He told Lovel that he had been at the Sheriff's that very day, and had got it from the clerk himself that a warrant had been issued on Monkbarns's demand for the apprehension of Lovel. The old beggar had come hastily to warn the young man, thinking that perhaps it might be some matter of debt. But the appearance of Captain MacIntyre and his second, Mr. Lesley, soon informed him otherwise.

The antagonists approached and saluted with the stern civility of the place and occasion. MacIntyre instantly ordered the old fellow off the field.

"I am an auld fellow," said Edie, "but I am also an auld soldier of your father's, and I served with him in the 42nd."

"Serve where you please," said MacIntyre, hotly, "you have no title to intrude on us. Be off with you—or—"

He lifted his cane as if to threaten the old man. But the insult roused Edie's ancient courage.

"Hold down your switch, Captain MacIntyre! I am an auld soldier, and I'll tak' muckle from your father's son—but not a touch o' the wand while my pike-staff will hold together!"

"I was wrong—I was wrong," said MacIntyre, relenting, "here is a crown for you—go your ways."

But Edie refused the money, exhorting the young men to go and fight the French instead of each other, if they were so fighting hot. But neither his words nor the efforts of the seconds could reconcile MacIntyre to the man with whom he had from the first resolved to quarrel.

The ground was measured out by the seconds, while old Edie stood unheeded at the side muttering, "Bairns, bairns—madmen, I should rather say! Weel, your blood be on your heads!"

The fatal signal was given. Both fired almost at the same moment. Captain MacIntyre's ball grazed the side of his opponent, but failed to draw blood. That of Lovel was more true to the aim. MacIntyre reeled and fell. Raising himself on his arm, his first exclamation was: "It is nothing—it is nothing! Give us the other pistols!"

But the moment after he added in a lower tone: "I believe I have enough, and what's worse, I fear I deserve it. Mr. Lovel, or whatever your name is, fly and save yourself. Bear witness all of you, I alone provoked the quarrel."

Then raising himself on his arm, he added: "Shake hands, Lovel. I believe you to be a gentleman—forgive my rudeness, and I forgive you my death!"

Lovel stood dizzy and bewildered, while the ship's surgeon approached to do his part. But presently his arm was grasped by Edie, who hurried him off the field with the assistance of Lieutenant Taffril, his late second.

"He is right—he is right!" exclaimed Taffril, "go with him—there, into the wood—not by the highroad. Let him bring you to the sands at three of the morning. A boat will be in waiting to take you off to my brig, which will sail at once."

"Yes—fly—fly!" said the wounded man, his voice faltering as he spoke.

"It is madness to stay here," added Taffril.

"It was worse than madness ever to have come!" said Lovel, following his uncouth guide into the thicket. As he went up the valley he realised the bitterness of remorse that comes too late. He had passed that way in the morning, innocent, and now—he had the stain of blood upon his hands.

II. THE SEEKERS OF TREASURE

Edie guided him along a deep ravine till they came to a precipice of rock overhung with brushwood and copse. Here completely concealed was the mouth of a cave, where, as Edie said, they would be in perfect safety. Only two other persons knew of its existence, and these two were at present far away. The cavern was in the shape of a cross, and had evidently been the abode of some anchorite of a time long past. In the corner was a turning stair, narrow but quite passable, which communicated with the chapel above—and so, by a winding passage in the thickness of the wall, with the interior of the priory of St. Ruth.

Twilight faded into night, and the night itself wore away, while Edie sat telling Lovel all the old-world tales he could lay his tongue to, in order to keep the mind of the young man from brooding over his situation. They sat close together on a little watch-tower niched deep in the wall, and breathed the night air, while waiting for the hour at which they must betake them to the beach, to meet the boat which Lieutenant Taffril was to have in readiness.

Midnight approached, the moon rose high in the sky above, but the voice of the Blue-Gown still droned on, telling his tales of old time, when suddenly Lovel, whose ears were quicker, laid his hand on his companion's arm.

"Hush," he whispered, "I hear some one speaking!"

So saying Lovel pointed in the direction of the sound,—toward the door of the chancel at the west end of the building, where a carved window let in a flood of moonlight upon the floor.

Two human figures detached themselves from the darkness and advanced. The lantern which one of them carried gleamed pale in the bright moonlight. It was evident in a moment by their motions that they could not be officers searching for Lovel. As they approached nearer, the beggar recognised the two figures as those of Dousterswivel and Sir Arthur.

Lovel was about to retreat, but a touch on the arm from the old Blue-Gown convinced him that his best course was to remain quiet where he was. In case of any alarm, there was always the passage behind, and they could gain the shelter of the wood long before any pursuit would be possible.

Dousterswivel was evidently making some proposition about which Sir Arthur was uncertain.

"Great expense—great expense!" were the first words they heard him mutter.

"Expenses—to be sure," said Dousterswivel; "there must be great expenses. You do not expect to reap before you do sow the seed. Now, Sir Arthur, you have sowed this night a little pinch of ten guineas, and if you do not reap the big harvest, it is because you have only sowed a little pinch of seed. Much seed sown, much harvest reaped. That is the way to find treasure. You shall see, Sir Arthur, mine worthy patron!"

The German now put before his dupe a little silver plate engraved with strange signs, squares of nine times nine figures, flying serpents with turkey-cocks' heads, and other wonderful things. Then having professed to lay out the baronet's ten guineas in what he called "suffumigations,"—that is, to scare away the demons which kept guard over the treasures,—he informed him that he was ready to proceed. The treasure itself could not be obtained till the stroke of midnight. But in the meanwhile he was willing to show Sir Arthur the guardian demon of the treasure-house, which, "like one fierce watchdog" (as the pretended wizard explained), could be called up by his magic power.

But Sir Arthur was not particularly keen to see such marvels. He thought they had little enough time as it was, and if he could get the treasures, he preferred, supposing it to be the same thing to his guide, to let sleeping demons lie.

"But I could show you the spirit very well," said Dousterswivel. "I would draw a circle with a pentagon, and make my suffumigation within it, while you kept the demon at bay with a drawn sword. You would see first a hole open in the solid wall. Then through it would come one stag pursued by three black greyhounds. They would pull him down, and then one black ugly negro would appear and take the stag from them. Then, paff! all would be gone. After that horns would be winded, and in would come the great Peolphan, the Mighty Hunter of the North, mounted on his black steed—but you are sure that you do not care to see all this?"

"Why, I am not afraid," said the poor baronet, "that is, if—do any mishaps ever happen on such occasions?"

"Bah—mischiefs, no!" said the German. "Sometimes if the circle be no quite just, or the beholder be frightened and not hold the sword firm and straight toward him, the Great Hunter will take his advantage, and drag him exorcist out of the circle and throttle him. That happen sometimes."

This was quite enough for Sir Arthur, who did not desire any intercourse with demons on such terms.

Whereupon Dousterswivel, the time of midnight being near, set fire to a little pile of chips, which instantly burned up with a bright light. Then when the flame was at its highest, he cast into the blaze a handful of perfumes which smoked with a strong and pungent odour. This made both Dousterswivel and his pupil cough and sneeze heartily, and by and by, the vapour mounting upward, it found out Lovel and Edie in their high watch-tower, making them also sneeze loudly in their turn.

"Was that an echo? Or are there others present in this place?" cried the baronet, astonished at the sound.

"No, no," said the German, who had so long employed himself with magic that he had grown half to believe in it, "no—at least, I hope not!"

Here a complete fit of sneezing, together with a kind of hollow grunting cough from Edie Ochiltree, so alarmed the wizard that he would have fled at once, had not Sir Arthur prevented him by force.

"You juggling villain," cried the baronet, whom impending ruin made desperate, "this is some trick of yours to get off fulfilling your bargain. Show me the treasure you have promised, or by the faith of a ruined man, I will send you where you will see spirits enough!"

"Consider, my honoured patron," said the now thoroughly frightened treasure-seeker, "this is not the best treatment. And then the demons—"



At this moment Edie Ochiltree, entering fully into the spirit of the scene, gave vent to a prolonged and melancholy howl.

Dousterswivel flung himself on his knees.

"Dear Sir Arthurs," he cried, "let us go—or at least let me go!"

"No, you cheating scoundrel," cried the knight, unsheathing his sword, "that shift shall not serve you. I will see the treasure before I leave this place—or I will run my sword through you as an impostor, though all the spirits of the dead should rise around us!"

"For the love of Heaven, be patient, mine honoured patron," said the German, "you shall have all the treasure I knows of—you shall, indeed! But do not speak about the spirits. It makes them angry!"

Muttering exorcisms and incantations all the while, Dousterswivel proceeded to a flat stone in the corner, which bore on its surface the carved likeness of an armed warrior.

He muttered to Sir Arthur: "Mine patrons, it is here! God save us all!"

Together they managed to heave up the stone, and then Dousterswivel with a mattock and shovel proceeded to dig. He had not thrown out many spadefuls, when something was heard to ring on the ground with the sound of falling metal. Then the treasure-seeker, snatching up the object which his mattock had thrown out, exclaimed: "On mine dear word, mine patrons, this is all. I mean all that we can do to-night!"

"Let me see it," said Sir Arthur, sternly, "I will be satisfied—I will judge with my own eyes!"

He held the object up in the light of the lantern. It was a small case of irregular shape, which, from the joyful exclamation of the baronet, seemed to be filled with coin.

"Ah!" said Sir Arthur; "this is good luck, indeed. This is a beginning. We will try again at the very next change of the moon. That six hundred pounds I owe to Goldieword would be ruin indeed unless I can find something to meet it. But this puts new hope into me!"

But now Dousterswivel was more than ever eager to be gone, and he hurried Sir Arthur away with his treasure, having only taken time to thrust back the earth and replace the tombstone roughly in its place, so as to leave no very obvious traces of the midnight search for treasure.

III. MISTICOT'S GRAVE

The hour of going to meet the boat was now approaching, and Edie conducted Lovel by a solitary path through the woods to the sea-shore. There in the first level beams of the rising sun, they saw the little gun-brig riding at anchor in the offing. Taffril himself met his friend, and eased Lovel's mind considerably by telling him that Captain MacIntyre's wound, though doubtful, was far from desperate, and that he trusted a short cruise would cover all the consequences of his unfortunate encounter.

Lovel offered gold to the beggar, but Edie once more refused it, declaring that he thought all the folk had "gone clean daft."

"I have had more gold offered to me these last two or three weeks," he said, "than I have seen in all my life before. Na, na, take back your guineas, and for luck let me have but one lily-white shilling!"

The boat put off toward the lieutenant's brig, impelled by six stout rowers. Lovel saw the old beggar wave his blue bonnet to him, before turning slowly about as if to resume his customary wanderings from farm to farm, and from village to village.

* * * * *

So excellently well did Captain MacIntyre progress toward recovery that in a little while the Antiquary declared it clean impossible for him to get a single bite of breakfast, or have his wig made decent, or a slice of unburnt toast to eat—all because his womenfolk were in constant attendance upon the wounded Captain, whose guns and spaniels filled the house, and for whom even the faithful Caxon ran messages, while his own master waited for him in his chamber, fuming and stamping the while.

But as his sister often said, and as all who knew him, knew—"Monkbarns's bark was muckle waur than his bite."

But an unexpected visit from Sir Arthur soon gave the Antiquary other matters to think about. The Baronet came, so he said, to ask his old friend's advice about the disposal of a sum of money. The Antiquary drew from a right-hand corner of his desk a red-covered book, of which Sir Arthur hated the very sight, and suggested that if he had money to dispose of, it might be as well to begin by clearing off encumbrances, of which the debt marked in his own red book accounted for no less than eleven hundred and thirteen pounds. But Sir Arthur put away the red book as if Monkbarns had offered him so much physic, and hastened to say that if the Antiquary would wait a few days, he would have the sum in full—that is, if he would take it in bullion.

The Antiquary inquired from what Eldorado this treasure was forthcoming.

"Not far from here," said Sir Arthur, confidently, "and now I think of it, you shall see the whole process in working, on one small condition."

"And what is that?" inquired the Antiquary.

"That it will be necessary to give me your friendly assistance, by advancing the small sum of one hundred pounds."

The Antiquary, who had been rejoicing in the hope of getting both principal and interest of a debt which he had long thought desperate, could only gasp out the words, "Advance one hundred pounds!"

"Yes, my good sir," said Sir Arthur, "but upon the best possible security of having it repaid in the course of a few days."

To this the Antiquary said nothing. He had heard the like before from Sir Arthur's lips. So the Baronet went on to explain. "Mr. Dousterswivel having discovered—"

But the Antiquary would not listen. His eyes sparkled with indignation. "Sir Arthur," he said, "I have so often warned you against that rascally quack, that I wonder you quote him to me!"

But this time Sir Arthur had something to show for his faith in the expert. He placed a large ram's horn with a copper cover in his friend's hand. It contained Scottish, English, and foreign coins of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Most were silver but some were of gold, and, as even the Antiquary allowed, of exceeding rarity.

"These," said the Baronet, "were found at midnight, at the last full moon, in the ruins of St. Ruth's Priory, in the course of an experiment of which I was myself the witness."

"Indeed," said Oldbuck, "and what means of discovery did you employ?"

"Only a simple suffumigation," said the Baronet, "accompanied by availing ourselves of a suitable planetary hour."

"Simple suffumigation! Simple nonsensification! Planetary hour—planetary fiddlestick! My dear Sir Arthur, the fellow has made a gull of you under ground, and now he would make a gull of you above ground!"

"Well, Mr. Oldbuck," said the Baronet, "I am obliged to you for your opinion of my discernment, but you will at least give me credit for seeing what I say I saw!"

"I will give you credit for saying that you saw what you thought you saw!"

"Well, then," said the Baronet, "as there is a heaven above us, Mr. Oldbuck, I saw with my own eyes these coins dug out of the chancel of St. Ruth's at midnight! And if I had not been there, I doubt if Dousterswivel would have had the courage to go through with it!"

The Antiquary inquired how much the discovery had cost.

"Only ten guineas," said the Baronet, "but this time it is to cost a hundred and fifty pounds, but of course the results will be in proportion. Fifty I have already given him, and the other hundred I thought you might be able to assist me with."

The Antiquary mused.

"This cannot be meant as a parting blow," he said; "it is not of consequence enough. He will probably let you win this game also, as sharpers do with raw gamesters. Sir Arthur, will you permit me to speak to Dousterswivel? I think I can recover the treasure for you without making any advance of money."

Dousterswivel had on his part no desire to see the Laird of Monkbarns. He was more in fear of him than even of the spirits of the night. Still he could not refuse, when summoned to leave Sir Arthur's carriage and face the two gentlemen in the study at Monkbarns.

The Antiquary then and there told him that he and Sir Arthur proposed to trench the whole area of the chancel of St. Ruth, in plain daylight, with good substantial pickaxes and shovels, and so, without further expense, ascertain for themselves the truth as to the existence of this hidden treasure.

"Bah," said the German, "you will not find one copper thimble. But it is as Sir Arthur likes—once I have showed him the real method. If he likes to try others, he only loses the gold and the silver, that is all!"

The journey to the Priory was made in silence, each of the party having enough on his mind to employ his thoughts. Edie Ochiltree joined them at the ruins, and when the Antiquary pulled out of his pocket the ram's horn in which the coins had been found, Edie claimed it at once for a snuff-box of his which he had bartered with a miner at Mr. Dousterswivel's excavations in Glen Withershins.

"And that brings it very near a certain friend of ours," said the Antiquary to Sir Arthur. "I trust we shall be as successful to-day without having to pay for it."

It was decided to begin operations at the tomb with the carven figure on top—the same which Sir Arthur and Dousterswivel had disturbed on a former occasion, but which neither the Antiquary nor Edie ever remembered to have seen before. It appeared, however, that a large pile of rubbish, which had formerly filled up the corner of the ruins, must have been dispersed in order to bring it to light.

But the diggers reached the bottom of the grave, without finding either treasure or coffin.

"Some cleverer chield has been before us," said one of the men.

But Edie pushed them impatiently aside, and leaping into the grave, he cried, "Ye are good seekers, but bad finders!"

For the first stroke of his pike-staff into the bottom of the pit hit upon something hard and resisting.

All now crowded around. The labourers resumed their task with good-will, and soon a broad surface of wood was laid bare, and a heavy chest was raised to the surface, the lid of which, being forced with a pickaxe, displayed, beneath coarse canvas bags and under a quantity of oakum, a large number of ingots of solid silver.

The Antiquary inspected them one by one, always expecting that the lower layers would prove to be less valuable. But he was at last obliged to admit that the Baronet had really and truly possessed himself of treasure to the amount of about one thousand pounds.

It chanced that Edie Ochiltree had observed Dousterswivel stand somewhat disconsolate and sad, looking into the open grave. Age had not dulled Edie's wit, nor caused him to relish less a boyish prank. His quick eye had caught some writing on the lid of the box of treasure, and while all were admiring the solid ingots of precious metal laid bare before them, Edie kicked the piece of wood aside without being observed by any one.

Then, with all due caution, he whispered to Dousterswivel that there must certainly be more and better treasure yet to be brought to light in the place where the silver had been found, and that if he would wait only a little behind the others he would show him proof of it. When they were alone he showed him on the lid of the treasure-chest the words, written in black letter:

"Search—Number One"

Dousterswivel at once agreed to meet Edie at midnight within the ruins of the Priory, and he kept his word. It was a stormy night, great clouds being hurried across the face of the moon, and the woods were bending and moaning in the fierce blast. Edie marched up and down while he waited for the German, shouldering his pike-staff, and dreaming that he was back again on the outposts with a dozen hostile riflemen hidden in front of him.

After a little, Dousterswivel arrived, having brought with him a horse and saddle-bags in which to carry away the expected treasure. Edie led him once more to the place of the former search—to the grave of the Armed Knight. On the way he told his companion the tale of that Malcolm Misticot whose treasure was supposed to have been found and rifled that day.

"There is a story that the Misticot walks," said Edie; "it's an awesome nicht and an uncanny to be meeting the like of him here. Besides he might not be best pleased to come upon us when we were trying to lift his treasure!"

"For the love of Heaven," said Dousterswivel, "say nothing at all, either about somebodies or nobodies!"

Edie leaped into the grave and began to strike; but he soon tired or pretended to tire. So he called out to the German that turn and turn about was fair play. Whereupon, fired with the desire for wealth, Dousterswivel began to strike and shovel the earth with all his might, while Edie encouraged him, standing very much at his ease by the side of the hole.

"At it again," he cried; "strike—strike! What for are ye stopping, man?"

"Stopping," cried the German, angrily, looking out of the grave at his tormentor; "I am down at the bed-rock, I tell you!"

"And that's the likeliest place of any," said Edie; "it will just be a big broad stone laid down to cover the treasure. Ah, that's it! There was a Wallace stroke indeed! It's broken! Hurrah, boys, there goes Ringan's pickaxe! It's a shame o' the Fairport folk to sell such frail gear. Try the shovel; at it again, Maister Dousterdeevil!"

But this time the German, without replying, leaped out of the pit, and shouted in a voice that trembled with anger, "Does you know, Mr. Edie Ochiltree, who it is you are putting off your gibes and your jests upon? You base old person, I will cleave your skull-piece with this shovels!"

"Ay," said Edie, "and where do ye think my pike-staff would be a' the time?"

But Dousterswivel, growing more and more furious, heaved up the broken pickaxe to smite his tormentor dead—which, indeed, he might have done had not Edie, suddenly pointing with his hand, exclaimed in a stern voice, "Do ye think that heaven and earth will suffer ye to murder an auld man that gate—a man that might be your father? Look behind you, man!"

Dousterswivel turned, and beheld, to his utter astonishment, a tall dark figure standing close behind him. Whether this was the angry Misticot or not, the newcomer certainly lifted a sturdy staff and laid it across the rascal's back, bestowing on him half-a-dozen strokes so severe that he fell to the ground, where he lay some minutes half unconscious with pain and terror.

When the German came to himself, he was lying close to Misticot's open grave on the soft earth which had been thrown out. He began to turn his mind to projects of revenge. It must, he thought, be either Monkbarns or Sir Arthur who had done this, in order to be revenged upon him. And his mind finally deciding upon the latter, as most likely to have set Edie Ochiltree on to deceive him, he determined from that moment to achieve the ruin of his "dear and honoured patron" of the last five years.

As he left the precincts of the ruined Priory, he continued his vows of vengeance against Edie and all associated with him. He had, he declared aloud, been assaulted and murdered, besides being robbed of fifty pounds as well. He would, on the very next day, put the law in motion "against all the peoples"—but against Edie Ochiltree first of all.

A QUITE SUPERFLUOUS INTERLUDE

The snow was now deep in the woods about the library. It lay sleek and drifted upon the paths, a broad-flaked, mortar-like snow, evidently produced on the borderland between thawing and freezing.

"It is fine and buttery," said Hugh John, with a glance of intention at Sir Toady Lion, which was equal to any challenge ever sent from Douglas to Percy—or even that which Mr. Lesley carried for Hector MacIntyre to Mr. Lovel's Fairport lodgings.

Sir Toady nodded with fierce willingness. He scented the battle from afar.

"Ten yards then, twenty snowballs made before you begin, and then go as you please. But no rushing in, before first volley!"

"And no holding the balls under the drip of the kitchen roof!" said Hugh John, who had suffered from certain Toady Lionish practices which personally he scorned.

"Well, then," said I, "out you go in your jerseys for one hot half-hour. But no standing about, mind!"

Sweetheart and Maid Margaret looked exceedingly wistful.

"Of course," I said, "Sweetheart will want to go on with her knitting, but if she likes, the Maid can watch them from the window."

"Oo-oh!" said Maid Margaret, "I should like to go too!"

"And I should not mind going either," admitted Sweetheart, "just to see that they did not hurt the Maid. They are such rough boys!"

So it was arranged, as I had known it would be from the first. The snow was still falling, but the wind had gone down. There was to be no standing still, and afterward they were to change immediately for dinner. These were the conditions of permitted civil strife.

"Please, is rolling in the snow permitted?" said Hugh John, to whom this was a condition of importance.

"Why, yes," said I, "that is, if you catch the enemy out of his intrenchments."

"Um-m-m-m!" said Hugh John, grimly rubbing his hands, "I'll catch him." In a lower tone he added, "And I'll teach him to put snowballs in the drip!"

As he spoke, he mimicked the motions of one who shoves snow down inside the collar of his adversary.

The cover of a deal box, with a soap advertisement on it, made a very fair intrenching tool, and soon formidable snow-works could be seen rising rapidly on the slopes of the clothes' drying ground, making a semicircle about that corner which contained the big iron swing, erect on its two tall posts. Hugh John and Maid Margaret, the attacking party, were still invisible, probably concocting a plan. But Sweetheart and Sir Toady, laughing and jesting as at some supreme stratagem, were busily employed throwing up the snow till it was nearly breast-high. The formation of the ground was in their favour. It fell away rapidly on all sides, except to the north, where the position was made impregnable by a huge prickly hedge.

Nominally they were supposed to be enacting The Antiquary, but actually I could not see that the scene without bore any precise relation to what they had been hearing within. Perhaps, however, the day was too cold and stormy for standing upon the exactitudes of history.

I did not remain all the time a spectator of the fray. The stated duel of twenty balls was over before I again reached the window. The combatants had entered upon the go-as-you-please stage. Indeed, I could gather so much even at my desk, by the confusion of yells and slogans emitted by the contending parties.

Presently the cry of "It's not fair!" brought me to the window.

Hugh John and Maid Margaret had evidently gained a certain preliminary success. For they had been able to reach a position from which (with long poles used at other times for the protection of the strawberry beds) they were enabled, under shelter themselves, to shake the branches of the big tree which overshadowed the swing and the position of the enemy. Every twig and branch was, of course, laden with snow, and masses fell in rapid succession upon the heads of the defenders. This was annoying at first, but at a word from Sir Toady, Sweetheart and he seized their intrenching tools, calling out: "Thank you—thank you! It's helping us so much! We've been wanting that badly! All our snow was gone, and we had to make balls off the ramparts. But now it's all right. Thank you—thank you!"

The truth of this grew so evident that the baffled assailants retired to consult. Nothing better than a frontal attack, well sustained and driven home to the hilt, occurred to Hugh John; and, indeed, after all, that was the best thing that could happen on such a day. A yell, a charge, a quick batter of snowballs, and then a rush straight up the bank—Maid Margaret, lithe as a deer-hound, leading, her skirts kilted "as like a boy" as on the spur of the moment she could achieve with a piece of twine. Right on Sweetheart she rushed, who,—as in some sort her senior and legal protector,—of course, could not be very rough with her, nor yet use the methods customary and licensed between embattled brothers.

But while the Maid thus held Sweetheart in play, Hugh John developed his stratagem. Leaning over the ramparts he seized Sir Toady by the collar, and then, throwing himself backward down the slope, confident in the thick blanketing of snow underneath, he dragged Sir Toady Lion along with him.

"A prisoner—a prisoner!" he cried, both of them, captor and captive alike, being involved in a misty flurry of snow, which boiled up from the snowbank, in the midst of which they fraternally embraced, in that intimate tangle of legs and arms which only boys can achieve without breaking bones.

"Back—come back!" rang out the order of the victorious Hugh John. "Sit on him—sit on him hard!"

Thus, and not otherwise, was Sir Toady captured and Sweetheart left alone in the shattered intrenchments, which a little before had seemed so impregnable. Now in these snow wars, and, indeed, in all the combattings of the redoubtable four, it was the rule that a captive belonged to the side which took him, from the very moment of his giving in. He must utterly renounce his former allegiance, and fight for his new party as fiercely as formerly he had done against them. This is the only way of decently prolonging strife when the combatants are well matched, but various prejudices stand in the way of applying it to international conflicts.

In this fashion was Sweetheart left alone in the fort which she and Sir Toady had constructed with such complete confidence. She did not, however, show the least fear, being a young lady of a singularly composed mind. On the other hand, she set herself to repair the various breaches in the walls, and so far as might be to contract them, so that she would have less space to defend. Then she sat sedately down on the swing and rocked herself to and fro to keep warm, till the storm should break on her devoted head.

It broke! With unanimous yell, an army, formidable by being exactly three times her own numbers, rushed across the level space, waving flags and shouting in all the stern and headlong glory of the charge. Snowballs were discharged at the bottom of the glacis, the slope was climbed, and the enemy arrived almost at the very walls, before Sweetheart made a motion. There was something uncanny about it. She did not even dodge the balls. For one thing they were very badly aimed, and her chief safety was in sitting still. They were, you see, aiming at her.

It soon became evident, however, that the works must be stormed. Still Sweetheart had made no motion to resist, except that, still seated on the broad board of the swing, she had gradually pushed herself back as far as she could go without losing her foothold on the ground.

"She's afraid!—She is retreating! On—on!"

No, Hugh John, for once your military genius has been at fault. For at the very moment when the snowy walls were being scaled, Sweetheart suddenly lifted her feet from the ground. The swing, pushed back to the limit of its chains, glided smoothly forward. One solidly shod boot-sole took Hugh John full on the chest. Another "plunked" Sir Toady in a locality which he held yet more tender, especially, as now, before dinner. Both warriors shot backward as if discharged from a petard, disappearing from view down the slope into the big drifts at the foot. Maid Margaret, who had not been touched at all, but who had stood (as it were) in the very middle of affairs, uttered one terrified yell and bolted.

"Time!" cried the umpire, appearing in the doorway.

The baffled champions entered first. While changing, they had got ready at least twenty complete explanations of their downfall. Sweetheart, coming in a little late, sat down to her sewing, and listened placidly with a faint, sweet, far-away smile which seemed to say that knitting, though an occupation despised by boys, does not wholly obscure the intellect. But she did not say a word.

Her brothers somehow found this attitude excessively provoking.

* * * * *

Thus exercised in mind and body, and presently also fortified by the mid-day meal, the company declared its kind readiness to hear the rest of The Antiquary. It was not Rob Roy, of course—but a snowy day brought with it certain compensations. So to the crackle of the wood fire and the click and shift of the knitting needles, I began the final tale from The Antiquary.



THE THIRD TALE FROM "THE ANTIQUARY"

I. THE EARL'S SECRET

ON the seashore not far from the mansion-house of Monkbarns stood the little fisherman's cottage of Saunders Mucklebackit. Saunders it was who had rigged the mast, by which Sir Arthur and his daughter were pulled to the top of the cliffs on the night of the storm. His wife came every day to the door of Monkbarns to sell fish to Miss Griselda, the Antiquary's sister, when the pair of them would stand by the hour "skirling and flyting beneath his window like so many seamaws," as Oldbuck himself said.

Besides Steenie Mucklebackit, the eldest son, the same who had assisted Edie Ochiltree to bestow a well-deserved chastisement upon Dousterswivel, and a number of merry half-naked urchins, the family included the grandmother, Elspeth Mucklebackit—a woman old, but not infirm, whose understanding appeared at most times to be asleep, but the stony terror of whose countenance often frightened the bairns more than their mother's shrill tongue and ready palm.

Elspeth seldom spoke. Indeed, she had done little for many years except twirl the distaff in her corner by the fire. Few cared to have much to do with her. She was thought to be "far from canny," and certainly she knew more about the great family of Glenallan than it was safe to speak aloud.

It chanced on the very night when Edie and Steenie had given a skinful of sore bones to the German impostor Dousterswivel, that the Countess of Glenallan, mother of the Earl, was brought to be buried at midnight among the ruins of St. Ruth.

Such had been the custom of the family from ancient times—indeed, ever since the Great Earl fell fighting at the Red Harlaw against Donald of the Isles. More recently there had been another reason for such a strange fashion of burial. For the family were Catholics, and there had long been laws in Scotland against the holding of popish ceremonials even on an occasion so solemn.

The news of the death of her ancient mistress, coming at last to the ears of old Elspeth, took such hold upon her, that she could not rest till she had sent off Edie Ochiltree to the Earl of Glenallan, at Glenallan House, with a ring for a token and the message that Elspeth of the Craigburnfoot must see him before she died. She had, Edie was to say, a secret on her soul, without revealing which she could not hope to die in peace.

Accordingly Edie set off for the castle of Glenallan, taking the ring with him, but with very little hope of finding his way into the Earl's presence; for Lord Glenallan had been long completely withdrawn from the world. His mother was Countess in her own right, and so long as she lived, her son had been wholly dependent upon her. In addition to which some great sorrow or some great crime, the countryside was not sure which, pressed sore upon his mind, and being a strict Catholic he passed his time in penance and prayer.

However, by the help of an old soldier, one Francie Macraw, who had been his rear-rank man at Fontenoy, Edie Ochiltree was able after many delays to win a way to the Earl's presence—though the priests who were about his person evidently tried to keep everything connected with the outer world from his knowledge. The Earl, a tall, haggard, gloomy man, whose age seemed twice what it really was, stood holding the token ring in his hand. At first he took Edie for a father of his own church, and demanded if any further penance were necessary to atone for his sin. But as soon as Edie declared his message, at the very first mention of the name of Elspeth of the Craigburnfoot, the Earl's cheek became even more deathlike than it had been at Edie's entrance.

"Ah," he said, "that name is indeed written on the darkest page of a terrible history. But what can the woman want with me? Is she dead or living?"

"She is living in the body," said Edie, "and at times her mind lives too—but she is an awfu' woman."

"She always was so," said the Earl, answering almost unconsciously. "She was different from other women—likest, perhaps, to her who is no more—"

Edie knew that he meant his own mother, so lately dead.

"She wishes to see me," continued the Earl; "she shall be gratified, though the meeting will be a pleasure to neither of us."

Lord Glenallan gave Edie a handful of guineas, which, contrary to his usage, Edie had not the courage to refuse. The Earl's tone was too absolute.

Then, as an intimation that the interview was at an end, Lord Glenallan called his servant.

"See this old man safe," he said; "let no one ask him any questions. And you, my friend, be gone, and forget the road that leads to my house!"

"That would indeed be difficult," said the undaunted Edie, "since your lordship has given me such good cause to remember it."

Lord Glenallan stared, as if hardly comprehending the old man's boldness in daring to bandy words with him. Then, without answering, he made him another signal to depart by a simple movement of his hand, which Edie, awed far beyond his wont, instantly obeyed.

II. THE MOTHER'S VENGEANCE

The day of Lord Glenallan's visit to the cottage where dwelt old Elspeth of the Craigburnfoot seemed at first ill timed. That very day Steenie Mucklebackit, the young, the gallant, the handsome eldest son of the house had been carried to his grave. He had been drowned while at the fishing, though his father had risked his life in vain to save him. The family had now returned home, and were sitting alone in the first benumbing shock of their grief.

It was some time before the Earl could make good his entrance into the cottage. It was still longer before he could convince the old woman Elspeth that he was really Lord Glenallan, and so obtain an opportunity of speaking with her. But at last they were left alone in the cottage, and the thick veil which had fallen upon Elspeth's spirit seemed for a while to be drawn aside. She spoke like one of an education far superior to her position, clearly and calmly, even when recounting the most terrible events.

Her very first words recalled to the Earl the fair young wife, whom he had married long ago, against his mother's will and without her knowledge.

"Name not her name," he cried, in agony, "all that is dead to me—dead long ago!"

"I MUST!" said the old woman; "it is of her I have to speak."

And in the fewest and simplest words she told him how, when his mother the Countess had found means to separate husband and wife, while he himself was fleeing half mad, none knew whither, the young wife had thrown herself in a fit of frenzy over the cliffs into the sea. It was to Elspeth's cottage that she and her babe had been brought.

"And here," said the terrible old woman, suddenly thrusting a golden bodkin into his hand, "is the very dagger which your mother the Countess gave me in order that with it I might slay your infant son."

The Earl looked at the gold bodkin or dagger, as if in fancy he saw the blood of his child still red upon it.

"Wretch!" he cried; "and had you the heart?"

"I kenna whether I would or not," said Elspeth. "My mistress commanded and I obeyed. So did I ever. But my obedience was not to be tried that time. For when I returned, the babe had gone. Your younger brother had been called up to the castle. The child had been left in the care of the Countess's Spanish maid, and when I returned to my cottage, both she and the babe were gone. The dead body of your young wife alone remained. And now," concluded Elspeth, abruptly, "can you forgive me?"

Lord Glenallan was going out of the hut, overwhelmed by the disclosure to which he had been listening. He saw his young wife hounded to death by his fierce and revengeful mother. He thought of the living child so wonderfully left to him as a legacy from the dead. Yet he turned at Elspeth's last words.

"May God forgive thee, miserable woman," he said. "Turn for mercy to Him. He will forgive you as sincerely as I do."

As Lord Glenallan went out into the sunlight, he met face to face with the Antiquary himself, who was on his way to the cottage to offer what consolation or help might be in his power. The Earl and he recognised one another, but the Antiquary's greeting was hard and cold. As a magistrate he had made, on his own responsibility and against all the power of the Glenallan family, the legal inquiries into the death of the Earl's young wife. Indeed, during a residence which she had made at Knockwinnock Castle with the Wardour family twenty years ago, and while she was still only known as Miss Eveline Neville, the Antiquary had loved her and had asked her to be his wife. It was, indeed, chiefly on her account that he had never married. Mr. Oldbuck had never ceased to mourn her, and now, believing as he had good reason to do, that the Earl was the cause of her untimely death, and of the stigma which rested upon her name, it was little wonder that he should wish to have no dealings with him.

But the Earl had a great need in his heart to speak to some one. In a moment the whole world seemed to have changed for him. For the first time he knew the truth about a dark deed of cruelty. For the first time, also, he knew that he had a son. He desired above all else the wise counsel of a true friend. In his heart he had admired the fearlessness of the Antiquary in the bold inquiry he had made at the time of Eveline Neville's death, and now, refusing to be rebuffed, he followed Mr. Oldbuck as he was turning away, and demanded that he should not deny him his counsel and assistance at a most terrible and critical moment.

It was not in the good Antiquary's nature to refuse such a request from Earl or beggar, and their interview ended in the Earl's accepting the hospitality of Monkbarns for the night, in order that they might have plenty of time to discuss the whole subject of Elspeth's communication.

On his own part Mr. Oldbuck had some comfort to give Lord Glenallan. He had kept the papers which concerned the inquiry carefully, and he was able to assure his lordship that his brother had carried off the babe with him, probably for the purpose of having it brought up and educated upon the English estates he had inherited from his father, and on which he had ever afterward lived.

"My brother," said Lord Glenallan, "is recently dead, which makes our search the more difficult. Furthermore, I am not his heir. He has left his property to a stranger, as indeed he had every right to do. But as the heir is like himself a Protestant, he may be unwilling to aid the inquiry—"

"I trust," interrupted Mr. Oldbuck, with some feeling, "that you will find a Protestant can be as honest and honourable as a Catholic."

The Earl protested that he had no idea of supposing otherwise.

"Only," he continued, "there was an old steward on the estate who in all probability is the only man now living who knows the truth. But it is not expected that any man will willingly disinherit himself. For if I have a living son, my father's estates are entailed on him, and the steward may very likely stand by his master."

"I have a friend in Yorkshire," said Mr. Oldbuck, "to whom I can apply for information as to the character of your brother's heir, and also as to the disposition of his steward. That is all we can do at present. But take courage, my lord. I believe that your son is alive."

In the morning Lord Glenallan returned to the castle in his carriage, while Mr. Oldbuck, hearing from Hector that he was going down to Fairport, in order to see that old Edie Ochiltree had fair play before the magistrates, offered to bear him company.

Edie Ochiltree—in prison for thwacking the ribs of Dousterswivel, which he had done (or at least poor Steenie Mucklebackit for him), and for stealing the German's fifty pounds, which he had not done—willingly revealed to Monkbarns what he had refused to breathe to Bailie Littlejohn of the Fairport magistracy. After some delay Edie was accordingly liberated on the Antiquary's bail, and immediately accompanied his good friend to the cottage of old Elspeth Mucklebackit, where, by the Earl's request, Oldbuck was to take down a statement from her lips, such as might be produced in a court of law. But no single syllable would the old beldame now utter against her ancient mistress.

"Ha," she said, at the first question put to her by the Antiquary; "I thought it would come to this. It's only sitting silent when they question me. There's nae torture in our days, and if there was, let them rend me! It ill becomes a vassal's mouth to betray the bread which it has eaten."

Then they told her that her mistress, the Countess Jocelin, was dead, hoping this might bring her to confession. But the news had quite an opposite effect.

"Dead!" cried Elspeth, aroused as ever by the sound of her mistress's name, "then, if she be gone before, the servant must follow. All must ride when she is in the saddle. Bring my scarf and hood! Ye wadna hae me gang in the carriage with my lady, and my hair all abroad in this fashion!"

She raised her withered arms, and her hands seemed busied like those of a woman who puts on a cloak to go a journey.

"Call Miss Neville," she continued; "what do you mean by Lady Geraldin? I said Eveline Neville. There's no Lady Geraldin. But tell her to change her wet gown and not to look so pale. Bairn—what should she do wi' a bairn? She has nane, I trow! Teresa—Teresa—my lady calls us! Bring a candle! The grand staircase is as black before me as a Yule midnight! Coming, my lady, we are coming!"

With these words, and as if following in the train of her mistress, old Elspeth, once of the Craigburnfoot, sunk back on the settle, and from thence sidelong to the floor.

III. THE HEIR OF GLENALLAN

Meanwhile doom was coming fast upon poor Sir Arthur Wardour. He seemed to be utterly ruined. The treachery of Dousterswivel, the pressing and extortionate demands of a firm called Goldiebirds, who held a claim over his estate, the time-serving of his own lawyers, at last brought the officers of the law down upon him. He found himself arrested for debt in his own house. He was about to be sent to prison, when Edie Ochiltree, who in his day had been deep in many plots, begged that he might be allowed to drive over to Tannanburgh, and promised that he would certainly bring back some good news from the post-office there.

It was all that Oldbuck, with his best tact and wisdom, could do to keep Hector MacIntyre from assaulting the officers of the law during the absence of Edie. Two long hours they waited. The carriage had already been ordered round to the door to convey Sir Arthur to prison. Miss Wardour was in agony, her father desperate with shame and grief, when Edie arrived triumphantly grasping a packet. He delivered it forthwith to the Antiquary. For Sir Arthur, knowing his own weakness, had put himself unreservedly into the hands of his abler friend. The packet, being opened, was found to contain a writ stopping the proceedings, a letter of apology from the lawyers who had been most troublesome, and a note from Captain Wardour, Sir Arthur's son, enclosing a thousand pounds for his father's immediate needs. It also declared that ere long he himself would come to the castle along with a distinguished officer, Major Neville, who had been appointed to report to the War Office concerning the state of the defences of the country.

"Thus," said the Antiquary, summing up the situation, "was the last siege of Knockwinnock House laid by Saunders Sweepclean, the bailiff, and raised by Edie Ochiltree, the King's Blue-Gown!"

There was, at the time when the story of the Antiquary and his doings draws to a close, a daily expectation of a French invasion. Beacons had been prepared on every hill and headland, and men were set to watch. One of these beacons had been intrusted to old Caxon the hairdresser, and one night he saw, directly in the line of the hill to the south which he was to watch, a flame start suddenly up. It was undoubtedly the token agreed upon to warn the country of the landing of the French.

He lighted his beacon accordingly. It threw up to the sky a long wavering train of light, startling the sea-fowl from their nests, and reddening the sea beneath the cliffs. Caxon's brother warders, equally zealous, caught and repeated the signal. The district was soon awake and alive with the tidings of invasion.



From far and near the Lowland burghers, the country lairds, the Highland chiefs and clans responded to the summons. They had been drilling for long, and now in the dead of the night they marched with speed upon Fairport, eager to defend that point of probable attack.

Last of all the Earl of Glenallan came in with a splendidly mounted squadron of horse, raised among his Lowland tenants, and five hundred Highland clansmen with their pipes playing stormily in the van. Presently also Captain Wardour arrived in a carriage drawn by four horses, bringing with him Major Neville, the distinguished officer appointed to the command of the district. The magistrates assembled at the door of their town-house to receive him. The volunteers, the yeomanry, the Glenallan clansmen—all were there awaiting the great man.

What was the astonishment of the people of Fairport, and especially of the Antiquary, to see descend from the open door of the carriage,—who but the quiet Mr. Lovel.

He had brought with him the news that the alarm of invasion was false. The beacon which Caxon had seen was only the burning of the mining machinery in Glen Withershins which had been ordered by Oldbuck and Sir Arthur to make a final end of Dousterswivel's plots and deceits.

But there was yet further and more interesting private news. The proofs that Lovel was indeed the son of the Earl of Glenallan were found to be overwhelming. His heirship to the title had been fully made out. The chaplain who had performed his father's wedding had returned from abroad, exiled by the French Revolution. The witnesses also had been found. Most decisive of all, among the papers of the Earl's late brother, there was discovered a duly authenticated account of his carrying off the child, and of how he had had him educated and pushed on in the army.

So that very night the Antiquary enjoyed in some degree the crowning pleasure of his whole life, in bringing together father and son for the first time. That is, if the marriage which took place soon after between his young friend Lovel (or Lord William Geraldin) and Miss Isabella Wardour of Knockwinnock Castle did not turn out to be a yet greater pleasure. Old Edie still travels from farm to farm, but mostly now confines himself to the short round between Monkbarns and Knockwinnock. It is reported, however, that he means soon to settle with old Caxon, who, since the marriage of his daughter to Lieutenant Taffril, has been given a cottage near the three wigs which he still keeps in order in the parish,—the minister's, Sir Arthur's, and best of all, that of our good and well-beloved Antiquary.

THE END OF THE LAST TALE FROM "THE ANTIQUARY."

* * * * *

"Now," said Sweetheart, nodding particular approval, "that is the way a story ought to end up—everything going on from chapter to chapter, with no roundabouts, and everything told about everybody right to the very end!"

"Hum," said Hugh John, with a curl of his nose; "well, that's done with! But it was good about the Storm and the Duel! The rest was—"

"Hush," said Sweetheart, "remember, it was written by Sir Walter."

"Sir," said I to Hugh John, heavily parental, "The Antiquary may not now be much to your taste, but the day will come when you may probably prefer it to all the rest put together."

At these words the young man assumed the expression common to boys who are bound to receive the wholesome advice of their elders, yet who do so with silent but respectful doubt, if not with actual disbelief.

"Well," he said, after a long pause, "anyway, the Duel was good. And I'd jolly well like to find a treasure in Misticot's grave. Can we have another snow fight?"

THE END OF THE FIRST SERIES OF RED CAP TALES FROM THE TREASURE-CHEST OF THE WIZARD OF THE NORTH.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] These were Scottish children to whom the stories were retold, and they understood the Scottish tongue. So the dialect parts were originally told in that speech. Now, however, in pity for children who have the misfortune to inherit only English, I have translated all the hard words and phrases as best I could. But the old is infinitely better, and my only hope and aim is, that the retelling of these stories by the living voice may send every reader, every listener, to the Master of Romance himself. If I succeed in this, my tale-telling shall not have been in vain.

[2] i.e. scarecrow.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

One reference each of "lifeblood" and "life-blood" were retained. This was also done with "sea-shore" and "seashore".

Page 151, "campanion" changed to "companion" (sole companion a)

Page 180, "summons" changed to "summon" (would summon all)

Page 324, "than" changed to "then" (and then began)

Page 374, "hims" changed to "his" (mounted on his)

THE END