"There is a man by the river-side. Hark! he winds his bugle again and again; the poor soul seemeth in some sad jeopardy."
"Ho! Calder—Bertram—French Paris—ho there, without!" cried the Earl; and two pages, the younger sons of the neighbouring lairds of Southcalder and Bertram-shotts appeared, rubbing their eyes, for they had both fallen asleep in the antechamber over tric-trac and Rochelle. "Quick! ye little guzzling varlets—summon the Gate-ward and his yeoman—away to the river, and see what aileth yonder fellow that he winds his horn so dolorously!"
"Mother Mary!" cried the Countess, clinging to the Earl; "see—see! he is about to plunge into that rapid stream—he is in! God—now—now! see how he buffets with the current! Oh, how small, how feeble, he seems amid that hoarse and foaming river! Oh, save him! for the love of Heaven and of heavenly mercy: away, my lord, away!"
"'Tis more than likely this fellow is some rascally Egyptian. There hath been a band of such knaves on Bothwellmuir for this month past; but should it be Johnnie Faa himself—hurry the Gate-ward—and his grooms"——
"Now—now he is gone—he is down! how fast the current sweeps him on! I can look no more!" and, burying her face in her hands, the excitable little Countess fell on her knees, exclaiming passionately, "Fie on thy boasted valour, Lord of Bothwell! for thou hast stood idly by and seen this poor man drowned!"
"By cross and buckler! since thou art so free with thy husband's life, Lady Jane," said the Earl angrily, "'tis alike at the service of thee and this knave-errant. Follow me, Calder and French Paris!" and, raising the arras that concealed a door which communicated with a staircase and postern leading to Bothwellbank, the Earl rushed away.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RESCUE.
Then on they hurried, and on they hied,
Down Bothwell's slope, so steep and green;
And soon they reach'd the river Clyde,
Alas! no Edgar still is seen.
M. G. Lewis.
Attended only by two of his pages, Bothwell left the postern door at the foot of the Valence Tower, and hurried down the bank, or wooded declivity, at the base of which the Clyde, swollen by the recent rains, was foaming past with a hoarse and ceaseless roar, rending the rough whin boulders and red earth from its scaured banks, and hurrying trees, and turf, and bushes—the debris of its hundred tributaries—to the waves of the western sea.