Jane Seton; or, The King's Advocate: A Scottish Historical Romance

"Harkye!" said Lintstock again, "are ye not the runion who drove all the cattle mad, and hounded them out upon the hills? where all the collies and dogs in Lanarkshire will never collect them again; for mony a gude score hae tummelled owre the craigs of the Cairntable, and are drowned in the Douglas burn." "Oho, my friend," said Roland, setting down his wine-cup, and gazing sternly on the brutal and bilious visage of his prisoner, every twitch of whose square mouth, and every glance of whose twinkling eyes indicated the mass of bad thoughts that festered in his heart, "the charges are coming thick and fast against thee; so 'tis to thee we owe the loss of our lawful prize--those prime herds and fattened hirsels?" "Say rather to witchcraft; for ken ye, sir, that when I arrived here, three were found to be elfshot, and the rest were under spell; for the gudeman Fleming was dropping upon their horns the blessed wax of a paschal candle, the half whereof is yet remaining----" "In the pen; he speaks the truth," said Lintstock, "for I saw it there mysel; but sure as I am a living man, it was you who threw the blazing straw-wisps owre the parapets of the bartizan." "Well, rascal, and didst thou give my message to the bull-headed proprietor of this dwelling?" "Yea, Sir Roland Vipont, by Heaven I did, word for word." "So thou knowest _my_ name too, eh? (hold him fast, Lintstock)--well?" "And he made me prisoner." "I verily believe, peasant, thou liest; for the Laird of Balquhan avers that he saw thee on the walls in armour." "True, for I armed me in my own defence." "But thou didst thrice try to shoot me with an arquebuse, as Lintstock here is ready to swear." "Lintstock hath but one eye." "'Tis gude as a dozen, d--n ye," growled the old soldier. "How the devil is it this fellow wears a sword like a French barber?" said Leslie. "Ay, how is this, thou, who art not a gentleman?" "I am travelling, and wear it for mine own security." "A cudgel would better become such a clown as thee; but take it away, Lintstock, and keep it for thy pains. Now, fellow, my mind misgiveth me sorely that thou art playing us a false trick; but as for thy attempts upon my own life, I say let them pass; being done under armour, and in close fray, it would ill become Roland Vipont to bear malice for such trifles--for trifles they are, to a man who feels himself as I do--with the blade of his sword. Though, as thou knowest, man, I might hang thee from one of those beams, for resisting the king's troops, who are empowered" (he added, with a covert smile at Leslie), "to search every stronghold in Douglasdale for the traitor, Ashkirk; I forgive thee, instead; and, as lord and master of this barmkyn, for one night at least, by the laws of conquest, and appropriation, I say thou art welcome to a cup of wine, a slice from yon savoury roast, and a seat by the fire till dawn, when may God speed thee to thy native Galloway, and keep us from again meeting under harness. I never bore malice to living man, for blow struck, or bullet shot, after the fray was over, and so bear none to thee. Now, fellow, what is thy name?" "John--John Dargavel," replied Birrel, cautiously. "Then give me thy hand, John Dargavel, and here is mine," replied Roland. Each kissed his right hand, and presented it to the other. "This is the generous frankness of a gallant soldier," said Leslie, as Birrel slunk away; "but, I doubt me, 'tis sorely misplaced, for that fellow hath the eye of a very ruffian. St. Mary! I could not have believed my haughty Vipont would have condescended thus--even though a friar had sworn it." "The faggots of hell encompass thee!" muttered Birrel (uttering the favourite curse of those days), as he overheard Leslie; "but I may, ere the morning, serve my lord and myself by avenging all this! Praise God, I have still my poniard, with ten lives in its pommel!" He drew near the great fire, and mingled with the soldiers, who were busy spitting strings of pullets, broiling eggs, basting a lordly roast, toasting cheese, and mulling wine, amid such jesting and revelling as none but soldiers can indulge in after danger dared and slaughter past. There were several among them who no doubt would have recognised him as the witch-pricker of Edinburgh, had they been less occupied with the pleasant task of satisfying their appetite, or had they more closely examined his face, the vile expression of which was considerably increased by the manner in which he had smeared it with dust and mud for concealment; but Lintstock, who had some undefinable suspicions concerning him, kept a strict watch over all his movements, and never once lost sight of him, even for a moment, during the whole night. The feasting was over, the demi-john had been drained, fresh guards had been posted, and the soldiers lay down to sleep, for Roland had announced they were to march by sunrise, and desired Lintstock to prepare a spiced posset of wine for his friend Leslie and himself, against the time when the morning trumpet should sound. Two box beds opened off the hall, and each officer, without removing his armour, occupied one of them; while their soldiers slept on the floor, lying close together, with their swords and arquebuses beside them; and as the pavement was somewhat cold (even though the month was June), the staves of the demi-john, a few sturdy oak chairs, and several other articles of furniture, had been heaped in the chimney, where they were all blazing in a sheet of flame, like a yule-nicht fire. Rolled up in his grey maud, Nichol Birrel reclined in a corner of the ingle, with his bonnet drawn over his eyes; but instead of being asleep, as he pretended, he was intently watching the groups that slept around him. In a more remote corner lay Lintstock, partly under the hall table, with his axe and sword under his head as a pillow, and his keen bright eye fixed on the shaggy-headed brodder, who had not the least idea that he was either watched or suspected. And thus the two men lay, for nearly two hours. The brodder watching the sleeping soldiers, and Lintstock watching him. The one-eyed veteran had conceived an invincible mistrust and repugnance of their new acquaintance, and lay awake like a lynx. The fire began to sink and smoulder; and the objects in the hall, its great and sturdily-legged table, the sleeping groups in their conical corslets and red doublets, the yawning fire-place and the rough arch of the mantelpiece, the ponderous beams of the ceiling and the deep embrasures of the windows, assumed various shapes to the half-closed eye of Lintstock. The shadows became black, while a fainter red began to flicker on the walls as the embers died, and everything became grotesquely indistinct. Sleep was fast overpowering the drowsy veteran; but before yielding to it, he gave one last glance at the witch-brodder, and, starting, grasped the shaft of his Jethart axe. Birrel had arisen and thrown off his plaid. The last glow of the sinking embers shone full on his strong squat figure, his bilious visage, matted beard, and muscular hands, giving him the aspect of an enormous gnome in their uncertain light. "Ha! what now, sir?" muttered Lintstock, quietly. Birrel unsheathed his dagger; the blade gleamed redly in the flame; but instead of grasping the hilt in the usual way, he unscrewed the pommel; and then fortunately a current of wind which streamed down the wide chimney and fanned the embers into a sudden flame, showed Lintstock how he took from the hollow ball a few red grains, and shook them into the posset-cup which had been prepared for Sir Roland and his friend, and which stood near the fire upon the warm hearth. Lintstock grasped his axe tighter. For a moment the wine-posset frothed and foamed in the light; then the fermentation subsided, and with the last gleam of the exhausted fire Lintstock saw the brodder envelop himself once more in his plaid, and, after stretching his limbs upon the warm ingle-seat, go composedly to sleep. The firelight had expired, and then Lintstock could perceive the first faint grey of the morning, brightening coldly and steadily beyond the strong iron gratings of the hall windows; and being well aware that the sentinels would permit none to pass without Sir Roland's order or permission, and thus that the captive prisoner could not escape, Lintstock also addressed himself to sleep for the short two hours that intervened before the usual time of marching. CHAPTER XXVIII. A DRAUGHT OF WATER. "Now light is my song, as I journey along, Now my perilous service is o'er; I think on sweet home, and I carol a song, In remembrance of her I adore."--TANNAHILL. With the first peep of the sun's red disc above the Cairntable, the trumpet sounded in the court of the barmkyn; and starting at once to their arms, the arquebusiers, with the ready resolution of soldiers accustomed to be roused on a moment's warning at all hours and in all seasons, hastened from the hall, and began to fall into their ranks in the yard. Many dead bodies, and that of the stalwart Fleming among them, were lying among the mire, where the fugitive cattle had trod them; a lance-spesade proceeded to call the roll, while the fourrier broached a cask of ale, from which every man took a long horn before marching. Roland Vipont was the first who started at the sound of the trumpet. "Hollo, Lintstock," cried he; "my sword and helmet, and bring hither the wine-pot. Come forth, my light Leslie; the trumpet hath blown." Lintstock brought the posset to his master, who was about to divide it, by pouring a portion into another cup for Leslie; when the wakeful servant whispered into his ear, while lacing on his helmet-- "Hold ye, Sir Roland, and invite our new friend in the border maud to taste of it first." "Methinks muddy ale, or ditch-water, would better suit his knave's throat; but why this request?" "There hath been foul play in the night." "Oho!" said Roland, changing colour and setting down the cup; "do you say so?" "Poisoned?" asked Leslie, in a low, fierce voice. Lintstock winked, and nodded towards Birrel, who, at that moment, for the third or fourth time, was endeavouring stealthily to leave the hall, with the last of the soldiers. "Come hither, friend Dargavel,--for so I believe them callest thyself,"--said Roland, filling a wooden bicker from the large pot of mulled wine; "is it thus thou stealest away without bidding adieu to me, who am thy host; for thou knowest that I command all here while within the walls. Come, drink with us, friend; 'tis a bad maxim to ride with a fasting stomach, so thou art welcome to a share of this posset, which has simmered overnight by the fire. Dost thou hear me, fellow? Art thou deaf?" Birrel's visage turned deadly pale, and a perspiration suffused the roots of his hair and matted beard. "I never drink aught that is stronger than water--never, at any time," said he, with a quavering voice. "This is false," said Leslie; "for I saw thee dipping thy moustaches, yea, and thy whole beard, in the demi-john last night." "True--but in the morning I never drink either ale, wine, or usquebaugh--never, sir knights--wi' mony gude thanks for your courtesie?" "Tarry with us, friend; be not in a hurry," said Roland--at a sign from whom Lintstock placed himself in the doorway--"of what, in the devil's name, does thy morning draught usually consist?" "Milk," replied Birrel, becoming blanched with fear, and looking round for some friendly hole wherein to hide himself. "A very hermit in temperance! I regret that, in consequence of all the cattle having escaped, we cannot accommodate you, my pretty man,