“I will tell thee,” said Douglas gravely. “I know not why it is, but my memory hath been at this time visited by the recollection of a strange dream I once had, and which, long forgotten, doth now arise to me afresh with all its circumstances. Methought I was sitting on a hill side, when, all at once, I beheld a furious battle on the plain of the valley below. One side was led by a figure the which I was conscious bore striking resemblance to mine own. He rushed to the fight, but was quickly [[442]]pierced with three lances at once, and fell dead on the field. Dismay began to fasten on his army, and defeat appeared certain, when the dead corpse of the knight arose, and, towering to a height ten-fold greater than it had when alive, moved with the solemn step of the grave towards the foe. The shout of victory arose from those who were about to yield, and their enemies were dispersed like chaff before the wind, when the giant figure and all vanished from my fancy’s eye.”
“Strange!” cried Moray, his attention grappled by this singular communication from the Douglas.
“Thou canst never believe me to be a driveller, Moray,” continued Douglas, without noticing his brother-in-law’s interruption, “far less one whom the approach of death may affright. Death must succeed life, as the night doth follow the day, and we who can know little how much of our day is gone, must be prepared to couch as decently when and where the night doth overtake us.”
“Nay, Douglas,” said Moray, again interrupting him, “I well wot that those grave sayings of thine are anything but the offspring of a quailing heart; I know that they are begotten by thy dauntless and well-grounded courage that doth accustom itself to survey death at all times, in thought as well as in field, till thou has converted his grim image into the familiar figure of a friend. Yet why should such thoughts find harbour with thee now? Harry Piersie, if he do come at all for his pennon, will hardly be here to-night.”
“I think not of the Piersie,” said Douglas, taking Moray’s hand, and warmly pressing it between his, while a tear glistened in his manly eye, “I think not of the Piersie or his pennon; but promise me now, when mine hour hath come, and I shall have gloriously fallen in battle, as I well trust may be my fate, that thou wilt yield thine especial protection, and thy love and cherisaunce, to my widowed Margaret. I need not tell thee what she hath been to me. Our brother-in-law Fife is cold, and calculating, and politic, yea, and heartless. He doth aim at the Regency, and he will doubtless gain his end. Margaret is his much-loved sister while she is the proud wife of Douglas; but trust me, little of her brother’s sunshine will fall upon her widow’s weeds. Be it thine, then, to be her prop and comfort. I well know that the warmth of thy Margery’s love will go hand in hand with thee. I am a man, Moray—we are both men—why should we be ashamed of a few tears shed at a moment like this?”
“Nay, but Douglas, why shouldst thou talk thus?” said [[443]]Moray. “Fate may call for my life first, and then thou wilt have those duties to perform for Margery the which thou dost now claim from me for her sister.”
“Nay,” replied Douglas, with ominous seriousness of aspect. “Yet be it so,” said he, after a pause; “do thou but listen to my sad humour. Mine attached Lundie doth well deserve thy care; see that he do meet with that advancement his piety to God and his devotion to me hath so well merited. And then as for my gallant Archibald, my brave esquires Hart and Glendinning, and my faithful shield-bearer Hop Pringle, they have already carved out a shining reputation for themselves; yet do thou never let it be forgotten that they have been faithful followers of the Douglas.”
“Canst thou believe that the name of Douglas can ever lose its potent charm?” exclaimed the Earl of Moray with energy, yet deeply affected; “or canst thou doubt that to me thy will must ever be a sacred law? But why should we now talk of matters so sad?” continued he, endeavouring to rally his own spirits as well as those of Douglas; “the banquet doth abide us in thy pavilion yonder, and the lords and knights of Scotland do doubtless wait for thee there, in obedience to thine invitation.”
“I had forgotten,” said Douglas, resuming his usual cheerful countenance. “Let us then attune our spirits to mirth and joyous manly converse, sith we have discussed these melancholy themes. Allons, let us to the banquet—such banquet as the rude cookery of the field may furnish.”
It was at this time that Rory Spears, having collected a little knot of friends about him, thus addressed them—