"O Carol!" said she, in an agitated whisper, "we are haunted. That is a dead man that rides in our company."
If the maid was alarmed, the poet was ten times more so. If she had said that a lion or a bear was in the company, it could not have struck such a chillness to the poor bard's heart; and, after all, it was no wonder, for there is something exceedingly appalling in the idea of having a dead man riding in one's company. The poet felt this in its fullest measure. He held in his horse and attempted a reply, but a dryness pervaded his mouth so much that he could not make himself intelligible. A damp had fallen on the whole party, and a breathless silence prevailed. Tam put the question, so natural, to him as he passed, "Charlie, is this you?"—but none answered or regarded. They were riding up a slanting hill when the bard was first apprised of the nature of their guest, and shortly after the figure coming between him and the evening sky, its motions were altogether so hideous, that he roared out in perfect terror as loud as he could bray, scarce letting one bellow await another. This was still worse than the dumb appalling uncertainty in which they were before involved; till at last Tam, losing all patience, let loose his rage against the poet, calling him a bellowing beast, and many other opprobrious names. This encouraging Gibbie, who had the bard at no good will on account of the damsel, he said he brought him "amind of a story that the fo'k o' Annandale tauld about Andrew Jardine's bull, that was better at booing than breeding." The boy Elias now coming in behind them, and having heard what Delany said, cried softly, "Hush! yeomen! hush! we are haunted; it is a ghost that rides in our company."
They all turned their eyes to the mysterious figure, which they still thought resembled their champion Yardbire, as well as the horse did that which he rode, the redoubted Corby. The horse had started a little forward at the cries of the poet, but when the rest paused the figure seemed to wheel his horse around, and made a dead pause also, standing still with his face toward them, and straight on the path before. Not one durst proceed. The figure neither moved nor threatened, but stood nodding its head on the height at every motion of the steed; yet our party were arrested on their way, nor knew they exactly in what place they were: But from the length of the way they had come, they were sure they were near the Scottish army on one side or other, and free from any danger of the foes they had left behind them on the Border. None of them were good guides in any case, and a man in fear is neither a fit guide for himself nor others. Fear had the sway, and fear gave the word of command without being disputed. The poet was the first to strike from the beaten path, and it was at no easy pace that he rode. He turned westward, and the rest all followed with main speed. Their progress was soon interrupted by a strong cattle fence made of stakes and the branches of trees interwoven, bespeaking the vicinity of some village, or place of human habitation. They soon broke through the fence, but by bad luck did not take time to make up the breach, which they left open, and posting forward came to a large house amid a number of smaller ones. The poet called for admittance in a moving and earnest stile, and at once resolved to take no denial. Before ever he paused, he told them he and his party had lost their way, and that they had seen a ghost.
"Then you must be some murderers," said the men of the house,—"and here you remain not to-night."
"We belong to the warden of the marches, the brave baron of Mountcomyn," said the poet, "and go on an errand of great import to the army. In that case we might demand what we only ask as a boon, namely, such lodging as the house affords."
"You had better keep that part to yourself," said the men of the house: "Though Sir Ringan is supreme in the middle marches, he is no favourite here. Our master's name is Ker. He is with the Douglas, but may be home to-night. Calm sough and kitchen fare, or ride on."
"It brings me in mind o' an auld proverb," said Gibbie, "that beggars should nae be choisers; sae, honest lads, bring us a light, for our horses are sair tired an' maun be weel put up."
The party, it will be remembered, consisted only of five, exclusive of Charlie and the friar. They had draw up their horses close to the hall door, and were still on horseback when the men turned into the house for a light. The poet, whose eager eyes were still on the watch, chancing to look at the heads of his associates between him and the sky, thought he discovered one too many.
"Surely there are six of us,'said he in a hurried tremulous voice. "Six of us!" said Tam, as doubting the statement.
"Six of us? No, surely?" said Delany.