“Never fear; but do as you say,” responded Ruthven. “Take this small guerdon”—bestowing some money. “You’ll find me in the morning hale and sound. Good-night, and good luck.”
The gaberlunzie was loth to part; but his superstitious nature prevailed, and he took leave, reiterating his promise to return in the morning.
Ruthven entered the ruined pile. The interior was heaped with fallen stones and debris. Casting his eye upward, as from the bottom of a deep well, he saw the dim welkin overhead, which was becoming sprinkled with golden cressets.
Star after star, from some unseen abyss,
Came through the sky, like thoughts into the mind,
We know not whence.
Some square apertures in the walls, which once were windows, were partly choked with grass: a narrow stone stair had given access to the first storey, but only a few of the lower steps remained intact: the air felt damp and chill, and the pervading silence was like that of a sepulchre. Ruthven weariedly sat down on a hillock of ruin close to the portal, and bending his face upon his hands, fell into a reverie, which eventually lapsed into troubled slumber.
When he awoke from a confused dream, trembling with cold, all was dark around him. He arose and went out into the courtyard to look at the sky. It was cloudless, and bright with the celestial host; and a gusty breeze blew from the west. As he turned in that direction, he perceived, upon the verge of the horizon, a glimmering light, which rose and fell alternately, but in short space grew into a broad and steady glare. Was “yon red glare the western star?” or was it “the beacon-blaze of war?” Whatever it was, it speedily became an intense mass of flame, shedding a lurid gleam on earth and heaven.
As Ruthven watched the mysterious fire, the clatter of horses approaching from the west struck his ear. He receded into the portal, and drew his sword. In a few moments several horsemen, riding in disorder, broke dimly on his view as they ascended the height. Up they came: they urged their panting steeds over the rubbish of the wall, and drew rein in the courtyard. They were five in number, all wearing warlike harness, and seemed to have fled from an unsuccessful fight. Four dismounted, but the remaining one kept his saddle, and gazed back to the distant blaze, which was now sinking.
“Woe worth this nicht, that has seen mair ruin wrought than can be repaired in a lang life time!” ejaculated this rider, wringing his hands. “That cruel spoiler! that bluid-thirsty riever! Curses on him that wad fire an auld man’s house aboon his head!”