‘So soon. But now among all the rest
The champion of a hero-band,
With a gleaming blade and a flashing crest,
And a haughty front and a ready hand.
‘There cometh a crash, and a cry of need,
A puff of smoke--and no more to tell,
But a dangling rein and a plunging steed,
And a rider lying where he fell.
‘Ere the smoke hath melted in air above.
Or the blood soaked in where the hoof hath trod,
The true heart beateth its last for its love,
And the soul is gone home to God.’
The moment was one of intense anxiety and terror. Concealed by
the leaves of the old beech, every leap of the frantic bloodhound
threatened to disclose the listener’s hiding-place. The Earls of Rothes
and Argyle, with drawn swords and bent brows, looked high and low for
the cause of the dog’s fury. Besides the dread of a violent death,
all the more terrible at this his first hour of escape from captivity,
Maxwell now felt that on him depended the liberty of his Queen; more
than this, the life and honour of the woman he still so dearly loved.
To do him justice he would willingly have died on the spot to be able
to advertise his Sovereign of her danger.
For an instant the desperate expedient darted through his mind of
leaping down on Argyle’s upturned face, wresting the sword from his
grasp, and thus armed doing battle with Moray and Rothes; but, even
then, he reflected, how surely the former, who was never surprised or
at a loss, would run to the castle for assistance. If retaken, Walter
shuddered to think, not of his own fate, but of Mary Carmichael’s
capture on the morrow.
Nevertheless there seemed nothing else for it; he had even collected
his breath, and nerved his muscles for the spring, when a trumpet
sounded in the castle, and a puff of lurid smoke swept across the faces
of the three noblemen, who were searching about with eager looks and
bare blades, encouraging ‘Hubert’ the while with voice and gesture.
Again the smoke came rolling in a dun-coloured volume against the
clear sky, and the bloodhound, his attention distracted by the new
catastrophe, or his powers of scent dulled by the smell of fire, ceased
to leap at the old tree, and lowering his stern, began to howl in
abject terror and dismay.
Rothes could not forbear laughing, though he coughed and swore at the
same time.
‘’Tis the alarm!’ said he, as the trumpet again rang out in the
castle-yard. ‘Faith, Moray, I cannot but think they are burning the old
house about our heads. Gentlemen both, I counted not to give ye so warm
a reception as this!’
Nothing escaped Moray’s quick eye. While they hurried back towards the
building, he observed the smoke and flames issuing from the turret
Maxwell had so recently quitted.
‘The wind is favourable,’ said the earl, as another cloud rolled over
them, ‘and you need not fear for more than the prison tower; for the
sake of humanity, I trust, my lord, that it may be empty!’
Rothes did not answer; truth to say, he had quite forgotten Walter
Maxwell, and even had he remembered him, would have thought the life
of one poor prisoner mattered but little at such a time. The three
noblemen addressed themselves to the task of quenching the fire with
characteristic energy. Backed by the exertions of Rothes’ disciplined
followers, they soon succeeded in subduing the flames, and, ere
nightfall, Leslie House had resumed its usual appearance of security,
having suffered but little damage save the scorching of its outer
wall. Poor old Ralph, however, was found dead in the dungeon, probably
stifled by the smoke. But it is not with the inmates of Leslie that we
have now to do.
As may be imagined, directly the coast was clear, Maxwell lost no time
in slipping out of the tree. With a fervent thanksgiving in his heart,
he dropped upon the sward, and ran as hard as his legs could carry him
in the direction of the open country. Yet, even now, his situation was
one of no ordinary hazard and embarrassment. He was unarmed; he was in
an enemy’s country; he might meet, at any moment, with retainers of
Lord Rothes, who would recognise him at once for an escaped prisoner.
Moreover, he was weaker than ordinary, from his long confinement, and,
even had it been otherwise, he could not expect to reach Perth on foot
in time to warn the Queen of the plot laid against her person; and how
was he to procure a horse? Cogitating these matters with considerable
anxiety, he hurried on nevertheless, and was dismayed to find limbs and
breath failing him as he ran.
To add to his discomfiture he heard footsteps approaching rapidly from
behind. Turning his head, he espied the countryman whom he had already
observed in the garden, nearing him with every stride. Maxwell would
have given ten years of his life ungrudgingly to have had as many
inches of steel in his belt.
‘’Od sake, man, ye can run as weel as fight!’ exclaimed a familiar
voice close to him, as the fugitive slackened speed to collect his
strength for the desperate struggle he anticipated. ‘Keep wast, hinny!
keep wast! down yon burnie-side. I can hear “Wanton Willie” nickerin’
at us the noo!’
Though they still kept on at a rapid pace, between running and walking,
Maxwell’s hand was fast locked in that of ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ whilst
the borderer, pointing to a neighbouring brake in which a confederate,
with two led horses, was concealed, in a tone of suppressed triumph
assured his friend that he was safe.
It took but little time to mount ‘Wanton Willie,’ the redoubtable bay
that Dick affirmed was the pride of his lord’s stable, and less to
inform the borderer of the plot against Her Majesty, and the necessity
for reaching Perth with the utmost speed they could command. As they
swung along at a hand-gallop, Dick, with many a smothered laugh and
quaint allusion, for he looked on the whole performance, from first to
last, as an unparalleled jest, detailed to his companion the measures
he had adopted to effect his delivery.
Translated from his own vernacular, the borderer’s account was as
follows:--After his interview with the Queen and her ladies in
Edinburgh, he had ridden on to Leslie with the intention of rescuing
Walter with the strong hand; but on arriving in Fife he found that
country in so alarmed a state, and Leslie House itself so securely
watched and strongly garrisoned, that such a project was utterly
impracticable. His predatory habits had taught Dick, long ago, that
where force was useless, resort must be had to stratagem, and he set
about his task with all the quiet energy of his character and the craft
of his profession.
In the first place it was necessary to diminish his retinue, in order
to avoid suspicion. ‘Lang Willie’ and ‘Jock-o’-the-Hope’ accordingly
were despatched back to Hermitage, leaving one of their horses for the
use of the prisoner, and Ralph Armstrong, a sedate and cautious old
jackman, remained at a considerable distance from Leslie with the three
horses, which he kept well exercised, and fit for a trial of speed and
endurance at any moment.
Dick then disguising himself like a countryman, applied for a day’s
work or two in the gardens and pleasure-grounds of Leslie, and ere
long his great strength and inexhaustible good-humour so won upon
the gardener, that he was installed as a regular labourer about the
place. Here he soon made himself acquainted with the passages and
entrances of the stronghold, more especially with the geography of the
dungeon tower. Nevertheless, study it as he would, he could find no
means of communicating with the captive, much less of liberating him
from thraldom. A thick iron door between massive stone walls is no
ineffectual barrier, if only it be kept locked.
Turning matters over and over in his own mind, while he worked away in
the flower-garden, Dick had arrived at the conclusion that the shortest
method would be to set the whole place on fire, seize his keys, after
braining old Ralph the jailer in the confusion, and thus make his
escape with the prisoner through the flames. To his great relief he had
long since ascertained, amidst the gossip of the servants, that Maxwell
was still alive.
It was necessary, however, to choose a judicious moment for this
exploit, and Dick, understanding that the Lord Rothes and a large
force were to move on the Sabbath from Leslie, had selected that day,
when the house would be less strictly guarded than usual, for his
undertaking. His plan was to fire the place about the hour of curfew,
when the retainers were sauntering abroad in the summer evening, and
were less easily collected than at any other hour; but as our borderer
was a man of great rapidity in action, and kept himself ready at any
moment to take an advantage, Armstrong had strict directions whenever,
by day or night, he should see a wreath of smoke or a red glare above
the old beeches, that instant the horses should be brought to a certain
secluded coppice within half a mile of the castle.
Thus our friend laid his plans, and with equal judgment disposed his
combustibles, straw by straw, as it were, and faggot by faggot, even
as the bird of the air builds her nest, with secrecy and perseverance.
Everything was ready, and the borderer went about his work in the
garden, as he said to himself, ‘with a clear conscience.’ On this very
afternoon, when Maxwell made his unaided escape from confinement,
Dick had just returned from attending the three noblemen to their
game at bowls--the very game which Maxwell had remarked unfinished as
he crossed the green. It was with no small surprise that he saw the
prisoner escaping across the garden which was his own peculiar charge.
The borderer was somewhat disconcerted; nevertheless, he reflected for
a moment. ‘If,’ thought he, ‘Mr Maxwell can surmount the outer wall he
will but light down plump amongst the three earls who are walking in
the avenue beyond; if he remain concealed here in the garden, he is
sure to be missed when old Ralph visits the prison, discovered, and
retaken; nay, if Rothes be the least out of humour, probably put to
death. The faggots are all laid: I have a flint and steel in my belt; I
had best set fire to the place at once, and have done with it.’
Moreover, Dick was not very sure on his own account that he might
not be himself suspected. In getting the bowls ready for the three
noblemen, Moray’s piercing glance had not failed to detect a face he
seemed to recognise. With a brief effort of memory the Earl recalled
that thrust on the causeway of Edinburgh from mad Arran’s blade, and
the interposition of Earl Bothwell’s henchman, which saved his own
life.
‘Good fellow,’ said he, as Dick raised his face from setting ‘the jack’
in its place, ‘I have seen you before; I owe you a debt for saving my
life a while ago, during a brawl in the High Street.’
Argyle and Rothes were at the other end of the green, poising their
bowls to begin; Dick answered hastily, and in a whisper--‘I’ve been in
trouble on the border; I’m in trouble yet; but I’m no kent in Fife.
Your honour can best pay it by no lettin’ on[15] that ye’ve ever seen
me before!’
[15] “Lettin’ on,” Scottice for disclosing a secret.
Moray was a good-natured man enough; he nodded an understanding, and
put a piece of gold in the gardener’s hand; but, nevertheless, Dick
felt none the more sanguine, after this recognition, for the success of
his enterprise.
No sooner, however, had he seen Maxwell swing himself into the old
beech tree, a gymnastic feat which called forth his warmest approval,
than he hastened back to put his long-laid scheme in practice, with
what success we have already learned; for the bloodhound’s sagacity
must unquestionably have led to a discovery of the fugitive, had it not
been for the diversion occasioned by the fire.
‘An’ noo,’ said the borderer, with a sad, wistful expression on his
honest face, very different from the roguish humour with which he had
narrated the detail of his adventure,--‘an’ noo, I’m easy in my mind,
whichever way the bowl may rin. I’ve paid my debt, Maister Maxwell, ye
ken; I’m thinking it’ll no be lang or I get my quittance.’
Maxwell was somewhat puzzled; he could not quite fathom the meaning of
his honest friend. Alas! ere a few hours were past he understood it but
too well.
Time of course was the chief object with the three cavaliers; it was
indispensable to arrive in Perth at as early an hour as possible, so
as to warn the Queen of her danger, and to raise the country for the
punishment of her foes. The party however were right well mounted; Dick
had not selected the _worst_ of Bothwell’s horses for an expedition in
which speed was so likely to be an essential element of success; and
‘Wanton Willie,’ once the property of Lord Scrope himself, and stolen
from the English warden by a series of stratagems, remarkable alike for
ingenuity and audacity, was an animal of extraordinary power, mettle,
and endurance.
It was no ordinary sensation of delight that Maxwell experienced as he
swept through the evening air borne onwards by the long untiring stride
of the powerful bay stallion. It was like grasping the hand of an old
friend to stroke and smooth that swelling crest as ‘Wanton Willie’
tossed his head and snorted, champing the bit and snatching playfully
at the rein.
He had always loved a good horse well. Now with the fate of a kingdom
dependent on his speed, he could not prize too highly the merits of
his charger. Also Maxwell’s heart was even yet sore and empty; it was
soothing to rely on the honest fidelity of a brute. How many men are
there who lavish on horse and hound the affections that were hoarded,
it may be, long ago, elsewhere; given unreservedly, accepted with glee,
and returned after a while to the dejected owner with the sap dried
up, the core extracted, and the virtue gone! So he learns to content
himself perforce with that which is real and substantial, at least as
far as it goes; learns to thrill at the note of a hound, forget the
past in the glowing excitement of a gallop; and the well-judging world
opines that he has a grovelling soul which soars not above the stables
and the kennel, and is fit for no better things.
The moon was coming up from the horizon, and still the three rode
swiftly and steadily on. They were many miles from Leslie now, but,
alas! they were not yet clear of Leslie’s influence. At a small hamlet
where they stopped to water and refresh their horses, Maxwell was
recognised ere he touched the ground by a scion of the house of Rothes,
even then on the march with a party of horse to join his kinsman’s
forces at the Paren-Well.
David Leslie started with surprise as the bay was pulled up at the
stone trough before the village inn, but the young soldier was prompt
in action and saw at a glance he had but three men to deal with, and
one of those unarmed. His own retainers were numerous and on the spot.
‘Walter Maxwell!’ he exclaimed, seizing ‘Wanton Willie’ at the same
instant by the bridle, ‘you are my prisoner! Ho! a Leslie! a Leslie! to
the rescue!’
His men came pouring out at the well-known cry. Stout troopers all of
them, and armed besides to the teeth. There was nothing for it but a
quick and determined resistance.
Dick spurred his horse without hesitation against the assailant on
foot, dealing him at the same moment a heavy buffet with his gauntleted
hand, for he had no time to draw his sword. Armstrong protected
Maxwell’s other flank. There were several fierce oaths, a pistol-shot,
a smothered groan, much trampling of hoofs, a plunge or two, and
Maxwell found himself again careering along between his two defenders
over the open plain at a pace that set pursuit at defiance.
‘Well out of that, Dick!’ said he cheerily, as they pulled their horses
at last into a trot, and listened for the enemy who came not. ‘Well out
of that! we’ll win the race and be home now before midnight, I expect.
These are rare stuff, these Border nags of yours; it’s no wonder men
should be tempted to steal such cattle as we are riding to-night!’
But Dick answered nothing, only he seemed to hold his horse in a rigid
immovable grasp, and the three broke into a gallop even swifter than
before. The moon was up now, riding clear and high in the mid-heaven.
Was it only her light that made the borderer’s face so pale? Dick
spoke at last in a thick, hoarse voice, and the others pulled up
simultaneously as he did so.
‘I’ll light doun, I’m thinkin,’ said he. ‘Ride _you_ on, Maister
Maxwell! I’ll just bide where I am awee. It’s a kin’ o’ dwam[16]-like
that’s come over me.’
[16] Dwam--a swoon.
He dismounted while he spoke. He was scarce clear of the saddle ere
he staggered and fell heavily to the ground. Armstrong unbuckled his
corslet and opened the buff jerkin beneath. It was light enough for
Maxwell to see the little round mark that soldiers know so well.
Large drops were standing on the borderer’s forehead, and his lips
were turning white. Maxwell took his hand, and the dying man smiled a
feeble, ghastly smile, as he returned the grasp.
‘I’ll no win back to Liddesdale,’ said he, faintly. ‘I’ll no get the
length o’ Perth the nicht. I’ll be meat for the corbies[17] the morn.
Gude speed ye, my canny lad! Pit yer foot intill the stirrup again. A
Queen’s errans munna stan’ still for the like o’ me!’
[17] Corbies--crows.
Maxwell’s tears fell thick and fast. While Armstrong held the horses,
he propped the borderer’s head upon his knee, and whispered a few
broken words, he knew not what, of grief and hope, that seemed a
mockery even then.
The mossy turf on which they rested was not more clammy than the pale
forehead in its damps of death; he was bleeding inwardly, and every
breath he drew exhausted more and more the shallow stream of vitality
that was left.
‘Ride _you_ on,’ he whispered, ‘ride _you_ on! leave Ralph wi’ _me_,
I’ll no keep him lang. Ye’ll win to the Court the morn, lad, an’ ye’ll
see bonny Mistress Seton, an’ ye’ll tell her frae me----’
He was getting very weak now; twice or thrice he strove to speak, but
no sound came. Maxwell bent over him, and held his breath to catch the
sacred accents of the dying man.
He raised himself a little with an effort, and his voice was stronger
now.
‘Tell her,’ said he, ‘that if ever she can win to Liddesdale, she
maun walk afoot through the bonny glens, and hearken to the lilt of
the lavrock, an’ pu’ a sprig o’ the red heather, just to mind her
o’ “Dick-o’-the-Cleugh”--rough, rantin’ Dick, that wadna ha’ evened
himself to kiss the very ground beneath her feet. Eh! lad, an’ she
hadna been a born leddy, I wad hae lo’ed yon lassie weel!’
Then Dick’s head sank lower and lower; nor, although he lived for
a short space afterwards, was he heard to speak again. Maxwell was
forced to leave him, however loth, in charge of his comrade; his own
duty would admit of no delay. Sadly and slowly he mounted ‘Wanton
Willie’ once more; sadly and slowly he loitered away at a foot’s pace,
turning his head often to gaze wistfully back where Ralph Armstrong
was stooping in the moonlight over the long prostrate figure of the
henchman. At last he saw Ralph lay the head gently down upon the sward,
and walk a few paces away. Then he knew that it was over, and galloped
on towards Perth with wet eyes and a heavy heart.