raised himself from the trap-door, his haggard countenance, and his
blood-shot eyes, that glared with the horror of his situation, half
seen as they were through his long moist locks, chilled Inverawe's
very heart as he looked upon him.
"Now, sir," said Inverawe, "you are safe for the present, your pursuers
have passed on."
"Thanks! thanks!" replied the man; "I know not how sufficiently to
thank you."
"Aye--all is so far well for you," said Inverawe; "but concealment for
you here is impossible. You must remove into a place of more certain
safety, and no time is to be lost. At present you may remove without
observation or suspicion; but no one can say how soon the search for
you hereabouts may be renewed. Here," continued he, setting before
him some of the remains of the feast, which the tired servants had
not removed from the sideboard; "take what refreshment circumstances
may allow, whilst I go for a basket, in which to carry food enough
to last you during to-morrow. We must go to Ben-Cruachan, with as
much secrecy and expedition as we can."
The stranger, thus left for a few minutes by himself, hastily devoured
some of the viands, of which he had so much need, and having swallowed
a full cup of wine, he was rejoined by Inverawe with a basket, into
which he hastily packed some provisions, and, without a moment's
delay, they quietly and stealthily quitted the hall, and the castle,
and the moment they found themselves in the open air, Inverawe led
the way diagonally up the slope, on the western side of Ben-Cruachan.
Their way was long, and their path rough, and they moved on through
woods, and over rocks, without uttering a word. Many a half expressed
exclamation, indeed, burst involuntarily from the stranger, betraying
a mind ill at ease with itself, and many a start did he give, as
if he apprehended surprise from some lurking pursuer; and Inverawe
shuddered to think, that the haggard appearance of the man, and
these his guilty-like apprehensions, were more in accordance with the
accusation of murder, or unfair slaughter, which seemed to have been
made against him, by the expressions of some of those who had come
into the hall in search of him, than with the chance-medley killing
of a man in an affray, which was the complexion he had himself wished
to put on the matter. Be this as it might, however, his most solemn
pledge had been given for his security, and accordingly he determined
honourably to fulfil it, at all hazards to himself. His reflections,
as he went with this man, were of any thing but a pleasing nature.
After a long and painful walk, or rather race, for their pace had
been more like that, than walking, Inverawe began to climb up the
abrupt face of Cruachan, till he came to that part of it which hangs
over the northern entrance of the Pass of Brandera, where the river
Awe breaks away from the end of the narrow branch of the lake, and
there, after some scrambling, he led the stranger high up the face of
the mountain, to a cave that yawned in the perpendicular cliff. The
concealment here was perfect, for its mouth was masked in front by a
cairn of large stones, which might have been accidentally accumulated
by falling during successive ages from the rocks above, or perhaps
artificially piled up there in memory of some person or event long
since forgotten. It was moreover surrounded by trees of all sorts
of growth; indeed, the universal wooding which prevailed over the
surrounding features of nature, of itself rendered any object on the
ground of the mountain side difficult to be discovered by any creature
that did not, like an eagle, mount into the sky. In addition to this,
the great elevation of the position, added to the security of the
place, and the ravine-seamed front of the perpendicular mountain of
rock that guarded the western side of the pass, immediately opposite
to the face of Cruachan, precluded all chance of observation from
that quarter.
"This is not exactly the place where Campbell of Inverawe would
wish to exercise his hospitality, to any one who deigns to ask for
his protection," said the Laird, whilst he was engaged in striking
a light; "but in your circumstances it is the best retreat in which
I can extend it towards you. Here is a lamp; and I will leave this
tinder-box, and this flask of oil with you. The cave is dry enough,
and there is abundance of heather to be had around you. Use your lamp
only when you may find it absolutely necessary so to do; for its light
might betray you; and take care to show yourself as little as possible
during the daylight of to-morrow. I have promised you protection by
Cruachan, and by Cruachan you shall have it. You must be contented
with this my assurance for the present, for your safety demands that
I shall not see you again, until I can do so without observation,
under the veil of to-morrow-night's darkness. Till then, you must
e'en do with such provisions as this basket contains, and you may
reckon on my bringing a fresh supply with me when I return. Farewell,
for I must hurry back, so as to escape discovery."
"Thanks! thanks! kind Inverawe!" said the man, in a state of extreme
agitation and excitement,--"a thousand thanks! But, must you--must you
leave me thus alone? Alone, for a whole night, on this wild mountain
side, with that yawning hole for my place of rest, and with nothing
but the roar of these eternal cataracts, mingled with the wild howl of
the wind through the pass to lull me to repose! That cairn, too!--may
not that be a cairn which marks the spot where--where--where some
murder has been done? Can you assure me that no ghosts ever haunt
this wild place?"
"The soul that is free from all consciousness of guilt may hold
patient, solitary, and fearless converse with ghost or goblin,
even on such a wild mountain side as this," said Inverawe, somewhat
impatiently. "But surely you cannot expect that my hospitality to
you should require my sharing this mountain concealment with you? If
you do, I must tell you, what common prudence ought to teach you,
that if I were disposed to do so, nothing could be more unwise,
as nothing could more certainly lead to your detection. My absence
from home would create so much surprise and anxiety, that the whole
country would turn out to seek for me, and their search for me, could
not fail to produce your discovery. Even now, I may be risking it by
thus delaying to return."
"True, true, Inverawe!" said the stranger, in a desponding tone, and
apparently making a strong effort to command his feelings. "There
is too much truth in what you say. I must steel myself up to this
night. My safety, as you say, demands it. Yet, 'tis a terrible
trial! Would that the dawn were come! Is it far from day?"
"I hope it is, indeed," replied Inverawe, "else might my absence and
all be discovered. It cannot, as yet, as I suppose, be much after
midnight; but even that is late enough for me. I must borrow the
swiftness of the roebuck to carry me back. So again I say farewell
till to-morrow-night."
Inverawe tarried not for an answer, but, darting off through the wood,
he rapidly descended among the rocks, and then bounded over all the
obstacles in his way, with a swiftness almost rivaling that of the
animal he had alluded to; and so he reached his own door, in a space
of time so short, as to be almost incredible. The fire in the hall
had now sunk into white ashes. The lamp, which he had left burning,
was now flickering in its last expiring efforts. He swallowed a single
draught of wine to restore his exhausted strength, and then he stole to
his chamber, and crept into bed, happy in the conviction that his lady,
who was in a deep sleep, had never discovered that he had been absent.
The sleep that immediately fell upon Inverawe himself was that of the
most perfect unconsciousness of existence. He knew not, of course,
how long it had lasted, nor was he, in the least degree, sensible of
the cause or manner of its interruption. But he did awake, somehow
or other; and then it was that he discovered, to his great wonder and
astonishment, that the chamber which, on going to bed, he had left as
dark as the most impenetrable night could make it, was now illuminated
with a lambent light, of a bluish cast, which shone through the very
curtains of his bed. A certain feeling of awe crept chillingly over
him; for he was at once convinced that the light was something very
different from the dawn of morning. It became gradually more and
more intense, till, through the thick drapery that surrounded him,
he distinctly beheld the shadow of a human figure approaching his
bed. He was a brave man; but he felt that every nerve and muscle of
his frame was paralysed, he knew not how. He watched the slow advance
of the figure with motionless awe. The shadowy arm was extended, and
the curtain was slowly and silently raised. The bluish light that so
miraculously pervaded the chamber, then suddenly arose to a degree
of splendour, that was dazzling to his sight, and clearly defined
the appalling object that now presented itself to his eyes. The face
and figure were those of the very man who had formerly entertained
him in the hole in the cliff on the mountain side, in Lorn. He was
wrapped in the same grey plaid, too. But those handsome features,
which had made so deep an impression on the recollection of Inverawe,
were now pale and fixed, as if all the pulses of life had ceased, and
the raven locks, which hung curling around them, and the moustaches
which once gave so much expression to his upper lip, now only served
to increase the ghastliness of the hue of death that overspread his
countenance, as well as that of the glaze of those immoveable eyes,
which had then exhibited so much generous intelligence. Inverawe lay
petrified, his expanded orbs devouring the spectacle before them. With
noiseless action, the figure dropped one corner of the shadowy plaid
in which it was enveloped, and displayed a gaping wound in its bosom,
which appeared to pour out rivers of blood. Its lips moved not;
yet it spoke--slowly, and in a hollow and sepulchral tone.
"Inverawe!--blood must flow for blood! Shield not the murderer!"
Slowly did the spectre drop the curtain; and its shadow, seen through
it, gradually faded away in the waning light, ere Inverawe could
well gather together his routed faculties to his aid. He rubbed his
eyes, started up in bed, leaned on his pillow, and brushed the curtain
hastily aside. All was again dark and silent. Again he rubbed his eyes,
and looked; but again he looked into impenetrable night.
"It was a dream," thought, rather than said, Inverawe; "a horrible
dream--but nevertheless it was a dream--curious in its coincidences,
but not unnatural. Nay, it was most natural, that the strangest
adventure of my past life, should be recalled by the yet stranger
occurrences of this night, and that both should thus link themselves
confusedly and irrationally together during sleep. Pshaw! It is
absurd for a rational man to think of this illusion more. I'll to
sleep again."
But sleep is one of those blessed conditions of human nature, which
cannot be controlled or commanded by the mere will. On the contrary,
the very resolution to command it, is almost certain to put it to
flight. The vision, or whatever else it might have been, haunted his
imagination, and kept his thoughts so busily occupied, that he could
not sleep. When his lady awaked in the morning, she found him lying
fevered, restless, and unrefreshed. Her inquiries were anxious and
affectionate; but, by carelessly attributing his indisposition to the
prolonged revelry of the previous evening, he at last succeeded in
ridding himself of farther question, and springing from his couch, he
tried to banish all thought of the unpleasant dilemma into which he had
been brought, by occupying himself actively in the business of the day.
He was so far successful for a time; but, as night approached, his
uncomfortable reflections and anticipations began again to crowd
into his mind. He must fulfil his promise of visiting his guest
of the cave, a guest whom he now could not help looking upon with
horror as a foul murderer; and yet, if he disbelieved the reality of
the previous night's visitation, there was no reason that he should
so regard him more now, than he had done before. The difficulty of
contriving the means of managing his visit, so that it should escape
observation or suspicion on the part of his lady, or his domestics,
was very considerable. His lady was that evening more than ordinarily
solicitous about him, from the conviction that pressed upon her,
that he had had little or no sleep the previous night, and remarking
his jaded appearance, she eagerly urged him to retire to bed at an
early hour.
"My dearest," said he affectionately, "I shall; but before I can do so,
I have some otter-traps to set. Perhaps I had better go and finish
that business now, while there is yet some twilight. Go you to your
chamber, and retire to rest. I shall sleep all the sounder by and bye,
after breathing the fresh air of this balmy evening for an hour or so."
The lady yielded to his persuasion, and she had no sooner left
him, than he took an opportunity of filling his basket, with such
provisions as he could appropriate for the stranger, with the least
possible chance of detection; and putting a few of his otter-traps
over all, by way of a blind, he sallied forth in the direction of
the river. There he first most conscientiously made good his word,
by planting his traps, and then, as it was by that time dark, he
turned his steps up the side of Ben-Cruachan, and made the best of his
way towards the cliffs where the cave was situated. As he drew near
to its mouth, he was, in some degree, alarmed by observing a light
proceeding from it. He approached it with caution, and, on entering
it, he beheld the stranger sitting in the farthest corner of it, on
the bed of heather, with his figure drawn up and compressed together,
and his features painfully distorted, whilst his eyes were intently
fixed on vacancy. For a moment Inverawe doubted whether some fit had
not seized upon him; but he started at the noise made by the entrance
of his protector, and sprang up to meet him.
"Oh, Inverawe," said he, "what a relief it is to behold you! Oh what
a wretched weary time I have passed since you left me!"
"I have brought you something to comfort you," said Inverawe, so
shocked with his haggard appearance, and conscience-worn countenance,
as almost to recoil from him. "You know that I could not come
sooner. You seem to be exhausted with watching. You had better take
some of this wine."
"Oh, yes, yes, give me wine--a large cup of wine!" cried the stranger,
wildly seizing the vessel which Inverawe had filled, and swallowing
its contents with avidity. "Oh, such a time as I have spent!"
"This place is quite secure," said Inverawe. "You have no cause
for such anxiety, if you will only be prudent. But why do you keep
this light burning? Did I not tell you it was most dangerous to do
so. Some wandering or belated shepherd or huntsman might be guided
hither by it, and if your retreat should be once discovered, your
certain destruction must follow."
"I could not remain in darkness," replied the stranger, with a cold
shudder; "it was agonizing to do so! Horrid shapes continually haunted
me,--horrid, horrid shapes!--Even the shutting of my eyes could not
exclude them. Oh, such a night as last! never have I before endured
any thing so horrible."
"You must take your own way then," said Inverawe, as he spread out the
contents of the basket before him; "I am sorry that I can do nothing
better for you, but this is the best fare I could provide for you,
without exciting suspicion in my own house. Stay--here is a blanket
to help to make your bed somewhat more comfortable. And now, I must
hurry away.--Yet, before I go, let me once more caution you about
the light. Perhaps I had better make all secure, by taking the lamp
with me."
"Oh no! no! no! no!" cried the stranger, his eyes glaring like those
of a maniac, whilst he rushed towards the lamp and seized it up, and
clasped it within his arms. "No, nothing shall rend it from me! I
will sacrifice my life to preserve it. What! would you leave me to
another long, long, and dreadful night? Would you leave me to utter
darkness and despair?"
"Leave you I must," replied Inverawe; "and if you will keep the lamp,
you must do so at your own risk. But your thoughts must be dreadful
thoughts indeed, so to disturb you. If conscious guilt be the cause
of them, I can only advise you to confess yourself humbly to your
Creator, and to pray for his forgiveness."
Without waiting for a reply, Inverawe left the cave, and made the best
of his way home. On reaching his apartment, he found his lady awake.
"You have been a long time absent, Inverawe," said she anxiously.
"I have, my love," replied he carelessly; "the delicious air of this
night induced me to stay out longer than I had intended; but I hope
I shall sleep all the better for it."
Exhausted as he was by fatigue of body and mind, as well as worn out
by want of rest, Inverawe did fall asleep immediately, and his sleep
was sound and deep. For aught he knew, it might have lasted for some
hours, when again, as on the previous night, he was awaked, he could
not tell how. The curtains of his bed were drawn close, but the same
uncouth blue light which pervaded the apartment on the former night,
now again rendered them quite transparent. To convince himself that
he was awake, Inverawe looked round upon his wife. Even at this early
stage, the light was sufficiently bright to enable him distinctly to
see his lady's features as her head lay in calm repose on the pillow
beside him. He turned again towards the side of the bed, and his eyes
were dazzled by the sudden increase of light, produced by the curtain
being raised as before, by the extended hand of the spectre. The same
well remembered features were there, pale, fixed, and corpse-like,
but the expression of the brow, and bloodless lips, was more stern
than it was on the previous night. Again the spectre dropped the fold
of the filmy plaid that covered the bosom, and displayed the yawning
gash, which continued to pour out rivers of blood. The spectacle was
horrible, and Inverawe's very arteries were frozen up. Again it spoke
in a deep hollow tone, whilst its lips moved not.
"Inverawe! My first visit has been fruitless!--Once more I come
to warn you that blood must flow for blood. No longer shield the
murderer! Force me not to appear again, when all warning will be vain!"
Inverawe made an effort to question it. His parched mouth, and dried
and stiffened tongue, refused to do their office. The curtain fell,
and the light in the room, as well as the shadow of the figure,
began to wane away. He struggled to spring out of bed, but his nerves
and muscles refused to obey his will, until it was gone, and all was
again darkness. The moment that his powers returned to him, he dashed
back the curtain, threw himself from the bed, and searched through
the room, with outstretched arms, yet, bold and desperate as he was,
he almost feared that they might embrace the cold and bloody figure
which he had beheld. His search, however, was vain, and, utterly
confused and confounded, he returned to bed with his very heart as
cold as ice. Fortunately, his lady had lain perfectly undisturbed, and
amidst his own horror, and amidst all his own agonizing agitation of
thought, he felt thankful that she had escaped sharing in the terrors
to which he had been subjected. As on the former night, he tried to
persuade himself that all that had passed was nothing more than a
dream,--but all the reasoning powers he possessed were ineffectual
in removing from his mind the conviction that now laid hold of it,
that it really was a spirit that had appeared to him. Sleep was
banished from his eyelids for the remainder of the night; and never
before had he so anxiously longed for day-break. It came at last;
and soon afterwards his lady awaked.
"Inverawe," said she, tenderly and anxiously addressing him, "you are
ill--very ill. What, in the name of all goodness, is the matter with
you? Your worn out looks tell me that something terrible has occurred
to you. Your late excursion of last night has something mysterious
about it. You were not wont thus to have concealment from me--from
me your affectionate wife!--What is it that preys upon your mind?--I
must know it."
"Promise me, upon the honour of Inverawe's wife," said he, now seeing
that concealment from her was no longer practicable; "promise me
on that honour which is pure and unsullied as the snow, that you
will not divulge what I have to tell you, and your curiosity shall
be satisfied."
With a look of intense and apprehensive interest, the lady
promised what he desired, and then Inverawe communicated to her
every circumstance that had occurred to him. She was struck dumb and
petrified by the narration; but she had no sooner gathered sufficient
nerve to speak, than she earnestly entreated him to have nothing to
do in concealing the guilty stranger.
"Let not this awful warning, now given you for the second time,
be neglected," said she. "Send for the officers of justice without
delay, and give up the murderer to be tried by the offended laws
of his country. You know not what curse may fall upon you, for thus
trying to arrest Heaven's judgment on the guilty man. Oh, Inverawe,
it is dreadful to think of it!"
"All this earnestness on your part, my love, is natural," said Inverawe
calmly. "But think of the solemn oath I have sworn;--you would not
have Inverawe--you would not have your husband--break a pledge so
solemnly given? Whatever may befal me here, I cannot so dishonour
myself. Besides," added he, "whilst, on the one hand, I know that
he to whom I am so pledged is like myself, a man of flesh and blood,
who, for anything I know to the contrary, may, after all, be really
less guilty than unfortunate; I cannot even yet say with certainty,
that I have not been the sport of dreams, naturally enough arising
out of the strange circumstances to which I have been exposed. But
were it otherwise, and that, contrary to all our accustomed rational
belief, I have indeed been visited by a spirit, what proof have I
that it is a spirit of health? What proof have I that it may not be a
spirit wickedly commissioned by the Father of lies to take this form,
in order to seduce me into that breach of my pledge, which would for
ever blacken the high name of Campbell of Inverawe, and doom myself
to ceaseless remorse during the rest of my days?--No, no, lady!--I
must keep my solemn vow, whatever may befal me."
The lady was silenced by these words from her husband, but her
anxiety was not thereby allayed. It increased as night approached; and
especially when Inverawe told her that he must again visit the man in
the cave. During that day, various rumours had reached him, of people
being afoot in search of a murderer, who was supposed to have found a
place of concealment somewhere in that neighbourhood; and it was with
some difficulty that he could suppress a hope that unconsciously arose
within him, that he might be relieved from his pledge, and from his
present most distressing and embarrassing position, by the accidental
capture of him for whom they were searching. The duty of visiting the
wretched man had now become oppressively painful to Inverawe,--and the
painfulness of it was not decreased by the additional risk which he
now ran of being detected. But Inverawe was not a man to abandon any
duty for any such reasons. Having again privately made up his basket
of provisions therefore, and put his otter-traps over its contents,
as formerly, he left the castle as twilight came on, and making
his circuit by the river side with yet more care and caution than
before, he climbed along the side of Cruachan, and in due course of
time reached the mouth of the cave. The light was burning as before,
and on entering the place, its inmate was sitting with a countenance
and expression if possible more haggard and terrific than he had
exhibited on the previous night.