Front matter (continued 5)

But during this springtime, Sir Thomas showed me quite other of it. But yet I gave not in to all his argument about the Kingdom of Peace. For I answered that I was his soldier and servant, and that time and again it had been so ordered by Providence that fight I must—for the safety and honour of my master and eke for mine own, this being the sphere of life in which my lot had been cast.

'I object it not,' said Sir Thomas; 'defence and the appeal to arms are lawful. But I have lived many days, and I think shall not live many more. Yet never have I seen the lasting success of them that make the appeal to the sword. Truly does Holy Writ say, that they that flee to the sword shall perish by the sword.'

And as we paced together he read to me much from his little Bible, and bemoaned his sins and evil life, especially how that he had been overtaken in the house of Sir Thomas Nisbett on the New Year's night of the attack. I wished that I dared tell him that I had arranged the matter with his host for the saving of his life. But I judged that repentance is no bad thing for young or old, so I e'en let him repent his fill and bemoan as he would.

Few places more heartsome have I seen than the tower of Lochnaw. First, it stood near to an inland loch, where ducks squattered and splashed, instead of being like Culzean, set amid the thresh of winds and the brattle of the sea. Then the Sheriff and his children were well agreed, and friendly with their neighbours, so that it was a proverb, that the wolves and the lambs lay down together in that countryside. For if you stirred an Agnew, you had all the wolves of Galloway on your back! But in truth the Agnews were somewhat strange 'lambs,' though their name bears that signification.

'We are called Agnews because we have so often been fleeced,' said the Sheriff once in his pleasantry.

But I told him that was bad sense though good wit—because in the hills we shore not the lambs till they had grown to be sheep.

'Ay, well,' said the Sheriff, twinkling with his eyes, 'shear my son Patrick there, for he is now sheep-muckle, and has been so silly as to mix himself with the unruly folk of Carrick.'

I had indeed great pleasure in the house of Lochnaw. It is a fair place, with walls, moats, and drawbridges all about—very proper for defence—so that there be no artillery set against it. But to my thinking the mounds might now very well be levelled and turned into walks and terraces, as has been done at Culzean.

I sat down daily with the family at table, and was in all respects as one of them. For the Sheriff said, 'Ye are not to be strange with us—for my wife comes from within sight of Kirrieoch Hill, and likes dearly to listen to the tongue of the muirland border folk.'

'Ay,' said my Lady Agnew, for I will not call her the old lady, seeing that she had kept the heart that was within her young, 'ay, and I have not seen any folk to better them on these fat, profitable Rhynns.'

'That,' said the Sheriff, 'was what I thought when I went to the Minnoch side for a wife.'

And very gallantly he lifted his wife's hand to his lips, like the noble and courtly gentleman he was. And to this day the Agnews have ever been proud of their wives. And with reason.

'Hearken to these young folk,' said Lady Agnew, as the noise and tumult of much laughter and daffing came up to us. 'Hark to them. Is it not good to be young?'

'And therefore it is good to be my Lady of Lochnaw!' said I, for I determined to show that there were folk in Carrick that could be gallant as well as Galloway Agnews.

'Hoot, Culzean,' cried the Lady Agnew, 'how have ye brought up your squire, that he cannot see a well-looking woman, but on the instant he maun begin to court her?'

'What,' cried my master, 'the regardless loon—and that before her husband's face, too!'

'That, at least, is not a Galloway fault, at ony gate,' said the Sheriff, smiling, 'for Galloway ever behaves itself before folk, and courts only behind backs and slily by the licht of the moon.'

'Ye talk havers, Andrew,' said his wife. 'Never did I meet you behind backs all the days of our courting.'

'Na,' said the Sheriff, 'but your father, honest man, was sair troubled with deafness, and your mother was blind, and lame o' a leg forbye.'

'Haud your tongue, guidman. Have some mense afore the young man, for he looks a sober chiel and blate. What should he have to do with lasses? At his years!'

Here Nell Kennedy broke out in peal on peal of laughter, and when they asked her the reason,—

'It was but at Launcelot's face when my lady praises him for being blate. He looks as innocent as our grey cat Grimalkin, when she has eaten all the fish for supper.'

I wish that I could dwell longer on these sweet, peaceful days in Galloway, but the spring went on apace, and Sir Thomas was summoned back to Culzean. His nephew the Earl urgently needed his advice, and wrote to him to say so.

'The Earl makes you many compliments,' said the Lady Lochnaw.

'Ay, ay,' said Culzean, 'Earl John was aye a great spender with his tongue, even as was the daddy of him.'

So we were bound to ride away from this kindly and merry house of Lochnaw, and much did I desire to return thither. Never once did we speak of wars and stratagems while we remained under that roof, but all of friendship, of lusty daffing, and of leasome love.

But when we mounted I bade farewell to all with a wae heart. I envied the Sheriff greatly, for he had a wife whom he loved in age as in youth, and yet whom he knew wherein to be the master of—a thing, I take it, which makes home happier than all besides. I thought within me that Patrick, his son, had set himself a harder field to plough in his Marget. Yea, already methought he had let the reins slip from his hands—which, after all, is no strange thing, considering that she was own sister to Marjorie and Nell Kennedy, of whose stiff necks I had oft had experience.

Ere we went, the Sheriff said a word that amused us all. 'When I came to be Sheriff,' he said, 'I found my father at the horn, outlaw and rebel, for refusing to pay teinds to cover the back of a bishop's lady with silks and satins. And when I die it looks like that I shall see my son at the horn for cleading of his wife according to the degree of a queen.'

For young Patrick Agnew liked better than all to be for ever gadding about after the merchants of France and the Low Countries, who knew his weakness so well that they would come from far to sell him stuff for the decking of his lady—who, when all was said and done, was nothing to compare to Nell or even to Marjorie, her younger sisters.

So we departed, almost heart-broken to leave the sweet place of Lochnaw. And the Sheriff rode with us to the village of Stranrawer—a long, clarty, Irish-looking street with pigs and bairns running about it, set on the shore of a fine loch. Here Sir Andrew and his retinue bade us farewell, and so turned them and rode away back to the homely steading of Lochnaw.

Now, upon our homeward journey it was the great good pleasure of the knight, my master, that we should ride up the Minnoch Glen to visit my father and mother, whom I had not seen for long. Sir Thomas put it, that it would be well that we rode not directly by Ardstinchar and near to Bargany along the shore road, for the folk of Bargany were cruelly set against us. Nevertheless, I knew that the real reason was that he wished me to see my mother.

So we struck across the moorland country of Wigtonshire to the head of the Loch of Cree, which is a vast, wild, swampy place where many waterfowl congregate, and where duck and seagull build their nests.

As we breasted the swelling moors, we came in sight of the mountains that were dear to me, for I was hill-bred and loved them—so that I could have ridden on, carolling like a lark, had I been in any other company.

But Sir Thomas and Nell knew what was in my heart, for as we rode up Minnoch they looked at each little thatched cot-house, and asked what it might be called—which was most amiable of them, for I loved to tell over the well-kenned names, though the hearing of them could not possibly have pleasured Nell or her father.

When we came to the brow of the hill, along the side of which runs the track to the Rowan Tree, I begged of them that I might ride a little way in front, in order to prepare my father and mother for their reception. Really, I went because I did not wish them to see me meet my mother, for I knew that I was bound to weep.

But it fell not out as I had expected, for the dogs that were about the farm came barking and youching round the corner, and I saw the rough head of our herd laddie looking out of the barn. Then he scudded across the yard like a hare, and, anon, there came my mother forth, with a white hood upon her head, and girt about with her apron—even as she had been when, as a boy, I used to come pelting home from the hills, hungrily looking for a piece and a slockening drink of milk.

So she came own the little loaning to meet me, nearly running in her eagerness, I declare. And there, at the gate-slap, I leaped down from Dom Nicholas and took my mother about the neck, greeting like a great silly bairn. But for my life I could not help it. Yet I need not have cared, for Nell and Sir Thomas were admiring something on the hills, with their heads close together; and over my shoulder I could hear him pointing out to her the road to Straiton, and the way across the hills to Girvan—so they observed not my weakness.

Then came Sir Thomas forward, and I presented him to my mother. Whereupon he greeted her by the name of Lady Kirrieoch, for that was a title of courtesy to a laird's wife. And though Kirrieoch is but a little place and a wild, uncouth holding, yet Sir Thomas walked by my mother's side, leading his horse and talking, with his hat in his hand all the while, as if she had been the Queen of Scots herself.

And as I looked steadfastly away towards the wind, so that they should not see that I had been weeping, and also to let the air dry my eyes (for such weakness is ridiculous in a man), Nell came riding by on her palfrey. She cast a little glance about her to see that none observed, a look quick and timorous. Then she leaned over and gave me a light little pat on the cheek with her hand—a thing she never did before, but which I liked very well.

Then came out my father to meet us at the door, and Sir Thomas took him by the hand heartily.

'You and I, Laird,' he said, 'are not so young as we were at the King's muster on the Boroughmuir, and when you held the colours of Cassillis, even as your son does this day.'

'No, Sir Thomas,' said my father, 'brittle bones, slack sinew, thin-sown hair have come to us both since that day, when it was my good fortune to serve with you and under you.'

'Ah, Kirrieoch,' replied the Tutor of Cassillis, 'I envy you here on your high and heartsome muirs, where the wild cats are your greatest enemies, and naught more dangerous than the erne ever stoops to slay.'

'It is a gye hard struggle at times,' replied my father, 'with Launcelot away and only two old bodies left with the serving men.'

'Ah, bide a wee,' said the Tutor. 'I have made it my business to see that in a little, when the lad has won his spurs, you shall have Launcelot back with something worth while in his pouch, and a handle to his name as good as the lave of us.'

'I am glad that you have such good reports to give of him,' said my mother.

'Oh,' said the Tutor of Cassillis, drolling, 'I am none so sure of that. He has enough conceit of himself, indeed. But in his presence we will not say more.'

And then my mother set the table for us with her own hands, though Sir Thomas insisted that she should not; but with all due acknowledgment of his courtesy, my mother continued the work with dignity and grace. Besides which, I question whether at the moment Susan, the byre lass, was dressed fitting to come into a room where there was the company of great folk.

But it was more than pleasant to see Nell rise to help my mother to spread the cloth and lay out the silver spoons. We had the best of muirland fare—mutton of the sweetest, black-faced and small, toothsomely fed on the sweet, tender grasses that nestle among the heather-knowes. Also we had sweet milk, oaten cake of a rare crispness, a kebbuck of rich cheese, and butter, as the Scriptures say, in a lordly dish, for the vessel was of silver, and had upon it the ancient arms of the Kennedies.

The Tutor picked it up and looked at it.

'These are the bearings of my great-grandfather!' he exclaimed, much astonished.

'Yes,' said my father; 'and he was also my grandfather.'

'Bless me!' cried the Tutor of Cassillis; 'I knew not that we were so nearly related.'

And all through the remainder of our stay he called my father 'cousin.' And as for Mistress Nell, there was no end to her merriment on the subject.

'Now we shall fight more than ever,' she said, 'for we Kennedies always fight with our cousins. And I must find the handle of the hayrake with which I used to beat my cousin Philip. It will serve excellently for drubbing Launcelot, my new sweet coz!'

At last we rode away, and Nell Kennedy kissed my mother lovingly when we bade farewell, so that my heart warmed more than ever to the lass.

Waeheartedly enough we left the little white housie behind us, sitting blythsome on its brae above the white stones of the burn. And in my imagination to this very day, whenever I am away from the Minnoch for long, rises a clear picture of the water-side as we saw it that morning—a wide valley filled to the brim with sunshine and the stir of breathing airs, the whaups and peesweeps beginning to build, and keeping up all the time above our heads a brave welter of crying and the whistle of eddying wings.

'I wonder not that sometimes you grow homesick,' said Nell Kennedy. 'When you are distracted and morose, I shall now know the reason.'

So we came in due season to the house of Culzean, and there we found all well, with James playing tennis contentedly in the court; and Sandy, up at the stables, acting the big man and giving his orders as large as my lord.

CHAPTER XXVIII

WARM BACKS MAKE BRAW BAIRNS

It was the morning of the 11th of May, and we were on the morrow to take our journey to the town of Edinburgh. I had advertisement the night before that I was to ride to the town of Maybole to meet John Mure of Auchendrayne, and on my master's account to appoint a tryst with him at the Duppil, not far from the town of Ayr, for my Lord desired not to pass through that place, knowing that many of the faction of Bargany abode there. But Sir Thomas ever believed that Auchendrayne was of those that wished him well, because of the marriage and of all that had passed between them.

So I had to ride on this mission that I loved not over well. But I had nought to say. For whenever I spake to the Tutor concerning John Mure, he would clap me on the head and say, 'Ye are overcareful and suspicious, Launcelot. John Mure and I are fathers of the same pair of bairns, wherefore, then, should we not be as one—even as they?'

Poor man—I could not find it in my heart to tell him of the happening beneath the town-gate of Maybole, when James Mure's wife bade farewell to Gilbert Kennedy of Bargany, as he lay there dead on his enemies' spears.

So at early morning I rode as I was bidden to Maybole to meet the Laird of Auchendrayne, who, as my master knew, had some business there. But it so fell out that I missed him, for he had lodged all night in the town at the Black House, which belongs to one Kennedy of Knockdone, a friend of his and of the Laird of Newark's.

I was loath to ride all the way after him to Auchendrayne, and so bethought me that I should get the loan of a laddie from my crony, Dominie Mure, out of his school at the foot of the Kirkwynd. My way led me by the Green, where it was sorely in my mind to try a stroke of the ball. But I remembered me that Sir Thomas bade me be soon back, that I might be ready to ride with him on the morrow's morn to the town of Edinburgh by Duppil and the Ford of Holmestone. So, though I saw some brisk birkies licking at the ball, one of them being Laigh-nosed Jamie Crawford that had his nose flattened with the stroke of a golf ball on the hills of Ayr, I refrained me for that time and went to seek a boy.

But I saw none on the Green, saving some raggedy loons playing kick-ball, whom I did not like to trust with so important a message. I went on, therefore, to the schoolhouse. And as I went it cheered me to think on Dominie Mure and his humours, for he and I had been gossips of a long season.

The schoolhouse of Maybole was a curious building tacked on to the rear of the kirk, with vaulted passages of timber, in which were doors which could on occasion be opened, so that the school itself might be used as an addition to the kirk should the latter be crowded. But in my time the space was but seldom in demand. It was an age of iron, and men's minds craved not naturally that which was peaceable and good. The old Papistry had passed away, but the new religion had not yet grown into the hearts of the people.

I came to the schoolhouse door. The noise of conning lessons that used to go humming all along the Kirk Vennel was louder than it was wont to be. Indeed, I thought that of a surety Dominie Mure had gone as far as the change-house for his morning glass of strong waters, wherein I did that worthy man an injury. The dominie's Highland pipes lay on the desk before him, the great drones looking out like eyes at the scholars. They were the recreation of his leisure, for he had been in his youth in the savage North, and had learned to be no ill-considered performer even in the country of pipes and pibrochs.

I looked within, and there, mounted upon two desks and a chair, stood the Dominie with his head through a round hole in the boards of the roof, and all that one could see of him convulsed with animation.

The bairns below were in a great consternation, crying out that this one and that other was misbehaving—that Robin Gibb was pinching, or that Towhead Kennedy was in the act of some piece of villainy which remained unexpressed, for the obvious reason that the heavy hand of Towhead Kennedy had prisoned the information within the mouth of the tale-bearer.

The school of Maybole was an apartment nearly square, with a dark, well-hacked oaken writing-desk running round two sides of it, and benches set cross-ways on the floor, where, when the peace was undisturbed by internal war, the bairns conned their tasks from worn copies of the Bible.

At the far end of the school was a wooden bar a foot from the floor, and a little behind it another. This was called the hangman, for it was the post of judgment to unruly boys, who were called upon to kneel over the first bar and grasp the second, thus putting themselves into a proper position for the operations of the fiery and untender little Dominie. The desk of the master had a framework behind it, in which were half-a-dozen birch rods, carefully kept and oiled, even as I keep my stands of arms,—for the callants of Maybole have ever been unruly, and so remain to this day.

Dominie Mure was in stature the least, but in learning, I can well believe, the greatest of dominies, for he was never without two or three scholars in the Latin. It was whispered by the malicious that he had been trained for a clerk in the old days of the Roman Church, but made a false step, and so had to turn dominie. Taking the words at their usual meaning, I utterly condemn and reject this lying, malicious explanation, for Dominie Mure was the least handsome man in Carrick. He was little, scarce bigger than many boys of twelve and fourteen who sat in his class in the New Testament—which was naturally the class beneath the Old Testament.

His hair grew all over his head and face, grey, wiry and rough, like burned heather. Out of this tangle a pair of humorsome eyes looked, and a stout nose projected like the angle of an overgrown and ruined building. His arms were long, and so strong that he could lift any lad in the school into the air with one of them, while he gave him 'paikie' with the other. So fierce and fiery was the little man, that no one of the great stalwart loons who came in the winter-time dared to try their pranks upon him. He would fly at them swift as the wild cat springs, and beat half-a-dozen black and blue before they had time to rally.

What he was now doing with his head through the ceiling I could not well imagine. But there was a great noise aloft and a rushing of feet, while the master made desperate dives hither and thither, like a man in deep water and not well able to swim.

Beneath, one little rascal of a bare-legged loon rose from the seat where he had been sitting squirming at his copy.

'The Dominie is lost!' he cried in great pretended alarm. 'Oh, sirs, where is our Dominie? Look in the ink-horns, lassies. Look in a' your pouches, laddies!'

And so all the ill-set vagabonds rose and began to search the ink-horns, the dinner wallets, and even in the rat holes for the master.

But at this moment there was a crash, and first one and then another pair of legs appeared dangling through the ceiling, wildly kicking. The head of the Dominie returned through the hole in the ceiling, and he cautiously descended. His face was damp with perspiration from his exertions aloft, and he had his longest and stoutest birch rod, which was of the thickness of one's forefinger, in his hand. There was a great streak of soot across his nose—which indeed was about all that there was for it to cross, the rest of his face being but a grey tangle of hair.

Dominie Mure came forward to where I stood by the door. He greeted me right heartily, and not the less when I told him on whose account I was there, for he had often been summoned over to drink a pint with Sir Thomas at the inn or in his own town house, because my master ever loved all learned men.

'Bide a wee,' he said, 'till I attend to these rascal loons. They climbed up through the hole in the ceiling, when I was at Deacon Gilroy's funeral, to get the store of balls, knuckle-bones, chuckie stones, and other things the bairns throw up there. I kenned well they would fall through.'

So the Dominie took a much thinner and suppler bundle of birch, gave it a draw through his hand and a swish or two in the air, which made the dangling legs kick more wildly than ever—it might be with pleasure and it might be with painful anticipation.

Dominie Mure walked to the place and set a chair for himself to stand upon.

'Wha belangs thae legs?' he asked of the scholars.

'They are Tammy Nisbett's,' said the school with one voice, 'we ken by his duddy breeks!'

'And whose limbs are these—to whom do these legs belong?' he continued, pointing to certain red objects that twinkled in frantic endeavours to be free.

'Jock Harrison's,' answered the school without a moment's hesitation; 'they are clouted wi' his mither's auld petticoat!'

Then the master did his office affectionately upon those parts of Tommy Nisbett and Jock Harrison which of their own accord the adventurous loons had exposed. The thwacks resounded through the school, but the yells mostly ascended through the roof. Then, when he had finished his pleasure—for I saw by his eye it was no unwelcome task—he put up an arm, and without circumspection pulled the squirming urchins through the rotten boards.

'Thomas Nisbett,' he said severely, 'your faither is an householder. He shall pay for the damage done to the ceiling of this schule, which is the property of the Session of the parish, of which I am clerk. And your faither can take the price out of your breeks himsel' at his leisure.'

He then hauled the other down in the same manner.

'Jock Harrison, I'll never trouble your puir mither about the siller for the repairs. She has enough to do with ten like you. But I'll e'en pay your hurdies the noo, and quit your mother and you too, at the one settlement.'

Which having done, he laid down his bundle of rods, dusted his hands, and commended himself to me to know how, and in what manner, he might serve my master. I told him that if he would write a letter to John Mure of Auchendrayne to bid him meet with Sir Thomas at the Chapel of St Leonard's by the sandhills of Ayr, on the morrow's morn at ten of the clock, and send it to Auchendrayne by one of his most trustworthy lads, it would be no small obligation. And furthermore that I would await an answer here in Maybole, having other business to transact.

'Good faith, Master Launcelot, I will do that—and gladsomely,' said the little Dominie.

So, having brought the school to order and set the classes to their work, he squared himself at his desk, and wrote fairly and elaborately as I told him. For the little man prided himself on his penmanship—which, indeed, Sir Thomas ever said was better than that of any law scrivener in Edinburgh.

I reminded him of this, and Dominie Mure could hardly contain himself for pride. How strange that so small a thing should set up some men!

Then, when he had finished and addressed it in the Italian manner, he called out, 'William Dalrymple, come hither!' And, from the close-built ranks of the older scholars at the wall-desks, a plump-faced, ruddy boy arose.

'This,' the Dominie said, 'is the son of a widow woman, and a steady lad that will truly do your message and bring you word again without delay or falsehood. He is called for a nickname Willie Glegfeet.'

So to William was delivered the letter and sundry copper coins for running the errand. Whereupon he took up the Vennel and through the High Street on the way to Auchendrayne like a hunted hare, for, as his name imports, he was wonderfully nimble of his feet.

Having thus delivered my message, I thanked the Dominie very heartily, and went to the play of the golf green till the messenger should return.

I had an excellent game, but, not playing with mine own clubs, I was beaten (though not at a great odds), by the young Laird of Gremmat, whose chin was hardly yet better of the cleaving it got on the fatal day at the Lady's Carse. But this interfered naught with his putting. Now gaming on the green is uncommonly fretting to the temper, and more especially when you are losing with a man like Gremmat, who cries and shouts at every good stroke of his own and dispraises yours. Yet, owing to the well-kenned equality of my temper, and also because he was not yet fully recovered of his wound, I did not clout him over the sconse with my cleek, as I certainly was in a great mind more than once to do.

We were yet hard at it, and the afternoon wearing on apace when I saw the little Dominie coming toward us with the boy William Dalrymple by his side. The schoolmaster held the letter in his hand and gave it back to me.

'William Dalrymple says that he found not the Laird of Auchendrayne in his own house, and has therefore brought back the letter.'

I looked at it a moment, turning it over in my hand.

'It has been opened,' said I. 'See, the wax is gone, and there are finger-marks within.'

'So, indeed, it has,' said Dominie Mure. 'Boy, if you have opened it I will tan you alive, outside and in.'

Whereat the boy began to weep.

'I have said what I was told to say,' he cried, and for all we could do, nothing more could we get out of him—save that a dark man, faced like an ape or a wild beast, had come some way home behind him and sorely terrified him. So we sent the boy back to his mother, and, bidding farewell for that time to the Dominie and to young Gremmat, I fared along the way to Culzean to make me ready for the long journey of the morrow.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE MURDER AMONG THE SANDHILLS

It was broad day and a pleasant May morn, when my master and I said our farewells at the gate of Culzean. With my own hands I had saddled for Sir Thomas his warhorse. But he, coming down arrayed in his plain suit of dark Flemish cloth, bade me take him back to the stable and get instead a pacing palfrey, which he loved because Marjorie had used to ride it.

Then he kissed his bairns, for the lads and Nell stood by the door on the landward side, watching us with earnest eyes.

'Keep the castle, James,' he cried, 'till I come back!'

'Ay,' said Sandy, 'we will keep it for you, faither.'

For Sandy came ever to the forefront, setting himself naturally before the slow and quiet Jamie.

Then Nell came near and kissed her rather. But she and I only looked the one at the other as friends look, for at least before folk we did not so much as touch hands.

So down through the woods Sir Thomas and I went sedately and quietly, now into little caller blinks of morning sunshine which glinted straight and level between the trees, and anon coming out upon a bare knoll as into a room with a removed and spacious ceiling. For there at our feet was the plain of the sea, sparkling and blue, beyond it again the hills of Arran, and to the south the shoulder of the Craig of Ailsa, heaving its bulk skyward like a monster of the ocean stranded in the shoreward shallows.

Very pleasant was my master's discourse as we went, of the wonderful peace that he was going to bring upon the land of Carrick from his dealings with the King and Council in Edinburgh. Specially he spoke with thankfulness of the present friendship of Auchendrayne, of the young Bargany who should for long be under tutors and governors, and of our own Earl, now tired of the feud and eager for a lasting peace.

'It needs,' said he, 'but that one should take on him all the burden and heat of the day, and carry the matter through. And I, that am no warrior, but a quiet man dwelling in mine own house and fit only for daunering about mine own fields, may be able to do more in the matter than many battalions. For I have some influence with the King—a man that loves grave discourse upon occasion.'

So pleasantly talking together in this fashion, speaking ever the kindliest things of the enemies of his house, and all the time making many excuses for them, Sir Thomas kept his palfrey at the amble.

Presently we came to the castle of Greenan, which stands on a sea crag, and looks right bravely over the Bay of Ayr and down upon the little town thereof. It belongs to Kennedy of Balterson, a gossip and well-wisher of Culzean's.

'Now,' said my master, 'I must see if Balterson is at home. I think truly that he is, for there is a reek coming up very freely from the lum. Now John was ever a big eater and a long lier abed in the mornings. What a pleasantry if I should raise him from between the blankets! It would be a great cast-up all the days of his life.'

So we lighted down in front of the castle yett. I tied the horses together, and walked about the cliff edge, looking out to sea and over the sands of Ayr, thinking of many things. Mostly my thoughts ran on the treasure of Kelwood, and whether I should ever win it. Of Nell, too, and what she meant by patting me on the cheek when we met my mother, of the Tutor's words to my father that one day I should have a handle to my name and a down-sitting as good as any. Plenty of pleasant things I had to think about that caller morn in May, as indeed a young man of spirit ought to have.

And it was not very long before Sir Thomas came forth arm in arm with John Kennedy of Balterson, a grave and portentous man of heavy figure, richly arrayed, more like the provost of a town than a country laird. And these two paced up and down the narrow terrace walk of Greenan Castle, turning and returning, wheeling and countering as on the quarterdeck of a ship. But of the matter of their discourse I know nothing, though I guessed it to have been concerning the making up of peace between the feudal enemies in the lands of Carrick and Kyle.

It was near to ten of the clock, and already close upon the time which had been appointed for the tryst with Auchendrayne, that we mounted at the yett of Greenan to ride on our way to Holmestone Ford.

'Sorry am I,' said my master, 'that I have not spoken a word with John Mure ere I go. But I know his loving desire for my success, and he well knows my affection for him.'

We rode down from the castle crag of Greenan, and presently came out upon the links. These are here all sandy, cast up into rounded mounds and hills, and bitten into by the little pits and dungeons, called of them that play at the golf, 'bunkers.'

'Launcelot, ride a little way in front. It approaches the hour of noon, and I would do my devotion and meditate a little alone,' said Sir Thomas to me. So I drew myself a bowshot before him, riding upon Dom Nicholas, and taking my hat in my hand. I rode easily, enjoying the sea breeze that cooled my brow and tossed my hair. I wondered if ever the time would come, when I also should be thinking about my religion at noon of a fine heartsome day. It seemed a strange time enough for a hale, well-to-do gentleman to set to his prayers.

Presently I saw a man standing upon my right hand somewhat above me upon the crown of a sandhill. And he raised his hand as one that cried to clear the course in the game, so I thought no more of the matter. But I looked round, thinking perchance that he cried to my master, who was riding with bared head and holding his little red Testament in his hand.

Suddenly, even as I looked at him, I heard the sound of shots behind me, and, turning Dom Nicholas, I saw my master reel in his saddle, with white blowing puffs of gunpowder rising all about him, from behind the desolate sandhills among which the murderers had hidden themselves. Drawing my sword, I set spurs to the sides of Dom Nicholas and galloped towards them. I was aware, as I rode, of my master lying on his back on the sand, and his palfrey galloping away with streaming mane. A little black crowd of men stood and knelt about him, and I saw the flash of steel again and again as one and another of them lifted a knife and struck.

I yelled aloud to them in my agony and bade them wait till I came. So they hasted to make front against me, some of them leaping on their horses and others biding a moment to put as it had been booty into their saddle wallets.

It was Thomas Kennedy, called the Wolf of Drummurchie, that withstood me as I came thus furiously upon Dom Nicholas. With him I first crossed swords, while one, James Mure of Auchendrayne, held off a little warily, watching to win in at me when I should give him opportunity. With the corner of my eye I saw the same man whom I had at first observed making the warning signal. He held up his hand as before. Then he leaped on a horse which he had by him in a hollow of the sands. He was, as I noted, a tall man, with a hat pulled low over his eyes, and he wore about him the long grey cloak which had been so fatal a sign to us of Cassillis.

But ere I could see more, I was in the thick of the murderers with my sword. I struck and warded, not knowing what I did, but only striking, with the anger of blood in my eye, till I gave Drummurchie a cut on the shoulder, which made him fain to shift his sword arm. Then I wheeled and attacked Cloncaird as furiously, who was a great mountain of a fellow, red of face and brutal of heart. And I had readily enough done for him, too, had he been alone, for he was no man of his weapons. But I could see plainly enough three or four others charging pistols and training of hackbutts, making ready to take an aim at me. Whereupon I knew that there was no use of spending my life for naught. So, with my sword red in my hand, I rode over the sandhills straight at the tall man in the grey cloak; but such was the effect of an ill conscience that he took his mantle about his mouth as one that fears being known, and set spurs to his horse. I had not pursued far when I came to the top of a dune and saw a little cloud of citizens that played at the clubs beneath me. To them I rode as hard as I could, with the murderers' bullets splattering here and there and throwing up little spirts of sand about me.

'Murder! Foul murder!' I cried. 'Come hastily, for the Tutor of Cassillis is done to death!'

One of the citizens held up his hand to me as if to bid me be silent, for it was the putting stroke which his neighbour played, and of its kind difficult, so that men held their breath. But when it was made and the ball holed, they ran to me quickly enough, for, alas! murder was so common in those days, that men took little notice unless he that fell was one who was some kin to themselves.

Nevertheless, they hasted when I cried who was my master, and who were the villains that beset him. For the players were all burghers of Ayr and feared that they should underlie the angers of the Earl and of the King, if they gave not ready help when this slaughter was done, as it were, at their very gates.

Thus very quickly we came to my dear master. He was lying alone on his back quietly gazing up to the sky, the red blood welling from many ghastly wounds. All his rich plain Flanders cleading was torn and disarranged by the villains, who had not disdained to despoil after that they had murdered him.

Yet there was some life left in him, and he turned his head, smiling as if thankful (after the hateful faces of his cruel enemies) to gaze at the last upon the countenances of friends. He was, as I thought, past speech; but he looked about him in a certain curious way he had when he had lost something, and, being absent-minded, knew not for the moment what. I showed him his empty purse; but it was not that. So I looked round and saw nothing but some discharged pistols lying with broken lingels abroad upon the sand, and the little book he had been reading as his palfrey paced along.

So as soon as I showed the latter to him he put out his hand for it. Then he held it a moment, kissed it, and gave it back to me.

'Be a good lad,' he said quietly and composedly. 'Fear not for me; I go in friendship with all men. Poor, poor Cloncaird!' he said, thinking of one of his murderers whom he had always befriended, 'it is a pity for his wife and young family!'

Then he closed his eyes and we thought he had already passed from us.

But presently he opened them again and looked toward me.

'Be kind to Nelly!' he said, smiling so kindly at me, that my heart nearly broke. He shook his head at seeing my grief and the tears running down, for, indeed, I could not withhold them.

'There is no need,' he said, reprovingly, 'no need for the like of that ava'. Be a brave lad, Launcelot, and just as true to your God as you have proved to me, who have been a loving master to you here below. I am only wae for the poor, misguided lads, that were so far left to themselves as to lay me here like this.'

And with that there was but his body on the sands, for the spirit of the gentlest master that ever a man served had gone its way to its own Master.

But it was even as he said—for the end of such an one there is no need of tears.

Then I stood up, and the terrible thought came in upon me like Solway tide. How—how shall I take him home to Helen Kennedy—to his orphaned bairns, and to the stricken house of Culzean?

CHAPTER XXX

I SEEK FOR VENGEANCE

Ay, well might I say it. How was I to face Nell Kennedy—she that had with a long, kindly look committed her father into my keeping that very morning? Tenderly we lifted the body, which in life had been so noble and now was so pitifully mishandled. The villains had despoiled the dainty garmentry, torn the lace, and snatched the jewellery which Helen Kennedy had set in place as, daffing right merrily, she prepared her father (as she said) to 'gang worthily and bonnily before the King.' But the King he went before was One, as he himself would often say, that looked not on the outer appearance but on the heart. And concerning that last Thomas Kennedy need have had no fear that his would not be well looked upon—for it was upright, and kindly, and true, nor did it ever move to the hurt of any man in all this world. And as I took him up, I saw still more clearly the black-hearted rage of the persecutors. For it showed as manifestly as any other fact the hellish intent of the murderers, that they had taken time, even while I was in the act to come at them, to despoil my master of his purse with a thousand merks of gold therein. Nay, his very ring of fine diamonds they tore from his finger, and his golden buttons of wrought goldsmith work were riven from his frilled sark—one murderous loon snatching one thing and the other another, worse than brute beasts of the field.

We laid him gently upon the back of wise Dom Nicholas, that all the time stood like a statue, and then when everything was ready, moved graciously and soberly away, as though he had been well aware of the melancholy burden he bore. Even thus we brought my dear master to the sea terrace of Greenan which he had so lately left.

And when John Kennedy of Balterson heard the trampling of the horse on the flags of the court, he came out crying loudly and heartily as was the manner of the man.

'Wi' what's this, Culzean? Are ye back again?'

So running to the door he stood with his table-knife in his hand and a bit of his mid-day meal thereupon, astonished beyond the utterance of words.

'What's this? What's this?' he cried. 'Oh, sirs, what foul wark is here? Wha has done this?'

And I told him their names—at least so far as I knew them.

'Thomas of Drummurchie!' he cried. 'It shall not be the uplands of Barr parish that shall keep ye frae the stark sword of John Kennedy of Balterson. And thou, Walter Mure of Cloncaird, that has so often sat in this house of the Greenan, by the grace of God I shall lay thee as low as thou hast laid my friend this day.'

But I begged Balterson to think of something else than the taking of revenge—of which all in good time. So presently he got me a horse litter with two steady-going beasts, and I walked alongside it with Dom Nicholas arching his head and treading softly as if he also mourned. Thus we came to the town of Maybole, which was as our own place. And such dule and lament as there was that day saw I never anywhere.

For the town had loved him as its liege lord, far more than either John, Earl of Cassillis, or his father the King of Carrick. Such a congregation as met us at the town gate! The women all crying the cry of death, the men cursing and calling vengeance. The minister was there to pray, and all classes and conditions were moved to tears.

And ere we were well past the Foul Alley there were twenty men on horseback to chase the murderers, with John Kennedy of Balterson at their head. But they might as well have chased the wind, for by this time, with the relays of horse that had been ordered for them, they were safe among the wild Crauford country on the borders of Kyle.

Of the sad homecoming to Culzean itself I declare I cannot write at length. At the entering in of the woodland I left them, and upon Dom Nicholas I rode drearily forward to do the bitterest day's work of my life—to tell Helen Kennedy that I brought only her father's corpse home with me.

And, as the chance befell, it was at least half-a-mile before I reached the home gate of Culzean, just where one sees for the first time the grey turrets sitting against the dimpled blue of the incoming tide, that I was aware of Nell Kennedy coming light-foot towards me, singing a catch of a song and swaying a flourish of sweet may-blossom daintily in her hand. I have never rightly loved the white hawthorn since that day. But as soon as she saw me she stopped her song and clutched her fingers close upon her palm, for the flowery branch had fallen at her feet.

'What is wrong?' she cried, when I came near to her. But I could not answer till I had leaped from Dom Nicholas and taken her by the hand. She turned round, keeping me at the stretch of her arm so that she might read the news, good or bad, in my eyes.

'Is it my father? Tell me,' she said very calmly.

'Nell, it is your father,' I said as quietly. 'They set upon him and hurt him, even when he had sent me on a little way before him that he might be alone at his mid-day meditation—'

'Is he dead—tell me—is he dead?' she broke in. But I answered her not; for I could not. So she knew, and in an instant grew as pale and still as the man that was passed from us.

'Take me to him,' she said at length. And, seeing that I still hesitated, she said, 'Do not fear for me. I will do all that a daughter of Culzean should do.'

'They are bringing him hither now,' I said. 'I came hasting to tell you. The feet of the horses that carry him are even now upon the brae.'

Then, when I had told her all, I ended the tale with my tears and with crying out that which was in my heart, 'Oh, would to God I had died instead of him!'

'Launcelot,' Nell said, with a wonderful quiet, 'that is useless, and not well said. Be comforted. None would have done one-tenth so much as thou hast.'

'Bless you, Nell!' I said, for I had feared greatly she would have broken upon me with bitter railing.

It was by the great oak tree which sends its boughs over the road that we met the bier, and the horses stopped. Even thus Nell Kennedy met her father, and there was not a tear on her face, but only a great sweet calm. She silenced the noisy limmer wives that went behind crying and mourning aloud. So in this manner we went onward to Culzean, Nell walking on one side of the bier and I on the other, leading Dom Nicholas by the bridle.

And lo! as the body passed the drawbridge, a sudden gust out of the sea snatched his knightly pennon from the topmost turret tower of the battlements of Culzean, which was held a freit and a warning by all the folk of Carrick. But though the master had come home to his own, yet both Culzean and I were now masterless.

In due time we gave him stately funeral, carrying him forth upon a day so calm, so breathless, that the banners did not wave as they swept the dust. And thereafter all life seemed to stop, when we came home again to the darkened house. James and Sandy, the two young lads, played no more in the tennis-courts, but went about with linked arms speaking of revenge. But little David abode with Nell and went forth only with her, clinging winsomely to her hand; for we kept us close within bars and warded ramparts, with the drawbridge up, watching the fruit ripening on the walls of the orchard of Culzean all that splendid summer of the murder of our lord and master.

Slowly I thought over many things, till the resolve to bring the matter to a head came masterfully upon me. From the Earl as Bailzie of Carrick I got warrant, according to my dead master's word and direction, to be doer-in-ordinary for the young man James, who was now the heir of Cassilis. For Earl John knew that Launcelot Kennedy was no self-seeker; also they that stood about had told to him the Tutor's last words—that I was to be a good lad and to be kind to Nelly. It was Adam Boyd of Penkil, and David Somerville, hosier in Ayr, who told him this, and they were two of those that played golf by the sandhills on the day of that foul slaying under trust.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE BLUE BLANKET

Yet because I needed advice and had none to give it, I rode one day to Edinburgh to see Maister Robert Bruce. I found the whole city in an uproar. There was the beating of drums in all the streets and closes, and a great multitude of the common folk crying out 'For God and the Kirk!' Pikes danced merrily along the causeways, and good wives' heads were thrust through all the port-holes in the windings of the stairs. Their voices, shrill and vehement, kept up a constant deafening clamour, each calling to her John or Tam to 'come awa' in oot o' that,' or bidding them 'not to mell wi' what concerned them not.'

'What concern is the glory o' God o' yours—you that is but a baker in Coul's Close?' I heard one wife cry to her man, and it seemed to me a mightily pertinent question.

At last, after many inquiries, I heard how the Minister of Edinburgh had bearded the King, so that he was gone off to Linlithgow in great indignation, and how that in a day or two Maister Robert Bruce would either be King of Scotland or lay his head on the block.

Yet the minister was in his study chamber when I went to seek him, reading of his Bible and writing his sermon, as quietly as though there had been no King in Scotland—save, as it might be, the King in whose interest he had so often bearded King Jamie Stuart, sixth of that name.

Robert Bruce looked up when he saw me.

'Ah, Launcelot,' he cried, more heartily than ever I had heard him, 'ken ye, lad, that you are likely to be at the horn for communing with a wild rebel like me?'

'To be "at the horn" is no uncommon thing in Carrick,' I replied, 'and makes little difference either to the length of a man's life or the soundness of his sleep. I have been at the horn ever since I was eighteen years of my age.'

'Well, Launcelot,' he said soberly, 'so it has turned out even as I said. I know—I know. It is not in man that walketh to direct his steps. But I saw ye were all "fey" at Culzean.'

Then I told him the purpose of my coming all the way to Edinburgh to see him.

'What!' he said, 'ye have never come so far only to have speech of poor Robert Bruce, that was yesterday Minister of Edinburgh, and to-day is, I fear, doomed to lay his head on the hag-clog?'

I told him it was even so, and that, being the man of wisest counsel I had ever known, I would have gone ten times as far to have his friendly advice.

'Ay me,' he said sadly, 'wae is the man that has such a rumour and report of wisdom, yet cannot counsel himself what he should do in his own utter need.'

But, for all that, he went over everything that had happened in Carrick, with a clearness most like that of a lawyer when he sets in order his case before the judge. Then he sat a long while silent, with his finger tips drumming idly upon his writing.

'So Bargany is dead,' he said at last. 'He was the only considerable man of his own faction. Who is there to succeed him?'

'But a child!' said I, 'one that plays with puppets.'

'As do we all, Launcelot,' said Maister Bruce, smiling on me.

'And after him in that faction, of his own house and kin who comes—?' he asked.

'There are none besides the Tutor's murderer, Thomas of Drummurchie, and Benane his brother, but he is a deboshed man and of no account,' I made answer, not seeing his drift.

'Who leads them then—?'

'John Mure of Auchendrayne is their only considerable man, and he has waxen great and greater within these months.'

The minister nodded his head and sat still as one that considers all sides of a question.

'And of you that stand by the gold and blue—who remains?' he went on.

I told him but John, Earl of Cassillis, and his brother the Master.

'And in whose friendship is the Master?' he asked.

'In our country of Carrick he has an auld friendship with Auchendrayne, and a good-going feud with the Earl, his brother; but recently he has taken up with the Lord of Garthland in Galloway and married his sister.'

'Tell him from me,' said the minister of Edinburgh, 'to bide close in Galloway and get him bairns in peace. For gin he comes back to Carrick, of a surety his head shall be the next to fall.'

'And why so?' said I.

'Because,' said Maister Robert Bruce, 'John Mure designs that there shall be no power in Carrick nor in the Shire of Ayr besides his own and that of the Earl—till he get time to have him also killed. I tell you Auchendrayne hath the brains of any three of you.'

'And of the treasure of Kelwood, what?' said I.

'That,' said the minister, meditating, 'is a little forth of my province. But, if ye will know, I think it is in the keeping of some of Auchendrayne's tools. And I advise you, ere ye look for revenge, to go seek for it.' I was silent, for I hoped that he would tell me yet more.

'The treasure of Kelwood will lead you to your aim. I think ye will find that the same hands which reft it away are red with the blood of your master. And one thing I am sure of—that within that treasure chest lie your love, your land, and your lordship!'

I asked him what he meant, but he would not tell me more clearly. Only this he said, speaking like them that have the second sight,—

'James Stuart being what he is—a treasure-seeker—and John, Earl of Cassillis, being what he is—a treasure-gripper—if ye find the kist, ye have them both in your hand. And therein (or I am a false prophet) lie, as I say, your love, your land, and your lordship.'

Then I asked him if he had any counsel to give me ere I went.

'Be brave,' he said, 'read your Testament. Tell no lies. Carry no tales. Seek carefully for the man that wears the grey cloak, and then for the man that runs like a beast and carries the knife in his teeth.'

He went to the window as one that has spoken his last word.

'Hear ye that?' he said. 'That is the warrant for my heading.'

There circulated a great crowd of people without, apprentices and suchlike mostly, with here and there among them a decent, responsible man of the trades. They were singing at the utmost pitch of their voices:—

'We'll hae nae mair Jeems Davie-son,

Davie's son—Davie's son!

We'll gie his loons the spavie sune,

Spavie sune, spavie sune,

An' the deil may tak Jeems Davie-son.'

'They might as well shear my head at once as sing that song,' said Maister Robert Bruce. 'There is nothing that James Stuart likes so ill as to be called the son of Davie, unless it be the man who upholds the right of private judgment!'

'Ah,' he cried again, 'the Blue Blanket—this waxes serious. I must put on my gown and sally forth.'

Then up the Canon gate there came a great crowd of citizens all marching together and crying, 'God and the Kirk! God and the Kirk!' And in the midst there was borne the famous flag that has ever staggered in the front of a bicker, foretelling storms and the shaking of thrones—the Blue Blanket of the trades of Edinburgh.

Robert Bruce drew his black Geneva gown about him, and taking his little Bible and his oak staff in his hand he went out. As he stood forth upon his step, he was hailed with shouts of joy and rejoicing.

'Hearken Maister Bruce! Hear the minister! God and the Kirk! Doon wi' Jeemie Fat-Breeks!'

And the Blue Blanket wavered and waggled, being borne this way and that by the press. All about the skirts of the crowd, and down the closes angry drums were beating, and a hundred idle 'prentices thundered on great folk's doors and garred the window panes rattle on the causeway—which was a sin when glass was so dear, and to be seen in so few places besides the citizen houses of the great.

'Men of Edinburgh,' cried Bruce, 'hear your minister. Wherefore this tumult? I bid you to depart quietly to your homes. We have a difference with the King, it is true; but let us who are the servants of God and of the Kirk of Scotland settle our own affairs with the King. What is your concern in the matter?'

But the more he spoke of the King the more loud grew the tumult.

'God and the Kirk! God and the Kirk!' they cried, and the Blue Blanket waved higher than ever, being held up by one man standing upon the shoulders of other two.

'Ay, ay, even so; it is a good cry,' said the minister; 'but it would set you better to be a little more ready to obey both God and the Kirk at other times. The most part of you know not for what cause ye are come together. Ye want to roll your minister's head in the dust—'

'No, no!' cried the throng; 'we will keep you safe, or know the reason why.'

'Depart—scatter instantly to your firesides!' cried Bruce. 'And so ye will the better serve the Kirk of Scotland and me, her unworthy servant.'

And with this he motioned to them with his hands, dismissing them. So great was his power that they went, scattering like peet reek on a windy day. In a minute or two there was not one of them to be seen on the street. The minister and I were left alone.

'What think ye, Launcelot? Why stand ye so moody?' my companion said to me.

I told him that I liked not much to tell him; that it was no fitting thought to tell a minister.

'Say on,' he said. 'I have listed to strange speeches in my time.'

'Well then, sir,' I made answer, 'I was thinking what a pity to see so many limber lads with stark pikes in their hands, and nobody a penny the worse! I would to God I had them in Carrick. John Mure of Auchendrayne would hear news of it right briskly.'

The minister clapped me on the back.

'Ah, Launce, it will be a strange Heaven that you win to, unless you mend your ways. Ye are nocht but a wild Carrick savage. But ye maun e'en dree your weird, young Launcelot, and auld Robert Bruce maun dree his. Fare ye weel.'

So we parted there on the steps of his own house. And with that I betook me to horse, and forth through the turbulent city that could yet make so little of its tulzies; and as I went I thought, 'Lord, Lord, for one hour of Gilbert Kennedy and me to show them a better way of it; or even Robert Harburgh. And it would be like capturing Heaven by violence, to enter Holyrood House in the way of stouthrief and spulzie!'

But I only thought these things without intent to do them, for I am a King's man and peaceable—besides which, I had but lately spoken good words to a minister of religion. Nevertheless, what a booty would there not have been in that palace at the Canongate foot! Not that I would lay hand upon a stiver of it, even if I got the chance, but the thought of it was marvellously refreshing, I own.

CHAPTER XXXII

GREEK MEETS GREEK.

Then as I journeyed south I saw my work set out like a perspective before me. As the minister had said, the treasure of Kelwood and the death of my master hung by one string. The House of the Red Moss was very near to the sandhills of Ayr, and there could be little doubt that the hand which had sped the bloody dagger was the hand that had brought my master to his death.

As the drawbridge clanged down for me to ride once more within the house of Culzean, and lazy Gib stretched himself to cry that all was well, I took a resolve. It was to tell Helen Kennedy all that I knew, and ask her judgment upon it—though I have small notion (for ordinary) of women's discretion. So, when the greetings were said, I took my opportunity and came to her when she was walking in the garden apart, where the apple trees grow. When she had heard all, she said, 'Launce, you and I must ride to Auchendrayne.'

'Well,' said I, 'and what then? Shall we bid Grieve Allison have our coffins in readiness against our return feet first?'

'We shall see my sister Marjorie,' she said, without heeding my words, 'and take counsel with her. They will not kill us within the house of Auchendrayne while she is alive.'

'I believe not that we shall even have the chance of speech with her,' I replied, 'but we may at least go and see. Whether we ever win back to Culzean is another matter.'

But Nell was mainly set on it, and I did not counter her, it being so that I was to ride in her company—for, indeed, I myself desired greatly to see the famous tower where dwelled a man so potent and so evil. The next day it happened that I went to Maybole and found mine ancient friend, Robert Mure, Dominie and Session Clerk of the town. He sat gloomily in his school and bowed his head on his hands, for he had never looked up nor taken pleasure in life since they laid my master in the burying-place of his folk within the kirkyaird of Maybole. The school hummed about him, but he took little heed. His old alertness seemed quite gone from him. And when I came in he only lifted his head a moment and nodded, falling back again at once into his new melancholy. His pipes lay beside him indeed, but so long as I was there I did not see him recreate himself upon them—as had been his ordinary wont, playing pibrochs for his scholars' delectation at every pause in the day's occupations.

'Dominie,' said I, 'there is one thing I want—'

'Say on,' said he, briefly, not looking at me.

'I want speech with William Dalrymple, the lad that carried the letter to Auchendrayne the day before my lord's death.'

'Of what good is the like of that?' said he. 'Will all the speech in the world bring back him that's gane?'

'No,' said I, going nearer to him and speaking under my breath, 'but it may help us to his murderer.'

'Eh, what?' said the master, sitting up as gleg as a cat at a mousehole, '"His murderer," said ye? Are not Thomas of Drummurchie and Mure of Cloncaird his declared murderers?'

'Ay,' said I, 'exactly—his "declared" murderers.'

'Speak either less or mair—let us hae done wi' parables!' quoth the Dominie.

'What think ye,' said I, 'of the Grey Man that stood behind and waved them on, like a pilot guiding a ship into a port? I mean the man that threw the dagger into the Red House. I mean the man that let loose the scum of the Tolbooth on us of Cassillis the day of "Clear the Causeway."'

'And who might he be?' said the Dominie, breaking in upon me, for some of these things he was not acquainted with.

'First bring in the laddie,' said I.

So Dominie Mure brought Dalrymple in to a private place, and having dismissed the school, we proceeded faithfully to examine him. I asked him to tell me all that had befallen that fateful day, from the time I had seen him run up the Kirk Vennel, to the time when he came to me again upon the green at my play, and making a poor hand of it with another man's clubs.

The boy began his tale well enough, like one that says a well-learned lesson; but in the very midst, when, somewhat severely, I bade him say over again what he had already said, he broke out into a passion of weeping and begging us to have mercy upon him—for that he was but a laddie and had been commanded upon pain of his death to tell the tale which he had told us at the first.

So we bade him to speak freely, to tell no lie anymore and all would yet be well. So he told us how he had gone fleet-foot to Auchendrayne and had there found John Mure, the master thereof, sitting in the great chamber with Walter of Cloncaird. He described how that he had given the letter into the Laird's hands, even as he had been bidden. When Mure had read it, he handed it over to Cloncaird. But he, swearing that he was not gleg at the parson-work, bade Auchendrayne to read it aloud for him. Which, when he did, they looked long and strangely at one another. And at last John Mure said, 'I should not wonder, Cloncaird, but something might come out of this.'

Then the boy told how they had gripped him, set a naked dagger to his throat, and afterwards made him swear to take the letter back to them that sent him, saying that he had gone to Auchendrayne, but had returned without seeing the Laird.

'Say,' said Mure, 'that the servant bade you take back the letter unopened, because that his master was afield and he knew not when he would be home. So,' concluded the boy, 'even thus I did! And this is all the truth, or may God strike me dead!'

The Dominie and I looked each at the other in our turns.

'The Grey Man himself,' said I.

'The Black Deil himsel'!' said he.

'We will exorcise him, black or grey!' cried the Dominie. 'I am going direct to the bailies and elders to tell them that this school has vacation till it pleases me to take it up again.'

So he went out and I waited alone with the boy William Dalrymple, whose rosy and innocent face was all beblubbered with weeping.

I slapped him on the shoulder and bade him take heart because he had found friends. Then I also told him that on the morrow he must come with me to the Earl of Cassillis, and by-and-by it might be to the King himself.

'Will the Dominie come too?' the boy asked very anxiously.

So when I told him that he would, he seemed more satisfied, and asked leave to go home to his mother.

I had, indeed, something to tell Nell Kennedy that night when I rode home from Maybole. And upon the head of it we two sat long in talk, and were more than ever set on riding to Auchendrayne. But first we decided that the Dominie and I should carry William Dalrymple to the Earl, that he might certify to him what he had already testified to us at the schoolhouse in the Kirk Vennel.

But on the morrow we, that is the Dominie and I, had it set to ride to Cassillis by way of Maybole. On the way we came to the little hut of the widow Dalrymple, for William was a town's bursar, and so got his learning from the Session as a poor scholar. The door was shut, and a neighbour's wife cried to us that both the boy and his mother had gone on to Cassillis before us. So we rode forward. Yet we must have missed them on the way, for when we came to the castle yett there was nobody there before us, and the Earl himself had ridden forth to the hawking by the waterside.

Then came out to us foolish Sir Thomas Tode with his long story, which began as usual with the Black Vault of Dunure, and was proceeding by devious ways when his wife came round the corner—whereat right briskly he changed his tune.

'And as I was saying,' he said, 'on Tuesday seven nights we had a shrewd frost that nipped the buds.'

'It is as well for you, old dotard,' cried his wife, listening a moment, 'I had thought ye were at your auld tricks again.'

So we went in, and were busily partaking of the cheer of Mistress Tode when we became aware of the noise of altercation without.

'Save us,' said the cook, 'it is a mercy that neither my lord nor my lady are within gate, wi' a' that narration of noise outbye! What can it be at a'?'

And she went out to inquire.

But if the disturbance was loud before, it certainly became ten times worse when Mistress Tode disappeared. I got up to look, and the Dominie followed me. We saw a tall, grey-haired woman stand upon the causeway of the courtyard, with one hand on her hip, and with the other tossing back the straying witch locks from her brow.

'Where's my boy, Mistress Tode?' cried the newcomer fiercely, to our friend the cook, who stood upon the steps. 'What hae ye dune wi' my laddie at the black house of Cassillis? He left his hame to come here, by command o' my lord and young Launce of Culzean, at five this morning. An' Jock Edgar met him set on a pony between twa men on horseback, and he declares that the puir lad was greeting sair. What hae ye dune wi' him, ye misleared, ill-favoured Tode woman that ye are?'

'Weel ken ye, Meg Dalrymple,' cried Mistress Thomas Tode, 'that I wadna steal ony chance-gotten loon of yours. Faith na, I wadna fyle my parritch-spurtle on his back. We shelter nae lazy gaberlunzie speldrons in the house of Cassillis. There is enough rack and ruin about the countryside as it is, withoot gatherin' in every gipsy brat and prowling night-hawk to its walls. Gin ye come here to insult my master, a belted Earl, I'll e'en set the dowgs on ye, ye gruesome ill-tongued limmer woman!'

I saw that this was to be altogether another kind of tulzie from those clattering bickers of the sword-blades, that I knew something about. So I signed to the Dominie to be silent, for here of a surety were two foemen worthy of each other's points.

'Ye shall cast no stour in my e'en, certes,' cried Meg Dalrymple. 'I ken ye, ye auld yeld crummie Tode. Ye hae nae bairns o' your ain, and ye wad kidnap the bonny bairn o' a decent woman.'

'I daresay no, "nae bairns o' my ain," quo' she,' cried Mistress Tode, roused to high anger. 'I micht hae had as mony as a clockin' hen, gin I had gane the gate ye gaed, Meg Dalrymple. I'll hae the law on ye, ye randy, casting up my man's infirmity to me.'

'Your "man," quo' she,' retorted Meg Dalrymple, 'ca' ye that auld bundle o' dish-clouts tied aboot wi' hippens—a man! Save us, one micht as soon bed ayont a pair of auld duddy breeks!'

'Ay, my man,' cried Mistress Tode, 'what hae ye to say, ye shameless woman, again Sir Thomas Tode, that has been Earl's chaplain for forty year and my lawfu' wedded man for ten?'

Mistress Tode rang out the titles like a herald now, when her husband was gainsayed and made light of. But we know that on occasions she could treat him cavalierly enough.

'I wad as sune mairry a heather cow for soopin' the rink at the channel stanes,' cried Meg Dalrymple. And this implication bit deeper into the feelings of the lady of Sir Thomas Tode than all the other reproaches, for the brush of tonsure hair was a sore subject of jesting with her, as I well knew.

'I hae telled ye,' Mistress Tode cried, pausing a moment with her hand on her side, as if to keep command of herself, 'I hae telled ye, woman, that we only deal with kenned and authenticate folk in this hoose—no wi' orra loons, that nane kens wha belangs them! And I wad hae ye ken also that I am no to be named a liar by the likes o you, Meg Dalrymple—me that has been keeper o' the larder keys o' this Earl's castle for fifteen year, me that has had the outgiving o' all plenishing, the power o' down-sitting and on-putting, and never has been checked in a bodle's worth. Gang hame, ye Canaanitish woman, and I doot na ye'll find your brat safe in the town's bridewell. It will learn ye to bide from decent folk's houses, making such a cry about your wastrel runnagates.'

'Keep your ill tongue for that disjaskit, ill-put-thegither rachle o' banes that ye hae for guidman,' cried the widow Dalrymple. 'Weel do I ken that ye hae my bairn hidden awa' somegate amang ye. Sic a trade as has been hauden wi' the puir bit laddie for carryin' a letter to the Laird o' Auchendrayne. An' the like o' you to stand in my road, Tode woman, you that is weel kenned in sax pairishes for an ill-tongued gipsy. I'll hae ye proclaimed at the market cross, a lord's cook though ye be, gin ye dinna gie me hame my bairn wi' me!'

'Na,' said Mistress Tode, more quietly, 'an' you'll no. Ye'll e'en ask my pardon and gang quietly away to your hame by yoursel.

'And wha is gaun to gar me to that?' said Meg Dalrymple.

'Just me and this bonny wee bit mannikie here,' said Mistress Thomas Tode, turning round unexpectedly and catching the Dominie Mure by the arm. She pushed him forward and clapped him in a knowing way on the shoulder. 'Just this decent snod bit mannikie!' she said again.

'Woman,' said the Dominie, very indignantly, 'what have I to do with your quarrels and tongue-thrashings?'

'Just this, honest man,' said Mistress Tode; 'ye keep the Session records o' the parish o' Maybole. And if this ill-tongued woman disna gang hame doucely and quaitly, ye are the man that is going to gie me a sicht and extract o' them, under date fourteenth o' Januar, fifteen hundred and aughty years.'

The stroke told. Meg Dalrymple grew silent. The anger faded out of her face suddenly as the shining on wet sea sand when you lift your foot. The warlike crook of her elbow flattened to a droop. For the Session records of the Kirk of Scotland are the nearest thing to the Books of the Recording Angel, and the opening of them is a little Day of Judgment to half the parish.

But we could not let the poor woman depart in this fashion. I stepped to the door from behind the pillar where I had been listening for the ending of the fray.

'Mistress Dalrymple,' I said, very quietly, 'your lad has never come to Cassillis at all. We came here to meet him. He must have lost his way.'

'Maister Launcelot,' said Meg Dalrymple, in a changed voice, 'ye come o' a guid, kind hoose, and ye tell no lies. I am free to believe you. But my bairn is tint a' the same. What will I do! Oh, what will I do?'

'Go home and bide quiet,' I bade her, gently. 'I shall myself speak to the Earl. And fear not but we will find your lad if he be in the land.'

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE DEVIL IS A GENTLEMAN

But William Dalrymple was not to be so easily gotten. High and low he was sought for, but no trace of him was found. A girl had seen him taking the road to Cassillis with the dust rising behind him, as was his wont. For, as I have said, he was the best runner in the school of Maybole, and in the winter forenights he kept himself in fine practice with outrunning Rob Nickerson, the town's watchman.

So on a day, since no better might be, Nell Kennedy and I rode out to Auchendrayne. At first we had it trysted to go by ourselves, but Dominie Mare declared that he would come with us—'and wait in the hall, if ye were asked to gang ben',' as he said, meaningly.

'For they might put you and the lassie awa', and never hear mair of it. But even John Mure and his son would think twice before they either sequestered or murdered the Dominie o' Maybole, and the Clerk of the Kirk Session thereof.'

So, though his coming with us wearied Nell and myself somewhat and hindered our discourse on the journey, it all turned out for the best in the end, as things that are bitter in the taking often do.

I was, I will own, monstrously curious to see the tower of Auchendrayne and the surroundings of it; for there were strange rumours in the countryside concerning gangs of wild, savage folk that sometimes camped under the trees, and tales of horrid faces which might at any moment glower at you from the dark bole of a gnarled oak.

But this fair sunshiny day we that rode saw nothing but the leaves rustling and clashing above us, and heard nothing but the sough and murmur of the Doon water beneath us. Auchendrayne is a place hidden among woods—set on a knoll, indeed, but with trees all about it, not conspicuous and far-regarding like the Newark or Culzean.

When first we saw it the grey battlements looked pleasantly enough out of the greenery, basking as peacefully in the sun as though they had risen over the abode of some hermit or saint. We saw nought of the customary stir and bustle of an habited house about the mansion of Auchendrayne. None ran to the office houses. None carried bundle nor drove cattle about the home parks. It was a peace like that of a Sabbath day. 'A black devil's Sabbath!' said the Dominie, grimly. And in truth there was something not altogether canny about thus coming to a dead and silent house, with the sun shining hot and the broad common day all about and above.

Nor even when we dismounted did any servant or retainer come forth to meet or challenge us. We did not see so much as the flutter of a banner or the gleam of a steel cap. Only there about us was the silent courtyard, with the heat of noon trembling athwart it, and the very paving stones clean swept like a table before the feast is set.

I tied our horses to the iron ring of a louping-on stone which stood at the angle of the wall by the gate, thinking as I did so that if only these foot-worn steps could speak, they could tell a tale worth hearkening to of strange venturings and bloody quests.

Also I loosened my sword, and I think I saw the Dominie lay his hand to his hip, ere Nell and I set forward together. We went up the steps of the outside stair, and as we did so we came within hearing of a little continuous murmur of hoarse sound. The doors were all open, and I wot well that we walked softly and with our hearts in our mouths, for the silence and the strangeness of the deadly house of Auchendrayne daunted me more than the clash of swords or the crack of pistols. But I had Nell Kennedy by me, and I would have gone to destruction's pit-mouth for her sake—because, saving my father and mother, she was the only friend I had.

Suddenly, in our advance, we came to the door of a great hall, where, at the upper end, was a table in the midst. The windows were narrow and high, throwing down but a dim light upon the rush-strewn floor. There were many servants and others sitting in the hall, and at the further end stood one who read from a book. As soon as our eyes became accustomed to the cool duskiness after the white equal glare without, I perceived that the reader was none other than John Mure himself. About him there sat all his servants and retainers, both men and women.

It was the crown of my astonishment to hear that the book from which he read was the Bible, and also that as he went on he made comments like a minister expounding his morning chapter, speaking very seasonably and fitly, and eke with excellent judgment and sense. Or so at least it seemed to me, for I am not enough of a clerk to be a judge of expositions, though my father has the two great leather-bound volumes of Clerk Erasmus his Paraphrases, on the shelf over the mantel. But though he is fond of these himself, he never rubbed any of his liking into me.

But we were hearkening to the reading of John Mure in his own hall of Auchendrayne.

'"Fill ye up, then, the measures of your fathers,"' somewhat in this fashion he read from his place. '"Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers, how shall ye escape the damnation of hell? Wherefore behold I send unto you prophets and wise men and scribes; and some of them ye shall kill and crucify, and some of them shall ye scourge in your synagogues, and persecute them from city to city—that upon you may come all the righteous blood shed upon the earth, from the blood of righteous Abel unto the blood of Zacharias, son of Barachias, whom ye slew between the temple and the altar. Verily I say unto you, all these things shall come upon this generation."'

Having read this word, which, knowing what I knew, I had thought would have made him sink through the earth with the fear of condemnation, John Mure commented upon it, showing how it applied to such as refused the right gospel way and walked in devious courses, careless of God and man. Then he went on with his reading in the same clear and solemn voice, though he must perforce have seen us stand in the hall door.

So soon as the reading was over, the great company of the retainers decently took their departure, walking out soberly and without hurry. Then came John Mure down from the dais with the Bible yet in his hand, and welcomed us with a condescension that was quaint and uncanny.

'Ye have gotten us at our devotions, Mistress Helen, and you Master Launcelot, and Dominie Mure—my good cousin. You could not have found us better employed.'

'Do ye believe what ye read?' asked the Dominie, quickly.

'Whatever is a means to an end, that I believe in—even as you believe in your taws and birch twigs. The reading of Scripture threatenings makes quiet bairns, and so does the birch.'

'What think ye of the blood of righteous Abel?' said the Dominie—with, methought, more boldness than discretion. 'Will it cry from the ground, think ye?'

The Laird of Auchendrayne looked at the little Dominie, as one might upon a fractious but entertaining bairn.

'It is a point much disputed. Ye had better ask our Launcelot's friend, Maister Robert Bruce, Minister of Edinburgh, if perchance his head be yet upon his shoulders.'

Which saying showed me that John Mure knew more than I had given him the credit for.

Then he turned to Nell.

'You would wish to see the young Lady Auchendrayne?' he said courteously.

Nell replied coldly enough, 'I should like to see my sister.'

'I think,' said Auchendrayne, with a wiselike and grave sobriety that set well on his reverend person, 'that she is presently in the orchard house.'

'Will you bide here, or will you go with Mistress Helen?' he asked of me.

'We would all go together,' said Nell, 'if it pleasure you.'

So with a courteous wave of the hand, he led us through stone passages and along echoing corridors, till we came to a door in the wall, from which we entered upon a pleasant prospect of gardens and orchards. Here again there was the same curious silence, and, as it seemed, an absence of the twitter and stir of a Scottish garden in the season of summer.

We came presently to a stone building like a tomb, all overshaded with trees.

'This is the orchard house of Auchendrayne,' he said. 'I believe the Lady Marjorie is within.'

The Dominie and I stayed without with John Mure, while Nell went in alone to greet her sister. We heard the faint murmur of voices and now and then a pulsing check as of a slow, smothered sob. We that were without, stood with our backs to the cold, heavy, white stones under the green shade, while John Mure discoursed learnedly and pleasantly of flower-beds and tulips and the best form of dovecot tower for the supply of the table with pigeon pie.

At last Nell came to the door.

'Launcelot, Marjorie wishes you to come in,' she said. Whereupon I entered and found a large room finished in oaken panelling and moulded archings. Roses looked in at the windows, and a stir of pleasant coolness was all about. Marjorie was sitting by a table with many books spread upon it.

My dear lady was pale and white as a lily. She leaned her head wearily on her hand. But there burned a still and unslockened fire in her eye.

'Launcelot,' she said to me, 'this is not so wide a place to walk within as the pleasaunce at Culzean, nor yet can we see from the garden house of Auchendrayne the rough blue edges of Arran or the round Haystack of Ailsa.

I bade her look forward to happy days yet to come, for, indeed, I knew not what to say to her. She smiled upon me wistfully and indulgently, as one does upon a prattling child.

'I thank you, Launcelot,' she said, 'but I was not born for happiness. Nevertheless, you were ever my good lad. I see you still wear my favour, but doubtless long ere this you have found another lady. Is it not so?'

I told her no, blushing to have to say so in the hearing of Nell—who afterwards might flout me, or, as like as not, cast up again the old matter of Kate Allison.

Then through one of the windows I saw John Mure pacing up and down the path with the Dominie at the other side of the garden, so I knew that it was our time to speak.

'Ye have heard of your father's death?' said I. 'What think ye? How was it wrought and how brought about? Can you help us to unravel it?'

'Nay,' said Marjorie, 'not at present. But in good time I shall yet clear the matter to the roots, and that before I die.'

'Wherefore will you not come back to us at Culzean? We need you sorely,' pleaded Nell, who stood holding her sister's hand.

'Nay,' said Marjorie, 'my work is not yet done at Auchendrayne.'

It was the self-same answer she had given when she rode away from the gate of Maybole on the day of the death of Gilbert Kennedy of Bargany.

'Are they cruel to you here, Marjorie, tell me that?' I said, for I saw that the old Laird was approaching, and that our further time would be but short.

'No one of them hath laid so much as a finger upon me!' said Marjorie. And this at least was some comfort to carry back to the sad house of Culzean with us.

So with that, little satisfied concerning the thing which we came to seek, but with somewhat more ease in our hearts for Marjorie's sake, we went back through the passages and into the great hall. While we waited there for a servant to show us forth to our horses, my eye rested upon a large, closely-written volume, with the quill pen laid upon it, and ink-horn set in a hole in the desk above it.

'I see that my clerkly work has caught your eye,' said John Mure. 'It is a nothing that I amuse myself withal, yet it may live longer than you or I. It is but a slight history of the mighty sept whose name you, Master Launcelot, so worthily bear, with all their branches and noble deeds at arms. For me, I am but a useless old man, past the labour of fighting. Yea, I know it was your own lance that put me there. But I bear no malice, it was the fortune of war. You know me better than to suppose that John Mure bears a grudge for that shrewd thrust you dealt me on the day of the quenching of our hopes in blood by the gate of Maybole.'

I bowed and thanked him for his courteous words.

'It was indeed the gallantest charge that ever was made,' said I, 'since that of Norman Leslie, when, on the day before Renti, he drava into the midst of sixty Spaniards with but seven Scottish lances at his tail.'

'Sir,' said I, 'I am no historian, but a soldier. Yet is it a part of the training of a good fighter, that he should know the great deeds which have been done in the wars before him by brave men, so that he may emulate them when he himself is launched upon the points.

'It is well said, sir squire,' said Auchendrayne, bowing to me.

So, with a courteous farewell, in which there was to be seen no grain of hate nor as much as a glint of the teeth or the wolf, he bade us go our ways. 'And, above all things, he cried after us, 'mind your prayers. 'Tis a good lesson for the young to remember.'