their tents without coming to any determination. The night was clear and
beautiful; the sky shone with cerulean brightness; a clear full moon
shot her silvery rays "over tower and tree;" and every twinkling star in
the blue firmament seemed to rejoice in the opportunity of getting its
weak beam thrown upon the green earth, and adding its small mite to the
general exuberance of the smiles of the whole heavenly host. The noise
of the convention of angry nobles having ceased, and the men, wearied by
bearing arms all day, having retired to rest, there was nothing to
disturb the silence which reigned coordinately with the serene light,
and made the scene more impressively beautiful. When left to himself,
the young prince felt the contrast between the appearance of nature,
thus arrayed in her fairest smiles, and beautified by calmness and
composure, and the position of a father and a son, lying in wait for an
opportunity of engaging in the strife of war, and of even shedding each
other's blood, by the vicarious hands of those they were leading on to
the fight of kindred against kindred. His heart softened; the feelings
of nature returned for a time, and vindicated the authority they should
never have lost. His versatility was exclusive of a permanent
establishment in his bosom of affection and duty, but it was, as it
generally is, a pledge of the strength of the reigning emotion, for the
time, which, in proportion to the shortness of its duration, was intense
in its action, and engrossing in its extent. Having thrown himself on
his couch, he resigned himself to the influence of these feelings; the
poetical enthusiasm which is generated by a contemplation of nature in
her beautiful moods, and, in his instance, called forth by a survey
(through the opening of his tent) of the shining heavens and the
sleeping earth, came in aid of the instinctive emotions which occupied
his bosom; and he could not restrain the expression of what he felt.
"I have sat on the knee of him against whom I am arrayed in preparation
for mortal fight, and I have seen the tear rise in his eye, as, looking
first at me, and then at my departed mother (bless her pure spirit,
which dwelleth in that ether!), he felt proud of the pledge of their
loves, and hopeful of the virtues of a good king, to succeed him when he
died. What would have been his emotions, if he had been told by some of
his occult divinations that the boy he cherished and wept over would
lift his hand against his life, and endeavour to pluck the crown from
his living head? How dreadful, at this moment, appears to me my position
and my conduct! Almost in my view, my parent lays his head on the pillow
of a field-tent, uncertain whether his son and his son's friends may
permit him to awake again, to view the beauties of that moon, and all
that she discovers to the eye of man! Heavens! and I, conscious of my
ingratitude, know its baneful effects on a parent's mind, and yet do not
rise instantly and throw myself at his feet! Cruel versatility of nature
under which I stand accursed! Where shall I find the elements of
consistency, the true parent of happiness? Alas! I obey only the
impulses of constitution. Would that, at this auspicious moment, I had
an opportunity of acquiring again the matter of these terms of peace!
The feelings of a son, roused by conscience, would suggest an eloquence
before which all the specious views and paradoxes of Gray and Hume would
disappear, like vapours before the light of that shining queen of the
heavens."
He lifted his eyes as he spoke, to look again at the bright moon, and
saw before him, palpable to his waking intelligence, the identical
figure which had appeared to him in the Castle of Stirling. The light
brought out his form in full perfection, and a long shadow thrown upon
the floor of the tent gave an additional evidence of his presence; the
scar upon his cheek and the staphylomatic orb were apparent, and proved
his identity; and his look and manner indicated a purpose similar to
that he had announced on the occasion of his prior appearance.
"He whom the gods wish to destroy," said the figure, "is first by them
deprived of reason; and thy disregard of my counsel showeth that thou
art bent on thine own ruin. Thy father lieth there" (pointing his
finger)--"I will lead thee to his tent; and, see! there lieth beside
thee on that couch a sword. What need of more? Why not in pity end his
woes and life together? That bright moon will glory in the sight of a
son imbruing his hand in the blood of a parent--her light will be
incarnadined by the running stream of life--but water will wash the
hands of the parricide. Come, follow! Dost thou hesitate? Why, then,
this warlike array?"
"Fiend or angel," cried the prince, "which art thou? Are the counsels of
heaven couched in irony, or am I advised by a messenger of hell? Give
thy thoughts another and a clearer form, and satisfy me that thou art
well commissioned for the counsel of youth, and I will hail thee friend.
Of sage advisers, with hair as white as thine, and speech as strange,
circuitous, and wild, I have enough--my soul is torn by their contests
for the mastership of my royal will. I'd give an earldom of ten thousand
acres for ten words winged with the wisdom of above. Speak!--what art
thou?"
"All that is good comes from the skies," replied the man; "and mortals,
to attain it, are not required to trust alone to the vicarious powers
which live in that blue light of the moon's silver glory. The triumph of
God's wisdom soundeth through man's heart. Thou hast heard it, and
heeded it not. The soft and solemn notes of goodness, suited to the
gravity of knowledge that tendeth to salvation, have not awakened thee;
and the harsh tones of stimulating irony have, as a last resource, been
tried on the obdurate heart of filial disobedience. Why more? Hast thou
forgot our meeting in the Castle of Stirling? Renounce thy vain
speculations on the origin of my mission and the nature of this form,
which, thou seest, casteth a shadow on the ground, and listen to the
counsel which is independent of the tongue of man or angel that
pronounceth it. Agree to thy father's terms; hasten to his bosom, fall
on it, weep away the dregs of thy disobedience, and rejoice in the
composing and healing virtues of the fatted calf."
Having said these words, the figure glided quickly out of the tent; and,
though James immediately rose and followed, he could see no trace of the
extraordinary being who thus haunted him, and counselled him, apparently
for his good. He called some of his attendants, and asked of them if
they had seen any person leave his tent; but they answered in the
negative; and, though he personally searched among the tents, and even
visited the camp of the sutlers, he could find no trace of the
mysterious counsellor. He returned to his tent, and again threw himself
on his couch. This vision was at least no dream. All the powers of Shaw,
and all the sceptical raillery of those who laughed his father's
credulous belief in dreams and divinations to scorn, could not, he was
satisfied, drive from his mind the effects produced by the appearance
and language of this extraordinary visiter. He began to think that the
wisdom of his father, whose maxim was, that there is more in nature than
man's shallow philosophy can fathom, was truer and better lore than the
self-sufficient and profane knowledge of his noble advisers; and, though
he had no evidence that the figure was an unincorporated essence, but
rather suspected that it was made of flesh and blood like himself, there
was an impressiveness and solemnity in his thoughts and manner of
delivering them, which justified the maxim he had himself delivered,
that wisdom may come from heaven by other means than the mediation of
celestial messengers. The train of reflections which followed were grave
and sage; the feelings of a son who had injured his father, and wished
to make amends, acquired an ascendency where they should never have lost
their power, and a resolution to agree on the morn to the terms of
accommodation offered, and thus obey the counsel of the mysterious
visiter, was formed before slumber overtook his distracted mind.
Early in the morning, the council of nobles again met, and the
discussions were resumed as to the expediency of accepting the offers of
peace. The prince sat listening to the arguments in a mood of gloomy
abstraction, from which he appeared to struggle to get free, and, at
last starting up, he put an end to the strife of contending tongues by
delivering solemnly his changed opinion.
"We have all heard," he said, "that there is great wisdom in night
counsel (_consilium in nocte_)--forgive me--I do not say in dreams, or
visions, or consultations of the heavens, but in the weighing of
rational arguments in the balance of the judgment, when there is no
disturbing cause to shake the scales, and no prejudice to add a false
weight to the deductions of a biassed reasoning. I stand in a position
different from you all. You are fighting against your king, I against
my father. You are seeking what is offered to you by the terms in
question; I am fighting for what death or superannuation alone can
bestow--a king's crown or a vice-regent's tiara; and I am offered what I
scarcely deserve--an indulgent father's forgiveness and affection. Why
should I hesitate, when, by standing out, I may lose the crown and my
father's love, while, by acquiescing, I insure the one at present, and
retain the other by a sure expectancy? The words of Argyle have sat on
my heart all night. If I live till my father die, a crown and a coffin
are equally certain to me; and I shall put on the one and lie down in
the other with feelings better befitting the heir of a kingdom on earth,
and one in heaven, by acting as becometh a good son, than those that can
result from a consciousness of disobedience. Our commissioners,
therefore, have my authority for agreeing to the terms of peace."
This speech, so different from the one of the previous day, was received
with loud murmurs of dissatisfaction from the leading rebels, who
calculated with certainty on the steadiness of a youth, who, having been
untrue to his father, might safely have been suspected of a tendency to
a dangerous vacillation as regarded his new colleagues. The numbers on
the side of the prince were, however, great--perhaps amounting to a
majority--so that the discontented nobles were obliged to suppress their
chagrin, and permit the commissioners to go through the ceremony of
accepting the terms of accommodation. The treaty was therefore concluded
in the course of the day.
The monarch, acting upon the supposition that everything was amicably
settled, withdrew his army, and retired back upon Edinburgh, where, in
the excess of his gratitude to those who had brought about a result so
beneficial to the kingdom, and so gratifying to the feelings of a
father, he bestowed upon several of the nobles and knights substantial
marks of his royal favour. The Earl of Crawford was created Duke of
Montrose, Lord Kilmaurs was raised to the rank of Earl Glencairn, and
the Lairds of Balnamoon, Lag, Balyard, and others, received grants of
land. All was settled, as the weak, but good, monarch thought, amicably
and lastingly. Yet how vain are the anticipations of mortals! At the
very time when a species of jubilee was celebrating in Edinburgh, on the
re-organisation of the court and the restoration of peace and
tranquillity, the uncompromising rebel lords were triumphing in another
victory over the mind and sentiments of the prince. The versatile youth
having survived the solemn impression made on his mind by his nocturnal
counsellor, was as ready as ever to listen to the rebellious advice of
the nobles, who, trusting to their power over him, had secretly kept
together the army, which they had merely cantoned in various parts of
the south. The monarch had scarcely rested himself in the Castle of
Edinburgh, when he was informed that the same fierce faction had resumed
their ambitious schemes, and were again assembled, with the prince at
their head, in more formidable array than before.
The instant this intelligence reached Edinburgh, the king's friends who
had remained in the city urged him to re-assemble his army without
delay, and put a total end to the insurrection, by a quick and decisive
blow. The loyal nobles were active in their measures, and collected, in
a very short time, their retainers; while summonses were issued to all
those who had returned home, and especially the lords of the north, to
assemble their clans, and meet the king's troops at Stirling, whither
his majesty intended to repair in person. The commands were most readily
obeyed; the popularity of the cause of the father against the son was
very great, and had considerably increased since the breach of faith
which the latter and his rebel colleagues had displayed in not adhering
to the late solemn treaty; and in a very short time the royal army
exhibited an enlargement of its ranks, which justified expectations of a
speedy settlement of this unnatural strife. Abandoning the Castle of
Edinburgh, the monarch approached Stirling, where, having placed himself
at the head of his army, he met and attacked with considerable spirit
the forces of his son, which having dispersed, he forced them across the
Forth, and immediately after demanded admittance into his Castle of
Stirling. This request was refused by Shaw, the governor; and before
preparations could be made for forcing a surrender, or, indeed, before a
decision was come to whether an attack should, in the circumstances, be
resorted to, intelligence was brought that the antagonist forces had
re-assembled, and were encamped in strong array on the level plain above
the bridge of the Torwood.
Upon hearing this intelligence, the monarch immediately advanced against
the insurgents; and having no longer any faith in the breakers of solemn
covenants, encountered them on a track of ground known at present by the
name of Little Canglar, situated upon the east side of a small brook
called Sauchie Burn, about two miles from Stirling, and one from the
field of Bannockburn. The royal army was drawn up in three divisions,
under the advice of Lord Lindsay--the first composed of the northern
clans, under Athole and Huntly, forming an advance of Highlandmen, armed
with bows, daggers, swords, and targets; the rear division, consisting
of Westland and Stirling men, under Menteith, Erskine, and Graham; and
the main battle, composed of burghers and commons, being led by the king
himself. On the right of the king, who was splendidly armed, and rode a
tall grey horse, presented to him by Lord Lindsay, was that venerable
warrior and the Earl of Crawford, commanding a noble body of cavalry,
consisting of the chivalry of Fife and Angus; while on his left Lord
Ruthven, with the men of Strathearn and Stormont, formed a body of
nearly five thousand spearmen. On the other hand, the rebel lords
formed themselves also into three battles: the first division, composed
of the hardy spearmen of East Lothian and Merse, being led by Lord
Hailes and the Master of Hume; the second, formed of Galwegians and the
hardy Borderers of Liddesdale and Annandale, being led by Lord Gray;
while the middle, composed of the rebel lords, was led by the prince,
whose mind, recurring again to the vision of Stirling and Blackness, was
torn with remorse, and compelled him to seek some relief--alas! how
small could the means afford!--by issuing an order that no one should
dare, in the ensuing conflict, to lay violent hands on his father.
A shower of arrows (as usual) began the battle, and did little execution
on either side; and it was not till the Borderers, with that steady and
determined valour which practice in war from their infancy enabled them
to turn to so good account, advanced, and attacked the royal army, that
the serious work of the engagement could be said to have begun. But the
beginning was more like an ending than the incipient skirmishing of men
not yet warmed into the heat of strife. The onset was terrible, and the
slaughter so great, that the Earls of Huntly and Menteith retreated in
confusion upon the main body, commanded by the king, and threw it into
an alarm from which it did not recover. After making a desperate stand,
the royal forces began to waver; and the tumult having reached the spot
where the king was stationed, he was implored by his attendant lords not
to run the risk of death, which would bring ruin on their cause, but to
leave the field while yet he had any chance of doing so with safety. The
monarch consented reluctantly, and, while his nobles continued the
battle, put spurs to his horse, and fled at full speed through the
village of Bannockburn. On crossing the Bannock, at a hamlet called
Milltown, he came suddenly upon a woman drawing water, who, surprised
and terrified by the sight of an armed horseman, threw down her
pitcher, and flew into her house. The noise terrified the noble steed,
which, flying off and swerving to a side, cast his rider. The king fell
heavily, with his armour bearing him to the ground, and being much
bruised by the concussion, swooned, and lay senseless on the earth. He
was instantly carried into a miller's cottage by people who knew nothing
of his rank, but, compassionating his distress, treated him with great
humanity.
Having put the unfortunate monarch to bed, the inmates of the house
brought him such cordials as their poverty could command. In a short
time he opened his eyes, and earnestly requested the presence of a
priest.
"Who are you?" inquired the good woman who attended him, "that we may
tell who it is that requires the assistance of the holy man."
"Alas! I was your sovereign this morning," replied he.
On this the poor woman ran out of the cottage, wringing her hands, and
calling aloud for some one to come and confess the king.
"I will confess him," answered an old man in a grey cloak, tied round
the waist with a blue sash. "Where is his majesty?"
The woman led him to the house, where the monarch was found lying on a
flock-bed, with a coarse cloth thrown over him, in an obscure corner of
the room. The old man knelt down, and asked him tenderly what ailed him,
and whether he thought that, by the aid of medical remedies, he might
recover? The king assured him there was no hope, and begged the supposed
priest to receive his confession; whereupon the old man, bending over
him, under pretence of discharging his holy office, drew a dagger, and
stabbed the unresisting victim to the heart; repeating deliberately his
thrusts, till he thought life was extinct.
On hearing of the death of his father, James was inconsolable. He
ordered all search to be made for the murderer. No trace of him could be
found--the only evidence that could be procured against him was the
description of his person by the old woman of the cottage, and the
dagger with which the deed had been committed. The woman was taken
before James, that he might receive the evidence with his own ears. The
room in which he led the evidence was purposely darkened. The dreadful
state of mind into which the _quasi_ parricide was cast, exhibiting
alternately remorse, terror, grief, and shame, would have consigned him
to absolute seclusion, had he not thought that he would make some amends
for his crime, by endeavouring to discover the murderer of his parent.
He threatened the most exemplary vengeance; and, while he sat wrapped in
gloom, in an apartment darkened almost to night, his emissaries were
active on every hand, in endeavouring to find some clue to the murder.
The old woman was placed before the king, and the dagger put into his
hands.
"What is this?" he exclaimed, as he looked at the instrument, which
still retained upon its blade the blood of his father's heart. "God's
mercy! It is my own dagger!--ay, that very dagger I wore and lost upon
that dreadful day!"
The words were uttered in a low tone, and rendered, by the king's
dreadful excitement, unintelligible. Partly recovering himself, he cast
his eyes on the woman and the two courtiers that sat beside, and seeing
them occupied in arranging the materials for taking down the
precognition, he thrust the dagger among the folds of his robes, and sat
and trembled, as if the finger of an avenging God was pointing him out
to the world as the murderer of his father. He was several times on the
point of swooning, as he thought he observed Lord Gray, who was present,
following with his eye his extraordinary motions, and searching with a
keen look for the dagger.
"We had better have the dagger for the woman to speak to," said Gray.
"Your majesty hath examined it, I opine."
"Proceed with the precognition, my lord," said James, hesitatingly. "I
shall retain the dagger, and examine it in private. My grief chokes me.
I cannot put the questions. Proceed, my lord."
The king trembled as he uttered these words, and Gray and the other
courtier looked at each other, as if they held a mental colloquy as to
his strange conduct. They proceeded in the examination of the woman, in
which they went over several incidents already communicated.
"Are you sure the dagger was that carried by the old priest who stabbed
the king?" said Gray.
"I'm sure it is," answered the woman. "It fell frae him as he hastened
out o' the cottage. It was the bluid on't that first tauld me o' his
cruel act; for I thought the king's granes cam frae the pains o' his
distress."
"You got a good sight of the old man, then, I presume?" continued Gray.
"A far better sight than thae closed shutters will allow me to hae o'
his majesty, wha sits there," replied she.
James started, and looked fearfully at the witness.
"Describe the man," said Gray.
"He was a tall man," replied she, "dressed in a lang grey cloak, which
was bound round the middle by a blue belt. I observed a deep scar on his
right cheek, and his left ee was like a white grape."
This description, which was exactly that of James's night-visiter, came
upon him like the ghost of his murdered father. He fainted. Lord Gray
ran to his assistance; and, as he supported him, the dagger fell out
from among the folds of the robes. James remained insensible for some
time. As he recovered, his eye fell upon the bloodstained instrument,
that was now in the hands of Gray; and, stretching out his right hand,
he convulsively seized it, took it from the baron, and again secreted it
in the folds of his robes. His manner was wild and confused.
"Take away that woman," he cried; "she has no more to say; and if she
had, I am not in a condition to hear it. She talks strange things about
a man that hath a gash on his cheek and an eye like a grape. I cannot
listen to these things. The words burn my brain. She must be a
sorceress. I shall have her sent to the stake."
"She is an honest dame, your majesty," said the other courtiers, "and
beareth an excellent reputation where she resideth."
"Thou liest!" cried the king. "Take her away! take her away! I must be
alone. These windows are not darkened enough. Hath the smith forged my
penance-belt? See to it, Gray. My soul crieth for pain, as he who hath
been burned crieth for fire to cure the pain of fire. I did not lose my
dagger at Sauchie. It was a lie forged by a renegade. I have it still,
and will show it thee on the morrow. Let me rest. This brain requireth
repose."