He and Konrad knew not how common was the stratagem of seizing the Scottish sovereign in those days, and that the seizure of Mary had twice before been attempted—once by the old Earl of Huntly, and once by her brother Moray, on his rebellion in 1565; and consequently, had Mary viewed Bothwell with any favour, there had been no necessity for his wooing her at the head of a thousand horse.
Meanwhile, Hans waited anxiously the arrival of those French galleys, which at times, under the pennon of the Chevalier de Villaignon, made their appearance in the Scottish firth—for Scotland had then but six or eight ships for military purposes, under the pennons of David Wood, Sir Edmund Blackadder, Thomas Dixon, and Edward Robertson, who (though Buchanan styles them "pirates of known rapacity") were Scottish sea-officers, and vassals of the Lord High Admiral. These ships were then in the Western seas; thus, the pirate of Hull, which was the bane of Hans' existence, lay there unmolested, like a wolf waiting for his prey, and the fishers from the New haven daily brought terrible accounts of her crew; how they were plundering the coast about Crail—how they cruised with a man hanging at each yard-arm—how her poop lanterns were human skulls—and the skipper was said to be the devil himself; for he came ashore every night, not in his jolly-boat, like any other respectable shipman, but in his broad beaver inverted on the water, to attend the witches of Pittenweem, who held the meeting in the weem, or great cavern, below St. Mary's priory; and thus poor Hans was denied the hope of escaping even in the night, by creeping along the shore, under the brows of Kincraigie and Elie-ness on the north, or by the broad and beautiful bay of Preston on the south; and so the time wore on—the month of May was passing—and still the Skottefruin of Bergen lay off the New haven, with her canvass bent, her brown sides and curved deck blistering in the summer sun.
At last there came tidings that the high admiral was about to put to sea, and that five Scottish frigates were anchored near his castle of Dunbar. Upon this, the pirate disappeared, and Hans Knuber rubbed his eyes again and again, one morning, to assure himself that the offing was clear. Then, impatient to bend his course homeward, he took immediate advantage of the gentle summer breeze that blew from the western hills, and spread his canvass on a beautiful morning in May—though a Friday, of all days in the week, by ancient superstition, the most unpropitious for putting to sea.
Then, with a heart that grew lighter as the Scottish mountains lessened in the distance, Konrad hailed the blue sky and the dark ocean; for he knew that, when land again was visible, it would be the pine-covered hills and thunder-riven cliffs of his native Norway.
CHAPTER XV.
THE LEGEND OF ST. MUNGO.
A famous sanct St. Mungo was,
And ane cantye carle was he;
He drank o ye Molendinar burne,
Quhan he oouldna better prie!
Ballad.
"Mass!" said Hans Knuber to Konrad, as they walked to and fro one day on the lee side of his quarter-deck; "we have voyaged prosperously. I knew I should not implore the aid of good St. Mungo for nought; though, poor man! his work was like our anchorage in yonder firth—like to have no end."
"Thou seemest ever in a rare mood now, Hans;" replied Konrad; "but what made St. Mungo thy particular patron, and how came it that the work of so holy a man was never done?"
"Why, Master Konrad, 'tis a long story, which I heard from a certain old friar when my crayer was once discharging her cargo at the ancient Stockwell bridge of Glasgow. I care not if I tell it thee to wile away an hour or so; so here cometh like a rope out of the coil, with a wanion on it!—the story I mean, not the saint—the Lord forbid! It happened somewhere about the time that Erick Blodiaxe was among us here in Norway—the year 530—a long time ago, Master Konrad."