They separated.
A ferocious rival and uncompromising traitor were within his grasp, and effectually he might have crushed both in one; but he could not forget that this stern and cold-blooded partisan was the kinsman of Lilian Napier, and one who trusted in his honour.
As he urged his horse towards the Bristo Port, the great forges of the foundry, where formerly the Covenanters had cast their cannon, were in full operation, and the rays of those lurid pyramids of fire, that shot upwards from their towering cones, produced a wild and beautiful effect as they fell on the fantastic projections and deep recesses of the old suburbs, and the long line of crenelated wall which girdled the city, on the dark and ancient college of King James, and on the groups of anxious citizens gathered at their windows and outside-stairs, conversing in subdued tones on those "coming events" which were already casting their shadows before. As Walter passed, their voices died away, and many a lowering eye was bent upon him, while not a few shouted injurious epithets, and chanted "Lillibulero bullen à la," the Marseillaise hymn of the Scottish revolutionists.
The arcades or piazzas in the High Street were crowded by a noisy mob. The whole city seemed on tip-toe from the Highriggs to the Palace Gate, and many an eye was turned to where, like stars upon the west and northern hills, the answering balefires threw abroad the light of alarm. No man had yet dared to assume the blue cockade of the Covenant; but the faces of the "sour-featured Whigs," were become radiant with hope in anticipation of their coming triumph and revenge. Guarded by Buchan's musqueteers, the Scottish train of artillery were drawn up near the Tron, wheel to wheel, limbered and ready for service; while cavalier officers with their waving plumes and scarfs, guardsmen, and dragoons in their flashing armour galloped hurriedly from street to street.
Women were wailing, and soldiers crowding and revelling in and around the hostels and taverns, and the whole city was one scene of universal confusion, noise, and dismay. Followed by six of his splendidly accoutred cavaliers, Claverhouse (now Major-General Viscount Dundee) dashed up from the Palace at full gallop. All shrunk back as he swept forward on some mission of importance to the Duke of Gordon, "the COCK of the north," who commanded in the castle of Edinburgh, and, fired by the gallant air of Claverhouse, Walter felt his heart glow with ardour for the military splendour of the coming day.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE MARCH FOR ENGLAND.
The neighynge of the war-horse prowde,
The rowleinge of the drum;
The clangour of the trumpet lowde,
Be soundes from heaven that come.
Then mount, then mount, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine;
Death's couriers—fame and honour—call
Us to the field againe.
SCOTS SONG.
Led by General James Douglas, a brother of the Duke of Queenberry, the Scottish army was to march to London in three columns or divisions. He commanded the foot in person; Major-General Viscount Dundee led the cavalry; the Laird of Lundin the train of artillery.
By grey dawn on the 21st of September, the boom of a cannon pealed from the ramparts of the castle over the city, and echoed among the craigs of Salisbury and the woods of Warrender and Drumsheugh. It was the warning gun; and immediately the varying cadence of the cavalry trumpets sounding to horse, and the infantry drums beating the générale, an old summons that has often gained the malison of the wearied soldier, rang within the narrow thoroughfares of Edinburgh.