Savage-looking Visitors—Night in the Highland Hostelry—Wolf-Dogs.
As they sat socially at their meal, they were suddenly interrupted by
the door being burst open, when two gigantic and very savage-looking
men entered, in most uncouth and wild drapery. They were clothed in
woollen plaids of various colours and of enormous amplitude, and these
were wrapt round their bodies and kept tight by a belt of raw leather
with the hair on it, leaving the skirts to hang half-way down their
naked thighs, while the upper part above the belt was thrown loosely
over the shoulder, so as to give their muscular arms and hairy knees
the full freedom of nakedness. Their heads also were bare, except that
they had the copious covering which Nature had provided for them, the
one having strong curly black hair, and the other red of similar
roughness, hanging in matted locks over their features and about their
ears. The forests which Nature had planted on their faces, chins, and
necks too, had been allowed to grow, untamed by shears; their legs were
covered half-way to the knee by strips of raw skin twisted round them,
and their feet were defended by a kind of shoes made of untanned hides.
Each had a dirk in his girdle, and a pouch of skin suspended before,
while across their backs were slung bows and bunches of arrows. In
their hands they brandished long lances, and several recently-taken
wolves’ skins were thrown over their shoulders, but rather for carriage
than covering. Five or six large wiry-haired wolf-dogs entered along
with them.
MacErchar instantly started up when they appeared, and began speaking
loudly and hastily to them in their own tongue, waving them from time
to time to retire, and at length opened the door, and showed them the
way to the other apartment.
“Who may be these two savage-looking men?” demanded Hepborne of his
host as he entered.
“Troth, she no kens them, Sir Patrick,” replied MacErchar, “she never
saw them afore; but they tells her that they be’s hunters from the
north side of this mountains here.”
“Live they in the way that I must needs wend to-morrow towards Moray
Land?” asked Hepborne.
“Uch, ay,” replied MacErchar; “but mind not that, Sir Patrick, for
hersel will go wi’ her the morn.”
“Nay,” said Hepborne, “that may not be, that is, if these men are to
return whence they came, and that their road and mine run nearly in the
same direction. Perdie, I cannot in that case suffer thee to yede so
far with me unnecessarily, when their guidance might suffice. Thou
shalt give them knowledge of the point I wish to reach, together with
all necessary directions touching the places where we may best halt,
and spend the night; and they shall receive a handsome guerdon from me
when they shall have brought me and mine in safety to the Castle of
Lochyndorbe, whither I am first bound.”
“Uch-huch! of a truth she would like to go with her,” said MacErchar;
“but troth, after all, she must confess that she kens but little o’ the
way beyond her ain hills there. Weel would it be her part to wend wi’
her; but if yon loons ken the gate into Moray Land (as doubtless they
have been there mony a time, and she does not mistake them) they will
be better guides, after all. But what an she should ask some questions
at them?”
“Thou hadst better do so,” said Hepborne; “best ask them whence they
come, and what parts of the country they know, before thou dost teach
them the object of thy questions.”
“Troth, and she’s right there,” said Duncan MacErchar; “this salvage
loons are not just to lippen till; weel does she ken them; and, uve,
uve! she maun tak special care to look sharp after them gin she should
yede wi’ them; they are but little chancy, in troth. But she’ll call
them in now, and see what the loons will say.”
The two uncouth-looking men were accordingly brought in. They made no
obeisance, but stood like a couple of huge rocks, immovable, with all
their thickets and woods upon them. They even beetled over the tall and
sturdy form of Duncan MacErchar, who, though above the middle size,
might have passed as a little man when placed beside those gigantic
figures. Duncan put several questions to them in their own language,
which they answered, but always before doing so, they seemed to consult
each other’s countenances, and then both answered in the same breath.
They eyed the knight and his page from time to time, as the inhabitants
of all secluded and wild regions are naturally apt to stare at
strangers. After a good deal of colloquy had passed, MacErchar turned
to Hepborne—
“Sir Patrick,” said he, “these men ken every inch of the country from
here to the Firth of Moray. Shall she now ask them if they be willing
to guide her honour to Lochyndorbe?”
“Do so, I beseech thee,” said Hepborne, “and tell them I will give them
gold when they bring me thither.”
MacErchar again addressed them in their own language. The men seemed to
nod assent to the proposals he made them; and after a few more words
had passed between them—
“Uch, Sir Patrick,” said he, “they be very willing for the job. They’ll
bring her there in two days. They say that she must be off by sunrise
in the morning.”
This Sir Patrick readily undertook; and Duncan MacErchar having wet the
treaty with a draught of the spirits from his stoup, of which he poured
out liberally to each, the men retired. Sir Patrick Hepborne then
signified a wish to go to his repose. Two heather-beds, of inviting
firmness and elasticity, were already prepared at the two extremities
of the chamber where they were; and the knight having occupied the one,
and the page the other, both were very soon sound asleep.
About the middle of the night Sir Patrick was awakened by a noise. He
raised himself suddenly, and, looking towards the door, whence it
seemed to have proceeded, he saw that it was open. One or two of the
great rough wolf-dogs came slowly in, looking over their shoulders, as
if expecting some one to follow them—and, making a turn or two round
the expiring fire, and smelling about them for a little while, walked
out again. Hepborne arose and shut the door, and then threw himself
again within his blankets. He lay for some time awake, to see whether
the wolf-dogs would repeat their unpleasant intrusion; and finding that
there was no appearance of their doing so, he again resigned himself to
the sweets of oblivion.
He had lain some time in this state when he was a second time awakened,
he knew not how, but he heard as if there were footsteps in the place.
The fire had now fallen so low that he could see nothing by its light,
but by a glimmering moonbeam that made its way in he saw that the door
was again open. As he looked towards it, he thought he perceived
something like a dog glide outwards. He started up, as he had done
before, and, going to the door, he again shut it; and, that the
wolf-dogs might no more torment him, he piled up the rustic table he
had supped on, and some of the stools and settles against it. The
precautions he thus took were effectual, for the dogs were no more
troublesome to him all night; and the first interruption his slumbers
experienced was from the overthrow of the whole materials of his
barricado, and the exclamation of “Uve! uve!” that burst from Duncan
MacErchar, who came for the purpose of rousing him to prosecute his
journey. Hepborne explained the cause of his having so fortified the
door.
“Uch ay,” said MacErchar, “they be’s powersome brutes—powersome brutes,
in troth, and plaguy cunning. I’se warrant they smelt the smell of the
rosten deer’s flesh, and that brought them in. But they got little for
their pains, the ragged rascals—not but they are bonny tykes, poor
beasts! and troth, ’tis better to have ane o’ them in the house than
the wolves themselves, that we’re sometimes plagued with.”
The host approached the side of Hepborne’s couch, with his everlasting
stoup in his right hand, and the wooden cup in his left, and poured him
out of the spirits it contained. The knight sipped a little, and then
MacErchar retired to see that his morning’s meal was properly provided.
It was no less copiously and comfortably supplied, according to his
means, than the supper of the previous evening had been.
At length Mortimer Sang came to receive his master’s orders; and when
Hepborne asked him how he and his people had fared, he learned that
they had been treated with every thing the good host could procure for
them. Oats were not to be had for the horses; but, in addition to the
grass that was cut for them, Master MacErchar had himself carried a
large sack of meal to the stables and out-houses of turf, where the
animals had with some difficulty been forced in, and he had most
liberally supplied them with his own hands. He went round all the men
of Hepborne’s party, and gave each his morning’s cup of spirits. In
short, he seemed to think that it was impossible he could do enough
from his small means, for the knight and every person and animal
belonging to him.
When the horses were brought out, Hepborne called MacErchar to him, and
offered him, from his purse, ten times as much money as the value of
his night’s entertainment and lodging would have cost.
“Uve! uve!” said Duncan, sore hurt, and half offended; “uve! uve! Sir
Patrick! Hoot no. What! take money from the son of Sir Patrick
Hepborne, the son o’ the noble brave knight that she has followed mony
a days!—take money from his son for a bit paltry piece and a drink!—Na!
na!—Uve! uve!—Ou fye! ou fye!—na, na!—Troth, she’s no just so poor or
so pitiful as that comes to yet. Uve! uve! Surely!”
Hepborne at once saw the mischief he had done. He would have rather put
his hand in the fire than have hurt feelings that were so honourable to
Duncan MacErchar; and he almost began to wish that his purse had been
there, ere it had been the means of giving pain to so noble a heart. He
did all he could, therefore, to remedy the evil; for, putting his purse
sheepishly into his pocket, he called for the stoup of spirits, and,
filling the cup up to the brim, drank it off, to the health, happiness,
and prosperity of Master Duncan MacErchar; then shaking the mountaineer
heartily by the hand—
“May we meet again, my worthy friend,” said he; “and wherever it may
be, let me not pass by thee unnoticed. Meanwhile, farewell, and may the
blessing of St. Andrew be about thee!”
This courteous and kind behaviour completely salved the wound Hepborne
had so unwittingly inflicted. Duncan was overjoyed with it, and
gratified beyond measure. He tried to express his joy.
“Och, oich! God’s blessing and the Virgin’s blessing be about her. Och,
och! Sir Patrick! uu-uch! God’s blessing and the Virgin’s blessing—and
uch-uch!—and, Sir Patrick—Sure, sure! ou ay—uu—u!”
His English failed him entirely, and he resorted to that language in
which he was most fluent. Hepborne mounted his horse, and, waving him
another farewell, rode on to overtake his guides, who were standing on
a distant eminence waiting for him; and as he receded from the humble
mansion of Master Duncan MacErchar, he for several minutes
distinguished his voice vociferating in pleased but unintelligible
accents.