I stared at him, stunned and dumbfounded.

'Ay,' he said, 'it is short notice, but young folks, ye ken--and my

daughter would not hear of a great wedding; only what was fitting and

plain.'

'Your daughter?' I said, steadying myself, though my heart was like to

break, for I thought all my friends were to leave me together.

'Ay, Marjorie,'said Sir Thomas, 'she is a quiet like lass and speaks

little, but when I put the matter of the marriage to her, she said only,

"If it will staunch the feud, I am ready to marry whomsoever you

will--Sir Thomas Tode, gin you like!" But that was only her daffing,

for, as we all know, Sir Thomas is married already. And even if he were

not, marrying him would be neither here nor there in the matter of the

Cassillis and Bargany feuds.'

For my good master never saw far into a whin bush all his days, though

accounted by most to be a wise man.

On the morrow, which was the day of the ill-faured wedding, I put on my

complete accoutrements for the first time. I had Dom Nicholas saddled,

for I felt strong once more, and greatly desired to be away from the

place. So I stood by the gate as the party from Auchendrayne came in,

and saluted them, as was my duty. Then I was riding away alone down by

the shore road, when I heard in the distance the sound as of an

approaching cavalcade.

Bridles were jingling, stirrups clicking, and spearheads making points

of light, while the white foam went blowing back from the hard-ridden

horses. When they rode up, I saw that they were as trenchant a set of

blades as ever a man might wish to set eyes on. And at the head of them

rode young Gilbert Kennedy of Bargany.

So, not knowing whether they came in peace or war, I set myself upright

on the back of Dom Nicholas, who was of so great freshness with kicking

of his heels in the park, that he was ill to keep at the stand.

Nevertheless, stand I did in the midst of the outer gate, so that I

should know whether they came in peace or war, and to have time to cry

to the porter, even if they rode roughshod over me.

And though I was weak, and knew not what might happen, it was a joy

untellable to be somebody again, and to gar men reckon with me.

But, being pale, I fear I made a poor figure to stand in the gate and

withhold so many. For during my captivity the hair on my face had begun

to grow in a manner that was surprising, and proved a constant trouble

to me to keep shaven.

'Halt!' I cried to them. 'How come you to Culzean--in peace or boding

in fear of war?'

'But to wish the Tutor luck on his birthday in passing,' said Gilbert,

'and then to ride on to the help of John, Earl of Cassillis.'

So, much astonished at what had befallen, and especially at his last

saying, I fell in behind him, and the word was given to ride forward.

But Bargany called me to come beside him, and asked me of my health. I

replied that I had been long time sick of a wound, but that I was now

recovered, and above all things desired action, being sicker far of the

doing of nothing.

Whereat he laughed, and said, 'Be cheerful, and if ye want blows, I will

ask the loan of you as a hostage from your master.'

Then, seeing the stir about the doors, and the serving men running every

way with flagons and dishes, he said, ''Tis a great stir for naught but

the Tutor's birthday. What may be the occasion?'

Then, with my eyes secretly upon his, I told Gilbert Kennedy that the

Lady Marjorie was to be married that day to James Mure of Auchendrayne.

I never saw a man's countenance change so suddenly. The fire sprang to

his eyes, and died out again like dead tinder. The heart blood flushed

hot to his face, and, returning, left him pale as a maid in a decline.

Then I minded how I had taken the matter myself. Yet I was sorrier for

him, because I knew that he had loved her longer and better than I. But

nevertheless he tossed his sword hand in air, and cried, 'We are in time

for a bridal, brave lads; this is more than we bargained for. Let us go

greet the bride and wish her joy.'

And this I grant was a better way than sulking and self-pity in the

greenwood, which would have been mine that day, had I been left alone.

With that he put the horses to the gallop, and we rode through the

narrow pass of the drawbridge by two and two. The roar of the horses

passing over was as the roar of the sea when the storm drives up from

the west on the Craigs of Culzean.

As we came by the corner of the terrace, I saw him give a look at that

window of the White Tower which faced to the landward. It had been the

Lady Marjorie's, and now was to be hers no more. Then I saw him look

down on the fretting sea, as it tumbled white on the pebbles and rocks

by the Cove. And I knew why he looked there, and I knew more also, for

I remembered what I had heard Marjorie say after he had gone clanking

down the shore in his anger and pride.

Yet all the while Bargany rode light-hand upon his bridle-rein, the

pride of his horsemen clattering behind him, gay with the music of hoofs

and the dance of red and white pennons.

I wondered not that, as they said, he took the eyes of ladies wherever

he went. So that the Queen's bower-women quarrelled concerning him,

till Her Majesty said, 'I shall have no peace till I take him for

myself. But what would James say if young Bargany were to sing "John,

come kiss me now," beneath my bower window?'

But more than all ladies' favours I envied him such a brave repair of

horse to follow him. For Culzean was too poor, and the Lord of

Cassillis too near the bone to keep any such array of mounted gentlemen.

For hackbuttmen, and footmen with spears, were more to our Earl's mind,

being better in the time of war, and a deal cheaper in the days of

peace--which even in these troubled years were so many more than the

days of fighting.

As we rode up, and the Bargany squadron halted with a great spattering

of sand and tossing of the heads of horses, the wedding folk were just

coming out. First of all there issued forth the bride, our Marjorie,

the Marjorie that had been ours, on James Mure's arm--he that now was

her husband. And behind them came the Minister of Maybole and Sir

Thomas, walking together very caigy[#] and jocose.

[#] Friendly.

But Marjorie's face was like stone, though the bitterness of death

overpast was gone from it. I trust mine eyes may never see such a look

of reproach and pain in any human face, as was in hers when she saw

Gilbert Kennedy sitting his horse in front of the squadron, upon the

gravel stones from the seashore that were laid before the castle steps.

But Gilbert only saluted her, and cried aloud as was customary, 'Luck to

the wedding and health to the bride!'

Then ran Sir Thomas to him and took his hand, bubbling over with

kindliness and pleasure.

'The feud is staunched indeed, when I see Bargany once more in peace at

the house of Culzean, even as my good friend the Laird of Auchendrayne

said it would be. What might be your kindly errand? And will ye not

light off your beasts and bide to feast with us.'

'I cannot,' said Bargany. 'The Earl of Cassillis is besieged in the

house of Inch by the Lairds of Galloway, and I ride to his assistance.'

Then she that had been Marjorie Kennedy turned to him, and said, 'And

will ye indeed consent to staunch the feud for John Mure's sake, that

would not do it for mine?'

Which seemed to me a strange mode of speech to be spoken in the hearing

of a husband on his wedding day. But I had forgotten that none held the

key to the utterance saving Gilbert Kennedy and myself.

'The staunching of the feud is neither yours nor mine, Lady Marjorie,'

said Bargany, bending very gently toward her, 'but I cannot bide still

in my house at the town of Ayr while a Kennedy of Cassillis--my enemy

though he be--is dared, outfaced, and threatened by a pack of Galloway

lairds.'

'Are they, then, ill men and far in the wrong?' said she.

'On the contrary, they are good men and in the right. But that does not

hinder me from standing for my name and house against every other, even

though that house be foredoomed to fall, because it is divided against

itself.'

Then he turned to my master, saying to him, 'For this one time, and as a

pledge to my Lord the Earl John that I mean his good, will you permit

Launcelot, your esquire, to ride in my company--he that hath so oft

ridden well against my folk?'

'Gladly,' said Sir Thomas, 'but the lad has been ill.'

'It is no far ride, and the boy needs but change of air and foes of

mettle to strengthen his sword-arm against.'

So in a trice I was ready to follow my house's enemy.

As I turned I saw John Mure of Auchendrayne standing, looking in the

dignity of his white hair most like a saint, though contrariwise I knew

him to be that which I will not name. I heard him say to my master, 'Ye

see, did not I tell you? This marriage brings all good things already.

And this is but the beginning.'

'Nay,' replied Sir Thomas, 'indeed it is most gratifying and well done

of you. Who would have believed a week ago that to-day Bargany would

have saddled his steeds and mounted his men to ride to the succour of

John, Earl of Cassillis?'

And I saw my good, simple master raise his hand and clap Auchendrayne

upon the shoulder. Then, for very hate and loathing, I turned away.

Even as I did so I saw the eye of John Mure on the watch, and I knew

that he understood. For his glance was like a rapier-thrust when your

enemy means killing.

Ere the horsemen turned to ride away, Marjorie came down the steps to

where Bargany sat his charger, and slipping a ring off her finger she

handed it up to him.

'For your Isobel Stewart!' she said.

And though I saw it not, I am as certain as if I had seen the crest and

posy upon it that the ring was his own, one which he had given her in

some past day when they had far other hopes than to part in this fashion

on her wedding morning.

Then, with a quick cry of command and the gallant clatter of hoofs, we

rode away. And that was the last parting in life of Gilbert and

Marjorie Kennedy, who had been lovers ever since they were bairns, and

had linked themselves together for man and wife with chains of yellow

gowans upon the braes of Culzean.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*A GALLOWAY RAID*

As you may suppose, it was no grief, but the reverse, for me to ride

away with Bargany to the South, and leave behind me the drear house of

Culzean upon that dismal day of doom and sacrifice. Nell Kennedy I saw

nothing of, though, as I learned in the aftertime, she saw me. For she

too had fled from the house, being unwilling to have aught to do with

such a deed of cruel wrong as the marrying of her sister, that was the

flower of the West, to an oafish lout like James Mure.

'Not but what our Maidie can stand up for herself. And if she gets not

her own way, sorry am I even for James Mure!' said she.

It was from the branches of a thick plane that Nell watched us ride away

to the house of the Inch, and noted me as I cantered by Bargany's side.

Of which, had I known it then, I should have been fain. For, wild

ettercap as she was, I now counted Nell Kennedy almost the only friend I

had left.

And as we went, Bargany told me of the Earl's message brought him by

James Young, the Minister of Colmonel. And in especial how he had telled

a great lie to win through the men of Galloway--in which sin it was then

uncommon for a minister to be found out.

'Not but that my heart is with the lads of Galloway,' said Bargany, 'but

after all, Gibby Crack-tryst is the first of the Kennedies, and I shall

not see him put down, whatever be his deserts, by Garthland and the

Sheriff. If Cassillis is to go down, Bargany shall go with it; and all

Galloway, twice told, shall not accomplish that!'

Although I felt chilled by the dull, unheartsome day we had left behind

us, I can tell you I thought no little of myself to be thus riding in

comradeship with Bargany at my elbow. For though I had so ridden with

the Earl once or twice, yet I counted ten times more on Bargany. Forty

horsemen were of our company, and mine was the weariest body among them

all. For it was my first long day, after my sickness with harness on my

back, and pulses beat where my wounds had been, so that I feared that

they would break out afresh, and I have to be left behind.

At last we stayed our steeds at a small tenant's house called

Craigaffie, a little way from the Inch, where a vassal of Bargany's

dwelt. Him we sent to meet the Earl and tell him that we were

there--also to bid the Galloway men come to an arbitrament, if so they

would. For they had enclosed the Earl back and front in his own house

of the Inch, so that none could pass--save indeed one that knew the

byeways and outgates as did this Peter Neilson of Craigaffie.

Presently there came back from the Earl a message most piteous, for he

knew the men of Galloway had him fast; and he was afraid for the safety

of the rents and mails that he had with him in silver and minted

gold--far more, to do him justice, than he was anxious about his own

skin. Bargany was his dearly-beloved cousin, his eame, his saviour. He

would keep friendship with him more than with any friend he had all the

days of his life, for this notable deliverance he had wrought. He was

to come and put himself in the Earl's hands after he had sent the lords

of Galloway about their business. The Earl's plighted word would be his

security.

At this Bargany gave a smile, and set his thumb over his shoulder at the

forty swords that were riding behind him.

'These,' said he, 'will be the best security that John, Earl of

Cassillis, will not harm me when I go to visit him in his castle of the

Inch.'

It was no long season before there came MacDowall of Garthland and

Sheriff Agnew to represent the men of Galloway, and never in my life,

save when I went as herald to the great house of Kerse, did I see such

an exchange of high civilities. It was as the meeting of heroes, when

compared to the double-dealing and deceit of our break-tryst Earl. More

than ever, I wished that I had been born on the other side of the score.

But it hadna bin to be.

Agnew the Sheriff was a tall man, with dark hair quickly frosting to

grey, a hawk's nose, a long arm good at laying on, and a biting tongue

which he knew well when to hold. The Laird of Garthland, on the other

hand, was red of beard and brown of hair, altogether a man well set,

beginning also to be well-stomached with good feeding and sleeping on

benches of the afternoons.

It was Garthland who saluted first, for he came of the oldest race in

Galloway--save, perhaps, it may be, the MacCullochs of Ardwell. But the

eagle-nosed Sheriff was the chief spokesman.

'Greeting courteously to you, Bargany,' he said. 'This is a pleasure

unexpected. Over on our poor shire-side, the erne of the hills neither

mixes nor mells with the quarrels of the carrion crow.'

'I greet you well, Sheriff,' said Gilbert Kennedy; 'but say your say

plain out, without bringing all the birds of the air into the matter.'

'Plainly then,' said the Sheriff, 'the matter is this. The Earl has

moved the law against us for rights his father granted us years agone,

rights that have never been questioned, and when we will not yield to

him, he uses his influence with the King to make us traitors. He sends

his low-born officers to remove us from our kindly homesteadings, and

from the castles where for centuries our forefathers dwelled--ay, before

one stone of Cassillis lay on the top of another.' And the fire glinted

in the Sheriff's deep-set eyes, till, with his eagle's beak, he looked

himself the very erne of which he had spoken. He went on. 'Then comes

he himself, with a force of forty horse, to reduce the unbroken baronage

of Galloway. He summons us to the court of doom, and lo! we come to

this yett with a hundred gentlemen, and as many more footmen that but

wait to be called. We have obeyed his mandate to the letter, whereat he

sulks within gates. Then we send him word that we are at the

trysting-place, and that we will be most glad to see his face. But for

some reason or other that I cannot guess at, he comes not; but withdraws

himself into the house of the Inch, where presently he remains. And we,

being bound to see that no ill befalls him within our borders, have set

ourselves down to be the warders and the protectors of him and of the

castle.'

So said the Sheriff, and made his courteous amend. And to him Bargany

replied,--

'But, Lochnaw, ye know well that ye have no warrant thus to shut up the

Earl of Cassillis, immuring your lawful feudal superior and defying

ancient custom.'

Then spake the red-bearded Laird of Garthland.

'If it come to that, we are bound to you and not to the Earl, Gilbert

Kennedy. Ye are bound to maintain us in our rights! Am I to lose my

auld and kindly office and possession, which I have held in direct line

from Uchtred, Lord of Galloway? Of a truth, no, Bargany! Ye are of a

conscience overtrue for work of this kind. Ye will do to me your

honourable duty, as your predecessors have ever done to mine in time

past.'

And having said his say with dignity, the red Garthland held his peace.

I could see very well that Bargany was ill at ease. He liked not the

errand he had come on. Blows were very well, but to be process-server

sat heavy on his stomach. I heard him mutter,--

'That I, Gilbert Kennedy, should be doing John of Cassillis's dirty

work! For none other sake than Marjorie's would I do this thing!'

But he took up his parable with the Lairds of Galloway.

'Hearken, Garthland and Lochnaw--if, as ye say, I am above ye, well do

ye know that the Earl is by law above us both.'

He paused for a moment, wry-face, as though he had swallowed the

bitterest drugs of the apothecary. And I saw the Sheriff smile a smile

as bitter every whit.

'Hearken to me. If my lord continue to do ye wrong, and will not use

you kindly, by mine honourable word in the hearing of all these friends,

I will not only leave his lordship--I will maintain you to the last drop

of my blood. But if ye pursue my lord to take his life, seeing that he

has sent for me to aid him, I will defend him to the uttermost of my

power.'

Then said the Sheriff, 'Bargany, we are honourable men and peaceful. We

are not here to attack the Earl, but to defend ourselves in that thing

in which he would do us wrong.'

'I will deal straightly with my lord,' said Bargany; 'be content, and

leave the outcome to me.'

'We are content,' they replied, both of them as one. 'We ken a man when

we front him, for we ourselves are men. We will abide your judgment,

whatever you may command.'

So in a trice Bargany had gotten the Earl to promise all good things,

and the Galloway men were satisfied. Thereafter they all dined together

with my lord in the house of Inch, and parted very merry. And the men

of Galloway convoyed us northward to the braes of Glenap, where the

whole force and retinue of Bargany's servants and friends met us. Thus

was the Earl released from durance, and his promises were loud and many,

so that we were all well-contented. And I thought that the old feud was

at last come to an end.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*THE SLAUGHTER IN THE SNOW*

But, alas! I was never more disappointed, shamed, deceived in my life.

For no sooner was our Earl back in his own messuages and domains, and

behind his lines of hackbuttmen, than he resiled from all his

promises--both to the Galloway men, who had done so honourably in the

releasing and convoying of him, and (what seemed to me worse) also to

Bargany, who had pledged himself in honour to satisfy the Sheriff and

Garthland. For after all, a lie told to a loon of Galloway is not like

one to a man's own kin and country. Though, of course, a man that is

true all through the web, will not tell a lie to any. But such men are

few, at least in the shire of Ayr where I dwell, and in Edinburgh to

which I have at different times voyaged.

But Bargany, as was natural, was fierce in his indignation with the

crack-tryst Earl.

'For,' said he, 'he has made me, that am a man of my word, break faith

with men of a like pattern, even with Uchtred MacDowall of Garthland and

the Sheriff of Galloway.'

So after all this tangled business, instead of peace, as my

deeply-deceived master had supposed when he gave over his daughter to

the traitors of Auchendrayne, there issued at the last naught but feud,

more deadly and hateful than ever.

The Earl, who, to do him justice, was no coward as to his own skin, went

hither and thither between Cassillis and Maybole, and even south to

Auchneil, riding freely as though he had been within his own borders all

the time. And the traps that were laid for him by Auchendrayne and

Thomas of Drummurchie, the Laird of Bargany's barbarous brother, were

too many to be told. Yet for the sake of the new alliance, such as it

was, Culzean meddled not at all with the matter, though doubtless it was

a source of infinite bitterness of spirit to him.

Then all of a sudden there came upon us the eleventh of December, which

is a day yet remembered in Carrick, because of the many brave lads that

pranked it in pride in the morning, and who yet lay stiff in their war

gear or ever the early winter gloaming had fallen.

We at Culzean got our warning from the Earl's man, John Dick, on the

night before, how it was the order that we were to gather at Cassillis

yett and ride with them back to Maybole town all in a company. John

Dick told us, but with even more than his customary surliness and

unwillingness, that the cause of this raising of the clan was, that two

days before Bargany had ridden past the gate of Cassillis, where the

Earl was--stopping not at all, but riding by with pennons flying in

despite, which was held a deadly insult to his feudal superior. So Earl

John had sworn to be equal with him on his return.

It was such a day of snow (this eleventh day of December) that even in

the midst of the fight, when the hackbutts were talking and the steel

ringing, a man could scarce see whither he was going. At times so thick

was the drift, that when a man struck at an enemy with his lance, he

could not tell who it might be that opposed him, whether friend or foe.

But when, very early in the morning, we rode out to the muster, the

oncoming storm had not yet begun. The air was bitter cold, blowing from

the south-east, so that it drove in the faces of the Bargany folk all

the day. Now, as of late years it had been customary with him, my Lord

of Culzean was not able to ride with us. For the chill weather unmanned

him, and he could do nothing but hurkle over the fire, with a lad to rub

his swollen feet and stiff knee-joints.

So it befell that once more I had the leading of our good lads from the

sea border. Right merry we were as we rode forth, for the matter seemed

to us no more than a good adventure. None thought that the issue would

be so grim and bloody as it proved. We were but half-way to Maybole

when we came suddenly on Auchendrayne himself and John Dick, the Earl's

messenger, in close converse--which I thought a strange thing, seeing

that Auchendrayne was so great a favourer of the Bargany faction. So

soon as they saw us come in sight they parted, and John Dick rode away

over the fields, but Auchendrayne came towards us, riding easily and

pleasantly as if to market.

'A good day to you,' he cried. 'Whither away, armed _cap-a-pie_, so

early?'

'We ride to meet my lord, and to do his bidding!' I said, making my

words brief and curt, because I liked not the man, for all his fine

figure and commanding presence.

'Your master Sir Thomas, is, I hear, laid by with his ancient trouble.

I asked John Dick concerning him. Tell him that I grieve to hear of

it.'

'Without doubt, you were on your way to visit him,' I said, with mockery

in my manner of speech, for it was a strange thing to meet John Mure on

the wrong side of the town of Maybole at daybreak of a winter's morning.

'Without doubt,' he answered readily; 'but now that I know of his weak

state of health, I need not trouble him this day!'

'There is the greater need, Laird Auchendrayne,' I made reply, 'that you

should go on and cheer him with your pleasant discourse.'

He answered to that not a word good nor bad, but turned his horse and

rode away to the right, making, as I guessed, a detour to avoid my lord

and join our enemies of Bargany.

It was early in the morning of this famous eleventh of December (as I

have been told) that there was a goodly stir and commotion in the town

of Ayr. Gilbert Kennedy had resolved that he would ride that day to

Bargany by way of the town of Maybole. Sorely and often they of his

faction tried to dissuade him, but he was set immovably on it, as he was

on anything to which he had once made up his mind.

'Think ye,' he said, 'that I am feared of John, Earl of Cassillis, or of

all the Kennedies of the shore edge that ever scarted other folk's

siller into their wallets like sclate-stanes?'

'Ye needna be feared,' said his brother Thomas, the Wolf of Drummurchie,

'but ye surely have enough of sense to take care of your pelt. Even a

swine has that muckle. Do you think that Cassillis, and those that are

with him, have not as much sense as we? They will be standing by some

roadside where we have to ride by, and they will have holes cutted out,

I warrant you, long or this, to shoot us in the by-ganging---even as we

did for Earl Johnnie at the limekilns of the Dalgorrachies.'

But that debauched villain, the Laird of Benane, and his little-wit

sister, moved him to that pride, to which also his own heart ever too

easily inclined. So, in spite of all entreaty, Bargany leaped on his

charger and rode forward himself, with only ten or twelve horsemen as a

first vanguard. Behind him there came other seventy, making in all the

number of fourscore armed men on horseback, all good riders of mettle.

Some of these were such burghers of Ayr as had a soul beyond the

ell-wand, and could follow a foray and bend the pull of a pistolet with

any man. For I have learned that all townsfolk are not nidderlings, as

once I thought in my hot youth and little knowledge.

Now, so soon as they were well mounted there were two at Bargany's

muster who rode away to warn my Lord of Cassillis by which way Bargany

should come, so that he might be in array. The traitorous names of them

were William Cunningham and Hew Penandgow, against both of whom

Auchendrayne had warned Gilbert Kennedy. But Bargany had taken no heed,

for he said, 'Never yet have I seen the time when my right arm could not

keep my head against kings and earls, let alone pock-puddings and

Penandgows!'

'Nor like I this day's work,' said Auchendrayne, 'for I see not here the

weight of men to do your turn and carry you through.'

Yet all the time he was plotting that Gilbert Kennedy should no more

ride home to Bargany, and that John Mure should rule the land in his

stead.

It was not long before they came to the bridge of Doon.

There they stayed awhile, and Bargany set his fighting men in array.

And, as was the custom, he made an address to them--of which I have

heard much and often, for all men minded it as the speech of a brave

man.

'Sirs,' he said, so that they could all catch his words, 'I am here to

protest, before God, that I seek neither the life nor the dishonour of

my lord. But I desire only to ride home to my house in peace, if he

will let me. But if not, I look to you all to do your duty as becometh

men. He that is willing to do this, out of love and kindness for me, let

him tarry with me to the end. But if not, let him leave me now at this

present!'

And they all answered, 'We will die in your defence if any dire hurt or

pursue you!'

So being well agreed, they of Bargany rode forward. They were divided

into two companies, and their faces were set toward the gate of the

town. And now it befits that I speak of the things which I saw with my

own eyes, and of the noble muster that we of the Cassillis faction made

on the knowes outside of Maybole.

I mind well how the Earl's spies came riding in with the news that

Bargany had ridden out of the town of Ayr, and what joy was in the

hearts of most of us that were there, when we heard that with him he had

but eighty men.

Earl John was so full of pleasure that his countenance shone, and he

cracked his thumbs like a boy, seeing his enemy already in his power.

He rode here and there among us, and saw to it that all the hackbuttmen

had good-going matches, and all the footmen practicable spears and

pikes.

When we gathered in the High Street of Maybole the snow was just

beginning to fall, and presently it came driving up from the south, so

that we had it on our backs all through the fight.

I was put in the very forefront of the muster with my twenty horsemen.

For, save and excepting those of Culzean, and the few that surrounded

his own person and were his gentlemen (as Robert Harburgh and others),

my Lord of Cassillis counted not many horsemen, but rather spent his

means upon providing hackbuttmen with the latest species of ordnance.

Nevertheless, gallantly enough we rode forth from Maybole, with the

hackbuttmen and spearmen coming on foot after us. The street was full

of them as far as one could discern through the oncoming storm, rising

and falling like the waves of the sea. Yet was our soldierly figure a

little spoiled by the falling snow--at least to the eyes of the women

that looked down upon us in droves from the upper windows of the houses.

But, of course, a soldier cared nothing for such a trifle.

When once we got outside the town, my lord bade his men line the hedges

and banks, so that the hackbuttmen might have both rests for their

pieces and shelter for themselves. On the other hand, the Laird of

Bargany hid few hackbuttmen, for he said, 'It is not the arm of a

gen'leman. Comes a bullet of lead and be he lord, prince, or peasant,

Childe Roland or base craven, there is no difference and no remead.'

No sooner were we set, all under cover, than our spearmen upon the left

and we upon the right, discerned the host of Bargany beginning to crown

the opposite knolls. And through the pauses of the storm I could see the

leaden glint of their spears, and hear the words of command. It was

indeed a picked day for a grim fight to the death.

At the head of all Gilbert Kennedy rode, behind him the Wolf his

brother, and the Laird of Auchendrayne wearing a long cloak, for it was

a stormy day and he no longer a young man like the others. Then it was

that my heart rose against the fighting, and I had no such gladness in

it as was usual with me, all for the sake of young Bargany, whom I

loved. Yet as soon as I set eyes upon John Mure of Auchendrayne, I felt

the iron grow in my veins and the hot anger mount to my head. Of its

own accord my hand gripped the spearhilt, for this day, by the Earl's

command, I was again to lay a lance in rest. But I had now learned the

game and art of it, and took lessons no longer from anyone.

'If the Lord prosper me this day, I will make an end of one false

rogue!' So I vowed, solemn as if I had been in the kirk on a Sabbath

day.

Then the two forces drew so close together that we could see and hear

one another--that is, before the snow swept down, blotting out faces and

forms, friend and foe alike.

Immediately there began the challenging and taunting, as is ever the way

in these clan battles, where every fighter knows everyone else, and has

met him at kirk and market a score of times.

Then Patrick Rippitt, that was ever a wild lad, cried out for

provocation to the Laird of Bargany's younger brother, with whom he had

some quarrel about a lass.

'Laird of Benane, Laird of Benane, this is I, Patrick Rippitt, that took

your hackbutt from you! For thy latest love's sake, come down to the

hollow and break a tree with me.'

For that was his manner of challenging his enemy to fight with lances.

And again, 'Then for all thy loves sake,' cried Patrick, which made a

laugh, for Benane's loves were comparable to the snowflakes for number,

and eke for the lightness--but by no means the whiteness of their

characters.

'For all thy loves' sakes, come down, and I will gar thy harns clatter!'

But Benane was silent and returned no answer, albeit the moment before

he had been giving Bargany counsel to ride forward at the charge. But

Benane was a man, debonnair but feckless, a weighty man with his tongue,

but thewless and unable of his hands.

Long ere this the men of Ayr were keen to be at the shooting. But

Bargany held them in, saying, 'I will go to the length of my tether in

eschewing all cummer and bickering, so far as I may.'

And with that he wheeled about his force off the knows of the Lady

Carse, and went down by the bogside of Dinhame, to see whether a way

might be won in that direction, without coming to the bloody arbitrament

of battle.

But my lord the Earl cried out, 'Ware ye, there on the left. They would

turn our flank and take us at unawares!'

So he spread out his hackbuttmen, and made them race down the ridges

over against Bargany's men, till they won to the foot of the Bog of

Dinhame. There on the edge of the moss was a wall of turf, or, as the

country folk call it, a 'fail dyke,' so our hackbuttmen, coming to it,

first lined it, and then began to fire on Bargany, who was somewhat

disconcerted and taken aback at their alertness. I galloped round to

the right, to make safe the wing with my little band of horse, for I

feared we might be suddenly assaulted by the whole band of eighty.

However, as it happened, the sudden shooting of our musketeers threw

their lines into confusion, some of them halting by a little burn-side

that was at the bog-foot. This staying of the charge gave further

courage to our musketeers, who had full time to plant their rests and

make their matches ready. Our pikemen also gathered at the back of the

turf dyke and levelled their weapons over the heads of the kneeling

hackbuttmen, so that it had been as vain for the whole company to have

charged upon us, as for them to have attacked the walls of Calais.

Nevertheless, I saw them muster again boldly and come at us. I caught

the trampling of their horses as they gathered speed. The fire of our

musketeers flickered out here and there adown the line, for it was a

dark afternoon and the flashes could clearly be seen. I saw sundry

horses go down and heard men fall, the iron plates of their mail

clashing on the frost-firmed ground. Some of those who started most

gallantly reeled in their saddles, threw up their arms and fell

backwards, while their horses galloped riderless away, for that is the

manner of men's falling who are smitten by the bullet as they ride.

The Wolf of Drummurchie was down. I hoped that he would rise no more,

for he was a most cruel beast and the bane of many lives. Indeed, from

before the fire of our musketeers, all trained marksmen, the riders of

Bargany who had been so proud, fairly melted away. Thus was Earl John

justified of his dependence upon powder and lead.

*CHAPTER XXV*

*MARJORIE BIDS HER LOVE GOOD-NIGHT*

I was just rejoicing that the battle was well over, and that the victory

remained with us without great shedding of blood, when to my infinite

astonishment I saw a little dark cloud of five or six men disengage them

from the deray, and charge straight at the thickest of us. They seemed

to come suddenly out of the midst of the battling snowstorm, for the

driven flakes beat so in their faces, that had it not been shed from

their armour they would have been fairly sheeted white in it, as indeed

were the trappings of their horses.

In a moment more they were amongst us--Bargany himself first of all,

with Cloncaird and James and Andro Bannatyne, and behind them, with his

sword bare, Auchendrayne himself. Yet I opine he came not willingly,

but that his horse, unaccustomed to noise, ran away with him. By what

freak of madness they resolved thus to charge, as it had been an army in

position, it is beyond me to tell. In a moment these five were in the

midst of the slicing steel and the flame of ordnance--the snow-flakes

driving in their eyes and their swords cutting a way through the white

drift to reach the foe.

Never was there such a fight--at least, not in this land, for there were

but five of them to near a hundred of us! So that I saw no honour in

the battle, and besides, it went hard with me to have to smite that

Gilbert Kennedy, at whose side I had ridden so blithely all the way to

the house of the Inch.

But I spurred Dom Nicholas forward with a kind of joy, toward the mound

where Auchendrayne had managed to stay his horse just outside the heady

rush of the fight. I saw that he meant to watch what the end might be,

but I was determined that I should give him more than he bargained for.

So I couched lance, and crying, 'A Kennedy!' held at him, swinging a

pistol point-blank as I came, and throwing it away as I gripped the

spear. And this time at least I might well have been called Spurheel,

for I rowelled Dom Nicholas most vigorously. I came upon John Mure with

a surge, so that I clean overbore him with a lance-thrust in the thigh.

I cared not a jot that he was old. The devil was older than he, and

besides, if he wanted not to stand the chance of battle, he might even

have bided at home for the quarrel was none of his.

And it had been telling all of us if I had stayed to finish him. When I

think of the ill the man did afterwards, and how for years he had been

bringing many to their deaths, I can bite my thumb for letting him off

scot-free.

But, like a fool, I contented myself with the lance-thrust and the

chance pistol bullet I sped at him in the heat of the fight. For I

never could abide the cruel slaying of the wounded, which is practised

even more in these private wars than in the great affairs of nations.

And this over delicacy has often stood in the way of my advantage.

So I turned, and left Auchendrayne lying on the ground. As I came back I

heard Bargany crying out, 'I fear we are too few! But have at them till

we die!'

There was but one that fought with him, all his other companions being

stricken down. And in a trice he alone was left on his horse.

Nevertheless, it was with a light hand on the rein and a feat touch of

the heel, that Gilbert Kennedy kept his head, though the blows fell like

hail on his armour. There were three that he held at arm's length--all

the while crying out for the Earl, and trying fiercely to break through

the spearmen, who stood like a fence about the person of Cassillis.

'Where is my lord himself?' he cried. 'Let him now keep promise, and

come out like a man to break a tree with me!'

So went the fight of the one against many, and such deeds of valiance

saw I never any man do in this realm of Scotland, though in my time I

have seen so many brave and worthy things done. For Gilbert Kennedy

attacked Patrick Rippitt and Quintain Crawford with strokes that nearly

dang them senseless, crying at each blow, 'Bargany! Bargany! To the

rescue, Bargany!' But ever as he raged through the fight like a lion, I

saw John Dick watching him with a poised lance in his hand. And while

Gilbert was at blows with Rippitt and Big Quintain, Dick raised the

spear and sent it quivering at him, with an art which I never saw any

man master of, save only himself. Gilbert Kennedy had taken no note of

him--for, as I heard afterwards, Auchendrayne had told all that were in

the camp of Bargany, that John Dick was his man, and his paid

intelligencer in the host of the enemy.

The poised lance struck young Bargany full in the neck and stayed. So

in the midst of his foes, and striking at them to the last, he fell, who

was the bravest man of his age. And at his overthrow there fell a

silence for a space, and the battle smother cleared. Only the snow fell

and scarce melted on the face that was already white and set in death.

We crossed our spears and made a bier with our cloaks, whereon we laid

him. Then very gently I drew away the deadly lance, though the wound

bled not much, but inwardly, which was worse. We thought to bear him to

some castle of his own folk, as it might be to the house of Auchdrayne.

But the Earl John came and looked at his foe and kinsman as he lay on

the snow with his eyes closed.

'Carry him to my castle at the town end of Maybole,' said he, 'for that

is near by.'

Now I thought that not the best place in the world for the young man's

recovery, but, being bidden, it was not mine to reply, but only to obey.

We came to the portcullis gate of Maybole, and were bearing him in upon

our shoulders, when down the road to the town there came, riding like

the wind, first a lady and then a man that followed hotly in pursuit.

When they came nearer, I saw that the lady was she who had been Marjorie

Kennedy, and that the man riding after was her husband, James Mure. At

sight of us who bore the soldier's bier slowly on our spears, Marjorie

leaped from her horse, and left it to wander, bridle free, whither it

would. But a page seized and held it.

She came swiftly to where we were carrying our burden on the crossed

lances.

'Is it Gilbert Kennedy?' she said.

We told her ay.

'Lay him down under the gate,' she commanded, 'I would speak with him.'

'But, my lady Marjorie,' I said, as gently as I could, 'I fear that he

is dead already.'

'Then I would even speak to him dead,' she cried. 'Lay him down!'

Her husband came up to take her by the hand as if to remove her, but she

turned on him in white anger, swift and flaming.

'You that have never yet dared to lay a hand on me, is it like that you

shall begin now? Go, look to your father; cravens that shun the battle

ought not to brawl with women in the gate!'

And without further remonstrance James Mure slunk away, like the very

pitiful rogue that he was. I could have kicked the cur, and wished

there had been fewer folk there--for I had done it too.

Then she that had been so proud and haughty to young Bargany when he was

alive, took the fair, wounded head in her arms, crouching beside him in

the dun, trampled snow, while the flakes blew in upon her unbound hair.

She crooned and hushed him like a bairn, while we that had borne him

stood wide from her, some turning away altogether. But, because I knew

all and loved her, I stood near.

'Gilbert,' she said, 'noblest and dearest, never doubt but that I loved

you--never loved but you. Though I flouted you oft, and ever sent you

empty away, yet I loved you and none other. And I want the world to

know that I loved him--ay,' she said, turning her face up to us all

defiantly, 'ay, and loved him with clean hands, too, for he that is dead

never knew it. But I desire you that were his enemies in life, to know

that I, Marjorie Kennedy, honoured myself by loving the noblest man and

the fairest--not that thing there, who by cozenance bought me, as cattle

are bought in the market-place.'

She laid down his head very gently, taking a fine silken scarve, soft

and white, from her own neck. And in the folds of that which was yet

warm with the warmth of her pure and gracious bosom, she wrapped from

common sight the head of him who had died without knowledge of her love.

Then she kneeled low down upon her knees, clasping hands and holding the

last fold of the napkin ere she covered his face from sight.

'Ah, best beloved,' she said very gently, yet so that I could hear,

'fare thee well! So have I never said farewell before. But ever

scornfully, being in fear of mine own heart's treachery. Lie you there

that wert the noblest man the sun shone on, of adversaries the most

fearless, of enemies the most chivalrous, of friends the truest, of

loves the sweetest--lie you there. Those that hated you were many. But

there was one that loved you--ay, and loves you, and ever shall love

you! Lie you there, heart that never feared aught but God and dishonour

and a lie--heart that never took favour from man nor refused one to

woman. See, I will touch your lips--those sweetest lips that never of

my own will, have I touched before. The earth be kind to your body,

sweet. The heavens receive your soul with honour, and the angels that

warred with Satan and vanquished him, stand up at your entrance to give

you room!'

She smoothed the cloth upon the face with mighty love in the caressing

of her finger tips.

'Good-night, dear love,' she said, lifting it for the last time and

kissing his brow. 'It is sweet, even thus in death, to tell thee that I

love thee!'

Then, when Marjorie had done bidding her love farewell, we lifted the

crossed spears, and setting them again on the shoulders of men, we

carried Gilbert of Bargany away.

*CHAPTER XXVI*

*DAYS OF QUIET*

I ran back to bid Marjorie return with us to Culzean, where at least we

could keep her safe. She stood where we had left her, looking at the

place where her love had lain. The marks of the crossed spears and

certain drops of blood alone remained on the snow.

At the sound of my voice she started as from a dream.

'Ah, Launcelot,' she said, looking at me strangely, as though I too had

been dead and in a newer life had unexpectedly confronted her, 'do you

think that I, who fear not fifty in the highway, fear one or two in the

house of Auchendrayne? My work is not done there yet,' she added; 'till

it be, there I shall bide.'

And with that she mounted and rode away. Never did I see a cavalcade

ride home in such fashion after a victory. There was not a man of us

from Culzean but went with his head hanging down like a little whipped

cur. And when we told Sir Thomas he was like to break his heart, for he

was a kindly man, and had ever a great affection for Bargany.

And Nell, when she heard it, went out and stopped the boys that played

at ball and shouted in the tennis-court. Also, to keep them sober, she

set them to learn their religion--of which, in common with all in that

country side (save perhaps my master) they had great need.

But strange to tell, after the grief for Bargany's death was a little

by-past among us, there befell the quietest and most gracious time that

ever had been in the house of Culzean. It was like the coming of joy

after the rain--the warm rain of pity which thawed our winter-frozen

hearts.

Yet the things that happened during these months were many. First of

all there was the marrying of my pretty cruel Kate to Robert Harburgh,

who had at last gotten leave to depart from the Earl, and the

down-sitting to settle on. So the day came that I had looked for to be

so bitter to me, and lo! it was not bitter at all; for I stood beside

Nell Kennedy in white, who was Kate Allison's best maid, and it was

indeed a sight comely. Then it was that for the first time I honestly

judged Nell to be more beautiful than her sister Marjorie, of which I

have often thought since.

When all was over, and Nell and I had done racing and throwing of old

shoes after them, as they rode away together to their well-furnished

house of Chitterlintie, it chanced that she and I walked home together.

We were silent a long while.

Then said I, 'Nell, do you remember how it was our daily use to

quarrel?'

'And so it may be again,' she said, tossing her head.

'I wonder where the rope is, and the tow-steps that used to dangle from

the White Tower?' she asked after a moment.

'They are e'en there yet,' I said, 'if it be that you desire to go and

see your lad. But be more timely, I pray you, in your homecoming, for

now you have no excuse in the way of sisters--'

Then I remembered, and was shamed. However, Nell paid no heed, but

seemed to be thinking of something else.

'Nor have you now any excuse for going down by to Sandy the Grieve's,'

she said, giving me tit for tat.

'Nell,' said I, 'we are very good friends, are we not?

'Ay,' said she, drily, 'brawly do I ken the reason of that.'

'And what may the reason be?' I asked of her.

'Just that I am all there is left,' she said, so quickly that I declare

the saying took the wind from me, like a sudden blow where one's breath

bides. Nor do I yet know the answer to that, for on the surface of the

thing there was certainly some reason in what she said.

'Oh, I am not proud,' she went on, 'and you and I are good friends and

good company. I am e'en content to be Mistress Do-no-better!'

'Nell,' said I, going nearer to her, and taking her hand, 'Nell, you and

I are now to be more than that.'

But she drew her hand away with a jerk.

'Try a new way of it,' she said; 'I am not taking Mistress Katherine

Allison's cast-off sweet speeches!'

So that base little wretch Kate Allison had been at the telling of

tales!

After this I saw no better way out of the bog than to withdraw myself

from her, and walk apart in that silent dignity, which, upon occasion, I

have at my command.

'No, Launce,' she said, standing up with her hands behind her and her

mouth pouted, 'you are a good lad enough, but simple. I knew that I

would send you into the sulks. That was the reason I said it. If you

take me for a sweet confection that melts in the mouth, you mistake me

sorely!'

But I made no answer, not indeed having any to make, and so marched off

by myself. Yet for all Nell's ill-treatment and scorning of me, I did

not grieve any more for that minx Kate. For, as I was no long time in

discovering, the pretty traitress had told Nell many of those sweet

things I had said to her. I never imagined that girls told such

speeches and love-makings the one to the other. I had aways believed

that a lass kept her own secrets, and only told other people's. It was,

indeed, most true what Nell had cast up to me. I was but a simple lad.

*CHAPTER XXVII*

*ON THE HEARTSOME HEATHER*

Now I must tell during this time of Sir Thomas Kennedy. He seemed

altogether another man. He had ever, indeed, been kindly and generous,

forgiving and unsuspicious. But during these spring months of the year

after Bargany's death, he seemed to ripen like a winter apple when it is

laid by, till there was no more sourness in him anywhere.

Oftentimes he would come and cause me to read to him out of the Gospels.

Aforetime it had always been from the Old Testament, which I had ever

thought the more interesting, till Sir Thomas that spring showed me

other of it, making me read through the Holy Gospels.

Indeed, to talk with him and watch his life was better than any sermon.

I declare that before I understood his character and thought, I knew not

that religion was aught more than the colour of a faction--a thing to

fight about, like the blood feuds of Cassillis and Bargany, concerning

the wrong and right of which not one in a thousand knows anything, and

still fewer care.

Yet for all his increasing gentleness there was naught unmanly about my

lord, but ever the bearing and speech of a most courteous knight. He

had a great love for noble and sweet music, and often diverted himself

on the viol, upon which he played most masterly. The scurril jest,

indeed, he would sharply reprove; but his heart still inclined to wit

and mirth, and his countenance was constantly cheerful.

Specially this was so when he and I, with Nell and little David, rode

south to Galloway, where we were to abide a long season with Sheriff

Agnew. For Marget Kennedy, his eldest daughter, was married to the

young Laird, the Sheriff's son, and abode at the castle of Lochnaw. Now

in these days the air of Galloway, brisk yet kindly, suited my master

better than the sea winds which were ever blowing about Culzean. And

what was more to him than all Galloway was not so torn by feuds as

Carrick and Kyle. And a man held not his life ever in the palm of his

hand, as a tavern drawer does an unsteady cup which at any moment may be

spilled. Nevertheless my good master found an infinite sadness in this,

that in a wide realm of men that are called Christians, I, Launcelot

Kennedy, should have come to the years of manhood with no better opinion

of religion than that it was the rag of faction. And this, too, with

ministers in mostly every parish, with preachings and communings, and

all the outer husk of godliness.

But during this springtime, Sir Thomas showed me quite other of it. But

yet I gave not in to all his argument about the Kingdom of Peace. For I

answered that I was his soldier and servant, and that time and again it

had been so ordered by Providence that fight I must--for the safety and

honour of my master and eke for mine own, this being the sphere of life

in which my lot had been cast.

'I object it not,' said Sir Thomas; 'defence and the appeal to arms are

lawful. But I have lived many days, and I think shall not live many

more. Yet never have I seen the lasting success of them that make the

appeal to the sword. Truly does Holy Writ say, that they that flee to

the sword shall perish by the sword.'

And as we paced together he read to me much from his little Bible, and

bemoaned his sins and evil life, especially how that he had been

overtaken in the house of Sir Thomas Nisbett on the New Year's night of

the attack. I wished that I dared tell him that I had arranged the

matter with his host for the saving of his life. But I judged that

repentance is no bad thing for young or old, so I e'en let him repent

his fill and bemoan as he would.

Few places more heartsome have I seen than the tower of Lochnaw. First,

it stood near to an inland loch, where ducks squattered and splashed,

instead of being like Culzean, set amid the thresh of winds and the

brattle of the sea. Then the Sheriff and his children were well agreed,

and friendly with their neighbours, so that it was a proverb, that the

wolves and the lambs lay down together in that countryside. For if you

stirred an Agnew, you had all the wolves of Galloway on your back! But

in truth the Agnews were somewhat strange 'lambs,' though their name

bears that signification.

'We are called Agnews because we have so often been fleeced,' said the

Sheriff once in his pleasantry.

But I told him that was bad sense though good wit--because in the hills

we shore not the lambs till they had grown to be sheep.

'Ay, well,' said the Sheriff, twinkling with his eyes, 'shear my son

Patrick there, for he is now sheep-muckle, and has been so silly as to

mix himself with the unruly folk of Carrick.'

I had indeed great pleasure in the house of Lochnaw. It is a fair place,

with walls, moats, and drawbridges all about--very proper for

defence--so that there be no artillery set against it. But to my

thinking the mounds might now very well be levelled and turned into

walks and terraces, as has been done at Culzean.

I sat down daily with the family at table, and was in all respects as

one of them. For the Sheriff said, 'Ye are not to be strange with

us--for my wife comes from within sight of Kirrieoch Hill, and likes

dearly to listen to the tongue of the muirland border folk.'

'Ay,' said my Lady Agnew, for I will not call her the old lady, seeing

that she had kept the heart that was within her young, 'ay, and I have

not seen any folk to better them on these fat, profitable Rhynns.'

'That,' said the Sheriff, 'was what I thought when I went to the Minnoch

side for a wife.'

And very gallantly he lifted his wife's hand to his lips, like the noble

and courtly gentleman he was. And to this day the Agnews have ever been

proud of their wives. And with reason.

'Hearken to these young folk,' said Lady Agnew, as the noise and tumult

of much laughter and daffing came up to us. 'Hark to them. Is it not

good to be young?'

'And therefore it is good to be my Lady of Lochnaw!' said I, for I

determined to show that there were folk in Carrick that could be gallant

as well as Galloway Agnews.

'Hoot, Culzean,' cried the Lady Agnew, 'how have ye brought up your

squire, that he cannot see a well-looking woman, but on the instant he

maun begin to court her?'

'What,' cried my master, 'the regardless loon--and that before her

husband's face, too!'

'That, at least, is not a Galloway fault, at ony gate,' said the

Sheriff, smiling, 'for Galloway ever behaves itself before folk, and

courts only behind backs and slily by the licht of the moon.'

'Ye talk havers, Andrew,' said his wife. 'Never did I meet you behind

backs all the days of our courting.'

'Na,' said the Sheriff, 'but your father, honest man, was sair troubled

with deafness, and your mother was blind, and lame o' a leg forbye.'

'Haud your tongue, guidman. Have some mense afore the young man, for he

looks a sober chiel and blate. What should he have to do with lasses?

At his years!'

Here Nell Kennedy broke out in peal on peal of laughter, and when they

asked her the reason,--

'It was but at Launcelot's face when my lady praises him for being

blate. He looks as innocent as our grey cat Grimalkin, when she has

eaten all the fish for supper.'

I wish that I could dwell longer on these sweet, peaceful days in

Galloway, but the spring went on apace, and Sir Thomas was summoned back

to Culzean. His nephew the Earl urgently needed his advice, and wrote

to him to say so.

'The Earl makes you many compliments,' said the Lady Lochnaw.

'Ay, ay,' said Culzean, 'Earl John was aye a great spender with his

tongue, even as was the daddy of him.'

So we were bound to ride away from this kindly and merry house of

Lochnaw, and much did I desire to return thither. Never once did we

speak of wars and stratagems while we remained under that roof, but all

of friendship, of lusty daffing, and of leasome love.

But when we mounted I bade farewell to all with a wae heart. I envied

the Sheriff greatly, for he had a wife whom he loved in age as in youth,

and yet whom he knew wherein to be the master of--a thing, I take it,

which makes home happier than all besides. I thought within me that

Patrick, his son, had set himself a harder field to plough in his

Marget. Yea, already methought he had let the reins slip from his

hands--which, after all, is no strange thing, considering that she was

own sister to Marjorie and Nell Kennedy, of whose stiff necks I had oft

had experience.

Ere we went, the Sheriff said a word that amused us all. 'When I came to

be Sheriff,' he said, 'I found my father at the horn, outlaw and rebel,

for refusing to pay teinds to cover the back of a bishop's lady with

silks and satins. And when I die it looks like that I shall see my son

at the horn for cleading of his wife according to the degree of a

queen.'

For young Patrick Agnew liked better than all to be for ever gadding

about after the merchants of France and the Low Countries, who knew his

weakness so well that they would come from far to sell him stuff for the

decking of his lady--who, when all was said and done, was nothing to

compare to Nell or even to Marjorie, her younger sisters.

So we departed, almost heart-broken to leave the sweet place of Lochnaw.

And the Sheriff rode with us to the village of Stranrawer--a long,

clarty, Irish-looking street with pigs and bairns running about it, set

on the shore of a fine loch. Here Sir Andrew and his retinue bade us

farewell, and so turned them and rode away back to the homely steading

of Lochnaw.

Now, upon our homeward journey it was the great good pleasure of the

knight, my master, that we should ride up the Minnoch Glen to visit my

father and mother, whom I had not seen for long. Sir Thomas put it,

that it would be well that we rode not directly by Ardstinchar and near

to Bargany along the shore road, for the folk of Bargany were cruelly

set against us. Nevertheless, I knew that the real reason was that he

wished me to see my mother.

So we struck across the moorland country of Wigtonshire to the head of

the Loch of Cree, which is a vast, wild, swampy place where many

waterfowl congregate, and where duck and seagull build their nests.

As we breasted the swelling moors, we came in sight of the mountains

that were dear to me, for I was hill-bred and loved them--so that I

could have ridden on, carolling like a lark, had I been in any other

company.

But Sir Thomas and Nell knew what was in my heart, for as we rode up

Minnoch they looked at each little thatched cot-house, and asked what it

might be called--which was most amiable of them, for I loved to tell

over the well-kenned names, though the hearing of them could not

possibly have pleasured Nell or her father.

When we came to the brow of the hill, along the side of which runs the

track to the Rowan Tree, I begged of them that I might ride a little way

in front, in order to prepare my father and mother for their reception.

Really, I went because I did not wish them to see me meet my mother, for

I knew that I was bound to weep.

But it fell not out as I had expected, for the dogs that were about the

farm came barking and youching round the corner, and I saw the rough

head of our herd laddie looking out of the barn. Then he scudded across

the yard like a hare, and, anon, there came my mother forth, with a

white hood upon her head, and girt about with her apron--even as she had

been when, as a boy, I used to come pelting home from the hills,

hungrily looking for a piece and a slockening drink of milk.

So she came own the little loaning to meet me, nearly running in her

eagerness, I declare. And there, at the gate-slap, I leaped down from

Dom Nicholas and took my mother about the neck, greeting like a great

silly bairn. But for my life I could not help it. Yet I need not have

cared, for Nell and Sir Thomas were admiring something on the hills,

with their heads close together; and over my shoulder I could hear him

pointing out to her the road to Straiton, and the way across the hills

to Girvan--so they observed not my weakness.

Then came Sir Thomas forward, and I presented him to my mother.

Whereupon he greeted her by the name of Lady Kirrieoch, for that was a

title of courtesy to a laird's wife. And though Kirrieoch is but a

little place and a wild, uncouth holding, yet Sir Thomas walked by my

mother's side, leading his horse and talking, with his hat in his hand

all the while, as if she had been the Queen of Scots herself.

And as I looked steadfastly away towards the wind, so that they should

not see that I had been weeping, and also to let the air dry my eyes

(for such weakness is ridiculous in a man), Nell came riding by on her

palfrey. She cast a little glance about her to see that none observed,

a look quick and timorous. Then she leaned over and gave me a light

little pat on the cheek with her hand--a thing she never did before, but

which I liked very well.

Then came out my father to meet us at the door, and Sir Thomas took him

by the hand heartily.

'You and I, Laird,' he said, 'are not so young as we were at the King's

muster on the Boroughmuir, and when you held the colours of Cassillis,

even as your son does this day.'

'No, Sir Thomas,' said my father, 'brittle bones, slack sinew, thin-sown

hair have come to us both since that day, when it was my good fortune to

serve with you and under you.'

'Ah, Kirrieoch,' replied the Tutor of Cassillis, 'I envy you here on

your high and heartsome muirs, where the wild cats are your greatest

enemies, and naught more dangerous than the erne ever stoops to slay.'

'It is a gye hard struggle at times,' replied my father, 'with Launcelot

away and only two old bodies left with the serving men.'

'Ah, bide a wee,' said the Tutor. 'I have made it my business to see

that in a little, when the lad has won his spurs, you shall have

Launcelot back with something worth while in his pouch, and a handle to

his name as good as the lave of us.'

'I am glad that you have such good reports to give of him,' said my

mother.

'Oh,' said the Tutor of Cassillis, drolling, 'I am none so sure of that.

He has enough conceit of himself, indeed. But in his presence we will

not say more.'

And then my mother set the table for us with her own hands, though Sir

Thomas insisted that she should not; but with all due acknowledgment of

his courtesy, my mother continued the work with dignity and grace.

Besides which, I question whether at the moment Susan, the byre lass,

was dressed fitting to come into a room where there was the company of

great folk.

But it was more than pleasant to see Nell rise to help my mother to

spread the cloth and lay out the silver spoons. We had the best of

muirland fare--mutton of the sweetest, black-faced and small,

toothsomely fed on the sweet, tender grasses that nestle among the

heather-knowes. Also we had sweet milk, oaten cake of a rare crispness,

a kebbuck of rich cheese, and butter, as the Scriptures say, in a lordly

dish, for the vessel was of silver, and had upon it the ancient arms of

the Kennedies.

The Tutor picked it up and looked at it.

'These are the bearings of my great-grandfather!' he exclaimed, much

astonished.

'Yes,' said my father; 'and he was also my grandfather.'

'Bless me!' cried the Tutor of Cassillis; 'I knew not that we were so

nearly related.'

And all through the remainder of our stay he called my father 'cousin.'

And as for Mistress Nell, there was no end to her merriment on the

subject.

'Now we shall fight more than ever,' she said, 'for we Kennedies always

fight with our cousins. And I must find the handle of the hayrake with

which I used to beat my cousin Philip. It will serve excellently for

drubbing Launcelot, my new sweet coz!'

At last we rode away, and Nell Kennedy kissed my mother lovingly when we

bade farewell, so that my heart warmed more than ever to the lass.

Waeheartedly enough we left the little white housie behind us, sitting

blythsome on its brae above the white stones of the burn. And in my

imagination to this very day, whenever I am away from the Minnoch for

long, rises a clear picture of the water-side as we saw it that

morning--a wide valley filled to the brim with sunshine and the stir of

breathing airs, the whaups and peesweeps beginning to build, and keeping

up all the time above our heads a brave welter of crying and the whistle

of eddying wings.

'I wonder not that sometimes you grow homesick,' said Nell Kennedy.

'When you are distracted and morose, I shall now know the reason.'

So we came in due season to the house of Culzean, and there we found all

well, with James playing tennis contentedly in the court; and Sandy, up

at the stables, acting the big man and giving his orders as large as my

lord.

*CHAPTER XXVIII*

*WARM BACKS MAKE BRAW BAIRNS*

It was the morning of the 11th of May, and we were on the morrow to take

our journey to the town of Edinburgh. I had advertisement the night

before that I was to ride to the town of Maybole to meet John Mure of

Auchendrayne, and on my master's account to appoint a tryst with him at

the Duppil, not far from the town of Ayr, for my Lord desired not to

pass through that place, knowing that many of the faction of Bargany

abode there. But Sir Thomas ever believed that Auchendrayne was of

those that wished him well, because of the marriage and of all that had

passed between them.

So I had to ride on this mission that I loved not over well. But I had

nought to say. For whenever I spake to the Tutor concerning John Mure,

he would clap me on the head and say, 'Ye are overcareful and

suspicious, Launcelot. John Mure and I are fathers of the same pair of

bairns, wherefore, then, should we not be as one--even as they?'

Poor man--I could not find it in my heart to tell him of the happening

beneath the town-gate of Maybole, when James Mure's wife bade farewell

to Gilbert Kennedy of Bargany, as he lay there dead on his enemies'

spears.

So at early morning I rode as I was bidden to Maybole to meet the Laird

of Auchendrayne, who, as my master knew, had some business there. But

it so fell out that I missed him, for he had lodged all night in the

town at the Black House, which belongs to one Kennedy of Knockdone, a

friend of his and of the Laird of Newark's.

I was loath to ride all the way after him to Auchendrayne, and so

bethought me that I should get the loan of a laddie from my crony,

Dominie Mure, out of his school at the foot of the Kirkwynd. My way led

me by the Green, where it was sorely in my mind to try a stroke of the

ball. But I remembered me that Sir Thomas bade me be soon back, that I

might be ready to ride with him on the morrow's morn to the town of

Edinburgh by Duppil and the Ford of Holmestone. So, though I saw some

brisk birkies licking at the ball, one of them being Laigh-nosed Jamie

Crawford that had his nose flattened with the stroke of a golf ball on

the hills of Ayr, I refrained me for that time and went to seek a boy.

But I saw none on the Green, saving some raggedy loons playing

kick-ball, whom I did not like to trust with so important a message. I

went on, therefore, to the schoolhouse. And as I went it cheered me to

think on Dominie Mure and his humours, for he and I had been gossips of

a long season.

The schoolhouse of Maybole was a curious building tacked on to the rear

of the kirk, with vaulted passages of timber, in which were doors which

could on occasion be opened, so that the school itself might be used as

an addition to the kirk should the latter be crowded. But in my time

the space was but seldom in demand. It was an age of iron, and men's

minds craved not naturally that which was peaceable and good. The old

Papistry had passed away, but the new religion had not yet grown into

the hearts of the people.

I came to the schoolhouse door. The noise of conning lessons that used

to go humming all along the Kirk Vennel was louder than it was wont to

be. Indeed, I thought that of a surety Dominie Mure had gone as far as

the change-house for his morning glass of strong waters, wherein I did

that worthy man an injury. The dominie's Highland pipes lay on the desk

before him, the great drones looking out like eyes at the scholars.

They were the recreation of his leisure, for he had been in his youth in

the savage North, and had learned to be no ill-considered performer even

in the country of pipes and pibrochs.

I looked within, and there, mounted upon two desks and a chair, stood

the Dominie with his head through a round hole in the boards of the

roof, and all that one could see of him convulsed with animation.

The bairns below were in a great consternation, crying out that this one

and that other was misbehaving--that Robin Gibb was pinching, or that

Towhead Kennedy was in the act of some piece of villainy which remained

unexpressed, for the obvious reason that the heavy hand of Towhead

Kennedy had prisoned the information within the mouth of the

tale-bearer.

The school of Maybole was an apartment nearly square, with a dark,

well-hacked oaken writing-desk running round two sides of it, and

benches set cross-ways on the floor, where, when the peace was

undisturbed by internal war, the bairns conned their tasks from worn

copies of the Bible.

At the far end of the school was a wooden bar a foot from the floor, and

a little behind it another. This was called the hangman, for it was the

post of judgment to unruly boys, who were called upon to kneel over the

first bar and grasp the second, thus putting themselves into a proper

position for the operations of the fiery and untender little Dominie.

The desk of the master had a framework behind it, in which were

half-a-dozen birch rods, carefully kept and oiled, even as I keep my

stands of arms,--for the callants of Maybole have ever been unruly, and

so remain to this day.

Dominie Mure was in stature the least, but in learning, I can well

believe, the greatest of dominies, for he was never without two or three

scholars in the Latin. It was whispered by the malicious that he had

been trained for a clerk in the old days of the Roman Church, but made a

false step, and so had to turn dominie. Taking the words at their usual

meaning, I utterly condemn and reject this lying, malicious explanation,

for Dominie Mure was the least handsome man in Carrick. He was little,

scarce bigger than many boys of twelve and fourteen who sat in his class

in the New Testament--which was naturally the class beneath the Old

Testament.

His hair grew all over his head and face, grey, wiry and rough, like

burned heather. Out of this tangle a pair of humorsome eyes looked, and

a stout nose projected like the angle of an overgrown and ruined

building. His arms were long, and so strong that he could lift any lad

in the school into the air with one of them, while he gave him 'paikie'

with the other. So fierce and fiery was the little man, that no one of

the great stalwart loons who came in the winter-time dared to try their

pranks upon him. He would fly at them swift as the wild cat springs,

and beat half-a-dozen black and blue before they had time to rally.

What he was now doing with his head through the ceiling I could not well

imagine. But there was a great noise aloft and a rushing of feet, while

the master made desperate dives hither and thither, like a man in deep

water and not well able to swim.

Beneath, one little rascal of a bare-legged loon rose from the seat

where he had been sitting squirming at his copy.

'The Dominie is lost!' he cried in great pretended alarm. 'Oh, sirs,

where is our Dominie? Look in the ink-horns, lassies. Look in a' your

pouches, laddies!'

And so all the ill-set vagabonds rose and began to search the ink-horns,

the dinner wallets, and even in the rat holes for the master.

But at this moment there was a crash, and first one and then another

pair of legs appeared dangling through the ceiling, wildly kicking. The

head of the Dominie returned through the hole in the ceiling, and he

cautiously descended. His face was damp with perspiration from his

exertions aloft, and he had his longest and stoutest birch rod, which

was of the thickness of one's forefinger, in his hand. There was a

great streak of soot across his nose--which indeed was about all that

there was for it to cross, the rest of his face being but a grey tangle

of hair.

Dominie Mure came forward to where I stood by the door. He greeted me

right heartily, and not the less when I told him on whose account I was

there, for he had often been summoned over to drink a pint with Sir

Thomas at the inn or in his own town house, because my master ever loved

all learned men.

'Bide a wee,' he said, 'till I attend to these rascal loons. They

climbed up through the hole in the ceiling, when I was at Deacon

Gilroy's funeral, to get the store of balls, knuckle-bones, chuckie

stones, and other things the bairns throw up there. I kenned well they

would fall through.'

So the Dominie took a much thinner and suppler bundle of birch, gave it

a draw through his hand and a swish or two in the air, which made the

dangling legs kick more wildly than ever--it might be with pleasure and

it might be with painful anticipation.

Dominie Mure walked to the place and set a chair for himself to stand

upon.

'Wha belangs thae legs?' he asked of the scholars.

'They are Tammy Nisbett's,' said the school with one voice, 'we ken by

his duddy breeks!'

'And whose limbs are these--to whom do these legs belong?' he continued,

pointing to certain red objects that twinkled in frantic endeavours to

be free.

'Jock Harrison's,' answered the school without a moment's hesitation;

'they are clouted wi' his mither's auld petticoat!'

Then the master did his office affectionately upon those parts of Tommy

Nisbett and Jock Harrison which of their own accord the adventurous

loons had exposed. The thwacks resounded through the school, but the

yells mostly ascended through the roof. Then, when he had finished his

pleasure--for I saw by his eye it was no unwelcome task--he put up an

arm, and without circumspection pulled the squirming urchins through the

rotten boards.

'Thomas Nisbett,' he said severely, 'your faither is an householder. He

shall pay for the damage done to the ceiling of this schule, which is

the property of the Session of the parish, of which I am clerk. And

your faither can take the price out of your breeks himsel' at his

leisure.'

He then hauled the other down in the same manner.

'Jock Harrison, I'll never trouble your puir mither about the siller for

the repairs. She has enough to do with ten like you. But I'll e'en pay

your hurdies the noo, and quit your mother and you too, at the one

settlement.'

Which having done, he laid down his bundle of rods, dusted his hands,

and commended himself to me to know how, and in what manner, he might

serve my master. I told him that if he would write a letter to John

Mure of Auchendrayne to bid him meet with Sir Thomas at the Chapel of St

Leonard's by the sandhills of Ayr, on the morrow's morn at ten of the

clock, and send it to Auchendrayne by one of his most trustworthy lads,

it would be no small obligation. And furthermore that I would await an

answer here in Maybole, having other business to transact.

'Good faith, Master Launcelot, I will do that--and gladsomely,' said the

little Dominie.

So, having brought the school to order and set the classes to their

work, he squared himself at his desk, and wrote fairly and elaborately

as I told him. For the little man prided himself on his

penmanship--which, indeed, Sir Thomas ever said was better than that of

any law scrivener in Edinburgh.

I reminded him of this, and Dominie Mure could hardly contain himself

for pride. How strange that so small a thing should set up some men!

Then, when he had finished and addressed it in the Italian manner, he

called out, 'William Dalrymple, come hither!' And, from the close-built

ranks of the older scholars at the wall-desks, a plump-faced, ruddy boy

arose.

'This,' the Dominie said, 'is the son of a widow woman, and a steady lad

that will truly do your message and bring you word again without delay

or falsehood. He is called for a nickname Willie Glegfeet.'

So to William was delivered the letter and sundry copper coins for

running the errand. Whereupon he took up the Vennel and through the

High Street on the way to Auchendrayne like a hunted hare, for, as his

name imports, he was wonderfully nimble of his feet.

Having thus delivered my message, I thanked the Dominie very heartily,

and went to the play of the golf green till the messenger should return.

I had an excellent game, but, not playing with mine own clubs, I was

beaten (though not at a great odds), by the young Laird of Gremmat,

whose chin was hardly yet better of the cleaving it got on the fatal day

at the Lady's Carse. But this interfered naught with his putting. Now

gaming on the green is uncommonly fretting to the temper, and more

especially when you are losing with a man like Gremmat, who cries and

shouts at every good stroke of his own and dispraises yours. Yet, owing

to the well-kenned equality of my temper, and also because he was not

yet fully recovered of his wound, I did not clout him over the sconse

with my cleek, as I certainly was in a great mind more than once to do.

We were yet hard at it, and the afternoon wearing on apace when I saw

the little Dominie coming toward us with the boy William Dalrymple by

his side. The schoolmaster held the letter in his hand and gave it back

to me.

'William Dalrymple says that he found not the Laird of Auchendrayne in

his own house, and has therefore brought back the letter.'