Volume I Part 16 (1/2)
They judged that the friar was taken or slain, and began to talk of his loss in a very indifferent manner.
”Alas, how frigid and ungenial must be the hearts of you men in Scotland,” said Delany. ”Now, of all the men I have met with since I was brought from my own country, there is only one whose death I would more regret than that of the worthy and kind friar. He may have his whims and his peculiarities, but his manner is pleasing, and his speech has a strain of grandeur which I love. Where did he acquire that speech?”
”He gets it frae some auld-fas.h.i.+oned beuk,” said Tam, ”that he has pored on a' his days, an' translat.i.t out o' other tongues, till he was nearly hanged for it; and it's weel kend that he is now in hiding wi' our warden for fear o' his life, and has been these half dozen o' years; and though he pretends to be only a friar, he was aince a monk o' the first order of St Benedict, and president of a grand college in France.”
”I would like to converse with him,” said Delany, ”for I have always thought that he feigned to be something a degree lower than he is.”
”You said there was _but one_ you would lament the loss of more,” said the poet: ”Pray, who may that _one_ be?”
”Could you not guess?” returned she.
”How can I?” said he; ”but this I know, that to be the favoured one I would dive into the depths of the ocean,--”
”It wad be for fear then,” said Tam.
”Or traverse the regions of ice,” continued the bard, ”or wander barefoot over burning sands, or--”
”O, alak for your poor feet!” said Delany, interrupting him; ”but rest satisfied you shall not be put to the test: it is not you.”
With such kind of chat did they beguile the way, till Elias, looking back, exclaimed, ”Mercy! see what a guise Yardbire is coming in!”
”St Mary protect us!” said the maid; ”he must be grievously wounded.
See how he rides!”
Every one turned round his horse and looked at the approaching warrior; but it was wearing late, and they could not see with distinctness. The horse was coming rapidly, and with apparent impatience, but Charlie appeared as if he were riding in his sleep. When the horse came down hill he bent forward, and on climbing an ascent he bent back, riding with that sort of motion as if his back or neck were out of joint. The whole group showed manifest signs of fear at the approach of such a hideous apparition; and, quite in earnest, though in a pretended frolic, they wheeled about again, and gallopped away. The ground being uneven, and the night-fall coming on, they soon lost sight of him; and, continuing their career as fast as the road would permit, they seemed inclined to escape from their friend altogether. The maid had just begun to remonstrate on their unfriendly procedure, when they beheld the same unaccountable figure coming at the full gallop close behind them. Seeing that he was determined to be of the party, they suffered him to overtake them quietly. He came driving furiously up till he was in the middle of them, and then paused. No one had the courage to speak to him, for he looked not up, nor regarded any of them. His helmed head nodded on his breast, and his arms hung loosely down by his side, the steel armlets rattling on the cuishes. At one time his horse came so near to that on which Delany rode, that she weened she saw the rider all covered with blood, and screamed out; yet in the twilight she could not be certain. The poet, who was never far from her side, and on whom her voice always acted like electricity, immediately demanded the cause of her alarm.
”O Carol!” said she, in an agitated whisper, ”we are haunted. That is a dead man that rides in our company.”
If the maid was alarmed, the poet was ten times more so. If she had said that a lion or a bear was in the company, it could not have struck such a chillness to the poor bard's heart; and, after all, it was no wonder, for there is something exceedingly appalling in the idea of having a dead man riding in one's company. The poet felt this in its fullest measure. He held in his horse and attempted a reply, but a dryness pervaded his mouth so much that he could not make himself intelligible.
A damp had fallen on the whole party, and a breathless silence prevailed. Tam put the question, so natural, to him as he pa.s.sed, ”Charlie, is this you?”--but none answered or regarded. They were riding up a slanting hill when the bard was first apprised of the nature of their guest, and shortly after the figure coming between him and the evening sky, its motions were altogether so hideous, that he roared out in perfect terror as loud as he could bray, scarce letting one bellow await another. This was still worse than the dumb appalling uncertainty in which they were before involved; till at last Tam, losing all patience, let loose his rage against the poet, calling him a bellowing beast, and many other opprobrious names. This encouraging Gibbie, who had the bard at no good will on account of the damsel, he said he brought him ”amind of a story that the fo'k o' Annandale tauld about Andrew Jardine's bull, that was better at booing than breeding.” The boy Elias now coming in behind them, and having heard what Delany said, cried softly, ”Hus.h.!.+ yeomen! hus.h.!.+ we are haunted; it is a ghost that rides in our company.”
They all turned their eyes to the mysterious figure, which they still thought resembled their champion Yardbire, as well as the horse did that which he rode, the redoubted Corby. The horse had started a little forward at the cries of the poet, but when the rest paused the figure seemed to wheel his horse around, and made a dead pause also, standing still with his face toward them, and straight on the path before. Not one durst proceed. The figure neither moved nor threatened, but stood nodding its head on the height at every motion of the steed; yet our party were arrested on their way, nor knew they exactly in what place they were: But from the length of the way they had come, they were sure they were near the Scottish army on one side or other, and free from any danger of the foes they had left behind them on the Border. None of them were good guides in any case, and a man in fear is neither a fit guide for himself nor others. Fear had the sway, and fear gave the word of command without being disputed. The poet was the first to strike from the beaten path, and it was at no easy pace that he rode. He turned westward, and the rest all followed with main speed. Their progress was soon interrupted by a strong cattle fence made of stakes and the branches of trees interwoven, bespeaking the vicinity of some village, or place of human habitation. They soon broke through the fence, but by bad luck did not take time to make up the breach, which they left open, and posting forward came to a large house amid a number of smaller ones.
The poet called for admittance in a moving and earnest stile, and at once resolved to take no denial. Before ever he paused, he told them he and his party had lost their way, and that they had seen a ghost.
”Then you must be some murderers,” said the men of the house,--”and here you remain not to-night.”
”We belong to the warden of the marches, the brave baron of Mountcomyn,”
said the poet, ”and go on an errand of great import to the army. In that case we might demand what we only ask as a boon, namely, such lodging as the house affords.”
”You had better keep that part to yourself,” said the men of the house: ”Though Sir Ringan is supreme in the middle marches, he is no favourite here. Our master's name is Ker. He is with the Douglas, but may be home to-night. Calm sough and kitchen fare, or ride on.”
”It brings me in mind o' an auld proverb,” said Gibbie, ”that beggars should nae be choisers; sae, honest lads, bring us a light, for our horses are sair tired an' maun be weel put up.”
The party, it will be remembered, consisted only of five, exclusive of Charlie and the friar. They had draw up their horses close to the hall door, and were still on horseback when the men turned into the house for a light. The poet, whose eager eyes were still on the watch, chancing to look at the heads of his a.s.sociates between him and the sky, thought he discovered one too many.
”Surely there are six of us,'said he in a hurried tremulous voice. ”Six of us!” said Tam, as doubting the statement.
”Six of us? No, surely?” said Delany.
At that instant a lad came out with a lanthorn, and held it up to look at the party. The poet was nearest the door, and the light shone full on him and the rider that was next him. He cast his eyes on that rider,--but one glance was enough to bedim his eye-sight, if not to scare away his reason. It had the appearance of a warrior sheathed in steel, but all encrusted in a sheet of blood. His mouth was wide open, and his jaws hanging down upon his breast, while his head seemed to be cleft asunder. The poet uttered a loud yell of horror, and, flinging himself from his horse on the side opposite to that on which the phantom stood, he fell among the mud and stones at the door, yet ceased not to reiterate his loud cries like one in distraction. Every one jumped from his horse, and hurried in at the door; the man with the lanthorn also fled, and with the noise and uproar the horses galloped off, saddled and bridled as they were. As the guests ran into the hall, every one asked at all the rest what it was? ”What is it?” was all that could be heard; all asking the question, but none answering it. Even the people of the house joined in the query, and came all round the strangers, crying, ”What is it?--What is it?”--”I do not know--I do not know, Sir--I do not know upon my word.”
”The people are all delirious,” said the housekeeper:”--Can no one tell us what it was that affrighted you?--St Magdalene be with us! whom have we here?”