in a frantic tone, as he rushed forward to seize Inverawe's cold
hand in both of his, that felt like heated iron,--"welcome, my
guardian angel! All other good angels have fled from me now!--And the
bad!--Oh!--But you will not leave me to-night?--Oh, say that you will
not leave me to-night!"
"I grieve to say, that, for your own sake, I cannot gratify you,"
replied Inverawe, withdrawing his hand involuntarily from the
contamination of his touch, and shrinking back with horror from
the glare of his phrenzied and blood-shot eyes, though with a heart
almost moved to pity for the wretch before him, whose very manhood
seemed to have abandoned him. "It is vain to ask me to stay with you,
as I have already frequently explained to you; but much more so now,
that I have learned that there are men out searching for you in
this neighbourhood, brought hither by the strong conviction that
you are concealed somewhere hereabouts. This circumstance renders
it imperatively necessary that you should no longer persevere in
the perilous practice of burning your lamp, which exposes you to
tenfold danger."
"Talk not to me of danger!" exclaimed the man, in a dreadful
state of excitement, and in a tone and words that seemed more like
those of a raving madman than anything else--"I must have light--I
should go distracted if I had not light. Darkness would drive me to
self-destruction! I tell you it is filled with horrible shapes. Even
when I shut my eyes the horrible spectre appears. Have pity!--have
mercy on me, and stay with me but this one single night!--for even
the light of the lamp itself cannot always banish the terrific spectre
from before me!"
"Spectre!" cried Inverawe, shuddering with horror,--"what spectre?"
"Aye, the horrible spectre," replied the man. And then suddenly
starting back, with his hands stretched forth, as if to keep off some
terrific shape that had instantaneously risen before him, and with his
eye-balls glaring towards the dark opening of the cave, he shrieked
out--"Hell and torments! 'tis there again,--there--there--see there!"
"I see nothing," said Inverawe, with some difficulty retaining a proper
command of himself. "But this is madness--absolute insanity. See,
here is your food;--I must leave you immediately."
"Oh, do not go!" said the stranger, following Inverawe for a few steps
towards the mouth of the cave, and entreating him in a subdued and
abject tone. And then, just as his protector was about to make his
exit, he again started back, and stood as if he had been transfixed,
whilst, with his hands stretched out before him, and his eyes fearfully
staring on the vacancy of the darkness that was beyond the cavern's
mouth, he again yelled out--"There! there!--see there!"
It must be honestly confessed, that it was with no very imperturbed
state of nerves, that Inverawe committed himself to the obscurity of
that night, to hurry homewards, and though no spectre appeared before
his visual orbs, yet the harrowing spectacle which the guilty man had
exhibited, and the allusion which he had made to the supposed spectre
which he had seen in his imagination, kept that which he had himself
beheld constantly floating before his mind's eye, during the whole
of his way home; and he was not sorry, when he reached his own hall,
to find his lady sitting by the fire waiting for his return. She was
lonely, and cheerless, and full of anxious thoughts regarding him;
but her eye brightened up at his entrance, and she filled him a goblet
of wine. Inverawe swallowed it greedily down,--gave her a brief and
bare account of his evening's expedition,--and then they retired to
their chamber.
On this occasion Inverawe silently took the precaution of bolting the
door of the apartment; and, on going to bed, the lady, with great
resolution of mind, determined within herself to keep off sleep,
and to watch, so that she too might behold whatever apparition might
appear; hoping that if the spectre which had so disturbed Inverawe,
should, after all, prove to be nothing but a dream, she might be able,
from her own observation, to disabuse him of his phantasy. But it
so happened, that, notwithstanding all her precautions, and all her
mental exertions to prevent it, she fell immediately into a most
unaccountably deep sleep; and Inverawe himself, in spite of all
his harassing and distressing thoughts, was speedily plunged into a
similar state of utter unconsciousness.
Again, for this the third night, he was awaked by the same light
streaming through the apartment, and rendering the curtain of his
bed transparent by its wonderful illumination.--Again he looked round
on his wife, and beheld every feature of her face clearly displayed
by its influence. She lay in the soundest and sweetest repose. His
first impulse was to awake her,--but he instantly checked himself, and
felt grateful that she was thus to be saved from the contemplation of
the terrific spectral appearance, the shadow of which he now observed
gliding slowly towards the bed. The curtain was again raised.--The same
well-remembered figure and face appeared under the usual increased
intensity of light. Again the filmy plaid was partially dropped, and
the fearful gash in the bosom was exposed, as before, pouring out
blood. Again the deep, hollow voice came from the motionless lips,
but it was accompanied by a yet sterner expression of the eyes,
and of the pale countenance.
"Inverawe!--My warnings have been vain.--The time is now past.--Yet
blood must flow for blood!--The blood of the murderer might have
been offered up--now your blood must flow for his!--We meet once more
at Ticonderoga!"
This last visitation of the apparition, accompanied as it was by a
denunciation so terrible, had a yet more overwhelming effect upon
Inverawe than either of those that preceded it. Bereft of all power
over himself, he lay, conscious of existence it is true, but utterly
incapable of commanding thought, much less of exercising action. Ere
he could rally his intellect, or his nervous energy, the spectre was
gone; and the apartment was dark. When his thoughts began to arise
within him, they were of a more agonizing character than any which
he had formerly experienced--"Your blood must flow for his."--These
dreadful words still sounded in his ears, in the same deep, sepulchral
tone in which they had been uttered. Do not suppose that one thought
of himself ever crossed his mind. He thought of his son--that son,
for whose welfare every desire of his life was concentrated,--that
was his blood, against which he conceived this dread prophecy to
be directed--that was his blood which he dreaded might flow. He
shivered at the very thought. He recalled the strange circumstances
which had attended the drinking of the toast to his roof-tree. His
anxiety about his son was raised to a pitch, that converted his bed,
for that night at least, into a bed of thorns. He slept not,--yet all
his tossings failed to awaken his lady, who slept as if she had been
drenched with some soporiferous drug. The sun had no sooner darted his
first rays through the casement, however, than she awaked as if from
a most refreshing sleep. She looked round upon her husband--observed
his haggard and tortured expression--and the whole recollection of
what she previously knew having come upon her at once, she began
vehemently to upbraid herself.
"I have slept," said she, in a tone of vexed self-reprehension.--"After
all my determination to the contrary, I have slept throughout the
whole night; and you have been again disturbed.--Say!--what has
happened? Have you seen him again?"
"I have seen him," replied Inverawe in a subdued tone and manner--"I
have seen him, and his appearance was terrible."
"Say--tell me!--what passed?" exclaimed the lady earnestly. "Inverawe,
I must know all."
Inverawe would have fain eaten in his words. He would have especially
wished to have left his wife in ignorance of the denunciation to
which the apparition had given utterance. But he had not as yet
recovered sufficient mastery over himself, to enable him to baffle
the questioning of an acute woman. In a short time the whole truth
was extracted from him; and now the lady, in a state of agitation
that very much exceeded his, began to press upon him the necessity of
giving up the criminal to justice. Her argument was long and energetic;
and during the time that it occupied, he gradually resumed the full
possession of himself.
"I have heard you, my love," replied he calmly; "yet you have urged,
and you can urge nothing which can persuade me to break my solemn
pledge. The hitherto spotless honour of Inverawe shall never be
tarnished in my person. Dreadful as is the curse which has been
denounced upon me, I am still resolved to act as an honourable man. Yet
I will do this much. I will again visit the man in the cave, and insist
with him that he shall seek some other place of refuge. I have done
enough for him. I have suffered enough on his account. He must go
elsewhere. Perhaps I should have come to this resolve yesterday--the
time, alas! may now be past. But, come what come may, I am determined
that the visit of this night shall be the last that I shall pay to
him. He must go elsewhere. Even his own safety requires that he shall
do so--and mine! But no matter, he must seek some other asylum."
Even this resolve--late though it might be, was, for the time, some
consolation to the afflicted mind of his wife. Nay, it was in some
degree matter of alleviation to his own sufferings. The broad sunlight
of Heaven, and the bustling action of the creatures of this world while
all creation is awake, produces a wonderful effect upon the human mind,
in relieving it from all those phantoms of anticipated evil which the
silent shades of night are so apt to conjure up within it. Inverawe
and his lady were less oppressed with gloomy thoughts during that
day than might have been supposed possible. It is true, that he often
secretly repeated over the denunciation of the apparition, but even
yet he would have fain persuaded himself, as he tried to persuade
his wife, that he had been the sport of dreams, resulting from some
morbid state of his system.
"Ticonderoga!" said he, "where is Ticonderoga? I know of no such
place; nay, I never heard of any such place; and, in truth, I do
not believe that any such place really exists on the face of this
earth. Ticonderoga! A name so utterly unknown to me, and so strangely
uncouth in itself, would lead me to believe that it is the coinage
of my own distempered brain; and, if so, then the whole must have
been an illusion. Yet it is altogether unaccountable and inexplicable."
Thus it was that Inverawe reasoned during that day; but as night
again approached, it brought all its phantoms of the imagination
along with it.
Inverawe, however, wound himself up to go through with that which he
now considered as his last trial. Having filled his basket as before,
he set off on his wonted circuitous route to the cave. As he went
thither, he endeavoured to steel up his mind to assume that resolute
tone with the stranger which he now felt to be absolutely necessary
to rid himself of so troublesome and distressing a charge. Much as it
did violence to his innate feelings of hospitality to come to any such
determination, he resolved to insist on his departure from the cave
that very night, and he had no difficulty in persuading himself that
his doing this would be the best line of safety he could prescribe
for the stranger, seeing that, by the active use of his limbs during
the remaining portion of it, he might well enough reach some distant
place of concealment before day-break. Full of such ideas, he pressed
on towards the cave, that he might get him off with as little delay
as possible. The light which had shone from its mouth upon former
occasions was now absent, and Inverawe hailed the circumstance as
a proof that the wretched man had at last become more rational. He
approached the orifice in the cliff, and gently called him. His
own voice alone was returned to him from the hollow bowels of the
rock. All was so mysteriously silent, that an involuntary chill fell
upon Inverawe. He repeated his call in a louder voice, but still there
was no reply--no stir from within. A cold shudder crept over him,
and for a moment he half expected to see issue from the black void
before him, that appalling apparition which had now three several times
appeared by his bedside. A little thought enabled him to get rid of
this temporary weakness. He recalled the last words of the spectre,
and the strange uncouth name of Ticonderoga. If such a place had
existence at all, it was there, and there only, that he could expect
to behold him again. He became reassured, and all his wonted manliness
returned to him. He struck a light, and crept into the cave. A short
survey of its interior satisfied him that the stranger was gone. The
blanket, the extinguished lamp, and some other things lay there, but
no other vestige of its recent inmate was to be seen. Inverawe felt
relieved; he was saved from even the semblance of inhospitality. But
the recollection of the apparition's last words recurred to him,
and then every thing around him seemed to whisper him that indeed
the time might now be past. He began, most inconsistently, to wish
that the stranger had still been there--nay, he almost hoped that he
might yet be lingering about the neighbouring rocks or thickets. He
sallied forth from the cave, and abandoning all his former caution,
he shouted twice or thrice in succession, at the very top of his
voice, but without obtaining any response, except that which came
from the echoes of the cliffs, muffled as they were by the roar of
the numerous cataracts of the mountain side, and the howling blast
that swept downward through the pass far below. For a moment he felt
that if the stranger had been still in his power, he could have given
him up to justice, to be dealt with as a murderer; but reason made him
blush, by bringing back to him his high and chivalric sense of honour
in its fullest force, so that he turned to go homewards possessed
with a very different train of thought. When his lady met him, she
was eager in her enquiries, and deeply depressed when she learned
that Inverawe had now lost all chance of delivering up the murderer.
"Alas!" said she, in an agony of tears, "the time is now past."
"Do not allow this matter to distress you so, my love," said Inverawe,
endeavouring to sooth her into a calm, which he could by no means
command for himself. "The more I think of it, the more I am persuaded
that the whole has been a phantasm of the brain. Let us have a cup of
wine, and laugh all such foolish fancies away ere we go to bed. This
perplexing and distressing adventure has now passed by, and this
night I hope to shake off all such vapours of the imagination."
Inverawe had little sleep that night, but he was undisturbed by
any re-appearance of the apparition. Unknown to his wife, he made a
circuitous excursion next day to Ben-Cruachan, where a more accurate
examination of the cave and its environs satisfied him that the
stranger was indeed gone. And he was gone for ever, for Inverawe
never afterwards saw him,--nor, indeed, did he ever again hear the
slightest intelligence regarding him.
Days, weeks, and months rolled away, and by degrees the gloom which
these extraordinary and portentous events had brought upon Inverawe,
as well as upon his lady, began to be in a great degree dissipated. His
son had long since returned home in full health and vigour, and things
fell gradually into their natural and usual course.
Inverawe was one night sitting in social converse with his wife and
his son, and their friend, young George Campbell--the same individual
who, as you may remember, was the giver of the toast of the roof-tree
of Inverawe--when a packet of letters was brought in, and handed to
the laird.
"What is all this?" exclaimed he, quickly breaking the seal, and
hastily examining the contents. "Ha! the old Black Watch again! this
is news indeed!"
"What?--What is it?" cried his lady.
"Glorious news!" cried Inverawe, rubbing his hands. "I am appointed to
the majority of the Highlanders; and here is an ensign's commission
for you, young gentleman," said he, addressing George Campbell. "And
my friend Grant, who writes to me, tells me that he has got the
lieutenant-colonelcy. What can be more delightful than the prospect
of serving in such a corps, under the command of so old a friend?"
"Glorious!--glorious!" cried young George Campbell, jumping from his
chair, and dancing through the room with joy.
"A bumper to the gallant Highlanders, and their brave commander!" cried
Inverawe, filling the cups.
The toast was quaffed with enthusiasm. Young Inverawe alone seemed
to feel that there was no joy in the cup for him.
"Would I had a commission too!" said he, in a tone of extreme vexation.
"Boy," said Inverawe, gravely, "Your time is coming. It will be well
for you to stay at home to look after your mother. One of us two is
enough in the field at once."
"Am I then to be doomed to sloth and idleness at home?" said Donald,
pettishly; "better put petticoats on me at once, and give me a distaff
to wield."
"Speak not so, Donald," said his mother, in a trembling voice. "You
are hardly old enough for such warlike undertakings; and, indeed,
your father says what is but too true--for what could I do, were both
of you to be torn from me?"
Donald said no more. The cup circulated. George Campbell was in high
spirits, and full of happy anticipations.
"I hope we may soon be sent on service," said he, exultingly.
"You may have service sooner than you dream of," said Inverawe, going
on to gather the remainder of the contents of his packet. "Grant writes
me here, that in consequence of the turn which matters are taking
in America, he hopes every day for the arrival of an order for the
regiment to embark. George, you and I must lose no time in making up
our kitts, for we must join the corps with all manner of expedition."
The parting between Inverawe and his lady was tender and
touching. Donald bid his father farewell with less appearance of
regret than his known affection for him would have led any one
to have anticipated. There was even a certain smile of triumph on
his countenance as he saw them depart. But his mother was too much
overwhelmed by her own feelings, to notice any thing regarding those
of her son.
The meeting between Inverawe and his old brother officers was naturally
a joyous one, and nothing could be more delightful than the warmth of
the reception he met with from his long-tried friend Colonel Grant,
now the commanding-officer of the corps.
"My dear fellow, Inverawe!" said he, cordially shaking him by the hand,
"This happy circumstance of having got you amongst us again, is even
more gratifying to me than my own promotion, and yet, let me tell you,
the peculiar circumstances attending that were gratifying enough."
"I need not assure you that the news of it were most gratifying to
me," replied Inverawe. "It doubled the happiness I felt, in getting
the majority, to find that I was to serve under so old and so much
valued a friend. But to what particular circumstances do you allude?"
"When the step was opened to me, by the promotion of Colonel Campbell
to the command of the fifty-fourth regiment," replied Colonel Grant,
in a trembling voice, and with the tears beginning to swell in his
eyes, "I was not a little surprised, and, as you will readily believe,
pleased also, to be waited on by a deputation from the non-commissioned
officers and privates of the corps, to make offer to me of a purse
containing the sum necessary to purchase the lieutenant-colonelcy,
which they had subscribed among themselves, and proposed to present
to me, with the selfish view, as the noble fellows declared to me,
of securing to themselves as commanding-officer a man whom they all
so much loved and respected! Campbell!--Inverawe!" continued he, with
his voice faultering still more from the swelling of his emotions,
"I can never forget this, were I to live to the age of Methuselah--I
can never deserve it all--but--but--phsaw! my heart is too full to
give utterance to my feelings--and I must e'en play the woman."
"Noble fellows indeed!" cried Inverawe, fully sympathizing with him
in all he felt; "but by my faith they looked at the matter in its
true light, when moved by selfish considerations, they were led so
to act--for they well knew that you would be as a father to them."
"I shall ever be as a father to them whilst it pleases God to spare
me," said the Colonel warmly, "and if ever I desert them while life
remains, may I be blown from the mouth of a cannon!"
"What was the result of this matter then?" demanded Inverawe.
"Why, as it happened," replied the Colonel, "the promotion went in
the regiment without purchase, so that I enjoyed all the pleasure of
receiving this kind demonstration from my children, without taxing
their pockets, or laying myself under an unpleasant pecuniary
obligation to them, which might at times have had a tendency in
some degree to paralyze me in the wholesome exercise of strict
discipline. And we shall require to stick the more rigidly to that now,
seeing that we are going on service."
"We are going on service then?" said Inverawe.
"We have this very evening received our orders for America," replied
Colonel Grant; "and never did commanding-officer go on service with
more confidence in his men and officers than I do."
"And I may safely say that never did officers or men go on service
with greater confidence in their commander than we shall do," replied
Inverawe, again shaking the Colonel heartily by the hand.
George Campbell was introduced by Inverawe to the particular notice
of Colonel Grant, and by him to the rest of the officers, among whom
he soon found himself at his ease. The time for their embarkation
approached, and all was bustle and preparation amongst them. George
had much to do, and it was with some difficulty, but with great inward
delight, that he at last found himself complete in all his arms,
trappings, and necessaries. The night previous to their going on board
of the ships appointed to convey them to their place of destination,
was a busy one for him, and he was still occupied, at a late hour,
in his quarters, when he was surprised by a knock at his door.
"Come in!" cried George Campbell.
The door opened, and a young man entered, whose fatigued and soiled
appearance showed that he had come off a long journey.
"Donald Campbell of Inverawe!" cried George, in utter astonishment;
and the young men were instantly in one another's arms. "My dear
fellow, what strange chance has brought you hither?"
"I come to throw myself on your honour," said Donald. "I come to throw
myself on the honour of him whom I have ever held to be my dearest
friend;--on the honour of one who has never failed me hitherto,
and who, if I mistake not, will not fail me now. Give me your solemn
promise that you will keep my counsel, and do your best to assist me
in my present undertaking."
"Methinks you need hardly ask for my solemn promise," replied George
Campbell; "for you might safely count on my best exertions to oblige
you at all times. But what can I do for you? It would need to be
something that may be quickly and immediately gone about, else cannot
I stay to effect it. We embark to-morrow morning."
"You will not require to stay behind the rest, in order to do what
I require of you," said Donald of Inverawe.
"I could not if I would," replied George Campbell.
"Do you go in the same ship with my father?" demanded young Inverawe.
"I wish I did," replied George Campbell; "but I regret to say that
I go in a different vessel."
"So much the better for my purpose," replied young Inverawe
eagerly. "You will be the better able to take me with you without my
being discovered."
"Take you with me!" cried George Campbell, in great astonishment. "What
in the name of wonder would you propose?"
"That which is perfectly reasonable," replied young Inverawe. "Do you
think that I could sit quietly at home, whilst my father, and you,
and so many of my friends, are earning honour and glory abroad? Ask
yourself, George, what would you have done under my circumstances?"
"I have never thought as to how I might have acted, had I been so
placed," replied George Campbell, much perplexed. "But I have no relish
for having any hand in aiding you to oppose the will of your father."