Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 08

by Unknown

"Ho, for Gilmanscleugh!" cried the victor, as he sheathed his bloody sword, and saw all the danger of his situation. "Ho, for Gilmanscleugh! and that without blast o' horn; for every tree o' Harden woods will rise up to avenge the death o' the Flower o' Yarrow's favourite son!"

And he struck his horse's sides, and urged him forward, calling out for his dog Wolf, who was as anxious to get out of the clutches of Grim, as his master was to get out of the reach of Harden.

"Wolf! Wolf!" he cried, as he turned round. "For Gilmanscleugh—hame—hame—ho! I have killed a dun deer to-day, whose umbles will tell the seer a sad tale o' our house, and whose corbin bane will bring mony a Harden corbie to Gilmanscleugh."

But Wolf was too firmly in the fangs of Grim; and now Harden's horn was sounding in shrill tones in the hollows, announcing to the unfortunate victor the near approach of the fierce chief, but no longer awaking the ear of the victim, who lay already stiff among the green leaves of the forest. The dogs were still fast, and he must spend as much time in disengaging them as would bring the father of the slain youth to the scene of his sorrow and revenge, or he must braid on with the top-speed of his favourite Sorrel, and leave his dog an evidence of the deed, that, if traced to him, would bring ruin on his home, his wife, and his children, and all the retainers of Gilmanscleugh. Springing off, and nerved with the force of despair, he flung himself on the wrestling dogs, and laying hold of the throat of Harden's, he clutched it with such strength that the animal opened his jaws, gasping for breath, and turning up his eyeballs beneath the lids, fell on his side; but his revengeful opponent, no sooner free from the gripe which had bound him, seized Grim in his turn; and Gilmanscleugh saw before him an alternation of a process of choking that would consume more than his hurrying moments. There was not an instant for deliberation: seizing his sword, he stuck it into the heart of the dog, and, detaching Wolf, sprung to his saddle, and flew through the forest with the speed of light; while his faithful animal, seeing no longer life in his enemy, forsook his prey and his revenge, and bounded away after his flying master. But too much time had, unfortunately for Gilmanscleugh, been already lost in disengaging the dogs; for the twang of a bow announced to him, as he hurried on, that a messenger more fleet than Sorrel was after him, and, looking round, he saw his faithful attendant fall to the ground, with a long shaft quivering in his smoking side.

"There is my king's evidence left behind me," muttered he, as he stuck the rowels deeper in the sides of his horse. "Wae to Gilmanscleugh when Harden has to avenge the death o' a son slain by his arm! Braid on, good Sorrel, to a flaming stable, and carry your master to what may be sune a lordless ha'!"

The speed of his horse soon took him out of the reach of Harden and his sons—but not before they had seen him in the act of flight, and brought down his dog by an arrow sent from the unerring hand of the old chief's namesake. On coming up to the place where his favourite lay extended dead on the ground, with his face upturned to heaven, and, though partly covered by his bonnet's plume that had fallen down in the flight, displaying too evidently the rigid muscles of death, his father and his brothers uttered a loud cry of astonishment and grief, and ran to satisfy themselves of the terrible truth, that the beautiful youth was indeed dead. The satisfaction was easy and ready: enough of blood lay in a pool by his side to have carried in its stream two young lives; and a single glance at his pale face struck the mind with the palsy which death in the human countenance so strangely produces. His sword, firmly grasped in his hand, told also a part of the story, which was eked out by the body of the dead Grim and that of his lifeless antagonist, which one of the sons had brought to the place where the group stood, and looked at each other in mute grief. But that was only for a moment. The heavy, tear-filled eye of sorrow of the father changed in an instant, and flashed forth the fire of revenge, and, as every one of his five sons clutched their swords, loud cries rent the air—"Ho! for Gilmanscleugh with the sword and the fire-faggot!" So entirely were the fiery youths led away by the impulse of the new feeling, that they had all remounted their garrons, clanging their drawn swords, and uttering their deep-mouthed cries, without reflecting for a moment that the body of the dead youth had to be disposed of, and that all their party was not able to take Gilmanscleugh Tower, and put its inmates to the sword.

"Hold! ho! my brave sons!" cried the father, as the fire of his revenge beamed through his tears. "Why this hurry? A hundred years would not cool our fire, and a sudden revenge lacketh the fulness of satisfaction. We must take home the body of my dead son to his mother. It will be her duty to swathe it and to lay it out. It is the first time she hath had this work to do; and, as she does it, she will recollect her words of yestreen when she said that Gilmanscleugh would serve for both of my sons. Too true, alas! Gilmanscleugh hath satisfied one; Gilmanscleugh shall satisfy the other."

The youths, burning as they were for satisfaction, saw the necessity of agreeing to the recommendation of their father; and, dismounting again, they lifted the stiff body from among the clotted grass, and, wrapping it in a mantle, laid it over the backs of two of their horses, and proceeded in mournful procession towards home, where Mary Scott as yet sat at the castle window indulging in the meditation to which the expedition of her husband and her sons had given rise. The sounds of the horn that had struck her ear had long ceased, and she pictured to herself the bold party scouring over Gilmanscleugh, the intended inheritance of her son, the Forester, the best beloved of her, as he was of his father, for boldness, filial affection, and beauty. She did not expect them till the evening was far gone, and then it would be her duty and greatest delight to prepare for them the cheerful bickering fire, and the warm refreshing meal, and welcome them to their home and their pleasures with her accustomed looks of satisfaction, her well-chosen words of good-humour, and her questions of success, put in such form as might afford the opportunity of recounting their deeds of arms or woodcraft. Many a time had she enjoyed these highest pleasures of the dutiful wife, affectionate mother, and spirited companion; and there was yet time and opportunity in store for her to enjoy them again with undiminished relish. Casting her eyes over the side of the glen, she saw the procession of her husband and five sons, with the dead body of the sixth, coming slowly along the middle of the dell. This was not the way in which old Wat of Harden usually returned to his castle; there were no cattle driven before him, no winding of his horn among the hills, no whoop of triumph from his rough throat. The slow tread of the horses' feet, as they paced the sod, came upon her ear with a dead, hollow sound; and her heart became busy with its mystic divinations, before her eye could trace all the details of the unusual scene. But feature by feature of this first representation of a mother's bereavement opened gradually on her view; she ran over the faces of her sons and that of her husband, and soon distinguished the beloved victim; the expressions of the countenances of the bearers told her the extent of the calamity, if the form of the extended body, where Death sat triumphant, and gave forth those indications of his presence which cannot be misunderstood, had left any doubt on her mind that her fair Forester was no more. But her griefs knew no feminine paroxysms, the strength of her nerves enabled her to contemplate even the scene of a dead son with that strange calmness which the strongest feeling can draw from the depths of the mental constitution, as its cover and panoply in the hour of nature's greatest need. As the procession approached, she saw Harden draw his hand over his eyes, and the sobs of the youths fell on her ear. Yet she descended with firmness to meet a sight which, contemplated by a mother, is perhaps the most harrowing that can be exhibited to mortal eye—a dead son, and that son her hope and pride. At the entrance she met her husband, who took her hand, and, as he held it, waved to the conductors to pause in their progress.

"Let them come in, Wat," said she. "I know all—my Forester is dead. Come forward, my sons, and let me see him who was once my pride, and tell me what cruel cause hath reft me of my boy."

The sons came forward, and, taking the body by the head and feet, carried it into the tower, where, having placed it, they stood around, silently looking on what was, an hour before, their beloved brother, in the heyday of youth and beauty.