Loe raamatut: «The Mosstrooper: A Legend of the Scottish Border», lehekülg 4

Chapter VI

 
The times are wild; contention, like a horse
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose,
And bears down all before him.
 

King Henry IV., Part Second.

NEITHER of the contending parties had yet appeared on the ground, although the hour of meeting was rather past, as shown by the position of the sun in the cloudless firmament. The Sheriff was indicating signs of uneasiness at the delay. But now, on the farther confines of the broomy moor, a dark, moving object was descried, which soon resolved itself into a rider, and by and by into a monk, habited in black frock and cowl, and mounted on a mule, which was trotting at an easy pace. This was an ecclesiastic, who had been summoned from the nearest religious house to assist in administering the judicial oath to the witnesses at the arbitration. The breast of his frock was bulged out by what had the appearance of a volume within it, which was retained in its place by the cord encircling his waist. It was a frequent custom of the time that priests went about the country, when required, to perform the sacraments of matrimony and baptism, carrying their missal in their breasts, and thereby acquiring the vulgar appellation of book-a-bosoms. Thus, we are told, in the Lay of the Last Minstrel, about the goblin page, when he discovered the magic book which William of Deloraine carried, that

 
Much he marvell’d a knight of pride
Like a book-bosom’d priest should ride.
 

The monk’s mule bore the commonest caparisons, but several small bells hanging at the bridle-reins, so that we may say of the rider, what old Dan Chaucer said of his pilgrim-father on the merry journey to Canterbury shrine, that

 
When he rode, men might his bridle hear
Gingling, in a whistling wind, as clear
And eke as loud as doth the chapel bell.
 

The dark brother rode up to the Sheriff, who, with a courteous salute, desired him to take position by his side.

Ere much longer time had fled a company of horsemen arrived – Lauder of Ballinshaw and retainers, prominent among which last was the gentle Johnston. Such of the party as were intended for witness-bearing dismounted. Ballinshaw was a wiry, short-statured man, bearing his advanced years well; but his sallow and shrivelled visage had an air of avarice and duplicity, which was attempted to be hidden under an evident mask of careless candour. Offering his hand to the Sheriff, he delivered himself as follows, in a wheezing, jog-trot tone: —

“My humble service, Sir Robert, to uttermost power. I’m a wee ahint the appointed time; but some o’ my witnesses were slack in coming forward; though I’m glad and proud to think that you’ll find them a’ leal and true men that wadna forswear themsel’s for a King’s ransom. Gude kens! I dinna wish to wheedle ony man oot o’ his richts, far less my neighbour, Royston Scott, though he has lang borne enmity to me without cause. I see I’m before-hand wi’ him: he’s no’ on the field yet.”

“No,” answered the Sheriff, “and if he delays much longer, I shall adjourn the meeting to another day.”

“He’s a thrawart tyke, as I ken to my cost,” replied Ballinshaw, shaking his head. “We micht ha’e lived in gude neighbourhood, and settled a’ disputes ower a friendly flagon; but na – he wad carry a’thing ower my head, kenning that I was a man o’ peace. I durstna hunt ower the ground ayont the burn. He slauchtered my hounds, chased my serving-men, and vowed that if I mysel’ daured to set foot across the holm, he wad be my death. Now, he ne’er had a shadow o’ richt to the ground; for, time out o’ mind, my forbears hunted ower it to the foot o’ the hill yonder, without let or hindrance.”

“And I presume you are possessed of legal evidence to prove your claim?” said the Sheriff. “Charters, and so forth?”

“Deil a scrap o’ write ha’e I, my lord – mair’s the pity,” responded Lauder, feigning a smile. “Ance in a day there was a muckle iron-banded kist, panged fu’ o’ musty parchments, that stood in the closet o’ the south turret; but a’e nicht the closet took fire, and kist and charters were burned to eizels, and gaed up in the air like peelings o’ ingans. Still, my witnesses are passing gude; and, Sir Robert, let me say – ”

“They shall be heard in due course,” said the Sheriff. “Defer your statements till the proper time. I cannot listen to either party until both are present.”

“That’s gude law; for ilka man’s tale is gude till anither’s be tauld,” returned Ballinshaw. “But what I ha’e yet to say is meant for your private ear.”

“My duty is to act publicly, not privately,” said the Sheriff; but not willing to be harsh, he added – “If what you wish to say does not concern the case in hand, I am ready to hear you. Say on, and be brief.”

Ballinshaw took hold of the knight’s bridle, and led him slowly away out of earshot of the assemblage. “Sir Robert,” said the crafty Laird, coming to a stand, and speaking low, “as you cannot but be satisfied in your ain mind that I am likeliest, frae auld use and wont, to ha’e the richtfu’ claim to the disputed ground – ”

“Stay,” interrupted the Sheriff, angrily. “This still affects the arbitration. Would you have me to prejudge the case? I cannot, in conscience, listen to you.”

“A moment, Sir Robert, a moment,” implored Lauder, holding tightly by the bridle. “I was thinking that, as you will mind, when we were baith in our youthy days – though I had the advantage o’ you in years – how you whiles cam’ to Ballinshaw wi’ your faither; and how I took you amang the bosky knowes to gather brambles and blaeberries; and sometimes made a fishingwand and tackle for you, and sorted your bow and arrows, and helpit you to climb trees for nests – ah! thae were lichtsome days: now, I say, I was thinking that maybe for langsyne and its friendship, you could ca’ me through the present troublesome business wi’ little din – and I wad mak’ up a purse – ”

“Hah! you would pollute the source of justice by a foul bribe?” ejaculated the Sheriff, frowning deeply.

“Siller can do nae man harm,” said Lauder, with an insinuating smile. “You ken the proverb – ‘There’s a time to gley, and a time to look even’: and wherefore shouldna a man gley for the sake o’ his ain pouch? Far be it frae my wish to wrang ony man; but Royston Scott has lang been kent as ane that cares na a whistle on his thumb for a’ the laws and shirras in braid Scotland; and it wadna be amiss in you, Sir Robert, to gi’e an auld friend a feather out o’ sic a corbie’s wing. I hear you’re pressed by Ben Magog, the Jew of Berwick, for some siller he lent you on bond. Settle this business in my favour, and I’ll help to clear you o’ the Jew’s grip.”

The Sheriff, in silent scorn, released his rein from Lauder’s hold. At that moment, the blast of a horn pealed from the adjacent hill, and a cry arose – “Yonder is Altoncroft at last, wi’ a sturdy clump o’ spears at his back!” The Sheriff, avoiding Lauder’s renewed clutch at his bridle, rode back to his train.

The summit of the height was crowned by a troop of horsemen, whose arms and armour flashed in the sunlight. They numbered double Ballinshaw’s party, which fact caused him to look nervous, and to whisper, in an agitated voice, to the gentle Johnston, who, with a stout aspect, strove to reassure him. The approaching band spurred hard down the grassy slope of the hill, and traversing the low ground like the shadow of a flying cloud, soon reached the rendezvous and drew bridle. Altoncroft was a man in the vigour of life, and of a tall and muscular figure, with a harsh cast of features, and fierce grey eyes. He wore a leathern jack, plated with mail on the breast and the sleeves, and a steel cap, from which a long red plume drooped down his back, whilst his weapons were lance, sword, and dagger.

“You are late in keeping tryst,” said the Sheriff.

“’Twill not deny,” answered Altoncroft, leaving his saddle and making a humble obeisance. “But, sooth to tell, my knaves broached a cask of double ale yesternight, and were loth to leave the dregs this morning. I crave your pardon, my lord Sheriff, and kiss your hand. And to the matter before us – I bring witnesses who, I think, will clearly establish my rights. I desire to have a free and fair decision, and will submit to it when it is pronounced; but I say frankly that if injustice be done me – ”

“There shall be no injustice done either party,” responded the Sheriff. “Proceed we to business: and I trust that no broil will break the amity of our meeting, but that all will respect this emblem of peace,” pointing to the spear and glove, which his page held aloft. “Time wears on, and we shall proceed. Sergeants, proclaim and fence our court of arbitration.”

One of the sergeants blew his horn thrice, and then made the proclamation, and “fenced the court” (as the phrase was) against all disturbance, which was denounced under high pains and penalties. The contending parties, mostly dismounted, were arranged on either side of the Arbiter, who elected to hear Altoncroft’s evidence first. Altoncroft, like his opponent, had no documents of any kind to produce – his charters and sasines having long become non-existent, so that his case depended entirely upon what lawyers call parole proof. The monk, now on foot, and holding open his book, which was an old manuscript copy of the Gospels and richly illuminated, advanced to discharge the duty of administering the usual oath to the witnesses. This he did with all solemnity. Each man, when called in rotation, swore, with his right hand laid upon the sacred volume, and afterwards partook of a morsel of bread, and pronounced the imprecation that if he told an untruth the morsel might become mortal poison – a form probably borrowed from the Hebrew judicial procedure with the “water of jealousy.”

The bulk of Altoncroft’s proof, as expiscated chiefly by questions from the Sheriff, amounted somewhat to this – that the Laird’s predecessors seemed to have always regarded the disputed ground, embracing a wide portion of the moorland on one side of the Deadman’s Holm, as their own property, the burn being, to a considerable extent, the line of march. There were flaws in the witness-bearing, and much of it did not hang well together, as being inconclusive and sometimes contradictory hearsay. But Ballinshaw appeared to consider the proof as possessing a good deal of weight. When it came to his turn to adduce his witnesses, he whispered to Johnston, who was to be the first sworn – “Now comes the pinch, Edie; and for Gudesake dinna fail me! Thae Altoncroft rogues ha’e said ower muckle, and we maun damnify them, else we’re lost. Dinna you mind the bit aith; it’s just mere wind out o’ your mouth. Ne’er scruple, lad, in your master’s service. A fu’ purse aye heals a troubled conscience. Stand up stoutly for my richt, and ding them a’ doon. The lave o’ our men will follow you like a wheen sheep louping a dyke.”

“I daurna do mair than I ha’e promised, Laird, though it were for my ain faither,” responded Edie, shaking his head. “But trust me, what I promised, and what I’ll swear in the face o’ the sun, will bear you out. Tak’ nae fear.”

The Sergeant’s horn sounding again, Edie, assuming the firmest demeanour he could, laid down his spear, and presented himself for examination. He took the oath and the ordeal with becoming gravity, and then proceeded to depone how it consisted with his belief that the ground in question belonged to Ballinshaw. Edie swore that he had frequently heard his father, grandfather, and other discreet men, who knew the locality, say so: that this was the common understanding of the country: that he himself had often seen Ballinshaw hunt over the said portion of moorland. “And to make siccar,” added he, “if your lordship will please to walk ower the ground alang wi’ me, I will point out the true marches as they were aye considered.”

This was the most matter-of-fact proposal which had been as yet offered, and it was readily accepted. Edie took his way, accompanied by nearly the whole of the assemblage. He made a wide circuit, inclining sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left. “The auld march rins this way, according to what I’ve heard, and according to what I ken,” he repeatedly deponed. “I’m walking here on the land o’ Ballinshaw. I swear, on soul and conscience, that the yird aneath my feet is Ballinshaw’s sure and certain.”

In this way he traversed a large space of the moorland, greatly to the satisfaction of his master, whose cunning eyes sparkled with joy. But the fiery Laird of Altoncroft, unable to control his chagrin longer, suddenly confronted the witness and bade him halt. The undaunted Johnston obeyed, folding his arms, and giving his interrupter a sarcastic scowl.

“Do you, sirrah, dare to swear that what you are pointing out are the true boundaries of my lands?” demanded Altoncroft.

“What cause is there to doubt his word?” cried Ballinshaw, pressing to the support of his hopeful witness. “Let the worthy Shirra judge.”

“I tell you, Altoncroft,” said the witness, drawing himself up to his full height; “I tell you, as I ha’e sworn, that all alang the yird o’ Ballinshaw’s land has been aneath my feet. Will that content you?”

“Mis-sworn villain!” ejaculated Altoncroft, furiously.

“I’m nae mis-sworn villain,” retorted Johnston: “and were you and me here alane, wi’ only the broom-bushes around us, I wad gar you eat back your foul words. I ha’e seen your back before this day, and I may see it again.”

Altoncroft, stung by the retort, thrust his spear at the speaker’s body, piercing the iron-plated jack. Johnston uttered a yell of mingled rage and pain, and staggering back under the shock, vainly attempted to unsheath his sword, and then dropped to the ground at full length. An applauding cheer from one party of the spectators, and a vengeful cry from another, boded a general conflict. Swords were drawn, and spears lowered, and warlike slogans arose amidst the tumult. Altoncroft, having withdrawn his lance, would have repeated his thrust, had not Ruthven Somervil, on the impulse of the moment, started forward, and baring his blade, strode across the prostrate man to save him from further assault. A dozen spears were levelled at the youth’s breast, and as many advanced to protect him. The Sheriff spurred his horse into the press, and commanded all to keep the peace. His command had the effect of enforcing a pause.

Chapter VII

 
Aft trifles big mishanters bring,
Frae whilk a hunder mair may spring;
An’ some, wha thrawart tempers ha’e,
Aft stand unkent in their ain way;
But aye, to guard against a coup,
Fowk should look weel afore they loup.
 

– Richard Gall— “The Tint Quey.”

 
The fish shall never swim the flood,
Nor corn grow through the clay,
If the fiercest fire that ever was kindled
Twine me and Rothiemay.
 

– Ballad— “The Burning of Frendraught.”

THE timely interposition of the Sheriff prevented the commission of more violence. “Back! Altoncroft!” cried he, whilst his men surrounded the fallen trooper, whom Ballinshaw, with trembling arms, was endeavouring to raise. “Draw off your followers, Altoncroft,” continued Sir Robert. “You have broken Border faith, and insulted the representative of the law and the King.”

Altoncroft, sullenly sheathing his dagger, answered with a growl – “The audacious falsehoods of this varlet would have moved patient Job; and I am not to be blamed.”

“I swore no falsehoods, but gave leal and soothfast witnessing,” retorted Johnston, who was now resting on his left elbow; “and this I’ll also swear, that next time we meet in a fair field we shall not part thus,” shaking his gauntleted right hand at his enemy.

“Come awa’ oot o’ this sturyfyke, master,” whispered the gaberlunzie to Ruthven. “You stand in deadly peril; for Royston Scott is nae craw to shoot at. Come awa’.”

He succeeded in drawing Ruthven out of the tumult. Altoncroft obeyed the Sheriff by leading his men back some space, and so allowed his victim’s comrades to gather around him and do what they could to staunch his wound. Under the impression that the gentle Johnston was dying, the attendant priest pressed through the confusion, knelt on the grass at his side, and holding up a crucifix, prepared to shrive him; but Edie scouted the notion that his end was near.

“Dinna fear for me, holy father,” he said, smiling grimly. “As broken a ship has come to land; and Death and me winna shake hands at this time o’ day. And never think that I have perjured mysel’; for the sin o’ perjury is not on my conscience. The ground is not Ballinshaw’s, you say? I never made faith that it is. Bethink ye, holy father, o’ my words. I swore that I stood on my master’s ground; and so I did. Pull aff my boots, and you will find, in the soles o’ them, an inch or twa o’ earth from the yard o’ Ballinshaw tower. That saves my conscience, and makes the matter but a jest: so if I am to die, I winna die with a falsehood in my mouth.” He finished with a hollow laugh at the deception which he had practised.

At this juncture a horseman, with the royal cognizance, the rampant red lion, emblazoned on his breast, galloped up the side of the stream, and made directly towards the Sheriff, to whom he delivered a sealed packet. The knight cut asunder the silken strings that bound it, broke the seal, and opening the packet, eagerly scanned the paper which it contained. His cheek reddened, his eyes sparkled, and he bit his nether lip, then deliberately re-folding the document, which seemed to have given him both surprise and mortification, he handed a few coins to the messenger, who, after making dutiful acknowledgment, turned his horse, and rode off as rapidly as he had come.

“A strange revolution of Fortune’s wheel,” whispered the Sheriff to his chief attendant. “The King’s Grace has appointed George Hepburn, the kinsman of Altoncroft, Sheriff in my room, and commends me to resign my office into his hands without delay, for which purpose he is to be at Jedburgh to-morrow at noon. This is the work of my unfriends at our fickle Sovereign’s court. Altoncroft cannot yet know of the change, else he would spurn my authority and provoke strife: therefore, I must dismiss him at once. I should have arrested him when he stabbed the witness; but I feared that such action would only embroil the business still further; and I am now glad it was not done.”

The Sheriff went over to Royston Scott, and said that after what had happened on the field, the arbitration proceedings behoved to be adjourned to some future day, and also enjoined him to retire, and to keep the peace. Altoncroft obeyed, and departed with his followers.

“There’s the main danger blawn ower,” said the gaberlunzie, viewing with much satisfaction the rude Laird’s retreat. “We winna toom a tankard wi’ the gentle Johnston the nicht; and wha kens whether he’ll see the morn? We’ll tak’ the road, wi’ your leave, master, as lang as the play is fair.”

What road? – whither were they going? Ruthven indicated his intended destination, but did not desire to return to Greenholm, where he had changed his dress; and he added that he wished his route to be taken, so far as practicable, by paths not commonly frequented, to avoid any other mischance. The gaberlunzie was ready to accompany him by any route.

They left the Deadman’s Holm without attracting much notice, and were speedily in the midst of solitudes. As the day wore to its close, they made a halt on the edge of a wood, and what Harthill’s wallet yet contained, in the shape of viands, formed a substantial repast. This done, the journey was resumed while the sun was setting.

 
How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds,
Like the blood he predicts.
 

Soon, through the fading lustre above Sol’s ocean-bed, Hesperus, the lover’s star, sparkled brightly. Our wayfarer’s path now led near a sluggish stream which skirted a hilly chain, and beyond the heights lay a village, where, as Harthill said, they might find lodgement for the night; but it had this disadvantage, that it was part of the barony pertaining to Altoncroft’s kinsman, the newly-made Sheriff, and, therefore, Ruthven thought that their more prudent course would be to seek a less questionable place of rest. But, in short, to tell the truth, he was secretly desirous of parting, as soon as might be, with Willie, and of pursuing his course alone to Berwick, where he might obtain shipping for France – a country which afforded opportunities, to friendless and adventurous young Scots like himself of carving out their fortunes with their swords.

The twilight darkened, and the path grew wilder. Occasionally the harsh screams of birds of prey smote on the ear, and seemed to chill the gaberlunzie’s blood.

“I dinna like the cries o’ thae birds ava – they aye bode ill,” he said. “Nae doubt they think to pyke our banes belyve. Shue! shue! ye evil emissaries! Our Lady help us! was yon a groan? Heard you naething, master?”

“It sounded like the fall of a fragment of rock from yonder cliff,” answered Ruthven, with indifference.

Harthill shook his head, as if dubious of the explanation. His mind engrained with superstitious frailty, he began to hear uncanny sounds all around him. Every sough of the wind among the brackens was a dread presage. Hurrying his steps, he frequently left Ruthven in the rear; and to every half-jocular remonstrance of the youth, whose strength of limb was fast failing, Willie had but one apology: —

“It’s a bogley part this after dark. I’ve heard as mony stories aboot ugsome sichts seen here as there’s teeth in my head. I wadna put ower a nicht here, no for the crown o’ Scotland. Haste you, master, haste you! It’s for your ain gude.”

Without doubt he meant well. But Ruthven flagged more and more, and, after climbing a grassy eminence, which was surmounted by the ruins of a place of strength, he protested that, happen what might, he would go no farther.

“You’re in jest, master?” cried Harthill, scratching the side of his head in sheer vexation.

“We can rest here till daylight,” replied Ruthven. “The place is lone, and therefore safe.”

“Safe?” echoed Willie, with somewhat of asperity. “If we be sae daft as to rest here, we may ne’er see daylicht. Be advised, master, be advised.”

Ruthven, however, was not to be advised. He advanced towards the ruin. The gaberlunzie followed with laggard pace, and shrank back when an owl started out, and, hooting dolefully, flew over their heads.

“There’s a warning!” ejaculated Willie. “The place is fu’ o’ uncanny things. Come back, for ony sake.”

But Ruthven still advanced. The ruin, in its palmy days, had consisted of a massive square tower of two storeys above the ground floor, with battlemented roof, and surrounded by an outer wall, which was now broken down to heaps of rubbish, overgrown with coarse vegetation. The roof had fallen in, and so had both floors, leaving only a shell of crumbling, grim walls: the courtyard was miry: and the arched portal preserved no vestige of the iron-bound door which had once barred passage. As Ruthven was about to pass inward, he was stayed for a moment by the almost hysterical entreaties of his companion, who now assumed a tone of wailing.

“I shall lodge here till morning,” answered the youth determinedly. “If anything earthly molests me, I carry a stout heart and a trusty blade; and unearthly things I fear not.”

The gaberlunzie held up his hands in deprecation of such a foolhardy resolve; but at length he said – “Aweel, master, a wilfu’ man maun ha’e his ain way, and I maun leave you for the nicht. May a’ haly saints watch ower you! I’ll gang-on to the neist bigging, and in the morning I’ll come back; but I fear the morning winna find you a living wicht.”

“Never fear; but do as you say,” responded Ruthven. “Take this small guerdon” – bestowing some money. “You’ll find me in the morning hale and sound. Good-night, and good luck.”

The gaberlunzie was loth to part; but his superstitious nature prevailed, and he took leave, reiterating his promise to return in the morning.

Ruthven entered the ruined pile. The interior was heaped with fallen stones and debris. Casting his eye upward, as from the bottom of a deep well, he saw the dim welkin overhead, which was becoming sprinkled with golden cressets.

 
Star after star, from some unseen abyss,
Came through the sky, like thoughts into the mind,
We know not whence.
 

Some square apertures in the walls, which once were windows, were partly choked with grass: a narrow stone stair had given access to the first storey, but only a few of the lower steps remained intact: the air felt damp and chill, and the pervading silence was like that of a sepulchre. Ruthven weariedly sat down on a hillock of ruin close to the portal, and bending his face upon his hands, fell into a reverie, which eventually lapsed into troubled slumber.

When he awoke from a confused dream, trembling with cold, all was dark around him. He arose and went out into the courtyard to look at the sky. It was cloudless, and bright with the celestial host; and a gusty breeze blew from the west. As he turned in that direction, he perceived, upon the verge of the horizon, a glimmering light, which rose and fell alternately, but in short space grew into a broad and steady glare. Was “yon red glare the western star?” or was it “the beacon-blaze of war?” Whatever it was, it speedily became an intense mass of flame, shedding a lurid gleam on earth and heaven.

As Ruthven watched the mysterious fire, the clatter of horses approaching from the west struck his ear. He receded into the portal, and drew his sword. In a few moments several horsemen, riding in disorder, broke dimly on his view as they ascended the height. Up they came: they urged their panting steeds over the rubbish of the wall, and drew rein in the courtyard. They were five in number, all wearing warlike harness, and seemed to have fled from an unsuccessful fight. Four dismounted, but the remaining one kept his saddle, and gazed back to the distant blaze, which was now sinking.

“Woe worth this nicht, that has seen mair ruin wrought than can be repaired in a lang life time!” ejaculated this rider, wringing his hands. “That cruel spoiler! that bluid-thirsty riever! Curses on him that wad fire an auld man’s house aboon his head!”

Ruthven recognised the voice as that of Lauder of Ballinshaw.

“A stranger here! a lurking enemy!” exclaimed one of the party, spying Ruthven in the doorway; but instantly Ruthven called out that he was no enemy but a friend to Ballinshaw.

“By St. Bryde! this is the brave lad that defended our Edie when he fell!” cried the man, “Of a surety he is a friend.”

Ruthven, assured of safety, stepped out of the portal, and sheathing his brand, hastened to the old Laird’s side, inquiring what had befallen; but the question had to be thrice repeated ere Lauder seemed to hear and comprehend it, and then he started, and peering down into Ruthven’s face, exclaimed – “Wha is this?”

“The stranger who defended our Edie,” said the retainer who had previously spoken.

“Indeed!” said Ballinshaw, in a vague way, and again directing his eye towards the fading fire. “See yonder what’s befaun. Bluidshed and murder! Ruth and ruin! A’ is lost – the airn kist fu’ o’ merks in the secret closet ahint the spence – the candlesticks and the plate that my great-grandsire brought frae the Low Countries – a’ plundered – a’ gane. But how cam’ you here, lad?”

“Night overtook me on my way, and I sought shelter here, where scant shelter there is,” replied Ruthven.

“We seek refuge, too,” said the retainer; “but if Altoncroft be in pursuit o’ us – ”

“Altoncroft!” cried Ruthven. “Is he the ravager?”

“Ay,” returned the man. “His hatred has burnt up Ballinshaw. When we reached hame yesterday, word was heard that our fickle King had appointed Altoncroft’s kinsman Sheriff, in room o’ the just Sir Robert Home; and we heard the news like our death-knell. Dreading the warst, as weel we micht, we prepared the auld house for defence – armed every man and callant – and keepit strict watch. Afore midnicht, Altoncroft cam’ wi’ a’ his power. There was a fierce and deadly struggle; but he brak’ in wi’ his ruthless band, and we were driven out, and the place was fired. The flames lichted our way as we fled.”

“Did Edie Johnston perish in the struggle?” asked Ruthven.

“Not that I can tell,” said the retainer. “When the enemy brak’ in, we lowered Edie into the subterranean passage that leads frae the ha’ to the middle o’ the garden; but if the villains discovered his hiding place, they would gi’e him but short shrift.”

Note. – A parallel to the catastrophe of the arbitration is recorded in Sir John Sinclair’s “Statistical Account of Scotland” (Vol. V., 153), as having occurred in the parish of Menmuir, in the county of Forfar: —

“Two lairds quarrelled about their marches, and witnesses were brought to swear to the old boundaries. One of these chieftains, provoked to hear his opponent’s servant declare, on oath, that he then stood on his master’s ground, pulled a pistol from his belt, and shot him dead on the spot. It was found that to save his conscience he had earth in his shoes brought from his laird’s lands.”

“A’ my strength is blasted like a flower o’ the field, and a’ my gear gane like snaw aff a dyke,” moaned Ballinshaw, again wringing his hands. “But the enemy may be hard ahint us, and we maun on and awa’ – on and awa’.”

“Our horses are blawn, and we maun gi’e them some minutes’ rest,” said the retainer, languidly laying himself on a heap of rubbish.

Scarcely had they thought of rest when the clatter of hoofs sounded in the glen below. Ballinshaw started in affright, and the next moment had fallen from his steed, a victim of apoplexy.

“’Tis Royston Scott!” exclaimed one of his retainers. “We are but dead men!”

The pursuers, headed by Altoncroft, rapidly began to ascend the hill. Leading his followers, Scott encouraged them in their work with promise of reward. Ruthven Somervil watched their movements, and, lifting a large stone, cast it down upon Altoncroft with so sure an aim that it struck horse and man to the earth. For the moment there was panic among Scott’s supporters, but an instant later, having left their leader to recover as best he might, they made for the crest of the hill, all eyes ablaze with vengeance against the youth who had thrown their master.