Part 34 (2/2)
”I hae come to bid ye fareweel, sir,” at length he said, slowly.
I sprang up in genuine alarm.
”What nonsense is this?” I cried. ”You know fine, Nicol, that you cannot leave me. We have been too long together.”
”I maun gang,” he repeated, sadly; ”I'm loth to dae 't, but there's nae help for 't.”
”But what?” I cried. ”Have I not been a good friend to you, and your comrade in a thousand perils? Is there anything I can do more for you?
Tell me, and I will do it.”
”Na, na, Maister John, ye've aye been the best o' maisters. I've a'
thing I could wish; dinna think I'm no gratefu'.”
”Then for Heaven's sake tell me the reason, man. I never thought you would treat me like this, Nicol.”
”Oh, sir, can ye no see?” the honest fellow cried with tears in his eyes. ”Ye've been sae lang wi' me, that I thocht ye kenned my natur'.
Fechtin' and warstlin' and roamin' aboot the warld are the very breath o' life to me. I see ye here settled sae braw and canty, and the auld hoose o' Barns lookin' like itsel' again. And I thinks to mysel', 'Nicol Plenderleith, lad, this is no for you. This is no the kind of life that ye can lead. Ye've nae mair business here than a craw among throstles.' And the thocht maks me dowie, for I canna get by 't. I whiles think o' mysel' bidin' quiet here and gettin' aulder and aulder, till the time pa.s.ses when I'm still brisk and venturesome, and I'm left to naething but regrets. I maun be up and awa', Laird, I carena whither.
We a' made different, and I was aye queer and daft and no like ither folk. Ye winna blame me.”
I tried to dissuade him, but it was to no purpose. He heard me patiently, but shook his head. I did not tax him with ingrat.i.tude, for I knew how little the charge was founded. For myself I was more sorry than words, for this man was joined to me by ties of long holding. I longed to see him beside me at Barns, an unceasing reminder of my stormy days. I longed to have his sage counsel in a thousand matters, to have him at my hand when I took gun to the hills or rod to the river. I had grown to love his wind-beaten face and his shrewd, homely talk, till I counted them as necessary parts of my life. And now all such hopes were dashed, and he was seeking to leave me.
”But where would you go?” I asked.
”I kenna yet,” he said. ”But there's aye things for man like me somewhere on the earth. I'm thinkin' o' gaun back to the abroad, whaur there's like to be a steer for some time to come. It's the life I want and no guid-fortine or bad-fortine, so I carena what happens. I trust I may see ye again, Maister John, afore I dee.”
There was nothing for it but to agree, and agree I did, though with a heavy heart and many regrets. I gave him a horse to take him to Leith, and offered him a sum of money. This he would have none of, but took, instead, a pair of little old pistols which had been my father's.
I never saw him again, though often I have desired it, but years after I heard of him, and that in the oddest way. I corresponded to some little extent with folk in the Low Countries, and in especial with one Master Ebenezer van Gliecken, a learned man and one of great humour in converse. It was at the time when there was much fighting between the French and the Dutch, and one morn I received a letter from this Master van Gliecken, written from some place whose name I have forgot, a rascally little Holland town in the south. He wrote of many things-of some points in Latin scholars.h.i.+p, of the vexatious and most unpolitic state of affairs in the land, and finally concluded with this which I transcribe.... ”Lastly, my dear Master John, I will tell you a tale which, as it concerns the glory of your countrymen, you may think worth hearing. As you know well, this poor town of ours has lately been the centre of a most b.l.o.o.d.y strife, for the French forces have a.s.saulted it on all sides, and though by G.o.d's grace they have failed to take it, yet it has suffered many sore afflictions. In particular there was a fierce attack made upon the side which fronts the river, both by boat and on foot. On the last day of the siege, a sally was made from the gate of the corner tower, which, nevertheless, was unsuccessful, our men being all but enclosed and some of the enemy succeeding in entering the gate.
One man in particular, a Scot, as I have heard, Nicolo Plenderleet by name, with two others who were both slain, made his way to the battlements. The gate was shut, and, to all appearance, his death was certain. But they knew not the temper of their enemy, for springing on the summit of the wall, he dared all to attack him. When the defenders pressed on he laid about him so st.u.r.dily that three fell under his sword.
”Then when he could no longer make resistance, and bullets were pattering around him like hail, and his cheek was bleeding with a deep wound, his spirit seemed to rise the higher. For, shouting out taunts to his opponents, he broke into a song, keeping time all the while with the thrusts of his sword. Then bowing gallantly, and saluting with his blade his ring of foes, he sheathed his weapon, and joining his hands above his head, dived sheer and straight into the river, and, swimming easily, reached the French lines. At the sight those of his own side cheered, and even our men, whom he had so tricked, could scarce keep from joining.
”Touching the editions which you desired, I have given orders to the bookseller on the quay at Rotterdam to send them to you. I shall be glad, indeed, to give you my poor advice on the difficult matters you speak of, if you will do me the return favour of reading through my excursus to Longinus, and giving me your veracious opinion. Of this I send you a copy.
”As regards the Scot I have already spoken of, I may mention for your satisfaction that in person he was tall and thin, with black hair, and the most bronzed skin I have ever seen on a man....”
When I read this letter to Marjory, her eyes were filled with tears, and for myself I would speak to no one on that day.
CHAPTER IX
THE END OF ALL THINGS
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