Another Night Attack—A Desperate Encounter.
“By what miracle, good mine host,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne to Master
Duncan MacErchar—“by what miracle do I see thee in this wilderness, so
far from thine own dwelling?”
“Uch! uch! miracle truly, miracle truly, that she’s brought here; for
who could have thought that the false faitours and traitrous loons
would have led her honour this round-about gate, that they might knock
out her brains at the Shelter Stone of Loch Avon? An it had not been
for Donald and Angus, her two cushins, that hunts the hills, and kens
all the roads of these scoundrels, she would never have thought of
coming round about over the very shoulders of the mountains to seek
after them. But—uve! uve!—where’s the t’other rascals? and where’s her
honour’s men and beasts?”
Hepborne explained the cause and circumstances of their separation.
“Uch! uch!” cried MacErchar; “uve! uve!—then, Holy St. Barnabas, I wish
that the t’others scoundrels may not have them after all; so she shall
have more miles to travel, and another villains to stickit yet! uve!
uve!”
And then changing his tongue, he began with great volubility to
address, in his own language, his cousins, who now appeared. They
replied to him in the same dialect, and then he seemed to tell them the
particulars of the late adventure, for he pointed to the dead body of
the ruffian on the ground, while his actions corresponded with the tale
he was telling, and seemed to be explanatory of it. The two men held up
their hands, and listened with open mouths to his narration. He then
took up a flaming brand from the fire, and, followed by his two
cousins, proceeded to explore the passage leading into the chamber of
the Shelter Stone, whence they soon returned with the burden of
wolf-skins which the ruffian guide had carried. Duncan MacErchar threw
it down on the ground near the fire, and as it fell—
“Troth,” said he, with a joyful expression of countenance—“troth but
she jingles; she’ll swarrants there be’s something in her. Sure! sure!”
With this he went on his knees, and began eagerly to undo the numerous
fastenings of hide-thongs which tied the wolf-skins together, and
which, as Hepborne himself had noticed, had been closely bound up ever
since they started in the morning, though the other guide carried his
hanging loose, as both had done the night before. The knots were
reticulated and decussated in such a manner as to afford no bad idea of
that of Gordius.
“Hoof!” said Master MacErchar impatiently, after working at them with
his nails for some minutes without the least effect; “sorrow be in
their fingers that tied her; though troth she needs not say that now,”
added he in parenthesis. “Poof! that will not do neither; but sorrow be
in her an she’ll not settle her; she’ll do for her, or she’ll wonders
at her.” And, unsheathing his dirk, he ripped up the fastenings,
wolf-skins and all, and, to the astonishment of Hepborne, rolled out
from their pregnant womb the whole of the glittering valuables, the
fruit of his English campaigns.
“Och, oich!” cried MacErchar with a joyful countenance, forgetting
everything in the delight he felt at recovering his treasure—“och, ay!
blessings on her braw siller stoup, and blessings on her bony mazers;
she be’s all here. Ay, ay!—och, oich!—ou ay, every one.”
The mystery of Master Duncan MacErchar’s hasty journey and unlooked-for
appearance at Loch Avon was now explained. His sharp-eared cousin,
Angus MacErchar, had been loitering about the door at the time of the
departure of the knight and his attendants in the morning, and had
heard something clinking in the Celt’s bundle of wolf-skins as he
passed, but seeing no cause to suspect anything wrong, as regarded his
kinsman’s goods, he neglected to notice the circumstance until some
time after they were gone, when he happened to mention, rather
accidentally than otherwise, that he thought the rogues had been
thieving somewhere, for he had heard the noise of metal pots in the
bundle of one of them. Duncan MacErchar took immediate alarm. Without
saying a word, he ran to his secret deposit, and having removed the
heap of billets and the wattle trap-door, discovered with horror and
dismay that his treasures were gone. It was some small comfort to him
that they had not found it convenient to carry away what he most
valued; and he bestowed a friendly kiss upon the black bugle, and the
swords and daggers that were still there; but the whole of the silver
vessels were stolen. What was to be done? He was compelled to tell his
cousins of his afflicting loss, that he might consult them as to what
steps were to be taken. They advised instant pursuit; but well knowing
the men and their habits, they felt persuaded that the thieves would
carefully avoid the most direct path, and guessed that, in order to
mislead their pursuers, they would likely take the circuitous and
fatiguing mountain-route by Loch Avon. Taking the advice and assistance
of his cousins, therefore, Master Duncan MacErchar set off hot foot
after the rogues, and he was soon convinced of the sagacity of his
cousins’ counsels, for they frequently came upon the track of the party
where the ground was soft, or wet enough to receive the prints of the
horses’ feet; and when they came to the ridge of the mountains, they
traced them easily and expeditiously over the hardened snow. It was
dark ere they reached the brink of the precipice overhanging the lake;
but Angus and Donald were now aware of their probable destination, and
the fire they saw burning near the Shelter Stone made them resolve to
visit it in the first place. They lost no time in descending, the two
lads being well acquainted with the dangerous path; and no sooner had
Master Duncan MacErchar set his foot in the glen, than, eager to get at
the thief, he ran on before his companions. And lucky was it, as we
have seen, that he did so; for if he had been but a few minutes later,
both Sir Patrick Hepborne and Maurice de Grey must have been murdered
by the villain whom he slew.
Hepborne now became extremely anxious about the safety of the party
under the guidance of the other ruffian. For the attack of one man
against so many he had nothing to fear; but he dreaded the possibility
of the traitor escaping from them before he had conducted them to their
destined place of halt for the night, and so leaving them helpless on
the wild and pathless mountain to perish of cold. He had nothing for
it, however, but to comfort himself with his knowledge of Sang’s
sagacity and presence of mind.
Master Duncan MacErchar, with his two cousins, now hastened to cut off
a supper for themselves from the bison beef, which they quickly
broiled; and, after their hunger had been appeased, the whole party
began to think of bestowing themselves to enjoy a short repose. Before
doing so, however, Hepborne proposed that they should bury the dead
body. This was accordingly done, and from the debris of the fallen
rocks a cairn was heaped upon it, sufficiently large to prevent the
wolves from attacking it.
The page, wrapped in his mantle, was already sound asleep within the
snug chamber of the Shelter Stone, and Sir Patrick lost no time in
seeking rest in the same comfortable quarters; but the three hardy
Highlanders, preferring the open air, rolled themselves up, each in his
web of plaiding, and then laid themselves in different places, under
the projecting base of the enormous fallen rock, and all were soon
buried in refreshing slumber.
It happened, however, that Duncan MacErchar had by accident chosen the
spot nearest the passage of entrance. The fire had fallen so low as to
leave only the red glow of charcoal; but the night, which was already
far spent, was partially illuminated by the light of the moon, which
had now arisen, though not yet high enough to show its orb to those in
the bottom of the glen. He was suddenly awakened by a footstep near
him, and, looking up, beheld a dark figure approaching. With wonderful
presence of mind, he demanded, in a low whisper, and in his native
language, who went there, and was immediately answered by the voice of
the other guide, who had gone forward with Hepborne’s party, and who,
mistaking MacErchar for his companion in iniquity, held the following
dialogue with him, here translated into English.
“Hast thou done it, Cormack?”
“Nay,” replied Duncan, “it is but now they are gone to sleep, and I
fear they are not yet sound enough. What hast thou done with the party
of men and their horses?”
“I left them all safe at the bothy,” replied the other, “and if we had
this job finished, we might go that way, and carry off two or three of
the best of their horses and trappings while they are asleep, and we
can kill the others, to prevent any of them from having the means of
following us when they awake. But come, why should we delay now?—they
must be asleep ere this; let us in on them—creep towards them on our
knees, and stab them without noise: then all their booty is our own.”
“You foul murderer!” cried Duncan MacErchar, springing at him, his
right hand extended with the intention of making him prisoner. The
astonished ruffian stepped back a pace, as Duncan rushed upon him, and
seizing his outstretched hand, endeavoured to keep him at a distance.
Both drew their dirks, and a furious struggle ensued. Each endeavoured
to keep off the other, with outstretched arm, and powerful exertion,
yet each was desirous to avail himself of the first favourable chance
that might offer, and to bury the lethal weapon he brandished in the
bosom of his antagonist. The ruffian had the decided advantage, for it
was his right hand that was free, while MacErchar held his dirk with
his left. They tugged, and pushed stoutly against each other, and each
alternately made a vain effort to strike his opponent. The brave
MacErchar might have easily called for help, but he scorned to seek aid
against any single man. They still struggled, frequently shifting their
ground by the violence of their exertions, yet neither gaining the
least advantage over the other, when, all at once, MacErchar found
himself attacked behind by a new and very formidable enemy. This was
one of the great rough wolf-dogs, which, having come up at that moment,
and observed his master struggling with Duncan, sprang upon his back,
and seized him by the right shoulder. The ruffian, seeing himself
supported, and thinking that the victory was now entirely in his hands,
bent his elbow so as to permit him to close upon his adversary, and
made an attempt to stab MacErchar in the breast; but the sturdy and
undaunted hero, in defiance of the pain he experienced from the bites
of the dog, raised his left arm, and after receiving the stab in the
fleshy part of it, instantly returned it into the very heart of his
enemy, who, uttering a single groan, fell dead upon the spot. But the
dog still kept his hold, until MacErchar, putting his hand backwards,
drove the dirk two or three times into his body, and shook him off dead
upon the lifeless corpse of his master.
“Heich!” cried he, very much toil-spent—“Foof!—Donald—Angus—Uve,
uve!—Won’t they be hearing her?”
His two cousins, who had been fast asleep at the end of the Shelter
Stone, now came hastily round, making a great noise, which roused Sir
Patrick, who instantly seized his sword, and rushed out to ascertain
what the alarm was.
“Oich, oich!” continued Duncan, much fatigued, “oich! and sure she has
had a hard tuilzie o’t!”
“What, in the name of the blessed Virgin, has happened?” cried
Hepborne, eagerly.
“Fu! nothing after all,” cried Duncan, “nothing—only that t’other
villains came up here from t’others end of the loch, and wanted to
murder Sir Patrick and his page; and so she grabbled at her, and had a
sore tuilzie with her, and sure she hath stickit her dead at last.
But—uve! uve!—she was near worried with her mockell dog; she settled
her too, though, and yonder they are both lying dead together. But
troth she must go and get some sleep now, and she hopes that she’ll
have no more disturbance, wi’ a sorrow to them.”
“But, my good friend,” said the knight, “thine arm bleeds profusely,
better have it tied up; nay, thy shoulder seems to be torn too.”
“Fu, poof!” said MacErchar carelessly, “her arm be’s naething but a
scart; she has had worse before from a thorn bush; and her shoulder is
but a nip, that will be well or the morn.”
So saying, he wrapped his plaid around him, and rolling himself under
the base of the stone where he had lain before, he composed himself to
sleep again, and the others followed his example. The knight also
retired to his singular bed-chamber, and all were very soon quiet.
As MacErchar had hoped, they lay undisturbed until daybreak, when they
arose, shook themselves, and were soon joined by Hepborne from within.
The sun had just appeared above the eastern mountain-tops, and was
pouring a flood of glory down among the savage scenery of the glen.
MacErchar and his two cousins were busily engaged in renovating the
fire; and as Sir Patrick was about to join them, his ears were
attracted by the low moans of a dog, which, beginning at the bottom of
the scale of his voice, gradually ascended through its whole compass,
and ended in a prolonged howl. He cast his eyes towards the spot whence
it proceeded—there lay the dead body of the ruffian murderer with the
dog that died with him in his defence stretched across him stiff; and
by his side sat two more of the dogs, that, having followed some chase
as he came up the glen, had not fallen upon his track again until early
in the morning, and had but just traced it out, when it brought them to
his inanimate corpse. There they sat howling incessantly over him,
alternately licking his face, his hands, and his death-wound. Their
howl was returned from the surrounding rocks, but it was also answered
from no great distance; and on going round the end of the Shelter
Stone, he beheld another dog sitting on the top of the cairn they had
piled over the dead body of the first man who was killed, scraping
earnestly with his feet, and moaning and howling in unison with the two
others. Hepborne went towards him, and did all he could to coax him
away from the spot; but the attached and afflicted creature would not
move. The howling continued, and would have been melancholy enough in
any situation; but in a spot so savage and lonely, and prolonged as it
was by the surrounding echoes, it increased the dismal and dreary
effect of the scenery. Hepborne called the MacErchars, and proposed to
them that they should bury the dead body which lay exposed on the
ground. They readily assented, and approached it for the purpose of
lifting and carrying it to the same spot where they had deposited the
other; but Angus and Donald had no sooner attempted to lay hold of it,
than both the dogs flew at them, and they were glad to relinquish the
attempt, seeing they could carry it into effect by no other means than
that of killing the two faithful animals in the first place, and this
Hepborne would on no account permit.
“Verily he was a foul traitorous murderer,” said the knight; “but he
was their master. His hand was kind and merciful to them, whatever it
might have been to others. Of a truth, a faithful dog is the only
friend who seeth not a fault in him to whom he is attached. Poor
fellows! let them not be injured, I entreat thee.”
Some food was now prepared for breakfast, and Maurice de Grey, who had
made but one sleep during the night, was called to partake of it. They
repeatedly tried to tempt the dogs with the most inviting morsels of
the meat, but none of them would touch it when thrown to them, and,
altogether regardless of it, they still continued to howl piteously.
Hepborne now resolved to proceed to join his party. Duncan MacErchar
had already ordered his cousin Angus, who was perfectly well acquainted
with the way, to go with the knight as his guide, and not to leave him
until he should see him safe into a part of the country where he would
be beyond all difficulty. Sir Patrick was much grieved to be compelled
to part with him who had been so miraculously instrumental in saving
his life. He took off his baldrick and sword, and putting them upon
Duncan—
“Wear this,” said he, “wear this for my sake, mine excellent
friend—wear it as a poor mark of the gratitude I owe thee for having
saved me from foul and traitorous murder. I yet hope to bestow some
more worthy warison.”
“Och, oich!” cried Duncan, “oich, this is too much from her honour—too
much trouble indeed. Fye, but she’s a bonny sword; but what will hersel
do for want of her? Ou, ay—sure, sure!”
“I have others as good among my baggage,” said Hepborne.
“But thou didst save two lives,” said Maurice de Grey, running forward,
and taking Duncan’s hand; “thou didst save mine twice, by saving Sir
Patrick’s. Receive my poor thanks also, most worthy Master MacErchar,
and do thou wear this jewelled brooch for my sake.”
“Och, oich!” said Duncan, “too much trouble for her—too much trouble,
young Sir Pages—too much trouble, surely; but an ever she part with the
sword or the bonny brooch, may she pairt with her life at the same
time.”
They now prepared themselves for taking their different routes, and
Hepborne reminding MacErchar of the injunction he had formerly given
him, to be sure to claim his acquaintance, wherever they should meet,
and giving him a last hearty shake of the hand, they parted, and waving
to each other their “Heaven bless thee!” and “May the blessed Virgin be
with her honour!” set out on their respective journeys.