THE
SCOTTISH CAVALIER.

An Historical Romance.

BY JAMES GRANT, ESQ.,

AUTHOR OF
"THE ROMANCE OF WAR, OR THE GORDON HIGHLANDERS,"
"MEMOIRS OF KIRKALDY OF GRANGE," &C.

Dost thou admit his right,
Thus to transfer our ancient Scottish crown?
Ay, Scotland was a kingdom once,
And, by the might of God, a kingdom still shall be!
ROBERT THE BRUCE, ACT II.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,
GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1850.

Contents

I. [Lilian]
II. [How Clermistonlee Pressed His Suit]
III. [Claverhouse to the Rescue]
IV. [The Secret Stair]
V. [The Attempt]
VI. [Edinburgh—The Night of the Revolution]
VII. [Sack of Holyrood]
VIII. [The Veiled Picture]
IX. [Love and Principle]
X. [The Pass of Killycrankie]
XI. [The Last Hour of Dundee]
XII. [St. Germains]
XIII. [The Cavaliers of Dundee]
XIV. [The 20th of September, 1692]
XV. [The Effect of the Postscriptum]
XVI. [The Battle of Steinkirke]
XVII. [A Disclosure]
XVIII. [Walter Fenton and the King]
XIX. [The Returned Exile]
XX. [The Bubble Burst]
XXI. [Love and Marriage are Two]
XXII. [The Ring and the Secret]
XXIII. [The Iron Room—The Death Shot]

WALTER FENTON;

OR

THE SCOTTISH CAVALIER.

CHAPTER I.
LILIAN.

I love thee, gentle Knight! but 'tis,
Such love as sisters bear;
O, ask my heart no more than this,
For more it may not spare.
KNIGHT TOGGENBURG.

The image of Clermistonlee and his threats came painfully upon Lilian's memory. She shrieked for aid, but her cries were lost in the vacuity of the old-fashioned coach in which she was being carried off. She strove to open the windows, but they were immoveable as those of a castle, and she resigned herself to tears and despair. The vehicle was rumbling and jolting over a waste of frozen snow; here and there, a farm-house or a congealed rivulet were passed, but everything appeared so strange and new, when viewed in their snowy guise by the twilight of the mirky winter night, that Lilian had not the most remote idea in what direction she was taken; and, shuddering with cold and apprehension, the poor girl crouched down in a corner of the coach, and abandoned herself to grief and wretchedness.

The excessive chill of the night, and prostration of spirit under which she laboured, produced a sort of stupor, and when the coach stopped, she was unable to move; but a tall dark man, muffled and masked like an intriguing gallant of the day, lifted her out. As one in a dream, who would in vain elude some hideous vision, she attempted to shriek; but the unuttered cry died away on her lips, and she closed her eyes. A strong embrace encircled her; a hot breath—(was it not a kiss?)—came upon her cold cheek, and she felt herself borne along; doors closed behind her, and by the warmth of the altered temperature she was aware of being within a house.

She was seated gently in a chair; and now she looked around her. A large fire of roots was blazing on the rough stone-hearth; its ruddy glow rendered yet more red the bare walls and strongly arched roof of a hall (built of red sandstone) such as may be seen in the old fortlets of the lesser barons of Scotland. The windows on each side were deeply embayed by the thickness of the wall, and a deep-browed arch spanned each; they had stone seats covered with crimson cushions, and foot-mats of plaited rushes.

The hurrying clouds and occasional stars were seen through the strong basket-gratings that externally defended these prison-like apertures. The hall was paved, and its rude massive furniture consisted only of a great oblong table of oak, several forms or settles, a few high-backed chairs, and one upon a raised part of the floor, at the upper end, had a canopy of crimson cloth over it, announcing that it was the state-chair of the Lord of the Manor. Swords, pikes, harquebuses, hunting and hawking appurtenances, with a few veiled pictures, were among its ornaments.

A great almery, or cupboard (so called from the old hospitable custom of setting aside food as alms for the poor), occupied one end of the apartment, and an ancient casque surmounted it. Various bunkers of carved oak, bound with iron, occupied the other. On the right hand of the doorway, a stone lavatory, covered with magnificent sculpture projected from the wall. This old-fashioned bason was furnished with a hole to carry off water, and was an indispensable convenience to every ancient dining-hall.

With one rapid glance of terror Lilian surveyed the whole place, and started from her chair to be confronted by one whose aspect made her instinctively shrink back. The keen and hawk-like eyes of Beatrix Gilruth were fixed upon her with an expression at once menacing, searching, and scornful. There was something in the wild visage of this inexplicable woman that excited curiosity, while her air terrified, and her withered person repelled approach.

"Who are you, woman?" asked Lilian firmly, as, stepping back a pace, she surveyed her from head to foot; "and what are you?"

"What am I?" reiterated the other, with a voice that thrilled, while her grey eyes gleamed with a blue light, and she ground her teeth. "I am what thou shalt be, my pretty minx, ere ye leave these walls, perhaps."

Lilian, terrified by her aspect and her answer, sank into a chair, saying, as she clasped her hands, and looked up imploringly from her bright dishevelled hair—

"Woman, for the love of God, say where am I?"

"In the tower of Clermistonlee."

"So my soul foreboded; but can he have dared thus far?"

"What will he not dare that man can do?"

"O Heaven, protect me!"

"Neither the Heaven that is above us, nor the Hell that is beneath, will protect you, pretty one; but you will be made what many as fair have been,—the toy, the plaything of an hour, to be cast aside when some new fancy has seized the wayward mind of your lord and betrayer. Look at that veiled portrait——"

At that moment three distinct knocks were heard against the almery. Lilian started and turned pale.

"Yes, yes," said Beatrix scornfully, addressing the knocker; "you are impatient. There was a time—but it matters not—I bide mine; and my long delayed vengeance will wither thee up, false lord, even as if the lightning of God had scorched thy perjured soul."

Low as this was uttered, it reached the ears of Lilian; she became doubly terrified, and a momentary feeling of utter abandonment made her cover her face with her hands and weep bitterly. But, suddenly starting up, she said with energy—

"I will go hence, madam; and whatever be the danger, I will risk it. But the snow, the darkness, and the distance—oh, horror!—Aunt Grisel—gossip Annie—what will they think of this?—what will become of me?"

"Stand," said Beatrix, interposing. "Are you mad, to think of leaving this roof in the middle of a winter night? Remember the dreary lea of Clermiston, the rocks and the frozen marshes of Corstorphine, you are fey, maiden, to think it."

"Begone, thou ill woman," replied Lilian contemptuously; "I will go, and I dare thee to stay me."

"Then," rejoined Beatrix spitefully, "remember the barred windows, the bolted gates, and the good stone walls. Pooh, maiden, take tent and bide where ye are; for I swear ye can never go from hence, but at the pleasure of my lord."

"Insolent! Know ye who I am?" asked Lilian.

"The young lady of Bruntisfield," answered Beatrix coldly; "a wayward lass with a braw tocher, it seemeth,—one who prefers a younger cap and feather than my lord. Ha! hath he not sworn—(and mark me, maiden, he never swears in vain!)—that he will compel thee yet to beg his love at his hand as a boon, even as humbly as he now sues thine."

"In sooth!" retorted Lilian, with angry surprise. "He will surely have the aid of some such witch as thee to work so modern a miracle."

"Witch, quotha!" replied Beatrix, whose withered cheek began to redden with passion. "Lilian Napier, there was a time when these grey grizzled locks were once as bright and as glossy as thine; when this brow was as smooth, this faded form as round, yea, and as beautiful; this step as light, and this poor face as fair, as thine now are. So beware thee of taunts, maiden; for the time is coming (if thou art spared) when thou mayest be loathsome as I now am, and loathing as I now do. That hour is coming; for Clermistonlee hath an evil eye, beneath whose baleful influence all that is good and beautiful in woman will wither and die. Oh! Lilian Napier, what a tale of love and weakness, shame and misery, sin and horror, would the history of my life reveal! But my hour of revenge is coming. Yes——"

Again three knocks louder than before rang on the almery; and Beatrix, trembling, ceased to talk, and busied herself in laying a supper on the hall-table.

"Oh, Walter! Walter!" murmured Lilian, "if you knew of this—if you were here to protect me!" Her tears flowed freely.

"Walter!" reiterated Beatrix musing; "can it really be the same? No, it is impossible; and yet, why not?—He is your lover, then, this Walter?" she asked in a low voice, while laying some cold grilled meat, confections, and wine from a buffet. "I know he is—that blush tells me (when did my cheek blush last?) He is young and handsome, I warrant?"

Lilian nodded an affirmative.

"And men say he is brave?"

"Oh, yes! brave as a hero of romance," said Lilian in the same low tone; for there is nothing so pleasing to love as to hear the object of it praised. "And so noble—so generous! If true worth gave a title, my dear Walter would be a belted Earl."

"Instead of being a poor standard-bearer in the ranks of Dunbarton."

"You have seen him then?" said Lilian, her blue eyes beaming, as she almost forgot her present predicament in the thought of her lover. "Is he not handsome, good woman?"

"It is the same!" exclaimed Beatrix, in her shrillest tone. "Walter, the powder-boy—the soldier's brat—hah!"—she ground her teeth, and clenched her shrivelled hands like knots of serpents—"I bide my time. Oh, I will be fearfully avenged!"

A third time there was a knocking on the almery, and Beatrix muttered—

"I am dumb—I will speak no more."

She pointed to the supper-table, and, throwing herself into a chair, fixed her sunken eyes upon the red glowing fire, and, lost in her own wild thoughts, continued to jabber with the rapidity and restlessness of insanity. It was evident that she was partly deranged,—a discovery which, while it raised the pity of the gentle Lilian, increased the dread and the horror of her situation.

Clermistonlee, with his faithful rascal Juden, were both within earshot. The former had sufficient tact and experience to know that it would be better to defer any interview with Lilian until next morning, by which time he hoped she would be a little more familiarised with her situation; and leaving Juden, who was ensconced in the recesses of the almery, to be a check upon the troublesome garrulity of his only female domestic, he retired to a snug apartment, where, enveloped in his shag dressing-gown, and comforted by a great tankard of his favourite mulled sack, and several books of "ungodly jests," he practised all his philosophy to enable him to endure this temporary separation from Lilian, consoled by the idea that she was completely in his clutches, within his strong tower, which he was entitled to defend against all men living; and well aware that, in the political storm which in another week would convulse all Scotland from the Cheviots to Cape Wrath, the abduction of a girl—more especially the daughter of a "persecuting cavalier"—would be less regarded than the wind blowing over the muir.

As the still, quiet night wore on, and the fumes of the wine mounted into his head, very strange ideas floated through the brain of the roué. Again and again the thought of Lilian being so utterly in his power intruded itself upon his heated imagination; he felt his blood begin to glow; his mind became confused; he endeavoured to combat his constitutional wickedness, and, by aid of his repeated potations, and a highly seasoned grillade, dozed away the night very comfortably in a well-cushioned chair; while his leal henchman was in the same happy state of oblivion, through the medium of various stoups of ale which he imbibed in the spence or buttery.

Not so did poor Lilian pass the slow and heavy hours.

The repast prepared for her was left untouched, she resisted every invitation to repose, and resolved on passing the night by the hall-fire; until, reflecting that she would be quite as safe in one part of the tower as in another, and wishing to be alone, that she might weep unseen, she was ushered by Beatrix up a narrow stair into a little sleeping apartment, the greater part of which was occupied by a great hearse-looking tester, or canopy bed. The only light in the chamber came from the fire-place, where a heap of logs and coals were blazing, and diffusing a warm glow on the dark wainscotted walls, the oaken floor, and rude ceiling, which was crossed by a massive dormant-tree of oak, covered with grotesque and hideous carving.

There was something very gloomy and catafalcque-like in the aspect of the gigantic bed in which Lilian was to repose; its massive posts of dark oak and darker ebony were covered embossage, and the deep crimson curtains, with heavy fringes, fell in shadowy festoons, while four great plumes of feathers surmounted the corners in sepulchral grandeur. It stood upon a raised dais of three steps, and on the back, amid a wilderness of bassi-relievi, flowers, angels, satyrs, and ivy, appeared the coronet and gorgeous blazon of Clermistonlee.

"I cannot sleep here, good woman," said Lilian shuddering; but the noise of the closing door, and the bolt jarring outside, was her only reply. She found herself alone. Her first impulse was to fasten her door within securely; her second to examine the chamber, by the light of the fire. In the deep little window stood a beautiful cabinet, on the upper part of which were a mirror and all the usual appurtenances for a lady's toilet, but of the most costly and elegant description, with all the perfumes, oils, essences and lotions then most in vogue. She turned from them with disgust to survey the walls, for the fear of secret entrances was impressed powerfully upon her mind by her knowledge of the number that existed in her own home; but, upon examination, she found nothing to increase her dread, save the cabinet, the doors of which were locked, and returned an unusually hollow sound when she touched them.

Alternately a prey to fear and indignation, she walked about the little apartment, or sat by the fire weeping and praying, until sleep began to oppress her; and, unable longer to resist its effects, with an audible supplication to Heaven that the morrow might bring about her release, she threw herself (without undressing) on the bed, and almost immediately fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER II.
HOW CLERMISTONLEE PRESSED HIS SUIT.

A strong dose of love is worse than one of ratafia; when once it gets into our heads it trips up our heels, and then good night to discretion. THE LYING VALET.

From an uneasy slumber that had been disturbed by many a painful dream, Lilian started, awoke, and leaped from the bed. The embers of the night fire still smouldered on the hearth stone, and the rays of the red sun rising above a gorge in the Corstorphine hills, radiated through her grated window as through a focus. Pressing her hands upon her temples, she endeavoured to collect the scattered images that had haunted her sleep. She had dreamt of Walter. He seemed to be present in that very chamber, to stand by her gloomy bed, and smiled kindly and fondly as of old. He bent over to kiss her, but lo! his features turned to those of Lord Clermistonlee; the great tester bed with its plumage and canopy became a hearse; she screamed and awoke to find it was day.

Now all her former fear and indignation revived in full force, and she wept passionately. Reflecting how completely she was at the mercy of Clermistonlee, whose character for reckless ferocity, and steady obstinacy of purpose, she knew too well; she resolved to endure with patience, and await with caution an opportunity for release or escape. How little she knew of what was acting in Edinburgh! And her beloved kinswoman, so revered, so tender, and affectionate, but so aged and infirm.

"O horror!" exclaimed Lilian, wringing her hands, "this must have destroyed her."

"Open Madam Lilian," said the voice of Beatrix Gilruth, as she knocked at the door; "open, my lord awaits you at breakfast in the hall."

Lilian hesitated; but aware that resistance would not better her fortune, with her usual frankness ran to the door, opened it, and despite the repulsive sternness of Gilruth's aspect, impelled by a sense of loneliness, and a wish to gain her friendship, she bade her good morning, and lightly touched her hand. Her air of innocence and candour impressed the misanthropic heart of Beatrix, and she smiled kindly. While leading her before the mirror to assist in arraying her for breakfast, the bosom of the unfortunate castaway could not repress a sigh, and a scanty tear trembled in either eye, as she writhed her withered fingers in the soft masses of Lilian's hair.

"I will shew thee my bairn what a braw busker I am," said Beatrix, "though 'tis long since these poor fingers have had aught to do with top-knots and fantanges."

Resigned and careless of what was done with her, Lilian remained with a pale face of placid composure and grief, gazing unconsciously upon her own beautiful image as reflected in the polished mirror; and though she marked it not, there was a vivid and terrible contrast between her statue-like features, and those of her tire-woman—keen, attenuated, and graven with the lines of sorrow, rage, bitterness, and misanthropy; the true index of that storm of evil passions and resentful thoughts that smouldered in her heart.

At length the captive was arrayed so far as the skill of Beatrix would go; her dress (that in which she had left home) was long, flowing, and heavily flounced in the French fashion, derived from Albert Durer, who represented an angel in flounced petticoats expelling Adam and Eve from Paradise—hence flounces were all the rage. She wore long and heavy ruffles of the richest lace, a string of pearls and amber was twisted among the bright braids of her beautiful hair; a diamond drop depended from each of her delicate ears, and a rich necklace like a collar, with a pendant, encircled her neck, the whiteness and purity of which never appeared in greater splendour, than when contrasted with the faded skin of poor Beatrix. Passive under her hands, Lilian allowed her great natural beauty to be thus dangerously enhanced, and when she stood up, her rather diminutive stature being increased by her high heeled maroquin shoes, and the grace with which she wore her commode and floating flounces, caused the poor woman, whom so many fair ones had successively supplanted, to utter an exclamation of delight.

"Come," said she, "my lord awaits you; how pleased he will be."

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Lilian, in deep anguish; "and was it to please him you have thus arrayed and attired me. Fie upon thee, ill woman!"

"Here at least his bidding must be obeyed implicitly, as when a hundred of his men stabled their horses in the barbican stalls. He is a dangerous man, hinny, and never tholed thwarting, though the hour is coming when he shall thole bitter vengeance, and dree the deepest remorse. But I bide my time—I bide my time."

As she led Lilian into the hall, Clermistonlee advanced to receive her, with an imperturbable air of assurance, gallantry, and devotion. Through one of the deeply recessed windows, the light of the morning sun fell full upon his noble face and figure, which the richness of his dress displayed to the utmost advantage. He wore an embroidered suit of light blue satin slashed with white; he had round his neck the gold collar of the thistle, and had over his left breast the green ribbon and oval badge of the order; a diamond hilted rapier sparkled in a baldrick that was stiff with gold embroidery; his flowing peruke was redolent of perfume; his ruffles were miracles of needlework, and his brilliant sleeve buttons flashed whenever his hands moved.

Hateful as he was at all times to Lilian, now he was more so than ever; surprise, indignation, fear, and contempt, agitated her by turns, and she gazed on him in painful suspense, awaiting his address. He had evidently made his toilet with more than usual care, and resolving to give Lilian no time for reproaches, he led her at once to a seat, saying,

"My dear girl will no doubt be in a prodigious passion with me, but ladies are kindly disposed to forgive every little mistake that has love for its excuse. 'Tis but a dismal old peelhouse this, dear Lilian, but I hope you slept well. The wind sings in the corridors, the corbies scream on the roof, and all that, but with a clear conscience you know, oh yes, one may dose like a top, or a lord of session.

"A clear sharp morning this; I rode as far as Craigroyston before sunrise. There is nothing so improves one's complexion as a gallop in the morning air. Apropos! what do you think of this embroidered suit? 'Tis the last fashion from Paris; that old villain Saunders Snip, in the Craimes, brought it direct from thence last month. On a good figure it is quite calculated to make an impression. Look'ee, fair Lilian; these ruffles cost me twenty guineas a pair, not a tester less I assure you; and the sleeve buttons are the first of their kind, and were made by Monsieur Bütong, the eminent Parisian jeweller, for that glorious fop, the Comte d'Artois, who presented them to a friend of mine in the Scots Archers.

"But this tie of my overlay, ha! that is a contrivance of my own; graceful, is it not? exactly—I knew you would think so. Droll, is it not, that our tastes should be the same? You see, my dear girl, at what trouble I have been to please you. Smile again, dear Lilian," continued his lordship, whose overnight potations, the morning ride had failed quite to dispel; "by Heaven, you look divine: where shall I find words to compliment the beauty of your appearance this morning!"

"You really seem to require all your verbosity for praising yourself, my lord," said Lilian, coldly.

"Now—now, do not be so angry," said Clermistonlee, taking her hand in spite of all her efforts to prevent him.

"I am justly so, my lord," replied Lilian making a strong effort to restrain her tears under an aspect of firmness and determination. "By what right have you dared to bring me here and detain me prisoner?"

"Hoity, toity—right dear Lilian? the right of a most devoted lover."

"My lord, you will be severely punished for this. The law——"

"Ha, ha! Lilian, there is no law now, no order, morality, nor any thing else. The world is turned upside down, (at least Britain is)—revolutionized, bewildered, and the old days of battle and broil, reiving and rugging, have come back in all their glory. In this desperate game, my girl," he added, through his clenched teeth, "Clermistonlee must repair his fortune or be lost for ever; but enough of this; let us to breakfast, and then we will talk over matters that lie nearer our hearts. Nay, nay, no refusal—breakfast you must have."

He led her towards the long hall table, where, thanks to Juden's catering and ingenuity, a noble repast was laid, in the profuse "style of ancient gourmandizing; and the unscrupulous factotum who stood near with a napkin under his arm, and a long corkscrew in his hand, surveyed Lilian with something between a smirk and a leer, which was sufficient to increase the fear that oppressed, and the anger that swelled within her breast. She withdrew, saying, with a voice that trembled between indignation and apprehension,

"Spare me this continued humiliation. Oh my Lord Clermistonlee, if there remain within your breast, one spark of that bright spirit which ought ever to be the guiding star of the noble and the gentleman, you will restore me to my home, to the only relative (save one) whom death has left me in this wide world. Be generous, my lord," continued Lilian, touching his hand, with charming frankness; "Oh be generous, as I know you are brave and reckless. Restore me to my home, and I pledge my word you will never be questioned concerning my abduction. I will pass it over as a foolish but daring frolic. Hear me, my lord, in pity hear me."

Clermistonlee trembled beneath her gentle touch; but answered with his usual air of raillery,—

"Hoity, toity, little one! art going to read me curtain lectures already? My dear Lilian, it is too bad really! The abduction? Oh the ardour of my love will be a sufficient excuse for that; and as to being questioned—I don't think any person will permit himself to question me, if he remembers that I am the best hand at pistol, rapier, and dagger, in broad Scotland.

"Beside, dear Lilian, (why dost always shrink? dost think child I am going to eat thee like a rascally ogre) if thou wouldst save thine honour," here his voice sank involuntarily into an impressive whisper, "become mine. Thou shouldst be well aware that after living in the power of one who is so tremendous a roué by habit and repute, no woman could go forth into the world without lying under suspicions of a very unpleasant nature. The roisters at Blair's coffee house have got hold of the story, for it hath made a devil of a noise in the city, and in the mouths of the Bowhead gossips, and Bess Wynd scandal-mongers, our little affair will be quite a romance."

This cruel speech, which was uttered with the utmost coolness and deliberation by Clermistonlee, who played the while with his gold sword-knot, came like ice upon the heart of the unhappy Lilian, who could not but secretly acknowledge that it was too true. She grew pale as death, and, unable to reply, gazed upon her tormentor with a look of such intense aversion, that he could not repress a haughty smile of astonishment.

"Ha, ha! for what do you take me?"

"For a monster!" murmured Lilian, in a voice almost inarticulate.

"Oh—oh! you regard me as a poor sparrow doth a gerfalcon."

"Alas!" said Lilian, weeping as she sank into a seat, "the simile is but too true."

"You are very unpolite, Madam Lilian; a gerfalcon is between the vulture and the hawk."

Lilian answered only by her tears, and his lordship began to get a little provoked.

"A devil of a breakfast this, my pretty moppet," he continued, with an air of composure; "when these vapours have passed away, peradventure you will condescend to hear my addresses—meantime consider yourself quite at home, and for Heaven's sake (or rather your own), do take a share of such humble cheer as this my poor house of Clermiston affords." And without troubling her farther, he threw back the curls of his peruke, and attacked the devilled duck, the cold sirloin, and wassail-bowl of spiced ale, the smoking coffee and hot bannocks forthwith.

Within the recess of a window, reclined upon the cushion of one of those stone side-seats so common in old Scottish towers, Lilian sat with her face covered with her hands, and shaded by the masses of her fine hair which fell forward over her drooping head. The glory of the red morning sun streamed full upon her tresses and turned them to wreaths of gold. She seemed something etherially beautiful, and the sensual lord felt his heart beat with increased ardour as he gazed on her from time to time; but aware, from old experience, that it was useless to press her to partake of his luxurious breakfast, he resolved to trouble her no more until the first paroxism of her indignation had evaporated.

Juden and Beatrix having finished their luggies of porridge and ale at the lower and uncovered part of the table, were now engaged, the former in making lures of feathers and raw meat to train two young hawks that sat near him on a perch, with their long lunes or leashes coiled round it; and the latter, while affecting to occupy herself with some household matter, from the bay of an opposite window, watched with a keen, restless, and often malicious expression, the nonchalant lord and the unhappy Lilian, for whom, at times, she felt something akin to pity, and fain would have set her at liberty; but the keys of the tower gates were buckled to Juden's girdle, and every window was closed by a grating like a strong iron harrow.

In the faint hope of some rescue approaching, Lilian gazed earnestly from the window she occupied. It faced the south, and overlooked the then dreary waste of Clermiston Lee, which, with all the undulating country extending to the base of the Pentlands, and that gigantic range, towering peak above peak, as they diminished in the western shire of Linlithgow, were covered with one universal mantle of dazzling snow. Afar off above the hills of Braid the level sun poured its red rays through a hazy sky across the desolate landscape; the thickets, bare and leafless, stood like cypress groves in the waste; the dim winter smoke from many farm-house and cottage lum of clay, ascended in murky columns into the frosty air, but around the lonely tower on the Lee, there was an aspect of stillness and desolation that struck a chill upon Lilian's heart.

Far off, on the Glasgow road, that passed the picturesque old church, the thatched hamlet and Foresters' Castle of Corstorphine, a strong square fortress flanked by round towers, a solitary traveller, muffled in his furred rocquelaure and leathern gambadoes, or grey maud and worsted galligaskins (according to his rank), spurred his horse towards the city; but such occasional passers were all beyond the reach of Lilian. The bridle-road to the town was hidden, and not a foot-print stained the spotless mantle of the level Lee. At times a hare or fox shot across it, from the woods or rocks of Corstorphine, but no other living thing approached, and the heart of poor Lilian grew more and more sad as the dreary day wore on, and night once more approached.

CHAPTER III.
CLAVERHOUSE TO THE RESCUE.

The winter cold is past and gone,
And now comes on the spring;
And I am one of the Scots Life Guards,
And I must fight for the King.
My dear!
And I must fight for him!
OLD SONG.

By orders from William of Orange, who had taken possession of James's palace, and issued from thence his sounding declarations and imperial mandates, Goderdt de Ginckel, with the utmost expedition, marched the captured Scots towards London, where the Statholder (though he had not yet been crowned) was intent on revenging, by the lash and bullet, this signal instance of resistance to his authority. In consequence of this event; he had the first "Mutiny Act" framed, but being an edict of the English Parliament it could in no way apply to Scottish troops.

Aware of the esprit du corps and indomitable valour of the old musqueteers, and fearful of revolt or rescue, de Ginckel sent Lieutenant Gavin twenty other officers and five hundred privates, in charge of Sir Marmaduke Langstone, direct to London, towards which place he marched the remainder by another route; keeping near his person and under sure escort, Lord Dunbarton, Walter Fenton, Finland, and other officers, whose hostility of spirit was more undisguised than their comrades, de Ginckel advanced some miles in rear of the main body of his Black Horsemen. The Earl was destined for the Tower of London; Walter and his brothers in misfortune for the cells of Newgate.

In every town and village through which they were marched, dense mobs of "the rascal multitude" attended and loaded them with every insult and opprobrium, such as the vulgar, the cruel, and the wicked are ever ready to hurl upon the fallen or the unfortunate. Marrowbones and cleavers were clattered around them; effigies of King James, and a figure meant to represent a Scotchman, were carried or kicked along the streets before them, and amid yells and hootings, warming-pans were everywhere displayed from the windows at their approach; at that time a famous mode of insulting the Jacobites, being a palpable hit against the legitimacy of the young Prince of Wales.

"Fie upon the Scots! Out upon thee, Mon! No warming-pan King! William for ever, and down to hell with all Scots, Papists, and Mass-mongers! hurrah!" yelled the rabble on every hand, while vollies of mud, stones, dead cats, &c., were showered on them from every hand. Meanwhile their Dutch escort rode on each side with the most phlegmatic indifference, every man seeming as if fast asleep in his voluminous breeches and wide jack-boots.

"Down with the race of Gog—the soldiers of the priests of Baal!" cried an old puritan; "down with Scots Jemmy and his cursed Jesuits!"

Weak and exhausted by constant marching, lack of food and sleep; dispirited by misfortune, and disfigured by mud and their torn and soiled attire; in the captives no one could have recognized the dashing cavaliers who passed northward a day or two before. They had all been deprived of their horses and arms, and been robbed of everything of value—their cuirasses, purses, rings, &c.—by their guard. De Ginckel was as brutal and merciless as a Carrib Indian, and repeatedly struck the unfortunate cavaliers with his speaking-trumpet.

"Ach Gott!" he often cried to his Ruyters; "if von ob de brisoners escape, ye shall answer for him, body for body, by cast ob dice on de kettle-trum-head!"

"My good comrades, and gallant gentlemen," said the Earl of Dunbarton to the little group that marched around him, "were it not that I feel in my heart assured that an hour of vengeance and retribution will come, I would die of sheer spleen and mortification, for the insults we are compelled to put up with."

"I pity these bluff-headed Saxon boors, because they know no better," replied Walter, staggering, as a stone struck him on the temple; "but De Ginckel——"

"My dear fellow," said Finland, bitterly, "'tis a sample of the good old southern hospitality and kindness of which we hear so much in romance, and so little in history."

"But," continued Walter, "I despise these poppy-headed Dutch poltroons in their black iron doublets, and would risk my share of Heaven to have De Ginckel under my hands on Scottish ground, with none to interfere, and no weapons but our rapiers and a case of good pistols."

"You speak my thoughts," said the Earl, through his clenched teeth. "My malediction on Langstone and his Red Dragoons. Had they and such as they been good men and true, we had not been reduced to this misfortune; and our misguided King, instead of being a houseless fugitive, had dwelt in Windsor still, where now the usurping Stadtholder keeps Court and Council. Sirs, of a verity we live in strange times!"

As they had now crossed the Nen, had left behind old Peterborough (with the hoary fane where St. Oswald's bony arm worked miracles of old), and were marching through the open country, being free from the yells and missiles of the mob, they could converse with tolerable freedom, though at times De Ginckel thundered silence through his trumpet, or a Swart Ruyter, more waggish or wickedly inclined than his soporific comrades, pushed his horse sidelong to tumble one of the captives among the half-frozen mud that encumbered the roadways. Their mortification and dejection increased at every step of their retrograde march, and even the lively sallies of Dr. Joram failed to enliven them.

The sombre evening was closing, when De Ginckel, with his Ruyters and their captives, after traversing the fenny district between Cambridge and Lincoln, came in sight of Huntingdon, where, as Dr. Joram remarked, "the devil's god-son, that prime rascal, old Noll, first drew breath." The dying light of the winter sun tipped the spires of the ancient town-hall and the church of All Saints, and glimmered on the sluggish windings of the Ouse. The prisoners were pursuing a lonely road; on one side lay a thick copsewood, and on the other one of those wide and desolate fens then subject to the inundations of the Ouse, whose waters in many places formed deep and solitary meres or tarns. Within the recesses of the wood, the quick eye of Walter had soon detected the glitter of arms, to which he drew the attention of the Earl.

"It matters not," replied the dejected noble, "no arms now glitter under James's standard; we are lost men, my dear lad. It will be black tidings for my little Lætitia, when the accursed Tower of London holds the last Lord of Dunbarton."

"And what thinkest thou, Walter, our dear lassies will say when they hear we are in Newgate?" asked Finland.

"'Twill be rare news for the Lord Clermistonlee," replied Walter, in a fierce whisper. "But look, gentlemen!—behold! In Heaven's name, are these friends or foes?"

As he spoke, a troop of horse, clad in brilliant armour, with their white plumes waving in the evening wind, and their long uplifted rapiers flashing in the setting sun, and all gallantly mounted on matchless black horses, filed forth from the coppice, and drew up like magic on the roadway, about a hundred yards in advance of the Swart Ruyters, who instantly reined-up. One cavalier, splendidly accoutred, rode to the front, wheeled round his snorting horse that pawed the air, and issued his orders with stern rapidity—

"Gentlemen of the Scottish Guard, prepare to charge! Uncase the standards! Sound trumpets!"

The banneroles were unfurled, the trumpets sounded, the kettle-drums ruffled, and each brave cavalier pressed forward in the saddle, as if impatient for the order to rush to the charge.

"Ach tuyfel!" shouted De Ginckel through his trumpet; "Scots' Horse—der tuyfel! Sabre de brisoners—cut dem into de towsand becies! Fall on, you Schelms!" But there was no time.

"'Tis Claverhouse, and the remains of his regiment. I would know his black steed among a thousand horse!" exclaimed the Earl. "Now God be with thee, thou gallant Grahame, for at last our hour of vengeance is come! Oh for a sword! How gallantly they formed line! Now, now! forward, my Scottish hearts!"

The dark eyes of the proud Douglas gleamed with fire, as the deep and distinct order, "Cavaliers of the Life Guard—forward! charge!" burst from the lips of Dundee; and with the force of a whirlwind, the sixty Scottish Guardsmen, bridle to bridle and boot to boot, rushed with their uplifted swords to the onset.

"Unsling carbines—blow matches—fire!—tousand tuyfels!—no!—traw sworts!" bellowed De Ginckel through his trumpet, as the front rank of his Ruyters recoiled in confusion on the rear.

"Gentlemen, prepare to save yourselves!" exclaimed the Earl of Dunbarton, as the Dutch troopers cast off the cords that bound the prisoners to their waist-belts.

"Heaven save us!" ejaculated Dr. Joram; "'tis a perilous case this, truly!"

"To the rescue, Claverhouse! A Grahame! A Grahame! God for Scotland and James VII.! To the devil with the Stadtholder! hurrah!" cried the Life Guards.

It was a critical moment for the dismounted prisoners, who were hemmed in among the hostile horsemen, and each felt his heart beat like lightning, and his breath come thick and fast, for death or deliverance were at hand.

Between the close files of the Swart Ruyters, Walter Fenton saw the full rush of the advancing troop, in their shining harness, and chief of all, the lordly Viscount of Dundee, a lance-length in front, with his sword brandished aloft, and his white ostrich-feathers streaming behind him, his cheek glowing, and his wild dark eyes flashing with that supernatural brightness which was the true index of his fierce and heroic spirit. Though the Dutch were as four to one, the Scottish cavaliers were fearless.

There was a tremendous shock—a flashing of swords, as their keen edges rang on the tempered helmets and corslets of proof—a furious spurring of horses—and Walter felt himself beaten to the earth, as if by the force of a thunderbolt; the light left his eyes, and he heard the voice of Claverhouse exclaiming enthusiastically—

"Well done, my Scots' Life Guard! Well done, my berry-brown blades!"

"Come on, De Ginckel!" cried Holsterlee.

"Hand to hand, old gorbelly. Come on! for here are the hand and sword that shall punch a hole in thine Earl's patent!"

A heavy hoof struck the head of Walter, as a horse plunged over him, and the Dutch recoiled in utter confusion.

He remembered no more.

Hewn down by the long swords of the Ruyters, poor old Wemyss and Halbert Elshender lay dead beside him.

CHAPTER IV.
THE SECRET STAIR.

Chloris! since first our calm of peace
Was frighted hence, this good we find,
Your favours with your fears increase,
And growing mischiefs make you kind.
EDMUND WALLER.

Heavily and slowly passed the cloudy winter day at Clermiston, and evening found Lilian seated, full of tears and misery, by the great fire that rumbled in the arched chimney, and threw a ruddy glow on the rough architecture of the ancient hall. According to old etiquette, there were but two chairs, one for the lord of the manor and the other for his lady; the additional seats were mere stools. Lilian occupied one of these chairs, and her suitor the other. On one of the stone benches within the ingle sat Juden Stenton still trimming hawks' lures; opposite was Beatrix, spinning with all the assiduity of Arachnè. These from time to time regarded her with furtive glances, which roused her anger not less than the presence and odious attentions of their lord did her apprehension. She felt a load accumulating on her breast, as the night wore on; anxiety was impairing her strength and weakening her fortitude, and whenever Clermistonlee addressed her, she answered only by tears. Touched at last by her sorrow, a sentiment of generosity at times would prompt him to return her to her home; but other thoughts came with greater power, and the momentary weakness was immediately dismissed.

"Psha!" thought he; "'tis only a woman."

Sitting close by her, he spoke from time to time in a low voice; and the scorn, malice, and jealousy which lighted up the keen grey eyes and pinched features of the fallen and forgotten Beatrix on these occasions, filled the gentle Lilian with a horror and pity which she could not conceal. The presence of this unfortunate woman, who, with the indefatigable Juden, formed now his entire household, was a curb for the present on the vivacity of his lordship's passion, and seemed to restrain it within the decorous bounds of gentle whispering. He soon tired of that, and ordering supper to be laid, took advantage of the domestic's absence to draw his chair still nearer Lilian, and take her hands within his own. She was so humbled, so gentle and broken in spirit, that she permitted them to remain, and the passiveness of the action made the heart of Clermistonlee glow with additional ardour.

"She loves me in secret," thought he; "but how charming is her coyness—how enchanting her modesty! My dear Lilian—"

"My Lord, oh cease to persecute me thus. What wrong have I done you? In what have I offended, that you should make me so utterly miserable?"

"What a soft, low, charming voice! Does it offend you, to hear the sighs of the most honourable love that ever warmed a human heart?"

"This is the mere cant of love-making—flirtation—the phrases you have addressed to hundreds. My Lord, I know their full value, and despise them. 'Tis enough! I can have no love for you."

"Indeed!"

"None—so for heaven sake spare me more of this humiliation, and let me begone to the house of Bruntisfield."

"Now what strange infatuation is this? No love for me?" mused the egotist. "Why, damsel, when I was in London with Charles, all the women were mad about me—I was quite the rage. Rochester and I led the way in everything. But that was before Bothwell Brig." He glanced at a veiled picture that often attracted his eye, and disturbed the current of his thoughts. "No love for me," he resumed, after a pause. "My pretty one, does my zeal offend you?"

"Like your flattery, it does; and my captivity here—a captivity which, I fear, will ever be a stain upon my honour, makes me abhor you."

"Abhor? Oh! 'tis a word never said to me before. Provoking Lilian! But," he added, maliciously, "you are right—your honour is lost, and there is only one way to redeem it."

She gave him a momentary glance of inquiry and disdain. Clermistonlee drew a ring from his finger. Lilian started back.

"Never—never! death were better."

"Hah—then you are still thinking of him—this beggarly boy—this nameless soldier—this so-named Fenton. 'Tis a cursed infatuation, Madam; for doubtless, soldierlike he will forget you, while the flower of your youth is wasted in fruitless reliance on his constancy and advancement to honour and fortune."

"Forget me?" reiterated Lilian, raising her bright blue eyes to the speaker. "Oh no, he never will forget me! Dear, dear Walter," she added, weeping bitterly; "I know thy worth and truth too well to lose my own."

"He will forget thee," said Clermistonlee, angrily.

"Never!" replied Lilian, energetically clasping her hands. "In the busy city and on the lonely hills, in the hour of battle and storm by sea and land, he will ever think of me—ever, ever!"

"But he may be slain?" said the lord maliciously.

"Cruel—cruel!"

"What then—hah?"

"No second choice would ever make me violate the solemn vow I pledged to him—that plight which I called on heaven to witness and angels to register."

Clermistonlee made no reply, but her fervour and her words stung him to the soul; her eyes sparkled and her usually pale cheek glowed; but he knew that it was for the love and by the recollection of another; his first thoughts were those of wrath; his second spleen and sorrow. He arose and stepped aside a little.

"Unfortunate that I am!" said he, with something of sadness and real love in his tone and manner. "By what witchcraft am I so hateful to her; but I must quit her presence for a time at least, or lose all hope of her favour for ever."

He walked to and fro, while Lilian, resigned again to tears, covered her face with her handkerchief.

"Beatrix," said Clermistonlee, in a fierce whisper to the shrinking woman, as she laid supper on the long dark oaken board, over which six tall waxen candles flared from a great iron candelabrum. "Beatrix Gilruth—hear me, old shrivel-skin! Hast never a love philtre about thee? Ere now I have known thee to my own cost use such things."

She gave a keen and fierce glance with her sunken eyes, and drawing him into one of the deeply bayed windows, pointed to where the square keep and round towers of the castle of Corstorphine threw a long dark shadow across the frozen lake that, like a mirror before its gates, lay shining in the cold light of the winter moon.

"You see yonder castle?" she said.

"Yes."

"And the aged sycamore beside the dovecot-tower?"

"Yes—yes."

"Then remember how, nine years ago, the lord of that fair mansion perished under its shadow; and how his own good rapier, urged by the hand of the woman he had wronged, was driven—yea, to the very hilt—in his false and fickle heart. Often at mirk midnight have I seen the dead-light glimmering on his tomb in St. John's kirk, and illuminating the west window of the Forresters' aisle."

She gave him a glance so expressive of hatred, fear, contempt, and reproach that he almost quailed beneath it; and as she pointed to the veiled portrait, he turned abruptly away. Her words and allusion had evidently a deep effect on Clermistonlee. He was about to retire, but paused irresolutely, turned, and paused again. Then kissing Lilian's hand, he said in a gentle tone—

"Forgive me if I have offended, but love for you makes me perhaps act unwisely. Adieu, dear Lilian: if my presence is obnoxious, I hasten to relieve you of it. Till to morrow, adieu; and pleasant dreams to you."

He bowed profoundly, and retired to his own apartment followed by Juden, who kept close to his heels as a spaniel would have done.

"Will you not sup, Madam Lilian?" asked Beatrix in a kinder tone than usual.

"Sup—oh, no!"

"Bethink you, lady; the whole day hath passed, and you have tasted nothing but a posset of milk with a little sack. Still weeping! 'Twas so with me once; but I shall never weep again, until I have wrung tears of blood from my betrayer."

"Now you are going to frighten me again. A light, if it please you, good woman; I will retire. Another night under his roof! My poor aunt Grisel.... how bad, how wicked is this!"

"My lord desired me to ask if you wished to read a little: it may compose your mind."

"Oh, yes!—a thousand thanks, kind Beatrix. Bring me a Bible, if you have one."

Beatrix laughed.

"A Bible! when was one last seen in the tower of Clermiston? Not since the days of auld Mess John, I warrant; and his was torn up by the troopers for cartridges. There is nothing here but a rowth of evil play and jest books, and some anent hawking, hunting, and farriery, and others, my bairn, that suit only—women like me."

"Poor Beatrix!" said Lilian kindly, touching her hand, for the exceeding humility of her manner raised all her pity. Beatrix surveyed her for a moment, with a troubled and dubious expression. Seldom was it that a word of compassion or commiseration fell upon her ear. Her heart was touched; a moisture suffused her eyes; but, fearing to betray her feelings through the outward aspect of moroseness and misanthropy she had assumed, she set a light upon the cabinet of the bedchamber, and hurried away.

Again, as on the preceding night, Lilian fastened the door; and though the number and complication of its ancient iron locks somewhat reassured her, her heart sank when she surveyed the great gloomy tester-bed, with its dais, its solemn plumage and festooned canopy—the sombre wainscotting, and well-barred window, past which the changing clouds were hurrying in scudding masses, alternately obscuring and revealing stars. Kneeling at a chair near the fire, she prayed long and fervently, and, with innocent confidence, arose more assured and courageous, though aware that, by anxiety, want of food and rest, her natural strength and spirit were greatly impaired. A folio volume lay upon the cabinet; it was covered with purple velvet, on which a coat of arms and these words were exquisitely embroidered:—"Alison, Lady Clermistonlee, on her marriage day, ye penult Maij, 1668."

The hand of her tormentor's unhappy wife had probably worked these words; all the dark and mysterious stories concerning her misfortunes and her fate came crowding upon the mind of Lilian, and filled her with melancholy forebodings. Perhaps, thought she, this was her chamber, and that her bed, where often she had wept away the dreary night in unseen and unregarded sorrow. Full of mournful interest, she unclasped and opened the volume. It was the "Bentivolio and Urania" of Nathaniel Ingelo, one of the prosy and metaphorical romances of the seventeenth century. The first words arrested her, and she read on.

"He was no sooner entered within the borders of the forlorn kingdom of Ate, than the unhealthfulness of the air had almost choked his vital spirits; and being removed from the gladsome sun by a chain of hills, that lifted up their heads so high that they intercepted the least glance of his comfortable beams: it was dark and rueful. He chanced to light upon a path that led to Ate's house, which was encompassed with the pitchy shade of cypresse and ebon trees, so that it looked like the region of death. As he walked, he perceived the hollow pavement made with the skulls of murdered wretches. At the further end of this dismal walk he espied a court, whose gates stand open day and night; in the midst whereof was placed the image of cruelty, with a cup of poyson in one hand, and a dagger wet with reeking bloode in the other. Her hairs crawled up and down her neck, and sometimes wreathed about her head in knots of snakes; fire all the while sparkling from her mouth and eyes......"

This dismal passage in no way tended to alleviate the perturbation of her spirits; and, hastily closing the volume, she prepared to retire. Aware that proper repose was absolutely necessary to enable her to sustain all she might have to encounter or endure from Clermistonlee, remembering the apparent security of her apartment, and somewhat reassured by the cheerful blaze thrown by the fire upon the dark brown panelling and high old-fashioned bed, she slowly and reluctantly began to undress, often pausing to re-examine her room; but, perceiving nothing more to alarm her, gathering up the bright tresses of her hair into a caul, she unrobed and sprang into bed. The sleep and the heaviness that preyed upon her now completely evaporated; and, more awake than ever, she felt only the keenest sensations of fear, and her prevailing horror was Clermistonlee. By the light of the wood fire, that poured its broad blaze up the massive stone chimney, she surveyed the room with watchful eyes, that ached from the very intensity of their gaze, and the shadows of the carved posts seemed like those of giants thrown against the panelled wall.

Weariness overcame her, and she was about to drop asleep, when a sound was heard, and one of the doors of the cabinet rattled and opened; a cold wind blew upon her face; and by her recumbent position, she beheld a steep staircase winding away down into darkness she knew not where, between the masonry of the massive wall. She would have screamed, but terror chained her tongue; and almost fainting, and afraid to move or breathe, she continued to regard it with the most painful anguish and intense alarm. But up that dark and mysterious outlet, so suddenly disclosed, no sound came but the night wind, which moved the oak door of the cabinet mournfully to and fro.

Lilian's strength seemed utterly to have left her; and, though painfully anxious to learn the secrets of this staircase, which communicated so immediately with her bedchamber, she lacked equally strength to rise, and presence of mind to examine it.

But the current of air that swayed the door to and fro, closed it; the sound rumbled away in the far echoes of the tower, and all became still. Now more alarmed by the reflection that she was sleeping in this remote room alone, with a secret entrance, she bitterly regretted her imprudence in undressing, but had not the courage to rise and repair what a certain prophetic apprehension made her fear had been very unwise.

Excessive lassitude at last completely overcame her, and she slumbered.

CHAPTER V.
THE ATTEMPT.

Once in a lone and secret hour of night,
When every eye was closed, and the pale moon
And stars alone shone conscious of the theft,
Hot with the Tuscan grape, and high in blood,
Haply I stole unheeded to her chamber.
FAIR PENITENT.

When Clermistonlee retired from the hall to the study or parlour, which was the only comfortably furnished apartment in the dreary old tower, he resigned himself to reflection, and sipping his mulled sack, a great tankard of which Juden placed unbidden, and quite as a matter of course, at his elbow. His thoughts at first ran in the usual channel,—a determination to possess Lilian, from the double incentives of passion and pecuniary necessity. He was on the brink of ruin; and her property, or expectations of it, were ample and noble. She was very unprotected; the land was convulsed and trembling on the verge of a great civil war, though as yet no tidings had reached Edinburgh of what was passing in England; and so, as the sack diminished in the tankard, his lordship's thoughts became in proportion more strange, more amorous, and confused. His brain wandered. He was restless and uneasy; his flowing dressing-gown seemed to fit him like a horse-hair shirt; and his disturbed manner was not unobserved by his faithful and subservient factotum.

The latter attempted some consolation, after his fashion; but it was not palatable.

"Begone to the bartizan!" exclaimed his master, angrily, "and bring me instant tidings if anything seems astir in the country about us. I expect news from the city hourly. Leave me."

Juden vanished.

"The deevil tak' lovers and lords!" he muttered, as he drew his broad worsted bonnet over his cross visage, and ascended to the bartizan of the tower, and setting his teeth hard, as he faced the keen north wind, took a survey of the dreary and snow-covered landscape. On the passing wind ten o'clock came sullenly from the spire of St. John of Corstorphine; then all was deathly still save the sough of the winter breeze as it swept over the dreary Lee, and whistled through the open corbells of the projecting tower.

Juden had no particular fancy for enacting the part of warder in so cold a night, and after taking a rapid survey of the extensive waste, he was about to descend again, when an unusual redness in the sky to the eastward arrested him. It rose in the direction of the city, and resembled the lurid and wavering glow of a great conflagration. The red blaze was rapidly spreading and crimsoning the edges of the dusky clouds above, and throwing forward in strong relief the southern edge of the Corstorphine Kills, and the dark pines that shaded them. Astonished, perplexed, and alarmed, Juden continued to gaze in the direction of the light, until a loud hollo startled him, and he perceived a man on horseback close to the foot of the tower.

"Ho!" cried Juden through his hand, for the wind blew keen and high. "What want ye, friend?"

"No a night's lodging, or I wadna come here," answered the other testily. "Closed gates and dark windows betoken cauld cheer and a caulder ingle."

"Beware o' your tongue, friend," replied the butler from aloft. "Langer lugs than yours hae been nailed to the tower yett. You have come frae Edinburgh I warrant?"

"Troth have I, on the spur, man, so open the yett, Juden Stenton."

"What's a' the steer there this night?"

"Gif you had been there ye wad ken," responded the other with sulky importance. "I bear a letter for my Lord Clermistonlee on the king's service, which king Gude kens and the Deil cares."

"Thir are kittle times, friend," replied the butler, warily; "so if King James himsel' came to the peel o' Clermiston this mirk night, not a bolt would be drawn, or a lock undone. Tie the letter to this twine, gossip, and sae gang your way in peace."

Rendered cautious by the nature of the times, and by being constantly on the alert against force and treachery, the wary old servitor lowered over the wall a string, to which after sundry curses the horseman tied a letter, and Juden towed it up, "hand over hand."

"Ill folk are aye feared," said the stranger; "and I doubt there are but few clear consciences in Clermistonlee. My horse is sair forfoughton wi' my ride frae the West Port; he fell at the Foulbrigs, and was nigh swept awa' when fording the Leith doon by there; but I maun een ride on to his honor the Laird o' Niddry without a stirrup cup or a 'God save ye.' Out upon Clermiston and its ill-mannered loons!" and dashing spurs into his horse, the servant galloped at a hunting pace away to the westward, and disappeared among the hollows at the verge of the Lee.

Anxious to learn the contents of a letter in which he doubted not he had as much interest as his Lord, Juden hurried down the corkscrew stair from the bartizan, and repairing to the little study where his half-muddled master was gazing dreamily into the fire, and imbibing his sixth cup of sack, he placed the little square billet before him. Clermistonlee tore it open, and read hurriedly,

"Dear Gossip,

"A glorious revolution hath been accomplished, (and I am just drinking to its success in sugared brandy,) but Satan seems to have broken loose in the city, whilk the rascal sort hath fired in six different places. The acts of Estate and Council are mere nullities. Your presence is required by the Council anent ane address to the new king. We are to have a grand onslaught to-morrow against Baal's prophets, the Host of Pharaoh, and a' that, ye ken.

"Yrs. at service,
"MERSINGTON."

"Postscriptum.—Keep the bonnie bird in the cage close; her kinsman Napier hath been slain by young Fenton, and ye know how the entail stands. Vale! King William the Second of Scotland for ever!"

Clermistonlee's first impulse was to start up and buckle on his sword, exclaiming,

"My gambadoes, Juden; the red leather ones—saddle Meg, and, peril of thy life, look well to—but no—no! I will not. Thou mayest go to the devil, Mersington, with thy drunken scrawl, the address, and the Council to boot. I leave not Clermiston to-night. Napier slain—and by Fenton! By George, how the plot is thickening! 'Tis glorious. Juden, don your shabble, and ride to the city; tell my gossip Mersington in the matter pending, mark me, knave! in the matter pending to use my name as he shall deem fitting."

Juden replied by a leer of deep cunning (for he too was something of a politician), and, animated by an intense curiosity to know what was acting in the city, hurried away, and in ten minutes had left far behind him the dreary tower and frozen muir, above which its dark outline reared like that of a spectre.

As the fumes of the wine mounted upward, the heated imagination and inflamed passions of Clermistonlee got completely the better of his senses. Thoughts of Lilian's beauty and helplessness came vividly before him; but such reflections instead of kindling his pity, roused all his passion for her to an ungovernable height. Draining a cup of brandy to make him yet more reckless of consequences, and snatching a candle, he staggered from the room, and descended the narrow stone stair that led from his apartment.

He knew that he was alone, for Beatrix was under lock and key; yet he stepped with singular caution. Every stone in the rough walls seemed a grotesque face, regarding him with mockery and wrath; he saw a figure in every shadow, heard a step in every whistle of the midnight wind. He dared not look at portraits as he passed, lest their eyes might seem to move; and thus, though the entire consciousness of his dark intent came broadly and appallingly home to his heart, such was the influence of his ungoverned passions that a spirit of the merest obstinacy urged him to finish what he in part commenced, and the high pulsations of his heart increased at every step which brought him nearer to the chamber of his victim.

He entered the hall. The feeble rays of his upheld candle seemed only to reveal the size and darkness of the place, and the grey winter twilight that struggled through its thickly grated and deeply-arched windows. The embers of the fire still smouldered on the hearth, and, reddening when the hollow wind rumbled down the wide chimney, threw the shadows of the great oaken table, the dark grotesque cabinets and highbacked chairs in long and frightful figures on the paved floor.

Entering the almonry, he opened a door, within it, which revealed a narrow passage in the wall that communicated with the secret outlets of the place, and led directly to the cabinet in Lilian's room.

He stood within it, and the warmth of its atmosphere increased the ferment of his blood. Unconscious of the proximity of so dangerous a visitor, the innocent girl slept soundly, but lightly.

Shading the light with his hand, he gazed impatiently upon the slumbering beauty.

Her hair, which overnight she had put up with the carelessness so natural to grief, had now escaped from the caul, and rolled over the pillow in masses that glittered like gold in the rays of the uncertain light. She was very pale, but a slight glow began to redden her cheek, and it was graced with a smile of inexpressible sweetness.

Twice he approached, and twice drew back irresolute.

An unseen hand seemed to restrain him; the air of perfect innocence pervading the presence of the sleeping girl protected her for a time; and scarcely daring to breathe, the intruder continued to gaze upon her. She slept softly. At last, tears fell over her cheeks, and she tenderly murmured—

"Dear Walter, have I not said that I love you?"

Clermistonlee, on whose bent-down cheek her soft breath came, started at these words as if a serpent had stung him. One of those fierce, malicious, and scornful smiles, which so often imparted to his handsome features a fiendish expression, contracted them but for a moment; another of intense sadness and languor replaced it. At that instant, unable longer to restrain himself, he clasped her in his arms.

"Lilian!" he exclaimed, "dear Lilian, be not alarmed—it is I."

A piercing shriek, that startled the furthest recesses of the old and desolate tower, burst from the lips of Lilian; it was one of those deep and wailing cries of pain and horror which, when once heard, are never forgot.

"Villain, unhand me! Oh! spare me, my Lord—spare me for the love of God!"

"Be calm, Lilian—why should you fear me? Do I not adore you? Yes; I prize your love beyond the possession of life. Dear girl, look not on me thus. I am the most devoted of lovers, and by this kiss, dearest——d—nation!"

He attempted to kiss her; but, endued with new strength by rage and fear, her little hands clutched fiercely his thick mustachios, and twisted his head aside, as she had done once before so effectually.

"Hear me!" he continued, "hear me, sweet Lilian; I came but to say that I loved thee——."

"Love me! oh! horror!—leave me, or I shall expire—leave me!"

At that moment a loud explosion, followed by the fanfare of trumpets and the ruffling of kettle-drums beneath the walls of the tower arrested all the faculties of Clermistonlee, and by throwing his thoughts into another channel, covered him with shame; and he started back, the image of astonishment and irresolution.

Not so Lilian; her presence of mind was instantly restored. Springing to a window, and fearlessly dashing her hands through the panes of glass, she cried in agonized accents—

"Help! help! for the love of the blessed God! Help me, or I perish!"

"Lilian! Lilian!" cried a voice that filled her with transport. It was that of Walter Fenton.

A glance sufficed to show her a gallant troop of horse halted beneath the tower in the grey morning twilight. Again she would have spoken, but the strong hand of Clermistonlee dragged her furiously back into the apartment.

CHAPTER VI.
EDINBURGH—THE NIGHT OF THE REVOLUTION.

Meanwhile, regardless of the royal cause,
His sword for James no brother sov'raign draws.
The Pope himself, surrounded with alarms,
To France his bulls, to Corfu sends his arms;
And though he hears his darling son's complaint,
Can hardly spare one tutelary saint.
TICKELL, Edit. 1749.

From the hour in which Lilian had been torn from her, the ased Lady Grisel had never raised her head. Affection and horror, wrath and insulted pride, had all aggravated to the utmost the weakness and debility consequent to exceeding old age; and by her weeping domestics the venerable dame was borne to her great chair in the Chamber-of-Dais, where she remained long insensible to all that passed around her.

The storm and hurry of political events employed otherwise Sir Thomas Dalyel and those friends who might have served her in this dilemma; and now she found herself quite deserted.

Syme the baillie, and the whole male population of the barony had fruitlessly searched the Burghmuir for the remainder of the night and morning; but, for reasons which will shortly be apparent, any application to the Privy Council or magistrates of Edinburgh would have been utterly futile, as their attention was amply occupied by more important matters than the abduction of a girl.

Long fits of stupor, succeeded by querulous bursts of passion, left the poor old lady so weak, that, as Elsie related to Sir Thomas of Binns, "between the night and morning, she cried on Sir Archibald to save her doo Lilian; and then she just soughed awa like a blink o' the sunshine, and lay back under her canopy in the Chaumer-o'-Deese, a comely corpse to see as ever was streekit."

The old lady did not die, however, but recovered her senses by having a pistol fired at her ear by the rough old Muscovite trooper, "a cure for the vapours, whilk," he said, "he had often seen practised on Samoieda."

As before related, in consequence of the vigilance of Sir James Montgomerie, the Privy Council and people of Scotland had been kept for several weeks in a state of painful uncertainty as to the fate of James's affairs in England: but a letter from Lord Dundee reached the Scottish ministry, expressive of apprehensions for the issue of a conflict between the troops of the King and those of his invader.

To ascertain the true aspect of affairs, they despatched into England a man named Brand, a baillie of Edinburgh, who basely betrayed his trust by carrying his despatches straight to the Prince of Orange, to whom he was introduced by Dr. Burnet.

On Craigdarroch's arrival at the Scottish capital, and others with similar tidings of the desertion and dissolution of the army, the flight of James, and success of William, the long-threatening storm burst forth in all its fury. Scotland at that time swarmed with brave and hardy soldiers, skilful officers, ruined barons, and desperate vassals—the veterans of the Covenant, and the endless wars of Sweden, France, and Flanders; thus, ingloriously as the campaign had passed over in the south, a cloud was gathering on the Highland hills, that threatened to descend, as of yore, in wrath and blood on the fertile Lowlands.

Infuriated by the severities of what was called the "twenty-eight years' persecution," the Lowland population were ripe for armed revolt, and the capital, to which they flocked in overwhelming masses, became the grand centre of their operations, and the scene of newer atrocities. The greatest outrages were committed upon the persons and property of those unhappy Catholics, Episcopalians, and cavaliers, who fell into the hands of this wild mob.

Perth, the Lord Chancellor fled; the Privy Council, which had been severe to the nation, in proportion as it was servile to James, dispatched an immediate address to William, and none were more cordial in their offers of dutiful service than Provost Prince, and the worthy council of Edinburgh: those very men who had so lately declared to the unfortunate Stuart, that they "would stand by his sacred person on all occasions." Now they were equally prompt in offers to his dethroner, to whom they complained bitterly "of the hellish attempts of Romish incendiaries, and of the just grievances of all men relating to conscience, liberty, and property."

For three days the capital was in the power of a mad and lawless rabble, who, rendered furious by bigotry and intoxication, committed the most dreadful atrocities.

The houses of all who were obnoxious to them were plundered and given to the flames, and all effects of value were scattered in the streets. There were episodes of horror ensued such as Edinburgh had never witnessed before. The streets were filled with the smoke of burning houses; the air was sheeted with flame; the shrieks of the perishing inmates, the howls of their destroyers, and the crash of falling masonry, rang night and day. The college of the Jesuits was levelled to the dust; crosses, and reliques, statues, pictures, and vestments were borne aloft through the streets, and consigned to the flames amid yells of derision.

The ale and wine found in the cellars of the cavaliers, inflamed the inborn savagism of the multitude, who were urged by their ministers to commit a thousand nameless atrocities. For three days they continued in a state of perfect intoxication (says Lord Balcarris in his Memoirs), and in open daylight, in the crowded streets of the city, committed upon the persons of many Catholic ladies such outrages as cannot be written, and "without any attempt being made by the authorities to restrain such brutality." (pp. 22, 27.)

Of all the members of the old government none was more obnoxious to the people than Sir George Mackenzie, of Rosehaugh, the celebrated lawyer and essayist, who had rendered himself an object of intense hatred, by the severity with which he had stretched the criminal laws to answer the views of the Government; and who, in his office of Public Prosecutor, had obtained the unenviable soubriquet of "the persecutor of God's saints," "the blood-thirsty advocate," "bluidy Mackenzie;" and to this hour his vaulted mausoleum at Edinburgh is regarded with hatred and loathing by the old Cameronians and "true blue" Presbyterians.

His mansion in Rosehaugh Close was soon made the object of attack. The night of the third day had closed over the city, and still the scene of tumult and frenzy, the din and the flames of destruction, loaded the air with sounds of horror and outrage.

In great anxiety for his personal safety, the unhappy statesman heard with no ordinary perturbation the increasing roar of sounds, like the chafing of a distant sea; the mingling of a myriad human voices, and the rush of feet, which betokened the approach of a vast mob.

With drums beating before them, and armed with various weapons, the thousand bright points of which gleamed in the lurid blaze of the uplifted torches, a dense mass of ragged, squalid, and insane-looking men, poured like a human flood into the deep and narrow alley at the foot of which still stands the house of Rosehaugh. Begrimed with smoke and filth, maddened by intoxication and excess, their yells as they resounded between the solid walls of the narrow street, rang like those of fiends from some deep abyss, and the heart of Mackenzie died away within him. To appeal to their pity would be like craving mercy from the waves of an angry ocean? there was no escape, no remedy, no bribe, no hope; for among that terrible mob were the fathers, the sons, the brothers—yea, and the mothers of those who at his instance had perished in thousands, by the sword, by the torture, and the gibbet, or were lingering out a miserable existence as slaves and bondsmen in the distant Indies.

"My God! my God! for what am I reserved?" he exclaimed, as from a lofty upper window he surveyed the dense mass of madmen, who, wedged in the alley below, impeded each other's motions. Conspicuous above all, raised on the shoulders of two strong men, whose arms and faces were smeared with blood and blackness, there was upborne a man, whose sad-coloured garments and white bands announced him a preacher; his gaunt visage and long hair of raven hue waving around a face ghastly, though flashed with passion, his large hazel eyes glowing like those of a tiger, his upraised hands clenching one a bible, and the other a broadsword, declared him a wild enthusiast (another "Habakuk Mucklewrath").

It was Ichabod Bummel, who had escaped from the damp vaults of the wave-beaten Bass, and had now come to take vengeance on Mackenzie for his exile, his captivity, his crushed bones, and long persecution.

"Come forth, Achan, thou troubler of Israel!" he shrieked; "come forth, thou destroyer of the good and just, thou persecutor of the saints of God! come forth, thou thing that art accursed, or we will burn thee in the ruins of thy dwelling, and salt them with salt. Courage, my brethren! Oh, is not this a brave hour and a glorious one? For lo, the time is come when the host of Pharaoh shall be discomfited and stricken as of old. Achan, thou persecutor of the covenanted kirk, behold me towering amid Baal's prophets, four hundred and fifty men, as the book saith!"

This rhapsody was responded to with yells of ardour, and the din of hammers rang like thunder against the strong oaken door of the mansion, while many bullets were discharged at the windows, which were securely grated. A door of massive oak closed the entrance of the turnpike stair, and though the whole house resounded under the energy of the blows, the barrier refused to yield, though gradually it was falling in splinters, a process too slow to suit the fierce impatience of the increasing mob.

"Let fire be brought," cried Ichabod, "let the mansion be consumed, that its flames may be as a light to the house of Judah. Know, O thou persecutor of God's covenanted saints, that a sword is this night upon the inhabitants of Babylon, and upon her princes, and her mighty men; for it is the load of graven images, and they are mad upon their idols."

Urged by this blasphemous application of Scripture, burning brands were heaped by the people against the door, and soon the increased yells of satisfaction announced to the miserable advocate that the barrier was rapidly giving way, and that in another moment the reeking hands of the destroyers would be upon him. He threw round a glance of agony, the barred windows denied all hope of escape, and now his stern soul sank at the prospect of a cruel and immediate death, when lo! one tremendous yell of another import brought him once more to the shattered windows. "It is a dream!" he exclaimed.

A troop of the Royal Life Guards, with their bright arms flashing in the light of the waving torches, were hewing and treading down the mob like a field of rye; and chief above all shone one cavalier—it was Dundee—the gallant, the terrible Claver'se, that man-fiend, whom all deemed six hundred miles away. There was no mistaking the splendour of his armour, the nobility of his air, the ferocity of his purpose.

"Close up—fall on, gentlemen; no quarter to the knaves!" he exclaimed, while, standing erect in his stirrups, he showered his blows on every side, his white plumes rising and falling in unison with his trenchant rapier.

"Hey for King James! Ho for the cavaliers! Down with the rebels—down with the whigamores!" cried Holsterlee and others, as they pressed forward, and the rabble grovelled in the dust beneath the tremendous rush of the heavy horses, and their riders in steel and buff. In a minute the narrow alley was cleared of the living, and piled knee-deep with dead and dying. The shrill voice of Ichabod, as he was borne off by his disciples, was heard dying away in the distance, like that of an evil spirit carried away by a stormy wind.

By something like a miracle, Lord Dundee had traversed the whole of hostile England, and though menaced on every hand by great bodies of troops, had reached his native capital in safety; bringing with him not only the sixty cavalier troopers (who of all his cavalry alone remained staunch to him), but with them Walter Fenton, Lord Dunbarton, Finland, and other officers retaken from De Ginckel. They now rode under his orders as gentlemen-troopers, mounted on heavy black chargers that had whilome belonged to the Swart Ruyters; and the whole, with standards displayed, had entered the city about an hour before the assault on Rosehaugh's house.

The Rev. Dr. Joram, late chaplain to the Royal Scots, also bestrode a horse which he had taken as his spoil in battle; and had donned a trooper's corslet, with which his clerical bob-periwig consorted as oddly as with the fierce and tipsy expression of his flushed and florid face, and with the stern cock of the Monmouth beaver that surmounted it. The gallant divine had recently imbibed so much wine that he could scarcely keep his saddle.

Of the fate of their captured comrades they as yet knew nothing; but Gavin of that Ilk, with twenty other officers and five hundred men, were then at London, close prisoners; the rest had returned to their colours; and after a time, the whole, seeing the futility of resistance, ultimately embarked peaceably under the orders of their new commander, the veteran Duke de Schomberg. None were punished, "as the new government had not yet been fully recognized in Scotland."

Rosehaugh had been saved from a terrible immolation; but the services of the night were not yet over. Claverhouse, with his cavaliers, retired to a quiet part of the city, under protection of the castle batteries, where a brave garrison of Catholic soldiers, led by the Duke of Gordon, remained yet staunch to James.

"My lord Earl," said Dundee to Dunbarton, "we must be somewhat economical of our persons and horses, when encountering these mad burghers and drunken saints, and not forget that we are the last hope of the King in this hotbed of Presbytery and rebellion."

"True," replied the Earl, "and I rejoice that we have but few to regret, and few to mourn for us if we perish in the struggle on which we are about to plunge."

The eyes of the Viscount filled with dusky fire.

"Dunbarton," said he, "I am alone in the world. Our grateful King has given me honours to which none can succeed, for I have cast the die by which they are lost for ever; and nowhere can my coronet be more gloriously surrendered than on the battle-field."

"I thank Heaven that the Countess, my dear little Lætitia, is in England," said the Earl, pointing to the lurid flames that from the blazing houses of the Abbey-hill flashed along the shadowy vista of the Canongate, glowing redly under the arch of the Nether Bow, and throwing forward in bold relief a thousand fantastic projections of the old Flemish mansions that reared up their giant fronts on either hand. "I thank Heaven that she is in a safer place than this poor city of wild fanatics."

"Would that I could say the same of Lilian!" thought Walter, with a deep sigh. "Can she be safe amid all this dreadful uproar?"

At that moment a dense rabble approached, with drums beating, torches blazing, and weapons glinting.

"To the Palace! to the Abbey!" cried a thousand hoarse voices. "Let us pull doon the temple of the Idolater, and gie his fause gods to the flames!" and they swept forward, greeting the troop of Guards with yells of hatred and menace.

They were led—by whom? Lord Mersington, with his wig awry, his clothes soiled with dust, and his face flushed with exertion! The Earl of Balcarris relates "that this fanatical judge, with a halbert in his hand, and drunk as ale and brandy could make him," led on the rabble to the assault of time-hallowed Holyrood; but before reaching the eastern extremity of the city, his followers were joined by the trained bands in their buff coats and bandoleers, the magistrates, and other authorities, who vested this lawless mob with an air of order and official importance.

"Will those villains really dare to molest the palace of our kings?" said Dundee, his eyes kindling, as he looked after the revolters, and reined-up his impatient horse.

"What will they not dare?" rejoined Dunbarton; "but I doubt not they will experience a warm reception. Wallace, who commands the guard, is a brave cavalier as ever drew sword, and the traitors will make nothing of it."

"Under favour, my Lords," said Fenton, "they are in great numbers, and I have misgivings as to the issue."

"Wallace—he is an old friend of mine," said Finland. "'Sdeath! we've seen some sharp work together on the frontiers of Flanders; and with your permission, my Lords, I will take a turn of service with him to-night."

"As you please," replied the Viscount; "Dunbarton commands here, though he rides in my troop. Go—ha, ha! two heads are better than one."

"I go then; and yonder fanatical senator may beware how he comes within reach of my hand."

"Thy riding-whip, say rather."

"I volunteer also," said Walter, who was under great anxiety to have an opportunity of visiting Lilian.

"And I too," added the Reverend Jonadab Joram. "I long to encounter with bible and bilbo, yonder preacher of sedition, that urges on this unhanged rout of traitors. For know ye, gentlemen, (hiccup) that one preacher is better in Scotland than twenty drummers to find recruits for the devil's service; so, in his own phraseology, I will gird up my loins, and go forth to battle against them. Come on, gallants! Ho, for King James, and down with the whigamores! Rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub——"

"Beware, sirs, for the good cause has not many such spirits to spare," said Claver'se, as they dashed spurs into their horses, and making a detour down one narrow wynd and up another, reached without interruption the deep groined archway of the Palace Porch, an ancient gothic edifice, heavily turreted and battlemented.

CHAPTER VII.
SACK OF HOLYROOD.

'Twas a dream of the ages of darkness and blood,
When the ministers' home was the mountain and wood;
The musquets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming;
The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,
When on Welwood's dark muirland the mighty were falling.
ANONYMOUS.