A LEGEND OF HOLYROOD.

Once upon a time, when a good story had not ceased to have a beginning in this way, there lived a person called William Glenday, who was a sort of sub-equerry to Mary Queen of Scots; or rather he assumed that title, because it sounded better than "head groom." This man was a widower, and lived with his daughter Mary, a very interesting young maiden, of about twenty years of age, in one of the houses within the precincts of the Abbey set apart for the Queen's household. William was a quaint Scotsman, shrewd and caustic in his remarks, like many of his nation. He was reputed rich, and somewhat addicted to making more than a proper display of his riches; in other words, he was "purse-proud." He was, however, a most loyal subject of the queen, whom he held to be a paragon of beauty. His daughter bore the same name; and it was even whispered that he had sought to trace a likeness between Mary Glenday and Mary Queen of Scots. What will the partiality of a father's love not accomplish?

On the other side of the Abbey strand—that is, on the unprivileged side—there was a house kept as a tavern or ale-house by a person of the name of Peter Connal, very well known in those days as a place of resort for the humble retainers about the palace. Instead of placing a dry picture of a type of his trade over his door, in the shape of stoups or bickers overflowing with his famous beverage, Peter conceived that he would be nearer his purpose of letting the public know the nature of his calling, by showing them the liquor itself, in a real quaigh, and in the act of being swallowed by a real toper; at least Peter gave out as a reason for his sitting on a barrel at his door during a great part of the day, drinking his ale, that he was merely showing the public a good example, and exercising the functions of his calling in such a manner as to fill his purse and his stomach at the same time—a reason which possessed so much of plausibility, that his wife, Janet Wilkinson, was not, by the mere power of logic alone, able to show any fallacy attached to it. Peter had a son named John—a very fine young man, who followed his father's trade, but demurred somewhat as to the propriety of imitating his father, when he should come to succeed him, in making himself a living signboard; a piece of self-willed precocious conceit on the part of the lad which Peter despised.

Nor did Peter Connal stand in any want of individuals to approve of these sentiments. Among others who collected at this door, and took their station on the seat on which he sat, were William Glenday, and an Italian called Giulio Massetto, a servant in the employ of the famous David Rizzio. These three were often seen sitting together at the door of the tavern, drinking Peter's ale, and discussing any point of interest which the strange proceedings of the palace at that time offered to their curiosity. Peter did not approve of the intimacy which existed between Rizzio and the queen; Giulio defended his master; and William stood up for the unfortunate Mary.

"I canna see what our royal mistress can mean," said Peter, "by a' this walkin, and ridin, and talkin, and singin, and playin on psalters and sackbuts, and pipes and whistles, wi' that Italian. It's nae farther gane than yesterday, that my son John—wha despises his ain drink, fule that he is—saw the queen and him sittin in the bonny green bower, at the corner o' the King's Orchard yonder, skirlin ane o' their Italian sangs, like twa mavises. Is that like a Queen o' Scotland and the wife o' Darnley? Na! na!"

"Cattivo!" ejaculated the choleric Italian, "thy son doth lie in his throat. My noble master is the only accomplished gentleman in this barbarous land; and my royal mistress hath made him her secretary, because thy kilted barons can only write with their swords."

"And maybe thae kilted barons may write wi' that guidly pen the word 'death' on yer noble master's silken sash," answered Peter. "By my troth, lad, ye had better be at Cremona, playing an Italian strathspey, than here in our abbey, if ony o' our kilted barons be within hearin."

"Wheesht! wheesht! baith o' ye," said William Glenday; "ye are baith wrang. It may be ill for Giulio to speak in this fashion; but it may be waur for you, Peter, wha's living comes frae the palace, if ye are heard speakin ill o' Rizzio and the queen."

"I just say what I think," said Peter, pertinaciously. "That Italian piper would be better dangling at the black wuddy up the way yonder, than at oor queen's tail." And he quietly quaffed off a jug of his ale.

On hearing these words, Giulio could no longer restrain himself. He started from his seat, and shaking his fist in the face of Peter, turned on his heel and disappeared.

This scene, though made a little ominous by the fierce expression of the Italian's face and manner, was not long remembered. Peter continued to drink his ale, and did not hesitate to speak his mind on a subject which had, apparently, become of more than ordinary interest to him. The intimacy between him and William Glenday continued; and their children, as will appear, had good reasons that it should not be interrupted.

Now John Connal and Mary Glenday were of nearly the same age, and their sentiments accorded as closely as their years. From their earliest childhood they had associated together; and the feelings which were generated in the games and amusements of schoolmates, ripened, as they grew up, into sentiments of the heart. When the same blue-bell, which divided their affections at the "Wells o' Weary," was cast away, it was only to give place to another object of mutual sympathy. The natural elements of love, thus reinforced by early congenial habits, mutual enjoyments, and the daily intercourse of an inseparable connection, produced, in a short time, a strong attachment in the youthful pair, which had been pledged and re-pledged as often as their fears suggested any impediment to their ultimate union.

These lovers had now arrived at an age when they might have been united; and they looked forward to this happy consummation with confidence and delight. John Connal, however, did not want rivals, who sued in vain for the hand of Mary. Among these was Giulio Massetto, the Italian, who had for some time solicited the favour of the maiden. He trusted much to his superior appearance and polished manners, and looked with contempt on the poor Scot who dared to dispute with him the hand of his love. Mary was much annoyed by the Italian's importunate method of wooing; partaking more, she thought, of the impassioned character of a madman's ravings, than of the quiet, rational, and sincere mode of a Scottish courtship. She had repeatedly told him that his suit was in vain; but every repulse seemed only to increase his assiduity, and add to the pathos of his protestations and serenades.

This man had earned for himself, since he came to Scotland, a reputation for every wickedness. He had been concerned in many disgraceful amours, and violent and bloody quarrels with the inhabitants of Edinburgh, which brought upon him a hatred equal to that which his master, by his imprudent conduct with the queen, had produced against himself. It was, in consequence, suspected that his passion for Mary was a mere ebullition of that kind of love for which his countrymen were then and are to this day remarkable; and that, even if he were so fortunate as to secure the object of his desires on condition of resigning his liberty, he would, when his passion cooled, leave her to follow some other equally faithless and disgraceful amour.

Having been unsuccessful in every effort he had made with Mary, Giulio at last resolved to make an application to her father; and he trusted that the show of wealth which, by the misplaced kindness of the royal favourite, he was enabled to make, might have the effect of tempting William Glenday to endeavour to influence the affections of his daughter.

"Thou knowest, William Glenday," said the Italian, one morning, "that I love thy daughter Mary with the force of affection which a true and ardent lover ought to bear towards the devoted of his heart; and I have taken every method known in our country to induce her to forego the gratification of the infliction of her cruelty on her lover; yet she continues obdurate and determined that I shall die the victim of a passion which I cannot control. Yet, if she would but relent, how happy could I make her! My jewels amount in value to a hundred merks; and my master, on our marriage, will present me with a hundred more. Wilt thou aid me in my suit, and endeavour to persuade thy daughter that she ought to yield to the influence of my love?"

William Glenday, who was himself a little purse-proud and conceited, was by no means taken on the right side by this high-flown speech, which was, like all Giulio's conversation and manners, a gross imitation of the style of his master. William was adverse to his suit on many grounds; but the rhodomontade of this address, and the attempt to bribe him by a display of ill-gotten wealth, roused him beyond his natural bearing.

"Ye seem, sir, to hae yersel stated aneugh," answered William. "Ye admit that my dochter winna hae ye; and wharfore should I endeavour to force her luve? Besides, ye're no o' our country, man; and the lasses o' Scotland dinna like foreigners. Tak an Italian! tak an Italian! Birds o' a feather gree best thegither; and the kite and the doo winna assort ava. I carena a bodle for your merks. If they were in their richt place, they should maybe be in our ain Scotch exchequer. Neither care I sae muckle as an auld sang for yer fine speech, which nea doot comes, like yer merks, frae yer maister. Ye needna, therefore, pursue ony mair this fruitless wark—which, it would seem, ye continue by nicht in the shape o' something they ca' serenades—or, as we would say, nicht-waits—as weel as in the licht o' day, by a constant use o' thae black een o' yours, aneugh o' themsels to terrify ony young leddy. In addition to a' this, John Connal has lang been my dochter's lover; and if they wish to mak a match o't, it shanna be me that'll prevent it."

This calm and self-sufficient oration produced on the fiery and impatient temper of Giulio that rage which burned on the application of every spark. It must be confessed that even a Scotchman would have resented the hints of William, rendered more provoking by the manner in which they were uttered—a wink or a smile being always at hand to give piquancy to an innuendo; while an imperturbable, calm, and self-confident assurance gave the whole an aspect of dictation, mixed with contempt. Giulio rose suddenly, and without so much as uttering a word, went away.

In the meantime, the two lovers had got matters in considerable advancement for their marriage, which was fixed to take place in the following month. The inhabitants of the Abbey were promised a grand entertainment in William Glenday's house; and the day was looked forward to by all and sundry as a kind of holiday. There was, indeed, something in the match of more than an ordinary character; for, as a pair of twigs which have fallen connected from a tree into a stream seldom find their way together to the ocean, it seldom happens that the loves of childhood can withstand the severing impulses of the conflicting and distracting interests of a selfish and calculating world. It was even whispered that one of the maids of honour of the queen intended to grace and dignify the union by being present at the ceremony. The preparations went on with spirit. The day approached, and everything seemed to conspire to add to the happiness of a union apparently under the influence of smiling and auspicious powers.

On the evening of the day preceding that on which their marriage was to take place, one of those events occurred which arrest the attention of thousands. Peter Connal, when coming out of the house of William Glenday, was stabbed to the heart. A number of persons immediately collected on hearing his cries—the guard of the palace was roused, and search made in every direction for the perpetrator of so bloody and unaccountable an act. Amongst those who rushed out when the cry was heard, was Mary Glenday and John Connal. The latter was entirely occupied in getting his father's body carried home, in the hope of his being only wounded, and with a view to get medical aid. Mary and some neighbours remained upon the spot, searching about for any trace, by footsteps or otherwise, which might lead to the discovery of the murderer. When engaged in this search, her eye fell upon a small sword lying at a little distance from the spot where the crime was committed. Upon taking it up, she discovered, to her astonishment, that it was her father's sword, which she had not missed from the house. She instantly secreted it under her clothes, and looked about to see if she could discover her parent. He had not, however, been seen during the tumult; and, though many inquiries were made for him, no person could tell where he was. She now flew to the house, and, upon getting into the inner chamber, applied water to the instrument to wash off the blood, threw the washings into a place where they could not be seen, and, by means of ashes from the fire, scoured the instrument, so as to bring back its brightness. Having hung it up in the spot which it usually occupied, she turned to leave the room, with a view to go again to the street, to avoid any suspicion which her absence might suggest as to where she had been. As she turned, she started on observing the eyes of some person fixed on her through the window. She trembled from head to foot; and, unable to proceed a step, fell back into a chair which stood near her, and again shook with an apprehension which she could not account for. All these acts which she had performed during the last ten minutes, appeared to her as wanting the reality of life. She had done them intuitively; and as no proper, well-defined motive had been present to her mind during the time she was occupied, she was now equally at a loss to account for an apprehension which it was impossible there could be the least ground for. She questioned herself why did she secrete the sword—run home with it—wash it and scour it? Was she afraid of her father being charged as the murderer? Impossible! She was not afraid of that. She could defy the world even to suspect that her father was guilty of such a crime; and the idea of it was so absurd that it could not be entertained for a moment. Yet, was she not in fact alarmed? This was not to be denied. She tried to run over the acts which she had, as in a dream, performed by the impulse of a power external to herself; but, on looking to the window again, she saw the same eyes staring in at her.

At this moment the door opened, and a person came from John Connal to inform her that Peter was dead, and requesting to know if her father had yet been seen. She was unable to speak to the messenger, who went away without an answer. Mary continued to sit waiting with breathless impatience for the return of her parent. She heard the bustle in the street gradually die away. Occasional inquiries were made by the passengers for William Glenday, from whom they wished to get some explanation of the extraordinary case; but the servant answered them, and stated that he was not come back, and Mary was indisposed. Eleven o'clock came, and still no word of her father. She heard some people on the street going home, remarking it as strange that William Glenday should be absent, when the father of his daughter's intended husband had been stabbed dead at his door.

About half-past eleven, William Glenday returned home. He was met by several people, who told him what had happened. He said he had been conveying a hound to a gentleman who lived in Leith, and that he had been detained beyond his usual time. He seemed to be very much affected by the death; and the more so, he said, that he and Peter had that day had some words about his daughter's tocher, which had very nearly broken off the match. He inquired particularly if any clue had been found to the murderer; and being informed that no trace had yet been got, returned home.

He found Mary sitting in the state already noticed, and attributed her apparent sorrow to the circumstance which had occurred. She looked up, and asked him where he had been when such awful doings had been going on at his own door. He answered her in the same way he had done the neighbours. She then asked him if he had been over at Peter's house. He said that he had not, but would go immediately. On turning to go out, she observed that his coat was all wet; and, on examining it more narrowly, discovered that it was wet with blood. At the sight of this extraordinary coincidence with the circumstances attending the finding of the sword, she screamed and fainted. Her father, alarmed for his daughter, hung over her with every demonstration of affection; but, attributing her illness and the faint to the shock produced by the death of Peter Connal, he trusted to her speedy recovery when the nervous excitement under which she laboured had abated.

On recovering herself, Mary looked round her, endeavouring to recollect some painful idea which she knew had been the cause of her illness. The moment the thought again struck her, she started up, as if she had found there was a necessity for something being done. Calming her speech and manner, by an effort she made for that purpose, she desired her father to take off his coat, which was wet, and put on another, for the purpose of going over to Peter Connal's house. William complied, remarking (without examining the marks of blood which were behind) that Marion Gray—a woman of irregular habits, who lived in the precincts of the Abbey, and was well known at that time by the name of Mary's Marion, in consequence of having, in her better days, received some attention from the queen—had, as he passed her door, thrown a basin of water upon him, and instantly disappeared.

William Glenday having gone over to Peter Connal's house, Mary, who had said nothing to him of the blood, shut the window-shutters, and washed the coat. The basin in which the bloody water was contained was standing on the table; and, just as she was about to lift it, she saw that the window-shutters had been gently opened, and the face of some person was there gazing in upon her. This apparition again disconcerted the poor girl, and threw her into fits of trembling; but she got the water emptied out, and hung up the coat to dry upon a screen at the fire.

When her father returned, Mary asked him how Peter's wife was sustaining her affliction. She did not ask if any clue had been got to the murderer. She trembled as the words were on her lips. The circumstances of the evening bore heavy upon her. She knew that William and Peter had quarrelled about the tocher, but still she did not suspect her father. She felt it even impious to say to herself that she did not suspect him; for she conceived that the mere connection of the ideas of the murder and of her parent could be nothing but a freak of the devil. Yet she could not ask her father if any clue had been got to the murderer, and she could not tell why she felt unable to do that. William talked about certain probabilities as to this one or that one being the guilty person, but came to no very satisfactory conclusion. His first idea, he said, was, that the Italian had done the deed; but he could see no proper motive that could induce him to commit the crime; and, besides, Giulio had been seen running out of the palace along with the rest of the people—no sword had been seen upon him, and none had been found by the persons who had gone to search for evidence. After indulging in some conversation of the same kind, and lamenting the death, and the consequent interference with the marriage, they retired to rest.

The search for the murderer of Peter Connal was continued for many days without effect. The funeral of the unfortunate man was attended by a great crowd of people, attracted by the respect in which Peter was held, and the unusual circumstances of his death. John Connal now took up the business, carrying his resolution into effect, not to imitate his father in the matter of the sign-post. He accordingly got a very imposing one erected, in which he fell into the error which his father had condemned in such indignant terms; for it was filled up with mere pictures of casks, bottles, and bickers—things in themselves so sacred in the estimation of Peter, that he hated all representation of them as a species of idolatry. The very barrel on which he had so often sat was turned in. The jaunty and gaudy signboard was not received as a compensation for the comfortable personalty of Peter. The inhabitants of the neighbourhood, who had formerly been so delighted with his portly figure, in the very attitude of doing almost continually that which it was their wish to imitate, turned away their eyes from the dry contrast afforded by a mere picture, and sighed over all the vanities of this fleeting world.

The intercourse between William Glenday and John Connal was not interrupted by the unaccountable circumstance that had occurred; but it was soon observed that Mary was not what she used to be. Even John Connal observed a difference in her manner. She felt a reluctance to fix another day for the marriage; and the importunities of John seemed only to increase it.

"Now, my dear Mary," said John, "when our grief for my father is, by the course o' nature, somewhat moderated, may we no accomplish that which was interrupted by that melancholy catastrophe? Twenty summers hae gane owre our heads, and fifteen o' thae hae been cheered by the beating o' our twa hearts, as by the sangs o' birds on a sunny day. The licht o' yer lauchin ee has been my only solace amang mony waes; and even on the occasion which has filled our houses wi' sackcloth, and our hearts wi' grief, and dashed frae our uplifted hands the cups o' pleasure which hae been a promise and a covenant between us for a fourth part o' the ordinary term o' man's pilgrimage on earth, I hae had nae staff o' support but ye, and nae beam o' hope but what ye hae pleased to vouchsafe to me. It canna be, then, that this misfortune, which, God knows, was nane o' my doing, should be turned frae the purpose which it was by Heaven intended to serve—nae doot to check our joy, which was owre bricht for mortals, into a total extinguisher o' a' our pleasures, and a final end to a' our hopes! Na, na, Mary, ye canna think that Providence will deal wi' us in that gate. And oh, tell me, dearest, for the sake o' heaven, why ye hae been sae changed to me o' late, and why ye winna again prepare to gang wi' me to the altar?"

"It's no for me," said Mary, "to interfere wi' the ways o' God—wha, having allowed us, in his high pleasure, to be joined in our hearts for sae lang a time—even our hail lives—thocht proper to part us in the end by sic an awfu token as the death o' yer faither, on the very day afore our marriage. There was a sign and a meaning in that token which my heart has read in tears, and interpreted in agony; and sae lang as it pleases Heaven to conceal frae us the hand which struck the fatal blow at yer faither's life and our hopes, sae lang, my heart whispers, maun our union be delayed!"

"That may be for ever, Mary," said the young man.

"No," answered she. "But when that time shall come—and oh, that it may come sune! for it will be as the dew o' heaven to the parched and gaping earth—when the bloody hand shall be stretched forth, and the guilty ane made to stand out in the searching sun o' a bright evidence—then shall I be able to say whether it may again be that there is any chance for our being united in the bonds o' matrimony. Till that time shall come, never mention to me the subject o' this conversation."

"Oh Mary, Mary, take back thae terrible words!" said he.

"No; my heart is filled wi' a grief which nane on earth can lessen; and it is a sad change that has come owre me, when I can hae a sorrow which ye canna ken, and though ye kenned it, couldna relieve. Yet sae it is: yer puir Mary is nae langer what she was, and may never be what she was again. The flowers o' Arthur's Seat hae lost their colours and their scents—the bluebells o' the Hunter's Bog ring nae mair peals—and the water o' St Anthony's spring is drumly and dark, as it is when the spirit o' the storms sits on the tap o' the 'Lion's Head.' 'Waly, waly,' is now my sang, the joys o' a bricht morning hae fa'en to the bottom, like the lees o' a vessel o' wine; and I maun drink thae lees, bitter as they may be; for Heaven has said the word, and Mary Glenday is obedient to its behests."

The high-toned determination of the maiden satisfied John that it would be vain to press a suit at present, which was so clearly interdicted by some hidden circumstance. What that could be was a subject of intense interest and curiosity; but, though he thought of it daily and nightly, he could not even approach the mysterious reason which could change a human being so entirely, as to make a light-laughing maiden, high in the hope of being married, a sorrowful and sentimental woman, giving grave injunctions that her intended nuptials should not be broached in her presence. At times John thought that her mind was tinged with a superstitious melancholy, arising from some presentiment that, as their marriage was interrupted in such an awful manner, Heaven had set its decree against it. This opinion deserved weight, from the circumstance that the condition attached by Mary to their union still taking place was the discovery of the author of the murder; but even that condition was itself qualified, as if it depended upon the nature of that discovery whether she would consent to become a wife. The whole matter appeared a mystery, and John could make nothing of it.

The people in the Abbey discovered that Mary Glenday was entirely changed. Her cheek became blanched, and her blue eyes dim; while her general appearance was that of a person labouring under a consumption. She was seldom seen going out, except to church; and even there she never looked up. Many questions were put to her, as to the cause of her dejection, but no satisfactory answers could be got from her. Towards her father, her kindness continued. It was indeed a kindness altogether overdone—the result of a wish to heap attentions on him, as if from a morbid fear that he would not long be preserved to receive or she to impart them. William Glenday was extremely pained by the change which had taken place on his daughter. He could not go out without producing terror in her mind. She was even at times seen following him; and, when he would turn round and perceive her, she would, as if caught and ashamed, slip out of his sight. If any person knocked at the door, she trembled; and if a question was put to her, as to where her father was, her answer was so confused, that very often the inquirer was obliged to go away without the information sought. If any one approached the place where the sword hung, she betrayed uneasiness; and, on one occasion, one of the grooms under her father having taken down the sword to look at it, she fainted. She never allowed her father to wear the coat he had on that night when the murder was committed; and, when he asked for it, she said she could not find it, although it was carefully secreted in one of her drawers.

This state of mind in the unhappy girl was not unknown to Giulio Massetto. He observed her changed appearance, and was well pleased to hear that there was at present no great likelihood of a union between her and John Connal. He was observed often to be watching about the door of the house; and his bold and blustering manner towards John, and his readiness to speak in his presence about Mary, betrayed a kind of triumph, mixed with a hope that he might yet succeed where his most ardent wishes still pointed. He had the boldness, indeed, one day to make up to her, as she came from church; but she shrank away from him, and left him in conversation with her father, who still kept on friendly terms with him.

William Glenday took every method of dispelling his daughter's melancholy. He proposed, one afternoon, a walk to Duddingston, which she reluctantly agreed to. They set off accordingly, and visited an acquaintance who resided there. After they had been there for some time, a messenger, on horseback, and holding another horse, saddled and bridled, in his hand, inquired at the door if William Glenday was within. Mary heard the question, and, having seen the messenger and the horses from the window, rushed out, and cried that her father was not within. Her manner betrayed the utmost agitation. She endeavoured to prevent the servant from stating that William Glenday was in the house; and it was not until her father, who heard the noise, came out, that the messenger could know what was the truth. The people of the house could not account for her conduct on any other principle than that she was deranged. The messenger bore a request that William Glenday should instantly repair to the palace; and having committed Mary to the charge of his friends, he departed.

Mary returned home in the evening. The weather was calm and delightful, and the sun was setting in that fine amber-coloured radiance, which, in Scotland, is often so remarkable on an autumn evening. Wearied by her day's fatigues, she sat down to rest herself. A train of images rose in her mind, which took away all perception of time, or of the increasing shades of evening that gradually closed over her. In the midst of her reverie, she was suddenly startled by a human voice. It was that of Giulio Massetto.

"Anima mia!" cried the Italian, when he saw her. "Mary Glenday here, on the brow of the hill, in the gloom of approaching night! Io Godo! Io Godo! I am well pleased. And now we shall, if it please thee, have some conversation on a subject which, notwithstanding thy coldness, still lies next my heart. Thou knowest how I love thee, my sweet Mary; and I am well pleased to know that thou hast discarded thy old lover, Connal, who was not, indeed, worthy of the love of such a maiden. Thy father I shall yet appease and persuade, if thou wilt but answer to my love." And he held out his hands to embrace her.

"Stand back, sir," said the indignant Mary. "The power does not exist on this earth that can e'er mak Mary Glenday love Giulio Massetto; and Heaven winna interfere in sic an affair. I hae tauld ye aften—and this, I hope, will be the last time—that it is waur than useless to persevere in a suit which I can ne'er gie ony favour or countenance to. Ye may perceive, sir, that I am very far frae being in a guid state o' bodily health; the bloom has gane frae my cheek, and sorrow has flung her gloomy mantle owre the heart whar joy loved ance to dwell. Ye may, if it be yer pleasure, continue to persecute ane wha ne'er wranged ye—ye may shake doun the few lingering grains that remain in the sand-glass o' my life, and hasten the end o' a miserable existence. Ye may do a' this, sir; and when ye hae dune it, what will ye hae accomplished? When ye see the green turf lying on the grave ye hae helped to dig, will that be ony cause o' pride, or exultation, or thanksgiving? If it will, or if it can, then I truly say that the heart o' an Italian is no like that o' a Scotsman. Let me gang, sir, or I will wauken the spirit o' this place wi' the cries o' a determined and desperate woman."

"I cry thee mercy, maiden," replied Giulio, perfectly unmoved, except by hurt pride and bitterness. "I'osservo something troubles thee, and thou makest that a reason for rejecting my love; but what wouldst thou say if Giulio Massetto, whom thou despisest so much, could tell thee of the cause of thy illness. It is sometimes more easy to take the grief from the heart of an unwilling maiden, than to wash the gore from a sword, or from a garment which has been drenched in the heart's blood of a friend."

These words operated like lightning on the unhappy Mary. She intuitively fell on her knees, clasped the Italian's legs, clinging to them with the grasp of death—struggled for breath and power to speak, and convulsively screamed, "Tak—tak back thae words, and tell me that ye never uttered them—say that ye didna see me wash the sword, and scoor it, and hang it up i' my faither's room—say that I didna wash the bluid frae my faither's coat, and dry it at the fire—say that, and—and—Mary Glenday will——"

"What?" said the cold-blooded Italian; "wilt thou become my wife?" These words recalled Mary's wandering senses, but only to consign them to the power of exhausted nature. She fell senseless at the feet of her perfidious persecutor. Approaching footsteps were at this instant heard, which caused the Italian to retreat; and, when Mary recovered, she found herself in the arms of her father, who led her slowly home.

When examined by her father, Mary pretended that some unknown person had surprised her on the hill. Her father stated that he thought he perceived Giulio Massetto part from her when he came up. To this she gave no very distinct answer, pretending that she was not very sure whether it was Giulio or not. This was not at all satisfactory to her father, because he was aware that she had fainted in consequence of the violence of the person who had suddenly left her on his approach; and if Giulio had been the individual, she could not have failed to know him. He felt unwilling, however, to press his daughter farther, because she seemed quite incapable of supporting any lengthened conversation on this subject, which seemed to be one of great pain to her.

The weight upon the mind of Mary increased; for she was now overcome by a feeling of total dependence upon the will of another. The depression of spirits produced by this accession to her disquietude acted with increased force on her frame, which daily became more attenuated. It was observed that she now ceased entirely from speaking of Giulio Massetto with disrespect or anger. When his name was mentioned, she was spell-bound and silent. One night a noise was heard at the window, as if some person had tapped at it in a peculiar and concerted way. William Glenday looked at his daughter, and asked what it was; she replied it was rats, and that she had heard the sound often. In a short interval, however, she arose from her seat, and signified to her father that she had occasion to leave the house for a few minutes. The latter asked her whither she intended to go, adding, that, in her present weak state, she had better remain in the house. She replied, she was just going to visit a neighbour; and her father not having suspected any connection between the sound at the window and the departure of his daughter, offered no further opposition to her expressed wish.

It was about ten o'clock when Mary went out; eleven struck, and she was no yet come home. William Glenday became alarmed, and sent to inquire if she was in the neighbour's house she had mentioned. The servant came back, and informed him that she had not called there for many months. This increased her father's alarm, and he ran immediately over to the house of John Connal, to inquire if she was there. John said that he had not seen her for some days; but his affection for her suggested stronger dread than that felt even by her father; and seizing his hat, he rushed out of the house to search for the object nearest to his heart. On going round the King's Park, he thought he observed two people standing in the shadow of a house at the corner of the clump of trees, called at that time the "King's Orchard." On coming nearer, he heard the voice of Giulio Massetto, and then that of Mary Glenday. He was struck with intense agony. Could it be that he was now, in his turn, the unsuccessful rival of the Italian? Everything indicated that fact; and his fancy, fired by jealousy, now saw distinctly the reason why Mary would not consent to name another day for their marriage. Her statements about the murder of his father were used as a device to get quit of her obligation and pledge to him, and leave her at liberty to wed his rival. Her bad health was produced by the intensity of a new passion, and the struggle between conscience and inclination. Her distress, on being surprised by her father on the night of their visit to Duddingston, was all affectation; for, as her father himself had stated, she had been in the company of the Italian, and wished to conceal it.

Stung to the heart by this supposed baseness on the part of his lover, John went forward, determined that either he or Giulio should die on the spot. Before he came up, however, the pair separated—the Italian going one way, and Mary another. John followed Mary, and overtook her.

"Is that you, Mary Glenday?" he cried. "What are ye doing here at this time o' nicht?"

"O John, dinna ask me what I'm doing here," answered Mary; "but let me get hame, where I hae mair need to be than in this place at sic an untimous hour."

"Why are ye here, then, Mary?" said John, with asperity.

"Because I have need to be here," answered she. "And if ye love me, dinna, for heaven's sake, ask me ony mair aboot it."

"Had Giulio, the Italian, need to be here too?" asked John, significantly.

"I winna answer that question, John," answered Mary, "nor ony ither ye may put to me. I can only say, that, if ye wish to add to the misery o' ane wha loves ye wi' a' the force o' a breakin heart—wha is worn down to the weakness o' a silly thread, by what she canna reveal to mortal—ye hae it in yer power noo to snap it asunder, and send yer ain Mary to sleep wi' yer murdered faither, in the Canongate kirkyard. Speak but ane or twa mair o' thae sharp words ye hae noo spoken, and ye will hae nae mair to do. I hae only to beg, that if ye love me, ye will say naething o' what ye hae seen or heard this nicht. The chough and the craw are gane to their rest—gae awa to yours; and, as they were heedless o' what was said and heard by me as I stood yonder under their sheltering tree, be ye equally heedless and equally mute. Nae mair. The life o' Mary Glenday depends on yer discretion!"

As she said these words, she beckoned to John not to go with her. She went in the direction of home; and he, with a heavy heart, stung with jealousy—and yet satisfied by her extraordinary conduct that there was something unexplained, feeling himself bound to conceal his emotions and obey her commands—went home also.

In the morning, William Glenday called at John's house, to inquire if he had seen Mary on the previous night. She had been, he said, late in returning—her spirits were getting worse, her health fast declining, and everything indicated some mental disease, or some secret of an extraordinary character, preying upon her mind. John denied having seen her, and gave a confused assent to what her father stated. This account did not agree with that given by Mary, who had said that she saw John Connal on the previous night. William Glenday became, in his turn, suspicious of John, and now began to think that he was acting dishonourably by his daughter—a circumstance that would, of itself, account for her state of health and spirits. He, however, said nothing, and departed.

Two nights afterwards, when William Glenday returned home about ten o'clock at night, he was told that Mary had gone out; and the servant said she thought there was some strange noise at the window before she departed. Her father was now satisfied that she had left the house to meet John, and resolved to go himself and ascertain the truth of his suspicions. He went and called at John's house; and having found that he had not yet come in, went away to the darkest parts of the neighbourhood, to see if he could discover whither they had gone. He had not proceeded far when he met two men carrying a female. This was his daughter, in a state of insensibility. She was supported by John and another person. They conveyed her to the house; and having applied some stimulants, she recovered. William Glenday, with much asperity, blamed young Connal for not acting honourably towards his daughter, whose affections he said he was trampling on. The other defended himself as far as he could, without betraying Mary. He said he had met the stranger bearing her in his arms, and that he assisted him merely in carrying her homewards. The stranger, on his part, said he belonged to Leith, and that, as he went along by the entry from the south back of the Canongate to the Abbey, he saw the young woman standing with a man—that she was supplicating him not to do something which he threatened to do; whereupon he said, in a threatening and angry tone, that, unless she yielded to him within an hour, he would lodge an information the next day; and he swore that he would fulfil his threat. On his swearing, the young girl fell into a swoon; and her companion suddenly disappeared on seeing the narrator come up to her assistance. William Glenday could make nothing of this story, and Mary refused to say anything in explanation.

On the following day, two officers called at William Glenday's house, and showed him a warrant for his apprehension upon a charge for the murder of Peter Connal. Mary heard the statement of the men, and went again into a swoon. When she recovered, her father had been taken to prison.

A precognition was now led by the crown lawyers. Giulio Massetto was examined, and stated that, on the night of the murder, he saw Mary Glenday pick up a sword, which she found lying on the ground near the place where Peter Connal was slain; that he afterwards saw her, through the window, washing the blood from her father's sword and coat. Glenday's servant was next examined, who stated that she saw Mary washing the sword and her father's coat, by looking through the key-hole of the door. Mary was next called; but she refused to say anything against her father; and she was not pressed. Several witnesses, however, were examined, who asserted that a quarrel took place between Peter Connal and William Glenday, on the day of the murder, respecting the amount of the tocher which Peter's son was to get from William Glenday with his daughter. This evidence the crown-officers conceived to be very strong, and nothing that the prisoner could say tended to affect it. The gentleman to whom, on the night that the murder was perpetrated, he said he conveyed the hound, was a Frenchman, then living at Leith, who wished to introduce a breed into France, for which country he had departed. He therefore could not prove an alibi. In addition to all this, the sword itself was produced, and a coat was found in Mary's cabinet, which presented all the appearances of having been washed. It was proved, too, that her father was never seen to wear that coat; and the groom referred to in a previous part of this narrative, said that Mary Glenday had nearly fainted one day when he took down the sword to look at it.

As the evidence gradually transpired and came to the ears of Mary, the effect produced upon her was of a character so intense, that no person thought she could support life under its influence. A series of swoons for many days seemed to divide her life with death. Her nerves suffered alternations of high excitement and the lowest depression; and, at times, her screams were heard far from the house, and by passengers going along the street. In quieter moments, she cried for Giulio Massetto, and said she would now consent to his conditions. The people around her conceived she was raving, and paid no attention to her wild request; though they could not restrain their tears, when they thought of the extraordinary fate of the unfortunate girl. Her early and romantic love for John Connal—the interruption of her marriage by the death of her intended father-in-law—her sufferings under the terror, very far from being causeless, that her father would expiate on the scaffold the crime of murdering her lover's parent;—these things became topics of ordinary conversation, and brought tears to the eyes of many; but no one on earth knew all the sufferings of Mary Glenday. Her restless nights—her frightful dreams—her cold shivering fears, real and imaginary—her dependence on the word of a villain for the life of a parent—the conduct she was obliged to pursue towards her lover, for whom her affection had not diminished—and the nervous state of body into which she had fallen, formed a load of misery which would have bowed the head of an ordinary mortal to the grave.

Nor was the poor maiden now far from that place of rest. No extenuating evidence could be procured for her father, and the trial was fixed to take place within a fortnight. Every day of this period brought her more near to the termination of a mortal's career. She gradually sank to the last stage of life. The medical gentleman who attended her saw that she could not survive the period of the trial. John Connal was continually by her bedside. He had forgotten and forgiven all; though he had not got a proper explanation of her mysterious conduct. A faint glimmering of light, however, found its way into his mind; but any hope produced by it was in a moment clouded by the dreadful thought, that she had all along suspected her father to be the murderer of his parent, and had even taken means to conceal it, if she did not, by washing the sword and her father's coat, absolutely approve of it. When these thoughts came across young Connal's mind, he flew from the object of his love, beating his breast in agony; but pity again recalled him; and between so many conflicting passions, he was next to being a madman.

One night he had been sitting with her to a late hour. She was too far reduced to enter into anything like conversation—a few words being all that ever passed; and these were of the most ominous character. After a long pause, and when she seemed to be occupied with thoughts of her approaching death, she started up in an instant, and laid hold of John, who was sitting by her bedside. "Ken ye Mary Gray, John?" she cried, with a wild scream—"ken ye that woman that is ca'ed Mary's Marion?"

"I do," answered John; "what aboot her, my dear Mary?"

"Awa to her!" she cried—"awa to her! wi' the flicht o' light. A thocht has come into my head—why has it been sae lang o' comin? Ask her if she threw ony bluid on my faither's coat on that awfu nicht when yer faither was murdered?"

With the effort produced by speaking these words, she fell back exhausted. John went in search of Mary Gray. She was not in the house; but a young girl told him that she had met her with a man in the Hunter's Bog. He hurried away to that lonely place. It was now dark, but the night was quiet; and, though he could not see far, he could hear with the greatest distinctness. About the middle of the glen, he heard two persons engaged in conversation.

"For the twa gowd pieces ye gied to me," said a woman, "for assistin ye in the matter o' fat Peter's death, I dinna thank ye, Giulio, because I wrocht for it! Hang ye for an Italian dog! do ye think that Scotch lasses are sae blate as to forget their bargains! Na, na—I hae got naething frae ye for this last fortnicht, and I'm this nicht in want—so gie me the silver pieces ye are awin me."

"It is neither gold nor silver that insolence will get out of an Italian, Mary Gray," said Giulio. "It is another metal that he gives—at least to a male."

"And did puir Peter Connal," answered she, "gie ye ony insolence when ye slew him sae unmercifully wi' William Glenday's sword, that ye got me to steal for ye frae his house, as if ye hadna had ane o' yer ain."

"Yes," answered the Italian. "He was insolent to me when he abused my master, calling him an Italian piper, and saying he should be hanged for his services to our gracious queen."

"And wherefore did ye put the crime on William Glenday," asked Mary, "by using his sword, and getting me to throw bluid on the puir man's coat when he passed my hoose?"

"Because," said Giulio, "he was also insolent to me. He refused me his daughter—taunted me about my money, my speech, and my country. Besides, I wished to stop his daughter's marriage with John Connal, which the suspicion attaching to him could not fail to do. I was, besides, freed from any suspicion of doing the deed myself. Other circumstances arose from chance, favourable to me; for I did not count upon Mary's secreting the sword, and washing her father's coat, which thou knowest has come out in evidence against her."

"And it is a strange thing, Giulio," said she, "seeing that yer life is in my hands, that ye should treat me as ye are noo doin, denyin me the silver piece sae justly due to me. Are ye no feared I gang up the street yonder, to the council chaumer, and mak a contract atween you and the black knave wha hugs his freends sae closely aboot the craig?"

"Thy life would answer for it," said Giulio, sternly.

"And what would Mary's Marion," answered she, "care for a spark, whilk only noo throws oot a glimmer to show her her shame?"

"Thou jokest, I presume," answered Giulio.

"I will tell ye that," answered Mary, "when I get my silver piece. Tempt nae mair the wrath o' an angry woman, wha has only to say the word that will mak yer feet dance i' the air, to a tune o' your ain whistling. It winna be Davie Rizzio that will save ye if Mary says the word."

The Italian struck the woman violently, who fell, uttering a loud scream. As John Connal rushed forward, Giulio fled, pursued by the threats and imprecations of Mary, who, upon returning, was grateful to John for delivering her from his violence.

Next day Mary Gray was examined by the procurator-fiscal. She gave a detailed account of Giulio's having bribed her to steal William Glenday's sword; and afterwards, when he had killed Peter Connal, to throw blood on Glenday's coat as he passed her door. John Connal gave next his account of the conversation he had heard between the Italian and Mary Gray. Other witnesses were examined to prove Giulio's quarrel with Peter, and also with William Glenday; and one man stated, that when Giulio joined the people who were rushing out of the palace to see the fray, he seemed to approach them at an angle, as if he had not come direct from the palace. In addition to all this, Mary Glenday, who was examined in bed, gave a satisfactory account of her actings, as they have been already detailed.

The aspect of matters was now changed. William Glenday was liberated, and the Italian put in his place. He was afterwards tried, condemned, and hanged. Mary Glenday recovered, and explained everything to the satisfaction of her lover to whom she was afterwards married.