Part 4

After whispering, with great earnestness, this speech into the ear of the old duke, Graham paused again, and looked at him. The words had produced the effect which they might have been expected to produce on the mind of one who had long dreamed over the same thoughts and purposes, and been fired by the same feelings, but who had been prevented, by unmanly fears, from obeying the dictates of his judgment, the call of his ambition, and the spur of revenge. The energetic manner in which the old fancies had been roused by the wily Graham threw him into a reverie, the result of which the knight did not think fit to wait. He had already, to a certain extent, succeeded in stimulating the lethargy of age, and sending through the shrivelled veins of the scion of royalty the blood that owned the influence of the passion-struck heart; it was now his purpose to keep the ground he had gained, and push for more; and as the duke still stood muffled up in his morning-gown, and his chin upon his folded arms, the tempter proceeded--

"Your grace has often declared to me," he continued, "that you have faith in our Highland seers, and believe the sounds of the _taisch_, as given forth by the inspired visionary."

"Who can doubt these things?" replied the old duke, looking seriously, and continuing his musing position. "I certainly never had the hardihood. I have seen too many instances of their verification, to be sceptical on that head. The fate of the family of Albany was foretold by a seer many months before the execution of Duke Murdoch and his sons. But what has this to do with my persecution, or with my being king of Scotland? God knows, I have at this moment visions enough!--your remarks have roused my sleeping mind; yet I could almost say I dream."

"This dark hall, that little flickering lamp, and my presence at this late hour, may well produce an illusion; but I deal in no fancies. I have only truths to tell, and deeds to do--ay, and such deeds as may well cross the rapt eyes of the seer; Scotland has not seen such for many a day, sad and sorrowful as have been the fates of her kings. Will your grace hear _your_ fate from the lips of a seer?"

"I would rather hear that of my enemy, who rules this kingdom with a rod of iron," replied the duke.

"You will hear the fates and fortunes of both," said Graham--"ay, even as is seen the scales of justice, which, as the beam moves, lifts one, only to depress the other. If you will accompany me to a shepherd's hut, back among your own hills of Athol, you will hear what time has in store for you and King James."

"I will," replied the duke, anxiously; "but age requires rest. I was hunting all day, and feel weary. Let us postpone our visit till to-morrow evening."

"Ah!" cried Graham, "the _hunter_ may say he is wearied, but the _hunted_ has no title to speak the language of nature. If we go at all, we must go _now_. The visions of the seer come on him during night. At the solemn hour of midnight, futurity is revealed to him--to the hunted outlaw, whose bed is among the heather, there is not vouchsafed the ordinary certainty of seeing even another sun. Come, dress--I will lead your grace's horse through the hills. We have no time to lose--the old enemy is beforehand with us, and our grizzled locks mock the tardiness of our revenge. Come!"

"My weakness leaves me under the charm of your words, Graham," said the old duke. "Tell Malcolm to get my horse in readiness; meanwhile, I will dress, and be presently with you."

The duke went up to his bedroom, and Graham sought the servant, who proceeded to obey his directions. He came again back to the hall, and folding his arms, walked to and fro, muttering to himself, stopping at times, and raising his hand in a menacing attitude, as if he were wholly engrossed by one feeling of revenge, and then resuming his musing attitude. The duke, dressed, belted, and muffled up in a large riding-cloak, again roused him from his reverie. They proceeded to the courtyard, where the duke mounted, and Graham, taking the bridle into his hand, took the horse away into a by-path that led to the hills. After proceeding forward for about an hour in the dark, they observed a small light glimmering in the distance, and coming apparently from the window of some cottage. For this Graham made as directly as the unevenness of the ground would permit; and in a short time they arrived at the door of the small dwelling, from the window of which the beam of light shot out amongst the darkness, suggesting the idea of life, and probably some of its comforts (at least a fire), amidst the dead stillness of a winter night in so dreary a situation.

At the door of this cottage, Graham rapped in a peculiar manner; and without a word being spoken, it was opened by a young man clad in the Highland garb. The two friends entered. The scene presented to them was the ordinary appearance of a mountain hut in those days: a small fire of peats burned in the middle of the apartment, and sent out the light which, beaming through the small aperture in place of a window, had attracted the eyes of the guests. In a corner, a small truckle-bed stuffed with heather, part of which protruded at the side and end, and covered with a coarse blanket or two, contained an old woman, with a clear, active eye, which twinkled in the light of the fire, and moved with great rapidity as she scanned narrowly the persons of the guests. In another corner was the bed of the young Highlander, composed simply of a collection of heather, and without blanket or covering of any kind. The guests seated themselves on two coarse stools that stood by the fire; holding their hands over the flame, to receive as much as possible of the heat to thaw their limbs, which the freezing night air, co-operating with their advanced years, had stiffened and benumbed. While they were engaged in this preliminary but indispensable operation, the young man, who appeared restless and confused, placed another stool before the bed of the old woman, so that, when seated upon it, his back would be supported by the side of the bed, and his face in some degree concealed from the gaze of the guests, who, being on the other side of the peat fire, could, through the ascending smoke, see him only indistinctly and at intervals.

With the exception of a few words that had passed between the young Highlander and Graham--and which, being in Gaelic, were not understood by the royal duke, who, though formerly Lord of Brechin, and resident in the north, had been too long in leaving the royal residence of his father, Robert II., to acquire the language--there was nothing for some time said. The guests continued their manual applications to the peat fire, and the young Gael, who had for some time been seated on his stool, threw himself occasionally back on the fore part of the bed, then brought himself forward again, and at intervals muttered quickly some words in Gaelic, accompanied with sounds of wonder and surprise, from all which he suddenly relapsed into quietness and silence. While these strange operations were going on, Graham directed the attention of the duke to the uncouth actor, and whispered something in his ear which had the effect of rousing him, and making him look anxiously through the smoke, to get a better view of the strange gestures of the youth. The old woman in the bed made, in the meantime, efforts as if she intended to speak; but these were repressed by a sudden motion of the youth, whose hand, slipped back, was applied as secretly as possible to her mouth, and then, in a menacing attitude, clenched and shaken in her face.

"Is your hour come yet, Allan?" said Graham, in a deep and serious voice.

"He says no," answered the old woman, with a sharp, clear voice, from the bed, translating the Gaelic response of the youth; "but he sees signs o' an oncome."

"Is it to be a mute vision, Allan?" again said Graham; "or see you any signs of a _taisch_?"

"He thinks," said the woman again, as translator, "he will see again the face and feir o' a dead king, wha will speak wi' sobs and granes o' him wha will come after him, and sit in the browden and burniest ha' o' Scone's auld palace, whar he will be crowned."

Silence again succeeded the clear notes of the woman's voice; the young man's movements and gestures recommenced; and the old duke's attention was riveted by the strange proceedings which, to an absolute believer in the powers of the seer, were fraught with intense interest. The prophetic paroxysm seemed to approach more near: the body of the seer was bent stiffly back, and leaned on the bed; his eyes were wide open, and fixed upon a mental object; his hands were extended forth; his lips were apart; and every gesture indicated that state of the mind when, under the influence of a rapt vision, it takes from the body its nervous energy, and leaves the limbs as if under the power of a trance.

He remained in this condition for fully five minutes; and then, throwing his arms about, he cried out some quickly-uttered words in Gaelic, which the old woman translated into--"It comes! it comes!" After a pause of a few minutes, during which the most death-like silence prevailed throughout the cottage, he began to move his hands slowly through the air, from right to left, as if he were following the progress of a passing creation of the mind; and, as he continued this movement, he spoke, in a deep, tremulous voice, with a kind of mournful, singing cadence, the Gaelic words, which were continually translated by the old woman.

"There comes slowly, as if frae the womb o' a cloud o' mountain mist, the seim o' a turreted abbey, wi' the tomb o' the Bruce and the monuments o' other kings, amang which a new grave, wi' the moul o' centuries o' rotten banes lying on its edge, and mixed wi' the skulls o' dead kings, and arm-banes that ance bore the sceptre o' Scotland!--It is gane!--the seim has vanished, and my eye is again darkened!"

A deep silence succeeded, and lasted for several minutes. The speaker's hands again began to move from right to left, and slowly-uttered words again came from his lips!

"The cloud throws back its misty faulds, and shows the wraith o' a gowd-graithit bier, movin to the wast; the Scotch lion is on the lid, and a shinin halbrik, owre whilk waves the royal pennon o' Scotland, begirt wi' gowd, is carried afore, by the king-at-arms. A warlock, auld and shrivelled, wi' a white beard, touches wi' his wand the coffin; the lid lifts, and the head o' a king, wi' a leaden crown, rises frae the bier! A _taisch_! a _taisch_!--hark! the lips o' the dead open and move, and he speaks the weird that never deceives! '_Hail, Walter, King o' the Scots!_'"

This extraordinary statement was accompanied by a kind of yell or scream, that rung through the cottage, and pierced the ears of the listeners. Silence again followed, and lasted several minutes, during which the seer was quiet. The duke was apparently entranced, and Graham looked wonder and surprise. The seer began again to move his hands, and speak as before.

"The cloud throws back its misty faulds, and my eye follows the seim o' the royal chair o' Scone, wherein sits" (a loud scream of surprise broke from the seer) "Walter, Lord o' Brechin that was, Duke o' Athol that is--King o' Scotland that will be!"

These words were no sooner uttered, than the duke started from the stool on which he sat, and showed strong indications of surprise and confusion. His belief in the predictions of a seer was, as was common in that age, unbounded, and when he heard himself pronounced King o' Scotland his mind, freed from all manner of scepticism or doubt, reverted to the circumstance of the doubtful legitimacy of his half-brothers; the aspirations and day-dreams he had so long indulged seemed in an instant to have received the stamp of truth; the prospect of having his ambition at last gratified, by wearing the crown which his enemy now bore, inflamed his mind, and the coldness and lethargy of old age seemed to have been supplanted by the fire and energy of youth.

"Is the vision complete?" said he to the old woman, as he saw the seer gradually regaining his upright position, and resulting his natural manner, like one who had come out of a fit.

"Ay," replied she. "Allan is himsel again; but, if ye are the Duke o' Athol, as I tak ye to be, I could rede ye, before our reddin, never mair, aiblins, to meet on this side o' time, something that wad make your auld een glimmer through the smeik o' that ingle mair swith and deftly than could a' the visions o' the seers o' Scotland."

Graham looked alarmed at this unexpected speech of the old woman; and Allan, the seer, slipping gently his hand behind her back, stopped her mouth, and produced silence. The duke and Graham left the cottage--the latter exhibiting a wish that the former should not remain longer, after the object was attained for which they had made their visit. They returned in the same way they had come; and for some time the duke was so much occupied with the thoughts of the extraordinary vision he had got declared to him, that he rode forward, still led by Graham, without uttering a word. The night was, if possible, darker than it was when they left the castle; and the stillness of a lazy fall of snow reigned among the hills, unbroken by a single sound, even of the night-birds.

"It is then ordained above," said the duke at last, in a low tone--"my lot is already cast among the destinies, and all the dreams of a long life are at last to be realised. I can scarcely believe that I have been awake for this last hour; yet what can be more certain than that I am now suffering the cold of these hills, a bodily feeling which dreams cannot simulate? 'Walter, King of Scotland!' Ha! it sounds as well as James--we are both the first of our name. It is tardy justice, but it is justice accompanied by retribution; and when is the blood too thin and cold to feed the fire of revenge? When do the pulses of the old heart cease to quicken at the thought of a just retribution? When is the head too bald to bear a crown lined with purple velvet? My spirits, frozen by age and this cold night, are thawed by the fire of these visions of vengeance, and dance in the wild array of youthful delight. Ha! he took from me the fee of my dukedom, and gave me, because I was _old_, the usufruct, the liferent: I shall now have the usufruct of a _kingdom_--_his_ kingdom by courtesy, _mine_ by right. Hark, Graham! How is this vision to be realised? The seer pointed to James's death--who is to kill the tyrant?"

"I with this hand shall strike the blow," replied Graham. "My plans are already laid, and I wanted only your cooperation and assistance; for why, you know, should I be so improvident as to kill one king, until another is ready to take his place?"

"I cannot speak lightly of this affair," said the duke, in check of Graham's levity. "What are your plans? The fewer co-operators in a conspiracy the better."

"I know it," replied Graham. "Your grandson, Sir Robert Stuart, whom James has foolishly retained as chamberlain, while he has taken from him his chance of succeeding you in your dukedom, waits for your command to give us access to the royal chamber. The king is to celebrate the Christmas holidays at the monastery of the Dominicans in Perth; he comes to the point of our dagger, held by a hand nerved by a thousand wrongs, to plunge it into his bosom. I can command the services of Sir John Hall, and Christopher and Thomas Chambers, who cry for revenge for the murder of their master Albany; three hundred caterans are at my service, ready to do the work of death at my bidding; and all that was required to complete my schemes was the consent of your grace, now happily obtained, to the act which is to right you, to revenge you, to crown you."

"If the king is to be at Perth," replied the duke, after a pause, "I shall be at the revels of Christmas. My grandson Sir Robert, who, as chamberlain, may be said to be the keeper of the king, can let your three hundred caterans into the monastery, and the work may be finished with a facility which seldom attends the execution of the purposes of revenge."

"Your grace has anticipated my very thoughts and words," replied the wily Graham. "Heaven aids the work of a just retribution on the head of the tyrant. Mark the supernatural coincidences. When was the vision of the seer presented to the living senses of the avenger of his own and his country's wrongs--the executioner of a tyrant, and the successor who is to occupy his throne--as if to urge him to his duty? When did the groaning victims of royal cruelty get a chamberlain to turn for them the key of the tyrant's sleeping room? And when were the suspicions of remorse and guilt of the wrong-doer so opportunely lulled, as to give room to a confidence which brings him to the dagger's point?"

"Walter, King of Scotland!" ejaculated the duke, who, during Graham's speech, had been musing over the sudden change in his fortunes. "Ha! how many acts shall I have to repeal! how many nobles to right! how many wounds to bind up of my bleeding country! Graham, you shall be Earl of Menteith, and your grand-nephew, Malise, shall have, instead of that earldom, his own Strathearn. How my mind burns with the thoughts of turning wrong into right, and taking the weight of the royal sceptre out of the scales of justice!"

By this time, the pair had arrived again at the palace of Athol. Their plans were completed: the duke retired to dream of his crown and sceptre, and Graham returned to seek a heather bed, in his retreat, beyond the reach of his enemies.

Some time after, he met Allan, the seer, whose surname was Mackay, among the hills. The Gael had apparently gone in quest of his employer, and seemed to have some important object to attain, by travelling so far as he had done to meet him.

"I peg your honour's pardon," said the seer, as he came up to Graham; "te katherans are to pe at te red stane in te howe o' te hills, on te saxth. I hae seen a' te praw fallows, wha are as keen for te onset as te eagles o' Shehallion. Ye will meet them, dootless, and keep up the fire o' their pluid, pe te three grand powers--te speeches, te peat-reek, and te pay. Hoo did I manage te duke? Te play was weel played, your honour, though Allan Mackay pe te man who says it; and te mair's my credit, that I never pefore acted to seer in presence o' te son o' a king. Ugh--ugh! put it was a praw performance, and are that deserves to pe weel paid for. Hoo muckle did your honour promise to gie me for my remuneration? Te sum has clean escaped my memory."

"It was five merks, Allan," said Graham.

"I peg your pardon, your honour," said Allan. "It was shust exactly seven; and little aneugh, seein I had my mither's mouth to keep close, for fear she wad peach te secret to te duke, pesides te grand story o' Dumferlin Appey, and te funeral, and te taisch, and te Palace o' Scone, to invent and perform. King Shames's actors are petter paid for performin his 'Peebles to te Play.' Maybe your honour can pay me te seven merks shusht now?"

"I cannot quarrel with you, Allan," said Graham; "but our bargain was five. Here's your own sum, however. Since that night, I have had apprehensions about your mother's steadfastness. You must watch her, and prevent her from going from home. Women have been the ruin of all plots, since the beginning of the world."

"That was shust what I was to speak aboot, next after the payment, your honour," said Allan. "She's awa owre the hills already, Cot knows whar."

"What!" cried Graham, in great agitation--"has she gone away without your knowledge, and without telling you whither she was going?"

"That's shust the very thing I hae to inform ye o'," replied the phlegmatic Gael. "Te last time I saw her was on Wednesday morning, when she was warstlin wi' the winds that plaw ower te tap o' te hill o' Gary. A glint o' te risin sun showed me her red cloak is it fluttered in te plast, and, in a moment after, a' my powers o' the second sight couldna discover her. But we've ae satisfaction; she's no awa to the duke. Put maybe" (turning up his eye slyly) "she's awa to King Shames. I would follow her, and pring her pack, put I require te seven merks I hae got frae your honour for other necessary occasions, and purposes, and necessities; and a pody canna travel in the Lowlands, whar there's nae heather to sleep on, without pawpees."

"Death and fury!" cried the agitated Graham, "are all my long-meditated schemes of revenge, are the concerted purposes for cutting off a tyrant and righting a nation, to be counteracted by the wag of an old woman's tongue? Allan" (lowering his voice), "you must after your mother--dog her through hill and dale, highway and city vennel; seize her, by force or guile; prevent her from seeking the presence of the king, or those who may have the power of communicating with him; and get her back to her cottage, on the peril of all our lives. Here's money for you" (giving him a purse), "and here is a passport to the confidence of Sir Robert Stuart, the king's chamberlain, one of our friends, who will co-operate with you in preventing her from approaching the royal presence."

"She's a Lowlander, your honour," said Allan, putting the money in his pocket; "and maybe she's awa to see her praw freends o' the south, whar she gaes ance a-year, shust about this time; put, to oplige, and favour, and satisfy your honour, I'll awa doon te Strath o' te Tay; and, if I dinna find her wi' her relations in Dundee, there may be some reason, and occasion, and authority for your honour's apprehension, and for my crossin te Tay and te Forth, to prevent her frae payin her respects to Shames, whilk she wad think nae mair o' doin than o' speakin in te way she did to te Duke o' Athol."

"Away--away, then!" cried Graham; "and remember that your head's at stake as well as that of the best of us. So look to yourself."

Graham went away to an appointed place, where he was to meet Sir John Hall, who was to accompany him to the meeting of the caterans, and Allan went back to the cottage, and, taking out some necessaries, proceeded to Strath Tay. He arrived at the town of Dundee next evening; and, having ascertained that his mother had crossed over to Fife, had no doubt that she was away to Edinburgh for the purpose of communicating to King James what she knew of the conspiracy of the north. He therefore also crossed the Tay, proceeded through Fife, and, after considerable delay, produced by ineffectual inquiries after an old woman in a red cloak, he arrived in Edinburgh on the third day after he had set out from his cottage. He had procured no trace of his mother, and all his wanderings and searchings through the Scottish metropolis were unavailing--he could neither see nor hear of her; and he therefore resolved to wait upon Sir Robert Stuart, to put him on his guard, lest she might, by her cunning, escape also his notice, and get access to the king by means of some subtle story told to the usher. He had no difficulty in getting access to Sir Robert, who was, about that time, too much occupied with secret messengers from the seat of the conspiracy in which he had engaged, to hesitate an instant about consenting to see the Gael, who, he doubted not, came from Sir Robert Graham, or his grandfather, the duke--both, he knew, deeply engaged in the secret affair. Having been admitted, Allan, as he walked up to the end of the apartment where Sir Robert was seated, looked cautiously around; and, seeing no one near, assumed an attitude and demeanour somewhat bolder, but still suited to the secresy of his message.

"Has your honour seen an old woman in a red cloak, apoot te precincts o' te king's residence?" said he, in a whispering tone, as he slipped Graham's token--a piece of paper with ciphers on it--into Sir Robert's hand.