DAVID'S TOWER--THE LOVER.
"I kist with ane sigh the ringlet fair,
That I shred frae my Marie's golden hair,
And I thought that I never would see her mair.
And when I try it to rest on my bed,
The visions of night surrounded my head.
But had I the wings of a dove to flee,
They had nae parted my Marie and me."
HENRY SCOUGALL, 1674.
In another chamber of that vast bastille-house, and at the north-west
corner thereof, which overhung the hollow where the church of St.
Cuthbert lay, and the marsh that bounded the western end of the loch,
sat Roland Vipont.
The furniture and appurtenances of his apartment, without being very
magnificent, were certainly better by many degrees than those
afforded to his unhappy betrothed; but then it must be remembered
that she was accused of sorcery, while he had merely committed high
treason; and like hamesucken, or rising in arms, high treason was but
a trivial action among the Scots of 1537.
He was not allowed to visit Jane Seton; the chamber to which the
warrant of Redhall had consigned him was one of the strongest in the
fortress; and Sir James Riddel was answerable for his body, dead or
alive, when demanded, under a penalty of ten thousand merks.
Deprived of everything in the shape of weapons, even to his spurs,
the lover sat with his arms folded on his breast, his chin (which
exhibited an untrimmed beard) resting on his breast, his brows knit,
and his eyes full of fire, revolving, as he had been for the last two
days and a sleepless night, and re-revolving in anger and grief, a
myriad of futile projects.
"Gloomy as death, and desolate as hell,"
his thoughts were too impetuous and incoherent to take any permanent
or useful form; but when his eyes rested on the enormous iron grating
which secured his window, or endeavoured to fathom the tremendous
abyss that yawned below--that abyss where the loch was rolling, every
hope died within him, and he became sick; while the recollection made
him become frantic, that, though he remained inert, secured and shut
up within a few feet of him there breathed, suffered, and wept one
whom he loved to adoration.
All his recent adventures in Douglasdale--the storming of Fleming the
farmer's barmkyn--the poisoning of Nicholas Birrel--the horrors of
his return--the trial--his defiance of the court--his challenge, and
its rejection, had all passed away from his memory, which retained
but one episode, one vision--Jane, as she appeared before that cruel
and determined tribunal--so pale, so ghastly, so helpless, and so
beautiful.
The recollection was a frightful one.
"And the king, he who loved me so well," thought he; "has he too
forgotten me? James Stuart--James Stuart! the Douglases have said
truly, thou art ungrateful; and more truly and more wisely hath the
good old countess said unto me a hundred times, 'Put not your trust
in princes.' Who now thinks of the ancient wealth and valour of the
Viponts?--who of their courage and patriotism? The honour of their
name lies buried in the church of St. Colme, and beneath the moss
that clusters on Aberdour--my patrimony gifted many a year ago to the
grasping house of Morton. How unhappy am I! My whole life has been
a struggle between poverty and pride, earning by wounds, and blood,
and toil, hardly and severely, at sword's point, every penny that
clinked in my pouch; for I have been a soldier of fortune, or
misfortune rather, from my boyhood to the present hour. But have I
not had some bright moments too? Ah, yes--yes! those I have passed
with Jane--with my dear Jeanie; but they have been like the meteors
that have shot over a dark winter sky; they are passed now, and a
double gloom remains behind."
His apartment had two windows, one which opened to the west, and
another to the north; and through both shone the last flush of the
red sunset.
Now two voices beneath the west window, by attracting his attention,
interrupted his sad thoughts, and he listened.
The speakers were in familiar conversation; but there was something
so hateful in their tones, that his heart trembled with rage as he
recognised them; and, impelled alike by hatred and a fearful
curiosity, he drew near to listen.
In an angle of the ramparts, where the curtain wall joined a corner
of the tower, the two gossips were seated on the stock of a large
brass culverin: they were Nichol Birrel and Sanders Screw.
The yellow, livid visage, matted hair, and enormously thick beard of
the former, and the shrivelled legs, nutcracker visage of the latter,
were distinctly visible in the clear summer twilight; and there was a
broad grin on the face of each as they conversed on a subject which,
as it was pecuniary, interested them both in a high degree.
"Twenty merks and fifteen mak five-and-thirty merks," said Birrel,
counting on his huge misshapen fingers.
"Ay," responded Screw, with another wide grin, as he held a piece of
paper up to the light, which came from the west.
"The deil!" said Birrel, "ye dinna mean to pretend that ye can
_read_, friend Sanders?"
"No, but I ken ilka item off by heart."
"Let me hear, then."
"First," said Sanders, pointing with a finger to the crumpled paper,
which he ogled with the corners of his bleared eyes, as he indicated
each item in succession, "first: 'Accompt of the haill expenses for
ye burning of Lady Jane Seton, umquhile of Ashkirk, at ye staik,
Saint Margaret's Day, fifteen hundred and thirty-seven----'"
"Weel?"
"Hoolie, man!" responded Sanders, scratching his head. "'_Item_; for
one staick of aik tree, a penny.
"'_Item_; for twelve bundles o' faggots, saxpence.
"'_Item_; for three barrels o' tar and tallow, ten shillings.
"'_Item_; for greased flax and gunpowder, sax shillings.
"'_Item_; for an iron chain to bind her to the staik, twenty Flemish
rydars.
"'_Item_; for a pair o' steel branks and one padlock, to Jhone, the
lorimar, at ye Tron, aucht shillings of our Scots monie.
_Summa_----'"
"Hech! ye'll hae gude profit off a' this; for I ken ye saved as
mickle tar, flax, and faggots frae the burning and worrying o' fat
Father Macgridius as will put ye owre this job, and mair."
"Never _you_ heed that," replied Sanders, pawkily; "how mickle got ye
for the brodding o' her?"
"Sax pund Scots."
"Sax pund! my certie, think o' that! Witch pricking is profitable
wark."
"Had ye seen Friar Gourlay," said Dobbie, with a leer, as he came up
and joined them, "by my faith! _he_ burned brawly when the cardinal
had him harled to the Calton and worrit for his foul heresies. We
put a tarred frock on him, sewit owre wi' bags o' grease and powder,
and piled the weel oiled faggots knee-deep about him. We then
fastened up his body to the stake by three iron cask-hoops that held
him erect as a lance, and the fire bleezed round him like a war
beacon. His yell and skirls were awsome to hear; but the smoke and
the heat soon chokit him; and then, when the breeze blew the fire
aside, we saw him standing upright and stark in the middle o't. Then
his belly fell out, and the flames shot up between his birselled ribs
and out at his scouthered jaws, his eyen and ear-holes! By my soul!
gossip Birrel and gossip Screw, it was an awsome sicht, and one to be
haud in memorie!" Even Dobbie, connoisseur as he was in these
matters, shuddered at the recollection of this extra-judicial
atrocity.
"But come," said Birrel, "there is St. Cuthburt's bell striking ten,
and we have muckle to do wi' this dame ere morning peeps."
The trio then knocked at the iron gate of David's Tower, to which
they were admitted.
Roland had heard but a part of their frightful conversation; it was
beyond the power of human endurance to listen to all those wretches
said. He rushed into the farthest corner of his apartment, covered
his ears with his hands, and wept and groaned aloud in the utter
impotency of his rage and grief. But how much wilder would that rage
and grief have been, had he known that they were all gone to visit
his hapless mistress, for the double purpose of performing some of
those additional tortures to which those accused of sorcery were
usually subjected, by order of the supreme tribunal in Scotland, and
at the same time to accomplish another cruel plan of Sir Adam
Otterburn's device.