Becoming impatient with the delay thus occasioned, although carefully concealing this impatience, the Regent, who was now directly opposite the house of the Archbishop of St Andrew's, kept waving his hand to the crowd, as if entreating them not to press so closely, that he might pass on with more speed. The crowd endeavoured to comply with the wishes of the Regent, but their efforts only added to the confusion, without mending the matter in other respects. It was at this moment that all eyes were suddenly directed towards the house of the Archbishop of St Andrew's, in consequence of a shot being fired from one of the windows. When these eyes looked an instant after again towards the Regent, he was not to be seen; he had fallen from his horse, mortally wounded: a ball had passed through his body. It was Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh who had fired the fatal shot.
The friends and retainers of the Regent, seconded by the town's people, flew to the house of the archbishop, and endeavoured to force the door, in order to get at the murderer but it had been barricaded by the wily assassin, and resisted their efforts long enough to allow of his escaping from the house, mounting his horse, and darting through the garden gate at the top of his utmost speed. He was pursued; but, thanks to his good steed, pursued in vain, and subsequently escaped to France; having done a deed which the moralist must condemn, but which cannot be looked upon as altogether without palliation.
THE PRISONER OF WAR.
I had been preserved, through divine mercy, from one of the most lingering and fearful deaths. I was rescued, I scarce knew how, after the grim king of terror held me in his embrace, and all hope had fled. As consciousness returned, my heart thrilled at the recollection of the miseries I had endured while floating, a helpless being, on the bosom of the ocean.[3] I shuddered to think, while I lay feeble as an infant in the cabin of the vessel which was bearing me to my home, and whose humane crew had been the means of my deliverance, that I was still at the mercy of the winds and waves; but kind nursing, aided by youth and a good constitution, quickly brought strength; and I was enabled, after a few days, to come upon deck. On my first attempt, when my head rose above the deck as I ascended the companion-ladder, and my eyes fell upon the boundless waste of waters, a chill of horror shot through my frame. Like a lone traveller who had suddenly met a lion in his path, I stood paralysed; every nerve and muscle refused to act. I must have fallen back into the cabin, had not my hand instinctively clung to their hold for a few seconds. I could not withdraw my fixed gaze, while all I had suffered rushed upon me like a hideous dream. Slowly my faculties returned, when I ascended the deck, where I sat for a few hours. Each day after this brought additional strength; so that, before we made soundings, I was as strong and cheerful as I had ever been in my life. The weather was squally, and I assisted the crew as much as was in my power; and, when not so occupied, lay listlessly looking over the ship's bows that bravely dashed aside the waves that rolled between me and
the home I now longed to reach, or walked the deck musing upon the joy my return would impart to my over-indulgent parents.
As we neared the shores of Scotland, a circumstance occurred that both greatly surprised and alarmed me. This was a sudden change in the manners and temper of the crew. Care and anxiety took the place of their wonted cheerfulness; the joyous laugh, or snatch of song, no longer broke the monotonous hissing of the waves that rippled along the sides of the vessel, or the dull whistle of the wind through the rigging. At the first appearance of every sail that hove in sight, I could perceive every eye turned to it with a look of alarm until she was made out. Fearful of giving offence to my benefactors, I made no remark on the subject for some time, although I felt disappointed at what I saw—attributing it to cowardice; yet they were all stout, young, resolute-looking fellows at other times. This scene of alarm, and appearance of a wish to skulk below or conceal themselves, had occurred twice in the course of the forenoon. After the last ship we encountered was made out to be a merchant-brig, I could no longer refrain from delivering my sentiments of the greater number of the crew, but addressing the mate, said—
"Mr Ross, it is fortunate for us that these strange sails have turned out to be British merchantmen. Had they proved to be French privateers, we should have made but a poor stand, I fear, notwithstanding our eight carronades."