have told me where your home is, and how many broad lands are
your own?' For it seemed to the old dame that a penniless lad
would never dare to win her daughter, when lords and nobles had
wooed her in vain.
But Donald's head was high, and he seemed to feel no shame as he
answered the old dame bravely--
'My name is Donald MacDonald, and I hold it high in honour. My
father is an old shepherd and my mother a dairymaid. Yet kind and
gentle will they be to your beautiful daughter if she will come
with me to the Highlands.'
Dame Lindsay could scarce believe she had heard aright. Her
daughter marry a shepherd lad! Nay, that should never be, though
indeed the lad was a bonny one and brave.
Then in her anger she bade young Donald begone. 'If ye do steal
away my daughter, then, without doubt ye shall hang for it!' she
cried.
The young laird turned haughtily on his heel. He had little
patience, nor could his spirit easily brook such scorn as the old
Dame flung at him.
He turned on his heel and he said, 'There is no law in Edinburgh
city this day which can hang me.'
But before he could say more Lizzie was by his side. 'Come to my
room, Donald,' she pleaded; and as he looked at the beautiful
girl the young laird's wrath vanished as quickly as it had come.
'Come to my room for an hour until I draw a fair picture of you
to hang in my bower. Ye shall have ten guineas if you will but
come.'
'Your golden guineas I will not have!' cried Donald quickly. 'I
have plenty of cows in the Highlands, and they are all my own.
Come with me, Lizzie, and we will feed on curds and whey, and
thou shalt have a bonnie blue plaid with red and green strips.
Come with me, Lizzie Lindsay; we will herd the wee lambs
together.'
Yet, though Lizzie loved young Donald MacDonald, she still
hesitated to leave her kind parents and her beautiful home.
She sat in her bower and she said to her maid, 'Helen, what shall
I do, for my heart is in the Highlands with Donald?'
Then the maid, who was wellnigh as beautiful as her mistress,
cried, 'Though I were a princess and sat upon a throne, yet would
I leave all to go with young Donald MacDonald.'
'O Helen!' cried Lizzie, 'would ye leave your chests full of
jewels and silk gowns, and would ye leave your father and mother,
and all your friends to go away with a Highland laddie who wears
nought but a homespun kilt?'
But before her maid could answer her, Lizzie had sprung from her
chair, saying, 'Yet I think he must be a wizard, and have
enchanted me, for, come good or come ill, I must e'en go to the
Highlands.'
Then early one morning Lizzie tied up her silk robes in a bundle
and clad herself in one of Helen's plain gowns. With her bundle
over her arm, Lizzie Lindsay was off to the Highlands with Donald
MacDonald.
Donald's heart was glad as he left the fair city of Edinburgh
behind him, Lizzie by his side. He had so much to tell his
beautiful bride, so much, too, to show her, that at first the
road seemed neither rough nor long.
But as the hours passed the way grew rougher, the hills steeper,
and Lizzie's strength began to fail. Her shoes, too, which were
not made for such rough journeys, were soon so worn that her feet
grew hot and blistered.
'Alas!' sighed Lizzie Lindsay, 'I would I were back in Edinburgh,
sitting alone in my bower.'
'We are but a few miles away from the city,' said Donald; 'will
you even now go back?'
But the tears trickled slowly down the maiden's cheeks, and she
sobbed, 'Now would I receive no welcome from my father, no kiss
from my mother, for sore displeased will they be that I have left
them for you, Donald MacDonald.'
On and on they trudged in silence, and as evening crept on Donald
cried aloud, 'Dry your tears now, Lizzie, for there before us is
our home,' and he pointed to a tiny cottage on the side of the
hill.
An old woman stood at the door, gazing down the hill, and as they
drew near she came forward with outstretched hands. 'Welcome, Sir
Donald,' she said, 'welcome home to your own.'
'She spoke in Gaelic, as Highlanders do, so Lizzie did not know
what she said.
Sir Donald whispered quickly in the same language, 'Hush, call me
only Donald, and pretend that I am your son.' The old woman,
though sore dismayed at having to treat the young laird in so
homely a way, promised to do his bidding.
Then Donald turned to Lizzie. 'Here mother,' he said, 'is my
lady-love, whom I have won in the fair city of Edinburgh.'
The old woman drew Lizzie into the cottage, and spoke kindly to
her, but the maiden's heart sank. For a peat fire smouldered on
the hearth and the room was filled with smoke. There was no easy
chair, no couch on which to rest her weary body, so Lizzie
dropped down on to a heap of green turf.
Her sadness did not seem to trouble Donald. He seemed gayer,
happier, every moment.
'We are hungry, mother,' he said; 'make us a good supper of curds
and whey, and then make us a bed of green rushes and cover us
with yonder grey plaids.'
The old woman moved about eagerly as though overjoyed to do all
that she could for her son and his young bride.
Curds and whey was a supper dainty enough for a queen, as Lizzie
whispered to her shepherd lad with a little sigh. Even the bed of
green rushes could not keep her awake. No sooner had she lain
down than, worn out with her long journey, she fell fast asleep,
nor did she awake until the sun was high in the sky.
As she awoke she heard Donald's voice. He was reproaching her,
and she had not been used to reproach.
'It would have been well,' said Donald, 'that you had risen an
hour ago to milk the cows, to tend the flock.'
The tears gathered in Lizzie's eyes and trickled down her cheeks.
'Alas, alas!' she sighed, 'I would I had never left my home, for
here I am of little use. I have never milked a cow, nor do I know
how to begin, and flocks have I never tended. Alas that I ever
came to the Highlands! Yet well do I love Donald MacDonald, and
long and dull would the days have been had he left me behind him
in Edinburgh.'
'Shed no more tears, Lizzie,' said Donald gently. 'Get up and
dress yourself in your silk gown, for to-day I will take you over
the hills of Kingcaussie and show you the glens and dales where
I used to play when I was but a little lad.'
Then Lizzie dried her tears and soon she was up and dressed in
her finest gown, and leaning on Donald's arm she wandered with
him over the heathery hills until they reached a noble castle.
Joyously then laughed the young laird, as he bade Lizzie gaze all
around her and be glad.
'I am the lord of all you see, Lizzie,' cried he, 'for this
castle is my home and the mountains are my own broad lands.'
Then joyously too laughed Lizzie Lindsay, for she knew that her
shepherd lad was none other than the far-famed Sir Donald
MacDonald.
At that moment the castle gates were flung wide, and the old
Laird of Kingcaussie came out to greet the bride.
'Ye are welcome, Lizzie Lindsay, welcome to our castle,' he said
right courteously. 'Many were the lords and nobles who begged for
your hand, but it is young Donald, my son, who has won it, with
no gift save the glance of his bonny blue eyes.' And the old
laird laughed merrily as he looked up at his son.
The laird's gracious mother too came down to greet her, and well
was she pleased that her boy had won the beautiful maiden he
loved.
As for Lizzie Lindsay, she sent to Edinburgh to fetch her father
and mother, that they might see for themselves how wise their
daughter had been to follow Donald MacDonald to the Highlands.
THE GAY GOSHAWK
Lord William sat alone in his grey northern castle. He had come
but lately from the sunny South, and the room in which he sat
struck chill after the sun-warmed rooms to which he had grown
used. Little joy had Lord William in his old grey castle, for his
heart was far away in the sunny South.
All alone he sat save for his favourite bird, the gay goshawk.
And it, for it loved its master well, blinked a tear from its eye
as it peered into Lord William's gloomy face, blinked and peered
again, so pale and lean had his master grown.
'Now what ill has befallen,' thought the bird, and it ruffled its
feathers in its distress.
Lord William looked up and stroked the glossy plumage of his gay
goshawk.
'Be still, my bonny bird, be still,' said Lord William, 'and I
will smooth your ruffled wings.'
The goshawk blinked and peered more close into the tired face of
his master. Then he began to speak.
'Have you lost your sword or spear in the tournament, have you
lost them in sunny England?' asked the bird, 'or are you pale
with grief because your true love is far away?'
'By my troth!' cried Lord William, 'I have lost nor sword nor
spear, yet do I mourn, for my true love whom I fain would see.
'You shall carry a message to her, my gay goshawk, for you can
fly over hill and dale. You shall carry a letter to my love, and
you shall e'en bring me an answer,' said Lord William, 'for you
can speak as well as fly, my bonny bird.'
'But how shall I know your true love?' said the bird. 'Never have
I seen her face or heard her voice.'
'O well will you know my true love,' cried Lord William, 'for in
all England lives there none so fair as she. The cheeks of my
love are red as the red red rose, and her neck, it is whiter than
new-fallen snow.
'Near to her lattice window grows a birch, whose leaves tremble
in the breeze. There shall you sit, my gay goshawk, and you shall
sing to her as she goes to holy church.
'With four-and-twenty maidens will she go, yet well will you know
my own true love, for she is the fairest of them all. You shall
know her, too, by the gold that bedecks her skirt, by the light
that glimmers in her hair.'
Then Lord William sat down and wrote a letter to his love, and
fastened it firm under the pinion of his gay goshawk. Away flew
the bird, swift did it fly to do its master's will. O'er hill and
dale it winged its flight until at length it saw the birch-tree
that grew near the lady's bower.
There, on the birch-tree, did the goshawk perch, and there did he
sing his song as the lady with her four-and-twenty maidens passed
beneath its branches towards the church.
The sharp eyes of the goshawk glanced at each beautiful maiden,
and quick was he to see Lord William's love, for sweet was she as
the flowers that spring in May. Gold was embroidered on her
skirt, sunlight glistened in her beautiful yellow hair.
When another day dawned the gay goshawk left the birch-tree and
alighted on the gate, a little nearer to the lattice window where
sat the beautiful lady to whom he had been sent. Here again he
sang his song. Loud and clear he sang it first, loud and clear
that all might hear. Soft and sweet he sang it after, soft and
sweet that only Lord William's lady might catch the note of love.
And ever, loud or soft, the last words of his song were these,
'Your true love cannot come to you here.'
Then said the lady to her four-and-twenty maidens, 'Eat, my merry
maidens, eat and drink, for the feast is spread. I go but to my
lattice window to listen to the birds, for hark! they are singing
their evensong.'
But in her heart the lady knew there was only one song she
longed to hear. Wide she opened her lattice window and, leaning
out, she hearkened to the song of the gay goshawk.
'Sing on, ye bonny bird,' she cried, 'sing on, for I know no song
could be so sweet that came not from my own true love.'
A little nearer flew the gay goshawk, and first his song was
merry as a summer morn, and then it was sad as an autumn eve.
As she listened, tears dropped from the eyes of the beautiful
lady. She put out her hand and stroked the pinions of the gay
goshawk, and lo! there dropped from beneath his wing Lord
William's letter.
'Five letters has my master sent to you,' said the bird, 'and
long has he looked for one from you, yet never has it come, and
he is weary with long waiting.'
Then the lady sighed, for no letter had she ever had from her
true love. 'My stepmother has hidden the letters, for never one
have I seen,' she cried.
[Illustration: 'I go but to my lattice window to listen to the
birds']
Her fingers tore open the letter which had dropped from
beneath the bird's wing, and she read, and as she read she
laughed aloud.
Lord William had written a letter that was full of grief, because
he could not come to the lady he loved, yet did the lady laugh.
And this is why she laughed both long and glad. Because she had
made up her mind that as he could not come to her she herself
would go to Lord William.
'Carry this message to my own true love,' said she then to the
gay goshawk.
'Since you cannot come to me, I myself will come to you in your
cold northern country. And as a token of my love I send you by
your gay goshawk a ring from off my finger, a wreath from off my
yellow hair. And lest these should not please you I send my
heart, and more than that can you not wish.
'Prepare the wedding feast, invite the guests, and then haste you
to meet me at St. Mary's Church, for there, ere long, will you
find me.
'Fly, gay goshawk, fly and carry with you my message to Lord
William.'
And the bird flew o'er hill and dale until once again he reached
the grey northern castle in which his master dwelt. And he saw
his master's eye grow glad, his pale cheek glow as he listened to
the message, as he held the tokens of his own true love.
Then the lady, left alone, closed her lattice window and went up
to her own room followed by her maidens. Here she began to moan
and cry as though she were in great pain, or seized by sudden
illness. So ill she seemed that those who watched her feared that
she would die.
'My father!' moaned the lady, 'tell my father that I am ill; bid
him come to me without delay.'
Up to her room hastened her father, and sorely did he grieve when
he saw that his daughter was so ill.
'Father, dear father,' she cried, holding his strong hand in her
pale white one, 'grant me a boon ere I die.'
'An you ask not for the lord who lives in the cold north country,
my daughter, you may ask for what you will, and it shall be
granted.'
'Promise me, then,' said his daughter, 'that though I die here in
the sunny South, you will carry me when I am dead to the cold
grey North.
'And at the first church to which we come, tarry, that a mass may
be said for my soul. At the second let me rest until the bells be
tolled slow and solemn. When you come to the third church, which
is named St. Mary's, grant that from thence you will not bear me
until the night shades fall.'
Then her father pledged his word that all should be done as she
wished.
Now as her father left her room, the lady sent her
four-and-twenty maidens down to her bower that they might eat and
drink. And when she was left alone she hastened to drink a
sleeping draught which she had already prepared in secret.
This draught would make her seem as one who was dead. And indeed
no sooner had she drunk it than she grew pale and still.
Her cruel stepmother came up into the room. She did not love the
beautiful maiden, and when she saw her lying thus, so white, so
cold, she laughed, and said, 'We shall soon see if she be really
dead.'
Then she lit a fire in the silent room, and placing some lead in
a little goblet, she stirred it over the flames with an iron
spoon until it melted. When the lead was melted the stepmother
carried a spoonful carefully to the side of the bed, and stood
there looking down upon the still white form. It neither moved
nor moaned.
'She is not dead,' murmured the cruel woman to herself; 'she
deceives us, that she may be carried away to the land of her own
true love. She will not lie there silent long.' And she let some
drops of the burning lead fall on to the heart of the quiet
maiden. Yet still the maiden never moved nor cried.
'Send for her father,' shouted the cruel stepmother, going to the
door of the little room, for now she believed the maiden was
really dead.
'Alas, alas!' cried her father when he came and saw his daughter
lying on her white bed, so pale, so cold. 'Alas, alas, my child
is dead indeed!'
Then her seven brothers wept for their beautiful sister; but when
they had dried their tears, they arose and went into the forest.
There they cut down a tall oak-tree and made a bier for the
maiden, and they covered the oak with silver.
Her seven sisters wept for their beautiful sister when they saw
that she neither stirred nor moaned. They wept, but when they had
dried their tears they arose and sewed a shroud for the maiden,
and at each stitch they took they fastened into it a little
silver bell.
Now the duke, her father, had pledged his word that his daughter
should be carried, ere she was buried, to St. Mary's Church. Her
seven brothers therefore set out on the long sad journey toward the
gloomy north country, carrying their sister in the silver-mounted
bier. She was clad in the shroud her seven sisters had sewed, and
the silver bells tinkled softly at each step her seven strong
brothers took along the road.
The stepmother had no tears to shed. Indeed she had no time to
weep, for she must keep strict watch over the dead maiden's seven
sisters, lest they too grew ill and thus escaped her power.
As for the poor old father, he shut himself up alone to grieve
for his dear lost child.
When the seven brothers reached the first church, they remembered
their father's promise to their sister. They set down the bier
and waited, that a mass might be sung for the lady's soul.
Then on again they journeyed until before them they saw another
church.
'Here will we rest until the bell has been tolled,' they said,
and again the bier was placed in the holy church.
'We will come to St. Mary's ere we tarry again,' said the seven
brothers, and there they knew that their journey would be over.
Yet little did they know in how strange a way it would end.
Slow and careful were the brothers' steps as they drew near to
the church of St. Mary, slow and sad, for there they must part
from their beautiful pale sister.
The chime of the silver bells floated on the still air, dulling
the sound of the seven strong brothers' footsteps.
They were close to St. Mary's now, and as they laid the bier down
the brothers started, for out of the shadows crept tall armed
men, and in their midst stood Lord William. He had come as he had
been bidden to meet his bride. The brothers knew him well, the
lord from the cold grey country, who had stolen the heart of
their beautiful sister.
'Stand back,' commanded Lord William, and his voice was stern,
for not thus had he thought to meet the lady he loved. 'Stand
back and let me look once more upon the face of my own true
love.'
Then the seven brothers, though they had but little goodwill for
the northern lord, lifted the bier and laid it at his feet, that
once again he might look upon the face of their pale cold sister.
And lo! as Lord William took the hand, the cold white hand, of
his true love in his own, it grew warm, as his lips touched hers
they grew rosy, and the colour crept into her cheeks. Ere long
she lay smiling back at her own true love with cheeks that
bloomed and eyes that shone. The power of the sleeping draught
was over.
'Give me bread, dear lord,' cried the lady, 'for no food have I
tasted for three long days and nights, and this have I done that
I might come to you, my own true love.'
When the lady had eaten she turned to her seven strong brothers.
'Begone, my seven bold brothers,' she cried, 'begone to your home
in the sunny South, and tell how your sister has reached her
lord.'
'Now woe betide you,' answered her bold brothers, 'for you have
left your seven sisters and your old father at home to weep for
you.'
'Carry my love to my old father,' cried the lady, 'and to my
sisters seven. Bid them that they dry their tears nor weep for
me, for I am come to my own true love.'
Then the seven brothers turned away in anger and went back to
their home in the South. But Lord William carried his own true
love off to the old grey castle where they were married. And the
gay goshawk sang their wedding song.
THE LAIRD O' LOGIE
It was when James the Sixth was king in Scotland that the young
Wemyss of Logie got into sore trouble.
Wemyss of Logie was one of the king's courtiers; a tall, handsome
lad he was, and a favourite with both king and queen.
Now King James had brought his wife, Queen Anne, across the sea
to Scotland. Her home was in Denmark, and when she came, a royal
bride, to Scotland, she brought with her a few fair Danish maids.
She thought it would be dull in her new home unless she had some
of her own country-folk around her.
Among these maids was a tall, beautiful girl named Margaret
Twynlace. Her the queen loved well, and oft would she speak with
Margaret of their old free life in the country over the sea.
It chanced on a day that the young Laird of Logie was in
attendance upon the king, and the Danish maid, Margaret Twynlace,
in waiting upon the queen; and that day they two looked at each
other, and yet another day they two talked to each other, indeed
many were the times they met. And before long it was well known
at court that the young Laird of Logie loved the Danish maid
Margaret, and would marry her an he could.
But now trouble befell the young laird. He had been seen talking
with the Earl of Bothwell, and he a traitor to the king. Nor was
it alone that Wemyss of Logie had been seen to speak with
Bothwell. It was even said that he had letters written by the
traitor in his room at Holyrood.
No sooner had this rumour reached the king than orders were given
to search both young Logie himself and the room in which he was
used to sleep.
On his person no letters were found, but in his room, flung
carelessly into his trunk, lay a packet of letters tied and
sealed. And the seal was that of the traitor, the Earl of
Bothwell.
The young laird was taken at once before the king. He spoke in
his usual fearless tones.
'It is true,' said he, 'that I have ofttimes spoken to the Earl
of Bothwell, and it is true that I received from him the sealed
packet which was found in my trunk. But of that which is written
in the packet know I nought. The seal is, as you see, unbroken.
Nor knew I that the earl was still acting as traitor,' added the
lad, as he saw displeasure written on the face of the king.
But despite all he could say, the young laird was arrested as a
traitor and thrown into prison. Margaret Twynlace with her own
eyes saw Sir John Carmichael, keeper of the prison, turn the key
in the lock.
Margaret went quickly to the queen's house, but there did she
neither sew nor sing. She sat twining her fingers in and out,
while she cried, 'Woe is me that ever I was born, or that ever I
left my home in Denmark. I would I had never seen the young Laird
of Logie.' And then Margaret wept bitterly, for having seen the
young laird, she loved him well.
When the queen came to her bower, she was grieved to see her
favourite maid in tears. Yet had she no comfort to offer her, for
well she knew that, even should he wish it, little power had the
king to save the young Laird of Logie.
But the queen spoke kindly to the maid, and told her that she,
Margaret, might e'en go herself to King James to beg for the life
of the young Laird of Logie. For it was well known that the
sentence passed on him would be death.
Then Margaret Twynlace wiped from her face all traces of her
tears. She put on her soft green silk gown, and she combed out
her bonny yellow hair. Thus she went into the presence of the
king and fell on her knee before him.
'Why, May Margaret,' said the king, 'is it thou? What dost thou
at my feet, my bonny maid?'
'Ah, sire,' cried she, 'I have come to beg of thee a boon. Nor
ever since I came over the sea have I begged of thee until now.
Give me, I beseech of thee, the life of the young Laird of
Logie.'
'Alas, May Margaret,' cried the king, 'that cannot I do! An thou
gavest to me all the gold that is in Scotland yet could I not
save the lad.'
Then Margaret Twynlace turned away and crept back to the queen's
bower. Yet now no tears fell from her blue eyes, for if neither
king nor queen could help the young Laird of Logie, she herself
would save him from death.
She would wait until night, when the king and queen slumbered,
and then she would carry out her plan. A brave plan it was, for
Margaret Twynlace was no coward maid.
Quiet and patient she waited in the little ante-room, close to
the queen's bedchamber, waited until she felt sure the royal pair
were fast asleep. Then tripping lightly on tiptoe, she stole
into the bedroom, where, as she had guessed, both king and queen
were slumbering sound.
She crossed the room, quiet as any mouse, and reached the toilet
table. There lay the king's gold comb, and close to it the little
pearl knife, the king's wedding gift to his queen.
Back tripped Margaret, still on tiptoe, to the ante-room, and
stood, her breath coming quick.
Had she roused the king or queen? Was that the bed creaking?