“Holy St. Cuthbert protect us,” exclaimed the lady, after a pause, and shuddering as she spoke; “that cry, oh, that cry was dreadful; ’twas a shriek of terror unspeakable; fear of an instant, of a most cruel death, could have alone awakened it. Gracious Heaven, have mercy on the wretch who did give it utterance!”
“Hear, hear; holy St. Giles, how he doth cry for help!” said Rory Spears. “Hear again; ’tis awsome. St. Hubert be his aid, for weel I do trow nae mortal man can help him.”
“Oh, say not so,” cried the lady, with agonizing energy; “oh, fly, fly to his rescue; there may yet be time. Fly—save him—save him, and all the gold I possess shall be thine.”
“Nay, lady,” replied Rory, “albeit the very attempt wad be risk enew, yet wud I flee to obey thy wull withouten the bribe o’ thy gowd; and the mair, that it wud be a merciful, a Christian, and a right joyful wark to save a fellow-cretur frae sike ane awsome end. But man’s help in this case is a’thegither vain. Dost thou no perceive that the clatter o’ his horse’s heels is no longer to be heard? nay, even his cries do already return but faintly from far up the pass? And noo, listen—hush—hear hoo fast they do die away; and hark, hark—thou canst hear them nae mair.” [[397]]
“He hath indeed spurred on with the desperate speed of despair,” said the lady; “but oh, surely thou mayest yet stop or turn his fell pursuers. Oh, fly to the attempt. Nay, I will myself go with thee. Hark, all the echoes of the glen around us are now awakened by their fearful howlings. Quick, quick; let us fly downwards—’tis but a mere step of way.”
“Alas, lady,” replied Rory, “to try to stop the accursed pack were now hopeless as to think to gar the raging winds tarry on the mountain side. These hideous howls do indeed arise from the shades beneath us; but had we the legs and the feet o’ the raebuck, the ravening rout wad be a mile ayont us ere we could reach the bottom. Hark, hoo they hae already swept on. Already the cruel din frae their salvage throats doth become weaker; and noo—hist, hist!—it is lost far up the bosom of the mountains. May the Virgin and the good St. Lawrence defend the puir sinner, for his speed maun be mair than mortal gif he ’scapeth frae the jaws o’ thae gruesome and true-nosed hounds. By my troth, an we hadna taken the due caution we might hae been a supper to them oursels at this precious moment—the Virgin protect us!”
“Oh, ’tis most horrible,” cried the lady, as she rushed into the cavern, her mind distracted, and her feelings harrowed up with the thoughts of the probable fate of the unhappy traveller. She sunk on her knees to implore mercy for him from Heaven, after which she threw herself on her couch; but her repose was unsettled; and when she did sleep it was only to dream of the horrors her fancy had painted.
By the time the sun had begun to gild the tops of the mountains, Rory Spears was in action. The lady arose unrefreshed; and, after she and her attendants had partaken of a slight repast, they were again in motion. Descending by a steep and difficult, though slanting path, they gradually regained the bottom of the pass, and proceeded to trace it upwards in a southern direction. As they obtained a higher elevation the pine trees became thinner, and at length they reached to a little mossy plain, where they almost entirely disappeared. In the middle of this was the small sheet of water which had been rendered so resplendent in the eyes of the lady the night before by the moonbeams. It was a deep inky-looking pool, surrounded by treacherous banks of black turf.
“Is this what distance and moonlight made so bewitchingly beautiful to our eyes?” said the lady to the minstrel.
“Thus it doth ever chance with all our worldly views, lady,” replied the old man. “Hope doth gild that which is yet at [[398]]a distance, but all is dark and cheerless when the object is reached.”