And in this I was right, for he answered at once,--

'I am David Crauford the younger of Kerse, but what said you of

safe-conducts?'

So I showed him the rings, and told him that my business lay by word of

mouth with his father. Thereafter I laid before him the matter of the

scoundrels running at me nigh to Dalrymple bridge. Indeed, we could

even then see them retiring in a group.

'Let us ride to the bridge head now, and see if they will molest us?'

And this we did, but none stirred nor showed themselves.

'So,' he said, 'let us ride on to Kerse.'

As we went our way we had much excellent discourse of the news of the

countryside, and also of Edinburgh and its customs. I found David

Crauford a fine and brave fellow, and regretted heartily that he was not

on our side of the blanket--a thing which, indeed, I was too apt to do.

I considered it an unfair thing that all the shavelings should be ours,

and all the paladins theirs. Yet I was comforted by the thought that it

was easier to be distinguished among the men of Cassillis than with

Bargany--for in the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king, as

the saw hath it.

Thus we came at last to the place of Kerse. It was a handsome tower,

with additions that made it almost a castle, standing upon a rising

ground by a loch, and overlooked at a safe distance by some high rocks

and scaurs, which David Crauford told me were called the Craigs of Kyle.

It was the slowest time of the afternoon when we arrived at the ancient

strength, and David, saying that his father might not be wakeful,

slipped on ahead, in order to assure me a proper reception--so, at

least, he said.

And at the doorway I was met by many men-at-arms, with pikes in their

hands and feathers in their bonnets. And there came forth to meet me

eight of the twelve brothers of Kerse, all bareheaded and with swords at

their sides. In the background I could see the cause of my adventuring

Currie, the Laird of Kelwood--bowing and smirking like a French

dancing-master. But I never so much as looked his way.

'From whom come you, and in peace or war?' said David Crauford, just as

though I had not told him--which was quite right and proper, for these

commissions of diplomacy should be carried out with decorum and

observance.

'I come,' said I, 'from the Earl and also from the Tutor of Cassillis,

and am commissioned to speak with the Laird of Kerse in their name and

on their behalf.'

With that I was conducted through a lesser into a greater hall, at the

upper end of which was a raised platform, two feet or so above the

floor. The hall and dais were alike strewed with yellow bent grass,

such as grows upon the sides of the hills and on the seashore. On the

dais stood a great oaken chair with a hood about it, and in it there sat

the noblest old man that ever I saw. He seemed by his beard and hair to

be ninety years of age at the least, yet his natural colour was in his

cheek, and he was gleg both to hear and to speak.

So they introduced me, and I went up to the old man of Kerse to show my

credentials, bending my knee, but not near to the ground, in token of

courtesy.

'Come hither, David, and tell me what are the posies on the rings.'

So David came near, and, looking at my hand, he read that motto of the

Earl of Cassillis--'_Avise a fin_!' it read.

'Ay, ay, that will do. Let the lad speak his message,' said the old

man.

Then in the midst of three-score Craufords I set myself, with my

shoulders squared and my hand on my hip, to speak the message of my

lord. I do not deny that I liked the job well enough, for it was the

sort which enables a man to make a figure--thus to stand alone among a

host of enemies, and speak a challenge of defiance.

'Master David Crauford, Laird of Kerse and Skeldon,' said I, giving out

his titles like a herald, 'I bear you greeting and worship from John,

Earl of Cassillis, and Sir Thomas Kennedy of Culzean, Tutor of that

ilk.'

The old man bowed in token of respect for the formal courtesy. 'My

principals bid me say that they request and demand as their right, that

you shall deliver up to them the Laird of Kelwood, their liege vassal,

presently rebel and fugitive; and also that you render back the box of

treasure and the stones of price which they have good reason to believe

their vassal aforesaid hath concealed with you. These things being

done, they assure you of their friendship and support in all your

undertakings.'

So I gave it out clearly, formally, dispassionately, and without heat,

as one that is accustomed to high commissions.

As I spoke I saw the old man grip his staff as though it had been a

sword, and ere I had done, he had half risen from his seat as though he

would have struck me to the ground.

'And you dare, you beardless birkie, to bring such a message to Crauford

of Kerse, in his own hall and among his own folk?'

But I stood still with my hand on my side as before, looking at him with

a level brow, knowing that without a weapon in my hand, and with a

double safe-conduct on my finger, I had by far the best of it, ay,

though there had been a thousand Craufords in the hall.

'Father, father,' said David from behind, as one accustomed to soothe

the old man's anger.

'I ken--I ken bravely. The laddie has to bring his message, but

Scraping Johnny of Cassillis shall rue this day. Tell him,' he cried,

his voice rising to a wild scream, 'that I have seen no doit of the

dirty money which he howks out of every dub with his swine's snout. The

Laird of Kelwood indeed, I have with me, and here he shall bide while it

likes him--not for his own sake, for he is small credit either to

Kennedy or Crauford (to his face I say it), but because Kerse is an

eagle sitting on high, and it has not yet come to it that he must,

forsooth, throw down so much as a well-pyked bone at the bidding of

Cassillis.'

I bowed to the ground as having gotten my answer. But I had another part

of the piece still to play, and the doing of it liked me even better,

for I saw that this time I should anger not only the old man but the

young.

'Then,' said I, 'in the name of John, Earl of Cassillis, whom ye call

swine's snout, I am charged to tell you that if ye will not deliver the

man and the thing that are his just right, then will my master come and

gar ye be fain to deliver them--'

Then there went a murmur of scorn and anger all about the hall, and the

white locks of the old man fairly bristled on his head. But I spoke on,

level as a clerk that reads his lessons.

'Hearken ye to the word of Cassillis--the last word--gin ye refuse he

will come on Lammas day proximate, and in token of ignominy and despite,

he will tether a brood sow upon the lands of Kerse, and not a Crauford

shall steer her for the length of a summer's day.'

What a shout of anger went up from about the hall! The blades of the

young men fairly blazed from their sheaths. The old man rose in his

chair and lifted his staff by the middle. Two tall servitors that stood

at the back of the hall, lighting the dusk with torches, sprang forward

ready to catch him should his strength fail. There were at least thirty

swords pointed at my breast, and one great lout threatened me with a

Lochaber axe.

But with my heart swelling I stood still and calm amid the graceless

tumult, like one of the carven stones which look out from the niches of

Crossraguel. Motionless I stood as I had done from the first, for I was

a herald with an Earl's message.

'An insult! an insult! an insult in the hall of Kerse. Kill the black

Kennedy!' they cried, gnashing on me with their teeth like wild beasts.

I declare I never was happier in my life, knowing that I had made that

day a figure which would not be forgotten, and that my bearing among

them would be spoken of over all Carrick and Kyle. How I wished that

Marjorie Kennedy could have seen me. And I smiled as I thought how

little it mattered after this, whether or no Nell Kennedy turned

tale-pyet.

'I will take the smile off his black Kennedy's face with a paik of this

Lochaber axe!' cried my great lout. But indeed I smiled not at him nor

any of his sept, but at the thought of Nell Kennedy.

Then when they had roared themselves out in anger, they became, as I

take it, some deal ashamed of the hideous uproar, and of a sudden were

silent--as with a stave thrust in the joint and a twist of the wrist one

may shut off a noisy mill-lade.

So I got in my last word.

'Thereafter, John, Earl of Cassillis, bids me say that he will leave not

one standing stone in the house of Kerse upon another, for the despite

and contempt done to him as its overlord.'

Then the loud anger gave place to silent, deadly hate, and it was some

time before any could speak. David the younger would have spoken, but

his father waved him down, fighting for utterance.

'Hear ye, sir, and bear this message and defiance to your master. He

has put a shame on us in this our own house. Tell him that he may bring

his swine to Kerse every Lammas day, and fetch with him every swineherd

Kennedy from every midden-head betwixt Cassillis and the Inch. There

are plenty stout Craufords here in Kyle that can flit them. Ay, though

this hand, that was once as the axe-hand of the Bruce, be shrunken now,

and though I lean on these bearers of torches because of mine age, tell

him that there are twelve stout sons behind me who can render taunt for

taunt, blow for blow, to King or Kennedy. And tell him that Crauford of

Kerse knows no overlord in earth or heaven--least of all John Kennedy,

fifth Earl of Cassillis!'

Then I bowed as one might before some of the glorious pagan gods of whom

Dominie Mure has tales to tell. For, indeed, that was an answer worth

taking back, and, being a man, I know a man when it is given me to see

him. So, with my face to him still, and my bonnet in my hand, I made my

way off the dais. There I turned me about, and, as an Earl's spokesman

should, set my steel bonnet on my head to go out alone through the

crowded hall.

But the old man stayed me.

'Launcelot Kennedy of Kirrieoch,' he said, courteously, 'to you and not

to your master, I say this. Ye have well delivered an ill message. May

ye never get your fill of fighting, and at the last may you die in

harness. I would to God ye were my thirteenth son!'

So I bowed again, and for respect I walked backwards to the door of the

great hall with my head again bare. Then I helmed myself and passed

without to Dom Nicholas.

There was now a full muster of Craufords in the courtyard--a hundred of

them, I should say, at least. But no murmur arose among them as, helped

by a groom, I mounted and moved slowly through the throng, having

saluted David the younger and his brothers with my hand.

Then, as I rode through the gateway, the feet of Dom Nicholas clattering

on the stones, I was aware of a troop of twelve that followed me, all

well-accoutred men riding in order. And I knew the author of that

guard. It was David, who had resolved to see me safe across Dalrymple

bridge, and so gave me the attendance of a prince.

Then knew I how excellent a thing it is to have to do in peace or war

with gentlemen. For to do them justice, the Craufords of Kerse were

neither landloupers nor ambuscaders.

*CHAPTER X*

*SIR THOMAS OF THE TOP-KNOT*

My guard of honour did not leave me till I was within sight of the

towers of Cassillis, when David Crauford and his men parted from me with

silent salute. Nor had the dyke-back hiding gentry so much as ventured

to show their faces. So I rode down to Cassillis yett, a well-kenned

place and famous in story. Down a smooth, green mead I rode to it. At

the gate the porter, a surly rogue, bade me stand.

'Stand thou, hang thee, pock-faced varlet!' I cried; 'haste thee and up

with the gates, or thine ass's ears shall answer for it, nailed

incontinent to a post!'

Whereupon, seeing him wondering and still wavering, I drew off my glove

and flashed the Earl's broad signet ring at him. I declare he laid hold

of the pulley like one demented.

'I trust, noble sir, that ye will not mention the matter of my hasty

greeting to my lord,' he said to me as I passed, for the rascal was

shaking in every limb.

'Let it learn you to be better scraped as to the tongue for the time to

come,' I answered sharply, for I was none sorry once for all to read the

villain a lesson. There is nothing better than a man who worthily and

for his office's sake magnifies his office, but there is nothing more

scunnering than that a menial knave, in pride of place, should beard his

betters.

In the hall of Cassillis, while I waited for my lord, I met the old man

of strange aspect, who had been with us upon the Red Moss. He was

dressed in a long, lank robe like a soutane, and he carried a book with

him, very filthy and tattered. In this he read, or pretended to read,

by whiles, muttering and mumbling the words over to himself.

Seeing me stand alone, he came over and began to speak to me about

matters that I knew not of--something that concerned the Black Vault of

Dunure, so I understood him to say.

But his appearance as he talked caused me to laugh, though, being an old

man, I did not let him see it. His head appeared as bald all about as

is a hen's egg. But on the very crown there was an oval place of a

hand's breadth or thereby, from which dropped a crest of yellow-white

hair, very laughable and ludicrous. For as the old man talked the silly

cockscomb on his crown waggled, and being toothless his jaw waggled

also. So that the nut-cracker jaw underneath and the waggling plume

aloft might well have made a cat laugh.

'I am Sir Thomas Tode,' he mumbled, when I began to get a little

familiar with his shambling speech--'ay me, Sir Thomas Tode' (he

pronounced the word as though it had been the name of the foul beast

that squats on its belly), 'the famous Sir Thomas Tode am I. Ay, dear

mother Mary--I mean Christian friends, but a feck of life it has been my

lot to see.'

I thought within me what a strange old scare-the-crows this was, to have

the name and style of knighthood. So I asked him what were his

ancestral possessions.

'I am only poor Sir Thomas Tode, chaplain to two mighty Earls,' he said,

shaking his head and waggling his top-knot, till he looked more like the

father of all the apes that ever were, than a sober cleric.

'Even so,' he went on, 'I was bred to Holy Church--I mean brought up in

ignorance, to serve the Whore that sitteth on the Seven Hills. I was

chaplain to the old Lord Gilbert, the father of the Earl John that is.

Ah, many a time did I shrive him soundly, and none needed it more.

Faith, but he was a ripe, crusted old sinner--'

And Sir Thomas Tode chuckled a senile laugh at his memories of the

bygone wickednesses of the great.

'Faith, I doubt shrewdly that he fries for it now. For in these days

there are no prayers to hoist men out of purgatory by the telling down

of the good broad bonnet pieces--more's the pity for poor honest

churchmen! Ah me, the times that were! The times that were!'

The old man paused a moment to think the matter over, and then very

visibly his mind went wandering after some greater and yet choicer

wickedness which he might retail to me.

'Have you ever heard,' he said at last, 'of the roasting of the Abbot of

Crossraguel? Man, I was there--yes, I was there--Tom Tode was there,

and turned him on the iron brander till I burned my fingers!'

And the ancient rascal beat merrily on the floor with his stick and

charked together his toothless gums.

'Now sit ye down, and I shall tell you all that took place in the Black

Vaut of Dunure--'

Just then I saw a sonsy, red-faced woman, ample of bosom and with many

plies of wylicoats pleated and gathered about her, rise from the black

stair head--even as Dominie Mure fables that Venus (a heathen goddess,

but one of whose ongoings I own it diverts me greatly to hear) did from

the sea. With three strides she came across the hall and caught Sir

Thomas Tode by the shock of yellow-white hair on his crown.

'Be you at it again?' she cried. 'I will give you your fill of the

Black Vaut of Dunure, doddering old bletherer that ye are. Who is to

turn my spit, I would have you tell me, gin you waste your time

yammering to wanchancy lazybones of the Black Vaut of Dunure? "Black

Vaut of Dunure" indeed! You have told your lies till I declare you grow

to believe them yourself!'

So without a word of protest from the knightly lips of Sir Thomas Tode,

he was led below, his head nodding and bowing as his captor shook the

yellow top-knot.

After the pair were gone, I laughed both loud and long, so that they had

to fetch me nigh on a gallon of strong ale to recover me of my access of

mirth, and prepare me for the presence of the Earl.

And right certainly did I vow within my heart, that it would not be long

before I renewed acquaintance with Sir Thomas and his tyrant, for it

seemed a strange and merry thing to sec an Earl's chaplain so used. It

was, indeed, many a day since I had seen such sport.

At last I was led in to the Earl. He sat in a rich dressing-robe,

flowered with gold, and a leather-bound book with knobs and studs of

brass lay open beside him. It was the account book of his estates and

overlordships.

'What was that loud mirth I heard a moment since?' he asked, for the

Earl John did not seem to be in the best of tempers. Indeed he was said

never to be canny to come near, when he was in the same house as his

wife, a thing passing strange and but not wholly without precedent.

I answered that I laughed at a good story of Sir Thomas Tode, his

private chaplain.

'My what!' he cried. 'Oh, ye mean old Tode of the Top-knot! Was his

story about the Black Vault of Dunure?'

And without stopping for an answer he went on with one of his proverbs,

just as though he had not sent me on an errand, and that in peril of my

life. I never met a young man so broadened on wiseacre saws and

proverbs in my life. It was clean ridiculous, though well enough in a

gap-toothed grandfather, no doubt.

'The loud laughter of the idle gathereth no gear,' said Earl John.

'No,' replied I, 'but since it cheers the heart, it costs less than your

good strong ale.'

'Ay, but,' he said, breaking in and looking pleased, 'but you have had

some deal of that too. I can smell it.'

Then he looked briskly up, as if delighted with himself for his

penetration, and catching me with my hand held guiltily before my mouth,

he smiled.

'Well,' he said, 'can you not come to the point--why stand so long

agape? What of your mission?'

So, being nothing loath, I told him the whole matter, much as I have

related it in this place. And though at the beginning he sat calmly

enough to listen, long before I had finished he was striding up and down

the room gripping at his thigh, where for common he wore his sword--for,

after all, Earl John was a true Cassillis, and neither craven nor

hen-hearted.

'And they roared upon you, standing still. Nay, you did well! I wish

it had been I! Man, I will give you the horse you rode upon, and all

the caparison. I declare I will!'

For which I thanked him in words; but in my heart I said, 'It is an easy

present to give that which is your uncle's, and hath indeed been mine

for weeks.'

Then he seemed to remember, for he said, 'But give me back my signet.

Ye have done well, and on Lammas day ye shall do better. Will ye take a

ring or a sword for a keepsake?'

A moment only I divided my mind. A ring, if good, would indeed buy many

swords. But Cassillis was not the man to give a ring of price.

Contrariwise a sword was a thing that all men had good skill of, and for

very shame's sake a good sword would he give.

'I crave a sword,' said I, briefly.

'Ye have chosen like a soldier. I shall not grudge you the wale of

swords,' the Earl made reply, smiling upon me, well pleased.

So with that he went out into the armoury, and came back with the

noblest sword I had ever seen. Blade, hilt, and scabbard were all

inlaid with scrolled Damascus work of gold, thin limned and delicate--I

never saw the like. And my blood leaped within me--I declare to my

shame, nigh as hotly as it did when Marjorie Kennedy kissed me on the

brow in the arbour of the pleasaunce at the house of Culzean.

'Buckle it on, and take it with you,' said the Earl, 'lest looking long

upon it my heart should smite me, and I want it back again.'

So I thanked him and presently was gone without great ceremony, lest,

indeed, it should be so.

'Stay the night at Cassillis,' he cried after me. 'I have a letter to

send to my eame the Tutor in the morning.'

*CHAPTER XI*

*SWORD AND SPIT*

The house of Cassillis is not a great place for size, to be so famous.

But the Earl has many castles, to which he goes oftentimes--specially to

the grand house of the new style which he is building at the Inch, and

from which he means to assert his overlordship of the Lairds of

Galloway, which, as I see it, is likely to breed him trouble--more than

if he had stayed here at home and flairdied his old gammer mistress into

good humour.

So, leaving his presence, I went to see that Dom Nicholas had the best

of food and bedding, passing through the grooms and men-at-arms in the

bravery of my Damascus sword, walking carelessly as though I wore

suchlike every day--a thing I liked well to do. I also made them change

the straw for better, though, indeed, there was little to find fault

with. But it is always best when one goes first into the stables of the

great to speak loud, to cry, 'Here, sirrah, what means this?' And then

order fresh bedding to be brought, and that instantly. Thus I made

myself respected, and so walked out, while the grooms bowed, pulling the

while at my moustache and pressing upon the hilt of my sword, so that

the point stood out at the proper angle behind with my cloak a-droop

over it, as I have said.

Then, on my way back to the house, I must needs pass--or so I made it

appear--through the kitchens, where I found my tyrant

Venus-of-the-fiery-face in the act of cooking the supper.

Seeing me lean against the baking board, dressed so _cap-a-pie_, she

came and brushed me a place to sit upon. Then she asked, 'Would I be

pleased to drink a cup of sack--rare and old?'

So, seeing her set on it, I denied her not; but sat down, unbuckling my

weapon for ease's sake, and throwing it down with clank of blade and

jingle of buckle on the clear-scoured boards of the great deal table in

the midst. The Lord forgive me for caring so mightily about these

things and so little for going to church! Some good day, doubtless, I

shall change about. And in the meanwhile, what would you?

Were you that chance to read never eighteen and thought you not well of

yourself, having a new sword? If not, the Lord pity you. It is little

ye ken.

But all the while I longed to hear more of Sir Thomas Tode, and if it

might be, to see him. So I asked of the lady of the pans where her

husband was.

She set her thumb over her shoulder, pointing to a narrow door as of an

aumrie or wall press.

'He is in there,' she said shortly.

'And what else is there in there?' said I, laughing, for what was I the

wiser?

'Half a bullock is in there,' she said, laughing also. 'That is the

meat-cupboard. It is fine and caller, and he is not troubled with flies

upon his miserable bald head.'

'The meat-safe,' cried I, much astonished; 'and what does a reverend

chaplain and a knight in the meat-safe?'

'The old dotard will not quit his maundering about the Black Vaut of

Dunure to every one that comes near. He got hold of a silly chapman in

the yard that came with fish from Ayr, and I declare he must sit down

and prate by the hour of the Black Vaut of Dunure. So I shut him up in

the meat-safe. Faith, I will give him Black Vaut of Dunure ere I have

done with him. The Black Vaut of Cassillis and the company of the

dinner roast will set him better.'

'And what says my lord to your using his chaplain so?'

The lady gazed at me a moment in a kind of wilderment. Then she broke

into the vulgar speech of the country, which, because I learned to write

English as those at the Queen's Court do, I have used but seldom in this

chronicle--though, of course, not for lack of knowledge.

'Sain me,' she said, 'this may be a queer, uncanny world, but it is

surely no come to that o't yet, that a wife mauna check and chastise her

ain man. Guid Lord, no--life wadna be worth leevin'--see till this--'

she said.

And taking a key from her pocket she rapidly unlocked the door of the

meat-closet.

Sir Thomas was discovered sitting most forlornly within, upon the corner

of a great chest, with many pieces of meat depending from hooks about

his head. His wife, reaching in from the step, took him by the top-knot

of hair as by a handle, and pulled him out upon the floor of the kitchen

with one movement of her arm.

'It's a guid's mercy,' she cried, 'that yince ye war a papish monk wi' a

shaven crown, for the place that ye keepit bare sae lang has ripened

late, after a' the lave o' the crap has been blawn awa' wi' the wind.'

I had been endeavouring to explain to myself the strangeness of the wisp

upon Sir Thomas's head, but the words of his wife made clear the matter.

It was but the retarded growth of his long fallow tonsure.

'An' it's a de'il o' a queer thing,' said Mistress Tode, 'that turning

your coat ootside in should turn your hair inside oot! Heard ye ever

the mak' o' that?'

'It was all owing to--' began Sir Thomas Tode, looking at his wife with

a cringing shamefacedness that was most entertaining.

'Oh, I ken,' interrupted his wife, 'it was owing to the Black Vaut o'

Dunure, nae doot! I declare I canna haud ye aff it. I jaloose that it

maun hae been owing to the Black Vaut o' Dunure that Mary Greg, a decent

cook woman and a deacon in her trade, took up wi' the likes o' you--that

mak's yoursel' nae better than a mountibank wi' your yammer-yammering

like a corn-crake aboot black vauts and roasted abbots. Fegs, I declare

I could roast ye yoursel'. Ye are that muckle thocht and care to me,

but ye wadna pay for the trouble. Even the Earl himsel' couldna mak' a

profit oot o' you--an' a' folk kens that he wad drive a flea to London

market for the sake o' the horns and hide!'

'Wheesht, wheesht, honest woman!' said Sir Thomas Tode, 'wha kens wha

may be listenin'--maybe the Countess her very sel'.'

'Faith, an' I carena,' cried the brave cook, tossing her head, 'she is a

backstairs body at ony gate, but she canna fear me--na, brawly no'. I

ken ower muckle. I ken things the Earl doesna ken. Certes an' serve

him richt--a young man like him--but three-an'-twenty, to mairry his

grandmither. Though guid kens Mary Greg is no the woman to speak, that

mairried nocht better than an auld skeleton hung on strings--for nae

sounder reason than that it is the custom for the cook in a decent big

hoose to tak' up wi' the chaplain.'

The kitchen began to fill, and I bethought me that I should be going;

for it was not seemly that a gentleman and a squire should collogue

overly long with all the orra serving-men and women in a great house.

But before I could lift my sword and depart, there came in a dark, burly

man with a sharp-cleft eagle's face on him, his eyes very close

together, and a contemptuous sneer that was liker a snarl, on his face.

'Good e'en to ye, John Dick,' said the cook. 'Mind ye keep the peace,

ye wull-cat, for there are to be no collieshangies in my kitchen!'

A voice called something querulously down the stairs.

'Coming the noo, my leddy,' cried Mrs Tode, the cook of Cassillis, 'I am

juist pittin' on the pot--'

And she vanished up the stair.

As soon as she was gone, Sir Thomas appeared to wake up from a dream.

He looked eagerly around him.

'She will no be back for a while,' he said. 'I might have a chance. I

maun tell you of the roasting of the abbot. Man, I saw it--I was there.

I held him on the ribs o' the grate. I set him on the brander, and

poured the oil on him that he might be roasted in sop. Oh, man, ye

think I am a fool. Ever since that day, never hae I been alone without

seeing the face o' him, crying out for them to ding whingers into him,

or blaw him up wi' powder to ease him--the auld Earl girnin' at him like

a wild cat, and hunkering low to watch, with his hands on his knees.

Oh, young men, never you put your hand to the torture of man, for it

bides with you in the brain--just as, asleep or awake, night or day, I

see the Black Vaut o' Dunure!'

'Good life,' cried his wife, entering briskly at the moment, 'is it

possible that the auld fule is at it again? The very de'il's in the

craitur. He thinks that he was at the roastin' o' a man, whan a' the

roastin' he has done in his life has been turnin' the spit in this

decent hoose o' Cassillis. Come awa', ye doitered auld loon, what did I

tell ye the last time?--Into the keepin' chamber wi' you!'

And she caught him by the top lock to lead him away once more. But I

pled for him, saying that I had never heard of his fantasy, and had

indeed encouraged him to begin.

The tall man who had been called John Dick, the fellow of the hateful

countenance, in whose eyes there was the insolence of challenge, at this

point stalked up to the table on which my sword still lay. He took it

in his hand with a contemptuous air, examined the Damascus work of fine

gold, and was about to draw the blade from its sheath.

'That sword is mine,' said I, scarcely looking at the fellow, 'and does

not leave its scabbard save when I draw it.'

'And then,' quoth he, with a bitter sneer, 'I opine it will not do much

damage. 'Tis but a bairn's plaik at any rate! And in fit hands!'

'It may be that you would like to try, sirrah,' said I, slipping my hip

off the table and buckling on my sword with one movement.

'Very willingly,' said he of the sneer. 'Come out to the green.'

But before I could move to end the matter, there arose from the corner,

where he had been lying on an oaken settle, a tall, slender lad of

foreign aspect and distinction. He had on him a green suit like the

Royal hunting liveries. A long, plain sword in a black leather scabbard

swung by his side.

'Launcelot Kennedy of Kirrieoch,' he said, bowing to me, 'I am Robert

Harburgh, and though for the time being I serve here as little better

than a cullion, I am yet of some blood and kindred. Therefore I shall

do you no shame. And you, sir,' said he, turning to John Dick, who stood

lowering, 'being your equal here, I can serve your turn to cross swords

with--and spare this gentleman the discomfort of defiling his sword of

honour with such black ignoble blood as yours.'

And with that he whipped out a long, straight sword which glittered in

the firelight. John Dick turned up his lip wickedly, so that we saw his

teeth, and the black, curly fringe of hair about his face stood out,

till his visage was like that of an angry ramping bull of Galloway.

There were only men in the kitchen when the fracas arose, for Mistress

Tode had gone to do some errand for the Countess.

'You are surely a stark man,' said John Dick, 'to mell or meddle with

me. Ken ye that I have wounded more men with my whinger than I have

fingers on my right hand?'

'And how many may that be?' said the young man who had espoused my

cause.

'Why, four,' said John Dick, surprised at the question.

'Then in a little while you shall have one less--and that is but three.

Guard yourself!'

And there in the red dusk of the kitchen they cleared themselves for

fighting, and their blades met with so stern a clash that sparks were

driven from the steel. But Harburgh, my young and melancholy Dane,

forced the fighting from the first, driving Dick before him round the

narrow and enclosed place, countering and attacking with such dexterity

and fury as I had never seen, though for years I myself had been a sound

swordsman. But such fighting as this I saw not--no, not in the schools

which the King has set up in Edinburgh to be used instead of golf and

siclike foolish games, which the men of the east country love to play in

their idle folly and wantonness.

They had not gone far when my champion, using a snicking undercut I had

never seen, severed the little finger of his opponent, at the second

joint just where it overlaid the hilt, so that the tip of it fell on the

floor. Whereat Sir Thomas Tode lifted it and wrapped it with care in

two sheets of clean scrivening paper which he took from his pocket.

But John Dick, who after all was a man, though a crab-grained and

ill-conditioned one, only called a halt for a moment and wrapped his

wounded finger in a napkin, drawing the cincture close with cord. And

he was in the act of continuing the fight, and pressing his adversary

for revenge, being resolved to kill him for the affront, when, with a

loud outcry, Mistress Tode rushed down the stairs. She seized a huge

spit, and with the sharpened end so briskly attacked both the

combatants, battering them soundly about their heads, that they were

compelled to desist.

And it was most comical to see these fierce and confident fighters drop

their swords' points and shield their heads with their hands to ward off

the blows of the stick.

'Varlets!' she screamed. 'Briskly I will learn you to fight and tulzie

in my kitchen. Out with you,' she cried, giving John Dick the sharpened

end of her weapon in his wame, 'out with you, for it was your de'il's

temper that began the fray.'

And so, having opened the door, she fairly thrust him out into the

night. But she had not time to close it again before one whom none of

us had seen came within the circle of red light. He was a man of a

dignified countenance, dressed in black, and he held a plain staff, also

of black, in his hand. On his head there was a broad hat with a cord

about it. Upon his coat he wore no ornament save a broad, black silk

collar which lay upon his shoulders, and over that again there fell

another collar of fair soft linen, very white and well dressed.

'What means this tumult in the house of Cassillis?' he asked, speaking

as one that has authority, and has been accustomed to wield it

unquestioned for many years.

Now there was not a man there but longed to ask, 'And who may you be

that speers?' But none answered rudely, for the awe that was upon them.

Then at last Robert Harburgh said to him, but courteously, 'Sir, you ask

of the tumult. It was a matter that concerns those only that fought

upon their own proper quarrel. It concerns neither you nor yet my Lord

Cassillis, in whose house ye presently are.'

'Lead me to my lord!' he said, as one who had only to speak that the

doors might be opened.

But Robert Harburgh withstood him and would not suffer him to pass.

'Let me see the Earl of Cassillis instantly!' said he.

'The Earl is at supper,' said Robert Harburgh, 'and cannot be

disturbed.'

'I will eat with him,' said the stranger, calmly.

Then when some scullion laughed, for of custom those who ate with the

Earl of Cassillis entered not by the kitchen door, the unknown made a

gesture of extraordinary contempt and yet withal of a marvellous

dignity.

'Go, instantly,' he commanded, pointing to the stair door with his

finger, 'and tell your master that Robert Bruce, Minister of Edinburgh

Town, would see him in the name of the Lord and of His Highness the King

of Scots.'

And Robert Harburgh, who had just outflouted John Dick, the ruffler of

camps, bowed before him. And as for me I took my bonnet off my own head

and saluted, for there was no one of us who had not heard of the famous

and well-reputed minister, to whom the King had committed the rule and

governance of all the realm during the half-year he was in Denmark busy

marrying of his queen.

So with Robert Harburgh leading and myself following, the minister

passed up the stair with due attendance, and into the supper chamber

where the Earl and Countess took their meal at even, mostly without

speech each with the other. And when through the open door I saw the

Earl welcome his guest as he would have done the King himself, and

especially when I heard their serious and weighty conversation, the

thought came to me that it was well that there were men in Scotland able

to make religion so to be honoured. Then again I laughed, thinking of

the mighty difference that there was between Maister Robert Bruce,

Minister of Edinburgh and sometime ruler of Scotland, and poor Sir

Thomas Tode, domestic chaplain to the Earl of Cassillis and the

well-pecked husband of Mary Greg, his cook.

*CHAPTER XII*

*THE FLITTING OF THE SOW*

It was Lammas day, and the strange wager of battle was about to be

fought. Maister Robert Bruce, who had composed so many quarrels (and

made so many more in the doing of it), had altogether and utterly failed

to make up this one. So he had passed south to his friend and favourer

the Laird of Bargany, who for all his soldiership was ever great for the

honour of the Kirk. I hope that the Minister of Edinburgh made more of

him than he made of Earl John, of whom he gat nothing but fair speeches

and most indifferent drink, which were indeed in my time the staples of

Cassillis hospitality.

Now, it so happened that Sir Thomas Kennedy, my master, could not move

from his chair, much less sit a horse, because of that old income in the

knee, which ever in the hot season of the year caused him so much pain

and trouble. Thus it fell to me to lead our small levy from the lands of

Culzean, for we were near to the country of the Barganies, and it would

not do, in the absence of an armistice, to denude our head castle of all

the fighting men that were thereabout.

The morn of Lammas was one that promised to open out into a day of

fervent heat, for the mists rose lazily, but did not dissolve as the sun

climbed the skies. Yet it was a morning that pleasured me beyond

telling, as I buckled on my new sword of price, and rode out to fight.

I am not averse from fighting, but I own it is the riding out in array

that I chiefly love.

What a heartsome sight it was when we turned our faces towards Cassillis

Yett, and saw the companies of Kennedies come riding and running over

every green knoll--long, upright men of the South who had started the

night before from far Minnochside and Auchneil, shoulder-bent shoremen

who came over the edge of Brown Carrick, pikemen, spearmen, and

hackbuttmen, together with a multitude of limber, pranksome lads with

only a leathern jacket and a whinger.

When we came to Cassillis Yett, there by the road-end was Sir Thomas

Tode, who was charged to tell us that my lord had gone on before us with

many soldiers and horsemen. They had taken also with them a trail-cart,

being a box with shafts like a carriage, but without wheels, mounted on

a great brush of branches and twigs, which stuck out behind and scored

the ground with a thousand ruts and scratches. This was for the

conveyance of the sow, which from sundawn to sunset was to be tethered,

in despite and contempt, upon the lands of the Craufords of Kerse. For

that was the wager of battle between the Kennedies and the Craufords.

The place where we found the Earl and his tethered sow was well chosen.

It was a three-cornered piece of land, of which two sides were defended

by the Doon Water sharply bending back upon itself, while across the

broad base of the triangle there ran a moss. The beating of the drums

and the playing of pipes were on all the hills; and so gay and cheerful

was the scene that it might have been a fair or a weapon-shawing, for

the sound of merrymaking and deray that there was all about.

The Doon, that should run so red or sunset, now sparkled pure and clear

in the light of morning, and the speckled piets and pigeons scudded here

and there among the coppices. We had not been long established on this

tongue of land with our tethered sow when there arose a crying among the

outposts, and word was brought that from all the Craigs of Kyle, and out

of all the country of the east, the Craufords and their allies were

gathering to the trysted fray.

Presently we saw them top the brae in ordered companies. It was bonny to

see them come stringing down the sides of the hills, now going singly

like cattle along a path in the steep places, and now forming into

squadrons and companies on the plain ground. The sunshine sifted

through the thin clouds as through a sieve, and made a strange pale

glittering on their war gear, so that all the country round was lit up

with little sparkling flashes of fire, like the wave tops when the sun

rises out of the eastern sea.

They had their drums also, though it was the latest of many affronts

that the Kennedys had put holes in all the Crauford drums which were in

the town of Ayr upon the last market day. And this quarrel also had to

be settled. Presently we could see all twelve of the stalwart sons

leading on their vassals from the brown hills. They were a sunburnt

company, because it was about the Lammastide, when the muirmen are wont

to be out all day at the watersides at the winning of the meadow

hay--the crop which is hard to grow, ill to mow, but worst of all to

gather into barn, as the saying goes in the parts of the outland hills.

It was nine of the morning when the Craufords moved to the attack. All

this while the loathly sow, that was at once provocation and offence,

lay upon a little mound in the midst of our camp, grunting and grumphing

most filthily. The Earl had set a little snipe of a raggetty loon to

stir her up with a pointed stick, so that she should not go to sleep,

but should grunt and disport herself as she ought. Being thus

encouraged, the boy did his work to admiration, and the old grouting

wretch kept up such a snorking and yellyhooing that she could be heard

almost from Dalrymple Kirk to the Mains of Kerse.

Then there was a pause for parley. Of this I will not write at length,

because it was for the most part but rudeness and dirtiness that were

bandied about and between--each party miscalling the other for greater

thieves and worse murderers than their neighbours. Even in this I do

not think we had the worst of it, for John Dick (whose finger-stump was

well healed) spat out oaths as if for a wager. And Muckle Hugh miscalled

the Craufords in a voice like thunder, as though they had been dogs that

would not run aright upon the hillsides of Kirriemore, in that dear land

which looks towards Galloway.

Now, I cannot say that I was keen of this particular quarrel. For

though there was some pleasure in making a figure in the great hall at

Kerse, I foresaw but a brawling of clowns and the splattering of

confused fighting without honour or chivalry, in this affair of swine

and blundering _melees_. Yet, because I was there in the place of my

knight, I could do no more than just bear the brunt and abide.

Presently the Craufords came on with their horsemen first and the

pikemen behind. But the mounted men came not far, for the bog laired

their horses, and they sank deeper and deeper at every step. Then the

footmen came between them and charged up to our foremost lines, so that

we were hand-to-hand and hard at it in a trice. It was not, however,

the work of many minutes to gar them turn about and run, for our front

was solid and broad, while the hackbutt shooters had fine rests for

their guns, so that on a still day they could bring a man down at thirty

yards or more. A good many Craufords were already splattering like

wounded waterfowl in the moss which protected our front.

After this we had time to look across the Doon Water, from which there

was a crying. And lo! there on the bank stood our late guest, Maister

Robert Bruce, the Minister of Edinburgh.

But our Earl was now too hot to think of courtesy, so he bade the

minister stop where he was, or come over and take a pike by the end; and

this greeting made me sorry, for he was a grand-looking man, with his

long black cloak and his noble black horse, which, they say, had once

been the King's own charger.

So I took the great risk of drawing the Earl aside, and urged upon him

that he should call a parley and see what the Minister wanted. This,

very reluctantly, he did, and we could hear Master Bruce speaking from

over the Doon Water clearly, as if he had been in his own pulpit.

'In the King's name I bid you cease,' he cried; 'and in God's name I

debar and forbid you. If ye persist, I shall deliver you to Satan, so

that ye may learn that it is dangerous to despise authority.

'Hoot toot, Maister Bruce, the days of curses are by with,' said the

Earl, 'and, besides, the most of us have ta'en a heap of risks afore

noo. We can e'en afford to take another.'

'I wish to speak,' said the Minister, 'with Crauford of Kerse.'

'Then gang farther up the waterside and gie a cry. There's nae Craufords

here except dead anes!' said the Earl, who had his daft coat on him that

day, so that we feared he had been bewitched.

But the young men of the Craufords would have nothing to say to him,

having, as I suspect, no goo for a Minister meddling in the bickerings

of men.

So he returned and asked Cassillis for one to take him to Kerse.

'Go, Launcelot,' said the Earl,' and guide him. We will manage somehow

to keep the battle up among us till you return.'

So, nothing loath to get away from gruntling horror on the knowe top, I

set Dom Nicholas's breast to the river, and was beside the Minister in a

trice.

As I passed up the waterside I came quite near to David Crauford the

younger. He stelled up the cock of his pistol to shoot at me, but I

held up my hand.

'I am going to the Kerse to see your father. Have you any word?' I

cried to him.

For in these quaint times the friendliness and complaisance with which

killing was done will scarce be believed--often with a jest, and, as one

might say, amicably.

'To see my father?' cried David across the water. 'Ye'll find him

bird-alone. Then tell him that we'll flit the Cassillis sow or it be

dark yet.'

He turned again to where his brothers were standing in council, looking

often south and north, as though they expected some reinforcement. Then

something came into his mind.

'Gangs the Minister to Kerse wi' you?' he cried down the wind. I told

him ay.

'Then,' said he, laughing, 'he is likely to hear my father at his

devotions.'

I had at that time no inkling of David Crauford's meaning, but before

all was done I learned.

So Master Robert Bruce and I rode daintily and cannily along the

riverside, till we came to the ford of the mill which is beneath the

house of Kerse. As we rode our horses through the water and slowly up

the bank, and even as we set our heads over the edge, we heard the loud

and wrathful crying of a voice that shook the air. It sounded just as

when, straying by quiet woodland ways, one turns the corner of a cliff

and comes suddenly upon the sea edge, and lo! the roar and brattle of

the waves on the long beaches.

As we neared the house of Kerse we noted that the words rose and fell,

swaying like the voice of a preacher who has repeated the same prayer

times without number.

'Did not the young man mention that his father was at his devotion?

Heard ye ever tell that he was a religious person?' asked the Minister

of me.

I answered him no, but by all accounts the contrary. I told him that I

had once been in the house of Kerse, and that none there (including

myself, I might have added with truth) seemed to be greatly oppressed

with any overload of the Christian virtues.

When we came near we were aware of a wide and vacant house, all the

doors open to the wall, stables and barn alike void and empty. Not so

much as a dog stirring. But from the house end that looked down the

water, there came the crying of this great voice of one unseen.

Mid-noon though it was, and I with the most noted minister in Scotland

by my side, I declare that I felt eerie. Indeed, I have never cared for

coming on a habited house, when it stands empty with all the furniture

of service left where the folk laid them down, and finding no one

therein. Such a place is full of footfalls and whispers, and a kirkyard

at midnight is not more uncanny, at least not to my thought.

'It sounds much like a man blaspheming his Maker,' said the Minister.

We rode round an angle of the wall, where there was a flanking tower;

and there, straight before us, sitting on a high oaken chair under a

green tree, was old David Crauford of Kerse, his head thrown forward,

his hands clenched, his eyes fixed on the brow of the hill over which

his sons had gone--while from his mouth there came an astounding stream

of oaths and cursings, of which, so far as one could grasp it, the main

purpose seemed to be the sending of every Kennedy that ever drew the

breath of life directly and eternally to the abodes of the damned.

We dismounted leisurely from our horses, and reined them loosely to the

rings in the louping-on stone at the house end. Then Maister Bruce

strode forward and stood in front of the old man, who had never for a

moment noticed us nor ceased from his earth-shaking cursings.

Not until the tall and dark figure of the Minister had blotted out the

point of the hill towards which he looked, did the old man intermit his

speech. Then he drew his hand slowly across his brow, and threw his

head back as if to distinguish whether it were indeed a living man who

stood before him.

'I am Robert Bruce, Minister of the Town of Edinburgh,' said my

companion, 'and I come from His Majesty the King of Scotland, to bid you

make an end of this evil and universal regardlessness, which has

polluted the whole country with cruelty and dissension, with public

factions and private deadly feuds--'

Old David Crauford leaned forward in his chair and set his hand to his

ear, as though he had not heard a word of the Minister's speech.

'What say ye, man?' he cried, testily, like one who is stayed from his

purpose by childish pranks.

'I say,' said the Minister, stoutly, 'that the disquieting of the lieges

with jacks, breast-plates, plate-sleeves, and pistols is as much

dishonouring to God as it is distasteful to His Majesty the King--'

'Hear ye me, my man. Hae ye done?' said old David, glowering at him.

'Are you a Christian man?' said the Minister, sternly, 'or,' he added,

as if on second thoughts, 'a loyal subject of King James the Sixth?'

'Christian!' cried the old man with great indignation. 'Do you speer me

gin I am a Christian? Man, do ye no ken that I am an Ayrshireman? An'

as for a loyal subject of King Jamie, man, I hae been four score year

and ten in the world, and proud am I to say that three score and sax o'

them hae been at the King's Horn for rebel and outlaw--an' never a penny

the waur o' either, being ever willing and able to keep my ain heid and

haud my ain land again baith prince and Providence!'

'Old man,' said the Minister, sternly, 'ken ye that ye speak

blasphemies. Know ye not that for every word ye utter, God shall enter

into judgment with you?'

'Verra likely,' said David Crauford, drily. 'Stand oot o' my licht,

man, I canna see through ye. Gin ye dinna, this pistol will enter into

judgment wi' you.'

The Minister stepped aside--not, as I think, at all for fear of the

pistol, but despairing of reaching the conscience of such a seared and

battered heathen.

Then suddenly the old man rose from his seat as one that sees a heavenly

vision. His face appeared transfigured and shining, and, with his white

hair falling on his shoulders, I declare he looked like the Apostle

Andrew in the Papish window of the High Kirk of Edinburgh.

'I see him! I see him!' he cried. 'He comes with the tidings of

battle.'

I looked where he pointed with his eyes, but could see nothing save a

black dot, which seemed to rise and fall steadily. Nevertheless, the

old man spoke the truth. It was, indeed, a swift rider making straight

for the house of Kerse.

As the man came nearer we saw him spur his horse till it stumbled and

fell at the park dykes, weary or wounded, we could not tell which. This

roused David Crauford, and he shouted to the man who now came on lamely

on foot.

'Man, is the sow flitted?' he cried.

The man, peching and blown with his haste, could not answer till he came

near.

'Is the sow flitted?' again shouted the old man.

'Oh, Laird Kerse,' cried the messenger, the tears trickling down his

face, 'pity this sorrowfu' day! There has been a waesome slaughter o'

your folk--ten o' them are dead--'

'Is the sow flitted?' cried Crauford, louder than ever. 'Can you no

answer, yea or nay?'

'Oh, Kerse, hear me and weep; your braw and bonny son Jock, the flower

of Kyle, is stricken through the heart, and lies cauld and dead on the

ground.'

'Scoundrel, dolt, yammering calf, answer or die. Is the sow flitted?'

The patriarch stood up on his feet, fiercely threatening the messenger

with his staff.

'The sow is flitted,' cried the man. That and no more.

The old man fairly danced in a whirling triumph, cracking his fingers in

the air with joy like a boy.

'My thumb for Jock!' cried he, 'the sow's flitted!'

And with that he dropped slack and senseless upon his great chair.

The Minister took my arm and led me to the louping-on stone.

'Come away,' he said sadly, 'it is no use. Ephraim hath too long been

joined to his idols. Let him alone. It is as guid Maister Knox

foretold. The Word of God is indeed made of none effect in Kyle and

Carrick.'

*CHAPTER XIII*

*THE TRYST AT MIDNIGHT*

From Robert Harburgh I got the tidings of the disaster that had befallen

the Cassillis' arms soon after I had ridden away with the Minister of

Edinburgh. The Craufords were in no hurry to come on in spite of all

the taunts of the Earl, and the disordered noise of the foul beast which

for despite he had tied on their lands.

But they kept outposts on the hills about, and they looked often this

way and that way--even I had seen them. Then began a waving of flags

and crying of words, till once more their line settled into place, and

from the north and the south at once fresh bands of horsemen came riding

towards us. And as they came nearer, the Cassillis folk saw that they

from the North were led on by James Mure the younger of Auchendrayne,

and from the south there came the band of outlaws and robbers that

called Thomas of Drummurchie their captain. On two sides these beset

us, with only the river between, and the Craufords began to gather more

closely than ever on our front.

Then the Earl remembered that what Dom Nicholas and I had done so easily

in the crossing of the Doon, other men as determined might also do. But

being, as I have said, by nature a brave man, he first awaited the

event. Nor was it long before, at a given signal, Drummurchie and young

Auchendrayne set their horses to the water and came at us through the

bends of the river, in spite of the shots that rained upon them, and the

men that dropped from their seats and spun down the flooded Doon. For

it was soon after the time of the Lammas floods, and the water was yet

drumlie and wan.

In our front the Craufords raged, and altogether in a trice our position

was wholly turned.

'This is not well done,' cried our Earl to Thomas of Drummurchie, as he

laid stoutly about him. 'Thy brother had not so have treated his chief,

when he strove with the enemies of the clan. Wolf should not tear wolf,

nor Kennedy Kennedy!'

In a little it was seen that the promontory could not be kept in face of

a force three times our number, and specially when those of our own name

and ancient alliance were striving against us.

'Out of the neck of the bottle, and keep together!' cried the Earl, who

on stricken field was no shaveling.

So with that, Earl John led his people straight across the water at the

point of the land that jutted between the forces of Auchendrayne that

came from the north, and Drummurchie's desperate riders who beset us on

the south. So swiftly was this done that before they could close or the

Craufords come on, most part of the Cassillis folk had passed Doon

water. Though there were twenty at the least who were either drowned or

else wounded to death, where they had fought the wager out on the fair

holms of Dalrymple.

It so befel as the Minister and I were riding home, that we came on our

little company of Culzean lads riding with tired horses and slack reins

shorewards. And God be thanked for His ill-deserved mercy, in the

quarrel that had been so evilly settled, there was no loss to Culzean.

For we came not home with a single empty saddle, nor was there so much

as a pike staff left behind. The last of it that they heard was the

shouts of the Craufords as they flitted the sow over the water to the

lands of Kennedy, thus clearing their own borders ere set of sun,

according to their boast and promise.

On the morrow's morn there came to each Kennedy's gate a little

squealing pigling with the Cassillis colours of blue and gold tied in

derision to its curled tail. And round its neck was this motto, 'The

flitted sow of Cassillis hath pigged, and Crauford of Kerse sends the

litter home!'

And so in like manner was done at the house of every Kennedy that had

men at the fight of the sow-flitting, whether they lived near or far.

But who left them at the yetts, none saw. All which was more likely to

be a ploy of Thomas of Drummurchie or John Mure's than of the

Craufords--who, to do them justice, had small skill in aught save hard

strokes, but plenty of that. For even to this day there is small

civility or scholarship about Kyle Stewart and King's Kyle.

Now there was no mistaking but that we came home with our fingers in our

mouths, and the countryside jeers at us of Cassillis and Culzean were

many as the leaves of the summer trees. Nor could I win belief that I

had been, by command of the Earl, at the house of Kerse along with the

Minister, instead of on the green inch of Dalrymple by Skeldon haughs.

For, believe it who will, there are many right willing to have a catch

at me; though, God knows, I had never gone out of my way to put a slight

upon any man, nor yet thought more highly of myself than I ought to

think.

In time, however, the bitterness died down, and at Culzean things went

their wonted quiet way. It is true that Nell Kennedy never so much as

looked the way I was on. I heard that she went about telling everyone

whom she thought would carry the tale to me, that I had gotten the

Earl's sword for procuring the sow of Skeldon, and carrying her over

Doon water on my back. But this was no more than spite, easily seen

through, and I minded it not. For everyone in Carrick knew the cause

why I had gotten the blade from the Earl, who, indeed, is not a man to

give aught for naught, nor yet to bestow where, with honour, he might

withhold.

But to balance the beam, Marjorie was kinder to me than ever she had

been, so that I thought of a surety that her heart had at last been

touched by love. But as it chanced, I was to get news of that before I

was greatly older.

As the thing fell out, one night I had been somewhat late out of bed,

visiting of a friend whose name it does not advantage to set down here.

And in the morning, while yet it was dark, I was returning by the rough

shore tracks to the coves, from whence I had to clamber warily up, in

order to reach my ladder of rope which depended, as of old, from the

overhanging turret of the White Tower.

As I stood to breathe a while in the quiet of the cove, I was aware of

voices that spoke above me, for the sea was quiet and the moon dipping

down to the setting. My thoughts were running at the time on

treasure-seeking, for among the things I had had on my mind that night

there was the matter of the losing of the Kelwood treasure in the House

of the Red Moss. Thinking that I might learn something of importance, I

hasted to clamber in the direction from which came the voices. And as I

glided along the foot of the rocks in the black shadow, I came almost

without warning upon two who stood close together.

I could not go back. I could not go forward. I could only retreat

sideways as far as the rock would let me, and even then I stood within a

few feet of the speakers.

At the first words I knew them. It was Marjorie Kennedy of Culzean

talking with Gilbert of Bargany, the enemy of her house and of us all.

The blood settled sharply chill about my heart, and the bitterness of

death seemed to come upon me. The maid to whom my heart had gone out,

to whom I had looked up as my liege lady, was standing here in midnight

converse with the sworn enemy of her race and of her father.

But I had no time for consideration--none for deciding what I should do.

I was no eavesdropper, yet for my life I could not go forth and confront

them.

I could hear Gilbert Kennedy's words. They were pleading and passionate

words.

'Hear me, listen to me, Marjorie,' he said, and I could see his

uncovered head turned towards her where she stood black between me and

the sea, 'I love no one but you. I have sought none but you. Ever

since I was a stripling lad, like your young Launcelot Kennedy, have not

I given you worship and service? Why then do you hate me, despise me,

turn away from me?'

As I listened my heart rose again in hope. 'Your Launcelot Kennedy,' he

had said. It might be that I, even I, was the cause why Marjorie turned

from him as he said.

'Gilbert,' said Marjorie Kennedy, and her voice was like the still

waters of a sheltered sea lapping on the wet sands, 'I do not turn from

you. I am not proud with you. If I were, would I be here to-night?

But in spite of this I am trysted to another fate. If there is to be

any use in my life, it is that I may become the sacrifice that is to

compose this quarrel. And it cannot be with you for husband.'

'And wherefore not?' said Bargany fiercely, striking one hand into the

hollow palm of the other.

Marjorie put out one of her own hands as if to restrain him.

'I will put you to the test,' said she; 'if I were Lady Bargany, would

you submit to John, Earl of Cassillis, and be his man, setting aside all

your ancient quarrels, and acknowledging him as your liege lord?'

'God forbid!' said Bargany, promptly.

Marjorie put out her other hand for him to take.

'And I like you the better for it, Gilbert,' she said impulsively.

Bargany set her fingers to his lips, and held her hands as if he could

never let them go.

'Then,' said she, 'since this bitter strife and the killing of friends

must somehow be stopped, and since you would not stop it even for

me--who am I that I should not be at my father's command, to give and to

take, to be sold and bought like a beast in the market-place?'

'Who talks of buying and selling?' interrupted Bargany, roughly. 'Give

me but a look of your eyes, and I will carry you to my house of Bargany,

and see if any dare to take you from the safe keeping of Gilbert

Kennedy.'

'And my father?' said she, speaking very quietly, but clearly, so that I

heard every word.

'Your father,' answered Bargany, 'is a good man--too good for such a

crew. He has married one daughter to the young Sheriff of Galloway.

Wherefore not another to his cousin of Bargany? Is not Kennedy of

Bargany, even though he be an enemy, better than any noltish Galloway

laird?'

'Ah,' said Marjorie Kennedy, softly, 'but there is another reason--'

'Tell it me and I will answer it,' said Bargany, with a swift

fierceness, for I think he imagined that he was making head against her

scruples. But I had heard her speak in that still way before, and could

have told him different.

'Isobel Stewart, bower-maiden to the Queen, and the Earldom of

Carrick--they are surely reasons enough!' said Marjorie Kennedy.

Bargany started as though an adder had stung him. For a moment he

seemed bereft of speech.

'Who has been lying to you of me?' he said, almost under his breath, as

though the night air had suddenly made him hoarse.

'Nay, think again,' said Marjorie; 'is it not true? Better a soiled

bower-maiden of the King's court and an earldom with her, than poor

Marjorie Kennedy of Culzean in her smock!'

I never heard her say a spiteful thing before nor since--but when it

comes to the matter of the Other Woman, all women are alike.

Bargany stamped his foot in very anger.

'A fig for dignities, and a rotten fig for Isobel Stewart,' he cried.

'I love but you, Marjorie Kennedy! Will you come to me, so that you and

I may face the world together? For it is a black world and needs two

hearts that can stand by each other.'

Then betwixt me and the sea (as I have said) I saw Marjorie knitting and

clasping her hands as if her spirit were wrestling within her.

'Yea, Gilbert,' she said, very gently at last, 'it is as you say, a

black, black world. But neither you nor I are going to better it by the

breaking of trysts and engagements!'

'And what tryst have you?' he demanded sullenly.

'I am trysted to sorrow,' she answered, 'trysted for ever to want that

which most I desire, and to have that which most I hate. Gilbert

Kennedy, take my hand this once and hearken. You and I are too greatly

like one another to be happy together. We are not mates born for smooth

things. Sorrow is our dower and suffering our weird, and the pity of it

is that we must dree it apart. I think we are both "fey" to-night,' she

said, breaking off with a change of tone. 'We had best go within.'

'Within?' said Bargany, scornfully, for he bethought him that he could

never enter the house of Culzean as a friend.

'Now, Gilbert,' said Marjorie, 'be a man and forgive. Be a man also to

Isobel Stewart, that she may know you a truer man than she has ever met

in King's courts--ay, truer and nobler, as I think you, than the King

himself. And let me go my way....' She covered her face with her hands

and stood a space silent and bowed. 'Let me go my way!' she said again.

And so would have gone from him.

But Gilbert Kennedy had her in his two arms and was kissing her mouth,

and that often and passionately.

'No,' he said, 'I will not let you go. I will take you in spite of

all--though there were at Culzean a thousand fathers--at Cassillis a

thousand earls!'

She withdrew herself from him with quiet dignity, yet without anger.

'But you will not take me in spite of one Marjorie Kennedy,' she said.

Then at this, quick as a musket flash, Bargany turned on his heel and

tramped angrily down the shingle of the shore, his sword clanking and

his spurs ringing, as careless who might hear as if he had been crossing

the paved court of his own house of Bargany.

And Marjorie Kennedy stood still and watched him go, her hands pressed

to her bosom, as though it needed both to still the dreadful beating of

her heart.

'I love him! I love him!' she cried to the stillness, when he was quite

gone. 'Oh, that he might trample me, that his hand might slay me, so

that in death he might lift up my head and say once again, "I love

you."'

And so she also passed away within.

Then I, in my corner, where I had been an unwilling hearkener, set my

face between my knees and thought that the world would never be bright

again. For I had heard that which I had heard, and I knew now that

Marjorie, my Lady Marjorie, would never know love for me while the world

lasted.

Nevertheless, I rose up and clambered aloft to reach my rope ladder. I

climbed over the rocks, thoughtlessly, heedlessly, and I scraped my shoe

so that it sounded loud in the still night. Suddenly I saw something

bright above me, the flicker of a white robe. I had nearly fallen,

thinking that the appearance might be a spirit of the darkness.

'Dinna be feared, night-raker,' said a voice I knew well; 'it is only

Nell Kennedy. Think ye that none can climb up the W hite Tower besides

yourself?'