ROB AND THE DUKE.
Ignorant of what had passed--that the fire on his hearth was
extinguished--and that his household had been driven forth like
beasts of prey--Rob Roy, after failing to procure in Glasgow a sum
requisite to gratify the avarice of Montrose, appeared one afternoon
at the residence of the latter, the castle of Mugdock, which is nine
miles distant from Glasgow, and is situated in Strathblane.
The valets muttered among themselves of what their titled master had
done, and marvelled what might be the object of this visit from
MacGregor; the latter, especially since his inroad into Kippen, had
been somewhat used to be treated with a respect that was not
unmingled with fear, so the sudden interest his appearance excited
was unnoticed by him, as he was ushered into the library.
The castle of Mugdock, now a ruin, was then a regularly fortified
tower. It is of great antiquity, and was protected on the east and
north by the water of a lake, which was drawn round it in the manner
of a fosse.
The central keep or donjon was surrounded by a barbican, built so as
to form an obtuse angle with the latter, so that a cross shower of
missiles would protect the arched gateway from any besiegers who
might assail it, for _defence_ was the first principle of Scottish
architecture in the olden time.
Through the grated windows of the library poor Rob gazed wistfully
down Strathblane, "the vale of the warm river," as it is named in the
figurative language of his native country. He could see the wooded
landscape stretching to the westward far away, the gentle uplands,
the pine thickets, the shining lochlets and the winding stream; the
insulated cone of Dumgoaic, covered to its summit with waving
foliage, and in the distance, closing the familiar view, the vast
outline of Ben Lomond, that overshadowed its lake of the Twenty-four
Isles, and looked down on Inversnaid, where, as he fondly believed,
Helen, their little ones, MacAleister, and the household awaited his
return!
Alas! how little he knew of all that had happened there within the
last few weeks; and as little dared his titled host to tell him.
A step fell on his ear, as a person in high-heeled riding-boots, with
gilt maroquin gambadoes and gold spurs, trod on the polished oak
floor. Rob turned, and found himself face to face with the chief of
"the gallant Grahams," the Duke of Montrose.
The latter was not a little startled on finding himself, during such
a crisis in their affairs, confronted by a man of such known
resolution as the Red MacGregor, so he blushed redly to the roots of
his ample periwig.
He wore the square-cut coat with buckram skirts and the long-flapped
waistcoat of Queen Anne's reign. These were of dark blue silk,
covered with gold embroidery, and he looked every way the
great-grandson of the High Cavalier Marquis, whose portrait, by
Anthony Vandycke, in wig and armour, with sword and scarlet baton,
hung upon the wall--the same great Montrose who had been so cruelly
butchered by the Covenanters in 1650.
As the duke entered, he had in his hand a newspaper, which he hastily
crushed and concealed in his pocket, changing colour as he did so,
for that identical paper was the _Edinburgh Evening Courant_,
containing the advertisement offering a reward for Rob's seizure,
dead or alive, a copy of which Grahame of Killearn had just sent to
Mugdock by a special messenger.
Though armed with sword, dirk, and pistols, the bearing of Rob Roy
assured the startled duke in an instant that his visit was not
hostile, and that he was ignorant, or as yet happily unconscious, of
the wreck of his peace and honour, the destruction of his property,
and the desolation of his home; so Montrose bowed courteously with a
courtier's greeting.
"I salute you, gentleman," said Rob, as in Gaelic there are no terms
descriptive of rank. The duke, whose right hand was still buried in
his pocket, clutching the paper, as if he dreaded that it would fly
out and unfold itself, held forth the other; but Rob drew back with a
lofty air of offended dignity, saying,--
"My father's son would not take the _left_ hand of a king--nay, not
even of him who is far away in France; God save and send him safely
to his own again! And so, duke, why should I take _yours_?"
"Please yourself, MacGregor," replied the duke, with chilling
_hauteur_; "but remember that I have good reason to be offended."
"Offended!" echoed Rob, with surprise.
"You have used me ill."
"You got my letter from Carlisle by the hand of my most trusted
kinsman, Greumoch?" asked Rob, hastily.
"A gillie--a drover," sneered Montrose.
"A _duinewassal_ of the Clan Alpine, James Grahame, name him as you
will," said Rob Roy, becoming flushed with anger.
"What is all this to me?" asked Montrose, haughtily.
"Dioul!" exclaimed Rob, passionately; "did you not get my letter?"
"I did."
"Then it fully explained all."
"It explained that being undersold in the southern markets, or
something to that effect, you had parted with our cattle below prime
cost."
"Far below it, as I can assure your grace."
"Well, MacGregor Campbell?"
"'Sdeath! MacGregor only!" interrupted Rob, whose fury was fast
rising, and he stamped his foot on the floor.
"I decline to bear my share in this loss, and have insisted upon
repayment of the _whole sum_ originally subscribed, with the interest
due thereon."
"You have insisted?" repeated Rob.
"The affair is in the hand of my chamberlain," aaid the duke,
evasively. "I am not now to learn the tricks of Highland drovers,
and how your band of landless reivers and broken sorners, who drove
those cattle south, are likely to serve me." The Duke made this
offensive speech for the express purpose of working himself, and Rob
too, into a passion.
"Montrose," said the latter, sternly; "those whom you stigmatize as
landless reivers and broken sorners are better men than ever
inherited your blood, duke now though you be! And if this is the way
you mean to treat me, by the Grey Stone in Glenfruin, and by the
souls of those who died there, I shall not consider it _my_ interest
to pay your interest, nor my interest either to pay even the
principal!"
"Dare you say this to me?" exclaimed the duke, flushing with real
anger; "to me, under my own roof-tree?"
MacGregor laughed, and patted the basket-hilt of his sword, put on
his bonnet, and arose. Saying, "I would say something more if you
stood on the open heather, under the canopy of heaven. But now let
us understand each other; big words never scared MacGregor, and they
are not likely to do so now. I have but £200 to offer you, and yours
it should have been had you acted justly or generously; but now----"
"You will keep it, of course?"
"Ay, every God's-penny, and lay it out in the king's service."
"What king?"
"Can _you_ ask?" exclaimed Rob, with a glance of surprise, that was
blended almost with ferocity. "I mean King James VIII. of Scotland.
Queen Anne is ill, so men told me in the south; the day is not far
distant when the flag will hang half-hoisted on the walls of
Carlisle; and the first news that the Hanoverian Elector has landed
in England will make the Highland hills bristle with
broadswords--yea, bristle like a stubble-field! The heather will be
on fire from Strathspey to Inverary, and this £200, Montrose, the sum
exactly for which, as men say, you sold your country, when bribed to
make the Union, I shall lay out in the service of him who has sworn
to break it. Ochon! the ills that are coming upon us are a pregnant
example of the folly of a people allowing their fatherland to be the
property of kings! Thus, ours succeeded to the kingdom of England,
just as they might have done to a farm or a barony; but England being
the richer and the greater, they soon forgot the old house in which
their good forefathers lived and died. And now, Montrose, learn from
this hour that MacGregor is your enemy!"
The duke, who was too high-spirited to brook being bearded in his own
house, raised his hand to the bell to summon his servants, but paused
on seeing the stern frown that gathered on MacGregor's face, and that
his right hand was on the pistol in his girdle.
With a mock reverence Rob left his presence, reached the barbican,
mounted his horse, and was soon galloping down Strathblane towards
the banks of the Enrich.
The duke's first intention was to have him overtaken by a mounted
party and made prisoner; but he speedily dismissed the idea, for to
waylay one who had just left his own threshold would cover his name
with disgrace and reprobation throughout the north; and, moreover,
the castle of Mugdock was uncomfortably near the Highland frontier.
"No, no," he muttered; "'twere better that he should fall into other
hands than mine, and find his way from thence to the castle of
Dumbarton, or the _kindly_ gallows of Crieff," for so the Highlanders
ironically termed that formidable gibbet on which so many a sturdy
cateran has taken his last farewell of the sun.