THE HAUNTED WELL.
Rob Roy was instantly roused by MacAleister, who, in an excess of
terror, related the vision of the past night, and begged that they
might retire from Glengyle at once, as his soul was filled with
dismay.
Rob, though deeming the whole affair a dream, as it was no doubt,
felt somewhat disturbed by the story; for MacAleister maintained that
it was a warning of his last hour being at hand; and still on his
pale, blanched face he seemed to feel the icy breath of the phantom
MacLaren.
Rob was too deeply imbued with the superstition of his time and
country not to feel unpleasantly impressed by the whole affair, and
fearing that something might be wrong at Portnellan, or that his
presence there might be necessary, he and his follower set forth at
once from the tower of Glengyle.
They proceeded quickly down the valley, passing through a dense old
wood, which had grown there for ages.
In this wood was a clear and silvery fountain, which flowed into a
tributary of Loch Katrine, and near it stood a little stone cross,
covered with green moss and grey lichens. It had a great reputation
for sanctity, and though frequently removed and cast elsewhere by the
Presbyterians, by some means it always found its way back to the
well, which was said to have been haunted of old by a beautiful
fairy, with long flowing golden hair and shining garments--a water
spirit like the Undine of the German romance.
Seeking the old fountain, Rob took a long draught of its pure cool
stream, and drew aside a little way while MacAleister took off his
bonnet and proceeded to say a prayer, for the adventure of the past
night pressed heavy on his heart: but he had only uttered a single
sentence, when he started back in terror, exclaiming that the pale
grey face of MacLaren appeared under the water of the well, with the
old malignant smile on his lips and in his eyes.
"Your dreams have bewildered you, Callam," said Rob Roy; "take
courage--anon you will forget them."
But he had scarcely spoken, when there was a shout that woke every
echo in the wood, and bursting through the trees and bushes about
twenty dismounted troopers fell upon them, sword and carbine in hand.
MacGregor's claymore flashed from its sheath in a moment; and
opposing his shield to them, he was about to break through and
escape, when six levelled their carbines, and Colonel Grahame called
upon him to "surrender, or he would be shot down without mercy!"
"I know how to die, but not how to yield," replied MacGregor, proudly.
"Then die in your obstinacy!" exclaimed the colonel; "fire!"
But the troopers paused, on which the faithful MacAleister exclaimed
to his foster-brother in Gaelic.
"Let them fire at _me_, and when their guns are empty do thou break
through, thou who wert nursed at my mother's breast--and God speed!"
With these words MacAleister threw himself, sword in hand, upon the
troopers, who fired their carbines, and, pierced by four bullets, the
devoted foster-brother of Rob Roy fell dead on the grass!
The heart of the latter was wrung within him on witnessing this sad
catastrophe, and instead of flinging himself with fury on the
soldiers and breaking away, as his foster-brother had expected, and
had exhorted him to do, he stood for a minute with irresolution,
gazing at the corpse, from which the blood was yet welling, with rage
and sadness on his face and in his soul.
That minute of irresolution and grief lost all!
From every quarter of the wood, soldiers whom the firing had
summoned, came hurrying in, and hemmed round on every side by swords,
by levelled bayonets, halberts, and clubbed carbines, Rob Roy was
beaten to the ground, and when well-nigh senseless was disarmed and
bound with strong ropes, as if he had been a madman or a wild animal.
Then, on being dragged to his feet, he found himself the prisoner of
the Duke of Montrose, who surveyed him with a fierce and exulting
expression in his proud and haughty face.
"Oh!" exclaimed MacGregor, with a groan, "oh, eternal infamy! a
prisoner, and Montrose--_to thee_!"