Chapter 4

Young Donald, in his homespun tartan, stood on the outskirt of the little crowd that surrounded her, listening. The lords in their gay suits were doing their utmost to win the goodwill of the maiden, but their flattery and foolish words seemed to give her little pleasure. Indeed she was too used to them to find them aught but a weariness.

Soon Donald was bowing before the maiden he had left his home to win, and begging her to dance with him. And something in the bright eyes and gallant bearing of young Donald pleased the petted maiden, and, despite his rough suit, she had nought but smiles for the young stranger from the Highlands.

The lords, in their silks and velvets, opened their eyes wide in astonishment as Lizzie glided past them with young Donald; the ladies smiled and flouted her, but the maiden paid no heed to their words or looks.

Donald was not flattering her as she was used to be flattered, he was telling her of the country in which he dwelt. And Lizzie as she listened heard the hum of the bees, smelt the fragrance of the heather. Nay, she even forgot the ballroom, and she was out on the silent moorland or climbing the steep mountains side by side with the young stranger whose face was so eager, whose eyes were so bright. She was stooping to pluck the wildflowers that grew in the nooks of some sheltered glen, or she was kilting her dainty gown and crossing the mountain streamlets, and ever the tall, young stranger was by her side.

Before the ball was over Donald knew that Lizzie Lindsay's home was in the Canongate, and he had begged to be allowed to see her there.

Lizzie had no wish to lose sight of the bright young Highlander, and she told him gaily that if he came to the Canongate to see her he should be welcome, both to her and her dear father and mother.

When the dance ended the young laird went to his lodgings, and his heart was light and his dreams glad. His old father had thought he might be in Edinburgh a year ere he won his bride. But young Donald murmured to himself that it would scarce be twelve long months before he was back again to the Highlands with his bonny Lizzie Lindsay.

The next day Donald was at the Canongate betimes, and Lizzie welcomed him merrily, and her father and mother looked in kindly fashion at the young stranger, for indeed Donald had the gift of winning hearts.

But neither father nor mother dreamed that the country clad youth would win their beautiful daughter's hand, for had she not refused it to many a lordly earl and noble knight.

Yet the more Lizzie heard about the Highlands, the more she longed to be there with young Donald by her side.

At length a day came when Donald, with little fear and much hope in his heart, asked the maiden if she would go with him to the Highlands.

'We will feed on curds and whey,' cried the daring young Donald; 'your cheeks will grow more pink, and your brow more white with our simple fare. Your bed shall be made on the fresh green bracken and my plaid shall wrap you round. Will ye come to the Highlands with me, Lizzie Lindsay?'

Now Lizzie had listened to young Donald's words with joy, but also with some fear. Her food had been of the daintiest, her bed of the softest down, and the young stranger, who was indeed scarce a stranger now, had, it seemed, but little to offer her save his love. Yet Lizzie still wished to go to the Highlands.

But when Dame Lindsay heard what young Donald had said she hardened her heart against the bonny young Highlander.

'Ye shall speak no more to my daughter,' she cried, 'until ye have told me where your home is, and how many broad lands are your own?' For it seemed to the old dame that a penniless lad would never dare to win her daughter, when lords and nobles had wooed her in vain.

But Donald's head was high, and he seemed to feel no shame as he answered the old dame bravely--

'My name is Donald MacDonald, and I hold it high in honour. My father is an old shepherd and my mother a dairymaid. Yet kind and gentle will they be to your beautiful daughter if she will come with me to the Highlands.'

Dame Lindsay could scarce believe she had heard aright. Her daughter marry a shepherd lad! Nay, that should never be, though indeed the lad was a bonny one and brave.

Then in her anger she bade young Donald begone. 'If ye do steal away my daughter, then, without doubt ye shall hang for it!' she cried.

The young laird turned haughtily on his heel. He had little patience, nor could his spirit easily brook such scorn as the old Dame flung at him.

He turned on his heel and he said, 'There is no law in Edinburgh city this day which can hang me.'

But before he could say more Lizzie was by his side. 'Come to my room, Donald,' she pleaded; and as he looked at the beautiful girl the young laird's wrath vanished as quickly as it had come. 'Come to my room for an hour until I draw a fair picture of you to hang in my bower. Ye shall have ten guineas if you will but come.'

'Your golden guineas I will not have!' cried Donald quickly. 'I have plenty of cows in the Highlands, and they are all my own. Come with me, Lizzie, and we will feed on curds and whey, and thou shalt have a bonnie blue plaid with red and green strips. Come with me, Lizzie Lindsay; we will herd the wee lambs together.'

Yet, though Lizzie loved young Donald MacDonald, she still hesitated to leave her kind parents and her beautiful home.

She sat in her bower and she said to her maid, 'Helen, what shall I do, for my heart is in the Highlands with Donald?'

Then the maid, who was wellnigh as beautiful as her mistress, cried, 'Though I were a princess and sat upon a throne, yet would I leave all to go with young Donald MacDonald.'

'O Helen!' cried Lizzie, 'would ye leave your chests full of jewels and silk gowns, and would ye leave your father and mother, and all your friends to go away with a Highland laddie who wears nought but a homespun kilt?'

But before her maid could answer her, Lizzie had sprung from her chair, saying, 'Yet I think he must be a wizard, and have enchanted me, for, come good or come ill, I must e'en go to the Highlands.'

Then early one morning Lizzie tied up her silk robes in a bundle and clad herself in one of Helen's plain gowns. With her bundle over her arm, Lizzie Lindsay was off to the Highlands with Donald MacDonald.

Donald's heart was glad as he left the fair city of Edinburgh behind him, Lizzie by his side. He had so much to tell his beautiful bride, so much, too, to show her, that at first the road seemed neither rough nor long.

But as the hours passed the way grew rougher, the hills steeper, and Lizzie's strength began to fail. Her shoes, too, which were not made for such rough journeys, were soon so worn that her feet grew hot and blistered.

'Alas!' sighed Lizzie Lindsay, 'I would I were back in Edinburgh, sitting alone in my bower.'

'We are but a few miles away from the city,' said Donald; 'will you even now go back?'

But the tears trickled slowly down the maiden's cheeks, and she sobbed, 'Now would I receive no welcome from my father, no kiss from my mother, for sore displeased will they be that I have left them for you, Donald MacDonald.'

On and on they trudged in silence, and as evening crept on Donald cried aloud, 'Dry your tears now, Lizzie, for there before us is our home,' and he pointed to a tiny cottage on the side of the hill.

An old woman stood at the door, gazing down the hill, and as they drew near she came forward with outstretched hands. 'Welcome, Sir Donald,' she said, 'welcome home to your own.'

'She spoke in Gaelic, as Highlanders do, so Lizzie did not know what she said.

Sir Donald whispered quickly in the same language, 'Hush, call me only Donald, and pretend that I am your son.' The old woman, though sore dismayed at having to treat the young laird in so homely a way, promised to do his bidding.

Then Donald turned to Lizzie. 'Here mother,' he said, 'is my lady-love, whom I have won in the fair city of Edinburgh.'

The old woman drew Lizzie into the cottage, and spoke kindly to her, but the maiden's heart sank. For a peat fire smouldered on the hearth and the room was filled with smoke. There was no easy chair, no couch on which to rest her weary body, so Lizzie dropped down on to a heap of green turf.

Her sadness did not seem to trouble Donald. He seemed gayer, happier, every moment.

'We are hungry, mother,' he said; 'make us a good supper of curds and whey, and then make us a bed of green rushes and cover us with yonder grey plaids.'

The old woman moved about eagerly as though overjoyed to do all that she could for her son and his young bride.

Curds and whey was a supper dainty enough for a queen, as Lizzie whispered to her shepherd lad with a little sigh. Even the bed of green rushes could not keep her awake. No sooner had she lain down than, worn out with her long journey, she fell fast asleep, nor did she awake until the sun was high in the sky.

As she awoke she heard Donald's voice. He was reproaching her, and she had not been used to reproach.

'It would have been well,' said Donald, 'that you had risen an hour ago to milk the cows, to tend the flock.'

The tears gathered in Lizzie's eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

'Alas, alas!' she sighed, 'I would I had never left my home, for here I am of little use. I have never milked a cow, nor do I know how to begin, and flocks have I never tended. Alas that I ever came to the Highlands! Yet well do I love Donald MacDonald, and long and dull would the days have been had he left me behind him in Edinburgh.'

'Shed no more tears, Lizzie,' said Donald gently. 'Get up and dress yourself in your silk gown, for to-day I will take you over the hills of Kingcaussie and show you the glens and dales where I used to play when I was but a little lad.'

Then Lizzie dried her tears and soon she was up and dressed in her finest gown, and leaning on Donald's arm she wandered with him over the heathery hills until they reached a noble castle.

Joyously then laughed the young laird, as he bade Lizzie gaze all around her and be glad.

'I am the lord of all you see, Lizzie,' cried he, 'for this castle is my home and the mountains are my own broad lands.'

Then joyously too laughed Lizzie Lindsay, for she knew that her shepherd lad was none other than the far-famed Sir Donald MacDonald.

At that moment the castle gates were flung wide, and the old Laird of Kingcaussie came out to greet the bride.

'Ye are welcome, Lizzie Lindsay, welcome to our castle,' he said right courteously. 'Many were the lords and nobles who begged for your hand, but it is young Donald, my son, who has won it, with no gift save the glance of his bonny blue eyes.' And the old laird laughed merrily as he looked up at his son.

The laird's gracious mother too came down to greet her, and well was she pleased that her boy had won the beautiful maiden he loved.

As for Lizzie Lindsay, she sent to Edinburgh to fetch her father and mother, that they might see for themselves how wise their daughter had been to follow Donald MacDonald to the Highlands.

THE GAY GOSHAWK

Lord William sat alone in his grey northern castle. He had come but lately from the sunny South, and the room in which he sat struck chill after the sun-warmed rooms to which he had grown used. Little joy had Lord William in his old grey castle, for his heart was far away in the sunny South.

All alone he sat save for his favourite bird, the gay goshawk. And it, for it loved its master well, blinked a tear from its eye as it peered into Lord William's gloomy face, blinked and peered again, so pale and lean had his master grown.

'Now what ill has befallen,' thought the bird, and it ruffled its feathers in its distress.

Lord William looked up and stroked the glossy plumage of his gay goshawk.

'Be still, my bonny bird, be still,' said Lord William, 'and I will smooth your ruffled wings.'

The goshawk blinked and peered more close into the tired face of his master. Then he began to speak.

'Have you lost your sword or spear in the tournament, have you lost them in sunny England?' asked the bird, 'or are you pale with grief because your true love is far away?'

'By my troth!' cried Lord William, 'I have lost nor sword nor spear, yet do I mourn, for my true love whom I fain would see.

'You shall carry a message to her, my gay goshawk, for you can fly over hill and dale. You shall carry a letter to my love, and you shall e'en bring me an answer,' said Lord William, 'for you can speak as well as fly, my bonny bird.'

'But how shall I know your true love?' said the bird. 'Never have I seen her face or heard her voice.'

'O well will you know my true love,' cried Lord William, 'for in all England lives there none so fair as she. The cheeks of my love are red as the red red rose, and her neck, it is whiter than new-fallen snow.

'Near to her lattice window grows a birch, whose leaves tremble in the breeze. There shall you sit, my gay goshawk, and you shall sing to her as she goes to holy church.

'With four-and-twenty maidens will she go, yet well will you know my own true love, for she is the fairest of them all. You shall know her, too, by the gold that bedecks her skirt, by the light that glimmers in her hair.'

Then Lord William sat down and wrote a letter to his love, and fastened it firm under the pinion of his gay goshawk. Away flew the bird, swift did it fly to do its master's will. O'er hill and dale it winged its flight until at length it saw the birch-tree that grew near the lady's bower.

There, on the birch-tree, did the goshawk perch, and there did he sing his song as the lady with her four-and-twenty maidens passed beneath its branches towards the church.

The sharp eyes of the goshawk glanced at each beautiful maiden, and quick was he to see Lord William's love, for sweet was she as the flowers that spring in May. Gold was embroidered on her skirt, sunlight glistened in her beautiful yellow hair.

When another day dawned the gay goshawk left the birch-tree and alighted on the gate, a little nearer to the lattice window where sat the beautiful lady to whom he had been sent. Here again he sang his song. Loud and clear he sang it first, loud and clear that all might hear. Soft and sweet he sang it after, soft and sweet that only Lord William's lady might catch the note of love. And ever, loud or soft, the last words of his song were these, 'Your true love cannot come to you here.'

Then said the lady to her four-and-twenty maidens, 'Eat, my merry maidens, eat and drink, for the feast is spread. I go but to my lattice window to listen to the birds, for hark! they are singing their evensong.'

But in her heart the lady knew there was only one song she longed to hear. Wide she opened her lattice window and, leaning out, she hearkened to the song of the gay goshawk.

'Sing on, ye bonny bird,' she cried, 'sing on, for I know no song could be so sweet that came not from my own true love.'

A little nearer flew the gay goshawk, and first his song was merry as a summer morn, and then it was sad as an autumn eve.

As she listened, tears dropped from the eyes of the beautiful lady. She put out her hand and stroked the pinions of the gay goshawk, and lo! there dropped from beneath his wing Lord William's letter.

'Five letters has my master sent to you,' said the bird, 'and long has he looked for one from you, yet never has it come, and he is weary with long waiting.'

Then the lady sighed, for no letter had she ever had from her true love. 'My stepmother has hidden the letters, for never one have I seen,' she cried.

Her fingers tore open the letter which had dropped from beneath the bird's wing, and she read, and as she read she laughed aloud.

Lord William had written a letter that was full of grief, because he could not come to the lady he loved, yet did the lady laugh. And this is why she laughed both long and glad. Because she had made up her mind that as he could not come to her she herself would go to Lord William.

'Carry this message to my own true love,' said she then to the gay goshawk.

'Since you cannot come to me, I myself will come to you in your cold northern country. And as a token of my love I send you by your gay goshawk a ring from off my finger, a wreath from off my yellow hair. And lest these should not please you I send my heart, and more than that can you not wish.

'Prepare the wedding feast, invite the guests, and then haste you to meet me at St. Mary's Church, for there, ere long, will you find me.

'Fly, gay goshawk, fly and carry with you my message to Lord William.'

And the bird flew o'er hill and dale until once again he reached the grey northern castle in which his master dwelt. And he saw his master's eye grow glad, his pale cheek glow as he listened to the message, as he held the tokens of his own true love.

Then the lady, left alone, closed her lattice window and went up to her own room followed by her maidens. Here she began to moan and cry as though she were in great pain, or seized by sudden illness. So ill she seemed that those who watched her feared that she would die.

'My father!' moaned the lady, 'tell my father that I am ill; bid him come to me without delay.'

Up to her room hastened her father, and sorely did he grieve when he saw that his daughter was so ill.

'Father, dear father,' she cried, holding his strong hand in her pale white one, 'grant me a boon ere I die.'

'An you ask not for the lord who lives in the cold north country, my daughter, you may ask for what you will, and it shall be granted.'

'Promise me, then,' said his daughter, 'that though I die here in the sunny South, you will carry me when I am dead to the cold grey North.

'And at the first church to which we come, tarry, that a mass may be said for my soul. At the second let me rest until the bells be tolled slow and solemn. When you come to the third church, which is named St. Mary's, grant that from thence you will not bear me until the night shades fall.'

Then her father pledged his word that all should be done as she wished.

Now as her father left her room, the lady sent her four-and-twenty maidens down to her bower that they might eat and drink. And when she was left alone she hastened to drink a sleeping draught which she had already prepared in secret.

This draught would make her seem as one who was dead. And indeed no sooner had she drunk it than she grew pale and still.

Her cruel stepmother came up into the room. She did not love the beautiful maiden, and when she saw her lying thus, so white, so cold, she laughed, and said, 'We shall soon see if she be really dead.'

Then she lit a fire in the silent room, and placing some lead in a little goblet, she stirred it over the flames with an iron spoon until it melted. When the lead was melted the stepmother carried a spoonful carefully to the side of the bed, and stood there looking down upon the still white form. It neither moved nor moaned.

'She is not dead,' murmured the cruel woman to herself; 'she deceives us, that she may be carried away to the land of her own true love. She will not lie there silent long.' And she let some drops of the burning lead fall on to the heart of the quiet maiden. Yet still the maiden never moved nor cried.

'Send for her father,' shouted the cruel stepmother, going to the door of the little room, for now she believed the maiden was really dead.

'Alas, alas!' cried her father when he came and saw his daughter lying on her white bed, so pale, so cold. 'Alas, alas, my child is dead indeed!'

Then her seven brothers wept for their beautiful sister; but when they had dried their tears, they arose and went into the forest. There they cut down a tall oak-tree and made a bier for the maiden, and they covered the oak with silver.

Her seven sisters wept for their beautiful sister when they saw that she neither stirred nor moaned. They wept, but when they had dried their tears they arose and sewed a shroud for the maiden, and at each stitch they took they fastened into it a little silver bell.

Now the duke, her father, had pledged his word that his daughter should be carried, ere she was buried, to St. Mary's Church. Her seven brothers therefore set out on the long sad journey toward the gloomy north country, carrying their sister in the silver-mounted bier. She was clad in the shroud her seven sisters had sewed, and the silver bells tinkled softly at each step her seven strong brothers took along the road.

The stepmother had no tears to shed. Indeed she had no time to weep, for she must keep strict watch over the dead maiden's seven sisters, lest they too grew ill and thus escaped her power.

As for the poor old father, he shut himself up alone to grieve for his dear lost child.

When the seven brothers reached the first church, they remembered their father's promise to their sister. They set down the bier and waited, that a mass might be sung for the lady's soul.

Then on again they journeyed until before them they saw another church.

'Here will we rest until the bell has been tolled,' they said, and again the bier was placed in the holy church.

'We will come to St. Mary's ere we tarry again,' said the seven brothers, and there they knew that their journey would be over. Yet little did they know in how strange a way it would end.

Slow and careful were the brothers' steps as they drew near to the church of St. Mary, slow and sad, for there they must part from their beautiful pale sister.

The chime of the silver bells floated on the still air, dulling the sound of the seven strong brothers' footsteps.

They were close to St. Mary's now, and as they laid the bier down the brothers started, for out of the shadows crept tall armed men, and in their midst stood Lord William. He had come as he had been bidden to meet his bride. The brothers knew him well, the lord from the cold grey country, who had stolen the heart of their beautiful sister.

'Stand back,' commanded Lord William, and his voice was stern, for not thus had he thought to meet the lady he loved. 'Stand back and let me look once more upon the face of my own true love.'

Then the seven brothers, though they had but little goodwill for the northern lord, lifted the bier and laid it at his feet, that once again he might look upon the face of their pale cold sister.

And lo! as Lord William took the hand, the cold white hand, of his true love in his own, it grew warm, as his lips touched hers they grew rosy, and the colour crept into her cheeks. Ere long she lay smiling back at her own true love with cheeks that bloomed and eyes that shone. The power of the sleeping draught was over.

'Give me bread, dear lord,' cried the lady, 'for no food have I tasted for three long days and nights, and this have I done that I might come to you, my own true love.'

When the lady had eaten she turned to her seven strong brothers. 'Begone, my seven bold brothers,' she cried, 'begone to your home in the sunny South, and tell how your sister has reached her lord.'

'Now woe betide you,' answered her bold brothers, 'for you have left your seven sisters and your old father at home to weep for you.'

'Carry my love to my old father,' cried the lady, 'and to my sisters seven. Bid them that they dry their tears nor weep for me, for I am come to my own true love.'

Then the seven brothers turned away in anger and went back to their home in the South. But Lord William carried his own true love off to the old grey castle where they were married. And the gay goshawk sang their wedding song.

THE LAIRD O' LOGIE

It was when James the Sixth was king in Scotland that the young Wemyss of Logie got into sore trouble.

Wemyss of Logie was one of the king's courtiers; a tall, handsome lad he was, and a favourite with both king and queen.