Will you go to the Hielands, Lizzy Lyndesay,
Will you go the Hielands wi’ me?
Will you go to the Hielands, Lizzy Lyndesay,
My bride and my darling to be?
Old Ballad.
A former chapter opened in the royal confessional; we are now to
introduce our readers to a situation somewhat similar, though the
scene and persons were very different. Instead of a Gothic and darkened
apartment in a monastery, one of the most beautiful prospects in
Scotland lay extended beneath the hill of Kinnoul, and at the foot of
a rock which commanded the view in every direction sat the Fair Maid of
Perth, listening in an attitude of devout attention to the instructions
of a Carthusian monk, in his white gown and scapular, who concluded his
discourse with prayer, in which his proselyte devoutly joined.
When they had finished their devotions, the priest sat for some time
with his eyes fixed on the glorious prospect, of which even the early
and chilly season could not conceal the beauties, and it was some time
ere he addressed his attentive companion.
“When I behold,” he said at length, “this rich and varied land, with its
castles, churches, convents, stately palaces, and fertile fields, these
extensive woods, and that noble river, I know not, my daughter, whether
most to admire the bounty of God or the ingratitude of man. He hath
given us the beauty and fertility of the earth, and we have made the
scene of his bounty a charnel house and a battlefield. He hath given
us power over the elements, and skill to erect houses for comfort and
defence, and we have converted them into dens for robbers and ruffians.”
“Yet, surely, my father, there is room for comfort,” replied Catharine,
“even in the very prospect we look upon. Yonder four goodly convents,
with their churches, and their towers, which tell the citizens with
brazen voice that they should think on their religious duties; their
inhabitants, who have separated themselves from the world, its pursuits
and its pleasures, to dedicate themselves to the service of Heaven--all
bear witness that, if Scotland be a bloody and a sinful land, she is
yet alive and sensible to the claims which religion demands of the human
race.”
“Verily, daughter,” answered the priest, “what you say seems truth; and
yet, nearly viewed, too much of the comfort you describe will be found
delusive. It is true, there was a period in the Christian world when
good men, maintaining themselves by the work of their hands, assembled
together, not that they might live easily or sleep softly, but that
they might strengthen each other in the Christian faith, and qualify
themselves to be teachers of the Word to the people. Doubtless there are
still such to be found in the holy edifices on which we now look. But it
is to be feared that the love of many has waxed cold. Our churchmen have
become wealthy, as well by the gifts of pious persons as by the bribes
which wicked men have given in their ignorance, imagining that they can
purchase that pardon by endowments to the church which Heaven has only
offered to sincere penitents. And thus, as the church waxeth rich, her
doctrines have unhappily become dim and obscure, as a light is less
seen if placed in a lamp of chased gold than beheld through a screen
of glass. God knows, if I see these things and mark them, it is from no
wish of singularity or desire to make myself a teacher in Israel; but
because the fire burns in my bosom, and will not permit me to be
silent. I obey the rules of my order, and withdraw not myself from
its austerities. Be they essential to our salvation, or be they mere
formalities, adopted to supply the want of real penitence and sincere
devotion, I have promised, nay, vowed, to observe them; and they shall
be respected by me the more, that otherwise I might be charged with
regarding my bodily ease, when Heaven is my witness how lightly I value
what I may be called on to act or suffer, if the purity of the church
could be restored, or the discipline of the priesthood replaced in its
primitive simplicity.”
“But, my father,” said Catharine, “even for these opinions men term
you a Lollard and a Wickliffite, and say it is your desire to destroy
churches and cloisters, and restore the religion of heathenesse.”
“Even so, my daughter, am I driven to seek refuge in hills and rocks,
and must be presently contented to take my flight amongst the rude
Highlanders, who are thus far in a more gracious state than those
I leave behind me, that theirs are crimes of ignorance, not of
presumption. I will not omit to take such means of safety and escape
from their cruelty as Heaven may open to me; for, while such appear, I
shall account it a sign that I have still a service to accomplish. But
when it is my Master’s pleasure, He knows how willingly Clement Blair
will lay down a vilified life upon earth, in humble hope of a blessed
exchange hereafter. But wherefore dost thou look northward so anxiously,
my child? Thy young eyes are quicker than mine--dost thou see any one
coming?”
“I look, father, for the Highland youth, Conachar, who will be thy
guide to the hills, where his father can afford thee a safe, if a rude,
retreat. This he has often promised, when we spoke of you and of your
lessons. I fear he is now in company where he will soon forget them.”
“The youth hath sparkles of grace in him,” said Father Clement;
“although those of his race are usually too much devoted to their own
fierce and savage customs to endure with patience either the restraints
of religion or those of the social law. Thou hast never told me,
daughter, how, contrary to all the usages either of the burgh or of the
mountains, this youth came to reside in thy father’s house?”
“All I know touching that matter,” said Catharine, “is, that his father
is a man of consequence among those hill men, and that he desired as a
favour of my father, who hath had dealings with them in the way of his
merchandise, to keep this youth for a certain time, and that it is only
two days since they parted, as Conachar was to return home to his own
mountains.”
“And why has my daughter,” demanded the priest, “maintained such a
correspondence with this Highland youth, that she should know how to
send for him when she desired to use his services in my behalf? Surely,
this is much influence for a maiden to possess over such a wild colt as
this youthful mountaineer.”
Catharine blushed, and answered with hesitation: “If I have had any
influence with Conachar, Heaven be my witness, I have only exerted it to
enforce upon his fiery temper compliance with the rules of civil life.
It is true, I have long expected that you, my father, would be obliged
to take to flight, and I therefore had agreed with him that he should
meet me at this place as soon as he should receive a message from
me with a token, which I yesterday despatched. The messenger was a
lightfooted boy of his own clan, whom he used sometimes to send on
errands into the Highlands.”
“And am I then to understand, daughter, that this youth, so fair to the
eye, was nothing more dear to you than as you desired to enlighten his
mind and reform his manners?”
“It is so, my father, and no otherwise,” answered Catharine; “and
perhaps I did not do well to hold intimacy with him, even for his
instruction and improvement. But my discourse never led farther.”
“Then have I been mistaken, my daughter; for I thought I had seen in
thee of late some change of purpose, and some wishful regards looking
back to this world, of which you were at one time resolved to take
leave.”
Catharine hung down her head and blushed more deeply than ever as she
said: “Yourself, father, were used to remonstrate against my taking the
veil.”
“Nor do I now approve of it, my child,” said the priest. “Marriage is an
honourable state, appointed by Heaven as the regular means of continuing
the race of man; and I read not in the Scriptures what human inventions
have since affirmed concerning the superior excellence of a state of
celibacy. But I am jealous of thee, my child, as a father is of his only
daughter, lest thou shouldst throw thyself away upon some one unworthy
of thee. Thy parent, I know, less nice in thy behalf than I am,
countenances the addresses of that fierce and riotous reveller whom they
call Henry of the Wynd. He is rich it may be; but a haunter of idle and
debauched company--a common prizefighter, who has shed human blood like
water. Can such a one be a fit mate for Catharine Glover? And yet report
says they are soon to be united.”
The Fair Maid of Perth’s complexion changed from red to pale, and from
pale to red, as she hastily replied: “I think not of him; though it is
true some courtesies have passed betwixt us of late, both as he is my
father’s friend and as being according to the custom of the time, my
Valentine.”
“Your Valentine, my child!” said Father Clement. “And can your modesty
and prudence have trifled so much with the delicacy of your sex as to
place yourself in such a relation to such a man as this artificer? Think
you that this Valentine, a godly saint and Christian bishop, as he is
said to have been, ever countenanced a silly and unseemly custom, more
likely to have originated in the heathen worship of Flora or Venus,
when mortals gave the names of deities to their passions; and studied to
excite instead of restraining them?”
“Father,” said Catharine, in a tone of more displeasure than she had
ever before assumed to the Carthusian, “I know not upon what ground you
tax me thus severely for complying with a general practice, authorised
by universal custom and sanctioned by my father’s authority. I cannot
feel it kind that you put such misconstruction upon me.”
“Forgive me, daughter,” answered the priest, mildly, “if I have given
you offence. But this Henry Gow, or Smith, is a forward, licentious
man, to whom you cannot allow any uncommon degree of intimacy
and encouragement, without exposing yourself to worse
misconstruction--unless, indeed, it be your purpose to wed him, and that
very shortly.”
“Say no more of it, my father,” said Catharine. “You give me more pain
than you would desire to do; and I may be provoked to answer otherwise
than as becomes me. Perhaps I have already had cause enough to make
me repent my compliance with an idle custom. At any rate, believe that
Henry Smith is nothing to me, and that even the idle intercourse arising
from St. Valentine’s Day is utterly broken off.”
“I am rejoiced to hear it, my daughter,” replied the Carthusian, “and
must now prove you on another subject, which renders me most anxious on
your behalf. You cannot your self be ignorant of it, although I could
wish it were not necessary to speak of a thing so dangerous, even,
before these surrounding rocks, cliffs, and stones. But it must be said.
Catharine, you have a lover in the highest rank of Scotland’s sons of
honour?”
“I know it, father,” answered Catharine, composedly. “I would it were
not so.”
“So would I also,” said the priest, “did I see in my daughter only the
child of folly, which most young women are at her age, especially if
possessed of the fatal gift of beauty. But as thy charms, to speak the
language of an idle world, have attached to thee a lover of such high
rank, so I know that thy virtue and wisdom will maintain the influence
over the Prince’s mind which thy beauty hath acquired.”
“Father,” replied Catharine, “the Prince is a licentious gallant, whose
notice of me tends only to my disgrace and ruin. Can you, who seemed
but now afraid that I acted imprudently in entering into an ordinary
exchange of courtesies with one of my own rank, speak with patience of
the sort of correspondence which the heir of Scotland dares to fix
upon me? Know that it is but two nights since he, with a party of his
debauched followers, would have carried me by force from my father’s
house, had I not been rescued by that same rash spirited Henry Smith,
who, if he be too hasty in venturing on danger on slight occasion, is
always ready to venture his life in behalf of innocence or in resistance
of oppression. It is well my part to do him that justice.”
“I should know something of that matter,” said the monk, “since it was
my voice that sent him to your assistance. I had seen the party as I
passed your door, and was hastening to the civil power in order to raise
assistance, when I perceived a man’s figure coming slowly towards me.
Apprehensive it might be one of the ambuscade, I stepped behind the
buttresses of the chapel of St. John, and seeing from a nearer view
that it was Henry Smith, I guessed which way he was bound, and raised my
voice, in an exhortation which made him double his speed.”
“I am beholden to you, father,” said Catharine; “but all this, and the
Duke of Rothsay’s own language to me, only show that the Prince is a
profligate young man, who will scruple no extremities which may promise
to gratify an idle passion, at whatever expense to its object. His
emissary, Ramorny, has even had the insolence to tell me that my father
shall suffer for it if I dare to prefer being the wife of an honest man
to becoming the loose paramour of a married prince. So I see no other
remedy than to take the veil, or run the risk of my own ruin and my poor
father’s. Were there no other reason, the terror of these threats,
from a man so notoriously capable of keeping his word, ought as much to
prevent my becoming the bride of any worthy man as it should prohibit me
from unlatching his door to admit murderers. Oh, good father, what a lot
is mine! and how fatal am I likely to prove to my affectionate parent,
and to any one with whom I might ally my unhappy fortunes!”
“Be yet of good cheer, my daughter,” said the monk; “there is comfort
for thee even in this extremity of apparent distress. Ramorny is a
villain, and abuses the ear of his patron. The Prince is unhappily a
dissipated and idle youth; but, unless my grey hairs have been strangely
imposed on, his character is beginning to alter. He hath been awakened
to Ramorny’s baseness, and deeply regrets having followed his evil
advice. I believe, nay, I am well convinced, that his passion for you
has assumed a nobler and purer character, and that the lessons he has
heard from me on the corruptions of the church and of the times will, if
enforced from your lips, sink deeply into his heart, and perhaps produce
fruits for the world to wonder as well as rejoice at. Old prophecies
have said that Rome shall fall by the speech of a woman.”
“These are dreams, father,” said Catharine--“the visions of one whose
thoughts are too much on better things to admit his thinking justly
upon the ordinary affairs of Perth. When we have looked long at the sun,
everything else can only be seen indistinctly.”
“Thou art over hasty, my daughter,” said Clement, “and thou shalt be
convinced of it. The prospects which I am to open to thee were unfit to
be exposed to one of a less firm sense of virtue, or a more ambitious
temper. Perhaps it is not fit that, even to you, I should display them;
but my confidence is strong in thy wisdom and thy principles. Know,
then, that there is much chance that the Church of Rome will dissolve
the union which she has herself formed, and release the Duke of Rothsay
from his marriage with Marjory Douglas.”
Here he paused.
“And if the church hath power and will to do this,” replied the maiden,
“what influence can the divorce of the Duke from his wife produce on the
fortunes of Catharine Glover?”
She looked at the priest anxiously as she spoke, and he had some
apparent difficulty in framing his reply, for he looked on the ground
while he answered her.
“What did beauty do for Catharine Logie? Unless our fathers have told us
falsely, it raised her to share the throne of David Bruce.”
“Did she live happy or die regretted, good father?” asked Catharine, in
the same calm and steady tone.
“She formed her alliance from temporal, and perhaps criminal, ambition,”
replied Father Clement; “and she found her reward in vanity and vexation
of spirit. But had she wedded with the purpose that the believing wife
should convert the unbelieving, or confirm the doubting, husband, what
then had been her reward? Love and honour upon earth, and an inheritance
in Heaven with Queen Margaret and those heroines who have been the
nursing mothers of the church.”
Hitherto Catharine had sat upon a stone beside the priest’s feet, and
looked up to him as she spoke or listened; but now, as if animated
by calm, yet settled, feelings of disapprobation, she rose up, and,
extending her hand towards the monk as she spoke, addressed him with
a countenance and voice which might have become a cherub, pitying,
and even as much as possible sparing, the feelings of the mortal whose
errors he is commissioned to rebuke.
“And is it even so?” she said, “and can so much of the wishes, hopes,
and prejudices of this vile world affect him who may be called tomorrow
to lay down his life for opposing the corruptions of a wicked age and
backsliding priesthood? Can it be the severely virtuous Father Clement
who advises his child to aim at, or even to think of, the possession of
a throne and a bed which cannot become vacant but by an act of crying
injustice to the present possessor? Can it be the wise reformer of
the church who wishes to rest a scheme, in itself so unjust, upon
a foundation so precarious? Since when is it, good father, that the
principal libertine has altered his morals so much, to be likely to
court in honourable fashion the daughter of a Perth artisan? Two days
must have wrought this change; for only that space has passed since he
was breaking into my father’s house at midnight, with worse mischief in
his mind than that of a common robber. And think you that, if Rothsay’s
heart could dictate so mean a match, he could achieve such a purpose
without endangering both his succession and his life, assailed by the
Douglas and March at the same time, for what they must receive as an act
of injury and insult to both their houses? Oh! Father Clement, where
was your principle, where your prudence, when they suffered you to
be bewildered by so strange a dream, and placed the meanest of your
disciples in the right thus to reproach you?”
The old man’s eyes filled with tears, as Catharine, visibly and
painfully affected by what she had said, became at length silent.
“By the mouths of babes and sucklings,” he said, “hath He rebuked those
who would seem wise in their generation. I thank Heaven, that hath
taught me better thoughts than my own vanity suggested, through the
medium of so kind a monitress. Yes, Catharine, I must not hereafter
wonder or exclaim when I see those whom I have hitherto judged too
harshly struggling for temporal power, and holding all the while the
language of religious zeal. I thank thee, daughter, for thy salutary
admonition, and I thank Heaven that sent it by thy lips, rather than
those of a stern reprover.”
Catharine had raised her head to reply, and bid the old man, whose
humiliation gave her pain, be comforted, when her eyes were arrested
by an object close at hand. Among the crags and cliffs which surrounded
this place of seclusion, there were two which stood in such close
contiguity, that they seemed to have been portions of the same rock,
which, rendered by lightning or by an earthquake, now exhibited a chasm
of about four feet in breadth, betwixt the masses of stone. Into this
chasm an oak tree had thrust itself, in one of the fantastic frolics
which vegetation often exhibits in such situations. The tree, stunted
and ill fed, had sent its roots along the face of the rock in all
directions to seek for supplies, and they lay like military lines of
communication, contorted, twisted, and knotted like the immense snakes
of the Indian archipelago. As Catharine’s look fell upon the curious
complication of knotty branches and twisted roots, she was suddenly
sensible that two large eyes were visible among them, fixed and glaring
at her, like those of a wild animal in ambush. She started, and, without
speaking, pointed out the object to her companion, and looking herself
with more strict attention, could at length trace out the bushy red
hair and shaggy beard, which had hitherto been concealed by the drooping
branches and twisted roots of the tree.
When he saw himself discovered, the Highlander, for such he proved,
stepped forth from his lurking place, and, stalking forward, displayed
a colossal person, clothed in a purple, red, and green checked plaid,
under which he wore a jacket of bull’s hide. His bow and arrows were at
his back, his head was bare, and a large quantity of tangled locks, like
the glibbs of the Irish, served to cover the head, and supplied all the
purposes of a bonnet. His belt bore a sword and dagger, and he had in
his hand a Danish pole axe, more recently called a Lochaber axe. Through
the same rude portal advanced, one by one, four men more, of similar
size, and dressed and armed in the same manner.
Catharine was too much accustomed to the appearance of the inhabitants
of the mountains so near to Perth to permit herself to be alarmed, as
another Lowland maiden might have been on the same occasion. She saw
with tolerable composure these gigantic forms arrange themselves in a
semicircle around and in front of the monk and herself, all bending upon
them in silence their large fixed eyes, expressing, as far as she could
judge, a wild admiration of her beauty. She inclined her head to them,
and uttered imperfectly the usual words of a Highland salutation. The
elder and leader of the party returned the greeting, and then again
remained silent and motionless. The monk told his beads; and even
Catharine began to have strange fears for her personal safety, and
anxiety to know whether they were to consider themselves at personal
freedom. She resolved to make the experiment, and moved forward as if
to descend the hill; but when she attempted to pass the line of
Highlanders, they extended their poleaxes betwixt each other, so as
effectually to occupy each opening through which she could have passed.
Somewhat disconcerted, yet not dismayed, for she could not conceive that
any evil was intended, she sat down upon one of the scattered fragments
of rock, and bade the monk, standing by her side, be of good courage.
“If I fear,” said Father Clement, “it is not for myself; for whether I
be brained with the axes of these wild men, like an ox when, worn out
by labour, he is condemned to the slaughter, or whether I am bound with
their bowstrings, and delivered over to those who will take my life with
more cruel ceremony, it can but little concern me, if they suffer thee,
dearest daughter, to escape uninjured.”
“We have neither of us,” replied the Maiden of Perth, “any cause for
apprehending evil; and here comes Conachar to assure us of it.”
Yet, as she spoke, she almost doubted her own eyes; so altered were
the manner and attire of the handsome, stately, and almost splendidly
dressed youth who, springing like a roebuck from a cliff of considerable
height, lighted just in front of her. His dress was of the same tartan
worn by those who had first made their appearance, but closed at the
throat and elbows with a necklace and armlets of gold. The hauberk which
he wore over his person was of steel, but so clearly burnished that it
shone like silver. His arms were profusely ornamented, and his bonnet,
besides the eagle’s feather marking the quality of chief, was adorned
with a chain of gold, wrapt several times around it, and secured by a
large clasp, glistening with pearls. His brooch, by which the tartan
mantle, or plaid, as it is now called, was secured on the shoulder, was
also of gold, large and curiously carved. He bore no weapon in his hand,
excepting a small sapling stick with a hooked head. His whole appearance
and gait, which used formerly to denote a sullen feeling of conscious
degradation, was now bold, forward, and haughty; and he stood before
Catharine with smiling confidence, as if fully conscious of his improved
appearance, and waiting till she should recognise him.
“Conachar,” said Catharine, desirous to break this state of suspense,
“are these your father’s men?”
“No, fair Catharine,” answered the young man. “Conachar is no more,
unless in regard to the wrongs he has sustained, and the vengeance
which they demand. I am Ian Eachin MacIan, son to the chief of the Clan
Quhele. I have moulted my feathers, as you see, when I changed my name.
And for these men, they are not my father’s followers, but mine. You
see only one half of them collected: they form a band consisting of my
foster father and eight sons, who are my bodyguard, and the children of
my belt, who breathe but to do my will. But Conachar,” he added, in a
softer tone of voice, “lives again so soon as Catharine desires to see
him; and while he is the young chief of the Clan Quhele to all others,
he is to her as humble and obedient as when he was Simon Glover’s
apprentice. See, here is the stick I had from you when we nutted
together in the sunny braes of Lednoch, when autumn was young in the
year that is gone. I would not exchange it, Catharine, for the truncheon
of my tribe.”
While Eachin thus spoke, Catharine began to doubt in her own mind
whether she had acted prudently in requesting the assistance of a bold
young man, elated, doubtless, by his sudden elevation from a state of
servitude to one which she was aware gave him extensive authority over a
very lawless body of adherents.
“You do not fear me, fair Catharine?” said the young chief, taking her
hand. “I suffered my people to appear before you for a few minutes,
that I might see how you could endure their presence; and methinks you
regarded them as if you were born to be a chieftain’s wife.”
“I have no reason to fear wrong from Highlanders,” said Catharine,
firmly; “especially as I thought Conachar was with them. Conachar has
drunk of our cup and eaten of our bread; and my father has often had
traffic with Highlanders, and never was there wrong or quarrel betwixt
him and them.”
“No?” replied Hector, for such is the Saxon equivalent for Eachin,
“what! never when he took the part of the Gow Chrom (the bandy legged
smith) against Eachin MacIan? Say nothing to excuse it, and believe it
will be your own fault if I ever again allude to it. But you had some
command to lay upon me; speak, and you shall be obeyed.”
Catharine hastened to reply; for there was something in the young
chief’s manner and language which made her desire to shorten the
interview.
“Eachin,” she said, “since Conachar is no longer your name, you ought
to be sensible that in claiming, as I honestly might, a service from my
equal, I little thought that I was addressing a person of such superior
power and consequence. You, as well as I, have been obliged to the
religious instruction of this good man. He is now in great danger:
wicked men have accused him with false charges, and he is desirous to
remain in safety and concealment till the storm shall pass away.”
“Ha! the good clerk Clement! Ay, the worthy clerk did much for me, and
more than my rugged temper was capable to profit by. I will be glad to
see any one in the town of Perth persecute one who hath taken hold of
MacIan’s mantle!”
“It may not be safe to trust too much to that,” said Catharine. “I
nothing doubt the power of your tribe; but when the Black Douglas takes
up a feud, he is not to be scared by the shaking of a Highland plaid.”
The Highlander disguised his displeasure at this speech with a forced
laugh.
“The sparrow,” he said, “that is next the eye seems larger than the
eagle that is perched on Bengoile. You fear the Douglasses most, because
they sit next to you. But be it as you will. You will not believe how
wide our hills, and vales, and forests extend beyond the dusky barrier
of yonder mountains, and you think all the world lies on the banks of
the Tay. But this good clerk shall see hills that could hide him were
all the Douglasses on his quest--ay, and he shall see men enough also
to make them glad to get once more southward of the Grampians. And
wherefore should you not go with the good man? I will send a party to
bring him in safety from Perth, and we will set up the old trade beyond
Loch Tay--only no more cutting out of gloves for me. I will find your
father in hides, but I will not cut them, save when they are on the
creatures’ backs.”
“My father will come one day and see your housekeeping, Conachar--I
mean, Hector. But times must be quieter, for there is feud between the
townspeople and the followers of the noblemen, and there is speech of
war about to break out in the Highlands.”
“Yes, by Our Lady, Catharine! and were it not for that same Highland
war, you should nor thus put off your Highland visit, my pretty
mistress. But the race of the hills are no longer to be divided into two
nations. They will fight like men for the supremacy, and he who gets it
will deal with the King of Scotland as an equal, not as a superior. Pray
that the victory may fall to MacIan, my pious St. Catharine, for thou
shalt pray for one who loves thee dearly.”
“I will pray for the right,” said Catharine; “or rather, I will pray
that there be peace on all sides. Farewell, kind and excellent Father
Clement. Believe I shall never forget thy lessons; remember me in thy
prayers. But how wilt thou be able to sustain a journey so toilsome?”
“They shall carry him if need be,” said Hector, “if we go far without
finding a horse for him. But you, Catharine--it is far from hence to
Perth. Let me attend you thither as I was wont.”
“If you were as you were wont, I would not refuse your escort. But gold
brooches and bracelets are perilous company, when the Liddesdale and
Annandale lancers are riding as throng upon the highway as the leaves
at Hallowmass; and there is no safe meeting betwixt Highland tartans and
steel jackets.”
She hazarded this remark, as she somewhat suspected that, in casting his
slough, young Eachin had not entirely surmounted the habits which he had
acquired in his humbler state, and that, though he might use bold words,
he would not be rash enough to brave the odds of numbers, to which a
descent into the vicinity of the city would be likely to expose him. It
appeared that she judged correctly; for, after a farewell, in which she
compounded for the immunity of her lips by permitting him to kiss her
hand, she returned towards Perth, and could obtain at times, when
she looked back, an occasional glance of the Highlanders, as, winding
through the most concealed and impracticable paths, they bent their way
towards the North.
She felt in part relieved from her immediate anxiety, as the distance
increased betwixt her and these men, whose actions were only directed by
the will of their chief, and whose chief was a giddy and impetuous boy.
She apprehended no insult on her return to Perth from the soldiery of
any party whom she might meet; for the rules of chivalry were in those
days a surer protection to a maiden of decent appearance than an escort
of armed men, whose cognizance might not be acknowledged as friendly
by any other party whom they might chance to encounter. But more remote
dangers pressed on her apprehension. The pursuit of the licentious
Prince was rendered formidable by threats which his unprincipled
counsellor, Ramorny, had not shunned to utter against her father, if she
persevered in her coyness. These menaces, in such an age, and from such
a character, were deep grounds for alarm; nor could she consider the
pretensions to her favour which Conachar had scarce repressed during his
state of servitude, and seemed now to avow boldly, as less fraught with
evil, since there had been repeated incursions of the Highlanders into
the very town of Perth, and citizens had, on more occasions than one,
been made prisoners and carried off from their own houses, or had fallen
by the claymore in the very streets of their city. She feared, too, her
father’s importunity on behalf of the smith, of whose conduct on St.
Valentine’s Day unworthy reports had reached her; and whose suit, had
he stood clear in her good opinion, she dared not listen to, while
Ramorny’s threats of revenge upon her father rung on her ear. She
thought on these various dangers with the deepest apprehension, and an
earnest desire to escape from them and herself, by taking refuge in the
cloister; but saw no possibility of obtaining her father’s consent to
the only course from which she expected peace and protection.
In the course of these reflections, we cannot discover that she very
distinctly regretted that her perils attended her because she was the
Fair Maid of Perth. This was one point which marked that she was not
yet altogether an angel; and perhaps it was another that, in despite of
Henry Smith’s real or supposed delinquencies, a sigh escaped from her
bosom when she thought upon St. Valentine’s dawn.