The Mosstrooper: A Legend of the Scottish Border

The onset of the strangers had been so sudden and so fierce that it frightened the crowd and paralysed the armed guards. The great tumult and confusion admirably favoured the designs of the assailants. The scene became frightful; and not less so by the furious attack than by the shrieking of women, and cries of those unlucky wretches who were trampled down beneath the horses’ hoofs. The horse which drew the condemned cart plunged from the hands of its driver, and rushed madly through the village. Roughly pressed upon, the gibbet quivered and shook like a tree in the storm, and at last fell with a crash. More died by the fall of that ghastly instrument of death than had died on it for many a year. Inextricable uproar and dismay reigned on every hand; for on every hand was the enemy.

De Ermstein’s voice was heard at length exhorting his retainers to avert the disgrace which was falling upon them. The enemy were forcing a retreat down the village, carrying off the false priest and the condemned outlaw. Their object was retreat – retreat was their only safety, for they did not boast overwhelming numbers; fifty horsemen were perhaps their utmost force; but fifty horsemen only as they were, not a man amongst them but would have died ere Ruthven Somervil was re-taken. Down they galloped through the village amidst a tempest of shouts and the clash of steel.

And down like a torrent swept the forces of De Ermstein, headed by the old, stern-hearted knight, who would not relinquish his victim. His men seemed animated by his own fury, and, with a devotion worthy of a better cause, nobly seconded his efforts. The pursuit was hot. Away they swept in the wake of the mosstroopers. The village was cleared. They were careering through the valley, all in a confused and disorderly band. De Ermstein kept foremost, sometimes far in advance, for he rode with the fury of a blast. To take the outlaw, to drag him back to the fallen gibbet; he perilled his life – everything – to gratify his mortified pride and disappointed revenge. What disgrace it was to behold the outlaw free once more. Free! And on some following night the valley of Warkcliff might be gleaming with the red blaze of the burning village, and echoing the death-cries of the ravaged. The gibbet for the outlaw!

Amazed at the sudden rescue – snatched from death at the last moment – Ruthven Somervil’s brain reeled and swam when he was dragged out of the condemned cart, and mounted upon a horse. It was so like a troubled dream. Was he rescued? He would have fallen from the saddle had not friendly and firm hands upheld him. He was sternly calm when the hangman approached him with the noosed rope in his hand – calm and collected then. But, when the first blow was struck, he became almost oblivious of what followed. And the great tumult that deafened his ear might have been the roaring of the tempestuous torrents of that unseen Jordan which rolls in darkness, washing the shores of Time and Eternity.

But, when the flight began, his recollection returned. He was in the midst of his men; he knew this one and the other around him in their disguises. Someone had put a steel cap upon his head, and he now found that he had a naked sword in his right hand, clutched as by the grasp of death. All at once he was restored to himself, saw and comprehended all clearly, felt his blood kindling in the headlong motion of flight, saw the pursuers following fast, brandished his sword, and faltered to his men, “Courage.”

Courage? They had need of it. The pursuers were gaining upon them at every bound. The valley was far in the rear, hidden by the wreathing mists. The open Border was in front, and yonder stretched the blue heights of Cheviot. On and on; and now a scattered thicket received the mosstroopers. They were glad of its shelter, for the Southrons were at their heels.

“Halt! turn!” exclaimed Ruthven Somervil. “If we escape, we must bear these villains back. Turn upon them! Front De Ermstein! He will think of the disasters of Hawksglen and fly from our spears again.”

At the stern word they halted, and reined round their panting steeds within the covert of the thicket, which prevented a general charge being made upon them. The Southrons, all scattered in twos and threes, came plunging up to the trees, as if in anticipation of an easy victory. But they had to fight the battle ere that victory could be won. The foremost daring spirits were received upon the hostile lances, and easily overthrown, some slain, others crushed beneath the weight or by the mad struggles of their transfixed horses.

Now came De Ermstein and the flower of his band. Their headlong assault was met by a straggling discharge of firearms, but the struggle came to be decided by the cold steel alone. Pressing upon each other, stumbling and trampling over their fallen comrades, the dying horses, and the thick bushes and underwood, they at last penetrated the thicket, and a deadly struggle, man to man, ensued. The outlaws were outnumbered; but who recked of a disparity of forces? They fought for their gallant captain’s life – they fought and bled to humble the haughty pride and avenge the malice of the haughty and fierce-souled Sir Dacre. It was a confused, tumultuous conflict, for the combatants lost all union, and scattered themselves through the straggling wood, which was filled with battle and bloodshed and death.

The two foes, for whose sakes all this fatal strife was waged, eagerly sought the last mortal encounter. Ruthven Somervil was destitute of all defensive armour save the bascinet cap on his head; but, regardless of exposure, and with the irresistible fury of a lion, he threw himself into the thickest of the battle, bearing down, as with an arm of iron, all who dared to oppose him. His eagle eye glared through the thicket for the tall form of Sir Dacre, on whom he sought to wreak his vengeance. Hidden by the trees, or lost in the confusion, he could not now be seen. But at length he emerged into open view, and, ere either of them seemed aware, they met each other, knew each other at the first wild glance, and halted face to face.

“Miscreant!” gasped Sir Dacre, half-choked with fury. “The hangman’s fell hand should have rid the earth of thee. Why should Fate throw thy worthless life upon the sword of an English noble?”

Somervil replied not to the insolence of his foe, but, brandishing his blood-dyed falchion, he spurred upon him. They encountered with a crash, and the outlaw’s blade was shivered to the hilt. An instant’s hesitation would have sealed his fate, but, almost flinging himself from his saddle, he grappled Sir Dacre’s sword hand, and wrenched the sword from him. This was scarcely done when the plunging of their horses threw them both on the ground, locked in each other’s arms, boiling with fury, gasping for breath. It was a death-struggle in all its fearful intensity.

Several of the outlaws, seeing their leader’s danger, instantly abandoned their steeds and flew to extricate him and stab his adversary; but as many of the Southrons were equally ready to fly to the rescue of Sir Dacre, a mortal conflict ensued around the two struggling combatants. The false priest was conspicuous for his wild heroism, his trenchant blade, his voice of thunder; and the veterans of Hunterspath were there mingling in the strife to save their captain.

It seemed as though their aid was doomed to be unavailing, that they could not save the outlaw. His strength was unequal to that of the iron-nerved Sir Dacre, whose hand clutched his throat, whose knee rose upon his breast. Alas for the outlaw! A dagger glittered in Sir Dacre’s grasp – glittered in the air – when a frightful voice arose above the din of battle, and arrested the clashing weapons, and a man, breathless, wounded, haggard, distracted in aspect, his eyes bloodshot and glaring, his head uncovered, his blood trickling to the ground – a spectacle of death and horror – staggered, with sinking strength, through the combatants, and seized Sir Dacre’s uplifted hand.

“Mother of Heaven!” he gasped; “would you slay your son? Would you shed the blood of him whom you have lamented for twenty years?”

It was the gentle Johnston. At last the mighty secret was divulged. At last he had revealed, in the face of the world, the dark thought that so long wrung his heart and embittered his life. In the jaws of death, with his life-blood rushing from his wounds, he had avouched his guilt, and saved the father from a deed of unnatural guilt. By such a disclosure, at such a time, he had atoned for many of the crimes that lay heavy on his dark soul.

Chapter XIV

“’Tis he! ’tis he himself! It is my son.”– Douglas.

WHAT a cry that was – “Would you slay your son?” Had the proud, noble, childless knight of Warkcliff – the last of his illustrious line – lamented the fate of the lost infant so long, and now was about to plunge his dagger into the breast of that very child? Had Heaven spared that child’s life, and preserved him through many troubles, only that he might perish beneath the blow of the blinded father? The fateful, astounding words sounded to him like a death-knell; his hand relinquished the blood-stained steel, and he sprang from the ground, speechless and bewildered. As if by concert, the struggling parties forbore their fierce contest, and drew back with lowered weapons.

Exhausted and swooning in the struggle, Somervil, if he heard the startling exclamation, scarcely knew what it meant; his mind was wandering, his senses were failing him, his brain swam round, and, though relieved of the pressure of his adversary, he made no effort to rise from the earth, but lay supine, with scarce a movement of hand or foot.

Johnston, with his wild and haggard aspect, cast his blood-shot eyes around him; he staggered to and fro, and then fell prone on the turf.

“I only ask for breath – to disclose all this secret of woe,” he gasped, as he turned on his side, and endeavoured to raise himself on his elbow – “breath to restore the lost son to the father – that is all I wish – and then let me die!”

What could the outlaws think of this? Their bold captain the son of their deadliest foe! They had striven with their blood and lives to restore him to the tower of Cheviot and to liberty, and it had resulted in the discovery that he was De Ermstein’s son! Could they credit the incredible assertion from the mouth of a villain whose perfidy, falsehood, and guile they abhorred – whose very name they detested? No, no, it was but a fabrication of the dying ruffian. They would fight for their captain yet! Up with the slogan-cry and the deadly steel. Cheviot! Cheviot! Somervil should be borne off free.

With a wild shout they brandished their weapons; but their hostile attitude recalled the bewilderment of De Ermstein.

“Stay, stay,” he shouted, almost in frenzy. “No more blood shall be shed. Implore all to stay the conflict. This secret must be disclosed. Somervil shall pass away free and scaithless though he be of no kindred to my house. Stay, stay!”

“Let us rest on the assurance of this noble knight,” cried Reginald de Oswald. “His knightly word is passed for the safety of your leader. I for one will forbear further conflict,” and he sheathed his sword.

His example was followed by such of the mosstroopers as were at hand, and, in a minute or two, the battle throughout the thickets had entirely ceased, and the combatants came all crowding together around the interesting group.

“Look to Somervil,” groaned the gentle Johnston, pointing eagerly to the inanimate youth. “He may die of his wounds, and never look upon his father’s face.”

Comyn, Sinclair, and others of Somervil’s band, instantly knelt around their captain. He was unwounded, but much bruised; his respiration was deep, his eyes were shut; but sensibility was returning, and he could answer, though faintly, when they spoke to him.

“Dacre de Ermstein,” cried the gentle Johnston, “come hither to me. I have not many moments to live, but what remains of my mortal breath shall be devoted to the disclosure of this my blackest crime. Come hither.”

De Ermstein rushed breathlessly towards him, bent over him, cast on his dark visage a look that might have pierced him through.

“I conjure you,” he cried vehemently, “to disclose the naked truth, however deeply it may criminate you. I know you now – I remember your features, Johnston, and tremble to hear your revenge. Speak, speak, deceive not an agonised father. Restore to me my son, if your cruel hand spared my son to this mournful day.”

“Ay,” said Johnston, “my hand has long been cruel and dark with blood; but, cruel and ruthless as it is, it could not but spare the child o’ De Ermstein. Behold your son – in Ruthven Somervil you behold him. And forgive me for the great wrong of the past in that I have saved you from the darkest crime that could stain living man!”

“My wife – his mother – pled sore for him,” exclaimed Sir Dacre. “The mysterious sympathy betwixt mother and child had stirred her heart, and she would have saved him, though she was ignorant that he was the child of her youth and joy. And I spurned her prayer, and strove to incur a guilt which would have branded me with infamy, and crushed me with despair! My son! And can this be my son?” he faltered, as he thrust aside the eager crowd around the prostrate mosstrooper, and, throwing himself on his knees, threw his arms around the half-unconscious youth’s neck, and gently raised his head to look upon him. It was a long, burning, searching gaze.

Ruthven opened his eyes.

“He has the look of his mother!” exclaimed Sir Dacre. “He has his mother’s features! Why could I not remark this before?”

The little golden reliquary now attracted his eye, for it was half visible on the outlaw’s breast, his doublet having been torn open in the struggle. In a moment Sir Dacre snatched it in his hand, and, in extreme agitation, he at length touched a secret spring in one of the edges, and the reliquary flew open, discovering within, in exquisite engraving, the Arms of Warkcliff, the name of Stephen de Ermstein, and the day and year of his birth,

“My son! my son indeed!” faltered Sir Dacre, letting the jewel fall back again upon the outlaw’s breast. “But, as I remember, my child had a scar above his left temple – the scar of an accidental wound received in his infancy; that scar will close all proof,” and, casting back the clustering hair from the outlaw’s forehead, there was the scar, faint, indeed, but perceptible to the father’s eyes.

This was enough. The proof was complete, even without the dying attestation of the gentle Johnston.

“My son! my long-lost son!” cried Sir Dacre, as, bursting into tears of joy, he folded the outlaw to his bosom. “The house of De Ermstein shall not yet be extinguished. Joy, joy! O, thou inscrutable Providence, how shall I offer my gratitude for this mighty boon?”

The mosstrooper heard the words of recognition – heard that he was called the son of De Ermstein, and heir of Warkcliff – felt himself pressed in the arms of a father. What were his emotions? The event was stupifying. And father and son rose from the ground with tumultuous feelings.

“You are safe – you will live?” cried Sir Dacre. “I have not stained my hands with your blood?”

The mosstrooper was unwounded. He might be giddy and faint; but not a life-drop of his had been lost. How the band stared in speechless amazement. No man could scarce credit what he heard and saw.

“Why did you not throw yourself into the arms of your father long ago?” cried Sir Dacre, in joyful reproach.

“Never till this moment,” answered the outlaw, “did I know the secret of my birth.”

“De Ermstein,” groaned the dying Johnston.

“Ah, this man will reveal all,” said Sir Dacre, and they all crowded around the jackman.

“I have restored the son to the father,” said Johnston, with painful effort, for his life was ebbing away from him fast, “and I now can meet death, having, as I hope, expiated the darkest of my crimes. De Ermstein, here, with my last breath, I declare that youth your son. Cherish him and love him; he is of brave renown, and will bravely uphold the honour of Warkcliff. It is long since we parted, Sir Dacre, and I ha’e often wished ne’er to see your face again, for how could I look the man in the face whom I had wronged so basely?”

“It was by your hand, Johnston, that all my wrongs were inflicted,” interrupted the outlaw. “Alas, what wrongs to expiate! but I forgive you.”

“Had I not borne your father malice,” answered Johnston, “you ne’er wad ha’e suffered what you ha’e suffered. But on my head, on my head alone, lies the whole weight of all your misfortunes. In my young days I was your father’s jackman. In an evil hour, for some offence, he chained me in his Donjon, degraded me in the eyes of my comrades, and expelled me ignominiously from his service. My blood was hot, my brain was on fire, and I vowed revenge. I lingered about Warkcliff for some days, and one gloaming, being faint and weary, I lay down on a braeside, under the bield o’ a bush, to rest my heavy head. Sir Dacre, you came riding by with your hunting train, and you set them upon me, and, in the desperate struggle for my life, I received a wound, the mark of which I shall bear with me to my grave. I was borne down by unequal numbers, and chased, like a wolf, before your hounds. Could I forgive that?”

“But your revenge was frightful,” said Sir Dacre. “You might have spared the child; he was innocent.”

“I knew that that child’s life was dear to you,” resumed Johnston. “Had I had the power, I might have come, with a ruthless band at my back, and filled all the valley of Warkcliff with smoke, and flame, and ruin; but that revenge would not have pierced you to the heart so deeply as I wished. No, Sir Dacre, I vowed a revenge which would crush you, and I had it, I had it! I came prowling back to Warkcliff, and watched my purpose like an adder coiled up to spring upon the victim. On the brae behind the castle I found your son in the nurse’s arms – some of the other attendants had wandered to a little distance – and, unseen by any, I seized the infant from the woman’s arms. She shrieked, and I struck her, and the blow cast her down the face of the brae. I then rushed away with the child.” He paused for breath, and then continued his startling confession. “It was my intention to wring the child’s life out, but my heart, rough as it was, revolted at a deed so felon and atrocious. I crossed the Border, and at last thought of a scheme by which I might also accomplish my revenge upon Elliot of Hawksglen. I once was in Elliot’s train, but he, too, degraded me, and I detested him for it. In the dead of night I reached his castle. On the previous day I met with one of his retainers on the English Border, and accidentally learned the watchword at Hawksglen. This knowledge served me well, and bore me through the deep fraud. I knocked at the gate, answered the warder’s interrogatory, and, when the gate was unbarred, I put the child in the old man’s arms and fled. I flattered myself that I had sown the seeds of a deep revenge, for, thought I, should you discover that your son was in Elliot’s power, you would charge upon him the crime of having bribed some miscreant to murder the nurse and seize the child.”

“I would have charged him so,” cried Sir Dacre, “had I known; for with Hawksglen I was ever at feud.”

“Elliot protected the child,” continued Johnston, “and brought him up as his own son – ”

“And I was base enough,” ejaculated Sir Dacre, “to levy war against the man who protected my son! Did he ever know the child’s parentage?”

“Never,” answered the outlaw captain; “but, after growing up to manhood, I was forced to abandon his house. In my helplessness I joined the band of Hunterspath; their leader was slain in a foray, and I was chosen in his stead.”

“Did Elliot drive thee to desperation?” cried Sir Dacre. “Upon the villain’s head I will visit it an hundred-fold.”

“I have revealed all,” said Johnston, who was fast sinking, “and now I can die in peace. It has long been a weary burden on my heart; but my heart is lightened of it at last. My dying moments are cheered by this restoration, even though it has come through crime and bloodshed. Embrace! Embrace!”

Father and son, so long apart, so wonderfully restored, fell, with an irresistible impulse, into each other’s arms, and embraced with the intensest affection. The crowd of attendants burst out into a loud cheer, with which the wood resounded.

“But we shall hold merry times of it no more in old Hunterspath,” said Ringan Sinclair, lugubriously, in the ear of Ellis Comyn. “Who would have thought our brave captain a Southron? And who shall be captain now?”

“Ah, but who can lead us to foray and fray,” said Habbie Menmuir, “like Ruthven Somervil? To my mind, Ringan, our mosstrooping days are over.”

“Often,” said the gentle Johnston, “did my heart misgive me, and I yearned to restore the son to the father; but then the fierce and revengeful mood would come over me, and all my good thoughts were crushed.”

“Had you come to Warkcliff,” cried Sir Dacre, “and disclosed the secret to me, you would have been rewarded to the utmost. Why did your revenge last so long? The degradation of my son might have filled up your craving for vengeance, and led you to relent.”

“I was present when your men took him,” responded Johnston, “and I fought and shed my blood for him, and all was of no avail. Even his men detested me, and, when I offered to join them in a rescue, they scorned my aid. Wounded and feeble as I was, I set out to Warkcliff, and reached it on this morning, when I met with the band of Hunterspath, and heard from them the tidings that your son was to die. They had been informed by their spies of all that passed in the castle regarding his destined fate, and had come under disguise to attempt a rescue at the place of execution. I offered again to join them in the rescue; but they drove me away with detestation. They had no need of my aid, they said, for Ellis Comyn had entered the castle under the guise of a priest, and would save the captain. I again thought of throwing myself upon your mercy, Sir Dacre, and disclosing all; but terror overtook me, and I wandered up and down the valley like a madman. Then came the flight and the battle. I fought against you, and, at the last extremity, revealed the terrible secret.”

His strength was almost wasted away, but still he struggled with death, for he still had something to crave of the outlaw. It was his forgiveness; and he freely gave it.

“One last request I have, which I implore you to grant,” cried the dying man. “I will die here, but I fain would have my bones to lie beside those of my father and mother in the little kirkyard of Eburn, on the banks of the Teviot. I mind weel o’ the day that I laid my mither’s head in that grave; and I fain would rest beside her. When but a bairn I used to come in the gloamings wi’ my mither, and sit doon aside the grassy hillock that rose over the remains of my father. The clods o’ that kirkyard would be sweet to me.”

Could the outlaw have rejected such a request, even to his worst foe? He granted it fervently. Johnston’s head fell back; he was speechless, and his limbs were quivering in the struggle of death. But his parting moment was eased by the thought that he should sleep in the sod of that kirkyard which was endeared by the love of father and mother. Even his rude heart still retained some remnant of the old feelings and affections of childhood. He would lie in the grave of his kindred, with the water of Teviot murmuring sweetly past. There came a smile to his lips, and his eye flashed brightly for a moment like an expiring lamp. But the lamp of his life was quenched in the waves of Jordan. The gentle Johnston – that man of ruth and rapine – was no more!

And now De Ermstein and his son, with the greater part of their attendants, proceeded towards the castle. It should have been a progress of triumphal joy; but the joy was dashed with so much bloodshed. The strange tidings flew to the village before them, filling men’s minds with amazement. The tumult in the village became greater than ever as the restored son approached, and those who had come out to see him die now surrounded him with shouts of welcome and demonstrations of gladness. And that gladness might have been greater had the stern knight listened to the solicitations of his lady, and not, with blind passion and with inflexible determination, hurried on a scene of tumult and death.