

genealogy, with reference to many documents for establishment of its

authenticity; subjoined was a list of the ample possessions of the

forfeited Earls of Bothwell, and a particular account of the proportions

in which King James VI. had bestowed them on the courtiers and nobility

by whose descendants they were at present actually possessed; beneath

this list was written, in red letters, in the hand of the deceased, Haud

Immemor, F. S. E. B. the initials probably intimating Francis Stewart,

Earl of Bothwell. To these documents, which strongly painted the

character and feelings of their deceased proprietor, were added some

which showed him in a light greatly different from that in which we have

hitherto presented him to the reader.

In a secret pocket of the book, which Morton did not discover without

some trouble, were one or two letters, written in a beautiful female

hand. They were dated about twenty years back, bore no address, and were

subscribed only by initials. Without having time to peruse them

accurately, Morton perceived that they contained the elegant yet fond

expressions of female affection directed towards an object whose jealousy

they endeavoured to soothe, and of whose hasty, suspicious, and impatient

temper, the writer seemed gently to complain. The ink of these

manuscripts had faded by time, and, notwithstanding the great care which

had obviously been taken for their preservation, they were in one or two

places chafed so as to be illegible.

“It matters not,” these words were written on the envelope of that which

had suffered most, “I have them by heart.”

With these letters was a lock of hair wrapped in a copy of verses,

written obviously with a feeling, which atoned, in Morton’s opinion, for

the roughness of the poetry, and the conceits with which it abounded,

according to the taste of the period:

Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright, As in that well-remember’d

night, When first thy mystic braid was wove, And first my Agnes whisper’d

love. Since then, how often hast thou press’d The torrid zone of this

wild breast, Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell With the first sin

which peopled hell; A breast whose blood’s a troubled ocean, Each throb

the earthquake’s wild commotion!--O, if such clime thou canst endure, Yet

keep thy hue unstain’d and pure, What conquest o’er each erring thought

Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought! I had not wander’d wild and wide,

With such an angel for my guide; Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove

me, If she had lived, and lived to love me. Not then this world’s wild

joys had been To me one savage hunting-scene, My sole delight the

headlong race, And frantic hurry of the chase, To start, pursue, and

bring to bay, Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey, Then from the carcass

turn away; Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, And soothed each wound

which pride inflamed;--Yes, God and man might now approve me, If thou

hadst lived, and lived to love me!

As he finished reading these lines, Morton could not forbear reflecting

with compassion on the fate of this singular and most unhappy being, who,

it appeared, while in the lowest state of degradation, and almost of

contempt, had his recollections continually fixed on the high station to

which his birth seemed to entitle him; and, while plunged in gross

licentiousness, was in secret looking back with bitter remorse to the

period of his youth, during which he had nourished a virtuous, though

unfortunate attachment.

“Alas! what are we,” said Morton, “that our best and most praiseworthy

feelings can be thus debased and depraved--that honourable pride can sink

into haughty and desperate indifference for general opinion, and the

sorrow of blighted affection inhabit the same bosom which license,

revenge, and rapine, have chosen for their citadel? But it is the same

throughout; the liberal principles of one man sink into cold and

unfeeling indifference, the religious zeal of another hurries him into

frantic and savage enthusiasm. Our resolutions, our passions, are like

the waves of the sea, and, without the aid of Him who formed the human

breast, we cannot say to its tides, ‘Thus far shall ye come, and no

farther.’”

While he thus moralized, he raised his eyes, and observed that Burley

stood before him.

“Already awake?” said that leader--“It is well, and shows zeal to tread

the path before you.--What papers are these?” he continued.

Morton gave him some brief account of Cuddie’s successful marauding

party, and handed him the pocket-book of Bothwell, with its contents. The

Cameronian leader looked with some attention on such of the papers as

related to military affairs, or public business; but when he came to the

verses, he threw them from him with contempt.

“I little thought,” he said, “when, by the blessing of God, I passed my

sword three times through the body of that arch tool of cruelty and

persecution, that a character so desperate and so dangerous could have

stooped to an art as trifling as it is profane. But I see that Satan can

blend the most different qualities in his well-beloved and chosen agents,

and that the same hand which can wield a club or a slaughter-weapon

against the godly in the valley of destruction, can touch a tinkling

lute, or a gittern, to soothe the ears of the dancing daughters of

perdition in their Vanity Fair.”

“Your ideas of duty, then,” said Morton, “exclude love of the fine arts,

which have been supposed in general to purify and to elevate the mind?”

“To me, young man,” answered Burley, “and to those who think as I do, the

pleasures of this world, under whatever name disguised, are vanity, as

its grandeur and power are a snare. We have but one object on earth, and

that is to build up the temple of the Lord.”

“I have heard my father observe,” replied Morton, “that many who assumed

power in the name of Heaven, were as severe in its exercise, and as

unwilling to part with it, as if they had been solely moved by the

motives of worldly ambition--But of this another time. Have you succeeded

in obtaining a committee of the council to be nominated?”

“I have,” answered Burley. “The number is limited to six, of which you

are one, and I come to call you to their deliberations.”

Morton accompanied him to a sequestered grassplot, where their colleagues

awaited them. In this delegation of authority, the two principal factions

which divided the tumultuary army had each taken care to send three of

their own number. On the part of the Cameronians, were Burley, Macbriar,

and Kettledrummle; and on that of the moderate party, Poundtext, Henry

Morton, and a small proprietor, called the Laird of Langcale. Thus the

two parties were equally balanced by their representatives in the

committee of management, although it seemed likely that those of the most

violent opinions were, as is usual in such cases, to possess and exert

the greater degree of energy. Their debate, however, was conducted more

like men of this world than could have been expected from their conduct

on the preceding evening. After maturely considering their means and

situation, and the probable increase of their numbers, they agreed that

they would keep their position for that day, in order to refresh their

men, and give time to reinforcements to join them, and that, on the next

morning, they would direct their march towards Tillietudlem, and summon

that stronghold, as they expressed it, of malignancy. If it was not

surrendered to their summons, they resolved to try the effect of a brisk

assault; and, should that miscarry, it was settled that they should leave

a part of their number to blockade the place, and reduce it, if possible,

by famine, while their main body should march forward to drive

Claverhouse and Lord Ross from the town of Glasgow. Such was the

determination of the council of management; and thus Morton’s first

enterprise in active life was likely to be the attack of a castle

belonging to the parent of his mistress, and defended by her relative,

Major Bellenden, to whom he personally owed many obligations! He felt

fully the embarrassment of his situation, yet consoled himself with the

reflection, that his newly-acquired power in the insurgent army would

give him, at all events, the means of extending to the inmates of

Tillietudlem a protection which no other circumstance could have afforded

them; and he was not without hope that he might be able to mediate such

an accommodation betwixt them and the presbyterian army, as should secure

them a safe neutrality during the war which was about to ensue.

CHAPTER III.

There came a knight from the field of slain,

His steed was drench’d in blood and rain.

Finlay.

We must now return to the fortress of Tillietudlem and its inhabitants.

The morning, being the first after the battle of Loudon-hill, had dawned

upon its battlements, and the defenders had already resumed the labours

by which they proposed to render the place tenable, when the watchman,

who was placed in a high turret, called the Warder’s Tower, gave the

signal that a horseman was approaching. As he came nearer, his dress

indicated an officer of the Life-Guards; and the slowness of his horse’s

pace, as well as the manner in which the rider stooped on the saddle-bow,

plainly showed that he was sick or wounded. The wicket was instantly

opened to receive him, and Lord Evandale rode into the court-yard, so

reduced by loss of blood, that he was unable to dismount without

assistance. As he entered the hall, leaning upon a servant, the ladies

shrieked with surprise and terror; for, pale as death, stained with

blood, his regimentals soiled and torn, and his hair matted and

disordered, he resembled rather a spectre than a human being. But their

next exclamation was that of joy at his escape.

“Thank God!” exclaimed Lady Margaret, “that you are here, and have

escaped the hands of the bloodthirsty murderers who have cut off so many

of the king’s loyal servants!”

“Thank God!” added Edith, “that you are here and in safety! We have

dreaded the worst. But you are wounded, and I fear we have little the

means of assisting you.”

“My wounds are only sword-cuts,” answered the young nobleman, as he

reposed himself on a seat; “the pain is not worth mentioning, and I

should not even feel exhausted but for the loss of blood. But it was not

my purpose to bring my weakness to add to your danger and distress, but

to relieve them, if possible. What can I do for you?--Permit me,” he

added, addressing Lady Margaret--“permit me to think and act as your son,

my dear madam--as your brother, Edith!”

He pronounced the last part of the sentence with some emphasis, as if he

feared that the apprehension of his pretensions as a suitor might render

his proffered services unacceptable to Miss Bellenden. She was not

insensible to his delicacy, but there was no time for exchange of

sentiments.

“We are preparing for our defence,” said the old lady with great dignity;

“my brother has taken charge of our garrison, and, by the grace of God,

we will give the rebels such a reception as they deserve.”

“How gladly,” said Evandale, “would I share in the defence of the Castle!

But in my present state, I should be but a burden to you, nay, something

worse; for, the knowledge that an officer of the Life-Guards was in the

Castle would be sufficient to make these rogues more desperately earnest

to possess themselves of it. If they find it defended only by the family,

they may possibly march on to Glasgow rather than hazard an assault.”

“And can you think so meanly of us, my lord,” said Edith, with the

generous burst of feeling which woman so often evinces, and which becomes

her so well, her voice faltering through eagerness, and her brow

colouring with the noble warmth which dictated her language--“Can you

think so meanly of your friends, as that they would permit such

considerations to interfere with their sheltering and protecting you at a

moment when you are unable to defend yourself, and when the whole country

is filled with the enemy? Is there a cottage in Scotland whose owners

would permit a valued friend to leave it in such circumstances? And can

you think we will allow you to go from a castle which we hold to be

strong enough for our own defence?”

“Lord Evandale need never think of it,” said Lady Margaret. “I will dress

his wounds myself; it is all an old wife is fit for in war time; but to

quit the Castle of Tillietudlem when the sword of the enemy is drawn to

slay him,--the meanest trooper that ever wore the king’s coat on his back

should not do so, much less my young Lord Evandale.--Ours is not a house

that ought to brook such dishonour. The tower of Tillietudlem has been

too much distinguished by the visit of his most sacred”--

Here she was interrupted by the entrance of the Major.

“We have taken a prisoner, my dear uncle,” said Edith--“a wounded

prisoner, and he wants to escape from us. You must help us to keep him by

force.”

“Lord Evandale!” exclaimed the veteran. “I am as much pleased as when I

got my first commission. Claverhouse reported you were killed, or missing

at least.”

“I should have been slain, but for a friend of yours,” said Lord

Evandale, speaking with some emotion, and bending his eyes on the ground,

as if he wished to avoid seeing the impression that what he was about to

say would make upon Miss Bellenden. “I was unhorsed and defenceless, and

the sword raised to dispatch me, when young Mr Morton, the prisoner for

whom you interested yourself yesterday morning, interposed in the most

generous manner, preserved my life, and furnished me with the means of

escaping.”

As he ended the sentence, a painful curiosity overcame his first

resolution; he raised his eyes to Edith’s face, and imagined he could

read in the glow of her cheek and the sparkle of her eye, joy at hearing

of her lover’s safety and freedom, and triumph at his not having been

left last in the race of generosity. Such, indeed, were her feelings; but

they were also mingled with admiration of the ready frankness with which

Lord Evandale had hastened to bear witness to the merit of a favoured

rival, and to acknowledge an obligation which, in all probability, he

would rather have owed to any other individual in the world.

Major Bellenden, who would never have observed the emotions of either

party, even had they been much more markedly expressed, contented himself

with saying, “Since Henry Morton has influence with these rascals, I am

glad he has so exerted it; but I hope he will get clear of them as soon

as he can. Indeed, I cannot doubt it. I know his principles, and that he

detests their cant and hypocrisy. I have heard him laugh a thousand times

at the pedantry of that old presbyterian scoundrel, Poundtext, who, after

enjoying the indulgence of the government for so many years, has now,

upon the very first ruffle, shown himself in his own proper colours, and

set off, with three parts of his cropeared congregation, to join the host

of the fanatics.--But how did you escape after leaving the field, my

lord?”

“I rode for my life, as a recreant knight must,” answered Lord Evandale,

smiling. “I took the route where I thought I had least chance of meeting

with any of the enemy, and I found shelter for several hours--you will

hardly guess where.”

“At Castle Bracklan, perhaps,” said Lady Margaret, “or in the house of

some other loyal gentleman?”

“No, madam. I was repulsed, under one mean pretext or another, from more

than one house of that description, for fear of the enemy following my

traces; but I found refuge in the cottage of a poor widow, whose husband

had been shot within these three months by a party of our corps, and

whose two sons are at this very moment with the insurgents.”

“Indeed?” said Lady Margaret Bellenden; “and was a fanatic woman capable

of such generosity?--but she disapproved, I suppose, of the tenets of her

family?”

“Far from it, madam,” continued the young nobleman; “she was in principle

a rigid recusant, but she saw my danger and distress, considered me as a

fellow-creature, and forgot that I was a cavalier and a soldier. She

bound my wounds, and permitted me to rest upon her bed, concealed me from

a party of the insurgents who were seeking for stragglers, supplied me

with food, and did not suffer me to leave my place of refuge until she

had learned that I had every chance of getting to this tower without

danger.”

“It was nobly done,” said Miss Bellenden; “and I trust you will have an

opportunity of rewarding her generosity.”

“I am running up an arrear of obligation on all sides, Miss Bellenden,

during these unfortunate occurrences,” replied Lord Evandale; “but when I

can attain the means of showing my gratitude, the will shall not be

wanting.”

All now joined in pressing Lord Evandale to relinquish his intention of

leaving the Castle; but the argument of Major Bellenden proved the most

effectual.

“Your presence in the Castle will be most useful, if not absolutely

necessary, my lord, in order to maintain, by your authority, proper

discipline among the fellows whom Claverhouse has left in garrison here,

and who do not prove to be of the most orderly description of inmates;

and, indeed, we have the Colonel’s authority, for that very purpose, to

detain any officer of his regiment who might pass this way.”

“That,” said Lord Evandale, “is an unanswerable argument, since it shows

me that my residence here may be useful, even in my present disabled

state.”

“For your wounds, my lord,” said the Major, “if my sister, Lady

Bellenden, will undertake to give battle to any feverish symptom, if such

should appear, I will answer that my old campaigner, Gideon Pike, shall

dress a flesh-wound with any of the incorporation of Barber-Surgeons. He

had enough of practice in Montrose’s time, for we had few regularly-bred

army chirurgeons, as you may well suppose.--You agree to stay with us,

then?”

“My reasons for leaving the Castle,” said Lord Evandale, glancing a look

towards Edith, “though they evidently seemed weighty, must needs give way

to those which infer the power of serving you. May I presume, Major, to

enquire into the means and plan of defence which you have prepared? or

can I attend you to examine the works?”

It did not escape Miss Bellenden, that Lord Evandale seemed much

exhausted both in body and mind. “I think, sir,” she said, addressing the

Major, “that since Lord Evandale condescends to become an officer of our

garrison, you should begin by rendering him amenable to your authority,

and ordering him to his apartment, that he may take some refreshment ere

he enters on military discussions.”

“Edith is right,” said the old lady; “you must go instantly to bed, my

lord, and take some febrifuge, which I will prepare with my own hand; and

my lady-in-waiting, Mistress Martha Weddell, shall make some friar’s

chicken, or something very light. I would not advise wine.--John Gudyill,

let the housekeeper make ready the chamber of dais. Lord Evandale must

lie down instantly. Pike will take off the dressings, and examine the

state of the wounds.”

“These are melancholy preparations, madam,” said Lord Evandale, as he

returned thanks to Lady Margaret, and was about to leave the hall,--“but

I must submit to your ladyship’s directions; and I trust that your skill

will soon make me a more able defender of your castle than I am at

present. You must render my body serviceable as soon as you can, for you

have no use for my head while you have Major Bellenden.”

With these words he left the apartment.

“An excellent young man, and a modest,” said the Major.

“None of that conceit,” said Lady Margaret, “that often makes young folk

suppose they know better how their complaints should be treated than

people that have had experience.”

“And so generous and handsome a young nobleman,” said Jenny Dennison, who

had entered during the latter part of this conversation, and was now left

alone with her mistress in the hall, the Major returning to his military

cares, and Lady Margaret to her medical preparations.

Edith only answered these encomiums with a sigh; but, although silent,

she felt and knew better than any one how much they were merited by the

person on whom they were bestowed. Jenny, however, failed not to follow

up her blow.

“After a’, it’s true that my lady says--there’s nae trusting a

presbyterian; they are a’ faithless man-sworn louns. Whae wad hae thought

that young Milnwood and Cuddie Headrigg wad hae taen on wi’ thae rebel

blackguards?”

“What do you mean by such improbable nonsense, Jenny?” said her young

mistress, very much displeased.

“I ken it’s no pleasing for you to hear, madam,” answered Jenny hardily;

“and it’s as little pleasant for me to tell; but as gude ye suld ken a’

about it sune as syne, for the haill Castle’s ringing wi’t.”

“Ringing with what, Jenny? Have you a mind to drive me mad?” answered

Edith, impatiently.

“Just that Henry Morton of Milnwood is out wi’ the rebels, and ane o’

their chief leaders.”

“It is a falsehood!” said Edith--“a most base calumny! and you are very

bold to dare to repeat it to me. Henry Morton is incapable of such

treachery to his king and country--such cruelty to me--to--to all the

innocent and defenceless victims, I mean, who must suffer in a civil

war--I tell you he is utterly incapable of it, in every sense.”

“Dear! dear! Miss Edith,” replied Jenny, still constant to her text,

“they maun be better acquainted wi’ young men than I am, or ever wish to

be, that can tell preceesely what they’re capable or no capable o’. But

there has been Trooper Tam, and another chield, out in bonnets and grey

plaids, like countrymen, to recon--reconnoitre--I think John Gudyill ca’d

it; and they hae been amang the rebels, and brought back word that they

had seen young Milnwood mounted on ane o’ the dragoon horses that was

taen at Loudon-hill, armed wi’ swords and pistols, like wha but him, and

hand and glove wi’ the foremost o’ them, and dreeling and commanding the

men; and Cuddie at the heels o’ him, in ane o’ Sergeant Bothwell’s laced

waistcoats, and a cockit hat with a bab o’ blue ribbands at it for the

auld cause o’ the Covenant, (but Cuddie aye liked a blue ribband,) and a

ruffled sark, like ony lord o’ the land--it sets the like o’ him,

indeed!”

“Jenny,” said her young mistress hastily, “it is impossible these men’s

report can be true; my uncle has heard nothing of it at this instant.”

“Because Tam Halliday,” answered the handmaiden, “came in just five

minutes after Lord Evandale; and when he heard his lordship was in the

Castle, he swore (the profane loon!) he would be d--d ere he would make

the report, as he ca’d it, of his news to Major Bellenden, since there

was an officer of his ain regiment in the garrison. Sae he wad have said

naething till Lord Evandale wakened the next morning; only he tauld me

about it,” (here Jenny looked a little down,) “just to vex me about

Cuddie.”

“Poh, you silly girl,” said Edith, assuming some courage, “it is all a

trick of that fellow to teaze you.”

“Na, madam, it canna be that, for John Gudyill took the other dragoon

(he’s an auld hard-favoured man, I wotna his name) into the cellar, and

gae him a tass o’ brandy to get the news out o’ him, and he said just the

same as Tam Halliday, word for word; and Mr Gudyill was in sic a rage,

that he tauld it a’ ower again to us, and says the haill rebellion is

owing to the nonsense o’ my Leddy and the Major, and Lord Evandale, that

begged off young Milnwood and Cuddie yesterday morning, for that, if they

had suffered, the country wad hae been quiet--and troth I am muckle o’

that opinion mysell.”

This last commentary Jenny added to her tale, in resentment of her

mistress’s extreme and obstinate incredulity. She was instantly alarmed,

however, by the effect which her news produced upon her young lady, an

effect rendered doubly violent by the High-church principles and

prejudices in which Miss Bellenden had been educated. Her complexion

became as pale as a corpse, her respiration so difficult that it was on

the point of altogether failing her, and her limbs so incapable of

supporting her, that she sunk, rather than sat, down upon one of the

seats in the hall, and seemed on the eve of fainting. Jenny tried cold

water, burnt feathers, cutting of laces, and all other remedies usual in

hysterical cases, but without any immediate effect.

“God forgie me! what hae I done?” said the repentant fille-de-chambre. “I

wish my tongue had been cuttit out!--Wha wad hae thought o’ her taking on

that way, and a’ for a young lad?--O, Miss Edith--dear Miss Edith, haud

your heart up about it, it’s maybe no true for a’ that I hae said--O, I

wish my mouth had been blistered! A’ body tells me my tongue will do me a

mischief some day. What if my Leddy comes? or the Major?--and she’s

sitting in the throne, too, that naebody has sate in since that weary

morning the King was here!--O, what will I do! O, what will become o’

us!”

While Jenny Dennison thus lamented herself and her mistress, Edith slowly

returned from the paroxysm into which she had been thrown by this

unexpected intelligence.

“If he had been unfortunate,” she said, “I never would have deserted him.

I never did so, even when there was danger and disgrace in pleading his

cause. If he had died, I would have mourned him--if he had been

unfaithful, I would have forgiven him; but a rebel to his King,--a

traitor to his country,--the associate and colleague of cut-throats and

common stabbers,--the persecutor of all that is noble,--the professed and

blasphemous enemy of all that is sacred,--I will tear him from my heart,

if my life-blood should ebb in the effort!”

She wiped her eyes, and rose hastily from the great chair, (or throne, as

Lady Margaret used to call it,) while the terrified damsel hastened to

shake up the cushion, and efface the appearance of any one having

occupied that sacred seat; although King Charles himself, considering the

youth and beauty as well as the affliction of the momentary usurper of

his hallowed chair, would probably have thought very little of the

profanation. She then hastened officiously to press her support on Edith,

as she paced the hall apparently in deep meditation.

“Tak my arm, madam; better just tak my arm; sorrow maun hae its vent, and

doubtless”--

“No, Jenny,” said Edith, with firmness; “you have seen my weakness, and

you shall see my strength.”

“But ye leaned on me the other morning. Miss Edith, when ye were sae sair

grieved.”

“Misplaced and erring affection may require support, Jenny--duty can

support itself; yet I will do nothing rashly. I will be aware of the

reasons of his conduct--and then--cast him off for ever,” was the firm

and determined answer of her young lady.

Overawed by a manner of which she could neither conceive the motive, nor

estimate the merit, Jenny muttered between her teeth, “Odd, when the

first flight’s ower, Miss Edith taks it as easy as I do, and muckle

easier, and I’m sure I ne’er cared half sae muckle about Cuddie Headrigg

as she did about young Milnwood. Forby that, it’s maybe as weel to hae a

friend on baith sides; for, if the whigs suld come to tak the Castle, as

it’s like they may, when there’s sae little victual, and the dragoons

wasting what’s o’t, ou, in that case, Milnwood and Cuddie wad hae the

upper hand, and their freendship wad be worth siller--I was thinking sae

this morning or I heard the news.”

With this consolatory reflection the damsel went about her usual

occupations, leaving her mistress to school her mind as she best might,

for eradicating the sentiments which she had hitherto entertained towards

Henry Morton.

CHAPTER IV.

Once more into the breach--dear friends, once more!

Henry V.

On the evening of this day, all the information which they could procure

led them to expect, that the insurgent army would be with early dawn on

their march against Tillietudlem. Lord Evandale’s wounds had been

examined by Pike, who reported them in a very promising state. They were

numerous, but none of any consequence; and the loss of blood, as much

perhaps as the boasted specific of Lady Margaret, had prevented any

tendency to fever; so that, notwithstanding he felt some pain and great

weakness, the patient maintained that he was able to creep about with the

assistance of a stick. In these circumstances he refused to be confined

to his apartment, both that he might encourage the soldiers by his

presence, and suggest any necessary addition to the plan of defence,

which the Major might be supposed to have arranged upon something of an

antiquated fashion of warfare. Lord Evandale was well qualified to give

advice on such subjects, having served, during his early youth, both in

France and in the Low Countries. There was little or no occasion,

however, for altering the preparations already made; and, excepting on

the article of provisions, there seemed no reason to fear for the defence

of so strong a place against such assailants as those by whom it was

threatened.

With the peep of day, Lord Evandale and Major Bellenden were on the

battlements again, viewing and re-viewing the state of their

preparations, and anxiously expecting the approach of the enemy. I ought

to observe, that the report of the spies had now been regularly made and

received; but the Major treated the report that Morton was in arms

against the government with the most scornful incredulity.

“I know the lad better,” was the only reply he deigned to make; “the

fellows have not dared to venture near enough, and have been deceived by

some fanciful resemblance, or have picked up some story.”

“I differ from you, Major,” answered Lord Evandale; “I think you will see

that young gentleman at the head of the insurgents; and, though I shall

be heartily sorry for it, I shall not be greatly surprised.”

“You are as bad as Claverhouse,” said the Major, “who contended yesterday

morning down my very throat, that this young fellow, who is as

high-spirited and gentleman-like a boy as I have ever known, wanted but

an opportunity to place himself at the head of the rebels.”

“And considering the usage which he has received, and the suspicions

under which he lies,” said Lord Evandale, “what other course is open to

him? For my own part, I should hardly know whether he deserved most blame

or pity.”

“Blame, my lord?--Pity!” echoed the Major, astonished at hearing such

sentiments; “he would deserve to be hanged, that’s all; and, were he my

own son, I should see him strung up with pleasure--Blame, indeed! But

your lordship cannot think as you are pleased to speak?”

“I give you my honour, Major Bellenden, that I have been for some time of

opinion, that our politicians and prelates have driven matters to a

painful extremity in this country, and have alienated, by violence of

various kinds, not only the lower classes, but all those in the upper

ranks, whom strong party-feeling, or a desire of court-interest, does not

attach to their standard.”

“I am no politician,” answered the Major, “and I do not understand nice

distinctions. My sword is the King’s, and when he commands, I draw it in

his cause.”

“I trust,” replied the young lord, “you will not find me more backward

than yourself, though I heartily wish that the enemy were foreigners. It

is, however, no time to debate that matter, for yonder they come, and we

must defend ourselves as well as we can.”

As Lord Evandale spoke, the van of the insurgents began to make their

appearance on the road which crossed the top of the hill, and thence

descended opposite to the Tower. They did not, however, move downwards,

as if aware that, in doing so, their columns would be exposed to the fire

of the artillery of the place. But their numbers, which at first seemed

few, appeared presently so to deepen and concentrate themselves, that,

judging of the masses which occupied the road behind the hill from the

closeness of the front which they presented on the top of it, their force

appeared very considerable. There was a pause of anxiety on both sides;

and, while the unsteady ranks of the Covenanters were agitated, as if by

pressure behind, or uncertainty as to their next movement, their arms,

picturesque from their variety, glanced in the morning sun, whose beams

were reflected from a grove of pikes, muskets, halberds, and battle-axes.

The armed mass occupied, for a few minutes, this fluctuating position,

until three or four horsemen, who seemed to be leaders, advanced from the

front, and occupied the height a little nearer to the Castle. John

Gudyill, who was not without some skill as an artilleryman, brought a gun

to bear on this detached group.

“I’ll flee the falcon,”--(so the small cannon was called,)--“I’ll flee

the falcon whene’er your honour gies command; my certie, she’ll ruffle

their feathers for them!”

The Major looked at Lord Evandale.

“Stay a moment,” said the young nobleman, “they send us a flag of truce.”

In fact, one of the horsemen at that moment dismounted, and, displaying a

white cloth on a pike, moved forward towards the Tower, while the Major

and Lord Evandale, descending from the battlement of the main fortress,

advanced to meet him as far as the barricade, judging it unwise to admit

him within the precincts which they designed to defend. At the same time

that the ambassador set forth, the group of horsemen, as if they had

anticipated the preparations of John Gudyill for their annoyance,

withdrew from the advanced station which they had occupied, and fell back

to the main body.

The envoy of the Covenanters, to judge by his mien and manner, seemed

fully imbued with that spiritual pride which distinguished his sect. His

features were drawn up to a contemptuous primness, and his half-shut eyes

seemed to scorn to look upon the terrestial objects around, while, at

every solemn stride, his toes were pointed outwards with an air that

appeared to despise the ground on which they trode. Lord Evandale could

not suppress a smile at this singular figure.

“Did you ever,” said he to Major Bellenden, “see such an absurd

automaton? One would swear it moves upon springs--Can it speak, think

you?”

“O, ay,” said the Major; “that seems to be one of my old acquaintance, a

genuine puritan of the right pharisaical leaven.--Stay--he coughs and

hems; he is about to summon the Castle with the but-end of a sermon,

instead of a parley on the trumpet.”

The veteran, who in his day had had many an opportunity to become

acquainted with the manners of these religionists, was not far mistaken

in his conjecture; only that, instead of a prose exordium, the Laird of

Langcale--for it was no less a personage--uplifted, with a Stentorian

voice, a verse of the twenty-fourth Psalm:

“Ye gates lift up your heads! ye doors, Doors that do last for aye, Be

lifted up”--

“I told you so,” said the Major to Evandale, and then presented himself

at the entrance of the barricade, demanding to know for what purpose or

intent he made that doleful noise, like a hog in a high wind, beneath the

gates of the Castle.

“I come,” replied the ambassador, in a high and shrill voice, and without

any of the usual salutations or deferences,--“I come from the godly army

of the Solemn League and Covenant, to speak with two carnal malignants,

William Maxwell, called Lord Evandale, and Miles Bellenden of Charnwood.”

“And what have you to say to Miles Bellenden and Lord Evandale?” answered

the Major.

“Are you the parties?” said the Laird of Langcale, in the same sharp,

conceited, disrespectful tone of voice.

“Even so, for fault of better,” said the Major.

“Then there is the public summons,” said the envoy, putting a paper into

Lord Evandale’s hand, “and there is a private letter for Miles Bellenden

from a godly youth, who is honoured with leading a part of our host. Read

them quickly, and God give you grace to fructify by the contents, though

it is muckle to be doubted.”

The summons ran thus: “We, the named and constituted leaders of the

gentlemen, ministers, and others, presently in arms for the cause of

liberty and true religion, do warn and summon William Lord Evandale and

Miles Bellenden of Charnwood, and others presently in arms, and keeping

garrison in the Tower of Tillietudlem, to surrender the said Tower upon

fair conditions of quarter, and license to depart with bag and baggage,

otherwise to suffer such extremity of fire and sword as belong by the

laws of war to those who hold out an untenable post. And so may God

defend his own good cause!”

This summons was signed by John Balfour of Burley, as quarter-master

general of the army of the Covenant, for himself, and in name of the

other leaders.

The letter to Major Bellenden was from Henry Morton. It was couched in

the following language:

“I have taken a step, my venerable friend, which, among many painful

consequences, will, I am afraid, incur your very decided disapprobation.

But I have taken my resolution in honour and good faith, and with the

full approval of my own conscience. I can no longer submit to have my own

rights and those of my fellow-subjects trampled upon, our freedom

violated, our persons insulted, and our blood spilt, without just cause

or legal trial. Providence, through the violence of the oppressors

themselves, seems now to have opened a way of deliverance from this

intolerable tyranny, and I do not hold him deserving of the name and

rights of a freeman, who, thinking as I do, shall withold his arm from

the cause of his country. But God, who knows my heart, be my witness,

that I do not share the angry or violent passions of the oppressed and

harassed sufferers with whom I am now acting. My most earnest and anxious

desire is, to see this unnatural war brought to a speedy end, by the

union of the good, wise, and moderate of all parties, and a peace

restored, which, without injury to the King’s constitutional rights, may

substitute the authority of equal laws to that of military violence, and,

permitting to all men to worship God according to their own consciences,

may subdue fanatical enthusiasm by reason and mildness, instead of

driving it to frenzy by persecution and intolerance.

“With these sentiments, you may conceive with what pain I appear in arms

before the house of your venerable relative, which we understand you

propose to hold out against us. Permit me to press upon you the

assurance, that such a measure will only lead to the effusion of

blood--that, if repulsed in the assault, we are yet strong enough to

invest the place, and reduce it by hunger, being aware of your

indifferent preparations to sustain a protracted siege. It would grieve

me to the heart to think what would be the sufferings in such a case,

and upon whom they would chiefly fall.

“Do not suppose, my respected friend, that I would propose to you any

terms which could compromise the high and honourable character which you

have so deservedly won, and so long borne. If the regular soldiers (to

whom I will ensure a safe retreat) are dismissed from the place, I trust

no more will be required than your parole to remain neuter during this

unhappy contest; and I will take care that Lady Margaret’s property, as

well as yours, shall be duly respected, and no garrison intruded upon

you. I could say much in favour of this proposal; but I fear, as I must

in the present instance appear criminal in your eyes, good arguments

would lose their influence when coming from an unwelcome quarter. I will,

therefore, break off with assuring you, that whatever your sentiments may

be hereafter towards me, my sense of gratitude to you can never be

diminished or erased; and it would be the happiest moment of my life that

should give me more effectual means than mere words to assure you of it.

Therefore, although in the first moment of resentment you may reject the

proposal I make to you, let not that prevent you from resuming the topic,

if future events should render it more acceptable; for whenever, or

howsoever, I can be of service to you, it will always afford the greatest

satisfaction to

“Henry Morton.”

Having read this long letter with the most marked indignation, Major

Bellenden put it into the hands of Lord Evandale.

“I would not have believed this,” he said, “of Henry Morton, if half

mankind had sworn it! The ungrateful, rebellious traitor! rebellious in

cold blood, and without even the pretext of enthusiasm, that warms the

liver of such a crack-brained fop as our friend the envoy there. But I

should have remembered he was a presbyterian--I ought to have been aware

that I was nursing a wolf-cub, whose diabolical nature would make him

tear and snatch at me on the first opportunity. Were Saint Paul on earth

again, and a presbyterian, he would be a rebel in three months--it is in

the very blood of them.”

“Well,” said Lord Evandale, “I will be the last to recommend surrender;

but, if our provisions fail, and we receive no relief from Edinburgh or

Glasgow, I think we ought to avail ourselves of this opening, to get the

ladies, at least, safe out of the Castle.”

“They will endure all, ere they would accept the protection of such a

smooth-tongued hypocrite,” answered the Major indignantly; “I would

renounce them for relatives were it otherwise. But let us dismiss the

worthy ambassador.--My friend,” he said, turning to Langcale, “tell your

leaders, and the mob they have gathered yonder, that, if they have not a

particular opinion of the hardness of their own skulls, I would advise

them to beware how they knock them against these old walls. And let them

send no more flags of truce, or we will hang up the messenger in

retaliation of the murder of Cornet Grahame.”

With this answer the ambassador returned to those by whom he had been

sent. He had no sooner reached the main body than a murmur was heard

amongst the multitude, and there was raised in front of their ranks an

ample red flag, the borders of which were edged with blue. As the signal

of war and defiance spread out its large folds upon the morning wind, the

ancient banner of Lady Margaret’s family, together with the royal ensign,

were immediately hoisted on the walls of the Tower, and at the same time,

a round of artillery was discharged against the foremost ranks of the

insurgents, by which they sustained some loss. Their leaders instantly

withdrew them to the shelter of the brow of the hill.

“I think,” said John Gudyill, while he busied himself in re-charging his

guns, “they hae fund the falcon’s neb a bit ower hard for them--It’s no

for nought that the hawk whistles.”

But as he uttered these words, the ridge was once more crowded with the

ranks of the enemy. A general discharge of their fire-arms was directed

against the defenders upon the battlements. Under cover of the smoke, a

column of picked men rushed down the road with determined courage, and,

sustaining with firmness a heavy fire from the garrison, they forced

their way, in spite of opposition, to the first barricade by which the

avenue was defended. They were led on by Balfour in person, who displayed

courage equal to his enthusiasm; and, in spite of every opposition,

forced the barricade, killing and wounding several of the defenders, and

compelling the rest to retreat to their second position. The precautions,

however, of Major Bellenden rendered this success unavailing; for no

sooner were the Covenanters in possession of the post, than a close and

destructive fire was poured into it from the Castle, and from those

stations which commanded it in the rear. Having no means of protecting

themselves from this fire, or of returning it with effect against men who

were under cover of their barricades and defences, the Covenanters were

obliged to retreat; but not until they had, with their axes, destroyed

the stockade, so as to render it impossible for the defenders to

re-occupy it.

Balfour was the last man that retired. He even remained for a short space

almost alone, with an axe in his hand, labouring like a pioneer amid the

storm of balls, many of which were specially aimed against him. The

retreat of the party he commanded was not effected without heavy loss,

and served as a severe lesson concerning the local advantages possessed

by the garrison.

The next attack of the Covenanters was made with more caution. A strong

party of marksmen, (many of them competitors at the game of the

popinjay,) under the command of Henry Morton, glided through the woods

where they afforded them the best shelter, and, avoiding the open road,

endeavoured, by forcing their way through the bushes and trees, and up

the rocks which surrounded it on either side, to gain a position, from

which, without being exposed in an intolerable degree, they might annoy

the flank of the second barricade, while it was menaced in front by a

second attack from Burley. The besieged saw the danger of this movement,

and endeavoured to impede the approach of the marksmen, by firing upon

them at every point where they showed themselves. The assailants, on the

other hand, displayed great coolness, spirit, and judgment, in the manner

in which they approached the defences. This was, in a great measure, to

be ascribed to the steady and adroit manner in which they were conducted

by their youthful leader, who showed as much skill in protecting his own

followers as spirit in annnoying the enemy.

He repeatedly enjoined his marksmen to direct their aim chiefly upon the

red-coats, and to save the others engaged in the defence of the Castle;

and, above all, to spare the life of the old Major, whose anxiety made

him more than once expose himself in a manner, that, without such

generosity on the part of the enemy, might have proved fatal. A dropping

fire of musketry now glanced from every part of the precipitous mount on

which the Castle was founded. From bush to bush--from crag to crag--from

tree to tree, the marksmen continued to advance, availing themselves of

branches and roots to assist their ascent, and contending at once with

the disadvantages of the ground and the fire of the enemy. At length they

got so high on the ascent, that several of them possessed an opportunity

of firing into the barricade against the defenders, who then lay exposed

to their aim, and Burley, profiting by the confusion of the moment, moved

forward to the attack in front. His onset was made with the same

desperation and fury as before, and met with less resistance, the

defenders being alarmed at the progress which the sharp-shooters had made

in turning the flank of their position. Determined to improve his

advantage, Burley, with his axe in his hand, pursued the party whom he

had dislodged even to the third and last barricade, and entered it along

with them.

“Kill, kill--down with the enemies of God and his people!--No

quarter--The Castle is ours!” were the cries by which he animated his

friends; the most undaunted of whom followed him close, whilst the

others, with axes, spades, and other implements, threw up earth, cut

down trees, hastily labouring to establish such a defensive cover in the

rear of the second barricade as might enable them to retain possession

of it, in case the Castle was not carried by this coup-de-main.

Lord Evandale could no longer restrain his impatience. He charged with a

few soldiers who had been kept in reserve in the court-yard of the

Castle; and, although his arm was in a sling, encouraged them, by voice

and gesture, to assist their companions who were engaged with Burley. The

combat now assumed an air of desperation. The narrow road was crowded

with the followers of Burley, who pressed forward to support their

companions. The soldiers, animated by the voice and presence of Lord

Evandale, fought with fury, their small numbers being in some measure

compensated by their greater skill, and by their possessing the upper

ground, which they defended desperately with pikes and halberds, as well

as with the but of the carabines and their broadswords. Those within the

Castle endeavoured to assist their companions, whenever they could so

level their guns as to fire upon the enemy without endangering their

friends. The sharp-shooters, dispersed around, were firing incessantly on

each object that was exposed upon the battlement. The Castle was

enveloped with smoke, and the rocks rang to the cries of the combatants.

In the midst of this scene of confusion, a singular accident had nearly

given the besiegers possession of the fortress.

Cuddie Headrigg, who had advanced among the marksmen, being well

acquainted with every rock and bush in the vicinity of the Castle, where

he had so often gathered nuts with Jenny Dennison, was enabled, by such

local knowledge, to advance farther, and with less danger, than most of

his companions, excepting some three or four who had followed him close.

Now Cuddie, though a brave enough fellow upon the whole, was by no means

fond of danger, either for its own sake, or for that of the glory which

attends it. In his advance, therefore, he had not, as the phrase goes,

taken the bull by the horns, or advanced in front of the enemy’s fire. On

the contrary, he had edged gradually away from the scene of action, and,

turning his line of ascent rather to the left, had pursued it until it

brought him under a front of the Castle different from that before which

the parties were engaged, and to which the defenders had given no

attention, trusting to the steepness of the precipice. There was,

however, on this point, a certain window belonging to a certain pantry,

and communicating with a certain yew-tree, which grew out of a steep

cleft of the rock, being the very pass through which Goose Gibbie was

smuggled out of the Castle in order to carry Edith’s express to

Charnwood, and which had probably, in its day, been used for other

contraband purposes. Cuddie, resting upon the but of his gun, and looking

up at this window, observed to one of his companions,--“There’s a place I

ken weel; mony a time I hae helped Jenny Dennison out o’ the winnock,

forby creeping in whiles mysell to get some daffin, at e’en after the

pleugh was loosed.”

“And what’s to hinder us to creep in just now?” said the other, who was a

smart enterprising young fellow.

“There’s no muckle to hinder us, an that were a’,” answered Cuddie; “but

what were we to do neist?”

“We’ll take the Castle,” cried the other; “here are five or six o’ us,

and a’ the sodgers are engaged at the gate.”

“Come awa wi’ you, then,” said Cuddie; “but mind, deil a finger ye maun

lay on Lady Margaret, or Miss Edith, or the auld Major, or, aboon a’, on

Jenny Dennison, or ony body but the sodgers--cut and quarter amang them

as ye like, I carena.”

“Ay, ay,” said the other, “let us once in, and we will make our ain terms

with them a’.”

Gingerly, and as if treading upon eggs, Cuddie began to ascend the

well-known pass, not very willingly; for, besides that he was something

apprehensive of the reception he might meet with in the inside, his

conscience insisted that he was making but a shabby requital for Lady

Margaret’s former favours and protection. He got up, however, into the

yew-tree, followed by his companions, one after another. The window was

small, and had been secured by stancheons of iron; but these had been

long worn away by time, or forced out by the domestics to possess a free

passage for their own occasional convenience. Entrance was therefore

easy, providing there was no one in the pantry, a point which Cuddie

endeavoured to discover before he made the final and perilous step. While

his companions, therefore, were urging and threatening him behind, and he

was hesitating and stretching his neck to look into the apartment, his

head became visible to Jenny Dennison, who had ensconced herself in said

pantry as the safest place in which to wait the issue of the assault. So

soon as this object of terror caught her eye, she set up a hysteric

scream, flew to the adjacent kitchen, and, in the desperate agony of

fear, seized on a pot of kailbrose which she herself had hung on the fire

before the combat began, having promised to Tam Halliday to prepare his

breakfast for him. Thus burdened, she returned to the window of the

pantry, and still exclaiming, “Murder! murder!--we are a’ harried and

ravished--the Castle’s taen--tak it amang ye!” she discharged the whole

scalding contents of the pot, accompanied with a dismal yell, upon the

person of the unfortunate Cuddie. However welcome the mess might have

been, if Cuddie and it had become acquainted in a regular manner, the

effects, as administered by Jenny, would probably have cured him of

soldiering for ever, had he been looking upwards when it was thrown upon

him. But, fortunately for our man of war, he had taken the alarm upon

Jenny’s first scream, and was in the act of looking down, expostulating

with his comrades, who impeded the retreat which he was anxious to

commence; so that the steel cap and buff coat which formerly belonged to

Sergeant Bothwell, being garments of an excellent endurance, protected

his person against the greater part of the scalding brose. Enough,

however, reached him to annoy him severely, so that in the pain and

surprise he jumped hastily out of the tree, oversetting his followers, to

the manifest danger of their limbs, and, without listening to arguments,

entreaties, or authority, made the best of his way by the most safe road

to the main body of the army whereunto he belonged, and could neither by

threats nor persuasion be prevailed upon to return to the attack.

[Illustration: Jenny Dennison--050]

As for Jenny, when she had thus conferred upon one admirer’s outward man

the viands which her fair hands had so lately been in the act of

preparing for the stomach of another, she continued her song of alarm,

running a screaming division upon all those crimes, which the lawyers

call the four pleas of the crown, namely, murder, fire, rape, and

robbery. These hideous exclamations gave so much alarm, and created such

confusion within the Castle, that Major Bellenden and Lord Evandale

judged it best to draw off from the conflict without the gates, and,

abandoning to the enemy all the exterior defences of the avenue, confine

themselves to the Castle itself, for fear of its being surprised on some

unguarded point. Their retreat was unmolested; for the panic of Cuddie

and his companions had occasioned nearly as much confusion on the side

of the besiegers, as the screams of Jenny had caused to the defenders.

There was no attempt on either side to renew the action that day. The

insurgents had suffered most severely; and, from the difficulty which

they had experienced in carrying the barricadoed positions without the

precincts of the Castle, they could have but little hope of storming the

place itself. On the other hand, the situation of the besieged was

dispiriting and gloomy. In the skirmishing they had lost two or three

men, and had several wounded; and though their loss was in proportion

greatly less than that of the enemy, who had left twenty men dead on the

place, yet their small number could much worse spare it, while the

desperate attacks of the opposite party plainly showed how serious the

leaders were in the purpose of reducing the place, and how well seconded

by the zeal of their followers. But, especially, the garrison had to fear

for hunger, in case blockade should be resorted to as the means of

reducing them. The Major’s directions had been imperfectly obeyed in

regard to laying in provisions; and the dragoons, in spite of all warning

and authority, were likely to be wasteful in using them. It was,

therefore, with a heavy heart, that Major Bellenden gave directions for

guarding the window through which the Castle had so nearly been

surprised, as well as all others which offered the most remote facility

for such an enterprise.

CHAPTER V.

The King hath drawn

The special head of all the land together.

Henry IV. Part II.

The leaders of the presbyterian army had a serious consultation upon the

evening of the day in which they had made the attack on Tillietudlem.

They could not but observe that their followers were disheartened by the

loss which they had sustained, and which, as usual in such cases, had

fallen upon the bravest and most forward. It was to be feared, that if

they were suffered to exhaust their zeal and efforts in an object so

secondary as the capture of this petty fort, their numbers would melt

away by degrees, and they would lose all the advantages arising out of

the present unprepared state of the government. Moved by these arguments,

it was agreed that the main body of the army should march against

Glasgow, and dislodge the soldiers who were lying in that town. The

council nominated Henry Morton, with others, to this last service, and

appointed Burley to the command of a chosen body of five hundred men, who

were to remain behind, for the purpose of blockading the Tower of

Tillietudlem. Morton testified the greatest repugnance to this

arrangement.

“He had the strongest personal motives,” he said, “for desiring to remain

near Tillietudlem; and if the management of the siege were committed to

him, he had little doubt but that he would bring it to such an

accommodation, as, without being rigorous to the besieged, would fully

answer the purpose of the besiegers.”

Burley readily guessed the cause of his young colleague’s reluctance to

move with the army; for, interested as he was in appreciating the

characters with whom he had to deal, he had contrived, through the

simplicity of Cuddie, and the enthusiasm of old Mause, to get much

information concerning Morton’s relations with the family of

Tillietudlem. He therefore took the advantage of Poundtext’s arising to

speak to business, as he said, for some short space of time, (which

Burley rightly interpreted to mean an hour at the very least), and seized

that moment to withdraw Morton from the hearing of their colleagues, and

to hold the following argument with him:

“Thou art unwise, Henry Morton, to desire to sacrifice this holy cause to

thy friendship for an uncircumcised Philistine, or thy lust for a

Moabitish woman.”

“I neither understand your meaning, Mr Balfour, nor relish your

allusions,” replied Morton, indignantly; “and I know no reason you have

to bring so gross a charge, or to use such uncivil language.”