mountebank before him. The gold-maker abandoned his robe of scarlet
and appeared before James dressed soberly. He confessed that he knew
the secret of extracting gold from ordinary soil, but submitted that
he was not a Scottish citizen and therefore could not properly be
coerced by the Scottish laws so long as he infringed none of the
statutes. The king held that this appeal was well founded, and
disclaimed any desire to coerce a citizen of a friendly state. At this
the charlatan brightened perceptibly, and proportionately the gloom on
the brows of the nobles deepened.
"But if you can produce gold, as you say, why do you refuse to do so?"
demanded the king.
"I respectfully submit to your majesty," replied the mountebank, "that
I have now perfected an invention of infinitely greater value than the
gold-making process; an invention that will give Scotland a power
possessed by no other nation, and which will enable it to conquer any
kingdom, no matter how remote it may be from this land I so much
honour. I wish, then, to devote the remaining energies of my life to
the enlarging of this invention, rather than waste my time in what is,
after all, the lowest pursuit to which a man may demean himself,
namely, the mere gathering of money," and the speaker cast a glance of
triumph at the disgruntled barons.
"I quite agree with you regarding your estimation of acquisitiveness,"
said the king cordially, giving no heed to the murmurs of his
followers. "In what does this new invention consist?"
"It is simply a pair of wings, your majesty, made from the finest silk
which I import from France. They may be fitted to any human being, and
they give that human being the power which birds have long possessed."
"Well," said the king with a laugh, "I should be the last to teach a
Scottish warrior to fly; still the ability to do so would have been,
on several occasions, advantageous to us. Have you your wings at
hand?"
"Yes, your majesty."
"Then you yourself shall test them in our presence."
"But I should like to spend, your majesty, some further time on
preparation," demurred the man uneasily.
"I thought you said a moment ago that the invention was perfect."
"Nothing human is perfect, your majesty, and if I said so I spoke with
the over-confidence of the inventor. I have, however, succeeded in
sailing through the air, but cannot yet make way against a wind."
"Oh, you have succeeded so far as to interest us in a most attractive
experiment. Bid your assistant bring them at once, and let us
understand their principle. I rejoice to know that Scotland is to have
the benefit of your great genius."
Farini showed little enthusiasm anent the king's confidence in him. He
had, during the colloquy, cast many an anxious glance towards the
French ambassador, apparently much to the annoyance of that high
dignitary, for now the Frenchman, seeing his continued hesitation,
said sharply,--
"You have heard his majesty's commands; get on your paraphernalia."
When the Italian was at last equipped, looking like a demon in a
painting that hung in the chapel, the king led the way to the edge of
Stirling cliff.
"There," he said, indicating a spot on the brow of the precipice, "you
could not find in all Scotland a better vantage-point for a flight."
[Illustration: "WITH A WILD SCREAM FARINI ENDEAVOURED TO SUPPORT
HIMSELF WITH HIS GAUZE-LIKE WINGS."]
The terrified man stood for a moment on the verge of the appalling
precipice; then he gave utterance to a remarkable pronouncement, the
import of which was perhaps misunderstood because of the chattering
of his teeth.
"Oh, not here, your majesty! Forgive me, and I will confess
everything. The gold which I pretended to----"
"Fly, you fool!" cried the French ambassador, pushing the Italian
suddenly between the shoulders and launching him into space. With a
wild scream Farini endeavoured to support himself with his gauze-like
wings, and for a moment seemed to hover in mid-air; but the framework
cracked and the victim, whirling head over heels, fell like a plummet
to the bottom of the cliff.
"I fear you have been too impetuous with him," said the king severely,
although as his majesty glanced at Sir David Lyndsay the faint
suspicion of a wink momentarily obscured his eye,--a temporary veiling
of the royal refulgence, which passed unnoticed as every one else was
gazing over the cliff at the motionless form of the fallen man.
"I am to blame, sire," replied the ambassador contritely, "but I think
the villain is an impostor, and I could not bear to see your royal
indulgence trifled with. However, I am willing to make amends for my
imprudence, and if the scoundrel lives, I shall, at my own expense,
transport him instantly to France, where he shall have the attendance
of the best surgeons the country affords."
"That is very generous of you," replied the king.
And the ambassador, craving permission to retire, hastened to
translate his benevolence into action.
Farini was still unconscious when the ambassador and his attendants
reached him; but the French nobleman proved as good as his word, for
he had the injured man, whose thigh-bone was broken, conveyed in a
litter to Leith, and from there shipped to France. But it was many a
day before the Scottish nobles ceased to deplore the untimely
departure of their gold-maker.
[Illustration: "THE KING HAD COMPOSED A POEM IN THIRTEEN STANZAS,
ENTITLED 'THE BEGGAR MAN.'"]
THE KING A-BEGGING
Literary ambition has before now led men into difficulties. The king
had completed a poem in thirteen stanzas entitled "The Beggar Man,"
and the prime requisite of a completed poem is an audience to listen
to it. In spite of the fact that he wrote poetry, the king was a
sensible person, and he knew that if he read his verses to the court,
the members thereof were not the persons to criticise adequately the
merits of such a composition; for you cannot expect a high noble, who,
if he ever notices a beggar, merely does so to throw a curse at him,
or lay the flat of his sword over his shoulders, to appreciate an epic
which celebrates the free life led by a mendicant.
The king was well aware that he would receive ample praise for his
production; king's goods are ever the best in the market, and though,
like every other literary man, it was praise and not criticism that
James wanted, still he preferred to have such praise from the lips of
one who knew something of the life he tried to sing; therefore, as
evening came on, the monarch dressed himself in his farmer costume,
and, taking his thirteen stanzas with him, ventured upon a cautious
visit to his friend the cobbler in the lower town of Stirling.
The cobbler listened with an attention which was in itself flattering,
and paid his royal visitor the additional compliment of asking him to
repeat certain of the verses, which the king in his own heart thought
were the best. Then when the thirteenth stanza was arrived at, with
the "No-that-bad" commendation, which is dear to the heart of the
chary Scotchman, be he of high or low degree, Flemming continued,--
"They might be worse, and we've had many a poet of great reputation in
Scotland who would not be ashamed to father them. But I'm thinking you
paint the existence of a beggar in brighter colours than the life
itself warrants."
"No, no, Flemming," protested the king earnestly. "I'm convinced that
only the beggar knows what true contentment is. You see he begins at
the very bottom of the ladder and every step he takes must be a step
upward. Now imagine a man at the top, like myself; any move I make in
the way of changing my condition must be downward. A beggar is the
real king, and a king is but a beggar, for he holds his position by
the favour of others. You see, Flemming, anything a beggar gets is so
much to the good; and, as he has nothing to lose, not even his
head--for who would send a beggar to the block--he must needs be
therefore the most contented man on the face of the footstool."
"Oh, that's maybe true enough," replied Flemming, set in his own
notion notwithstanding it was the king who opposed him; "but look you,
what a scope a beggar has for envy, for there's nobody he meets that's
not better off than himself."
"You go to extremes, Flemming. An envious man is unhappy wherever you
place him; but I'm speaking of ordinary persons like ourselves, with
charity and good-will toward all their fellow-kind. That man, I say,
is happier as a beggar than as a king."
"Well, in so far as concerns myself, your majesty, I'd like to be
sure of a roof over my head when the rain's coming down, and of that a
beggar never can be. A king or a cobbler has a place to lay his head,
at any rate."
"Aye," admitted the king, "but sometimes that place is the block. To
tell you the truth, Flemming, I'm thinking of taking a week at the
begging myself. A poet should have practical knowledge of the subject
about which he writes. Give me a week on the road, Flemming, and I'll
pen you a poem on beggary that will get warmer praise from you than
this has had."
"I give your rhyming the very highest praise, and say that Gavin
Douglas himself might have been proud had he put those lines
together."
To this the king made no reply, and the cobbler, looking up at him,
saw that a frown marred his brow. Then he remembered, as usual a
trifle late, James's hatred of the Douglas name; a hatred that had
been honestly earned by the Earl of Angus, head of that clan. Flemming
was learning that it was as dangerous to praise, as to criticise a
king. With native caution however, the cobbler took no notice of his
majesty's displeasure, but added an amendment to his first statement.
"It would perhaps be more truthful to say that the verses are worthy
of Sir David Lyndsay. In fact, although Sir David is a greater poet
than Gavin Douglas, I doubt very much if in his happiest moments he
could have equalled 'The Beggar Man.'"
In mentioning Sir David Lyndsay, Flemming had named the king's
greatest friend, and the cobbler's desire to please could not have
escaped the notice of a man much less shrewd than was James the Fifth.
The king rose to his feet, checking a laugh.
"Man Flemming," he said, "I wonder at you! Have you forgotten that Sir
David Lyndsay married Janet Douglas?"
The palpable dismay on the cobbler's countenance caused the young man
to laugh outright.
"The cobbler should stick to his honesty, and not endeavour to tread
the slippery path of courtiership. Flemming, if I wanted flattery I
could get that up at the castle. I come down here for something
better. If anything I could write were half so good as Sir David's
worst, I should be a pleased man. But I'm learning, Flemming, I'm
learning. This very day some of my most powerful nobles have presented
me with a respectful petition. A year ago I should have said 'No'
before I had got to the signature of it. But now I have thanked them
for their attention to affairs of State, although between me and you
and that bench, Flemming, it's a pure matter of their own greed and
selfishness. So I've told them I will give the subject my deepest
consideration, and that they shall have their answer this day
fortnight. Is not that the wisdom of the serpent combined with the
harmlessness of the dove?"
"It is indeed," agreed the cobbler.
"Very well; to-morrow it shall be given out that this petition will
occupy my mind for at least a week, and during that time the king is
invisible to all comers, high or low. To-morrow, Flemming, you'll get
me as clean a suit of beggar's rags as you can lay your hands on. I'll
come down here as the Master of Ballengeich, and leave these farmer's
clothes in your care. I shall pass from this door as a beggar, and
come back to it in the same condition a week or ten days hence, so see
that you're at hand to receive me."
"Does your majesty intend to go alone?"
"Entirely alone, Flemming. Bless me, do you imagine I would tramp the
country as a beggar with a troop of horse at my back?"
"Your majesty would be wise to think twice of such a project," warned
the cobbler.
"Oh, well, I've doubled the number; I've thought four times about it;
once when I was writing the poem, and three times while you were
raising objections to my assertion that the beggar is the happiest man
on earth."
"If your majesty's mind is fixed, then there's no more to be said. But
take my advice and put a belt round your body with a number of gold
pieces in it, for the time may come when you'll want a horse in a
hurry, and perhaps you may be refused lodgings even when you greatly
need them; in either case a few gold rascals will stand your friend."
"That's canny counsel, Flemming, and I'll act on it."
"And perhaps it might be as well to leave with some one in whom you
have confidence, instructions so that you could be communicated with
if your presence was needed hurriedly at Stirling."
"No, no, Flemming. Nothing can go wrong in a week. A beggar with a
string tied to his legs that some one in Stirling can pull at his
pleasure, is not a real beggar, but a slave. If they should want me
sorely in Stirling before I return, they'll think the more of me once
I am back."
And thus it came about that the King of Scotland, with a belt of gold
around his waist in case of need, and garments concealing the belt
which gave little indication that anything worth a robber's care was
underneath, tramped the high roads and byways of a part of Scotland,
finding in general a welcome wherever he went, for he could tell a
story that would bring a laugh, and sing a song that would bring a
tear, and all such rarely starve or lack shelter in this sympathetic
world.
Only once did he feel himself in danger, and that was on what he
thought to be the last day of his tramp, for in the evening he
expected to reach the lower town of Stirling, even though he came to
it late in the night. But the weather of Scotland has always something
to say to the pedestrian, and it delights in upsetting his plans.
He was still more than two leagues from his castle, and the dark
Forest of Torwood lay between him and royal Stirling, when towards the
end of a lowering day, there came up over the hills to the west one of
the fiercest storms he had ever beheld, which drove him for shelter to
a wayside inn on the outskirts of the forest. The place of shelter was
low and forbidding enough, but needs must when a Scottish storm
drives, and the king burst in on a drinking company, bringing a swirl
of rain and a blast of wind with him; so fierce in truth was the wind
that one of the drinkers had to spring to his feet and put his
shoulder to the door before the king could get it closed again. He
found but scant welcome in the company. Those seated on the benches by
the fire scowled at him; and the landlord seeing he was but a beggar,
did not limit his displeasure to so silent a censure.
"What in the fiend's name," he cried angrily, "does the like of you
want in here?"
The king nonchalantly shook the water from his rags and took a step
nearer the fire.
"That is a very unnecessary question, landlord," said the young man
with a smile, "nevertheless, I will answer it. I want shelter in the
first place, and food and drink as soon as you can bring them."
"Shelter you can get behind a stone dyke or in the forest," retorted
his host; "food and drink are for those who can pay for it. Get you
gone! You mar good company."
"In truth, landlord, your company is none to my liking, but I happen
to prefer it to the storm. Food and drink, you say, are for those who
can pay; you see one of them before you, therefore, sir, hasten to
your duty, or it may be mine to hurry you unpleasantly."
This truculence on the part of a supposed beggar had not the effect
one might have expected of increasing the boisterousness of the
landlord. That individual well knew that many beggars were better able
to pay their way than was he himself when he took to journeying, so he
replied more civilly,--
"I'll take your order for a meal when I have seen the colour of your
money."
"Quite right," said the king, "and only fair Scottish caution." Then
with a lack of that quality he had just commended, he drew his belt
out from under his coat, and taking a gold piece from it, threw the
coin on the table.
The entrance of the king and the manner of his reception exposed him
to the danger almost sure to attend the display of so much wealth in
such forbidding company. A moment later he realised the jeopardy in
which his rashness had placed him, by the significant glances which
the half-dozen rough men there seated gave to each other. He was alone
and unarmed in a disreputable bothy on the edge of a forest, well
known as the refuge of desperate characters. He wished that he had
even one of the sharp knives belonging to his friend the cobbler, so
that he might defend himself. However, the evil was done, if evil it
was, and there was no help for it. James was never a man to cross a
bridge before he came to it; so he set himself down to the steaming
venison brought for his refreshment, and made no inquiry whether it
were poached or not, being well aware that any question in that
direction was as unnecessary as had been the landlord's first query
to himself. He was young. His appetite, at all times of the best, was
sharpened by his journey, and the ale, poor as it was, seemed to
him the finest brew he had ever tasted. The landlord was now all
obsequiousness, and told the beggar he could command the best in the
house.
When the time came to retire, his host brought the king by a ladder to
a loft which occupied the whole length of the building, and muttered
something about the others sleeping here as well, but thanked Heaven
there was room enough for an army.
"This will not do for me," said the beggar, coming down again. "I'll
take to the storm first. What is this chamber leading out from the
tap-room?"
"That is my own," replied the landlord, with some return of his old
incivility, "and I'll give it up to no beggar."
The king without answering opened the door of the chamber and found
himself in a room that could be barricaded. Taking a light with him he
examined it more minutely.
"Is this matchlock loaded?" he asked, pointing to a clumsy gun, which
had doubtless caused the death of more than one deer in the forest.
The landlord answered in surly fashion that it was, but the king
tested the point for himself.
"Now," he said, "I rest here, and you will see that I am not
disturbed. Any man who attempts to enter this room gets the contents
of this gun in him, and I'll trust to my two daggers to take care of
the rest."
He had no dagger with him, but he spoke for the benefit of the company
in the tap-room. Something in his resolute manner seemed to impress
the landlord, who grumbled, muttering half to himself and half to his
companions, but he nevertheless retired, leaving the king alone,
whereupon James fortified the door, and afterward slept unmolested the
sleep of a tired man, until broad day woke him.
Wonderful is the change wrought in a man's feelings by a fair morning.
A new day; a new lease of life. The recurrent morning must have been
contrived to give discouraged humanity a fresh chance. The king,
amazed to find that he had slept so soundly in spite of the weight
of apprehension on his mind the night before, discovered this
apprehension to be groundless in the clear light of the new day. The
sulky villains of the tap-room were now honest fellows who would harm
no one, and James laughed aloud at his needless fears; the loaded
matchlock in the corner giving no hint of its influence towards a
peaceful night. The landlord seemed, indeed, a most civil person,
who would be the last to turn a penniless man from his door. James,
over his breakfast, asked what had become of the company, and his
host replied that they were woodlanders; good lads in their way, but
abashed before strangers. Some of them had gone to their affairs in
the forest and others had proceeded to St. Ninians, to enjoy the
hanging set for that day.
"And which way may your honour be journeying?" asked the innkeeper,
"for I see that you are no beggar."
"I am no beggar at such an inhospitable house as this," replied the
wayfarer, "but elsewhere I am a beggar, that is to say, the gold I
come by is asked for, and not earned."
"Ah, that's it, is it?" said the other with a nod, "but for such a
trade you need your weapons by your side."
"The deadliest weapons," rejoined the king mysteriously, "are not
always those most plainly on view. The sting of the wasp is generally
felt before it is seen."
The landlord was plainly disturbed by the intelligence he had
received, and now made some ado to get the change for the gold piece,
but his guest replied airily that it did not matter.
"With whatever's coming to me," he said, "feed the next beggar that
applies to you on a rainy night with less at his belt to commend him
than I have."
"Well, good-day to you, and thank you," said the innkeeper. "If you're
going Stirling way, your road's straight through the forest, and when
you come to St. Ninians you'll be in time to see a fine hanging, for
they're throttling Baldy Hutchinson to-day, the biggest man between
here and the Border, yes, and beyond it, I warrant."
"That will be interesting," replied the king. "Good-day to you."
[Illustration: "FIVE STALWART RUFFIANS FELL UPON HIM."]
At the side of the wall, which ran from the end of the hostel and
enclosed a bit of ground appertaining to it, James stooped ostensibly
to tie his shoe, but in reality to learn if his late host made any
move, for he suspected that the sinister company of the night
before might not be so far away as the landlord had intimated. His
stratagem was not without its reward. The back door opened, and he
heard the landlord say in a husky whisper to some one unseen,--
"Run, Jock, as fast's you can to the second turning in the road, and
tell Steenie and his men they'd best leave this chap alone; he's a
robber himself."
The king smiled as he walked slowly north towards the forest and saw a
bare-legged boy race at great speed across the fields and disappear at
their margin. He resolved to give time for this message to arrive, so
that he might not be molested, and therefore sauntered at a more
leisurely rate than that at which a man usually begins a journey on an
inspiring morning.