Early next morning, he arose, dressed, and sallied forth to gratify his curiosity; but, with no one to whom he could communicate the feelings that every new object awakened, he felt solitary among the surrounding crowds. On the second day after his arrival, as he walked in the Meadows, he observed among the crowd of well-dressed pedestrians that thronged the walks, an elderly gentleman, who eyed him with marked attention. William's curiosity was excited, and he threw himself again in his way. The old gentleman bowed.

"I beg pardon," said he—"may I be so bold as to request your name?—for I feel as if you and I had not now met for the first time. Yet it cannot be; for it is now above twenty years since that time, and you do not appear to be more than that time old."

"My name is William Wallace," answered William, with a beating heart. "I never had the honour to see you until to-day."

"Wallace? Wallace?" said the old gentleman, musing. "No—-my friend's name was not Wallace; we were both of Monro's regiment—his name was Seaton; but the likeness was so strong that you must excuse me for addressing you."

William's heart sank—he remained silent for a few minutes—his face was alternately flushed and pale—a new train of ideas crowded upon his mind—he wished to speak, but he could not find utterance—wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and went through the other forms of confusion and bashfulness. His new acquaintance looked upon him, much surprised at his emotion; and, with an energy bordering on violence, seized his hand.

"Young man," said he, "that ring was once the property of my friend: how came you by it? He valued it above all things, nor would he have parted with it but with life. At this moment, I almost think the last long twenty years of my life a dream, and that I am still a captain in Monro's regiment. You must come and dine with me, and explain how this came into your possession."

"With pleasure," replied William. "It is a sad account, I have to give, and I am most impatient to learn something of its possessor. Alas! I fear I must feel too great an interest in him."

"The early friend I allude to," replied the old man, "was an honour to his country. A braver or more generous heart, no officer in the army possessed. This you will acknowledge when I have told you all. Alas! poor Seaton! shall I ever see you again?"

Thus conversing, they reached the house of Colonel Gordon, one of the principal flats of a house in the High Street. After they had dined, William gave a distinct account of his birth and the death of his mother, and a modest outline of himself. His hearer listened to him with the greatest interest, only interrupting him at the account of his mother's death by an exclamation of horror.

"Henry Seaton," he cried, "had no hand in this, I could pledge my head for him. I am strongly impressed, young man, with the idea, that my friend has been cruelly injured, and his generous heart wounded past recovery by this deed of darkness. Savage monsters! worse than demons! would to God I had you in my power!" And he walked about the room in a state of violent excitement. "William," said he again, "I have no doubt you are the son of Henry Seaton, my more than brother; and, so far as is in my power, I shall assist you in the discovery of your parents, and avenge the murder of your mother. I shall now give you my story:—I was an ensign in Munro's regiment of Scots, serving in Flanders, when your father (for I have no doubt that he was such) joined us, early in the spring of the year 1706, a short time before the battle of Ramilies. We were both of the same company, and of congenial minds; so that we soon became bosom friends, and were ever as much as possible in each other's society. In battle we fought side by side, without being jealous of each other's fame. In our first battle, that of Ramilies, the Scots had more than their share of the loss, and I had the misfortune to be shot in the leg early in the action. When I fell, your father saved me from the sword of the enemy, and bore me out of the line at the hazard of his own life; for we were at the time, pressed by a strong division of the French. I soon recovered, and joined the ranks, when our friendship, if possible, was stronger than ever. At the battle of Oudenard, where we drove the French from their trenches, your father led on his men, over the works, with too much eagerness, and was not supported for a time, as the enemy sprung a mine and made the ditch impassable, killing and wounding a great many of the advancing column. Bravely did he and his handful of Scots stand their ground, surrounded and overwhelmed by numbers; but they were dropping fast, for they fought hand to hand, and they were so pressed by the enemy, and hemmed in, that they could not fire, for fear of killing their own men. I saw the perilous situation of my friend; with the greatest efforts, I and a few noble countrymen got clambered up to their rescue. At our arrival, there were not more than six of them upon their feet—all were covered with wounds and spent with fatigue. Your father still raged like a lion in the toils—all swords were aimed at him—he seemed invulnerable. I had reached his side, when a severe wound laid him insensible at my feet; but I stood over him, and backed by my brave followers, we fought till the French gave way before the numbers of our troops that had forced the works and poured in on every side. I raised him up—the blood streamed from his side—he appeared to be dead—his eyes were closed—I placed my hand upon his breast—all appeared still—then mournfully I supported his head on my knee, and saw his eyelids move, and then a faint heaving of the breast. I snatched the canteen of a dead soldier that lay by my side; there was some wine in it; I applied it to his lips—he opened his eyes."

"'Edward,' said he, 'I thank you. I fear my career of glory is run. I hope we have beat the enemy. I die content. Farewell!' And he sank again into insensibility."

"All this had passed in the course of a couple of minutes The enemy had made a fresh stand, and were forcing our troops back upon the intrenchments. I gently laid him down, and, rallying the men who were retreating, again forced them back. The enemy began to give way in all directions, and we followed up our advantage until the order for ceasing the pursuit was given. For a time I had forgot everything, in the impetuosity of battle; but, after rallying my company, and marching back to our camp, I took a file of men, and proceeded to the spot where I had left my friend. I looked for some time in vain. So active had been the work of the pillagers that followed the camp, that the dead and the dying had been stripped; and by the countenance alone could one discover a friend from a foe, I examined every face amidst a heap of dead bodies, and discovered my friend. Life was not yet extinct. I had him removed to my tent, and went for a surgeon, who examined and dressed his wound, but gave me no hopes of his recovery. He was carefully removed into Oudenard, where our hospitals were established, and for some days his life was despaired of; but youth and a good constitution prevailed, and he again bade fair for life and happiness. As soon as he was enabled to converse, I was at my usual place by his bedside, when, after thanking me for his preservation, he expressed the deepest sorrow for the loss of his ring, which had been torn from his finger by the pillagers.

"I had, until now, scarcely paid any attention to this bauble; but remembered, when he spoke of it, of having seen at all times a ring upon his finger. I expressed my concern at his loss, but said, that it ought not to give him so much concern, at a time when a miraculously spared life called for his gratitude to God.

"'I value it next to life itself,' was his reply, 'for it was the gift of my mother, and had been in our family for ages. Publish among the sutlers, my good friend, that fifty dollars will be given for the ring, upon its delivery to me; and twenty dollars to any one who will give information that will lead to its recovery.'

"I promised, and left him, consoled with the hopes of again getting the jewel; yet I could not help thinking my friend too profuse in his offer. I immediately published in the camp, a reward of ten dollars for the ring, or five for any information to lead to its recovery, and next morning the ring was delivered, and the ten dollars paid to one of the fiends in human shape, that, like vultures, follow in the track of war. My fingers itched to cut the ruffian down, but I restrained myself. I paid him the promised reward with a hearty curse—the word of a soldier is sacred; and it was at this time that I examined the bauble so minutely, that I never can forget it. I never saw joy more vividly expressed than when he placed it upon his emaciated finger, and said I had given him a medicine that would quickly recover him.

"'Shade of my sainted mother,' he ejaculated, 'I have still thy latest gift, and it shall be parted with only with my latest breath.' And he kissed it fervently as he spoke."

"In the course of a few weeks, he was convalescent, and again joined the regiment. Each officer had received one step of promotion, and our duties went on in the usual routine, though we were principally occupied in foraging parties. It was the depth of winter, and provisions were scarce. Henry had the command of a strong foraging party; and, on one occasion, he came in his route to a large farm-house, where he hoped to obtain supplies. Approaching the house, he heard cries of distress and supplication in female voices. He put his men into rapid motion, and rushed forward alone. Passing a thick fence, he saw a party of Dutch soldiers, who had anticipated him, and some of whom were at the door, guarding it; but the greater part were within the house. The cries became more piteous and piercing. He drew his sword and rushed past the sentinels at the door, who attempted to prevent him; but the view of his men coming up unnerved them. A scene of horror met his eyes: the male inmates of the house were bound, and soldiers were standing over them, ready to plunge their bayonets into their bosoms at the least movement, while others were proceeding to acts of violence towards the females. With a voice of thunder, he commanded them to desist, and, seizing the officer, hurled him from the terrified and fainting daughter of the farmer. The Dutchman, in rage, drew and made a furious lounge at him, which he parried; and his men entering at the same time, they drove the others out of the house. My friend, in French, requested the Dutchman to follow his men; but he refused, and challenged him to single combat, for the insult he said he had received at his hands—adding some opprobrious epithets, which roused the choler of the brave Englishman. In an instant, they were engaged hand to hand; but short was the strife—the Dutchman fell dead on the scene of his violence, and his men returned to the camp, and made a complaint against Monro's regiment, which was like to have led to some serious consequences; but, after your father stating the circumstances to the colonel, the latter waited upon the Duke of Marlborough, and we heard no more of the affair.

"The last action we were in together, we both escaped unhurt; yet it was the bloodiest one we had ever been in. Of all the honours of Malplaquet, the Monroes had their full share; for, although the Duke did not like the Scots, and used at times to throw a sarcasm at their country, he always gave them a situation of danger, either from dislike or a reliance on their courage. About twelve months after Malplaquet, your father left the service and retired into France. Peace was now evidently at hand, and an armistice had been agreed upon and signed by several of the allies of the English; and our gallant leader was now in disgrace. Much as Henry Seaton and I esteemed each other in all other points, we had no fellowship in politics. I was and am a Whig; he, a Tory of the first water—a devoted adherent of the exiled family; yet, high as parties ran at this time in cities, we had no differences in the camp, where each respected his neighbour's opinion, nor overvalued his own. The last letter I received from him was about twelve months after we parted. It was dated St Germain's. He said, and in a mysterious sort of way, half-earnest, half-jest, that, in a short time, we might meet, to try the force of our different opinions. I, at the time, only laughed at it, and returned, for answer, that I had no doubt we would both do our best, and leave the issue to the Disposer of events. Soon after, Mar's ill-concerted rebellion took place, in which I have no doubt your father was an active agent; but I have, since this last letter, lost all trace of him. Your being born in the year '16 would lead me to suppose that he must have married your mother about the time of the Rebellion, either in Scotland or France."

That Henry Seaton was his father, William earnestly prayed; but how was he to ascertain this fact? He knew not; neither could his kind host assist him. The lapse of time was so great, that, in all probability, he was dead; and, with a mind worse at ease than it had ever been, he took leave of the Colonel, promising to call again in the forenoon of the following day, to consult what steps he should take to follow out the information he had so unexpectedly acquired. He reached the inn, and retired to rest; but sleep had fled his pillow. A thousand ideas crowded his mind; method after method was canvassed, each for a time offering assured success, but, upon more mature consideration, being rejected. Day dawned, and found him as unresolved as when he left Colonel Gordon. As soon as it was consistent with propriety, he waited upon the Colonel, by whom he was greeted heartily.

"Well, tell me," said he, "the fruit of your invention for tracing out your father, and I will tell you what has occurred to me as the best mode of procedure."

William, without hesitation, told the state of his mind, and his utter inability to think of any feasible plan, from his ignorance of the world and its ways.

"Poor fellow! I do not wonder at what you tell me," replied the Colonel. "Before many years go over your head, you and the world will be better acquainted. My own opinion is, that you must forthwith proceed to France, where you will find many of the adherents of the Stuarts. The young Charles Edward is easy of access to Scotchmen, for he is anxious to make adherents; and I have no doubt that he, or others of his followers, will be able to give you every information about Henry Seaton. But you must beware how you acquit yourself, lest they cajole you into their party; for, if your father be alive and acknowledge you, the trial will be greater than you are aware, to resist him."

"I will at once follow your wise counsel," replied William. "I trust—nay, my heart tells me I shall be successful. Of my ever being an adherent of the Stuart family, I have no fears. Before that can happen, I must first forget all I have ever learned, from my first dawn of reason up to this present moment. The first tears of sorrow I ever shed were for the woes of others, drawn forth by the tale of the sufferings of my foster parent's father, who suffered for the cause of truth, near the very spot where I now lodge. The worthy minister, to whom I am indebted for all the learning I possess, had also some share in my politics. Nay, do not smile, when I say he had political opinions. He spiritualized everything. Nebuchadnezzar was a type of the Stuart family. The Babylonish king, driven out from men, was only an emblem of their expulsion, during the time of the Commonwealth, and his being restored was only the fortune of Charles II.; but, as he continued in idolatry after his restoration, so did Charles, after his subscribing the Covenant at Scone; and, as Nebuchadnezzar's family were destroyed, so are the Stuarts cut off from the throne for ever. To the whole of this I do not subscribe; but my aversion to the family of the Stuarts, I can never overcome."

"My young friend," replied the Colonel, "I am not one to quarrel with any one for his opinion; but I rejoice to find we are of one mind. I will accompany you to Leith, and we will make inquiries if there is any vessel there likely soon to sail for France."

They accordingly proceeded to Leith, where they found there was a brig to sail in the course of a week or two for Bourdeaux, to bring home a cargo of wine. There were also several vessels to sail in a few days, for different ports in Holland; but the Colonel advised William to agree with the captain of the vessel for Bourdeaux—which, he did; and, having never seen the sea but at a distance, nor a vessel in his life, his friend, to oblige him, lingered on the shore, and examined them with him. In this manner the time passed. They dined in Leith, and again walked about the shore, enjoying the delightful scene. The shades of evening were beginning to approach, when they resumed their way back to the city. They had reached about half-way to the Abbey-Hill, when two men rushed from behind the fence, and, presenting pistols to their breasts, demanded their money or their lives.

"Ho, my good fellows, not so fast!" exclaimed the Colonel, and drew his sword. William did the same. One of the villains fired, and wounded the Colonel in the right shoulder. William, at the same moment, plunged his sword into his side, and he fell. The other ruffian fled, pursued by William; but he escaped. He then hastened to his friend, who stood leaning against the wall, with the wounded robber beside him. William inquired if he was much injured.

"No, Seaton," he said. "I believe it is only a flesh wound, for I can wield my sword yet." And he raised it up, and pointing it at the breast of the fallen wretch, who lay groaning at his feet—"We must secure him," said the Colonel; "and, at the same time, be on our guard against his cowardly associate. If he could walk, I would know how to act with him; but I am not going to carry the base carrion. Indeed, my arm bleeds, and is getting stiff; otherwise I would dispatch him where he lies, and save the hangman his labour."

"For the love of God, do not despatch me!" cried the man. "I will try to walk; I would not be cut off so suddenly. In mercy, spare me, even for a few hours. I am unfit to die; yet I feel life ebbing fast."

He rose to his feet, but was sinking again, when William's pity overcoming his anger, he supported him. The wretch looked in his face, uttered a scream of horror, and sank senseless in his arms. He looked to the Colonel in astonishment. The latter looked narrowly into the face of the robber, passed his hand across his forehead, and mused, as if recalling something to his memory, but spake not.

Two men now came up to them, and assisted them to carry the body to the nearest house, where a surgeon was sent for, and intimation given to the authorities, who were all in a state of the greatest alacrity—stimulated, doubtless, by the Porteous mob, which had taken place only a few months before. Until the surgeon arrived, William, by the directions of the Colonel, bound up his shoulder. What the Colonel called a scratch, appeared to him a serious wound; for the ball had passed through the muscle of his arm. They proceeded to stanch the blood which flowed from the side of their prisoner, when the surgeon arrived; who, after having examined it, at once declared it mortal, and that the man had not many hours to live. After some time, he succeeded in restoring sensibility to the sufferer. He opened his eyes—fixed them on William, who was assisting the surgeon in his efforts—a fearful change came over him—he groaned, and, clasping his hands, shrieked, and closed them again. A sudden recollection had come over the Colonel.

"I cannot be mistaken," said he; "I have seen him before; but when or where I cannot say, unless he was one of my company in Monro's regiment."

At the mention of Monro's regiment, the wretched man shuddered—his eye fell upon the ring upon William's hand, as he held up the candle by the bedside—the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead—he would have started up, but was restrained.

"Nay, then, since I am discovered," he cried, "I will confess all to you, my injured and betrayed master. I see the Colonel recollects me; but I am surprised you do not remember your old servant, Alick Brown."

"Who was your master?" exclaimed William, in surprise.

"Captain Henry Seaton—yourself," said the man. "I cannot be mistaken. That ring—your height and countenance. You are, I am happy to see, much improved since I last saw you—time appears to have made no change."

"Know you aught of Henry Seaton?" demanded the Colonel; while William stood mute in astonishment and surprise.

"If this is not my old master whom I see," said the man, "who can he be? My mind is filled with guilt and remorse. Die I must, either of this wound, or by the law—for me there is no hope here or hereafter." And he groaned and ground his teeth in despair, while the surgeon bade him prepare for death, as he had but a few hours to live. The officers entered, and claimed him as their prisoner. The villain once more arose in his mind. "Ha!" he exclaimed, "I have bilked you yet. I have a sufficient bail in my side to rescue me out of your hands." The effort to speak now became more difficult; his voice sank into whispers; he appeared to be dying. Remorse again roused him; and, turning his head, he inquired who William was? The Colonel told him. He became more dreadfully agitated, and groaned in anguish, till the officers of justice looked upon him in horror.

"I can doubt no longer," he cried. "It is too true. There is a God that governs all! Mercy, mercy! How shall I appear before Him, covered with the blood of his creatures? Let me perform the only act now in my power—to atone for the past. Young man, you are the son of my noble and injured master. After he left the army in Flanders, I accompanied him to France, where he lived on terms of great intimacy with the royal exiles and their followers for several months; at the end of which time, he and two other gentlemen, accompanied by me, set out for Scotland on a secret mission to the disaffected, preparatory to the preconcerted rising. We remained concealed for several months, in the houses of those whom we knew to be adherents to the cause we were embarked in. At the house of Lord Somerville we remained for a long time, where my master won the affections of his daughter, and proposed for her; but his Lordship objected to their union at that time, on account of the unsettled state of affairs. With the consent of Helen, they were, however, privately married; and soon after we set out for Aboyne, and joined in the unfortunate affair. He was slightly wounded at Sheriff-muir, but escaped by my assistance, and got safe to our camp. The Prince and the Earl of Mar embarked when all hopes of success were cut off, and I was sent back to the house of his wife's father, to bring her to her husband, who had remained concealed in the Highlands, during the severity of the winter. It was arranged, through me, that, as soon as he had received remittances from France, I was to conduct her to the coast of Argyle, by Glasgow and the Clyde. It was far on in the summer before he could get all the arrangements made. His wife, who expected in a few weeks to be confined, and concealed her situation with difficulty, became most urgent. Early in the month of September, she escaped unseen from her father's house, and joined me at the appointed place, accompanied by a fiend in woman's shape, the agent whom I had employed to carry on our intercourse. She had been a follower of the camp, and, by the little service for which I paid her well, had won the confidence of the simple Helen. We rode as fast as the lady's circumstances would admit, only halting twice for a short time, in secret places. It was then that the devil first assailed me in the person of this woman. She told me what a quantity of money and jewels the lady had in her valise, and how easy it would be to get all into our possession. I shuddered at the very idea, and threatened to shoot her upon the spot. She laughed, and said it was all a jest; but it took hold of my mind during the course of our journey, and she judged by my looks, I suppose, that I was now more fit for her purpose. We conversed about it; the idea became familiar; but I shuddered at blood. She said there would be none shed. Still I could not consent—neither was I sufficiently averse. The poor lady was taken ill as we passed through the moor. You know the rest. As we stood at the cottage door, the pious discourse of the farmer tortured me past endurance. I was several times on the point of rushing into the cottage, and guarding my lady from the fiend; but my evil genius prevailed. When we entered and got the unsuspecting couple to their bed, my tempter smiled, and whispered 'All is safe.' I shuddered, and inquired what she meant.

"'Oh, nothing,' she replied. 'The lady cannot recover; the woman of the house has given her a composing draught. She will never awake. The money and jewels are our own.'

"And cautiously she displayed before me more gold than I had ever seen. I could not think of parting with it. We carried off all that had belonged to my mistress, even her body-clothes and the body of the dead babe, resolved to shew it to my master, and impose upon him by saying that his wife had died in childbed, and that we had left her to be buried by the clergyman. Our object in this was to do away all suspicion of unfair play. Our excuse for not seeing the body interred was haste to inform him, and prevent inquiries that might lead to his discovery. On the day after we left the cabin, I found my master at the appointed place, in the utmost anxiety for the arrival of his wife. Every hour of delay was attended by the utmost danger. A government cruiser had been seen on the coast; and there were fears that the small vessel might be discovered. Oh, moment that has ever since embittered my life! The agony he endured no human tongue can describe. He was in a state of distraction. I, with a guilty officiousness, displayed her wardrobe. He turned from it in an agony. The dead body of the babe he kissed and pressed to his bosom. Low groans had as yet only escaped him; but suddenly, to my alarm, he resolved to go with me and die on her grave. I trembled and felt a faintness come over me—for I was then young in guilt. My associate, hardened and inventive, began to urge the folly of the attempt. He pushed her from him with violence, and would have set out; but at that moment word was given that the cruiser was in sight, as if bearing for the land. Two friends and some of the crew seized him, and by force hurried him on board the vessel, and set sail. I felt as if reprieved from death, and did not go on board; for I dreaded the presence of my injured master. We returned to Glasgow, where we remained for a few weeks, rioting on the fruits of our guilt. One morning when I awoke after a debauch, I found my companion fled, and all the gold and valuables gone. I arose in a state of distraction, ran to the port in quest of her; but in vain—no vessel had sailed. I proceeded to Greenock; on the way I got traces of her, and dogged her at every turn. My mind took a new direction as I followed her. I looked upon her now as a fiend that had led me to ruin, and left me, loaded with guilt, to die under the pangs of poverty and an awakened conscience. My mind was distracted. Holding up my hands to heaven, I vowed vengeance, and cursed and swore in such a manner that people on the road turned and looked at me, and thought me mad. I was mad; but it was the madness of passion that burned in my brain, and the stings of conscience that pierced my heart. I paused several times in my pursuit. I was told by one traveller that the woman I sought was not a mile from me, that she was sitting by the road-side drinking ardent spirits alone, and muttering strange words to herself. Ha! thought I, conscience is busy with her too, and she drinks to drown its dreadful voice. 'Shall I kill her?' I said to myself. My heart yearned for her blood. Why should I deny it? I felt that I required that satisfaction to enable me to live a little longer upon earth. So much was my frenzy roused, that I pictured to myself a total impossibility to live and breathe if I did not feel the satisfaction of having visited on that woman's head the evil she brought on that sweet lady who died by her hands. Then did her beautiful face beam before me in full contrast with that of the hag who had led me to ruin, to misery, to hell. Every thought inflamed me more and more, and on I flew to the relief of my burning brain. Wretch! How little did I think that, even in meditating her death, who deserved that punishment, I was only adding more and more power to my burning conscience? But all calculation of future accidents died amidst my thirst of vengeance. Breathless I hurried on. I had a dagger in my hand ready for the work of death. At a turn of a beech wood, I saw her sitting by the road-side. She was drinking spirits; and, as I approached, I heard her muttering strange words—yet she was not intoxicated. She was only under the power of the demons that ruled her. Her back was to me, and she knew not of my approach. I saw her take out the money and jewels she had stolen from me, and for which, by her advice, I had sold my soul to Satan. The sight again brought before me the horrid crime I had committed. I saw the sweet lady before me, extended in the grasp of death; and conscience, with a thousand fangs, tore at my heart. I grasped the dagger firmer and firmer as she counted the money, and wrought myself up to the pitch of a demon's fury. I advanced quietly. She burst into a loud laugh as she finished the counting of the gold. 'Ha, ha, ha!' she cried—'I have'—she would have said 'outwitted him,' but my dagger fixed the word in her death-closed jaws. I struck her to the heart through her back, and the word 'outwitted' died in her throat. She lay at my feet a corpse. I threw the body in a ditch, and took up the money and jewels for which I had sold my soul. I would have cast them away; but the devil again danced in the faces of the gold coins. I put them in my pocket. The gold again corrupted me. I drowned my conscience in drink at the next inn. I fled into England, where I have lived by rapine ever since, until the other day, when I returned to Scotland to meet the fate I so well deserve, from the hands of the son of those I had injured. Of my old master I have never heard anything. If he is alive, he is still in France."

Life seemed only to have been prolonged until he had made the horrid disclosure; for he fell into convulsions and expired, soon after the Colonel, whose wound had become stiff and painful, had left the house. Next morning, William visited his friend, and was grieved to find that he was rather feverish. His wound was still painful. The occurrence of the preceding evening occupied both their minds. William had no doubt of his being the lawful son of Henry Seaton by Miss Somerville; but was as much in doubt as to whether his father was alive as ever. In a few days, the Colonel was enabled to leave his bed-room, and became convalescent. He urged the propriety of William's proceeding to France in quest of his father; and, as the vessel was not yet to sail for a few days, he resolved to pay a visit to his friend, the minister, to inform him of his intentions, and relate the history of his mother's murderers. The Colonel would have accompanied him; but he could not ride. He rode along to the manse, with feelings very different from those with which he had left it. The worthy minister rejoiced to see him, and held up his pious hands at the horrid recital. He approved of William's determination of going in quest of his father, and, after paying a visit to his mother's and foster parents' graves, he once more mounted to return to Edinburgh. As he rode slowly along, musing upon the wayward fate of his parents unconscious of all around, he was roused by the tread of horses' feet behind him. He looked back, and saw a gentleman, attended by a servant in livery, approaching. He roused himself, and put his horse off the slow pace at which he had been going. The stranger and he saluted each other, and entered into conversation upon indifferent subjects. At length they became interested in each other, and found that they were both on the eve of sailing for France in the same vessel. The stranger requested to have the pleasure of knowing the name of his fellow-traveller.

"Seaton," said William, "is my name."

"Seaton, Seaton," said the other—"I am surprised I did not recognise you before. I thought we had met before; but your youth made me always doubt the truth of my surmises. Colonel Henry Seaton was an intimate acquaintance of mine—have I the pleasure of seeing his son?"

"I hope you have," replied William. "Pray, sir, when saw you him last? Was he in good health?"

"It is some time since I left France," said the other. "At that time he was in his ordinary health; but not more cheerful than usual—always grave and sad as ever."

"Thank God!" cried William; "he is, I trust, then, still alive." And he pressed the stranger's hand with a warmth that surprised him. "Where do you mean to stay," resumed William, "until the vessel sails?"

"I have no relations," replied he, "in Edinburgh. I meant to stay at an inn in the Canongate, where I have lived before; but it is all one to me—I may as well tarry in the White Hart with you."

When they arrived, William sent a cadie to give notice to Colonel Gordon that he was arrived in town; but was detained upon business with a stranger, to whom he would be happy to introduce him, as he was an acquaintance of his father's, and had seen him within the last few years. Soon after dinner, they were all seated at their wine, and deep in conversation. The stranger had been, from what he said, well acquainted with the exiled party in France, and, more particularly, with Colonel Seaton; but he knew nothing of his history, further than that he had lost a beloved wife and child at the time of his expatriation, and had, both by friends here and every other means, endeavoured in vain to get any information of where she was buried, or what had become of a faithful servant who had not embarked with him in the confusion of his flight—that on this account he was often oppressed by a lowness of spirits, and had many suspicions that all had not been as it ought to have been. This subject discussed, they would have had recourse to politics; but each seemed cautious of betraying his opinions, and the stranger, who did not seem to relish much some of the sentiments that occasionally escaped the Colonel, appeared to be a Tory. After the Colonel departed, the conversation of William and Mr Graham—for this was the gentleman's name—became more pointed, and it appeared that he was on business connected with the exiles. He had assumed that William was of his own way of thinking in politics, and was evidently much disappointed when he discovered that he was not. He became much more reserved, but not less attached to him; for William gave him a general outline of his misfortunes and early education, and they parted for the night with the best opinion of each other. Next morning both proceeded to Leith, where Graham expected to find a messenger from the north with a packet of letters for him. When they reached Leith, they found that the messenger had arrived on the previous day, and was waiting for Mr Graham, who, having several persons to visit in the neighbourhood, William and he parted, agreeing to meet in the Colonel's to supper. They met in the evening.

"I have been making some inquiries," said Mr Graham, "about Colonel Henry Seaton, on your account, and am happy to say that he is well. I fear I shall not have the pleasure of your company to France. I have every reason to believe that he is now in Scotland, or will be very soon. Excuse me if I am not more particular. I shall, I hope, to-morrow, or at least before the vessel sails, be able to give you more particular information. I can rely, I think, upon your honour, that no harm shall come from my confidence."

Both thanked him for the interest he took, and the good news he had communicated. They parted for the night, all in the best spirits—William anticipating the joy he should feel at the sight of his parent, and the Colonel anxious to see his old friend. Afterwards Mr Graham and William occasionally met. Their evenings were spent with the Colonel, and all party discussion carefully avoided. On the evening of the fourth day after Mr Graham's last information, William had begun to fear that the vessel might sail before any certainty could be obtained; and he was in doubt whether to proceed with her or remain. Upon Mr Graham's arrival, which was later than usual, he went directly up to William—

"I have good news for you," said he. "Colonel Seaton is at present in Scotland—somewhere in Inverness-shire. He is the bearer of intelligence that will render it unnecessary for me to proceed at present to France. I am, I confess, much disappointed; but you, I perceive, are not."

"From my soul I thank you," said William. "Where shall I find my father?"

"That is more than I can tell you," answered the other—"I cannot even tell the name he has at present assumed; all I know is, that he is the bearer of intelligence from the Prince that crushes for a time our sanguine hopes. The fickle and promise-breaking Louis has again deceived us. The Prince, and the lukewarm, timid part of his adherents, the worshippers of the ascendant, refuse to act without his powerful aid. His concurrence we have, and a prospect of future aid at a more convenient season; but, bah! for a Frenchman's promise! I am off from ever taking a leading part again. I will wait the convenient season. I may be led, but shall never lead again. He does not deserve a crown that will not dare for it; nor does he deserve the hearts of a generous people that would not dare everything to free them from the yoke of a foreign tyrant. Excuse me, gentlemen,—I go too far, and am giving you offence; but I assure you it is not meant. My heart is full of bitterness, and I forget what I say."

The Colonel, whose blood had begun to inflame when Graham checked himself, cooled and felt rather gratified at the intelligence thus so unexpectedly communicated. He felt for a generous mind crossed in its favourite object, however much he thought that mind misled, from education and early prejudice, and assured him he had already forgot his expressions. A different turn was given to the conversation, by William's continued inquiries after his father. Graham meant to set off for the north in a few days, for a secret meeting of the heads of the disaffected, at which Colonel Seaton was to communicate the message he had to them from France. He offered to be William's guide. The Colonel, whose shoulder was now quite well, requested to accompany them; and on the Monday morning after, they crossed at Kinghorn, and proceeded by the most direct route, passing through Perthshire to the Highlands. They arrived at Glengarry, and found that Colonel Seaton was at the time on a visit, with the chief, to Glenelg, but would be back on the following day. There were a number of visiters at the castle, with all whom Graham was on the most intimate terms. Gordon and William were introduced, and the latter was most cordially received, from the strong resemblance he bore to his father. They got a guide to conduct them to see the beautiful scenery around the house, and they were amusing themselves admiring the grandeur of the mountain scenes, when the guide said, pointing to a bend in the road—

"Gentlemen, there is Glengarry."

They looked towards the spot, and could perceive two persons on horseback, approaching in earnest conversation. William's heart beat quick—the reins almost dropped from his hand—he felt giddy, and his temples throbbed as if they would have burst. They approached—they bowed to each other—William's eyes were fixed upon the countenance of his father, who returned his gaze, but neither spoke a word. The Colonel said, in answer to the polite salutation, that he and his young friend had had the honour to accompany Mr Graham on a visit.

"Has Graham come back so soon?" he said, with surprise, "I feared as much; but, gentlemen, you are kindly welcome." And he shook hands with them.

"Macdonald, what is this?" he said, turning to Seaton, who was absorbed in thought. "Here is a youthful counterpart of yourself!"

"My father!" exclaimed William, as he leaped from his horse, and clasped his leg, leaning his face upon it, and bedewing it with his tears.

"Young man," said Seaton, coldly, "you are mistaken; I have no son." William lifted his hands in an imploring manner, and the ring met his father's eye. "Good heavens! what do I see!" he exclaimed, and sank forward, overpowered by his feelings, upon his horse's neck. The chief and the Colonel raised him up—the tears were streaming from his eyes. "A thousand painful remembrances," said he, "have quite unmanned me. Young man, you just now called me father—where, for mercy's sake tell me, did you get that ring?"

"It was found on the bosom of my dead mother," faltered William.

"Then you are my son!"

And the next moment they were locked in each other's embrace. The chief and Gordon were moved. They passed their hands hastily across their eyes.

"Dear father," said William, "have you forgot your old friend and associate in arms—my best of friends?"

Seaton for the first time looked to him, and, extending his disengaged hand, grasped the Colonel's, saying—

"Excuse me, Gordon—I am now too happy. I have found a son and a brother."

They walked to the castle, and William detailed to his father his mournful story. Often had he to stop, to allow his father to give vent to his anguish.

"Ah, I often feared," said he, "that my Helen had been hardly dealt with; but this I never did suspect. Cursed villain! and, oh! my poor murdered Helen!"

They returned to the castle. It was agreed that Seaton should still retain the name of Macdonald, until the Colonel should obtain, through the influence of his friends, a pardon for him. He also had lost all hopes of success for the Prince, and wished to enjoy the company of his son, visit the grave of his beloved wife, and, at death, be buried by her side. All was obtained; and Henry Seaton lived for many years, blessed in the society of his son, who studied the law, at the suggestion of the Colonel, and became distinguished in his profession.



HUME AND THE GOVERNOR OF BERWICK.

It has been asserted by at least one historian, that it has been observed, that the inhabitants of towns which have undergone a cruel siege, and experienced all the horrors of storm and pillage, have retained for ages the traces of the effects of their sufferings, in a detestation of war, indications of pusillanimity, and decline of trade. If there be any truth in this observation, what caitiffs must the inhabitants of Berwick be! No town in the world has been so often exposed to the "ills that wait on the red chariot of war;" for Picts, Romans, Danes, Saxons, English, and Scotch have, in their turn, wasted their rage and their strength upon her broken ribs. Her boasted "barre," (barrier,) from which her name, Barrewick, is derived, has never been able to save her effectually, either from her enemies of land or water. From the reign of Osbert, the king of Northumberland, down to the time when Lord Sidmouth saw treason in her big guns, she has been devoted to the harpies of foreign and intestine war and discord. Yet who shall say, that the hearts or spirits of the inhabitants of this extraordinary town lost either blood or buoyancy from their misfortunes? No sooner were her bulwarks raised than they appeared renascent; the inhabitants defended the new fortifications with a spirit that received a salient power from the depression produced by the demolition of the old; and her ships, that one day were shattered by engines of war, sailed in a state of repair with the next fair wind, to fetch from distant ports articles of merchandise, not seldom for those who were fighting or had fought against her liberties. Such was Berwick; and her sons of to-day inherit too much of the nobility and generosity of her old children, to find fault with us for telling them a tale which, while it exhibits some shades of the warlike spirit of their ancestors, shews also that war and citizen warriors have their foibles, and are not always exempt from the harmless laugh that does the heart more good than the touch of an old spear.

The Lord Hume of the latter period of the seventeenth century, had a natural son, Patrick, an arch rogue, inheriting the fire of the blood of the Humes, along with that which burnt in the black eyes of the gipsies of Yetholm. He was brought up by his father; and, true to the principles of his education, would acknowledge no patrons of the heart, save the three ruling powers of love, laughter, and war—Cupid, Momus, and Mars—a trio chosen from all the gods, (the remainder being sent to Hades,) as being alone worthy of the worship of a gentleman. How Patrick got acquainted, and, far less, how he got in love with the Mayor of Berwick's daughter, Isabella, we cannot say, nor need antiquarians try to discover; for where there was a Southron to be slain or a lady to be won, Patrick Hume cared no more for bar, buttress, battlement, fire, or water, than did Jove for his own thunder-cloud, under the shade of which he courted the daughter of Inachus. Letting alone the recondite subject of "love's beginning," we shall tread safer ground in stating, that the affection had been very materially increased on both sides by the walls of Berwick; for, although Patrick was a great despiser of fortifications, he had felt, in the affair of his love for Isabella, the fair daughter of the Mayor of Berwick, that there is no getting a damsel through a loop-hole, though there might be poured as much sentimental and pathetic speech and sigh-breath through the invidious opening, as ever passed through the free air that fills the breeze under the trysting thorn.

What we have now said requires the explanation, that at the period of our story, the town of Berwick belonged to the English; and the Mayor, being himself either an Englishman, or connected by strong ties of relationship with the English, had a strong antipathy towards the Scottish Border raiders, whom he denominated as gentlemen-robbers, headed by the noble robber Hume. But, above all, he hated young Patrick—into whose veins, he said, there had been poured the distilled raid-venom and love-poison of all the gentlemen-scaumers that ever infested the Borders. The origin of this hatred had some connection with an affair of the Newmilne, belonging to Berwick; the dam-dike of which, Patrick alleged, prevented the salmon from getting up the river, and hence destroyed all his angling sport, as well as that of all the noblemen and gentlemen that resorted to the river for the purpose of practising the "gentle art." He had therefore threatened to pull it down, to let up the fish; and sounded his threat in the ears of the indignant Mayor, in terms that were, peradventure, made stronger and bitterer by the thought that dikes and walls were his greatest bane upon earth: by the walls of Berwick the Mayor kept from his arms the fair Isabella, and by the dam-dike of Newmilne the same Mayor deprived him of the pleasure of angling. Was such power on the part of a Mayor to be borne by the high-spirited youth who had been trained to look upon mason-work as a mere stimulant to love or war—a thing that raised the value of what it enclosed by the opposition it offered to the young blood that raged for entrance? The youth thought not. He vowed that he would neither lose his Isabella nor his salmon; and, as fate would have it, the old Mayor had heard the vow, and vowed also that young Patrick should lose both.

Having fished one day to no purpose, in consequence of the obstruction of "that most accursed of all dam-dikes, the Newmilne dike," as Patrick styled it, he threw down his rod, and lay down upon the bank of the river, to wait the hour when the moon should summon and lighten him to the loop-hole in the other of his hated obstructions, the walls of Berwick—where that evening he expected to meet his beloved Isabella, and commune with her in the eloquent language of their mutual passion. The bright luminary burst in the midst of his reveries from behind an autumn cloud, and flashed a long silver beam upon the rolling waters. He started to his feet.

"It is beyond my time," he said, self-accusingly. "My Isabella is on Berwick Wall, and I am still lingering here by the banks of the river, three miles from where my love and honour require me to be. The loiterer in love is a laggard in war; and shame on the Hume who is either!"

In a short time the young Hume was standing beneath a buttress of the old walls of the town, looking earnestly through a small opening, in which he expected to see the face of the fair daughter of the Mayor.

"Art there at last, love?" said he, in a soft voice, as he saw, with palpitating heart, the pretty but arch face of the bewitching heiress of all the wealth of the old burgher lord peering through the aperture. "What, in the name of him who got his wings in the lap of Venus, and useth them to this hour as cleverly as doth our pretty messenger of Spring, hath kept thee, wench?"

"Ha! ha! hush! hush, man!" responded she, whose spirit equalled that of the boldest Hume that ever headed a raid. "Thou'rt the laggard. I've waited for thee an hour, until I've sighed this little love-hole into an oven-heat, waiting thee, thou lover of broken troth! Some gipsy queen in Haugh of the Tweed hath wooed thee out of thy affection for thy Isabel; and now thou askest what hath kept me. Ha! ha! Good—for a Hume."

"The moon cheated me, and went skulking under a cloud," responded Hume.

"And the cloud threw thy love in the shade," added quickly the gay girl. "Methought love kept his own dial, and was independent of sun or moon. What if a rebel vapour cometh over the queen of heaven that night thou art to make me free? My hope of liberty, I fancy, would be clouded; and I would be remitted again to the care of Captain Wallace, who keepeth the town and the Mayor's daughter from the spoiling arms of the robber Humes."

"Ha! ha!" replied he—"thy father wanteth not a Mayor's wits, Isabella, in offering thee as a prize to the Governor of the town. Excellent device, i'faith! The old burgher lord knew he could not keep thee, mad-cap wench as thou art, from a hated Hume's arms, unless he gave the Captain an interest as a lover in guarding thee, like a piece of the old wall of Berwick."

"And therein thou'rt well complimented," replied she; "for my father could not get, in all Berwick, a man that could keep me from thee, but he who guardeth town, and Mayor, and maiden together. Since the Governor, as a lover, got charge of me, I am more firmly caged than ever was the old countess, who was so long confined in the grated wing-cage of the old castle. When art thou to free me from the Governor's love and surveillance, good Patrick? If what I have now to tell thee hath no power to quicken thy wits and nerve thine arm, thou art indeed thyself no better than one of those stones, to which, in thy wit, thou hast likened me. Knowest that a day is fixed for Captain Wallace being my legal governor?"

"Ha!" cried Hume, in agitation. "This soundeth differently from the playful hammer of thy wit, Bell. What day is fixed? Thou hast fired me with high purposes."

"How high tower they?" cried the maiden, laughing. "Do they reach thy former threat, to pull down the Newmilne dam-dike, and let up the salmon, in revenge for the letting down of the Mayor's daughter?"

"Another time for thy wit, Bell," replied Patrick, in a more serious tone. "Thou hast put to flight my spirits. The grey owl Meditation is flapping his dingy wing over my heart. The time—the time—when is the day?"

"This day se'ennight," answered Isabel. "Hush! hush! here cometh the Governor, blowing like a Tweedmouth grampus, fresh from the German Sea, in full run after a lady-fish of the queen of rivers."

And now Hume heard the hoarse voice of the redoubted Governor, Captain Wallace—that fat overgrown bellygerent son of Mars, so famous, in his day, for vaunting of feats of arms, at Bothwell, (where he never was,) over the Mayor's wine, and in presence of his fair daughter, whom he thus courted after the manner of the noble Moor, with a slight difference as to the truth of his feats scarce worth mentioning. It appeared to Hume, as he listened, that Wallace, and the Mayor, who was with him, had sallied out, after the fourth bottle, in search of Isabel—a suspicion verified by the speech of the warlike Captain.

"Did I not tell thee, Mr Mayor," said the Governor, in a voice that reverberated among the walls, and fell distinctly on Hume's ear, "that she would be about the fortifications? Ha!—anything appertaining to war delighteth the fair creature as much as it did that rare author, Will Shakspeare's Desdemona. If I had been as black as the Moor—ay, or as the devil himself—my prowess at Bothwell would have given this person of mine, albeit somewhat enlarged, the properties of beauty in the eyes of noble-spirited women—so much do our bodies borrow from the qualities of our souls."

"Where is she?" rejoined the Mayor. "I like not that love of the fortifications. It is the outside of the walls she loves. See, she flies, conscience-smitten. I like not this, my noble Captain—see, there is Patrick Hume beyond the wall, if thou hast courage, drive thy pike through that loop, and, peradventure, ye may blind a Hume for life."

"I like to strike a man fair—body to body—as we did on the Bridge of Bothwell," responded the Captain. "Ha! ha! Give me the loop-hole of a good bilbo-thrust, out of which the soul wings its flight in a comfortable manner. Nevertheless, to please my noble friend the mayor, and to get quit of a rival, I may" (lowering his voice to a whisper) "as well kill him in the way thou hast propounded; but I assure thee, upon my honour, I would much rather have the fellow before me, without the intervention of these plaguey walls, that come thus in the way and march of one's valour. There goes!"

On looking-up, Hume saw the Captain's bilbo thrusting manfully through the night air, as if it would pierce the night gnomes and spirits that love to hang over old battlements. Taking out his handkerchief, he wrapped it round his hand, and seizing the point of the sword, gave it a jerk, which (and the consequent terror) disengaged it from the hand of the pot-valiant hero of Bothwell. A shout of fear was heard from within.

"Stop! stop! mine good Mr Mayor!" cried the Captain to the Mayor, who had begun to fly; "I do not see, as yet, any very great, that is, serious cause of apprehension; but, I forget, thou wert not at Bothwell. By my honour, I've done for him! He hath carried off my sword in his body. Was it Patrick Hume, saidst thou? Then is he dead as my grandmother, and no more shall he follow after my betrothed, or threaten thee with the downfall of the Newmilne dam-dike. All I sorrow for is my good sword, which, but for that accursed loop, I might have redrawn from his vile carcass, and thus saved my property at the same time that I gave the carrion crows of old Berwick a dinner."

"Ah! but he's a devil that Hume," responded the Mayor. "Long has he hounded after my daughter Bell; and though it is now likely near an end with him, I should not like to come in the way of the dying tiger. Let us home."

The sound of the retreating warriors brought back Hume to the loop-hole, to see if Isabel was still there, to whom he was anxious to propose a plan, whereby he might (with the gay romp's most cheerful good-will and hearty co-operation) carry her off from the contaminating embrace of the pot-valiant Governor, with whom she was to be wed on that day se'ennight. He waited a long time, but no Isabel came. He suspected that the Mayor, after having caught her speaking to him, (Hume,) his most inveterate foe, would, as he had often done before, lock her up, and set the noble Captain as a guard upon his lady-love. Cursing his unlucky fate, that brought them out to interrupt his converse with the mistress of his heart, and prevent the arrangement of an elopement, he bent the Captain's bilbo hilt to point till it rebounded with a loud twang, and stepping away up the Tweed, fell into a deep meditation as to the manner by which he should secure Isabel. As he went along, his eye fell upon that source of so much contention between the men of Berwick and the border barons, the dam-dike of the Newmilne, and against which the Lord Hume, as well as himself and many of the neighbouring knights and lairds, had vowed destruction. A thought flashed across his mind, and his eye sparkled in the moonbeam, as brightly as did the Captain's sword, which he still held in his hand.

"I have hit it!" he cried, as he clapped his hand on his limb, and the sound echoed back from the mill-walls. "For spearing a salmon or a Southron, dissolving that old foolish tenure between a proprietor and his cattle, or cutting the tie of forced duty between a rich old Mayor and his daughter, where shall the bastard of Hume be equalled on the Borders? My fair Bell, thou wouldst spring with the elasticity of this bent blade, and dance like these moonbeams in the Tweed, if thou wert in the knowledge of this thought that now tickles the wild fancy of thy lover, whom thou equallest in all that belongest to the gay heart and the bounding spirit."

Occupied with these thoughts, Patrick went home to the castle of the Humes; and, next morning, he bent his way to Foulden, where he sought Lord Ross's baillie, James Sinclair, a man who had a very hearty spite against the obstruction to the passage of the Tweed salmon. With him he communed for a considerable time, and thereafter he proceeded to Paxton and to others of the gentlemen in the vicinity. The subject of these interviews will perhaps best be explained by the following placard, which appeared in various parts of Berwick in two days thereafter:—

"On Friday last, the tenant of Newmilne, belonging to the toun of Baricke, gave information to our honourable Mayor, who has communicated the same to our gallant Governor, Captain Wallace, that the Lord Hume and other the Scotch gentlemen, our neighbours, do, on Monday next, intend to be at the Newmilne aforesaid, by tenn of the clock of the morninge; and that they had summoned their tenants to be then and there present, alsoe, to assist in the breaking downe and demolishing the dam of the said Newmilne; and that the Lord Ross his bailiffe of Foulden had given out in speeches, that he was desired to summon the said Lord Ross, his tenants, and inhabitants of Foulden barronry, to be then and there aiding and assisting them, alsoe, for better effecting the same: Whereupon, it is necessary, that, at a ringing of a belle, our tounsmen, headed by our Mayor, and directed by the warlike genius of Captain Wallace, should proceed to the said Newmilne, and give battle in defence of the said dike, which is indispensable to the existence of the toun's property. God save the Mayor!"

The effect produced by this proclamation was rapid and stirring. The English, at that period, had contrived to raise a strong prejudice in the minds of the Berwick burghers against the Border Scots; and the intelligence that the daring robbers intended to demolish their property, inflamed them to the high point of resolution to fight under their valorous Captain, while one stone of the dike remained on another, and one drop of blood was left in their bodies. Hume, who had a greater part in the occasion of these preparations than had been made apparent, got secret intelligence, on all that was going on within the town; but none of his vigils at the loop-hole were rewarded with a sight of his spirited Isabel, who, he understood, had been confined in her father's house since the night on which she had been discovered upon the wall. Meanwhile, the preparations for the defence of the town's property proceeded; and, on the Monday morning, a bell, whose loud tongue spoke "war's alarums," sounded over town and walls, spreading fear among the timid, and rousing in the noble breasts of the valorous proud and swelling resolutions to give battle to the Border robbers, in the style of their ancestors. Ever since the first announcement, they had been drilled by the Captain, whose loud command of voice, proud bearing, bent back (bent in self-defence against the counterpoise of his stomach), and martial strut, filled them with great awe of his power, and great confidence in his abilities. Many hundred people, "on horse and foote," (we use the language of our old chronicle), "were gathered together, considerably armed with swordes, pistolles, firelocks, blunderbushes, foalingpieces, bowes and arrowes of the tyme of the first Edward, and uther powerful ammunition, fit to resist the ryot of the Scotch; and away they marched to the newe miln, with Mr Mayor and the Governor (a verrie terrible man of war—to be married the morn to the Mayor's dochter Isabel, if he come back with lyffe), and the sergeants with their halberts, and constables with their staves, going before them." In front, there was beat some thundering engines of warlike music, which was cut occasionally by sharp screams of small fifes, blown into by the burgher amateurs of that lively musical machine. Altogether, the cavalcade presented many appearances of a stern and warlike nature, which might well have prevented the Scotch raiders from proceeding with their felonious intention of driving down the obstruction to the salmon, and forced them to remain content with the angling of trout and parr. The "verrie sight" of the brave Wallace was deemed sufficient by those who followed him, "to put an end to the fraye before it was begunne."

This extraordinary cavalcade was seen passing along the road by Patrick Hume, who had, with his companions, retired behind some brushwood, the better to enjoy the sight. The warriors passed on, and every now and then the loud voice of the captain was heard commanding and exhorting his troops to keep up their courage for the coming strife. When the last file was disappearing, Hume and his companions made the woods resound with a loud laugh, and, starting up, and crying, "For Berwick, ho!" they hurried away in the direction of the town, which the Governor, in his anxiety to form a large assemblage, had left without a guard. Meanwhile the burgher army pushed on for Newmilne; "and, when they came there," (says the chronicle), "they pitched their camp; and nae doubt butt they were well disciplined, seeing theye had the advantage of the Captain's training, with the great blessing attour of weapons suitable—viz., rusty ould swords and pistolles; and they continued about three or foure houres on the bankes and about the milne: still there was nae appearance of the Scotch coming to fecht with them." For a long time the Captain was solemn and quiet; but when it appeared that the Scots "were not to come to show fecht," he got as wordy as a blank-verse poet, and stood up in the face of a neighbouring wood, from which it was expected the enemy would emanate, and called upon the cowards (as he styled them) to come out "and dare to touche one stone of the milne dam-dike."

"Did I not tell thee, Mr Mayor," he cried, "that I killed Patrick Hume? If not, where is he now, and he the Lord Ross of Foulden, and he of Paxton, and all the rest of the Border heroes? Come forth from thy wood recesses, if there be as much pluck in thee as will enable thee to meet the fire of the eye of the Governor of Berwick! Ha! ha! The rascals must have been at Bothwell, where, doubtless, they felt the pith of this arm. There goeth the disadvantage of bravery! The devil a man will encounter one whose name is terrible, and I fear I may never have the luxury of a good fight again. This day I expected to have fleshed my good sword. To-morrow is my wedding-day. How glorious would it have been to have made it also a day of victory! I could almost hack these unconscious trees for very spite, and to give my sword the exercise it lacketh."

And he swung his falchion from side to side, cutting off the tops of the young firs, just as if they had been men's heads; but no Scotchman made his appearance. The whole bells of Berwick now began to swing and ring as if the town had been invaded; and messengers, breathless and panting, arrived at the camp, and communicated the intelligence that the Bastard of Hume had, with a body of men, got entrance to the Mayor's house, by shewing the guard the Governor's sword, and carried off Isabel, the Mayor's daughter, who was more willing to go than to stay. The route of the fugitives was distinctly laid down, and it was represented by the messengers that, by crossing over a couple of miles, they had every chance of overtaking them and reclaiming the disobedient maid. The recommendation was instantly seized by the distracted Mayor, and a shout of the burgher forces, and an accompanying peal from the drums and fifes, shewed the desire of the men to fulfil the wish of their master. The captain's spirit was changed. He burned to reclaim his bride; but he feared the Bastard of Hume, whose prowess was acknowledged far and wide from the Borders. Shame did what could not have been accomplished by love; and, putting himself, with a mock warlike air, at the head of the troops, away he posted as fast as sixteen stone of beef, penetrated by alternate currents of fear, shame, and valour, would permit. The musical instruments of war were hushed; and as the forces hurried on, panting and breathing, not a voice was heard but the occasional vaunts of the captain, who found it necessary to conceal his fear by these running shots of assumed valour. As fate would have it, the Berwickers came up with the Bastard's party, who, with the gay and laughing Isabel in the midst of them, were seated, as they thought securely, in the old Berwick wood, enjoying some wine, which she, with wise providence, had handed to one of the men as a refreshment when they should be beyond danger. The sounds of merriment struck on the ear of the invaders; they stopped, and thought it safer, in the first instance, to reconnoitre—a step highly eulogized by the Captain, who seemed to want breath as well from the toil of the chase as from some misgivings of his valour, which had come, like qualms of sickness, over his stout heart.

"Ha! traitor!" cried the Mayor, "the device of sending us to Newmilne will not avail thee. Give me my daughter, traitor!" addressing himself to the Bastard, who stood now in the front of the party, all prepared for a tough defence.

"In either of two events thou shalt have her," cried Hume—"if thou canst take her, or if she is willing to go with thee."

"No, no!" cried the sprightly maid herself, coming boldly forward. "I love my father and the good citizens of Berwick, and none of them shall lose a drop of their blood for Isabel. If we are to have battle, let it be between the two lovers who claim my hand. By the honour of a Mayor's daughter, I shall be his who gaineth the day! Stand forward, Patrick Hume and Governor Wallace."

"Bravo!" shouted the burghers, delighted with a scheme that smacked so sweetly of justice and safety.

All eyes were now turned on the Captain; and Isabel, delighted with her scheme, was seen concealing her face with the corner of her cloak, to suppress her laughter. The Captain saw, however, neither justice nor safety in the scheme, and, edging near the Mayor, whispered into his ear his intention not to fight. Palpable indications of fear were escaping from his trembling limbs, and the hero of Bothwell was on the eve of being discovered. Hume was prepared—he stood, sword in hand, ready for the combat.

"Come forward, Captain!" cried the Bastard.

"Come forward!" resounded from Isabel, and a hundred voices of the burghers.

"I am the Governor of Berwick," answered the hero, in a trembling voice, keeping the body of the Mayor between him and Hume. "As the servant of the King, I dare not" (panting) "run the risk of reducing my authority—by—by—engaging, I say, by committing myself in single combat, like a knight errant, for a runaway damsel. It comporteth not with my dignity—hegh—hegh—I say, I cannot come down from the height of my glory at Bothwell, by committing myself in a love brawl. But ye are my men—hegh—hegh—ye are bound to fight when I command. Do your duty—on, on, I say, to the rescue."

"We want not the wench," responded many voices. "He that will not fight for his love, deserves to lose her for his cowardice." "Resign her, good Mayor," cried others. "Give the damsel her choice," added others. "Bravo, good fellows!" cried Bell, in the midst of her laughter; and a shout from Hume's men rewarded her spirit. The enthusiasm was caught by the Berwickers, some of whom, observing certain indications thrown out by Isabel, ran forward and got from her a flagon of good wine. The vessel was handed from one to another. "Hurra for Hume!" shouted the Berwickers. The tables were turned. All, to a man, were with Isabel and her partner. The Mayor had sense enough to see his position. In any way he was to lose his daughter, and he heartily despised the coward that would not fight for his love.

"Hume," he cried, standing forward, "come hither; and, Isabel, approach the side of thy father."

The laughing damsel ran forward, and, perceiving her absolute safety, flung herself on her father's neck, and hung there, amidst the continued shouts of the men.

"Forgive me, forgive me, father!" cried she. "My choice is justified by my love, and the characters of my lovers. The one is a coward, the other a brave youth. Hume's intentions are honourable, and I may be the respected wife of one of noble blood."

"I forgive thee, Bell," answered the father. And he took her hand and placed it in Hume's. "Come, Captain, forgive her too, and let us all be friends."

He looked round for the Captain, and all the party looked also; but the hero was gone. He had mounted a white Rosinante, as thin as he was fat, and was busy striking her protruding bones with his sword, to propel her on to Berwick, where he thought he would be more safe than where he was. The figure he made in his retreat—his large swelled body on the lean jade, like a tun of wine on a gantress—his anxiety to get off—his receding position—his flight after such a day of vaunting—all conspired to render the sight ludicrous in the extreme. One general burst of laughter filled the air; but the Captain held on his course, and never stopped till he arrived at Berwick. That day Hume and Isabel were wed—and a happy day it was for the Berwickers; who, in place of fighting, were occupied in drinking the healths of the couple. The device of Hume, in sending them to the Newmilne, was admired for its ingenuity; and all Berwick rung with the praises of Hume and his fair spouse. Regular entries were made in the council books, of the expedition to the Newmilne, "where they braived the Scottes to come and fecht them, butte the cowardes never appeared." But it was deemed prudent to say nothing therein of Hume's trick, which, doubtless, might have reduced the amount of bravery which it was necessary should appear, for the honour of the town.

END OF VOL. XVII.

Tubbs & Brook, Printers, Manchester.

Transcriber's Note: Inconsistencies and unexpected spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained as they appear in the original book except: Page 31 through the intrumentality has been changed to through the instrumentality Page 43 and and unflinching opinion has been changed to and an unflinching opinion