"Not much his new ally he loved,
Yet when he saw what hap had proved,
He greeted him right heartilie;
He would not waken old debate,
For he was void of rancorous hate,
Though rude, and scant of courtesy."The Last Minstrel, canto v.
One fine forenoon, a few days after the occurrences related in the last chapter, a horseman appeared riding along the narrow uneven road leading by the banks of Lochisla towards the tower. It was Sir Allan Lisle, who came along at a slow trot, managing his nag with the ease and grace of a perfect rider, never making use of either whip or spur, but often drawing in his rein to indulge the pleasure and curiosity with which he beheld (though accustomed to the splendid scenery of Perthshire) this secluded spot, which he had never seen before,—the black and solitary tower, the dark blue waveless loch, and the wild scenery by which it was surrounded.
As he advanced up the ascent towards the tower, his horse began to snort, shake its mane, and grow restive, as its ears were saluted by a noise to which they were unaccustomed.
Donald Iverach, the old piper of the family, (which office his ancestors had held since the days of Robert the Second, according to his own account,) was pacing with a stately air to and fro before the door of the fortalice, with the expanded bag of the piob mhor under his arm, blowing from its long chaunter and three huge drones "a tempest of dissonance;" while he measured with regular strides the length of the barbican or court, at one end of which stood a large stoup of whisky, (placed on the end of a cask,) to which he applied himself at every turn of his promenade to wet his whistle.
The piper, though of low stature, was of a powerful, athletic, and sinewy form, and although nearly sixty, was as fresh as when only sixteen; his face was rough and purple, from drinking and exposure to the weather; his huge red whiskers curled round beneath his chin and grew up to his eyes, which twinkled and glittered beneath their shaggy brows; a smart blue bonnet set jauntily, very much over the right eye, gave him a knowing look, and his knees, "which had never known covering from the day of his birth," where exposed by the kilt were hairy and rough as the hide of the roe-buck; his plaid waved behind, and a richly mounted dirk, eighteen inches long, hanging on his right side, completed his attire.
Great was the surprise of the Celt when, on turning in his march, he suddenly beheld Sir Allan Lisle, whom he had not seen since the last year, when by the laird's orders he had endeavoured, by the overwhelming noise of his pipe, to drown a speech which the baronet was addressing to the electors of the county. But what earthly errand, thought Donald, could bring a Lisle up Strathisla, where one of the race had not been seen since the father of the present Sir Allan had beleagured the tower in 1746 with a party of the Scottish Fusileers. The chaunter fell from the hand of the astonished piper, and the wind in the bag of his instrument escaped with an appalling groan.
"My good friend, I am glad you have ceased at last," said Sir Allan; "I expected every moment that my horse would have thrown me. This fortress of yours will be secure against cavalry while you are in it, I dare swear."
"I dinna ken, sir," replied the piper, touching his bonnet haughtily; "but when pare-leggit gillies and red coats tried it in the troublesome times, they aye gat the tead man's share o' the deep loch below."
"Is your master—is Lochisla at home?"
"His honour the laird is within," replied Iverach, as Sir Allan dismounted and desired him to hold his horse.
"Lochisla's piper will hold nae man's bridle-rein, his honour's excepted," said the indignant Highlander; "put a common gillie may do tat. Holloa! Alpin Oig Stuart! Dugald! Evan! come an' hold ta shentleman's praw sheltie," shouted he, making the old barbican ring.
"One will do, I dare say," said Sir Allan, smiling as he resigned his nag to Evan, Iverach's son, a powerful young mountaineer, who appeared at his father's shout.
Preceded by Donald, Sir Allan ascended the winding staircase of the tower, and was ushered into the hall, or principal apartment it contained, the roof of which was a stone arch. At one side yawned a large fire-place, on the mouldered lintel of which appeared the crest and badge-flower of the Stuarts,—a thistle, and underneath was the family motto, "Omne solum forti patria." At each end of the chamber was a window of moderate size, with a stone mullion in the form of a cross; one commanded a view of the loch and neighbouring forests of birch and pine, and the other the distant outline of the high Benmore. The walls were adorned with apparatus for hunting, fishing, shooting, and sylvan trophies, intermixed with targets, claymores, Lochaber axes, old muskets, matchlocks, &c.
The furniture was of oak, or old and black mahogany, massive and much dilapidated, presenting a very different appearance to that in the splendid modern drawing-room at Inchavon. A few old portraits hung on the blackened walls, and one in particular, that of a stern old Highlander, whose white beard flowed over his belted plaid, seemed to scowl on Sir Allan, who felt considerably embarrassed when he unexpectedly found himself in the habitation of one, whom he could not consider otherwise than as his foe.
While awaiting the appearance of the proprietor, whom the piper was gone to inform of the visit, Sir Allan's eye often wandered to the portrait above the fire-place, and he remembered that it was the likeness of the father of the present Stuart, who at the battle of Falkirk had unhorsed, by a stroke of his broadsword, his (Sir Allan's) father, then an officer in the army of General Hawley. While Sir Allan mused over the tales he had heard of the grim Ian Mhor of Lochisla, the door opened, and Mr. Stuart entered.
Erect in person, stately in step, and graceful in deportment, strong and athletic of form, he appeared in every respect the genuine Highland gentleman. He was upwards of sixty, but his eye was clear, keen, and bright, and his weather-beaten cheek and expansive forehead were naturally tinged with a ruddy tint, which was increased to a flush by the excitement caused at this unlooked-for visit.
Unlike his servants, who wore the red tartan of their race, he was attired in the usual dress of a country gentleman, and wore his silver locks thickly and unnecessarily powdered, and clubbed in a thick queue behind.
The natural politeness and hospitable feeling of a Highlander had banished every trace of displeasure from his bold and unwrinkled brow, and he grasped Sir Allan's hand with a frankness at which the latter was surprised, as was old Janet the housekeeper, who saw through the keyhole what passed, though she was unable, in consequence of her deafness, to hear what was said.
"Be seated, Sir Allan," said Mr. Stuart, bowing politely, though he felt his stiffness and hauteur rising within him, and endeavoured to smother it. "To what am I indebted for the honour of this visit? which, I must have the candour to acknowledge, is most unexpected."
"Lochisla," replied the other, addressing him in the Scottish manner by the name of his property, "to the gallantry of your brave boy, Ronald, but for whose exertions I should at this moment have been sleeping at the bottom of the Linn at Corrie-avon. I have deemed it incumbent upon me to visit Lochisla, to return my earnest thanks personally for the signal service he has rendered to me, and I regret that the terms on which you—on which we have lived, render, in your estimation, my visit rather an honour than a pleasure."
A shade crossed the brow of the Highlander, but on hearing the particulars he congratulated Sir Allan on his escape in a distant and polite manner, while the twinkle of his bright eyes showed how much satisfaction he enjoyed at the brave conduct of his son. While Sir Allan was relating the story, Mr. Stuart placed near him a large silver liqueur frame, containing six cut-glass bottles, the variously coloured contents of which sparkled behind their silver labels.
"Come, Sir Allan, fill your glass, and drink to my boy's health: one does not experience so narrow an escape often, now-a-days at least. Come, sir, fill your glass,—there is sherry, brandy, port, and the purer dew of the hills; choose which you please."
"You Stuarts of Lochisla have long borne a name for hospitality, but it is rather early to taste strong waters,—'tis not meridian yet."
"Our hospitality was greater in the olden time than it is now; but it is not often that this old hall has within it one of the Lisles of the Inch, and you must positively drink with me," answered his host, compelling him to fill his glass from the decanter of purple port.
"Our visits have been fewer, and less friendly, than I trust they will be for the future. Your health Lochisla," he added, sipping his wine. "'Tis sixty years and more, I think, since my father came up the Strath with his followers, when—"
"We will not talk of these matters, Sir Allan," exclaimed Stuart, on whose features was gathering a stern expression which Sir Allan saw not, as he sat with his face to a window and looked through his glass with one eye closed, watching a crumb of the bee's wing floating on the bright liquor. "They are the last I would wish to think of when you are my guest."
"Pardon me, I had no wish to offend; we have ever been as strangers to each other, although our acres march. I have had every desire to live on amicable terms with you, Mr. Stuart; but you have ever been prejudiced against me, and truly without a cause."
"I am one of the few who inherit the feelings of a bygone age. But, Sir Allan Lisle, let us not, I intreat you, refer to the past," coldly replied the old Highlander, to whom two parts of his guest's last speech were displeasing. The recurrence to the past terms on which they had lived, brought to his mind more than one case of litigation in which Sir Allan had come off victorious; the other was being addressed as Mr. Stuart, a title by which he was never known among his own people. The polite and affable manner of his visitor had tended to diminish his prejudices during the last five minutes, but Sir Allan's blundering observations recalled to the mind of the old duinhe-wassal the bitter feelings which he inherited from his father, and his high forehead became flushed and contracted.
"It appears very unaccountable," said he, after the uncomfortable pause which had ensued, "that my son has never, during the past days, mentioned the circumstance of the happy manner in which he drew you from the Corrie-avon."
"To that," replied the other laughing, "a story is appended, a very romantic one indeed, part of which I suppressed in my relation; nothing less, in fact, than a love-affair, to which, as I have conceived a friendship for the brave boy to whom I owe a life, I drink every success," (draining his glass); "but this must be treated of more gravely at a future interview."
"Sir Allan, I understand you not; but if Ronald has formed any attachment in this neighbourhood, he must learn to forget it, as he will soon leave Lochisla. Some cottage girl, I suppose: these attachments are common enough among the mountains."
"You mistake me: the young lady is one every way his equal, and they have known each other from their childhood. But I will leave the hero to tell his own tale, which will sound better from the lips of a handsome Highland youth, than those of a plain grey-haired old fellow, like myself."
"I like your frankness," said Stuart, softened by the praise bestowed on his son by his old adversary, whose hand he shook, "and will requite it, Sir Allan. When Ronald comes down the glen, I will talk with him over this matter, which I confess troubles me a little at heart, as I never supposed he would have kept an attachment of his secret from me, his only parent now, and one that has loved him so dearly as I have done. But I must be gentle with him, as he is about to leave me soon, poor boy."
"Ah! for the army,—so I have heard: our boys will follow nothing else now-a-days. I fear my own springald, Lewis, is casting wistful thoughts that way. But should you wish it, I may do much in Ronald's favour: I have some little interest with those in power in London, and——"
"I thank you, but it needs not to be so. Huntly has promised me that Ronald shall not be forgotten when a vacancy occurs in the "Gordon Highlanders," a regiment raised among his own people and kindred; and the Marquis, whose interest is great with the Duke of York, will not forget his word—his pledged word to a Highland gentleman."
On Sir Allan's departure, Stuart, from one of the hall windows, watched his retiring figure as he rode rapidly down the glen, and disappeared among the birchen foliage which overhung and shrouded the winding pathway. A sour smile curled his lip; he felt old prejudices rising strongly in his breast, and he turned his eye on the faded portrait of his father, and thought of the time when he had sat as a little child upon his knee, and heard the family of Lisle mentioned with all the bitterness of Highland rancour, and been told a thousand times of the days when Colonel Lisle had carried fire and sword through all Lochisla, besieging the little tower for days, until its inmates were perishing for want. In the tide of feeling which these reflections called forth, the late amiable interview was forgotten; and he only remembered Sir Allan as the foe of his race, and the victor in many a keenly contested case in the Parliament house, the place where the Court of Session sit at Edinburgh.
A bustle in the narrow staircase recalled him to himself: the door was thrown open, and Ronald entered, gun in hand, from the hill, flushed and excited with the nature of the sport. Two tall Highlanders strode behind, bearing on their shoulders a stout pole, from which was suspended by the heels a gigantic deer, whose branching antlers trailed on the floor, which was sprinkled with spots of blood falling from its dilated nostrils and a death-wound in its neck, which had been gashed across by the skene-dhu of a Highlander. A number of red-eyed dogs accompanied them, displaying in their forms the long and muscular limbs, voluminous chest, and rough wiry coat of the old Scottish hound,—a noble animal, once common in the Lowlands, but now to be found only in the north, where the deer wander free over immense stretches of waste moorland or forest, as they did of old.
"A brave beast he is," said Ronald exultingly, as he cast aside his bonnet and gun. "At the head of the loch I fired, and wounded him here in the neck: we traced him by the blood for two miles down the Isla, where he flew through thicket and brake with the speed of an arrow; but the gallant dogs Odin and Carril fastened upon him, and drew him down when about to take the water, near the march-stone of the Lisles. 'Twas luckily done: had he once gained the grounds of Inchavon, our prize would have been lost."
"Ronald," replied his father coldly, "we will hear all this matter afterwards." Then turning to the gillies, "Dugald Stuart, and you Alpin Oig," said he, "carry away this quarry to the housekeeper, and desire her to fill your queghs for you. I have had a visit from Sir Allan Lisle," resumed Stuart, when the Highlanders had obeyed his order and retired. "Hah! you change countenance already: this has been a mysterious matter. He has been here to return thanks for your pulling him out of Isla, where he was nearly drowned, poor man, a day or two since,—a circumstance which you seem to have thought too worthless to mention to me. But there is another matter, on which I might at least have been consulted," he added, watching steadily the changes in the countenance of the young man, whose heart fluttered with excitement. "You have formed an attachment to some girl in the neighbourhood, which has reached the ears of this Allan Lisle although it never came to mine, and the intercourse has continued for years although I have been ignorant of it. Ronald, my boy, who is the girl? As your father, I have at least a right to inquire her name and family."
"Do pray excuse me," faltered the other, playing nervously with his bonnet; "I am too much embarrassed at present to reply,—some other time. Ah! your anger would but increase, I fear, were you to know."
"It does increase! Surely she is not a daughter of that grim churl Corrieoich up the glen yonder? I have seen his tawdry kimmers at the county ball. I can scarcely think this flame of yours is a child of his. You remember the squabble I had with him about firing on his people, who were dragging the loch with nets under the very tower windows. By Heaven! is she a daughter of his?" cried his father in the loud and imperative tone so natural to a Highlander. "Answer me, I command you, Ronald Stuart!"
"She is not, I pledge you my word," replied the young man gently.
"Ronald!" exclaimed the old gentleman, a dark flush gathering on his cheek, "she must be some mean and contemptible object, otherwise you would not shrink from the mention of her name, was it gentle and noble, in this coward way."
"Coward I never was," replied Ronald bitterly. "I may shrink before my own father, when I would scorn to quail before the angry eye of any other man who lives and breathes. Nor do I blush to own the name of—of this lady. She is Alice, the daughter of Sir Allan Lisle, of Inchavon. Ah, sir! I fear I have applied a match to a mine; but I must await the explosion."
Ronald had indeed lighted a mine. A terrible expression flashed in the eyes of the old Highlander, and gathered upon his formidable brow.
"Ronald! Ronald! for this duplicity I was unprepared," he exclaimed in emphatic Gaelic, with a tone of the bitterest reproach. "Have you dared to address yourself to a daughter of that man? Look up, degenerate boy!" he added, grasping Ronald's arm with fierce energy, while he spoke with stern distinctness. "Look upon the portrait of old Ian Mhor, your brave grand sire, and imagine what he would have thought of this. The Lisles of Inchavon! Dhia gledh sinn! I have not forgotten their last hostile attempt sixty-five years since, in 1746, when Colonel Lisle, the father of this Sir Allan, besieged our tower with his whole battalion. I was a mere infant then; but I well remember how the muskets of the fusileers flashed daily and nightly from rock and copse-wood, and from the dark loopholes of the tower, where the brave retainers of Lochisla defended my father's stronghold with the desperate courage of outlawed and ruined men,—ruined and outlawed in a noble cause! These days of death and siege I have not forgotten, nor the pale cheek of the mother at whose breast I hung seeking nourishment, while she was perishing for want of food. Nor have I forgotten the gallows-tree—God be gracious unto me!—raised by the insolent soldiery on the brae-head to hang our people when they surrendered; and, had they ever yielded, they would have swung every man of them, and have been food for the raven and hoodiecraw. And this paternal tower would have been now ruined and roofless, forming a lair for the fox and the owl, but for the friendship of our kinsman Seafield, who wrung a respite and reprieve from the unwilling hand of the merciless German duke.
"Oh, Ronald Stuart! remember these things, and recall some traces of the spirit of Ian Mhor, whose name and blood you inherit. He was a stern old man, and a proud one, possessing the spirit of the days that are gone,—days when the bold son of the hills redressed his wrongs with his own right hand, and held his lands, not by possession of a sheepskin, but by the broad blade of his good claymore."
He paused a moment, passed his hand across his glowing brow, and thus continued in a tone of sterner import, and more high-flown Gaelic.
"Listen to me, O Ronald! Hearken to a father who has loved, and watched, and tended you as never father did a son. Think no more of Inchavon's daughter! Promise me to spurn her from your remembrance, or never more shall you find a home in the dwelling-place of our fathers: you shall be as a stranger to my heart, and your name be known in Lochisla no more. I will cast you off as a withered branch, and leave our ancient patrimony to the hereditary chieftain of our race. Pledge me your word, or, Ronald, I pronounce you for ever lost!"
During this long and energetic harangue, which was delivered in the sonorous voice which Mr. Stuart always assumed with his Gaelic, various had been the contending emotions in the bosom of Ronald. Love and pride, indignation and filial respect, agitated him by turns; and when his father ceased, he took up his bonnet with an air of pride and grief.
"Sir—sir—O my father!" said he, while his pale lip quivered, and a tear glittered in his dark eye, "you will be spared any further trouble on my account. I will go; leave Lochisla to the Stuarts of Appin, or whom you may please. I will seek my fortune elsewhere, and show you truly that 'a brave man makes every soil his country.'"
As he turned to leave the apartment, the stern aspect of his father's features relaxed, and he surveyed him with a wistful look.
"Stay, Ronald," he exclaimed; "I have been hasty. You would not desert me thus in my old age, and leave me with anger on your brow? Let not our pride overcome our natural affection. I will speak of this matter again, and——"
Here he was interrupted by Donald Iverach, who entered respectfully, bonnet in hand, bearing two long official-looking letters, which he handed to Mr. Stuart, who started on perceiving "On his Majesty's service" (an unusual notice to him) printed on the upper corner of each.
"Hoigh!" said the piper, "your honour's clory disna get twa sic muckle letters ilka day. The auld doited cailloch tat keeps the post-house down at the clachan of Strathfillan, sent a gilly trotting up the water-side wi' them, as fast as his houghs could pring him."
Their contents became speedily known. The first was a letter from the Horse Guards, informing Mr. Stuart that his son was appointed to an ensigncy in the 92nd regiment, or Gordon Highlanders, commanded by the Marquis of Huntly. The second was to Ronald himself, signed by the adjutant-general, directing him with all speed to join a detachment, which was shortly to leave the depot in the Castle of Edinburgh for the seat of war.
Pride and pleasure at the new and varied prospect before him were the first emotions of Ronald's mind; sorrow and regret at thoughts of parting so suddenly, perhaps for ever, from all that was dear to him, succeeded them.
"Hoigh! hui-uigh!" cried old Iverach, capering with Highland agility on hearing the letters read. "Hui-uigh!" he exclaimed, making the weapons clatter on the wall with his wild and startling shout, while he tossed his bonnet up to the vaulted roof; "and so braw Maister Ronald is going to the clorious wars, to shoot the French loons like the muircocks o' Strathisla, or the bonnie red roes o' Benmore! Hoigh! Got tam! auld Iverach's son sall gang too, and follow the laird's, as my ain faither and mony a braw shentleman did auld Sir Ian Mhor to the muster o' Glenfinan. And when promotion is in the way, braw Maister Ronald will no forget puir Evan Iverach, the son of his faither's piper, that follows him for love to the far-awa' land. And when the pipers blaw the onset, neither o' them will forget the bonnie banks of Lochisla, and the true hearts they have left behind them there. And when the onset is nigh, let them shout the war-cry of their race: my prave prothers cried it on the ramparts of Ticonderago,1 where the auld plack watch were mown doon like grass, in a land far peyond the isles, where the sun sets in the west."
As this enthusiastic retainer left the apartment to communicate the news to the rest of the household, old Mr. Stuart turned to gaze on his son.
The arrival of these letters had caused a vast change in their feelings within the last five minutes; all traces of discord had vanished, and the softest feelings of our nature remained behind.
1. In that sanguinary affair the 42nd Highlanders, or old Black-Watch, lost 43 officers, commissioned and non-commissioned, and had 603 privates killed and wounded; and "to many a heart and home in the Highlands did this disastrous though glorious intelligence bring desolation and mourning."
"But tender thoughts maun now be hushed,
When danger calls I must obey;
The transport waits us on the coast,
And the morn I will be far away."Tannahill.
The young Highlander, who had never beheld a larger city than Perth, was greatly struck with the splendid and picturesque appearance of Edinburgh. The long lines of densely crowded streets, the antique and lofty houses, the spires, the towers, the enormous bridges spanning deep ravines, the long dark alleys, crooks, nooks, and corners of the old town, with its commanding castle; and then the new, with its innumerable and splendid shops, filled with rich and costly stuffs, the smoke, noise, and confusion of the great thoroughfares and promenades contrasted with the sombre and gloomy grandeur of the Canongate and Holyrood, were all strange sights to one who from infancy had been accustomed to "the eagle and the rock, the mountain and the cataract, the blue-bell, the heather, and the long yellow broom, the Highland pipe, the hill-climbing warrior, and the humbler shepherd in the garb of old Gaul."
From the castle he viewed with surprise and delight the vast amphitheatre which surrounds the city. To the westward Corstorphine, covered to the summit with the richest foliage, Craiglockart, Blackford, the ridges of Braid and Pentland, the Calton, the craigs of Salisbury and Arthur's seat, encircling the city on all sides except the north, where the noble Frith of Forth—the Bodoria of the Romans,—the most beautiful stream in Scotland, perhaps in Britain, wound along the yellow sands.
Far beyond were seen the Lomonds of Fife, the capes of Crail and Elie, the broad bays and indentures of the German Ocean, and the islets of the Forth, the banks of which are studded with villages, castles, churches, and rich woodland. As he entered the fortress he was particularly struck with the gloomy and aged appearance of its embattled buildings and lofty frowning batteries, where the black cannon peeped grimly through antique embrasures. It was a place particularly interesting to Ronald, (as it is to every true Scotsman,) who thought of the prominent part it bore in the annals of his country,—of the many sieges it had sustained, and the many celebrated persons who had lived and died within the walls, which held the crown and insignia of a race whose name and power had passed away from the land they had ruled and loved so long.
Kilted sentinels, wearing the plumed bonnet, tasselled sporan or purse, and the dark tartan, striped with yellow, of the Gordon Highlanders, appeared at the different bastions as he passed the drawbridge, entered through many a strong gate studded with iron, and the black old arch where the two portcullises of massive metal hang suspended.
Ronald, for the first time since he left home, found himself confounded and abashed when he was received by the haughty staff-officer in the cold and stiff manner which these gentlemen assume to regimental officers. Here he reported himself, as the phrase is, and presented the letters of the adjutant-general. It was in a gloomy apartment of the old palace, and the very place in which the once beautiful Mary of Guise breathed her last. Its furniture consisted of two chairs and a hardwood table covered with books, army lists, papers and dockets of letters: boards of general orders, a couple of swords, and forage-caps hung upon the wall. A drum stood in one corner, and an unseemly cast-iron coal-box bearing the mystic letters "B.O." stood in another. A decanter of port and a wine-glass, which appeared on the mantel shelf, showed that the occupant of the office knew the secret of making himself comfortable.
Considerably damped in spirit, by the dry and unsoldierlike reception he had experienced, Ronald next sought the quarters of the officer who commanded the detachment of his own regiment. On quitting the citadel, he passed the place where the French prisoners of war were confined. It was a small piece of ground, enclosed by a strong palisado, over which the poor fellows displayed for sale those ornaments and toys which the ingenuity of their nation enabled them to make. Little ships, toothpicks, bodkins, dominoes, boxes, &c. were manufactured by them from the bones of their scanty allowance of ration meat, and offered for sale to the soldiers of the garrison, or visitors from the city who chanced to pass the place of their confinement.
They appeared to be generally very merry, and were dressed in the peculiar uniform of the prison; but here and there might be observed an officer, who, having broken his parole of honour, was now degraded by being placed among the rank and file. Ronald was but a young soldier, and consequently pitied them; he thought of what his own feelings would be were he a prisoner in a foreign land, with the bayonets of guards glittering at every turn; but there seemed to be none there who yearned for home or hearts they had left behind them, save one, and of him we will speak hereafter. The reception Ronald met with from the officers of his own corps, tended much to revive his drooping spirits, which were, for some time, sadly depressed by the remembrance of Lochisla, and the affectionate friends he had left behind him there.
Among the officers were young men who, like himself, had recently left their homes in the distant north, and a unison of feeling existed in their minds; but, generally, they were merry thoughtless fellows, and the vivacity of their conversation, the frolics in which they were ever engaged, and the bustle of the garrison, were capital antidotes against care. But the tear often started to the eye of Stuart as he beheld the far-off peak of Ben Lomond, fifty miles distant from the window of his room,—his rank as a subaltern entitling him only to one, and he thought of the romantic hills of Perthshire, or of the lonely hearth where his grey-haired sire mourned for his absence. But little time was allowed him to muse thus. Parades in the castle, the promenades, theatres, the gay blaze of ball-rooms in the city, crowded with beautiful and fashionable girls and glittering uniforms, left him little time for reflection; and the day of embarkation for the Peninsula, the seat of war, to which all men's thoughts—and women's too, were turned, insensibly drew nigh.
Evan Iverach had been enlisted in his master's company, and under the hands of a regimental tailor, and the tuition of the drill sergeant, was rapidly becoming a smart soldier, while he still remained an attached servant to his master.
The latter, soon after his arrival in the capital, had visited his father's agent, Mr. Æneas Macquirk, a writer to the signet, who had long transacted the business and fleeced the pocket of the old laird in the most approved legal manner. This worthy, having lately procured the old gentleman's signature to a document which was ultimately to be his ruin, was therefore disposed to treat Ronald drily enough, having made the most of his father; and he would never have been invited to the snug front-door-house, with the carpeted staircase, comfortable dining and airy drawing-room in the new town, but for the vanity of Mrs. and the Misses Macquirk, who thought that the rich uniform of the young officer as a visitor gave their house a gay and fashionable air.
Quite the reverse of the good old "clerks to the signet" who once dwelt in the dark closes of the old city, Macquirk was one of the many contemptible fellows whose only talent is chicanery, and who fatten and thrive on that unfortunate love of litigation which possesses the people of Scotland. Mean and servile to the rich, he was equally purse-proud and overbearing to the poor, to whom he was a savage and remorseless creditor. Many were the unfortunate citizens who cursed the hour in which they first knew this man, who feathered his nest by the law, better than ever his father had done by the honester trade of mending shoes in the West Bow.
Mrs. Macquirk was a vulgar-looking woman, most unbecomingly fat; her money had procured her a husband, and she was as proud as could be expected, considering that she had first seen the light in the low purlieus of the Kraimes, and now found herself mistress of one of the handsomest houses in Edinburgh.
The young ladies were more agreeable, being rather good-looking but very affected, having received all the accomplishments that it was in the power of their slighted and brow-beaten governess, the daughter of a good but unfortunate family, to impart to them. They gave parties that Ronald might show off the uniform of the Gordon Highlanders, and played and sung to him in their best style; while he drew many comparisons between them and the Alice whose miniature he wore in his bosom, by which they lost immensely; and while listening to their confused foreign airs and songs, he thought how much sweeter and more musical were the tones of Alice Lisle, when she sung "The Birks of Invermay," or any other melody of the mountains, making his heart vibrate to her words. But even in the Castle of Edinburgh Ronald had recently made a friend, whose society, in spite of military and Highland gallantry, he preferred to that of the daughters of Macquirk.
Among the French captives within the stockade, he had frequently observed a young officer who remained apart from the rest, the deep dejection and abstraction of whose air gained him the readily excited sympathy of the young Highlander. He was a tall, handsome, well-shaped young man, with regular features, dark eyes, and a heavy black moustache on his upper lip. He wore the uniform of Napoleon's famous Imperial Guards; but the once gay epaulette and lace were much worn and faded. He wore a long scarlet forage-cap, adorned with a band, a tassel falling over his right shoulder. The gold cross of the Legion of Honour dangling at his breast showed that he had seen service, and distinguished himself.
He had more than once observed the peculiar look with which Ronald Stuart had eyed him; and on one occasion, with the politeness of his nation, he gracefully touched his cap. The Scotsman bowed, and beckoned him to a retired part of the palisado.
"Can you speak our language, sir?" asked he.
"Oh, yes, Monsieur officier," replied the Frenchman; "I have learned it in the prison."
"I regret much to see you, an officer, placed here among the common rank and file. How has such an event come to pass? Can I in any way assist you?"
"Monsieur, I thank you; you are very good, but it is not possible," stammered the Frenchman in confusion, his sun-burned cheek reddening while he spoke. "Croix Dieu! yours are the first words of true kindness that I have heard since I left my own home, in our pleasant France. O monsieur, I could almost weep! I am degraded among my fellow-soldiers, my frères d'armes. I have broken my parole of honour, and am placed among the private men; confined within this palisado by day, and these dark vaults by night,"—pointing to the ancient dungeons which lie along the south side of the rocks, and are the most antique part of the fortress. These gloomy places were the allotted quarters of the French prisoners in Edinburgh.
"I have been placed here in consequence of a desperate attempt I made to escape from the depot (Greenlaw,1 I think it is named,) at the foot of these high mountains. I perceive you pity me, monsieur, and indeed I am very miserable."
"I dare swear the penance of captivity is great; but 'tis the fortune of war, and may be my own chance very soon."
"Ah, monsieur!" said the Frenchman despondingly, "to me it is as death. But 'tis not the mal-du-pays, the home-sickness, so common among the Switzers and you Scots, that preys upon my heart. Did you know my story, and all that afflicts me, your surprise at the dejection in which I appear sunk, would cease. I endure much misery here: our prison allowance is scant, my uniform is all gone to rags, and I have not wherewith to procure other clothing. We are debarred from many comforts—" The blood rose to the temples of the speaker, who suddenly ceased on perceiving that Ronald had drawn forth his purse. He could ill spare the money, but he pressed it upon the Frenchman, by whom after much hesitation the gift was accepted.
"It was not my intention to have excited your charity," said he; "but I take the purse as a gift from one brother soldier to another, and will share it among my poor comrades. Though our nations be at war, frères d'armes we all are, monsieur; and should it ever be in his power, by Heaven and St. Louis! Victor d'Estouville will requite your kindness. If by the fortune, or rather misfortune, of war, you ever become a prisoner in my native country, you will find that the memory of la Garde Ecossaise and your brave nation, which our old kings loved so long and well, and the sufferings of the fair Marie, are not yet forgotten in la belle France."
"I trust my destiny will never lead me to a captivity in France, or elsewhere. But keep a stout heart: the next cartel that brings an exchange of prisoners, may set you free."
"Mon Dieu! I know not what may have happened at home before that comes to pass. Monsieur, you have become my friend, and have therefore a right to my confidence; my story shall be related to you as briefly as possible. My name is d'Estouville. I am descended from one of the best families in France, of which my ancestors were peers, and possessed large estates in the province of Normandy,—a name which finds an echo, methinks, in your sister kingdom. By the late revolution, in which my father lost his life, all our lands were swept from us, with the exception of a small cottage in the neighbourhood of Henriqueville, situated in the fertile valley where the thick woods and beautiful vineyards lie intermingled along the banks of the winding Seine; and to this spot my poor mother with her fatherless children retired. Ah, monsieur! 'twas a charming little place: methinks I see it now, the low-roofed cottage, with the vines and roses growing round its roof and chimneys, and in at the little lattices that glistened in the sunshine,—every green lane and clump of shadowy trees, and every silver rill around it.
"Living by our own industry, we were happy enough; my brother and myself increased in strength and manliness, as my sisters did in beauty; and the sweetness of my noble mother's temper, together with the quiet and unassuming tenour of our lives, rendered us the favourites of all the inhabitants of the valley of Lillebonne.
"Monsieur, I loved a fair girl in our neighbourhood, a near relation of my own,—Diane de Montmichel, a beautiful brunette, with dark hair and sparkling eyes. Oh! could we but see Diane now!
"Mon Dieu! The very day on which I was to have wedded her was fixed, and the future seemed full of every happiness; but the great Emperor wanted men to fight his battles, and by one conscription the whole youth of the valley of Lillebonne were drawn away. My brother and myself were among them. Ah, monsieur! Napoleon thinks not of the agony of French mothers, and the bitter tears that are wept for every conscription. Britain recruits her armies with thousands of free volunteers, who tread by their own free will the path of honour. France—but we will not talk of this. Our poor peasant boys were torn from their cottages and vineyards, from the arms of their parents and friends; we felt our hearts swelling within us, but to resist was to die. O monsieur! what must have been the thoughts of my high-minded mother, when she beheld her sons—the sons of a noble peer of old France—drawn from her roof to carry the musquet as private soldiers—"
"And Diane de Montmichel?—"
"In a few months I found myself fighting the battles of the great Emperor as a soldier of his Imperial Guard, the flower of la belle France. In our first engagement with the enemy my brave brother fell—poor Henri! But why should I regret him? He fell gaining fame for France, and died nobly with the eagle on his breast, and the folds of the tricolour waving over him. Since then I have distinguished myself, was promoted, and received from the hand of Napoleon this gold cross, which had once hung on his own proud breast. I received it amidst the dead and the dying, on a field where the hot blood of brave men had been poured forth as water. From that moment I was more than ever his devoted soldier. He had kindled in my breast the fire of martial ambition, which softer love had caused to slumber. I now looked forward joyously to quick promotion, and my return to poor Diane and my mother's vine-covered cot in happy Lillebonne. But my hopes were doomed to be blasted. I was taken prisoner in an unlucky charge, and transmitted with some thousand more to this country.
"O monsieur! not even the pledge of my most sacred honour as a gentleman and soldier could bind me while love and ambition filled my heart. I mourned the monotonous life of a military prisoner, and fled from the depot at Greenlaw; but I was retaken a day after, and sent to this strong fortress, where for three long and weary years I have been confined among the common file. O monsieur!—Diane—my mother—my sisters! what sad changes may not have happened among them in that time?"
He covered his face for a moment with his hand to hide his emotion.
"Adieu, monsieur! Should we ever meet where it is in my power to return your kindness, you will find that I can be grateful, and remember that in his distress you regarded Victor d'Estouville, not as a Frenchman and an enemy, but as a brother officier under misfortunes."
He ceased, and bowing low, retired from the palisado to mingle among the prisoners.
Since his arrival in the capital, Ronald had received many letters from home, but none from Alice Lisle; he was deterred from writing to her, fearing that his letters might fall into other hands than her own, and he grew sad as the day of embarkation drew near and he heard not from the fair girl, whose little miniature afforded him a pleasing object for contemplation in his melancholy moods.
On the morning after the arrival of the route, Ronald was awakened from sleep about day-break by the sound of the bagpipe, which in his dreaming ear carried him home: he almost fancied himself at Lochisla, and that old Iverach was piping to the morning sun, when other sounds caused him to start. He sprang up, and looked from the lofty old window into the gloomy court of the castle. Ronald Macdonuil-dhu, the piper, was blowing forth the regimental gathering, the wild notes of which were startling the echoes of the ancient fortress and rousing the soldiers, who were thronging forth in heavy marching order, as the military term is,—completely accoutred.
"Come, Stuart, my boy, turn up!" cried Alister Macdonald, a brother ensign, who entered the room unceremoniously, "you will be late; we march in ten minutes, and then good-by to the crowded ball-rooms and fair girls of Edinburgh."
"I had no idea the morning was so far advanced," replied Ronald, dressing himself as fast as possible. "There goes the roll of the drum now; why—they are falling in."
"The deuce! I must go, or our hot-headed commander, the major, may forget that I am a kinsman from the Isle of the Mist. This morning he is as cross as a bear with a sore head, and expends his ill-humour on the acting adjutant, who in turn expends his on the men. There is the sound of Black Ronald's pipe again; I must be off," and he left the apartment.
"Come, Evan, bustle about, and get me harnessed! Push this belt under my epaulette, bring me my sword and bonnet; be quick, will you?" cried Ronald to his follower, who, accoutred for the march with his heavy knapsack on his back, entered the room. "You will look after the baggage. Where are the trunks, and other et cætera?"
"A' on the road to Leith twa hoors syne."
"What, in the dark?"
"Ay, maister, just in the dark. Three muckle carts, piled like towers, wi' kists and wives an' weans on the tap, an' pans and camp-kettles jingling frae ilka neuk and corner,—an' unco like flitten' as ever I saw."
With Evan's assistance his master was garbed and armed. On descending to the castle square, he found the detachment, to the number of three hundred men, formed in line, motionless and silent. Ronald was particularly struck with the martial and service-like appearance of the Highlanders, by the combination which their costume exhibits of the "garb of old Gaul" with the rich uniform of Great Britain. The plumed bonnets, drooping gracefully over the right shoulder, the dark tartan, the hairy purses, the glittering appointments, and long line of muscular bare knees, together with the gloomy and antique buildings of the fortress, formed a scene at once wild and picturesque; but Ronald had little time for surveying it.
There is something peculiarly gallant and warlike in the dashing appearance of our Highland soldiers, which brings to the mind the recollections of those days when the swords of our ancestors swept before them the martial legions of Rome,—imperial Rome, whose arms had laid prostrate the powers of half a world,—of the later deeds of Bannockburn, and many other battles,—the remembrance of our ancient kings and regal independence,—all "the stirring memory of a thousand years," raising a flush of proud and tumultuous feelings in the breast of every Scotsman who beholds in these troops the brave representatives of his country; troops who, in every clime under the sun, have maintained untarnished her ancient glory and her name. So thought Ronald, and he was proud to consider himself one of them, as he drew his sword and took his place in the ranks.
The rattling bayonets were fixed, and flashed in the morning sun, as the muskets were shouldered and "sloped," the line broke into sections, and moving off to the stirring sound of the fife and drum, began to descend the steep and winding way to the gate of the fortress.
The idea of departing for foreign service had something elevating and exciting in it, which pleased the minds of all, but roused to the utmost the romantic spirit of Ronald Stuart, whose ear was pleased with the tread of the marching feet and sharp roll of the drums resounding in the hollow archway; as was his eye, with the waving feathers and glittering weapons of the head of the little column, as they descended the pathway towards the city.
As they passed through the latter towards Leith, the streets were almost empty, none being abroad at that early hour, save here and there, within the ancient royalty, an old city guardsman, armed with his Lochaber axe; but the head of many a drowsy citizen in his nightcap appeared at the windows, from which many an eye gazed with that interest which the embarkation of troops for the seat of war always called forth; for many were marching there who were doomed to leave their bones in the distant soil of the Frank or Spaniard. Many relatives and friends of the soldiers accompanied their march, and Ronald was witness of many a painful parting between those who might never meet again.
"O my bairn! my puir deluded bairn!" exclaimed an aged woman wildly, as she rushed into the ranks with her grey hairs falling over her face, and with streaming eyes, clasped a son round the neck; "O lang, lang will it be till I see ye again; and oh, when you are far awa frae bonnie Glencorse, wha will tend ye as your auld forsaken mither has dune? she that has toiled, and watched ower, and prayed for ye, since ye first saw the licht. O Archy, my doo, speak; let me hear your voice for the last time!"
"God be wi' ye, mither! O leave me! or my heart will burst in twa," sobbed the poor fellow, while some of his more thoughtless comrades endeavoured by jests and ill-timed merriment to raise his drooping spirits; and many a hearty but sorrowful "Gude by," and "Fareweel," was interchanged on all sides as they passed along. The sun was high in the sky when they halted on the beach at Leith, and above a thick morning mist, which rested on the face of the water, Ronald saw the lofty taper spars and smart rigging of the large transport, which lay out in the stream, with her white canvas hanging loose, and "blue peter" flying at the foremast-head.