A Legend of Montrose

The young savage stooped, and kissed the brow of his dying parent; but accustomed from infancy to suppress every exterior sign of emotion, he parted without tear or adieu, and was soon far beyond the limits of Montrose’s camp.

Sir Dugald Dalgetty, who was present during the latter part of this scene, was very little edified by the conduct of MacEagh upon the occasion. “I cannot think, my friend Ranald,” said he, “that you are in the best possible road for a dying man. Storms, onslaughts, massacres, the burning of suburbs, are indeed a soldier’s daily work, and are justified by the necessity of the case, seeing that they are done in the course of duty; for burning of suburbs, in particular, it may be said that they are traitors and cut-throats to all fortified towns. Hence it is plain, that a soldier is a profession peculiarly favoured by Heaven, seeing that we may hope for salvation, although we daily commit actions of so great violence. But then, Ranald, in all services of Europe, it is the custom of the dying soldier not to vaunt him of such doings, or to recommend them to his fellows; but, on the contrary, to express contrition for the same, and to repeat, or have repeated to him, some comfortable prayer; which, if you please, I will intercede with his Excellency’s chaplain to prefer on your account. It is otherwise no point of my duty to put you in mind of those things; only it may be for the ease of your conscience to depart more like a Christian, and less like a Turk, than you seem to be in a fair way of doing.”

The only answer of the dying man – (for as such Ranald MacEagh might now be considered) – was a request to be raised to such a position that he might obtain a view from the window of the Castle. The deep frost mist, which had long settled upon the top of the mountains, was now rolling down each rugged glen and gully, where the craggy ridges showed their black and irregular outline, like desert islands rising above the ocean of vapour. “Spirit of the Mist!” said Ranald MacEagh, “called by our race our father, and our preserver – receive into thy tabernacle of clouds, when this pang is over, him whom in life thou hast so often sheltered.” So saying, he sunk back into the arms of those who upheld him, spoke no further word, but turned his face to the wall for a short space.

“I believe,” said Dalgetty, “my friend Ranald will be found in his heart to be little better than a heathen.” And he renewed his proposal to procure him the assistance of Dr. Wisheart, Montrose’s military chaplain; “a man,” said Sir Dugald, “very clever in his exercise, and who will do execution on your sins in less time than I could smoke a pipe of tobacco.”

“Saxon,” said the dying man, “speak to me no more of thy priest – I die contented. Hadst thou ever an enemy against whom weapons were of no avail – whom the ball missed, and against whom the arrow shivered, and whose bare skin was as impenetrable to sword and dirk as thy steel garment – Heardst thou ever of such a foe?”

“Very frequently, when I served in Germany,” replied Sir Dugald. “There was such a fellow at Ingolstadt; he was proof both against lead and steel. The soldiers killed him with the buts of their muskets.”

“This impassible foe,” said Ranald, without regarding the Major’s interruption, “who has the blood dearest to me upon his hands – to this man I have now bequeathed agony of mind, jealousy, despair, and sudden death, – or a life more miserable than death itself. Such shall be the lot of Allan of the Red-hand, when he learns that Annot weds Menteith and I ask no more than the certainty that it is so, to sweeten my own bloody end by his hand.”

“If that be the case,” said the Major, “there’s no more to be said; but I shall take care as few people see you as possible, for I cannot think your mode of departure can be at all creditable or exemplary to a Christian army.” So saying, he left the apartment, and the Son of the Mist soon after breathed his last.

Menteith, in the meanwhile, leaving the new-found relations to their mutual feelings of mingled emotion, was eagerly discussing with Montrose the consequences of this discovery. “I should now see,” said the Marquis, “even had I not before observed it, that your interest in this discovery, my dear Menteith, has no small reference to your own happiness. You love this new-found lady, – your affection is returned. In point of birth, no exceptions can be made; in every other respect, her advantages are equal to those which you yourself possess – think, however, a moment. Sir Duncan is a fanatic – Presbyterian, at least – in arms against the King; he is only with us in the quality of a prisoner, and we are, I fear, but at the commencement of a long civil war. Is this a time, think you, Menteith, for you to make proposals for his heiress? Or what chance is there that he will now listen to it?”

Passion, an ingenious, as well as an eloquent advocate, supplied the young nobleman with a thousand answers to these objections. He reminded Montrose that the Knight of Ardenvohr was neither a bigot in politics nor religion. He urged his own known and proved zeal for the royal cause, and hinted that its influence might be extended and strengthened by his wedding the heiress of Ardenvohr. He pleaded the dangerous state of Sir Duncan’s wound, the risk which must be run by suffering the young lady to be carried into the country of the Campbells, where, in case of her father’s death, or continued indisposition, she must necessarily be placed under the guardianship of Argyle, an event fatal to his (Menteith’s) hopes, unless he could stoop to purchase his favour by abandoning the King’s party.

Montrose allowed the force of these arguments, and owned, although the matter was attended with difficulty, yet it seemed consistent with the King’s service that it should be concluded as speedily as possible.

“I could wish,” said he, “that it were all settled in one way or another, and that this fair Briseis were removed from our camp before the return of our Highland Achilles, Allan M’Aulay. – I fear some fatal feud in that quarter, Menteith – and I believe it would be best that Sir Duncan be dismissed on his parole, and that you accompany him and his daughter as his escort. The journey can be made chiefly by water, so will not greatly incommode his wound – and your own, my friend, will be an honourable excuse for the absence of some time from my camp.”

“Never!” said Menteith. “Were I to forfeit the very hope that has so lately dawned upon me, never will I leave your Excellency’s camp while the royal standard is displayed. I should deserve that this trifling scratch should gangrene and consume my sword-arm, were I capable of holding it as an excuse for absence at this crisis of the King’s affairs.”

“On this, then, you are determined?” said Montrose.

“As fixed as Ben-Nevis,” said the young nobleman.

“You must, then,” said Montrose, “lose no time in seeking an explanation with the Knight of Ardenvohr. If this prove favourable, I will talk myself with the elder M’Aulay, and we will devise means to employ his brother at a distance from the army until he shall be reconciled to his present disappointment. Would to God some vision would descend upon his imagination fair enough to obliterate all traces of Annot Lyle! That perhaps you think impossible, Menteith? – Well, each to his service; you to that of Cupid, and I to that of Mars.”

They parted, and in pursuance of the scheme arranged, Menteith, early on the ensuing morning, sought a private interview with the wounded Knight of Ardenvohr, and communicated to him his suit for the hand of his daughter. Of their mutual attachment Sir Duncan was aware, but he was not prepared for so early a declaration on the part of Menteith. He said, at first, that he had already, perhaps, indulged too much in feelings of personal happiness, at a time when his clan had sustained so great a loss and humiliation, and that he was unwilling, therefore, farther to consider the advancement of his own house at a period so calamitous. On the more urgent suit of the noble lover, he requested a few hours to deliberate and consult with his daughter, upon a question so highly important.

The result of this interview and deliberation was favourable to Menteith. Sir Duncan Campbell became fully sensible that the happiness of his new-found daughter depended upon a union with her lover; and unless such were now formed, he saw that Argyle would throw a thousand obstacles in the way of a match in every respect acceptable to himself. Menteith’s private character was so excellent, and such was the rank and consideration due to his fortune and family, that they outbalanced, in Sir Duncan’s opinion, the difference in their political opinions. Nor could he have resolved, perhaps, had his own opinion of the match been less favourable, to decline an opportunity of indulging the new-found child of his hopes. There was, besides, a feeling of pride which dictated his determination. To produce the Heiress of Ardenvohr to the world as one who had been educated a poor dependant and musician in the family of Darnlinvarach, had something in it that was humiliating. To introduce her as the betrothed bride, or wedded wife, of the Earl of Menteith, upon an attachment formed during her obscurity, was a warrant to the world that she had at all times been worthy of the rank to which she was elevated.

It was under the influence of these considerations that Sir Duncan Campbell announced to the lovers his consent that they should be married in the chapel of the Castle, by Montrose’s chaplain, and as privately as possible. But when Montrose should break up from Inverlochy, for which orders were expected in the course of a very few days, it was agreed that the young Countess should depart with her father to his Castle, and remain there until the circumstances of the nation permitted Menteith to retire with honour from his present military employment. His resolution being once taken, Sir Duncan Campbell would not permit the maidenly scruples of his daughter to delay its execution; and it was therefore resolved that the bridal should take place the next evening, being the second after the battle.

CHAPTER XXIII

     My maid – my blue-eyed maid, he bore away,     Due to the toils of many a bloody day.– ILLIAD.

It was necessary, for many reasons, that Angus M’Aulay, so long the kind protector of Annot Lyle, should be made acquainted with the change in the fortunes of his late protege; and Montrose, as he had undertaken, communicated to him these remarkable events. With the careless and cheerful indifference of his character, he expressed much more joy than wonder at Annot’s good fortune; had no doubt whatever she would merit it, and as she had always been bred in loyal principles, would convey the whole estate of her grim fanatical father to some honest fellow who loved the king. “I should have no objection that my brother Allan should try his chance,” added he, “notwithstanding that Sir Duncan Campbell was the only man who ever charged Darnlinvarach with inhospitality. Annot Lyle could always charm Allan out of the sullens, and who knows whether matrimony might not make him more a man of this world?” Montrose hastened to interrupt the progress of his castle-building, by informing him that the lady was already wooed and won, and, with her father’s approbation, was almost immediately to be wedded to his kinsman, the Earl of Menteith; and that in testimony of the high respect due to M’Aulay, so long the lady’s protector, he was now to request his presence at the ceremony. M’Aulay looked very grave at this intimation, and drew up his person with the air of one who thought that he had been neglected.

“He contrived,” he said, “that his uniform kind treatment of the young lady, while so many years under his roof, required something more upon such an occasion than a bare compliment of ceremony. He might,” he thought, “without arrogance, have expected to have been consulted. He wished his kinsman of Menteith well, no man could wish him better; but he must say he thought he had been hasty in this matter. Allan’s sentiments towards the young lady had been pretty well understood, and he, for one, could not see why the superior pretensions which he had upon her gratitude should have been set aside, without at least undergoing some previous discussion.”

Montrose, seeing too well where all this pointed, entreated M’Aulay to be reasonable, and to consider what probability there was that the Knight of Ardenvohr could be brought to confer the hand of his sole heiress upon Allan, whose undeniable excellent qualities were mingled with others, by which they were overclouded in a manner that made all tremble who approached him.

“My lord,” said Angus M’Aulay, “my brother Allan has, as God made us all, faults as well as merits; but he is the best and bravest man of your army, be the other who he may, and therefore ill deserved that his happiness should have been so little consulted by your Excellency – by his own near kinsman – and by a young person who owes all to him and to his family.”

Montrose in vain endeavoured to place the subject in a different view; this was the point in which Angus was determined to regard it, and he was a man of that calibre of understanding, who is incapable of being convinced when he has once adopted a prejudice. Montrose now assumed a higher tone, and called upon Angus to take care how he nourished any sentiments which might be prejudicial to his Majesty’s service. He pointed out to him, that he was peculiarly desirous that Allan’s efforts should not be interrupted in the course of his present mission; “a mission,” he said, “highly honourable for himself, and likely to prove most advantageous to the King’s cause. He expected his brother would hold no communication with him upon other subjects, nor stir up any cause of dissension, which might divert his mind from a matter of such importance.”

Angus answered somewhat sulkily, that “he was no makebate, or stirrer-up of quarrels; he would rather be a peacemaker. His brother knew as well as most men how to resent his own quarrels – as for Allan’s mode of receiving information, it was generally believed he had other sources than those of ordinary couriers. He should not be surprised if they saw him sooner than they expected.”

A promise that he would not interfere, was the farthest to which Montrose could bring this man, thoroughly good-tempered as he was on all occasions, save when his pride, interest, or prejudices, were interfered with. And at this point the Marquis was fain to leave the matter for the present.

A more willing guest at the bridal ceremony, certainly a more willing attendant at the marriage feast, was to be expected in Sir Dugald Dalgetty, whom Montrose resolved to invite, as having been a confidant to the circumstances which preceded it. But even Sir Dugald hesitated, looked on the elbows of his doublet, and the knees of his leather breeches, and mumbled out a sort of reluctant acquiescence in the invitation, providing he should find it possible, after consulting with the noble bridegroom. Montrose was somewhat surprised, but scorning to testify displeasure, he left Sir Dugald to pursue his own course.

This carried him instantly to the chamber of the bride-groom, who, amidst the scanty wardrobe which his camp-equipage afforded, was seeking for such articles as might appear to the best advantage upon the approaching occasion. Sir Dugald entered, and paid his compliments, with a very grave face, upon his approaching happiness, which, he said, “he was very sorry he was prevented from witnessing.”

“In plain truth,” said he, “I should but disgrace the ceremony, seeing that I lack a bridal garment. Rents, and open seams, and tatters at elbows in the apparel of the assistants, might presage a similar solution of continuity in your matrimonial happiness – and to say truth, my lord, you yourself must partly have the blame of this disappointment, in respect you sent me upon a fool’s errand to get a buff-coat out of the booty taken by the Camerons, whereas you might as well have sent me to fetch a pound of fresh butter out of a black dog’s throat. I had no answer, my lord, but brandished dirks and broadswords, and a sort of growling and jabbering in what they call their language. For my part, I believe these Highlanders to be no better than absolute pagans, and have been much scandalized by the manner in which my acquaintance, Ranald MacEagh, was pleased to beat his final march, a little while since.”

In Menteith’s state of mind, disposed to be pleased with everything, and everybody, the grave complaint of Sir Dugald furnished additional amusement. He requested his acceptance of a very handsome buff-dress which was lying on the floor. “I had intended it,” he said, “for my own bridal-garment, as being the least formidable of my warlike equipments, and I have here no peaceful dress.”

Sir Dugald made the necessary apologies – would not by any means deprive – and so forth, until it happily occurred to him that it was much more according to military rule that the Earl should be married in his back and breast pieces, which dress he had seen the bridegroom wear at the union of Prince Leo of Wittlesbach with the youngest daughter of old George Frederick, of Saxony, under the auspices of the gallant Gustavus Adolphus, the Lion of the North, and so forth. The good-natured young Earl laughed, and acquiesced; and thus having secured at least one merry face at his bridal, he put on a light and ornamented cuirass, concealed partly by a velvet coat, and partly by a broad blue silk scarf, which he wore over his shoulder, agreeably to his rank, and the fashion of the times.

Everything was now arranged; and it had been settled that, according to the custom of the country, the bride and bridegroom should not again meet until they were before the altar. The hour had already struck that summoned the bridegroom thither, and he only waited in a small anteroom adjacent to the chapel, for the Marquis, who condescended to act as bride’s-man upon the occasion. Business relating to the army having suddenly required the Marquis’s instant attention, Menteith waited his return, it may be supposed, in some impatience; and when he heard the door of the apartment open, he said, laughing, “You are late upon parade.”

“You will find I am too early,” said Allan M’Aulay, who burst into the apartment. “Draw, Menteith, and defend yourself like a man, or die like a dog!”

“You are mad, Allan!” answered Menteith, astonished alike at his sudden appearance, and at the unutterable fury of his demeanour. His cheeks were livid – his eyes started from their sockets – his lips were covered with foam, and his gestures were those of a demoniac.

“You lie, traitor!” was his frantic reply – “you lie in that, as you lie in all you have said to me. Your life is a lie!”

“Did I not speak my thoughts when I called you mad,” said Menteith, indignantly, “your own life were a brief one. In what do you charge me with deceiving you?”

“You told me,” answered M’Aulay, “that you would not marry Annot Lyle! – False traitor! – she now waits you at the altar.”

“It is you who speak false,” retorted Menteith. “I told you the obscurity of her birth was the only bar to our union – that is now removed; and whom do you think yourself, that I should yield up my pretensions in your favour?”

“Draw then,” said M’Aulay; “we understand each other.”

“Not now,” said Menteith, “and not here. Allan, you know me well – wait till to-morrow, and you shall have fighting enough.”

“This hour – this instant – or never,” answered M’Aulay.

“Your triumph shall not go farther than the hour which is stricken. Menteith, I entreat you by our relationship – by our joint conflicts and labours – draw your sword, and defend your life!” As he spoke, he seized the Earl’s hand, and wrung it with such frantic earnestness, that his grasp forced the blood to start under the nails. Menteith threw him off with violence, exclaiming, “Begone, madman!”

“Then, be the vision accomplished!” said Allan; and, drawing his dirk, struck with his whole gigantic force at the Earl’s bosom. The temper of the corslet threw the point of the weapon upwards, but a deep wound took place between the neck and shoulder; and the force of the blow prostrated the bridegroom on the floor. Montrose entered at one side of the anteroom. The bridal company, alarmed at the noise, were in equal apprehension and surprise; but ere Montrose could almost see what had happened, Allan M’Aulay had rushed past him, and descended the castle stairs like lightning. “Guards, shut the gate!” exclaimed Montrose – “Seize him – kill him, if he resists! – He shall die, if he were my brother!”

But Allan prostrated, with a second blow of his dagger, a sentinel who was upon duty – traversed the camp like a mountain-deer, though pursued by all who caught the alarm – threw himself into the river, and, swimming to the opposite side, was soon lost among the woods. In the course of the same evening, his brother Angus and his followers left Montrose’s camp, and, taking the road homeward, never again rejoined him.

Of Allan himself it is said, that, in a wonderfully short space after the deed was committed, he burst into a room in the Castle of Inverary, where Argyle was sitting in council, and flung on the table his bloody dirk.

“Is it the blood of James Grahame?” said Argyle, a ghastly expression of hope mixing with the terror which the sudden apparition naturally excited.

“It is the blood of his minion,” answered M’Aulay – “It is the blood which I was predestined to shed, though I would rather have spilt my own.”

Having thus spoken, he turned and left the castle, and from that moment nothing certain is known of his fate. As the boy Kenneth, with three of the Children of the Mist, were seen soon afterwards to cross Lochfine, it is supposed they dogged his course, and that he perished by their hand in some obscure wilderness. Another opinion maintains, that Allan M’Aulay went abroad and died a monk of the Carthusian order. But nothing beyond bare presumption could ever be brought in support of either opinion.

His vengeance was much less complete than he probably fancied; for Menteith, though so severely wounded as to remain long in a dangerous state, was, by having adopted Major Dalgetty’s fortunate recommendation of a cuirass as a bridal-garment, happily secured from the worst consequences of the blow. But his services were lost to Montrose; and it was thought best, that he should be conveyed with his intended countess, now truly a mourning bride, and should accompany his wounded father-in-law to the castle of Sir Duncan at Ardenvohr. Dalgetty followed them to the water’s edge, reminding Menteith of the necessity of erecting a sconce on Drumsnab to cover his lady’s newly-acquired inheritance.

They performed their voyage in safety, and Menteith was in a few weeks so well in health, as to be united to Annot in the castle of her father.

The Highlanders were somewhat puzzled to reconcile Menteith’s recovery with the visions of the second sight, and the more experienced Seers were displeased with him for not having died. But others thought the credit of the vision sufficiently fulfilled, by the wound inflicted by the hand, and with the weapon, foretold; and all were of opinion, that the incident of the ring, with the death’s head, related to the death of the bride’s father, who did not survive her marriage many months. The incredulous held, that all this was idle dreaming, and that Allan’s supposed vision was but a consequence of the private suggestions of his own passion, which, having long seen in Menteith a rival more beloved than himself, struggled with his better nature, and impressed upon him, as it were involuntarily, the idea of killing his competitor.

Menteith did not recover sufficiently to join Montrose during his brief and glorious career; and when that heroic general disbanded his army and retired from Scotland, Menteith resolved to adopt the life of privacy, which he led till the Restoration. After that happy event, he occupied a situation in the land befitting his rank, lived long, happy alike in public regard and in domestic affection, and died at a good old age.

Our DRAMATIS PERSONAE have been so limited, that, excepting Montrose, whose exploits and fate are the theme of history, we have only to mention Sir Dugald Dalgetty. This gentleman continued, with the most rigorous punctuality, to discharge his duty, and to receive his pay, until he was made prisoner, among others, upon the field of Philiphaugh. He was condemned to share the fate of his fellow-officers upon that occasion, who were doomed to death rather by denunciations from the pulpit, than the sentence either of civil or military tribunal; their blood being considered as a sort of sin-offering to take away the guilt of the land, and the fate imposed upon the Canaanites, under a special dispensation, being impiously and cruelly applied to them.