The adventures of Rob Roy

by James Grant

Morrar na Shean met them in a battle which was long and bloody, though his people were cold in his cause. The men whom he had drawn from his county of Orkney and the town of Thurso ultimately gave way; and four hundred were instantly hanged on the field.

The castle of Braal, to which the survivors fled, was attacked, entered by the secret postern, and stormed. Therein, after a terrible conflict, were taken John of Harpidale and Thorolf Starkadder, who were put to dreadful deaths, and then the fortress was burned to the ground.

It was supposed that Morrar na Shean had perished in the flames; but he had escaped by the postern—the same postern through which he had led the countess to die—and reached his castle of Lochmore, a secluded tower of great strength, which is situated at the end of a loch, and overhangs the current of the Dirlet out of it. There the river is narrow, deep, and rapid.

This tower was then remote and little known, so there for years did Morrar live, secluded, forgotten, and abandoned by all; and then, as time crept on, he became a prey to remorse and horror.

Terrific visions and appalling spectres were said to haunt him, and the unquiet souls of Thorolf, of John of Harpidale, and others who had died in his service, were averred to wander at night through the silent chambers of Lochmore, and their wailing voices were heard to rise from the lake in the moonshine, and to mingle with the roar of the Dirlet beneath the castle-wall. At last no one would remain in such a dwelling-place, and the wretched Morrar na Shean was left entirely alone.

Then a sore illness came upon him with his growing years; and sick, despairing, and sad at heart, the earl lay on what he feared was his bed of death.

None were near him now: even the last of his hounds had gone to seek another, a merrier, or it might be kinder master; and he wept the salt, bitter tears of age, of sorrow, and repentance,—of an age that was lonely and unfriended—of sorrow for his lost wife and children—of repentance for a wasted life, and for his many unatoned-for crimes and sacrileges.

He found himself abandoned on earth, and feared that he would be excluded from Heaven. He was wifeless, childless, friendless, and alone—alone with only memory and the terrors of death and superstition!

He saw the clear, bright stars in the northern sky sparkling through the gloomy windows of Lochmore. He heard the hoarse brawl of the Dirlet beneath the castle wall; but he shut out the sound, for it made him think of that terrible night when the swollen Thurso was rushing over its stony bed, and Gunhilda was saved from his dagger by the vision of St. Monina; and again he seemed to see that pale, beautiful, and miraculous face shining amid its halo, in the twilight before him.

The perspiration burst upon his wrinkled brow; he called wildly for lights, but no one heard him now; and the echoes of his own voice appalled him. He trembled to be in the dark and alone; and yet there was no darkness, for it was the clear twilight of the northern summer, when the sun scarcely dips beneath the horizon.