Volume Ii Part 14 (1/2)
”Nay, I shall take warrant for that: you shall never do the like o't again!”
In this melancholy and heart-breaking manner he dragged him on all the way by the rough towsy head, kicking him one while, and beating him another, till he brought him to the very spot where the mangled remains of the pet lamb were lying. It was a blasting sight for poor Jock, especially as it doubled his master's rage and stern revenge, and these were, in all conscience, high enough wrought before. He twined the hapless culprit round by the hair, and knocked him with his fist, for he had dropped the staff to enable him to force Jock to the place of sacrifice; and he swore by many an awful oath, that if it should cost him his life, he would do to Jock as he had done to that innocent lamb.
With that he threw him on the ground, and got above him with his knees; and Jock having by that time lost all hope of moving his ruthless master by tears or prayers, began a struggling with the force which desperation sometimes gives, and fought with such success that it was with difficulty his master could manage him.
It was very much like a battle between an inveterate terrier and a bull dog; but, in spite of all that Jock could do, the goodman got out his knife. It was not, however, one like Jock's, for it had a folding blade, and was very hard to open, and the effecting of this was no easy task, for he could not get both his hands to it. In this last desperate struggle, Jock got hold of his master's cheek with his left hand, and his nails being very long, he held it so strait that he was like to tear it off. His master capered up with his head, holding it back the full length of Jock's arm; yet still being unable to extricate his cheek from Jock's hold, he raised up his knife in his right hand in order to open it with his teeth, and, in the first place, to cut off Jock's hand, and his head afterwards. He was holding down Jock with his right knee and his left hand; and while in the awkward capering att.i.tude of opening his knife, his face was turned nearly straight up, and his eyes had quite lost sight of his victim. Jock held up his master's cheek, and squeezed it still the more, which considerably impeded his progress in getting the knife open; and, at that important moment, Jock whipped out his own knife, his old dangerous friend, and struck it into the goodman's belly to the haft. The moment he received the wound he sprang up as if he had been going to fly into the air, uttered a loud roar, and fell back above his dead pet lamb.
Lord, how Jock ran! He was all bespattered with blood, some of it his own, and some of it his master's; wanted the bonnet, and had the b.l.o.o.d.y knife in his hand; and was, without all doubt, a wild frightsome-looking boy. As he sped through the wood, he heard the groans and howls of his master in the agonies of death behind him. Every one of them added to Jock's swiftness, till it actually became beyond the speed of mortal man. If it be true that love lends a pair of wings, fear, mortal fear, lends two pair. There is nought in life I regret so much as that I did not see Jock in this flight; it must have been such an extraordinary one. There was poor Jock flying with the speed of a fox from all the world, and yet still flying into the world. He had no home, no kindred to whom he durst now retreat, no hold of any thing in nature, save of his own life and his good whittle; and he was alike unwilling to part with either of these. The last time he was seen was by two women on Kirtle-common. He appeared sore bespent, but was still running on with all his might.
The goodman was found before the evening, but only lived to tell how he had come by his end. All his friends and servants were raised, and sent in pursuit of Jock. How he eluded them no man knows; but from that day Marion's Jock has never been more seen or heard of in this land.
CHAPTER VII.
_Cher._ That story of our captain's is rather an odd story. Is it not, Mark?
_Mark._ Rather of the wonderful.
_Ford._
”I dinna ken but I could maybe tell ye something about him an I liket,”
said Tam Craik; ”but I wad maybe be as wise to haud my tongue.”
”I wad like very weel to hear mair about him,” said Charlie; ”for his life has had such a queer beginning, it maun surely hae had a queer end.”
”But what an it shouldna be endit yet, Yardbire,” said Tam: ”Marion's Jock is perhaps living, and life-like, to tell his ain tale. However, we'll say nae mair about that just now, till you tell us what you think o' Gibbie Jordan's tale. For my part, I never heard a tale I was sae muckle interested in a' my life.”
”It is ane o' the best tales _o' the kind_ that ever I heard,” said Charlie.
”It is a most abominable tale,” said the poet.
”In what way, Master Poet?” said Charlie: ”I dinna like to hear ony body condemned without reason.”
”It is for the badness of the moral that I do it dislike,” said the poet: ”The moral is so truly bad, all mankind it must must shock; it is to kill this harmless lamb, the flower of all the flock,--to feed upon her lovely form that's fairer than the snow,--to eat her flesh and drink her blood! It makes mine eyes to flow!”
”Gude faith, an I thought that war his drift, I wad brain him,” said Charlie; ”and I confess it looks rather like it.”
”There can be no doubt of it,” said Master Michael Scott: ”The maid Delany is the favourite lamb, whom he wishes you to kill and feast on in the same delicious manner as did the hero of his tale; and I am the goodman whom you are to stick afterwards, and fairly make your escape.”
”It is a shocking tale I really doubt,” said Charlie; ”and throws a disgrace and an imputation o' something unseemly on my chief and a' his friends, and I winna put up wi' it.”
”I do propose that from the walls the caitiff we do throw,” said the poet; ”or kill and eat for dainty meat the laird of Peatstacknowe.”
”I fear if the votes were to be ta'en just now he wad hae an ill chance,” said Charlie: ”But it's fair in ha' where beards wag a'. Let ilk ane of us hae a fair chance. There may be mae bad morals amang us.
Wha's turn is't next?”
Charlie himself, being next in point of seniority, was called on for his tale.
”I hae been thinking hard what tale I should tell you,” said Charlie; ”but I find I can tell nought but the thing I hae seen, and I'll be pinched sair eneuch to make sense o' that. Therefore, gin ye like, I'll tell ye my first adventure in war,--for I aye mind it the best, and will do as lang as I live.”
Charlie Scott's Tale.