Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XIV Part 9

"Down rush'd a deluge of sonorous hail."

Peggy fainted outright, and the child screamed itself into hysterics, when all at once a couple of s.h.a.ggy shepherd's dogs gave tongue in the neighbourhood. A young, yellow haired shepherd lad stood over us in an instant; and, guessing at once how matters really stood, had us all removed, as soon as Peggy had recovered her senses, into the small shieling, in the immediate neighbourhood of which we were unconsciously wandering. We had to stoop, and enter upon our hands and knees; and, when we were all stowed away, there was not an inch of house room which was not occupied either by human beings or dogs. But, though sitting, or rather lying, on rushes, these rushes were dry, and our humble shelter warded off the merciless pelting, whilst the thunder-cloud gradually took to the top of the higher Queensberry, and left us with a clear sunny day, and two miles to walk to the child's home. The truth was, that the family at Mitchelslacks had become alarmed by the absence of maid and child, and had sent nearly half-a-score of shepherds, and a full score of dogs, to the hills and glens, on a voyage of discovery; whilst Mr and Mrs Harkness, the parents, were in a state which may more easily be imagined than described. All were now well; and I accompanied the young shepherd, with his sweetheart--for such I soon discovered they were--home, and had the happiness, by running on before, to be the first to announce the safety of their child to the worthy and distracted parents. They had, indeed, given up both the nurse and child for lost, and their despair had been at least equal to their joy, when I ran forward and threw the child in the mother's lap. Now, who could doubt that enthusiasm was abounding in the breast, and shining in the tear-wet eye of the mother, as she pressed the little lost one to her bosom? It was, verily. But, after all I have said of the nature of this extraordinary feeling, I know not if it is ever experienced in a stronger and purer form than in that of _joy_. I care nothing for the cause--it may be any one you please. All I insist for is, that it shall be capable of stimulating, or rather exciting--for the former is a phrenological word--the mind of the individual, however stupid, obese, or phlegmatic, to the boiling-point of that most intense species of human happiness. All the many forms of the feeling seem to tend to this as the point of their realisation. Pythagoras and his proposition, Argand and his lamp, Mungo Park and the waters of the Joliba, Mrs Harkness and her child, and the child, probably, next day with a b.u.t.terfly, are all instances of the feeling in the point of gratification. But I have been again wandering from my story--all enthusiasm together; for there was love in the affair, which many insist upon being the strongest, if not the purest, example that can be presented of this mysterious and pervading essence. Those who think so can take their own view; I retain mine; and it is very probable that we are both wrong; and you, ma'am, to whom I formerly addressed myself, will put us right, by telling us that poetry is the only genuine and pure form in which this moral electricity can exhibit itself. Let it be as you say, though I would advise you to be on your guard against your friend Miss ----, who lost her lover last week, and will insist that _hope_ is the soul of the feeling; and that, when that is gone, enthusiasm has no more chance of getting into the mind or heart than I have of getting into your favour by this digression from a story of love, originating in, or perfected by, _mist_, one of the most romantic mediums of the tender pa.s.sion. So, to make a speedy conclusion, about a fortnight after this incident, I was again at my old sport, when I was accosted by my young friend, the shepherd, who now figured in holiday-attire, and informed me that, as this was his wedding-day, my company would be acceptable _owre by yonder_ at two o'clock. I pursued my sport till then, and, in the old chamber of Mitchelslacks, saw Joseph Robson and Margaret Gibson made man and wife. There was neither dancing nor revelment of any kind, but there was a plentiful meal, many songs, and as much punch, prepared in a large bowl, as the company chose to make use of. All went merry as a marriage-bell. And now I find I am checked by want of s.p.a.ce, at the moment when the _jar_ is fully charged, and the subtle spirit might have exploded in many more pretty coruscations.

TREES AND BURNS.

Woods, natural woods, are most beautiful. To wander all day long amongst bushes, hazels, oaks, thorns, of every hue and fruit--the haw, crab, and sloe--is most delightful. To lose one's-self, as it were, at every turn, and to be arrested by some new feature, ever and anon, as you thread your mazy course through the pathless wood, is a pleasure, the recollection of which still haunts and sweetens my dreams of early being--

"In life's morning march, When my bosom was young."

I don't like forests--they are too stiff and stately--they are like a tea-and-turn-out party--sombre, silent, and affected. They have not the easy negligence, the elegant simplicity, the "_simplex munditiis_," of woods. They are always on their high horses, and darken whilst they look down upon and despise the underwood. I had as rather a.s.sociate with a conclave of high churchmen or consulting doctors, as with a regular, well-planted, and well-fenced plantation. Here man has played the tailor with nature; and, in cutting down her skirts, has deprived her of all that is graceful in drapery and folding. He has made a Bond Street exquisite of the subject. But, far and beyond all other inanimate objects, I have always been in love with single, individual, separate trees. You cannot be truly--as the song has it--in love with many _fair dames_ at one and the same time; I can never, on that account, bear to hear the song sung, which begins thus--

"I'm in love with twenty, I'm in love with twenty, And I adore as many more-- There's nothing like a plenty."

I absolutely quarrelled with an old friend for his frequent singing of this abominable and heretical song, and am scarcely reconciled to him to this hour, though he has long ago limited his love to one object--he has been married these thirty years. In the same spirit, and on the same principle, I affirm, that no child, boy, girl, man, or woman, can be truly in love with _two trees_ at one and the same time. Oh! I remember well the old ash-tree that occupied the corner of our kail-yard. There the same pyet built yearly her nest, and brought _out_ and _up_ her young. To be sure I _t.i.thed_ them occasionally, and taught her offspring to imitate speaking most abominably; but still the old lady and gentleman returned to their tree and their branch, and even to the same cleft of the branch, annually; and my spirit rejoiced within me, as I lifted up mine eyes and beheld the black-and-white tail of the dam, as she sat, from morn to night, upon her beautifully-spotted, black-and-white eggs. There, underneath that very tree, I did sit and construct my first paper kite; there did I play from morn to night with the cat and her kitten; there did I shelter myself from the shower, and from the meridian heat; there did I repeat my morning and evening prayer (short, it is true, but pithy--it was the Lord's Prayer, with an additional pet.i.tion in behalf of my only surviving parent, my mother); there did I count my slain on returning from fishing expeditions; and there, my dear departed friend and cousin, did you and I a.s.sociate, eve after eve, in true and holy affection. Alas! the cold earth has closed over one of the kindest hearts and clearest heads I ever had occasion to know anything about; but G.o.d's will be done. We all hasten to the same place, however different our courses. Peace, my dear companion, to thy manes! We shall meet, I hope, anon. In the meantime, I was speaking of the old ash-tree at Auldwa's, which I have taken the liberty to transplant to Dunsyett. But our common friend, and the friend of many past generations, is now laid prostrate (as I am informed) with the earth. How is the mighty fallen, and the lofty laid low, and the strong one broken and smashed in his strength! The storm, the dreadful, unexampled storm, which lately swept over our island with a whirlwind's impetuosity and a hurricane's strength, has bent the gallant mast, and sunk the n.o.ble ship, and buried its thousands and thousands of fathers, and brothers, and husbands, and wives, and daughters in the deep sea. It has uptorn forests, scattered woods to the heavens, and (_inter alia_) has stooped from its alt.i.tude to lay my old and dear companion prostrate. How many tempests, my poor uprooted friend, hast thou not braved!--nay, when the fire of heaven split and splintered the adjoining oak and ash, thou didst escape unhurt. The awful tempest of winter 1794-5, deprived thee, indeed, of a branch or two; but thou wert still in the manhood of thy being, when the west wind blew as "'twad blaw its last"--and M'Diarmid's newspaper is enriched with thy remains.

My next a.s.sociate of the tree species was the "_Castle Beech_." Oh, what a tree it was, and still (I humbly hope) is!--for the hand of man is not yet formed in the womb which will dare to cut it down; and it stands mighty in its individual girth, awful in its spread, and sheltered in its position. This tree is the chronicler of my school days at Wallacehall: on the smooth and ample bark of that tree are imprinted or obliterated recollections of a fearful nature. Oh! who dares to take a peep into the charnel-house of fifty years? There they are, playing it hard and happy, at dools toosty, or England and Scotland.

"Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play: No sense have they of ills to come-- No cares beyond to-day!"

But let forty years, with Juggernaut wheels, crash and creak over us, and where are the happy hearts and merry voices? The sea will answer; for she has had her full share. The river, the b.l.o.o.d.y river _Nith_, will and must answer; for in its deceitful waters was lost my old and kind cla.s.s-fellow and companion, Richard Reid. The west must give up its dead, and the east answer to my call. Where am I? My dear schoolfellows, where are you? Why don't you answer? Alas! _at sixty_, I can scarcely count six contemporaries who still breathe with me the breath of heaven, and rejoice in a protracted though misimproved existence. But the old beech, my kind friend Mr Watt of the castle informs me, is still standing, though almost by a miracle, for his branches are so large and numerous that he groaned, and creaked, and swung most dreadfully under the tempest's shock. But it would not do; even the prince of the aerial powers was foiled at last, and was compelled to desist from his unhallowed attempt. The Castle Beech has weathered the storm; and there are hearts in every land which will rejoice in the information which I now convey.

But the "Three Brethren," the friends and companions of my more mature years, are now no more. They have fallen with those cedars of Lebanon, the mighty monarchs of Arbigland--_they_ have perished, and in their fate have nearly involved that of their intelligent and benevolent proprietor. But my heart reverts to Collestoun, and to the banks of the blue and silver Nith, and to the Three Brethren. The pages of the intelligent "Times" (county newspaper) are wet with the tears of lamentation. But the "Times" knows not--it could not, and it cannot know--the one-half that honest Allan Cunningham and I know about these remarkable trees. Their traditional history is this:--

Prior to the discovery of Virginia, and of the consequent tobacco trade, by means of which Glasgow, from being a comparatively insignificant town, became a large and a prosperous mercantile city, and whilst Manchester, in England, was almost equally obscure and unimportant, there was no properly-constructed highway through Dumfries-shire betwixt these two mercantile depots. There was, indeed, along the banks of the Nith, the trace of the old Roman road; but this was obscure, in many places obliterated, and in all narrow and unaccommodating to wheel-carriages. Indeed, the road in many cases was impracticable, unless on horses; and these, too, in some places, were in danger of disappearing in mosses and quagmires. In this state of things, to talk of or think of inns, or public-houses of accommodation, was out of the question. _Where there is no demand, there can be no supply_--that is a clear case; yet still a certain overland intercourse was carried on betwixt these two great national marts, Glasgow and Manchester; and a merchant from the one city was in the habit of mounting a strong nag, and meeting with a merchant from the other city at what was deemed the _half-way point_--at the place, namely, where a large tree, with three outspread and sheltering branches, not only marked the spot of tryst, but afforded partial shade and shelter. (The reason why these branches were afterwards denominated the Three Brethren has already formed the subject of a tale.) Well, by previous arrangement and appointment, the Glasgow and the Manchester merchants met and transacted business under this tree, and then retraced their steps homewards; and this continued for many years to be the nearest and the most commonly-frequented line of communication betwixt Glasgow and Manchester. It was in this way, originally, that the benevolent founder of the free school of Closeburn, Mr Wallace, a native of that parish, and a Glasgow merchant, carried on this extensive business with Manchester. Many a time has the worthy founder of the most celebrated inst.i.tution in the south of Scotland (with which the name of Mundell will be a.s.sociated till latest ages) been seen sitting upon a stone rolled to the foot of this immense tree, and transacting business with a Manchester merchant, similarly placed with himself. In process of time, the international intercourse increased--post-chaises succeeded to strong saddle horses, the roads were improved, and an inn, or house of accommodation, became absolutely necessary. It was on this occasion that the once famous, though now comparatively obscure inn, called of late years Brownhill, arose--an inn resorted to by travellers of all ranks, in preference to any which even Dumfries in former times could afford--an inn celebrated as the frequent resort of Robert Burns, who used to hold high carousal here with its former convivial landlord, Mr Bacon; in whose house, and on one of the panes of gla.s.s in the window, were originally written those well-known lines of Burns, beginning--

"Cursed be the man, the veriest wretch in life, The crouching va.s.sal to the tyrant wife, Who has no will but by her high permission-- Who has not sixpence but in her possession....

I'd charm her with the magic of a switch," &c.

As I happen to know the particular circ.u.mstances which accompanied the writing of these lines, I shall conclude this chapter on trees, by relating them.

Burns lived at this time at Ellisland, about two miles lower down the vale than the Three Brethren, and about three miles from Brownhill. Much of his duty as a gauger lay about the village of Brownhill. Now, Brownhill was a very convenient half-way house betwixt Thornhill and his home at Ellisland; and, accordingly, Burns' little stout pony (which I remember well, though I forget the name) would seldom pa.s.s Brownhill.

One day, whilst a boy at the free school of Wallacehall, I chanced to be lingering about the stable-door at Brownhill, when Burns alighted from his pony, _wet and weary_, and, giving the beast a slap on the hinder extremity, exclaimed, "There! make you comfortable for the night, in the best way you can--and so will the poor gauger!" Burns looked at me very closely; but I was unknown to him at that time (though I knew him personally afterwards); and muttering, "One of Mundell's," pa.s.sed on.

What follows is from undoubted authority; namely, one of the party of three, who enjoyed this very merry evening. Bacon and Burns were their bowl of punch a-piece, as well as my friend, and were in high talk and song; but Mrs Bacon, who did not partake of the festivity, and who, in fact, was the support of the house, refused to produce the materials for the fourth bowl. High words arose betwixt her and her husband; who, as well as Burns and my friend, had by this time given indications of their having

"A wee drap in their ee;"

and Mrs Bacon hid the keys and went to bed. Ere Burns went to repose (or next morning), he inscribed, with his ready wit, and equally ready diamond, the lines mentioned on the window-pane.

KIRKYARDS.

Kirkyards are to me exceedingly interesting. Alas! those nearest and dearest to me are now the tenants of these silent retirements. They contain subjects of intense and protracted recollection. Whenever I have an hour to spare after dinner in my pedestrian wanderings, I am sure to deviate into a churchyard, and there to spell and stumble my way through and over a multiplicity of graves and monuments. But, instead of dealing in generalities, I shall speak of two particular cases, known to myself, in the churchyard of the parish of Closeburn. One is on your right hand as you enter and pa.s.s Elder Boe, on Sunday, at the church stile. The stone is merely an erect headstone, and of considerable dimensions. The inscription is--"Here lies Richard Reid, aged 16, who perished in crossing the water of Nith in 1794." Richard, as well as his brother Stephen, now Colonel Reid, were my particular companions at Wallacehall School. We were cla.s.s-fellows. Oh! what fun and frolic we have had together! The Castle Wood, Barmuir Wood, Gilchrist Land Wood, the Pothouse Wood, the Whitston Cleughs, and the Gravel Walk, could tell, if they were permitted, many tales of us three. What nests did we not find!

what nuts did we not gather! what sloes did we not pocket! what brambles did we not eat! and what _hind_ or raspberries did we not bruise and convert into _red wine_. And, then, what tree so tall as not to admit our ascent! what thicket so dense as not to be penetrated! what eel so lively as not to be decapitated and skinned! and what trout so cunning as to escape the temptation of our nicely-prepared baits! At England and Scotland, too--that most expressive game of former Border feuds--we were most expert; and have seen many suns descend on our protracted contests at shinty. But, alas! harvest arrived, and with it the vacation; the oats ripened, and so did the hazel-nuts. The report was, that the Barjarg Woods were most splendidly supplied with ripe and brown _leamers_. We could not--we never tried to resist the temptation. But the rapid river Nith lay betwixt us and the object of our travel. It had rained, but was now fair; and the water, when we arrived at its banks, did not seem even moved or swollen. Stephen and I hesitated; Richard was a bold, manly lad, somewhat older. He plunged at once into the stream, and bade us follow; so, indeed, we did. Ere we had gained one-third of the way, upon the stream we observed bits of wood and various floating substances in it. We became alarmed, and called aloud on Richard; but he turned round, and laughed us to scorn. We would not stand this, but pushed on, he still keeping in advance. The powerful current had now reached his waist, and, even though he had wished to turn, he could not.

The stones were beginning to creep from beneath our feet. All at once, a large piece of floating timber came down upon poor Richard's position, and he was borne away by the united force of the obstructed wood and the stream. He fell; the timber floated over him, and he again rose; but he was in much deeper water, and manifestly apprehended danger. He screamed aloud, and we rushed forward--his brother Stephen and I--to the rescue; but we were all instantly hurled along into a deep and whirling pool.

Over the banks of this eddy there grew and hung a broom bush; more by accident than management, I got a hold of it. Stephen was struggling near me, and I caught him with the other hand. I struggled desperately, and got myself and my companion into the face of a soft and clay brow. I held like grim death, and at last surmounted the steep. Though stupified, I saw that one was awanting, and I rushed--for Stephen was insensible--along the brink of the pool. At the foot of it, and where the water began to shallow, I saw poor Richard tumbling over without any signs of life. In an instant I had a hold of his garment, and had actually pulled him considerably to one side, when, my feet coming in contact with a large stone, I fell backwards, lost my hold, and the body of poor Richard was found, next day, a mile and a-half below, at the bottom of Porter's Hole.

On the opposite side of this churchyard there is a flat flagstone, with the following inscription--"Here lie the mortal remains of William Herdman, weaver in Auldwa's of Gilchristland."

Poor Willie Herdman! What a.s.sociations do not these two magic words awaken! When Gibraltar stood n.o.bly out, under the command of an Elliot, against the combined strength of France and Spain, thou wast there to send the hissing-hot cannon-b.a.l.l.s into the hulls of the enemy's floating-batteries. But, on returning to thy native Nottingham, to taste of its pure and salubrious ales, thy house was desolate--father, mother, and sister, all dead--and the place which knew them owned another tenant. Thy heart sank within thee; and having been bred a weaver in thy youth, thou didst take the road for Glasgow; but, at Brownhill, chance brought thee acquainted with Archy Tait of Auldwa's, and with him didst thou ply thy trade till the mournful end of thy days. But it was neither as a soldier, nor as a weaver, that I remember thee with so much interest. It was as the best bait-fisher in the south of Scotland--it was as my first preceptor in that most delightful art. I see thee still, before sunrise, ten miles amidst the mountains, and I hear the plash of the large new-run sea-trout, as it "turns up its silver scaling to the light" amidst the dark-brown flood. At all times, and almost in all states of the weather and the water, thy skill was triumphant, and from thee I derived that art which no man knows, unless instructed by me, to this hour--the art of fishing _up_, and not _down_, a mountain stream, with prepared bait. But the hour of thy destiny at last arrived, and it was a mournful one. It was one of thy triumphs to kill a dish of trouts, even in the midst of frost, and at New-year's Day. A wager was laid, and a considerable sum of money was risked, on thy killing a dozen for a New-year's-day feast. On the last day of the old year, as the time approached, the weather had become boisterous, and snow-blasts, mixed with hail, were coursing along the skirts of Queensberry. I was a stout lad in the high cla.s.s then, and, being in the constant habit of accompanying thee on thy fishing expeditions, I made a point of not being absent on this critical trial of thy skill. Accordingly, when the last day of December, 179-, dawned, I was by thee aroused from my slumbers, and, in spite of all maternal remonstrances, I agreed to accompany thee to Caple. The day was dark and somewhat cloudy; but there was only a sprinkling of snow on the lower grounds, though the higher seemed to be much whiter. To fortify himself against the inclemency of the weather, poor Willie had provided himself with a supply of what he used to term "his comforter"--namely, some whisky in a bottle. We fished for about two hours in the deeper and unfrozen pools of Caple, and with amazing success. Willie had just killed his eleventh trout, when he turned up the bottom of a pint bottle, quite empty. He was not intoxicated, but confused. I had not enjoyed the advantage of "the comforter," and was consequently much more collected, and aware of our danger. It was betwixt twelve and one when the day suddenly darkened down, and a terrible snow-drift came up the glen. Mitchelslacks was at about a mile and a-half's distance. I strongly urged our retreat to that hospitable mansion in the wilderness; but Willie wanted one trout of his tale, and he persevered for about half-an-hour longer, when he was so fortunate as to complete his number. But by this time the snow-drift and wind were absolutely choking, and I could see that his eyes were half-shut. He was manifestly in a state of approaching stupor or sleep.

I became exceedingly alarmed, when he sat, or rather fell, down suddenly beneath a projecting rock, saying that he would rest and sleep for a little, and then he would accompany me to Mitchelslacks, as I proposed.

I tried to pull him along; but he was incapable of motion. What was to be done? Poor Willie, who had taught me to fish, and told me so many stories about the wars, and about Nottingham, and England, and who was really a kind-hearted, good-natured creature--poor Willie to perish thus helpless in the drift! I sprang on with renewed strength; but when I reached Mitchelslacks I fainted, and it was not till I recovered that Willie's dangerous state was learned. Three shepherds, with Mr. Harkness at their head, and a suitable accompaniment of dogs, sallied forth, and in a short time reached the spot; but it was too late. There was still heat in the interior, but no motion; the pulse had stopped, and the body was sitting in a reclining posture, leaning against the stone. There were no marks of previous suffering--all was calm and placid in the marble countenance--the eyes shut, and the hands reposing on the fish-basket, as if the last thing he had done was to count his fish! He was dead!

POLWARTH ON THE GREEN.

Peradventure there are few of our readers who have not heard of "Polwarth on the Green," and the "Polwarth Thorn." The song bearing the former t.i.tle is certainly founded upon one of the most popular traditions on the Borders. Since the commencement of this publication, we have been many times requested to write a tale upon the subject, and not less than thrice, from different quarters, within the last seven days; and as we are at all times anxious to meet the wishes of our readers, we shall now endeavour to fulfil the request which has been made to us.

There are none to whom the traditions of other days are not interesting.

They save from oblivion the memory, the deeds, and the manners, of our fathers. No nation is so sunk in barbarity as to disregard them: the civilised European and the Indian savage alike cherish them; and the poets of every land have wed them with song. Yet, nowhere are traditions more general or more interesting than upon the Borders. Every grey ruin has its tale of wonder and of war. The solitary cairn on the hillside speaks of one who died for religion, or for liberty, or belike for both.

The very schoolboy pa.s.ses it with reverence, and can tell the history of him whose memory it perpetuates. The hill on which it stands is a monument of daring deeds, where the sword was raised against oppression, and where heroes sleep. Every castle hath its legends, its tales of terror and of blood, "of goblin, ghost, or fairy." The mountain glen, too, hath its records of love and war. There history has let fall its romantic fragments, and the hills enclose them. The forest trees whisper of the past; and, beneath the shadow of their branches, the silent spirit of other years seems to sleep. The ancient cottage, also, hath its traditions, and recounts

"The short and simple annals of the poor."

Every family hath its legends, which record to posterity the actions of their ancestors, when the sword was law, and even the payment of rent upon the Borders was a thing which no man understood; but, as Sir Walter Scott saith, "all that the landlord could gain from those residing upon his estate was their personal service in battle, their a.s.sistance in labouring the land retained in his natural possession, some petty quit-rents of a nature resembling the feudal casualties, and perhaps a share in the spoil which they acquired by rapine." Many of those traditions are calculated to melt the maiden's heart, to fill age with enthusiasm, and youth with love of country. But to our story.

In the year 1470, John Sinclair of Herdmanstone, in East Lothian, who was also Lord of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, dying without male issue, the estate of Kimmerghame descended to his daughter Marion, and that of Polwarth to her sister Margaret. His heir-male was his brother, Sir William Sinclair, to whom the estate of Herdmanstone fell. Sir William, as the uncle of the co-heiresses, though not appointed as their guardian by their father, for they were both well-nigh of woman's estate when he died, craftily took upon himself that duty. He whispered to them that their estates were not managed as they ought to be--that their bondmen did not perform the duty required of them--that those they had set over their grounds as stewards did not render them a faithful account of their stewardship. He insinuated a thousand suspicions into their young minds, until their affairs gradually fell into his hands, and he at length succeeded in gaining the entire management of their estates; and he now required only to have the disposal of their personal freedom. Men of power in those days were not very scrupulous as to the means which they employed to obtain their object; he who had a score of retainers weighed the scales of life and death in his hands. Nevertheless, aware of the rank which his nieces held in the estimation of his country, Sir William knew that it would not be safe to venture upon making them prisoners by open violence. He therefore courteously invited them to his house at Herdmanstone, where he stated that the gayest and the proudest company in broad Scotland would be present to delight them. Marion, who was fond of amus.e.m.e.nts, was overjoyed at the invitation; but her sister Margaret, who was of a graver disposition, said--

"Well, sister, I like not our uncle's kindness--something sinful seems to laugh in his looks; the very movement of his lips bespeaks more than it reveals; confide in _me_, dear sister, and distrust _him_. When I was but a child, playing around our mother's knee, I have heard her say unto my father, 'Ah, John! I like not your brother; there is a cunning in his looks, in his very words; he cannot meet you with the straightforward gaze of an honest man; and methinks he looks upon me as though he distrusted and hated me; yea, I have often thought, as though he were plotting evil against me.' So our mother was wont to say; and my father would reply, 'Dear Elizabeth, think not so cruelly of one who is so near and dear to me; trust me, that he loves you and yours.'--'It may be so,'

she would reply, 'but there is that in his manner which I cannot overcome.' Then our father would remain silent for a time, and add, 'Well, there is a want of frankness in Sir William which becomes not a brother.'"

"Lull your suspicions, my demure sister," the light-hearted Marion replied; "a thousand times have I heard him say that no one but the boldest baron in Scotland should wed his niece, Marion."

"And he said truly," replied Margaret; "for, if he have us once within his power, not even the boldest knight in Scotland will be able to receive our hands, unless he sue for it with gallant bowmen at his back, and the unsheathed sword to enforce his suit."

"Oh, then, sister," subjoined Marion, "I suppose you have a knight at hand who would delight in such handiwork; for is not Sir Patrick Hume of Wedderburn reputed to be the most valorous knight upon the Borders, and withal the humble worshipper of fair Margaret Sinclair of Polwarth?"

And as the maiden spoke, she laughed, and tapped her sister good-naturedly upon the cheek. Margaret blushed, and playfully replied, "Well, sister, is there no valorous knight at Wedderburn but Sir Patrick? What think ye of George Hume?"

"No more of this," cried Marion; "let us accept our uncle's invitation, and mingle with the gay company he has invited to meet us."

"If you will have it so, let it be so," replied Margaret; "but, trust me, I fear that good will not come of it."

On the following day they set out upon their journey towards Herdmanstone, accompanied by only two men-servants. The uncle received them with a show of cordial friendship; but the guests whom they expected to meet they saw not; and they had been but a few minutes beneath his roof, when they found themselves prisoners, secured by gratings, bolts, and bars. On discovering the situation into which they had been entrapped, Marion wept aloud, and accused herself of being the unwitting author of her sister's captivity.

"Fear not," said Margaret. "Our uncle is a stern man, he is a man of blood; but there are as strong hands as his, that will be raised to deliver the sisters of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, when their captivity becomes known."

"But how will it be known?" asked Marion; "for who knows that we are here?"