BLACK LOOKS AND BRIGHT SWORDS
IT was in the dusk of an avenue that Evan Dhu had warned Waverley to beware, and ere he had reached the end of the long double line of trees, a pistol cracked in the covert, and a bullet whistled close past his ear.
“There he is,” cried Edward’s attendant, a stout Merseman of the Baron’s troop; “it’s that devil’s brat, Callum Beg.”
And Edward, looking through the trees, could make out a figure running hastily in the direction of the camp of the Mac-Ivors.
Instantly Waverley turned his horse, and rode straight up to Fergus.
“Colonel Mac-Ivor,” he said, without any attempt at salutation, “I have to inform you that one of your followers has just attempted to murder me by firing upon me from a lurking-place.”
“Indeed!” said the Chief, haughtily; “well, as that, save in the matter of the lurking-place, is a pleasure I presently propose for myself, I should be glad to know which of my clansmen has dared to anticipate me.”
“I am at your service when you will, sir,” said Edward, with equal pride, “but in the meantime the culprit was your page, Callum Beg.”
“Stand forth, Callum Beg,” cried Vich Ian Vohr; “did you fire at Mr. Waverley?”
“No,” said the unblushing Callum.
“You did,” broke in Edward’s attendant, “I saw you as plain as ever I saw Coudingham kirk!”
“You lie!” returned Callum, not at all put out by the accusation. But his Chief demanded Callum’s pistol. The hammer was down. The pan and muzzle were black with smoke, the barrel yet warm. It had that moment been fired.
“Take that!” cried the Chief, striking the boy full on the head with the metal butt; “take that, for daring to act without orders and then lying to disguise it.”
Callum made not the slightest attempt to escape the blow, and fell as if he had been slain on the spot.
“And now, Mr. Waverley,” said the Chief, “be good enough to turn your horse twenty yards with me out upon the common. I have a word to say to you.”
Edward did so, and as soon as they were alone, Fergus fiercely charged him with having thrown aside his sister Flora in order to pay his court to Rose Bradwardine, whom, as he knew, Fergus had chosen for his own bride.
“It was the Prince—the Prince himself who told me!” added Fergus, noticing the astonishment on Edward’s face.
“Did the Prince tell you that I was engaged to Miss Rose Bradwardine?” cried Edward.
“He did—this very morning,” shouted Fergus; “he gave it as a reason for a second time refusing my request. So draw and defend yourself, or resign once and forever all claims to the lady.”
“In such a matter I will not be dictated to by you or any man living!” retorted Waverley, growing angry in his turn.
In a moment swords were out and a fierce combat was beginning, when a number of Bradwardine’s cavalry, who being Lowlanders were always at feud with the Highlandmen, rode hastily up, calling on their companions to follow. They had heard that there was a chance of a fight between their corps and the Highlanders. Nothing would have pleased them better. The Baron himself threatened that unless the Mac-Ivors returned to their ranks, he would charge them, while they on their side pointed their guns at him and his Lowland cavalry.
A cry that the Prince was approaching alone prevented bloodshed. The Highlanders returned to their places. The cavalry dressed its ranks. It was indeed the Chevalier who arrived. His first act was to get one of his French officers, the Count of Beaujeu, to set the regiment of Mac-Ivors and the Lowland cavalry again upon the road. He knew that the Count’s broken English would put them all in better humour, while he himself remained to make the peace between Fergus and Waverley.
Outwardly the quarrel was soon made up. Edward explained that he had no claims whatever to be considered as engaged to Rose Bradwardine or any one else, while Fergus sulkily agreed that it was possible he had made a mistake. The Prince made them shake hands, which they did with the air of two dogs whom only the presence of the master kept from flying at each other’s throats. Then after calming the Clan Mac-Ivor and riding awhile with the Baron’s Lowland cavalry, the Prince returned to the Count of Beaujeu, saying with a sigh, as he reined his charger beside him, “Ah, my friend, believe me this business of prince-errant is no bed of roses!”
It was not long before the poor Prince had a further proof of this fact.
On the 5th of December, after a council at Derby, the Highland chiefs, disappointed that the country did not rally about them, and that the government forces were steadily increasing on all sides, compelled the Prince to fall back toward Scotland. Fergus Mac-Ivor fiercely led the opposition to any retreat. He would win the throne for his Prince, or if he could not, then he and every son of Ivor would lay down their lives. That was his clear and simple plan of campaign. But he was easily overborne by numbers, and when he found himself defeated in council, he shed actual tears of grief and mortification. From that moment Vich Ian Vohr was an altered man.
Since the day of the quarrel Edward had seen nothing of him. It was, therefore, with great surprise that he saw Fergus one evening enter his lodgings and invite him to take a walk with him. The Chieftain smiled sadly as he saw his old friend take down his sword and buckle it on. There was a great change in the appearance of Vich Ian Vohr. His cheek was hollow. His eye burned as if with fever.
As soon as the two young men had reached a beautiful and solitary glen, Fergus began to tell Edward that he had found out how wrongheaded and rash he had been in the matter of their quarrel. “Flora writes me,” continued Fergus, “that she never had, and never could have, the least intention of giving you any encouragement. I acted hastily—like a madman!”
Waverley hastily entreated him to let all be forgotten, and the two comrades-in-arms shook hands, this time heartily and sincerely.
Notwithstanding, the gloom on the Chief’s brow was scarcely lightened. He even besought Waverley to betake himself at once out of the kingdom by an eastern port, to marry Rose Bradwardine, and to take Flora with him as a companion to Rose, and also for her own protection.
Edward was astonished at this complete change in Fergus.
“What!” he cried, “abandon the expedition on which we have all embarked?”
“Embarked,” answered the Chief, bitterly; “why, man, the expedition is going to pieces! It is time for all those who can, to get ashore in the longboat!”
“And what,” said Edward, “are the other Highland chiefs going to do?”
“Oh, the chiefs,” said Fergus, contemptuously, “they think that all the heading and hanging will, as before, fall to the lot of the Lowlands, and that they will be left alone in their poor and barren Highlands, to ‘listen to the wind on the hill till the waters abate.’ But they will be disappointed. The government will make sure work this time, and leave not a clan in all the Highlands able to do them hurt. As for me, it will not matter. I shall either be dead or taken by this time to-morrow. I have seen the Bodach Glas—the Grey Spectre.”
Edward looked the surprise he did not speak.
“Why!” continued Fergus, in a low voice, “were you so long about Glennaquoich and yet never heard of the Bodach Glas? The story is well known to every son of Ivor. I will tell it you in a word. My forefather, Ian nan Chaistel, wasted part of England along with a Lowland chief named Halbert Hall. After passing the Cheviots on their way back, they quarrelled about the dividing of the spoil, and from words came speedily to blows. In the fight, the Lowlanders were cut off to the last man, and their leader fell to my ancestor’s sword. But ever since that day the dead man’s spirit has crossed the Chief of Clan Ivor on the eve of any great disaster. My father saw him twice, once before he was taken prisoner at Sheriff-Muir, and once again on the morning of the day on which he died.”
Edward cried out against such superstition.
“How can you,” he said, “you who have seen the world, believe such child’s nonsense as that?”
“Listen,” said the Chief, “here are the facts, and you can judge for yourself. Last night I could not sleep for thinking on the downfall of all my hopes for the cause, for the Prince, for the clan—so, after lying long awake, I stepped out into the frosty air. I had crossed a small foot-bridge, and was walking backward and forward, when I saw, clear before me in the moonlight, a tall man wrapped in a grey plaid, such as the shepherds wear. The figure kept regularly about four yards from me.”
“That is an easy riddle,” exclaimed Edward; “why, my dear Fergus, what you saw was no more than a Cumberland peasant in his ordinary dress!”
“So I thought at first,” answered Fergus, “and I was astonished at the man’s audacity in daring to dog me. I called to him, but got no answer. I felt my heart beating quickly, and to find out what I was afraid of, I turned and faced first north, and then south, east, and west. Each way I turned, I saw the grey figure before my eyes at precisely the same distance! Then I knew I had seen the Bodach Glas. My hair stood up, and so strong an impression of awe came upon me that I resolved to return to my quarters. As I went, the spirit glided steadily before me, till we came to the narrow bridge, where it turned and stood waiting for me. I could not wade the stream. I could not bring myself to turn back. So, making the sign of the cross, I drew my sword and cried aloud, ‘In the name of God, Evil Spirit, give place!’
“’Vich Ian Vohr,’ it said in a dreadful voice, ‘beware of to-morrow!’
“It was then within half a yard of my sword’s point, but as the words were uttered it was gone. There was nothing either on the bridge or on the way home. All is over. I am doomed. I have seen the Bodach Glas, the curse of my house.”
“THE spirit glided steadily before me, till we came to the narrow bridge, where it turned and stood waiting for me. I could not wade the stream. I could not bring myself to turn back. So, making the sign of the cross, I drew my sword and cried aloud, ‘In the name of God, Evil Spirit, give place!’
“’Vich Ian Vohr,’ it said in a dreadful voice, ‘beware of to-morrow!’”
Edward could think of nothing to say in reply. His friend’s belief in the reality of the vision was too strong. He could only ask to be allowed to march once more with the sons of Ivor, who occupied the post of danger in the rear. Edward easily obtained the Baron’s leave to do so, and when the Clan Mac-Ivor entered the village, he joined them, once more arm in arm with their Chieftain. At the sight, all the Mac-Ivors’ ill feeling was blown away in a moment. Evan Dhu received him with a grin of pleasure. And the imp Callum, with a great patch on his head, appeared particularly delighted to see him.
But Waverley’s stay with the Clan Ivor was not to be long. The enemy was continually harassing their flanks, and the rear-guard had to keep lining hedges and dikes in order to beat them off. Night was already falling on the day which Fergus had foretold would be his last, when in a chance skirmish of outposts the Chief with a few followers found himself surrounded by a strong attacking force of dragoons. A swift eddy of the battle threw Edward out to one side. The cloud of night lifted, and he saw Evan Dhu and a few others, with the Chieftain in their midst, desperately defending themselves against a large number of dragoons who were hewing at them with their swords. It was quite impossible for Waverley to break through to their assistance. Night shut down immediately, and he found it was equally impossible for him to rejoin the retreating Highlanders, whose warpipes he could still hear in the distance.
INTERLUDE OF BREVITY
The Bodach Glas held the children. The brilliant sunshine of the High Garden in which they had listened to the tale became instantly palest moonlight, and between them and the strawberry bed they saw the filmy plaid of the Grey Spectre of the House of Ivor. It had been helpful and even laudable to play-act the chief scenes when the story was beginning, but now they had no time. It would have been an insult to the interest of the narrative.
Doubtless, if they had had the book, they would have skipped, to know “how it all ended.” But it was time for the evening walk. So, instead of stringing themselves out along the way as was their custom, seeing if the raspberry bushes had grown any taller since the morning, the four collected in a close swarm about the tale-teller, like bees about an emigrant queen.
“You must tell us the rest—you must!” they said, linking arms about my waist to prevent any attempt at an evasion of such just demands.
So, being secretly no little pleased with their eagerness, I launched out upon the conclusion of the whole matter—which showed, among other things, how Waverley-Honour was more honoured than ever and the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine threefold blessed.