A DRAUGHT OF WATER.
"Now light is my song, as I journey along,
Now my perilous service is o'er;
I think on sweet home, and I carol a song,
In remembrance of her I adore."--TANNAHILL.
With the first peep of the sun's red disc above the Cairntable, the
trumpet sounded in the court of the barmkyn; and starting at once to
their arms, the arquebusiers, with the ready resolution of soldiers
accustomed to be roused on a moment's warning at all hours and in all
seasons, hastened from the hall, and began to fall into their ranks
in the yard.
Many dead bodies, and that of the stalwart Fleming among them, were
lying among the mire, where the fugitive cattle had trod them; a
lance-spesade proceeded to call the roll, while the fourrier broached
a cask of ale, from which every man took a long horn before marching.
Roland Vipont was the first who started at the sound of the trumpet.
"Hollo, Lintstock," cried he; "my sword and helmet, and bring hither
the wine-pot. Come forth, my light Leslie; the trumpet hath blown."
Lintstock brought the posset to his master, who was about to divide
it, by pouring a portion into another cup for Leslie; when the
wakeful servant whispered into his ear, while lacing on his helmet--
"Hold ye, Sir Roland, and invite our new friend in the border maud to
taste of it first."
"Methinks muddy ale, or ditch-water, would better suit his knave's
throat; but why this request?"
"There hath been foul play in the night."
"Oho!" said Roland, changing colour and setting down the cup; "do you
say so?"
"Poisoned?" asked Leslie, in a low, fierce voice.
Lintstock winked, and nodded towards Birrel, who, at that moment, for
the third or fourth time, was endeavouring stealthily to leave the
hall, with the last of the soldiers.
"Come hither, friend Dargavel,--for so I believe them callest
thyself,"--said Roland, filling a wooden bicker from the large pot of
mulled wine; "is it thus thou stealest away without bidding adieu to
me, who am thy host; for thou knowest that I command all here while
within the walls. Come, drink with us, friend; 'tis a bad maxim to
ride with a fasting stomach, so thou art welcome to a share of this
posset, which has simmered overnight by the fire. Dost thou hear me,
fellow? Art thou deaf?"
Birrel's visage turned deadly pale, and a perspiration suffused the
roots of his hair and matted beard.
"I never drink aught that is stronger than water--never, at any
time," said he, with a quavering voice.
"This is false," said Leslie; "for I saw thee dipping thy moustaches,
yea, and thy whole beard, in the demi-john last night."
"True--but in the morning I never drink either ale, wine, or
usquebaugh--never, sir knights--wi' mony gude thanks for your
courtesie?"
"Tarry with us, friend; be not in a hurry," said Roland--at a sign
from whom Lintstock placed himself in the doorway--"of what, in the
devil's name, does thy morning draught usually consist?"
"Milk," replied Birrel, becoming blanched with fear, and looking
round for some friendly hole wherein to hide himself.
"A very hermit in temperance! I regret that, in consequence of all
the cattle having escaped, we cannot accommodate you, my pretty man,
with a draught of your favourite beverage. But hark you, sir," said
Roland, unsheathing his formidable sword; "thou seest this
blade?--well, if thou dost not drain this cup of wine to the bottom,
I will pass this weapon to the hilt--yea, sirrah, to the very hilt,
through thy body!"
"Of all the sights of horror and disgust," says a popular writer,
"villany transformed at the death-hour into its natural character and
original of cowardice, is among the most appalling." The
witch-finder trembled in every limb, and seemed frozen to stone by
this command.
"Ha! thou unfanged reptile, so we have thee by the throat?" cried
Roland, withdrawing his keen, sharp weapon for the death-thrust; "off
with it, to the dregs--yea, to the very dregs?"
The tongue of Birrel clove to his palate, for the fear of death and
love of life were strong in his breast; he had dropped ten grains
into the goblet--and he remembered the words of his master, that
_each grain_ was the life of a man. He gasped for breath, but could
only utter inarticulate murmurs. He turned towards the doorway, and
there stood Lintstock with his eye full of ferocity and his axe
uplifted.
"Harkee, hound! dost thou hear me?" said Vipont, spurning him with
his foot.
"Oh, Sir Roland, have mercy, have mercy! The servant is not
responsible for what he does by the orders of his master?"
"A pleasant rascal this!" said Leslie. "So thou hast a master, eh?"
Birrel stammered, and paused; for, villain as he was, he meant not to
betray Redhall.
"Think not that, by divulging his name, thou wilt save thy hang-dog
life!" said Roland--who mistook his delay--"for I swear by the God
that is in heaven! if thou drainest not this draught to the very
bottom, I will run thee through the heart without more preamble. So
quick! quick! swallow, swallow! dost think we have time to trifle
about crushing a reptile so despicable as thee!"
The villain sank upon his knees, for they refused to sustain his
weight; fear froze the very pulses of his heart, and palsied his
tongue; his countenance became livid and clayey; his eyes sank, and
his lips became blue.
"How frightful this villain is!" said Leslie. "Did ever a brave man
look thus in the face of death?"
"Mercy, sirs! mercy! I will sin no more; I will be a gudeman and
true--I will tell ye all--my master's name--but mercy, sirs! mercy!"
"Thy master's name! we seek it not," said Roland, as he smote him on
the mouth with his gauntleted hand; "we seek it not; for then our
honour would compel us to slay him wherever we met him, by holm or
hillside, at kirk or in market; and I wish not to stain my father's
sword with the blood of villains."
"A priest! then let me have a priest! but five minutes wi' a priest!
for, oh, I have mickle to say, and muckle to repent o'!"
"Dog! thou art a Protestant, I believe, and requirest not a priest.
No, go down to thy grave with the curse of the God of the living and
the God of the dead on thy brow--that dogged front where the mark of
hell is written! Drink! drink! dost thou hear me, Cain?"
Roland held the dreadful cup before his eyes by one hand, while, with
the other, he gave him a violent prick in the breast with the point
of his sword.
Birrel uttered a shriek like a fiend; and, draining the cup to the
bottom, flung it full at the face of Roland, who stooped his head,
and the wooden vessel was dashed to a thousand shreds on the opposite
wall.
"Now I have but two hours to live!" he cried, with the voice of a
damned one; "two hours! two hours! two hours!" and, darting through
the doorway, he hurled Lintstock from his path as he would a child,
and, with one bound sprang down stairs into the courtyard, where he
passed through the startled soldiers like a whirlwind, with his
visage overspread by the blue pallor of death, his mouth covered with
foam, and his matted hair streaming in elf-locks behind him.
Snatching up a cord that lay in his path, he cleared the fosse with
one bound, like an evil spirit; and, uttering a succession of
frightful cries, plunged down the steep bank, towards the rough rocky
bed of the Douglas.
"How now! is the fellow going to hang himself?" said Roland.
"Faith, poisoning might surely satisfy him," replied Leslie.
Master Birrel certainly was about to hang himself, but not by the
neck.
"I must live--I must live--oh, yes, I must, for vengeance!" he
yelled; for, coward as he was, he felt that he could have died happy,
if, by so doing, he could destroy Roland Vipont and Jane Seton--yea,
and his master too, who had sent him on an errand so fatal in its
termination.
While some of the soldiers were burying the dead, and others were
tracing the horses to the artillery, the poisoned ruffian ran wildly
to a solitary part of the river, where he threw himself on his face,
and imbibed an inordinate draught of cold water--drinking, drinking,
drinking--as if he was a mere hollow pipe. Loosening his waist-belt,
and untying the points of his doublet, he stooped and drank deeply
again, burying his face in the water until his distended stomach felt
swollen as if to bursting, and when he arose the whole landscape swam
around him. Then, selecting the branch of a tree, he clambered up to
it with the utmost difficulty, for he had turned himself into a mere
water barrel.
Then, in a horror of anxiety--for every moment wasted seemed an
eternity--he tied his ankles to the branch, and lowering his body
perpendicularly till his hands rested on the turf, he remained
suspended, head downwards, in the hope that, with the ocean of water
he had drunk, he might disgorge the frightful poison he had been
compelled to swallow. But long before this hideous operation was
over, Roland Vipont, Leslie, and their soldiers, with the royal
banners displayed, and their bright armour gleaming in the sun, were
marching down the pastoral valley, on their route to Edinburgh,
having now traversed the whole dale of the Douglas without
discovering the Earl of Ashkirk.
"Now, fare ye well, Lanarkshire, and welcome the dun summit of
Arthur's Seat," thought Roland; as, full of the most brilliant
anticipations of happiness, he spurred his gallant horse and patted
its arching neck. "In three days I will be with my dear Jeanie; and,
in a month from this, whether the king sayeth yea or nay, she shall
be my winsome bride!"