.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 54921
   :PG.Title: The Romance of War (Sequel to Volumes 1-3)
   :PG.Released: 2017-06-15
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: James Grant
   :DC.Title: The Romance of War (Sequel to Volumes 1-3)
              or, The Highlanders in France and Belgium
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1847
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

===========================
THE ROMANCE OF WAR (SEQUEL)
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      THE ROMANCE OF WAR:

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      OR,

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      THE HIGHLANDERS

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      IN FRANCE AND BELGIUM.

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      A SEQUEL TO

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      THE HIGHLANDERS IN SPAIN.

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      BY

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      JAMES GRANT, ESQ.

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      *Late 62nd Regiment.*

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      "In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old Rome,
      From the heath-covered mountains of Scotia we come;
      Our loud-sounding pipe breathes the true martial strain,
      And our hearts still the old Scottish valour retain."
      \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ *Lt.-Gen. Erskine.*

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      IN THREE VOLUMES.

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      VOL. I.

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      LONDON:
      HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,
      GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
      1847.

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      LONDON:
      PRINTED BY MAURICE AND CO., HOWFORD BUILDINGS,
      FENCHURCH STREET.

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   CONTENTS

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   Chapter

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I.  `Toulouse`_
II.  `Adventures`_
III.  `The Lady of Elizondo`_
IV.  `Cifuentes`_
V.  `Home`_
VI.  `The Torre de Los Frayles`_
VII.  `Spanish Law`_
VIII.  `An Acquaintance, and "Old England on the Lee"`_
IX.  `Flanders`_
X.  `Cameron of Fassifern`_
XI.  `The 17th June, 1815`_
XII.  `The 18th of June`_
XIII.  `The Sister of Charity`_
XIV.  `France`_
XV.  `The Château de Marielle`_
XVI.  `Paris, De Mesmai, and the Hôtel de Clugny`_
XVII.  `A Catastrophe`_
XVIII.  `The Homeward March`_
XIX.  `Edinburgh`_
XX.  `Lochisla`_
XXI.  `Alice`_
XXII.  `News from Afar`_
XXIII.  `Conclusion`_

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   PREFACE.

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Numerous inquiries having been made for the
conclusion of "The Romance of War," it is now
presented to the Public, whom the Author has to
thank for the favourable reception given to the first
three volumes of his Work.

In following out the adventures of the Highlanders,
he has been obliged to lead them through the
often-described field of Waterloo.  But the reader will
perceive that he has touched on the subject briefly;
and, avoiding all general history, has confined
himself, as much as possible, to the movements of Sir
Dennis Pack's brigade.

Notwithstanding that so many able military narratives
have of late years issued from the press, the
Author believes that the present work is *the first*
which has been almost exclusively dedicated to the
adventures of a Highland regiment during the last
war; the survivors of which he has to congratulate
on their prospect of obtaining the long-withheld,
but well-deserved, *medal*.

Few—few indeed of the old corps are now alive;
yet these all remember, with equal pride and sorrow,

   |  "How, upon bloody Quatre Bras,
   |  Brave CAMERON heard the wild hurra
   |  Of conquest as he fell;"

and, lest any reader may suppose that in these
volumes the national enthusiasm of the Highlanders
has been over-drawn, I shall state one striking
incident which occurred at Waterloo.

On the advance of a heavy column of French
infantry to attack La Haye Sainte, a number of the
Highlanders sang the stirring verses of "Bruce's
Address to his Army," which, at such a time, had a
most powerful effect on their comrades; and long
may such sentiments animate their representatives,
as they are the best incentives to heroism, and to
honest emulation!

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   EDINBURGH,
       *June* 1847.

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.. _`TOULOUSE`:

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   THE ROMANCE OF WAR

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   CHAPTER I.

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   TOULOUSE.

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   |  "One crowded hour of glorious life,
   |  Is worth an age without a name!"

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The long and bloody war of the Peninsula had
now been brought to a final close, and the troops
looked forward with impatience to the day of
embarkation for their homes.  The presence of the
allied army was no longer necessary in France;
but the British forces yet lingered about the
Garonne, expecting the long-wished and long-looked
for route for Britain.  The Gordon Highlanders
were quartered at Muret, a small town on the
banks of the Garonne, and a few miles from Toulouse.
One evening, while the mess were discussing,
over their wine, the everlasting theme of the probable
chances of the corps being ordered to Scotland, the
sound of galloping hoofs and the clank of accoutrements
were heard in the street of the village.  A
serjeant of the First Dragoons, with the foam-bells
hanging on his horse's bridle, reined up at the door
of the inn where the officers of the Highlanders had
established a temporary mess-house.  Old Dugald
Cameron was standing at the door, displaying his
buirdly person to a group of staring villagers, with
whom he was attempting to converse in a singular
mixture of broad northern Scots, Spanish, and
French, all of which his hearers found not very
intelligible.

The horseman dashed up to the door with the
splendid air of the true English dragoon, and with
an importance which caused the villagers to shrink
back.  Inquiring for Colonel Cameron, he handed
to Dugald two long official packets; and after
draining a deep hornful of liquor which the Celt
brought him, he wheeled his charger round, and rode
slowly away.

"Letters frae the toon o' Toulouse, sir," said
Dugald, as, with his flat bonnet under his arm, and
smoothing down his white hair, he advanced to
Fassifern's elbow, and laid the despatches before him;
after which he retired a few paces, and waited to
hear the contents, in which he considered he had as
much interest as any one present.  The clamour and
laughter of the mess-room were instantly hushed,
and every face grew grave, from the ample visage
of Campbell, who was seated on the colonel's right
hand, down to the fair-cheeked ensigns, (or Johny
Newcomes,) who always ensconced themselves at
the foot of the table, to be as far away as possible
from the colonel and seniors.

"Fill your glasses, gentlemen," said Cameron, as he
broke the seal of the first despatch; "fill a bumper,
and drink 'to a fair wind.'  My life on't 'tis the route,
and we shall soon have Old England on our lee!"

"Praise Heaven 'tis come at last!" said Campbell,
filling up his glass with bright sparkling sherry.
"I never hailed it with greater joy, even in Egypt.
But what says Sir Arthur—the marquis, I mean?"

"'Tis the route!" replied Cameron, draining his
glass.  "To-morrow, at daybreak, we march for Toulouse."

"Hurrah!" said the major.  "We shall have the
purple heather under our brogues in a week more.
Hoigh!  Here's to the Highlandmen, shoulder to
shoulder!"  Every glass was reversed, while a round
of applause shook the room.

"We embark on the Garonne," continued Cameron,
consulting the document.  "Flat-bottomed boats
will convey us down the river, and we shall sail in
transports for Cork."

"Hech! how, sirs!  Cork?" exclaimed Campbell,
in a tone of disappointment.  "*Demonios!* as the
dons say; and are we not going home to our own
country,—to the land of the bannock and bonnet?"

"Ireland is our destination.  A famous place to
soldier in, as I know from experience, major."

"I love poor Paddy well enough," said Campbell:
"who is there that would not, that has seen a charge
of the Connaught Rangers, or the 87th?  Regular
devils they are for righting.  But we were sent home
to braid Scotland after Egypt; and we saw service
there, gentlemen.  Old Ludovick Lisle, and Cameron
there, could tell you that.  But the other paper,
colonel; what is it about?"

"A despatch for General the Condé Penne Villamur,
at Elizondo.  It is to be forwarded instantly by
the first officer for duty: who is he?"

"Stuart," said the adjutant.

"The deuce take your memory!" said Stuart testily,
as this announcement fell like a thunderbolt
upon him; "you seem to have the roster all by
heart.  Colonel, is it possible that I am really to
travel nearly a hundred miles, and to cross those
abominable Pyrenees again, after fighting my way
to Toulouse?"

"Without doubt," replied Fassifern, drily.  "You
will have the pleasure of seeing Spain once more,
and again paying your respects to the gazelle-eyed
señoritas and pompous señores."

"I would readily dispense with these pleasures.
But might not Wellington have sent an aide or a
dragoon with this despatch?"

"*He* seems not to think so.  There is no help,
Ronald, my man.  You would not throw your
duty on another.  Obedience is the first—You
know the adage: 'tis enough.  You can rejoin us
at Toulouse, where we embark in eight days from
this."

"Eight days?"

"Make good use of your nag; you will require
one, of course.  Campbell will lend you his spare
charger 'Egypt,' as he styles it."

"With the utmost pleasure," said the major,
filling up his glass.  "But look well to him by the
way, for he is an especial good piece of horse-flesh as
ever was foaled, or any man found for nothing on
that memorable day of June, on the plains of
Vittoria.  But when I remember the airing you took
with my steed at Almarez, I cannot lend you Egypt
without entertaining some secret fears of never
beholding him again."

"Have no fears for Egypt, major," said Ronald,
laughing.  "I will restore him without turning a hair
of his glossy coat."

"Then, Stuart, you must march forthwith," said
Cameron; "the marquis's despatch must be carried
onward without delay.  You must reach St. Gaudens
by sunrise."

Dugald was despatched to desire Jock Pentland,
the major's bat-man, to caparison Egypt; and mean
while Stuart hurried to his billet, where he hastily
selected a few necessaries for his journey, and
packed them in a horse valise.  In case of accidents,
he indited a hasty letter for Lochisla; but, for
reasons which will be given in another chapter, it
never reached those for whom it was destined.

To his servant, Allan Warristoun, poor Evan's
successor, he abandoned the care of his baggage,
desiring him to have it all in readiness against the
hour of march on the morrow.  He belted his sword
and dirk tightly to his waist, and examined the
holsters, to see if the pistols were freshly flinted and in
good order; after which he examined his ammunition,
well knowing that the more lead bullets and the less
loose cash he had about him, the better for travelling
on such unsafe ground as the Lower Pyrenees.  He
remembered that the whole of these waste places were
infested by hordes of lawless banditti, composed of
all the rascal crew of Spain,—guerillas, whose trade
was at at end, broken or deserted soldiers, unfrocked
monks, fugitive *presidiarios* or convicts, bravoes,
*valientes*, and vagabonds of every kind, with which the
long war, the absence of order and law, together with
the loose state of Spanish morals, had peopled every
part of the country.  While the remembrance of
these gentlemen passed through his mind, Stuart
again examined his arms and horse-equipage carefully,
and mounting, rode forth along the dark, straggling
street of Muret.  From the mess-room window
there was handed to him a parting bumper of sherry,
which he drank in his saddle.

"Good-bye, Lisle!" said he, waving his hand;
"bid Virginia adieu for me.  And now good-bye,
lads; good-bye to ye all;" and, striking spurs into
Egypt, he galloped off.

"He is a fine fellow, and keeps his seat as well as
any cavalier of the *Prado* at Madrid," said the
major, watching Stuart's retreating figure as long as
he could see it by the star-light.  "He is a fine
fellow; and I wish he was safe back again among us.
He has a long and a perilous path before him, over
these d—d Pyrenees; and ten to one he never
returns again from among those black-browed and
uncanny dons.  We all know Spanish ingratitude,
sirs!"  The worthy major knew not how prophetically
he spoke.

Next morning the regiment marched to Toulouse
and remained eight days, awaiting the arrival of the
boats and other small craft to convey them down
the Garonne, which becomes navigable at a short
distance from the city.

The eight days passed away, and Ronald Stuart
did not return.  The eventful day arrived,—the day
of embarkation for home, and the regiment paraded
on the river side without him.  The officers glanced
darkly at each other, and the colonel shook his head
sorrowfully, as if he deemed that all was not right;
and a murmured curse on the Spaniards was muttered
among the soldiers.  The whole regiment, from
Fassifern down to the youngest drum-boy, regretted
his absence, which gave room for so many disagreeable
constructions and surmises.  Other corps were
parading at the same time, and in the stir, bustle,
and confusion of embarking men and horses, baggage,
women, and children, his absence was forgotten
for a time.  The cheers of the soldiers and the
din of various bands were heard everywhere.  The
time was one of high excitement, and joy shone on
every bronzed face as boat after boat got under
way, and, with its freight, moved slowly down the
Garonne,—"the silvery Garonne," the windings of
which soon hid the bridge, the spires, the grey old
university, and the beautiful forests of Toulouse.





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.. _`ADVENTURES`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   ADVENTURES.

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..

   |  ————— "Turn thy horse;
   |  Death besets thy onward track.
   |  Come no further,—quickly back!"
   |                          *Aikin's Poems*, 1791.

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Stuart departed from Muret in no pleasant mood,
having a conviction that he was the most unfortunate
fellow in the army; because, when any disagreeable
duty was to be performed, by some strange
fatality the lot always fell upon him.  But his
displeasure evaporated as the distance between Muret
and himself increased.  It was a clear and beautiful
night.  Millions of sparklers studded the firmament,
and, although no moon was visible, the scenery
around was distinctly discernible.  Afar off lay
Toulouse, the direction of which was marked only by
the hazy halo of light around it, arising from amidst
the bosky forests, which extend over nearly a
hundred thousand acres of ground.

Before him spread a clear and open country, over
which his horse was now carrying him at a rapid
pace.  It was midnight before the lights of Muret
vanished behind him.  The road became more lonely,
and no sound broke upon the silence of the way,
save the clang of Egypt's hoofs, ringing with a
sharp iron sound on the hard-trodden road.

After riding nearly twenty miles, he found himself
becoming tired and drowsy; and dismounting, he
led his horse into a copse by the road-side, where,
fastening the bridle to a tree, he lay down on the
dewy sward, and, placing his claymore under his
head, fell fast asleep.  Before sunrise he was again
in his saddle, and, without breaking his fast, reached
the town of Saint Gaudens, on the Garonne, forty-four
miles from Toulouse.  Unwilling to waste farther
the strength of the noble animal which had
borne him so far, and with such speed, he halted at
Saint Gaudens for twelve hours, and again set
forward on the direct road for the province of Beam.

The well-known chain of the Pyrenees, the scene
of so many a recent contest, began to rise before
him, and as he proceeded, every object which met
his view became more familiar.

On nearing the Pass of Roncesvalles, he reached
the block-house which his light company had garrisoned
and defended so stoutly.  It was now falling
into ruin, and the skeletons of the French were lying
around it, with the rank dog-grass sprouting among
their mouldering bones.  A ghastly sight!—but
many such occurred as he journeyed among the
mountains.  Near the block-house he fell in with an
encampment of *gitanos*, or gipsies, a people whose
ferocity is equalled only by their cunning and
roguery.  They were at dinner, and bade him welcome
to the feast, which consisted of broiled rabbits,
olives, rice, and *bacalao*, with wine—stolen of
course—to wash it down.  He took his share of the
viands seated by a fire, around which the ragged
wayfarers crowded, male and female; but he was
very well pleased when he took his departure from
these singular people, who would not accept of a
single maravedi for his entertainment.

Near midnight he arrived at the village of
Roncesvalles, which consists of one straggling street,
closed by an arched gateway at each end.  The
barriers were shut, and no admittance was given.
He thundered loudly, first at one gate and then at
the other; but he was unheard or uncared for by the
drowsy porters, who occupied the houses above the
arches.  He therefore prepared to pass the night in
the open air, which, although nothing new to a
campaigner, was sufficiently provoking on that occasion,
especially as a shower was beginning to descend,
and sheet lightning, red and flaming, shot at times
across the distant sky, revealing the peaks of the
mountains, and the moaning voice of the wind
announced a tempestuous night.  Wishing the warders
of Roncesvalles in a hotter climate than Spain, he
looked about for some place of shelter, and
perceived, not far off, a solitary little chapel, or oratory,
which was revealed by the pale altar-lights twinkling
through its tinted windows and open doorway.

In this rude edifice he resolved to take shelter,
rather than pass the night in the open air; and just
as he gained its arched porch, the storm, which had
long been threatening, burst forth with sudden and
appalling fury.  The wind howled in the pass, and
swept over the mountains like a tornado, and with a
terrible sound, as if, in the words of a Gaelic bard,
the spirits of the storm were shrieking to each other.
The forked lightning shot athwart the sky, cleaving
the masses of cloud, and the rattling rain thundered
furiously on the chapel roof and windows, as if to
beat the little fabric to the earth.  His horse was
startled by the uproar of the elements, and snorted,
grew restive, and shot fire from his prominent eyes
as the passing gleams illuminated the porch, within
which Stuart had stabled him by fastening the bridle
to the figure of an old saint or apostle that
presided over a stone font, from which the old
troop-horse soon sucked up the holy water.  Ronald
wrapped a cloak round him, and flung himself on
the stone pavement of the chapel, to rest his aching
limbs, which were beginning to stiffen with so long
a journey on horseback.

The building was totally destitute of ornament,
and its rude construction gave evidence of its great
antiquity.  There were several shrines around it,
with wax tapers flickering before them, revealing
the strange little monsters in wood or stone which
represented certain saints.  In front of one of these
knelt a stout, but wild-looking Spanish peasant,
devoutly praying and telling over his chaplet.  The
entrance of Stuart caused him hurriedly to start,—to
snatch his broad-leaved hat from the floor, to grasp
the haft of his dagger, and glance round him with
frowning brow and eyes gleaming with apprehension.
But on perceiving the uniform of the intruder, his
dark features relaxed into a smile; he bowed his
head politely, and resumed his orisons, which Stuart
never interrupted, although they lasted for a weary
hour.  There was something very grotesque in the
aspect of one particular image, which appeared
to be thrust unceremoniously into a dark niche,
where no taper burned; from which Ronald inferred
that the saint had no worshippers, or was not a
favourite in the neighbourhood of Roncesvalles.
The appearance of the image was calculated to
excite laughter and derision, rather than piety or
awe.  It resembled the figure of Johnny Wilkes or
Guy Fawkes, rather than a grim and ghostly saint.
The effigy was upwards of six feet high, and had
a painted mask, well be-whiskered, and surmounted
by a cocked hat.  It was arrayed in leather breeches
and jack-boots, a blue uniform coat, and tarnished
epaulets.  A sash encircled its waist, and in it
were stuck a pair of pistols and a sabre.  Its *tout
ensemble* was quite ludicrous, as it stood erect in the
gloomy niche of the solemn little chapel, and was
seen by the "dim religious light" of distant tapers.

With the hilt of his broad-sword under his head
for a pillow, Stuart lay on the pavement, and viewed
this singular apparition with considerable amusement;
and if he restrained a violent inclination to
laugh, it was only from a reluctance to offend the
peasant, who was praying before an image which,
by its long robe and bunch of rusty keys, seemed
meant for a representation of San Pedro.

From the devotee, who, when his prayers were
ended, seated himself by his side, Stuart learned
that the strange image represented St. Anthony of
Portugal, one of those redoubtable seven champions
whose "history" has made such a noise in the
world from time immemorial.  Notwithstanding the
mist which ignorance, superstition, and priestcraft
had cast over his mind, the sturdy *paisano* laughed
till the chapel rang again at the appearance of the
Portuguese patron, and acquainted Stuart with some
pleasant facts, which accounted for the military garb
of the saint.  By virtue of a decree in that behalf
on the part of his Holiness, St. Anthony was, in
1706, formally *enlisted* into the Portuguese army;
and in the same year received the rank of captain,—so
rapid was his promotion.  His image was always
clad in successive uniforms as he was hurried
through the different grades, until he reached the
rank of Marshal-general of the armies of Portugal
and Algarve,—a post which, I believe, he yet holds,
with a pension of one hundred and fifty ducats per
annum, which every year is punctually deposited, in
a splendid purse, in the Chapel-Royal, by the
Portuguese sovereign.  Awful was the wrath, and terrible
were the denunciations and holy indignation, when a
cannon-ball carried off the head and cocked hat of
the unfortunate image, which had been placed in an
open carriage on one occasion, when *commanding* the
Portuguese army in battle.

The image in the chapel at Roncesvalles had
been placed there by the soldiers of the condé
d'Amarante's brigade, the condé himself furnishing
the saint with some of his cast uniform; but, since
the departure of the Portuguese, the shrine had been
totally deserted, as no true Spaniard would bend his
knee to a Lusitanian saint.  Such was the account
given by the peasant, and it illustrates rather oddly
the religious feelings of the Portuguese.  After
sharing together the contents of a flask of brandy,
with which Ronald had learned to provide himself,
they composed themselves to sleep.  The peasant,
who had also been shut out of Roncesvalles, drew
his broad *sombrero* over his dusky visage, and,
wrapping his brown mantle around him, laid his
head against the base of a column, and fell fast
asleep.  Those suspicions which a long intercourse
with Spaniards had taught Stuart to entertain of
every casual acquaintance, kept him for some time
from sleep.  He narrowly watched his olive-cheeked
companion, and it was not until, from his hard
breathing, he was sure he slept, that he too resigned
himself to the drowsy deity.  He awoke about sunrise,
and found that his companion had departed.
A sudden misgiving shot across his mind, and he
sprang to the porch to look for his horse, which
stood there, fair and sleek, as he left him on the
preceding evening.  He took him by the bridle, and
advanced towards Roncesvalles.

The storm, and all traces of it, had passed away.
The sky was clear and sunny, and the distant
mountains mingled with its azure.  The air was laden
with rich perfume from little shrubs, of which I
know not the name, but which flourish everywhere
over the Peninsula; and every bush and blade of
grass glittered like silver with the moisture which
bedewed them.  The gates of Roncesvalles stood
open, and, passing through one of the archways,
Ronald asked the first person he met whether there
was an inn, café, *taberna*, or any house of entertainment,
where he could procure refreshment for himself
and horse, but was informed that the wretched
mountain-village could boast of none.  The man to
whom he spoke was a miserably-clad peasant, and,
like most Spanish villagers, appeared to belong to
no trade or profession.  He was returning from the
public fountain with water, which he carried on his
head, in a huge brown jug.  He seemed both surprised
and pleased to be accosted by a British officer,
and said that if the noble *caballero* would honour
him by coming to his house, he would do his best
to provide refreshment.  This offer Stuart at once
accepted, and placing a dollar in the hand of the
*aguadore*, desired him to lead the way.  After seeing
his horse fed and watered, and after discussing
breakfast, which consisted of a miserable mess of
milk, peas, goats'-flesh, and roasted *castanos*, he
mounted, and again went forth on his mission,
glad to leave Roncesvalles far behind him.  He
expected to reach Elizondo before night; but soon
found that his horse had become so jaded and worn
out, that the hope was vain.  The pace of the animal
had become languid and slow; his eyes had lost
their fire, and his neck and ears began to droop.

That he might advance faster, Stuart was fain to
lead him by the bridle up the steep and winding
tracks by which his journey lay.  Once only Egypt
showed some signs of his former spirit.  In a narrow
dell between two hills, in a rugged gorge like the
bed of a departed river, an iron howitzer and a few
shells lay rusting and half sunk in the earth: close
by lay the skeletons of a man and a horse, adding
sadly to the effect of the naked and silent wilderness
around.  At the sudden sight of these ghastly
objects lying among the weeds and long grass, the
steed snorted, shyed, and then sprung away at a
speed which soon left the dell, and what it
contained, miles behind.

As he rode through a solitary place, Stuart was
startled on perceiving a party of men, to the number
of fifteen or twenty, all well armed and on horseback,
rising as it seemed from the earth, or appearing
suddenly above the surface successively, as
spectres rise through the stage.  The fellows were
all gaily attired in gaudy jackets, red sashes, and
high-crowned hats; but the appearance of their
arms, a long Spanish gun slung over the back, a
cutlass, and double brace of pistols, together with
various packages of goods with which their horses
were laden, gave them the aspect of a band of
robbers.  Stuart thought of the gang of Captain
Rolando, as he saw them appearing from the bowels of
the earth, within about twenty paces of where he
stopped his horse.  He next thought of his own
safety, and had drawn forth his pistols, when one of
the strangers perceiving him, waved his hat, crying,
"*Amigos, señor, amigos!*" and, to put a bold face on
the matter, Ronald rode straight towards him.  They
proved to be a party of *contrabandistas*, travelling
to Vittoria with a store of chocolate, soap, butter,
cigars, &c., which they had been purchasing in
France.  A sort of hatchway, or trap-door, of turf
was laid over the mouth of the cavern from which
they arose; after which they set off at full speed
for Errazu.

Ronald was very well pleased to see them depart,
as *contrabandistas* are, at best, but indifferent
characters, although few travellers are more
welcome at Spanish inns, where they may generally be
seen at the door, or in the yard, recounting to their
laughing auditors strange tales of adventures which
they had encountered in the course of their roving
and romantic life; and, as they are always gaily
attired, they are generally favourites with the
peasant-girls on the different roads they frequent.  Their
cavern, which Ronald felt a strong wish to explore,
was probably some deserted mine, or one of those
subterranean abodes dug by the Spaniards in the
days of the Moors, and now appropriated by these
land-smugglers as a place for holding their wares.
Had Ronald worn any other garb than that of a
British officer, the contraband gentry might, by
an ounce bullet, have secured for ever his silence
regarding their retreat, but they well knew that it
mattered not to him: so, after an interchange of a
few civilities and cigars, they rode off at a gallop,
without once looking behind them.

As he proceeded on his way, the scenery
became more interesting, the landscape being
interspersed with all that can render it beautiful.  A
ruined chapel towered on a green eminence above
a tufted grove, through which swept a brawling
mountain torrent, spanned by a pointed arch; while
a cascade appeared below, where the stream,
grappling and jarring with the rocks that interrupted
its course, rushed in a sheet of foam to a cleft in
the earth many feet beneath.  Around were groves
of the olive-tree, with its soft green leaves and
bright yellow flowers; and beyond was Errazu, with
its vine-covered cottages, its larger mansions of brick
and plaster, with heavy-tiled roofs and broad
projecting eaves, its great old monastery and its church
spire, the vane of which was gleaming in the light of
the setting sun.  As he was travelling on duty,
Stuart was entitled to billets; he therefore set about
procuring one.  The alcalde was at confession, and
the *escrivano*, to whom he applied, gave him orders
for a quarter in the house of a solitary widow lady,
who, with her daughter, resided in a lonely house at
the end of the town.

Considering their circumstances, this was the
last house upon which a billet should have been
given; but the escrivano had a piece of revenge to
gratify.  The old lady was a widow of a syndic,—a
magistrate chosen by the people, like the Roman
tribunes,—who, during his whole life, had been at
feud with him, and the escrivano hoped that Stuart's
being billeted there would give rise to some pleasant
piece of scandal, for the benefit of the gossiping old
maids and duennas of Errazu.

The appearance of the widow's mansion did not
prepossess Ronald much in its favour.  The French
had not left Errazu unscathed on their retreat through
it; and, like many others, the domicile of Donna
Aminta della Ronda showed signs of their vindictive
feeling.  One half had suffered from fire, and was in
ruins; but two apartments were yet habitable, and
into one of these Stuart was shown by an aged and
saffron-coloured female domestic, to whom he
presented the billet-order, by which he was entitled to
occupy the best room and best bed in the house.
The chamber, which was paved with tiles, was on
the ground-floor; the window was glazed, but the
walls were in a deplorable state of dilapidation; and
many choice pieces of French wit appeared scribbled
on various parts of the plaster.  Among other things
was a copy of verses addressed to Donna Aminta,
written in rather indelicate French, and signed
"M. de Mesmai, 10th Cuirassiers, or Devil's Own," which
informed Stuart that his former acquaintance had
once occupied that apartment.

Two antique chairs, high-backed and richly carved,
a massive oak table, and a brass candlestick,
composed the furniture.  A chamber, containing an
old-fashioned bed, with crimson feathers and hangings,
opened out of this apartment, with which it
communicated by means of an arch, from which the French
had torn the door, probably for fuel.  But this snug
couch did not appear destined for Stuart, as the old
domestic laid a paillasse upon the tiled floor for his
use; and placing wine, cigars, and a light upon the
table, laid the poker and shovel crosswise, and
withdrew, leaving him to his own reflections.

He was somewhat displeased at not being received
by the ladies in person, especially as the escrivano
had informed him, with a sly look, that the youngest
possessed considerable attractions; but, consoling
himself with the wine and cigars, he resolved to care
not a jot about their discourtesy.  After he had
amused himself by thoroughly inspecting every nook
and corner of the room, and grown weary of conning
over the "History of the famous Preacher, Friar
Gerund de Campazas," which he found when ransacking
the bed-closet, he began to think of retiring
to rest.  He debated with himself for a moment
which berth to take possession of, because by his
billet he was entitled to the best bed the house
contained; and the four-post and paillasse seemed the
very antipodes of each other.  But his doubts were
resolved at once by the sudden entrance of the ladies,
who sailed into the room with their long trains and
flowing veils, and bowing, coldly bid him "*Buena
noche, señor!*" as they retired to their bed-room.  Ye
gods! a bed-room destitute of door, and a foreign
*oficial* to sleep in the next room!  Stuart was puzzled,
dumb-foundered in fact, and his Scottish modesty
was quite shocked.  But, lighting another cigar, he
affected to read very attentively "Friar Gerund de
Campazas," and wondered how all this was to end;
while the ladies, favoured by the gloom of the
chamber, undressed and betook themselves to their
couch, around which they drew the dark and massive
folds of the drapery.  Ronald laid down the book,
and stared about him.  There was something very
peculiar in the affair, and it outdid the most singular
Spanish stories he had ever heard related, even at
the mess.

The elder lady had nothing very enchanting about
her, certainly; but Ronald's keen eye had observed
that the young donna had a melting black Spanish
eye, a cherry lip, and white hand.  He thought of
these things and glanced furtively towards the
mysterious closet, where the black outline of the couch,
surmounted by its plumage, seemed like that of a
hearse or mausoleum.  Not a sound came from it
after Donna Aminta had mumbled her *ave*; but the
trampling of heavy feet arrested Stuart's attention;
the door opened, and two tall and muscular Spaniards
entered.  One wore a broad hat, with a sprig of
romero stuck in the band of it, as a guard against
evil spirits and danger.  The other wore a long cap
of yellow cotton.  They were shirtless and shoeless,
and their ragged cotton breeches and *zamarra* jackets
displayed, through various holes, their dark and
swarthy skin, giving them a wild and savage
appearance, which their brown bull-like necks and
ferocious visages, fringed with masses of dark hair, did
not belie.  As usual, each was girt about the middle
by a yellow sash; but, stuck in it, each had a dagger
and brace of pistols.  They were beetle-browed and
most cut-throat looking fellows.  At first sight
Ronald knew them to be *valientes*,—villains whose
poniards are ever at the service of any base employer
who pays well.  He started up on their entering
and drew his sword an inch or so from the sheath.
The fellows smiled grimly at the demonstration;
upon which, he inquired sternly the reason of their
intrusion, and why thus armed?

"Donna Aminta can best answer your questions,"
answered one fellow with surly impudence, as they
swaggered into the bed-chamber.  With his hand
on his claymore Ronald strode towards them.

"Stand, señor cavalier!" said the one who had
spoken; "stand!  We seek not to quarrel with you;
but life is sweet, and if we are set upon—  You
understand us: the good lady shall see that we are
worthy of our wages.  We mount guard on her
chamber: cross this line," added he, drawing one on
the tiles with his poniard; "cross this line, and, *Santo
demonio!* we will whet our daggers on your backbone."

Insolent as this reply was, Stuart resolved to put
up with the affront rather than come to blows with
two desperadoes, whose fire-arms gave them such
advantage.  He deeply regretted that he had left
his loaded pistols in the holsters of the saddle, and
remembering that he was alone, and among jealous
strangers, he thought that a brawl would be well
avoided.  The bravoes seated themselves on the
floor within the ladies' chamber, and remained
perfectly quiet, without stirring or speaking; but their
fierce dark eyes seemed to be watching the stranger
keenly.  Ronald retired to his paillasse, and laid
his drawn dirk and claymore beside him, ready
to grasp them on the least alarm.  He remained
watching the intruders by the light of the candle,
until it flickered down in the socket and expired,
leaving the place involved in deep gloom.  The
silence of the chamber was broken only by the real
or pretended snoring of these modern Cids, who had
so suddenly become the guardians of the ladies'
bower.  When he first committed himself to his
miserable couch, Ronald had determined to lie
awake; but, growing weary of listening and watching
in the dark, he dropped insensibly asleep, and did
not awaken until the morning was far advanced.  The
instant sleep departed from his eyelids, the
remembrance of last night flashed upon his memory.  He
rose and looked about him.  The bravoes had
withdrawn; the ladies also were gone, and the couch was
tenantless.  Sheathing his weapons, he drained the
wine-jar; and snatching up his bonnet, he departed
from the house unseen by its inmates, whom he
bequeathed to the devil for their discourtesy.

Fetching his horse from the stable of the *escrivano*,
where he had left it overnight, he again resumed
his journey, feeling heartily tired of Spain,
and wishing himself again at Toulouse, where his
comrades were awaiting the order to embark.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LADY OF ELIZONDO`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE LADY OF ELIZONDO.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "A love devoid of guile and sin;
   |  A love for ever kind and pure,—
   |  A love to suffer and endure;
   |  Unalterably firm and great,
   |  Amid the angry storms of fate;
   |  For ever young, for ever new,
   |  For ever passionate and true."
   |                    *The Salamandrine.*

.. vspace:: 2

A ride of a few leagues brought Stuart to Elizondo.
On entering the market-place, two Spanish
soldiers, placed as sentinels before the door of a large
mansion-house, attracted his attention.  He was
informed that it was the residence of the Condé Penne
Villamur.  It stood at the corner of the old marketplace,
to which one of its fronts looked; the other
faced the *Puerta del Sol*, where the superior classes
of the inhabitants met to promenade and converse,
between ten and twelve in the forenoon.

He dismounted, and, ascending a splendid staircase,
was ushered into a handsome apartment, the
lofty ceiling of which was covered with antique
carving and gilding.  As usual in Spanish houses,
the furniture was very antique, and the chairs and
hangings were of damask cloth.  The condé, a grim
old fellow, whose grey wiry moustaches were turned
up to the tops of his ears, lay back in an easy chair,
with his legs stretched out lazily at full length under
the table, upon which stood wine-decanters, and fruit,
&c. &c.  A young lady, either his wife or daughter,
sat in that part of the room where the floor was
raised, as if for a throne, about a foot above the rest.
She sat working at a new mantilla, which she was
embroidering on a frame.  Her feet were placed on
the wooden rail of a *brasero* or pan filled with
charcoal, which rendered the atmosphere of the room
very unpleasant to one unaccustomed to such an
uncomfortable contrivance.  When Stuart entered,
the señora merely bowed, and continued her work,
blushing as young ladies generally do when a
handsome young officer appears unexpectedly.  The count
snatched from his face the handkerchief which during
his siesta had covered it, and bowed twice or thrice
with the most formal gravity of an old Castilian,
stooping until the bullion epaulets of his brown
regimentals became reversed.  Stuart delivered the
despatch with which he had ridden so far, wondering
what it might contain.  The condé handed him a
chair, and a glass of Malaga; after which he begged
pardon, and proceeded to con over the papers,
without communicating their contents.  But in
consequence of the complacent smile which overspread
and unbent his grim features, Ronald supposed that
the envelope contained only some complimentary
address to the Spanish forces.  And he was right in
his conjecture, as, six months afterwards, he had the
pleasure, or rather displeasure, of perusing it in a
number of the *Gaceta de la Regencia*.

"*Diavolo!*" thought he, as he bowed to *la señora*,
and emptied his glass; "have I ridden from the
Garonne to the Pyrenees with a paper full of
staff-office nonsense!"

Villamur read over the document two or three
times, often begging pardon for the liberty he took;
and after inquiring about the health of Lord
Wellington, and discussing the probabilities of having a
continuance of fine weather, as if he kept a score of
barometers and thermometers, he ended by a few
other common-place observations, and covering up
his face with his handkerchief, began to relapse
insensibly into the dozing and dreamy state from
which Stuart had roused him.  Irritated at
treatment so different from what he expected, and which
an officer of the most trusty ally of Spain deserved,
Ronald at once rose, and bowing haughtily to the
lady, withdrew; the condé coolly permitting him to
do so, saying, that Micer Bartolmé, the alcalde,
who kept the faro-table opposite, would give him
an order for a billet.

"Confound his Spanish pride, his insolence,
presumption, and ingratitude!" thought Stuart,
bitterly.  "'Tis a pretty display of hospitality this,—to
one who has looked on the slaughter of Vittoria, of
Orthes, and Toulouse!  But my duty is over, thank
Heaven! and to-morrow my horse's tail will be turned
on this most grateful soil of Spain."

Micer Bartolmé expressed much joy at the sight of
the red coat, and would have invited the wearer to
remain in his own house, probably for the purpose
of fleecing him at faro; but it so happened that, at
the moment, he was not exactly master of his own
premises.  His good lady had just brought him a
son and heir, ten minutes before Ronald's arrival, and
the mansion had been taken violent possession of by
all the female gossips, wise women, and duennas of
Elizondo, by whom the worthy alcalde was treated
as a mere intruder, being pushed, ordered, and
browbeaten, until he was fain to quit the field and take
up his quarters with his neighbour, an escrivano.
An order for a billet was therefore given on the
mansion of a cavalier, who bore the sounding name of
Don Alvarado de Castellon de la Plana, so styled
from the place of his birth, the 'castle on the plain,'
an old Moorish town of Valencia.

He received Ronald with all due courtesy, and
directed servants to look after the wants of his jaded
horse.  He was a dissipated but handsome-looking
man, about thirty years of age.  He wore his hair in
long flowing locks, and two short black tufts curled
on his upper lip.  In its cut, his dress closely
resembled that of an English gentleman; but his surtout of
green cloth was braided with gold lace, adorned with
a profusion of jingling bell-buttons, and girt about
the waist by a broad belt, which was clasped by a
large buckle, and sustained a short ivory-hilted and
silver-sheathed stiletto.  A broad shirt-collar, edged
with jagged lace, spread over his shoulder, and when
his high-flapped Spanish hat was withdrawn, a broad
and noble forehead was displayed; but there was an
expression in its contracted lines, which told of a
heart stern, proud, and daring.  His dark eyebrows
were habitually knit, and formed a continued but
curved line above his nose; and there was a certain
bold and boisterous swagger in his demeanour, which
Ronald supposed he had acquired while serving as
a cavalier of fortune in the guerilla band of the
ferocious Don Julian Sanchez.

In every thing the reverse of him appeared his
wife, a lady so gentle, so timid, that she scarcely
ever raised her soft dark eyes when Ronald addressed
her.  She was very pale; her soft cheek was whiter
than her hand, and contrasted strongly with the hue
of her ringlets; and in her beautiful but evidently
withering features, there was such an expression of
heart-broken sadness, that she at once won all the
sympathy and compassion which Stuart's gallant
heart was capable of yielding.  Her husband, for
some reasons known only to himself, treated her with
a marked coldness and even harshness, which he
cared not to conceal, even before their military guest.

The poor timid woman seemed to shrink within
herself whenever she found the keen stern eye of
Alvarado turned upon her.  Often during the
evening repast, which had been hastily prepared for
Ronald, and with which, in consequence of the host's
behaviour, he was disgusted,—often did he feel
inclined to smite him on the mouth, for the unkind
things which he addressed to his drooping wife.

In truth, they were a singular couple as it had ever
been his fortune to meet with.  Although there was
no duenna about the establishment, thus affording a
rare example of love and fidelity in the lady, yet her
husband seemed to take a strange and most unmanly
pleasure in mortifying her, and endeavouring to
render her contemptible in the estimation of the stranger.
The latter, although he felt very uncomfortable,
affected not to be conscious of Alvarado's conduct,
and conversed with ease on various topics, and
generally of the long war which had been so successfully
terminated.  When the meal was ended, Donna
Ximena bowed, and faltering out "*Addios, señores! buena
noche!*" withdrew, leaving her ungracious
husband and his guest over their wine.

Over his flasks of rich *Ciudad Real* the don grew
animated, and retailed many anecdotes of scenes he
had witnessed, and adventures in which he had borne
a part, while serving with Don Julian Sanchez.  Some
of these stories he would have done well to have
suppressed, as they would have baffled even the
imagination of the most bloody-minded romancer to
conceive.  But a revengeful and hot-brained Spaniard
surpasses every other man in cruelty.  He said that,
like the parents of Julian Sanchez, his father, mother,
and sister had been murdered by the French, and on
their graves he had sworn by cross and dagger to
revenge them; and terribly had he kept his
formidable vow.  During the whole of the war of
independence, he had never yielded quarter or mercy,
but put the wounded and captives to that death
which he said their atrocities deserved.  He boasted
that his stiletto had drunk the blood of a hundred
hearts, and in support of many avowals of instances
of particular ferocity, he cited the *Gaceta de
Valencia*, in the columns of which, he said, his deeds
and patriotism had all been duly extolled.
Disgusted with his host, and the strange tenour of his
conversation, Ronald soon withdrew to rest, pleading
as an excuse for so doing, his desire to commence
his journey to Toulouse early on the morrow, which
he must needs do, if he would be in time for the
embarkation of his regiment.

The furniture and ornaments of his sleeping
apartment were richer and more beautiful than he could
have expected them to be on the southern side of
the Pyrenees; but the plunder of Gascon châteaux,
when guerilla bands made occasional descents to the
North, served to replenish many of the mansions
that had been ravaged and ruined by the troops of
France when retreating.  The bed-hangings were of
white satin, fringed with silver; the chairs were
covered with crimson velvet, and yet bore on the back
the gilded coat-armorial of some French family.  A
splendid clock, covered by a glass, ticked upon an
antique mantel-piece of carved cedar; and several
gloomy portraits of severe-looking old cavaliers, in
the slashed doublets, high ruffs, and peaked beards
worn in Spain a hundred years before, hung around
the walls.  The tall casemented windows came down
to the tiles of the floor, and through the half-open
hangings were seen the bright stars, the blue sky,
the long dark vistas of the tiled roofs, and the
church-spire of Elizondo.

On the table stood a showy Parisian lamp,
surmounted by the Eagle of the emperor, which spread
its gilt wings over a rose-coloured glass globe, from
which a soft light was diffused through the
apartment.  Throwing himself into an easy chair with
a most *nonchalant* manner, Stuart made a careless
survey of the place.

"Well, Ronald Stuart; truly this is a snug billet!"
he soliloquized, as he placed his feet on the
rail of the charcoal *brasero*, which smouldered and
glowed on the hearth.  "Rich in the plunder of
France, 'tis as splendid a billet as Campbell's could
have been, when quartered in the harem of
Alexandria.  But assuredly this Alvarado de—de
Castellon de la Plana is, by his own account, one of
the most savage rascals unhung in Spain; and yet I
am his guest, and am to sleep beneath his roof for
this night.  And then Donna Ximena,—by Jove! was
that gentle creature mine, how I would love
and cherish her!  Her rogue of a husband deserves
to be flogged, and pickled afterward!"

His eye fell on the timepiece, the hour-hand of
which pointed to eleven, and he began to think of
retiring.  Unbuckling his weapons, he laid them on
a chair at the bed-side, to be at hand in case of any
alarm; and then, with the caution of an old soldier,
he turned to examine the means of securing the
door, which was furnished with a strong but rude
iron bolt, which he shot into its place.

Two persons, whom for some time past he had
heard conversing in an adjoining room, now suddenly
raised their voices.

"It shall be so.  I tell you, Señor Don Alvarado—"

"Peace!  Would you awaken the cavalier in the
next room?"

"And who is he?" cried the other furiously;
"this cavalier, of whom you have spoken thrice,
who is *he*?  But it matters not: let him keep his
ears to himself, if he is given to lie awake.  Listeners
seldom hear aught that is pleasant for themselves.
Said you an officer of Wellington's army?  He, too,
shall die, if he ventures to cross my path this
night!"

"Carlos!  Madman!  Let me beseech you not to
raise your voice thus!" intreated Alvarado in a
whisper.

But Stuart had heard more than enough to whet
his curiosity.  Indeed, owing to the tenor of those
observations,—of which he had been an involuntary
listener,—he considered himself entitled to sift the
matter to the utmost.  Examining the partition,
which consisted only of lath and plaster, he discovered,
near the ceiling, a small hole in the stucco
cornice which surrounded the top of the wall.

"Stratagems are fair in war," thought he, as he
mounted upon a side table and placed his eye to
the orifice, through which he obtained a complete
survey of the next apartment.  A lustre hung from
the roof, and its light revealed Alvarado and Don
Carlos Avallo,—a young cavalier, about three-and-twenty
years of age, whom he remembered to have
met at Aranjuez and other places.  Alvarado, who
was intreating him to lower his voice, was standing
half undrest,—at least without his vest, doublet, and
girdle, as if he had been preparing for rest when
disturbed by the visit of Avallo, who appeared to
have entered by the window, which stood half open.
A short but graceful Spanish mantle enveloped the
left side of this young cavalier, who wore his broad
hat pulled over his face; but his fierce dark eyes
flashed and gleamed brightly beneath its shade, like
those of a tiger in the dark; and when at times the
rays of light fell on his swarthy cheek, it seemed
inflamed with rage, while his teeth were clenched,
and his lips pale and quivering.  He kept his left
hand free from the folds of his velvet mantle, but
his fingers grasped tremblingly the hilt of a poniard,
which appeared with a brace of pistols in his
embroidered girdle.  A gold crucifix glittered on his
breast, and a long black feather, fastened in the
band of his hat, floated gracefully over his left
shoulder.  He appeared a striking and romantic
figure as he stood confronting Alvarado, with his
proud head drawn back and his right foot placed
forward, while he surveyed the proprietor of the
mansion with eyes keen and fiery, and with rage
and unutterable scorn bristling on every hair of his
smart moustaches.

"Look you, Alvarado," said he, after a very long
pause; "I will not be trifled with!  *Santos!* my
dagger is likely to punch an unhappy hole in the
old friendship we have so often vowed to each other
over our cups at Salamanca, if we come not to some
terms this very night.  Beard o' the Pope, señor!
I am not now the simple student I was then.
Alvarado! you know me.  This night, then—"

"There is but one hour of it to run," observed
the other in a deprecating tone.  "There is but one
hour—"

"Time enough, and to spare, then, thou base
juggler!"

"What would you have, insolent?" said Alvarado
fiercely, as he closed the casement with violence.
"To-morrow I will meet you in the pass of Lanz,
and there, with pistols, with sword, or with dagger,
I will yield you that satisfaction for which you have
such a craving."

The other laughed scornfully.  "No, no, my
blustering guerilla! such a meeting will not suit my
purpose.  Every drop of blood in the veins of your
body would not wash away the insult you are
likely to cast upon the name of Avallo by means of
this poor sister of mine.  Hear me, Don Alvarado! and
hear me for the last time!  I tell you that my
sister has been wronged,—basely wronged and
betrayed by you!  I want not your blood; but do my
sister justice, or, by the bones of Rodrigo!  I will
make all Spain ring with the tidings of Avallo's
vengeance!"

"How!" said the other sullenly; "do her justice?"

"Wed her,—ay, before this week is out!"

"A week is a short time, Señor Carlos; and you
forget that Ximena is likely to live for many months
yet," said the other with a grim smile.  "Marry
Elvira?  Fool! the cursed trammels of one unhappy
marriage are wound around me already."

"You are a Spaniard, señor,—my friend," replied
Avallo scornfully, "and can easily find some means
to break these trammels you speak of.  Thanks to
our sunny clime, the yoke of blessed matrimony sits
lightly on our necks.  This little chit of Asturia,
your wife, shall not long be a bar in the way of
righting my sister's honour."

"Ximena—"

"Let her die!" said the young desperado, with
a thick voice of concentrated passion; "let her die
this very night—this very hour!  She is a desolate
woman.  Should her death be suspected, who shall
avenge her?  All her kindred perished when the
French sacked Madrid.  Shall she take her departure
to a better place to-night, then?"

"Villain!" exclaimed Alvarado, flinging away
from him; "speak again of that, and I will slay
you where you stand!"

"Pooh!" replied the other with contempt.  "I
have three trusty mates within cry, whose daggers
would slash to ribbons every human being your
house contains; so talk gently of slaying, señor.
By *Santiago!* if it needs must be, all Spain shall
know that Don Carlos Avallo is a cavalier as
jealous of his sister's honour and of his own name, as
any hidalgo between Portugal and the Pyrenees.
Do you still scruple?  See the hand of the clock
approaches to the twelfth hour."

"Hush, devil and tempter!  I tell you you are
the veriest villain in Spain!"

"Hah!  I now remember.  Most worthy Don
Alvarado, I suppose I must acquaint my uncle the
prime-minister with the name of the traitor who
betrayed to the savage Mazzachelli, the Italian
follower of Buonaparte, the long-defended town of
Hostalrich, that he might obtain revenge by meanly
destroying its governor, the brave Don Julian de
Estrada.  I have to say but two words of this
matter to the minister at Madrid, and, Alvarado, thou
art a lost man!"

Alvarado's large eyes gleamed with vindictive
fury, while his olive cheek grew pale as death.

"A craven cavalier, truly!" continued the ferocious
Avallo, regarding him with a countenance expressive
of stern curiosity, and cool, but triumphant derision.
"*Hombre!* you know that I have heard of that
misdeed of yours; and should I breathe but a word
abroad about the unpleasant fact, your ample estates
will be pressed into the royal purse, and your neck
in the ring of the *garrote*, as surely as my name is
Avallo.  Choose, then," said he, in a deliberate tone;
"choose, then, between utter destruction and the
death of this pale-faced Ximena.  The beauty of
Elvira will make you ample amends.  Her beauty—  But
you have already judged of that, Señor
Triaquero," he added bitterly.

"Wine, or something else, has made you mad,"
said the other, with an attempt to be bold.  "Think
not that I will permit you to lord it over me thus.
And as for that affair you spoke of—Hostalrich—something
more will be requisite than the mere assertion
of a subaltern of the Castel Blazo regiment,
to destroy the hard-won honour and doubloons of
such a cavalier as myself."

"Perfectly reasonable," said the other, scornfully.
"Three different letters, written by you to
Mazzachelli, and dated from Hostalrich, are abundant
proof.  I found them on the road-side near Vittoria,
amidst a wilderness of papers; and now they are in
the safe strong box of a certain lawyer, subtle as the
devil himself."

Alvarado sunk into a chair, and covered his face
with his hands, to hide the rage and mortification
which distorted it.

"Hostalrich!  Hah! 'twas a brave siege that!"
said his tormentor, contemplating his dismay with a
triumphant smile.  "And then poor Don Julian to
be so basely betrayed, after all his chivalric defence
and deeds of arms!  But to return.  Ximena,—is
not her chamber at the end of the gallery?"

"It is," faltered the other.

"'Tis well," replied Avallo, striking his hand on
the casement.  The dark figure of a stranger
appeared in the balcony outside the window.  After a
few moments' conference, he withdrew.

"Let us only keep quiet," said he, turning a little
pale, as he extinguished the lights in the lustre.
"Retire to bed, Señor Alvarado, who is soon to
become the husband of Elvira Avallo.  Sleep sound, for
Ximena will be found cold in the morning: and see
that, in the critical hour of discovery, your wonted
cunning fails you not.  Show grief, and rage, and
tears: you understand me?  *Diavolo*!  I hope your
walls are built substantially.  Should the guest who
occupies the next room have overheard us, all is lost.
But I have arranged for him.  To make sure of his
silence, Narvaez Cifuentes shall waylay him among
the mountains at Roncesvalles, where even the sword
of Roland would fail to aid him now-a-days."

While the cavalier, probably to keep up the
courage of his companion, continued to speak away in
loud and incautious tones, Stuart descended from his
eminence, where, with considerable repugnance, he
had acted the eaves-dropper so long; and drawing his
sword, advanced to the room-door.  In his eagerness
to unfasten it, the handle of the bolt broke, leaving
it still in its place; and the door remained shut and
immovable.  A cold perspiration burst over Ronald's
brow.  The life of the poor lady seemed to hang but
by a hair.

"What evil spirit crosses me now!" he muttered.
"A moment like this may cause the repentance
of a life-time.  Ah, assassins!  I shall mar you
yet."  Unsheathing his dirk, he applied it to the
iron plate on which the bolt ran in a groove.  He
attempted to wrench it off: the thick blade of the
long dagger bent like whalebone, and threatened
every instant to snap, while the envious and
obstinate bolt remained firm as a rock.

A cry—a shrill and wailing cry, which was
succeeded by a gurgling groan, arose from the end of
the corridor.  The fate of Ximena was sealed!
Grown desperate, Stuart rushed against the door,
and applying his foot, sent frame, panels, and every
thing flying along the passage in fifty fragments.  A
lustre of coloured lamps, which hung from the
ceiling, revealed to him Donna Ximena in her
night-dress, rushing from an opposite door.  Her long
black hair was unbound, and streamed down her
uncovered back and bosom, the pure white of which
was stained with blood, that had also drenched her
linen vest and wrapper.  These were her only attire.
A villain, wearing a dark dress, and having his face
concealed by a black velvet mask, was in pursuit;
and, catching her by her long flowing hair, at the
very moment of her escape from the door, dashed her
shrieking to the earth with his left hand, while the
short stiletto which armed his right was twice buried
in her neck and bosom.  Almost at the same
moment the long double-edged broad-sword of the
Highlander was driven through his body, and,
wallowing in blood, the stricken bravo sunk beside the
warm and yet quivering corpse of his victim.  His
comrade escaped, and Ronald, disdaining again to
strike, withdrew slowly his dripping blade, and placed
his foot upon his neck.

"Hah!  Señor Narvaez!" said he.  "Devil incarnate! the
murder of Donna Catalina and the wound
at Merida are revenged now; and 'tis happily from
my hand you have received the earthly punishment
due to your crimes."

He tore the visor from the face of the bleeding
man, and, to his equal disappointment and surprise,
beheld, not the rascal visage of Cifuentes, but the
fierce and forbidding countenance of one that might
well have passed for his brother.  Death and malice
were glaring in his yellow eyes, and his features were
horribly distorted by the agony he endured.  By this
time the whole household were alarmed, and
servants, male and female, came rushing to the place
with consternation and horror imprinted on their
features.  The aged *contador* of the mansion appeared
in his trunk-breeches and nightcap, armed with a
dagger and ferule; the fat old bearded butler came
to the scene of action clad only in his doublet and
shirt, and grasping, for defence, a couple of pewter
flasks by the neck: the other servants bore knives,
stilettoes, pikes, spits, and whatever weapons chance
had thrown in their way.

On beholding their lady dead on the floor, a man
dying beside her, and Stuart standing over them
with a crimson weapon in his hand, they uttered a
shout, and prepared for a general assault.  A bloody
engagement might have commenced, when the
villanous Don Alvarado appeared, with dismay and
grief so strongly imprinted on his countenance, that
Stuart was almost inclined to doubt the evidence of
his own senses, and to believe the conversation with
Carlos Avallo must have been a dream.  He looked
around for that worthy hidalgo; but, on the first
alarm, he had vanished through the window of
Alvarado's room.  The last-named gentleman seemed
inclined to impute the whole affair to Stuart, and a
serious tumult would unquestionably have ensued,
had not a party of the Alava regiment, who formed
the guard on the Condé Villamur's house, arrived
with fixed bayonets, and carried off all the inmates
prisoners.  Perceiving Ronald's uniform, the serjeant
commanding the escort desired him to retain his
sword, and seemed disposed to allow him to depart;
but a syndic, with a band of alguazils, burst in with
their staves and halberts, and insisted on the whole
party being taken to the house of Micer Bartolmé,
the alcalde, on the opposite side of the Plaza.

The magistrate was clamorously roused from bed,
and forced to take his seat and hear the case.  He
was very sulky at being disturbed, and, seated in his
easy chair, wrapped a blanket around him, and
frowned with legal dignity on all in the crowded
apartment.  Ronald felt considerable anxiety for the
issue of the affair, as all present seemed disposed to
consider him guilty; and he certainly had no
ambition to die a martyr to their opinions.  The dead
body of Ximena de Morla was deposited on the floor.
Her cheek was yet of a pale olive colour; but all her
skin that was bare,—her neck, bosom, arms, and
ankles, were white as the new-fallen snow, and
beautifully delicate.  A mass of dark curls and braids
fell from her head, and lay almost beneath the feet of
the pale group around her.

A flickering lamp threw its changeful gleams upon
the company, and by its light a clerk sat, pen in
hand, to note the proceedings.  Every person present
being sworn across the blades of two poniards, the
examination commenced, each witness stating what
he knew in presence of the others.  The bravo,
having declared that he was dying, called eagerly for a
priest, that he might be confessed.  Accordingly, a
*padre* belonging to a mountain-convent, who
happened to be that night in the house, approached
slowly, and in no very agreeable mood, for his brain
was yet reeling with the fumes of his debauch
overnight with the alcalde, who had stripped him of
every maravedi at faro.  The moaning ruffian lay
upon the floor, still and motionless; but the blood
fell pattering from his undressed wound upon the
damp tiles, while his thick beard and matted hair
were clotted with the perspiration which agony had
wrung from his frame.

A dead silence was maintained by all in the
apartment while the padre knelt over the assassin, and,
in the dark corner where he lay, heard his low-muttered
confession of crimes, that would have made
the hairs on his scalp—had there been any—bristle
with horror.  Dreadful was the anxiety of the dying
wretch, whose coward soul was now recoiling at the
prospect of death, and with desperation he clung
to the hopes given him by his superstitious faith.
Ever and anon he grasped the dark robe, the knotted
cord, or the bare feet of the Franciscan, beseeching
him to pity, to save, to forgive him; and the
accents in which he spoke were terrible to hear.
The clerk sat smoking a paper cigar and scraping
away assiduously at a quill, while the alcalde nodded
in his chair and fell fast asleep.  The alguazils
leant on their halberts, and coolly surveyed the
company.  A murder, which would have filled all
Scotland with horror, in Elizondo scarcely created
surprise.  But the halberdiers were accustomed
almost daily to brawls and deeds of blood, so that their
apathy could scarcely be wondered at.

The half-clad servants crowded together in fear,
and Ronald stood aloof, regarding with the utmost
commiseration the form of the poor Spanish lady,
exposed thus in its half-clad state to the gaze of the
rude and vulgar.  He kept a watchful eye on Alvarado,
that he might not, by sign or bribe, cause the
padre to put any false colouring on the statements
whispered to him by the dying man, when he would
have to recapitulate them to the alcalde.  The
cavalier never dared to look in the direction where his
murdered wife lay; but, turning his back upon it,
maintained a sulky dignity, and continued to polish
with his glove the hilt of his stiletto, seeming, in
that futile occupation, to be wholly abstracted from
worldly matters, while he muttered scarcely audible
threats against the alcalde, the syndic, and their
followers for their interference.  The bravo, having
handed over to the confessor all his loose change,
received in return an assurance of the forgiveness of
mother church for all his misdeeds, which seemed
to console him mightily.  The padre mumbled a
little Latin, and assuring him he might die in peace,
buttoned his pouch, containing the ill-gotten cash,
with a very self-satisfied air.  It almost reimbursed
the last night's losses at faro.  Nevertheless, the
terrors of the guilty wretch returned; he moaned
heavily, and grasping the skirt of the Franciscan's
cassock, besought him earnestly not to leave him in
so terrible a moment.  He often pressed the friar's
crucifix to his lips, and the groans of mental and
bodily agony which escaped from them were such
as Ronald Stuart had never heard before,—and he
had stood on many a battle-field.  The bravo
believed himself dying, and, at his request, the
Franciscan repeated aloud his confession, in which he
declared himself guilty of the lady's murder, and
exculpated every one, save his comrade Cifuentes,
who gave the first stroke, and Don Carlos Avallo,
who, for twenty dollars, had secured the service of
their daggers,—but for what reason, he knew not.
He ended by a bitter curse on Stuart, whom he
ceased not to revile; and he vowed that, if he could
rise from the grave, he would haunt him to the
latest day of his existence.  Ronald heard the
ravings of the wretch with pity, and was very thankful
that, in the extremity of his agony and hatred, he
had not declared him guilty of the murder of both.

"*Santa Maria de Dios!*" muttered the servants,
signing the cross, and shrinking back aghast at the
ravings of the wounded man.

"Base scullion!" cried the sleepy magistrate,
addressing the assassin, "I will make you pay dearly
for disturbing me of my night's rest.  Vile *ladron!* the
screw of the *garrote* will compress your filthy
weasand tighter than you will find agreeable.  Take
your pen, *señor escrivano*, and write to our dictation
a warrant to apprehend, in the king's name, a
certain noble cavalier, by name Don Carlos Avallo, for
causing the death of this honourable lady.  And
further—"

He was interrupted by Alvarado, who desired
imperiously that he would leave Avallo to be dealt
with otherwise; and tossing his purse, which seemed
heavy, into the alcalde's lap, he requested him to
close this disagreeable business at once.

"*Paix!* as we say at faro,—double or quits; a
very noble cavalier!" muttered the partly-tipsy, and
partly-sleepy alcalde, pocketing the cash without
betraying the least emotion.  "Ho, señor scribe! give
thy warrant to the devil to light his cigar with.
*Bueno!* 'tis a drawn game.  Dismiss the señors,—the
court is broken up."

Bestowing a menacing glance on Stuart, Alvarado
withdrew; the alguazils departed, taking the bravo
with them, to get his wounds dressed before they
hanged him; and the corse of Ximena was borne off
by her female servants, who were loudly bewailing
the loss of so good a mistress.

Day had dawned upon this extraordinary court,
and its pale light was struggling for mastery with
the flame of the lamp, ere the magistrate so
abruptly closed the strange investigation.  After all
that had happened, Ronald could not return to the
mansion of Alvarado; but, sending for his horse, at
the invitation of the alcalde, and with the permission
of the alcalde's lady, he remained that day at their
house, as he was too much wearied by the want of
sleep to commence his journey at the time he had
intended.  To Micer Bartolmé he related the
conversation he had overheard, and insisted on Don
Alvarado's villany being punished, threatening, for that
purpose, to wait upon the Condé Penne Villamur,
and state to him all that he knew of the matter.

"By doing so, you would not gain any thing
equal to what you stake,—your life," replied the
magistrate quietly, puffing away at a long Cuba the
while.  "Hark you, *señor oficial*; I wish you no
harm, but beware how you cross the path or
purposes of Castellon de la Plana.  He is a fierce
hidalgo, and never spared man or woman in his hate
or vengeance; and his gossip, Don Carlos Avallo, is
a born devil, a very imp of *Satanas*!  I know them
both of old, and would fain keep the peace with
them, or my place of alcalde would not be worth a
rotten *castano*.  Think not that I deal with you
falsely in saying these things.  Heaven knows how
many daggers Alvarado's gold may have sharpened
against you ere this.  His look, as he departed,
boded you no good.  You are a stranger in the
land, and if you will take sound advice, keep close
within my house until to-morrow, when you can
depart with the padre Giuseppe.  He goes by the
way of the Maya rock to his convent, and will show
you the road to France."

Ronald felt the force of this advice, which was so
cunningly imparted, that he never suspected a
hidden meaning.  But the alcalde, with a treachery not
uncommon in Spain, was in communication with
Alvarado, who bribed him to detain the stranger
until a plan was completed for his ensnarement
among the mountains.

Notwithstanding Bartolmé's advice, Stuart often
wished, during that irksome day, to enjoy a ramble
about Elizondo, but was as often warned that
ill-looking picaros were evidently watching the house.
This information served only to set his blood on fire,
and he fretted and fumed like a caged lion, and
would have sallied out in spite of the solemn
warnings and injunctions; but the magistrate, with a
cunning air of affectionate and paternal solicitude,
barred his way, and in so kind a manner, that it was
impossible to be angry.  All this was mere acting.
Old Micer Bartolmé and the Franciscan brother
were two arrant sharpers and knaves; but Ronald
resisted firmly all their attempts to engage him
in gambling, and the day was passed without a
card or dice being produced, greatly to the chagrin
of the friends, who, after having sold the stranger
to Alvarado, were desirous to strip him of his last
peseta.

Next morning, at the old marching time, an hour
before day-break, he quitted Elizondo.  He departed
at that early hour for the double purpose of "stealing
a march" on Alvarado's spies, if any were really
planted upon him, and of proceeding expeditiously
on his journey.  His horse was well refreshed by
the delay at Elizondo, and carried him along at a
rapid trot.  The padre Giuseppe, with whose
presence and conversation he could very well have
dispensed, jogged on by his side, mounted uneasily
upon the hindmost part of a stout ass,—an animal
not so much despised in Spain as among us, by whom
the large black cross borne by every donkey on its
back, is neither remarked nor reverenced.  As they
passed from the Calle Mayor into the Plaza,
Giuseppe pointed out, jocularly, the body of the dead
bravo, still seated upright on the chair of the
*garrote*, which was elevated on a scaffold about four
feet above the street; and his reverence increased
the disgust of his companion by passing several
very unfriarly jokes upon the appearance of the
corpse.

On quitting Elizondo, they took the direct road
for Maya.  Stuart made this circuit for the purpose
of avoiding any snare laid for him among the
mountains by Don Carlos or Alvarado, who well knew
how to employ and communicate with those villains
who infest every part of Spain.  Evil was impending,
and he might have escaped it by taking the Roncesvalles
road, or had his deceitful companion, the
Franciscan, warned him; but for the bribe of a few
dollars, Micer Bartolmé had purchased his silence.
A few miles from Elizondo they passed a ruinous
chapel where some French prisoners had been confined,
and, by a strange refinement of cruelty, starved
to death by their guards,—the guerillas of old
Salvodar de Zagala.  The floor was yet strewed with the
bones of these unfortunates, who fell victims to a
savage spirit of retaliation, and almost within sight
of the fertile plains of their native country.  The
Franciscan continued to mutter prayers and make
the sign of the cross with affected devotion, while
Stuart surveyed the ghastly place with surprise and
indignation.

"*La Caza de Dios*," said he, reading the legend
on the lintel of the door.  "Alas! how it has been
desecrated!"

The priest made no reply, but moved onward,
kicking with his spurless heels the sounding sides
of his *borrica*, leaving Ronald to follow as he
pleased.

After riding a few miles further, they stopped at a
*quinta*, or country-house, an unusual thing in Spain;
and had not the proprietor been a well-known
contrabandista, it would soon have been sacked and
burned by the banditti in the neighbourhood.  The
owner was absent, but the *patrona* spread before her
guests a tolerable repast of *bacallao*, bread of *milho*
or Indian corn flour, delightful fresh butter named
*manteca*, and garlic, onions, lupines, wine and cider
in abundance; for all of which she would receive
nothing but the padre's blessing and a kiss of peace,
which the reverend Giuseppe bestowed upon her
plump olive cheek with a hearty good will, of which
her husband might not have approved had he been
consulted.

At Maya, Stuart dined with the monks of the
Franciscan convent.  He had an excellent repast,
composed of all the good things which the district
could afford.  The clergy of every country are
certainly ardent lovers of all the good things of this
life, however much they may preach and declaim
against them.  Poor though Spain may be generally,
it is within the stout old walls of the gloomy and
spacious *convento* that the richest wines, the most
delicate fruits, the most tempting viands, and the
most massive plate, are ever to be found.  Quite
the reverse of the humble, dejected, and mortifying
begging friars, from whom they took their name,
Ronald found the Franciscans of Maya all very
jovial fellows, who could laugh until they almost
choked, and could push the can about, and give
vent at times to a most unclerical oath.  Most of
them had been serving in the guerilla bands, and
at the peace had resumed the cassock and cope, the
mass-book and rosary; but the blustering manners
acquired under such leaders as Mina and Julian
Sanchez, together with the coarse sentiments of the
dissolute and irregular lives they had led, appeared
continually through their hypocritical airs and the
sombre disguise of the cloister.  And such as these
are the men who are welcomed to every hearth and
home in Spain! who are the advisers of the young,
the companions of the old, and the confessors and
the spiritual consolers of all, and into whose ears
many a female pours the inmost secrets of her
heart,—secrets which, perhaps, she would have revealed
to no other mortal living!

To pay for his entertainment, Stuart deposited a
handful of *pesetas* at the shrine of the Virgin, whose
portrait in the niche, padre Giuseppe informed him,
was that of the *querida* of the padre abbot.  The
fairest dame in Maya had sat for it, to please the
superior, who now never prayed before any other
image.  Complimenting the abbot on his taste,
Stuart mounted and bade the holy fathers adieu,
tired alike of their manners and their
cloister-scandal.

He was now riding straight on the road for
France.  After he passed the rock of Maya, every
rood of ground became as familiar to him as the
scenery of his native glen.  The sun was setting as
he entered the pass, and as its light waxed more
dim and sombre, his thoughts grew sadder and more
gloomy; for all the excitement of war had now
passed away, and the kindlier feelings had begun to
resume their sway in the heart.  He felt an
unaccountable melancholy stealing over him, but
whether it was caused by a presentiment—a prophetic
sense of hidden danger, or by recollections awakened
by the surrounding scenery, I know not: probably
by the latter.

Poor Alister Macdonald was with him the last
time he trod that way so merrily to the strain of the
pipe.  He was now within a few feet of his tomb,
and all the memory of their past friendship came
gushing upon his remembrance.  He stayed his
horse, for a short space, to gaze upon the scene
of that contest, so fierce and so bloody, where his
brave brigade had fought with a spirit of gallantry
and chivalric devotion equalling that of Leonidas
and his Spartans.  Where the roar of so many
thousand muskets had once rung like thunder among the
hills all was now silent.  The stillness was broken
only by the scream of the wild bird, as, warned by
the falling dew and deepening shadows, it winged
its way to its eyrie among the rocks.

"Well may the flowerets bloom, and the grass
be verdant here!" thought Stuart.  "Every foot of
ground has been drenched in the blood of the
brave!"

The place presented the appearance of an old
church-yard which had been shaken by an
earthquake.  In some places skeletons lay uncovered,
and in others the grass grew long and rank above
the mounds.

A green stone, with its head of moss, marked
the resting-place of Alister, that looked like one of
those solitary old graves which, on the Scottish
moors, mark the resting-place of a covenanting
warrior.  The earth which Evan's hands had heaped
over it was now covered with long weeds and
nettles, waving sadly in the wind as it whistled down
the pass.  The remnants of uniform, broken weapons,
ammunition-paper, and all the usual appurtenances
of an old battle-field, lay strewn about.  The
great cairn raised by the Gordon Highlanders to
mark where their officers were buried, cast a long
spectral shadow across the ground, for now the
broad disk of the sun was just dipping behind the
mountains.  The scene was gloomy and terrible,
and Stuart was scarcely able to repress a shudder
as the recollections of the dead came crowding fast
and thick upon him.  But, bestowing a last look on
romantic Spain, the land of bright eyes, of the
mantilla, of the dagger and the guitar, he turned,
and rode down the narrow mountain-path to the
northward.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CIFUENTES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CIFUENTES.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |          "Let Death come on;
   |  Guilt, guilt alone shrinks back appall'd.  The brave
   |  And honest still defy his dart; the wise
   |  Calmly can eye his frown, and Misery
   |  Invokes his friendly aid to end her woes."
   |                              *The Orphan of China.*

.. vspace:: 2

The night was approaching, and Ronald being
anxious to reach Los Alduides, Cambo, or any other
village on the route for Toulouse, rode as rapidly as
the rough and steep nature of the mountain path
would permit.  As he descended towards the Lower
Pyrenees the ground became more irregular, and
the road at times wound below beetling crags and
through narrow gorges, which were scarcely
illuminated by the red light from the westward.

Twice or thrice Ronald beheld, or imagined that
he beheld, a head, surmounted by a high-crowned
and broad-leaved hat, observing his progress from
the summit of the rocks skirting a narrow dell
through which he rode.  This kept him on the alert,
and the threatening words of Don Carlos Avallo
recurred to him.  He halted, drew his saddle-girths
tighter, and looked to his pistols, leaving unstrapped
the bear-skin which covered the holsters.  At the
very moment when he was putting his foot in the
stirrup to remount, a musket was discharged from
the top of a neighbouring cliff, and the ball fell
flattened from a rock within a yard of his head.  The
white smoke was floating upwards through the still
air, but no person was visible.

"*Banditti*, by Heaven!" exclaimed the startled
and enraged Highlander, as he sprang on the snorting
steed.  "Farewell, Spain! and may all mischief
attend you, from the Pillars of Hercules to these
infernal Pyrenees!  I wish the Nive rolled between
them and me!  But if swift hoofs and a stout blade
will serve me in peril, I shall be in broad Gascony
to-night."

Onward went Egypt at a full gallop, which was
soon brought to a stop on his turning an angle of
the rocks.  Across the narrow pathway a number of
men were busily raising a barricade of turf, branches,
and earth; but on Ronald's appearance they snatched
up their carbines, and leaping up the rocks with the
agility of monkeys, disappeared.

"There is an ambush here," muttered Stuart.
"Oh! could we but meet on the mountain-side
to-night, Señor Avallo, I would teach you a sharp
lesson for the time to come.  On now! on, for death
or life!"

He had very little practice in the true scientific
mode of clearing a five-barred gate, but he feared
not to leap with any man who ever held a rein; and
when riding a Highland shelty at home, had leapt
from rock to rock, and from cliff to cliff, over roaring
linns, yawning chasms, and gloomy corries, which
would have caused the heart of a Lowlander even
to thrill with fear.  Grasping a steel pistol in each
hand, he came furiously down the path, with his
belted plaid and ostrich feathers streaming far
behind him.

"On, Egypt, on! brave and noble horse!" said
he, encouraging the fine old trooper with words of
cheer, at the same time goring his flanks with the
sharp iron rowels.  The steed bounded onward to
the desperate leap; and when within a few yards of
the barrier, straining every sinew and fibre until they
became like iron, he bounded into the air with such
velocity, that the rider almost lost his breath, yet sat
gallantly, with his head up and his reins low.  At
that very moment a deadly volley—a cross-fire from
more than a dozen muskets—flashed from the dark
rocks around.  Several balls pierced the body of the
horse, which uttered a snorting cry of pain, and
Ronald felt it writhe beneath him in the air.  Instead
of alighting on its hoofs, down it came, thundering
with its forehead on the earth, to the imminent peril
of the rider, who adroitly disengaged himself from
the stirrups and alighted on his feet, confused,
breathless, and almost stunned with the shock, while
the noble steed rolled over on its back, and never
moved again.

Ronald was now in deadly jeopardy.  Headed by
Narvaez Cifuentes, a well-armed gang of Spanish
desperadoes, nearly forty in number, surrounded him.
Although Narvaez took the most active part in their
proceedings, he did not appear to be their leader;
and Stuart, when he knew that his life was forfeited
by his falling into such hands, resolved that they
should gain it dearly.  He had broken his claymore
and lost a pistol in the leap; but with the other he
shot dead one assailant, and drawing his long dirk,
struck fearlessly amongst them, right and left.  He
buried the steel claw of his Highland pistol in
the head of one fellow, whose only defence was a
red cotton *montero*, or cap; and he drove his
left-handed weapon so far into the shoulder of another,
that it remained as fast as if driven into a log of
wood.  All this was the work of a moment; but he
was, immediately after these exploits, beaten to the
earth with the butts of their fire-arms; and a
Portuguese dealt him a blow on the head with a *cajado*,
(a long staff, armed with a knob,) which deprived
him of all sensation.

When consciousness returned, he found himself
lying on the same spot where he had fallen; but the
moon was shining brightly, and the banditti were
still grouped around him.  He had been rifled of his
epaulets, his gold cross, and every thing of value,
save the miniature of Alice Lisle, which, being
concealed, had escaped their hands.  The contents of
the portmanteau lay strewed about, and a Spaniard,
in whom he recognised the ferocious young Juan de
la Roca, once Mina's follower, was busily occupied
in relieving poor Egypt of the encumbrance of his
hide, which he did in a most scientific and tanner-like
manner.  Ronald had presence of mind enough to
lie still, fearing that they might destroy him at once
if he stirred; but, from what passed among them, he
soon discovered that they were well aware he was
only stunned when stricken down.  Gaspar Alosegui,
the powerful Spaniard who had been vanquished in
feats of dexterity at Aranjuez by Campbell and
Dugald Mhor, was present among the banditti, and, by
the deference which was paid to every thing he said,
appeared to be their *capitan*.

He wore several feathers in his hat, a costly
mantle hung on his left shoulder, and several rich
daggers and pistols glittered in his sash.  His followers
were variously attired and armed, but all had their
strong muscular feet nearly bare, while their tawny
legs, destitute of hose, were exposed to the knee.

Ronald gazed on the detestable Cifuentes with a
fiery eye.  He remembered all that Catalina had
suffered from his barbarity; he remembered, too, the
vow he had sworn to Alvaro to revenge her, and his
heart beat quick, while he longed to fall upon him
and slay him on the instant, and in the midst of his
companions in crime.

"I will not now permit him to be slain, since he
has fallen alive into our hands," said Alosegui,
addressing Narvaez in a decided tone.  "He is a
gallant soldier, and truly he has fought well for Spain.
We have done enough for the doubloons of Avallo;
so stand back, Micer Narvaez!  He who would
smite at the stranger, must do so only through my
body!"

"*Angeles y Demonios!*" exclaimed the desperado
hoarsely; "I tell you I will have his blood,—ay,
and drink it too, even as I would water!  We have
long been enemies; and 'tis not Gaspar Alosegui that
shall rob me of the revenge so dear to every true
Spaniard."

"A mad *borrico*, by our Lady de'l Pilar!" exclaimed
Gaspar, interposing his bulky form.  "Speak
softly, Cifuentes; and remember that you have proved
the weight of my hand, which has been thrice on
your throat ere now, I believe."

The robber shrunk back, and, grasping his stiletto,
gave one of those formidable scowls of rage and
malice which so well became his villanous front, his
beetling brows and matted hair.

"Vincentio, the cripple, lies shot in the ditch
yonder," said Juan de la Roca.  "He fell by the hand
of the Briton: his crooked joints will no longer afford
us a laugh in our den among the cliffs.  We have
lost our prime fool, señores, and I say blood for
blood."

"Viva!" shouted the banditti; "blood for blood!
'Tis guerilla law: his life for Vincentio's."

"To the dogs with the cripple!" exclaimed Gaspar.
"I tell you, comrades, that while I can strike
a blow in his defence, he shall not die!  By the
beard of Satanas, the first man that whispers aught
of this again, shall feel my knife between his ribs.
Look you, *señores camarados*; we have all more to
gain by his life than his death.  Narvaez tells us
that the cavalier is a very great friend of Alvaro of
Villa Franca, whom the new government have raised
to the rank of count, and to whom they have granted
doubloons enough to pave the highway from Zagala
to Merida.  Don Alvaro will ransom his friend, and
a fair sum will thus fall into our pockets.  If not,
the laws we have formed shall take their course, and
the stranger must die."

But Cifuentes was still clamorous for his blood,
and insisted on slaying him with his *own hand*.  The
rising storm increased when Ronald staggered up
and stood among them.  Many of the banditti began
to prime and handle their fire-arms; and Stuart felt
considerable anxiety for the end of the matter.  He
endeavoured to second the efforts of Alosegui by a
long and bitter address, in which he upbraided them
for their ingratitude in thus maltreating one who had
served Spain so well, and had so often faced her
enemies.  He tore open his jacket and displayed his
scars, but he appealed to them in vain.  His voice
was drowned in peals of savage laughter, with groans
and yells which roused his rage to an almost
ungovernable pitch.  His cheek burned with
indignation as if a flame was scorching it, and his blood
came and went through his pulses like lightning.
How he longed to behold the effect of a sweeping
volley of grape among these brutal desperadoes,
could such have been discharged upon them at that
moment!  He watched eagerly the war of words
carried on between Narvaez, Gaspar, and their
adherents, and he earnestly hoped that blows would
soon follow; to the end that, by arming himself, he
might slay some more, perhaps cut his way through
them and escape, or perishing, sell his life dearly as
ever a brave man did who died sword in hand.  Eyes
began to kindle, and poniards were drawn,—oaths
and invectives were used unsparingly on both sides,
and a sharp conflict would probably have decided
the matter, had not Juan de la Roca proposed to
end the contest quietly by two throws of
dice,—producing, while he spoke, a box and dice from his
pocket.  This motion was at once acceded to.
Indeed these wretches seemed to have no mind of their
own, but to be swayed by the opinions of others, as
the wind agitates the boughs of a tree.

Brows were smoothed, and weapons sheathed;
the oath and threat gave place to the equally brutal
jest, and the gang crowded about their tall leader
and his amiable lieutenant.

The fate of Ronald Stuart was to be in the
power of him who should throw the highest number;
and all swore on their crucifixes, or on the cross-guard
of their poniards, to abide by the decision so
obtained.  Ronald, with sensations almost amounting
to frenzy, beheld Gaspar and his opponent retire to a
flat stone, and rattle the fatal dice-box which was
to determine whether or not he should be a living
man in ten minutes.  What a moment was this!
Rage and hate mingled with sorrow and bitterness,
dread and regret,—the regret that a brave man feels
who finds himself at the mercy of those whom he
despises.  Almost trembling with the feelings of
malice and fury which agitated him, Cifuentes
unsheathed his poniard, and after carefully examining
the point and edge, laid it on the stone, to be ready
for instant use if he won.

The moon was now shining in all her silver splendour
down the narrow dell, and the stars, gleaming
in the studded firmament, like diamonds and rubies,
sparkled as they do in the skies of Spain alone
when the atmosphere is pure and calm.  Stuart
beheld the blade of Narvaez glancing in the
moonlight, and never had he looked with such dread on
a weapon as he did upon that deadly stiletto; yet he
had never shrunk from a line of charged bayonets,—which,
as the reader knows, he had faced fearlessly
more than once: but it is another affair to be
slaughtered like a lamb or a child.  The green swelling
mountains and the dark defile were silent; no aid
was near, and in every eye he read the glance of a
foe.  Narvaez rattled the box aloft, and cast down
the dice on the stone, and his adherents bent over
him earnestly.

"Four and five—nine!" cried the ruffian.  "Nine
onzas out of my first plunder will be laid on the
shrine of our Lady of the Rock if I win.  Throw,
Gaspar—and may the devil so direct, that you throw
less!"  He took up his poniard with a very decided
air, while Gaspar in turn quietly rattled the box.

"Five and five—*ten*!" said he with cool triumph,
looking around him; "one has saved him."

"Stay! let us look at them," cried Cifuentes,
in a voice almost amounting to a shriek.  "Ten,
indeed!  *Par Diez!* he has escaped me just now.
But a time may yet come—"

"Silence!" roared Gaspar.  "Señor," said he,
advancing towards Ronald, who now began to
breathe more freely, "I have saved your life,—for
this time at least.  You are now to consider
yourself as our prisoner.  We seldom keep any unless
they are likely to pay well; for the rest, we generally
find a stab six inches below the shoulder the best
method for getting rid of them.  But remember,
señor, that we are not people to be trifled with;
therefore attempt not to escape unransomed, for death
would be the penalty: you have heard our oaths.
If you have any interest here in Spain, your
captivity will not be of long duration; and if you choose
to take a turn of service with us among the mountains,
we may be inclined to treat you as if you
had the honour to be our comrade.  We shall part
friends, I trust.  Many an alcalde and padre we have
had, whose ransom has made us merry for months.
I tell you the truth, señor: we are men of courage
and honour, in spite of slander and unpleasant
appearances.  We are true cavaliers of fortune, and are
wont to be somewhat delicate on points of honour;
therefore you must neither use threat nor taunt
while among us, as our daggers lie somewhat loosely
in their scabbards.  And I must add, *señor oficial*,
that if the Condé de Villa Franca refuses to ransom
you for the sum we name, the laws of our society,—laws
we have formed and solemnly sworn to,—must
take their course."

"Well, Señor Gaspar," said Stuart, who had
listened coolly to all this preamble with folded arms,
"and your law; what is it on that particular head?"

"Death!"

"And the ransom?"

"Why, señor, we must arrange that.  A cavalier is
well worth a prior, or four alcaldes; but, as you are a
soldier, and soldiers are seldom overburdened by the
weight of their purses, we will not be severe."

"But Don Alvaro is rich," said Juan de la Roca.
"Remember, my friends, that he married a rich dame
of Truxillo, whose estates, when joined to his own,
will be ample enough for a princedom—ay, for a
kingdom larger than ever was Algarve."

"And bethink ye of the rich ores," said Narvaez;
"ores dug for him from the bowels of the
mountains at Alcocer, at Guadalcanal, and Cazella in
Estremadura, dug for him by the hands of wretched
slaves condemned to his service for petty or
pretended crimes by the accursed *regidores*, the
*escrivanos del numero*, the alcaldes, the syndics, the
military commanders, and the devil knows who more!"

"Cazella?" observed Gaspar; "right! there is
silver and gold dug there."

"Yes, and have been so ever since the days of the
infidel Moors," said Juan.  "And Alvaro has mines
of silver and copper at Logrosen, and in the Sierra
de Guadaloupe.  *Diavolo!* señores, a heavy fine!
The cavalier of Estremadura is rich, and will redeem
his friend from death.  He has but to dig when he
wants gold."

"*Carajo!*" said a robber; "I well know that.  I
was condemned to dig in the mine of Logrosen for
robbing a priest of his mule; and I slaved away in
those horrible pits until my bones well nigh parted
company, and my back was flayed by the thongs of
the cursed overseer.  But one day I dashed out his
brains with a shovel, and fled to the guerillas of
Salvador de Zagala.  A heavy ransom from Alvaro!"

"Two hundred golden *onzas*!" cried Juan de la
Roca; "and if Villa Franca refuses, give his friend
the Briton to feast the wolf and the raven!"

"Viva!  Juan has spoken like a prince!" cried
the banditti, while they made hill and valley ring
with their boisterous applause.

Two, with their muskets loaded, had particular
orders to escort Stuart, and to shoot him dead if
he attempted to escape; after which, the whole
band got in motion and advanced up the mountains,
seeking the most steep and dangerous paths, which
often wound along the edge of beetling and precipitous
cliffs, where Stuart, although a Scotsman and
a mountaineer, had considerable trouble in threading
his way.

Their journey ended when they reached a little
square tower, which in size and form was not unlike
the old fortalice of a lesser Scottish baron.  It was
perched on the summit of a steep rock, amid a
wild and savage solitude, which appeared more
dreary, at the time that Ronald viewed it, by the
light of the waning moon.

This mountain fortress had been for centuries a
ruin; and the little village, which had once been
clustered near it, (according to the usual fashion in
Spain,) had ages ago disappeared.  But the
outlaws, whom the feeble and crippled power of the
Spanish authorities could not suppress, had
thoroughly repaired it, and made it their principal
stronghold; and from it, as their head-quarters,
their lines and posts of communication were maintained
through all the Basque provinces.  Tradition
said that it was erected by a petty prince of Navarre,
and that the origin of its name was the murder of a
priest within its walls.  It was called the *Torre de
los Frayles* (or Friars' tower); and the Guipuzcoan
muleteer was careful to time his journey so that
this ill-omened spot should be a few leagues in his
rear before night fell.

On entering, a temporary drawbridge, crossing a
deep fosse or chasm in the rocks, and forming the
sole communication with the cliff, on a projection of
which the tower was perched, was withdrawn, and
Stuart, for the first time, felt his heart sink, as he
entered the walls of the dreary abode of crime, and
heard the strong door shut and barricaded behind him.





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   CHAPTER V.


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   HOME.

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   |  "He came not.  Still, at fall of night,
   |  She burned her solitary light,
   |    By love enkindled,—love attended;
   |  And still her brother chid her care.
   |    \* \* \* \*
   |  Thus pass away the weary weeks,
   |  And dim her eyes, and pale her cheeks."
   |                            *The Salamandrine.*

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During the spring of 1814, while Ronald Stuart
was serving with Lord Wellington's army in the
South of France, the pecuniary affairs of his father
came to a complete crisis.  The net woven around
him by legal chicanery, by his own unwariness in
plunging headlong into law-suits, and by prodigality
of his money otherwise, he was ruined.  "A true
Highlander cannot refuse his sword or his purse to
a friend," and the laird of Lochisla had been involved
to the amount of several thousands in an affair of
"caution," every farthing of which he had to pay.
At the same time bills and bonds became due, and
on his making an application for cash to
Messrs. Caption and Horning, W.S., Macquirk's successors,
they acquainted him, in a very short letter, composed
in that peculiar style for which these gentlemen are
so famous, "that Lochisla was already dipped—that
is, mortgaged—to the utmost bearing, and that not a
bodle more could be raised."  The unfortunate laird
found that every diabolical engine of "the
profession" was in requisition against him, and that the
estate which had descended to him through a long
and martial line of Celtic ancestors, was passing
away from him for ever.  In the midst of his
affliction he received tidings of the deeds of his brave
son Ronald, who was mentioned with all honour
by Sir Rowland Hill in the despatch which contained
the account of the successful passage of the
Nive, and of the storming of the château.

"Heaven bless my brave boy!" said the laird;
"I shall see him no more.  It would rejoice me to
behold his fair face and buirdly figure once again,
before my eyes are closed for ever: but it may
not be; he will never behold my tomb!  It will be
far distant from the dark pines that shade the
resting-place of my forefathers in the islet of the Loch."

And the old laird spoke truly.  Ere long he saw
the hall of his fathers in possession of the minions
of the law: the broad lands of Lochisla became
the prey of the stranger; and, with the trusty auld
Donald Iverach and a faithful band of followers, the
feeble remnant of his people, who yet, with true
Highland devotion, insisted on following their
chieftain to the far-off shores of Canada, he bade adieu
for ever to his father-land.

Ere yet he had departed, however, there came one
who had heard of his misfortunes and of his
contemplated exile, to offer him his hand in peace and
affection.  It was the Lord of Inchavon.

"I will be a friend to your noble boy," he said.
The Stuart answered only "Heaven bless you, Lisle! but
the lad has his sword, and a fearless heart."

They parted; and the clan Stuart of Lochisla,
with its venerable leader, was soon on its way across
the western wave.

At the time these events were occurring at home,
Ronald was in the neighbourhood of Orthes with
his regiment, which, in the battle that took place
there, came in for its usual share of the slaughter
and honour.

The long-awaited and eagerly wished-for peace
arrived at last.  Regiments were disbanded, and
ships paid off; and in every part of Europe soldiers
and sailors were returning to their homes in
thousands, to take up the plough and spade, which they
had abandoned for the musket and cutlass.  The
Peninsular part of our army were all embarked at
Toulouse, and the inmates of Inchavon watched
anxiously the daily post and daily papers for some
notice of the arrival of the transports containing
Fassifern and his Highlanders, whose destination
was the Cove of Cork.

One evening, a bright and sunny one in June,
when Lord Lisle had pushed from him the sparkling
decanters across the elaborately-polished table, and
sunk back in his well-cushioned easy chair to enjoy
a comfortable nap, and when Alice had tossed aside
successively all the newspapers, (she read only the
marriages, fashionable news, and the Gazette,) and
taken up the last novel, which in her restlessness
she resigned for *Marmion*, her favourite work, she
was suddenly aroused from its glowing numbers
by the noise of wheels, and the tramp of carriage-horses
treading shortly and rapidly in the birchen
lane, between the walls and trees of which the sound
rung deep and hollow.  The book fell from her
hand; she started and listened, while her bosom
rose, and a blush gathered on her soft girlish cheek.
The sound increased: now the travellers had quitted
the lane, and their carriage was rattling up the
avenue, where the noise of the horses' feet came ringing
across the wide and open lawn.

Alice shook the dark curls from her animated face,
which became flushed with expectation.  She moved
to the window and beheld a travelling-chariot, drawn
by a pair of stout bays, with the great-coated driver
on the saddle.  The whole equipage appeared only
at intervals between the trees and clumps of the lawn,
as the driver made the horses traverse the long and
intricate windings of the avenue, which had as many
turnings as the Forth, before the house was reached.

"O papa! papa!" she exclaimed, clapping her
white dimpled hands together, and leaping to his
side to kiss him and shake sturdily the huge knobby
arms of his old easy chair, and again skipping back
to the windows with all the wild buoyancy of her
age, "dear papa, do waken!  Here comes Louis!"

"Eh! what! eh!  Louis, did you say?" cried the
old lord, bolting up like a harlequin.  "Is the girl
mad, that she frisks about so?"

"O dear papa! 'tis my brother Louis!" and she
began to weep with joy and excitement.

"It must be he," replied her father, looking from
a window; "it must be Louis!  I don't think we
expect any visitors.  But to come thus!  I always
thought he would ride up from Perth on horseback.
On my honour 'tis a smart turn-out that!  A double
imperial on the roof, and—how! there is a female,
a lady's maid behind, and the rogue of a footman
with his arm around her waist, according to the usual
wont and practice.  A lady inside, too!  See, she is
bowing to us.  Well; I would rather have seen Louis,
but I wonder who these can be!"  He rang a bell
violently.

"'Tis our own Louis, indeed!  O my dear
brother!" exclaimed Alice, trembling with delight.
"Hold me up, papa; I am almost fainting.  Ah!"
added she inwardly, "when Louis is so near, Ronald
Stuart cannot be far off."

"Louis, indeed!" replied her father pettishly, for
he thought she had disappointed him.  "Tut, girl! do
you not see the lady in the vehicle?"

"O papa! that is a great secret,—the affair of the
lady; we meant to surprise you;" and without saying
more, she bounded away from his side.

The chaise was brought up at a gallop to the steps
of the portico, and the smart postilion wheeled it
skilfully round, backing and spurring with an air of
speed and importance, scattering the gravel in showers
right and left, and causing the chaise to rock from
side to side like a ship in a storm.  This was for
effect.  A postilion always brings his cattle up at a
sharp pace; but the chaise was well hung on its
springs, and the moment the panting horses halted,
it became motionless and steady.  At that instant
Alice, with her masses of curls streaming behind her,
rushed down the splendid staircase, through the lofty
saloon, and reached the portico just as the footman
sprang from the dickey and threw down the iron
steps with a bang as he opened the door.  An officer,
muffled in a large blue cloak lined with red, leaped
out upon the gravel walk; Alice threw her arms
around her brother, and hung sobbing on his breast.

"Alie, my merry little Alie, has become a tall
and beautiful woman!" exclaimed Louis, holding
her from him for a moment while he gazed upon
her face, and then pressed her again to his breast.
"Upon my honour you have grown quite a tall lady,"
he added, laughing.  "Our father—"

"Is well, Louis, well; and waiting for you."

"Good!  This is my—this is our Virginia," said
Louis, handing out his Spanish wife.  "This is the
dear girl I have always mentioned in my letters for
two years past, Alice; her friends have all perished
in the Peninsular war, and I have brought her far
from her native land, to a foreign country.  You
must be a kind sister to her, Alie, as you have ever
been to me."

"I will always love her, Louis; I will indeed,"
murmured the agitated girl, who, never having beheld
a Spaniard before, expected something very different
from the beautiful creature around whose neck she
fondly twined an arm.  "I am your sister: kiss me,
Virginia dear!" said she, and two most young-lady-like
salutes were exchanged.  The fair face of Alice
Lisle blushed with pleasure.  The darker cheek of
the Castilian glowed likewise, and her bright hazel
eyes flashed and sparkled with all the fire and vivacity
of her *nacion*.

"Louis," whispered Alice, blushing crimson as she
spoke, and as they ascended the sixteen steps of
variegated Portsoy marble which led to the house;
"Louis, is not Ronald Stuart with you?":

"Alas! no, Alice," replied Lisle, changing colour.

"Poor dear Ronald!" said his sister sorrowfully,
"could he not procure leave too?  Papa must apply
to the colonel—to your proud Fassifern, for it."

"Virginia will inform you of what has happened,"
said Louis, with so sad a tone that all the pleasant
visions which were dancing in the mind of the joyous
girl were instantly destroyed, and she grew deadly
pale; "Virginia will tell you all about it, Alie.
Ladies manage these matters of explanation better than
gentlemen."

"Matters!" reiterated the affrighted Alice
involuntarily; "matters!  Heaven guide me!  I thought all
the terrors of these four years were passed for ever.
But what has misfortune in store for me now?"

Her father, whose feet and limbs were somewhat
less nimble and flexible than hers, and had thus been
longer in descending the stair and traversing the long
lobbies, now approached, and embraced his son with
open arms; while, *en masse*, the servants of the
mansion crowded round, offering their good wishes and
congratulatory welcome to *the Master*, as Louis was
styled by them, being the son of a Scottish baron.
He was now the Master of Lisle, or Lysle, as it is
spelt in the Peerage.  The stately figure of the fair
Castilian, who, embarrassed and confused, clung to
the arm of the scarcely less agitated Alice, puzzled
the old lord a good deal.  She yet wore her graceful
mantilla and tightly fitting Spanish frock of black
satin.  The latter was open at the bosom, to show
her embroidered vest and collar, but was laced
zig-zag across with a silver cord.  The thick clusters
of her hair were gathered in a *redecilla*, or net-work
bag, behind, all save the glossy brown curls
escaping from beneath a smart English bonnet, which
although it fully displayed her noble and beautiful
features, contrasted or consorted strangely with the
rest of her attire.

The old lord appeared astonished and displeased
for a moment.  He bowed, smiled, and then stared,
and bowed and smiled again, while Virginia coloured
crimson, and her large Spanish eyes began to sparkle
in a very alarming manner; but beginning to suspect
who the fair stranger was, the frank old lord took
both her hands in his, kissed her on each cheek,
begged pardon, and then asked whom he had the
honour of addressing.

"How!" exclaimed Louis in astonishment; "is it
possible that you do not know?"

"Not I, upon my honour!" replied his father,
equally amazed; "how should I?"

"Were my letters from Orthes and Toulouse
relative to my marriage never received?"

"Marriage!" exclaimed his father, almost pausing
as they crossed the saloon.  "By Jove!  Master
Louis, you might have condescended to consult me
in such a matter!"

"My dear father," replied Louis, laughing, for he
saw that his parent was more astonished than
displeased, "you cannot be aware of the circumstances
under—  But you know the proverb, all is fair in
war; and my letters—"

"Were all received,—at least, Alice received
them all."

"Ah! you cunning little fairy," said Louis
turning towards his pale sister; "you have played us
all this trick to surprise your good papa, when he
heard of his new daughter."

"A wonderful girl! to be the repository of so
important a secret so long," said her father, evidently
in high glee.  "But she always loved to produce a
commotion, and to study effect.  I will hear all your
stories by-and-by, and sentence you each according
to your demerits; but we must not stand here, with
all the household gaping at us.  Lead your naughty
sun-burnt brother up-stairs, Alice—he seems to have
forgotten the way,—and I will escort your new sister."

He gave his arm to Virginia, and conducted her
up the broad staircase which led to the upper part of
the mansion, where the splendour and elegance of
the furniture, the size of the windows, the hangings,
the height of the ceilings, the rich cornices, the
carving, the gilding, the paintings, statues, lustres, the
loftiness, lightness, and beauty of everything
architectural and decorative, struck the stranger forcibly
when she remembered the sombre gloom and clumsiness,
both of fabric and fashion, to which she had
been accustomed in the dwellings of her native
country.  Indeed, the mansion of the richest Spanish
grandee was not so snug by one-half as the coachman's
apartment above the stables at Inchavon-house.

Alice was in an agony of expectation to hear what
Louis had to say about Ronald Stuart; but she was
doomed to be kept cruelly on the mental rack for
some time, while all her brother's humble but old and
respected friends among the household appeared in
succession, to tender their regards and bid him
welcome, expressing their pleasure to "see him safe
home again among decent, discreet, and responsible
folk," as the jolly old butler, who acted as
spokesman, said.  There was the bluff game-keeper, in his
tartan jacket, broad bonnet, and leather spats, or
leggings, long Louis's rival shot, and master of the
sports; there was the pinched and demure old
housekeeper, with her rusty silk gown, keys, and
scissors, and huge pouch, which was seldom
untenanted by a small Bible and big brandy flask; the
fat, flushed and greasy cook, whose ample circumference
proclaimed her the priestess and picture of
good living; the smart and rosy housemaids all
ribands and smiles,—Jessie Cavers in particular; and
there was Jock, and Tom, and Patie, laced and
liveried chevaliers of the cockade and shoulder-knot,
who were all introduced at the levee in their turn,
while confusion, bustle, and uproar reigned supreme
through the whole of the usually quiet and
well-ordered mansion of Inchavon.

Every one was glad and joyful to behold again the
handsome young Master of Lisle; but then his lady! she
was termed '*an unco body*,' and about her there
were two conflicting opinions.  The men praised her
beauty, "her glossy hair, and her hawk's een," the
women her sweetness and affability; but almost all
had observed the crucifix that hung at her neck, and
whispered fearful surmises of her being a Papist.

"My dear sir," said Louis, after they had become
tolerably composed in a sort of snug library, termed
by the servants, 'my lord's chaumer,'—"can it be
possible, or true, that Alice has never informed you
of my marriage with Donna Virginia de Alba?"

"I concealed it to surprise dear papa," replied
Alice, making a sickly attempt to smile.

"You always loved effect, Alie," said her father;
"but really I could have dispensed with so sudden a
surprise on this occasion.  How fortunate I am in
having such a beauty for a daughter!"  He passed
his hand gently over the thick brown curls of the
Spaniard.  "Look up at me, Virginia; a pretty
name, too!  On my honour, my girl, you have
beautiful eyes!  I ever thought Alie's were splendid,
but she will find hers eclipsed.  Your father—"

"Was the Duke of Alba de T——," interrupted
Louis, who was now anxious to produce an effect of
a different kind in his bride's favour.  "He was a
Buonapartist—"

"Ah! his name is familiar to me.  He—"

"Was unfortunately slain when the fort, or château,
where I was confined, was so bravely stormed
by Ronald Stuart's light company."

"I heard of all that, when the news arrived in
London.  Our Virginia comes of a proud, but a—a—an
unfortunate race."  He could not find a more
gentle word.

"Spain boasts not of a nobler name than that of
Alba; but, save a sister in a convent in Galicia,
my dear Virginia is its only representative.  All the
cavaliers of her house have fallen in battle; and
lastly the duke, by the hands of Evan Iverach and
Macrone, a serjeant, who attacked him with his pike.
Poor Stuart, though in peril himself, did all he could
to save him; but the hot blood of the Gaël was up,
and the fierce Spaniard perished.  But Virginia is
weeping: we are only recalling her sorrows, and must
say no more of these matters just now.  Ronald
Stuart—"

"Ah! by-the-by, what of him?  A brave fellow!
See how Alice blushes.  Faith!  I shall never forget
the day the dauntless young Highlandman pulled me
out of Corrie-avon.  Has the good lad returned with
you to Perthshire?"

"No," answered Louis with hesitation, glancing
uneasily at Alice while he spoke.  "He has not
returned yet."

"'Tis well," continued his father.  "Poor Stuart! he
will have no home—no kind friends to return to,
as you have, Louis, after all his toil and bloodshed.
Not a hand is there now in the green glen of the
Isla to grasp his in welcome!"

"I read in the Perthshire papers that the estate
had been sold, and that his father, with all the
Stuarts of the glen, had emigrated to Canada.
Dreadful intelligence it will be for him when he hears it!
He will be wounded most deeply in those points
where the true Highlander is assuredly most
vulnerable.  He will be almost driven mad; and I would
scarcely trust other lips than yours, Alice, to reveal
the sad tidings to him.  I read them at Toulouse.
Stuart was not with us then.  He has been—he
has been—six weeks missing from the regiment."

"Six weeks missing!" cried Lord Lisle, while a
cry of horror died away on the pallid lips of Alice,
who drooped her head on the shoulder of Virginia.

"Keep a brave heart, Alie dear!" said Louis,
clasping her waist affectionately.  "I have no fears
for your knight of Santiago, as the mess call him.
He will swim where another man would sink.  Had
you seen him, as I often have, skirmishing in
advance, charging at the head of his company, or
leading the forlorn hope at Almarez on the Tagus,
or the château on the Nive, you would suppose he
had a charmed life, and was invulnerable to steel and
lead, as men supposed Dundee to be until the field
of Killiecrankie.  Perhaps he has joined by this
time.  I procured six months' leave, and left the
Highlanders the instant the anchor was dropped at
Cove.  My next letters from the regiment may have
some intelligence.  Campbell, I know, will write to
me instantly, if he hears aught."

"But how comes it to pass, that Stuart is missing? what
happened?" asked his father, while Alice
listened in breathless agony to the reply.

"We were quartered at Muret, a town on the
Garonne, eight or nine miles distant from Toulouse.
We had lain there ever since the decisive battle
gained over Soult; and in the church-yard of Muret
Stuart buried his servant, a brave lad from Lochisla,
who had received a death-shot on that memorable
Easter Sunday.  Ronald mourned his loss deeply;
for the lad had become a soldier for his sake, and
they were old schoolfellows—old companions and
playmates.  He was a gallant and devoted fellow.
You remember him, Alice?  Many a love-letter he
has carried to and fro, between this and Lochisla;
and often, bonnet in hand, he has led your pony
among the steepest cliffs of Craigonan, by ways and
crooks where I should tremble to venture now."

"And he is dead?" said Alice, giving vent to her
feelings by a plentiful shower of tears.

"He was shot by a Frenchman's bullet, Alie."

"Poor dear Evan!" replied his sister, wringing
her white hands; "I shall never forget him.  He
was ever so respectful and so obliging."

"Jessie Cavers has lost her handsome sweetheart.
He was buried close by the old church of Muret,
and Ronald's hand laid his head in the grave.  He
received a deeper—a better—yet not less hallowed
tomb than the many thousands who were covered up
in ditches, in the fields, and by the way-sides, just
wherever they were found lying dead.  At Muret,
one night, a despatch arrived from Lord Wellington
by an orderly dragoon.  It was to be forwarded to
the Condé de Penne Villamur, at Elizondo, a town
on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees; and, as its
bearer, Stuart departed about midnight, on horseback.
Sufficient time for his return elapsed before
our embarkation at Toulouse.  The eventful day
came; but no Stuart appeared, and we embarked
without him.  Some unlooked-for circumstance must
have caused delay,—perhaps his horse becoming
lame, or his cash running short: but we shall
probably hear of him from Toulouse, or Passages, in
a fortnight at the furthest.  I have no fears for
Ronald Stuart.  He will cut his way, scatheless,
through perils which a score of men would sink
under."

"I trust in Heaven that it may be so," said Lord
Lisle fervently.  "Truly, I wish the lad well; he is
the last stem of an old tree, that has fallen to the
earth at last."

Although Louis spoke cheerfully to comfort his
agitated sister, he nevertheless felt considerable
anxiety regarding the fate of his friend.  He knew too
well the disorderly state of the country through the
wild frontiers of which he had to pass; and his
imagination pictured a hundred perils, against which
Ronald's courage and tact would be unavailing.  He
besought Virginia to comfort Alice, by putting the
best possible face upon matters; but her unwary
relative made circumstances worse, by letting truths
slip out which had been better concealed, and which,
although they seemed quite common-place matters
to a Castilian, presented a frightful picture of Spain
to a young Scottish lady.

The unhappy Alice became a prey to a thousand
anxious fears and apprehensions, which prepared her
mind to expect the worst.  A month passed away—a
weary month of misery, of sad and thrilling
expectation, and no tidings were heard of Stuart.  By
Louis's letters from the regiment, it seemed that his
brother-officers had given him up for lost.  The
newspapers were searched with sickening anxiety,
but nothing transpired; and the family at Inchavon
beheld, with deep uneasiness, the cheek of Alice
growing pale day after day, and her bright eyes
losing their wonted lustre.  About six weeks after
Louis's arrival, Lord Lisle communicated with the
military authorities in London regarding the young
soldier, in whose fate his family were so greatly
interested.  All were in a state of great expectation
when the long, formidable letter, covered with franks,
initials, and stamps, arrived.  To support herself
Alice clung to Virginia, and hid her face in her
bosom, for she trembled excessively while her father
read the cold and official reply to his anxious letter.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"*Horse Guards*,
\* \* \* 1814.

.. vspace:: 1

"My Lord,

.. vspace:: 1

In reply to your Lordship's letter of the
25th instant, I have the honour to acquaint you,
by the direction of His Royal Highness the
Commander-in-chief, that nothing has transpired, further
than what the public journals contain, respecting
the fate of Captain Ronald Stuart, of the Gordon
Highlanders.  But, if that unfortunate officer does
not rejoin his regiment at Cork before the next
muster-day, he must be superseded.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   I have the honour to be,
       My Lord, &c. &c.
           HENRY TORRENS,
               *Mil Sec.*"

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Right Hon. Lord Lisle,
       of Inchavon."

.. vspace:: 2

Alice wrung her hands, and wept in all the
abandonment of woe.  The last reed she had leant on
had snapped—her last hope was gone, and she
knew that she should never behold Ronald more.
The next muster-day (then the 24th of every month)
arrived; and, as being still "absent without leave,"
he was superseded, and his name appeared no longer
on the list of the regiment.  It was sad intelligence
for his friends in Perthshire; but it was upon one
gentle-loving and timid heart, that this sudden
stroke fell most heavily.  Poor Alice! she grew
very sad, and long refused to be comforted.  As a
drowning man clings to straws, so clung Alice to
every hope and chance of Ronald's return, until the
letter of Sir Henry Torrens drove her from her last
stronghold.

Days rolled on and became weeks, and weeks
rolled on to months, and in her own heart the poor
girl was compelled to acknowledge or believe, what
her friends had long concluded, that Ronald Stuart
was numbered with the dead.  It was a sad blow
to one whose joyous heart had been but a short
time before full almost to overflowing with giddy
and romantic visions of love and happiness.  Under
this severe mental shock she neither sickened nor
died, and yet she felt as deeply and poignantly as
mortal woman could suffer.

Few or none, perhaps, die of love or of sorrow,
whatever poets and interested romancers may say
to the contrary.  But as this is not the work of the
one or the other, but a true memoir or narrative,
the facts must be told, however contrary to rule, or
to the expectation of my dear readers.

In course of time the sorrow of Alice Lisle
became more subdued, the bloom returned to her
faded cheek, and she used to laugh and smile,—but
not as of old.  She was never now heard to sing,
and the sound of her harp or piano no more awoke
the echoes of the house.  She was content, but far
from being happy.  When riding or rambling about
with Virginia or Louis, she could never look down
from the mountains on the lonely tower and desert
glen of Isla without symptoms of the deepest
emotion, and she avoided every path that led towards
the patrimony of the Stuarts.

But a good example of philosophy and resignation
under woe was set before her by her servant,
Jessie Cavers.  That young damsel, finding that she
had lost Evan Iverach beyond the hope of recovery,
instead of spoiling her bright eyes in weeping for his
death, employed them successfully in looking for a
successor to his vacant place.  She accordingly
accepted the offers of Jock Nevermiss, the
gamekeeper, whose coarse shooting-jacket and leather
spats had been for a time completely eclipsed by
the idea of Iverach's scarlet coat and gartered hose.

The old Earl of Hyndford came down again in the
shooting season, and renewed his attentions to Alice;
but with no better success than before,—much to his
amazement.  He deemed that her heart, being
softened by grief, would the more readily receive a new
impression.  He quitted Inchavon-house, and, in a
fit of spleen and disappointment, set off on a continental
ramble, acting the disconsolate lover with all
his might.

Louis, leaving Virginia at Inchavon with his
sister, rejoined the Highlanders at Fermoy, and in a
week thereafter had the pleasure to obtain a "company."

The Highlanders were daily expecting the route
for their native country, but were again doomed to
be disappointed.  They were ordered to Flanders,—to
the "Lowlands of Holland," where Scottish
valour has been so often triumphant in the times
of old, for the flames of war had broken forth again
with renewed fury.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TORRE DE LOS FRAYLES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE TORRE DE LOS FRAYLES.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |          "Thought's fantastic brood
   |  Alone is waking; present, past, and future,
   |  Wild mis-shaped hope and horrible rememb'rings,
   |  Now rise a hideous and half-viewless chaos
   |  To fancy's vision, till the stout heart fails
   |  At its own prospect."
   |                          *The Hermit of Roselva.*

.. vspace:: 2

When Ronald found himself helplessly and, as he
thought, irrecoverably immured in the *Torre de los
Frayles*, and surrounded by a band of the most
merciless and desperate ruffians conceivable,—defenceless,
in their power, and secluded among the wildest
fastnesses of the Spanish Pyrenees, his heart
sickened at the hopelessness of his prospects.  His life
depended entirely on the will and pleasure of his
captors, and he felt all that acute agony of spirit of
which a brave man is susceptible when reflecting
that he might perish like a child in their hands,
helpless and unrevenged.  He was conducted to a
desolate apartment, to which light was admitted by
a couple of loop-holes, which, being destitute of
glass, gave free admittance to the cold air of the
mountains.

Excepting an antique table and chair, the room
was destitute of furniture, and Ronald was
compelled to repose on the stone-flagged floor, with no
other couch than a large ragged mantle, which a
renegade priest, one of thousands whom the war had
unfrocked, lent him, offering, at the same time,
indulgently to hear his confession.  Ronald glanced
at the long dagger and brass-barrelled pistols which
garnished the belt of the *ci-devant* padre, and,
smiling sourly, begged to be excused, saying that he had
nothing to confess, saving his disgust for his captors,
and the sense he felt of Spanish ingratitude.

"*Morte de Dios!*" swore the incensed priest as
he departed, "you are an incorrigible heretic.
Feeding you, is feeding what ought to be burned; and I
would roast you like a kid, but for that meddling
ape Gaspar!"

By order of the last-named worthy, who appeared
to be the acknowledged leader, a sentinel was
placed at the door of the apartment, which was well
secured on the outside to prevent Ronald's escape.
At the same time Alosegui, who said he wished to
be friendly to a *brother capitan*, gave him a screw of
a peculiar construction, with which he could strongly
secure his door on the inside—a necessary precaution
when so formidable an enemy as Narvaez Cifuentes
was within a few feet of him.  Having secured
the entrance as directed, he rolled himself up in the
cloak of the pious father,—but not to sleep, for dawn
of day found him yet awake, cursing his untoward
fortune, and revolving, forming, and rejecting a
thousand desperate plans to escape.  Even when, at last,
he did drop into an uneasy sleep or dreamy doze, he
was quickly aroused by the twangling of guitars
and uproar of a drunken chorus in the next apartment,
where the padre was trolling forth a ditty,
which, a few years before, would have procured him
a lodging for life in the dungeons of the terrible
Inquisition.

To Stuart, his present situation appeared now
almost insupportable.  He sprang to the narrow
loop-holes, and made a long and acute reconnoisance
of the country round about, especially in the
neighbourhood of the robbers' den, and he became aware
that escape, without the concurrence of Alosegui or
some of his followers, was utterly impracticable.
The tower was perched, like an eagle's nest, on the
very verge of a perpendicular cliff, some hundred
yards in height, and a chasm, dark and apparently
bottomless, separated the tower from the other parts
of the mountain, or, I may say, the *land*, as it hung
almost in the air.  At every pass of the hills leading
to the narrow vale where it was situated, a
well-armed and keen-eyed scout kept watchful guard, for
the double purpose of giving alarm in case of
danger, or warning when any booty appeared in sight.
The bottom of the valley which the tower overlooked
was covered with rich copse-wood, among
which wound, like a narrow stripe of crystal, a
mountain stream, a tributary of the Bidassoa,—the
way to the West.

About noon he was visited by Gaspar Alosegui,
with whom he was ceremoniously invited to take
breakfast; and yielding to the cravings of appetite,
he unhesitatingly accepted the proposal, and sat
down at the same table with four fellows, who,
Gaspar told him, were the greatest cut-throats and
most expert bravoes in Spain.  The apartment in
which they sat was a dilapidated hall, which bore
no distant resemblance to the one at Lochisla, save
that its roof was covered with carved stone pendants
and grim Gothic faces, among which hung branches
of grapes or raisins, nets of Portugal onions, bags of
Indian corn, and other provender; and the floor was
strewed with mule-pannels, saddles, arms of all
sorts, towards which Ronald glanced furtively from
time to time, and countless bales, barrels,
wineskins, &c. like a merchant's storehouse.

Ronald got through his repast without offending
any of the dagger-grasping rogues; but he was so
much disgusted with their language and brutality
of manner, that in future he resolved to eat by
himself, at all risks.  Narvaez, with a strong party
under his command, was absent, to watch for a train
of mules in the neighbourhood of Roncesvalles, and
Ronald was therefore relieved from his hateful
presence.  Gaspar assembled the remainder of the band
in solemn conclave, to consult about the ransom of
Stuart.  When the latter, who stood near Alosegui's
chair, looked around him upon the ruffian
assemblage, and beheld so many dark, ferocious, and
black-bearded faces, he *felt* that, among such men,
his life was not worth a *quarto*.

The amount of the ransom had been fixed on the
preceding evening.  When Alosegui inquired where
the Condé de Villa Franca then resided, no one
could say any thing with certainty about it, but all
supposed him to be at Madrid.  In support of this
supposition, the *soi-disant* padre produced, from the
crown of his sugar-loaf hat, a ragged number of
"*El Español*," at least three months old, well worn
and frayed, and which he carried about him for
gun-wadding.  In one of the columns, the arrival of
Don Alvaro and his countess appeared among the
fashionable intelligence.  To Madrid, therefore, it
was resolved that Ronald should despatch a letter,
the bearer of which should be Juan de la Roca, who,
for cunning and knavery, was equal, if not infinitely
superior, to Lazarillo de Tormes, of happy memory.
His travelling expenses were also to be defrayed,
fully and amply, before the captive would be
released.  To save time, for it was a long way to
Madrid, Ronald proposed to communicate with the
British consuls at Passages or Bayonne; but the
proposition was at once negatived by a storm of
curses and a yell of dissatisfaction from the banditti,
while, waving his hand, Alosegui acquainted him
sternly, that it was inconsistent with their safety or
intentions to permit his corresponding with the
consul at either of these places, as some strenuous and
unpleasant means might be taken to release him
unransomed.  And before they would proceed farther
in the business, the wily *bandidos* compelled him to
pledge his solemn word of honour as a cavalier and
soldier, that he would not attempt to escape,—a
pledge which, it may be imagined, he gave with the
utmost reluctance.  While his bosom was swelling
with rage and regret, Ronald seated himself at the
table and wrote to Alvaro, praying that he would
lend him the sum the thieves required, and setting
forth that his life was forfeited in case of a refusal.
Seldom has a letter been indited under such
circumstances.  While he wrote, a Babel of tongues
resounded in his ear,—all swearing and quarrelling
about the delay, and proposing that cold steel
or a swing over the rocks should cut the matter
short, as it was very doubtful whether the Count de
Villa Franca would ever send so large a sum of
money.  But Gaspar's voice of thunder silenced
their murmurs.

"I will drink the heart's blood of any man who
opposes or disobeys my orders," cried he, striking
the rude table with his mighty fist.  "I am a man
of honour, and must keep my word, *par Diez*!  Hark
you, my comrades; again I tell you, that for three
months the life of the prisoner is as sacred as if he
were an abbot."

"Three months!" thought Ronald bitterly.  "In
three months, but for this cursed misfortune, I might
have been the husband of Alice Lisle."

The letter to Don Alvaro was sealed by Ronald's
own seal, (which one of the band was so obliging
as to lend him for the occasion,) and placed in
the hand of Juan de la Roca.

"*Adios, señor! adios, vaga!*" said the young thief
with an impudent leer, and presenting his hand to
Ronald at his departure.  "Remember, señor, that
for your sake, I lose the chance of winning one of
the sweetest prizes in Spain."

"How, Señor Juan?" replied Stuart, bestowing
on him a keen glance of contempt.

"A girl, to be sure, a fair girl we captured near
Maya," said Juan sulkily; "and I am half tempted
to cast your despatch to the winds."

"Come, Juan, we must part friends at least,"
said Ronald, willing to dissemble when he remembered
how much his fate lay in the power of this
young rascal.  He gave him his hand, and they parted
with a show of urbanity, which was probably affected
on both sides.

In a few minutes he beheld him quit the Friars'
Tower, and depart on his journey mounted on a
stout mule, and so much disguised that he scarcely
knew him.  His ragged apparel had been replaced
by the smart attire of a student, and was all of
becoming black velvet.  A large portfolio was slung
on his back, to disguise him more, and support the
character which he resolved to bear as a travelling
*artista*.  He was a very handsome young fellow, and
his features were set off by his broad sombrero and
the black feathers which vanity had prompted him
to don.  A black silk mantle dangled for ornament
from his shoulders, while one more coarse and ample
was strapped to the bow of his mule's pannel.  He
had a pair of holsters before him, and wore a long
poniard in his sash: altogether, he had very much
the air of a smart student of Salamanca or Alcala.
From a window Ronald anxiously watched the lessening
form of this messenger of his fate, as he urged
his mule down the steep windings of the pathway to
the valley; and a thousand anxieties, and alternate
hopes and doubts distracted him, as he thought of
the dangers that beset the path of his ambassador,
of the lengthened duration and possible result of his
expedition.

In no country save Spain could the dreadful
atrocities perpetrated by the wretches into whose hands
Ronald had fallen, have been permitted in the
nineteenth century.  A day never passed without the
occurrence of some new outrage, and many were
acted under his own observation.  On one occasion
the band captured an aged syndic of Maya, who had
made himself particularly obnoxious by executing
some of the gang.  His captors, to refine on cruelty,
tore out his eyes and turned him away on the
mountains in a tempestuous night, desiring him to
return to his magistracy, and be more merciful to
cavaliers of fortune in future.

An unfortunate *medico* of Huarte, who was
journeying on a mule across the mountains from
St. Juan de Luz, where he had been purchasing a store
of medicines, fell into their clutches somewhere near
the rock of Maya.  He could procure no ransom:
many who owed him long bills, and whom he
rescued from the jaws of death by the exercise of his
art, and to whom his messenger applied, would send
him no answer, being very well pleased, probably,
to be rid of a troublesome creditor.  One of the band
being seriously ill, the life of the *medico* was to be
spared if he cured him.  The bandit unluckily died,
and the doom of his physician was sealed.  It was
abruptly announced to him that he must die, and
by his own weapons, as Gaspar informed him.  The
unhappy son of Esculapius prayed hard that his life
might be spared, and promised that he would dwell
for the remainder of his days in the Torre de los
Frayles,—to spare him, for he was a very old man,
and had many things to repent of.  But his tyrants
were inexorable.  After being confessed with mock
religious solemnity by Gorgorza de la Puente, he
was compelled to swallow every one of his own
drugs, which he did with hideous grimaces and
trembling limbs, amidst the uproarious laughter and
cruel jests of his destroyers, who beheld him expire
almost immediately after finishing the nauseous dose
they had compounded, and then consigned his body
to that charnel-house, the chasm before the doorway
of their pandemonium.

Several months elapsed—months which to Ronald
appeared like so many centuries, for he had awaited
in almost hourly expectation the arrival of some
intelligence from Madrid; but the dreary days lagged
on, and his heart began to lose hope.  Juan de la
Roca appeared to have travelled slowly.  Letters
were received from him by Alosegui, at different
times, by the hands of certain muleteers and
*contrabandistas*, who, on passing the mountains, always
paid a regular sum as toll to the banditti, whom,
for their own sakes, they were glad to conciliate so
easily.  These despatches informed the thieves of
Juan's progress; but they often cursed the young
rascal, and threatened vengeance for his tardiness
and delay.  But Juan, by exercising his ingenuity as
a cut-purse, pick-pocket, cloak-snatcher, and
gambler, contrived to keep himself in a constant supply
of cash; and he seemed determined to enjoy to the
utmost the short term of liberty allowed him.  At
last he disappeared.  His companions in crime heard
of him no more; but whether he had been poniarded
in some brawl, sent to the galleys, or made off with
Stuart's ransom-money, remained a mystery.  The
last appeared to the banditti to be the most
probable cause for his non-appearance, and their curses
were loud and deep.

Stuart now found that his life was in greater
jeopardy than before.  Alosegui proposed to him to
take the vows, and join the banditti as a volunteer
in their next marauding expedition; and added, that
if he would take pains to conciliate the good-will of
the lieutenant, the Señor Narvaez, and distinguish
himself, he might be promoted in the band.  Alosegui
made this proposal with his usual dry sarcastic
manner; and although Ronald, who was in no humour
to be trifled with, rejected the strange offer of
service with as much scorn and contempt as he could
muster, he saw, on second thoughts, that for his own
safety a little duplicity was absolutely necessary.
He affected to have doubts, and craved time to think
of the matter, intending, if once well-armed, free of
the tower, and with his feet on the free mountainside,
to fight his way off, or to die sword in hand.

But he was saved from the dishonour of even
pretending to be their comrade for a single hour,
because, in a very short space of time, a most
unlooked-for change of politics took place at Torre de
los Frayles.

A train of muleteers about to depart from Elizondo
for France or the lower part of the Pyrenees,
sent forward one of their number to the robbers' den
to pay the toll.  The mule-driver was made right
welcome.  The banditti found it necessary to
cultivate to the utmost the friendship of these travelling
merchants, with whom they trafficked and bartered,
exchanging goods and valuables for money, clothing,
arms, and ammunition, supplies of which were
regularly brought them, and accounts were balanced
in the most exact and business-like manner.

The envoy from Elizondo had transacted his business,
and been furnished with Alosegui's receipt and
pass, formally signed and marked with a cross; but
he seemed in no hurry to depart, and remaining,
drank and played at chess and dominoes for some
hours with the thieves, who were, scouts excepted,
generally all within their garrison in the day-time.

Ronald knew that a messenger from a train of
mules was in his place of confinement; but as visits
of this kind in no way concerned him, he had ascended
to the summit of the tower, and there paced to and
fro, watching anxiously as usual the long dim vista
of the valley, with the expectation of seeing Juan de
la Roca, on his grey mule, wending his way towards
the Tower of the Friars.  He would have hailed with
joy the return of this young rogue as a delivering
angel; but such a length of time had now elapsed
since his disappearance that, in Ronald's breast,
hope began gradually to give way to despair; and
when he remembered Alice, his home, and his
forfeited commission, his brain almost reeled with
madness.  Shading his eyes from the hot glare of the
noon-day sun, he was looking intently down the
long misty vale which stretched away to the
westward, when he was roused by some one touching
him on the shoulder.

He turned about, and beheld the round and
good-humoured face of Lazaro Gomez, fringed, as
of old, with its matted whiskers and thick scrub
beard.

"Lazaro Gomez, my trusty muleteer of Merida! how
sorry I am to see you in this devil's den."

"Señor, indeed you have much reason to be very
happy, if you knew all."

"How, Gomez?"

"Hush, señor!  Speak softly: you will know all
in good time.  I came hither to pay the toll for my
comrades, who at present keep themselves close in
Elizondo for fear of our friends in this damnable
tower; and there they must remain until I return.
By our Lady of Majorga, but I am glad to see you,
señor!  As I say now to my brother Pedro, *Señor
Caballero*, allow me to have the honour of shaking
hands with you?"

Stuart grasped the huge horny hand of the honest
muleteer and shook it heartily, feeling a sensation
so closely akin to rapture and delight, that he could
almost have shed tears.  It was long since he had
shaken the hand of an honest man, or looked on
other visages than those of dogged, sullen, and
scowling ruffians.  At that moment Stuart felt happy;
it was so agreeable to have kind intercourse, even
with so humble a friend, after the five months he
had passed in the dreary abode of brutality and
crime.

"And why, Lazaro, do you address your brother,
the sergeant, so formally?"

"Ah, señor!  Pedro is a great man now!  He is
no longer a humble trooper, to pipe-clay his belts
and hold his captain's bridle.  By his sword he has
carved out a fair name for himself, and a fair fortune
likewise.  He led three assaults against Pampeluna,
like a very valiant fool as he is, and was three times
shot through the body for his trouble.  Don Carlos
de España, a right noble cavalier, embraced him
before the whole line of the Spanish army, and
appointed him a cornet in Don Alvaro's troop of
lancers.  The next skirmish with the enemy made him
a lieutenant, knight of Santiago, and of the most
valiant order of "the Band."  Don Alvaro has also
procured him a patent of nobility, which he always
carries in his sash, lest any one should unpleasantly
remind his nobleness that he is the eldest son of
old Sancho Gomez the alguazil, who dwelt by the
bridge of Merida."

"I rejoice at his good fortune."

"But I have not told you all, señor," continued
the gossiping muleteer.  "A rich young widow of
Aranjuez, the Condéssa de Estramera, fell in love
with him, when one day he commanded a guard at
the palace of Madrid.  An old duenna was employed—letters
were carried to and fro—meetings held in
solitary places; and the upshot was, that the
condessa bestowed her fair hand, with a fortune
of—of—the holy Virgin knows how many thousand
ducats, upon my most happy rogue of a brother.
Lieutenant Don Pedro Gomez, of the lancers of Merida;
and now they live like a prince and princess."

"Happy Pedro!  The condessa is beautiful; I
have seen her, Lazaro."

"Plump Ignesa, the chamber-maid at the posada
of Majorga, is more to my mind.  I never could
relish your stately donnas, with their high combs
and long trains.  This condessa is niece of that
prince of rogues, the Duke of Alba de T——, who
was killed in the service of Buonaparte: but Pedro
cares not for that."

"In the history of his good fortune you see the
advantage of being a soldier, Lazaro."

"With all due respect to your honourable uniform,
which I am sorry to see so tattered, señor, I
can perceive no advantage in being a soldier—none
at all, *par Diez*!  I envy Pedro not the value of a
maravedi.  He has served and toiled, starved and
bled, in the war of independence, like any slave,
rather than a soldier."

"So have I, Lazaro," said Stuart; "and these
rags, and confinement here for five months, have
been my reward."

The muleteer snapped his fingers, then gave a
very knowing wink, and was about to whisper something;
but, observing one of the banditti watching,
he continued talking about his brother.

"Ay, like any poor slave, señor; and has more
shot-holes in his skin than I have bell buttons on
my jacket.  And now, when the war is over, he has
still a troublesome game to play in striving to
please his hot-headed commanding-officer and lady
wife, whom it would be considered a mortal sin to
baste with a buff strap, as I may do Ignesa when
she becomes my helpmate and better half.  Pedro's
honours weigh heavily upon him, and he has many
folks to please; whereas I have none to humour save
myself, and perhaps that stubborn jade *Capitana*,
my leading mule, or Ignesa of Majorga, who gets
restive, too, sometimes, and refuses to obey either
spur or bridle.  But my long whip, and a smart rap
from my *cajado*, soothe the mule, and my sweet
guitar and merry madrigal, the maiden.  I am a
thousand times happier than Pedro!  I never could
endure either domestic or military control, and would
rather be Lazaro Gomez, with his whip and his mules,
than the stately king of the Spanish nation.  I have
the bright sun, the purple wine, my cigar, and the
red-cheeked peasant-girls to kiss and dance with,—and
what would mortal man have more?  *Bueno*!"

He concluded by throwing himself into an attitude,
and flourishing his sombrero round his head
with a theatrical air.  Ronald smiled; but he thought
that, notwithstanding all this display, and Lazaro's
frequent assertions that he was happier than Pedro,
a little envy continued to lurk in a corner of his
merry and honest heart.

"But has Pedro never done aught for you, Lazaro,
in all his good fortune?" asked Ronald.

"Oh, señor! his lady wife, disliking that her
brother-in-law should be treading a-foot over sierra and
plain at a mule's tail, gave me the post of *Escrivano
del Numero* at Truxillo, which I kept for somewhere
about eight weeks.  But I always grew sad when I
heard the merry jangle of mules' bells; and one
morning, unable to restrain myself longer, I tossed
my Escrivano's cope and rod to *Satanas*, seized my
whip and sombrero, and once more took to the road
as a merry-hearted muleteer of Merida, and neither
Pedro nor the condessa have been able to catch me
since."

"I am happy to find you are such a philosopher,"
said Ronald, with a sigh, which was not unnoticed
by the muleteer.

"I could say that, *Señor Caballero*, which would
make you far happier," said he, with a glance of
deep meaning.  "But," he added, pointing to the
armed bandit, who kept a look-out on the bartizan
near them, "but there are unfriendly ears near us."

"Speak fearlessly, Lazaro!" said Ronald eagerly,
while his heart bounded with expectation.  "I know
that rascal to be a Guipuscoan, who understands as
little of pure Castilian as of Greek.  In heaven's
name, Lazaro, what have you to tell me?  I implore
you to speak!"

"Señor," said the muleteer, lowering his voice to
a whisper, "you have thrice asked me about Don
Alvaro, and I have thrice delayed to tell you what I
know: good news should be divulged cautiously.
Well, señor, the famous cavalier of Estremadura has
encamped three hundred horse and foot among the
mountains near Elizondo.  He comes armed with a
commission from the king, and his minister Don
Diego de Avallo, to root out and utterly destroy this
nest of wasps, or *cientipedoros*.  The place is to be
assailed about midnight; so look well to yourself,
señor, that the villains do not poniard you in the
fray; and, if you have any opportunity to aid us,
I need not ask you to do so.  I am to be Don
Alvaro's guide, as I know every foot of ground
hereabout as well as I do at Merida, having paid toll
here twenty times.  But this will be my last visit of
the kind; and I came hither only to reconnoitre and
learn their pass-word, in case it should be needed.
Keep a brave spirit in your breast for a few hours
longer, señor, and perhaps, when the morning sun
shines down the long valley yonder, Alosegui and
his comrades will be hanging round the battlement,
like beads on a chaplet.  I pray to the Santa Gadea
of Burgos that the night be dark, that we may the
more easily take the rogues by surprise."

Ronald's astonishment and joy at the sudden
prospect of liberation revealed to him by Lazaro
Gomez, deprived him of the power of utterance for a
time.  He was about to display some extravagant
signs of pleasure, and to embrace the muleteer, when
the keen cold glance of the Guipuscoan bandit, who
was watching them narrowly, recalled him to a sense
of his danger.  He almost doubted the reality of
the story, and narrowly examined the broad countenance
of the burly muleteer; but truth and honesty
were stamped on every line of it.  The horizon of
Ronald's fortune was about to clear up again.  He
felt giddy—almost stunned with the suddenness of
the intelligence, and his heart bounded with the
wildest exultation at the prospect of speedy liberty,
and of vengeance for the thousands of insults to
which he had been subjected while a prisoner in the
Torre de los Frayles.

When Lazaro departed, Stuart gave him the only
token he could send to Don Alvaro,—a button of
his coat, bearing a thistle and the number "92."  He
desired him to acquaint the cavalier that it
would be requisite to provide planks to cross the
chasm before the tower, otherwise the troops would
fail to take its inmates by surprise.

This advice was the means of saving Stuart's life
at a very critical juncture.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SPANISH LAW`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   SPANISH LAW.

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..

   |  "Hard the strife, and sore the slaughter,
   |    But I won the victory,—
   |  Thanks to God, and to the valour
   |    Of Castilian chivalry."
   |                            *The Cid Rodrigo.*

.. vspace:: 2

As nearly as Ronald could judge by the position
of the sun,—being without a watch,—it was about
the hour of three in the afternoon when Lazaro
departed.

It was yet nine hours to midnight, and although
that time seemed an age to look forward to, yet so
full was his mind of joy, and crowding thoughts of
gladness, hopes, and fears, that evening surprised
him long before he imagined it to be near; and he
had much ado in preserving his usual cold and
serene look, and concealing the tumult of new ideas
which excited him from the insolent bravoes, who
were continually swaggering about, and, according
to their usual wont, jostling him rudely at every
corner and place where he encountered them.  To
remonstrate would have been folly, and to these
petty annoyances he always submitted quietly.

On this last eventful evening he submitted to the
penance of dining at the same table with the
banditti, and even condescended to 'trouble' his friend
the padre for a piece of broiled kid; but, as soon as
the repast was ended, he withdrew to the tower-head.
He preferred to be alone, almost dreading
that his important secret might be read by Alosegui,
Cifuentes, or any other who bent his scowling and
lack-lustre eyes upon him.

At times, too, there came into his mind a doubt of
the truth of Lazaro's story; but that idea was too
sickening to bear, and he dismissed it immediately.

The sun had set.  Masses of dun clouds covered
the whole sky, which gradually became streaked
with crimson and gold to the westward, where the
rays of the sun yet illumined and coloured the huge
mountains of vapour, although his light was fast
leaving the earth.

The appearance of the sky and aspect of the
scenery were wonderful and glorious.  The whole
landscape was covered with a red hue, as if it had
been deluged by a red shower.  The mountain streamlet
wound through the valley of the Torre de los
Frayles, like a long gilded snake, towards the base
of a dark mountain, where appeared part of the
Bidassoa, gleaming under the warm sky like a river
of liquid fire.  Beautiful as the scene was, Ronald
seemed too much occupied with his own stirring
thoughts to admire it, or to survey any part with
curiosity, save that which, by gradually assuming a
more sombre hue, announced the approach of night.
It was not easy for him to observe a landscape with
an artist's eye, while placed in the predicament in
which he then found himself.

He remembered, with peculiar bitterness, the
countless mortifications and insults which he had
received from Alosegui, the padre, and many others,
and he contemplated with gloomy pleasure the display
which these master-rogues would make when
receiving, by the cord or the bullet, the just reward of
all their enormities.  He remembered with pleasure
that he had never broken the parole of honour he
had pledged to these miscreants,—and truly he had
been sorely tempted.  Owing to their irregular and
dissipated course of life, more than one opportunity
of escape and flight had presented itself.

"I expect a storm to-night, señor," said Gaspar,
breaking in abruptly on his meditations.

"Indeed, señor!"

The other swore a mighty oath, which I choose
not to repeat.  "*San Stephana el Martir! si,
señor*,—and no ordinary storm either.  We shall miss our
prize of a rich hidalgo of Alava, who, with an escort
of twenty armed men, would have departed to-night
from a posada a few miles from this, and meant to
bivouac at a place on the hill-side, of which the
inn-keeper, who is an old friend of mine, sent us all
due notice.  Look you: *hombre!* the sky grows
dark almost while we look upon it, and the clouds,
in masses of black and red, descend on every side,
like gloomy curtains, to shut out the sun from our
view, and the wind, which blows against our faces,
seems like the very breath of hell!  Pooh! this is
just such a night as one might expect to see our
very good friend the devil abroad."

"He is no friend of mine, Señor Alosegui, although
he may be a particular one of yours," said Ronald
with a smile.

"By the holy house of Nazareth!" swore the
bandit, "you may come to a close acquaintance
with him after you have served for a time, as I
expect you shall, in our honourable company."

"Well; but what of the storm?" asked Ronald,
more interested about that, and unwilling to quarrel
with his captor when there was so near a prospect of
release.  "What leads you to suppose there will be
one to-night?"

"These few rain-drops now falling are large and
round; hark, how they splash on the battlement!
The valley, the sierra, the tower, the river, and every
thing bear a deep saffron tint, partaking of the hue
of the troubled sky.  *Santos!* we shall have a storm
roaring among the mountains and leaping along the
valleys to-night, which will cause the old droning
monks at Maya to grow pale as they look upon
each other's fat faces, and while they mumble their
*aves*, count their beads, and bring forth the morsel
of the true cross to scare away *Satanas* and his imps
of evil.  By-the-by, speaking of Maya reminds me
of your case, señor.  A train of mules, which crossed
the Pyrenees without paying us our customary toll,
are on their return homeward from Bayonne to
Maya, laden with the very best of all the good
things this world affords for the use of the pious
and abstaining fathers of the convent of Saint
Francis.  Forty men, commanded by Narvaez Cifuentes,
will set out to-morrow to meet our friends in the
Pass of Maya, and a sharp engagement will probably
take place.  A priest is with them; on his shoulder
he bears the banner of Saint Francis of Assissi, but
if they imagine that we hidalgos of fortune will
respect it, the holy fathers are wofully mistaken.
The mules are escorted by a party of armed
peasants, commanded by an old acquaintance of
Gorgorza, the padre Porko, who is as brave as the Cid,
and has served with honour in the guerilla bands
during the war of independence.  The muleteers are
all stout fellows, too, and being well armed with
*cajados, trabucas*, and long knives, will likely show
fight,—and, truly, Narvaez will see some sharp work.
Now, hark you, señor; if you are willing to join him
and his brave companions, you will have an
opportunity of making your first essay as a cavalier of
fortune under a very distinguished commander.  Do
this, señor, and you will live among us honoured and
respected, as an equal, a friend, and a brave comrade.
If you fall in conflict, all is at an end; but if
taken by the authorities, to suffer martyrdom by the
law on the gallows, the *garrote*, or the wheel, then
you will have the glory of dying amid a vast
multitude, upon whose sympathy the fame of your
exploits will draw largely.  You like not my
proposition?  Well, *señor caballero*, I have to acquaint
you that I shall not be able to resist the fierce
importunities of Narvaez Cifuentes, and those who are
his particular friends.  Their poniards are ready to
leap from their scabbards against you now,—now
that all chance of your being ransomed has failed.
I have a sort of friendship for you, señor, because,
instead of supplicating for life, you have rather
seemed to defy fearlessly the terrors of death; the
which stubborness of soul, if it wins not the pity,
certainly excites the admiration of the jovial *picaros*,
my comrades.  You are a fine fellow over the
chessboard or wine-cup, and your bearing would be
complete if you would follow the example of Cifuentes,
and swear and swagger a little at times.  But you
will acknowledge that the flowing ease of action and
expression which distinguishes that accomplished
cavalier, are difficult of imitation."

"I must confess they are, Señor Gaspar," replied
Ronald, who could scarcely help smiling at the
other's manner, which had in it a strange mixture of
impudence, and part serious, part banter.  "But I
have really no desire to become the pupil of your
friend."

"As you please, *amigo mio*; as you please," replied
Alosegui, speaking slowly as he puffed at his cigar;
for, like a true Spaniard, he smoked from the time
he opened his eyes in the morning till he closed
them again at night.  "I once saw you perform the
bandit to the very life in the* Posada de los
Representes* at Aranjuez, when the British officers acted
*La Gitana*, and some of Lope de Vega's pieces, for
the amusement of themselves and the ladies of the
city.  You are a superb imitator, and, under the
tuition of Narvaez, would, I doubt not, fulfil my utmost
expectations."

"The devil take Narvaez!" muttered Ronald, who
was getting impatient of Gaspar's style of speech.

"All in good time," said the other quietly.  "You
have been enemies of old, I believe; some affair of
rivalry, in which Cifuentes was successful.  I
understand perfectly; but in our community among the
Pyrenees here, we have no such petty feelings of
dislike.  However, señor," continued the robber,
suddenly changing his satirical tone for a stern and
bullying one; "however, I would have you to think
well of all I have said, as I should be sorry to see
your bones cast into the vast depth of the chasm, to
swell the grisly company there.  So give me a definite
answer to-morrow, señor, before Narvaez departs
for Maya, or fatal results may ensue."

He flourished the paper cigar which he held
between two fingers and withdrew, nodding significantly
as his tall and bulky figure descended the
narrow staircase leading down from the paved roof
of the tower.

Ronald, who was glad of his strange friend's
departure, turned again to watch the long vista of the
valley, which was now involved in darkness.  He
would probably have remained there till midnight,
but he was soon compelled to follow Alosegui, as the
storm, which had long been threatening, now
descended in all its fury.

The atmosphere became dense and close, while the
sky grew rapidly darker and darker, till it assumed
the dreary blackness of a winter night, and an ocean
of rain descended on the earth with such violence,
that it was a wonder the little tower was not levelled
beneath it like a house of cards.  The thunder-peals
were grand and sublime: louder and louder than a
thousand broadsides, they roared as if heaven and
earth were coming together.

The banditti grew pale as they viewed each other's
grim visages in the blue glare of the lightning.  They
grew pale as death, and their "felon souls" quaked
within them, for there is a terrible something in the
sound of thunder, which appals most men.  It seems
like God's own voice speaking in the firmament.

But Alosegui called for lights and for liquor, and
pig-skins and jars were speedily set abroach; the
half-ruined hall was soon illuminated by candles of
all sorts and sizes, which streamed and guttered,
untrimmed and unheeded, in the currents of air
that passed freely through the place, although the
crazy windows were covered up with boards, and
stuffed with cloaks, bags of straw, &c. to keep out
the wind and rain.

Assembled in the dilapidated hall, if it deserved
such a name, the banditti withdrew their guards
and scouts, and forgot the storm without amid the
laughter and brutal uproar of their carousal.  Wine
and the strong heady *aguadiente*—a liquor not unlike
Scottish whisky,—were flowing like water, and the
noise within the Torre de los Frayles almost equalled
the uproar of the elements without.

Ronald's spirits fell, and he grew sad; he expected
that there would be no attack that night, and
he pitied the unfortunate soldiers who were exposed
on a night-march to such a storm.  From old
experience he well knew the misery of such a duty.  He
withdrew from the scene of bandit merriment, and
seeking a solitary place, watched the elemental war
without, and gazed with mingled awe and pleasure
on the bright streaks of forked lightning as they
darted through the sky, lighting up the shattered
cliffs, the mountain tops, the deep valley, and the
swollen river,—displaying them vividly, tinging
them all over with a pale sulphurous blue, and
causing the whole scene to assume a wild and ghastly
appearance.  Again the thunder roared, then died
away, and nought could be heard but the howling
wind, and the rain rushing fiercely down from the
parted clouds.

After continuing for about two hours, the storm at
last began to abate, and Stuart's hopes of freedom
revived.  It yet wanted some hours of midnight, but
he greatly feared that the fury of such a tempest
would scatter Don Alvaro's command of horse and
foot, drench them to the skin, and destroy their arms
and ammunition.  Yet he still continued at the
loophole, watching the dispersion of the clouds, the
appearance of the stars, and the increasing light of the
moon as the successive shrouds of gauze-like vapour
withdrew from her shining face.

While thus engaged, he was aroused by the sound
of some one standing behind him.  He turned sharply
round, and beheld Cifuentes, flushed with his
potations and ripe for brawl and uproar, reeling about
with a horn of liquor in one hand and a drawn
stiletto in the other.  In his drunken insolence he
dashed the cup, which was full of the rich wine of
Ciudad Real, in Ronald's face, and he was for a
moment almost blinded by the liquor.  Full of fury at
the insult, he rushed upon the robber, and grasping
him by his strong and bull-like neck, tripped up his
heels and hurled him to the floor in a twinkling, He
dashed the head of the aggressor twice on the
pavement to stun him, and wresting the poniard from his
grasp, would inevitably have slain him with it, had
he not been prevented by the interference of the
*ci-devant* padre Gorgorza and others.  He was grasped
from behind and drawn away from his antagonist,
who had very little breath left in his body after such
a knock down.  Drawn daggers were gleaming on
every side; but the ruffians stood so much in awe of
Alosegui's formidable strength and vengeance, that
they longed yet feared to strike Stuart with their
weapons.  In the grasp of so many, his arms were
pinioned fast, so that his rage could only be indicated
by the heaving of his breast, by the fire which
glared in his eyes, and by the swollen veins of his
forehead.

A short pause ensued, until Narvaez staggered up
from the floor, completely sobered, but at the same
time completely infuriated by the assault which he
had sustained.  He at first howled like a wild beast,
and sprang upon his helpless prisoner with the
intention of poniarding him on the spot; but suddenly
changing his mind, he laughed wildly, and swore and
muttered while pointing to a rope which, unhappily,
was at that time dangling from the stone mullion of
a window, about twelve feet from the floor, and he
proposed to hang Stuart here.  The idea was greeted
with a perfect storm of yells and applause.

A cold perspiration burst over the form of the
captive, and he struggled with a strength and
determination of which hitherto he had believed himself
incapable; but his efforts were as those of a child, in
the hands of so many.  He had to contend with
forty devils incarnate, well armed, and flushed with
rage and wine.

How eagerly at that moment Stuart longed for the
appearance of Alvaro, and how deeply he deplored
his having given loose to passion, when, by restraining
it, another hour had perhaps seen him free!  But
he longed in vain, for Alvaro came not, and his
regrets were fruitless.  He was to die now, and by the
ignominious cord!

As they dragged him across the apartment, he
called frantically on Alosegui; but that worthy
lay on the floor in a corner insensible,—or
perhaps pretending to be so,—from the quantity of
liquor he had imbibed.  In this dreadful extremity,
when hovering on the very verge of death, Ronald
condescended to remind Cifuentes that he saved
his life at Merida, when Don Alvaro was about to
hang him like a cur in the chapter-house of a
convent there.

But Narvaez only grinned, as, with the assistance
of his great row of teeth, he knotted a loop on the
cord, and said that it was by the rope, the bullet, or
the dagger he always paid his debts, and that he
had permitted Stuart to live too long to satisfy his
scruples as an honourable Spaniard.

"Up with him, *amigos mios*!" cried he, flourishing
the hateful noose.  "*Carajo!* pull, and with a
strong hand!"

At that moment Ronald uttered a cry of triumphant
joy; Narvaez dropped the cord, and the banditti
started back, cowering with alarm.  The stairs and
the doorway of the apartment were filled with
soldiers, the sight of whose bristling bayonets, with the
shout of "Death to the *bandidos*!  *Viva el Rey*!"
struck terror on the recreant garrison of the Torre de
los Frayles.  Several officers rushed forward with
their swords drawn, and in the tall cavalier with the
steel helmet, corslet, and cavalry uniform, Ronald
recognised his old friend Alvaro de Villa Franca.

"Dogs and villains!" he exclaimed, "surrender!
But expect no mercy; for I swear to you, by the
head of the king, that ye shall all die, and before
another day dawns,—ay, every man of you!"

By this time the hall was crowded by about fifty
infantry, while a number of dismounted dragoons,
armed with their swords and carbines, occupied the
stair and adjacent passages.  The cowards whose
den had been so suddenly surprised, forgetting to
use the weapons with which they were so well
equipped, fell upon their knees, every man excepting
Narvaez.  They cried for mercy in the most abject
terms, but the cavalier turned a deaf ear to their
entreaties, as they had done to hundreds before.

"Señor Don Ronald!" said he, embracing
Stuart, "our Lady has been singularly favourable to
us to-night.  We toiled our way over these rocky
mountains, notwithstanding the storm, and have
truly arrived at a most critical moment.  Our friends
of the Friars', or rather the Thieves' Tower, shall
find that I have not made a fruitless journey from
Madrid.  But first allow me to introduce an old
friend, Don Pedro Gomez."

A number of ceremonious Castilian bows were
exchanged, after which the cavalier continued,—

"Immediately on receiving your letter, and obtaining
all the information requisite about this den of the
devil, I ordered the bearer, Juan—Juan—I forget his
name, to be hanged; and, waiting on Diego de Avallo,
our secretary for home affairs, I procured a commission
under the great seal to proceed as I chose in the
duty of rooting out this nest of ruffians, who have so
long been the terror of the country hereabout, and
by the sacred shrine of the Virgin del Pilar!  I will
avenge your captivity and their crimes most signally.
Guard well the staircase and doorway with our own
troopers, Don Pedro."

The *ci-devant* sergeant was garbed and equipped
like Alvaro, and had evidently acquired very much
the air of a well-bred cavalier.

Excepting Alosegui, who stared about him with
an air of drunken stupidity, the robbers were
completely sobered, and remained on their knees, crying
for mercy,—mercy in the name of the Holy Virgin, of
her Son, of the Saints, and in the name of Heaven;
but stern looks and charged bayonets were the only,
and certainly fitting reply, and one by one they were
stripped of their poniards and pistols, which were
broken and destroyed by the soldiers.  Narvaez alone
scorned to kneel, but he stood scowling around him
with a dogged, sullen, and pale visage, while his
knees quaked and trembled violently.

"Alvaro," said Stuart, "look upon this sulky
ruffian, who is too proud, or perhaps too frightened,
to kneel."

"Cifuentes of Albuquerque!" cried the stern cavalier,
in a tone almost rising into a shriek.  "*Dios
mio!* the destroyer of Catalina, of my poor sister!
Ah, master-fiend! most daring of villains!  Heaven
has at last delivered you to me, that you may receive
the reward of your long life of crime.  At last you
shall die by my hand!"  He was about to run him
through the heart, but checked the half-given thrust.

"No!" he continued, "you shall *not* die thus.
To fall by my sword is a death fit for a hidalgo or
cavalier.  Thou shalt pass otherwise from this earth
to hell, and die like a dog as thou art!"

Taking his heavy Toledo sabre by the blade, he
aimed a blow at Narvaez, which demolished his
lower jaw, and laid him on the floor.  Upon the
throat of the writhing robber he placed the heel
of his heavy jack-boot, and watched, without the
slightest feeling of compunction or remorse, the
horrible distortions and death-agonies exhibited in his
visage, and from his compressed throat withdrew not
his foot till he had completely strangled him, and
he lay a blackened, bloated, and disfigured corse on
the floor.

"At length Catalina is avenged!" exclaimed the
cavalier, turning with fierce exultation to Stuart, who
had witnessed without regret or interference the
retribution which had so suddenly hurled the
once-formidable Narvaez to the shades.

The fears of the banditti were renewed on beholding
this terrible scene, and again they implored
piteously to be spared, offering to become Alvaro's
slaves, imploring that they might be sent to dig in
his mines in Estremadura, or sent to the galleys, or
any where,—but, oh! to spare their wretched lives,
and they would offend against God and man no
more.  The stern cavalier listened as if he heard
them not.  He ordered them to be pinioned; and
Lazaro Gomez appearing with a huge bundle of the
cords with which he bound his mules' packages, tied
the ladrones in pairs, binding them hard and fast
back to back.

Meanwhile some of the soldiers were ransacking
the tower "from turret to foundation-stone," expecting
to find vaults and strong rooms piled with vast
heaps of treasure.  But the *soldados* were wofully
disappointed; not a cross or coin fell into their hands,
save what they obtained in the pouches of the thieves,
whom they pricked remorselessly with their bayonets
and otherwise maltreated, to force them to reveal
where their plunder was deposited.

Whether the wretches were obstinate, or had
nothing to conceal, I know not; but the exasperation
of the soldiers was greatly increased when they
discovered that they should return without the gold,
the jewellery, and the consecrated images, with
which they hoped to have stuffed their havresacks.

"This is well," said Alvaro, watching with grim
satisfaction the adroit manner in which Lazaro linked
the rogues together.  "On my honour, Lazaro, you
should have been a general instead of a mule-driver.
But what is wisdom in the former, the world
stigmatizes as mere cunning in the latter.  Believe me,
Señor Stuart, the entire success of this expedition is
principally owing to this sturdy rogue of Merida, on
whom I would bestow a cherry-cheeked bride and a
thousand hard ducats, if he would only quit
mule-driving, and settle quietly down within the sound of
the bells of San Juan.  He was our guide to-night
during the whole of the tempest, and notwithstanding
its fury and the darkness, which was so intense
that I could scarcely see my horse's ears, he
conducted us up the mountains, by some chasm or
gorge, safely and surely, horse and foot, as only the
devil—"

"Or a muleteer of Merida, señor."

"Ay, Lazaro, or a muleteer of Merida, could have
done.  He provided planks for us to cross the chasm
here, which otherwise must have brought us to a
dead halt; and it was entirely owing to his tact and
observation that we were enabled to surprise the
villains at so critical a time.  A sore penance you
must have endured, my friend, in spending so many
months in such company; but it might be the less
regretted, as it will probably go to your account
of time in purgatory.  You shall have most ample
satisfaction, however, before the night is much older,
for all the injuries you have suffered from them."

Ronald was so much overjoyed at his deliverance,
that he could scarcely find words to express his
feelings, and the obligations which he owed to Don
Alvaro; but, with a spirit of forgiveness highly
honourable, he began to intercede for the lives of
some of the banditti, who had not made themselves
quite so obnoxious as the rest while he was kept in
durance among them: but Alvaro replied, that the
commands of Don Diego de Avallo, the Spanish
minister, expressly enjoined that no quarter should
be given, as it was the intention of government to
strike a general terror into the banditti which infested
every part of the country, and that they must be cut
off, root and branch.  Ronald then proposed that
they should be marched down the mountains to Vittoria,
or any other town, and there delivered over to
the civil authorities; but Villa Franca said that he
had no time to spare, and the horde of the Torre
de los Frayles must be instantly disposed of.

"We settle these matters quicker in Spain than
you do in Britain, where the military are so simple
as to permit themselves to be ruled by alcaldes and
lawyers," said the cavalier, smiling and waving his
hand with a decided air.  "So we will leave these
humbled bravoes to the tender care of Don Pedro
Gomez, and then take our departure for the town of
Maya, to which our horses will convey us in a few
hours.  Thank Heaven, the storm has completely
passed away, and the appearance of the moon gives
promise of a glorious night.  Without her assistance
we should assuredly break our necks in descending
from this cursed eagle's nest."

The soldiers fell back respectfully, as Ronald and
Alvaro left the crowded hall.  Ronald's heart was
dancing with delight as they descended the worn
and dilapidated stair, upon the steps of which he
had not trodden for five months since the unhappy
night on which he first entered this Pyrenean
prison-house.  Pausing a moment, to direct that the head
of Cifuentes should be struck off, according to the
Spanish custom, and placed upon a pole in the Pass
of Maya, the cavalier descended after Stuart.  But
the despairing cries and fervent supplications of the
prisoners followed them; and some, on finding that
their last moment was come, began to shriek for a
priest in the most heart-rending accents of superstitious
terror and despair: but no priest was there,
to hear their horrible confessions.

"*A padre, a padre, O noble señores!  A padre, por
amor de Santa Maria, el Madre de Dios!*" howled
the despairing Gorgorza de la Puente, as the soldiers
dragged him forth.  "Noble cavalier! valiant
soldiers! destroy me not, body and soul!  I am a holy
priest, señores!  Oh!  I was one once.  Hear me,
for the love of Heaven!  I have much to repent of,
and terrible things to confess.  I poniarded a monk
in San Sebastian, and stole the holy vessels from his
altar.  I—I—"

"Quick with the rope!" cried Pedro.  "Twist it
about his neck, and stop his mouth before he raises
his master the devil, by speaking thus."

"Mercy! mercy!" shrieked the other, struggling
furiously, as three stout soldiers dragged him to the
summit of the tower.  "Mercy yet a little while!
I carried off a lady of Subijana de Alava, and
robbed her of life and honour among the mountains.
I robbed—holy saints! good soldiers! will no one
hear my confession?  Can no one hear me?—can
no man forgive me?  Accursed may ye be! bloody
wolves and pitiless—  *O misericordia, mio Dios!
O Santissima Maria!*" and he was launched into
eternity.

Nearly twenty men were pouring forth rhapsodies
like the above, and the tower became filled with
sounds of lamentation, shrieks, and cries,—groans,
prayers, and the wildest blasphemy mingled with
the most pious ejaculations; but it was a just
retribution which had fallen upon these wicked men.

Ronald's heart beat lightly as he crossed the
terrible chasm, where so many unfortunates had found a
tomb.  He had been a captive—on the very verge of
death, and now he was free, and "himself again."

The bright moon was shining aloft like a globe
of silver, and the dewy sides of the hills, the rivulets
which trickled from the rocks, the sleepy stream at
the bottom of the valley, and every violet-cup and
blade of grass were gleaming in its radiant light.

At a little distance from the chasm were a party
of Alvaro's cavalry, escorting the horses of those
who were engaged in the tower, and their tall
lance-heads, bright helmets and cuirasses, were flashing
and glittering in the moonlight.  Their caparisoned
war-horses were sleek-skinned and long-tailed
Andalusians, and were cropping the grass with their
bridles loose.

"Pedro is a rough dog," said the cavalier, looking
complacently back.  "He is stringing a fair chaplet
for the devil in the merry moonlight.  In ten minutes
he will have the *ladrones* all dangling over the
battlement.  *Santos!* 'tis not work for soldiers' hands;
but the dogs deserve not to die by military weapons,
for they are as arrant cowards as ever blanched
before the eye of a brave man.  Look back, just
now, Don Ronald!"

Ronald turned round, and beheld with disgust the
Spanish soldiers forcing the pinioned banditti over
the walls, where they hung by the neck, dangling
and writhing in couples.  Although he was at some
distance from the tower, he could distinctly perceive
their convulsions, and heard their heels rattling
against the walls, from the ruinous battlement of
which the stones were tumbling every instant into
the chasm with a thundering sound, which caused
the horses of the lancers to snort and rear.  It was a
ghastly sight.

"Now, then, ho for Maya!  I believe we shall
find our way across the mountains without the aid
of Lazaro, now the bright moon is shining with such
splendour," was the exclamation of Alvaro as they
mounted and set forth.  Stuart rode beside him on
the horse of an orderly, and four Spanish lancers
followed as an escort.  They descended towards the
valley by the steep and perilous path-way, which
was so narrow as to admit but one horseman at
a time, and often overhung the abyss, passing so
close to the edge of the beetling craigs, that the
eye scarcely dared to scan the depth below.  It
was well for the riders that the horses they rode
had been accustomed to stand fire, otherwise some
lives might have been lost as they descended the
rocks.  Before they were half-way down, a sudden
glare shot across the sky from the mountains above
them.  A terrific shock and explosion followed, and
the rock of the Torre de los Frayles was seen
enveloped in a cloud of black smoke, which, after curling
upwards, floated away through the clear blue sky.

"Keep your horses tight by the head!" cried
Alvaro, as his mettlesome steed kicked and plunged
in the narrow path, whilst Ronald expected to see
him vanish over the rocks every second.  "Draw
well on the curb, señors; or, *diavolo!* some of us will
be in the other world presently!"

Their cattle, however, were soon quieted, and
Stuart again looked towards the place where the Torre
de los Frayles had stood, but no trace of the tower
was visible.  The smoke had dispersed, and the
rock was bare.  The sound of a cavalry trumpet,
calling 'to mount,' was heard soon afterwards, and
the roll of an infantry drum echoed away among the
mountains.

"Pedro has put powder in the vaults and blown
up the place, that it may never again become a nest
for such birds of prey," said Alvaro.  "'Tis a tower
of friars or thieves no longer, but in one moment
has been dashed into fifty thousand fragments of
stone.  Here comes Pedro on our rear; the troop
are descending the hill."

As he spoke, a long line of glittering casques and
spears, moving in single file, appeared descending
the rocks, and vanishing in succession under the
shadow of the impending cliff, behind which the
moon was shining, and casting long gigantic shadows
across the valley below.  The soldiers brought with
them the now crest-fallen and dejected Alosegui,
who, as Ronald's former preserver and defender, was,
at his earnest intercession, alone permitted to escape
the terrible retribution so successfully wrought on
his guilty confreres.

On inquiring about Carlos de Avallo, to whose
evil influence Ronald believed his captivity to have
been mainly owing, Villa Franca informed him that
a duel had taken place between that violent young
cavalier and Don Alvarado.  It had been fought on
the *Puerta del Sol* of Elizondo, about mid-day four
months previously, and ended by Carlos being run
through the body by Alvarado, who, to escape the
vengeance of his victim's uncle, Don Diego, had
absconded to South America, and had not been since
heard of.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN ACQUAINTANCE, AND "OLD ENGLAND ON THE LEE"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN ACQUAINTANCE, AND "OLD ENGLAND ON THE LEE."

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |        "Spain! farewell for ever!
   |  These banished eyes shall view thy courts no more:
   |  A mournful presage tells my heart, that never
   |  Gonsalva's steps again shall press thy shore."
   |                                    *M. G. Lewis.*

.. vspace:: 2

"Pho!" said the count, as they rode into Maya,
"amid all the things of which we have been talking,
I had quite forgotten to say that there is a countryman
of yours here in this town, one who takes the
utmost interest in your concerns—why, I know not;
he said he was no relative.  We became acquainted
at Madrid, and, on hearing of your story, he
proposed at once to accompany me in this expedition
against the robbers in the Pyrenees and other places.
He is a spirited, but rather impetuous old cavalier.
He has seen service, too, in the Low Countries and
other parts, but appears of late to have become
somewhat addicted to ease and good living, which
has enlarged the circumference of his stomach more
than he wishes, and has rendered him subject to a
disease we know little of in Spain,—the gout.  A
sudden fit of it seized him when we were marching
en route to your rescue, and the worthy old hidalgo
was compelled, much against his will, to quarter
himself in Maya till our return.  He awaits us
yonder in the *Posada de los Caballeros*, opposite to the
convent of Saint Francis."

This being nearly the whole of the information
respecting "his countryman," with which Alvaro
was able to furnish his companion, Ronald was not
a little surprised, on alighting at the miserable
posada, to find reclining, in dressing-gown and
slippers, in an easy chair, with one leg, swollen and
swathed in flannel, resting on a foot-stool, and with
a heap of newspapers, guide-books, decanters, cigars,
a brace of pistols, and a light-dragoon sabre
displayed upon a table before him, no less a person
than his noble competitor the Earl of Hyndford.  The
earl received his young rival kindly, displayed much
generous feeling towards him as a brother soldier,
laughed heartily at his scarecrow appearance,—for
his long residence in the tower had told immensely
upon Ronald's rather scanty wardrobe,—and finally,
after having heard his story, and repeatedly and
energetically d—d the banditti, the Horse-Guards, the
gout, and the Peninsula, and having assured his
young friend that though there might have been a
little weeping, and so forth, on his account at home,
there were no broken hearts nor any symptoms of
forgetfulness, he promised him—on behalf of his
friend 'York,' with whom he had formerly served
as aide-de-camp, and his friend Hal Torrens, who,
though a war-office man and a staff officer, was a
good fellow enough—the immediate restoration of
his forfeited commission, and letters to the parties
named that should put all right with respect to it.

While a prisoner in the Torre de los Frayles,
Ronald had remained in total ignorance of several
events of some importance; and, though he was by
no means astonished to learn from the earl that his
name had disappeared from the army list, and that
he was superseded, it did occasion him some slight
surprise to learn that Buonaparte had escaped from
Elba, that he had entered Paris in triumph, and was
once more at the head of the French army, surrounded
by many of his old marshals, and supported
by the old enthusiasm of his devoted soldiers.  His
own regiment, Ronald heard, had been ordered to
Flanders, where some sharp fighting was expected
to occur forthwith.

Three days afterwards he found himself on board
the packet at Passages, bound for London.

On his parting with Alvaro, that cavalier
presented him with his own gold cross of St. Jago,
begging him to wear it as a token of remembrance.
It was not without feelings of the deepest regret that
he bade adieu to this noble and chivalric Spaniard;
and he felt all that depression of spirit which a frank
and honest heart unavoidably suffers after a
leave-taking.  Hyndford he expected to meet again, but
the cavalier of Merida never.  However, such
sensations of regret were transitory; he had followed
the drum too long to find parting with a brave or
merry companion a new matter.

The vessel cast anchor in the Downs at night.  It
had "come to blow a sodger's wind," as the skipper
said,—that is, a foul one; and there was no getting
up the river at that time, when the goodly invention
of steam-tugs was as yet unknown.

Next morning he landed with his baggage at Deal,
and started in a post-chaise for London.  Immediately
on his arrival there, he despatched letters
to Colonel Cameron, to Inchavon, and Lochisla,
giving an account of the perils attendant on his
detention in Spain, and safe arrival in England.
In the fulness of his joy he also wrote to Sir
Colquhoun Menteith of Cairntowis, a near relation, with
whom his family had ever been at variance, and
maintained a petty personal feud.  But the old
baronet never acknowledged the receipt of his letter,
which caused Ronald to regret deeply that he had
ever written to him or his son, who was then serving
with the army in Flanders.  The letter addressed to
the old laird lay long at the post-house of Strathfillan,
and turned from white to saffron in the window,
among tape and needles, pins and thread-reels,
until at last it was torn up and destroyed.

The others were received in due course by those
to whom they were addressed, and all, save that to
Sir Colquhoun, caused joy and congratulation; and
so long did the mess continue discussing his adventures,
in all their various lights and shades, through
the medium of the sixth, seventh, and eighth allowances,
that it is credibly reported that only a third
of the officers appeared on parade in the Park of
Brussels next morning.

On the day after his arrival Stuart repaired to the
Horse-Guards, to wait on the Duke of York, the
commander-in-chief.  He had no doubt that his case
would be heard favourably by the good duke, whose
well-known kindness and fellow-feeling for his
brothers of the sword gained him the appropriate
sobriquet of the "soldier's friend;" and he was one to
whom the wife, the widow, or the child of a soldier,
in their sorrow or destitution, never made an appeal
in vain.  His Royal Highness was not at the
Horse-Guards that day, and Ronald was received by Sir
Henry Torrens, a plump little man, whom he imagined
at first to be the very personification of staff-office
hauteur; but found, on further acquaintance, to be
all that Hyndford painted him, and a deuced good
fellow besides.

He received Stuart kindly, inquired after many of
his old friends, opened his eyes widely at what he
called the audacity of the brigands in detaining a
British officer, read attentively the letters of Alvaro
and Hyndford, appeared to take great interest in the
affair, and gave the ominous official promise 'to see
what could be done.'

Three days afterwards, however, an orderly of the
Life Guards brought Ronald an official packet from
Sir Henry, notifying his re-appointment, and
containing two orders,—one to proceed forthwith to
join in Flanders, "where his services were much
required;" and the other on the Paymaster-general
for all his arrears of pay, and other sums due to him
by Government, £400 "blood money" for wounds,
and eighty guineas as compensation for the loss of
his baggage when the Pass of Maya was forced by
Marshal Soult two years before.

Ronald blessed the liberality of John Bull, who
had not forgotten the fright of Napoleon's threatened
invasion, and was more inclined to be grateful to his
sons then, than now.  The money-orders were very
acceptable things, as they relieved Ronald from the
necessity of drawing upon his father, whose involvements
and expenses he supposed to be sufficient
already.

"This is excellent," thought he.  "I can now
repay Hyndford, and travel comfortably post to
Brussels.  But yet, 'tis vexatious to proceed
forthwith.  I held out hopes to Alice, and the people in
Perthshire, of seeing them all soon.  Well, 'tis the
fortune of war, and repining is worse than useless."

So he thought, as he elbowed his way along the
crowded Strand towards the office of Mr. Bruce, the
regimental agent, humming gaily as he went the
old song—

   |  "Oh, the Lowlands of Holland
   |  Have parted my love and me," &c.
   |

Most willingly, however, would he have applied
for a short leave of absence, now so eminently his
due, to enable him to pay a brief visit to his
Perthshire friends, and see once again his beloved Alice
before encountering anew the perils and hardships
of war; but the exigencies of the service were
pressing, his orders peremptory, and the fear of missing
the glory of a new campaign reconciled him to the
necessity of a speedy departure.  He applied himself
diligently to the business of instant preparation, and
found relief for his excited feelings in the bustle
attendant on acquiring a new outfit.  A short time
sufficed to procure him the necessary equipage for
camp and field, and he was soon ready to resume
active military duties.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FLANDERS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   FLANDERS.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "At length I made my option to take service
   |  In that same legion of Auxiliaries,
   |  In which we lately served the Belgian."
   |                            *The Ayrshire Tragedy.*

.. vspace:: 2

A few days afterwards he was on his way,
hastening to join the army in Belgium.  His orders
were to travel with speed, as hostilities were
expected daily.  All Europe was alarmed, great events
were expected, and mail and telegraph arrivals were
watched with the most feverish anxiety.

On landing at Ostend, Stuart heard that Buonaparte
had joined the French army, and had issued
a proclamation calling to mind their former victories,
and telling them that fresh dangers were to be
dared and battles won; but he felt assured their
familiarity with hardship and death, their steadiness,
discipline, and inherent bravery, would make them,
in every encounter, most signally victorious.

"Time will prove all this," thought Ronald, as,
seated on an inverted keg, he was deciphering this
proclamation in a French paper, while travelling
on the canal of Ostend in a flat-bottomed boat for
Bruges.

The broad and waveless surface of the long yellow
canal was gleaming under the meridian sun like
polished metal; and, when standing erect on the roof
or upper deck of the barge, he could see it for miles
winding away through the country, which on every
side was verdant and flat, like a vast bowling-green.
The monotony of the scenery struck Stuart the more
forcibly, because, as a Highlander, he could not help
drawing comparisons between it and the tremendous
hills, the solemn valleys, and the majestic rivers of
his native Scotland.  At times, a few bulbous-shaped
boors, in steeple-crowned hats, or fur caps, and
enormous breeches, appeared on the canal bank, singly
or in groups, smoking their long pipes, and staring
hard with their great lack-lustre eyes on the passing
boat, the slow motion of which they would watch
for miles, standing on the same spot, immovable
as a milestone.  Very plump and very red-cheeked
country girls, wearing short petticoats, and making
an unusual display of legs, which were more
substantial than elegant, appeared tripping along the
banks, bearing jars of milk or butter on their heads,
where they were poised with miraculous exactness.
Sometimes a party of these rustic fair ones passed
in a gaudily-painted cart or waggon, all laughing
and talking merrily,—their noisy vivacity forming a
strange contrast with the sulky demeanour of the
silent and phlegmatic boor, who sat smoking and
driving on the tram of the car, keeping his seat
there with the same lurching motion that a bag of
oats would have done.  There is little disposition in
Dutch or German blood to be gallant or cavalier-like.

Afar in the distance, where the landscape stretched
away as level as the sea, were seen great squares of
light green or bright yellow, showing where lay the
fields of golden corn and other grain, waving, ripe
and tall, everywhere ready for the sickle.  In some
places appeared a cluster of pretty little cottages,
their walls white as alabaster and roofed with bright
yellow thatch, embosomed among a grove of light
willow trees, from the midst of which arose the tall
and slender church spire, surmounted by a clumsy
vane, around which flew scores of cawing rooks,
fluttering and contesting for footing on the gilded
weathercock.  Sometimes the canal barge passed
through the very midst of a farm and close to the
mansion, with its deep, thatched roof, having walls
of glaring white or yellow, and gaudy red or blue
streaks six inches broad painted round each door
and window,—the brass knocker on the green door,
the burnished windows, the gilt vanes, and painted
walls, all gleaming in the light of the sun.
Contrasting with the rural dwelling, the parterres before
it, the stack-yard behind, the ducks, the geese, the
pigs, and the children in the yard, or among the
reeds by the canal bank, appeared, perhaps close by
a vessel of two hundred tons or so, laid up in
ordinary, or high and dry in the farm-yard, with hens
roosting beside her keel.  In some places these
craft lay in small docks having a flood-gate, with
their top-masts struck, their rigging and spars all
dismantled, and stowed away below or on deck.
Most of the Dutch and Belgian farmers are also
ship-owners; and by means of those great and
beautiful canals, which like veins intersect the whole
country, they bring their craft to their farm-yards,
perhaps fifty or eighty miles inland, and there keep
them during the winter.  They can thus the more
readily load or provision them with their own farm
produce, before they are again sent to sea.

As Ronald was totally ignorant of Dutch, and
knew very little of French, he could neither converse
with the boatmen nor the dull Flemish boors who
happened to be passengers; and he passed his time
monotonously enough, yawning over a few London
newspapers, or watching every *schuytje* sculled along
by its "twenty-breeched" boatmen.

In the evening, he arrived at the busy and
opulent, but smoky town of Bruges; and hence,
passing the night at an hotel, and rising next
morning with the lark, he proceeded to Ghent, that city
of bustle and bridges.  On landing at one of the
quays, he was surprised to observe a French soldier
on sentry, walking briskly about before his box.
When passing, monsieur came smartly to 'his front,'
and presented arms.  In traversing the streets, he
met many French officers in undress, all of whom
politely touched their caps on passing.  They all
wore their swords and belts, and were to be seen
promenading every where, singly or in parties, in the
streets, on the bridges, on the quays, or flirting with
the girls who kept the booths and fancy warehouses
in the great square.

At the portal of a large and handsome mansion
a British soldier of the line, and a Frenchman in the
uniform of the garde-du-corps, were on duty
together as sentinels.  It was the residence of Louis
XVIII., who, on the landing of Buonaparte, had
accepted the asylum offered him by the King of
the Netherlands, and now resided in Ghent, spending
his time like some plodding citizen, when he
should have been in the field aiding his allies, and
heading the few soldiers of France who still
remained true to him.  A British guard was mounted
at his residence, in addition to the garde-du-corps;
and the officers dined every day at the
royal table.

Of the French army, about seven hundred officers
and a thousand soldiers remained staunch to Louis,
when the whole of their comrades joined Napoleon
*en masse*.  The privates were are all quartered at
Alost, but the officers he kept near his own person.

Warlike preparations were manifest every where
around Ghent.  Nearly eight thousand men were
employed in repairing the ancient fortifications and
raising new, digging ditches, mounting cannon, erecting
bulwarks, forts, and gates; for rumours of the
coming strife, and of this invasion of Flanders by
Buonaparte and his furious Frenchmen, were
compelling the drowsy people to lay aside their phlegm,
and show some courage, energy, and activity.

In the evening Ronald was roused by the ringing
of the church bells, as for an alarm.  A commotion
and noise arose in the city, as if the people of Ghent
had suddenly cast off their apathy, and set all their
tongues to work.  Above the increasing din he heard
the officers and soldiers of the garde-du-corps
crying *Vive le Roi!  Vive Louis!* in that true turn-coat
style, for which the French had become so notorious.
Conceiving it to be some unlooked-for attack,
he clasped on his belt, and repaired to a
neighbouring *table d'hôte*, where a French officer informed
him that the uproar was caused by the arrival of a
courier, bearing intelligence that the entire French
army was in motion, and headed by the Emperor,—while
he spoke, a flush crossed his cheek, betraying
the enthusiasm he could not conceal,—led by
their Emperor, had crossed the Sambre, and were
marching on Charleroi.

Anxious to join his regiment before hostilities
began, and being heartily tired of the slow and chilly
mode of travelling by canal barges, Stuart purchased
a horse at Ghent, as no Belgian would lend one for
hire.  It was a poor-looking hack, and he paid for
it thrice its real value.  Leaving his baggage to be
sent after him, he set off on the spur for Brussels,
among whose plodding citizens the advance of the
French had stricken a terror beyond description.  But
two alternatives were before them in case of Wellington's
defeat,—flight, or to remain and encounter,
sack and slaughter; for well they knew that Napoleon
would fearfully avenge the abandonment of his
standard.

Ronald departed from Ghent at day-break, and
halted for breakfast at Alost.  He repaired to an
hotel, where his uniform procured him every
attention, but there was consternation pre-eminently
visible in every Belgian face.  Here he was informed
that the first corps of the Prussian army, posted at
Charleroi under the command of General Zeithen,
had been attacked, and, after a sharp contest,
compelled to retreat towards Fleurs.  Notwithstanding
their fears, the people boasted much of the Belgian
troops, and declared that, when the strife was fairly
begun, they would do wonders.

"Ah, why should we fear?" they repeated
continually.  "Lord Wellington has the Belgians with
him."

Having been misdirected and sent far out of his
way by one of the terrified natives, it was dark
before the young soldier arrived at Brussels, where
confusion, fear, and uproar reigned supreme.  He was
permitted to pass the fortifications and barriers only,
after a great deal of troublesome altercation with
the Belgic and German sentries and guards, who
scrupled to admit an armed man without the parole.
After entering, he found his poor horse in a state of
the utmost exhaustion.  He had ridden nearly forty
miles that day, and stood greatly in need of refreshment
himself; but he was determined to travel on
without halting, and to join the regiment at all risk
and expense.  He went straight to an hotel, and
hired another horse, leaving twice its value, together
with the Bucephalus he had purchased at Ghent,
which was to be restored him on his return—when
that should take place.

The French army were still pressing impetuously
forward.  Marshal Ney, in command of the left, had
proceeded along the road for Brussels, and attacking
the Prince of Saxe Weimar, drove him back from
Frasnes to the famous position named *Les Quatre
Bras*; while Napoleon, with his own immediate
command, the right and centre, followed the retreating
Prussians towards Brie and Sombref.

At half-past three on that morning (the 16th June),
the British had marched out of Brussels towards the
enemy.  Fear was impressed on every heart and
visible on every face after their departure.

The bells were tolling mournfully, and many
persons were lamenting in the streets as if the day of
universal doom was at hand.  The churches were
lighted for night service when Stuart entered the
city.  From the tall Gothic windows of the church
of St. Gudule, vivid flakes of variously-tinted light
streamed on the groups of anxious and gossiping
citizens, who were assembled in knots and crowds in
the great Sablon square, or on the magnificent flight
of steps ascending to the doorway, through which
streams of radiance, and strains of choral music,
came gushing into the streets below.  The bells in
the two great towers were booming away in concert
with others, and flinging their deep hollow tones
to the midnight wind.  Business of every kind was
suspended; the shops were shut; and the paunchy
magistrates were all in the *Hôtel de Ville*, assembled
in solemn conclave, consulting, not about the best
means of defence, but the best mode,—to use a
homely phrase,—"of cutting their stick," and
without beat of drum.




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.. _`CAMERON OF FASSIFERN`:

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   CHAPTER X.


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   CAMERON OF FASSIFERN.

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..

   |  "Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
   |  Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking;
   |  Dream of battled fields no more,
   |  Days of danger, nights of waking."
   |                        *Lady of the Lake.*

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As soon as the military traveller presented himself
before the cathedral of St. Gudule, the lustre
streaming from the sixteen illuminated chapels of
which filled the surrounding streets with a light
rivalling that of day, a dense crowd gathered around
him, barring his passage on every side, and clamorously
demanding, "What news from the army?"

It was with the utmost difficulty that he could
make these terrified cits understand he was bound
for the field, and wished to know which way the
British troops had marched.  His only reply from
them was, "The French—the French are coming
on!"  Fear had besotted them.  He told them they
would serve Belgium better by getting arms and
joining her allies, than by thronging the streets like
frightened sheep.  This was answered by a groan,
and the feeble cry of "*vivat!*"

Cursing them for cowards, in his impatience to
get on he spurred his horse upon the crowd, and
drove them back.  By their increasing number, an
officer of the Brunswick-Oels corps, who was riding
down the street at full speed, was likewise stopped;
and having a little knowledge of the English
language, he learned Ronald's dilemma, and invited
him to be his companion, as he was following the
route of the army.  They galloped through the
Namur gate, and in five minutes Bruxelles, with its
lights and din, fear and uproar, was far behind them.
They were pressing at full speed along the road
leading to the then obscure village of Waterloo.  It
wound through the dark forest of Soignies; the oak,
the ash, and the elm were in full foliage, and, for
many miles of the way, their deep shadows rendered
the road as dreary as can be conceived.

The speed at which the travellers rode completely
marred any attempt at conversation, and the only
sounds which broke the silence were their horses'
hoofs echoing in the green glades around them.
When at intervals the moonlight streamed between
the clouds and the trees, Ronald turned to survey
his companion, whose singular equipment added
greatly to the gloomy effect produced by the dark
forest, which stretched around them for many miles
in every direction.

The cavalry officer belonged to the Brunswick
troops, who, with their duke, had made a vow to
wear mourning until the death of their late prince
and leader should be avenged.  His horse, his
harness, his accoutrements and uniform, were all of the
deepest black, and a horse-hair plume of the same
sable hue floated above the plate of his schako,
which was ornamented by a large silver skull and
cross-bones, similar to the badge worn by our 17th
Lancers.  A death's-head was grinning on his
sabre-tasche, on his holsters, his horse's forehead and
breastplate, and the same grim badge looked out
of every button on his coat.  He was rather stately
in figure for a German, and a tall and sombre-looking
fellow, with large dark eyes, lank moustaches,
and a solemn visage.  His *tout ensemble* rendered
him altogether as ghastly and melancholy a
companion, as the most morbid or romantic mind could
wish to ride with through a gloomy wood at
midnight, with strange paths and darkness behind, and
a battle-field in front.

After riding for about six miles in silence, a
muttered ejaculation from both announced their
observation of a flash which illuminated the sky.  It was
"the red artillery," and every instant other flashes
shot vividly athwart the firmament, like sheet
lightning; and soon afterwards the sound of firing was
heard, but faint and distant.  It was a dropping
fire, and caused, probably, by some encounter of
stragglers or outposts.

At day-break, on approaching the village of Waterloo,
they met a horse and cart, driven along the
road at a rapid trot by a country boor, clad in a
leathern cap and blue frock, having his shoes and
garters adorned with gigantic rosettes of yellow and
red tape.  His car contained the bloody remains of
the brave Duke of Brunswick, who at four in the
evening had been mortally wounded, when heroically
charging at the head of his cavalry in front of Les
Quatre Bras.  The hay-cart of a Flemish clod-pole
was now his funeral bier.  The bottom was covered
with the red stream, forced by the rough motion of
the car from the wound, which, being in the breast,
was distinctly visible, and a heavy mass of coagulated
blood was plastered around the starred bosom
and laced lapels of the uniform coat.  An escort
of Black Brunswickers, sorrowing, sullen, and
war-worn, surrounded it with their fixed bayonets.  The
boor cracked his whip and whistled to his horse,
replacing his pipe philosophically, and apparently
not caring a straw whether it was the corse of a
chivalric prince or a bag of Dutch turf that his
conveyance contained.

Ronald reined up his horse, and touched his bonnet
in salute to the Brunswick escort; but the rage
and sorrow of the cavalry officer, on beholding the
lifeless body of his sovereign and leader, were such
as his companion never beheld before.  He muttered
deep oaths and bitter execrations in German, and
holding aloft his sabre, he swore that he would
revenge him or perish.  At least from his actions
Stuart interpreted his language thus.  He jerked
his heavy sabre into its steel scabbard, and touching
his cap as a parting salute, drove spurs into his horse
and, dashing along the forest pathway, disappeared.
Ronald followed him for a little way, but finding
that he was careering forward like a madman,
abandoned the idea of attempting to overtake him.

Daylight was increasing rapidly, but he felt that
dreamy and drowsy sensation which is always caused
by want of sleep for an entire night.  He endeavoured
to shake off these feelings of weariness and
oppression, for every thing around announced that he
was approaching the arena of a deadly and terrible
conflict.  His heart beat louder and his pulses
quickened as he advanced.  Dense clouds of smoke, from
the contest of the preceding evening, yet mingled
with the morning mist, overhung the position of
Quatre Bras, and, pressed down by the heavy atmosphere,
rolled over the level surface of the country.
At every step he found a dead or a dying man, and
crowds of wounded stragglers, officers, rank-and-file,
on horse and on foot, were pouring along in pain and
misery to Brussels, bedewing every part of the road
with the dark crimson which trickled from their
undressed wounds.  These were all sufferers in the
fierce contest at Quatre Bras on the preceding
evening.  The village of Waterloo was deserted by its
inhabitants, for, like a pestilence, war spread desolation
with death in its path, and the fearful Flemings
had fled, scared by the roar of the distant artillery.

The wounded were unable to give any account of
the engagement, save that Brunswick was slain, and
the British had not yet lost the day.  He was
informed that his regiment was in the ninth brigade of
infantry, commanded by Major-general Sir Dennis
Pack; and that he would find them, with their
kilted comrades the 42nd, and 44th English
regiment, somewhere near the farm of Les Quatre Bras,
bivouacked in a corn-field.

The speaker was an officer of the 1st regiment,
or Royal Scots.  He was severely wounded on the
head and arm, and was making his way to Brussels
on foot, bleeding and in great agony, as his scars
had no other bandages than two hastily adjusted
handkerchiefs.  He leant for support on the arm of
a soldier of the 44th, who was also suffering from a
wound.  The Royal Scot begged of Stuart to lend
him a few shillings, adding that he had spent all his
money at Brussels, and would be totally destitute
when he returned thither, as he had not a farthing
to procure even a mouthful of food.

Stuart gave him a few guineas, nearly all the
loose change in his purse, but rendered a greater
service in lending his horse, which could be of
no further use to himself, as he was now close to
the arena of operations.  The officer mounted with
many thanks, and promised to return the animal to
the head-quarters of the Highlanders,—a promise
which he did not live to fulfil; and the steed
probably became the prey of some greedy boor of
Soignies.  By his accent he knew the officer to be
his countryman, and he looked back for a short
time, watching him as his horse, led by the honest
Yorkshireman of the 44th, threaded its way among
the straggling crowd that covered the road.

There was an indescribable something in the face
of this officer which seemed like part of a long
forgotten dream, that some casual incident may
suddenly call to remembrance.  He surely had
never seen him before, and yet his voice and
features seemed like those of an old friend, and he
felt well pleased with himself for the attention he
had shown him.  He inquired his name among
the wounded soldiers of the Royals.

"He's Ensign Menteith of ours, sir," said one,
saluting with the only hand that war had left him.

"We've many Menteiths," said another, who
lay by the road-side.  "Cluny is his Christian
name, sir."

It was, then, his cousin, the son of Sir Colquhoun
Menteith, that he had so singularly encountered
and befriended.  They had not met for eighteen
years, since they were little children, and now
beheld each other, for the last time, on the field of
Waterloo.  He was about to turn and make himself
known, but Menteith had proceeded so far, that his
figure was lost amid the crowd which accompanied
him; but he hoped to meet him again,—a hope
which was never realized, for he expired by the
wayside, close to the entrance of the forest of Soignies.
Feeling his heart saddened and softened by a thousand
recollections of his childhood, which this
interview had awakened, Ronald turned his face towards
Quatre Bras, taking a solitary path among some
thickets, to avoid the disagreeable sights of human
pain and misery which he encountered on every
yard of the main road.

The morning was hazy, and every where dense
clouds of vapour were curling upward from the
earth, exhaled by the heat of the sun, which, as the
day advanced, became intense, while the air was
oppressive and sultry; but a great change came over
the face of nature about twelve o'clock at noon.

While passing through the copsewood which
bordered the highway beyond the village of Waterloo,
Ronald heard the wail of a bagpipe, arising up from
the woodlands, and wildly floating through the still
air of the summer morning.  He stopped and listened
breathlessly, while the stirred blood within
him mounted to his cheek.  The last time he heard
that instrument, it was awakening the echoes in the
woods of Toulouse.  But the strain was different
now.  It was played sadly and slowly, with all the
feeling of which its wild reeds are capable; and the
air was an ancient dirge from the Isle of the Mist—*Oran
au Aiog*, or 'the Song of Death,' and Stuart's
breast became filled with soft melancholy, and with
wonder to hear this solemn measure of the Highland
isles played in such a place, and at such a time.
The cause was soon revealed.

On suddenly turning a point of the road, which
was lined on each side by thick thorns and tall
poplars, he beheld Æneas or Angus Macvurich, a
piper of the 92nd, stalking, with the slow and stately
air peculiar to his profession, before a rudely-formed
waggon, in which lay a wounded officer, over whom
a cloak was cast to defend him from the fierce rays
of the sun.  Stuart, the assistant-surgeon, rode
behind, and beside it came old Dugald Mhor Cameron,
with his head bare and his silver tresses floating
on the wind, while he hid his face in the end
of his tartan plaid.  A Highland soldier led by the
bridle the horse which drew the vehicle,—a rough
country car of the clumsiest construction, and a
wretched jolting conveyance it must have been for
a man enduring the agony of a complicated gun-shot
wound.  Anxiety and woe were depicted in every
face of the advancing group, and the Highlander
who led the horse turned round every moment to
look upon the sufferer in the car.

Ronald knew all the sad truth at once.  On his
meeting it, the cavalcade halted, the lament ceased,
and a murmur of greeting arose from the
Highlanders,—all except old Dugald, who stared at him
with eyes of wonder and vacancy.

It was the colonel, brave Cameron, whom they
were bearing away,—as many of his ancestors had
been borne, from his last battle-field to his long
home.  He was not dead, but lay motionless on
his back, pale and bloody, with his sword (rolled
up in a plaid for a pillow) placed under his head.
His eyes were closed, his cheeks were sunken and
ghastly, and the thick curls of his brown hair were
dabbled with blood and soiled with clay.  Notwithstanding
his familiarity with scenes of blood, Ronald
could not help shrinking on beholding the leader
whom he loved so dearly, and whom so many brave
men had followed, stretched thus helplessly, with
the hand of the grim king upon him.

"Stuart, this is a sorrowful meeting," said Ronald
in a low voice, as he pressed the hand of his old
friend the *medico*.  "Our good and gallant colonel—"

"Aich! ay,—the cornel—the cornel—the cornel,"
muttered Dugald in a whimpering voice.  He seemed
besotted with grief.  "I kent, this time yesterday,
that it was to happen ere the nicht fell.  The lift
was blue, and the sun was bricht; but a wreath
descended on my auld een, and a red cloud was
before me wherever I turned,—aboon me when I
looked up, and below me when I looked doon; and
I kent that death was near my heart, for the power
of the *taisch* was upon me.  Aich! ay!  Lie you
there, John Cameron?  Few there were like you,—few
indeed!"  And the old man bowed down his
wrinkled face between his bare knees, and wept
bitterly.

"Poor Fassifern!" whispered the surgeon; "he
will never draw sword again."

"Is he mortally wounded?" asked Ronald, in the
same low tone.

"Yes.  Ere noon he will have departed to a
better place.  But in this world he has been amply
avenged."

This was spoken in a hasty whisper.  The doctor's
breast was too full of regret to have much
room for astonishment at his suddenly meeting his
brother-officer, but he inquired from whence he had
now come.

"I have come on the spur from Ostend," answered
Ronald, "outstripping many detachments on the
march; for I have been very impatient to be with
the old corps again.  But this is sad news after my
long absence.  And what of the rest of the
regiment?  Have there been many casualties?"

"We have suffered severely,—lost nearly as many
as at Alba de Tormes; but I know not the exact
number.  Return with me a few yards, and aid us
in procuring a comfortable place for the colonel, and
I will tell you all the regimental news in time.  The
corps is bivouacked in front of Les Quatre Bras,
over yonder, and they will not likely get under arms
for some hours yet.  You can join, and report your
arrival in the course of the day."

The sound of their voices caused Cameron to open
his heavy eyes, and on beholding Ronald, a ray of
their old fire sparkled in them.  He stretched out
his hand, and Ronald grasped it gently, but
affectionately.  Cameron attempted to speak, but his
tongue failed in its office, and on his lips the
half-formed words died away in faint mutterings.

As they entered the village of Waterloo, the
surgeon related that, on the preceding evening, a
battalion of the enemy had taken possession of a large
two-storied house on the Charleroi road.  From the
windows and garden walls of this place they kept up
an incessant fire of musketry on the British troops
in its vicinity, until Lord Wellington ordered
Fassifern, with his Highlanders, to dislodge them with
the bayonet.

After a sharp contest, the place was taken by
storm; but Cameron, while leading the assault, was
shot through the body by a bullet from a barricaded
window in the upper story, fired by a chasseur,
who, however, ultimately gained nothing by
the exploit.  The eagle eye of Cameron's revengeful
follower, Dugald Mhor, had marked the slayer; and
when the house was entered, and the garrison were
rushing from room to room and from passage to
stair, combating for death and life, he dragged him
from amid the bristling bayonets of his comrades,
and twice plunged his long dirk into his bosom,
sending it home, till the double-edged blade
protruded through his goat-skin knapsack behind; and
the Highlanders were so infuriated by the loss of
their leader, that butt and bayonet were used freely,
until scarcely a man was left alive in the place.

"Nae quarter!  Remember the colonel!  Death
an' dule to every man o' them!" were cries with
which they encouraged each other during the conflict.

The best house in Waterloo being selected, the
colonel was borne into it, and placed in an
apartment, which seemed to be a sort of parlour, facing
the Brussels road.  It was a snug little cottage,
with walls of bright red brick, a thatched roof, and
yellow door and shutters, with red panels.  Numerous
arbours and rails of trellis-work, painted green
and white, encircled it; and a forest of tall
hollyhocks, peonies, roses, and other large and glaring
flowers were blooming about it, and glistening gaily
in the meridian sun; while gorgeous tulips and
anenomes were waving in thousands from plots and
parterres, arrayed in all the summer glory of a Dutch
garden.  But these were miserably trod down, as
the Highlanders bore the colonel up the narrow
pebbled walk to the door, which being locked, was
opened by the rough application of a stone from the
highway.  The inmates had fled, and the mansion
was empty.

The colonel was laid upon the floor,—there was
not a bed in the place, all the furniture having been
carried off.  His sorrowing old follower knelt down
on his bare knees beside him, supporting his head,
while he poured forth interjections and prayers in
Gaëlic.

"I can do nothing more for his wound; it is
already dressed," whispered the surgeon to Ronald,
who was eager to perform some office by which he
might serve the invalid, or assuage some of his
torments; but nothing could be done, and he was
compelled to stand, by an idle spectator, while the brave
spirit of his friend hovered between life and eternity.
"He is sinking fast," continued the doctor in the
same whispering voice.  "Alas! the regiment will
never see his like again."

"Where is Angus Macvurich?" asked the colonel
in a low voice, but a firm one, and as if all his
energies were returning.

The piper answered by a loud snifter, or half-stifled sob.

"Oich! he's speakin' like himsel again.  Ye'll no
dee just this time,—will ye, no?  O say ye'll no!"
said old Dugald, bending over him in an agony of
sorrow, and gazing on his face as a father would
have done.  "We'll baith gang hame,—ay, gang
hame thegithir yet to Fassifern, among the green
hills of the bonnie north country.  Ochone! woe to
the day we ever left it,—woe!"

"No, Dugald, my good, my dear old man; I shall
never behold the fair Highland-hills again.  My
hour is come, and death is creeping into my heart,
slowly but surely.  Oh, that I might die among my
kindred!  It is a sad and desolate feeling to know
that one must be buried in a distant land, and
unheeding strangers will tread on the place of our
repose.  'Tis sad to die here, and to find a grave
so far away from home, from the land of the long
yellow broom and the purple heather.  Tell me,
gentlemen, did my Highlanders storm the house on
the Charleroi road?"

"Ay, please your honour," said the piper, "an'
sticket every man they fand below the riggin o't."

"Those excepted who laid down their arms,"
added the surgeon.  "But the house was gallantly
stormed, colonel."

"Well done the Gaël!  Well done, my good and
brave soldiers!" cried the invalid.

There was a long pause, which nothing broke,
save the loud breathing of the wounded Highlander,
until, in feeble accents, he said,

"Come near me, Macvurich; I would hear the
blast of the pipe once more ere I die.  Play the
ancient death-song of the Skye-men; my forefathers
have often heard it without shrinking."

"*Oran au Aiog?*" said the piper, raising his
drones.

The colonel moved his hand, and Macvurich began
to screw the pipes and sound a prelude on the
reeds, whose notes, even in this harsh and discordant
way, caused the eyes of the Highlander to flash
and glare, as it roused the fierce northern spirit
in his bosom.

"He ordered that strange old tune to be played
from the first moment I declared his wound to be
mortal," said the surgeon in a low voice.  "It is one
of the saddest and wildest I ever heard."

"Hold me up, Dugald; I would say something,"
muttered Cameron.  "Ah!  Stuart—I mean Ronald
Stuart, I have much to say and to ask you; but my
voice fails me, and my tongue falters,—and—and—"
utterance failed him for a moment.  "But tell me,
gentlemen, what news from the front?  Alas!  I
should have asked that before.  But tell me, while
I can hear your voices,—have the enemy been
defeated?"

"They have been driven from the position at Les
Quatre Bras," replied Doctor Stuart; "our troops
are every where victorious."

"Then Cameron can die in happiness," said he
firmly, as he sunk back.  "Oh!  I hope my dear
country will think that I have served her faithfully!"[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] These were his dying words.  In recompense for his great
services a baronetcy was granted to his family.  In 1815 his aged
father received the title of Sir Evan Cameron, Bart., of Fassifern.

.. vspace:: 2

His lips quivered as if twitched by a spasm, and
he muttered some imaginary order to keep shoulder
to shoulder, to prepare to charge; and, drooping his
head upon the shoulder of Dugald Mhor, expired at
about one o'clock in the afternoon.

A cry of agony, sharp and shrill, like that of a
girl rather than of an old man of eighty, burst
from the lips of Dugald, who bent his wrinkled and
sun-burnt visage over the face of the colonel until
he touched it; and he wept and sobbed bitterly,
uttering uncouth ejaculations and saying strange
things, such as only an aged Highlander (whose
mind was filled with all the deep impressions of
mountain manners and past ages) would have said.

Anon he drew himself up erect, cast his disordered
plaid about his towering figure, and gazed
around him with eyes, in which there gleamed a
strange light and unsettled expression.  He seemed
the very *beau ideal* of a Gaëlic seer, and Macvurich,
who imagined that he beheld some dark vision of
the second sight, drew back with respect and awe,
not unmingled with a slight degree of fear.

What wild vision crossed the disordered brain of
the aged vassal I know not, but he tossed his arms
towards it, and a torrent of blood gushed forth from
his mouth and nostrils; he tottered towards the
corse of Cameron, and sunk on the floor beside it,
a dying man.  Ronald sprang forward and lifted
him up, but he never spoke again, and expired,
making several ineffectual signs to Macvurich to
play; but the piper was kneeling on the floor near
the corse of his leader, and beheld them not.

Angus Macvurich was a stern old Highlander
from Brae-Mar, browned with the sun of Egypt and
the Peninsula.  He had gained scars in Denmark,
Holland, France, Spain, and Portugal.  Since
Cameron had joined the regiment as a young ensign
they had served together, and he had seen blood
enough shed to harden his heart; but now he was
kneeling down near the dead body, covering his
brown face with his hands, to conceal tears, of which,
perhaps, he felt ashamed.  The memory of days
long passed away—of some old acts of kindness,
or of his colonel's worth, were crowding thick and
full upon his mind, and the veteran was weeping
like a girl.

Stuart was deeply moved with this scene of death
and woe.  Not having been in the action, his heart
had not been roused, or its fibres strung to that
pitch of callousness or excitement requisite to enable
one to look coolly on such scenes.  He shrouded
the remains of Cameron in the ample plaid of his
faithful and departed follower, and, after covering
them decently but hastily up, he prepared to retire.
Yet, ere he went, he returned again to lift the tartan
screen, and

   |  "To gaze once more on that commanding clay,
   |  Which for the last, but not the first, time bled."

His breast became heated, and he felt strange
vindictive longings for battle and revenge, such as are
seldom felt until one has been engaged for at least
half an hour.  Desiring Macvurich to remain by the
bodies until they could be prepared for interment,
he quitted the cottage, and, accompanied by his
namesake the surgeon, set out on the way to the
bivouacks of the army.

Each was occupied with his own sad reflections
on the scene they had just witnessed, and they
walked forward for some time in silence.  After
awhile, Stuart recapitulated his adventures and the
story of his disappearance, which afforded ample
scope for conversation until they drew near Quatre
Bras, when the miserable objects they encountered
at every step rendered it impossible to converse
longer with ease or pleasure.  The whole road was
covered and blocked up with the unfortunate wounded
travelling towards Brussels, some in the waggons
of the Train, hundreds on foot, and hundreds
crawling along the earth, covered with dust and
blood, dragging their miserable bodies past like
crushed worms; while their cries and ejaculations to
God for mercy, and to man for aid and for water,
formed a horrible medley, surpassing the power of
description.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE 17TH JUNE, 1815`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE 17TH JUNE, 1815.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |    "Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
   |    Dewy with Nature's tear-drop as they pass,
   |  Grieving—if aught inanimate e'er grieves—
   |    Over the unreturning brave,—alas!
   |    Ere evening to be trodden like the grass."
   |                                          *Byron.*

.. vspace:: 2

"That is Quatre Bras," said the surgeon, pointing
to a little village close at hand.  "The Highlanders
are in bivouac behind it;" and, adding that
his services were now required in another direction,
the military Esculapius rode off, while Ronald
walked hastily forward to the village.

On nearing the spot where the regiment was in
position, a strange-looking little hut, composed of
turf and the boughs of trees, apparently hastily
reared up by the wayside, attracted his attention.
Curiosity prompted him to enter this wig-wam by
pushing open the door, which consisted of nothing
more than a large oaken branch, torn from the
neighbouring forest.  An officer clad in a blue surtout,
white pantaloons, Hessian boots tasselled and
spurred, and wearing around his neck a *white cravat* or
neckcloth, started up from the examination of a large
map of Flanders, over which he had been bending,
and raising his cocked hat, bent his keen bright eye
on the intruder with a stern and inquiring expression
of anger and surprise.  To use a Scotticism—Stuart
was *dumbfoundered* to find that he had interrupted
the cogitations and anxious deliberations of Wellington.

He muttered something—he knew not what—by
way of apology, and withdrew as abruptly as he had
entered, with the unpleasant consciousness that he
must have looked very foolish.

On gaining the rear of the village, and approaching
the Highlanders, he found them forming under
arms, while the pipers, strutting to and fro on the
highway, made all Quatre Bras and the Bois de
Bossu ring to the 'gathering of the Gordons.'  The
regiment was formed in line behind a thick garden
hedge, favoured by which he was enabled to advance
close upon them unseen; and the astonishment of
the officers and soldiers may be imagined, when, by
leaping over the barrier, he appeared suddenly among
them.  A half stifled exclamation ran along the line,
and there was a pause in the ceremonious formation
of the parade.

The officers clustered round him, and many of the
soldiers, pressing in with a forwardness which was
easily forgiven, greeted him in their 'hamely Scots
tongue,' but with an affection, joy, and earnestness
which he never forgot.  Campbell, who now
commanded the regiment, leaped from his horse, and
with his ample hand grasped Stuart's so tightly as
to give him some pain.  One seldom shakes the
hand of such a Celtic giant.

"Well, Ronald, my lad! this is astonishing—almost
beyond belief.  Do we look upon you, or
your wraith?"

"Myself, major, myself I hope,—sound, wind
and limb," answered Stuart laughing.

"I thought wraiths were not in fashion, in this flat
country at least.  Faith! this has quite the air of a
romance, with the accompaniments of astonishment,
mystery, and all that sort of thing.  Did you come
down from the clouds? or spring out of the earth
like a Shetland dwarf?"

"Queer modes, both, of joining a regiment.  No,
major; I just leaped the hedge,—unromantically
enough.  But, how d'ye do, Chisholm?  How are
you, Macildhui?  Ah!  Douglas, my boy! and
Lisle!  Dear Louis, how much I have to ask and
to tell!  Your hand."

And thus he greeted them all in succession,
from the pot-bellied field-officer to the slender
ensign, raw from the college or nursery.  A truly
national shaking of hands ensued, and such, I may
safely assert, as Quatre Bras had never witnessed
before.  Then came the light company, with their
humble but hearty wishes of joy; and the whole
regiment, giving martial discipline to the winds,
cheered and waved their bonnets, while the pipers
blew as if their lives depended on it, until
Wellington, confounded by the uproar which had so
suddenly broken forth in his immediate vicinity, was
seen looking from his wigwam in no pleasant mood;
but not even the appearance of that portentous
white cravat,—the glories of which are still sung by
the Spanish muleteer, the Flemish boatman, and the
Portuguese gipsy,—could still the clamour.

Although Ronald's letters written from London
had informed his military friends of his existence
and safe arrival in England, they were by no means
prepared for his sudden appearance among them in
Flanders, and he had to endure a thick cross-fire of
questions and eager inquiries, which at that moment
there was not time to answer; but he promised the
rehearsal of his story at full length on the first
opportunity, and for the present considerably
repressed their joy by announcing the death of
Cameron, and of his follower, poor old Dugald,
who had been a man of no small dignity and
importance among those who filled the ranks of the
Gordon Highlanders.

The troops had been ordered to fall back upon
the position of Waterloo, which was next day to be
the scene of that "king-making victory,"—the most
important ever fought and won in Europe, and
one which has fixed for ever the fame of the great
duke and the British army.

When the bustle created by his arrival had a
little subsided, Ronald requested a few words apart
with Louis; but before he could speak, the voice of
Campbell was heard in command.

"Fall in, gentlemen; fall in!"

"Alice?" whispered Stuart.

"She is well and happy, Ronald; and never once
has her love wandered from *you*," said Louis,
pressing his hand.

The bugle sounded, and they separated to join
their respective companies; and next moment the
adjutant was flying along the line at full gallop, to
collect the reports.  Then riding up to Campbell, he
lowered the point of his sword, and, acquainting him
with the casualties, returned to his post in the line,
while the regiment broke into open column of sections,
with the right in front; and the pioneers, with
their saws, axes, &c., and their leather aprons
strapped to their bare knees, went off double-quick
in advance.  "Quick march!" was now the
order repeated by a hundred commanding officers,
varying in cadence and distance.  The trumpet
brayed, the cymbal clashed, the drum rebounded,
the war-pipe yelled forth its notes of defiance and
pride, and the whole army was in motion *en route*
for Waterloo.

By the suddenness of the order to "fall in,"
Stuart lost an opportunity (which never again
occurred) of learning from Louis,—that of which
he was still ignorant,—the wreck of his father's
affairs, and his emigration to a strange country.

Gloom and doubt were apparent in the faces of
both officers and privates, as the army began its
march to the rear, upon Waterloo.  Any thing like
retreating is so unusual to British troops, that a chill
seemed to have fallen on every heart as they moved
from Quatre Bras, before which the third and fifth
divisions were left to cover the rear,—or at least
to deceive Napoleon by remaining in sight till the
artillery and the main body of the army were far
on the Waterloo road.  As Lord Wellington had
foreseen, Napoleon was long kept in ignorance of
our retreat by this measure; but as soon as he
perceived it, he despatched immense bodies of cavalry
to press and harass the rear-guard.  On looking
back, just before the *Bois de Soignies* began to
throw its foliage over the line of march, Stuart
saw several dashing charges made by the British
heavy dragoons, who rode right through and through
the massive columns of the enemy, breaking their
order, sabring them in hundreds, and compelling
the rest to recoil, and repress the fierce feeling of
triumph with which they beheld the British army
retreating before them.  Scarcely a shot was fired,
as the carbines and pistols were rarely resorted to.
Their conflicts were all maintained with the sword,
and some thousand blades were seen flashing at
once in the light of the sun, as they were whirled
aloft like gleams of lightning, and descended like
flashes of fire on the polished helmets of the
French, and on the tall and varied caps of the
British cavalry.

During the greater part of this march, Ronald
moved with a group of the officers about him, listening
to that which he was heartily tired of relating,—"a
full, true and particular history" of his detention
among the Spaniards, his release and his restoration
to the regiment.  The men of the neighbouring
sections, who were all listening attentively with
eager ears, circulated the story through the ranks
with various additions and alterations, to suit that
taste for the marvellous and wonderful which exists
so much among soldiers—Highlanders especially;
so that by the time it had travelled along the line of
march, from the mouths of the light company to the
grenadiers at the head of the column, Ronald's
narrative might have vied with that true history, the
'Life of Prince Arthur,' 'Jack the Giant Queller,' or
any other hero of ancient times.

"Well, Stuart, my man!" said Campbell, riding
up to Ronald; "I am happy to see you again at the
head of the light bobs."

"I thank you, major; but truly none can rejoice
more than myself," answered Ronald.  "Faith! a
century seems to have elapsed since I saw the old
colours with the silver thistles and the sphinxes,—your
favourite badge, major, waving above the blue
bonnets.  There was a time, when I thought never
to have beheld them again."

"When you so narrowly escaped hanging by
those rascally thieves, I suppose?  Don Alvaro gave
you ample reparation, so far as he could do, by
drawing fifty human necks, like the thraws of so many
muir-hens.  A fine fellow, that Alvaro! only rather
lank and sombre in visage.  Faith!  I shall never
forget the supper his pretty sister gave us the first
night we halted at Merida.  Every dish had garlic,
olive oil, and onions in it!"

"Hooch, deevils and warlocks!" said Sergeant
Macrone, grasping the truncheon of his pike.  "Oh! had
I peen there peside you, sir, whan thae reiver
loons spake o' a tow to you, many a sair croon wad
hae peen among them!"

"I'm much obliged to you, Macrone; but, with a
dozen of our blue bonnets, I would soon have made
a clear house of them."

"Oich!" continued the sergeant, growing eloquent
in his indignation, "it wad hae peen a fera
tammed unpleasant thing to pe hanget, especially an
officer and shentleman.  But wad the reivers no hae
shot yer honour, kindly and discreetly, just if ye
had asked them as a favour, ye ken?"

"I never thought of that, Macrone," replied Ronald,
laughing heartily; "both modes were equally
unpleasant, though not equally honourable."

"Poor Cameron! and so we have lost him at
last," observed Campbell, in a half-musing tone,
while his eyes glistened.  "I often look at the head
of the column, and half imagine I see him riding
along there, on his tall black horse, as of old; his
figure erect and stately, and his long feathers
drooping down on his right shoulder.  Many a day I have
watched him with pleasure, as he led the line of
march over the long plains of Spain, when we have
been moving from sunrise to sunset, on the tall spire
of some distant city.  I shall obtain the command,
but He who reads the human heart knows that I
would rather have remained always major, that
Cameron might have lived."

"Brave Fassifern! we were always proud of him,
but more so now than ever," said Stuart, and his
eyes glittered with enthusiasm while he spoke.
"'Tis but two hours since I beheld him expire in
Waterloo yonder."

"That d—ned old house near Quatre Bras!"
exclaimed Campbell; "I am sorry we left one stone
of it standing on another.  Poor Fassifern fell at the
head of the grenadiers, while assaulting it in front.
I carried it in rear, beating down the back door with
my own hand, and scarcely a man was left alive in
it.  Our men fought like furies after the colonel fell.
Ay," he continued, emphatically, "John Cameron
was a true Highland gentleman, and possessed the
heart of a hero."

"Och!" muttered Macrone, "he was a pretty
man, and a prave man, and nefer flinched in ta
front o' the enemy."

"And never did one of his name, Duncan,"
whispered a comrade, in Gaëlic.  "I myself am a
Cameron—"

"Ha, major! what is that?" asked Ronald, as
something like a distant discharge of artillery
sounded through the hot and still atmosphere.
"Can the Prussians be at it again?"

"We shall hear no more of the Prussians, after
what befell them at Ligny yesterday.  'Tis said that
they have lost twenty thousand men; and old
Blucher himself narrowly escaped being trodden to
death by the French cavalry charging over him, as
he lay unhorsed and wounded on the ground.  They
repassed him in retreat, but the old fox lay close.
There is the sound again!"

"What the devil can it be?" said an officer.

"The French flying artillery must have come up
with our rear guard."

"No, no, Ronald; look at the sky, man!  We shall
have a tremendous storm in five minutes."

While he spoke, the sky, which had been bright
and sunny, became suddenly darkened by masses of
murky clouds, the flying shadows of which were
seen moving over the wide corn-fields and green
woodlands.  Scudding and gathering, these gloomy
precursors of a storm came hurrying across the sky,
until they closed over every part of it, obscuring the
face of heaven, and rendering the earth dark as when
viewed by the grey light of a winter day at three
o'clock, and the spirits of the retreating soldiers
became more saddened and depressed as the black
shadows of the forest of Soignies deepened around
them.  Red, blue, and yellow streaks of lightning,
vivid and hot, flashed across the whole sky, lighting
it up like a fiery dome from the eastern to the
western horizon, and the stunning peals of thunder
roared every instant as if to rend the world asunder.
Rain and hail descended in torrents, while the
tempests of wind, which arose in angry gusts, tore
through the forest of Soignies like the spirit of
destruction, scattering leaves, branches, trees, and the
affrighted birds in every direction.  Oh! the miseries
of the 17th of June!  The oldest soldiers in the
army declared that the storm of that day surpassed
any thing they had ever suffered or beheld.

The whole army, from the front to the rear-guard,
were drenched to the skin.  The roads, in some
places, were flooded with water, till they looked like
winding canals, with their surface broken into
countless wrinkles by the splashing rain; in other places
the mud was so deep, that the soldiers, loaded with
their heavy accoutrements, sank above the ankles at
every step, and the weight of the thick clay which
adhered to their feet, added greatly to their misery.
Hundreds of those in the Highland regiments lost
their shoes on withdrawing their feet from the soil,
and as no time was given to take others from their
knapsacks, if they had any there, they were obliged
to tread out the rest of the march in their red-striped
hose.  Many of the officers wore their thin-soled
dress boots, their white kid gloves, &c., having been
suddenly summoned to the field from the gaiety of
the ball at Brussels, and some were almost
bare-footed before the order was given to halt.  Their
boots, of French kid, wore away like brown paper in
the mud and rain.

Without tents or any covering, save their greatcoats
or cloaks, the troops passed the miserable
night of the 17th June in bivouac,—exposed,
unsheltered, to all the fury of the storm, which lasted
until eight o'clock next morning.  For nearly
four-and-twenty hours the wind had blown and the rain
fallen without intermission.

Though their spirits were considerably depressed,
the officers and their soldiers bore all with that
perfect patience and endurance, which the British
army possesses in a greater degree than any other
in Europe.  They can bear stoically alike the fury
of the elements, and the exasperating insults of a
petulant mob.

Not a murmur of discontent was heard that night
in the British bivouac; no man repined, as the
utmost confidence and reliance were placed in the
great leader, under whom, on the morrow, they were
to engage in such a struggle as the world has rarely
witnessed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE 18TH OF JUNE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE 18TH OF JUNE.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |    "And wild and high the Cameron's gathering rose!
   |    The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
   |    Have heard—and heard, too, have her Saxon foes.
   |    How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
   |    Savage and shrill!  But with the breath which fills
   |    Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
   |    With their fierce native daring, which instils
   |    The stirring memory of a thousand years;
   |  And Evan's, Donald's fame, rings in each clansman's ears."
   |                                              *Lord Byron.*

.. vspace:: 2

About eight o'clock on the morning of the 18th
the storm suddenly abated, the rain ceased, the wind
died away, the grey clouds began to disperse, and
the sun broke forth in his glory.  His warm glow was
delightful after the chill of such a tempestuous
night; and the wan faces of the soldiers brightened
as they watched the dispersion of the vapoury
masses, and beheld the morning sky assuming a
pure and serene blue.  Alas! it was a morning sun
which thousands were doomed never to behold
setting at eve.

Immense masses of white mist were rising on all
sides,—from the green woodlands of the Bois de
Soignies,—from the swamps, the fields, and the
puddles formed in the night; and as the vapour became
exhaled, and floated away to mingle with the clouds,
the grass grew more green, and the fields of flattened
corn rose, and waved their yellow harvest to and fro
in the morning breeze.  Fires were lighted by the
soldiers, to dry their clothes and cook a ration of
beef, which had been hastily supplied to some corps
of the army.  An allowance of grog was also served
out by the commissariat to every man, without
distinction.  It was swallowed gladly and thankfully,
and the former cheerfulness of the troops began to
revive, and they became as merry as men could be
who had marched so far, passed such a night, and
had yet their shirts sticking to their backs.

This was the morning of the eventful 18th of
June, 1815.

Sir Dennis Pack's brigade had scarcely finished
their wretched meal of beef, broiled on bayonets and
ramrods amid the smoky embers of green wood,
before the pipers of the Royal Highlanders, who
were bivouacked on the right, were heard blowing
their regimental gathering with might and main,
summoning the old *Black Watch* to battle.

"Stand to your arms!  The enemy are coming
on!" was the cry on every side; and aides-de-camp,
majors of brigade, and other officers were seen
galloping in every direction, clearing hedge and wall
at the risk of their necks.  The trumpets of the
cavalry, the drums and bugles of the infantry, were
soon heard sounding in concert over every part of
the position, as the army got under arms to meet
their old hereditary foe.

"*Vive l'Empereur!*"  A hundred thousand soldiers,—brave
men as France ever sent forth, loaded
the morning wind with the cry; and the hum of
their voices, sounding from afar over the level
country, was heard—like the low roar of a distant
sea—murmuring and chafing, long before they came
within range of musket shot.

The soldiers of the allied army stood to their arms
with their usual willingness and alacrity, but with
that degree of gravity and calmness which always
pervades a body of men before an engagement.  It
is a serious reflection that one may be in eternity in
five minutes, and one feels rather sedate in
consequence,—till the blood is up, and the true British
mettle fairly roused.  A battle was about to be
fought, and that it would be a bloody one was
evident; for it was between two splendid armies, equal
in arms, in discipline, and in courage, and led by
two of the greatest generals the world ever produced.
But it is not my intention to recount a history of
the battle of Waterloo.  Generally, I will confine
myself to the motions of the 9th brigade, commanded
by the brave Sir Dennis Pack.

It consisted of four regiments; namely, the third
battalion of the 1st Royal Scots, the 42nd or Royal
Highlanders, the 2nd battalion of the 44th or East
Essex regiment, and the 92nd or Gordon Highlanders,
with whom, I trust, the reader is tolerably
well acquainted.  The fighting at Quatre Bras on
the 16th had considerably thinned their ranks, but
they yet mustered five hundred bayonets.

Aides-de-camp, general and other staff-officers,
were seen galloping on the spur over banks and
ditches, through copse-wood and corn fields, bearing
orders, instructions, and hasty despatches to those
commanding corps and brigades; the cavalry looked
to their girths and bridles, the infantry to their locks
and pouches; the artillery-guns, tumbrils, and
caissons were dragged at full gallop among ripe fields
of wheat and barley, through hedges and slough
ditches, with matches smoking, the gunners on the
boxes, the drivers on the saddle, rammers and
sponges rattling and clanking, and the cavalry
escort galloping in front and rear.  Bustle and noise,
but with perfect steadiness and coolness, prevailed,
as the army of Lord Wellington formed in position
on that memorable field, and awaited the approach
of their enemy, who came on flushed with the
success of the recent battle of Ligny.

"There goes Buonaparte!" cried Ronald to his
friend Louis Lisle, who at that moment came up
to him.

"There goes Napoleon! the Emperor and all his
staff!" burst from many a tongue.

The whole attention of the British line was
attracted by the appearance of Buonaparte, who rode
along the ridge occupied by the French army.  He
wore his great-coat unbuttoned, and thrown back to
display his epaulets and green uniform, and had on
his head the little cocked hat by which all statues of
him are so well known.  A staff, brilliant and numerous,
composed of officers wearing a hundred different
uniforms, followed him, but at the distance of seventy
or eighty paces, riding like a confused mob of cavalry.
He passed rapidly along the French line towards
La Belle Alliance; but the fire of a few twelve-pound
field-pieces, which had been brought to bear upon
his person, compelled him to retire to the rear.

The right of the allied army rested on Braine la
Leude, the left on the farm of Ter la Haye, and the
centre on Mont St. Jean, thus extending along a
ridge from which the ground descended gently to
a sort of vale; on the other side of which, at the
distance of about twelve hundred yards from the
allies, the long-extended lines of the French army
were formed in battle array, with eagles glittering,
colours waving, and bayonets gleaming above the
dark battalions of infantry.

The celebrated château of Hougoumont was in
front of the right centre of the allies; the woods,
the orchard, and the house were full of troops.
Arms glanced at every window, bayonets bristled
everywhere around it, and the tall grenadier-caps
of the Coldstream Guards, and the schakoes of the
Belgians and Brunswickers, were visible above the
green hedges of the garden, and the parapet walls
which enclosed the park and orchard.  The
farmhouse of La Haye Sainte, on the Charleroi road at
the foot of the eminence, had also been converted
into a garrison, loop-holed and barricaded, with
brass-muzzled field-pieces peeping through the
honey-suckle and the rails of the garden around it.

All around the spot where these dire preparations
had been made the land was in a beautiful state
of cultivation, and the bright yellow corn waved ripe
in every field; but the passage of cavalry, brigades
of artillery, and sometimes dense masses of
infantry in close column of companies or sub-divisions
of five-and-twenty men abreast, the continual
deploying on point and pivot as new alignements
were taken up, made sad havoc among the hopes of
the husbandman and farmer.

The Belgian and Hanoverian battalions were
checkered as equally as possible with the
British, and thus many different uniforms varied the
long perspective of the allied line; while the French
army presented one long array of dark uniforms,
blue, green, or the grey great-coat, an upper
garment worn almost invariably, in all weathers, by the
French troops when on service.

Near a tree, which grew on a bank above the
Charleroi road, and which formed, or denoted, the
very centre of the British position, Lord Wellington
could be seen sitting motionless on horseback,
observing, with his acute and practised eye, the
motions of his mighty antagonist.  His cavalry were,
generally, posted in rear of the right, the centre, and
left of the position, the artillery behind a hedge on a
ridge which rises near Ter la Haye; and this screen
of foliage concealed them from the enemy, who
commenced the battle about half-past eleven o'clock.

A movement was seen taking place among the
French, and in a few minutes the division
commanded by Jerome Buonaparte attacked the château
of Hougoumont.  As they advanced upon it, Lord
Wellington's artillery opened on them, and did
considerable execution; but they pressed heedlessly
on and assaulted the ancient château, which was
resolutely defended, and soon became shrouded in a
cloud of smoke as the volleying musketry blazed
away from hedge and wall, barricade and window.
Every bullet bore the fate of a human being; the
French were strewed in heaps, and the château, into
which they showered grape and musketry with
unsparing diligence, seemed not likely to surrender
soon.  The foreign troops gave way, but the brave
Guards maintained the defence of the house and
garden alone, and with the unflinching determination
and courage of British soldiers.

Under cover of a formidable cannonade, which
Napoleon's artillery opened from the crest of the
ridge where his line was formed, three dense masses
of infantry, consisting each of four battalions,
moving in solid squares, poured impetuously down on
the left and centre of the allied line.  They rent the
air with cries of "*Vive la France!  Vive l'Empereur!*"
and on they came double-quick, with their sloped
arms glittering in the sun.  They were enthusiastically
encouraged by their officers, whose voices were
heard above even the mingled din of the battle-cry,
cheering them on as they waved their eagles and
brandished their sabres aloft.  One of these columns
poured its strength on La Haye Sainte, where it
experienced a warm and deadly welcome; while the
other two attacked that part of the position which
was occupied by Sir Dennis Pack's brigade.

As they advanced, Campbell made a signal with
his sword, and the eight pipes of the regiment
commenced the wild pibroch of Donald-dhu,—the march
of the Islesmen to Lochaber in 1431.  It was echoed
back by the pipes of the Royals and 42nd on the
right, and the well-known effect of that instrument
was instantly visible in the flushing cheeks of the
brigade.  Its music never falls in vain on the ear of
a Scotsman, for he alone can understand its wild
melody and stirring associations.  The ranks, which
before had exhibited all that stillness and gravity
which troops always observe—in fact, which their
feelings compel them to observe—before being
engaged, for fighting is a serious matter, became
animated, and the soldiers began to cheer and handle
their muskets long before the order was given to fire.
A brigade of Belgians, formed in line before a hedge,
was attacked furiously by the French columns, who
were eager for vengeance on these troops, whom
they considered as deserters from the cause of the
"great Emperor," whose uniform they still wore.
The impetuosity of the attack compelled the Belgians
to retire in rear of the hedge, over which they
received and returned a spirited fire.

Pack's brigade now opened upon the foe, and the
roar of cannon and musketry increased on every side
as the battle became general along the extended
parallel lines of the British and French.  The fire of
the latter on Pack's brigade was hot and rapid, for
in numerical force they outnumbered them, many to
one, and made dreadful havoc.  The men were
falling—to use the common phrase—in heaps, and the
danger, smoke, uproar, and slaughter, with all the
terrible concomitants of a great battle, increased on
every side; the blood of the combatants grew hotter,
and their national feelings of hatred and hostility,
which previously had lain dormant, were now fully
awakened, and increased apace with the slaughter
around them.  Many of the Highlanders seemed
animated by a perfect fury,—a terrible eagerness to
grapple with their antagonists.  Captain Grant, an
officer of the Gordon Highlanders, became so much
excited, that he quitted the ranks, and rushing to
the front, brandished his long broad sword aloft, and
defied the enemy to charge or approach further.
Then, calling upon the regiment to follow him, he
threw up his bonnet, and flinging himself headlong
on the bayonets of the enemy, was instantly slain.
Poor fellow! he left a young wife at home to
lament him, and his loss was much regretted by the
regiment.

"This is hot work, Chisholm," said Ronald with
a grim smile to his smart young sub, who came
towards him jerking his head about in that nervous
manner which the eternal whistling of musket shot
will cause many a brave fellow to assume.

"Hot work,—devilish!" answered the other with a
blunt carelessness which, perhaps, was half affected.
"But I have something good to communicate."

"What?"

"Blucher, with forty thousand Prussians, is
advancing from Wavre.  Bony knows nothing of this,
and the first news he hears of it will be the
twelve-pounders of the Prussians administering a dose of
cold iron to his left flank, upon the extremity of the
ridge yonder."

"Good! but is the intelligence true?"

"Ay, true as Gospel.  I heard an aide-de-camp, a
rather excited but exquisite young fellow of the 7th
Hussars, tell old Sir Dennis so this moment."

"Would to God we saw them!—the Prussians I
mean.  We are suffering dreadfully from the fire of
these columns."

"Ay, faith!" replied the other, coolly adjusting
his bonnet, which a ball had knocked awry, and
turning towards the left flank of the company,
before he had gone three paces, he was stretched
prostrate on the turf.

He never stirred again.  A ball had pierced his
heart; and the bonnet, which a moment before he
had arranged so jauntily over his fair hair, rolled to
the feet of Ronald Stuart.

"I kent he was *fey*!  Puir young gentleman!"
said a soldier.

"I will add a stone to his cairn," observed another,
figuratively; "and give this to revenge him," he
added, dropping upon his knee and firing among
the smoke of the opposite line.

Stuart would have examined the body of his friend,
to find if any spark of life yet lingered in it, but
his attention was attracted by other matters.

The Belgians at the hedge gave way, after
receiving and returning a most destructive fire for
nearly an hour.  The 3rd battalion of the Scots
Royals, and a battalion of the 44th, (the same
regiment which lately distinguished itself at Cabul,)
took up the ground of the vanquished men of *Gallia
Belgica*, and after maintaining the same conflict
against an overwhelming majority of numbers, and
keeping staunch to their post till the unlucky hedge
was piled breast high with killed and wounded, they
were compelled also to retire, leaving it in possession
of the enemy, who seized upon it with a fierce
shout of triumph, as if it had been the fallen capital
of a conquered country instead of the rural boundary
of a field of rye.

It was now three o'clock in the afternoon.  The
strife had lasted incessantly for four hours, and no
word was yet heard of the Prussians.  For miles
around, the plains were involved in smoke; and
whether they were approaching or not no man knew, for
a thick war-cloud enshrouded the vale of Waterloo.
Three thousand of the allies had been put to the rout,
and the dense mob-like columns of the enemy came
rolling on from the ridge opposite to Lord Wellington's
position, apparently with the determination of
bearing all before them.

When they gained possession of the hedge before
mentioned, Sir Dennis Pack, who had been with its
defenders till the moment they gave way, galloped
at full speed up to the Gordon Highlanders,—a
corps reduced now to a mere skeleton, and barely
mustering two hundred efficient bayonets.

"Highlanders!" cried the general, who was evidently
labouring under no ordinary degree of excitement
and anxiety, "you must charge!  Upon them
with the bayonet or the heights are lost, for all the
troops in your front have given way!"

"Highlandmen! shoulder to shoulder," cried
Campbell, as the regiment began to advance with
their muskets at the long trail, and in silence, with
clenched teeth and bent brows, for their hearts were
burning to avenge the fall of their comrades.  "Shoulder
to shoulder, lads! close together, like a wall!"
continued the major, as, spurring his horse to the
front, he waved his sword and bonnet aloft, and the
corps moved down the hill.  "Remember Egypt
and Corunna,—and remember Cameron, though he's
gone, for his eye may be upon us yet at this very
moment!  Forward—double quick!"

The column they were about to charge presented
a front, more than equal to their own, on *four* faces,
and formed a dense mass of three thousand infantry.
Heedless of their numbers, with that free and
fearless impetuosity which they have ever displayed,
and which has always been attended with the most
signal success, the bonneted clansmen rushed on
with the fury of a torrent from their native hills,
equally regardless of the charged bayonets of the
French front ranks, the murderous fire of the rear,
and of ten pieces of cannon sent by Napoleon to
assist in gaining the height occupied by Pack's
shattered brigade.

It was a desperate crisis, and the regiment knew
that they must be victorious or be annihilated.

A body of cuirassiers were coming on to the
assistance of the vast mass of infantry,—all splendid
troops, glittering in a panoply of brass and steel;
and the slanting rays of the sun gleamed beautifully
on their long lines of polished helms and corslets
and the forest of swords, which they brandished
aloft above the curls of eddying smoke, as they
came sweeping over the level plain at full gallop.
The advance of the little band of Highlanders made
them seem like a few mice attacking a lion,—the
very acme of madness or of courage.  Their comrades
were all defeated, themselves were threatened
by cavalry, galled by ten pieces of cannon, and
opposed to three thousand infantry; and yet they
went on with the heedless impetuosity of the heroes
of Killiecrankie, Falkirk, and Gladsmuir.

The front rank of the enemy's column remained
with their long muskets and bayonets at the charge,
while the rear kept up a hot and destructive fire,
in unison with the sweeping discharges from the
field-pieces placed at a little distance on their
flanks.

The moment was indeed a critical one to these
two hundred eagle hearts.  They were in the
proportion of one man to fifteen; and notwithstanding
this overwhelming majority, when the steady line
of the Highlanders came rushing on, with their
bayonets levelled before them, and had reached
within a few yards of the enemy, the latter turned
and fled!  The huge mass, which might with ease
have eaten them, broke away in a confusion almost
laughable, the front ranks overthrowing the rear,
and every man tossing away musket, knapsack, and
accoutrements.  The Highlanders still continued
pressing forward with the charged bayonet, yet
totally unable to comprehend what had stricken the
foe with so disgraceful a panic.

"Halt!" cried Campbell.  "Fire on the cowards!
D—n them, give them a volley!" and a hasty fire
was poured upon the confused mob.

A cry arose of "Here come the cavalry!"

"Hoigh! hurrah!" cried the Highlanders.  "The
Greys—the Greys—the Scots Greys!  Hoigh! our
ain folk—hurrah!"  And a tremendous cheer burst
from the little band as they beheld, emerging from
the wreaths of smoke, the squadrons of their
countrymen, who came thundering over the corpse-strewed
field, where drums, colours, arms, cannon and
cannon-shot, killed and wounded men, covered every
foot of ground.

The grey horses—"those beautiful grey horses,"
as the anxious Napoleon called them while watching
this movement through his glass,—came on, snorting
and prancing with dilated nostrils and eyes of
fire, exhibiting all the pride of our superb dragoon
chargers, while the long broad-swords and tall
bear-skin caps of the riders were seen towering above
the battle-clouds which rolled along the surface of
the plain.

They formed part of the heavy brigade of the
gallant Sir William Ponsonby, who, sabre in hand,
led them on, with the First Royal English dragoons,
and the Sixth, who came roaring tremendously, and
shouting strange things in the deep brogue of merry
"ould Ireland."

From the weight of the men, the mettle of their
horses, and their fine equipment, a charge of British
cavalry is a splendid sight; I say British, for our
own are the finest-looking as well as the best troops
in the world,—an assertion which few can dispute
when we speak of Waterloo.  Those who witnessed
the charge of Ponsonby's brigade will never forget
it.  The Highlanders halted, and the dragoons
swept on past their flank, towards the confused
masses of the enemy.  The Greys, on passing the
little band of their countrymen, sent up the
well-known cry of "Scotland for ever!"

"Scotland for ever!"  At such a moment this was
indeed a cry that roused "the stirring memory of a
thousand years."  It touched a chord in every
Scottish heart.  It seemed like a voice from their home,
from the tongues of those they had left behind, and
served to stimulate them to fresh exertions in honour
of the land of the rock and the eagle.

"Cheer, my blue bonnets!" cried Campbell, leaping
in his saddle in perfect ecstasy.  "Oh! the
gallant fellows! how bravely they ride.  God and
victory be with them this day!"

"Scotland for ever!" echoed the Highlanders, as
they waved their black plumage on the gale.  The
Royals, the 42nd, the Cameron Highlanders, and
every Scots regiment within hearing took up the
battle-cry and tossed it to the wind; and even the
feeble voices of the wounded were added to the
general shout while the chivalrous Greys plunged into
the column of the enemy, sabring them in scores,
and riding them down like a field of corn.  The cries
of the panic-stricken French were appalling; they
were like the last despairing shrieks of drowning
men, rather than the clamour of men-at-arms upon a
battle-field.  Colours, drums, arms, and every thing
were abandoned in their eagerness to escape, and
even while retreating double quick, some failed not
to shout *Vive l'Empereur!  Vive la Gloire!* as
vociferously as if they had been the victors instead of
the vanquished.

An unlucky random shot struck Lisle's left arm,
and fractured the bone just above the elbow.  He
uttered a sudden cry of anguish, and reeled
backward several paces, but propped himself upon his
sword.  Ronald Stuart rushed towards him, but
almost at the same moment a half-spent cannon shot
(one of the last fired by the train sent to dislodge
the ninth brigade) struck him on the left side,
doubled him up like a cloak, and dashed him to the
earth, where he lay totally deprived of sense and
motion.  When struck, a consciousness flashed upon
his mind that his ribs were broken to pieces, and
that he was dying; then the darkness of night
seemed to descend on his eyes, and he felt as if his
soul was passing away from his body.  That feeling,
which seemed the reverse of a terrible one, existed
for a space of time scarcely divisible.  There was a
rushing sound in his ears, flashes of red fire seemed
to go out from his eyes, and then every sensation of
life left him for a time.  The regiment thought him
dead, as few escape a knock from a cannon-shot,
and no one considered it worth while to go towards
him, save Louis Lisle.  All were too intently
watching the flashing weapons of the cavalry as they
charged again and again, each squadron wheeling to
the right and left to allow the others to come up,
and the work of slaying and capturing proceeded in
glorious style.  Poor Ronald's loss was never thought
of by his comrades.

"Stuart's knocked on the head, poor fellow!"
was his only elegy.  One life is valued less than a
straw, when thousands are breathing their last on
the awful arena of a battle-field.

Louis, whose left arm hung bleeding and motionless
by his side, turned Ronald on his back with the
right, and saw that he was pale and breathless.  He
placed his hand on the heart, but it was still.  He
felt no vibration.

"Great Heaven! what a blow this will be for my
poor sister!  Farewell, Ronald!  I look upon your
face for the last time!"  He groaned deeply with
mental and bodily agony as he bent his steps to the
rear,—a long and perilous way, for shot of every size
and sort were falling like hail around, whizzing and
whistling through the air, or tearing the turf to
pieces when they alighted.  Hundreds of riderless
horses, many of them greys, snorting and crying
with pain or terror, were galloping madly about in
every direction, trampling upon the bodies of the
dead and the wounded, and finishing with their
ponderous hoofs the work which many a bullet
had begun.

The slaughter among the French at that part of
the field was immense, but their case might have
been very different had they stood firm and shown
front, as British infantry would have done.

One thousand were literally sabred, ridden down,
or cut to pieces, two thousand taken prisoners, with
two eagles, one by a sergeant of the Greys, and all
the drums and colours; a catastrophe which scarcely
occupied five minutes' time, and which Napoleon
beheld from his post near La Belle Alliance with
sensations which may easily be conceived, for these
troops were the flower of his numerous army.

This was about half-past four in the afternoon,
and over the whole plain of Waterloo the battle
was yet raging with as much fury as ever.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SISTER OF CHARITY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "O woman! in our hours of ease
   |  Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
   |  And variable as the shade
   |  By the light quivering aspen made;
   |  When pain and anguish wring the brow,
   |  A ministering angel thou!"
   |                                *Marmion.*

.. vspace:: 2

When Ronald again became conscious that he
was yet in the land of the living, he found himself in
a waggon, the uneasy jolting of which occasioned
him great agony.  It was driven by two sturdy
Flemish peasants, clad in blue blouses and red caps,
as he could perceive by the light of the moon: they
sang merrily some uncouth song, and appeared to be
in a happy state of intoxication.

The Flemings were driving furiously, at a rate
which threatened every moment to overturn the
vehicle, and it was incessantly bumped against a wall
on one side of the highway, or a high foot-path
which bordered the other.  Ronald often implored
and commanded them to drive slower, but they
heeded him no more than the wind.  However, they
were compelled to slacken their speed on approaching
Waterloo, where, in a short time, they were
brought to a halt altogether, the road being
completely choked up with the wounded,—thousands
upon thousands of whom were on their way to
Brussels on foot, a few on horseback, and many in
waggons.  It was now midnight, as the toll of a
distant church clock announced.  A horrible medley
filled the air around the place where Stuart's waggon
stopped.  The cries of the wounded were piercing.
In their agony, strong men were screaming like
women, and the appeals for water from their parched
tongues were piteous in the extreme.  Some of them
were men who had been wounded on the 16th at
Quatre Bras, but hundreds of the sufferers who were
maimed on that occasion, perished under the fury
of the next day's storm in the forest of Soignies,
whither they had fled for shelter on the temporary
advance of Napoleon.

The highway was as much crowded as the field
with dead and dying, and the waggons of the train,
the baggage-carts, the commissariat caissons, &c.,
were every moment increasing in number, all
pressing to get along the choked up road.  The hubbub
was increased by foreign and British cavalry, and
mounted officers riding, some to the front and some
to the rear, as their duty led them, and threatening
to sabre any one who opposed their passage.  Oaths,
threats, and execrations, in English, French,
Belgic, and German, resounded every where.  It was a
medley of horror and confusion, such as few men
have ever looked upon.

The boors who drove the waggon in which Stuart
lay, abandoned it and left him to his fate.  He was
utterly heedless of what it might be.  He had never
felt so weary of life, when suffering under any
disaster, as he did at that moment; and he sincerely
envied the dead who lay around him.  The pain of
his bruised side was intense, and he would gladly
have given mountains of gold, if he had them, for
a single drop of water to moisten his parched and
swollen tongue, His head felt hot and heavy, but
there was no one near to raise it.

He sunk again into a stupor, and all that passed
during the remainder of that dismal night seemed
like a dream.  He was still sensible of acute pain,
but the jolting of the rumbling waggon, when again
in motion, seemed like the motion of a ship at sea,
and he thought himself once more in the Bay of
Biscay, on board the Diana of London.

From his feverish slumber he was roused by feeling
his forehead bathed with some cool and refreshing
liquid, by hands soft and gentle, like those of a
female; but this, too, he deemed imagination, and
his eyes remained closed.  But the bathing
continued, and became too palpable to be mistaken.
When he looked around, he found himself in an airy
and elegant room, with white flowing drapery hanging
gracefully from the windows, and from the roof
of the French couch upon which he lay.  Instinctively
he raised his hand to his neck, to feel for the
portrait of Alice Lisle.  It hung no longer there, but
was placed in his hands by the kind fairy who had
taken upon herself the office of being his nurse.  He
turned to look upon her, but she glided away.

"I am dreaming," murmured he, and closed his
eyes; but on opening them again, the same scene
met his view.  The room was richly carpeted, the
furniture was costly and elegant, the ceiling was
lofty, and covered with painted birds and angels,
flying among fleecy clouds and azure skies.  The
pictures on the wall were large Dutch cattle-pieces
and glaring prints of Oudenarde and other battles,
and a most agreeable perfume was wafted through
the apartment from several Delft vases filled with
fresh flowers, which adorned the polished side-tables
and lofty marble mantel-piece.  Ronald looked
from one thing to another in silent wonder,—he
could not imagine whither he had been conveyed;
but that which most attracted his attention was the
figure of a female,—a nun he supposed her to
be,—whose face was turned from him, and who seemed
to be kneeling in a meek and graceful attitude of
prayer, so he had an opportunity of observing her
particularly.

Her costume was very simple, but, from its shape,
amply displayed her very beautiful bust and whole
figure.  It consisted of a tight body and wide skirt
of black serge, girt round her slender waist by a
white fillet.  She wore a hood of white silk, from
beneath which one bright ringlet fell over her
shoulder.  There was something very bewitching and
coquettish in that stray love-lock, and it gave fair
promise that there was much more worth seeing
under the same little hood.  Her hands were very
small, and very white; but they were clasped in
prayer, and her face seemed to be turned upwards.

"Heavens!" thought Stuart, "I am back again
in the land of guitars and pig-skins.  This is
witchcraft, and Waterloo is all a dream.  Bah! my wound
says no!  Where am I?" said he aloud.  "*Buenos
dias, gentil señora*," he added in his most bland
Spanish.

"Ah, monsieur!" said the lady, springing towards
him, "you have awakened at last."

"French, by Jove!" thought the invalid.  "Napoleon
has beaten us, and I am a prisoner."

"Ah!  I have prayed for you very earnestly, and
Heaven has heard me."

"What!" said Ronald in astonishment, "have
you really been praying for me?"

"For you, monsieur," replied the young damsel,
seating herself by his side.

"How very good of you, mademoiselle!  But to
what do I owe such happiness,—I mean, that you
should take any interest in me?"

"Monsieur," said she pouting, "I pray for all,—the
good Christian and the heretic alike."

Her face was very pretty, almost beautiful, indeed;
rather pale, perhaps, but there was a girlishness, a
pure innocence of expression in her soft dove-like
hazel eyes, which made her extremely attractive.
She seemed somewhere about sixteen,—a mature
age on the Continent,—and had all the air of a
lively French girl turned prematurely into a nun.

"I am extremely fortunate that you should interest
yourself so much about me, mademoiselle," said
Ronald in a tone sufficiently doleful, although he
attempted to assume a gallant air.  "But will you
please to tell me where I am just now?"

"In Brussels, monsieur."

"Brussels?  Good."

"See," continued the fair girl, drawing back the
curtains; "there is the gay Sablon-square, and
yonder the good old church of holy Saint Gudule, with
its two huge towers and beautiful window."

"And this splendid house?"

"Belongs to the widow of Mynheer Vandergroot."

"And you, my pretty mademoiselle,—pray who
are you?"

"You must not call me mademoiselle," said she
demurely.

"What then?"

"Sister."

"Sister?"

"*Oui, monsieur*.  I am called Sister Antoinette de
la Misericorde."

"A strange name!"

"I think it very pretty, monsieur: I am called
so among the *Soeurs de la Charité*.  But never
mind my name, monsieur; you speak too much,
and disturb yourself.  How glad I am to see you
looking so well, after being in so deep a sleep all
yesterday."

Ronald put his hand to his head, and strove to
recollect himself.

"Was I not at Waterloo yesterday?"

"No, monsieur; the day before.  Alas, what a
day it was!  But you must not speak any more,—and
*must* obey me in all things.  I am your
nurse."

"*You!*" exclaimed Stuart in a tone of pleasure
and surprise, while he attempted to take her hand;
but she easily eluded him.  "Ah, what a happiness
for me, mademoiselle!"

"Sister!" said she, holding up her tiny finger.
"I am your only nurse, and I have six other officers
on my list.  Poor creatures!" she added, while her
fine eyes became suffused with tears.  "Alas! they
are dreadfully wounded, and I experience great
horror in being their attendant, but my vows must be
fulfilled.  'Tis the work of Heaven, and the poor
Sister Antoinette must neither shrink nor repine.
But your wound, monsieur; you were struck in the
side, but there is no blood."

"But I am bruised to death, Antoinette."

"*Mon Dieu! mon ami;* so the medical officer said.
But here he comes, and I must be gone, for a time
at least."

At that moment the door opened, and the
assistant-surgeon entered.  He made a profound bow to
the lady,—imitating a style he had picked up in
Castile, and causing the black plumage of his
regimental bonnet to describe a circle in the air.

"Well, my dear Mademoiselle Antoinette," said
he, taking her hand, "how is our patient this
morning?"

"Indeed, monsieur, I know not," replied the girl
with confusion, and attempting to withdraw her
hand.

"I fear, Antoinette, if the troops are all provided
with such nurses, they will be in no hurry to quit
the sick list, which it is our interest to keep as
empty as possible; but—"

Here mademoiselle broke away from him, and,
snatching up a little basket of phials, fled from the
apartment.

"Well, Ronald, my man," said the *medico*, unbuckling
his broad-sword and seating himself by the
bed; "how do you find yourself this morning?"

"Having ended your flirtation, 'tis time to ask,
Dick," replied the invalid pettishly.

"What! are you turning jealous of a girl that
nurses half the regiment?  Let me see your
knocks,—how are they?"

"Confoundedly sore!  My ribs are all broken to
pieces, I think."

"Scarcely," replied the doctor, passing his hand
over the injured part; "they are all as sound as
ever they were.  Do you find *that* sore?" said he,
deliberately poking his finger on particular places
with the most medical *nonchalance*.

"The devil, Dick! to be sure I do," said Ronald,
wincing, and suppressing a violent inclination to cry
out, or punch the other's head.

"Sore, eh?"

"Very," said the other sulkily.

"Ah!  I thought you would."

"I suppose you mean to follow up this attack, by
prescribing bleeding and hot water?"

"The first, certainly; the last, as may be required,"
said Stuart, the doctor in his turn getting
a little piqued.

"I have dozed away a whole day," said Ronald.

"You find yourself all the better for it now.  We
will have you on your legs next week."

"But the battle!  You have kept up such a
gabble, Dick, I have not had time to ask you if
we won it."

"Who else could win it?  But I will tell you all,
after I have looked to your hurts."

"No; tell me first of the battle, and be as brief
as possible."

"Well, then, Buonaparte was soundly beaten on
the 18th, and is flying towards Paris, I believe.
Wellington and old Blucher are after him, double
quick."

"Our loss?"

"I have not heard."

"How is Lisle, and all the rest of ours?"

"I have not yet learned where Louis is billeted,
but I fear his arm is lost.  Captain Little was killed
close by me, after you were struck.  Fifteen officers
are wounded, and eight killed; but you shall hear
not another word till I have seen your wound more
particularly, and have applied some dressing."

The cannon-shot had bruised his side severely.
It was frightfully discoloured, and he was almost
unable to move in consequence of the intense pain
which he suffered.

The doctor, producing a silver case of lancets,
proposed bleeding, a course to which Ronald stoutly
objected, saying that he felt weak enough already.
He was therefore fain to content himself with
leaving directions for the preparation of an enormous
poultice, and a diet of broth and barley-water.  He
then took his leave, saying that he had more than
a hundred patients on his list, and should be totally
unable to call for two days at least; but desired
Allan Warristoun, Ronald's servant, to come every
evening, and report how his master was.  The
doctor's prescription gave Ronald considerable relief,
notwithstanding the throwing out of window of a
considerable portion of the ingredients, and the
discussion, with infinite relish, of certain delicacies
which, after a few days, were brought to his
bedside by the kind old widow Vandergroot.

Converting Warristoun's knapsack into a desk,
Ronald sat, propped up in bed, writing a letter for
Alice, and another for Lochisla, for he was still
ignorant of the change which had taken place there,
when Sister Antoinette, entering lightly and softly,
stole to his side.  Her gentle hand was on his shoulder,
and her soft eyes were beaming on his, almost
before he was aware of her presence.  Her silken
hood had fallen back, and revealed her fine glossy
hair,—all, save the long stray ringlet, beautifully
braided like a coronet around her head.  Her order
were not robbed of their flowing tresses on taking
their vow upon them.

Ronald tossed the knapsack upon the carpet, and
caught her hand with an exclamation of pleasure.
She permitted him to retain his hold for a moment.
He would have spoken, but she placed her finger
on his lips, and again told him that she was his
nurse, and that he "must not speak."  The finger
belonged to a very pretty hand, though it was
unadorned by ring or bracelet; and, taking it again
within his own, he ventured to kiss it.  The sister
drew back instantly, and blushed crimson; but not
with displeasure, for she seemed too amiable and
gentle a creature to be easily offended.

"I have brought you three books, monsieur."

"A thousand thanks, my dear little sister!" said
he, as she produced the volumes from a small reticule,
which she carried under the skirt of her long
cape.  "How very attentive of you!  I am always
so dull when you are absent."

"I had them, monsieur, from an aged *Reposante*
of our order, who in time has amassed quite a little
library of her own."

"A French Bible," said Ronald, laying aside the
first with an air of disappointment.  "What next?
'The holy Doings of the good Sisters of St. Martha.'  And
the next?  'Rules of the *Servantes des Pauvres
de Charité*!  By Jove! my dear Antoinette, these
books won't do for me, I fear."

"They are very good books, monsieur," said she
modestly.  "I am sorry you are displeased."

"*Ma belle Antoinette*, I thank you not the less,
believe me; but if any of my brother-officers were
to pop in and find me reading them, I should never
hear the end of it, and two or three duels would
scarcely keep the mess in order."

"I am sorry for it.  But if you will not read them
yourself, I will; and if any of your wild Scottish
officers come in, let them laugh at me if they dare."

"They will take care how they do that in my
chamber, Antoinette," said Stuart with a peculiar
smile, while the girl threw back her hood and
prepared to read, displaying, as she did so, a neck
and hands of perfect beauty and lady-like whiteness.
She read, in a low, earnest, and very pleasing voice,
the story of the good Samaritan, to which Ronald,
who was quite enraptured with her appearance and
manner, paid very little attention.  She read on
without ceasing for nearly half an hour, and imagined
that the young officer was a very attentive listener.
But, in truth, he was too much occupied in observing
the admirable contour of her face, her downcast
lashes and fine hair, the motion of her little cherry
lips and swelling bosom, to attend to the various
chapters which she was so good-natured as to select
for his edification.

After administering certain drugs, which perhaps
neither Widow Vandergroot nor Doctor Stuart, with
all their eloquence, could have prevailed on Ronald
to swallow, she withdrew, notwithstanding his
entreaties that she would remain a little longer.

He felt rather jealous of the attentions she might
bestow on others; but this selfish feeling lasted
only for awhile.  She had several Highlanders, three
hussars, and two artillery officers on her list: some
of the latter were minus legs and arms.  Next day
when she visited Stuart she was weeping, for three
of her patients had died of their wounds.

The whole of Brussels had been converted into
a vast hospital: every house, without distinction,
was crowded with wounded and sick.  The officers
and soldiers, in some places, were lying side by
side on the same floor; and the humanity, kindness,
and solicitude displayed towards these unfortunates
by the ladies, and other females of every class, are
worthy of the highest praise.  They were to be seen
hourly in the hospitals, distributing cordials and
other little comforts to the wounded soldiers of all
nations,—friend and foe alike.  They were blessed
on every side as they moved along, for the poor
fellows found sisters and mothers in them all.

Ronald took a deep and, perhaps for so young a
man, a dangerous interest in the fair Antoinette de
la Misericorde.  He deplored that so charming a
creature should be condemned to dwell in a dreary
cloister,—her fine features shaded and lost beneath
the hideous lawn veil and mis-shapen hood of the
sisters; and that her existence was doomed to be
one of everlasting prayer, penance, fast, humiliation,
and slavery in hospitals, surrounded continually
by the fetid breath of the sick, by distempers and
epidemics, scenes of want, woe, and misery, and in
the hearing sometimes of sorrow, blasphemy, and
horrid imprecations,—for her duty led her into the
dens and prisons of the police, and the inmost
recesses of the infamous *Rasp-haus*.  Whether her
own wish, or her parents' tyranny and superstition,
had consigned her to this miserable profession, he
never discovered; but the life of a galley-slave or a
London sempstress would have been preferable.

Antoinette was evidently a lady by manner,
appearance, and birth.  None but a lady could have
owned so beautiful a hand.  She had all the natural
vivacity and buoyant spirits of a French girl, and, at
times, her sallies and clear ringing laughter
contrasted oddly with the sombre garb and her half
real, half affected demureness.

Ronald formed a hundred plans for her emancipation,
but always rejected them as impracticable.  To
persuade her to elope from Brussels, and go home
with him to be a companion for Alice Lisle, would
never do.  Scandal would be busy, and even should
he escape the wrath of the Belgian police, the *mess*
would quiz him out of the service.

"What the deuce can be done to save this fair
creature from such slavery?" thought he.  "I would
to Heaven somebody would run away with her!
There's Macildhui of ours, and Dick Stuart, our
senior Esculapius, handsome fellows both, and both
quite well aware of it.  Who knows what may come
about?  The medico is evidently smitten with her,
and Macildhui is on her sick list.  Since poor Grant
was knocked on the head, we have not a married
man, except Louis, among us, and Antoinette would
be an honour to the regiment."

The combined attention of the interesting little
*fille de convent*, of the widow, of Doctor Stuart, and
of Allan his servant, soon placed Ronald on his feet
again; and in the course of a week or two he was
able to move about the room, and enjoy a cup of
chocolate at the window overlooking the square,
where a host of crippled soldiers, leaning on sticks
and crutches, were seen hobbling about among
fresh-coloured Flemish girls with plump figures and large
white caps, bulbous-shaped citizens, and pipe-smoking
Dutchmen in high-crowned hats and mighty
inexpressibles.

Two days after he became convalescent, the sister
informed him that now her visits must cease.

"And will you not come to me sometimes, Antoinette?"

"I am sorry, monsieur; no, I cannot."

"Then I will visit you."

"That must not be either: a man never passes
our threshold.  I must bid you farewell."

"Ah, you do not mean to be so cruel, Antoinette?"

"There is no cruelty," said she, pouting; "but I
mean what I say."

"Our acquaintance must not cease, however,"
said Ronald, taking her hand and seating her beside
him near the window which overlooked the bustling
*Rue Haute*.  "Must we never see each other more,
and only because there are no more confounded drugs
to be swallowed and pillows to be smoothed?"

"It must be so, my friend; and I—I hope you
have been satisfied with me."

"Antoinette! satisfied? and with *you*?  Ah! how
can you speak so coldly?  My dear little girl, you
know not the deep interest I take in you.  But, tell
me, would you wish to leave Brussels?  It cannot
be your native place."

"Monsieur, I do not understand—"

"Would not you wish to leave the dull convent
of the sisterhood to live in the midst of the gay and
the great world,—to live in a barrack, perhaps, and
be awakened every morning by the merry reveillé
or the bold pibroch, or to—"

He paused, for the last observation had been
misunderstood.  The eyes of the French girl flashed
fire, and her pouting lips curled so haughtily and
so prettily, that, yielding only to the impulse of
the moment, Ronald was tempted to carry on the
war with greater vigour.

"Pardon me, Antoinette; I did not mean to offend
you," said Stuart, drawing her nearer to him by the
little unresisting hand which he still held captive.

"O monsieur! what do you mean?" cried the poor
girl, trembling violently, while a deep blush covered
her whole face and neck; her sparkling eyes were
cast languidly down, and the palpitations of her
heart could be distinctly seen beneath the tight
serge vest or boddice which encased her noble bust.
"*Oh, mon Dieu!*" she added, "what is the matter
with me?  I feel very ill and giddy."  Yet she made
but feeble struggles to release herself.

"Promise you will come again and see me, Antoinette,"
said Ronald, drawing her very decidedly on
his knee.

"Oh, let me go, monsieur.  I must have the honour
to wish you a good morning."  She made a motion
to go, but his arm had encircled her.  "My vows!
Oh, pray, for the love of Heaven, let me go.
Unhand me, I implore you!"

"One kiss, then, Antoinette,—only one kiss; and
in sisterly love, you know?" and his lips were
pressed to her hot cheek ere she was aware.  "But
one more, dear Antoinette!" but she burst from
his grasp and covered her burning face with her
robe, weeping as if her heart would break.

"Holy Virgin, look down upon me!" she exclaimed.
"How shall I ever atone for this deadly sin?
I *must* confess it, and to the stern dean of Saint
Gudule, that the lips of a man have touched mine.
Me! a Sister of Charity, a nun, a miserable woman,
sworn and devoted to the service of Heaven!  Oh,
monsieur, you have done me a great wrong; but
may Heaven forgive you as readily as *I* do!
Adieu! we shall never meet again."

Ronald made an attempt to catch her, but nimbly
and gracefully as a fawn she eluded his grasp, and
fled down stairs like an arrow, leaving the
discomfited soldado more charmed than ever with her
simplicity and modesty.  And it may easily be
supposed that the interest she had excited in his bosom
was increased when he discovered that, in spite of
her vows and veil of lawn, he was not indifferent to
the little French nun.

"Still," he reflected, "it is better that we should
meet no more.  Antoinette is wise: yet I hope she
may look up here to-morrow, if it's only to see me
for the last time."

To-morrow came and passed away, but the Sister
of Charity came not to visit him as usual, and he
regretted that he had frightened her away.
"However," thought he, "she may yet come to-morrow:
the little fairy loves me better than she dares to
acknowledge."

Three days elapsed without her visiting him, and
it was evident that she would come no more.  He
grew very impatient and uneasy, and spent most of
his time in watching alternately the square and the
Rue Haute, with the hope of seeing her pass.  Once
he saw a Sister of Charity coming from the church
of Saint Gudule.  Her figure seemed light and
graceful as she tripped down the immense flight of steps
at the entrance: it was Antoinette, without doubt.
Regardless of distance and the crowded street
below, Ronald called aloud to her; but she was too
far off to hear, and turned a corner down the Rue
de Shaerbeck without bestowing one glance on the
mansion of widow Vandergroot, which was sufficiently
conspicuous by its large yellow gables, its
green Venetian blinds, and red streaks round the
windows.  If the little figure which glided along the
street were Antoinette's, he never beheld it again.

One day, about a fortnight afterwards, while
seated reading a despatch of Wellington's, he heard
footsteps, much lighter than those of the substantial
widow Vandergroot, ascending the wooden staircase.
"She has come at last," said he, as the cigar fell
from his mouth: he threw down the paper, and half
rose.  The door opened, and Lisle entered.

"Louis!" he exclaimed, leaping up with astonishment.
"Gracious powers! how changed you are."

"I may observe the same of you!  Faith, man! you
are wasted to a mummy," replied Lisle, smiling
sadly.  "I have been winged at last," he added,
pointing to his left sleeve, which was empty, and
hung, attached by a loop, to a button at his breast.
"It is now doing very well," he continued, "but
the sight of my empty sleeve and stump will scare
the ladies at Inchavon: *that*, though, is the least
part of the affair.  My soldiering is now ended: the
Gordon Highlanders and Louis Lisle must part at
last!  'Every bullet'—you know the adage."

"I am glad you bear with your loss so easily."

"Your own escape was a narrow one."

"Very.  Had I been a few yards nearer the ridge,
where the enemy's guns were in position, that
unlucky twelve-pound shot would have cut me into
halves like a fishing-rod.  But how are all the rest
of ours?  I have not been abroad yet."

"All doing famously, and ready to swear that the
ladies of Brussels are angels upon earth,—the
Sisters of Charity especially."  This was said
unwittingly, but Stuart felt the blood mounting to his
temples.  "As yet there have been no more
amputations, but Macildhui is in a worse predicament
than any of us."

"How, pray?";

"He has been deeply smitten with the charms of
a certain little French Sister of Charity, by whom
he has been, luckily or unluckily, nursed; but his
romantic ladye-love has deserted him, without
warning, for the last few days, and poor Mac is very
sorrowful, sentimental, and all that.  He poured all
his sorrows in my ear one evening, being thrown
completely off his guard by the mellow influence of
a glass of *vin ordinaire* at sixteen sous per bottle.
But the Sister—"

"Never mind her," said Ronald, colouring very
perceptibly again; "tell me about the army.  What's
the news from head-quarters?"

"Oh, glorious! the power of France and of Buonaparte
has been completely laid prostrate.  The army
pressed forward into the enemy's country; and
Marshal Davoust sent the Marquis of Wellington a flag
of truce, craving a suspension of hostilities, and
offering to yield up Paris.  It was surrendered on
the 4th of this month (July), and the marshal
commenced his retreat beyond the Loire.  Our troops
are all in Paris by this time; so make haste and
get well, my dear fellow, that you may rejoin.  Only
think how the rogues will be enjoying themselves
in Paris!"

"There are few of ours left to rejoice."

"About one hundred and fifty bayonets are with
Campbell, and we have nearly five hundred wounded
here in Brussels.  That cursed affair at Quatre Bras
mauled us sadly.  Before the engagement, we marched
out of Brussels exactly one thousand and ten strong,
and more than one-half lay on the sod ere sunset.
Poor Cameron! the corps will feel his loss.
By-the-by, I forgot to mention that Campbell has got
the lieutenant-colonelcy.  Our romantic friend
Macildhui gets the majority, and you are now senior
captain.  I hope you will win your spurs ere I see
you again.  I set out for Scotland to-morrow."

"So soon?"

"Yes.  My letters from Virginia and Alice are
very importunate; and I shall either sell, or go upon
half-pay.  I leave Flanders on sick leave, in the first
instance."

"Well, I shall soon rejoin you in Perthshire.  I
have seen enough blood shed and battles won, and
long to see the old peak of Benmore, and hear the
leaves rustling pleasantly in the woods of Oich and
Lochisla again."

Next day Lisle took his departure from Brussels.
He still singularly left Ronald in ignorance of what
had occurred at home.  A thousand times he was on
the point of adverting to the subject, but always
refrained.  In a letter to Alice, he said that he would
leave to *her* "the disagreeable task of conveying
to Stuart the information of his father's ruin, and
the emigration of the Lochisla men; because," continued
the letter, "so great is Ronald's veneration
for his parent, and such his Highland pride and his
love of the old ancestral tower, with all its feudal
and family associations, that I verily believe he
would shoot himself in the first gust of his passion,
were I to acquaint him with what has happened at
Lochisla."

Scarcely had Lisle left Brussels, when Ronald
found that his thoughts were beginning to revert to
Antoinette de la Misericorde; and longing to see her
again, he determined to sally forth the next day and
take an airing, in the hope of meeting her in the
streets.  There were many hobbling about in the
sunshine, on the Boulevard de l'Este and the
Boulevard du Nord, who had been more severely wounded
than himself.

On the morrow, therefore, immediately after discussing
his breakfast,—chocolate and a cigar,—he
went forth into the streets of Brussels for the first
time since he passed through them in a waggon.
The noise, whirl, and din of the passengers and
vehicles of every kind, caused such a spinning sensation
in his head, that he nearly fell to the ground.  He
moved along the crowded streets, scarcely knowing
whether his head or heels were uppermost.  The
glare of the noon-day sun seemed hot and strange,
and every thing—the houses, the lamp-posts, the
church spires, seemed waving and in motion.  With
the aid of a patriarchal staff, which erst belonged to
Mynheer Vandergroot, he made his way through
Brussels, and reached the long shady walk of the
Boulevard de l'Este, where, in thankfulness, he
seated himself for some minutes on a stone sofa.

The convent of the Sisters of Charity bordered
somewhere on the Boulevard.  He had been directed
thither, not by verbal instructions, but by signs, of
which every Fleming seems to be a professor, as it
saves the mighty labour of using his tongue.  Each
mynheer whom he accosted, being too lazy to use
his mouth, generally replied by pointing with his
long pipe, or by jerking the summit of his
steeple-crowned hat in the direction inquired for.

The streets were thickly crowded with military
convalescents, of every rank and of many nations.
The regimentals were numerous.  The English, the
Prussian, the Highland, the Belgian, and the
Hanoverian, were creeping about every where, supporting
themselves on sticks and crutches; and in the sunny
public areas, long ranks of them might be seen
basking on the ground, or propped against the wall
on stilts and wooden legs, yet all laughing and
smoking, as merrily as crickets.

After a great deal of trouble, Ronald discovered
the convent of the Sisters of Charity, somewhere
near the end of the Boulevard, at the corner of the
Rue aux Laines.  It was a huge, desolate-looking
building, and might very well have passed for the
military prison, which is not far from it.  Its
windows were small,—grated and far between; and the
whole place looked not the less sombre because the
morning sun shone cheerily on its masses of grey
wall, lighting up some projections vividly, and
throwing others into the deepest shadow.  He heard a
bell tolling sadly somewhere close by, and a strain of
choral voices mingled with its iron tones.  It rung a
knell, and a dismal foreboding fell upon Stuart as he
listened.  He struck gently with the gigantic knocker
which ornamented the iron-studded gate, and
immediately a panel was pulled aside, and the grim
wrinkled visage of the *portière* appeared within.
He solicited admittance.

"No man can ever pass this threshold, monsieur,"
replied the other, who was a little woman of French
Flanders, and clad in the garb of the order.

"How is the sister Antoinette de la Misericorde?"

"Well,—I hope."

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Ronald.  "But can
I not see her, Mademoiselle?"

"Oh, monsieur! that is impossible," replied the
portiere sadly.  "When I tell you she is gone to—"

"To where, Mademoiselle?"

"Heaven!" replied the little woman tartly; and
being offended probably at Ronald's impetuosity,
she closed the panel in his face without ceremony.

The fragile and delicate creature,—how utterly
unsuited for the life to which she had been doomed—had
fallen a victim to the vile and stupid superstition
that had consigned her to a Convent.  While
attending, in her mild and gentle innocency, on the
sick in one of the military hospitals, she had been
attacked with a violent fever that raged there, and
wasted quickly away under its fiery power.

Stuart reeled against the iron-studded door as the
words of the portière fell upon his ear, for at that
moment he felt sick at heart, and his knees tottered
with weakness; but he walked away as quickly as he
could, till the requiem of the sisterhood and the iron
clang of the bell could no longer be heard amidst
the bustle of the Rue aux Laines.

"Poor Antoinette!" thought he, as he turned
down the Rue Royale and, skirting the famous park,
made straight for his billet—"fair and gentle as
she was, she deserved a better fate than to perish
in such a den of gloomy superstition and of blind devotion."

The poor girl's death made him very sad for some
days; but the impression which her beauty and
artlessness had made upon him wore away as he grew
better, and became able to frequent the *cafés*, the
park, the Rue Bellevue, and other public places of
resort at Brussels.  There the important events
following the great victory at Waterloo,—the capture
of Paris, the public entry of Louis XVIII., the flight
of Buonaparte, and his surrender to Captain
Maitland of the Bellerophon, were all canvassed fully
and freely, amidst the boasts of the Belgians about
the wonders performed by their countrymen on the
glorious 18th of June!

After residing in Brussels about two months,
Stuart reported himself "well," and was appointed to
take command of three hundred convalescents, who
were declared fit for service by a medical board, and
were to rejoin the Highlanders at Paris "forthwith."

Early on the morning of his departure, just as
Ronald was getting on his harness, a man who
brought the widow's letters from the *Hôtel des
Postes*, placed in his hand one addressed to
himself.  He tore it open: it was from Lisle, dated
"Edinburgh," and ran thus:—

.. vspace:: 2

"Dear Stuart,

.. vspace:: 1

I have merely written a short note to
announce my arrival in Scotland, and that all are
well at Inchavon.  Your uncle, old Sir Colquhoun
Monteith of Cairntowis, has taken his departure to
a better world; and, as we cannot regret his death,
allow me to congratulate you on becoming possessed
of seven thousand a-year, with one of the finest
estates in Scotland for shooting and coursing.
Messrs. Diddle and Fleece, W.S., Edinr., will send you
further intelligence.  I have since seen, by the
Gazette, that Cluny Monteith, your cousin, died of his
wound somewhere on the Brussels road.

.. vspace:: 1

Yours, &c."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FRANCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   FRANCE.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "These six years past I have been used to stir
   |  When the reveille rung; and that, believe me,
   |  Chooses the hours for rousing me at random,
   |  And having giving its summons, yields no license
   |  To indulge a second slumber."
   |                                *Auchindrane.*

.. vspace:: 2

It was on the morning of the 16th September that
Ronald quitted Brussels, having under his command
three hundred rank and file of the Gordon Highlanders,
as many more of the 42nd, and fifty men of
the Coldstream Guards.  Three other officers were
with him, but he was their senior both by rank and
standing.  They paraded in the park before the
king's palace, in heavy marching order, about six
o'clock in the morning, and, moving round the
corner of the palace of the Prince of Orange, they
proceeded along the Boulevard, after passing through
the Namur gate.  As they quitted the city, with
bayonets fixed and pipes playing before the fifty
Coldstreams, who of course marched in front, they
elicited shouts of applause from the Belgians, many
of whom followed them for many miles on the
Waterloo road, and several young women went much
farther, so that they never returned at all.  Stuart
had a very affectionate leave-taking with Widow
Vandergroot, whose fat oily face was bedewed with
tears at his departure.

Their route, for part of the way, lay through the
forest of Soignies; on quitting which, they entered
the plains of Waterloo, so lately the scene of that
fierce contest in which the greatest empire in Europe
had been lost and won.  They were now treading on
the hallowed ground of the field, and the murmur
of conversation, which had arisen among the
detachment the moment command to "march at ease"
had been given, now died away, and the soldiers
trod on in silence, or spoke to each other only at
intervals, and in whispers, for there was something in
the appearance of the vast grave-yard around them
which caused strange feelings of sadness to damp
the military pride that burned in every breast.

The morning was remarkably fine, with a pure
air and almost cloudless sky.  All nature looked
bright and beautiful, and the rising sun cast the
long shadows of every house and tree far across the
level landscape, where every thing was beginning to
assume a warm autumnal tint.

The farm of La Haye Sainte, the fine old château
of Hougoumont, and other houses, were all roofless
and ruined, the walls breached and battered by
cannon-shot, the parterres, the shrubberies, and orchards
destroyed; but on these wrecks of the strife they
scarcely bestowed a look.  As they marched over
the ridge where the British infantry formed line,
the sights which greeted them there caused the
Highlanders—naturally thoughtful at all times—to
become more so.

"No display of carnage, violence, and devastation
could have had so pathetic an effect as the quiet
orderly look of its fields, brightened with the
sunshine, but thickly strewed with little heaps of
upturned earth, which no *sunshine could brighten*.  On
these the eye instantly fell; and the heart, having
but a slight call made upon it from without,
pronounced with more solemnity the dreadful thing
that lay below, scarcely covered with a sprinkling
of mould.  In some spots they lay thick in clusters
and long ranks: in others, one would present itself
alone; betwixt these, a black scathed circle told
that fire had been employed to consume, as worthless
refuse, what parents cherished, friends esteemed,
and women loved.  The summer wind, that shook
the branches of the trees and waved the clover
and gaudy heads of the thistles, brought along
with it a foul stench, still more hideous to the
mind than to the offended sense.  The foot that
startled the small bird from its nest among the
grass, disturbed at the same time some poor
remnant of a human being,—either a bit of the showy
habiliments in which he took pride, or of the
war-like accoutrements which were his glory, or of the
framework of his body itself, which he felt as
comeliness and strength the instant before it became a
mass of senseless matter."

The ideas which appear to have pervaded the
mind of the writer quoted, were those of every man
of that detachment; such, indeed, as the objects in
their path, and the mournful scenes by which they
were surrounded, could scarcely fail to inspire.

Marching by easy stages, they entered Mons, the
strongly-fortified capital of Hainault.  During the
halt of two days here, most of the officers one
evening attended the theatre, a visit which nearly cost
some of them their lives.  The play was "The Fall
of Zutphen," and the dresses of the actors were as
ridiculous as their acting.  The ferocious Duke of
Alba was represented by a little fat Fleming, clad
in a cocked hat and old red coat; Frederick, his son,
by a boor, *en blouse*, who smoked a pipe composedly
during the performance.  The Dutch troops were
represented by a party of Belgian chasseurs, and the
Spanish by a strong brigade of motley-garbed
scene-shifters and candle-snuffers.  At a part of the play
where Frederick storms Zutphen, and orders his soldiers
to give it to the flames, sparing neither sex nor
age in the sack, some ashes dropped from the bowl
of this ferocious commander's pipe, and, lighting
among some sulphur and other ingredients kept for
stage purposes, set the whole scenery in a blaze.
Zutphen was in flames in earnest.  The players
rushed about in every direction, crying for help like
distracted people; but the audience, supposing the
conflagration to be a part of the play, applauded
with increasing vehemence, till the flames of
Zutphen began to extend from the stage to the other
parts of the house, and the blazing wood tumbling
about their ears, warned the Flemings of their
danger.  A tremendous rush was made for the door.
Stuart was thrown over by the press, and trod under
their feet; and had not the officer who commanded
a party of the Coldstream Guards menaced the
citizens with his sword and rescued him, my narrative
would probably have ended here.  He dragged him
out from the crowd, and they gained the street in
safety.

The next stage was Bavay, in France.  It is a
little, but very ancient town of French Hainault; and
the inhabitants, either actuated by loyalty to Louis
XVIII., or by some remnant of that old friendship
which the French had, or rather, pretended to have
had for the Scots, received the Highland detachment
with loud acclamations, and the entire population of
the little city followed them through its gloomy old
streets, till Ronald halted before the Hôtel de Ville,
where the magistrates distributed the billet orders.
The soldiers were treated with the utmost attention
and kindness by the citizens, and this was the more
pleasant, because quite unexpected on entering the
enemy's country.  It was Ronald's lot to be
quartered upon a manufacturer of those woollen
commodities which, with iron plate, are the principal
commerce of Bavay.  This worthy had a splendid
residence outside the city, where his ample garden,
orchard, &c. furnished every luxury that the delightful
climate and fruitful soil of France could yield
him.  He received Stuart coldly, for he was one of
those thorough-paced business mortals who
consider the soldier a burden, a bore, a useless and
unnecessary animal.  His wife, a plump old dame,
in a large French cap and ample petticoat, and
mademoiselle her daughter, a lively and good-looking
girl about twenty, seemed to think otherwise, and
made all the preparations in their power to receive
the soldier with attention.  There is a mysterious
something in the scarlet coat which, to the feminine
portion of this world, is quite irresistible.

The young lady made arrangements to give a little
*fête* that evening, and all her female
companions—everybody that was anybody in and about Bavay,
were to be there, and the whole house was turned
topsy-turvy; but she was wofully disappointed.

She had been singing and tinkling with the guitar
and piano to Ronald for the greater part of the day,
and he amused himself by sitting beside her, turning
over the leaves of music-books and albums, saying
soft little nothings all the while.  Madame the
mother often sang in accompaniment, and they had
become quite like old acquaintances.  But the gruff
manufacturer of cotton hose and shirts had watched
their proceedings with a louring eye, and towards
evening he took up a new position, which cut short
the preparations for the *fête*.  He placed both
mother and daughter in durance vile, by locking them
up in some retired room; after which he rode off with
the key in his pocket.  Whether he was influenced
by jealousy, or by national dislike, it is impossible
to say, but the first is rather unlikely.  Mademoiselle
was tolerably agreeable, and had a very white
hand for the daughter of a plebeian; but her mother
was ugly enough to have frightened an old troop-horse,
and Monsieur, the cotton manufacturer of
Bavay, need have given himself no uneasiness on
her account.  But the awkward affair made a great
noise in the town, and the story was related with
various pleasant additions and variations by the officers
of the *forty-twa*, on their arrival at Clichy camp,
and there was many a hearty laugh at Ronald's
expense in the mess-rooms of the ninth brigade.

Next morning, while the ladies were still under
lock and key, the detachments quitted the ancient
capital of the Nervii, and marched for La Coteau.

They were now in France; the boasted, "the
beautiful, the invincible, the sacred France,"
marching over it, treading upon its soil,—with bayonets
fixed, drums beating, and all the pomp of
war,—unobstructed and free, as conquerors.  The proud and
triumphant feelings attendant on such circumstances
conflicted in their breasts with the sentiments of
Lord Wellington's order, desiring that the allied
army were "to remember that their respective
sovereigns were the allies of his Majesty the king
of France, and that therefore France must be
considered as a *friendly* country."  The inhabitants of
the towns, and the rural districts also, beheld them
march on with apparent apathy; whatever their
secret feelings might have been, they were admirably
concealed.  A few old friends of the Bourbons
may be excepted, and these were chiefly old men
and women, living in remote parts of the country.
In some little villages they were received with shouts
of welcome: in large towns, their drums and pipes
gave forth the only sounds heard in the streets.

At Cambray, Stuart was agreeably surprised to
find that, by certain changes which had taken place
in the regiment, he had, as Lisle predicted, gained
his "spurs," and was now regimental major.

"You may thank your lucky stars for this rapid
promotion, Stuart," said the Guardsman who had
saved his life at Mons.

"I may thank death,—the slaughter of Maya,
Vittoria, Orthes, Toulouse, and Waterloo rather,"
replied Ronald.  "Certes!  I have no reason to
complain, though I have seen work, both hard and hot,
while *roughing it* in the Peninsula."

"But a major!" continued the other, "and only
three-and-twenty!  Major! a rank ever associated
with ease and good living, the gout, and six
allowances of wine at the mess, with a belt of greater
girth than that of any other man in the regiment!
I congratulate you, my friend, and propose that
we wet the commission."  And it was 'wetted'
forthwith accordingly, in some excellent *eau-de-vie*.

This promotion made Ronald completely happy;
it was the more agreeable because, like his accession
to the property of his uncle, it was quite unlooked-for.
As for the death of the latter, he had neither
reason to be glad nor very sorry; but he felt as
merry as a man can be who has suddenly succeeded
to a handsome fortune, and he demonstrated the
fact by tossing his bonnet a dozen of times to
the ceiling, at which strange employment his friend
of the Coldstream surprised him in his billet at
Brussels.

They continued their route by Peronne, Saint
Quentin, by the handsome town of Compiegne on
the Oise, and through Senlis.  The beauty and
fertility of the country through which they marched,
formed a continual theme of conversation and wonder.
Often, for the space of thirty miles, their line
of march would be overshadowed by a profusion of
apple and pear trees, bordering the highway like one
long and matchless avenue.  The trees were laden
with ripe and tempting fruit; and, in those places
where the harvest had commenced, all the inhabitants
of the district, men, women, and children, were
employed in beating the golden produce from the
trees with long poles, and gathering it into vast
heaps, which were borne off in carts or baskets to
the cider presses.  Every where Nature seemed in
her richest bloom and beauty, and the hawthorn
flower, the day-flower, the woodbine, and the honeysuckle
filled the air with the most fragrant perfumes.
The march from Brussels to Paris was perhaps the
most agreeable that the soldiers had ever performed.

On the 26th of September the detachment arrived
at Clichy, a village about two or three miles from
Paris.  Behind it the British camp was formed, and
the long lines or streets of white canvas bell-tents
pitched on the grassy bank sloping down to the
Seine, all shining white as snow in the sun and with
'the union' floating over them, formed an agreeable
prospect amid the universal green of the scenery
around.  Guards and sentries were posted round the
encampment at regular distances.  The regiments
were on their several evening parades, and a loud
but somewhat confused medley of martial music
was swelling from amid the tents, and floated away
through the still evening air.  On the smooth green
banks, and by the sandy margin of the clear blue
river, hundreds of soldiers' wives were engaged in the
homely occupation of washing and bleaching for the
troops; while swarms of healthy but ragged-looking
children, belonging to the camp, gambolled and
scampered about the green, sailed little ships on
the river, played at hide-and-seek among the tubs,
around the tents and sentries, as they made the
welkin ring with shouts of hearty English merriment.
Beyond the camp was seen the snug French
village, with its picturesque and old-fashioned houses
and still older trees, which had survived many
generations of men.  There was something very pleasing
in the aspect of some of the ancient mansions, the
high bevelled roofs, with the upper stories projecting
far above the lower,—the walls displaying a
quantity of planks running up and down, and cross-ways,
and the gables ornamented with a variety of
gilt finials and weathercocks,—all showing the
grotesque taste of a remote age.  Still farther beyond
Clichy rose the smoke and spires of Paris, which
spread afar off like a wilderness of stone and lime,
from which rose a murmur like that from a beehive,—the
strange mingling but musical hum of a vast
and distant city.

Ronald soon 'handed over' his detachment, and
joined the group of his comrades on the evening
parade.  By them he was congratulated on his
promotion and recovery, and received such an account
of the delights of Paris and the neighbourhood of
Clichy, that he regretted having been compelled to
tarry so long at Brussels.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CHÂTEAU DE MARIELLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CHÂTEAU DE MARIELLE.

.. vspace:: 2

Immediately after parade next day, Ronald
departed from Clichy on a visit to Paris, "the City
of delights," as an enthusiastic French author has
termed it,—the famous Paris of which so much has
been said, sung, and written.  But Ronald was, to a
certain degree, disappointed.  The look of every man
was sad and louring.  The armed sentinels of the
allies were in every street, their guards on every
barrier; cannon were planted to rake every
thoroughfare and avenue, and the artillery-men were
around them, match in hand, by day and night.
The soldier slept with his accoutrements on, and the
horse in his harness; and to ensure the peace of the
capital, the whole of the troops were ready to act on
a moment's notice.  The banner of Blucher waved
over Paris, and his advance was in front of it, in
position on the Orleans road; a brigade of British
occupied the Champs Elysées, and the union jack
and the white standard of Austria waved over the
summit of Montmartre.  Proud Gaul was completely
humbled, and the Parisian had lost all his
swagger, his laughter, and lightness of head and
heart.  Many of the British officers were insulted,
abused,—I believe were spit upon by the lower
classes, when the allies first entered the French
metropolis.  The people had no other means of
giving loose to the sentiments of rage, hatred,
and hostility which boiled within them.  A resort
to open violence in arms would only have ended in
the destruction of Paris, and the annihilation of its
inhabitants.  The defeat on the plains of Waterloo
will not be soon forgotten in France.  Like the
murder of Joan of Arc, it will be handed down
from parent to child; and thus, from one generation
to another, the hereditary hatred to "perfidious
Albion" will increase rather than diminish.

In Paris, and in France generally, the Highland
garb attracted more attention, and perhaps respect,
than that of any other nation.  Notwithstanding the
bitter hatred which the French avowedly bear to the
whole Isle of Britain, they sometimes make a
distinction between the Scot and his southern neighbour,
as if they were now, as of old, politically aliens
to each other.  At the cafés, the restaurateurs, the
concerts, theatres, promenades, the Boulevards, the
Jardin des Tuileries, the Champ de Mars, the Bois
de Boulogne, and public places of every kind, the
officers who wore the Celtic garb found themselves
treated with the utmost respect, attention, and even
kindness, when their countrymen belonging to
regiments 'in breeks' experienced marked coldness and
aversion.  The figure of a Highland officer passing a
milliner's shop, invariably brought all the girls in it
rushing to the door.  "An officer of the Scots!"
was the cry, and all the pretty grisettes were in the
street in a moment, to stare at and talk of the
stranger until he was out of sight.

Although Ronald had no acquaintances in Paris,
excepting those made by frequenting public places,
yet he was well pleased with the Parisians, and as
long as he had money to spare and to spend, he
enjoyed himself in a manner that he had never done
before.  Through his banker in London, he drew
many a cool hundred on his Scotch agents, Messrs. Diddle
and Fleece; and, for a time, he wasted among
grisettes, Frenchmen, and fools, rather more than
was quite prudent.  Being junior major, he had of
course nothing to do but to amuse himself, appear
on parade once a-day, and ride round the guards
and posts when on duty: he spent the whole day in
Paris, and generally returned to camp when the
*reveille* was beating, so that his hours were rather
*early* than late.

One evening, when making up a party for the
next day, the hard visage of Sergeant Macrone
appeared at the door of the tent, announcing that
his round of pleasure was closed.  The orderly-book—that
tome of ill omen, with its brass clasps and
parchment boards, was handed in, while the
non-commissioned officer, raising his hand to his
sunburned and wrinkled forehead, conveyed the
unpleasant intelligence "that her honour was for
tuty,—no the tay pefore the morn, put the fera neist."

"To-morrow?  The devil, Macrone! do you say
so?" cried the impatient major, snatching the book
from the hand of the Celt, and scanning over the
brigade orders.  "'Major Ronald Stuart, of the
Gordon Highlanders, will take command of the
detachment ordered to proceed to—' to where?  A
cursed cramped hand this!  Who wrote these orders,
Macrone?"

"The orderly sergeant, sir."

"Who is orderly?"

"Just my ainsel, sir.  Hoomh!"

"Stupid!  Could you not have said so at
once.  '—Command of the detachment proceeding to the
Château de Marielle, to relieve the Hanoverian
regiment of Kloster Zeven.'  Does anybody know where
the Château de Marielle is?"

"Two days' march from this," said Macildhui;
"near Melun.  I know the place.  Archy Douglas
and I have shot and coursed over it for a whole
week, without leave or license.  'Tis the property of
the Marquis of Laurieston."

"What!" exclaimed one, "old Clappourknuis's
brother?"

"The same.  You remember him at Merida."

"And what do the wiseacres at head-quarters
mean, in sending a detachment there?"

"I suppose they scarcely know themselves.  But
obedience—  We all know the adage."

"Wellington is the man to keep us in mind of
that; and old Pack too, with his drills for five hours
every Sunday after divine service."

"And so," said Stuart, "we must forego all the
gay scenes of Paris to live in an old château among
rooks and ancient elms.  Country quarters spoil
many a gay fellow: we had better leave our razors
at Clichy."

"Wellington has ordered you on this service as a
change, and to cure you of dangling after actresses
and grisettes; for in Paris they quite spoil decent
Highlandmen like ourselves."

"There will be neither the first nor the last at
Melun,—nothing but brown-visaged and red-haired
dairy-maids.  I hope the château contains
Laurieston's family—some agreeable young ladies
especially, to make us amends for the loss we sustain in
being ordered so far from Paris and this agreeable
camp of Clichy, where we have always dry canvas,
soft grass, and plenty of sunshine and *vin ordinaire*."

"Ladies!  I hope so," added Macildhui.  "Pretty
faces, guitars, and pianos enliven country quarters
amazingly."

Ronald and the four officers who accompanied
him were doomed to be disappointed, for the
château was occupied only by the regiment of Kloster
Zeven, and a few aged servants.  The old marchioness
and her daughters had retreated to Paris
on the first arrival of the lads in scarlet and buff.
The Hanoverians marched out of the court of the
château, with their bugles playing one of those
splendid marches for the production of which Germany is
so famous: the Highlanders marched in at the same
moment, with carried arms, and their pipes playing
"The wee German Lairdie," a tune which Macvurich,
the leading piper, adopted for the occasion.

The château stood close to the margin of the
Seine, not far from the quiet and pretty little town
of Melun, embowered among aged chesnuts, and
surrounded by orchards and groves.  It was a large
irregular building of the days of Louis XII., and
was said to have once been honoured as the
residence of the celebrated Lady de Beaujeu.  It was
covered with carved work in wood and stone, and
was surmounted by numerous turrets, vanes, and
high roofs, covered with singular round slates jointed
over each other like the scales of a serpent.  It was
in every respect a mansion of the old school, and
would have been the permanent residence of some
respectable ghost of the olden time, had it stood in
England, or more especially in Scotland.

The soldiers were billeted at free quarters on the
tenants, while the officers took up their residence in
the château, to the servants of which orders had been
given by the proprietor to provide them with every
thing they required.  Here they enjoyed themselves
much more than at Clichy, and the rickety old
house was kept in an uproar the whole day, and
sometimes the whole night too, by their merriment,
pranks, and folly.  Its splendid chambers, saloons,
and galleries were a good exchange for a turf floor
and canvas tent, which, in rainy weather, was never
water-tight till it was thoroughly soaked through.
The beds, with hangings of silk, ostrich plumes, and
silver fringes, for camp shake-downs, and the white
satin chairs, stuffed with down, were also a good
exchange for stone seats, trunks, cap-cases, knapsacks,
ammunition barrels, or whatever else could be had
in the encampment.  The mornings were spent in
riding, the days in shooting, till the preserves were
ruined and the game exterminated; and the evenings
were devoted to chess and cigars, moistened with a
few bottles of *Volnay*, *Pomard*, *Lafitte*, *champagne*,
port, or sherry, for all the cellars were at their
absolute command.  A bull-reel generally concluded
their orgies, or the sword-dance, performed on the
dining-tables; after which they were all carried off
to bed by their servants, who, on one occasion,
required the aid of a fatigue party.

France is a glorious country in which to live at
free quarters, and the Highlanders remained till the
end of October completely their own masters, away
from old Sir Dennis, from Wellington, and staff-office
surveillance, amid merriment and jollity,
spending their days and nights as they had never
spent them before in country-quarters, which are
generally so dull and lifeless.  In the frolic and
festivity of their superiors the privates fully participated,
and many a merry though rather confused dance
did they enjoy with the cottagers by moonlight on
the grassy lawn, where the slender peasant girl, the
agile husbandman, and the strong thickset clansman
mingled together, leaping and skipping, with better
will than grace, to the stirring sounds of the warlike
bagpipes.

There was one subject alone which kept Ronald
in a certain state of uneasiness,—the non-arrival of
letters from his father, although he had regular
despatches from Alice and her brother, which were
brought him every fortnight from the *Hôtel de Postes*
at Melun by Macvurich, who acted as postman for
the château.  He concluded that all were well at
the old tower, but that by some strange fatality his
father's letters were always destined to miscarry.

On the 26th of October they took a sad adieu of
the venerable Château de Marielle, of its saloons,
its parks, its emptied cellars and rifled preserves.
Right glad was old Chambertin, the butler, to behold
them depart; and I dare say he thanked Providence
devoutly, when the last gleam of their bayonets
flashed down the old gloomy chestnut avenue.  Late
on the night of the 25th, an aide-de-camp (Lieut. D——
of 22nd Dragoons) brought Stuart an order,
directing him to remove his detachment to Clichy,
from which the regiment was about to march *en
route* for Calais.  It was eleven at night when the
order arrived; and by daybreak next morning they
were all on the road, with bag and baggage, and had
left Melun far behind them.  The soldiers were
overjoyed at the prospect of returning home, and they
cheered and huzzaed lustily as they marched along,
and displayed their handkerchiefs on ramrods, and
their bonnets on their bayonets, in the extravagance
of their delight.  So eager were they to rejoin, that
they marched back the twenty-eight miles in one
day, and arrived in the camp at Clichy just as the
bugles were proclaiming sunset.

On the tented ground all were in a state of
commotion and preparation.  Many regiments were under
orders for England; the brigades were broken up,
and many alterations were made regarding those
troops that were to remain in France, to form the
'Army of Occupation,' for three years.  Next day
Ronald mounted and set off for Paris, to pay some
of his old haunts a last visit, and to avoid the bustle
of the camp, where he left entirely to the care of
Warristoun, his servant, the task of packing and
arranging his baggage for the cars.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PARIS, DE MESMAI, AND THE HÔTEL DE CLUGNY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   PARIS, DE MESMAI, AND THE HÔTEL DE CLUGNY.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "A light heart and a thin pair of breeches
   |  Go through the world, my boys."
   |                                  *Old Song.*

.. vspace:: 2

While riding slowly along the Boulevard de la
Madeline, Ronald saw before him an officer,—a
Frenchman, but one with whose figure he imagined
he was acquainted.  He was a tall and handsome
man, and wore the scarlet uniform of Louis the
Eighteenth's garde-du-corps.

"I'll bet a hundred to one that is De Mesmai,"
said Stuart, communing with himself.  "The rogue
has changed sides; but I think I should know him
by that inconceivable swagger of his."

There was no doubt of his being the cuirassier;
and, as he presently stopped to speak at the door
of a shop in the Rue Royale, Stuart touched him on
the shoulder.

"Monsieur de Mesmai," said he, holding out his
hand, "I hope you are quite well.  You have
not forgotten me, surely: we had some odd
adventures together in Spain.  You remember the *cura*
of?—"

"Monsieur—monsieur—  *Diable*!  I have quite
forgotten your name."

"Stuart, of the Gordon Highlanders."

"Stuart?  I remember now.  A thousand pardons,—and
as many welcomes to Paris!" exclaimed the
Frenchman, grasping his hand and breaking into a
profusion of bows, every one of which threatened to
jerk to the other side of the Boulevard the little red
cap which surmounted his large curly head.

"You have been very little about Paris, surely,
Monsieur Stuart, very little indeed since the—" he
paused and smiled bitterly, "since the allies came
to it."

"I have been for two months in country quarters
at the Château de Marielle, near Melun."

"Delightful place: I know it well.  Fine horse
that of yours; very like my old cuirassier."

"And so you have changed sides, I see; like
Soult and many others."

"No, by the name of the bomb!" cried the
Frenchman, his cheek flushing while he spoke.
"No, faith! compare me not with Soult!  I was
one of the last who quitted the great Emperor, and
my honour is spotless.  But what could I do,
Monsieur Stuart?  He has been hurried on by his
destiny, his evil genius, or some such villainous agent,
to wreck the fame and fortune of himself, his
soldiers, and of France, by delivering himself
up—*sacre!* to the British.  What was I then to do?
I had been a soldier from my youth upwards.  I
had interest to procure a commission as captain in
the guards of Louis, who is pleased, *sacre nom
de*—bah! to array us in scarlet; and I've been in Paris
ever since Waterloo, where I received a severe
wound.  I have had hard work to get back from
King Louis' ministers the poor remnant that dice,
wine, and women have left of mine ancient
patrimony, which has descended to my worshipful self
through as long a line of respectable ancestors as
ever wore bag-wigs, steel doublets, and long swords.
I lost my château of Quinsay when I went with
the Emperor to Elba—that dismal isle, which the
devil confound!  I gained it again on his happy
return to France,—lost it at Waterloo; but regained
it when I donned the scarlet in the guards of the
most worshipful Louis, our dread lord and sovereign.
*Peste*!  After all, I am a lucky dog."

It may be imagined that Ronald, having once
fallen in with this veteran scapegrace, would have
found it by no means easy to escape from his society,
even had he felt disposed to venture on attempting
the feat.  So well was the young Highlander
acquainted with the probabilities in this particular,
that he resolved to leave it unattempted; and
having, by especial and all but unhoped-for good luck,
managed, though in company with his unhesitating
friend, to pass two days and nights without coming
to any serious bodily harm, he began to feel it
incumbent on him to return thanks for his preservation,
and to prepare for his approaching departure
from the "City of delights."

Before De Mesmai could be induced to allow himself
to be persuaded of the necessity of even the last
of these proceedings, he insisted on a visit to the
Baron de Clappourknuis, who, he averred, had made
his peace with the new ministry, kissed the hand
of Louis XVIII., burned his commission from
Napoleon, and resided quietly at the venerable Hôtel
de Clugny.

"This cunning old grey-beard and I took different
sides in the last uproar," said the captain, as they
walked along.  "He went with Louis to Ghent;
while I, as in duty bound, joined—  But I had better
say nothing more.  We are now in the streets of
Paris, where every second man is either a
jack-booted gendarme or a villainous government spy.
Monsieur le Baron saved his dirty acres by this
policy, while I narrowly lost mine and the old house
of Quinsay, with its ruined hall, where a colony of
rooks, bats, and owls have been comfortably
quartered for more than twenty years.  Clappourknuis
is as little enamoured of campaigning, as I am of
his crack-jaw name.  No, by the bomb! had he
loved the flash of bright steel and the clank of
accoutrements, he would have joined the Emperor on
his quitting Elba.  And yet I once beheld him charge
bravely at the head of a regiment of Polish lancers.
They were attacking a solid square of the regiment
of Segovia; and it was a splendid sight to behold
them, as they swept past the flank of the cuirassiers
in line.  At the first blast of the trumpet their
thousand lances sunk at once to the rest, their bright
heads flashing like a shower of falling stars; and
the next moment they were riding into the mass of
terrified Spaniards, as one would ride through a river.
But he has hung his sabre on the wall, and now
reposes in the ancient hôtel, basking in the smiles
of the fair Diane, and snugly ensconced under the
shadow of his laurels, which, by-the-by, are very
likely to grow into other ornaments less agreeable to
his martial brow, if he does not look a little sharper
after Madame."

"I told you of my adventure with her on the Pyrenees."

"Yes; you will be a welcome friend, unless the
story has roused some unpleasant surmises in the
mind of the baron, who is rather inclined to be
suspicious, although his pate is so thick that we
considered it sabre-proof in the 'Devil's Own.'  I know
that he looks upon me with eyes the reverse of
friendly.  *Parbleu!* what care I?  Madame Diane
behaves to me with remarkable attention.  Ha! my
friend, you see what it is to have a name: all the
women of Paris either love or fear me.  While
Monsieur le Baron sits in a corner moping and growling
over his swaddled and gouty leg, I draw my chair
beside Madame at the harp, and sit turning over the
leaves of her music, exchanging soft glances, and
saying things quite as soft between.  She is an
amazingly fine creature, although she jilted so cruelly
poor Victor d'Estouville of the Imperial Guard."

"If this is the footing on which you visit the
Hôtel de Clugny, I think I could scarcely have
chosen a more unlucky companion for my morning
call."

"*Pardieu*!  Monsieur, this is Paris, where no
husband of sense makes himself in the least uneasy
about the intrigues of his wife, and I should wish
to teach old Clappourknuis a lesson.  He was twelve
months a prisoner in England, where he picked up
some of the strangest notions in the world about
conjugal fidelity and other matters, which, in France,
we know only by name.  He must now pay the
penalty of marrying a giddy creature, young enough
to be his grand-daughter.  We have a proverb among
us, mon ami, which says, 'Beware of women, of fire,
of water, and the regiment de Sault.'  Now I am
ready to demonstrate to you logically, that the first
part of that proverb—  But, poh! here is the
residence of Monsieur le Baron.  *Pardieu!* a strange
old rookery it is; and yet he admires it, because it
is the oldest house in Paris."

Passing through an archway, they found themselves
in an irregular sort of quadrangle, formed
by buildings in a very ancient style of architecture,
with mullioned windows, Gothic cusps and pinnacles,
casements on the roof, two octagon towers projecting
into the court, and one circular turret, which
was built out from the wall, and shot up to a great
height above the others.  Numerous coats of arms
and initial letters appeared above the doors and
windows, and an antique fountain sparkled and
murmured in a corner of the court, with a drooping tree
spreading its branches over the stone basin into
which the water fell.  There was an appearance of
picturesque and gloomy grandeur about the place,
but there was likewise an air of desolation and
decay without, which did not correspond with the rich
hangings and furniture that appeared through the
open windows; while the bustle which pervaded the
court and passages, showed that the house was
occupied by a large establishment.

"A strange old place, this."

"*Diable!* yes; a gloomy old bomb-house, fit
only for the bat and the owl.  And yet 'tis here
the baron keeps Madame Diane, one of the gayest
women within the gay and glorious circle of the
Boulevards.  'Tis the Château de Clugny; but for
Heaven's sake and our own, do not say any thing
about it to the baron, who has of late been seized
by a fit of antiquarianism, or we shall probably have
the whole history of it rehearsed, from the time of
Noah down to the present day."

The baron was at home, and a servant announced
their names.

He was not much changed in appearance since
Ronald had seen him in Estremadura; he looked
as rough and weather-beaten as ever, and sat in a
gilded easy chair, rolled in a rich brocaded
dressing-gown, with one of his legs swaddled up in a
multitude of bandages, and resting upon a cushion.
A small velvet forage-cap covered his grey hair, and
half revealed a deep scar from a sabre-cut across
the forehead.

The apartment into which the visitors were shown,
was a splendid old chamber fitted up as a library;
and a softened light, which stole through between
the thick mullions and twisted tracery of two large
windows, cast the varied tints of the stained glass
upon the long shelves of richly gilt but musty old
books, on globes, on antique swords and fragments
of steel armour, on ancient chairs and deep-red
hangings, on spurs and helmets, and on rolls and bundles
of papers, heaped and in confusion.  The ceiling was
covered with stucco fret-work and gilding.  Three
large portraits were in the room: these were
likenesses of the famous Mississippi Law—as he was
styled; of Beau Law, shot at the siege of Pondichery,
fighting against the British; and of the Marquis
of Laurieston, in his uniform as a General of the
Empire, covered with gold oak-leaves and Orders.

The Baron, whom they found immersed in the
pages of a huge and antique tome, threw it aside on
their entrance, and bowed with an air of politeness
so constrained, that it was evident Captain de
Mesmai was far from being considered a welcome visitor.
The consciousness that he had such an introducer
made Stuart feel rather uncomfortable, but De
Mesmai's consummate effrontery caused him to value the
baron's coldness not a rush.  A piano, which stood
at one end of the room, was closed.  The young
baroness was not then at home.

"*Monsieur le Baron*," said the captain, placing
his cap under his arm, and leading forward Stuart,
"allow me to introduce Major Stuart, an officer of a
Scots regiment, and a very particular friend of mine,
who has come to pay you a visit before marching for
Calais to-morrow."

"*Eh bien!*" said the baron, extending his hand,
and raising his eyebrows.  "I am very happy to see
Monsieur Stuart; his name is one for which I have
a very great respect.  But," he added with a smile,
"you give him a bad recommendation in saying he
is a 'particular friend' of yours.  Remember, you
are considered the greatest *roué* and libertine that
Paris contains,—between the Champ de Mars and
La Roquette."

"*Pardieu!*"

"In truth you are a very sad fellow," continued
the baron, while a servant placed chairs for the
visitors.  "Your name is on every man's tongue."

"And woman's too."

"Worse still.  Ay, Maurice, in Massena's corps
we considered you no apostle.  But draw your
chairs nearer to the fire; 'tis cold this morning.
And here, you Monsieur Jacques," addressing the
servant; "bring a couple of logs for the fire, and
place the glasses and decanters on the table."

A smoky wood fire blazed in a large basket or
grate of brass and iron-work placed on the hearthstone:
above it rose the arch of an antique mantelpiece.
The square space around the grate was
covered with small diamond-shaped pieces of Delft
ware, which were neatly joined together, and
reflected the light and heat.

"Monsieur le Baron will remember that I have
not had the pleasure of seeing him since we were last
together in Spanish Estremadura," said Ronald;
"at Almendralejo, or Villa Franca, I think."

"Indeed, monsieur!" replied the old man, bowing.
"Ah, *misericorde*!  I was a prisoner then.  You
must excuse me; but I have seen so many places
and faces, that if I do not exactly remember—"

"I am the officer who shared his ration-biscuit
with you one morning at Merida, when the troops
were so scant of provisions."

"What!  *Mon Dieu!*" cried the old soldier, grasping
him energetically by both hands, "are you that
officer?"

"I am the same, monsieur."

"How happy I am to have you here in Paris,—in
my own house, that I may repay you—at least, as
far as hospitality can—for the bestowal of that half
biscuit, wet and mouldy as it was from being
carried—"

"A forty miles' march in a wet havresack.  I was
about to take command of an out-lying picquet, and
the biscuit was my first ration for three consecutive
days."

"Ay, my friends," said De Mesmai with unusual
gravity, while he filled up the glasses, "those were
stirring times, when one might see true soldiering."

"I well remember the morning," continued the
baron; "and very disconsolate fellows your picquet
seemed, as they marched by the light of the grey
dawn along the muddy Plaza, with their muskets
slung, and their feathers and great coats soaked in
water, for the rain was pouring down like a second
deluge.  On my honour, monsieur!  I have often
thought of the generous Scottish officer and the wet
biscuit.  I had been famishing for eight and forty
hours.  Ah! 'twas an interesting adventure that."

"Not so interesting by one half," said De Mesmai
slowly, while a wicked smile lurked on his
moustached mouth; "not so singular by one half as my
friend's adventure with the baroness on the Pyrenees,
after King Joseph's misfortunes at Vittoria.  There
is something very unique, quite romantic, in that
story."

"Monsieur, was it you who—"

Stuart began to murmur something about having
"had the pleasure to be of some service to the
baroness—"

"I have heard of it," said the baron.  "Oh,
monsieur, you quite overpower me with your services.
How shall we ever repay you!"

"I was merely instrumental.  The officer who had
the honour to escort the baroness to Gazan's outposts
was killed soon afterwards, when Soult forced
the passes."

"On the 25th.  Twenty devils!  I was there,"
said the baron, turning up his eyes.  "Bloody work
it was, and your mountaineers defended the hills
with a valour bordering on madness.  Your
health! monsieur.  'Tis plain *vin ordinaire*, this; I am
restricted to its use, but the decanter next you
contains *Lafitte*."

"I will take Lafitte, with your permission."

The baron bowed.

"*Vive l'Empereur*," muttered De Mesmai as he
raised his glass, while the baron held up one finger
warningly, and cast a furtive glance at the door.  "I
pray to Heaven," continued the captain, whom some
old recollections had excited, "that the *violet* may
return to France in the spring."  He drank
enthusiastically.  The baron emptied his glass in silence,
and Ronald did the same, although he knew that
*the violet* meant Napoleon, who was known by that
name among his friends and adherents.

"Well, Maurice; I heard you were about to be
married to a widow with three streets,—old Madame
Berthollet, of the Rue de Rivoli," said the baron.
"Or perhaps you are already married?"

"Diable!  monsieur," said De Mesmai, indignantly;
"do *I* look like a married man!"

"I know not, Maurice; but I imagine that the
gay old lady would have little reason to rejoice in
her domestic speculation.  You are the best man in
Paris to make her golden Louis and Napoleons
vanish like frost in the sunshine.  And so,
monsieur," addressing Stuart, "your regiment marches
to-morrow?"

"For Calais, *viá* Montfort, where we shall be
joined by two other Scottish regiments, which are
also under orders for home."

"A good voyage to the gallant Scots! as our
fashionable song says," replied the baron, emptying
his glass.

"Excellent!" cried De Mesmai, before Stuart
could thank the baron; "and I hope that Madame
will soon return, as I wish very much to hear her
perform that piece on the piano.  Madame Berthollet—"

"Of the Rue de Rivoli?" interrupted the baron.

"—Informed me that her style excels the most
celebrated masters in Paris."

"Indeed!" said the baron coldly, but bowing to
De Mesmai, whom he heartily wished at the bottom
of the sea, or any other place than the Château de
Clugny, where his visit had now extended to twice
the usual time of a morning call.

"By the bomb! here comes Madame!" said
the *ci-devant* cuirassier, as a carriage drove into the
court.  "Monsieur le Baron must allow me the
honour—"

He snatched up his cap, and vanished from the
room, while the features of the invalid assumed a
most vinegar aspect of anger and uneasiness, which
he attempted to conceal from Ronald by conversing
about the weather and other trivial matters.  Meanwhile
the captain, with all the air of a true French
gallant, assisted the baroness to alight, and led her
into the house.  They were long in ascending the
staircase, and the baron's face grew alternately red
and white, while he fidgeted strangely in his easy
chair.  At last a servant opened the door of the
room, and the handsome captain, with his right hand
ungloved, led forward Madame, who, as she swept
in with her long rustling skirt, and with the feathers
of her bonnet drooping over a rich shawl, appeared a
very dashing figure, quite a woman of *ton*, and
possessing all that indescribable *je ne sais quoi* of face
and figure, which are wholly the attributes of what
the Scots call 'gentle blood,' and which never can
be attained by the vulgar.  Her morning drive on
the Boulevards, the exercise of ascending the steep
old stairs of the hotel, and perhaps a sensation of
pleasure at meeting with De Mesmai, had heightened
the glow of her cheeks, and a rich bloom suffused
them.  Her eyes were sparkling with French
vivacity, and she looked radiantly beautiful.

"Eh! monsieur, my dear friend!" cried she,
springing towards Stuart with the bird-like step of
a Parisian lady.  "How happy, oh! how very happy
I am to see you here!  I would give you a pretty
kiss, if I dared.  But pray, monsieur, be seated; and
here, De Mesmai, help me off with my things."

"How, madame, do you recognise me after so
long a lapse of time, and after such, a very short
interview?  One at night,—by a picquet fire, too?"

"De Mesmai told me you were here," said she,
as that adroit cavalier removed her bonnet and shawl,
and even adjusted her hair, which was braided
above her forehead and fastened behind with a
pearl-studded comb *à la Grec*.  The soldier laid
aside the bonnet, arranged the veil, and folded the
collar and shawl with so much the air of a *femme de
chambre*, that Stuart could with difficulty repress a
smile; but to the lady and her husband it appeared
nothing unusual.

"The baroness is a fashionable beauty, certainly,"
thought the wondering Scot; "but my wife will not
be a French woman, thank Heaven!"

"That will do, Maurice," said the lady, freely and
easily; "that will do, I thank you.  *Mon Dieu!*  I
shall never wear that horrid shawl any more; mantelets
of satin, laced and furred, are becoming all the
rage.  Maurice, I know you have quite the eye of
a *modiste*; tell me, don't you think that a mantelet
will become me?"

"Madame would appear superb in any thing,"
replied the other without hesitation, but bowing
low while he spoke.

"Oh, Maurice, you are getting quite commonplace.
But I suppose it will become me as well
as the venerable Berthollet of the Rue de Rivoli."

"Doubtless, madame," replied the Guardsman
composedly; while, without noticing her roguish
look, he handed her a glass of wine.

"And here, this dear naughty husband of mine
asks me not a single question about my morning
airing," said Madame, as she sprang up and arranged
the cushions at the old man's back.  "Maurice,
help me to punch these pillows.  Monsieur the
baron has been poring over some musty old book
till he has been quite overcome with *ennui*, I
suppose.  *Mon Dieu!* what a horrid thing it is to
become an antiquary!" she continued, as she turned
up her fine eyes, and shrugged her fair shoulders.
"Do you know, Monsieur Stuart, that ever since
the baron became a member of the *Comité Historique
des Arts et Monumens*, he has been like a man
bewitched!"

The attention of his beautiful wife restored the
old man's urbanity and good humour, and when the
baroness pressed the visitors to remain to dinner, he
seconded her invitation, and they stayed.

Stuart had reason to regret that they did so, for
De Mesmai's folly brought about a very disagreeable
termination to the visit.

After much common-place conversation, he
requested the baroness to favour them with the
fashionable air then so much in vogue, and she at
once acceded.  The old baron was quite charmed
with his wife's performance, and, closing his eyes,
beat time with his fingers on a worm-eaten volume
of Pierre de Maimbourg; but his triumph was
somewhat soured by the presence of De Mesmai, who
seated himself close by Diane for the purpose of
turning over the leaves, and he seemed quite in
raptures with her.  Stuart likewise was much pleased,
for the soft tones of her voice were delightful to hear,
and his patriotism was roused and his pride flattered
by the words of the song,—'A good Voyage to the
gallant Scots.'  It was a quick and lively air, and
had been first adopted by the garde-du-corps and
other troops of Louis XVIII., after which it rapidly
became popular: the ladies sounded it forth from
their harps and pianos, the dandies hummed it on
the Boulevards, the boys whistled it in the streets,
and the grisettes sung it at their work; and, from
reveillé till tattoo, scarcely any other tune was heard
in the camps, barracks, and cantonments.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A CATASTROPHE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A CATASTROPHE.

.. vspace:: 2

"Ah, madame!" exclaimed De Mesmai, whom
experience among his countrywomen had taught
that the dose of flattery could never be too strong
for them, "how much we are indebted to you!
Such brilliancy of instrumental execution, and such
a voice!  My friend, Major Stuart, will allow—or
rather will be compelled to admit—that you far
excel any other singer he has ever heard in Paris,
Lisbon, or Madrid?"

Although this was not strictly true, Ronald of
course replied in the affirmative.  There is no
flattery which can be too pointed for a *Parisienne*, who
can hear, as mere matters of course, such observations
as would bring the red blood rushing into the
fair face of an English lady.

De Mesmai engrossed to himself nearly the whole
conversation of the baroness, and they chatted away,
with amazing volubility and merriment, on such
light matters as the marriages, intrigues, and flirtations
of one half of Paris,—the fashionable part at
least,—while the petulant baron, after various
ineffectual attempts to interrupt their interesting
*tête-à-tête*, abandoned the idea of doing so; and, while
reconnoitring their position with watchful eyes, and
listening with open ears, he gave Stuart a very long
and very tiresome account of the learned society, to
the affairs of which, since the peace of 1814, he had
devoted his whole attention.

De Mesmai and the lady, or, to speak more correctly,
the lady and De Mesmai, were seated on an
opposite sofa, and so close, that their dark hair
almost mingled together,—this, too, before the eyes
of the baron.  They conversed in a low tone, which
every instant swelled out into a laugh; and such
glances of deep and hidden meaning were exchanged,
that, had they been observed, they would have
entirely discomposed old Clappourknuis's antiquarian
discussions about ruins, medals, coins, MSS., &c. &c.
Stuart thought his friend a very odd fellow, and
certainly the free manners of the baroness did not
heighten his opinion of Parisian wives.

Dinner was served up in excellent style, but what
it consisted of has nothing to do with this history.
There were enough and to spare of wonderful French
dishes, which the Highlander had never seen before,
and probably has never heard of since.  Stuart
having led the baroness to the dining-room, De Mesmai
led her back again to the library, falling into the
rear of the baron, who was borne thither in his
arm-chair by six stout valets, with his gouty leg
projecting like a bowsprit.  In this trim, as host, he
led the way from the table.  Coffee and wine were
awaiting them in the library, which was lighted up
by wax candles placed in antique candelabras.  The
crimson curtains were drawn, and a cheerful fire
blazed on the hearth and roared up the wide chimney.
The old gilt volumes on the shelves, the steel
arms and armour, the splendid picture-frames, the
wine-decanters, the silver coffee equipage, and every
thing else of metal or crystal, glittered in the ruddy
light, and the baron's library appeared the most
snug place imaginable.

Stuart, who had been accustomed to sit long at
the mess-table,—rather a failing; with the valiant
ninety-*twa*,—was unable to adopt the foreign custom
of taking coffee immediately after dinner.  He
therefore joined the baron in paying attention to a
decanter of light French wine; but De Mesmai sipped
the simple beverage, seated by Madame at a side-table
where the coffee was served up, and his attentions
became so very particular and decided, that in
any house in Britain they must have ensured his
exit by the window instead of the door.  But the
baron, although a very jealous husband, was a
Frenchman, and consequently did not perceive any
thing very heinous in the attention paid to his wife
by the gay guardsman; yet he would rather have
seen him lying at full length in the *morgue*, than
seated at the little side-table with the baroness.

But Monsieur le Baron having dined to his entire
satisfaction, was rather inclined to be in a good
humour, and, after a time, he was obliging enough to
place the high stuffed back of his easy chair
between himself and the *tête-à-tête* which his gay
lady enjoyed with her still gayer cavalier.

Finding that Stuart was conversant with *Père
d'Orleans*; the *Histoire des Croisades* of Pierre de
Maimbourg, and other old authors,—thanks to the
tawse of his dominie, the old minister of Lochisla,—the
baron resolved to make a victim of him for the
remainder of the evening, and bored him most
unmercifully with long antiquarian and archaeological
disquisitions, which were varied only by still more
tedious accounts of his campaigns under Napoleon.

He spent an hour in detailing enthusiastically the
services and deeds of the Scots Guards[\*] in France,
from the time that Alexander III. sent them to
Saint Lewis for service in the Holy Land down to
the battle of Pavia, where the Scottish corps threw
themselves into a circle around Francis I., and he
was not captured by the enemy till only four of that
brave band were left alive.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Now the 1st regiment of the line, or Royal Scots,
the oldest corps in Europe.

.. vspace:: 2

"And we are told in this book," continued the
prosy baron, laying his hand on a mighty tome of
Philip de Comines; "we are told in this book that
the life of Louis XI., when he was attacked by the
rebellious Burgundians at Liege, was saved solely
by the valour of the Scots Guards, who formed a
rampart around him till the Burgundians were defeated."

"*Morbleu!* monsieur," said De Mesmai, who now
joined them, as the baroness had withdrawn, "the
story of the duel between the Sieur de Vivancourt
of the regiment of Picardie and the Scots Royal,
is worth all that you will find in Philip—Philip—*peste*!
I have forgotten his name.  But I will wager
a hundred Napoleons to one, that he does not relate
a story by one half so good as that which I have
heard from you, of the unpleasant manner in which
the English widow of Monsieur of France, Louis
XII., was surprised in a *tête-à-tête* with the Duke of
Suffolk, in this very apartment, by the furious Duke
de Valois, who compelled her to marry Suffolk upon
the very instant,—ay, *pardieu!* at the very
drumhead, as the saying is."

Certain associations occurring to the baron's mind
made him colour, as he raised his eyes from his
flannel-cased legs, to the tall, erect, and soldier-like
figure of De Mesmai.  He glanced furtively at the
chair of the baroness, but it was empty.

"Ay, Maurice, 'twas a strange affair that; but
Monsieur of Valois should have given the English
duke a year or two's residence in the Bastile for his
presumption.  The stone cages of Louis XI. were
then in good condition, and should always have been
tenanted by such blades as Monsieur of Suffolk."

"You are very savage in disposition, monsieur,
to talk of punishing so slight a *faux pas* so severely.
But you will allow that a little gallantry is
excusable here in our sunny clime of France."  The old
man glanced keenly at the swaggering guardsman,
and saw a strange smile on his face.  "A comfortable
place this, faith!" he continued; "and if these
old walls could speak, they would tell strange tales
of hatred and sorrow, joy and grief.  Many a fair
one's scruples have been routed by the *coup-de-main*
of the stout gallants of the olden time.  Monsieur
le Baron must know that our friend Stuart admires
this old house of Clugny amazingly.  You cannot
conceive the sensations of pleasure with which he
viewed that gloomy court."

These last observations were made by De Mesmai
to serve an end of his own.  It was the baron's
hobby to have his house praised, and in return he
invariably bored his visitors with a prolix account
of it.  Having, as he supposed, set fire to the train,
De Mesmai retired to promenade in the garden with
Madame, while her husband plunged at once into
the history of the Hôtel de Clugny.  He began with
the time when its site was occupied by the palace
of the Roman emperors in Gaul, the *Palatium Thermarum*,
erected A.D. 300, from which date he traced
its history down to Clovis, the founder of the French
monarchy, thence to the time of Philip Augustus,
who in 1218 bestowed it on one of his chamberlains.
On the site of the Palatium Thermarum the
Abbot of Clugny built the present hotel, which was
finished and completed, as it stands at present, by
Jacques d'Amboise in 1505.  James V. of Scotland
resided in it for some months after his marriage
with the beautiful and unfortunate Madeline of
France.  From that period the indefatigable baron
related its vicissitudes, and those of its several
occupants, down to the days of the Revolution.  He was
just describing a celebrated conclave of that
revolutionary body, the section Marat, who met in the
apartment where they were then conversing, when,
on looking round, he became suddenly aware that
the baroness and De Mesmai were both absent.
He changed colour, stopped in his history, and
became much disturbed.

"*Mon ami!*" said he, "where is the Captain de Mesmai?"

"I know not," said Stuart, looking round with
surprise, and missing him for the first time.  "He
was here a moment since, and I did not see him
leave the room."

"*Diable!*" growled the baron, grinding his teeth.

"He is probably in the garden enjoying a cigar.
I observed him take from his pocket the silver case
which he carries."

"A silver case?  Pooh! he got that from the
baroness."

"A handsome present."

"Ah! she gained it at some lottery in the Palais
Royal," said the poor baron, making a desperate
attempt to converse freely, while he rung a small
hand-bell.  "*Attendez, Jacques*: tell Madame we
should be glad to have the honour of her company,
because Monsieur Stuart marches to-morrow,
and—  Ha! ha! what am I saying?  You understand—be
quick, Jacques," he cried to the valet, who had
appeared at his summons.  "She is either in her
own apartment, or in some of the lower drawing-rooms."

His suspicions were still further aroused.  Jacques
returned in three minutes, saying that Madame
could not be found; that she must have left the
hotel, or be promenading in the garden.

"*Mon Dieu!*" roared the impetuous baron, gnashing
his teeth at the astonished valet.  "Leave the
room, rascal!  What are you staring at?  I am
undone!  Hand the case, monsieur; these pistols—they
are loaded.  They are together—I knew it—in
the garden.  *Sacre*!  I have long expected something
of this kind.  An assignation! the base minion! the
worthless *ribaud*!  I will have his blood!
I will rip him up with my sabre!  *Tête Dieu!* am
I to be disgraced in my own house?  Ha, ha! ho,
ho!" and he laughed like a madman.

Stuart rose, feeling all the confusion and
astonishment which a visitor might be supposed to
experience at such a juncture.  The baron seemed
bursting with rage, and rolled about among the
pillows of his easy chair, making fruitless efforts to
raise himself upon his gouty limbs; and he raved
and swore in the mean time like a maniac.  At last,
in the extremity of his distress, he implored Ronald
to see if they were in the garden.

"How very foolish he is making himself appear,"
thought Ronald, as he descended the lighted stair,
laughing at the ludicrous aspect of the baron in his
cap, gown, and bandaged legs, and his red weather-beaten
visage flaming with the fury and exasperation
into which he had lashed himself.  Descending a
stair in one of the octagon towers, he found himself
in the garden.  The night was very dark, the air was
cold, and the trees, shrubbery, and bowers appeared
to be involved in the deepest gloom.  The darkness
seemed greater, in consequence of his having just left
the brilliantly-illuminated library, where old
Clappourknuis sat growling like a bear with pain and
anger.  A curtain was drawn back from one of "the
windows of the hotel, and a stream of light falling
across a walk of the garden, revealed the figure of a
female.  It was the baroness, and Stuart advanced
to meet her, feeling considerable reluctance to
announce the rage, or hint at the suspicions, of her
husband.  His cogitations were cut short by the lady
springing forward, and throwing herself into his arms.

"*Maurice, mon cher ami!* how long you have kept
me waiting," she exclaimed, in a loud whisper.
"I have been here on this dreary walk nearly five
minutes; and indeed—but one kiss, dear Maurice!
and then—  Oh! what is this?  You have no
moustaches.  *Ah, mon Dieu!* what have I done?"

She had, when too late, discovered her mistake.
At that moment a window of the library was dashed
open, and the strange figure of the unfortunate
archaeologist appeared with a pistol in each hand,
threatening death and destruction to all.  The light
which shone into the garden revealed the scene on
the walk,—the baroness hanging on the breast of
Stuart, whom, as he was without his bonnet and
plaid, she had mistaken for De Mesmai in the
scarlet uniform of the garde-du-corps.  Clappourknuis
muttered a tremendous malediction, and fired both
pistols into the walk.  Ronald escaped death as
narrowly as ever he did, even on any occasion in
Spain, and the lady was in equal peril.  One ball
struck from her head the high comb which confined
her hair, and the other whistled within an inch of
Stuart's nose; after which it shattered a gigantic
flower-pot close by.  Diane uttered a shriek, and fled
like a startled hare from the garden; and, gaining
her own apartment, shut herself up, and Stuart
never beheld her again.

"*Morbleu!*" said the incorrigible De Mesmai,
whom the destruction of the jar, and the consequent
prostration of an immense American aloe, had
revealed, "I was just looking for the baroness on the
other side of the garden.  *Sacre!* 'tis a most unlucky
assignation this, and broken heads must follow!
Ha! ha! how now, my most virtuous Scot, who will
not dance with grisettes on Sunday, and yet makes
an assignation with a married lady in a garden, and
at night!  Where are all your precepts and fine
sayings?  Ho! ho! ho!  Hark! how the baron storms
and blasphemes, like any Cossack or Pagan!"

"The fierce old madman!" exclaimed Ronald,
enraged at his narrow escape.  "He was within a
hair's-breadth of shooting me through the head!"

"Rather unpleasant, after all your campaigning,
to be shot in this way, like a crow," replied the
other, who was laughing so heartily that he clung
to an apple-tree for support.  "How romantic!  A
touching interview in the dark,—the lady all sighs,
and the gentleman all animation!  By the bomb,
'tis superb!  What a pity there was no moon!  A
silvery moon would have made the whole affair just
as it should have been.  But then this unpleasant
discharge of small arms—"

"Dare you attempt to lay the blame of this
matter on me?" asked Ronald, indignantly.  "You
are alone the cause of all this uproar.  The baron
has mistaken me for you."

"And the baroness has done the same.  *Diable!*"

"What is to be done now?":

"Retreat without beat of drum, I suppose."

"That would show but poor spirit, I think."

"*Eh bien!* you are right.  I will show face.  The
baron is only a man, and a man five feet high by
six round the waist.  I will brazen it out, and swear
by a caisson of devils 'tis all a mistake.  I will, by
the bomb! and could do so in the presence of his
Jolliness the Pope.  *Vive la joie*!  Come with me,
my friend, and I will explain all the uproar to this
outrageous baron.  I am used to squabbles of this
kind, and will soothe his vivacity.  *Peste!* what
a hideous noise he makes!"

The baron had roared himself hoarse, and Jacques,
with five other stout servants, had been barely able
to keep him fast in his arm-chair, where he panted,
kicked, and bellowed, swearing by every thing in
heaven and on earth that he would pistol De
Mesmai, slay his wife, and murder them all.  He would
get a *lettre de cachet*,—forgetting that the days of
such matters had happily passed away,—and immure
them all in the dungeons of the Bastile.  He would
rouse the powers of darkness to revenge him!  At
last a terrible fit of the gout fairly stopped his
clamour, and he was borne off to bed, speechless and in
imminent danger.  The baroness appeared no more,
and De Mesmai, the cause of the whole disturbance,
sat with perfect nonchalance, with his legs stretched
out before the library fire, a glass of wine in one
hand and twirling a moustache with the other, while
swearing to Stuart by the bomb that he had never
heard such an outcry before!

"Positively, my friend," said he, "had I carried
off the baroness in a chaise and four, en route for
Calais or Brussels, he could not have made a greater
noise.  *Peste*!  I believe I am entitled to demand
satisfaction for this annoyance.  I shall certainly
consult some of ours to-morrow, and hear what
ought to be done."

It was evident that they would see the baroness
no more that night, and the domestics of the
establishment eyed them with strange looks; for though
they were accustomed to the irascible temper of
the baron, they were puzzled to account for such
a sudden disturbance.

Stuart urged the impropriety of remaining longer,
and they rose to withdraw.  He looked at his watch;
it was verging on midnight, and it was requisite that
he should return to Clichy forthwith, if he would be
with the regiment when under arms at daylight.
On leaving, they walked for some time along one
of the Boulevards, talking over the affair of the
Hôtel de Clugny.  De Mesmai did not attempt to
exculpate himself, but laughed without ceremony
at Stuart, who made some animadversions on his
conduct.

"'Tis all a matter of opinion," said he, shrugging
his shoulders, "all; and you must know the
proverb—*L'opinion est la reine du monde*.  'Tis very
true; so let us say no more, my friend."

When near the Place Victoire, they parted.  De
Mesmai had lodgings in one of the handsomest
houses of the Place, although his company of the
garde-du-corps was always quartered at the château.
On taking leave, they shook hands heartily, and
then parted, but without exhibiting much concern,
although each knew that he would never meet the
other again.  But as soldiers, accustomed for years
to march from town to town, they were used to
partings, and so bade each other adieu with happy
*sang froid*.

Ronald never heard of De Mesmai again, and
I am therefore unable to acquaint the reader how he
settled matters with the baron, or if he married the
fashionable widow of the Rue de Rivoli.

The streets were silent, and the night was dark.
A cold and high wind swept along the desolate
thoroughfares, and had extinguished many of the
oil lamps, leaving many places involved in obscurity
and gloom.  It is not surprising, therefore, that
Stuart should have mistaken his way.  The dawn
surprised him somewhere on the skirts of the town,
and he had, consequently, to traverse nearly the
whole of Paris to find the Champs Elysées.  There
he got his horse from the bat-man, in whose charge
it had been left, and in three minutes he was away
at full gallop for Clichy.  He dashed along the
Boulevard de la Madeline, the Rue de la Martin,
of St. Croix and Clichy, and soon the fields were
around him, bordering the road, while the spires
and the streets of Paris were far behind, sinking
in the distance.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HOMEWARD MARCH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HOMEWARD MARCH.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Adieu to the wars, with their slashes and scars,
   |  The march and the storm and the battle!
   |  There are some of us maimed, and some that are lamed,
   |    And some of old aches are complaining;
   |  But we'll take up the tools, which we flung by like fools,
   |  'Gainst Don Spaniard to go a-campaigning."
   |                                          *Scott.*

.. vspace:: 2

Fatigued with want of sleep, and almost nodding
in his saddle, Ronald reached the camp a little after
sunrise.  The Highlanders were under arms, formed
in line on the green sward between the long streets
of tents and the margin of the Seine.  The ensigns
had uncased the yellow silk colours, the drummers
were bracing up their instruments, and Campbell sat
motionless on horseback at about a hundred yards
from the centre of the line, which he was surveying
with a watchful eye.  He was looking very cross, so
Stuart prepared to be *rowed*.

"A pretty fellow you are, Ronald, to keep the
whole regiment waiting in this manner!  We were
just about to march without you."

Ronald made no reply, but dashed up at full
gallop, raised his hand to his bonnet, and then
wheeling his charger round, backed him upon his haunches,
causing him to curvet and rear that the rider might
display a little horsemanship, as he galloped round
the flank of the grenadiers and came up in his place
on the left of the line with his sword drawn.  As
the band struck up, and the battalion broke into
sections of threes and moved off, a cheer burst from
the lips of every man, as a parting call to those
comrades whom they were to leave behind them.

Saint Germains was the first stage.  They were
quartered for the night in the ancient palace, which
had long been uninhabited and empty, and was
consequently hastening to decay.  Eighty years before,
who could have imagined that the residence of the
exiled Stuarts would have become the quarters of a
Scottish regiment in the British service, and plaided
and plumed in the garb of the Gaël!  Who could
have imagined that those desolate chambers, which
had been the scene of so many sorrows and troubles
to the royal exiles, would re-echo the strains of the
heart-stirring pibroch!  But the place was dreary,
damp, and desolate.  The court-yard was overgrown
with grass, the gardens had become a wilderness,
and the fountains and ornamental statues were in
ruins, and covered with the moss of years.  Strange
and old associations connected with the palace and
its inhabitants were awakened in the hearts of the
Highlanders, and Ronald-dhu, when the pipers
played the retreat in the quadrangle, desired that
it should be the 'Prince's Lament,' one of the most
difficult pieces of our pipe music.

To the officers and soldiers of the Gordon
Highlanders, being generally men from the most remote
parts of the Highlands, the empty palace of Saint
Germains formed a scene of no common interest.
It was intimately connected with the misfortunes
of that illustrious race, "of which (says a modern
writer) no man can trace the beginning, and of
which no Scotsman can bear to contemplate the
end;" and the kilted sons of the North, as they
wandered about its desolate chambers, made many
observations which would have startled honest old
George III., and have caused the Horse-Guards
authorities to stand quite aghast, had they heard
them.  Although time, as it rolls on, is changing
the manners of the Highlander and of his Lowland
neighbour, the same chivalric feeling which brought
forth the host of 1745 exists in the bosom of the
former, and a spark yet lingers there which little
might fan into a flame.

Mereville was the next halt.  At the gate of the
town they were received by a French regiment of
royal volunteers, who had no uniform, but wore their
cross-belts, &c. over their peasant's blouses of blue
or white linen.  They paid the compliments of war
in very good style, while their band played the
national anthem of Britain, and the burghers of
Mereville rent the air with shouts of applause.  At the
barrier appeared the *maire*, arrayed in the garb of a
past age,—a wide waistcoat and old-fashioned coat,
with a silver-hilted sword and ruffles, and a wig
and queue.  He invited the officers to a *déjeûné* in
the Hôtel de Ville, where he made a long and
flourishing speech, descriptive of veneration for the
British king and for the Scottish people.  He spoke of
the field of Vernuil, where the Scot and the Frenchman,
drawing their swords side by side, as brothers
and allies, had tamed the pride of England.  *La
belle Marie*!  He laid his hand on his heart, and
became quite eloquent on the subject of her wrongs
and woes.  He spoke of the alliances between the
houses of Stuart and Bourbon, and of the many
years of exile which the descendants from these
marriages had spent in each other's territories.

The worthy old fellow was so much in earnest,
and so enthusiastic on the occasion, that he even
shed tears, struck himself a thousand times on the
breast, and shrugged his shoulders and turned up
his eyes quite as often.

Campbell replied in a short speech, which he had
prepared during the long oration of Monsieur le
Maire; but the good-will he gained by the first part
of his address, was entirely lost by some unlucky
after-allusion to the plains of Egypt and Sir Ralph
Abercrombie.

From Mereville they marched to Montfort l'Amaury,
a town twenty-eight miles west of Paris,
where they were to join the 4th battalion of the
Royals, and the 42nd Highlanders, also under
orders for England.

At Beauvais, styled—because it has never been
taken by force of arms—La Pucelle, the 92nd, to
their no small joy, received intelligence that, on
landing in England, their destination was to be the
capital of their native country, where they were to
be quartered for the ensuing winter.

Within four days afterwards, the streets of Calais
rang to the notes of the pipe and drum, as the Scots
brigade, on its homeward march, passed through the
city to the harbour, where a fleet of small craft,
provided by the authorities, lay in readiness to carry
them over the Passage of Calais, as the straits are
named by the French.  The Cour de Guise, formerly
the ancient English mint, was pointed out to Stuart
by a French staff-officer, who rode beside him part of
the way.  He also showed him the statue of the
patriotic Saint Pierre, which stands above the entrance
of the town-hall, with its neck encircled by a rope,—the
emblem of Saint Pierre's heroism, and of the
obduracy of an English king.  Many other places
he pointed out which would have been interesting
to the mind of a South-Tweeder, for often had the
bluff English yeoman in his steel breast-plate, and
the strong-handed archer in his doublet of
Lincoln-green, kept watch and ward on the walls and towers
of Calais.

As the three Scots regiments marched along the
spacious quay, a tremendous cheer burst from them
at the sight of the opposite shore.  The first view of
Old England, after a long absence, is worth a myriad
of the common-place adventures of life.  The land
of promise lay before them, but its shore seemed
low and distant; and its chalky cliffs were shining
white as snow in the morning sun, so pale and dim,
that they seemed more like the edge of a vast field
of ice than firm land.  Every man strained his eyes
towards it, and pointed out to his comrades the
spires and villages, which he imagined he could
trace through the dim haze that floated on the
waters of the Channel.  Some gazed long and fixedly,
with moistened eyes and silent tongues.  They
thought of the land which lay five or six hundred
miles beyond the shore before them,—the land of
the rock and the cataract, the broom and the
heather,—the land of their love and best affections,
which had never been once absent from their minds
during all the danger, the toil, and the glory of the
great Peninsular war.

Poor Scotland! although she has lost her name
and her place among nations, she is not the less
dear to her sons.

The harbour of Calais presented a very animated
scene.  The frost had passed away: it was a warm,
sunny morning, and every thing was bright and
glistening.  From the great quay two long wooden
piers jutted out into the water, which tossed and
foamed around the green and sea-weed-covered piles
which compose them.

These piers were lined by two or three battalions
of French infantry, and behind them were dense
crowds of spectators.  The French flag was flying
on the *beffroi*, or watch-tower, of the Hôtel de Ville,
and on the bastions of all the little forts which
defended the harbour.  The basin was crowded with
the boats and craft for the conveyance of the British
troops, whom the French authorities were, no doubt,
very glad to get rid of.  Several British man-o'-war
boats were pulling about in different directions.
These had been sent by some of our Channel cruisers
to superintend the embarkation.

As Ronald rode down towards a flight of steps, to
clear the way for the regiment, a man-of-war's boat,
manned by eight oars, came sheering alongside the
jetty.  Stuart dismounted to speak with the officer,
who stepped forward from the stern, and, abandoning
the tiller-ropes, shook him heartily by the hand;
while the crew, and the crews of the other boats,
pulled off their tarpaulin hats, and gave three hearty
cheers of welcome to the red-coats.  The cheer was
taken up by the populace, and resounded along the
quays: the French bands struck up the favourite
air, 'A good Voyage to the gallant Scots,' while the
troops presented arms, and the officers saluted with
their swords.  As older regiments than the Gordon
Highlanders, the Royal Scots and 42nd embarked
first.  About two hundred men were in each barge,
and, as they moved from the shore by the aid of sail
and sweep, their bands played the 'Downfall of
Paris,' an air which could not have been very
pleasant to French ears.  With better taste, the band of
the other regiment played '*Vive Henri Quatre*,' the
notes of which mingled oddly with those of the
bagpipes.  The pipers of the whole brigade were seated
in the bows of the boats, blowing a perfect storm of
wild and discordant sounds.

The harbour, the shore, the crowded quays,
receded and lessened; the cheers of the people died
away, but the sharp rattle of the brass drums was
still heard, and arms were seen glittering on the
beach.  The French troops were wheeling into open
column, and marching through the gate of Calais,
which faced the water.  As the last section filed
through, Ronald looked back for an instant.  He
saw the flash of French steel for the last time.  Save
himself, scarcely one had cast a look astern: it was
to the increasing shores of England that every eye
was directed.

They were soon far out in the Channel, amid
fleets of merchantmen and stately ships of war.
There is nothing which brings the power, the might,
and the majesty of Britain so vividly before the
mind, as the splendid appearance of her ships of
war.  There is a something in the aspect of the
formidable row of cannon frowning from the red
ports, and the flag that waves above them,
which a Briton never can behold without pride,
and a foreigner without terror, chagrin, and humiliation.

On clearing the harbour of Calais, and getting
fairly out into the straits of Dover among the
shipping, the French airs gave place to 'Hearts of Oak'
and other national strains; and the cheers with
which the crew of every vessel they passed,
merchantman or ship of war, greeted the homeward-bound
fleet of decked boats with their military
freight, afforded the utmost delight to the latter.
These hearty welcomes from their countrymen on
the sea, were but an earnest of what they were to
receive on the land.

The long and glorious struggle in the Peninsula,
the victorious termination of the short but most
decisive campaign in Flanders, and the results, so
important to Europe, of the victory at Waterloo, were yet
fresh in every man's mind, and the people of Britain
yearned to show their love for their countrymen who
were now returning, after having proved themselves
the first troops in the world.

It was lucky for this brigade of Scots that they
returned so soon after Waterloo.  Had those three
thousand men fought and gained the battle alone, it
is impossible that greater admiration or applause
could have been lavished upon them.

The shore increased in magnitude, seeming to rise
from the water, and objects became more distinct.
The wide extent of yellow sandy beach, the chalky
cliffs, the light-houses, the buoys, were seen
distinctly, and the flags of all the world were flying
around them.  The little fleet of galleys moved
bravely; a light breeze bore them onward, and every
stitch of canvas was set.  The shore soon seemed
close at hand.  The old village spires, overhung with
ivy, the lawns, the castles, the seats, and every thing,
from the black old towers of Dover to the boats on
the golden beach below, were all remarked and
observed as objects of wonder.

"First on the shore!  Hoigh!" cried a Highlander,
plunging into the water as the boats, containing
some of the 42nd, grounded near the beach.
"Hurrah!" was the cry, and a hundred eager fellows
leaped overboard, knapsacks, accoutrements, and
every thing; and, with their kilts and sporrons
floating on the surface of the water, waded ashore, while
shouts of welcome rose from a crowd of the Dover
people collected on the sands.  The boats
containing the Royals and part of the Gordon Highlanders,
took the matter more "cannily," and, entering the
harbour, landed their military passengers on the
pier, where a gentleman stepped forth from the
immense concourse assembled to witness the
disembarkation, and formally welcomed them to
England; he then waved his hat as a signal to the
people, and three hearty cheers were given, with one
more for the Duke of Wellington.

All the craft in the harbour were decorated with
flags and boughs of trees; standards and ribbons
waved from every house-top and window.  The
Waterloo medal, glancing on the breast of every
purple coat, attracted universal attention; the people
were excited to the utmost pitch of enthusiasm and
loyalty, and every proud feeling that is truly British
was at its height.  Each man vied with the other in
the endeavour to show the esteem he felt for those
whose deeds had been attracting the attention of the
whole civilized world, and whose arms had arrested
a torrent which once threatened to subvert every
State in Europe.  The brigade was billeted for that
night in Dover.

"Now then, gentlemen, here we are, at last, in
merry old England," cried Campbell, in boisterous
glee, as, with his officers, he ascended the
well-carpeted staircase of a handsome hotel in Dover.
"Welcome roast beef and plum-pudding, with other
substantials, and a long farewell to *castanos* and
garlic, to soup-maigre, *potage au choux*, and the
devil's broth.  If the people would only grow wise
and hang up all the limbs of the law, England would
be the happiest land on earth.  Look around you,
gentlemen; here is comfort!  Think on the wet tent,
and the wetter bivouac!  But good-by to them all! for
awhile at least."

The master of the hotel ushered them into a
splendid drawing-room, where the appearance of the
rich carpet, and the coal-fire blazing in the polished
grate, attracted so much attention, and drew forth
such encomiums, that mine host of the St. George
marvelled in what part of the earth they had been
campaigning.  He knew not that a coal-fire and a
carpet are almost unknown on the Continent.

"We have been for some time strangers to this
kind of luxury, landlord," said Ronald, observing
his wonder.  "Our couch and our carpet has long
been the green sod, and our covering the sky for
many a year."

"England! merry old England!" exclaimed Campbell,
throwing himself into a chair, and stretching
his long legs across the hearth-rug.  "In spite of
all that demagogues may say to the contrary, I will
uphold that it is the happiest country in Europe;
and, as we have seen the most of them, we should
be good judges.  This is excellent!  It reminds me
of our return from Egypt.  Now then, monsieur,—pardon
me, landlord; I forgot I was out of the land
of Johnny Crapaud.  Ay, landlord, there is
something truly British and hospitable in that.  Let us
have the best dinner you can get ready on the
shortest notice; and tell the cooks they need not
be very particular, as we have not tasted a decent
dinner since we landed below the castle of Beleni
in 1809, a few months in Paddy's land excepted.
Let it be prepared forthwith, and remember to
provide lots of pudding for the ensigns."

After dinner, the inhabitants of the hotel were
astounded by the ceremony of piping round the table,
a practice which, since dinners had become common
with them, the Gordon Highlanders had revived in
full force.  As soon as the dessert was removed,
tall Ronald-dhu, the piper-major, and eight pipers,
entered the mess or dining-room, and marched thrice
round the table, and then down stairs, blowing with
all their force and power the tune usual on the
occasion:

   |  "Our ancient forefaithers agreed wi' the laird,
   |  To buy a bit grundie to mak' a kail-yaud," &c.

and the reader may imagine the effect of seven and
twenty drones of the great Highland war-pipe on
English ears, to which, for many reasons, its strains
are so discordant.

The hotel was surrounded by a dense crowd, who
kept up an incessant cheering, and in the streets the
Highlanders were absolutely mobbed.  Perhaps it
was the first time the Scottish garb had been seen
so far south in England, so that, as the London
papers said, "the excitement was tremendous."

In every town and village through which they
marched on the long route from Dover to Edinburgh,
their reception was the same: they were
followed by mobs of shouting men and boys, while
laurel boughs, and flags adorned with complimentary
mottoes, waved from the houses and church
steeples.  Every inn or hotel at which the officers
dined was decorated with streamers and evergreens,
and wreaths of laurel encircled every plate and dish
on the tables.  Each day, during dinner, they were
regaled by a concert of thousands of tongues, shouting
and screaming, while the bells in every spire
rang as for some great national jubilee.

At Lincoln was erected a triumphal arch, which
spanned the highway at the entrance of the city.  It
was composed of the usual materials—evergreens,
and such flowers as could be procured at that
season of the year,—and was surmounted by the arms
of Scotland, of England, and of the famous old
ecclesiastical city, merry Lincoln itself.  St. George's
red cross was waving from the summit of the ruinous
castle, and great Tom of Lincoln was sending forth
his tremendous ding-dong, deep, hoarse, and solemn,
from the Gothic spire of the cathedral, drowning
the mingled din of every other bell in the city.  The
streets were full of enthusiastic people; the windows
were full of faces, flags, and the branches of trees.
All were in a state of merriment and uproar, while
the shrill fifes and hoarse brattling drums,
succeeding the fine brass band, made the streets re-echo
with 'the British Grenadiers,' the most inspiriting
of all our national quick steps.

Immediately within the triumphal arch stood a
carriage filled with ladies, two of whom, very beautiful
girls, the perfect personification of young English
belles, with the cherry lips, and merry, bright
blue eyes of the south, held aloft bouquets of roses,
procured probably from some hot-house, for at that
season of the year they could not have been reared
elsewhere.  At the moment the ensigns were
passing with the colours, the ladies made some sign to
Campbell, who lowered the point of his sword in
salute, and desired his orderly bugler to sound a
halt.  Each of the fair English girls, with a white
riband bound her roses to the tops of the colour-poles,
just below the spear-heads, but not without
blushes and hesitation, for the eyes of thousands
were turned upon them, and the hearts of the
unshaven ensigns were captured on the instant.  The
ladies managed to say part of some address prepared
for the occasion, "regretting that they had not a
wreath of thistles to offer, and requesting that the
soldiers would carry the flowers home to their own
country."

Campbell returned thanks.  The ensigns, who,
luckily for the regiment, were both very handsome
fellows, bore each on his breast the Waterloo medal.
They raised their bonnets, and retired to their places
in the centre; the music struck up again, and the
Highlanders moved forward with the badge of
England adorning the shot-splintered poles of their
colours.

Of the latter, nothing was left save the gold tassels
and that part of the silk which was stitched round
the pole, with a few shreds and remnants of
embroidery.  The rest had all been shot away, or torn
to pieces by the rain and wind, by the battles and
storms of twenty-one years of continual warfare, in
which the corps had borne a distinguished part, since
it had been embodied by the Duchess of Gordon in
1794.  The appearance of the bare poles attracted
universal attention in every town and hamlet.  The
people were heard to exclaim with wonder, "Look
at the colours! look at the colours!" which
perhaps they supposed had been reduced by a single
volley to the condition in which they then appeared.

The bouquets of the Lincoln ladies remained long
attached to the poles, but the first frosty day
completed their destruction, and nothing but the stalks
were left; yet these still remained when the
regiment, after a march of many hundred miles, came in
sight of their native country.

Who can describe the wild delight of the
Highlandmen, when, from the hills of Northumberland,
they beheld afar off the snow-clad summits of the
Cheviots, whose sides have been the scene of so
many gallant conflicts?  A thousand bonnets rose
at once into the air, and the "Hoigh, hurrah!" from
a thousand tongues made the welkin ring.  What a
joyous march had been theirs through all merry
England!  How different in appearance were its
cities, its villages, its vast extent of cultivated land
when compared with the ruined *pueblas* and desolate
cities of Portugal, or the barren hills and desert
plains of Spanish Estremadura.  In the former
country the soldiers of Massena had scarcely left one
stone standing upon another.  What a change to
these scenes and places seemed the comforts, the
luxuries, the happiness of England, especially to
those who had been enduring the starvation, the toil,
the yearly, daily, hourly danger and misery of
continental service!  Truly it was a merry march that
from Dover to Scotland, and never did private
soldiers trudge with their burden of seventy-five pounds
weight more contentedly, than the Gordon
Highlanders on that long but happy route.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`EDINBURGH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   EDINBURGH.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Edina!  Scotia's darling seat,
   |    All hail thy palaces and towers!
   |  Where once, beneath a monarch's feet,
   |    Sat legislation's sovereign powers."

.. vspace:: 2

At Musselburgh, on approaching the old Roman
bridge, the venerable arches of which have so often
rung to the tread of a Scottish host, the
Highlanders, as they marched down the brae which
ascends to the kirk of Inveresk, perceived that some
preparations had been made for their reception by
the men of the "honest toon,"—the honourable title
conferred by Earl Randolph on that ancient burgh.
Between the parapet walls of the bridge, on the spot
where once stood an antique barrier gate, a triumphal
arch was erected, and on its summit sat a bluff old
tar in his tarpaulin hat and frieze coat, bearing
aloft the standard of the ancient town of Fisherow,
of which he was no bad representative.  With a
voice, which had grown hoarse and loud in outroaring
the waves and blasts of the German ocean, he
welcomed them in the deep Doric language of Scotia,
which had so long been a stranger to their ears.

"The song sings truly, 'There's nae folk like our
ain folk,'" said Campbell, as he rode along the
bridge at the head of the column.  "We are home
at last, God be praised!  This is our third day's
march on Scottish ground.  Scotland for ever!  Shout,
my lads!  Three cheers for her people!  They seem
to vie with the English in giving us a kindly reception."

Their cheers were answered with three-fold
heartiness from the other side of the Esk, where the
crowd was immense; and the interest and excitement
which prevailed may be imagined from the
fact, that the whole line of road between the Esk
and Edinburgh, a distance of seven miles, was so
densely crowded as to be almost impassable; and
when the regiment entered the street of Fisherow
the cheers and uproar were deafening.  The pressure
of the people forward was so great, that the march
was stopped, the ranks were broken, and the music
ceased.  Hearty greetings and shakings of hands
ensued between men who had never met before,
and strapping fish-women, in their picturesque blue
jackets and yellow petticoats, were seen clinging
round the necks of the soldiers; while a crowd of
fishermen and peasantry, every man of them with a
bottle in his hand, had hemmed in Campbell against
the wall of a house, shouting vociferously, each one,
that he must drink with them.  The colonel
abandoned in despair any attempt to proceed, or to urge
forward his horse, and sinking back on his saddle,
he burst into a hearty roar of laughter at the
confused appearance of his men, and the mirth, jollity,
and happiness which beamed so radiantly in every
face.  Stuart was in a similar predicament.  The
people pressed close around his horse, to every leg
of which an urchin was clinging fearlessly, while
the rabble shook both hands of the rider without
cessation.

After the first wild burst of welcome was over,
some order was regained, and the march was
resumed; but four hours elapsed before the regiment
gained entrance into the High-street of Edinburgh,
by crushing through the dense masses which
occupied the Abbey-hill and Watergate, where they were
again brought almost to a halt.  The crowd had
followed them in from Musselburgh and increased
as it rolled along, and one might have supposed
that the entire population of the three Lothians was
wedged into the High-street of Edinburgh.  Every
window of all those lofty houses, which shoot up on
both sides of the way, and have been for five
centuries a theme of wonder to every traveller, was
crowded with eager faces: every lamp-post, every
sign-board and door-head bore its load of shouting
urchins, and the whole street, from the castle to
the palace, was crowded to an excess never before
witnessed.

The colonel, who always loved to produce an
effect, had sent forward, a mile or two in advance
of the regiment, a young drum-boy, who having
lost a leg at Waterloo, had had its place supplied
by a wooden one; and the appearance of the little
fellow, stumping along in his bonnet and kilt, drew
immensely on the sympathy of the women of all
ranks, from the ladies of *ton* down to the poor vender
of edibles.

"Eh, sirs!  Gude guide us!  Look at the
drummer-laddie! the puir bairn wi' the tree leg!" was
the cry on all sides, as the tambour of Waterloo
limped along.  "Eh! saw ye ever the maik o' that?
Oh, wae to the wars, and dule to them that wrocht
them!  What will his puir mither think at the sicht
o' her sodger laddie?"

It was a cunning stroke of policy, sending the
mutilated boy forward as an advanced guard.  His
appearance increased the enthusiasm of the modern
Athenians; and when the long line of dark-plumed
bonnets appeared above the advancing masses,
pressing slowly into the street at the foot of the
Canongate, the cries and cheers resembled, as Campbell
said, nothing he had ever heard before, except the
'roar of the cannon and musketry at the battle of
Alexandria, in Egypt.'  So many open mouths, so
many arms, heads, hands, and hats in motion at
once, presented a very odd appearance, and Stuart,
in consequence of being elevated on horseback above
the dense masses which crowded the way from wall
to wall, had a full view of the whole assemblage,
and thus possessed an advantage over the officers
and soldiers who marched on foot.  In some places
there might be seen a plumed bonnet floating above
a sea of heads, where some solitary Highlander,
separated far from the rest of his comrades, was
struggling in vain to get forward,—a girl, perhaps,
hanging around his neck, two men grasping his
hands, a third shouldering his musket, while a fourth
held a pint-stoup to his mouth, calling upon him
to 'drink to the health o' his ain folk.'

In other places appeared the long bayonets, the
Lochaber axes and cocked hats of the town guard.
That ancient civic corps had been ordered to line
the streets, but being completely routed by the
pressure of the people, they had abandoned their posts
and sought shelter behind the long lines of
carriages which were drawn up on each side of the
street as closely as they may be seen at a
race-course.

Never before had Edinburgh witnessed such
enthusiasm, such merriment, noise, laughter, hubbub,
such shaking of hands, such pressing, crushing, and
tumult, as that with which its hospitable inhabitants
welcomed the first-returning regiment of their
countrymen; and even Campbell himself—with
many regrets that poor Fassifern was not there
to share in it—declared that he'd never met with
any thing like it, 'even in Egypt!'

To show their respect for their victorious countrymen,
even the honest Baillies of Edinburgh, headed
by the Lord Provost, turned out in state to welcome
them; and upon this occasion, contrary to their
usual wont, they arrived on the ground—almost—in
time.  The Provost had prepared a set speech, and
would have delivered it, probably, if he hadn't been
frightened almost out of his wits at the outset, and
forgotten it besides.  So a bold Baillie, in scarlet
robe and beaver, got upon his legs to welcome home
the Highlandmen; and it is to be regretted that the
only part of his speech which has been preserved
consists merely of an apology on behalf of the
Provost,—an assertion that all Scotland was well
assured 'no a rajment in the haill service had done
sae muckle mischief as the ninety-twa during the
wars,' and an offer of an unlimited pinch of snuff
from a very handsome gold box which the Baillie
carried with him, and which the colonel took it for
granted contained the freedom of the city at the
very least.  To all of which Campbell replied in a
speech, which to this day may be seen, printed in
small capitals, in the *Edinburgh Journal*.

The bows, the sweet smiles, and pretty wreaths
of real or artificial flowers which the ladies tossed
from the carriages lining the streets, were far more
agreeable tokens of admiration than the address of
Baillie Mucklewham; and those wounded officers
who still bore their arms in slings, found that such
honourable badges of war attracted the utmost
attention and interest.

Having thus piloted back Ronald Stuart to the
Scottish capital, the place in which his military
career began, and having brought him thither safe and
sound, wind and limb,—with the rank of major, and
a moderate fortune besides, the reader may suppose
that his adventures are finished.  But pause awhile,
dear reader! one or two of the most interesting—to
him at least—are yet to come.  The regiment
halted in the gloomy old quadrangle of the castle,
where they were wheeled into line and closely
inspected by the commander-in-chief, who
complimented Lieutenant-colonel Campbell, in the usual
phraseology, on the efficiency and discipline,
&c. &c. &c. of the regiment.  Campbell replied, that he
believed they were in as good trim as when they
returned from Egypt, some sixteen years before.

The moment this tedious ceremony was over, Ronald,
who had been wishing the whole North British
staff at the bottom of the draw-well, found himself
seated in the 'Rob Roy' Perth stage, without having
doffed his trappings, and with no other encumbrances
than his plaid and claymore.  In ten minutes
Edinburgh, the city of the seven hills, was far behind
him, and the stage was bounding along the Queensferry
road, past the hills and woods of Corstorphin,
as fast as four blood-horses and four flying wheels
could bear it.  The heart of the gallant young Scot
was leaping with feelings of gladness and delight,
which none can imagine save those who have experienced
the pleasure of returning home after a long
and weary absence.  Five years had elapsed since
he had travelled that road before, and it seemed
a very long time to look back upon.  He had seen
so many strange scenes, places, and persons in that
time, that it seemed like a century.

"Five years ago!  Alice was quite a girl then,"
he repeated to himself.  "Ah!  Alice will be quite
a woman now; but she is my beloved Alice still."  At
times there flitted across his mind anticipations
of something unpleasant occurring, in consequence
of his father's obstinate and old-fashioned hostility
to the Inchavon family; and he remembered, with
peculiar pain, his resentment when his passion for
Alice Lisle first became known to him.

It was nearly midnight when he alighted at the
George Inn, and he had yet a considerable distance
to travel before he should reach Lochisla.  Having
a stout saddle-horse, he took the road which led
to Lochearn, and as he perfectly remembered every
by-way and sheep-track, he struck across the mountains,
taking a nearer way to Lochisla than the high
road; and as there was neither hedge, ditch, wall, or
enclosure of any kind, the way was free and open,
and he galloped on by beetling craigs, by corrie
and rock, over ground from which the most heedless
fox-hunter would have recoiled with dismay.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LOCHISLA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   LOCHISLA.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "They are gone! they are gone! the redoubted, the brave!
   |    The sea breezes lone o'er their relics are sighing;
   |  Dark weeds of oblivion shroud many a grave,
   |    Where the unconquered foes of the Campbell are lying."
   |                                      *The Stuarts of Appin.*

.. vspace:: 2

The bright moon was shedding her lustre over
hill and valley, and the traveller soon saw the
mountain Isla gleaming beneath her beams as brightly as
ever he had seen the Ebro or the Douro, and he
listened with delight to the murmur of its falling waters
as they poured over the shelving linn at Corrie-avon,—a
fortunate ducking in the pool of which had so
suddenly changed the sentiments of Alice's father
towards him.

Now he was on the old familiar road to his home.
It was long past midnight.  "Such a joyful surprise
they will have!" said he, communing with himself,
"and a merry new year it will be in the glen; but
poor old Donald Iverach, he will look in vain for his
fair-haired Evan."

The road was closely bordered by pine and birch
trees.  The latter were bare and leafless, and their
stems and branches gleamed like a fairy shrubbery of
silver in the moonlight; but the former, the solemn
black pines of Caledonia, remained in all their rough
unfading foliage, and cast around them a gloomy
horror.  Steep rocks, where the bright-eyed eagle
and the giant glede looked forth from their eyrie,
echoing caves, whilom the residence of wild and
wondrous beings, the cairns of long-departed chiefs,
rough obelisks, marking the ground of ancient
battles and covered with mossy figures grim and
terrible, bordered the devious way; but he hailed them
all with delight, for they were the well-known haunts
of his childhood, and his terror of the mysterious
beings that were said to guard them had long since
passed away.  He set up his old hunting halloo as
he galloped along, to hear if they re-echoed as of old,
and in his glee he shouted fearlessly into a yawning
chasm called the Uamhachoralaich, an uncouth name,
which means 'the cavern of the strange spirit.'  He
hallooed again and again, to hear the voluminous
echo which had so often stricken awe and horror
into his heart when he was a child; and anon he
dashed up the glen, scaring the deer in the thicket
and the eagle on the rock, and causing the colleys
on the distant hills and moors to hearken and howl
in alarm.

Now, Lochisla lay before him!  The whole scene
burst upon his view at once, as his horse bounded up
from the narrow gorge through which the road-way
wound.  The lonely Highland lake lay sleeping at the
foot of the dark and wooded hills, which descended
abruptly on all sides towards it.  Tall and spectral
on its rock, with one side covered with dark ivy and
the other gleaming grey in the moonlight, the tower
overhung the loch.  Far beyond rose Ben-more,
dim and distant.  The declining moon was verging
towards his ridgy back, behind which it would soon
disappear.  In the tower, or the clachan beneath it,
no light was visible.  Every loophole and window
was dark.

"They are all a-bed; and the poor old watch-dog
must be dead, or I should have heard his honest
bark before this," said Ronald aloud, as he rode on
towards the gate in the outer wall of the fortalice.

There seemed a stillness, an utter absence of life
around him, which occasioned dark forebodings of
evil, and he felt a strange sadness sinking on his
heart.  He longed to hear even the crow of a cock
or the bark of a dog, but no sound could he detect,
save the hoofs of his horse ringing on the frozen
pathway which led from the clachan, or onsteading,
to the tower.  For a moment he became quite
breathless with agitation, and clung to the mane of
his horse.

"God be praised, there is no scutcheon over the
gate!" he exclaimed; "but they lack somewhat of
their usual care in leaving it open at this hour."

The gate of the barbican, or outer wall, was lying
off its hinges on the earth.  Janet's turret was dark.
Her light, which she was wont to burn the whole
night, gleamed there no longer, and a deadly terror
chilled the heart of Ronald.  He trembled,
apprehending he knew not what, and for some minutes
surveyed the court and keep before he dismounted
and approached the door.  Every thing was mournfully
silent and desolate.  Part of the barbican wall
had fallen down; the wall-flower had sprung up
between the stones; the moss and grass grew upon
the cope, in the loop-holes, and between the
pavement of the court-yard.  The byres and stables were
empty, and midnight depredators had torn away
the doors and windows; the once noisy dog-kennel
was silent, and the ancient tower was dark and
desolate.  The watch-dog's mansion was untenanted, and
his chain lay rusting on the grassy ground.

All was as still as the tomb, and the soul of the
soldier died within him.  The flagstaff was yet on
the mossy battlement, but the halliard waved wide
on the wind.  The old rusty carron gun was yet
peeping through its embrasure, but a tuft of knotted
grass hung down from its muzzle.

His heart, which so lately bounded with pleasure,
now throbbed with apprehension and fear, for the
silence around him seemed oppressive and terrible,
when contrasted with the bustle he had witnessed in
the capital a few hours before.

He struck with the hilt of his dirk on the door,
knocking long and loud, and the building echoed
like a huge drum, or some vast tomb.  Again and
again he knocked, but there was no answer save the
mocking echoes.  He attempted to force an entrance,
but the door was locked and bolted fast, and he was
compelled to retire.  He looked up to the key-stone
of the arched doorway, but the armorial bearings,
of which his father was so proud, the antique crown,
and initial letters R.n.R. (ROBERTUS n. REX) were
there no longer.  The stone remained, but the
ancient sculpture was demolished.  He muttered some
incoherent things, for the memory of the past came
swelling up in his breast, and his tongue clove to
the roof of his mouth.  He looked across the
moonlit lake towards the islet, where the ruins of the
church tower cast a long deep shadow on the graves
of his martial ancestors, and their once numerous
brave and devoted vassals.

It was a time of the deepest mental agony.  A
century seemed to have elapsed since the morning.
His thoughts were all chaos and confusion, save one,
which was terrible and distinct enough,—that he
stood by the threshold of his father's house, a
stranger, a wanderer, and there was no hand to grasp his,
no voice to bid him welcome.  After lingering long,
he turned sorrowfully from the tower, to awaken some
of the peasantry at the clachan.  On re-passing the
ruined gate, he saw, what had before escaped his
observation,—a large ticket or board nailed to the
grass-grown wall of the barbican.  He approached,
and by the light of the moon read the following—

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center

   "NOTICE.

.. vspace:: 1

"Any person or persons found trespassing on the
lands of Rosemount Tower, will be punished with
the utmost rigour of the law, by the Proprietor,
Zachary Macquabester, Esq., of Rosemount.

"N.B.—Informers will be handsomely rewarded,
on applying to Mr. Macquibble, writer, Spy-gate,
Perth."

.. vspace:: 2

The place swam around him.

"Rosemount Tower!  The Proprietor, confound
him!" exclaimed Ronald, bursting into fury, "and
is it come to this?"

With a heart sick and sore with disappointment,
grief, and mortified pride, he descended to the little
street of thatched cottages named the Clachan.  Here
all was silence and desolation too.  In some places
the roofs had fallen in, and rafters stuck through
the thatch, like ribs through the skin of a skeleton:
the chimneys had fallen down, and the doors and
windows were gone.  The hamlet was in ruins.  The
household fires had been quenched; and as he
surveyed the deserted place, he became painfully aware
that his people—those among whom his race had
moved as demi-gods—were gone forth, and that the
place of their birth, and which held the bones of
their forefathers, knew them no longer.

The glen, which in his boyhood had maintained
two hundred men in what seemed ease and competence
to a people so primitive, was now desert and
waste.  The mountains, the wood, and the water
were still there, as they had been in the days of
Fingal; but the people had passed away, and Ronald
Stuart, to whom the Gaëlic *sobriquet,—Ronald an
deigh nam finn*, might now be truly applied,
departed slowly and sadly from Lochisla.

He did not weep—he was too tough a soldier for
that,—and therefore could not experience the calm
feeling of resignation and relief given to an
overcharged bosom by a gush of hot, salt tears; but,
with a heart bursting with fierce feelings and sad
remembrances, he departed from the valley just as
the waning moon sank behind the darkening mountains.
He rode slowly at first; but anon he drove
his sharp spurs into the flanks of his horse, and
rode towards Inchavon at break-neck speed, as if
he would flee from his own thoughts, and leave
his sorrows far behind him.  But the first gush of
gloom and disappointment having somewhat subsided,
he strove to calm his agitated spirit, and he
derived some consolation in the timely recollection
that, although Lowland innovation might have
expatriated the people of Lochisla, his father might yet
be alive.  Eager to learn some tidings, he galloped
along with the speed of the wind, outstripping the
gathering storm.

"Ha! here is Inchavon at last!  Dear Alice will
explain to me all this strange mystery."

Forward he went at a hunting pace, and, keeping
his body well back and bridle-hand low, he cleared
the wall of the park at a bound, and galloped over
the whitening lawn towards the portico, under which
he reined up his panting steed.  The whole mansion
was involved in silence and darkness; and as he
looked upon its closed windows and gloomy façade,
new apprehensions and terrors began to arise before
him.

He rang the lobby-bell with fury, and waited long,
but without receiving an answer.  Again and again
he rang, yet no one came.  He walked round the
house, but every window was closed and dark.  The
stables were shut up, and the vane on the
clock-tower creaked dismally.  Neither dogs nor fowls
appeared about the kitchen offices; not a bat was
stirring, and no sign of life was visible anywhere.
Ronald thought that he was bewitched, that there
was a glamour over him, or that the land had been
deserted by its inhabitants.

The chill snow-flakes were descending thick and
fast, and he trembled as much with cold as with
apprehension.  It was quite a relief when a large
mastiff dog bounded forth suddenly, to the full
extent of his chain, from his kennel in a corner,
and barked furiously; and standing erect on his hind
legs, yelled till the house and the surrounding
plantations echoed far and near to the sound.  At that
moment a light flashed out upon the snow, and a
man, half dressed, appeared at an upper window
with a gun in his hand.  Ronald was so white with
snow, that it was impossible to recognise what or
who he was, and consequently his reception was
rather rougher than he expected.

"Wha may you be, frien', that come prowlin'
aboot honest men's doors at this time o' the
nicht—or mornin' rather, eh?"

"Hah!" exclaimed Ronald, "are you Jock
Nevermiss,—roaring Jock the game-keeper?"

"What the better wad ye be for kennin'?" asked
the other, cautiously.

"Come, come, Jock; you must remember me,
surely?  We have had many a merry day's sport
together.  Is it possible that you do not know me?"

"Possible eneuch, chield.  But its ower cauld the
nicht to hae ony mair giff-gaff; sae come back i' the
morning, and then well see what like ye are.  I
like none o' yer Southland-tongued folk."

Ronald was enraged at the fellow's pertinacity,
but his fierce reply was interrupted by the soft voice
of a female.

"Gude sake! surely I should ken his voice!  O
Jock!  Jock! what hae ye been sayin'?  It's the
young captain o' Lochisla.  It's maister Ronald
Stuart o' the tower—Miss Alice's Joe, come home frae
the wars!  Haud awa, ye muckle gowk Jock!  Oh,
I ken ye weel, sir; for many a blithe kiss ye've
gi'en me to carry to Miss Alice."

In a twinkling the hall door was opened, and
pretty Jessie Cavers, now Mrs. J. Nevermiss, stood
palpitating and trembling, with her night-cap on and
her feet unshod, by the side of her stout and buirdly
helpmate, whose confusion and earnest apologies
Ronald at once cut short, for he well knew that
honest Jock had been labouring under a mistake,
for the unpleasant effect of which he endeavoured to
make amends by a hearty but respectful welcome.
Ronald shook the snow-flakes from his dress, and
from the ample plumage of his bonnet, as they
lighted him through a cold but splendid lobby into
the library, where a fire was hastily prepared by the
nimble little hands of Jessie.

Ronald experienced another disappointment.  Lord
Lisle and the family were in Edinburgh, where they
always spent the winter season.  In his hurry to
reach the North, he had quite forgotten that; but he
was now informed that they were all "as weel as he
could wuss them to be," and Jock, while he stood
near the door twirling his bonnet, assured him with
a sly look, that Miss Alice "was a bonnier and a
grander young leddy noo, and had turned the heads
o' hauf the country side.  Young Corrieoich, and
many mair, were gone clean wud aboot her."

Old Mrs. Kantweel, the housekeeper, next
appeared to bid him welcome.

"O sir!" said she, "ye seem sair distressed and
unsettled.  Ye'll hae been up the glen, whar there
are nane noo, alake! to greet ye at your homecomin'."

"Would to Heaven I had been shot at Waterloo,
or any where else, rather than have lived till now!"
exclaimed he bitterly, flinging away his bonnet and
sword, and sinking into a chair.  It stung him to the
soul to be pitied by servants, however well and
kindly they might mean.

"Dinna tak' on sae deeply, sir," continued the
matron; "it's sair to bide, but—"

"Enough of this!  You mean kindly, Mrs. Kantweel,
but I am unused to such consolation," replied
Stuart, with that native *hauteur* which he had
resumed now that he had again trod upon Highland
heather.  "I am very sorry for disturbing you all
at so untimely an hour; but I request that the
whole household will retire to bed, except my old
comrade of the muirs, Jock the gamekeeper, with
whom I wish to have a few minutes' conversation,
after he has seen my nag stabled for the night, or
rather the remainder of the morning."

In a few minutes the servants were all in their
nests, except Jock, who was invited to seat himself
at the opposite side of the library-table, on which
Jessie had placed decanters of wine and brandy,
with a cold repast, which was, however, left
untouched by Ronald.

From Jock he learned the completion of the story
of his father's involvement by Macquirk and others,
of the sequestration of the effects, the sale of the
estate, and of the laird's departure for Canada with
his followers; since which nothing had been heard
of him.  His grief, during the recital, was excessive;
but, since fortune had put it in his power to
undo all that misfortune had done, he resolved to
bear his temporary distress with resignation: it was,
too, with a kind of grim satisfaction that he now
remembered having caught a momentary glimpse
of a countenance—which it flashed on his mind
was that of Æneas Macquirk—pressed against the
bars of a loop-hole of the ancient Tolbooth of the
Cannongate, on the day the regiment entered
Edinburgh so joyously.  The worthy Writer having
contrived, by his too sharp practice, to secure
himself accommodation in the building, and seeing little
prospect of release save by the assistance of the
finisher of the law, usurped the functions of that
personage, and finished himself, by means of a noose
of his own tying.

With the first gleam of dawn Ronald quitted
Inchavon, rode back to Perth, and returned to
Edinburgh as fast as a chaise-and-four could take
him; but his spirits were oppressed, and his heart
saddened and seared, by the adventures of the
preceding night.





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.. _`ALICE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   ALICE.

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..

   |  "Oh! peace to the ashes of those that have bled
   |  For the land where the proud thistle raises its head!
   |    \* \* \* \*
   |  Though their lives are extinguished their spirit remains,
   |  And swells in their blood that still runs in our veins;
   |  Still their deathless achievements our ardour awakes,
   |  For the honour and weal of the dear land of cakes."
   |                                              *William Knox.*

.. vspace:: 2

At night he was again in Edinburgh, the centre
of Scottish science, industry, hospitality, eccentricity,
and learning; Edinburgh, equally celebrated for the
beauty of its ladies, and the most profound cunning
of its lawyers.

It was after drum-beat, that is, eight o'clock in
the evening, when he arrived at the castle.  The
place seemed empty and deserted: save the sentinels
on the batteries, not a soul was to be seen.  The
mess-room was dark and silent, a sure sign of
something extraordinary, as the officers were stanch
votaries of Bacchus, and seldom roosted before twelve.
It immediately occurred to Stuart that some great
conflagration, or other cause of disturbance, had
happened, and that the magistrates had ordered the
regiment into the city.  To ascertain the truth, he
descended the citadel stairs to the main guard-house,
a building situated under the brow of the rock on
which the chapel stands, and from the crowning
parapet of which Mons Meg overlooks the city and
surrounding country.

"Well, Douglas, you seem commandant here,"
said Ronald to the officer on duty, as he entered.

"How! back already, Stuart?  I understood you
had leave for six months."

"Never mind; you'll hear all by-and-bye.  I hope
I may need it yet; but you seem to have the place
to yourself, and to be very sulky too.  I heard you
swearing roundly at the drummer just now."

"The little rascal allowed the fire to go out; and
as to being sulky, in truth it would vex an apostle,
or Job himself, to be left here in command of this
dismal post, when all our fellows are enjoying
themselves so famously in the city.  Yesterday there was
a splendid dinner, a regular banquet given to the
sergeants and soldiers by the inhabitants of
Edinburgh.  It was served up in the assembly-rooms;
the great poet, Walter Scott, in the chair, supported
by the sergeant-major on his right hand, and
grim-visaged Ronald-dhu on the left.  A jovial night they
had of it!  Every cart and other vehicle in
Edinburgh was put in requisition to convey our men
home, as their legs had somehow failed them.
To-night the entire battalion was marched down to the
theatre, free tickets to which have been given to
every man, from wing to wing.  The officers all went
off about an hour ago to a splendid ball, to which
they have been invited by the *élite* of Edinburgh.
It has been got up on a scale never witnessed here
before; our ball at Aranjuez is nothing to it.  The
first people in Scotland will be there,—beauty, fashion,
and all that; while here am I, cooped up in this
d—ned guard-room!  I have a dozen minds to slip
down and mingle with the crowd: Campbell will be
too much mystified about Egypt, by this time, to
know me, and I believe I might pass unnoticed."

"Very disagreeable, certainly; but not so bad as
a wet bivouac on the Sierra de Guadaloupe.  Your
medal, too; you lose an opportunity of displaying it
before some of the brightest eyes in Scotland.  But
the service—"

"Deuce take the service!" exclaimed the other,
pettishly.  "If ever I am victimized in this way
again, I will sell out, or resign,—upon my honour
I will!"

"Alice will be at the ball," thought Ronald, as
he returned to his quarters, striding up the citadel
stairs, taking three steps at a bound, resolving to
attend the assembly-rooms without delay.  Notwithstanding
the perturbation of his spirits, he was dandy
enough to take more than usual care with his toilet,
and he found a world of trouble in getting his sash
and plaid to hang gracefully, and arranging the
heavy folding of the latter to display the
large-studded brooch, four inches in diameter, which
fastened it,—a jewel that, from its brightness and size,
completely eclipsed his handsome cross of St. James
and modest Waterloo medal.  Of the two last-named
badges he felt not a little vain, a sentiment
excusable in so young a man.  As a field-officer, he no
longer wore the kilt and tasselled purse.  For these,
the tartan truis and gilt spurs were substituted; but
they became him not the less, for the tight truis of
the Celtic garb display a handsome figure nearly as
well as the warlike filleadhbeg.

From the lofty windows of the assembly-rooms a
blaze of light was shed across George-street, and fell
in broad yellow flakes on the crowd of carriages of
every kind, glittering with liveries and harness, and
on the upturned faces of a mob of idlers collected
around the porches, the piazzas and portico, watching
the flitting figures of the dancers as they passed
and repassed the curtained windows.  Within, every
part of the building was gorgeously lighted, and the
soft music of the quadrille band, playing the airs
then most in vogue, floated along the lofty ceilings
and illuminated corridors.  Crowds of gentlemen in
full dress, or in uniforms, with ladies sparkling with
jewels and radiant with beauty, were gliding in
every direction to cool themselves after dancing, or
to admire the tasteful decorations which met the eye
wherever it turned; and conspicuous among these,
Ronald, with the greatest delight, beheld the
splintered poles and tattered colours which he had so
often borne on many a weary march and dangerous
occasion.

He looked eagerly around him for Alice, and
examined the figure of every lady he passed.  Near
the door of the hall, where the dancers were, he,
almost unconsciously, addressed a lady and
gentleman regarding the cause of his anxiety.

"Will you please to tell me if Miss Lisle is here?"

The lady and gentleman smiled, and exchanged
glances of surprise.

"Oh, undoubtedly she is," replied the latter.  "She
is never absent on such a night as this."

"But she never comes till near eleven," added
the lady.

Stuart found that he had been saying something
foolish, but he bowed with a good grace, and mingled
with the crowd to conceal his confusion, for his face
was turning as red as his coat.

The appearance of the quadrille parties was
splendid.  The room was crowded with all that were gay,
beautiful, or fashionable in Edinburgh; more than
one-half of the gentlemen were in uniform, or in the
tartan of their respective clans.  The ladies wore a
profusion of lofty feathers, and the effect of so many
rich costumes was striking and brilliant beyond
conception.

Eagerly as Ronald's heart throbbed to meet Alice,
he had no intention of getting up a melo-dramatic
scene in the ball-room by accosting her abruptly;
he therefore made a reconnoissance of the dancers,
keeping aloof, and observing the company in the
room from amidst a group of gentlemen who were,
as usual in such places, clustered around the door.
He felt a light touch upon his arm, and two soft
dark eyes were beaming pleasantly and fondly upon his.

"Ah, *señor!* ah, Major Stuart!" said the fair
owner with astonishment.

"Hah!  Ronald my boy!" added another well-known
voice, and his hands were grasped by those
of Lisle and his beautiful Spanish wife, who was
now a fashionable belle, with nothing of old Castile
about her, except her "wild dark eyes," upon which
few could look without pleasure and admiration.
Her superb figure gave additional beauty to a rich
dress of white satin trimmed with the richest lace.
A diamond circlet sparkled around her forehead.
Virginia had the air of a queen.  The time when he
had first beheld her, as the half demure, half
coquettish Abbess of Santa Cruz, flitted across Ronald's
mind; but it seemed more like a dream than a
reality.  Although on the retired list, Lisle wore his
uniform, with his empty sleeve hooked up under the
folds of his green plaid, over which hung his medal
and Waterloo ribbon.

"How happy I am to see you!" exclaimed Ronald.
"I have been looking for you every where
amid this gay wilderness of people.  And you are
all well?"

"As well as you could wish us.  Alice is here."

"Would to Heaven I could see her!" said Ronald.

"You shall have your wish instantly," replied
Louis.  "'Tis a splendid affair, this!"

"Our fellows seem to be quite the lions of the
night."

"The ball surpasses even ours in the palace of
Aranjuez," observed Louis, glancing fondly at
Virginia.  "But where is Alice?"

"I saw her but a moment ago," replied the donna,
whose accent had become much improved by her
residence in Edinburgh.  "Oh, how happy, how very
happy she will be to see you!"

Ronald's heart beat more joyously than ever, and
his impatience increased.

"Your sash hides the cross of dear St. James,"
continued the fair Castilian.  "Show it fully, *amigo*;
such a badge sparkles well on the breast of a
soldier.  Alice will love to look upon it; and so shall
I, for it will remind me of brave old Spain.  We
have had many a long conversation about you, for
a year past."

"Lord Lisle is here, of course?"

"In one of the ante-rooms, with Campbell and
some of the seniors.  But we must discover Alice,"
said Louis; "she is very angry with her field-officer."

"How have I been so unhappy?"

"The carriage was in the High-street yesterday
when the regiment marched in, and for nearly half
an hour Alice sat in it, watching you unseen."

"Watching me?"

"Yes."

"Good heavens!  I never saw her."

"Your horse was jammed by the crowd within
a few yards of us; and there you remained as fast
as King Charles's statue close by, and looking in
every direction except towards us.  Poor Alie was
very much agitated; and you kept your back turned
upon her, with very happy *nonchalance*, during the
whole of the Baillie's speech, and the rest of the
foolery performed in front of the Exchange."

"How unfortunate!"

"The moment the crowd had dispersed sufficiently
we drove to the castle; but you were off no
one knew where, and Alice was sorely displeased."

"I was away to Lochisla," replied Ronald, while
his brow became clouded.

The band of the Highlanders commenced at that
moment '*el Morillo*,' a well-known Spanish waltz
which they had learned abroad.

"Oh, the gay, the graceful waltz!  Let me look
upon it," said Virginia, bending forward, while her
eyes flashed with delight.  "Ah!  I am dying to
have a waltz.  'Tis *el Morillo*!"

"May I have the honour?"!  said Ronald, taking
her hand and leading her forward.

"Stay but a moment—there is Alice."

"Where?—ah! tell me."

"How gracefully she steps!  Beautiful! beautiful!"

Stuart looked in vain for the Alice he had known
in Perthshire.

"I shall show you afterwards," said the cruel
donna.  "You will have quite enough of her by-and-by;
but we shall be late just now for the waltz."  Away
they flew into the brilliant maze of the
waltzers, Ronald clanking his massive spurs at every
turn, in a manner he had acquired among the
Spaniards.  Notwithstanding his practice among the
donnas of Spain, he acquitted himself but indifferently.
Imagining that every lady who whirled past in
succession might be Alice Lisle, he looked everywhere
but to the figure of the dance, and various unpleasant
shocks took place, which excessively annoyed
the Castilian precision of Virginia.

"Stay, stay!" said she; "I will take pity on you.
You are too excited to dance.  Let us withdraw, and
I will show you your fairy queen."

They left the giddy whirl, and after hanging half
breathless on Ronald's arm for a moment, "There
is Alice!" said Virginia.

"Where?  On my honour!  I know her not.  I
cannot recognise her."

"Heavens! do you not know her when she is
before you?  Oh, for the eyes of a Spanish cavalier!
That is Alice in the spangled dress, with the white
ostrich feathers in her hair."

"Waltzing with the tall fellow in the uniform of
the Archer Guard—the green and gold," added Louis,
who had joined them.  "Now they leave the dance.
The archer is young Home of Ravenspur.  He has
dangled after Alice for three or four weeks, but I
will make the fellow quite jealous in three minutes.
Retire to one of the lobbies, and I will bring her to
you.  She does not know that you are here; but
there must be no screaming or fainting, or nonsense
of that kind.  I believe that, whatever she may feel,
Alie will conduct herself admirably."

"For three winters past Alice has been the reigning
belle in Edinburgh," said Virginia as she led
forth Ronald, who had become considerably
bewildered.  "She is never absent from a single *fête*,
assembly, or promenade; and indeed you have great
reason to be proud of her, for she causes more envy
among the women, and admiration among the men,
than ever woman did before."

"Indeed—indeed!" murmured Ronald, scarcely
knowing what he said, for Virginia's information
gave him little satisfaction.  He had no objection
that Alice should be a belle, but he should be
grieved to find her a coquette.  The merry laughing
Alice of Inchavon woods and braes, the slender girl
of seventeen, with her curls flowing wide and free,
had become a stately young lady of two-and-twenty,
with her hair braided and tortured by a fashionable
dresser, surmounted by a floating plume of feathers.
Her cheek was paler, and the bloom of rustic health
had given place to the graceful air of a young lady
of *ton*.  Her form was taller and rounder, and—

"Here she comes!" said Virginia, cutting short
Ronald's reflections.  He became agitated and
confused when he saw Louis approaching with a lady
in a bright dress leaning on his arm.  "She is more
beautiful and more devoted to you than ever; so,
*amigo*, take courage," said Virginia, pressing his
hand.  "She knows nothing of what I saw in the
convent of Jarciejo, and never shall.  Believe me,
Ronald, her heart has never in the slightest thought
wandered from its love to you."

"Alice! dearest Alice!" said Ronald, springing
forward, and throwing an arm around her, while she
sank upon his breast, too much agitated to speak.
But immediately she disengaged herself, and a deep
blush suffused her face and neck, rendering her
beauty still more striking.  Timidly and hurriedly
she looked around, to see whether others than her
brother and Virginia had observed this scene.

"Be brave, Alie!" said Louis; "there are none
here but friends."

"Pho—such a bashful couple!" exclaimed Virginia.
"What! not a single kiss to give and exchange,
after being separate so long?"

"Ronald, love!" faltered Alice, trembling violently,
while she tendered her flushed cheek.  He
then drew her arm through his, and led her towards
some of the cool passages, that she might recover
from her agitation, and that the tumult of her spirits
might pass away.  How supreme was their delight!
Every thing and every one were forgotten in the
rapture of that meeting, and there were two hearts,
pure and happy—wondrously happy, in the midst of
all that gay and dissipated crowd.

"How delighted dear papa will be to see you!"
said Alice, after the first outpouring of their joy and
affection had subsided,—an affection which had
surmounted all the perils of a long separation, the
temptations of the gay world, and the dangers of a furious
war.  They had not looked upon each other's faces
for five years—years of grief, doubt, and anxiety;
and now, how happy! to find themselves united
again, never to separate while on earth.  "How
happy papa will be to see you!"

"Not more than I shall be to see him, Alice."

"Papa is here somewhere.  I saw him only ten
minutes ago, with that Celtic goliath your colonel.
They will be looking at the dancers."

"You must dance the next quadrille with me, Alice?"

"I am engaged a dozen deep.  I am engaged
for every dance the night before a ball; and that
goose in green, young Home,—heavens! what shall
I do?"

"Dance with me, and apologize.  I am determined
to keep you for the remainder of the night, in spite
of Home and all these holiday guardsmen;" and he
led her towards the dancers.

How many old and fond recollections were
awakened by the sound of her gentle voice!  Ronald
hung with the purest delight upon every word she
uttered.  With the same emotions Alice listened to
him, wondering that the slender youth whose fair
unshaven cheek had been so often pressed to her own,
had become the perfect model of a soldier,—stout
and well-knit in figure, accustomed to his arms and
harness, and rendered swarth in visage by continued
exposure to a continental sun.  They felt an honest
pride in each other as they moved through the
crowded rooms, and many eyes followed them; for
the badges sparkling on Ronald's breast, and a
slight scar on his sunburned face, declared that he
had acquitted himself well in the field, while Alice
was the leading star, the reigning queen, of the
fashionable world in Edinburgh.

Ronald's welcome by the old lord was as hearty
and kind as he could have wished.  He introduced
him to Mr. (afterwards Sir Walter) Scott, to Jeffrey,
Christopher North, and some other leading characters,
who were assembled in one of the ante-rooms.  The
striking figure of Christopher, with his lank hair
hanging over his shoulders like a water-god's, attracted
his attention particularly.  Campbell was seated
in a snug arm-chair, and was detailing sundry
anecdotes of Sir Ralph to Scott, who listened to his
prosing with his usual politeness and good nature.
Except in a foursome reel, Campbell had not been
dancing that night.  For all fashionable measures he
entertained a supreme contempt; the strathspey, or
the sword dance, was his delight and his forte.  At
the other end of the supper-table, ladling hot punch,
sat the celebrated Johnnie Clerk (Lord Eldin,) to
whom Lisle introduced Stuart, who was rather surprised
by the oddity of his language and observations.

On his saying something complimentary about the
society of Edinburgh, Johnnie replied, "The lassies
were weel aneuch; but as for the society, it's no just
as it was in my young days, when I first soopit the
parliament-house wi' the tails o' my goon."

"How so?" asked Scott.

"Because Edinburgh is just like a muckle
kailpot,—a' the scum is coming to the top."

Lord Lisle, Scott and Christopher, Johnnie Clerk
and Campbell, had been sitting beside the decanters
for some time, and had contrived to get considerably
merry.  As usual, Scott was the life of the party, and
none enjoyed more than he did the queer stories told
him by Campbell about the Highlanders, the
adventure with old Mahommed Djedda, the march to
Grand Cairo, the campaign in Corsica, and Heaven
knows all what more.

Stuart, with Alice, returned to the ball-room,
where they danced together nearly the remainder
of the night; Alice braving the displeasure of
certain beaux, who, although they were sorely
displeased at being jilted, were too well bred, or
perhaps too wary, to take any unpleasant notice of it.
Meanwhile, the little party in the ante-room became
quite convivial, and Campbell, in the midst of his
glee, proposed to give the company a song.  This
offer being applauded, he commenced at once, while
Clerk beat time with his ladle and bowl.

   |  "When Abercrombie, gallant Scot!
   |    Made Britain's foes to tack again,
   |  To fight by him it was my lot;
   |    But now I'm safe come back again."

With a brimming glass in one hand, and a decanter
of sherry in the other, he sung the nine verses
of this patriotic song in a style peculiarly his own,
but as loud as it was out of place; and Ronald,
when dancing in the ball-room, heard the tones of
his stentorian voice above even the music of the
band.  The colonel insisted upon Scott singing in
turn, although he protested that he was no singer.
However, as it was usual in such cases, he gave
them a few staves of the old ditty, "Tarry woo," his
only song, and one which he very much admired for
its old style of verse and quaintness of expression.
More songs succeeded, and they enjoyed themselves
as much as men could do amid good company and
good wine.  Christopher at last set the example of
speech-making, because it was an art in which he
particularly excelled: he proposed "The health of
Major Stuart, the hero of Almarez, &c."

Doctor Stuart returned thanks in the name of his
clansmen; but the wine having slightly obscured
his perceptions, his speech, somehow, went off into
a dissertation upon gun-shot wounds, and the
treatment of fractures, simple and compound.

It was five in the morning before this splendid
fête concluded.  How many head-aches or heart-aches
ensued next day, and how many loves were
lost and won, has nothing to do with my story; but
several gentlemen flirts—the tall archer especially—went
home breathing war and defiance, hair-triggers
and rifle-balls, against Stuart, who was too much of
a soldier to value their resentment a rush, although
he received some distant hints of it.

Other balls and gaieties succeeded, and during the
whole of that happy winter the officers of the
Highlanders were the lions of Edinburgh.  The 78th, the
brave Ross-shire Buffs, who arrived soon after, came
in for a share of the general attention and festivities.
The mess-room tables were covered every morning
with invitation cards.  The young ladies had all
caught the scarlet fever, and would certainly have
pulled each other's caps had they worn any; and
even the match-making mammas had work enough
upon their hands, and were half worried to
death—as they deserved.





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.. _`NEWS FROM AFAR`:

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   CHAPTER XXII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   NEWS FROM AFAR.

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile, the arrangements for the marriage
of a certain lady and gentleman were proceeding in
the most agreeable manner imaginable, and the
ceremony was only delayed until some definite
information could be procured concerning the fate of
the old laird and his followers.  Even the day was
fixed; for three months had elapsed, and no tidings
had been heard from Canada.

The Glasgow manufacturer who had purchased
Lochisla, established a splendid household and
equipage in Edinburgh.  By the marriage of one of his
daughters with some retired naval captain, who,
like most naval captains, was not very particular
in his taste, the Macquabester family continued to
squeeze themselves into the assembly-rooms now
and then, and to give large routes at home, where
they carried on—as the saying is—'at hack and
manger;' and, one way and another, the poor man
squandered away his hard-earned thousands, the
gains of many a long industrious year, so
successfully, that in a short time he was compelled to
betake himself to the loom, while his property was
pounced upon ravenously by his creditors.  His
affairs were managed by Messrs. Diddle and Fleece,
clerks to the signet, and they transacted matters so
effectually, that Macquabester was soon without a
stiver, and his creditors did not find themselves
"muckle the better" either.  Under its new name
of Rosemount, Lochisla was advertised for sale, at
a small upset price, and all applications were to be
made to Messrs. Diddle and Fleece, at their office
in Queen-street.  Fifty thousand pounds was the
sum required; and Ronald, when he read the
advertisement one morning in the mess-room, resolved
to become the purchaser, but knew not where to
raise the money.  While revolving the matter in his
mind, without being able to form any definite plan,
a servant brought a note from Lord Lisle, requesting
to see him immediately.  After a consultation with
Alice's father, Ronald found himself able to treat
with Messrs. Diddle and Fleece, on whom he called
in the forenoon at their chambers; and he found
them, there being money in the way, the most
smooth-faced, obsequious, and polite men of the quill that
Edinburgh possessed.  After a delay of some weeks,
and a mighty deal of fuss, burrowing and searching
among the musty records of the Register-house, and
after all sort of doubts, difficulties, delays, replies
and duplies, duplicates and repetitions,
amplifications and expenses had been disinterred or created,
brought forward and demolished, the affair was
settled, and Stuart found Lochisla his own.

One forenoon he sat in the front drawing-room of
Lisle's house, lounging on a very comfortable sofa,
and occupied in detailing some of his Peninsular
adventures to a bright circle of six young ladies,
whose fair fingers were plying the needle, with great
assiduity, at two large pieces of yellow silk.  Several
handsome work-baskets lay on the floor, filled with
embroidery, gold fringe, silver thistles, letters for
battle and achievement, and above all a sphinx,
weighty and large enough to please even Campbell,
the colonel.  The end of the drawing-room, at which
the fair workers sat, was covered with shreds and
patches like the floor of a milliner's shop.  Alice
and five of her most intimate companions were busy
working a new pair of colours for the Highlanders;
and the rolls of silk, upon which the ladies were
embroidering, spread from the knee of one to
another like some great piece of ancient tapestry.  The
ladies were all fair and of noble birth, and Master
Ronald, who lay with so much Spanish nonchalance
on the sofa, had the happiness to act as their
director; and as the damsels were all anxious to
attract the attention of the handsome officer,
although they knew him to be engaged to their friend,
they were continually asking him questions, where
such a badge, such a motto, or the name of such a
battle should be placed.

A chubby little rogue, with fair hair and merry
hazel eyes, who bore the name of Ronald Lisle, was
clambering at his namesake's back, and twisting his
curly black locks with dimpled little hands, and
crowing and laughing aloud to Alice and the ladies,
with whom he was "an angel, a sweet pet, a dear
love," &c. &c.  He was the very picture of a plump
little Cupid; and the ladies bestowed so many kisses
and caresses upon him, that Ronald became quite
envious, and told the fair givers so.

He was just in the middle of a very animated
detail of his adventures with Cifuentes in the wood
of La Nava, when the shrill blast of the well-known
war-pipe made him stop so suddenly in his narrative,
that all the girls looked up with surprise,
for the pipe may be heard at all times in every part
of Edinburgh.

The performer came nearer and nearer, and the
notes of his instrument were making the great square,
the lofty dome and portico of St. George's,—even the
very sky, ring to the warlike blast.  It was a great
Highland pipe, of the largest size, and Ronald's
blood came and went in his changing face while
he listened.

"That is the 'Prince's Lament!'" said he.

"Surely I have heard that pipe and tune before,"
said Alice, throwing aside the standard and her
needle, and going to a window.  She uttered an
exclamation of surprise, and started back.

"'Tis either Donald Iverach or the devil!" cried
Ronald impetuously, as he sprung to her side.

"It is indeed poor old Iverach!" replied Alice,
piteously.

"My father's piper a beggar in the streets of
Edinburgh!—a mendicant in his old age!" muttered
Ronald through his clenched teeth, striking
the floor with his heel till a spur tore the carpet,
while the ladies crowded round him with timidity
and astonishment.  "What cursed misfortune can
have brought this about!"

"Dear Ronald! be composed a little," said Alice,
taking his hands within her own; "you must obey
me just now, and I will obey you by-and-by.  I
will desire Iverach to be looked after."  She rang
the bell violently.

The piper was now in front of the house.  He
stood at the curb-stone and paused a moment,—supposing,
probably, that he should not play long in
vain before so splendid a mansion.  He was clad in
the royal tartan; having come of a broken clan, he
had always worn the family colours of the house
under which his ancestors had been vassals.  His
kilt, plaid, and coat were worn to rags, and the once
bright scarlet checks of the tartan were faded and
dark; yet the dirk and claymore were swinging as
of old at his nut-brown thigh.  He was pale and
wan, and evidently broken down with age, want,
and sorrow.  His silvery hairs were almost destitute
of covering, and his feet were in the same
condition.  The proud expression of his eye was gone:
he rarely raised it from the pavement, and when a
coin was thrown from a window or the hand of a
passer-by, his cheek grew red, and he picked up
the gift with such confusion, that he forgot to thank
the donor.

"Oh, Alice!" groaned Stuart; "now indeed I
know that my father is no more.  Death alone could
separate Iverach from him; but I have long been
prepared to expect the worst.  Let some one take
care of the old man, and bring him here."

While he was speaking, the piper was ushered in
and stood near the door, bowing, bonnet in hand,
to the ladies successively, with that native dignity
and pride, mingled with respect, which a Highlander
never, under any circumstances, loses.  He bowed
profoundly to Ronald, and his keen eyes wandered
restlessly over his uniform.  Then, as if some
sudden recollection flashed upon his mind, the piob
mhor fell from his grasp; he sprang forward, and
bursting into tears, clasped Stuart round the neck.

"It's my ain pairn!  It's Maister Ronald!  Oich! oich!
Got tam!  I'm creetin' mair like a bit giglet
o' a lassie, than a teuch auld carle that's come
through sae muckle!  Gude pe thankit we hae met
at last, Maister Ronald!  I have been wandering to
meet ye through many a queer place; but sair and
sad are the news I hae to tell ye,—sad and sair
indeed!  So joost prepare yersel for the warst!"

"I suppose you would speak of my father?" said
Ronald with a quivering lip.

"Aich, ay! ta laird, ta laird!  Aich, ay!  Got
pless us!" replied the vassal, bursting again into
tears, which he endeavoured in vain to hide by
burying his head in the folds of his tattered plaid;
while Stuart half reclined on Alice's shoulder, and
turned aside, deeply touched with the old man's
sorrow,—for grief, like joy, is infectious.  "Ay; I
wad speak o' the laird, puir man! an' prood he wad
hae peen to see his only son coming home frae the
wars an' devildoms a stoot an' handsome chield, wi'
a proon face, and a hand hardened wi' the hilt o' the
proad-sword.  But, ochone-aree! he's low aneuch
the day, an' mony a pretty man tat followed him far
awa' ower the wide and trackless seas to the
stranger's cauld an' meeserable country!"

"Poor, dear old man!" said Alice, while she
pressed Ronald's hand to compose him, as the piper
was speaking.

"I have sad news to tell you, too, Iverach," said
he.  "Poor Evan Bean,—Evan with the fair hair,
is no more!  I find this is to be a sorrowful
meeting, Donald; for I have lost my father, and you
your only son."

The old man smote himself on the forehead, and
reeled back giddily as if struck, by a blow; but he
almost immediately recovered.  He stared wildly at
the speaker for a moment, and then said, with strange
calmness,

"I never again expeckit to pehauld him, for auld
Shanet tauld me his weird; and Shanet never spoke
in vain, nor tauld an untrue tale.  Her father was a
taischatr.  She said he wad return nae mair,—that
he was doomed!  The words were hard to pelieve;
put I mourned for him then as one that was deid
and awa'.  Oich!  I thought the pang was ower.
Put—put, O Maister Ronald! my puir Evan,—and
whar was he killed?"

"At Toulouse, Donald—at Toulouse, where we
gained a signal victory over France.  He died
bravely, like his comrades, for all were brave alike: I
laid him with my own hands in the church-yard of
Muret.  But for pity's sake, Donald, tell me of my
father, and the fate of the Lochisla people, and then
I will tell you more of your son, who, as a token of
remembrance, has sent you the clasp which fastened
the green feather of his bonnet.  Miss Lisle will
give it when you are more composed.  Come; take
courage, Donald, and tell us your story.  There are
none here but old friends, who have often danced to
the sound of your pipes, and shall yet again,—ay,
next month, and in the old hall of Lochisla too!"

Alice blushed, and her companions smiled.  The
old man's eyes flashed a red light through their
tears.  He looked from one fair face to another,
and, as he read nothing but innocence and happiness
in them all, he smiled, and appeared to become
happy too.  After being comforted with a few mouthfuls
of mountain-dew, filled from a decanter into an
ancient quaigh that he carried, and from which he
drank every thing, he became quite composed, and
commenced his story.

After leaving the Clyde, the vessel containing
the emigrants encountered a continuance of adverse
winds, and was driven from her course far to the
northward of the Canadas, upon the coast of
Newfoundland,—the most barbarous and desolate of all
the British colonies.  Having lost their rudder, and
had their compass washed overboard in a gale, the
vessel was, while surrounded by a dense fog, carried
into Baboul Bay, or, as it is commonly called, the
Bay of Bulls, by the strong current which there
runs in shore.  Finding that the brig was drifting
among the breakers, and that she was quite
unmanageable, the master ordered out the boats to tow
her off, but the order was given too late.  The boats
were swamped among the surf, and a few moments
afterwards the vessel grounded on a reef, where the
boiling sea made clean breaches over her every
instant.  She heeled over on her beam-ends, and the
fore-mast went away by the board, carrying with
it the maintop-mast and all the rigging above the
top.  The vessel thus became a total wreck in five
minutes.

"At the time the ship struck," continued the piper,
"the laird was lying sick in the cabin, unco unwell
in mind and body, for he had lang been pining awa'
wi' dule and sorrow for leaving you, and the heathery
hills o' Albyn, and to find himsel so far awa' frae
his tower and glen, and the graves o' his kindred
and forbears.  When I found that a' was ower, I
determined to save him or to dee wi' him.  Drawing
our dirks, and vowing we would slay to the death
ony man that opposed us, Alpin Oig and mysel
rushed into the cabin, and bore him therefrae in our
arms upon the deck, and frae there into a boat, the
last ane that was left.  The sailors tried to crowd in,
but our bare blades keepit them off.  Nae man,
woman, or bairn frae Lochisla, though death was
staring them in the face, wad hae thocht their ain
lives worth savin' if the laird's was lost; and sae a'
helpit us into the boat, where we solemnly swore, on
the blades of our dirks, to return and take as many
frae the wreck as we could, and a line was thrown
us to make fast to the shore.  The laird lay as if he
was dead at the bottom o' the boat, wi' naething on
but his dressing-gown, and the saut sea pouring like
rain ower him.  Ochone! it was an awsome time for
me!  Puir gentleman! he was helpless as a wean
in our hands."

Owing to the denseness of the fog there was no
shore to be seen but the beach; or what they
supposed to be the beach could be discerned through
the unnatural mid-day gloom by the white foam of
the breakers, towards which the two brave and
determined Celts, who had never been on rougher
water than the loch of the Isla, urged their frail
bark with all the strength of bending oars and
muscular arms.  They soon lost sight of the
water-logged wreck, which the fog enveloped like a shroud;
but the shrieks and prayers of those on board were
heard ringing above the roar of the wrathful
breakers, which hurl their crested heads with such
tremendous fury on the desert beach of Baboul Bay.

When within a few feet of the shore, their attention
was arrested by a loud splitting sound, a crash
as if a mighty oak was rending asunder, and a
tremendous cry rose from the face of the waters to
heaven.  They looked back in dismay.  The sea was
covered with pieces of the floating wreck, and human
heads and hands appeared at times above the white
surf, beneath which they were all engulphed in
succession.  At the same moment nearly that the ship
went to pieces, a wave like a mountain rolled against
the stern of the boat, with a shock like that of an
earthquake.  Iverach was stunned by its weight and
fury; the light seemed to go out from his eyes, and
he heard a horrible hissing in his ears, as he sank
into the abyss,—the trough of the sea.  Darkness
was around him, and agony was in his heart, as he
groped about in the sinking boat.  He was grasped
convulsively in the strong arms of his terrified
companion, and down they went together,—down, down,
he knew not how deep, for he became senseless, and
could feel no more.

When life returned, he found himself lying upon
the beach, drenched with the bitter surf, and covered
with shells and sea-weed.  It was evening, and the
sun, setting behind the hills, cast a long line of
radiance across the glassy sea.  All traces of the brig,
save those that lay scattered on the shore, had
disappeared.  Corpses were strewed upon the sand,—the
cold and wet remains of men, women, and children,
once the poor but happy cottiers of Lochisla.

Night was closing around him; he was alone,
upon the desert shore of a strange country, and the
heart of the aged and superstitious Highlander died
away as he looked around him.  In front lay the
hateful sea, which had destroyed his companions,
and behind was a homeless, howling wilderness, a
savage solitude, which he shuddered to look upon.
He saw every where rocks, mountains, bogs, and
thickets of stunted firs, which grew to the very edge
of the cliffs and overhung the water; but there were
no signs of any human habitation, and he strained
his eyes until they grew stiff in the sockets watching
the vast wilderness to the westward,—yet no wreath
of smoke rose from it.  Save the whistle and whir
of the plover and curlew, or the splash of the seals
that were sporting and floating among the shattered
ruins of an iceberg, no signs of life manifested
themselves around him.

Donald gazed at the last-named animals with
awe, not unmingled with fear, when they rose from
the water and looked steadily at him with their
great black eyes.  The Highlanders used to consider
these animals enchanted beings, and some old and
troublesome legends of the Ebudæ came thronging
upon Donald's mind as he watched their movements
among the ice.  Beside him lay the unconscious
remains of his leader; but he was joyful rather than
grieved to find that he was dead, for he knew that he
was now in a better place, and that all his troubles
were at an end.  To have lived, would only have
been a continuance of misery, and Donald upbraided
the sea for having spared himself.

He sat on the point of a rock, at the foot of which
rolled the surf, and he watched its advance and
retreat, careless of whether he died or lived, until
night descended on the sea and land, and then his
northern superstitions began to prove more terrible
enemies than any he had yet encountered.  At last
it became quite dark, and he knelt down by the
corse of the laird to pray; but when, by the light
of the stars, he beheld the bleached and ghastly
face of the dead man, a sudden and unaccountable
terror seized him, and he fled from the sea-shore
into the wilderness, where he could no longer hear
the dull boom of the ocean, as its eternal waves
came rolling; on in monotonous succession on the
lonely beach.

At sunrise he again sought the shore, and,
digging a grave with his weapon, gently placed the
body of Mr. Stuart in the earth, rolling it first in
his plaid and a piece of old sail-cloth.  He covered
the grave with the greenest sods he could find, and
toiled the whole day, carrying stones from the shore
to pile a cairn above it, and on its summit he placed
a rough wooden crucifix; for old Iverach had more
of the Catholic than the Protestant in his creed, and
he looked upon the cross with reverence and awe.
Having performed this last sad duty to the man
whom, since they were boys, he had revered and
loved with all the devotion of a Highland vassal,
he sat down by the grave, and, regardless of his
fate, heeded not a ship which was rounding a point
of land, and hove in sight about four miles off.
But the appearance of other things roused him from
this state of apathy.  His eye fell upon a gold
signet ring which had fallen from the hand of
Mr. Stuart, and lay on the turf beside a
splendidly-jewelled dirk, which he was wont to wear on the
19th of August,[\*] and other days which are
considered gay anniversaries in the Highlands.  There
was likewise an antique iron casket, containing
family relics, bracelets, rings, lockets, and brooches;
and the piper resolved that he would return to his
own country, if God spared and protected him, that
he might place these trinkets in the hands of Ronald
Stuart or Miss Lisle, with whom he knew they would
be in safe keeping.

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[\*] The raising of Prince Charles's standard, &c. &c.

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With this intention he quitted the beach, ascended
a promontory, and made signals to the ship; but
they were unseen, and he toiled along the shore
from one headland to another, clambering ocean-cliffs,
tearing asunder thicket and jungle, till his
strength began to fail, and darkness again descended
and he could see the ship no longer.

As a last resort, by means of the hard flinty
stones, with which the island abounds, being the
only crop it ever produces, he struck a light, and
raised a beacon-fire on a rocky peak.  Piling
driftwood, fallen trees, and turpentine branches upon it,
he raised a giant flame, which lighted the sea and
land for miles around, revealing the caverns in the
far-off capes and headlands, the barren hills and
rocks, the rippling ocean, and the distant sail, which
glimmered white and wavering.

This scheme succeeded.  A boat was despatched
to ascertain the meaning of this strange illumination,
and the vessel, which proved to be a Quebec ship
bound for Saint John's, the capital of the island,
took Iverach on board.  He was treated with the
utmost kindness by the crew, and was carried to the
town of Saint John's, whence he procured a passage
in a Greenock ship,—disposing of his brooch, pistols,
and some other appointments with which the Highlanders
are so fond of adorning their garb, to defray
his expenses.

After his return he visited Lochisla, and then
traversed the west country for some time, till a
recruiting sergeant of the Gordon Highlanders
informed him that the regiment had returned to Scotland;
upon which he set out on his way to meet them,
and having that morning entered Edinburgh, he had
screwed up his pipes in Charlotte Square to play for
a breakfast, for he had tasted nothing that day.

As he concluded his narrative, he unstrapped a
leather dorlach, which he carried on his back, and
taking from it the iron casket, the signet ring and
the jewelled poniard, placed them in Ronald's hand,
glad to be rid of them, after having brought them so
far and preserved them as sacred relics, even when
compelled by poverty to seek shelter in the haunts
of infamy and crime, where he had preserved them
untouched, though nearly perishing of want.

He had often been totally without food for four or
five days, while at the same time he carried about
him jewels worth four hundred pounds.

"But they werna my ain," said he; "and what
could I do, though hunger is hard to thole?  But a's
past noo, and oich!  I'll be happy yet, even in my
auld and childless days; and I will end them beneath
the roof-tree o' the auld tower whan the time comes,
and come it must, some day sune,—oich! oich!"





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.. _`CONCLUSION`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII.


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   CONCLUSION.

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..

   |  "We dinna ken what was intended,—
   |    We may be for this o't were born;
   |  And now, folk, my song maun be ended,
   |    For I'm to be married the morn."
   |                          *Edward Polin.*

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Ronald's grief at the intelligence so suddenly
brought him by Iverach was of long continuance.
It was the more poignant, because his father had
found his tomb in a desert place and in a strange
country; for it is ever the wish of a Highlander
to be buried among the ashes of his ancestors.
When he looked upon the blade of the poniard
Donald had brought home, and saw with the
thistle—the badge of his family and clan—the motto
*Omne solum forti patria*, it recalled the memory
of his father's pride and wrath when his boyish
passion for Alice Lisle was first revealed to him,
and of that moment of anger when he ordered him
to quit his presence, and for ever.

The sight of the family jewels which Iverach,
like a pilgrim of old, had so sacredly preserved
in all his wanderings, awakened many deep regrets
and dear associations.  There were lockets which
contained the hair of his father and mother
interwoven, cut from their brows in youth, when their
ringlets were glossy and brown; and there were
brooches which had clasped the plaids of brothers,
and rings and bracelets which had once adorned the
white hands of sisters, all of whom were now gone,
and above whose graves the grass had grown and
withered for years.

Despite the romance-like appearance the procedure
will bestow upon the story, we may not bid
adieu to the hero in the midst of his grief, but must
leave him what is styled, in common phraseology,
"the happiest of men."  After a lapse of time his
sorrow passed away, and the preparations for his
marriage were renewed.

On the forenoon of the 16th of July,—one must
be particular on such an occasion,—an unusual
bustle was apparent in and about Lord Lisle's mansion
in Charlotte Square, one side of which was lined
by carriages, while a crowd of women and children
were collected around the door.  Boys were clinging
to rails and lamp-posts, and cheering and yelling
with might and main, in a manner which would
better have become a wedding in a country village
than in the "modern Athens."  The servants were
all smiles and white ribbons, and clad in their gayest
apparel.  A flag was flying on the top of the house,
and, at Campbell's particular request, the great stone
sphynxes, which overlook the sides of the square,
were adorned with coronets and garlands of flowers
on this auspicious occasion.  St. George's bells rang
merrily, and the splendid band of the Highlanders
were making the northern gardens of the square
re-echo, as they played the old Scottish air, "Fy! let
us a' to the bridal!" while the crowd sang and
laughed, and the rabble of boys cheered long and
lustily, like a nuisance as they were.

Ladies and gentlemen in full dress appeared at
times at the windows of the front drawing-room, but
they immediately retired when a shout arose from
the gaping crowd, among whom the servants
scattered basketsful of white favours.  To these Allan
Warristoun added, now and then, a shower of
red-hot penny-pieces, which he heated on a shovel, and
threw over the area railings.  These burned the
fingers of those who caught them; the laughter
became mingled with screams, and "the fun grew
fast and furious."

Drawn by four fine bays at a trot, a smart new
travelling-carriage fresh from the finishing hands of
Crichton, came up to the door, and the people fell
back on the right and left; but again rushed
forwardas the door was opened, and the clanking steps
thrown down by the servant, who, like the smart
postilions on the saddle, wore a white favour of
giant size on his breast.  On the dickey sat our
friend old Donald Iverach, superbly garbed and
armed, with his pipes under his arm, and his
bonnet cocked over his grey hairs; while he screwed
away at his drones, and looked more happy than
ever he had done in his life.

Double imperials, all new and shining, were
strapped on the top of the carriage, and a regimental
bonnet-case surmounted them both.  A sword and
shoulder-belt, with various guns and fishing-rods,
hung in the slings behind, while shooting-bags and
band-boxes were piled up in the rumble, into which
the servant handed a spruce little maid, cloaked and
bonneted for the road.

Encircled by the collar of Saint James of Spain,
the arms of Stuart and Lisle quarterly, appeared
blazoned on the panels, glittering on the harness,
on the carriage top, and sparkling on the ample
buttons of the footman.

"Now then, John; is all right?" cried the jovial
butler, appearing at the front door.

"All right, sir!" cried the postilion; and the
crowd began to cheer.

Stuart came forth, with Alice leaning on his arm,
and the eyes that peeped in at the door discerned a
crowd of glittering dresses and happy faces behind
them.  Ronald was in full dress, and certainly
appeared a little nervous.  Alice leant on his arm,
trembling and blushing desperately, but looking so
pretty in her little marriage bonnet, and so interesting
in all the splendour of white satin, orange-buds,
virgin-lace, smiles and blushes, that the crowd in
their admiration forgot to cheer, greatly to her
relief.  Ronald handed her into the carriage, and
sprang in after her.  Up went the steps, and the
door was closed.

"Good bye!  God bless you, my lad!" cried
Campbell, flinging an old shoe after them for luck.
"Remember the old Gordon Highlanders; for it
will be long before they forget you!"

"Good bye, colonel!" said Ronald.  "Say the
same for me to all the rest of ours."

"Adieu!" faltered Alice, kissing her little hand,
and the glasses were drawn up.  John leaped into
his seat behind, and placed his arm round the waist
of the maid-servant.  Donald cried "Hoigh!" and
waved his bonnet; the pipes struck up; "crack
went the whip, round went the wheels," and they
were off at the rate of twelve miles an hour for
Lochisla.

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   THE END.

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   Printed by Maurice and Co., Fenchurch-street.

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