“Heaven be praised! O Jessie, what a load of unhappiness you have

removed from my heart! But why did you not write to me? Why did

you not tell me of the change in your sentiments? And you have

been dreading to meet me! and I have been equally alarmed at the

thoughts of meeting you! How ridiculous! Two old lovers acting

bugbear to each other! There is one comfort, however, Jessie, the

one cannot rail at the other for inconstancy; for I have been

playing truant as well as yourself. But who is the happy man who

has supplanted me in your affections? I sincerely trust that he is

worthy of you.”

“You may have an opportunity of judging for yourself, ere long,”

replied she, smiling; “but I will call my friend Mrs Jameson, to

you—she will explain all.”

She then sent for Mrs Jameson, and, having introduced her to

Malcolmson, and briefly stated how matters stood between them, left

them alone together.

Mrs Jameson gave Malcolmson a full account of all that had taken

place on board, spoke with enthusiastic admiration of the struggle,

in both the lovers, between “passion and principle,” and ended with

saying that she considered Jessie a fortunate woman to have gained

the affection of so amiable and estimable a man.

“But where is he? You must introduce me to him. I will go and bring

him to you. I daresay I shall find him somewhere on deck.” And away

he went in search of him. The deck was strewed with passengers’

luggage, and a young and handsome man was moving about among it,

apparently selecting his own.

“I think this be one of your trunks, Mr Morton,” said one of the

men to him.

“Ah, there’s my man!” said Malcolmson. “Pray, sir, is your name

Morton?”

“Yes, sir, it is. May I beg, in return, to know whom I have the

pleasure of addressing?”

“_My_ name, sir, is Malcolmson; yours is familiar to my ear, as

that of the guardian of a near relative whom I have never had the

pleasure of meeting. Pray, Mr Morton, are you Irish?”

“Yes; but Morton is an adopted name—that of a kind relative and

benefactor. My own name is Denby, Philip Denby.”

“Gracious Powers! my brother! I am Edward Malcolmson, the son of

your mother. But come with me into Miss Martin’s cabin.”

And Philip followed him, dreading that in his brother he had met

his happy rival.

“Philip,” said his brother, “how shall we commemorate this happy

meeting? I must give you some memento to recall it to your

recollection. Here,” said he, taking Jessie’s hand in his own,

“this little hand is mine. I know you will prize it; so I make over

my claim to you, if you can prevail upon Jessie to consent to the

change of owners.”

Need we say that that consent was granted? The lovers were united;

and their example was soon followed by Edward Malcolmson and the

fair object of his affections, who afterwards accompanied Morton

and his bride home, to cheer their mother with the sight of the

happy reunion of her family.

THE HAWICK SPATE.

The bursting of water-spouts is a phenomenon not often witnessed

in Scotland; yet that such an accident has sometimes happened

there, there are not a few melancholy tales to prove; and to this

testimony we could add the story with which the following pages are

occupied.

About the close of the seventeenth century, the town of Hawick

was visited with such a calamity as that just spoken of, although

we believe it was not attended with any singularly disastrous

consequences. The water-spout which burst over the town, on the

occasion alluded to, was of such immense magnitude, that the deluge

of waters it discharged filled the main street in an instant from

side to side, to the depth of from four to five feet. But it did

not remain long here. The inclination of the street gave it motion,

and away it swept with the force and impetuosity of a swollen

river, carrying everything before it; and in its furious career

razing no fewer than fifteen houses to their foundations.

Yet, if it had not been for the danger with which it was attended,

and the loss which it occasioned, an onlooker, if placed in a

situation of safety himself, could not possibly help being amazed,

nay, sometimes laughing outright, at the ludicrous scenes which

such an unusual and unlooked for visitor as the water occasioned;

and particularly at the odd display of floating objects of all

kinds that were hurrying along on the bosom of the impetuous

stream; and which, from their utter unfitness, in most cases, for

such aquatic feats as they had been thus suddenly called on to

perform, presented a very laughable appearance. There were chairs,

tables, baskets, beds, stools, &c., &c.,—sometimes in whole

fleets, sometimes in detached squadrons—all scudding along, and

apparently rivalling each other in speed, as if rejoicing in this

new power of locomotion. Now, the basket might be seen giving

the “go by” to the stool, and now the stool to the basket. Here

might be seen a table, neck and neck with a window shutter; and

there an envious chaff bed doing its best to make up with a hamper

of greens, which having got into a rapid current, was bidding

defiance to competition, and looking with most profound contempt

on the unavailing efforts of its pursuers. All this, a lively

imagination would discover in the march of the “Hawick Spate,” as

the inundation of which we speak was called.

But all the objects that floated down this heaven-descended stream,

were not of the same ludicrous or uninteresting character with

those enumerated. There was, at any rate, one exception, and one

calculated to excite very different feelings in the beholder from

those alluded to. This object was a cradle; and it was tenanted. A

little mariner, unconscious of his danger, was on board the frail

bark. Borne on by the current, the cradle swept rapidly along,

unobserved by any one; for all were too intent on seeking their own

personal safety, or on saving their property, to pay any attention

to the concerns of others; or, if the cradle was seen, there was no

one who would venture into the rushing torrent to rescue the little

voyager from the apparently inevitable fate which awaited him. On,

onward, the cradle sailed on the bosom of the stream, now wheeling

rapidly round in the eddies created by sudden obstructions, and now

shooting along like an arrow with the liberated waters.

But all is not lost that’s in danger. In a secluded spot at a short

distance from the town, there happened to be, at the moment of

which we speak, one of those gipsy encampments which, though still

to be met with occasionally, are now more rare than they were then.

This encampment was situated on one of the sloping sides of a deep

hollow or ravine; and it so chanced that this was precisely the

course which the waters took that rushed from the town; and thus

everything which was borne along with them, and that had not been

previously stranded, or otherwise arrested in its progress, floated

past the bivouac of the gipsies—but, observe, past only, if they

thought them not worth capturing; for the gipsies, with all the

ready tact of their calling, in making the most of circumstances,

had instantly bethought them of turning the present calamity to

good account, by securing everything they could lay their hands

upon; and in the end their booty was far from being inconsiderable.

Ranged along the edge of the stream, the gipsies, old and young,

male and female, might have been seen at this moment, eagerly and

busily employed, with long sticks, fishing in such articles as came

within their reach. Some of their number, however, more daring or

more greedy of spoil, might also have been seen far advanced into

the water, pursuing, at the imminent risk of their lives, the same

profitable pastime. It was while they were thus employed, that

our little mariner and his bark came in sight of the gipsies. A

general cry of surprise—not unmingled with compassion, at least on

the part of the female members of the gang—burst from them when

the cradle hove in sight, as they concluded that it was more than

probable that it contained a child.

“Save the infant! save the infant!” exclaimed several of the women

at once. But this was much easier said than done; for the cradle

was floating down the very centre of the stream, which, though

now a good deal diffused, and thus rendered shallower, was yet at

least from four to five feet deep in the middle; and, besides this,

the bottom was irregular, and interspersed with partial hollows,

some of which would have taken the tallest man in the gang over

the head. Aware of this, there was an evident hesitation on the

part of the men to incur the risk of seizing the cradle although

there were two motives to induce them to the attempt. The one was

humanity—the other, a much less creditable one, interest; a child

being at all times an acquisition to a gipsy gang, for the purpose

of exciting charity.

Which of these two motives was the stronger on this occasion, we

will not say; but certain it is, that there was an anxious desire

on the part of all to save the infant which was presumed to be in

the cradle.

One of the most eager for the accomplishment of this humane

purpose, among the females of the gang, was a stout, masculine

woman of the name of Jean Gordon, who hastily _kilting_ up her

petticoats, dashed into the stream when the cradle came in sight,

with the view of intercepting it; but the water was too deep for

her, and she was obliged to stop short long before she reached the

line of the cradle’s direction. Finding this, and highly excited by

disappointment and anxiety, she frantically called on some of the

men to try and effect the rescue of the child.

“John Young! John Young! save the wean!—save the wean!” she

exclaimed, addressing herself to a tall athletic man, who was

the farthest out in the stream, and who was at the moment busily

employed in endeavouring to secure a chest of drawers which were

in the act of tumbling past him. “I’m sure I’ve seen ye do baulder

things than that, John, and for far less. O man, for the love o’

God, and yer ain soul, save the puir innocent!” For it had now been

ascertained that there actually was a child in the cradle.

The man thus appealed to by Jean made no reply, but steadily eyed

for a moment the approaching object of her solicitude, to which

he was now at liberty to pay attention, as the chest of drawers

had fairly got out of his reach. The cradle, in the meantime, came

gliding rapidly onwards; but it was evident that it would pass at

the distance of several yards from where Young stood.

Young, who was an excellent and a fearless swimmer, marked this,

and took his measures accordingly; for he had determined on making

an effort to save the infant. Having waded in to the shoulders, he

waited till the cradle had arrived within a few feet of the line

on which he stood, when he made a bold and sudden push into the

centre of the stream, and so well calculated his distance, that,

after making a few strokes—for he had lost his footing—he came

in contact with it at the exact point on which he had reckoned.

Seizing now the cradle with one hand, and keeping himself afloat

with the other, Young prudently gave way to the current, and

allowed himself to be borne along with it until an opportunity

should present itself for his striking in for the shore. The

situation of Young, however, was a perilous one; but he did not

want the stimulus of approbation to enable him to go through with

his humane purpose. Jean Gordon ran along the margin of the stream,

keeping up with the floating, rather than swimming man, and anon

raising her voice with these words of encouragement.

“That’s my brave man!” she shouted, as she dashed through hedge

and bush in her onward progress, with her eye fixed on the cradle,

and regardless of all obstructions that lay in her path. “That’s

my brave man! Haud on, John—haud on! Never mind the ragin o’ the

waters, John, but be o’ stout heart; for the Lord’s wi’ ye, and ’ll

bear ye up wi’ a strong arm. This way noo, John—this way noo,” she

added, pointing to a small inlet where there was no current, and

which promised an easy landing-place. “This way, John,” she said,

and dashed into the water to assist the voyagers to land.

Young, approving of Jean’s suggestion, made a strong effort to free

himself from the current, and succeeded in getting into the still

and shallow water, where he quickly gained his feet; Jean, at the

same moment, pouncing on the child, which she took from the cradle

and hugged to her bosom in a rapture of joy.

“Faith, it was a teuch job, Jean,” said Young, now shaking himself

like a huge water-dog; “but it’s a guid ane, and I houp ’ll stan’

against twa or throe o’ my sins.”

“Nae doot o’t, John—nae doot o’t,” replied Jean, gazing fondly on

the infant as she spoke. “It’s a guid deed, and will be remembered

to yer advantage baith here and hereafter. A bonny bairn it is, in

troth,” she went on, now apostrophizing the infant; “and ’ll be

sair missed by somebody, I warrant.”

Having said this, she wrapped up the child in the blankets in which

it had been enveloped in the cradle, and, accompanied by Young,

returned to the encampment, which they found breaking up, and the

gang hurriedly preparing to depart—a sudden move, indeed, but

one for which there was good reason. The gipsies had rescued a

number of things from the water, which it was certain their owners

would miss, and which, therefore, it was not improbable they might

institute some troublesome inquiries after, if they remained much

longer where they were; and it was thought best to avoid this

annoyance by decamping. Urged on by these considerations, the

packing up was soon completed; and, in a very few minutes, the

whole troop was on the march towards Yetholm, in the neighbourhood

of which they again pitched their tents.

Our story does not require, neither would it be in the least

interesting, to follow any further the subsequent wanderings of

the erratic tribe to which we have introduced the reader; nor

would it afford any entertainment to trace the infant years of

the little one whom they had rescued from the flood. It is enough

to say that he grew up, under the maternal care and tendance of

Jean Gordon—who had especially attached herself to him—a stout

and active lad, bearing the name of his foster-mother, which had

been conferred upon him by the general consent of the gang, in

consequence of their mutual attachment.

Young Gordon—the name by which we will now designate the little

hero of the “Hawick Spate” evinced, at a very early period, a

singularly bold and daring disposition; which, added to great

physical strength, and a restless and enterprising spirit,

promised, in due time, to place him at the head of the little

community to which he belonged. But, though a wild and somewhat

reckless character, young Gordon was not without some redeeming

qualities. Gipsy though he was, he had a dash of honour and good

feeling about him; and would, at any time, as soon do a good thing

as a bad—perhaps sooner. In truth, all that was evil in him

might have been fairly traced to the circumstances in which he

was placed; while, whatever was good might, with equal truth and

justice, have been attributed to his original nature.

Such, then, was Gordon in his twentieth year, for to this age had

he attained when we resume our story.

As the gang to which Gordon belonged, was, one day, at this period,

migrating from one place to another, they met an Irish regiment on

its march to Stirling, to join the forces there assembled under the

Duke of Argyle, who was preparing to march against the Earl of Mar,

then in arms for the exiled family of Stuart.

Gordon, who had never seen an entire regiment before, was

captivated with the warlike appearance it presented; and was

suddenly struck with the desire of becoming a soldier—a desire

which, in accordance with the impetuosity of his nature, he

resolved instantly to gratify. With this view, but concealing

his movements from his associates, he made up to a sergeant, and

offered himself as a recruit. The sergeant, after eying him for a

moment, and jading him, as he said, “a likely fellow,” very gladly

accepted his offer, and at once enlisted him.

Gordon, having thus secured the object of his wishes, asked

permission to take leave of his friends before marching away with

the regiment—a request which was at once granted, on the condition

that he should be accompanied by a couple of soldiers, to insure

his return. On joining his former associates, he informed them

of the step he had taken, and added, that he had now come to bid

them farewell. The intelligence struck them all with surprise and

regret; for he was a general favourite, and, indeed, had now become

the chief hope of the erratic family. But there was none among them

who felt so much on this occasion as Jean Gordon.

On hearing of the step her adopted son had taken, she gave way to

the most poignant grief.

“Oh, my bairn! my bairn!” she cried, “are ye gaun to leave me?

Can ye hae the heart to desert her wha has carried ye in her arms

through frost and snaw, through wind and weet—frae the time ye was

a cradled wean till ye was able to tak the road yersel—wha has

tended ye nicht an’ day, wi’ a mother’s care, frae that time till

this hoor—and wha has mony and aft the time sheltered ye in her

bosom frae the biting blast which was like to cut short the thread

o’ her ain life? Ay, warm and dry hae I aften keepit ye then, when

I was mysel’ perishin wi’ baith hunger and cauld, nane o’ whilk,

I trow, e’er came near ye. But ye shanna gang wi’ the redcoats,

Gordon,” she added, with a determined air; “rather than ye should

do that, I’ll tell the haill secret we hae a’ keepit sae lang,

although it should bring every ane o’ us to the gibbet—and that’ll

prevent ye gaun, I jalouse.”

“That ye won’t, old devil,” here chimed in a ferocious-looking

member of the gang. “We’ll tak care o’ that. Ye ken we hae a way

o’ disposing o’ tell-tales, Jean; and, if ye talk o’ peaching, ye

shall hae a taste o’t, I warrant.”

To this threat Jean made no reply, and probably she would have

entirely disregarded it, had there been no other inducement for her

to keep silence on the subject she hinted at. But other inducements

there were. Had she divulged the secret to which she alluded, and

which was no other than that of Gordon’s real parentage, she would

have exposed two brothers and a husband to the vengeance of the

law—and this consideration at once checked the resolution she had

begun to entertain.

To return to our story. Jean’s expostulations with Gordon on the

step he had taken, and her appeals to his gratitude, in behalf of

her wish to induce him to remain with her, were not unheeded by the

young man, who readily acknowledged, with a tear in his eye while

he spoke, all her kindnesses to him. But it was now too late. The

deed was done, and there was no recalling it; neither, it must be

confessed, did Gordon wish it should be recalled.

We have said that there was none of the little community to which

Gordon belonged, who felt so much at the prospect of his leaving

them as Jean; but this was not strictly correct. There was another

who felt even more than she did; although these feelings were not,

in every particular, of precisely the same description. That other

person was Jean’s daughter—a little black-eyed gipsy of about

eighteen years of age, and between whom and Gordon there had long

subsisted a mutual attachment.

On learning of the sudden step which her lover had taken, the

poor girl wept bitterly, and was not consoled until Gordon had

repeatedly and solemnly assured her of a continuance of his love,

and that he would very soon return to her—“When,” he said—but

this sentence he finished in a whisper into her ear—“you shall

become my wife, Rosie.”

The gipsy girl held down her head and blushed. Gordon flung his

arms around her neck—tenderly embraced her—and, in a few minutes

afterwards, was on the march with his regiment.

In a few days after the arrival of the latter at Stirling, the Duke

of Argyle, having learned that the Earl of Mar was approaching,

with the view of giving him battle, mustered his army, which

included the regiment to which Gordon belonged, and marched out

to meet him. The opposing armies came in sight of each other on

Sheriffmuir, where, as is well known, a pretty severe encounter

took place, in which both sides claimed the victory. In this

engagement, the regiment in which Gordon served was stationed

on the left wing of the royal forces, which was opposed to the

Highlanders in Mar’s army, and thus involved in the most sanguinary

part of the conflict.

Soon after the commencement of the battle, our young soldier was

fortunate enough to save the life of an officer of the King’s

army. This officer, who was mounted, was unhorsed by a Highlander,

who had previously wounded him severely in the thigh with his

broadsword, and was about to complete his destruction with the

same weapon as he lay defenceless on the ground, when Gordon ran

him through the heart with his bayonet. In the next instant, and

before the person whose life Gordon had saved, could inform him who

he was, or thank him for his opportune and very effective aid, the

tide of battle rolled over the spot, and they were separated. Nor

did they meet again—and thus each remained in ignorance of who the

other was.

It was not long after this, however, before Gordon himself

required the aid which he had so timeously afforded another, and

that under nearly similar circumstances. He was attacked by a

ferocious mountaineer of immense stature, who made a cut at him

with his broadsword; but Gordon not only adroitly warded off the

blow with his musket, but succeeded in inflicting a deep wound

on his antagonist with his bayonet. Enraged to find himself thus

baffled by a stripling, and smarting with pain, the infuriated

Celt beat down Gordon’s firelock, and rushed in upon him, with

the intention of dispatching him with his dirk. But this was not

so easily done. Finding his musket no longer of any avail, Gordon

dropped it on the ground, and, quick as lightning, sprang upon and

grappled with his enemy; and thus, in turn, prevented him making

use of his weapons. A desperate struggle now ensued between the

combatants, each endeavouring to overturn the other; and, for a

moment or two, it was doubtful which would eventually be thrown.

But the superior strength of the Highlander finally prevailed,

and Gordon fell, with his remorseless foe above him. In the next

instant, the Highlander’s dirk gleamed in the air, and was already

on its descent towards the heart of the prostrate youth, when, ere

the blow could be struck, both the weapon and the hand which held

it fell to the ground. The arm of the Highlander had been severed,

at this critical moment, by the sabre of a dragoon, who had

approached the combatants unperceived by either. Thus miraculously

freed from the danger of immediate death, Gordon sprang to his

feet, and assisted the trooper in completing the destruction of his

assailant, whom they instantly despatched. But the perils of the

day to the young soldier did not terminate with this adventure;

another soon after befell him, that threatened to end more fatally.

When making his way back to join his regiment, which had shifted

its ground in the tumult of fight, he suddenly found himself

intercepted by a party of the enemy, by whom he was taken prisoner,

and immediately after disarmed, bound, and sent to the rear, where

he found several others in the same unhappy situation with himself.

On the termination of the conflict, the prisoners were marched to a

small village, at the distance of eight or ten miles from the field

of battle; and, on the following day, a kind of court-martial,

formed of a few straggling officers hastily brought together, was

held on them, when, after a trial which lasted only a few minutes,

the whole were condemned to death, for being in arms—so ran the

words of their doom—against their lawful king, James VII.; and the

hour of two in the afternoon, of the same day, was appointed for

carrying the sentence into effect.

The unfortunate men were now remanded to the several apartments

in which they had been confined previous to their trial, and

recommended to pass the short time they had to live in making their

peace with God.

In the meantime a rude gibbet was hastily erected; and, at the

appointed hour, the prisoners, and amongst these, Gordon, were

marched to the place of execution, surrounded by a strong party

of troopers. Dreadful as was his situation, however, young Gordon

blenched not. His bearing was manly; and, in that fearful hour,

his indomitable spirit enabled him to contemplate his approaching

death with the calmness and resolution of a martyr. There was but

one thought that unmanned him in this trying hour, when he allowed

his imagination to dwell on it. This thought was of his Rosie,

the object of his heart’s fondest affections. But he checked the

enervating reflection, and prepared to meet his doom with becoming

fortitude.

The preparations for the tragical scene being completed, the

prisoners were brought forward, and tied up, one after the other,

to the fatal beam. Everything being now in readiness, the signal

was about to be given which would have closed the world on the

unfortunate men for ever, when all at once a loud and confused cry

arose that the enemy was approaching. In an instant the gibbet was

deserted by the troopers who surrounded it, who galloped off wildly

in all directions in utter ignorance of the quarter from which the

threatened danger was coming.

Gordon, whose presence of mind had never for a moment forsaken him,

perceiving the opportunity for escape which thus so unexpectedly

presented itself, instantly took advantage of it. Having hurriedly

desired the brother in misfortune who stood next him to unloose

the rope with which his arms were bound, he freed himself from the

noose which was about his neck, and, with the rapidity of thought,

drew from his pocket a large clasp knife, and cut the bands by

which his fellow-prisoners were pinioned, and set them all at

liberty. Having effected this generous purpose, Gordon leaped to

the ground, and called out that every one should now endeavour to

save himself—a recommendation which it will readily be believed

was very soon attended to.

In the meantime, however, the troopers having discovered that

they had been frightened by a false alarm, which, indeed, it

had been, hastened back to carry the sentence of the prisoners

into effect; when, finding that they had made their escape, they

commenced a furious pursuit, and succeeded in overtaking several of

the unfortunate men, whom they instantly cut down—adopting this

summary procedure in preference to the more tedious and troublesome

one of carrying them back to the gibbet.

Gordon, who had by this time gained a rising ground, where he had

thrown himself down breathless and exhausted, saw this prompt

execution done on two or three of the fugitives; and, in dread of

sharing a similar fate, again started to his feet, and resumed his

flight.

But this movement threatened to have been fatal to him. He was

perceived by two troopers, who immediately gave chase after him;

and, as the height which he had taken, though pretty steep, was

free from any obstruction which could arrest the progress of

horsemen, they gained fast upon, him. Poor Gordon now gave himself

up for lost, and thought that he had but escaped the halter to

perish by the sword. Still, however, he struggled on; but his

pursuers, continuing to gain on him, were soon so near that he

could distinctly hear the abusive epithets and deep curses in which

they at once expressed their impatience, the length of the chase,

and their eagerness to accomplish the destruction of him who caused

it. A few minutes more, without the intervention of some fortunate

circumstance, and Gordon would have been under the sabres of his

pursuers; but such a circumstance did at this moment interpose,

and he was once more saved from a fate that seemed inevitable. A

ledge of rock impassable to horsemen, but easily accessible by

a person on foot, suddenly presented itself. For this place of

safety Gordon made with all possible speed, and with a desperate

effort quickly gained a sufficient height to defy further pursuit

from the troopers. But although he was out of the reach of their

swords, he had not the same security from their bullets; and this

he soon found. Two shots were fired at him by his pursuers, and

both hit the rock so close by his head, that some of the splinters

struck him in the face, and wounded him pretty severely. The aim of

the troopers had been so well taken, that Gordon had no doubt, if

they got another round at him, that he would be brought down; but,

fortunately, he was able to clear the summit of the ledge before

they had time to reload, and was thus secure, for a time at least,

from all further danger from his pursuers.

Although now dreadfully exhausted, Gordon continued his flight

until he became so worn out that he found it impossible to proceed.

When reduced to this extremity, he crawled into a retired field

that lay at some distance from any road, and flung himself at fall

length behind a low wall by which it was intersected. Here he soon

fell into a profound sleep, in which all the dangers he had passed,

and all the perils to which he might yet be exposed, were for a

time forgotten. In this situation, however, he had not remained

above an hour, when he was awakened by some one shaking him by the

shoulder. He started to his feet in the utmost alarm, having no

doubt that it was an enemy who had discovered his retreat, but was

soon relieved from his fears by perceiving a person in the dress

of a shepherd standing before him.

“Whar hae ye come frae, honest lad?” said the man, in a kindly

voice, and with an expression of sympathy in his countenance,

excited by the fatigued and haggard appearance of the young man.

“From the Borders,” replied Gordon, not caring to come to

particulars with a stranger in such troublesome times, and

uncertain what treatment he might meet with by claiming connection

with either of the contending parties between whom the kingdom was

then divided.

“I’m jalousin,” said the stranger, with an expressive smile, as he

eyed some of the fragments of military costume which were still

about Gordon’s person—“I am jalousin that ye hae been _oot_,

young man. Do ye ken a place they ca’ Shirramuir?” he added, with

a knowing, but good-humoured look, which at once induced Gordon

not only to acknowledge that he did, but to tell him his precise

situation, together with all that had lately befallen him.

“Aweel, aweel, freen,” said the man, when Gordon had concluded—“It’s

a’ the same to me what side ye war on, for I carena a sheep’s head

for ony o’ them. Sae, ye’ll come alang wi’ me, an’ I’ll gie ye a

nicht’s quarters, and some refreshment, o’ whilk ye seem to me to

staun muckle in need; for, in troth, lad, ye are sair forfochten

like.”

Having said this, the kind-hearted shepherd conducted Gordon to his

house, which was close at hand, and gave him all the entertainment

he had so generously promised. Here Gordon remained all night; and,

on the following morning, prepared for his departure, having now

resolved to return to his old friends, the gipsies.

Previous to his setting out, his kind host suggested that he

should strip himself of everything about his apparel that might

discover the side to which he had belonged—a suggestion with which

Gordon immediately complied; when his entertainer supplied the

deficiencies thus occasioned, by presenting him with a shepherd’s

plaid and bonnet, to which he added a small sum of money.

Thus provided, refreshed, and, we may add, disguised, Gordon took

the road, and on the third day thereafter, arrived in safety at the

encampment of his old friends, which, knowing their haunts, he had

no difficulty in finding.

The joy of the whole gang, and particularly of Jean and her

daughter, on seeing him so soon again, was excessive. Jean hugged

him to her bosom, and in a rapture of delight, poured out upon

him a torrent of the most endearing epithets; while her daughter,

though not less overjoyed, sought, with maidenly modesty, to

conceal the happiness she felt. But it would not hide. The smile

and the tear which she could not suppress, betrayed the secret of

her feelings. This excitement over on all sides, Gordon gradually

fell into his former position in the little community, and resumed

the habits and wandering life which his short, but eventful

military career had interrupted; and in this way time ran on until

other three or four years had elapsed.

About the end of this period, as Gordon, with two or three more of

his associates, was one day passing through Jedburgh, where there

was, at the time, a recruiting party stationed, two soldiers,

after looking earnestly at him for some minutes, suddenly made

up to him, and asked if his name was not Gordon, and if he had

not once belonged to the —— Regiment of Foot. To both of these

questions Gordon at once replied in the affirmative, not being

aware that he had any reason to do otherwise; for it had never

occurred to him that, by not rejoining his regiment after the

battle of Sheriffmuir, he had rendered himself liable to a charge

of desertion; still less did he think that he had actually been all

this time a deserter. But so it certainly was; and so he now found

it to be.

“Then,” said one of the soldiers, on his acknowledging both

circumstances, “you come along with, us, my lad; you are our

prisoner.” And both the men drew their side-arms to make good their

capture.

Gordon was now carried to the quarters of the commanding officer

of the recruiting party, and by him was immediately sent off,

escorted by three soldiers, to Edinburgh Castle, to stand trial for

desertion from his Majesty’s service.

In a few days after his arrival there, a court-martial was

summoned, when Gordon’s identity, and the facts of his enlistment

and desertion having been proven, he was condemned to be shot—the

utmost penalty of military law having been adjudged him, as the

desertion had taken place in time of war, and at a period when

fidelity was most especially required.

Thus was poor Gordon twice exposed to the horrors of a violent

death by judicial sentence; but still his natural courage did

not fail him. He again boldly prepared to meet the fate which

seemed determined to overtake him, and which now certainly seemed

quite inevitable, as there was not the slightest chance of any

circumstance occurring in this case to avert it.

The place selected for the impending tragedy was the Portobello

Sands; and thither the unfortunate culprit, accompanied by the

whole garrison, was conveyed on the day appointed for his execution.

Amongst the official persons of note who were present on this

melancholy occasion was the Duke of Argyle, who had arrived in

Edinburgh on the preceding day; and who, as commander-in-chief of

the King’s forces in Scotland, conceived it his duty to attend the

execution of the criminal. All the ceremonies usual on occasions of

this kind having been gone through, and the regiment formed into

three sides of a square, the unfortunate prisoner was conducted to

the spot, marked by his coffin being placed on it, where he was

to receive his death. The execution party, consisting of twelve

men, placed in three rows of four each, were advanced within a few

paces of their object, when the front rank knelt down, the second

stooped, and the third stood upright, that thus three several fires

might be delivered, and the destruction of the victim be secured.

Gordon had now also knelt down, and there was only the signal

wanting—of which the prisoner had, as is usual in such cases, the

control—to complete the tragedy, when, just as the unhappy man was

about to make that signal, the Duke of Argyle, who had been eyeing

him attentively for some time, suddenly left those with whom he

had been conversing, and waving to the execution party to withhold

their fire, galloped up to the culprit, whom he thus abruptly

addressed:—

“Young man, were you at the battle of Sherriffmuir?”

To this question, so unexpectedly put, it was some time before

Gordon could make any reply; his mind being wholly absorbed by

thoughts appropriate to his awful situation. When first put to him,

therefore, he merely looked at the querist with a vacant stare, as

if wholly unconscious of the purport of what had been said to him.

In a few seconds, however, he recollected himself, and, with a firm

voice, replied that he was at that battle.

“Did you see me,” continued the Duke, on his making this answer,

“in any situation of particular peril on that day!”

Gordon now in his turn looked at the Duke with a scrutinizing eye,

and thought that he recognised a face which he had seen before. He

began, in short, to imagine that there was a resemblance, though he

did not think it by any means so strong as to warrant him in saying

so, between the person who now addressed him, and the officer whose

life he had saved at Sheriffmuir.

“I do not know, sir,” said Gordon in reply to the last question

put to him, “that I saw _you_ in any situation of particular peril

on that day; but I saw an officer of our army in such a situation,

and I believe I helped a little to bring him out of the scrape.”

“You ran the fellow who was about to slay that officer through the

body with your bayonet, did you not?” exclaimed the Duke, with

eager rapidity.

“I did, sir,” said Gordon, who yet knew nothing of the quality of

the person who addressed him.

“Exactly,” replied Argyle. “Well, sir,” he continued, “the life you

saved was mine, and I shall now try to repay the debt by saving

yours, if I can.”

Having said this, the Duke turned round and waved to the officer

who was in command of the troops present to come to him.

On his approach—“Colonel,” he said, “I wish this execution

delayed. Do you, therefore, sir, if you please, order the firing

party to retire, and let the regiment be marched back to its

quarters. I, of course, take the whole responsibility of this

proceeding on myself, Colonel.”

The officer to whom this was addressed bowed and retired to

execute the orders given him; and in a few minutes thereafter, the

regiment, in the centre of which Gordon was placed, marched off the

ground to the sound of cheerful music.

On reaching the Castle, the Duke desired Gordon to be brought

before him, when he proceeded to examine minutely into the

particulars of his case, with the view, evidently, of eliciting as

many favourable and extenuating circumstances as possible; and he

evinced great satisfaction in finding that there were a good many

of these. There was the youth and inexperience of the prisoner;

the fact of his having been only a day or two enlisted; of his

having received no bounty (which was the case); the evidence that

his crime had proceeded from ignorance of military law, and not

from design; and, above all, there was to be taken into account

his treatment by the insurgents—considerations, all of which

were crowned by the fact of his having saved the life of the

commander-in-chief.

On the conclusion of this examination, Gordon was placed again in

confinement; and for an entire week he heard nothing more of the

proceedings regarding him. Early one morning, however, at the end

of this period, the Duke of Argyle, entered his apartment, when,

pulling out a paper from his pocket—

“Gordon,” he said, “your life is saved. His Majesty’s clemency

has been extended to you, in consideration of the extenuating

circumstances in your case; and here is your pardon. Here, also,”

he continued, producing another paper, which he handed to the

prisoner, “is your discharge. And here again,” he said, placing a

purse of money in Gordon’s hand, and smiling as he spoke, “is a

passport. And now, my good fellow,” he added, “take my advice, and

return to your friends as soon as possible.”

We will not take up the reader’s time by attempting to describe

Gordon’s feelings on this occasion. Suffice it to say, that they

were as wild, and tumultuous, and joyful as such a singular and

unexpected change in his situation can be supposed to have been

capable of exciting. These feelings, however, did not distract

him so much as to prevent him following the Duke’s counsel, which

exactly jumped with his own inclinations.

After thanking his benefactor in the most grateful language he

could command, he instantly quitted the apartment in which he had

been confined, and hurried out of the castle, neither looking to

the right nor to the left, till he had reached the heart of the

city, when he stopped for a moment to breathe and to reflect on his

happiness, which was so great, however, that he had some difficulty

in believing in its reality.

In an hour afterwards, Gordon once more set out to join his old

friends, whose encampment he reached on the following day, and

again resumed his old habits and station in the erratic community.

Again, too, three or four additional years passed away; but they

did not pass now without bringing some of the changes which are

interwoven with the lot of mankind, and which fall to the share

equally of gipsy and prince. During these three or four years,

Jean Gordon’s husband, and her two brothers, had been gathered to

their fathers, her daughter had attained the stature and the years

of womanhood, and she herself was beginning to feel the weakened

energies of age. Another change in this little community, during

these three or four years, was the elevation of Gordon to the chief

place in it—a situation to which he was unanimously elected on the

death of Jean’s husband, who had hitherto been looked up to as the

head of the fraternity.

It was about this period, and as the gang were one day strolling

up the banks of the Tweed, near a place called Upsetlington, under

the conduct of Gordon, who was leading them on one of their usual

wandering expeditions, a salmon cobble, in which were two persons,

were seen sweeping down the river, which, being swollen to an

unusual height with nearly an entire week’s heavy and incessant

rain, was at this moment tearing along with the most dreadful fury.

The day, besides, was widely tempestuous; and, as the wind was

blowing directly in the teeth of the current, there was a roughness

in the middle of the stream which would have endangered the safety

of a much better sea-boat than a salmon-cobble—a truth this, which

was but too evident on the present occasion.

The cobble, which was now being borne down by the stream, seemed to

have completely freed itself from the control of those on board of

it, and was careering along with an impetuosity and total want of

direction, which left no doubt on the minds of those who beheld it

that a catastrophe was at hand. It was evident, in short, that the

boat must very soon be swamped and overset; and in this opinion the

persons on board of her seemed themselves to concur, as they made

no other effort to save themselves than waving their hands, from

time to time, to those on the banks, to intimate their distress,

and to invite their assistance.

But, although these unfortunate persons had been willing to make

any effort to extricate themselves from their perilous situation,

they could not; for their oars had been swept away by the current,

and they were thus left perfectly helpless.

Gordon marked the desperate situation of the unwilling voyagers,

and on the instant determined on making an effort to save them.

Near the spot where he stood looking on this appalling scene, there

happened to be another cobble lying, which its owner had drawn high

up on the bank, to keep it out of the reach of the current; and its

two oars were still in it.

Gordon eyed the boat for a moment, and in that moment his

resolution was taken. He seized the cobble with both hands, and

being a remarkably powerful man, with one effort hurled it into the

stream. This done, he leapt into it, grasped the oars, in the use

of which he was singularly expert, and dashed headlong after the

runaway bark, which, at the imminent risk of his own life, and with

great exertion, he succeeded in capturing and bringing safely to

shore.

The persons thus saved, by the gallantry of Gordon, from inevitable

death, proved to be the owner of the cobble, and a Mr Riddell, from

Hawick, a respectable elderly man, and reputed to be extremely

wealthy, whom the former had been endeavouring to ferry across the

river.

When the party had fairly landed, Mr Riddel took Gordon by the

hand, and, pressing it warmly, thanked him, in the most grateful

terms, for the important service he had rendered him. “But, young

man,” he added, “I do not mean to pay you with thanks alone. It

is my intention to give you a much more substantial proof of my

gratitude than mere words. Thank God, I am able to do so; and the

will is not wanting. You shall go with me to Hawick, my young

friend, and I will then see in what way I can best shew my sense

of the obligation I owe you. In the meantime, take this,” he said,

handing Gordon a purse, “as an earnest for the future. But you must

come to Hawick with me. This you must do—I will take no denial. I

am childless, man,” he added, smiling, “although I was not always

so; and there’s no saying, if ye quit this wandering life of yours,

and betake ye to an honest calling, what good fortune may arise to

you out of this day’s occurrences.”

“Nae sayin, indeed,” here chimed in Jean Gordon, who had been

listening to what Mr Riddel said with intense interest, and with a

degree of agitation which it would have been very difficult for a

mere onlooker to have accounted for.

“Nae sayin, indeed, what guid fortune may arise to the lad oot

o’ what has happened this day. To Hawick wi’ ye he maun gang, Mr

Riddel,” continued Jean, who know every individual in the country

for fifty miles round; “an’ he couldna gang wi’ a nearer freen, tak

my word for that.”

“He could not go with one who would be more willing to be his

friend, at any rate, Jean,” said Mr Riddel, who also knew the gipsy

well, both by sight and name, and smiling as he spoke.

“An’ guid richt he has to your friendship, Mr Riddel,” replied Jean.

“That he has, Jean,” said the former. “The man who has saved my

life has indeed a good right to my friendship; and he shall have

it.”

“He has maybe ither claims on ye forbye that, though, Mr Riddel.”

“Indeed! Well, he may; although that is surely enough. But what

other claims do you allude to, Jean? I shall be glad to know what

they are, that I may discharge them all at once.”

“Then you shall know, Mr Riddel,” replied Jean, with a sudden

determination of manner. “They’re noo awa that micht tak ony scaith

frae what I’ll noo tell ye; an’, forbye, it’s a thing I hae lang

resolved upon, an’ sae I’ll e’en tak this opportunity o’ doin’t.

Come aside wi’ me, here, a wee bit, Mr Riddel,” added Jean; “an’

you, too, Gordon,” she said; “come, till I speak to ye baith.” And

she led the way to a little distance from the other persons who

were present on the occasion, and who had hitherto been auditors of

all that passed.

“Mr Riddel,” now said Jean, “do ye mind the Hawick Spate?”

“Mind it!” replied the person addressed—“to be sure I do, Jean; I

have but too much reason to mind it.” And here Mr Riddel’s voice

became tremulous with emotion. “It deprived me of my only child—of

the only child I ever had. This you doubtless know, Jean,” he

continued; “as everybody in Hawick, and for many miles round it,

who recollects the spate, knows that my child—and a fine little

fellow he was—was swept away in his cradle, by the stream, and

never afterwards heard tell of. The cradle was, indeed, found,”

added Mr Riddel, in a melancholy tone, “but not the infant. But why

do ye ask this question, Jean?”

“Just to bring to yer recollection the very circumstance ye hae

mentioned, Mr Riddel,” replied the gipsy. “Noo, sir,” she went on,

“tak a look o’ that lad, [pointing to Gordon,] an’ tell me if ye

wad ken him to be yer ain son. And you, Gordon,” she said, “look

at that gentleman, an’ see if ye wad tak him to be yer faither;

for, as God’s in heaven,” she continued, “that’s the relationship

in which ye twa staun to are anither!”

“Woman! what do you mean?” exclaimed Mr. Riddel in an angry tone.

“Are you deranged? What absurd nonsense is this you talk? I never

had any son but the child that was drowned.”

“I didna say ye had, Mr. Riddel,” replied Jean; “but that’s yer

son, nevertheless. This I swear, by a’ my hopes o’ a hereafter!”

“Gracious God!—explain, woman! explain!” exclaimed Mr. Riddel,

now greatly agitated—a glimmering of the possibility of what

had actually occurred suddenly bursting on his mind. “Tell me, I

beseech you, what you mean at once, and without further evasion.”

Thus entreated, Jean Gordon proceeded to detail the whole of the

circumstances connected with the saving of the child (whom, we

presume, we need not inform the reader in more explicit terms, was,

indeed, the son of the person to whose paternity Jean ascribed him)

from the Hawick flood.

When she had concluded—

“Extraordinary! most extraordinary!” exclaimed Mr. Riddel, now

overwhelmed with a variety of new and strange feelings. “Can it be

possible? O God! thy ways are inscrutable. But what proof have I of

the truth of your story, Jean?” said the agitated father, gazing on

his son.

“Proof!” exclaimed the gipsy; “look at the lad, Mr. Riddel—look at

him, closely; an’ if ye dinna find proof enough in that face, ye’ll

be hard to convince. Is he no your very counterpart?”

This part of Jean’s evidence was, indeed, of the most irrefragable

kind; for the resemblance was remarkably striking.

“An’ if that’ll no satisfy ye,” she went on, “is there no

half-a-dozen an’ mair o’ oor folk, that saw the hail affair, an’

that’ll swear to the truth o’ a’ that I’ve said?—an’ ye may tak

them up, ane by ane, this minute, if ye like, an’ examine them a’

separately on the subject; an’ if ye find ane o’ them contradick

me in the sma’est particular, dinna believe ae word o’ what I

hae said. An’, if that’ll no convince ye yet, Mr Riddell,” she

continued, “ye shall hae mair proof still. Come here, Gordon,”

she said, addressing the young man, who, in silent amazement,

was listening to this extraordinary _denouement_—“sit down.” He

obeyed; and she pulled off the shoe and stocking from his left leg.

Then holding up the lad’s naked foot, “Do ye ken thae twa taes,

then, Mr Riddell?” she inquired, pointing, at the same time, to the

little toe and the one adjoining to which the former was united.

“He is my son! he is my son! I can no longer doubt it,” exclaimed

Mr Riddel, in a rapture of joy, on seeing this proof of his

identity. And he rushed towards Gordon, and folded him in his arms.

“Oh! cruel woman!” he said, after the first burst of emotion had

so far subsided as to allow him to speak—“to keep my boy so long

from me, and to cause me so many weary nights and days, and long

years of sorrow and mourning on his account! But I forgive you,”

he immediately added; “I forgive you, in consideration of the

happiness which you have this day conferred on me, late though it

be.”

“You may forgie me, Mr Riddel,” said the now repentant gipsy; “but

I canna forgie mysel. I hae made some amends, noo, hooever,” she

continued; “an’ that’s a relief to my conscience. But I hae still

another score o’ the same kind to pay off in another quarter; and

it shall be dune at a’ hazards—but o’ this, mair hereafter. I

hae dune ye a great wrang, Mr Riddel,” continued Jean; “but I

was aye kind to yer bairn. I hae been a mother to him ever since

I first took him in my arms, as I daur say he will, sae far as he

recollects, bear witness. He’ll say that muckle for me, I’m sure.”

“That I will, Jean,” said Gordon, taking her kindly by the hand;

“an’ may I be forgotten by Him that’s aboon when I forget you, or

yer motherly kindness to and care owre me!”

“Enough, enough, Francis Riddel,” said his father—“for that was

the name, my son, I intended to have given you, and it is the

name by which I shall now and henceforth designate you—I forgive

her. Nay, I not only forgive her, man, but, if she will quit this

wandering life of hers, I will see to her future subsistence and

comfort as long as she lives.”

“Many thanks, Mr Riddel, for your goodness,” said Jean, “but I’m no

just yet prepared for that step. But, when I am, which will maybe

be very sune, I’ll no fail to seek the shelter ye sae kindly offer

me.”

It is, perhaps, full time, now, that we should say what were the

feelings of Francis—as we, too, must now call him—in the singular

circumstances in which he thus so suddenly and unexpectedly found

himself placed. These were of a mingled kind. He felt all the

joy natural on such an impressive occasion as that of having a

lost—or, at least, an unknown—parent restored. He felt, too, a

satisfaction in the promotion which his personal interests would

now certainly experience, and with the idea of the respectable

footing on which he would now be placed with the world. But there

were two circumstances in particular that weighed against these,

and tended to lessen the effect they would otherwise have had.

One of these was his attachment to the wandering life to which he

had been accustomed, and which he saw, with regret, he must now

abandon. The other, and by far the most distressing one to him—was

the probability that he would now also be called upon to renounce

his beloved Rosie. On this point, however, he determined to remain

obstinate, and rather to forfeit his father’s favour, with all the

advantages that might accrue from it, than to abandon her to whom

he already considered himself bound by the most sacred ties. On

this subject, however, Francis prudently resolved to say nothing,

in the meantime, but just to allow matters to take their course,

till proper time and place should present themselves for announcing

his resolution, and carrying that resolution into effect.

Mr Riddel now again repeated his proposal, that his son should

instantly accompany him home; and, with this proposal, Francis

complied, although he certainly did not do so without much secret

reluctance and regret, for the reasons which have been already

explained.

After bidding, then, a kind adieu to his former associates—a most

affectionate one to Jean, whom he bound, by a solemn promise,

to call upon him, in a few days, at Hawick—and whispering two

or three words of consolation into Rosie’s ear—Francis set off

with his father; and, in due time, both arrived in safety at Mr.

Riddel’s residence, in the town above named, where the former was

quickly installed in all the rights and privileges of a son and

heir, and as such was recognised by all his father’s friends and

acquaintances; his mother having been by this time many years dead.

In about four weeks after the occurrence of the circumstances just

related, the gipsy gang to which Francis Riddel had belonged,

appeared one evening, about dusk, at their old station in the

vicinity of Hawick. It was the precise spot where Francis had been

rescued from the flood some seven and twenty years before, and was

a favourite locality of the wandering tribes.

Delighted with the intelligence of their arrival, which soon

reached him, Francis, carefully however concealing his intention

from his father, stole down to the gipsy encampment, where, as he

expected, he found his beloved Rosie, to see whom, indeed, was the

chief, if not the sole object of his visit. The joy of the lovers

at meeting—for they had not seen or heard of each other since they

parted on the day of the adventure on the Tweed—need not be dwelt

upon, as it was exactly what is usual in such cases; but other

circumstances arose from this interview which it may be more worth

while to record.

“My father,” said Francis, addressing Rosie, as they sat together

on a green bank, at a little distance from the gipsy encampment,

“has set his face against our marriage. He has said that in nothing

will he oppose me, but in that. But that, if I disobey him there,

well as he loves me, he will disinherit me, and leave me penniless.

‘Marry a gipsy girl,’ he said, ‘and bring disgrace upon your

connections! Never, never, with my consent.’ Ha! ha!” exclaimed

Francis, contemptuously, “little does he know, honest man, what a

trifle all his wealth and all his possessions are, and would be,

were they ten times greater, when put into the scale against such

love as mine for thee, Rosie. He may keep his wealth, for I _will_

marry——”

“The Laird o’ Upha’s dochter,” suddenly struck in Jean Gordon,

who had now approached the lovers, unperceived. “Ay, the Laird o’

Upha’s dochter,” she repeated. “She’ll be yer wife, Francis. Winna

she?”

“No, indeed, Jean, not her, whoever she be,” said Francis,

laughingly, and flinging his arms affectionately around Rosie’s

neck. “Not her, but my own sweet, dark-eyed gipsy girl here—_your_

daughter, Jean.”

“The Laird o’ Upha’s dochter, I tell ye, ye’ll marry, nevertheless,

Francis. Not mine; for I hae nane. Yer faither ’ll then hae nae

objection to yer linkin to, I’m thinkin; for a weel-tochered lass

she’ll be—an’ o’ gentle bluid has she come.”

From this point, the little that now remains of our story will be

best conducted to its termination, by plain and concise narrative.

Francis and Rosie now learned, with, overwhelming amazement, that

the latter was indeed a daughter of Maitland of Uphall’s, an old

and highly respectable family, and not of Jean Gordon’s; and that

she had been stolen in her infancy by the gang with which she was

now associated. Jean, also, now informed them that she had already

announced at Uphall that their daughter still lived, and had

accompanied this announcement by a promise to restore her within

three days to her parents.

The circumstance of Rosie’s real parentage, Francis lost no

time in communicating to his father, who heard it at first with

incredulity; but promised that, if the facts were found to be

as stated, he would not only withdraw his objections to their

marriage, but would do all in his power to promote it.

To this, we have only to add, that the identity of Rosie having

been proven to Uphall’s entire satisfaction, he acknowledged her as

his child, and soon after gave his consent to her union to Francis

Riddel, who had been equally expeditious, as in the case of his own

father, in informing him of his claims on his daughter.

The lovers were accordingly married, and lived many happy years

together, filling a highly respectable station in society, and

esteemed by all who knew them for the strict propriety of their

conduct in all the relations of life.

They left sons and daughters, who inherited their wealth, which was

very considerable, but none of whom ever experienced, so far as

ever we heard, any of their vicissitudes.

THE AVENGER;

OR,

THE LEGEND OF MARY LEE.

An old legend describeth to us “The Castle,” a large residence,

which, some centuries ago, graced, with its high towers, the

banks of the river Annan, perhaps one of the finest of the Scotch

rivers if all the elements of beauty are taken into account. “The

Castle” stood towards the Solway, and was the seat of a family that

had risen to some distinction as commoners, from the possession

of considerable wealth, acquired by an ancestor, who had got

possession of some lucrative monopolies from the first of the

Jameses. The family name was Ashley, of English origin, but the

more early members having intermarried with daughters of Scotland,

and their fortunes having flourished, for the first time, on her

then poor uncultivated soil, they gradually came to lose every

quality and mark of the country from which they originated except

the name.

Robert Ashley, the proprietor of this residence at the time our

story commences, was a widower, having an only son alive, the

heir-expectant of his father, and the proprietor, in anticipation,

of all the rights of the property. The young man, whose name was

also Robert, was possessed of high feelings of love and poetry;

but, as is often the case, he allowed these to outstep the

bounds of morals—living a luxurious life of pleasure, suited

to his strong susceptibilities, but altogether unsanctified by

a single restraint, which the greatest libertines often offer,

as a sacrifice to offended virtue. He had been a follower of

gipsies, and got from them the gipsy name of Robin Ary, pronounced

Robin-a-Ree. The only palliation his most partial friend could

offer for his extravagant conduct, was, that his amours, of which

he had many, were not the result of a grovelling propensity

of lust, cultivated for its own sake, and unredeemed by any

concomitant affections of the heart. His intrigues, though all

ending in gratifications of gross passion, began in the excitement

of love; not that love, the influence of which tends to elevate

and refine the other sentiments; but still a love which, in the

world, very often passes for its more pure ally—using the same

language, exhibiting the same external marks, and, unfortunately,

so completely personating it, as to deceive the confiding hearts

of the objects to whom it is directed. The easily lighted, fickle,

heartless, and seducing passion, was the bane of the young

man—springing up, with sudden violence, on the first contemplation

of beauty—rendering him uneasy till it was communicated and

miserable till it was gratified—too often by the ruin of his

victim. A fine form and expressive countenance, a command of the

language of the heart, and riches, rendered him one of the most

dangerous companions of the fair sex of his time; yet paradoxical

as it may be, his character for success in rendering miserable that

sex whose happiness ought to be the pride and satisfaction of him

who has arrogated to himself the title of lord of the creation,

instead of keeping victims out of his way, seemed to lure them into

his power; at least, there could be no doubt that the gentleman

gipsy Robin-a-Ree had always more admirers than any other young

man on the north of the Solway. So it seems to be, that vice is

sometimes ordained to be fed to repletion, producing in the end

the ruin of its powers and properties, which, otherwise, might be

exercised for greater evil.

On the lands pertaining to “The Castle,” there was the little port,

which we must disguise under the name of Fairhaven, where resided

Gilbert Lee, a fisherman, whose boat was often required by Robin

for pleasure excursions on the Solway. Gilbert had a daughter,

Mary, whose youth, being eight years younger than Ashley, had, for

a time, protected her from the dangerous attention of the young

laird. This Mary Lee was a peculiar girl; she was accounted the

handsomest in Fairhaven; and her father had only one fault to

impute to her—a most unforgiving spirit. Kind and affectionate

to all who exhibited those qualities to her, Mary seldom forgot

or forgave an injury or an insult; and so strongly marked was her

character in this respect, that her school antipathies remained

with her, and increased as she grew up—no kindness or conciliation

having the effect of modifying or mollifying the determination

and bitterness of her hatreds. So says our chronicle, and so

is it often in the world, that the most opposite feelings and

passions—like the nerves of the human system, which, operating

equally on the gall-bladder and the heart, are bound up in the same

sheath—may be found in the same individual, acting with equal and

antagonist forces, and realizing a species of manichæism which has

perplexed optimist moralists from the beginning of the world. As

the good is strong, so often is the evil, in the same individual;

and it would have been hard to say whether Mary Lee’s loves were

stronger or weaker than her hatreds.

“O Mary,” her father would say, “he will be a happy or a miserable

man wha gets ye for his lot on earth; he will get either the sweet

honey o’ yer young and loving heart, or the sting which, as in the

bee, receives its poison from that very honey itsel’: so do we see

a’ sweet things mair productive o’ sourness than the bitters which

we avoid, and darkness is ne’er so visible as when licht is its

nearest neibor, and hauds the candle to its ill favoured face.”

Now, Mary understood, perhaps, but little of her father’s quaint

remarks, and little did she know of the possession of qualities

which were destined to stand out in such prominent and startling

relief from the mellowed hues of our Christian faith. Has God, for

his own purposes, hid us from ourselves, that our sense of free

agency should remain unimpaired by the knowledge of the connate

bent of our apparently fated inclinations? Poor Mary Lee acted from

her impulses; nor did she see danger. There is the “mid-deep,”

which the sailors of the Solway point out to the passenger who

looks on the fallacious calm, as it hovers o’er the graves of many

a drowned mariner. There is a moral mid-deep in the paths of most

of us, but which we never see till we are engulphed.

As Mary Lee grew up, she came necessarily under the view of young

Ashley, who, as he called for the boat, noticed the young maiden

sitting on the beach, throwing the glances of her blue eye on the

mirror of the silvery Solway; a fair type of her own nature, though

she was unconscious of the similitude—beautiful in its soft and

playful undulations, but terrible in its rage.

“Have we got a mermaid sitting here?” said Robin, on a day, to

a companion. “How like she is to the pictured fancy of that

creature of imagination! She has only to let her hair fall over her

shoulders, and send forth one of those plaintive; seductive cries

which, like the singing of the Sicilian virgins mentioned by Ovid,

tempt poor passengers ashore to their destruction, to realize the

type in its greatest perfection. Well, by the way, I think I would

have risked myself in the arms of those famous sirens, who are

represented to have been so cruel as to kill their lovers—at least

I would trust myself with that fair one. What thinkest thou of my

courage?”

“Indeed, Robin,” replied his friend, George Henley, a neighbouring

laird’s son, “I fear the danger which Ovid represents as being all

on the side of the sailors, who listened to these virgins, would,

in your case, be transferred to the charmer; and yet they say that

Mary Lee, with all her beauty and apparent mildness, has all the

siren about her but the fledged tail; and, if the feathers are

there awanting, I fear the deficiency is supplied by a sting.”

The hint thrown out by Henley increased the desire of Robin to

get acquainted with Mary; for such is the fate of those who are

consigned to the intoxications of vice, that they indulge in morbid

desires, which, as in the case of the gourmand, produce in their

gratifications all the effects of poison. “A fury for a lover!” he

ejaculated. “Good! I have had too many soft, breaking hearts. Their

very softness has palled upon my appetite; and, as the lover of

gourmandize requires stimulants to whip up the jaded powers of his

overwrought stomach, my wearied heart longs for a spice of piquant

amativeness, to resuscitate its flagging energies.”

Such reflections are but too common with the young rakes of

all times; Robin-a-Ree acted upon them, and he was not long in

producing an effect upon Mary Lee. He spoke to her at first merely

as the daughter of the fisherman; putting questions to her, which

he could himself have answered—but, while he was apparently a

careless interrogator, he did all in his power, by the shew of

his properties, to become a querist of a heart which had hitherto

been left to question itself, and to answer its own questions. How

few young women can withstand the graces of a handsome youth—and

how often is the poison drunk by the heart, before the mind is

conscious of the draught! Mary Lee thought, as she looked upon the

youthful Ashley, that the young fishermen of Fairhaven were surely

not made of the same flesh and blood. Ashley knew the force of his

natural endowments, and he brought in aid of those the flatteries

of the deceiver. What more is required to complete the work of

love? A good regard of the flatterer, followed by a good regard

of the flattered, is, alas! often all that is necessary in the

composition of female devotion.

The frequent meetings which Robin had with Mary produced the usual

effects. Her heart was what every woman’s ought to be—that is, if

there were no bad men in the world—it loved at once and for ever.

Every pulse of life acknowledged the power which had come like a

spirit and thrown a charm over her existence; the world was now

centred in one object; her father and her home lost their magic

influences of early associations; even the shade of her mother,

which was enshrined in her imagination as a part of the mind

itself, faded into a thinner existence than even that of a vision,

as she revelled in the first enthusiastic enjoyment of maiden

affection. Ashley saw with delight, mixed with some misgivings as

to the responsibility of such a devotion, the absolute resignation

of a full and bursting heart to the dissembled schemes of a

professed libertine. Proud of his victory, he paused, like the

cruel lord of the jungle, to play with the victim destined to a

protracted immolation; and she, deluded creature! received, with

panting eagerness, the caresses which she considered the fruit of

a love equal to her own. As she hung upon his bosom and fed his

eyes with the soft beams of a first love, shining through tears

of kindness and devotion, who could have observed, in that light,

more danger than belongs to so innocent a thing as a woman’s smile?

Robert Ashley had known by experience, that a woman’s eye that does

not shine on her seducer, generally shines not at all, unless it be

in the phosphorescent brightness of the corruption of the grave.

Mary Lee was, like other women, an object to be possessed, not

feared; Ashley enjoyed her present devotion in the exultation of

pride, and her subsequent ruin in a certain hope of reality.

Wandering through the thick woods of “The Castle,” Mary Lee drank

deeper of the intoxicating draught, as her appetite was increased

by the inspiring influences of romantic scenes.

“How is it, Robin,” she said, with the familiarity which love

begets on innocence—“how is it that now the woods of the Castle

are to me so dear, and I ever think that every mavis and blackbird

in the thick groves are to me little messengers o’ guid news.

Before you spoke to me, I was fond o’ the rippling waves that come

as if they were sent by the corpses in the ‘dead deep,’ to tell

their griefs to us on land. But now my thoughts are aff the sea,

and the Castle, wi’ a’ its braw trees and flowers, is aye present

to me, as used to be the shade o’ my mither.”

“Thou art fond of reasons, my gentle Mary,” replied Robin, “and

perhaps canst say why thou wast formerly so fond of the sea.

Perhaps some young fisherman had then a part of the heart which now

I hope is all my own.”

“An’ weel, Robin, may ye say its a’ yer ain,” said Mary; “for,

sleepin’ or waukin’, I think only o’ you, an’ the foes that wad

tak you an’ mak you the lover o’ anither. Catherine Hamilton o’

Castlegreen kenned naething o’ my heart yesterday, when, as ye

left the village, she saw me looking at her as she looked at you.

The lady ca’ed the fisherman’s dochter ‘wretch,’ but she heard no

answer fra me. At that time you looked back to her and smiled, and

she forgot me, but I will mind her to the day I dee. I could have

forgiven her if she hadna been so bonny, and if ye hadna given her

the glance that should have come to me. But it’s only in the thick

woods that Robin-a-Ree kens the fisherman’s dochter o’ Fairhaven.”

“Come, now, my Mary, none of thy reproofs. Thou knowest that I

was a favourite of Catherine Hamilton’s before I knew thee, and

it would not have been courteous to shake off an old acquaintance

because my Mary was present and requested all my attention.”

“Weel, weel, ye ken I forgive ye,” answered Mary, “and my

forgiveness is as real as my love, but I have ae request to mak,

and that is—that, if ye dinna choose to ken me in Fairhaven when

Catherine is in the village, ye will keep within the bounds o’ the

Castle lands. That leddie lies far out o’ my way, if she crossna

your path when I am near; but the blasts that blew owre the Mull o’

Galloway are nae sterner to the boatmen o’ the Solway than will be

my scorn if she come atween me and my love.”

And, as she concluded, she evinced a degree of determination in her

voice and manner, which caught the attention of Ashley. But he saw

nothing in it, except a little jealousy, which only measured by its

intensity the strength of her love; and his pride was inflamed by

the demonstration, while the ardour of his purpose was increased.

Throwing his arms around the waist of the still somewhat excited

maiden, he removed her jealousy by blandishments, and vowed that he

had no affection for Catherine Hamilton, who could never stand in a

nearer or dearer relation to him than that of acquaintanceship.

Thereafter for a long period the groves of “The Castle,” were

frequented by the lovers. The affection of Mary engrossed all her

thoughts and feelings, and lent an eloquence to her words and

looks, which, to Robin, seemed different from any demonstrations

of affection he had yet witnessed. His feelings became interested

to a degree beyond what he could have expected as the result of

a few meetings with a fisherman’s daughter; and he felt it as a

reproach to his true and genuine character of libertinism, that he

was in this instance more in earnest, and more sincere in his love,

than he had been in any former instance. The feeling was increased

by the apparent determination of Mary to defend the fortress of

her virtue. The gipsy fancier had been so fortunate in his former

amours, that success had made him domineering and impatient of

restraint, while a firm opposition hurt his pride, and increased

his desire of victory. In this instance, his love—bastard in its

nature as it still was—became increased by Mary’s firmness, and

he was compelled to have recourse to expedients which implicated

his honour in a greater degree than the ordinary schemes of the

seducer, bad as they are, generally do. Finding all his endeavours

to overcome her virtue unavailing, he had recourse to promises of

_honourable intentions_—those fatal sappers of female innocence,

which, directed only where there is strength, are relied upon as

the last resources of insidious assailants.

The heart of Mary, occupied as it was with one of the strongest

affections of human nature—in her instance, all-engrossing and

resistless—did not so far act the traitress to her understanding,

as to induce her to resign her honour, without a condition. Her

youth and innocence, rendering her unacquainted with the arts

of the world and its vices, suggested, as the only result of a

mutual attachment, a union of the parties in holy wedlock; and,

when Ashley spoke of marriage, as a thing to take place between

them, after the death of his father, she only felt surprised at

the ceremony being postponed. That these expectations of Mary did

not please Ashley, is not unlikely; but the only other effect

produced by them, was to make him promise more fervently, and

with stronger protestations, that he would abide by his word, as

he was a gentleman and a man of honour. Alas! the love of woman

is credulous, as well as blind; and if we did not believe those

who are dearest to us of all the world, who is there in it to

whom faith should be given? Mary believed; and, like millions who

have had the same faith, and the same apparently irrefragable

grounds whereon to build it, she was undone. He who takes the

honey sometimes gets the sting; the little insect which supplies

the figure of speech fulfils a purpose in nature, when, after its

support, during the period when no flowers exist, from which to get

a supply, has been taken from it, and it is consigned to want and

death, it throws away in its vengeance on the spoiler, the life

which is only of use to dart the sting, and leave its spark of

vitality along with the poison in the wound.

As time waned, the ruined Mary felt her passion increase and saw

her lover’s decay. He came now no longer to the grove where the

sweet dalliance of a new passion ruffled the silence with the

music of muffled sighs. She went at the accustomed hour, and at

the hour not accustomed, and she returned without bringing with

her a token that the hope of the morning had found a resting-place

at even. The willow where they had met retained its charm, and,

long after she had given up hopes of his coming, she sat under

it, and wept bitterly for a loss which no power on earth could

make up to her. But her tears flowed in vain—for Robin-a-Ree

came not; and her groans only awakened the dull and drowsy ear

of the hind, who, driving his cattle from the field, thought it

strange that a woman should weep, and whistled his tune, which

her sobbing had interrupted for a moment. The breaking heart of

love has no consolation, unless when its sorrowful indications

imitate the vulgar hues of bodily disease, and then it can command

a prescription; yet sometimes it finds for itself, and in its

own recesses, a poison, which has more virtue in it than all the

simples of the leech.

Now a considerable time had passed without any intelligence of

Ashley, when, one day, as Mary sat under the tree, she saw a

gentleman approach, whom she recognised as Ashley’s friend, George

Henley. He accosted her in a bold and familiar style; and told her

that her friend and lover had gone to Edinburgh, in the company

of Miss Catherine Hamilton, and had commissioned him to yield her

what consolation was in his power, in the shape of supplying his

place as a new and fresh lover—a commission which he could have

no inclination to disobey, when he contemplated her beauty, and

recollected the favours she had bestowed on his fortunate friend.

The salutation struck the unhappy girl dumb, and Henley mistook the

benumbing effects of incipient despair as a passive acquiescence in

his ribald sentiments—a consent to his unhallowed purposes. Under

this impression, he was about to clasp his arms round her waist,

when the enraged and frantic girl struck him a blow, concentrating

in its force the collected strength of her frenzied energies, and

stunned him beyond what could have been conceived to be the effect

of a woman’s uplifted arm. But injured virtue—and poor Mary Lee’s

feelings had still a virtue in them—has a power which proud man

has been often brought to acknowledge and to feel. The cowardly

braggart, only brave in pseudo love, was so tamed by the blow, and

so humiliated by the noble attitude of the asserter of her dearest

rights, that he slunk away as if he had been caught in an act of

larceny, or stung by a serpent.

“Go,” cried she, “an’ tell him wha commissioned ye, how weel ye

have done your duty, an’ how I have performed mine. Think, as ye

look on the earth—for ye canna face heaven—that there is the

connach worm crawlin’ amang yer feet, claimin’ the kindred o’ ane

wha wasna formed to look in the face o’ a woman! Shun, as the

screech-owl does, the licht o’ day, yon eagle that perches on the

trystin’ oak, for the gleam o’ its bright e’e will, as the sun puts

out the humble peat-moss ingle, blind the dastardly wretch, wha

canna abide the look o’ the woman he has insulted. If Robin-a-Ree

sent ye to me, tell him that I have sent ye to him, to say that

Mary Lee has, in the wreck o’ her feelin’s, enough left to fire the

house an’ hearth o’ his new affections.”

A strange speech, and delivered with the impassioned mien and voice

of the Pythoness. A new and hitherto unfelt power and energy had

seized the frame of this strange girl, the instinctive enthusiasm

of a deep revenge had come upon her like an inspiration. She turned

her eyes from the direction in which Henley had gone, and, with

downcast look and a brooding melancholy, sought her home.

Thereafter, it was currently reported in the village that Robert

Ashley was about to be married to Catherine Hamilton. From that

period, the whole character of Mary underwent a change: she was

never seen to smile, yet she never wept. Her griefs had left

the heart, where they operate to soften or to break, and seized

the brain, where they generate dreams of revenge, and frenzied

illusions of the fancy. Her blue eye now burnt with a sterner fire

than even in her former fits of anger she had ever exhibited; her

demeanour, shewing fits and starts, and a general disturbance of

all her feelings, told, to the most careless observer, that the

change which had come over her extended to the fountain of her

feelings, and the springs of her hope. Her usual sympathies seemed

to be dried up, and nothing was left but the simoom of a stern

and deadly hatred, which shewed itself in sudden exclamations,

clenching of the hands, and wild looks. The report was soon

circulated, that Mary Lee was mad; but those who knew her better,

saw, in her strange conduct and demeanour, only the workings, on

a larger scale, of the same spirit which had been noticed by her

father at a very early period.

The rumours as to the intended marriage of Ashley were indeed true;

and they were soon followed by an announcement of a more certain

nature, that the marriage was to take place at “The Castle” within

a month. The intelligence reached the ears of Mary; but its effect

was only to add to the gloom which had apparently taken its eternal

seat in her countenance. She spoke to no one of the marriage, and

gave no answer when any question regarding it was proposed by the

neighbours. Her father, who had watched her conduct, and suspected

an undue intimacy between her and Ashley, conjectured the cause

of the change that had taken place on his child; but from his

knowledge of her peculiar temper, which had uniformly resisted

every attempt to draw from her her secrets, or to change the

character and hue of her feelings, he despaired of being able to

acquire any proof of the reality of his conjecture: so he followed

the course suggested by his paternal feelings, and endeavoured to

soothe his daughter under her affliction, and soften the obduracy

of her apparent misanthropy. His efforts were vain—the change on

his daughter’s heart was as complete and lasting as if it had been

effected by an organic mal-disposition of its functions; her looks,

and short ejaculations of bitter scorn of the higher sanctions of

love or marriage, evinced a settled spirit of demoniac frenzy;

every indication proved the existence of that extraordinary state

of the female mind, produced by a deluded or scorned affection,

when the heart, instead of giving way to the revulsion of rejected

feeling, and breaking, secretes and nourishes a poison—like the

saliva of the serpent which has bit itself—destructive to the

destroyer and the victim.

On the day fixed for the marriage of Ashley, there were great

preparations made for rejoicings at “The Castle.” A dinner was

prepared for the tenents on the lawn, and all males and females

residing on the estate were invited to attend, to partake of the

liberality of the young laird, and wish him and his lady joy.

An immense number of people were collected, and the dinner was

pronounced worthy of the spirit of the young bridegroom. The repast

being finished, the party were regaled with drinks of various

sorts; and Ashley and his bride came down from “The Castle” to

witness the gay scene. Then it was resolved that the whole guests

should rise with queghs in their hands, and drink to the health

and happiness of the young and handsome pair. This was accordingly

done; and the shouts of the boisterous labourers of the land rent

the welkin in honour of the toast. Ashley rose, as his guests

resumed their seats, and returned thanks for the kindness which

had been exhibited to him. He made large promises of reductions

of rent, when fate should be so unkind as to remove his father

from this earthly scene; and told them that the man who had never

broken his pledge, had that day a right to demand their faith and

trust in a profession which filled the hearts of the poor farmers

with joy. These sentiments were responded to by louder shouts,

and a scene of joyous uproar was exhibited which had never before

been witnessed from the windows of “The Castle.” Ashley sat down;

and, nearly opposite to the place he occupied, there was seen to

rise a figure wrapped up in a cloak, as if in the attitude of

one intending to address the assembly. This person was no other

than Mary Lee. Pointing her finger over to Ashley, and fixing her

eye with the sternness of one determined not to be shaken from a

desperate purpose, she said, in a tone of voice which suited itself

with wonderful pathos to the style of her speech—

“I have waited for this, day, Robin-a-Ree, as I would have waited

for my ain wedding—and it has come. Ye are richt to believe this

man, whom ye have come to meet, and whase bread ye have broken,

that he will reduce your rents; for he never broke his word.”

Then there was a cry to put her down, accompanied by shouts—“We do

believe our excellent landlord.”

“So did I believe him,” continued she, “when I put my faith and

troth in his hands, and yielded to his desires, on condition o’ his

promise that I should stand in the place o’ this braw bride. That

promise he falsely broke; and will he keep that which he has this

day made to ye?”

“Yes, yes!” they shouted again.

“Never!” she screamed. “Believe me, wha stand here a wretched

victim o’ his falsehood, whase love he sought and won, whase peace

he has destroyed, whase heart he tried to break—tried—ay, but

only tried; for he has changed it to the tongue o’ the harry adder

that basks i’ the moss on the swamps o’ the Ken. I have hated

the yellow-wamed ask that sleeps i’ the mud o’ the lazy Nith,

the moon-baying tyke, the charking whutthroat, and the taed that

carries its poison on its back amang the seggs o’ the Solway.

Ay, sair, sair, have I hated them, wi’ a’ the hate o’ a heart

that had only twa pairts—ane for lovin’ and ane for hatin’; but

waur—ten thousand times waur, and tens o’ tens, do I hate the

vile and loathsome reptile, wha, puttin’ on the appearance o’

man, and coverin’ his lyin’ tongue wi’ the Almighty’s words o’

promised faith, wiles frae the trustin’, lovin’, defenceless woman

a’ that she has to care for on earth, and wha yet hasna courage

enough to stab her to the heart, and end her misery and her life

thegither. But, thanks to the power wha befriends the miserable,

and brings oot o’ the destroyed a spirit a thousand times stronger,

to feed the heart which love has betrayed!—sweeter to me—ay,

hear me, hear the victim o your worshipped idol—sweeter to me is

that poison than would be to me his kisses, now sour as the green

bullister. But the day lengthens frae the shortest to the longest,

and, as the earth turns, they wha, but some hours syne, stood upon

oor heads, shall as mony hours after, lie under our feet. So may

the day o’ Mary Lee’s joy follow the nicht o’ her grief—and that

joy will be revenge!”

As the last word, “revenge,” (says our legend) rang round the

silent scene, the excited damsel waved her hand and disappeared.

The effect of her speech was electric. Every one looked at his

neighbour, mutterings and whisperings ran round the company, and

glances of a suspicious nature were thrown upon Ashley. Some of his

friends, for the sake of saving him, suggested that the woman was

insane; and the company, glad to find a pretext for disbelieving

the charge brought in so extraordinary a manner against their

landlord, adopted the suggestion. Ashley, however, was struck

deeper than he would avow, or than might have been expected, in the

case of a man dead to ordinary pity, and to the moral sense. Rising

from his seat, he again thanked the company for their attention,

and retired.

Next day a messenger called at the house of Mary’s father,

and requested to see her. He was commissioned, he said,

to give her—provided she would receive it with grace and

favour—renouncing the ill-will she bore to Ashley—a considerable

sum of money, amounting to two hundred merks. Contrary to the

man’s own expectation, the girl seized the money with the greatest

avidity; but without uttering a syllable wherefrom he might draw an

inference that she was placated in any degree by the gift. As soon

as he retired, she locked the money in her trunk, apostrophising

the despised and worshipped dust, with the spirit of an enraptured

Mammon—“Lie there till vengeance needs ye.”

Time rolled on without producing any change on Mary Lee. At “The

Castle,” things were different. The old man died, and Robert

succeeded to the estates. He gradually softened down to the

condition of a sober-minded husband, and experienced the ordinary

effects of early ribaldry and dissipation, in a deep, heart-felt

regret, and a wish to make amends to heaven and earth for an abuse

of the gifts of both. He had one son, whose name was Hector, whom

he loved with all the devotion of a father. Being an only son, the

boy was, as usual, spoiled, both by his father and mother; having

concentrated on himself affections which, in other circumstances,

might have been, with advantage to parents and child, spread over

a family of sons and daughters. To such an extent was affection

carried, in the case of this spoiled child, that the mother would

scarcely let him out of her sight. With his heart also garnered

up in his son, and happy in the possession of a kind, gentle,

though constitutionally weak wife, Robert Ashley might have been

pronounced as happy as the regret produced by the loss of the best

part of his life would permit him to be.

Meanwhile, as regarded the victim of his seduction, Ashley

conceived he had now little to fear, seeing she had received his

peace-offering, and had, it was reported, contracted an intimacy

with Hans Gerstendorf, a German smuggler, who had been in the

practice of running his good frau, _Unsere Mutter_, an old lugger,

into the port of Fairhaven, with contraband goods. The report

was, to a certain extent, true. Hans had conceived an affection

for the still beautiful Mary, and it was certain that she had,

in some degree, unbent her stern misanthropy in favour of the

German, though with what aim, or for what object, the gossips of

Fairhaven knew not. It was not without credence among some, that

Hans, whose appearance justified the suspicion, had used some

unlawful means—and fancy supplied German charms—to open the

heart which all supposed shut against human efforts. Speculation,

however, might rack itself with curiosity—Mary’s attentions to

the foreigner remained unaccounted for. She often visited his

craft, and this supplied others, less indulgent, with the idea

that the German charm was nothing else than good Hollands; yet

those who knew Mary Lee better ridiculed the suspicion as unworthy

of her character; for her sobriety, in the midst of her unearthly

feelings, was never questioned. One thing, amidst all this

doubt, remained certain, and that was that, whatever favour Hans

Gerstendorf had in the eyes of the relentless fair one, no other

person ever saw her smile, and few heard her speak. The same gloomy

melancholy haunted her, the same bitterness of scorn of all social

relations, was observable in her eye, and trembled on her lip.

On a day, a horseman, well-mounted, arrived in Fairhaven, in a

state of breathless anxiety and haste. He called for a number

of the fishermen of the village, and requested them to fly with

him to the Fisher’s Cairn, a mile beyond the village, to give

them assistance in searching for the body of Hector Ashley, who,

he said, had fallen into the Solway, and was supposed to have

perished. Then the fishermen seized their dead drags, and ran

with their greatest speed to the place pointed out. On arriving

there, they found a number of persons collected, among whom was

Robert Ashley, apparently occupied in searching for the body of the

drowned youth. The clothes of the boy lay on the top of the cairn,

from whence it was supposed and reported that he had been bathing,

at that part of the Solway which was full of dangerous eddies, and

had perished. The father stood in a state bordering on despair,

witnessing the unavailable efforts, on the part of the people, to

recover his son. Every exertion was used—the dead drags applied

in every direction—and the fatal announcement made, that the body

was irrecoverable. The tide was receding, and it was the opinion of

the fishermen, that the body must have been carried, by the eddies,

into some of the deep clefts of the rock, from which it was, in

all likelihood, impossible to extricate it. The people gradually

disappeared, with the exception of one or two, who undertook to

wait the receding of the tide; and Robert Ashley, the disconsolate

parent, was conveyed home, in a state of insensibility, to witness

the second grief of a mother wailing for the loss of her only

child. As the carriage which conveyed Ashley home passed through

the village, Mary Lee was sitting, in her usual melancholy mood,

at her father’s door. On observing the crowd, she suddenly started

up, and, with a loud laugh, pointed to Ashley, and retreated into

the house. The circumstance caught the attention of the crowd, and

formed a part of the melancholy theme which fate had supplied to

the evening gossips of Fairhaven. Some hours afterwards, it was

reported that the tide had receded to its utmost extent, and no

trace could be found of the lost heir of “The Castle.”

The conduct of Mary Lee had given rise to suspicions of her being

in some way, connected with the death of Hector Ashley; and

an investigation was, by the orders of the father, set about,

with the view of ascertaining what grounds there existed for

these suspicions. It was, however, clearly ascertained that Mary

Lee had not been out of her father’s house for hours preceding

the disappearance of the unfortunate boy, and the inquiry was

relinquished. No hope was now entertained that any less disastrous

fate had befallen him than being drowned, while in the act of

bathing, a recreation he had been in the habit of indulging in

unknown to his mother, who had enjoined the strictest prohibition

against it.

The effect of this calamity, on the mind of Mrs Ashley, was such as

to produce strong apprehensions of the most dangerous consequences.

No consolation could be administered to her with the slightest

chance of abating a grief which had sunk too deep for human aid to

relieve. After some months, it was discovered that a hereditary

tendency to consumption had received a fatal increase of strength,

from the decayed state of her constitution; and the disease having

progressed with that rapidity so often observed to be one of its

most appalling symptoms, the bereaved mother breathed her last in

the arms of the fate-stricken and inconsolable husband.

It was on a rainy day, in December, that the remains of Mrs Ashley

were to be conveyed to her father’s vault, a few miles distant from

“The Castle;” a large cavalcade of mourners attended; the funeral

was conducted with a state and pomposity suited to the rank of the

deceased; the procession glided silently along, by a road passing

through the dark forests of “The Castle,” and by that spot where

the unhappy victim of Ashley’s perfidy resigned her honour and

her peace for ever. The trysting-tree was still there, with its

branches bending under a load of December snows, which the thaw had

not yet been able to dissolve. There Mary Lee took her station;

and, as the mournful procession passed, the woods resounded

with the same wild laugh that had met the ear of Ashley, on the

disappearance of his son.

Years rolled on, but the bereaved husband and father finds little

assuasive power in the effects of time. Robert Ashley experienced

this melancholy truth, and sought assistance from a fountain, the

perennial consolations of which flow over the hearts of the rich

and the poor. The extraordinary manner in which the early victim

of his heartless seduction had triumphed over his misfortunes,

appeared to him as the supernatural effect of Divine retribution.

The idea haunted him like the invertible companions of Orestes. A

deep melancholy took possession of his spirits, and made its usual

inroads upon a constitution which early vices and unprecedented

bereavements had made susceptible of the despoiling ravages of

disease. His mind became occupied with a presentiment that the

death of every member of his family would alone atone for the

ruin he had brought on that individual, whose fate seemed to have

constituted her an avenger of wrongs, only to be expiated by the

greatest of misfortunes, visited on the head of him who had blasted

the prospects of one of God’s creatures, and expelled his victim

from the sanctuary of grace.

It was in these states of bodily disease and mental dejection,

that the proud lord of “The Castle” was brought to feel not only

what it is to be a man, but a sinner. He felt how vain were

all the advantages of fortune when they are not accompanied by

peace of mind. The woods around the Castle used to afford him a

retreat from the fevered excitements of gay life. The song of the

blackbird, full, mellow, and sorrowful, soothed the ear which

had been poisoned by the flatteries incident to favoured sons of

fortune. The merry _reveillé_ of the lark banished unpleasant

recollections; many a sigh was drowned in the rich flow of the

music of the thrush. All these things were experienced with joy and

satisfaction, when the silent energies of health and youth made his

muscular limbs jump with the exuberance of animal spirits. They

were welcomed as good tidings when no pang of aroused conscience

stung him with its peculiar pain, and no morbid fancy made to dance

in the green woods the images of misery he had brought on the

hearts of unsuspecting victims.

Now, all was changed when he rode out in those beautiful

retreats—the pleasure he formerly derived from them was the parent

of the evil he now felt. The contrast was itself a grievous pain;

he would have been happier in the abodes of sorrow. Pleasure is

not the soother of griefs, that ask the nourishment of a morbid

appetite for an accession of woe. It is a cataplasm applied to a

sore, under the mistaken idea that its softness will atone for the

pungency produced, not from its own asperity, but the tenderness of

the part diseased. The joys of “The Castle” were now dead to its

lord. If the soothing influences of rural scenery, with its rough

hills and soft valleys; its trees, plants, flowers, and tuneful

birds, could not assuage the pangs of a diseased body, a bereaved

heart, and an awakened conscience—what could be expected from the

entertainments of the Castle? Ashley knew too well the vanity of

these, even in the heyday of youth, health, and pleasure, to have

recourse to them when his views were blasted, and his hopes had

fallen. All company he avoided; and no attempt, on the part of the

surrounding gentry, or his old friends, was available in getting

him to relax the rigid discipline of sorrow which he had, in his

despair, imposed on himself.

As he rode out, for the benefit of the air, he was always under

an apprehension. Vague fears, the result of an evil conscience,

haunted him. The rustle of a leaf disturbed him, and the slouching,

fearful look he threw on intruders on his solitary walk, were

in sad contrast with the proud bearing of the once eagle-eyed

lord of the proudest castle on the western marches. His timidity

rendered him incapable of managing his horse—a proud creature,

which vindicated the untainted character of its stock, under the

crestfallen demeanour of its once haughty master. In going over a

small fence, he one day fell into an old ditch, and the weakness to

which he was reduced prevented him from rising. In this condition,

Mary Lee, in one of her wandering fits, came upon him.

“I wish ye joy,” she commenced, “o’ the elevated position ye occupy

in the heart o’ yer ain wuds.”

“Away, woman!” cried Ashley, “art thou not already avenged?” and,

trying to raise himself, he fell back with his eye still fixed on

the fury.

“No,” she replied; “he who exalteth himself shall be debased, and

he who humbleth himself shall be raised. Ye have lang inhabited

a proud castle; but fate, wha richts the oppressed, can mak the

craven-hearted, dastardly betrayer o’ woman’s troth, lie whar

the meg-o’-mony-feet crawls, and the green and yellow carrion

courts the slimy mouth o’ the adder. A short distance frae this,

ye lay wi’ me on a green bank, whar roses encircled us wi’ their

sweet-scented flavours, and poured into my credulous ear the poison

o’ your love. A stagnant ditch now contains your diseased body, and

the hisses o’ the vengeance o’ a ruined woman pierce and wound the

ear that was ance charmed wi’ her honied love.”

She paused, as if to gloat her eyes with the writhings of her

victim—then resumed:

“Twice have I lauched o’er your misfortunes; a third opportunity

has gratified a heart only prevented frae breaking by the wish I

hae lang nourished, to see the auld taff o’ the kirkyard cover the

moil that will keep ye frae the sicht o’ her ye hae ruined. Mary

Lee has naething now but the wishes o’ a revengeful heart, and this

spittle she throws on the reptile that stung her honour, and made

her fame bleed and perish, to show that a woman is no without a

part o’ that power that is vouchsafed to the trampled worm.”

As the infuriated creature finished these words, she spat on

the poor victim of her hatred, now unable even to reply to her

dreadful expressions of a morbid thirst for revenge. Having thus

gratified her passion, she disappeared among the woods. Ashley

lay for a considerable time, before assistance came to him. His

feelings may be conceived—they cannot be expressed. His conscience

was enough for him, without the exhibition of so deadly a hatred

in her whom he now pitied. The reaction of injured virtue overcame

him. He groaned in the depth of his agony; burning tears of remorse

flowed down his cheeks; the pains and penalties of vice stung him

in mind and body, with the malignity of demons; he would have given

the proud domains of his forefathers, for one drop of mercy to his

burning soul. He tried to pray; he was unable. The fiends still

clung to him. The Almighty did not think it time to pluck them

away. In his struggles, he fainted, and lay on the cold earth for

several hours.

The servants of the Castle came out to seek their master. They

searched the woods, and found the horse which had strayed away from

him. His groans attracted their notice; and, in the plight we have

described, they found their unhappy lord. When taken home, he was

put to bed, where he lay for some months. The aids of ministers

of religion afforded him consolation, but were ineffectual in

banishing the presentiment which had taken so firm a hold of his

imagination. They recommended to him travel; and he consented to

remove to France, where the change of scene might produce its

accustomed effects, in withdrawing his mind from the contemplation

of a subject which preyed on his vitals. Arrangements were made

for the journey, and everything was ready for his departure; but

the journey which was destined for the unhappy victim of his own

crimes, was of a different kind from that he had in view. On the

day on which he was to depart, he was seized with a hæmorrhage from

the lungs, and died before any medical advice could be afforded

him.

In a moonlight night, some weeks after the interment, Mary Lee

stood upon the grave of Robert Ashley.

“The proud Eagle,” she soliloquized, “wha condescended to come to

earth only for garbage, now lies whar I have lang wished him to be.

Robert Ashley has met his deserts, an’ nae tear has wet the cheek

o’ Mary Lee. Na—that tear shall only be the clammy rheum that

oozes frae the closing ee o’ death, and only maks the cheek o’ the

heart-broken mair dry. Did I no say, that I hated the connach worm?

Ay, but I, wha have nae love for mortal on earth, could love that

creature now, for it will nestle in the heart o’ my destroyer e’en

whar I have nestled. Fear nae guile now, ye brawnet reptile—that

was a’ wasted in my ruin; an’ bluid will be your repast as it has

been my vengeance. Thrice have I lauched in triumph; an’ I would

lauch my loud lauch again, if Robin’s ears war open to hear’t; but

I have yet anither victim, and my last shout shall be o’er the fate

o’ the remainin’ rafter o’ the ruif tree o’ the auld Castle. Then

shall be the weird o’ my hatred fulfilled, and the staff o’ the

stern wizard, wha guides me on through the dark ways o’ revenge, be

broken an’ cast on the waters of the Solway.”

As Mary was in the act of pronouncing the last words of her speech,

she was interrupted by a voice, apparently that of a man. It was

Gerstendorf, who had not been in these parts for many years. He

seemed in great agitation, and spoke confusedly, and as if in fear

of being overheard.

“What brings ye here, man, wi’ that craven look, and these broken

sounds?” inquired Mary.

“What may that be to you, mein gut child? Donner! have I no power

left to look after mein safety, and by returning the knabe, Hector

Ashley, to the house of his vater, get a riddence of the outlawry

against me and mein crew?”

“Hans Gerstendorf,” replied Mary, “is this the faith pledged to

me langsyne, when I put into your hand twa hunder siller merks,

as the apprentice fee o’ Hector Ashley, and the reward o’ eternal

silence as to his birth and lineage? This may be German troth, but

it belangs na to the honour o’ Galloway.”

“The faith, and the promise, and the covenant,” replied the German,

“belong to the men who live under the laws—Teufel! are not the

sharks and the hounds, by the sea and by the land, smelling for

us and baying for us?—and doesna the hang-tief stand on the lang

sands o’ Leith to mak langer, by twa inches, the craigs o’ the

pirate and his gang? Ha! mein gut Maria, what is the troth to the

life, the breath, and the soul that kensna repentance for ten

thousand crimes?—One chance is left, and that is, to tell Peter

Fleming the secret o’ his parentage, and his history, from that day

when I kidnapped him at the Fisherman’s Cairn, and left his cla’es

on the stones to beguile his father. Once in the Castle and we are

safe.”

The resolution, intention, or wish, thus expressed by the German,

deeply affected Mary. For some time she replied not—her hand was

on her forehead, and she was apparently musing in deep thought; at

last she started.

“Weel, weel,” she said, in a choked voice—“weel, since it is as ye

say, that your lives are in danger, let your way be as ye wish. But

whar are ye concealed?”

And, as she put the question, her eye watched the looks of the

German.

“My men are amang the high bent that grows on the drifted sand,

twa miles doun the coast. But wha is now the proprietor o’ ‘The

Castle?’ for I maun tell Peter the name of the man wha is to be his

enemy; and we may hae to fecht our way to head-quarters.”

“There is naebody in the House,” answered Mary.

“Blut! that is the good tidings,” ejaculated Hans, in joy. “Hurra,

then, for the Castle!” And he dashed through the willows that

overhung the burial-ground, where they stood.

On that night, three hours after, intelligence was said to have

been given by Mary Lee to the procurator-fiscal of the stewartry,

that the outlawed pirates lay in the sea bent at the banks of

the Solway. A band of armed men repaired to the place, and Hans

Gerstendorf and his men, among whom was Peter Fleming, no other

than Hector Ashley, were seized and put in irons, and carried to

the jail of Dumfries. The unhappy men were afterwards removed to

the jail of Edinburgh, tried, and four of them, including Fleming,

condemned to be executed on the sands of Leith, for the crime of

piracy on the high seas. They were executed accordingly.

A new family came to occupy “The Castle”—far removed in

relationship to the Ashleys. Mary Lee continued to live on, for

many years, exhibiting the same peculiarities of character—the

same silence—the same scorn of social relations. Her desire of

revenge was satisfied—but that satisfaction was no more effectual,

in its assuaging consequences, than revenge is generally found to

be. It even added to her moroseness; for the evil which she had

removed, had been the only good she ever enjoyed, and the thirst

for revenge which she had indulged, when slaked by the blood of all

her enemies, left her nothing to wish for in the world. She took

no interest in passing events, and as she increased in years, her

faculties decayed. Latterly, and towards the termination of her

life, she fell into temporary fits of insanity—which, however,

did not conceal from her all her sorrows, for her lucid intervals

were periods of misery; all her recollections seemed painful as the

searing-iron of a roused conscience; she never displayed a symptom

of remorse for the dreadful vengeance she had taken on the head and

house of her seducer; but the wild laugh would break out only to

settle again in the stare of idiotcy. So much for our legend.

THE LORD OF HERMITAGE.

Great was the surprise of the peaceful congregation assembled in

the little church of Ettleton, in Liddisdale, on a Sunday forenoon,

somewhere about one hundred and fifty years since, to see the Lord

of Hermitage come in amongst them, just as the service of the day

had begun. A surprise this, not without good and sufficient cause;

for, although the patron of the parish, and living in the immediate

neighbourhood of the church just named, the Lord of Hermitage had

not entered it for many a long year. Some of those present thought

it not unlikely, that he had begun to repent of his ways, which

were, indeed, evil—for a vicious, dissolute, and tyrannical man

was he—dreaded and detested by all who knew him; and that his

coming to church, on this occasion, was not improbably meant as a

public intimation of his having commenced the work of reformation;

and that it might, therefore, be looked upon as the first overt

act of contrition. Others, incredulous of so sudden a conversion

in a man so notorious for his wickedness, dreaded that his

appearance, on this occasion, boded no good; although they could

not conjecture, either, how any evil should arise from it.

In the meantime, while all eyes were fixed on him, the dreaded Lord

of Hermitage, slightly bowing to the officiating clergyman, took a

seat and seemed to listen for some time, with decent attention, to

his discourse. But it was only for a short time that he continued

to exhibit this becoming respect for the devotional proceedings

that were going forward. His eye was soon observed wandering over

the assembly, as if in search of some object, and was at length

seen fixed, with a steady and insolent gaze, on the beautiful

countenance of Isabella Foster, the daughter of a respectable

farmer, and one of his own tenants, who resided in the lower part

of Liddisdale. In this circumstance, simple as it was, or rather

would have been, but for the well-known character of the Lord

of Hermitage, some of the congregation felt assured that they

had discovered the secret of his appearance amongst them on this

occasion, while all considered it matter for strong suspicion of

evil intentions.

Isabella Foster was, on this occasion, accompanied by her father

and her acknowledged lover—a young man of considerable property,

but who was, nevertheless, much better known in the country by

the familiar, Border-like soubriquet of “Jock o’ the Syde,” than

by his real name, which was Armstrong. Isabella herself marked,

and she did so with fear and trembling, the ominous gaze of the

unprincipled Lord of Hermitage; and she clung closer and closer

to her father and her lover, both of whom were also aware of the

circumstance at which she was so much alarmed. Her father saw it

with a feeling of dread and horror; for he knew well the infamous

character of the man, and he knew, too, that he would perpetrate

any villany, and have recourse, without the smallest hesitation

or compunction, to any measures, however violent or atrocious, to

accomplish the gratification of his passions; and he felt how vain

would be all his precautions, how unavailing all the means he could

employ, to defeat the designs of a man at once so determined, so

unprincipled, and so powerful.

On her lover, however, the discovery that his Isabella had

attracted the special notice of the Lord of Hermitage had a

different effect. It roused his young blood; and in the look with

which he contemplated him, as he gazed upon her, there was plainly

to be read a proud defiance at once of his personal prowess and

his power. Armstrong felt, at that moment, that his single arm,

furnished with his own good sword, was alone sufficient to protect

his lover from all the Lords of Hermitage that ever existed,

although they all came upon him in a bundle.

With more experience of the world, Isabella’s father, as we have

shown, thought and reasoned differently. He feared the worst; and

these fears were much increased when, on the dismissal of the

congregation, the Lord of Hermitage rode up to him, complimented

him on the beauty of his daughter, and he told him that he meant

to do himself the pleasure of paying him a visit soon, when he

hoped, he said—at the same time turning towards and bowing to

Isabella—that the fair Lily of Liddisdale would not be absent.

Isabella’s father made no further reply to this remark, than by

bowing politely, and saying, with equivocal hospitality, that his

house should always be open to the Lord of Hermitage.

Isabella’s lover, who was also of the party on this occasion,

mechanically felt for the hilt of his sword, while this

conversation was passing—a motion which did not escape the notice

of him who had excited such an evidence of hostile feeling; neither

did the stern look, with which he contemplated the speaker, pass

unobserved.

“What chafes thee so much, young man?” said the Lord of Hermitage,

turning to the person whom he addressed, with a contemptuous smile.

“Is yon fair maiden your sweetheart, my flint-spark; and are you

afraid I shall run away with her?”

“No names, if you please, my Lord Hermitage,” replied Armstrong;

“I take no by-names but one—that by which everybody knows me.

All others I am apt to acknowledge in a way that is pretty

generally allowed to be disagreeable. And as to this lady being my

sweetheart,” he went on—“perhaps she is, and perhaps not; but

whether she be or no, should you entertain any thoughts of running

away with her, take my word for it—take the word of ‘Jock o the

Syde’—that you’ll run pretty fast, and pretty far, too, if I don’t

overtake you.”

To this blunt language, the Lord of Hermitage merely replied,

evidently desirous of giving the whole matter the turn of a joke,

“that he was glad to find the young lady had such a redoubtable

guardian.” Having said this, and made his obeisance to Isabella,

bowed to her father, and waved his hand slightly and coldly

to Armstrong, the Lord of Hermitage rode off towards his own

residence, whither we shall take the liberty of accompanying him.

On entering the gate of his castle, the Lord of Hermitage was met

by a person who seemed to be a retainer—for such his dress bespoke

him; but there was a familiarity in his manner, mingled with a sort

of careless respect, that at once shewed that his lord and he were

upon a much more intimate footing than is usually displayed between

master and servant.

“Well, my lord,” said this person, as he assisted his master to

dismount, “have you seen her?”

“I have, Maxwell,” replied the Lord of Hermitage; “and, on my soul,

a most lovely creature it is. Strange that I should not have heard

of her before. Thou hast an admirable taste, Maxwell,” he went

on; “and I owe thee something for this scent, which thou shalt

forthwith have. ’Tis a rare prize, Maxwell, I assure thee, and does

thy diligence infinite credit.”

“I guessed as much,” replied the person addressed, and who was, if

such an official can be recognised, the confidential villain of the

Lord of Hermitage, in the shape of a domestic servant or personal

attendant—“I guessed as much, my lord,” he said, with a fiendish

smile; “I felt assured that I had at last caught something worth

looking at.”

Here the conversation dropped for a time. The Lord of Hermitage

being now dismounted from his horse, proceeded into the castle,

whither he was followed by Maxwell; when the two, having shut

themselves up in a small retired apartment, resumed the discourse

which the movement just spoken of had interrupted; and proceeded

to discuss the question as to which was the best method of getting

Isabella Foster into their power.

“Carry her off, to be sure—carry her off bodily,” was the reply of

Maxwell to this query—“why should there be any hesitation?”

“Why, I don’t know, Maxwell,” replied the Lord of Hermitage,

musingly. “It would make a stir in the country, and set the fools

a-talking. I’d rather it were quietly done, if at all possible. I

have told Foster,” he added, after a pause of some minutes, “that I

would pay him a visit one of these days.”

“Then, my lord, excuse me, you were wrong,” said Maxwell,

interrupting him—“you were wrong. He’ll bundle the girl out of the

way directly; and, if he does, we may look long enough ere we find

her again.”

“Faith! I dare say, thou’rt right, Maxwell,” replied the Lord of

Hermitage; “although I scarcely think the scoundrel would dare to

do that either. I should have a right to consider such a proceeding

as a personal insult, and feel myself warranted in resenting it

accordingly.”

“No doubt, no doubt, my lord,” said Maxwell; “but, in the meantime,

observe you, the girl may be gone—a loss, this, for which the

satisfaction of running her father through the body, would be but

an indifferent compensation.”

“Right again, Maxwell, right again,” replied his master; “why,

then, suppose after all, we do the thing boldly and at once.” A

proposition, this, which ended in an arrangement that the Lord

of Hermitage, accompanied by Maxwell, and other three or four

trusty knaves, well armed with concealed weapons, should, on the

following day, set out for Foster’s residence, and, seizing a fit

opportunity, carry off his daughter.

On the day following, accordingly, a party of five horsemen were

seen, towards evening, riding up the avenue, at the head of which

Foster’s house was situated; when the latter, having observed them

approaching, and recognising the Lord of Hermitage amongst them,

hastened out to receive them. On their coming up—

“I promised you a visit, Foster,” said the leader of the party, at

the same time flinging himself from his horse; “and I am now come

to redeem my promise.”