So much were they absorbed in each other, that they had never once observed him; and his suit, which was of scarlet laced with silver, was, he thought, assuredly conspicuous enough. Rage and fury filled his heart! But he had learned something of importance from their conversation as they passed, and on that information he resolved to act.
At six o'clock that evening, Lily Donaldson was to visit the miln of Newtoun on a mission of kindness to the miller's wife, who was suffering under a grievous illness; Kenneth was to meet her at the haugh by Deeside as she returned. Full of desperate and despairing thoughts, Gordon resolved to anticipate the lover, and, forcing his horse across the stream, he urged it up the steep and wooded bank, where never horse or man had ascended before, and rode straight back to his Tower among the morasses.
The bridge was up and the gates were shut, and such were the precautions taken to prevent ingress and surprise, that even he had some trouble in gaining admittance.
"What the devil is astir now—an English invasion? speak—thou—Jock of the Cleugh!" he said angrily, on seeing that the whole place was in the hurry of warlike preparation; that the barbican was strewn with swords and lances; that twenty horses showed their barbed heads at their stable doors, as if chiding his delay; that every man in the tower was busy in the furbishment of steel bonnets and corslets, or grinding pike-heads, sword-blades, and daggers.
"The Lords Argyle and Huntly are in arms," said Jock in a low whisper, as he limped close to his master, "and sae the Grole o' the Garioch maun mount and ride, ye ken."
"Right, Jock! God's heavy malison be on him who lingers in joining the gay Gordons!"
"The cock o' the north for ever!" added Jock, flourishing his wooden leg.
The fierce heart of young Gordon leaped with joy at these tidings. He had long looked for them; "and now the hour had come when he hoped," as he said, "to ride above his bridle in the blood of the accursed Calvinists," all of whom he embodied in the idea of Kenneth Logie. Ascending to the hall, which formed the first floor of the Tower, he found his stern and enthusiastic mother, excited by vengeful and religious hopes, in close council with Father Ogilvie, an itinerant priest of the Scottish mission, who, while encountering innumerable perils and the most severe poverty, travelled in disguise from one Catholic family to another. Garbed as a peasant, and looking like a buirdly farmer from the braes of Angus, in a canvass doublet and grey plaid, the priest was covered with dust, and, by the mud on his gambadoes, seemed to have ridden both fast and far that day.
"Joy, my son, Halbert—joy!" said his mother, while her eyes flashed fire.
"Welcome, my bairn," said the priest affectionately.