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Title: The adventures of Rob Roy

Author: James Grant

Release Date: November 24, 2022 [eBook #69420]

Language: English

Produced by: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF ROB
ROY ***







  THE ADVENTURES OF ROB ROY.


  BY

  JAMES GRANT, ESQ.

  AUTHOR OF "JACK MANLY," "DICK RODNEY," "SECOND TO NONE,"
  ETC. ETC.



  LONDON:
  GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
  THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE;
  NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET.




  BY JAMES GRANT.

  Price 2s. each, Fancy Boards.

  THE ROMANCE OF WAR.
  THE AIDE-DE-CAMP.
  THE SCOTTISH CAVALIER.
  BOTHWELL.
  JANE SETON; OR, THE QUEEN'S ADVOCATE.
  PHILIP ROLLO.
  LEGENDS OF THE BLACK WATCH.
  MARY OF LORRAINE.
  OLIVER ELLIS; OR, THE FUSILIERS.
  LUCY ARDEN; OR, HOLLYWOOD HALL.
  FRANK HILTON; OR, THE QUEEN'S OWN.
  THE YELLOW FRIGATE.
  HARRY OGILVIE; OR, THE BLACK DRAGOONS.
  ARTHUR BLANE.
  LAURA EVERINGHAM; OR, THE HIGHLANDERS OF GLENORA.
  THE CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD.
  LETTY HYDE'S LOVERS.
  THE CAVALIERS OF FORTUNE
  SECOND TO NONE.
  THE CONSTABLE OF FRANCE.
  THE PHANTOM REGIMENT.
  THE KING'S OWN BORDERERS.
  THE WHITE COCKADE.
  FIRST LOVE AND LAST LOVE.

  GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
  THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.




  CONTENTS.


  I  COLIN AND OINA
  II  THE CATERANS
  III  THE ALARM
  IV  THE HOLY STEEL
  V  THE RED MACGREGOR
  VI  THE PURSUIT
  VII  HAND TO HAND
  VIII  THE BATTLE OF GLENFRUIN
  IX  THE DEVASTATION OF KIPPEN
  X  THE DUEL
  XI  ROB GOES TO ENGLAND
  XII  THE GIPSIES
  XIII  INVERSNAID PILLAGED
  XIV  ROB AND THE DUKE
  XV  DESOLATION
  XVI  ROB TAKES THE TOWER OF CARDEN
  XVII  THE JACOBITE BOND
  XVIII  THE DESPATCHES CAPTURED
  XIX  ABERUCHAIL
  XX  ROB ROY RETREATS
  XXI  JOINS KING JAMES
  XXII  INVERSNAID GARRISONED
  XXIII  THE SNARE
  XXIV  WILL HE ESCAPE?
  XXV  LITTLE RONALD
  XXVI  PAUL CRUBACH
  XXVII  THE HOUSE OF INVOCATION
  XXVIII  ROB ROY'S CAVE
  XXIX  THE STORMING OF INVERSNAID
  XXX  THE FIGHT AT ABERFOYLE
  XXXI  ROB SEIZES THE RENTS OF MONTROSE
  XXXII  KILLEARN CARRIED OFF
  XXXIII  KILLEARN'S FATE
  XXXIV  GREUMOCH TAKEN
  XXXV  ROB'S NARROW ESCAPE
  XXXVI  A WEIRD STORY
  XXXVII  THE HAUNTED WELL
  XXXVIII  ROB ROY TAKEN
  XXXIX  THE FORDS OF FREW
  XL  SEAFORTH'S MESSENGER
  XLI  ROB'S MARCH TO GLENSHEIL
  XLII  A STRANGE MEETING
  XLIII  MAJOR HUSKE'S REVENGE
  XLIV  THE BATTLE OF GLENSHEIL
  XLV  THE KNIGHT OF MALTA
  XLVI  EILAN DONAN
  XLVII  THE HARPER'S RANSOM
  XLVIII  MORRAR NA SHEAN, OR THE LORD OF THE VENISON
  XLIX  GUILT AND REMORSE OF MORRAR NA SHEAN
  L  THE RUINED HOUSE IN GLENSTRAE
  LI  HE FIGHTS THE LAIRD OF BARRA
  LII  INVERNENTIE PUNISHED
  LIII  ATTACKED BY THE DUKE OF ATHOLE
  LIV  THE FINAL ATTEMPT OF ATHOLE
  LV  ROB ROY IN LONDON
  LVI  THE DUELS WITH INVERNAHYLE AND ARDSHEIL
  LVII  THE CLOSING SCENE




[Transcriber's note: the source book had a list of illustrations
(below) but no actual illustrations.]


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


1. The body of Colin Bane MacGregor

2. "He showered blow after blow upon MacRae"

3. "Waving his bare blade in a circle between her and the rest, who
dared not advance"

4. "One night they were roused by some Travellers noisily demanding
shelter"

5. "Clenching his right hand, he would have struck the Duke"

6. Rob Roy and the English Captain

7. "He sprang upon them and cut down two"

8. "The MacGregors were protected by ridges of rock"




THE ADVENTURES OF ROB ROY.



CHAPTER I.

COLIN AND OINA.

The sun of a September evening--we need not say in what year--was
shining down a wild and lonely glen, a few miles eastward from the
head of Loch Lomond, where a boy and a girl sat on the slope of the
green hill-side, watching a herd of fifteen red-eyed, small, and
shaggy black cattle, with curly fronts and long sharp horns, that
were browsing mid-leg deep amid the long-leaved fern.  The place was
one of stern and solemn grandeur.

Leaping from ledge to ledge, and foaming between the grey and
time-worn rocks, a mountain torrent, red and fierce, swept down the
steep slope of the narrow glen, now disappearing in deep corries,
that were covered by dwarf birch, hazel, and alder trees, and
elsewhere emerging in mist and spray, white as the thistle's beard,
till it reached the lake which reposed under the shadows of the vast
Ben Lomond, whose summits were hidden in grey mist.

Ben Lawers, which towers above the source of the Tay, and Ben More,
that looks down on the Dochart with its floating isle, are there; but
the king of these is Ben Lomond, a name which means in English "the
hill of the lake full of isles," for four-and-twenty stud the loch
below; and the bare scalp of that mighty mountain rises to the height
of 3,300 feet above the water.  There the wild winds that came in
sudden gusts down the glens, furrowed up the bosom of the loch,
causing its waters to ripple on the silent shore, and on its verdant
isles, with a weird and solemn sound.

But here where our story opens, the shrill note of the curlew, as he
suddenly sprang aloft from the thick soft heather, made one start;
while the rush of the many white watercourses that poured over the
whinstone rocks, and woke the silence, was sharp and hissing.  The
setting sun shed a flood of purple light along the steep-sided glen,
making the heather seem absolutely crimson.

The boy and girl, Colin Bane, the son of a widow, and Oina
MacAleister, belonged to the clachan, or village--the smoking
chimneys of which alone indicated its locality--about three miles
off; for the walls of the little cottages so closely resembled the
grey rocks of the glen, and their roofs, thatched with heather,
blended so nearly with the mountainside, that, except for the forty
little columns of white vapour that ascended into the clear evening
sky, there was nothing else to indicate a human habitation.

Neither of these young people was above twelve years old; but the boy
was tall, lithe, and manly for his age.  His dark grey eyes were keen
and sharp as those of the wiry otter terrier that sat beside him; and
his bare legs, which his tattered kilt revealed from the knee, showed
that he was handsome as well as strong--so strong, that he was
already entitled to wear a man's bonnet, as a proof that he could
lift and fling the "stone of strength,"--the test of manhood, which
lay beside the door of Rob Roy's house, as beside that of every
Highland chieftain, to test the muscle of his growing followers; for
previous to being able to poise and hurl the _Clachneart_, a boy wore
his hair simply tied with a thong.

A jacket of deerskin, fastened by wooden buttons and loops of thong;
a pouch or sporan composed of a polecat's skin, with its face for a
flap; and a skene dhu (or black knife) stuck in a waist-belt,
completed the attire of Colin.

His pretty companion, who sat with her little bare feet paddling in a
pool of water that gurgled from a rock, was enveloped in a short
plaid of red tartan, fastened under her chin by a little silver
brooch, and her thick brown hair, which she had wreathed with blue
bells and golden broom, fell in masses on her shoulders.

But the faces of this boy and girl were thoughtful, keen, and anxious
in expression; for they were children of a long-oppressed, outlawed,
and broken tribe, the MacGregors, or Clan Alpine.  Still, as they
tended the cattle, they sang merrily; for when reaping in the fields,
or rowing on the lochs, casting the shuttle at the loom, or marching
in the ranks to battle, in those days the Scottish Highlander always
sang.

Ever and anon the boy and girl would pause and utter a joyous shout,
when a large brown salmon leaped amid a shower of diamonds from the
rough stream that tore through the glen; or when a sharp-nosed fox, a
shaggy otter, or a red polecat came stealthily out of the gorse and
whins to drink of it; for as yet they had no other visitors, and saw
not those who were secretly approaching.

Colin, who had started up to cast a stone at a wild swan, and pursue
it a little way, returned breathless; but nevertheless, producing a
chanter of hard black wood, mounted with ivory rings, from his
girdle, in which it had been stuck, he said,--"Come, Oina--Mianna
Bhaird a thuair aois--sing, and I shall play."

"It is a song of many verses, and is too long," replied the girl.

"Long!  There are only two-and-thirty verses, and mother says that
old Paul Crubach can remember as many more."

Colin commenced the air at once upon his chanter, and without further
hesitation the girl began one of the old songs which are half sung
and half recited, in a manner peculiar to the Highlands.

I have no intention of afflicting my readers with all the said song
in Gaelic; but it ran somewhat in this fashion (a friend has
translated it for me), and the girl, as she sang sweetly, splashed
the sparkling water with her tiny feet:--

  Lay us gently by the stream
    That wanders through our grassy meads;
  And thou, O sun! with kindly beam,
    Light up the bower that o'er us spreads.

  Here softly on the grass we'll sit,
    Where flowerets bloom and breezes sigh;
  Our feet laved in the gentle tide
    That, slowly gliding, murmurs by.

  Let roses bright and primrose fair
    With sweet perfume and lovely hues,
  Around us woo the ambient air,
    And breathe upon the falling dews.


Intent upon themselves and their simple occupation, and singing thus
in the fulness of their young hearts to the objects of Nature, the
boy and girl saw not those who were coming up the glen, creeping on
their hands and feet, with keen eyes and open ears.

  Place by my hand (with harp and shell),
    So long our solace and our pride,
  The shield that often roll'd the swell
    Of battle from our father's side!

  Let Ossian blind and tuneful Dall
    Strike from their harps a solemn sound,
  And open wide their airy hall--
    No bard will here, at eve, be found!


So closed the song, and at that moment a cry burst from Oina, while
Colin sprang up with a hand on his knife, for suddenly there arose
out of the long tossing leaves of the braken, or fern, the dark whins
and matted gorse, amid which the cattle grazed, about twenty
well-armed and fierce-looking Highlanders, whose tattered attire,
green tartans, and wild bearing, all proclaimed them to be strangers
and foes, who had come intent on spoil and hostility.




CHAPTER II.

THE CATERANS.

With her eyes dilated by terror, and her usually ruddy cheeks
blanched and pale, the girl clung to her companion, who stood
resolutely between her and those who had come so suddenly upon them.
Barking furiously, the otter terrier erected his shaggy back and also
shrunk close to the side of Colin.

These unwelcome visitors were all armed with basket-hilted swords,
dirks, and pistols.  He who seemed the leader bore a long _luagh_, or
Lochaber axe, the head of which is adapted for the triple purpose of
cutting, thrusting, or hooking an enemy.  They all wore waistcoats
and hose of untanned deerskin, rough, shaggy, and tied with thongs.

Their kilts and plaids were of tattered green tartan, and all wore
woollen shirts of dark red dyes.  Only a few had bonnets; but in
these they wore a tuft of deer-grass, the badge of the MacKenzies.
This, however, did not deceive the boy or girl, who knew them to be
MacRaes, who followed the banner of Lord Seaforth.

The leader, a giant in stature, but fleet of foot and active as a
roebuck, was a dark-visaged and savage-looking man, with eyebrows
that met over his nose, and were shaggy as the moustache that curled
round his fierce mouth, to mingle with his beard.  His belted plaid
was fastened by an antique silver brooch covered with twisted snakes,
and silver tassels adorned his sporan, which was of otter-skin
covered with white spots; and hence such skins are said in Scotland
to belong to the king of the otters.

"Keep your cur quiet, boy," said this formidable-looking fellow, "or
I must put a bullet into him.  Go on with your song, my girl, and
don't be alarmed; we shall not harm you."

"He is Duncan nan Creagh!" said Colin.

"And our cattle will be taken," sobbed Oina.

Indeed, while the boy and girl spoke their fears in whispers, the
gillies, or followers of Duncan of the Forays, as he was named, ran
round the cattle in a circle, driving them together, by holloing and
striking them with cudgels or the flat sides of their
claymores--occasionally using the point, to spur on the more lazy or
refractory.  Undaunted by the number of the caterans, Colin began to
shout shrilly and wildly for succour; but aid was far off, and the
echoes of the rocks alone replied.

"Silence!" exclaimed Duncan MacRae, fiercely, "or I shall fling you
into the pool, with a big stone at your neck!"

The boy bravely brandished his skene, and dipping his bonnet in the
rivulet, as a defence for his left hand, said,--

"Beware, you false cateran; these cattle are from the lands of
Finlarig; and Finlarig belongs to Breadalbane."

The tall cateran grinned, and replied,--

"Ay; but the beasties belong to the MacGregors----"

"From whom all men may take their prey," added another.

"True, MacAulay, and were they Breadalbane's own, every hoof and horn
should be mine, even though he were here, with all the Clan Diarmed
of the Boar at his back.  Hear you that, my little man?  But the
Griogarich--wheeugh!"

And the tall cateran snapped his fingers with contempt and grinned
savagely, as he made a whistling sound.

This action, and the slighting manner in which his clan was spoken
of, made Colin tremble with rage.  His ruddy cheek grew pale with
emotion, and his eyes flashed with light.

In pursuing a sturdy little bullock, one of the MacRaes dropped a
pistol.  Quick as lightning young Colin sprang forward, possessed
himself of it, and fired full at the head of Duncan nan Creagh!  The
latter reeled, for the ball had pierced his bonnet, and grazed the
scalp of his head, causing the blood to trickle over his sombre
visage.  Then, before he could recover himself, the fearless boy
hurled the empty pistol, which was one of the heavy steel _tacks_
still worn with the Highland dress, at the cateran's head, which it
narrowly missed.

Oina and he now turned to seek safety in flight; but the MacRae
caught him by the hook of his long poleaxe, and fearing further
violence, the brave Colin clung to his right arm with fierce energy.
Duncan tried to shake him off; but in vain.  At last, he fiercely
_bit_ the hand of the poor boy, who relinquished his hold with a
scream of pain.

At that moment the savage fellow exclaimed,--

"Wasp of a MacGregor, _that_ will take the sting out of you," and cut
down Colin, by a single stroke of his ponderous axe, severing his
right (some say his left) arm from his body.

Without a moan, Colin fell on the heather in a pool of blood.

"Quick, lads, quick!" exclaimed the remorseless Duncan; "drive on the
prey; the MacGregors will soon scent the blood and be on our track."

At some distance from the bleeding and dying boy, Oina sank upon the
ground, screaming wildly, and covering her face with her hands and
hair.

"What shall we do with the girl?" said one; "she will soon reach and
rouse all the clachan."

"Take her with us," suggested another.

"Oich--oich! that would be kidnapping."

"But she is only a MacGregor's daughter," said a third.

"And you shall soon be tracked by one MacGregor, who will revenge
us," exclaimed the girl, whom excess of terror now endued with
courage.

"Oich! and who may he be?" asked Duncan nan Creagh, mockingly.

"Rob Roy of Inversnaid."

"The Red MacGregor--is that all?"

"All!  Conn Ceud Catha was a boy when compared to him, as you shall
soon find, false thief of a MacRae."

"A swim in the linn will be good for one of your temper," said the
tall Cateran, as he took up the girl, and regardless of her shrieks,
rushing to where the torrent that flowed towards Loch Lomond poured
over a brow of rock forming a cascade that plunged into a deep pool
below, he tossed her in, without ruth or pity.

In falling, Oina caught the stem of a tough willow, and clung to it
with all the tenacity a deadly fear could inspire.  The rush of the
foaming torrent was in her tingling ears, and its snowy spray covered
her face, her dress, and floating hair, as she swung over it.  She
closed her eyes and dared not look; but her lips prayed for mercy in
an inaudible manner, for the power of speech had left her.  And now,
with her weight, the willow bent so low that at last her feet and
ankles dipped in the rushing water; while with a pitiless frown, the
wild MacRae--for so this tribe was named, from their fierce, lawless,
and predatory habits--surveyed her from the bank above.  Then saying,
"Oich--oich, but the Griogarich are folk that are hard to kill," by a
slash of his long axe he severed the willow, and with a faint shriek
Oina vanished into the cascade that foamed beneath!

Duncan nan Creagh then hastened to overtake his gillies, who by this
time had driven the cattle across the stream, which they forded in
the old Scottish fashion, with their swords in their teeth, and
grasping each other's hands to stem the current, which, otherwise,
must have swept them away singly, as it came up to their armpits.

They then wrung the water from their plaids, and driving the cattle
at full speed by point and flat of sword, hurried up a gloomy and
lonely ravine, and soon disappeared, where the sombre evening shadows
were deepening over the vast mountain solitude.

Well did they know that the vengeful MacGregors, whom some aver to be
the Children of the Mist, would soon be on their track, following
them with blade and bullet, hound and horn.

The poor boy soon expired, but the girl was not destined to perish.
She was swept by the torrent round an angle of the rocks, towards a
pool, where a young man was fishing.

He saw her body whirling in the flood, and without a moment of
hesitation, cast aside his bonnet and plaid, his rod and dirk, and
plunging in, soon caught her in his arms.

Being powerfully athletic, he stemmed the fierce brown torrent, which
ran like a flooded millrace, bearing along with it stones, clay, and
dwarf trees, the spoil of the hills that look down on Loch Dochart;
and, after a severe struggle, he reached the bank and laid the girl
on the grass.

"Oina!" he exclaimed, with deep commiseration, on removing the masses
of wet brown hair from her pallid face, for he recognized her to be
the child of his own foster-brother.

She was pale, cold, severely bruised by being tossed from rock to
rock, and lay there to all appearance dead.  He placed a hand on her
heart; he opened and patted her clenched fingers; he placed his warm
ruddy cheek to her cold face, and his ear to her mouth, to ascertain
whether or not she breathed.

Then taking her up in his arms as if she had been an infant, he
wrapped his plaid around her, and with rapid strides, hastened
towards the smoke, which curled greyly against the now darkened sky,
and indicated where the clachan or village stood.

This man was Robert MacGregor of Inversnaid and Craigrostan,
otherwise known as Rob Roy, or _the Red_, from the colour of his
hair, and who, by the proscription of his entire clan, had been
compelled by law to add the name of Campbell to his own, for reasons
which will afterwards be given to the reader.




CHAPTER III.

THE ALARM.

He soon reached Inversnaid, which lay about three miles distant.

At first he walked but slowly, comparatively speaking, as he believed
the girl to be quite dead; but the motion of her limbs, as he
proceeded, having caused the blood to circulate, he perceived with
joy that she still lived, and then he increased his pace to a run,
which soon brought him to the cottage of her father, Callam
MacAleister (_i.e._, the son of the arrowmaker), to whose care he
consigned her; and the bed of the little sufferer was rapidly
surrounded by all the commiserating gossips and wise-women of the
clachan.

No doctors were required by the hardy men of these secluded
districts.  Their wives and daughters knew well how to salve a sore;
to bind up a slash from an axe or sword; to place lint on a
bullet-hole, or on a stab from a dirk; while valerian, all-heal,
liver-wort, and wild carrot, bruised in a quaichful of whisky, formed
the entire _materia medica_ of the matron of a family.  So men lived
till patriarchal years, strong, active, and fearless as
mountain-bulls; for sickness was unknown among them.

Of these female family physicians, Rob's wife, the Lady of
Inversnaid, was the queen in her time and locality.

Inversnaid is a small hamlet on the estate of the same name which
formed the patrimony of Rob Roy.  It lies two miles eastward from
Loch Lomond, on the bank of a small stream, which falls into the
great sheet of water, from a lesser, named Loch Arklet, a place of
gloomy aspect.

Northward, on the side of the latter, is a deep and wild cavern,
which sheltered Robert Bruce after the battle of Dalree, in
Strathfillan; and on more than one occasion, in time of peril, it
became a place of concealment for our hero.

As MacGregor approached his own house--a large and square two-storied
mansion, the walls of which were rough-cast with white lime, and
which, though thatched with heather, had an air of comfort and
consequence in that locality,--a wild cry, that pierced the still air
of the evening, made him pause and turn round with his right hand on
the hilt of his dirk.

Alarmed by the protracted absence of the boy, Fairhaired Colin, his
widowed mother had sought the glen where the foray had been.  The
last red gleam of the sunset had faded upward from the summit of Ben
Lomond, and the dark woods and deep glens about its base were buried
in all the obscurity of night, till the moon arose, and then the
mountain-stream, and the pools amid the moss and heather, glittered
in its silver sheen.

The cattle had disappeared as well as their young watchers, and the
heart of the widow became filled with vague alarm.

Now a mournful cry came at times upon the wind of the valley, and
made her blood curdle.  Was it the voice of a spirit of the air, or
of a water-cow, that had come down the stream from the loch?  Again
and again it fell upon her ear, till at last she recognized it to be
the howling of her son's companion and favourite, the little otter
terrier; and she rushed forward to discover the dog, which was
concealed by some tufts of broom.

The sweet perfume of the bog-myrtle was filling the atmosphere as the
dew fell on its leaves; and now, deep down in the glen, where the
soil had never been stirred, where the heather grew thick and soft,
and where the yellow broom shed "its tassels on the lea," the poor
woman found her son, her only child, lying dead, and covered with
blood.

His right hand still grasped his skene dhu, and near him lay the
chanter, to the notes of which Oina had sung, and a black, ravenous
glede soared away from the spot as she approached.

At first, his white and ghastly face, his fixed and glazed eyes,
struck terror on the mother's soul, and she shrunk back--shrunk from
the babe she had borne, the child she had nursed; then she cast
herself in wild despair beside the body--in such despair as had never
filled her heart since the Grahames of Montrose had hanged her
husband, Ian Bane, on the old yew-tree of Kincardine, for the crime
of being a--MacGregor.

Then endued by frenzy with superhuman strength, she snatched up the
dead boy, and bore him in her arms, sending shriek after shriek
before her, as she rushed through the glen and across the moorland,
towards the clachan of Inversnaid.

It was her cry that Rob Roy heard, as he paused at his own threshold,
and turning away, he hastened to meet her, just as she sank at the
door of her cottage.

The whole population of the clachan was speedily alarmed, and the
wailing of the women mingled with the deep-muttered vengeance of the
men, as they began to arm, and looked to Rob Roy for orders and
instructions.




CHAPTER IV.

THE HOLY STEEL.

The inhabitants of the little hamlet were soon assembled in and
around the hut of the widow of Ian Bane.

The latter had been a brave man, sacrificed in their feud with the
Grahames, after the battle of Killycrankie, where he had served under
Viscount Dundee.  He was long remembered on the Braes of Balquhidder,
as an expert swordsman, a hardy deer-stalker, and a careful drover of
cattle for the English and Lowland markets, where he had wont to
march after his herds, with his sword at his side, and a target slung
on his back, as was then the custom of the Highlanders to go to fair
and market.

A few lines will describe the residence of his widow.

It was a somewhat spacious hovel, built without mortar, of turf and
stone, taken from the river's bed, or from the adjacent moorland.  It
had a little window on each side, and these were wont to be opened
alternately, according to the part from which the wind blew, to give
light and air, opened by simply taking out the _wisp_ of fern which
was stuffed into the aperture in lieu of glass and shutters.

A fire of turf and bog-fir blazed on the centre of the clay floor;
and here, in this poor dwelling, the widow lived, amid smoke
sufficient to suffocate her (had she not been used to it from her
infancy), together with her slaughtered boy, her Fairhaired Colin,
and a brood of hens, whose roost was among the rafters; a cow, two
large dogs, and a sheep or so in winter, though sheep were little
cared for in the Highlands then.

A few deer hams, and quantities of fishing gear, hung from the
rafters, amid which the smoke curled towards an old herring cask,
that was inserted in the thatched roof to form a chimney.

Fresh fir-cones and bogwood were cast upon the fire by order of Rob
Roy; and now the ruddy blaze lit up a wild and striking scene.  Near
the centre of the hut, on a rudely-formed deal table, lay the dead
body of poor Colin Bane MacGregor, the golden hair from whence he
took his sobriquet all matted with purple blood; but a white sheet
was now spread over the mangled form, which lay stiff and at full
length in rigid angularity, with a platter of salt upon its breast,
and sprigs of rosemary strewed crosswise over it.

At the feet of the dead, on her knees, knelt the sorrowing mother,
with her grizzled hair dishevelled, and her face buried in her
tremulous fingers, through which the tears were streaming, as she
rocked her body to and fro.

Fully armed, three Highlanders of formidable aspect and stately
bearing stood at the head of the corpse.  These were Rob Roy, Callam
MacAleister (his foster-brother and henchman), with Greumoch
MacGregor, one of his most active and resolute followers.  Each leant
upon a brass-mounted and long-barrelled Spanish musket.

Grouped round were a band of hardy and weather-beaten men, in rough
Highland dresses of home-spun and home-dyed tartan, all hushed into
silence, with their keen grey eyes bent darkly on the corpse, or on
each other, and with their brows knit as their hearts glowed for
vengeance on the unknown perpetrator of this outrage; for as yet no
information could be gathered from the half-drowned Oina.

Outside the door were the women of the clachan with their heads
muffled in plaids, kerchiefs, and curchies, wailing as only the Celts
of Scotland and Ireland wail, in a weird, wild cadence, muttering
vengeance too, and suggesting to each other who might be the author
of this new item to the terrible catalogue of wrongs that had been
perpetrated on the MacGregors since the battle of Glenfruin had been
fought, about a hundred years before.

And all this was seen by the red light of the bogwood fire, in the
wavering gleams of which, as they played upon the winding-sheet, the
corpse seemed always as if about to start and arise.

"Ochon, ochon, ochrie!" wailed thu mother of Colin, as she swayed
herself to and fro; "the drops of the blessed dew that God sends on
earth are resting on the cold cheek of my fair son this night; and
they are not more pure than he was; but I knew he was doomed never to
see the leaves of autumn fall!"

"How?" asked several, bending forward to listen.

"He drew the black-lot, when the cake was broken in Greumoch's bonnet
on Beltane eve."

"Never say so, widow," said MacGregor; "think only that the lad died
as became his father's son, boldly defending his own; God rest him!"

Here all bowed their heads, and many made the sign of the cross.

"A slash with an axe has slain him," resumed Rob Roy; "a sword would
never cut so deep; but the brave boy has defended himself, for his
skene is yet grasped in his better hand, so let it go to the grave
with him."

Mutterings of grim approval went through the group.

"To you, Red Rob, I look for vengeance--for vengeance on the
murderers!" cried the mother wildly, as she stretched her hands
towards the chieftain.

"And vengeance you shall have, Jean; by the faith of our fathers, you
shall!" replied Rob Roy.  "I have little doubt that the same hand
which slew Fair Colin, cast Callam's daughter into the river; but
time will show."

"We have the cattle to recover too," said several; "let us to the
hills--to the hills!  The creagh (spoil) cannot be far off yet."

"What! are the cattle carried off?" asked Rob, with a darkening frown.

"The cattle I bought at Fil-ina-chessaig--that blessed 21st of March,
at the fair of Callender--ay, every hoof and horn," said Greumoch.

"Well, the blackest mail we ever levied will I lay on these caterans,
and the reddest blood we have shed shall be theirs, Jean!  But there
are other wounds here," continued Rob, as he turned down the
winding-sheet; "look at the poor child's hand: it has been _bitten_!"

"Bitten as if by a wolf!" screamed the mother, with growing horror.

"Nay, bitten by a man who has lost every alternate tooth in his lower
jaw, and by that mark shall we know him!"

"Where? among the Buchanans or Cclquhouns?" demanded several, while
the excitement grew apace.

"Among neither," exclaimed a harsh and croaking voice.

"Why--why?" asked the crowd.

"For 'tis Duncan nan Creagh who did this; Duncan Mhor, from Kintail
na Bogh."

"Who spoke?" said Rob Roy, peering through the smoke which obscured
the atmosphere of the hut.

"I, Phail Crubach," replied a decrepit old man, for whom all now made
way, with a strangely mingled bearing of respect and aversion; for
this visitor was supposed to have the double gift of prophecy and the
second sight.

Phail Crubach, or lame Paul MacGregor, was the keeper of a Holy Well
near the church of Balquhidder.  He had been educated in youth at the
Scottish College of Douay; but on becoming partly insane, he returned
to his native place, and became the custodian of a spring which St.
Fillan had blessed in the times of old.  Near this well he lived in a
hut, which was an object of terror to the peasantry, as it was almost
entirely lined and patched with fragments of old coffins from the
adjacent churchyard.

At the door of this strange dwelling (on which was a rusty
coffin-plate as an ornament) he usually sat and watched the well and
the narrow highway, ready to afford any wayfarer a draught from the
spring, for which he received a small remuneration, either in coin or
food--such as meal, cheese, butter, and a bit of venison, which any
man might then have for the shooting thereof.

He was clad in a coat and breeches of deerskin; he was wasted in
form, wan in visage, and had red hazel eyes, that glared brightly
through the long masses of white hair that overhung his wrinkled
forehead.

Supporting himself on a knotty stick, which had a cross on its upper
end, he hobbled forward through the shrinking crowd.

"How know you, Paul, that Duncan Mhor MacRae, from
Kintail-of-the-cows, did this?" asked Rob Hoy.

"Even by the words you have spoken, had I not better evidence,"
replied the strange old man.

"Explain yourself, Paul; we have no time for trifling now," said Rob,
softly.

"Duncan nan Creagh lost each alternate tooth in his lower jaw when
fighting with Colin's father, at the fair of Callender, in the year
that the field of Rin Ruari was stricken.  They came to dirk and
claymore about the price of a Clydesdale cow, and Ian Bane smote
Duncan on the mouth with the hilt of his sword, and forced him to
swallow a mouthful of his own teeth; and a bitter mouthful he found
them."

"Dioul! well?"

"Since then he has been well-nigh a toothless man; but if you would
overtake the creagh, lose no time, for I saw the spoil and the
spoilers not two hours since."

"You saw them?" exclaimed all, bending forward.

"Yes, I," said Paul, brandishing his pilgrim-staff; "and not quite
two hours ago."

"Where?" asked Red MacGregor.

"Crossing the Dochart, and taking the road towards Glenfalloch."

"Which--the military road?"

"No; Duncan nan Creagh knows better than to do that," said Paul,
shaking his white locks; "they took the old Fingalian drove-road,
right across the mountains towards the north-west."

"'Tis well, kinsman," said Rob Roy, sternly and gravely; "now, men of
Clan Alpine, swear with me on the bare dirk, by the soul of Ciar
Mhor, to revenge the murder of this boy, our kinsman's son, and then
away to the hills--even the hills of Kintail, if need be!"

On this being said, every man unsheathed the long Highland dirk which
hung at his right side, and passed round the dead body by the course
of the sun, from east to west; for it was the custom in the Highlands
to approach the grave thus, prior to laying the dead within it; thus
to conduct the bride to the altar and to her home: it is a remnant of
fire-worship, and, singularly enough, the wine-decanters and the
whisky-bottle are to this hour sent round the dinner-table in
Scotland, _deisalways_, from left to right, the last remnant of a
superstition that is old as the days of the Druids.

Then Rob Roy, MacAleister, Greumoch, even old Paul Crubach, and every
man present, laid his left hand on the cold head of the fair-haired
Colin, and holding his bare dirk aloft, with outstretched arm, swore
solemnly, by the souls of their fathers who slept on Inchcailloch, by
their own souls, and by the memory of every wrong endured by the Clan
of MacGregor since the field of Glenfruin was won by their swords,
never to seek rest or repose, altar or shelter, till they had tracked
out the spoilers, and avenged to the utmost the murder of the widow's
only son.

Then each man pressed the bare blade to his lips, and this--the most
solemn oath of the Scottish Highlanders--was named swearing on _the
Holy Steel_; and he who broke that terrible vow, or wilfully failed
in the task to which he had dedicated body and soul, was liable to be
slain, even by his nearest kinsman, as a mansworn coward.  The usual
length of these Highland dirks is about sixteen inches in the blade;
so that a stab may be given three inches _beyond_ the elbow, and
their hilts are always covered with twisted knot-work, perhaps the
last remnant of serpent-worship in Europe.

"Now be it dirk and claymore!" exclaimed Rob Roy.  "Do men still
think to outrage us because we are a broken and a landless clan?  If
so, we shall teach them who outlawed the race of Alpine, that if it
is lawful to kill a MacGregor, it is also lawful to slay a MacRae, or
a Colquhoun, like a faulty hound; so let us to the hills at once, and
track the creagh!  Meet me at the door of my own house in ten
minutes, every man who holds dear the cry for vengeance on our
enemies."

"We cannot overtake them to-night," said Greumoch; "for the
Colquhouns of Luss have sunk the ferry-boat, or stolen it to Rossdhu;
so let us cross the Loch-hean to-morrow."

"Dioul!  this counsel is not like yours, Greumoch,"

"By dawn the ford of the Dochart will be passable," replied the
clansman.

"To-night; I say to-night!" exclaimed Rob, passionately.

"To-night!" reiterated all present, brandishing their swords;
"to-night be it, or never!"

"We will take the ford as we find it," said Callam MacAleister; "if
they passed it, so may _we_."

"Never let us put off till to-morrow that which we can do or begin to
do to-day," said Rob Roy.  "_Yesterday_ passes into eternity fast
enough; and, Greumoch, it is a bitter reflection to a man, that
yesterday was a _lost_ day--a day that never can be overtaken.  All
men's hands are against us; but I have sworn, by the Grey Stone of
MacGregor, that vengeance shall yet be ours!"

"_Ard choille_, and away!" shouted Greumoch, waving his bonnet,
yielding to the general impulse.

Within a few minutes he, with MacAleister, Alaster Roy MacGregor, and
sixteen other picked men of the hamlet, mustered at the door of Rob
Roy's mansion.  Each had on his belted plaid, which means the kilt,
with the loose end of the web fastened by a brooch to the left
shoulder as a mantle.  Each had slung on his back a round target of
bull's hide, stretched over fir-boards, and thickly studded with
brass knobs; and each was fully armed, with a basket-hilted sword, a
long dirk, and claw-butted pistols.  Their bullets were carried in
pouches, and their powder in horns, slung under the right arm.

The bright moon that lit up the little street of the Highland hamlet,
glittered on their weapons, and shone on their weather-beaten faces,
which expressed dark anger, eagerness, and determination to overtake
the perpetrators of the late outrage.

They spoke little, but, after the manner of their countrymen, hummed
or whistled in a surly fashion, the sure precursor of a squabble
among Highlanders; and busied themselves with the flints and priming
of their pistols, or the thongs which tied their cuarans or home-made
shoes, the sole and upper of which are in one piece, and worn like
the Roman sandal.  Armed like the rest, the Red MacGregor soon came
forth, and was greeted by a murmur of applause.  "Good wife--Helen,"
he exclaimed, "it is ill marching with a fasting stomach; bring forth
cakes and the kebboc, with a dram of usquebaugh; for the lads must
have their deoch an doruis ere we start."

With a short plaid folded over her head and shoulders, his wife, a
young and pretty woman, appeared at the door, accompanied by two
female servants, having oat-cakes, cheese, a bottle, glasses, and
quaichs (_i.e._, little wooden cups) on an oval mahogany teaboard.

Doffing his bonnet to the black-eyed Dame of Inversnaid, each man
took a dram of whisky and a morsel of bread and cheese; more as a
ceremony, it seemed, than because it was necessary.

Little Coll MacGregor, then Rob's only child, was held up for his
father to kiss.  "Now, fare-ye-well, Bird Helen," said he; "ere we
return, I will have laid the wolf's head on the heather;" and with
his followers, he left the hamlet at a quick pace.

The wife of Rob Roy looked after them for a moment, as their tartans
waved, and their bright arms flashed in the moonlight; then her eye
glanced down the glen, where the burn wound in silver sheen towards
Loch Lomond, and with a single pious hope for her husband's safety,
she quietly shut the door, which was well secured by triple locks and
bars of iron, and which had, moreover, two loopholes on each side, to
fire muskets through.  When not required for defence, these apertures
were closed within, by a plug of wood.  To her, the daughter of a
proscribed race, the wife of a levier of black-mail, reared as she
had been in the land of swordsmen, among fierce and predatory clans,
the departure of her husband on such a mission was not a matter for
much anxiety, and yet this pursuit of the MacRaes was the first
important exploit of Rob Roy which appears in history.




CHAPTER V.

THE RED MACGREGOR.

"History," says a noble author, "is a romance which is believed;
romance, a history which is _not_ believed."  Hence so much that is
fabulous surrounds the name of Rob Roy, that, like Macbeth, his real
history and character become almost lost; but I shall endeavour to
tell the reader who and what he actually was.  Rob Roy MacGregor,
otherwise compelled by law (for reasons which shall be given
elsewhere) to call himself _Campbell_, was in his twenty-fifth year
at the time our story opens.

He was the second son of Lieutenant-Colonel Donald MacGregor, of
Glengyle, in Perthshire, who commanded a regiment of infantry in the
Scottish army of King James II. of England and VII. of Scotland.  His
mother was a daughter of Campbell of Glenfalloch, a powerful Highland
chieftain, nearly related to the House of Breadalbane; consequently
his birth was neither obscure nor ignoble.  His elder brother was
named John, and he had two sisters.  His patrimony was the small
estate of Inversnaid, near the head of Loch Lomond, and, through his
mother, he had a right to a wild territory of rock and forest, named
Craig-Royston, on the eastern shore of that beautiful loch, under the
shadow of vast mountains; but, in virtue of the arbitrary Act of the
Scottish Parliament, which abolished the name of MacGregor, he was
always designated, in legal documents, Robert Campbell, of Inversnaid.

After the bloody clan-battle of Glenfruin, which led to the
proscription of the whole of his surname, "few of the MacGregors were
permitted to die a natural death," says the historian of the clan.*
"As an inducement to murder, a reward was given for every head of a
MacGregor that was conveyed to Edinburgh, and presented to the
Council; and those who died a natural death were interred by their
friends, quietly and expeditiously, as even the receptacles of the
dead were not held sacred.  When the grave of a MacGregor was
discovered, it was common for the villains employed in this trade of
slaughter, to dig him up, and mutilate the remains, by cutting off
the head, to be sold to the Government, which seemed to delight in
such traffic."


* Dr. MacLeay.


The historian proceeds to narrate that the chief purveyor of such
goods was a certain petty Laird of Glenlochy, named Duncan Campbell,
but more usually known as Duncan _nan Cean_--_i.e._, "of the heads."

It chanced one night that Lieutenant-Colonel MacGregor (the father of
Rob Roy), accompanied by three soldiers of his surname, was passing
near the ruins of the old castle of Cardross (wherein Robert Bruce
breathed his last, and which were then visible, a little to the
westward of the Leven, in Dumbartonshire), when, in a narrow pathway,
they met a man leading a horse, on each side of which a pannier was
swung.

The path was rough, as well as narrow, and on meeting four armed men
suddenly in the dark, the man shrunk from the bridle of his horse,
which reared, and caused the contents of the panniers to make a
strange noise among the straw in which they were packed.

"Be not alarmed, good fellow," said Glengyle; "we are not thieves,
but soldiers in the King's service.  What have you in the panniers?"

The man hesitated, and endeavoured to pass on.

"Speak!" said the Colonel, whose suspicions became aroused; "is it
plunder?"

"Heaven forbid--I am an elder of the kirk, sir."

"What then?"

"Heads for the Lords of Council at Edinburgh," replied the stranger,
gathering courage.

"Heads of whom?"

"The King's enemies."

"Mean you gipsies, or westland Whigs?"

"Nay; of the clan Gregor."

"He is Duncan nan Cean!  He is Duncan of the Heads!" exclaimed
Glengyle, with ferocious joy, as he drew his sword.  "Villain, I have
sought thee long, and now _thy_ head shall keep them company!" and,
by a single stroke, he, in an instant, decapitated him.  The panniers
were examined by his followers, who, with rage and horror, found
therein several ghastly heads, packed in straw.  These they
immediately buried in a secret place, and resumed their way before
dawn.

Rob Roy's father received the tribute called black-mail, for
protecting, in arms, all who were unwilling or unable to protect
themselves.  This tribute was, in every sense, a legal tax, which the
justices of the peace, in the counties along the Highland border,
enforced upon the heritors and householders.  We know not when the
Laird of Glengyle died; but, on one occasion, he led three hundred of
his clan against the Macphersons, who had given offence to his
friend, the Earl of Moray, and, in marching through the forest of
Gaich, he slew the deer, and the forester of Cluny, who had resented
their passage.

Red Robert, his second son, was about the middle height, but had a
frame possessed of vast strength and great powers of endurance and
activity.  His shoulders were broad, his chest ample, and his arms
were so long that it was commonly said he could garter his hose,
below the knee, without stooping.  This, no doubt, is exaggeration;
but he possessed

  A wondrous length and strength of arm,

which gave him great advantage in combats with the broadsword.  Of
these he is said to have fought no less than _twenty-two_.

Even in boyhood he excelled in the use of the claymore and all other
weapons; for this he was, no doubt, indebted to the tutelage of his
father, old Donald of Glengyle, who had handled his sword in the wars
of the Covenanters and Cavaliers.

No man was ever known to _wrench_ anything from Rob's hands; and so
great was his muscular power that he would twist a horse's shoe, and
drive his dirk, to the hilt, through a two-inch deal board; and on
more than one occasion he has seized a mountain stag by the antlers,
and held it fast, as if it had been a little kid.  He never, save
once, refused a challenge.  This was when a peasant, named Donald
Bane, drew a sword upon him.

"Beware, fellow," said Rob; "I never fight a duel but with a
gentleman."

His character was open and generous, and it was ever his proudest
boast that "he had never been known to turn his back _either on a
friend or a foe!_"

His lands were frequently wasted, and his cattle carried off, by
bands of caterans from the mountains of Ross-shire and Sutherland;
hence, for his own protection, he was compelled to maintain a party
of well-armed and resolute followers, who, like himself, acquired
great experience in war, with habits of daring.

With an open and manly countenance, his features, in youth, are said
to have been pleasing and cheerful in expression; but, by the course
of life upon which unjust laws and adverse fortune hurried him, they
gradually acquired that grave, and even morose, aspect, which we find
depicted in the portrait of him possessed by Buchanan of Arden; the
brows are knit, the eyes stern, and the firm lips compressed.  He has
a moustache, well twisted up, and a short curly beard, neither of
which were then worn in England, or the Scottish Lowlands.  He wears
a round, blue bonnet, with a black cockade, and has his
weather-beaten neck without collar or cravat.*


* Two other portraits of Rob Roy are in existence.  One belongs to
the Antiquarian Museum at Edinburgh; the other to the Duke of Argyle,
and it had a narrow escape from the fire which consumed the castle of
Roseneath in 1802.


His hair, from the colour of which he obtained his sobriquet of Roy
(a corruption of _ruadh_, or red), was of a dark, ruddy hue, with
short frizzly locks, which he wore without powder--a foolish fashion
that was seldom found among the Highlanders, who usually tied their
hair in a club behind.  The circumstance that MacGregor was named
_Red_ Robert, to distinguish him from others, is sufficient to show
how false is the popular error which bestows hair of that colour upon
every Highlander.

"In his conflicts," says Sir Walter Scott, in the introduction to the
novel which bears our hero's name, "Rob Roy avoided every appearance
of cruelty; and it is not averred that he was ever the means of
unnecessary bloodshed, or the actor of any deed that could lead the
way to it.  Like Robin Hood of England, he was a _kind and gentle_
robber, and, while he took from the rich, was liberal in relieving
the poor.  This might be policy; but the universal tradition of the
country speaks of it to have arisen from a better motive.  All whom I
have conversed with--and in my youth I have seen some who knew Rob
Roy personally--gave him the character of _a humane and benevolent
man_."

As yet, however, he was neither a robber nor an outlaw; but simply a
Highland country gentleman, a chieftain of a broken clan, living
under the protection of his mother's name and kindred; farming his
little estate of Inversnaid; dealing in cattle, then the chief wealth
of our northern mountains; and, being of a warlike disposition,
occupying himself as the collector of black-mail--the local tax then
paid by proprietors, whose estates lay south of the Highland
frontier, to certain warlike chiefs and chieftains, northward of that
line, for the armed protection of their lands and goods from the
irruption of such caterans as those MacRaes, who had stolen the
cattle from Inversnaid, and of whom we left Rob and his men in hot
pursuit.

And it was the collection of this duty, _black-mail_, which, in 1729,
ultimately led to the embodiment of the Black Watch, or 42nd Highland
Regiment; and it was continued to be levied by certain chieftains so
lately as the middle of the _last_ century--certainly until 1743.  At
the time we have introduced him to our readers Rob had been married
for some time, to a daughter of MacGregor, the Laird of Comar.

Far from being the fighting amazon and fierce virago whom Sir Walter
Scott has portrayed, Helen Mary, the goodwife of Inversnaid, was a
kind, gentle, and motherly woman, who never flourished abroad with
breast-plate, bonnet, and broadsword, as we see her on the stage,
when opposing the bayonets of the redcoats; but who attended to her
frugal household, her spinning, baking, and brewing; and who wore the
simple kerchief and _tonnac_, or short plaid, which, until the close
of the last century, formed the usual female costume in the
Highlands; and never, save once, and then on a trifling occasion, did
she act a stern and resolute part, in an episode to be narrated in
its place.

The reader must bear in mind that Rob Roy was not a chief at the head
of a clan, but merely the second son of a chieftain (the _second_
rank) at the head of a branch of the Clan Alpine, called the line of
Dugald Ciar Mhor (or Dugald with the mouse-coloured hair), and the
men of this branch adhered to him, as being his immediate kinsmen and
tenants.

Deeply in the heart of Rob Roy MacGregor rankled the story of the
wrongs and oppression to which his clan had been subjected by the
Scottish Government--wrongs which, after the accession of William
III., were rather increased than diminished; and thus he burned for
an opportunity of avenging them at the point of his sword, on their
chief enemies, the Grahames of Montrose, the Colquhouns of Luss, and
others; and ere long an ample opportunity came.  But meanwhile let us
return from this necessary digression, lest Duncan of the Forays
escape with his spoil.




CHAPTER VI.

THE PURSUIT.

The inroads of the Highlanders were generally made upon the
Lowlanders, whom they still view as intruders and aliens; but since
the proscription of the MacGregors, every man might outrage _them_,
under protection of law, and "lift" their cattle, if he could do so;
and a knowledge of this increased the wrath and resentment of Rob Roy
and his followers as they hastened after the MacRaes; though why
people of _that_ name, whose home was in Kintail, should have come so
far to molest the MacGregors, no one can explain.  In the bright
moonlight the pursuers soon reached the place from which the creagh
or spoil had been taken, the same where this history opened, and
where the widow's son had been so cruelly slain.

There the MacGregor's sleuth-hound paused and howled, where Colin's
bonnet and the chanter, with which he had accompanied Oina's song,
lay on the heather, and again he uttered a low prolonged howl on
snuffing the odour that came from a patch of heath, the darkness of
which might make one shudder.

It was the crusted blood of the poor boy's death-wound which still
lay there.  "Callam, lead the dog across the stream," said Rob; "he
must find the scent on the other side; let him but once snuff their
footmarks, and then woe to the MacRaes!"

MacAleister, the henchman, dragged the fierce dog, by its leash,
across the stream.  It was a bloodhound of the oldest and purest
breed, being all of a deep tan colour with black spots, about two
feet four inches high, with strong limbs, a wide chest, broad savage
muzzle, and pendulous upper lip.

Crossing the stream hand in hand, with their pistols in their teeth,
to keep the flints and priming dry, the MacGregors reached the
opposite bank, while the dog ran to and fro, till he suddenly uttered
a growl.  He had found a man's bonnet.

"Paul Crubach was right--here is the badge of Seaforth!" said
Greumoch MacGregor, tearing a tuft of deer's-grass from the bonnet,
and trampling upon it with vindictive hate.

"And there are the cattle-marks," added Rob Roy, who had been
scrutinizing the grass and heath by the light of the moon; "cast
loose the dog, Callam--the caterans can have gone up the glen but a
little way yet."

The henchman let slip the leash, and the hound, without hesitation,
placed his nose near the grass, and, uttering from time to time low
growls of satisfaction, proceeded up the glen at a trot, which gave
Rob and his armed companions, active though they were, some trouble
to keep pace with him.

All traces of habitation were soon left behind, as the pursuers and
their questing bloodhound penetrated among the dusky mountains,
entering on a wild and silent region of sterile magnificence, above
which towered the double cone of Ben More.

On they went, through the lengthened expanse of a glen that lay
between two chains of barren hills, at the base of which a river,
rushing among fragments of detached rock, foaming over precipices and
plunging into deep dark pools, swept onward to mingle its waters with
the Dochart.  The dog went forward unerringly.

The hoof-marks of the hastily-driven cattle were occasionally seen
among the ferns, the crushed leaves, the bruised stems and twigs of
the wild bushes; but for a time these traces were lost when they
entered on a great expanse of deep soft heather, broken only here and
there by a pool of boggy water, which shone whitely in the light of
the waning moon: it was a tract of vast extent, and all of a dun,
dark hue.

Afar off, in the distance, rose the hills of Glenorchy; and now,
being somewhat wearied by the long and arduous pursuit, Rob Roy and
his men sat down beside one of those great grey stones which stud the
Scottish hills and moorlands, marking either the site of a Druid's
altar, an old battlefield, or a forgotten warrior's grave.  On
consulting his watch, Rob found the hour was midnight, and that they
had travelled about twenty miles, over a road of unparalleled
difficulty.

A dram from Greumoch's hunting-bottle revived them a little, and then
MacAleister led the bloodhound in a circuit round the stone to find
the scent again.  These great tracts of heather are frequently to be
met with in Scotland, and concerning them a singular tradition
lingers in the Highlands.

It is said that the Pictish race were celebrated for brewing a
pleasant beverage from the heather blossom, and that they usually
cultivated great tracts of level muir for this purpose, carefully
freeing them of stones.

On the extinction of their monarchy, and the fabled extirpation of
the whole race by Kenneth II., King of the Scots, after the battle of
the Tay, two Picts became his prisoners, a father and his son, who
alone knew the _secret_ of manufacturing this beverage.

Urged by promises of liberal reward, continues the tradition, the
father consented to reveal it, on condition that first they slew his
son, whom a Scottish warrior thereupon shot through the heart with an
arrow.

"Now," said the stern Pict, "do your worst; for never will I be
prevailed upon to disclose a secret known to myself alone."

A second arrow whistled through his heart, and the secret perished
with him.

It was on one of these moorland spots that the MacGregors halted.
The eye could detect no living object in the distance, and the wind
brought no sound to the ear, as by the great grey stone in the
wilderness Rob and his men sat listening intently, and frequently
with their ears close to the ground, conversing the while in their
native Gaelic, which, though strange in sound and barbarous to
English ears, is, like the Welsh, a strong, nervous, and poetical
language, expressing the emotions of the human heart almost better
than any other in Europe.  His followers were beginning to lose
heart; and fears that Colin's death might be unavenged and the cattle
lost were freely expressed.

"Remember the oath we have sworn, and neither will come to pass,"
said Rob, with stern confidence.  "By the soul of Ciar Mhor, and by
all the bones that lie in the Island of the Cell, our swords shall
cross theirs before another sunset, or my name is not MacGregor!"

"Four of the cattle are brown beasties of my own," observed Greumoch;
"and if they should be lost, and Breadalbane does not see me righted,
by St. Colme, I'll bring off the Spanish ram and the eight score of
black-faced Galloways that are now in his park at Beallach, though
every Campbell in Glenorchy puts his sword to the grindstone for it!"

"And I will back you, Greumoch, though Breadalbane is my own
kinsman," said Rob Roy.

"We are Campbells by day, oich! oich!" said Greumoch, in a tone of
singularly bitter irony, which drew muttered oaths from his
companions; "but by night----"

"We are MacGregors like our fathers, and again the sons of Alpine!"
said Rob, starting to his feet.  "'S Rioghal mo dhream!  Forward,
lads!  MacAleister shouts to us--the bloodhound has again got the
scent."

The chieftain was right--the noble dog had discovered the trail; and
once more the pursuit was resumed in a direction due north-west.  As
day broke, the distant hill-tops became yellow, and the wild moor
gradually lightened around them.  Rob and his followers had just
doffed their bonnets, in reverence to the rising sun--a superstitious
act, old as the days of Baal and the Druids--when a fox suddenly
crossed their path.

"Shoot, MacAleister, shoot!" exclaimed a dozen voices in an excited
manner, for the son of the arrow-maker was the best marksman on the
shores of Loch Lomond.

"But the creagh--the caterans!" he urged, while unslinging his long
Spanish gun.

"They cannot hear the shot, and, even if they did, the fox must not
escape."

MacAleister took aim and fired.  Then a cheer of satisfaction burst
from the MacGregors, as the fox rolled over, feet uppermost, dead,
about two hundred yards off; and the pursuit was resumed with fresh
alacrity, as it was then a common Celtic belief, that to meet an
armed man, when proceeding on a hostile expedition, portended
success; but to have your path crossed by a four-footed animal
without killing it, or by a woman without drawing blood from her
forehead, ensured defeat and flight.

Roused by the report of the musket from their lair among the green
feathery bracken, more than one red roebuck started up and fled
towards the desert of Rannoch, on the skirts of which the MacGregors
were now entering; and closely following the footsteps of the hound,
they drew near the hills that bordered the vast sea of bog and
heather.

"Halt!" cried Rob Roy; "do you see that?--it is another omen."

As he spoke, a black carnivorous raven daringly soused down upon a
poor little lamb that was cropping a patch of grass near its dam,
and, in a second, picked out his eyes.  As the lamb bleated loudly,
the mountain bird next seized and tore its tongue, but a shot from
MacGregor's steel pistol killed them both.

"It foretells good fortune," said he, "and that we shall soon pounce
on the MacRaes, even as the raven pounced on the lamb."

Greumoch proposed that they should light a fire of dry heather-root
and broil a collop from the dead lamb; but Rob Roy, as he re-loaded
and primed his pistol, now detected a faint column of blue smoke that
rose at the edge of the moor; and, after breakfasting on a little
meal and water, he ordered all to advance, but cautiously, towards it.

"We shall have our collop after we have punished the caterans,
Greumoch," said he, good-naturedly.  "You remember what the Earl of
Mar said after the battle of Inverlochy, when supping cold crowdy out
of his own cuaran with the blade of his dagger?"

"'That hunger is ever the best cook.'"

"Yes; so now, lads, forward again; and remember the widow's son."

The appearance of some cattle grazing near the smoke made the
unwearied pursuers certain that those they sought were not far off;
but, after drawing stealthily nearer, they discovered that the fire
was lighted to cook the food of a family of gipsies, or itinerant
tinkers, who were about to take to flight on seeing Rob and his armed
band approach.  On the former calling aloud that they came thither as
friends, the eldest of the wanderers turned to hear what their
visitors required of them.

MacGregor inquired if they had seen anything of the spoilers.

"They passed us towards the hills, with twenty head of cattle, only
two hours ago," replied the gipsy, "and, by the smoke that is now
rising from yonder corrie, I am assured that there they have made a
halt."

"Good!" said MacGregor, with grim satisfaction.  "What is your name,
friend?"

"Andrew Gemmil."

"You are a Southland man?"

"Yes," replied the wanderer, doffing his bonnet with reverence, for
the aspect and bearing of Roll Roy awed and oppressed him.

"From whence?"

"Moffat-dale.  I will show you a track in the hills that will lead
you to the corrie unseen."

Rob promised the old gipsy two Scottish crowns, and two silver
buttons from his coat, if this service were done.  Dividing his band
into two, he led one party straight up the face of the hill, on their
hands and knees; the other, under Greumoch, guided by Gemmil, the
gipsy, made a detour, for the purpose of entering the corrie or deep
ravine on another point, and thus cutting off the retreat of the
marauders.




CHAPTER VII.

HAND TO HAND.

The autumn morning stole in loveliness over the purple heather of the
vast moor of Rannoch; the blue hills of Glenorchy, that rose in the
distance, were brightened by the rising sun, and their grey mists
were floating away on the skirt of the hollow wind.

The dark fir woods which then shrouded the base of that great spiral
cone, the Black Mountain, tossed their branches in the breeze that
swept through Glencoe--the Celtic "Vale of Tears"--Dutch William's
Vale of _Blood_!  A blue stream poured down the mountain-side, past
an old grey-lettered stone, whose carvings told of the deeds of other
times.  Many are these battle-stones over all the Highland hills,
for--in foreign or domestic strife--every foot of the soil has been
soaked in the blood of brave men.

Creeping on their hands and bare knees, like stalkers stealing on a
herd of deer, Rob and his men advanced up the mountain slope,
dragging their swords and Spanish guns after them.

The gipsy who acted as their guide was in front.  Thus they continued
to ascend for three hundred yards, and soon the sound of voices and
of laughter was heard.  Then came the unmistakeable odour of broiled
meat, and in a few minutes Rob Roy, on peering over a ledge of rock,
that was fringed by the red heather, could perceive the party they
were in search of and their spoil.

Seated round a large fire of dry bog-roots, on the embers of which
they were broiling a road-collop as it was named, were the twenty
caterans, conversing merrily, making rough jests on the MacGregors,
and passing their leathern flasks (containing usquebaugh, no doubt)
from hand to hand, in a spirit of right good fellowship.  All wore
the green MacRae tartan, and conspicuous among them was Duncan nan
Creagh; near whom lay his long pole-axe and brass-studded shield, on
which was painted a hand holding a sword, the crest of his
surname,--for this unscrupulous marauder was not without pretensions
to gentle blood.

His ferocious aspect was greatly enhanced by his large and irregular
teeth, which were visible when he laughed.

"I was right," said Rob in a whisper to his henchman, who always
stuck close to him as his shadow; "'twas his fangs that left a
death-mark in the flesh of Colin Bane, the widow's son."

MacAleister levelled the barrel of his long gun through the heather
full at Duncan's head.

"Hold," said MacGregor, half laughing and half angry; "I shall meet
Duncan in open fight; but take your will of the rest, thou son of the
arrow-maker!"

The deep corrie or hollow wherein the caterans lurked was shaped like
a basin or crater, but was open at one end.  At the other, or inner
end, were all the cattle; so Rob's plans were soon taken.  He knew
that the conflict would be a severe one, for the men of this tribe
were so fierce and tumultuary that they were, as we have stated,
named the _Wild MacRaes_; but the clan almost disappeared from the
West Highlands, when, a few years after, 600 of them enlisted in the
Seaforth Fencibles, or old 78th Regiment.

Greumoch, with the rest of his party, now appeared creeping softly
along the other side of the opening, where they set up the shout of
_Ard Choille!_  This is the war-cry of Clan Alpine, and a volley from
five or six muskets formed the sequel to it, and speedily altered the
aspect of the carousing party; for the whole MacGregors rushed on
them in front and flank, with swords drawn, and heads stooped behind
their targets.

With a thousand reverberations the jagged rocks gave back the sharp
report of the muskets and pistols.  A yell rose from the hollow, and
in a moment the MacRaes, three of whom were bleeding from
bullet-wounds, were up and ready with sword, dirk, and target.  Hand
to hand they all met in close and deadly strife, the long claymores
whirling, flashing, and ringing on each other, or striking sparks of
fire from the long pike with which the centre of every target was
armed.

Swaying his pole-axe, the gigantic Duncan nan Creagh kept the sloping
side of the corrie against all who came near him, hurling every
assailant down by the ponderous blows he dealt on their shields, till
Rob Roy hewed a passage towards him, just as MacAleister, by a
fortunate shot from his gun, broke the shaft of the cateran's axe, on
which he cast away the fragment and drew his sword.  While he and Rob
eyed each other for a minute, each doubtful where to strike or where
to thrust, so admirably were both skilled in the use of their sword
and shield, the strong cateran, who was a head taller than his
muscular assailant, laughed grimly, and said,--"We have drawn the
first blood in this feud, Robert Campbell: so it is vain to attack
us."

"Coward! the first blood was drawn from the heart of a poor boy,"
replied Rob; sternly; "and remember that, though I may be Campbell at
the cross of Glasgow, or at the fair of Callender--yea, or at the
gallows of Crieff, if it came to that--HERE, upon the free hillside,
I am no Campbell, but a MacGregor, as my father was before me, thou
dog and son of a dog!"

Again the tall robber laughed loudly, and said with pride, as he
parried a thrust,--"Beware, Red MacGregor--I am a MacRae!"

"And wherefore should I beware of that?" asked Rob, delivering
another thrust which the cateran received by a circular parry, that
made both their arms tingle to the shoulder-blade.

"It was said of the first of our name--_Bhai Mac-ragh-aigh_--that he
was the son of Good Fortune, and his spirit is with us to-day."

"We shall soon see whether it is so, though I believe that his spirit
is in a warmer place than the Braes of Rannoch," retorted Rob,
pressing vigorously up the rough stony side of the corrie, his great
length of arm giving him, when thrusting, a superiority over his
antagonist, whose blade he met constantly by his target and claymore,
so that he seemed invulnerable.

A wound in the sword-arm now deprived MacGregor of all patience.  He
flung his target full at his enemy's head, and grasping with both
hands his claymore--the same claymore with which his father, the
Colonel, slew Duncan of the Heads--he showered blow after blow upon
MacRae, whose target soon fell in fragments from his wearied arm; and
the moment that protection was gone, Rob closed in, and thrust his
sword through and through him!

Writhing his huge frame convulsively forward on the blade, MacRae
made a terrible effort to get the victor within reach of the dirk
that was chained to his left hand, but suddenly uttering a shriek
which ended in a heavy sob, he sank down, to all appearance lifeless,
with the blood gushing from his lips and nostrils.

This put an end to the fray, for all his followers fled down the
hill-side, pursued by the MacGregors--all save one, a man of powerful
form and ferocious aspect, who was naked to the waist, and had his
kilt girdled round him by a belt of untanned bullhide.

This Celtic savage, whose name was Aulay MacAulay, flung himself upon
MacAleister, who had stumbled and fallen.  Seizing the henchman by
the throat with his teeth, he grasped Greumoch MacGregor by the right
foot, and with a fragment of his sword, which had been broken,
endeavoured to despatch them both.

MacAleister strove vainly to release himself, and Greumoch struck
MacAulay again and again on the head with his steel pistol clubbed;
but finding that he might as well have hammered on a log of wood, he
snatched a pistol from the belt of one who lay dead close by, and
shot the marauder through the lower part of the head.  He yelled and
rolled away, biting the heather, and wallowing in blood; and from
this wild man of the mountains--for, in truth, MacAulay was nothing
better--that great literary foe of the Celtic race, the brilliant
historian of England, was lineally descended.

Six of the MacRaes were left slain in or near the corrie, and several
of those who escaped were severely wounded.

Alaster Roy and three other MacGregors were wounded, and one was
killed by a musket shot.  The cut on Rob's arm was deep, and, for a
time, required all the medical skill of Helen to heal it.

It was thus that he avenged the foray of the MacRaes, and recovered
the cattle, which he restored to their proper owners, who were poor
cotters, to whom the loss would have been a severe one.  All the
weapons, ornaments, and spoil of the vanquished he gave to the widow
whose son had been slain.  On the coat of one they found a complete
set of silver buttons, as large as pistol shot.  Such buttons were
frequently worn, even by the poorer classes, in the Highlands in
those days, and came by inheritance through many generations.  They
were meant to serve as ornaments when living, and as the means of
providing a decent funeral, if the owner fell in battle, or died far
from the home of his kindred.

Rob Roy received considerable praise for this exploit, the scene of
which was long marked by a cairn, and Mr. Stirling, of Carden, and
many other gentlemen, whose estates lay near the Highland frontier,
and who had been neglecting to pay their black-mail, now sent the tax
in all haste to Inversnaid.

It was usually said of Rob that his sword was like the sword of
Fingal, which was never required to give a _second blow_; but Duncan
nan Creagh was not slain, for such men were hard to kill.  He was
borne away by his followers, who returned on the departure of the
MacGregors, and bound up his wounds; so Duncan lived to fight at the
battles of Sheriffmuir and Glenshiel.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE BATTLE OF GLENFRUIN.

The preceding chapter will sufficiently have indicated that the clan
of MacGregor was in a state of hostility with nearly all their
neighbours, and that it proved a source of disquiet to Government.

We will now proceed to relate how this state of matters came to pass,
and an explanation is the more necessary as it will serve to show the
_secret spring_ of many of Rob Roy's hostile actions,--why he took up
arms against the Government, and how, from being a gentleman farmer
and levier of black-mail, he gradually became a rebel, an outlaw, and
yet a patriot, with a price set upon his head.  The clan and surname
of MacGregor are descended from Alpine MacAchai, who was crowned King
of Scotland in 787, hence their motto, "_'S Rioghal mo dhream_,"--"My
race is royal!"  They are named the Clan Alpine, and from their
antiquity comes the old Scottish proverb:--

  The woods, the waters and Clan Alpine,
  Are the oldest things in Albyn.

Long before charters or parchments were known in the North, their
possessions were great; for they held lands in Glendochart,
Strathfillan, Glenorchy, Balquhidder, Breadalbane, and Rannoch, and,
until 1490, Taymouth, too, was theirs.  They had four strong castles:
Kilchurn, which crowns an insular rock in Loch Awe, Finlarig, and
Ballach, at the east end of Loch Tay; an old fortress on an isle in
Loch Dochart, and many minor towers.

But when the kings of Scotland sought to introduce into the Highlands
the same feudal system which existed in England, and in their Lowland
territories, and endeavoured to subvert the Celtic or patriarchal law
by substituting Crown charters, which made chiefs into barons, who,
in their single person, thus became lords of all the land in which
their clan had previously a _joint_ right and share,--a right old as
the days of the first settlers on British soil,--a bloody strife
ensued between those who accepted such charters and those who refused
and despised them.

Feuds and local wars began, and all who resisted the King were termed
broken clans, and to be thus stigmatized was tantamount to a
denunciation of outlawry.  By their sturdy adherence to the system of
their forefathers, the Clan Alpine soon became eminently obnoxious to
James VI., the meanest monarch that ever occupied a European throne;
the more so, that in 1602, a long and bitter quarrel between them and
the Colquhouns of Luss (who had murdered two wandering MacGregors)
came to a terrible issue in a place called Glenfruin.  Its name
signifies the Glen of Sorrow, and it is a deep vale intersected by
the Fruin, and overlooked by ridges of dark heathy mountains, that
are more than eighteen hundred feet in height.

Here, then, on the 9th of February Sir Humphry Colquhoun, of Luss, at
the head of a great force of horse and foot, composed of his own
clan, the Grahames, and the burghers of Dumbarton, under Tobias
Smollet, their provost,--met Alaster Roy MacGregor of Glenstrae, who
had only four hundred swordsmen; but his superior bravery and skill
soon decided the disastrous conflict.

Glenstrae divided his little force into two parties.  Reserving two
hundred to himself, he gave two hundred to his brother Ian MacGregor,
with orders to make a long circuit, and attack Luss in the rear.

This manoeuvre was most successfully executed, and a dreadful
hand-to-hand conflict ensued in the narrow vale.  The Clan Gregor
cast aside their shields, and plying their sharp claymores, with both
hands clenched in the iron hilts, assailed both horse and foot in
front and rear, threw them into confusion, and swept them in rout and
dismay down Glenfruin towards Loch Lomond.

Two hundred Buchanans and Colquhouns were slain on the field, and
though many of the Clan Alpine were wounded in their furious charge,
it is remarkable that only Ian MacGregor and another of the clan were
slain.

They lie buried on the field, under a large block, which is named
"The Grey Stone of MacGregor."

A little rivulet near it is still named "the stream of ghosts;" for
there Fletcher of Cameron, a follower of the Clan Alpine, is said to
have slaughtered a number of clerical scholars, who had come from
Dumbarton to see the battle; and it is still believed that if a
MacGregor crosses it after sunset he will be scared by dreadful
spectres.  Yet, to preserve these boys from bullets and arrows in the
hour of battle, it is alleged that Alaster of Glenstrae humanely
enclosed them in a little church, the thatched roof of which was
fired accidentally by the wadding of a musket, and they all perished
in the flames.  Others say they were all dirked by Dugald Ciar Mhor,
from whom Rob Roy was lineally descended, and that he slew them like
sheep, at a large stone, from which the blood can never be effaced.

Being mounted on a powerful horse, Sir Humphry Colquhoun, minus sword
and helmet, escaped from the field, and fled to the castle of
Bannochar, where he was afterwards slain, when concealed in one of
the vaults, not by MacGregors, but by some of the MacFarlanes, though
the blame of the deed was unjustly thrown on the former.

To James VI., his successor and friends made a doleful report of the
battle, in their own fashion, and there came before that monarch, at
Stirling, a strange procession of eleven score of women, bearing
each, upon a spear, a bloody shirt, purporting to be that of a
husband or kinsman slain in Glenfruin.

These females had been mostly hired at so much per head, in Glasgow,
for the pageant, and the blood on the woollen shirts was that of a
cow, bled expressly for the purpose; but this melo-dramatic
exhibition was singularly successful.

James was so incensed that, without further inquiry, he issued
letters of fire and sword against the MacGregors; and then the
Colquhouns, the Buchanans, the Camerons, and the Clan Ronald joined
with others, in a species of crusade, to crush them.  They were
hunted throughout the land, like wild animals, but could never be
suppressed; for, whenever a MacGregor fell, the sword of another
appeared to avenge him.

Captured by treachery, Alaster of Glenstrae, the gallant victor of
Glenfruin, was ignominiously hanged, at the cross of Edinburgh, with
all his nearest kinsmen, the sole honour awarded to him being a
loftier gibbet than the rest.

By an Act of the Scottish Legislature, the surname of MacGregor was
abolished, and they were compelled to adopt others.  Some called
themselves Gregory and Gregorson, and some Mallet, of whom the
grandfather of the poet of that name was one.  Many took the name of
Grahame, but many more allied themselves with the powerful House of
Argyle, taking the surname of "the Great Clan;" hence, a hundred
years after the grass had grown above the graves of the dead in
Glenfruin, we find Rob Roy designating himself _Campbell_, the name
of his mother!

The same Act ordained that none of the race of Alpine should have in
their possession any other weapon than a pointless knife, wherewith
to cut their food; yet, in defiance of the Act, the Clan Gregor went
armed to the teeth as usual.

Bloodhounds were employed to track them in their retreats; and their
very children were abstracted, and brought up in hatred of the blood
they inherited.  But the Celtic nature was soon averse to such modes
of suppressing a warlike and time-honoured clan; and the Camerons
alone maintained the war against the MacGregors, who, on being joined
by the MacPhersons, met them in battle in Brae Lochaber, and gave
one-half of them a lesson in charity, by cutting the other to pieces.

After the battle of Glenfruin, seven MacGregors, who were pursued by
a body of Colquhouns, came over the mountains of Glencoe and
Glenorchy, down by the lone and lovely shore of Lochiel and the
birchen woods that border on the wild waters of the Spean, till they
found a brief shelter in the farmhouse of Tirindrish, which was then
occupied by a Cameron.

Alarmed by the approach of the Colquhouns, they fled again, and took
shelter in a cavern, which the Cameron, actuated either by treachery
or timidity, pointed out to the pursuers.  The toil-worn fugitives
were attacked with sword and pistol.  Six were slain, and lie buried,
where some pines, the badge of their clan, were lately planted, in
memory of the event.  The seventh fled to a little distance, but was
overtaken, beheaded, and buried beside a stream, where a friend of
the author lately found his skull, which the water had laid bare, by
washing away the bank, in which the other bones lie yet embedded.

After their slaughter, the Colquhouns went back to Luss; but the
farmhouse of Tirindrish was now said to be haunted from time to time
by a headless figure.  The Cameron became alarmed, and brought
thither a _Taischatr_, or seer, who saw it also--the dim outline of a
shadowy and bare-legged Highlander, without a head, but with a
remarkable swelling on the right knee, a disease of which the
treacherous farmer had long complained; and hence the seer intimated
that the figure represented _himself_!

It proved but the shadow of a coming event; for soon after a party of
MacGregors, true to the old Celtic instinct of revenge, came to
Tirindrish, and, to punish the Cameron for having discovered the
cavern to the Colquhouns, struck off his head, by order of Dugald
Ciar Mhor.  The place where the six fugitives perished is still named
the MacGregor's Cave, and a cairn was built there by the MacDonalds
in memory of the event.

Hundreds of such episodes followed the battle of Glenfruin; and more
fully to suppress the fated surname, no minister of the church could,
at baptism, give the name of Gregor to a child, under pain of
banishment and deprivation; and the heads of the Clan Alpine became a
marketable commodity under King William III., as the story of Duncan
nan Cean remains to testify.

Yet in spite of all these savage laws the clan grew and flourished in
the fastnesses of the Highlands, and in the battles of Montrose their
shout of _Ard Choille_ was heard farthest amid the ranks of the
routed Covenanters.  Hence the spirit of their Gathering--

  The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the bay,
  And the clan _has a name_ that is _nameless_ by day--
      Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
  * * * * * *
  While there's leaves on the forest, or foam on the river,
  MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever!
      Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!


Hence in 1645 they could muster a thousand swordsmen; a hundred years
later seven hundred swordsmen, and when the Highland regiment of Clan
Alpine was raised by the chief in 1799, one thousand two hundred and
thirty of the clan and their kindred enlisted to fight for George III.

So little do tyranny and oppression avail in the end!  They served
but to bind Clan Alpine together like bands of steel; but they were
never restored to their ancient rights, surname, or liberty, till an
Act of the British Parliament was passed in their favour, _only
twenty-four_ years before the regiment was embodied.

The wrongs of his name and kindred made a deep impression on Rob Roy,
and he thirsted for an opportunity of seeing them righted, either by
the restoration of the House of Stuart, or by the destruction of
their more immediate oppressors.

He knew and writhed under the unjust laws by which the whole clan,
for the deeds of a few, so long ago as the field of Glenfruin, were
stigmatized as cut-throats and traitors, and by which they were
nominally disarmed--the deepest disgrace that could be inflicted upon
a Highlander; by which they were degraded in name and station, and
only permitted to live as Campbells, Grahames, or Drummonds--a
landless and broken race.

In his soul he longed for an opportunity of avenging all this on the
King and Parliament, and for becoming a champion of the old Scottish
patriarchal system, and opposing the new, which made feudal lords of
Celtic chiefs, with power of gallows and dungeon, over free men--but
these were visions wild and vain!

Proud of the past, however vague, the Red MacGregor, like all his
Celtic countrymen, believed in the words of the bard, that--

  Ere ever Ossian raised his song,
    To tell of Fingal's fame;
  Ere ever from their sunny clime
    The Roman eagles came:

  The hills had given to heroes birth,
    Brave e'en amid the brave;
  Who taught, above tyrannic dust,
    The thistle tufts to wave!

And this belief in a lofty and warlike ancestry has ever been the
Highlander's greatest incentive to moral character and heroic bearing.




CHAPTER IX.

THE DEVASTATION OF KIPPEN.

In the days of Rob Roy there were no police, troops, or garrisons in
his part of the Highlands, and no law was recognized save that of the
sword.

William III. had recently been placed on the throne, and he
exasperated the MacGregors by restoring all the oppressive Acts
passed against them--Acts which had been cancelled for a time by
Charles II.  Thus they were again compelled to assume other names
than their own, or forfeit land, arms, and all means of livelihood.
The memory of William of Orange is still abhorred by the Highlanders.
He was a king whose cowardice lost the battle of Steinkirke, and by
whose behest torture was last judicially used, on Neville Payne, an
Englishman, in a Scottish court of law.  He introduced flogging into
the army, keelhauling into the navy; "and he," says Sir William
Napier, "is the _only_ general on record to whom attaches the
detestable distinction of sporting with men's lives by wholesale; and
who fought the battle of St. Denis with the Peace of Nimeguen in his
pocket, because he would not deny himself a _safe_ lesson in his
trade;" and he it was who, by his own sign manual, condemned the
whole inhabitants of a Scottish valley to be slaughtered in their
beds at midnight, and this was _after_ he had _ratified_ the Treaty
of Achalader!

Hatred of this king and of those who adhered to him determined Rob
Roy to punish some of the Whigs in his neighbourhood, and remembering
how active the Buchanans had made themselves since the days of
Glenfruin, he resolved to fall upon them.

Assembling about two hundred men, and attended by MacAleister and
Greumoch, he marched from Inversnaid towards Kippen, giving out that
he went "in the name of King James VII. to plunder the rebel Whigs."
After a fifteen miles' march, they halted for the first night on the
northern shore of the Loch of Monteith, amid the thick groves of oak,
chestnut, and ancient plane-trees which flourish there.  They shot
some deer, lighted fires, and proceeded to cook and regale themselves
on the venison, with all the greater relish that it belonged to their
hereditary enemies the Grahames of Monteith; and after posting
sentinels, they passed the night in carousing, and singing those long
songs still so common in the Highlands, where the air and the theme
have been carried down, from the days perhaps of the Druids, who,
when seeking to cultivate the people by music and poetry, framed
their songs with long choruses in which all could join.

And now, under the rustling leaves of the old forest, the MacGregors,
wrapped in their red tartan plaids, sat round the glowing
watch-fires, and made the dingles echo, as they sang one of the
ballads of the female bard of Scarba--Mary, the daughter of Red
Alister.  Two hours before daybreak they were all on the march again,
and eight miles or so further brought them, in the early dusk of the
autumn morning, to Kippen.  This village lies within ten miles of the
guns of Stirling Castle, and for centuries it had belonged to the
Buchanans.  Here the fertile valley through which the Forth flows was
studded with prosperous farms and handsome country seats, surrounded
by luxuriant crops in some places, by the stubble-fields in others--a
rural scene, amid which the rocky bluff of the Abbeycraig and the
wooded summit of Craigforth start up boldly and abruptly, with their
faces to the west; and Rob Roy took care to choose the time of his
invasion when most of the crops were stored in the barn, and when the
cattle and sheep were gathered in pen and fold.

On the approach of the MacGregors, the old castle of Ardfinlay (of
which no trace now remains) and the tower of Arnprior were abandoned
by the Buchanans, without a shot being fired, while the village of
Kippen was evacuated by its inhabitants, who fled towards Stirling,
with whatever they could carry.  Carts and horses were now seized by
the MacGregors, and loaded with grain, food, furniture, and whatever
they could lay their hands upon.  The cattle, horses, and sheep were
collected in herds and flocks; and after sweeping the parish, Rob's
men were about to depart for Inversnaid, with pipes playing
triumphantly in front, when a body of men, armed with muskets and
bayonets, swords and pikes, appeared with drums beating, ready to
oppose them, about an hour after sunrise.

These men had been hastily collected and armed by Sir James
Livingstone, a gentleman who had served in foreign wars, and who was
resolved that Rob Roy should not harry the district without a blow
being struck in its defence.  On the open ground known as the Moor of
Kippen, they came in sight of each other.

Rob halted his men with the spoil they had collected, and resolutely
advanced to the front, attended by his henchman, by Greumoch, Alaster
Roy, and a few others on whom he most relied.  By his bearing and the
richness of his weapons, as well as by his ruddy-coloured hair and
beard, and the two eagle feathers in his blue bonnet, Sir James
Livingstone recognized the Laird of Inversnaid, and he also came
forward from his line, attended by a faithful servant, who was well
armed.

Under his ample red coat, which was open, Sir James wore a cuirass of
polished steel; his hat was cocked up by gold cord, and his full,
white periwig flowed over his shoulders.  Under the cuirass he wore a
buff waistcoat, which reached nearly to his knees; he had his sword
drawn in his right hand, and carried a brace of loaded pistols in his
girdle, to which they hung by steel hooks.

"Have I the honour of addressing MacGregor of Inversnaid?" said he,
politely lifting his hat when within ten paces of Rob Roy, who
replied sternly--

"I am MacGregor.  Had you styled me by another name than that which
my father left me, I would have killed you on the instant.  And
you----"

"I am Sir James Livingstone.  I have nothing to do with the laws
which seek the suppression of your name and the destruction of your
clan, save that I reprobate them; but I demand by what right you have
broken the King's peace, and come hither in arms to plunder a
peaceful district?"

"For three sufficient causes," replied Rob; "first, I have the old
Highland right by which we can at any time make a warlike inroad on
our enemies, which the Buchanans of Kippen and Arnprior have been
since that black day in Glenfruin; secondly, I break the peace of him
you name a king because I deem him a Dutch usurper; and thirdly, I
take from cowards that which they have not the heart to defend."

"I regret to hear all this," replied Sir James, persuasively, "for
there will be much blood shed, MacGregor, if you do not yield up the
spoil your people have collected."

"Yield it--to whom?" asked MacGregor, loftily.

"To me."

"Little care we for bloodshed," said the other, bitterly; "your
foreign kings and Lowland laws have made Clan Alpine like the Arabs
of the desert, whose hands are against all men, because the hands of
all men are uplifted against them.  Yet I, personally, have no wish
to slay any of your people.  You are a gentleman and a soldier, whose
character I value and honour; thus, if you choose, I will fight with
you here, hand to hand, with target and claymore, in front of our
men, and the spoil shall belong to him who draws the _first blood_."

"Agreed," replied Sir James, sternly; "but, though expert enough in
the use of the sword, I am unused to such a defence as the target."

"That shall be no hindrance," said Rob, as he handed to MacAleister
his round shield, which was composed of triple bull's-hide, stretched
over wood, covered with antique brass bosses, and had a long spike of
steel screwed into its centre.

The friends of Sir James now crowded around him, and bade him be
wary, and remember the vast strength of Rob Roy; the great skill he
possessed, the weight of his sword, and the advantage his length of
arm gave him over others.  These warnings were not without effect on
Sir James, who was too brave to be without prudence.  He came
forward, and, lifting his little three-cocked hat, the edge of which
was bound with feathers, like those of all the officers who served in
King William's wars, he said,--

"I agree to meet you, MacGregor, as a gentleman, on the distinct
understanding that the entire spoil shall remain with him who is
fortunate enough to draw the first blood; but, as being the person
challenged, I claim the right to choose my weapon, and for many
reasons prefer the pistol."

"Be it so," replied Rob, laughing, as Sir James divested himself of
his glittering cuirass: "I am not an old trooper like you, yet am a
good marksman nevertheless."

"Are your pistols loaded?"

"The pistols of a MacGregor are seldom otherwise, in these times,"
said Rob, as his countenance darkened; "and yours?"

"Are loaded, too."

"Shall we fire together, or toss up for the first shot?" asked
MacGregor.

"We will toss for the first shot, if you please," replied
Livingstone, who, aware that he was a deadly marksman, and had fought
several duels in France and Flanders with terrible success, had no
fears as to the result, if the lot fell to him.

"Then, Sir James, toss for me, but remain where you are," said
MacGregor, with indifference.

"And you will take my word for the coin--for the result!" exclaimed
Livingstone, with something of admiration in his tone and face.

"Had I doubted your word, I would not fight with you.  On equal terms
I meet none but gentlemen."

A servant of Sir James, a man in livery, armed with a musket, now
came hastily forward to suggest some trickery, which his master
repelled with scorn--even with anger.

He threw up the coin--a crown piece; it glittered in the air, and
then fell on the grass.

"A head!" said MacGregor.

"I regret to say it is not a head," replied Sir James, touching his
hat, while his cheek flushed with triumph: "so I have won the first
shot!"

A shout of anger burst from the MacGregors on hearing this; but
Livingstone's followers waved their bonnets and clapped their hands
in exultation.

It was strange, the scene which took place on that morning, on the
wide moor of Kippen.  On one side the grim band of armed MacGregors,
in their red tartans, with drawn swords, Lochaber axes, and long
muskets, guarding the whole spoil of the parish, and keeping together
the herds of lowing cattle and tethered horses, laden with bags of
bedding, and household utensils.

On the other, the well-armed retainers of Sir James Livingstone,
cross-belted and armed with pike and musket; and midway between, the
striking and picturesque figures of the two combatants, who were to
decide the affray, standing about twelve paces apart, with a pistol
in each hand.




CHAPTER X.

THE DUEL.

Sir James drew up his tall and soldier-like figure to its full
height, and buttoning to the throat his long-skirted scarlet coat,
the breast of which was covered with broad bars of silver lace, he
fixed his keen dark eyes steadily on the figure of Rob Roy.  He then
levelled a pistol at the full length of his right arm, and every eye
was bent upon the muzzle from which death was expected to issue.

Rob's coat was of rough, home-made, brown stuff, destitute of lace or
ornament; but his great belted plaid of scarlet tartan filled up the
eye.  His pistols were bright as silver, and came from the famous
workshop established at Doune, so long ago as 1646, by Thomas Cadell.
A silver chain suspended his splendidly carved powder-horn, and his
dirk and broadsword were elaborately mounted with silver.  Sir James
covered him with his pistol and fired!

A shout of rage and dismay burst from the MacGregors, as Rob's bonnet
was turned round on his head, and, cut by the bullet, one of his
eagle feathers floated away on the breeze.

"That was a good shot, Sir James," said Rob, smiling, as he replaced
his bonnet; "an inch lower, and there would have been one MacGregor
less in the world to persecute.  Under favour, sir, it is now my
turn."

Raising one of the claw-butted, steel, Highland pistols, he cocked
and levelled it straight at the head of Livingstone, whose eye never
quailed, and whose gallant spirit never flinched.  Then suddenly
lowering the weapon, he said, "One cannot always be a hero like
Fingal, but one may always be a gentleman.  I am, as you know, Sir
James, a deadly shot, and at this moment could kill you without
reloading.  I have no desire to slay men unnecessarily--brave men
like you, who may live to serve their mother, Scotland, least of all!
In short, I wish to spare you; but as the creagh must belong to him
who sheds the first blood, I must send this bullet either through
your head or your hand.  If you prefer the latter, please to hold it
up."

Scarcely knowing what he did, Sir James held up his left hand.  Rob
fired, and his bullet whistled through the palm of the upheld hand,
which was instantly covered with blood, when Livingstone uttered an
exclamation of pain and suddenly lowered his arm.

"We now part on the first blood drawn--your own terms, Livingstone.
To the hills, lads!" exclaimed MacGregor; "to the hills with the gear
of the Dutch king's rebel Whigs!"

A yell of triumph from the MacGregors rent the sky, the pipes struck
up "The Battle of Glenfruin," and the whole cavalcade moved off
towards the mountains.  But the matter did not end here, for as Rob
tarried a moment, to take a more courteous farewell of his adversary,
and to bind up his wounded hand, Livingstone's liveried valet
levelled a pistol at his head.  Fortunately it flashed in the pan;
and MacAleister, who was close by, shot him dead with his musket!

"Only one man, a servant to Sir James Livingstone, was killed on this
occasion," says the statistical account; "and this depredation was
remembered by the fathers of several persons still living, and is
known as the 'Her'ship of Kippen.'"

It does not appear that any means were taken to recover the cattle
and goods thus carried to the fastnesses of the MacGregors; but at
this time the whole Highlands, from the German to the Atlantic Ocean,
were full of those scenes of war and plunder which succeeded the
victory of the loyal clans at Killycrankie, and the fall of their
idol, the gallant Dundee.




CHAPTER XI.

ROB GOES TO ENGLAND.

All hope of restoring the exiled House of Stuart having ceased for a
time, Rob Roy, for some years subsequent to the establishment of the
Revolution, lived quietly on his estate of Inversnaid; only assuming
the sword to protect himself, his neighbours, or those whose
properties lay south of the Highland frontier, and who paid the usual
tax of black-mail for that security of life and goods which he and
others afforded them.  He dealt largely in cattle, and speculated so
fortunately, that before the year 1707 he had cleared the lands of
Craigrostan from certain bonds held over them by James, Marquis of
Montrose; and he generously relieved the estate of Glengyle, the
property of his nephew, Gregor MacGregor, famous in Scottish history
as _Glun dhu_, or the Black-knee, from similar incumbrances of a
heavy kind; and being, by law, the guardian, or, as it is termed in
Scotland, the tutor of Glengyle, Rob had great influence over the
whole clan, though nameless, broken, and scattered.

Rob and his gillies, clad in their red tartans, and armed with sword,
dirk, and pistol, and with a target slung on the left shoulder, each
carrying, moreover, a heavy cudgel, driving some thousand head of
cattle, with pipers playing in front, to the fair of Callender, or
the Trysts of Falkirk, which were then held on the Reddingrig Moor,
and had been so since 1701, presented an appearance so animated, and
an aspect so formidable, that few cared to meddle with the Red
MacGregor and his followers.

Affrays were frequent at those fairs, and, indeed, everywhere else in
Scotland: political and religious differences made men rancorous, and
arms were readily resorted to.  It was not until 1727 that the
Provost of Edinburgh prohibited wearing of pistols and daggers openly
in the streets of the city, for brawls had become incessant.

"It may well be supposed that in those days no Lowland, and much less
English drovers, _ventured into the Highlands_," says Scott.  "The
cattle, which were the staple commodity of the mountains, were
escorted down to the fairs by a party of Highlanders, with all their
arms rattling about them, and who dealt, however, in all honour and
faith with their southern customers.  A fray, indeed, would sometimes
arise, when the Lowland men, chiefly Borderers, who had to supply the
English market, used to dip their bonnets in the next brook, and
wrapping them round their hands, oppose the cudgels to the naked
broadsword, which had not always the superiority.  I have heard from
aged persons who had been in such affrays, that the Highlanders used
remarkably fair play, never using the point of the sword, far less
their pistols or daggers; so that a slash or two, or a broken head,
was easily accommodated; and as the trade was of benefit to both
parties, trifling skirmishes were not allowed to interrupt its
harmony."

King William having restored all the severe laws against the clan,
Rob was compelled to resume the name of Campbell, when in 1703, his
nephew, Gregor Glun Dhu, who was likewise compelled to call himself
James Graham, was married to Mary Hamilton of Bardowie, in the
November of that year, and our hero signed their contract as "Robert
Campbell of Inversnaid."

While he was acquiring wealth and popularity of a local and peaceful
kind by his frequent visits to the Borders, his wife, Helen Mary,
managed his household at Inversnaid, and earned the reputation of
being a thrifty, active, and careful housewife.  Gentle in manner,
and gently bred, she could play the old Highland harp with great
skill, as she had been taught by Rori Dall, or Blind Roderick, who
was bard to MacLeod of that Ilk, and was, moreover, the _last_ harper
of the Hebrides.

A Highland housewife had plenty of occupation in those days.  The
corn was then dressed in an ancient fashion by the women.  The straw
was fired, that the heat might parch the grain, which, though
blackened, was gathered into the handmills, or querns, and ground
into meal or flour, just as the Israelites ground theirs of old.
They had also the management of the sheep.  No flocks were then kept
in the Highlands; but every family had from the Hebrides a few sheep
of a small breed, which were never permitted to range the mountain
but were carefully housed at night.

In the household of Inversnaid the spinning-wheels were never idle;
hence there was plenty of industry and comfort, but few luxuries.
All the furniture was of black oak, or Scottish pine; the only piece
of mahogany being an oval teaboard, a portion of Helen's
"plenishing," when she left her father's house at Comar.  On ordinary
days her dress was linsey-woolsey and a tartan plaid; and though
dignified with the title of _lady_ in Gaelic, as being the wife of a
chieftain, and on certain occasions, such as birthdays or
anniversaries (the Gowrie conspiracy, the Restoration, or the
imaginary succession of James VIII.), wearing silk and fine lace,
they were all made up at home, for in those sequestered regions the
name and business of a milliner were unknown.  Of their five sons,
only four had as yet been born,--Coll, Ronald, Hamish, and Duncan.

We are now rapidly approaching those events which scattered Helen's
happy household, and drove her brave and trusty, generous and humane
husband "to the hillside, to become a broken man," branded as an
outlaw and traitor, with a price upon his head.  King James VII. was
dead, and his son, though in exile, had assumed the title of James
III. of England and VIII. of Scotland.

In 1707 the English endeavoured to _force_ the Scots into a union;
and, as a preliminary, very unwisely seized all their merchant ships
that were in southern ports.  On this Scotland prepared for war by
strengthening her garrisons, and proposing to raise sixty thousand
infantry; so England resorted to other means, and by bribery achieved
the measure so long desired.  Thus that which was hitherto a weak and
federal union, became a powerful and combined one; each country,
however, retaining its own church and laws.

Before this great treaty was complete, the Scottish Government
restricted the importation of cattle into England; but free
intercourse being one of the happy results of the Union, various
persons speculated in this traffic.  Among others, Rob Roy engaged in
a joint adventure with James, Marquis of Montrose, who had received a
sum of money for his Union vote, and in the month _preceding_ that
measure had been created a duke, with the office of Lord Privy Seal
for Scotland.

"The capital to be advanced," says Dr. Browne, in his "History of the
Highlands," "was fixed at ten thousand _merks_ each, and Rob Roy was
to purchase cattle therewith, and drive them to England for sale."

The Duke's money he received from his factor or chamberlain, John
Grahame of Killearn, partly in cash and partly in bills of exchange,
drawn through the Bank of Scotland on Grahame of Gorthy.  He soon
collected a vast herd, and leaving his trusty henchman and
foster-brother, MacAleister, in charge of his household, departed for
Carlisle.

The system of fosterage, which consisted in the mutual exchange of
children for the purpose of being nursed and bred, was a custom
peculiar to the Scots and Irish, who were wont to allege that there
was no love or faith in the world like that which existed between
foster-brethren; so Rob departed in confidence on his important
mission with a herd worth twenty thousand Scottish merks.

Prior to his leaving Inversnaid, Paul Crubach had come there, and
sprinkled all the cattle with water from his holy well.  On such
occasions he was always provided with certain flint arrow-heads,
which he had found where a battle had been fought, long, long ago.
These _elfshots_ he duly dipped in the water of his well, and then
sprinkled it over the herd to prevent any spell an evil eye, or
another elfshot, might cast upon them before they reached the great
market at "Merry Carlisle."




CHAPTER XII.

THE GIPSIES.

The trade of cattle-dealing was liable at that time, as at every
other, to sudden depressions and miscalculations; thus, on his
arrival at Carlisle, Rob Roy--unfortunately for the success of the
joint speculation in which he was engaged--found the southern
markets, where Highland cattle had been so long in great demand,
completely overstocked.  Many other speculators were now in the
field.  The prices fell lower than they had ever been before, and he
was compelled to dispose of the whole stock of cattle far below prime
cost.  As his herds diminished, he gradually sent all his drovers and
gillies home to the Highlands.  The last he despatched was Greumoch
MacGregor, with whom he entrusted a letter (dated from an hostelry in
Castle Street, where he lodged) addressed to the Duke of Montrose,
detailing their mutual loss.

When the last cow was sold, Rob secured the money which remained for
the Duke and himself in his sporan, as the pouch worn in front of the
kilt is named.  It was made of the skin of an otter, shot by himself
in the Dochart, and was adorned by its face and claws, and closed by
a curious steel clasp.

With his pistols carefully primed and loaded (as the roads were then
infested by footpads, mounted highwaymen, and gipsies), he left
Carlisle by the Scottish gate, and in very low spirits took his
homeward way, mounted on a stout little Highland horse.

Carlisle was then, and for long after, girt by walls and towers as a
defence against the Scots, whom the English could scarcely view yet
as fellow-subjects.

Without any occurrence he travelled about forty-five miles, and on
the evening of the second day found himself entering Moffatdale, a
deep and pastoral valley, which is overshadowed by mountains of great
height, at the foot of which the Evan and the Annan unite their
waters in one.  The sunlight had faded from the green summits of the
Moffat Alps--of Hartfell and Queensberry, and the deep shady valleys
were growing dark.  The night-hawk was winging its way towards the
lonely banks of Loch Skene; the shrill whistle of the curlew as he
rose from among the green waving fern or purple heather bells, and
the coo of the sweet cushat dove in the birchen thicket, were alone
breaking the silence, when Rob Roy drew his bridle near the village
of Moffat to consider where he should quarter himself for the night.

He was in a strange place, and had about him more money than he cared
to lose.  There were several ruins of old peel-houses, towers, and
cattle-sheilings on the hills, and in one of these a hardy Highlander
could sleep comfortably enough when rolled in his plaid; but there
was no necessity for faring so roughly.

A meteor which shot across the darkening sky, near the spire of a
distant village church, made Rob thoughtful; for it is an old Celtic
superstition, that when a falling star is seen by any one near a
burying-ground, it portends that death is near.  At the moment he
paused a cry of distress pierced the air.  He listened intently and
instinctively, and drawing forth a pistol, glanced at the flint and
priming, to be prepared for any emergency.  Again the cry reached
him, and it seemed to be uttered by a female in distress.  Urging his
strong and active Highland garron in the direction from whence the
cries came, he entered a deep and savage dell named Gartpool Linn,
where he beheld a very startling sight.

A large and gnarled tree spread its broad branches like a leafy arch
above this dell, and beneath them the last red gleam of the western
sky shone full into the hollow.  There an officer and a party of
soldiers were deliberately preparing to hang four peasants on the
lower limb of the old chestnut.  At the foot of the latter, on her
knees, with hair dishevelled and disordered dress, there knelt a
young girl, who was alternately bewailing the fate of the four
victims, and imploring mercy for them; and, from what she said, they
proved to be her father and three brothers.

In the oldest peasant MacGregor almost immediately recognized Andrew
Gemmil, the gipsy wanderer who had acted as his guide when he
followed Duncan nan Creagh to the Braes of Rannoch.  Being
single-handed, ignorant of the crime of which the prisoners were
accused, and finding himself before eighteen soldiers and an officer,
who were all fully armed, and who by their jack-boots, buff breeches,
and blue coats, evidently belonged to a Border militia regiment, Rob
Roy stood by for some time in bewilderment, and soon saw the four
unfortunates flung in succession off a ladder, and all swinging and
writhing in the agonies of death between him and the ruddy western
sky.

The officer now commanded his men to seize the girl, who had cast
herself with her face on the grass, that she might shut out the
dreadful scene; he added they were to bind her hands and feet
together, and then throw her head foremost into the stream, which
then swept in full flood through this savage ravine, and was all the
more fierce and deep that heavy rains had fallen of late.  Rob's
blood began to boil.  He thought, perhaps, upon the words of
Ossian:--"Within this bosom is a voice--it comes not to other
ears--that bids Ossian succour the helpless in their hour of need."

Four soldiers tied her hands and feet, and were about to obey the
order of the officer, when Rob, exasperated by such unmanly cruelty,
commanded them in a loud voice to pause, and then he demanded
sternly, "Why do you treat a helpless female in a manner so
barbarous?"

Perceiving that he was plainly attired in a rough coat of Galloway
frieze, with a tartan plaid thrown over his left shoulder, and a
broad blue bonnet drawn down close to his eyes, and perhaps unaware
that he had a good sword by his side and pistols at his girdle, the
officer replied haughtily,--

"Sir, you had better begone about your own business, whatever it may
be, less we add you to the goodly company who await the crows on that
branch, if you dare to interrupt those who act in the Queen's name
and under her authority."

"Miscreant!" exclaimed Rob, "the good Queen Anne never gave you
warrant for such deeds as these."

"Then the Lords of her Council do--so it matters not to me."

"Who are these people?" asked Rob, firmly.

"Enemies of Church and State," replied the officer, "and therefore
they must suffer.  Throw in the woman!"

"Hold, I command you!" exclaimed MacGregor, with a voice like a
trumpet, and leaping from his saddle, he unsheathed his claymore.
The fury and indignation which filled his heart added such strength
to his muscular arm, that in an incredibly short time he had tossed
eight of the soldiers into the stream, and rescued the girl, waving
his bare blade in a circle between her and the rest, who dared not
advance.  Confounded by the audacity of the man, by his sudden
onslaught, and the whole catastrophe, the officer remained for a
moment gazing alternately at the bold intercessor, and at his men,
who were struggling, shouting, swearing, and scrambling to the river
bank as they best could.  With a slash of his skene dhu Rob cut the
cords which bound the girl's hands and feet, and bade her "begone and
God-speed."

By this time the officer had rallied his energies, and drawing his
sword, attacked Rob, who instantly ran him through the body, on which
the soldiers, believing that some large force of assailants was at
hand, fled without firing a shot, and left him in possession of the
field.

He then cut down those who had just been executed.  All were
motionless and still; but not all dead, for ere long one who had been
last thrown off the ladder showed signs of life, and began to revive.

Rob committed him and the girl, his sister, to the care of the
peasantry, some of whom were now assembled.  He did more, for he
carefully bound up the wound of the officer, who was borne away to
the village; and then MacGregor, not knowing how the matter might
end, or of _what_ the persons rescued were accused, put some money
into the hands of the half-dead girl, and remounting his horse,
galloped through Moffatdale as fast as its heels could bear him.

The author who relates this adventure of Rob Roy, terms the persons
who were executed "fanatics;" but it is much more probable that they
were all Border gipsies, against whom there were then, and for long
after, laws in existence even as severe as those which oppressed the
Clan Gregor.




CHAPTER XIII.

INVERSNAID PILLAGED.

On receipt of Rob Roy's letter, containing intelligence that the
cattle speculation had been a failure, and that their money was
nearly lost, his Grace the Duke of Montrose burst into a very
undignified fit of indignation, and instantly summoned his
chamberlain, John Grahame of Killearn, who was a remote relation of
his own, and in every sense a devoted and unscrupulous follower.

Poor Greumoch, whose rough and weather-beaten exterior, with homespun
Highland dress, with a target slung on his back, all combined to gain
him but little favour with Montrose's pampered valets, was speedily
bowed out by them, and had the door shut in his face, notwithstanding
the eagle's feather in his bonnet, which evinced his claim, when on
the mountain side, to be considered a gentleman.

Then the angry duke laid the letter of Rob before his chamberlain,
who in the Scottish fashion was simply named always by the title of
his property.

"Well, Killearn," said Montrose, grimly; "here is a braw business!
Ten thousand merks nearly have been made away with by this Highland
limmer, and am I to be at the loss of them?"

"Assuredly not, your grace--assuredly not," replied Killearn.  "Rob
has property; there are both Inversnaid and Craigrostan."

"Craigrostan--bah!  it is only a tract of grey rock and red heather,
where even the deer can scarcely find shelter," replied the duke,
contemptuously.

"But Inversnaid has a comfortable house, with steading, barn, and
byre, forbye garden and meadow ground."

"Then, by heaven, I shall take Inversnaid, though all that bear the
surname of MacGregor were on the hills to oppose me!" exclaimed the
duke, passionately.

Killearn seemed uneasy as the duke made this outburst, and he twisted
his well-powdered wig to and fro, as if the heat of it oppressed him.
He was a dapper little personage, who was always accurately attired
in a square-skirted coat, having immense cuffs and pocket flaps, a
long-bodied vest and small clothes all of black velvet.  His cravat,
wig, and ruffles were always white as snow; he did not approve of
swords, and never wore one, though for more than sixty years after
this time every gentleman in Scotland did.

In one huge pocket he carried a silver snuff-box, and in the other a
small thick breeches Bible, which he produced on every occasion; for
he was one of those religious pretenders of whom Scotland has always
produced a plentiful crop.

To describe his face would be difficult; but it expressed a singular
combination of suavity, secret ferocity, cunning, and meanness.
Montrose was the chief of his name; hence Killearn regarded him as a
demigod, and all the more so because he was a duke, and one who paid
him well.

So between them it was arranged, that as Rob Roy was absent--luckily
for their scheme--possession, in the meantime, should be taken of all
the moveables in his house and on his estate; that a warrant for his
apprehension should be procured, and a reward offered for his capture
by advertisements in the Edinburgh newspapers.  Such lawless and
arbitrary proceedings were as easily managed as proposed in those
days.

"Take a well-armed party of my own people with you," said the duke;
"Rob has many enemies in Dumbarton and the Lennox, who have long been
resenting his collection of black-mail, and you will find plenty of
hands willing enough to aid you in driving his men farther into the
hills.  There is Stirling of Carden will help you if required; and I
dare say MacDougal's Dragoons could be marched up Loch Lomond side,
with the Buchanans of Kippen; and," he added, with a sour smile,
"perhaps the Laird of Luss may move in the matter, if he has not
forgotten the battle of Glenfruin, and the blood that yet stains the
floor of a certain vault in the castle of Bannochar.  See to this,
Killearn, and bring me news when all is arranged."

Killearn was somewhat aghast on hearing this rapid sketch of a
campaign in which he was to figure as leader.  He had no desire to
head an armed raid into the MacGregors' country if he could avoid it;
but he resolved to proceed in regular form of law; and in the duke's
name he did so, with marvellous rapidity.

All Rob Roy's farm stock and furniture, and ultimately his house and
estates, Inversnaid and Craigrostan, were unjustifiably made objects
for arrest and sale; and while he was lingering in Glasgow,
endeavouring to raise money to repay the duke, the "warrant of
distress," as it would be called in England, was enforced with great
strictness and even barbarity.

Another account of these proceedings would make it appear that Rob
was compelled to assign his possessions in mortgage to the Duke of
Montrose, under a solemn promise that they should revert to him when
he could restore the money lost in the transaction at Carlisle; that
afterwards, when his finances improved, he offered the sum for which
the two little properties were held in hand; but Montrose and
Killearn replied that, besides the principal, there was now interest
thereon, and various other expenses, so that much time would be
required to make up a statement of the whole sum, and that, in "this
equivocal manner, he was amused, and ultimately _deprived of all his
property_."  Whatever their proceedings were, of the _latter fact_
there is no doubt.

With a band of well-armed followers to support the officers of the
law, Killearn appeared at the house of Inversnaid, when, fortunately
for himself and for those who accompanied him, the men of the village
were absent--some with the cattle on the mountains, others cutting
peat in the bogs; some fishing in the loch, and others hunting in the
woods.

Rob's crops of barley, rye, peas, and small black oats were all
stored in his granary; and stacks of dark brown peats, drawn from the
bog on sledges for winter fuel, were piled before the door.  The
young women of the village were busy carrying manure to the fields in
conical baskets, for now the little wooden ploughs were at work on
the upland slopes; and the old people sat at their doors, knitting,
spinning, or basking in the autumn sun, that poured his yellow glory
down the rugged glen, where the voices of the children rang merrily,
for a band of bare-headed and bare-legged urchins were having a
boisterous and gleeful game, with clubs and balls, in the middle of
the clachan, when, to the terror of all, John Grahame of Killearn
appeared with his followers.

He had come up Loch Lomond, with one or two large boats, armed with
brass swivel-guns, accompanied by several of the Buchanans, and, as
some say, by Stirling of Carden, who hated Rob Roy, and dreaded him
too, as he had long and unjustly withheld the tax of black-mail.

With all his duplicity and cunning, Killearn must have been a bold
fellow in attempting to enforce, in those days of dirks and
broadswords--and more especially in the country of Rob Roy--the same
harsh measures which similar factors carry out so successfully among
the now unarmed population of the North; spreading desolation through
Rossshire, Sutherland, and Breadalbane.  Yet, anomalous as it may
appear, he did so.  It is said that on the night before this visit,
Rob's staghounds howled in a melancholy and ominous manner, for the
old grey Highland dog possesses a sagacity so remarkable, and an
attachment so strong for his master, that the people believe he can
foresee approaching evil and death with the eyes of a seer.

Of the interview which took place bekveen Mr. Grahame and Helen
MacGregor, only traditional accounts have been preserved; but all who
have written on the subject assert that he forcibly entered the house
of Inversnaid, and roughly and summarily expelled her, with her four
children and all her servants; and that his bearing was harsh,
brutal, and unjustifiable.

"Grahame of Killearn," says the "History of Stirlingshire,"
"over-zealous in his master's service, had recourse to a mode of
expulsion inconsistent with the rights of humanity, by insulting Mrs.
Campbell in her husband's absence."

The furniture, crops, farm-stock, food, clothing, and everything were
carried off to be sold at Glasgow or Dumbarton, and the door of the
empty house was closed upon the now homeless family.  The poor huts
of Greumoch, Alaster Roy, and their more immediate followers, were
burned or levelled, that they too might be without shelter; and
re-embarking, after achieving these outrageous proceedings, Killearn,
with all his plunder, spread his sails, and proceeded down Loch
Lomond with all speed.

More than once the long Spanish gun of Rob's foster-brother covered
the dapper figure of the duke's chamberlain; but Greumoch arrested
the weapon, and bade him tarry in his vengeance till the Red
MacGregor returned.

On beholding the total ruin of her household, Helen MacGregoi is said
to have cast her plaid around her little boys, as they shrunk to her
side, and exclaimed, in a piercing voice, "Oh!  St. Mary, now with
the archangels, look here!"  For a time she abandoned herself to the
wildest grief; then, when thoughts more fierce and bitter came, she
wiped away her tears, and registered a terrible vow for vengeance on
their oppressors.

"It is certain," says Scott, "that she felt extreme anguish on being
expelled from the banks of Loch Lomond, and gave vent to her feelings
in a fine piece of pipe music, which she composed, and which is still
well known by the name of 'Rob Roy's Lament.'"

One of the children was sickly and feeble, and thus they were all
thrust forth upon the mountain side, in the last days of autumn, when
a Highland winter, with all its severities, was at hand, and when the
forest of pine--the badge of their name--would be their only shelter;
so Helen longed for the return of her husband, and for the vengeance
that was sure to follow!




CHAPTER XIV.

ROB AND THE DUKE.

Ignorant of what had passed--that the fire on his hearth was
extinguished--and that his household had been driven forth like
beasts of prey--Rob Roy, after failing to procure in Glasgow a sum
requisite to gratify the avarice of Montrose, appeared one afternoon
at the residence of the latter, the castle of Mugdock, which is nine
miles distant from Glasgow, and is situated in Strathblane.

The valets muttered among themselves of what their titled master had
done, and marvelled what might be the object of this visit from
MacGregor; the latter, especially since his inroad into Kippen, had
been somewhat used to be treated with a respect that was not
unmingled with fear, so the sudden interest his appearance excited
was unnoticed by him, as he was ushered into the library.

The castle of Mugdock, now a ruin, was then a regularly fortified
tower.  It is of great antiquity, and was protected on the east and
north by the water of a lake, which was drawn round it in the manner
of a fosse.

The central keep or donjon was surrounded by a barbican, built so as
to form an obtuse angle with the latter, so that a cross shower of
missiles would protect the arched gateway from any besiegers who
might assail it, for _defence_ was the first principle of Scottish
architecture in the olden time.

Through the grated windows of the library poor Rob gazed wistfully
down Strathblane, "the vale of the warm river," as it is named in the
figurative language of his native country.  He could see the wooded
landscape stretching to the westward far away, the gentle uplands,
the pine thickets, the shining lochlets and the winding stream; the
insulated cone of Dumgoaic, covered to its summit with waving
foliage, and in the distance, closing the familiar view, the vast
outline of Ben Lomond, that overshadowed its lake of the Twenty-four
Isles, and looked down on Inversnaid, where, as he fondly believed,
Helen, their little ones, MacAleister, and the household awaited his
return!

Alas! how little he knew of all that had happened there within the
last few weeks; and as little dared his titled host to tell him.

A step fell on his ear, as a person in high-heeled riding-boots, with
gilt maroquin gambadoes and gold spurs, trod on the polished oak
floor.  Rob turned, and found himself face to face with the chief of
"the gallant Grahams," the Duke of Montrose.

The latter was not a little startled on finding himself, during such
a crisis in their affairs, confronted by a man of such known
resolution as the Red MacGregor, so he blushed redly to the roots of
his ample periwig.

He wore the square-cut coat with buckram skirts and the long-flapped
waistcoat of Queen Anne's reign.  These were of dark blue silk,
covered with gold embroidery, and he looked every way the
great-grandson of the High Cavalier Marquis, whose portrait, by
Anthony Vandycke, in wig and armour, with sword and scarlet baton,
hung upon the wall--the same great Montrose who had been so cruelly
butchered by the Covenanters in 1650.

As the duke entered, he had in his hand a newspaper, which he hastily
crushed and concealed in his pocket, changing colour as he did so,
for that identical paper was the _Edinburgh Evening Courant_,
containing the advertisement offering a reward for Rob's seizure,
dead or alive, a copy of which Grahame of Killearn had just sent to
Mugdock by a special messenger.

Though armed with sword, dirk, and pistols, the bearing of Rob Roy
assured the startled duke in an instant that his visit was not
hostile, and that he was ignorant, or as yet happily unconscious, of
the wreck of his peace and honour, the destruction of his property,
and the desolation of his home; so Montrose bowed courteously with a
courtier's greeting.

"I salute you, gentleman," said Rob, as in Gaelic there are no terms
descriptive of rank.  The duke, whose right hand was still buried in
his pocket, clutching the paper, as if he dreaded that it would fly
out and unfold itself, held forth the other; but Rob drew back with a
lofty air of offended dignity, saying,--

"My father's son would not take the _left_ hand of a king--nay, not
even of him who is far away in France; God save and send him safely
to his own again!  And so, duke, why should I take _yours_?"

"Please yourself, MacGregor," replied the duke, with chilling
_hauteur_; "but remember that I have good reason to be offended."

"Offended!" echoed Rob, with surprise.

"You have used me ill."

"You got my letter from Carlisle by the hand of my most trusted
kinsman, Greumoch?" asked Rob, hastily.

"A gillie--a drover," sneered Montrose.

"A _duinewassal_ of the Clan Alpine, James Grahame, name him as you
will," said Rob Roy, becoming flushed with anger.

"What is all this to me?" asked Montrose, haughtily.

"Dioul!" exclaimed Rob, passionately; "did you not get my letter?"

"I did."

"Then it fully explained all."

"It explained that being undersold in the southern markets, or
something to that effect, you had parted with our cattle below prime
cost."

"Far below it, as I can assure your grace."

"Well, MacGregor Campbell?"

"'Sdeath!  MacGregor only!" interrupted Rob, whose fury was fast
rising, and he stamped his foot on the floor.

"I decline to bear my share in this loss, and have insisted upon
repayment of the _whole sum_ originally subscribed, with the interest
due thereon."

"You have insisted?" repeated Rob.

"The affair is in the hand of my chamberlain," aaid the duke,
evasively.  "I am not now to learn the tricks of Highland drovers,
and how your band of landless reivers and broken sorners, who drove
those cattle south, are likely to serve me."  The Duke made this
offensive speech for the express purpose of working himself, and Rob
too, into a passion.

"Montrose," said the latter, sternly; "those whom you stigmatize as
landless reivers and broken sorners are better men than ever
inherited your blood, duke now though you be!  And if this is the way
you mean to treat me, by the Grey Stone in Glenfruin, and by the
souls of those who died there, I shall not consider it _my_ interest
to pay your interest, nor my interest either to pay even the
principal!"

"Dare you say this to me?" exclaimed the duke, flushing with real
anger; "to me, under my own roof-tree?"

MacGregor laughed, and patted the basket-hilt of his sword, put on
his bonnet, and arose.  Saying, "I would say something more if you
stood on the open heather, under the canopy of heaven.  But now let
us understand each other; big words never scared MacGregor, and they
are not likely to do so now.  I have but £200 to offer you, and yours
it should have been had you acted justly or generously; but now----"

"You will keep it, of course?"

"Ay, every God's-penny, and lay it out in the king's service."

"What king?"

"Can _you_ ask?" exclaimed Rob, with a glance of surprise, that was
blended almost with ferocity.  "I mean King James VIII. of Scotland.
Queen Anne is ill, so men told me in the south; the day is not far
distant when the flag will hang half-hoisted on the walls of
Carlisle; and the first news that the Hanoverian Elector has landed
in England will make the Highland hills bristle with
broadswords--yea, bristle like a stubble-field!  The heather will be
on fire from Strathspey to Inverary, and this £200, Montrose, the sum
exactly for which, as men say, you sold your country, when bribed to
make the Union, I shall lay out in the service of him who has sworn
to break it.  Ochon! the ills that are coming upon us are a pregnant
example of the folly of a people allowing their fatherland to be the
property of kings!  Thus, ours succeeded to the kingdom of England,
just as they might have done to a farm or a barony; but England being
the richer and the greater, they soon forgot the old house in which
their good forefathers lived and died.  And now, Montrose, learn from
this hour that MacGregor is your enemy!"

The duke, who was too high-spirited to brook being bearded in his own
house, raised his hand to the bell to summon his servants, but paused
on seeing the stern frown that gathered on MacGregor's face, and that
his right hand was on the pistol in his girdle.

With a mock reverence Rob left his presence, reached the barbican,
mounted his horse, and was soon galloping down Strathblane towards
the banks of the Enrich.

The duke's first intention was to have him overtaken by a mounted
party and made prisoner; but he speedily dismissed the idea, for to
waylay one who had just left his own threshold would cover his name
with disgrace and reprobation throughout the north; and, moreover,
the castle of Mugdock was uncomfortably near the Highland frontier.

"No, no," he muttered; "'twere better that he should fall into other
hands than mine, and find his way from thence to the castle of
Dumbarton, or the _kindly_ gallows of Crieff," for so the Highlanders
ironically termed that formidable gibbet on which so many a sturdy
cateran has taken his last farewell of the sun.




CHAPTER XV.

DESOLATION.

Full of his own thoughts, which were fiery and bitter, and feeling
fully resolved to challenge Montrose to a combat, according to the
laws of honour and of arms, Rob rode fast along the eastern shore of
Loch Lomond: but darkness had set in before he drew near Inversnaid.

Then his heart began to swell with other and kindlier emotions as he
pictured his home and his household--his wife and their fairhaired
children welcoming him back; and already their voices seemed to sound
in his ears, and their smiling faces to come before him.

The moon had risen, and shed its light upon that lovely lake of many
isles, on the vast shadowy masses of Ben Lomond and its wondrous
scenery, through which the rugged pathway wound, overhung in some
places by gloomy pines, by impending rocks, or the feathery sprays of
the silver birch.

With scorn and defiance of Montrose, certain emotions of pride and
security swelled the heart of MacGregor, as he rode on; for again he
was at home--in the home of the swordsman and shepherd--the abode of
the wolf and the eagle, where yet, in the garb of old Gaul--

  The hunter of deer and the warrior trod,
  To his hills that encircle the sea.

From some points Loch Lomond resembled a great river, lying between
lofty mountains, its bosom dotted with isles that are covered with
trees, dark brushwood, or moss of emerald green.  Bold headlands of
rock seemed to jut forth in the water, which shone in the moonlight
like a sheet of silver, and hills that were covered with wood filled
up the background.

And there, in the moonlight, lay the loveliest of all Loch Lomond's
green and woody isles, the MacGregors' burying-place--the Place of
Sleep, Inchcailloch, or the Isle of Nuns, with its ruined chapel and
all its solemn trees.

The Red MacGregor gazed on it wistfully, for there had all the dead
of his persecuted clan been gathered, generation after generation,
ever since the days of Donngheal, the son of King Alpin; and now he
whipped his lagging horse, and ere long reached the narrow track
which led to his home at Inversnaid.

The stillness began to surprise him--no cattle lowed on the hills, no
dog barked or bayed to the moon as she waded through the fleecy
clouds, and one or two cottages, whose inmates he knew, seemed to
have fallen in or been levelled.

A strange foreboding of evil stole into his breast.

At last his own house, with its whitewashed walls and its roof
thatched with heather, rose before him in the glen; but no smoke
curled from its chimneys--no light appeared in any of its windows,
and all was solemnly and oppressively still in the homestead around
it--still and silent as the islet of the dead that lay in the shining
lake below.

Dismounting, he led his horse by the bridle, and was about to
approach the door, when three Highlanders appeared suddenly before
him: one carried a gun, and was fully armed; the other two bore a
dead deer, which was slung by the feet from the branch of a tree that
rested on their shoulders.

He with the gun came boldly forward, and demanded "who went there?"

"The Red MacGregor," replied Rob, in Gaelic.

"Inversnaid!" exclaimed the three men, joyously; and, dropping the
deer, they almost embraced him, for they proved to be Greumoch and
two other MacGregors, who were among his most trusted and valued
followers.

"What does all this mean?" he exclaimed; "why is my house shut, and
where are the people?"

"Ask Montrose!" said Greumoch, fiercely.

"Montrose!  I left him but a few hours ago in Strathblane," replied
Rob.

"And he told you nothing?"

"Only that I owed him money, and that this money he would have--every
penny.  But speak quickly--Helen, the boys--what has happened?"

The resentment of Rob Roy was deep, fierce, and bitter when he found
that his house and homestead had been swept of everything, and that
nothing remained for him and his family but an abode in the woods or
on the mountain side; and he uttered a terrible vow for vengeance on
Killearn and on the duke his master.

Ponderous locks now secured the door of his own house against him.
These Greumoch's gun might soon have blown to pieces, and thus he
might have forced an entrance; or he might have repaired to the house
of his nephew at Glengyle.  But Rob did neither; he simply desired
Greumoch to conduct him to Helen, who now had found shelter in a
little cottage--a veritable hut--in a glen at some distance; and the
first boding sound that reached his ear as he approached it was the
melancholy wail of the bagpipe, as Alpine, the family piper, played
Helen's _Lament_, which we believe has never been committed to paper,
but has been handed down from one generation to another.

The presence of his wife and children (one of the latter sick and
ailing, too), instead of soothing Rob Roy, added fuel to the flame
that burned within him; and the alternate grief and energy of Helen
spurred his longing for vengeance on those who had so foully wronged
him.

Next, his followers crowded around him, detailing their losses and
insults, grasping significantly the hilts of their swords and dirks,
and gradually lashing each other into greater fury, for hitherto they
had lacked but a leader, and now that Rob had returned they expected
him to march them at once against the Grahams, or whoever might come
in their way.  But Rob Roy had greater aims in view than the mere
gratification of private revenge; so he resolved to be patient for a
time.

"And when that time comes, Helen," said he, with solemn energy, "I
will lay the Lennox in flames, and harry Mugdock to its groundstone.
There is not a house or homestead, a castle or village, but I shall
lay in ashes, between this and the Trongate of Glasgow, unless my
hopes and measures fail me."

Helen answered only by her tears, and pressed her sick baby closer to
her breast.

"Woe to you, Killearn," said Greumoch, while feeling the edge of his
poleaxe; "if you fall into my hands you shall have a short life!"

Next morning Rob placed Helen on a strong Highland garron, and slung
the children in two panniers on the back of the horse he had ridden
from Glasgow.  Greumoch, MacAleister, and others shouldered their
long Spanish muskets, the pipers struck up "MacGregors' March," and
in this fashion the family of Inversnaid departed to seek a wilder
part of the country, where, rent free, they might dwell amid the
hills.

Rob retired twelve Scottish (or twenty English) miles further into
the Highlands, but he still remained upon what he considered his own
territory; and there, building what was termed a creel-house,
resolved to live in open war with, and defiance of, the Duke of
Montrose, who, by a regular form of law, had now become, for a time,
legal proprietor of Inversnaid and Craigrostan!

In the wilds of Glendochart Rob began to frame daring political
schemes, which the protection afforded to him by his kinsman, Sir
John Campbell, of Glenorchy, now Earl of Breadalbane, enabled him to
mature, and arms were collected and hidden in secret places, and men
were prepared for the coming strife.

Aware that the Paper Court of Dunedin (as the Highlanders
disdainfully term the College of Justice at Edinburgh) was not a
place where a Celt--especially a MacGregor--was likely to obtain
equity, when opposed to a powerful duke who supported the Whigs,
whose government Rob abhorred--he resolved to set all law at
defiance, and, like a true Scot of the olden time, to confide in his
sword alone.

In addition to the seizure of all he possessed on earth, the
advertisements which appeared, again and again, in the columns of the
"Edinburgh Evening Courant," stung him to the soul; for therein he
was stigmatized as a fraudulent bankrupt, an outlaw, and robber--as
if it was sought to make him one, for the express purpose of
destroying him.  One runs as follows:--


"All magistrates and officers of his Majesty's forces are entreated
to seize upon Rob Roy, and the money which he carries with him, until
the persons concerned in the money may be heard against him; and that
notice be given, when he is apprehended, to the keepers of the
Exchange Coffee-house at Edinburgh, and the keeper of the
Coffee-house at Glasgow, where the parties concerned will be
advertised, and the seizers shall be very reasonably rewarded for
their pains."  (_Edinburgh Courant_, No. 1,058.)


"Now, Helen," said he, trampling the paper under foot, and then
casting it into the bogwood fire that blazed on the floor of their
cabin, "by the soul o' Ciar Mhor, our foes shall find that the days
of Glenfruin are come again!  Henceforward, all is at end between us
and the Lowlanders, and we shall devote ourselves to war and death!"

When Craigrostan, the last of his patrimony, was taken from him,
MacGregor was so exasperated (to quote Browne's "Highland History")
"that he declared perpetual war against the duke, and resolved that
in future he should supply himself with cattle from his grace's
estates, a resolution which he literally kept, and for THIRTY years
he carried off the duke's flocks with impunity, and disposed of them
publicly in different parts of the country."

The historian adds that these cattle generally belonged to the duke's
tenants, who were thus impoverished and unable to pay their rents.
He so levied, at the point of the sword, contributions in meal and
money, but never until it had first been delivered by the poor
tenants to the duke's storekeeper, to whom he always delivered a
receipt for the quantity he carried off.  At settling the money
rents, he frequently attended with a strong band of chosen men, and
giving receipts in due form, pocketed the rents of Montrose, who soon
began to repent, in bitterness, that he had ever molested Rob Roy.




CHAPTER XVI.

ROB TAKES THE TOWER OF CARDEN.

The hills abounded with red deer, the moors and forests with other
game--the lochs and rivers teemed with fish--the pastures of the
Grahames were full of cattle; thus, Rob and his outlawed followers
lived sumptuously in their mountain fastnesses, whither none, as yet,
dared to follow them.

Montrose and Killearn were, at that time, beyond Rob's reach; so on
Archibald Stirling, of Carden, who had long withheld his tribute of
black-mail for service and protection rendered, fell the first burst
of his indignation.

It was on a day in the harvest of 1710, that he marched about two
hundred and fifty men, in hostile array, with pipes playing, through
the parish of Kippen, after passing through the wild glens that lie
at the feet of Benmore and Benledi.

This force suddenly appeared before the castle of Carden, which stood
on an eminence or island, formed by what was then a loch, but the bed
of which is now a rich green meadow, and its name signifies
"Caer-dun," or, the fort on the height.  No vestige of this castle
remains now; though so lately as 1760 a portion of the great tower
was standing.

Archibald Stirling was a high cavalier, who, two years before, had
been indicted for treason, for having drunk the health of James VIII.
at the cross of Dunkeld, accompanied by the Stirlings of Keir and
Kippendavie, while swords were flourished, trumpets sounded, and
muskets fired.

On the occasion of Rob's visit, Stirling and his lady were both from
home, with many of their servants.  No inroad was expected from any
quarter, and, as the drawbridge was down, the MacGregors, who had
been prepared to take the place by storm, quietly took possession of
the gates, spread themselves over the whole house, and the contents
of the cellars and pantries were quickly investigated.

When the family returned, about sunset, they found the gates shut,
the bridge drawn up, and the windows and bartizan full of
grim-looking MacGregors, in their red tartans, and bristling with
swords, axes, and long guns; while Rob's favourite piper, Alpine,
strode to and fro on the roof, playing his invariable air of
defiance, "The Battle of Glenfruin."

Outwitted and alarmed, the laird tied a white handkerchief to the
point of his sword, and dismounting from the saddle, behind which his
terrified lady rode upon a pillion, he advanced to the outer edge of
the moat, and waved thrice his impromptu flag of truce.  On this the
pibroch ceased, and Rob Roy, with bonnet and feather, broadsword and
target, appeared at a window of the hall.

"What is the meaning of all this, MacGregor?" asked the laird,
sternly; "wherefore do I find your people here, and my own gates shut
against me?"

"Carden, remember the black-mail!" replied the outlaw, with equal
sternness.  "You have long withheld the reward of that protection I
once afforded you; and you must yield it now, or see your house
burned to the groundstone."

"I will not yield you a shilling--nay, not a farthing of it.  I am
able to protect myself against all reivers and thieves whatsoever."

"Our being _in_, and your being _out_, at present, cannot look very
like it," said MacGregor, laughing; "and here shall we stay,
Carden----"

"Till I rouse the Lennox on you, or get a party of troops from
Dumbarton.  Remember that MacDougal's dragoons are lying at Kylsyth!"
exclaimed Carden, furiously, as he turned towards his horse.

"Hold!" cried Rob, sternly, and the appearance of MacAleister's gun,
levelled from the tower-head, made Carden pause; then a scream burst
from his wife, when perceiving that Rob held from the window their
youngest child, which he had taken from the cradle, as she feared
with some cruel intention--perhaps to cast it into the lake!  Her
husband had the same dread, for he grew deadly pale.

"MacGregor, hold!" he exclaimed; "hold, for Heaven's sake, and spare
my child!"

"Who spared mine, when you and Killearn came like wolves in my
absence, and made my household desolate?  Though my youngest-born was
sick and ailing, you stood coldly by, while it and its mother were
driven forth, from my house at Inversnaid, like the dam and cubs of a
wolf; so if I am the wretch that you and others seek to make me,
wherefore should I not dash this youngling at your feet, or cast it
into the loch?"

For a moment both father and mother were speechless with terror and
anxiety; but Rob was too humane to torment them thus.  He laughed,
kissed and toyed with the poor child, whose plump fingers played with
his rough, red beard, and then he resigned it to the nurse, who was
well-nigh scared out of her senses.

"MacGregor," cried the Laird of Carden, "unbar the gate, and lower
the bridge, and you shall have your black-mail, every penny, with all
arrears."

"'Tis well, Carden; now you speak like a reasonable man, and shall be
alike welcome to your own rooftree, and to share with me a glass of
wine from your own cellar.  Admit the laird, Greumoch," he added to
that personage, who had charge of the bridge and gate.  He then
hurried down, and after courteously assisting the lady to alight from
her pillion, he conducted her into the castle, where he soon received
the tax, granted a receipt for it in legal form, and drawing off his
men, marched under cloud of night, and with all speed, towards the
mountains.

Since the battle of Glenfruin, and its subsequent severities, the
MacGregors had been a scattered clan; but they now began to flock to
Rob Roy in such numbers that he soon found himself at the head of
five hundred swordsmen.

As the representative of Glengyle, his influence over them was very
great, and they all regarded him as the man ordained by Heaven to
avenge their injuries on the Lowlanders; for a wrong done to one
member of a clan was a wrong done to all, as they were all kinsmen,
and related by blood.

Habituated to war and the use of arms, to a love of each other and of
their chief, a clan was endued with what an historian terms the two
most active principles of human nature--attachment to one's friends
and hatred of their enemies.

"Thus," says Sir John Dalrymple, "the humblest of a clan, knowing
himself to be as well born as the head of it, revered in his chief
his own honour; loved in his clan his own blood; complained not of
the difference of station into which fortune had thrown him, and
respected himself.  The chief in return bestowed a protection founded
equally on gratitude and the consciousness of his own interest.
Hence the Highlanders, whom more savage nations called savage,
carried in the outward expression of their manners the politeness of
courts without their vices, and in their bosoms the highest point of
honour without its follies."*


* "Memoirs of Great Britain."


Notwithstanding the reward offered for his apprehension, Rob Roy was
often rash enough to venture from his fastness alone, and into the
very territories of his enemies, for he had become openly an adherent
of the exiled House of Stuart, and deep schemes were on foot for
maturing the plans of an insurrection; and the conduct of many of
these intrigues was committed to his care.

On one of these missions he found himself belated one night near the
village of Arnpryor, in the district of Kippen, to which he had paid
more than one hostile visit, and where, consequently, he was exposed
to many dangers.

Nevertheless, he repaired to the village alehouse, and found a
gentleman named Henry Cunninghame, the Laird of Boquhan, seated by
the fire over a bottle of claret, which cost only tenpence per
mutchkin, and was then a favourite beverage with all ranks in
Scotland.  He at once recognized MacGregor, and they entered into
conversation; but some remarks which he made, either on the affairs
of the exiled king, or those of MacGregor, exasperated the latter,
who sprang up with a hand on his sword, in token of defiance and
quarrel.  Boquhan was unarmed.  MacGregor could have supplied him
with pistols; but being the challenged party he preferred the sword,
in the use of which few in Scotland equalled and none excelled him.

The goodwife of the tavern, fearing a brawl, averred that she had not
a single weapon in her house; so the laird despatched a messenger to
his residence for a sword, which his wife refused to send him,
knowing well it was required for a duel or a brawl; so daylight
broke, and found them still loth to part in anger, and still waiting
for a weapon.

It chanced then that Boquhan espied an old and rusty rapier in a
corner, which had hitherto escaped his notice.  He at once possessed
himself of it; Rob unsheathed his claymore; the tables and chairs
were thrust aside, and the combat began with great fury.

It is stated that MacGregor soon discovered that he had no ordinary
antagonist in Henry Cunninghame; and having no particular animosity
to him, and remembering, perhaps, how perilous to his own clan his
death, or even a severe wound, would prove at that particular crisis,
after a dozen passes or so, he lowered the point of his sword, and
said,--

"Enough of this, Boquhan; I find you are brave as you are expert, and
I yield to you."  So he sheathed his sword, and they parted good
friends; but Rob's enemies in the Lennox magnified his prudence into
a humiliating defeat.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE JACOBITE BOND.

Roy Roy and those who adhered to him found themselves tolerably safe
in the land of the Campbells--the more so as his mother was a
daughter of that powerful clan which had been at enmity with the
house of Montrose since the wars of the Covenant, since the slaughter
of the Campbells at Inverlochy by the Great Marquis, and since the
invasion of Lorn by his cavaliers.  Fortunately for Rob Roy, the
mutual hate between the Dukes of Argyll and Montrose was still as hot
as ever.

The death of Queen Anne and the accession of George I. soon brought
political matters to a crisis in Scotland, where the Jacobites had
remained quiet enough under the rule of a sovereign who was a Stuart,
and under none else could the union of the two kingdoms ever have
been achieved.

But now, a rising for her brother to succeed as James VIII. of
Scotland and III. of England was resolved on, and a great meeting of
Jacobite leaders took place in Breadalbane.  The better to mask their
intentions from Government, it was entitled a hunting match, though
among the secluded hills of the Scottish Highlands such a precaution
seemed somewhat unnecessary.

The chiefs and chieftains--among the latter was Rob Roy--who
assembled on the occasion, soon ascertained each other's sentiments
and the number of men they could bring into the field; and ulterior
plans were soon resolved upon, while a previously prepared bond, for
their mutual faith to each other and to the exiled king, was
produced, and thereunto each man appended his signature.

By some inexcusable neglect on the part of a gentleman who became its
custodian, this important paper fell into the hands of Captain
Campbell of Glenlyon (an officer whose name was unfortunately
involved deeply in the Massacre of Glencoe), who was then stationed
in the garrison of Fort William, near Lochiel.

Glenlyon retained the bond, and finding that among the names appended
thereto were those of many who were his own immediate friends and
relations, he did not, for a time, mention its tenor or even its
existence; but the horror with which he was regarded in Scotland, as
the tool of King William in the midnight slaughter of the Macdonalds,
had spread even among his own kinsmen; and thus, when the Jacobite
chiefs became aware that a man of a character so unscrupulous held a
document that might give all their heads to the block and their
estates to fire and sword, they became naturally anxious and alarmed,
and a hundred futile plans were formed for its recovery or
destruction.

The Earl of Mar, the chief of the Jacobite leaders, turned to Rob
Roy, who, although he had affixed his name to the bond as "Robert
MacGregor of Inversnaid and Craigrostan," cared not a rush personally
about the matter, as he despised alike the new king and his
government; but on being urged by others, whose fortunes were less
desperate, he resolved to undertake its recovery or perish in the
attempt.

To this he was urged by Sir James Livingstone, who had been
despatched to him by the Earl of Mar, and who was the same gentleman
he had wounded after the devastation of Kippen.

Disguising himself, he relinquished the picturesque garb of the
mountains for a rocquelaure, boots, and breeches, and rode to Fort
William, which is a strongly-built and regular fortress, situated
near the base of Ben Nevis, and at the extremity of Lochiel.

Notwithstanding the peril in which he placed himself, for the
advertisements of the "Courant" still, from time to time, offered a
reward for him dead or alive, Rob contrived to pass the gates and
sentinels unnoticed or unquestioned, and obtained an interview with
Captain Campbell of Glenlyon, who recognized him immediately, but
dared neither to discover nor detain him, as Rob was a near relation
of his own.

His visitor inquired about the bond which had been signed at the
pretended hunting-match, and, to his rage and indignation, he
discovered, after long evasion, that Glenlyon, in revenge for the
contemptuous manner in which he was spoken of by the Jacobites, had
placed the document in the hands of the governor of the garrison!

The latter was Sir John Hill, a brave and resolute old Whig officer,
who had been placed there so far back as the days of Charles II., and
had retained his command during all the changes of the long and
stormy period that intervened--in fact, strange as it may appear, he
was one of the last soldiers of Oliver Cromwell.

"And so this bond, which binds so many of us in life and death to
King James, is in possession of Colonel Hill?" said Rob, with visible
uneasiness.

"Yes," replied Glenlyon, with a malignant expression in his light
grey eyes; "and it shall be forwarded in due time to the Secretary of
State for the information of His Majesty and the Privy Council."

"Humph--His Majesty!" repeated Rob, with, scorn in his eye and tone;
"will it be sent soon?"

"Why do _you_ ask, my friend?" inquired the captain.

"Because," replied Rob, with a smile, "as my name is appended to it,
I should like, with your leave, kinsman, to get a little further into
the hills, as I know that the Lords of the Privy Council take some
interest in my movements."

"Kinsman Rob, situated as you and the MacGregors are, it will not
make much difference now.  But in three days the bond will be sent
from this to the Governor of Dumbarton in charge of Captain Huske."

"Does he belong to Argyle's regiment?"

"No; the South British Fusiliers."

"He will require a pretty strong party to march with through the
glens."

"He will have the usual escort," replied Glenlyon, carelessly; for he
did not remark the red flash of triumph that sparkled in the eyes of
Rob Roy, as he took his leave, and lost no time in travelling over
the mountains, and reaching his now humble home.

Knowing that Captain Huske and his party must pass through the
last-named valley, Rob summoned MacAleister, Greumoch, Alaster Roy,
his oldest son Coll--who could now shoulder a musket, and was a
strong and active boy--with fifty other MacGregors, all men on whom
he could depend, who had been his comrades in every expedition of
importance, and whom he knew would stand by him truly "to the last of
their blood and their breath;" accompanied by these he took up a
position in a place which commanded a view of the whole glen, and
remained there night and day waiting for his prey.

The grey smoke of the clachan of Killin was visible in the distance
from Rob's bivouac; and on the other hand lay Loch Dochart, amid
whose lonely waters the scaup-duck, the water-rail, and the
ring-ouzel float, and where the long-legged heron wades in search of
the spotted trout.

Moated by these waters is an isle containing the ruins of a castle,
the ancient residence of the knights of Lochawe.  Masses of trees
almost shroud it now; but once, in the days of its strength and
pride, it was stormed by the MacGregors during a moonlight night, in
a keen and frosty winter, when the loch was sheeted with ice.
Constructing large fascines of timber to shield them from arrows and
other missiles, they pushed those screens before them, and on
reaching the outer wall, soon became masters of the place.

There, too, is a floating isle, formed by the intertwisting of roots
and water-plants.  Often it is seen to float like a ship before the
wind, with the bewildered cattle which have ventured on it from the
shore, for its grass is rich and verdant.

With tales of past achievements and songs, passing the whisky-bottle
round the while, Rob and his followers saw the third day drawing to a
close, before Alaster Roy, who had been scouting down the glen, came
in haste to announce that a red English soldier was in sight!  This
proved to be the advanced file of Captain Huske's party.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DESPATCHES CAPTURED.

The summits of the hills, behind which the sun was setting, were dark
and sombre, while a ruddy purple hue tinged those on which his light
was falling.

Concealing themselves among some tufts of high fern and dwarf
alder-trees, the MacGregors watched the advance of those whom they
deemed the chief tools of their tormentors--the unsuspecting soldiers
of the line.

The brightly-burnished musket-barrels of the men, and the pikes then
carried by the officer and his sergeant, were seen to flash and
glitter as they advanced through the deep hollow, along which the
narrow foot-track wound; and soon the bright red of their
square-skirted coats, and their white crossbelts, breeches, and
gaiters appeared in strong relief upon the dun heather of the glen.

Rob counted that there was an officer, a sergeant, and twenty rank
and file.  From his ambush he could with ease have shot down the
whole party, had he been cruelly disposed; but, that even his enemies
might not be taken unprepared, he ordered young Coll, MacAleister,
and the rest to keep out of sight, but to start up at a given signal;
and then, rising from his hiding-place, he advanced alone towards the
marching soldiers.

The appearance of a fully-armed Highlander, with sword, dirk,
pistols, and target, excited no comment then; for, on Rob drawing
near, the officer coldly returned his salute, and the sergeant
inquired "how far it was from thence to the head of Loch Lomond?"

"About twenty miles, if you pass through Glenfalloch."  The soldiers,
who were a mixed party of the 15th Foot and the South British
Fusiliers, muttered something which sounded very like oaths.  In
those days an officer's escort accompanied every Government letter or
message through the Highlands, as smaller parties were liable to be
cut off.

"It will be mirk midnight before you get half way through the glen,"
resumed Rob, with a mocking smile; "and people say that Glenfalloch
is haunted."

"By what?" asked the officer, who wore a Ramillie wig, a
three-cornered hat, and red rocquelaure.

"Spirits."

"Indeed--whisky, I suppose?" said the sergeant, laughing.

"Loud voices are heard talking in the air overhead, when nothing can
be seen but the sailing clouds."

"Voices!" exclaimed Captain Huske.

"Yes, as if one hill-top was talking to the other."

"Bah!  I can bid our drummer beat the 'Point of War.'  I warrant
he'll scare away all your Highland goblins, even Rob Roy himself,
whom I wish was as near me as you are."

"You have had him near enough once before," said MacGregor, gravely,
as he suddenly recognized the officer, though some time had elapsed
since they last met.

"Hah--when?"

"In Moffatdale, where he gave you a lesson in humanity, and in good
manners, too."

"Zounds, sirrah, what do you mean?" asked Captain Huske, cocking his
hat fiercely over his right eye, and stepping forward a pace.

"Simply, that he ran you through the body, as he is quite prepared to
do again, if you do not instantly yield up your packet of despatches!"

The officer sprang back, threw off his rocquelaure, and brought his
pike to the charge; Rob parried the thrust by his claymore, but he
uttered a shrill whistle on seeing the soldiers fixing their bayonets
and cocking their muskets.

"Shoot down the Highland dog!" cried Captain Huske, choking with
passion; but his soldiers paused, for a yell now pierced the welkin,
and fifty MacGregors, armed with sword and target, and each with the
badge of his forbidden clan in his bonnet--a sprig of the mountain
pine--rushed down with a shout of "Ard choille! ard choille!
'Srioghal mo dhream!"  Perceiving that he was outnumbered, the
officer withdrew his pike, and by outstretched sword-arm Rob kept
back his own people, who glared over their shields at the unfortunate
party of soldiers, who thought their doom was sealed, and that a
hopeless and bloody struggle was about to ensue.

"Are you all robbers?" asked the officer, fiercely.

"No more than your citizens of London or Carlisle may be," replied
MacGregor.  "You might be shot by a cowardly footpad on Hounslow
Heath--ay, or London Bridge, or in the High Street of Edinburgh; but
who there would stop a band of armed soldiers as I this day stop you?
Here, in front of your men, sir, I will fight you, with sword and
pistol, or with sword and dirk; whichever please you."

"Neither please me--I am a king's officer, and may not risk my life,
like a roadside bully, thus," said the captain, haughtily.  "Am I
right in supposing that you are the outlaw Rob Roy, for whose capture
a high reward is offered?"

"You are right; I am the Laird of Inversnaid, and instantly require
your despatches."

"For what purpose?"

"The service of his Majesty, King James VIII., whom God preserve!"
replied MacGregor, lifting his bonnet with reverence.

"I must either give up my life and the despatches together, or the
despatches alone," said the officer, bewildered and exasperated.

"What you may do is nothing to me."

"But there is one of vast importance."

"The very one I wish, captain; so surrender it at once, or I shall
cut you and your men into collops for the fox and the raven."
Captain Huske opened the breast-pocket of his regimentals, and
unwillingly gave to Rob a large sealed packet, addressed, "To the
most noble Prince, James, Duke of Montrose, Secretary of State for
Scotland.  On His Majesty's Service."

Rob's eyes sparkled with resentment on seeing the name of his enemy;
but he tore open the envelope, and taking out the well-known bond of
the Highland chiefs, restored the packet to the English officer.

He then offered him and his men a dram each, and marched off into the
darkening mountains, leaving the captain to proceed towards
Dumbarton, or return to Colonel Hill at Fort William, whichever
suited his orders or his fancy.

By this bold exploit Rob preserved secret the plans of the
forthcoming insurrection, and saved from the scaffold, captivity, or
exile, many brave nobles and gentlemen, whom otherwise the merciless
Government of George I. would have seized and destroyed in detail.




CHAPTER XIX.

ABERUCHAIL.

Prior to the great Rising of the Clans in 1715, Rob Roy was engaged
as usual in several small skirmishes and frays, in which his skill
and strategy as a leader were prominent; and he gained yet more the
reputation of being the protector of the poor against the rich, and
of the defenceless against those who would oppress them.

In spite of the Duke of Montrose, he had re-established himself again
at Craigrostan, from whence he never went abroad attended by less
than twenty or thirty well-armed men, including his henchman and
Greumoch.

These were his _Leine Chrios_, or body-guard.

Some of the Grahames of Montrose, and others who were obnoxious to
himself or to the cause of the exiled king, he confined occasionally
in a place which is still named Rob Roy's prison.

This is a mural rock, the eyry of the osprey or water-eagle, which
rises to the height of thirty feet on the north-eastern shore of Loch
Lomond, about four miles from Kowardennan.

Slung by ropes, he occasionally lowered them from the summit, and
after permitting them to swing in mid-air for a time, would give them
a severe ducking in the loch below and compel them to shout--

"God save King James VIII."

They were then permitted to depart amid the laughter of his
followers; and it must be borne in mind that this was very gentle
treatment when compared with that to which the MacGregors were
subjected when captured by the same people.

As the old Highland proprietors or heads of septs held their lands in
virtue of an occupancy coeval with the first settlement of the tribes
in Scotland, and consequently disdained to hold possession by virtue
of a skeepskin rather than by their sword-blades, in later years, a
system of suppressing the smaller lairds by force of arms had long
been pursued with success by the house of Argyle in the west.

A powerful landowner of that name, who had recently been created a
baronet, seized at the point of the sword a small estate in
Glendochart, and expelled the proprietor with all his family and
kindred.

MacGregor, who could not permit an act of such injustice to pass
unpunished, sent Greumoch with forty men to the Braes of Glenorchy,
with orders to "bring this oppressor of the poor a prisoner before
him."

It was in the sweet season of spring, when the lapwing came to the
bowers of silver birch and the green plover winged its way over the
purple heather, when the MacGregors departed on this expedition; and
being aware of the place and time when their prey would probably
pass, they concealed themselves among the bleak granite rocks of Ben
Cruachin, a vast mountain, the red furrowed sides of which--furrowed
by a thousand water-courses--rise above Loch Awe, and terminate in a
sharp cone.

Here stood the wall of a ruined chapel, founded of old by a MacGregor
chief, and through it a well, deemed holy, flowed into a stone basin,
under an old yew-tree.  To the stem was chained an iron ladle, by
which the thirsty pilgrim or wayfarer might drink, and at the bottom
of the basin lay little copper Scottish coins which had been dropped
therein as offerings, while knots of ribbons, rags, and trifles
decorated the boughs of the aged yew.

"A place of good omen!" said Greumoch, looking around him; "for here
it was that Clan Alpine won the lands of Glenorchy, when there were
no paper courts in Dunedin, or redcoats in Dumbarton."

It chanced that on a day in summer, King David I., of Scotland, was
hunting with Malcolm MacGregor, the eighth chief of Clan Alpine, on
the side of Cruachin, when a wild boar, of marvellous strength, size,
and ferocity, appeared in a rugged defile.  It at once assailed the
monarch, whose hunting-spear broke and left him at its mercy; but
instead of rushing forward, the boar retired to whet its tusks
against the rocks, so Malcolm craved the king's permission to attack
it.

"E'en do," said the king; "but spaire nocht!"

"_Eadhon dean agus na caomhain!_" shouted MacGregor, translating the
king's lowland Scottish into Gaelic, as he tore up a young tree by
the roots, and kept the boar at bay until he could close with it and
bury his long dagger in its throat.  At the third stab he slew it.

To reward his courage, David granted him the lands of Glenorchy, and,
in remembrance of the day, added to his arms _argent_, an oak-tree
uprooted _vert_, across a claymore _azure_, which every MacGregor may
bear to this day.

But now the Campbells were lords of Glenorchy, and just as Greumoch
had ended this legend of the clan, which no doubt all his hearers
knew before, the great personage they were in search of rode into the
defile, when he was surrounded, and his retainers were scattered in a
moment.

On finding himself a prisoner, and knowing well to whom, the baronet
proposed a ransom; but bribes were offered and threats uttered in
vain to Greumoch, who ordered the prisoner to be tied up in a long
plaid, which was slung over the shoulders of Alaster Roy and another
tall gilly; and thus by turns, with two bearers at a time, he was
conveyed for about fourteen miles to a place called Tyndrum, where he
was brought before Rob Roy.

This village is at the head of Strathfillan in Breadalbane, on the
western military road.

Rob upbraided the prisoner with his cruelty and oppression, and
threatened to toss him over the rock into Loch Lomond, with a stone
in his plaid, if he did not restore the lands in Glendochart to their
original owner.

Paper was produced, a document was drawn up and signed, by the tenor
of which he and his heirs renounced them formally and for ever.

He now hoped to be allowed to depart; but there arose a cry of,--

"To the well! to the well! give him a dip in the Holy Pool of St.
Fillan!"

It was Paul Crubach who spoke.

"Be it so," said Rob; "if the water has not lost its virtue, a dip
therein may improve the Campbell's spirit of honour, and prevent him
from robbing the poor again."

In spite of his earnest entreaties, the MacGregors bore their
prisoner, who feared they were about to drown him, to the well of St.
Fillan.  The whole population of the village followed, and lame Paul
hobbled in front, chuckling and laughing, while his eyes flashed with
insane delight, his long grizzled hair streaming in elf-locks on the
wind, as with one hand he brandished his wooden cross, and with the
other tolled vehemently the ancient bell of St. Fillan, which in
those days always stood upon a gravestone in the churchyard.

After permitting his men to duck the prisoner soundly, Rob procured a
horse, and sent him homeward with a safe escort under his son Coll;
but though these indignities were too great to be forgotten, in
followers Rob was too strong now to be captured, even by the
Campbells of Argyle.

For the forthcoming revolt money was requisite, and Campbell of
Aberuchail, taking advantage of Rob Roy's outlawry, had long withheld
his tribute of black-mail, so, before returning to Craigrostan, our
hero resolved on levying it, and marching from Tyndrum at the head of
his followers, appeared before the mansion of Aberuchail, the
proprietors of which had been baronets since 1627.

Having heard that the MacGregors had been seen in motion in the
neighbourhood, all the cattle had been hastily collected in a dense
herd within the outer walls of Aberuchail tower, around which there
grew a fine wood of oak-trees that for ages had cast their shadows on
the Ruchail, which means the _red-stream_.

A strong gate, loopholed for musketry, and surmounted by a coat of
arms with the motto, _Victoriam coronat Christus_, was closed and
secured as the MacGregors approached, and all was still within, save
the lowing and bellowing of the cattle, so closely penned within the
barbican.

Rob Roy thundered with his sword-hilt on the outer gate, in which an
eyelet-hole was opened, and thereat the porter's face appeared, with
an expression of anxiety and alarm, which was no way lessened when he
found himself front to front with the keen eyes, the ruddy beard, and
sunburned visage of the Red MacGregor, whom he knew instinctively.

"Is the laird at home?" asked the resolute visitor.

"Yes," stammered the gate-ward.

"Why does he not come in person when he knows who are here?" was the
haughty query.

"He is at dinner."

"What!  Is this Highland manners, to close your gates at meal-time,
when other men open theirs wide, that all men may enter?  Is this the
way your master rewards those who protect him from thieving MacNabs
and broken men of the Lennox?"

"Sir James Livingstone, Sir Humphrey of Luss, and several gentlemen
are at dinner with him, and I dare not disturb them," urged the
porter, whose orders were to keep out Rob at all hazards.

"Gentlemen!" repeated Rob.  "Whigs, probably, plotting treason
against King James.  Tell your master that the Red MacGregor of
Inversnaid is here, without, where it is not his wont to be kept,
awaiting his arrears of black-mail, and that he shall see him, even
if the King of Scotland and the Hanoverian Elector, too, were at
table with him!"

After a time, the gate-ward returned, trembling, to say that "his
master knew no such persons as either the King, the Elector, or the
Laird of Inversnaid."

"By the grave of Cior Mhor, Aberuchail shall repent of this false
whiggery!" exclaimed Rob, as he took a horn from his belt, and blew a
blast so loud and shrill that the whole house and the woods around it
rang with echoes.

Then anew the cattle bellowed, and the porter shut the eyelet-hole
and fled, lest he might be pistolled.

Four pipers now struck up the "Battle of Glenfruin;" the MacGregors
uttered a shout, and assailing the gate soon forced it; for the
_clach neart_--the putting-stone of strength--which lay beside it,
was dashed like a cannon-ball upon its planks by the most powerful of
the band, till the barrier crumbled to pieces before them; after
which they proceeded with drawn swords to goad and drive off the
cattle.

On this, the baronet of Aberuchail came hastily to the door of the
tower, and taking Rob Roy by the hand, made many apologies for what
he alleged to be the stupidity of the porter, and led his unwelcome
visitor into the house, where, however, neither Livingstone nor Luss
appeared.

Then he handed him the "black-mail," for which MacGregor gave his
receipt; they drank a bottle of claret together, and separated, to
all appearance, good friends.  The cattle were all left in the parks,
and the MacGregors marched back to Craigrostan.

But does it not seem strange that when Pope was writing at
Twickenham, when Addison and Steele were contributing to the
_Spectator_, and when Betterton was acting at Old Drury Lane, this
wild work was being done among the Highland hills?




CHAPTER XX.

ROB ROY RETREATS.

In January, 1714, Rob commanded 500 men among the gathering of 2,000
Highlanders who, on the 28th of that month, fully armed on all
points, attended the great funeral of Campbell of Lochnell.  At their
head were a pair of standards, belonging to the Earl of Breadalbane,
preceded by thirteen pipers; for, in fact, this great Celtic funeral
was in reality a Jacobite meeting--the dead body having been kept
unburied for nearly a month, that an assemblage of Cavalier chiefs
might take place, to consider and arrange during the march to the
interment and the feast that followed it, the measures to be taken
for a rising in favour of the Stuarts.

After maintaining, as already related, a vexatious predatory warfare
against Montrose, who long since repented bitterly his injustice to
the unfortunate Rob Roy, the MacGregors assembled in such numbers
under the latter that they began to threaten the Western Lowlands,
towards the lower end of Loch Lomond, from whence, marching into
Monteith and the Lennox, they disarmed all whom their leader deemed
inimical to the cause of James VIII.

To have complete command of the great sheet of water which lay before
his rocky home, Rob seized every boat upon it, and had them drawn
overland to Inversnaid, for the purpose of attacking or cutting off a
strong body of West country Whigs, who were in arms for King George,
and who were marching towards Loch Lomond; for so greatly were the
operations of Rob dreaded that the people of Dumbarton supposed he
might come upon them in the night to storm the castle and plunder the
town.

Exasperated on finding that he had pounced on all their boats, the
Whigs resolved to make a bold dash for their recovery.

The volunteers of Paisley, Renfrew, and Kilmarnock, were mustered and
armed from the Royal arsenal in the castle of Dumbarton.  A body of
seamen from the ships of war then lying in the Clyde towed them up
the river in long-boats and launches, and on entering Loch Lomond the
whole force proceeded by land and water against Rob Roy and the
MacGregors.

These forces acted under the orders of Lieutenant-General Lord
Cadogan, colonel of the 4th Foot, who had arrived that year in
Scotland.  At night they halted at Luss, the stronghold of the
Colquhouns, the hereditary foemen of Clan Alpine, where they were
joined by Sir Humphry Colquhoun, chief of his name (and fifth in
succession of him who fled from Glenfruin), with his son-in-law,
James Grant of Pluscardine, who brought some forty or fifty men of
his clan--"stately fellows," says Rae, in his history of the affair,
"in their short hose and belted plaids (_i.e._ kilts), armed each
with a well-fixed gun on his shoulder, a handsome target with a
sharp-pointed steel about half an ell in length screwed into the
navel of it, slung on his left arm, a sturdy claymore by his side,
and a pistol or two with a dirk and knife in his belt."

The man-of-war boats, which were armed with brass swivel-guns, took
all on board, and then they crossed the loch.

From the high land above Craigrostan MacGregor saw the advance of
this force, which was too strong for him to contend against alone;
and a stirring sight it must have been, on that beautiful sheet of
water--the large boats, full of men in gay scarlet uniforms, their
bright arms flashing in the sun; and it would seem, that thinking to
scare the Highlanders, they beat incessantly on their drums, while
the seamen maintained a constant discharge from their swivel-guns,
the reports of which were multiplied among the steep mountains by a
thousand echoes, as the whole expedition swept in shore towards
Craigrostan.

Rob and his men, who were concealed among the rocks, the heather, and
tall braken, high up on the mountain slope, could scarcely be
restrained from rushing to the beach and making an attack when they
saw the family banner of Sir Humphry, a saltire engrailed sable,
crested with a red hart's head, and his followers in their tartan,
which is blue striped with red; and each man wore the badge of his
name, a tuft of bear-berry in his bonnet.

The union-jack that floated in the stern of each boat seemed but a
foreign flag to MacGregor, for never had it waved on these waters
before, and the red-coated volunteers he viewed simply as invaders
and enemies; yet their strength was too great for him to hope a
victory if he opposed them.

"Oich, oich!" muttered MacAleister, and others, as James Grant's
boats, with his men in red tartans, appeared; "here come Pluscardine
and his kail-eaters"--for being the people who first cultivated that
vegetable in the north, they were named "the kail-eating Grants."

As the men began to leap ashore, with fixed bayonets, and form into
companies, young Coll MacGregor could no longer restrain his ardour
and impatience, and levelled his gun over the rocks, crying--

"A nis! a nis! a nis!" (now, now, now!) "E'en do and spaire nocht!"

"Hold, son of mine!" exclaimed his father, grasping his arm like a
vice; "boy, would you destroy us all, and, it may be, with us King
James's cause too?  Let us await our time, and be assured it will
come anon."

And so, seeing that a conflict would be useless, he prudently drew
off his men to Strathfillan, where the Jacobite clans were forming a
camp, prior to their joining the Earl of Mar; while the invaders of
Craigrostan committed to the flames several thatched dwelling-houses,
and the smoke of the conflagration, as it rolled along the
mountain-slopes, added to the wrath and mortification of Rob and his
men, as they retreated up the side of Loch Lomond.

While one party of volunteers pushed on the work of destruction,
others searched for the missing boats, which they found far inland,
at Inversnaid, and drew from thence to the water.  Those which were
useless they staved, or sunk, the rest were all conveyed to
Dumbarton, where they were safely moored under the guns of the
castle.  And so ended the first expedition against Rob Roy, a history
of which--as if it had been a campaign in a foreign land--was
published soon after, in the form of a pamphlet.

Summonses were now issued by Government to all nobles and gentlemen,
either in arms or who were suspected of being about to arm, including
John, Earl of Mar, and fifty-two others, one of whom is designated as
"Robert Roy, _alias_ MacGregor."




CHAPTER XXI.

JOINS KING JAMES.

The brave Earl of Mar had now unfurled the standard of the exiled
king at Braemar, as lieutenant-general of his forces, and after
sending the "cross of fire" through the Highlands, in a few days he
found himself at the head of ten thousand men, and half the peers of
Scotland, with all those chiefs and gentlemen who had signed the Bond
of Union, which Rob Roy had so luckily taken from Captain Huske, in
Glendochart.

Mar's standard was of blue silk; it bore a thistle and the words NO
UNION.

The Duke of Argyle, anxious to evince his attachment to the House of
Hanover, hastened from London, to put himself at the head of his own
clan, tenants, vassals, and all the troops then in Scotland--and a
motley force they were, of English, Dutch, Switzers, and Lowland
volunteers.

That branch of the Clan Alpine which is named the race of Dugald Ciar
Mhor, was not commanded by Rob Roy at this momentous crisis, but by
his young nephew, Gregor MacGregor, of Glengyle, who was lineal head
of the house.  Thus Rob served under him.  Glengyle is best
remembered in Scotland by his patronymic of Glun Dhu, or
"Black-knee," from the remarkable spot, which his kilt rendered
visible, on his left knee.

He was but a youth when the insurrection of 1715 took place, so there
can be little doubt that, on most occasions, he would act under the
eye and advice of a captain so skilful and bold as his uncle.

On the latter joining the insurgent camp in Braemar, he was at once
despatched by the earl to Aberdeen, to raise in arms the descendants
of 300 MacGregors, who had been forcibly conveyed there in 1624 by
James Stewart, Earl of Murray, to fight in the feuds in which he
became involved with the Grants, MacIntoshes, and others.  In this
mission Rob was pretty successful, for the popularity of his name,
among his own clan and others made him an excellent recruiting
officer at this crisis; and so little did he value the Whig
Government and their proclamations that he walked openly about the
streets of the Granite City, and on more than one occasion dined with
Professor James Gregory, who was by descent a MacGregor, but had thus
altered his name to elude the Act which proscribed it.

He joined the Earl of Mar in time to be present with his clan at the
great battle of Sheriffmuir, where the insurgents met the king's
forces led by the Duke o' Argyle, who was then lieutenant-general,
knight of the garter, and commander-in-chief of the troops in
Scotland.

It is no part of our plan to give any history of that indecisive
battle, which was severe and bloody to both parties.  Both armies
wheeled upon their centres, and each routed the other's left wing, so
that it is impossible to say with whom lay the victory.

On that day, Rob Roy, who commanded a body of MacGregors and
MacPhersons, was accused of unwillingness to engage.  His enemies
went further, and asserted that, not wishing to offend his patrons
the powerful Duke of Argyle and Earl of Breadalbane, save for whom he
would have been crushed long ago by the Duke of Montrose, he remained
almost aloof from the action.  Lack of interest in King James's
cause, or lack of courage could not be laid to his charge; yet on
this great day the conduct of Rob Roy was incomprehensible.

Scott relates in his History, that when ordered to charge by one of
Mar's _aides-de-camp_, he replied--

"If the earl cannot win the field without me _now_, he cannot win it
with me."

From this it may be supposed that he considered the decisive moment
past, and wished to spare his men; but, it is said, that on hearing
this answer, a brave man of the Clan Vurich, named Alaster
MacPherson, cast his plaid on the ground, drew his claymore, and
called to the MacPhersons--

"Advance--advance!--follow _me_!"

"Halt, Alaster," said Rob, interposing; "were this a question about a
drove of sheep you might know something; but as the matter concerns
the leading of armed men, you must allow _me_ to judge."

"Were the question about the foraying of a drove of Glen Eigas stots,
the question with you, Rob, would not be who should be last, but who
should be _first_," was the stinging retort of MacPherson.

This nearly produced a quarrel between them; already their brows were
knitted and their swords menaced each other, even while shells were
bursting and shot of every kind were tearing up the turf about them;
but finding the inexpedience of coming to blows when under the fire
of an enemy, they gave each other a grim smile, and exchanged their
snuff-mulls in token of amity, yet many of their men now joined the
MacLeans, who at this moment made a tremendous charge upon the
regulars.

The appearance of this clan in the field, numbering 800 swordsmen, is
a memorable instance of the power of the _patriarchal_ system over
the _feudal_.

The chief had lived for years a banished loyalist in France, and
their lands in Mull had been gifted to the House of Argyle; yet, in
opposition to the latter, the whole fighting force of the clan were
in the field against the duke, their legal landlord, and under their
long-exiled chief, the venerable Sir John MacLean, fought valiantly.

With the best born, the best armed, and the bravest of the Clan
Gillian in front, he led them on three ranks deep.

"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, "this is the day we have long wished for.
Yonder stands Argyle for King George; _here_ stands MacLean for King
James!  God bless him!  Charge, gentlemen, charge!"

And with a wild yell, in which their pibroch mingled, the clan rushed
on, and the levelled bayonets of the soldiers of the line went down
before their whirling swords, like straw before the flames.

At that moment, through the smoke of the action there rushed an
English officer towards the MacGregor's line.  His sword was broken
in his hand, and left him at the mercy of a gigantic Highlander, who
pursued him with a tuagh, or Lochaber axe.  He was bareheaded also,
having lost his hat.

A stone caught the foot of this fugitive, who fell almost at the feet
of Rob Roy.  With a shout of triumph the fierce pursuer uplifted his
axe, and was about to cleave the defenceless head of the Englishman,
when the stroke was arrested by the interposed shield of MacGregor.

The man with the axe uttered a hoarse Gaelic oath, and turned
furiously on the intercessor; but each drew back with an emotion of
surprise that seemed quite mutual.

He was Duncan nan Creagh, the tall MacRae, from Kintail na Bogh, whom
Rob believed he had killed on the hills of Glenorchy, and who, on
finding himself now among the MacGregors, uttered a shout of "Righ
Hamish gu bragh!" and rushed amid the smoke and carnage to rejoin the
fierce MacRaes, who, sword in hand, with the caber-feidh, or banner
of Seaforth, flying over them, flung themselves in headlong charge
upon the Swiss battalion of Brigadier Grant, and hewed a long and
terrible pathway through it.

Rob now lifted up the man he had saved, and to his astonishment found
him to be Captain Huske, the same officer whom he had last met in
Glendochart; so he sent him to the rear, a prisoner, in charge of his
son Coll, from whom the captain was retaken a few minutes after by a
detachment of Captain MacDougal's dragoons.

This confused battle of Sheriffmuir, or Slia Thirra, as the Celts
name it, was claimed by both parties as a victory; but Mar found
himself compelled to retire towards Perth, and to Rob Roy was
assigned the onerous task of guiding his army through the deep and
treacherous Fords of Frew, when they crossed the river Forth.

For a time after this battle Rob and his MacGregors garrisoned the
fine old royal palace of Falkland, which lies at the foot of the
Lomond hills, and the memory of that occupation still lingers in
Fifeshire; for they "harried the pharisaical Whigs" to some purpose,
laying the whole country under military contribution for miles around
the palace, from which they retired at last with considerable booty,
and after a sojourn of several weeks of jollity and ease.

Their shoes being much worn by marching, "they did not scruple to
strip the feet of any civic and clerical functionaries with whom they
chanced to meet, and whom they consoled with the jocular assurance
that his gracious majesty James VIII. would be happy to afford them
full compensation."

As the honour and advantage of the battle remained with Argyle, and
as Mar's unpaid army began to disperse from want of food and
subsistence, the insurrection soon came to an end, and the Government
acted with a merciless barbarity upon the fallen.  Their severity was
worthy of the orientals alone, and in the hearts of the Highland
youth a hatred was instilled that found a terrible vent in the future
rising of 1745.

It was on the Lowland lords, however, that the hands of the Ministry
fell most heavily; for, by retreating into their mountain fastnesses,
the Highlanders defied as yet all efforts at coercion.

The following story is told of Duncan-nan-Creagh a short time after
the battle of Sheriffmuir.

A tall and powerful Highlander, who had brought a drove of cattle
into the south Lowlands, sought a night's shelter at the house of
Captain MacDougal, who, as we have stated, commanded a troop of horse
in that field.

The captain asked his Highland guest from what part of the north he
came?

"Kintail na Bogh," replied the other, with some reserve.

"Know you a place called Corrie Choing?"

"I do, captain; but why do you ask?"

"I will tell you," replied the officer; "after the battle,
accompanied by two of the best men of my troop, I overtook a strong
and athletic Highlander, who by the blood on his tartans and the
white rose in his bonnet, had evidently stood by King James on that
unhappy day.  As we came up at a canter he took off his plaid, folded
it with great deliberation, placed it on the ground, and then he
stood upon it to give him firmer footing.  I was anxious to take this
man prisoner, so we three rode round him in a circle, with our swords
brandished; but one who unfortunately and unwisely ventured within
reach of the clansman's sword, was cloven through his grenadier cap
and slain.  He slew the other, on which, sooth to say, I thought he
had fairly earned his life and liberty, and so left him to his fate,
simply asking him his name, and saying that he was a brave fellow.
'I am from Corrie Choing,' said he; 'but my name I may not tell you.'"

"I know him well, captain," said the drover; "we call him Duncan Mhor
nan Creagh."

"The wars are over now, thank Heaven, and I wish him no harm,"
replied MacDougal, "for he is a brave and resolute fellow."

"I shall be sure to tell him so," said the drover, as he departed;
but warily kept his own council, for he was no other than the
identical Big Duncan of the Forays, from whom Rob Roy had saved
Captain Huske during the battle of Sheriffmuir.




CHAPTER XXII.

INVERSNAID GARRISONED.

After the close of the whole insurrection, when the leaders of it
were in their bloody graves or in hopeless exile, seeking in foreign
camps and fields their bread at the point of the sword, the old
rancorous sentiment against the Clan Alpine was still found to exist;
for in the subsequent Act of Indemnity a free pardon was granted to
all Jacobites, "_excepting persons of the name of MacGregor_,
mentioned in an Act, made in Scotland in the first year of King
Charles I., intituled 'Anent the Clan Gregor,' whatever name he or
they may have, or do _assume_;" and hence especially among the
proscribed appeared the now dreaded name of "Robert Campbell, _alias_
MacGregor, _commonly_ called Robert Roy."

This insulting mode of designating him, as if he had been a common
thief in the "Hue and Cry," embittered yet more the soul of
MacGregor; though he had been so long outlawed, and subjected to
every severity and danger, this new act made little difference
circumstantially to Rob, and doubtless he despised it.  But the
erection of a government fortress and barrack on _his own lands_ of
Inversnaid, for the direct purpose of overawing and subjugating his
clan, and to lay him and it more completely at the mercy of the Whigs
and Montrose, was more than he could suffer with patience.

His house of Auchinchisallan, in which he had resided in Breadalbane,
had been wantonly burned, and his wife and children were once more
driven to the caves and rocks for shelter; his cattle and crops were
seized by a party of troops specially sent for those purposes by
General Charles Lord Cadogan, an officer who had served as a
brigadier under Marlborough, who had been taken prisoner at the siege
of Messina, in 1706, and who was made Master-General of the Ordnance
in 1722.

On MacGregor's lands he exercised great severity; and now, separated
from his wife and children, the unfortunate Rob Roy, attended by his
faithful henchman and foster-brother, Callam MacAleister, lurked in
the mountains, and chiefly in the cavern near Loch Lomond, which
still bears his name, and from whence he could see the flames of
rapine and destruction, as the country was swept by fire and sword;
and there he schemed out many a futile plan of vengeance on his
oppressors.

Amid all this his heart bled for his children, who were growing up to
desperate lives and wayward fortunes, the end of which he could not
foresee.  One thing, however, his own sense predicted: that the life
of war and hazard he now lead could not last for ever, and that the
erection of forts in the Highlands, and the entrance of war ships
into the great salt lochs by which they were intersected, might
ultimately curb the power of the Jacobite clans, especially when the
overwhelming strength of the Campbells, the Grants, and other Whig
clans, was united to that of the Lowland invader; and ultimately--but
not in Rob's time--this prediction of his soul came true.

And yet it was for his children, and the patrimony which had been
rent from them, that he maintained a hopeless struggle with their
oppressors.  It has been well observed by a modern writer, "that the
motives to exertion furnished by the possession of children are as
powerful as ever moved heart or hand.  The secret of many a struggle
in life's battle may be found at home.  The man who has children
dependent upon him will and must struggle manfully against the most
adverse circumstances.  The thought that the joy of their innocent
young lives depends upon his courage, his perseverance, his
energy--this thought will enable him to work wonders, and achieve
what will appear impossibilities to the man who has only his own
selfish needs and his own selfish ambition to urge him on."  And so,
when poor MacGregor thought of the _future_ of his boys, his
otherwise unflinching heart was rent in twain.

Meanwhile, the erection of the government fortress at Inversnaid
proceeded rapidly, though he did all in his power to retard it; and
he had the mortification to see the stones of his own dwelling-house
and of the cottages of his tenantry used in construction of the
barrack and bastions.

A builder named Naysmith, from Edinburgh, contracted to build this
fort of Inversnaid; but his operations were frequently and roughly
interrupted.

It was commenced during the winter season, and he and his workmen
lodged in huts near the edifice.

One night, when the snow was falling heavily in great and feathery
flakes, they were roused by some travellers noisily demanding
shelter.  On the door being opened, a number of fierce-looking
MacGregors, with their plaids and bonnets coated with snow, rushed
in, menaced the poor workmen with drawn swords, and reviled them
bitterly.

Being defenceless and unarmed men, they were not slain by Rob Roy's
followers, but they were driven half naked through the snow to a
distance, when Greumoch and young Coll dismissed them, after exacting
from them a solemn oath that they would never again enter the
MacGregors' country.

Whether the same masons returned or not we have no means of knowing;
but the fort was ultimately finished and garrisoned.  "Mr. Naysmith,"
says Robert Chambers, "being held by Government to a contract which
he could not fulfil, was seriously injured in his means by this
affair; but its worst consequence was the effect of exposure on that
dreadful winter night on his health.  He sunk under his complaints,
and died about eighteen months after."

When the fort was complete, the works were mounted with cannon, and
the barrack within it was occupied by three companies of Lord
Tyrawley's regiment, the South British Fusiliers, under Major
(formerly Captain) Huske, with express orders to keep the MacGregors
in check and to make short work with them on every occasion--orders
not to be misconstrued.

During the progress of this--to Rob Roy--most obnoxious erection, he
lurked with MacAleister in the cavern near Loch Lomond; the same
place which, as we have said, sheltered the gallant King Robert I.,
after the battle of Dalree, where the famous Brooch of Lorn was torn
from his shoulder.  It is near Craigrostan and Inversnaid, on the
eastern bank of the loch.

The entrance is near the edge of the water, and is partly concealed
by great masses of rock, like a fallen Cyclopean wall, which have
been shaken by the volcanic throes of nature from the crags above.
Amid these masses, the wild foxglove, the purple heather, the green
whin, and dense brushwood of every kind flourish, serving to conceal
the access, which is every way one of peril and difficulty.

Here he was perfectly secure, though he could hear drums beating in
Inversnaid; and sometimes he ventured at night to leave it, and visit
his wife and children, who resided under Greumoch's care, in an
obscure hut among the mountains of Breadalbane; and on these
occasions he twice narrowly escaped being taken when returning to his
retreat.

Once, when travelling with three followers, in a solitary and
sequestered place near Loch Earn, a beautiful sheet of water, from
the shore of which the mountains start in bold and rocky grandeur, he
suddenly found himself face to face with seven horsemen, in red
uniforms, with conical grenadier caps, on the blue flaps of which the
"white horse" of Hanover was embroidered.  In fact, they were seven
horse grenadiers of Captain MacDougal's troop, which was then
attached to the garrison of Inversnaid.

The tattered yet warlike aspect of MacGregor, the well-known red and
black checks of his tartan, his powerful figure and ruddy-coloured
beard, made them certain that he was Rob Roy, the outlaw, and with
shouts of "MacGregor!--MacGregor Campbell!" some drew their swords,
while others took pistols from their holsters and prepared for an
attack.

Rob turned to seek safety in flight; but the soldiers fired, and his
three companions fell mortally wounded.  Infuriated by this, he
sprang up the steep rocks, where their horses could not find footing,
and taking the pistols from his belt, fired repeatedly, with calm and
stern determination, sending shot after shot at his baffled pursuers,
who remained on the narrow roadway by the loch side, trampling his
dying clansmen under their horses' hoofs, and brandishing their
swords while they menaced and reviled him.

So good was his aim that he killed three of the soldiers and wounded
four of their horses.  On this, the remainder galloped off, and left
him to pursue, after nightfall, the secret way to his wild abode.

He reached it in safety, but by some means the horse grenadiers,
patrols of whom were constantly abroad, succeeded in tracking him to
its vicinity; thus, a day or two after the last affair, when he and
MacAleister were issuing forth about dawn, in search of such food as
the mountains afforded, they suddenly found themselves beset by a
party, commanded by Captain MacDougal in person.

With a loud hurrah, the troopers, who were about thirty in number,
put spur to their horses, and dashed in single file along the narrow
footway on the eastern shore of Loch Lomond; but one, who outrode all
the rest, speedily came up with Rob Roy.

"The thousand guineas are mine!" he shouted, and raising himself in
his stirrups, he dealt so furious a blow with his long and ponderous
cavalry sword at MacGregor, that he beat down his guard, and would
inevitably have cleft him to the teeth by the next stroke, but for a
circular iron plate which he wore within his bonnet.  The blow,
however, brought him to the ground, and as he fell he exclaimed--

"To your gun, MacAleister!--to your gun, if there is a shot in it!"

"A witch, and not your grandmother, wrought your nightcap!" cried the
astonished trooper, when finding that his sword rung on MacGregor's
head; and he had his hilt drawn back to deal the fallen man a deadly
forward home thrust, when a ball from the long Spanish musket of the
faithful henchman pierced his heart.  He fell from his saddle
lifeless and bleeding, and was dragged by his terrified horse (for
one foot hung in a stirrup) down the steep bank towards the water,
where steed and corpse disappeared together.

MacAleister now assisted his foster-brother to rise, and escaping
MacDougal and the rest of his troopers, they made a long detour, and
reached their gloomy cavern unseen and in safety.




CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SNARE.

A noble named the Duke of Athole, who was in close correspondence
with the Government at Edinburgh, now conceived the hope of
entrapping Rob Roy, and announced to the Secretary of State and other
officials, that he had a sure plan for making him a prisoner.

As this peer was one of the leading Jacobites of the time, and as all
his sons were involved in the various armed Risings for the House of
Stuart, it is extremely difficult to conceive why he should have
leagued himself with the oppressors of the hapless MacGregor, unless
he had been influenced by the Duke of Montrose, or was inspired by
the strange animosity which so many cherished against the Clan Alpine.

The duke contrived to send to Rob Roy a letter, by a messenger, who
found him either in or near his miserable hiding-place.  This missive
contained a pressing invitation to see him immediately at the castle
of Blair, and offered horses for his conveyance there.

It was now the summer of 1717.

Although Rob Roy had every reason to believe that Athole, from the
similarity of their political views had no personal animosity to him,
he would not fail to remember, that he had at one time leagued
himself with the Whig faction, and had taken from the English
ministry the sum of a thousand pounds for his signature to the treaty
of Union, ten years ago, though he had _publicly_ opposed it in all
its stages in Parliament.

So MacGregor was too wary to trust himself in such slippery hands
without some firm assurance of safety.  He, therefore, wrote to the
duke, delicately hinting the want of confidence he now felt in most
men; the desperation of his circumstances, the condition of his
homeless wife and children, and wishing to have his grace's commands
in writing.

In reply, the wily duke "gave him the most solemn promises of
protection, adding, that he only wished to have some private
conversation with him on certain political points.  This was followed
by an emissary, who gave even more positive assurances that no evil
was intended, and then handed him a _protection from Government_.  On
seeing this our hero consented, and fixed a time for being at the
duke's residence."

Accompanied by MacAleister, he duly appeared on a day in July at the
castle of Blair, in a chamber of which the duke had treacherously
concealed an officer and sixty soldiers.

The castle is a baronial edifice of great extent and unknown
antiquity; one portion of it is still named the Comyns Tower, from
John of Strathbolgie, who built it, and it has stood many a siege in
the stormy times of old.  A forest of splendid trees and a vast
expanse of beautiful scenery are around it.

The wandering life led by MacGregor had now imparted somewhat of
wildness to the aspect and costume of his henchman and himself.

His eyes were sunken and had become keen and fierce, as those of one
who in every sound, even to the rustle of a dry leaf, heard the tread
of an enemy.  Long untrimmed and unshorn, his hair and curly beard
waved in masses about his weatherbeaten face.  His red tartans, every
thread of which had been spun by Helen's hands, her labour of love,
were worn and frittered.  His coat was made of coarse homespun black
and white wool in its natural state, just as it came from the sheep's
back, with two rows of large wooden buttons; and he wore a red
woollen shirt, for the Highlanders still disdained linen and cotton
as effeminate.

He had an eagle's feather and a sprig of pine in his bonnet; his
target, battered and dinted by many a blade and bullet, was slung on
his left shoulder, and he had as usual his sword, dirk, and pistols,
when, all unconscious of the wicked snare that was laid for him, he
and his follower presented themselves at the splendid residence of
the Duke of Athole.

The latter, who had been made aware of his approach, received him,
apparently, with great cordiality.

"I know not how to express the joy I feel in having so brave a
gentleman in my house," said he, "but, as a first favour, I must beg
of you to lay aside your sword and pistols."

"Wherefore, my lord?" asked Rob, who felt surprised at a request so
unusual.

"The duchess is somewhat timid, and the sight of such things always
alarms her."

"By my faith, Athole, had she seen her rooftree in flames, and as
much of her own blood shed as the goodwife of Inversnaid has seen in
her time, the sight of an armed man would not cause uneasiness,"
replied Rob, with a sigh of anger, as he unbuckled his sword-belt,
took the dirk and pistols from his girdle, and said, "but where is
your good lady, duke?"

"In the garden, where we shall join her."

"MacAleister, keep my claymore and tacks for me, and await me here,"
said Rob, handing the weapons to his henchman, through whose mind
some vague suspicions floated, as he never once removed his keen
glance from the face of the duke, on whom he gazed as if he would
have read his soul.  But now Rob and his host descended by a flight
of steps into the garden of the castle.

The duchess, Katherine, who was a daughter of the Duke of Hamilton,
came hurriedly forward to meet the famous outlaw, of whom she had
heard so much, and to whom she frankly presented her hand to
kiss,--for she was as yet ignorant of the vile plot her husband had
framed.

She then presented to him her son, the little Lord Tullybardine, who
eight-and-twenty years after was to unfurl the banner of Prince
Charles Edward in Glenfinnan; and poor Rob, when he saw the rich
dress of the fair-haired boy, thought with a sigh of his own sons,
who were at times compelled to share the abode of the fox and the
eagle.

"MacGregor," exclaimed the duchess, on seeing him without a sword;
"MacGregor here, and _unarmed_!"

Rob discovered in a moment that he was the victim of some perfidy,
for by this simple exclamation the duchess proved that her husband
had been guilty of falsehood.  He bestowed a glance of stern inquiry
on the duke, who coloured deeply, and said with an air of manifest
confusion--

"I thought your sword might prove troublesome if anything unpleasant
occurred between us."

"Between friends--between a guest and a host--what could occur that
would be unpleasant?" replied MacGregor; "Athole, I understand you
not."

"You will understand this, _Mr._ MacGregor," said the duke, suddenly
throwing aside all disguise, "that you have committed such wild work
along the Highland border since the battle of Sheriffmuir, ay, since
you harried the lands of Kippen, after the battle of Killycrankie,
that I must detain you."

"Detain?" repeated Rob, with surprise and contempt.

"And send you to Edinburgh."

"Where I should swing on a gibbet, a holiday sight for the
psalm-singing burgesses, even as Alaster of Glenstrae was swung after
the field of Glenfruin!  Am I then snared--betrayed?" exclaimed Rob,
starting back, and looking round for the means of defence or escape;
but the high walls of the garden were on three sides, and the towers
of the castle closed in the fourth, and therein was his faithful
henchman, whom he could not desert in peril, even could he have made
an escape from the garden.  "Dare you tell me, Duke of Athole," he
resumed, "that you have betrayed me?"

"Phrase it as you please, I----"

"Has a man of your rank and name a soul so mean, so vile, that he
will forfeit honour and faith to win the paltry reward offered for
the head of a loyal and unfortunate gentleman, whom tyranny and
oppression have covered with ruin, and driven to despair and shame?"

Deadly pale and terrified by this unexpected scene, the gentle
duchess shrunk close to her husband, who when MacGregor made a
forward stride, laid his hand on his sword.

"Sir," said he, "do you threaten me, in my own castle of Blair?";

"Villain!" exclaimed MacGregor, "you shall live to repent the deed of
to-day."

Clenching his right hand, he would have struck the duke to the earth,
but for a piteous shriek which burst from his lady.  At that moment
the iron gate of the Comyns Tower was thrown furiously open, and an
officer rushed forth, sword in hand, followed by sixty soldiers, who
instantly surrounded MacGregor, and beat him down with the butt-ends
of their muskets.

"Had you surrendered in proper time, Mr. MacGregor _Campbell_," said
the duke, with ungenerous irony, "we had not been compelled to resort
to these rough measures in capturing you."

Rob Roy laughed scornfully.

"You would have asked me to surrender, my lord duke; but for a
MacGregor to surrender is to die with ignominy; to resist to the end
is to die with honour to ourselves and our forefathers.  A hundred
and twenty years of oppression have made us what we are now; but a
time may come when even the cunning Lowlander shall weep for the
snare of to-day, and shall tremble at the vengeance of Clan Alpine!"

"Zounds! but you are a bold fellow to be a gentleman-drover--a seller
of black cattle," said the duke, mockingly.

"Do not condescend to sneer at an unfortunate man, my lord; it was
honester to sell Scottish cattle than our good old Scottish kingdom.
I have sold many a thousand head of stots and stirks to the English;
but I would rather have died--yea, upon a common gibbet--than have
sold the free land of my forefathers, as Esau sold his birthright for
a mess of pottage--even as you and others sold yours on that black
Beltane day, in 1707!"

"Tie this fellow with cords, and away with him," said the duke,
rendered furious by this taunt.

He was then secured with ropes, and dragged from the castle to the
adjacent village, where he was thrust into a cottage and kept under a
strong escort till his captor made further arrangements.

Bound and manacled like the fugitive bankrupt, the rebel and outlaw
they had made him, and which they so ungenerously assumed him to be,
MacGregor for a time felt all the bitterness and despair that could
sting a spirit so generous, so proud and untameable, when reflecting
on the perfidious stroke of fortune which thus placed him so
completely at the mercy of his tormentors.

He thought of the joy and triumph of Montrose and Killearn, of
Carden, Luss, Aberuchail, and others, whom his sword had so long kept
at bay; he thought of the grief of his homeless wife and children,
whom that sword had been so often drawn to feed and to defend.  He
thought of the shameful and ignominious death which awaited him as
surely as the breath of Heaven was in his nostrils; he thought of his
landless, nameless, broken and degraded clan, left without a head to
direct, or a leader to avenge them, and he well-nigh wept in his
agony of soul!

MacAleister, on beholding him dragged across the lawn, surrounded by
a company of soldiers, uttered a shout of grief and rage, as he
sprang from one of the windows of the castle.

Some there were who rashly made an effort to stop him, but with his
sword in one hand and his dirk in the other he dashed them aside like
children, and escaping a few shots that were fired after him, fled
with the speed of a roebuck towards the river Tilt, into which he
plunged and disappeared.

Some averred that he was drowned, as the stream was swollen by a
summer flood; but it was otherwise, for he reached in safety the hut
where Helen MacGregor resided, and related what had happened,

"A Dhia!" she exclaimed, as she threw up her hands in despair; "not
Fingal's self could save him now!"

"The Red MacGregor is not out of the land of the heather yet," said
MacAleister, hopefully, as he prepared to return to watch over, and,
if possible, to succour him.

But Helen experienced all the bitterness of a sorrow that was
_without hope_.




CHAPTER XXIV.

WILL HE ESCAPE?

The Duke of Athole immediately wrote to Lieutenant-General Carpenter,
who had succeeded John, Duke of Argyle and Greenwich, as
Commander-in-Chief in Scotland (the general was also Governor of
Minorca), informing him that he had "captured Robert MacGregor
Campbell, the famous outlaw and rebel, for whose apprehension a large
sum had been so long offered by the authorities."

He requested the general to send from Edinburgh a body of troops to
escort the prisoner to that city, and, in compliance with his wish, a
troop of Lord Polwarth's Scottish Light Horse (now the 7th Hussars),
marched so far as Kinross.

Meanwhile, the unfortunate MacGregor was kept a close prisoner,
manacled with cords, and guarded day and night by the vassals of the
duke, and a party of Captain MacDougal's Horse Grenadiers, whom he
had obtained from the officer commanding in Perth.

In a short time it was known all over Scotland that Rob Roy was a
captive; but the mode of his capture, and the foul treachery which
characterized it, covered Athole with disgrace, though he seems to
have felt no small vanity at the success of his snare, if we may
judge from a letter which he wrote to John, Duke of Roxburgh, who was
Secretary of State for North Britain, minutely detailing the affair.

Panting for freedom and for vengeance, both of which were justly his,
Rob Roy was kept under the military escort at a place called
Logierait, which lies eight miles north of Dunkeld; there he had been
conveyed after his capture in the castle of Blair.

It was a dark and boisterous night when the troops began their march
from the latter place, with the prisoner still bound and tied to a
horse; a horse grenadier with his unslung carbine riding on each side
of him.  The clouds were driven in black masses along the summits of
Ben-ghlo and Cairn-na-Gabar (or the mountain of the goats), and the
roaring wind rolled over the thick old forests of Blair Athole,
bowing the trees till their masses seemed to heave like the waves of
the sea, in the fitful gleams of the moon.  On halting at Logierait,
the duke ordered MacGregor to be kept there securely, until a
properly-mounted escort of his own people was in readiness to convey
him to Edinburgh.  The duke was resolved that the whole merit of the
capture should remain with himself, and that even the king's troops
should not share it.

But this vanity proved in the end his own defeat.

Rob Roy, on finding himself in one of the miserable cottages of the
village, began to hope that he might perhaps achieve an escape.  As a
preliminary, he begged the sergeant who commanded the troopers, to
undo the cords which bound his hands, that he might write a farewell
letter to his unhappy wife, who had then found shelter in the little
farmhouse of Portnellan, at the head of Loch Katrine.

The sergeant was a humane man; he said something about his own wife
and little ones who were far away in old Ireland, and he did as Rob
requested, though in defiance of express orders.

Then, as he had been liberal in supplying the soldiers with whisky
and ale, they became friendly with MacGregor, and so, after a time,
the letter was written; but there was a difficulty in procuring a
messenger to Loch Katrine, as several MacGregors had located
themselves thereabout, and reprisals were dreaded.

The stormy night wore on, and ere long all the soldiers were
sleeping, save one, who stood with his loaded carbine at the door of
the cottage.

To MacGregor it seemed as if this man pitied him, as he had been more
gentle than his comrades, and had ministered to his comfort, so far
as he dared, since the time of his betrayal at Blair.

Being strong, active, and wiry as a mountain stag, to rush on this
trooper and wrench away his carbine would have been an easy task to
MacGregor, but the key of the cottage door hung at the waist-belt of
the sleeping sergeant; thus the preliminary scuffle would only serve
to rouse the whole party, and ensure his being shot down by some of
them.

As these ideas occurred to the captive, he surveyed the sentinel,
whose gaze was never turned from him.  With a swarthy, almost
olive-tinted face, and deep, dark eyes, he was a stout and handsome
young man; and his profusely-braided uniform, with its heavy red
cuffs, his Horse Grenadier cap, and tasselled boots, became him well.
He had his right hand on the lock of his carbine, the barrel of which
rested in the hollow of his left arm.

"How goes the night?" asked MacGregor.

"Twelve has just struck on the kirk clock without," replied the
soldier; "and the night is wild and eerie yet.  You can hear the
sough of the wind among the trees, and the roar of the Tay, too."

"You are, I think, a south-country man, by your accent," said
MacGregor.

"Yes," replied the trooper, drily, as he was loth to become too
familiar with a prisoner of a character so formidable, and, moreover,
the sergeant might be awake.

"Take another taste of the whisky, man: there is a drop in the quaich
yet.  What part of the south are you from?"

The trooper drained the little wooden cup, and replied--

"I come from Moffatdale; my auld mother bydes in a bit thatched
housie at Cragieburnwood.  Weary fall the day I ever left it to
become a soldier!"

"Moffatdale," said Rob, ponderingly; "many a good drove of
short-legged Argyleshires I have had driven through it to the
southern markets at Carlisle and Penrith.  I know well the place, the
Hartfell----"

"And Queensbury Hill, Loch Skene, and the Greymare's Tail, and Yarrow
wi' a' its dowie dens!" added the soldier, with kindling eyes.

"Once when there I fought some militiamen, and gave them good cause
to remember Rob Roy; though perhaps the loons knew not my name."

"When was this?" asked the soldier, earnestly.

"A year or so after the Union.  It was in a summer gloaming, when I
was riding northward near Moffat village, I heard the cries of a
woman in anguish.  They came from a deep, dark hollow called the
Gartpool Linn----"

"Weel ken I the place," said the soldier.

"A true Highlander has ever his sword at the service of a friend, or
the defenceless.  I rode into the dark dingle, and found some
rascally militiamen, with a queen's officer, about to hang some
unfortunate gipsies; but, by my faith!  I gave them their kail
through the reek.  I threw one half of them into the water, drove off
the rest, and passed two feet of my claymore through the body of the
officer, who must have been a tough fellow, for he seemed never a bit
the worse when I saw him last at the field of Sheriffmuir.  I cut
down the poor gipsies, who hung on the lower branch of a tree, but
they were dead----"

"All?"

"All, except one--a boy about the age of Coll--my own boy Coll, whom
I may never see again; in this world, at least," added MacGregor,
with a burst of emotion.

The soldier, who had listened to this anecdote with deep interest,
said,--

"You did more, MacGregor; you gave some money to the poor harmless
lassie that lay at the foot of the tree--money to comfort her ere you
went away."

"Yes, perhaps I did; but how know you that?"

"She was my sister, and I am the half-hanged gipsy lad whom you
saved, MacGregor."

"You!" exclaimed the other, with astonishment in his tone.

"Yes," said the soldier, giving his hand to the outlaw; "I enlisted
in Polwarth's Light Horse after that, and have smelt powder at
Ramillies, at Oudenarde, and Malplacquet.  Then I became a Horse
Grenadier.  Oh!  MacGregor, what can I do to serve and thank you for
the brave deed of that doleful summer evening?"

"Get me a messenger," said MacGregor, huskily; "one who will take
this letter to my poor forlorn wife."

"I shall," replied the soldier, in a whisper, as he glanced uneasily
at his sleeping comrades; "and I shall do more; the best horse in the
troop shall be at your service before the day dawns if another cannot
be had!"

"Say you so?" exclaimed MacGregor, whose heart leaped with joy.

"Yes, so sure as my name is Willie Gemmil, even if I should be shot
for it at the drumhead."

"I thank you,--I thank you! my wife, my bairns!" said Rob, in a
broken voice.  "You know, soldier, what I have been--think of what I
am.  I have much of goodness, of kindness, of charity, of love in my
heart; yet men deem me a savage, and seek to make me one.  It may be
that in my desperation and fury, when fired by the sense of unmerited
wrong, I have done severe things; but the memory of the station I
have lost, and of the success I once hoped to achieve, add deeper
bitterness to my fallen fortunes now.  'Tis well that old Donald of
Glengyle is in his grave, and knows not the fate of his son!"

When day broke, Gemmil was relieved from his post, and exerted
himself to procure a messenger, with a fleet and active horse.

On the man coming to the door of the cottage, having been instructed
by the gipsy trooper what to do, he dismounted at the moment that Rob
Roy, with the sergeant's permission, came forth to give the letter
and some special message to Helen MacGregor.

Rob's emotion was great on recognizing in the messenger who had
volunteered so readily, his foster-brother MacAleister, who had been
hovering about Logierait in the hope of achieving something; but
beyond a keen, quick glance nothing passed between them; but that
glance contained a volume.

The eyes of the whole troop were upon Rob, yet he sprang past them,
leaped into the empty saddle of the messenger's horse, and urged it
at full speed towards the bank of the Tay.

"Boot and saddle!  To horse and after him!" exclaimed the sergeant,
while a scattered volley of carbine bullets whistled after MacGregor;
but long before the troop horses were bitted and saddled, he had
plunged into the foaming river, crossed it, and disappeared.

The vexation and chagrin of the Duke of Athole were extreme, when
about an hour after this occurrence he arrived with a band of his own
retainers, all well mounted and armed with swords and musketoons, to
escort the prisoner to Edinburgh, and found no trace of him but the
letter he had written to Helen, and the cords with which he had been
so ignominiously bound.

For a time the fortification and garrison of Inversnaid were a
complete check upon the projects of Rob Roy; but he resolved ere long
to capture the works and expel the soldiers.

Though of small value in some respects, his lands had been
sufficient, in those frugal days, for the maintenance of his family
and dependants; and, as his ancestral rocks and hills, he loved them
dearly.  "It is felt as a strange and uncouth association (to quote
the "Domestic Annals of Scotland"), that Steele, of _Tatler_ and
_Spectator_ memory--kind-hearted, thoughtless Dicky Steele--should
have been one of the persons who administered in the affairs of the
cateran of Craigrostan.  In the final report of the Commissioners
(for forfeited estates) we have the pitiful account of _the public
ruin of poor Rob_, Inversnaid being described as of the yearly value
of £53. 16s. 8½d., and the total sum realized from it, of
purchase-money and interest, £958. 18s.  There is much possible
reason to believe that it would have been a much more advantageous,
as well as humane arrangement, for the public to have allowed these
twelve miles of Highland mountains to remain in the hands of their
former owner."

In the close of the year he went with Greumoch, MacAleister, and a
few other followers to the ducal castle of Inverary, and there
affected to submit to the Government, by delivering some forty or
fifty swords and pistols to his remote kinsman, Colonel Patrick
Campbell, of Finab; from whom he obtained a signed protection; after
this act, which was performed merely _to gain time_, he could not be
molested by the troops or civil authorities.

But he returned to Breadalbane more than ever determined to exert
every energy in storming the fortress of Inversnaid, in expelling the
garrison, and resolved to spend the last of his life in punishing
Montrose, Athole, Killearn, and all who had ever wronged or injured
him.

We shall soon see the sequel to these bold projects.




CHAPTER XXV.

LITTLE RONALD.

About this time there occurred two circumstances, which--more than
any outrage that had preceded them--impelled Rob to attack the
Sassenach invaders, for so he deemed them at Inversnaid.

Near Eas-teivil, or the Fall of the Tummel, in the face of a
tremendous rock, is a cavern to which there is a narrow path,
accessible only to one person at a time.  Therein several fugitive
MacGregors were surprised by some of Huske's soldiers, who had been
conducted there by a spy named MacLaren.  One-half were shot down or
bayonneted.  The others fought their way out, but fell over the rock,
and clung to the trees which grew from its face.

There they swung in blind desperation above the foaming stream, "upon
which," says the "Statistical Reporter," "the pursuers cut off their
arms, and precipitated them to the bottom," to be swept away by the
rushing water.

These tidings filled Rob Roy with a glow of fury, which the second
event was in no way calculated to cool.

It chanced that on a day in spring, his second son, Ronald, a boy in
his fourteenth year, despite the intreaties of his mother, and the
injunctions of his father, strolled over the hills with his
fishing-rod, along the banks of Loch Arclet, and actually fished
within sight of Inversnaid.

Little Ronald was brave as a lion.  Once he had climbed the giddiest
of the rocks above Loch Lomond, with his dirk in his teeth, to
destroy the nest of a gigantic iolar or mountain eagle, which preyed
on the lambs of a poor widow who was his foster-mother.

He was generous, too, as he was brave, for the boy once nearly
perished in the deep drift of a corrie, when searching amid the
winter snow for the lost sheep of a poor herdsman who was sick.
Every way in spirit Ronald was his father's son!

On this day in spring, when his fish-basket was pretty well filled
with spotted trout, and the long mountain-shadows cast by the setting
sun began to remind him of the distance that lay between Loch Arclet
and the secluded little farm of Portnellan, he was preparing to quit
his sport, when three redcoats suddenly appeared on the narrow
footway, so Ronald turned to fly.

That he strove to avoid them in those days need not excite wonder;
for such were the atrocities of the British and Hessian troops in the
Highlands, and so much was their uniform abhorred for generations
after, that many a Highlander, who in manhood has led his company or
regiment to the storming of Badajoz and the fields of Vittoria and
Waterloo, when a boy was wont to fly to the woods for concealment,
when by chance he saw a red-coat on the roads that led to the chain
of forts in the Great Glen of Caledonia.

A pistol-shot fired by one of these strangers now made Ronald pause,
as it struck a rock before him, and turning, with a flushed brow and
an agitated heart, he found himself confronted by Major Huske and two
soldiers, with whom he had been shooting, scouting, or rambling by
the side of Loch Arclet.

Enraged to find himself thus molested, on the land which Ronald knew
to be his father's heritage, he laid his hand on his dirk and boldly
confronted the major, whose large, square, red-skirted coat,
three-cornered hat, and Ramillies wig, were all fraught with terrors,
which the boy sought to conceal, for he felt that it would ill become
his father's son to quail beneath a Saxon eye.

"Will you sell your fish, my little man?" asked the major; but Ronald
knew as little of English as the major did of Gaelic so a soldier had
to act as interpreter for them.

"No," replied Ronald, sullenly.

"Then as we want some at the garrison, we shall be compelled to
appropriate what you have," said Huske, peeping into the basket; "I
warrant the money offered will not be allowed to lie on the heather."

"Take the fish if you want them, and let me be gone," replied Ronald,
throwing his basket down.

"Whither go you?" asked Huske, suspiciously.

"To my home."

"Where is it?"

"Among the mountains--where you would not be wise to follow," replied
the boy, boldly.

The soldier perhaps interpreted this with some awkwardness or
severity, for Huske exclaimed furiously--

"'Sdeath! you young rascal; do you speak thus to me?"

"And why not, when I am a son of the Red MacGregor?" was the rash
boy's response.

"Zounds!  I thought as much," exclaimed Huske, with a malevolent
gleam in his eyes; "Come, my lad, don't let us quarrel about a few
fish.  I have a particular desire to see your worthy father--he is a
fine fellow, and a good judge of other men's cattle.  We want some of
the latter for the garrison.  Can you tell me where he is?"

"Yes," said Ronald, with knitted brows and clenched teeth.

"Where, my boy?"

"Where you had better not seek him."

"Pshaw! will not this bribe you?" said Huske, slipping three guineas
from his purse into Ronald's hand.

Though nurtured amid civil war and sore adversity, the poor boy knew
well the value of the bribe so infamously offered by Huske, who had
never forgotten nor forgiven his meetings with Rob Roy in Moffatdale
and elsewhere.  Ronald drew himself proudly up, and said--

"You ask me--you, a soldier--to betray my father?"

"Nay, nay; to discover----"

"To betray--Saxon captain, or Saxon dog, mince the words as you will!"

"A mutinous cur; but I'll tame him yet," muttered the major.

"You shall never get my father, alive at least; for he is strong and
brave as Cuchullin!"

"Some other Highland savage, I suppose; but, egad, we shall see."

"Sir," said the soldier who acted as interpreter, "would it not be a
good plan to let the young cub loose, and watch him well? in the end
he would be sure to lead us to the old wolf's den."

"He would scramble up rocks where none but a cat or a monkey could
follow, or leave us all floundering to the neck in some treacherous
bog.  No, no, I know better than that.  Offer him three guineas more."

The soldier did so.

"You might as well ask me to blow the fire with my mouth full of
meal," was Ronald's contemptuous reply; "for I would rather die than
betray any man--to a base Saxon churl least of all!"

The soldier clenched his hand, but paused.

"Threaten if you will; but strike not!" said Ronald, with his right
hand on his dirk.

"You little villain, would you dare to draw on us?" thundered Major
Huske.

"Yes, even if you stood at the head of all your men, and dared to lay
a hand on me," replied Ronald, bursting into tears of passion and
fury, as he flung the guineas full into Huske's face.

Filled with rage by this insult, the latter rushed upon the brave boy
and wrenched his dirk away.  Ronald made a desperate resistance, he
struggled kicked, bit, and fought; but he was soon dragged into the
fort by the soldiers, who cast him, handcuffed, into a dark stone
cell.

Huske, a brutal officer of the old Dutch or Revolution school,
proposed to tie a cord round the poor boy's head, and twist it with a
pistol-barrel or drumstick, until agony compelled him to furnish all
the details required about his father's movements; but the officer
next in command, Captain Henry Clifford, of the South British
Fusiliers,* a humane English gentleman, opposed the cruel idea so
vigorously that Huske abandoned it; so Ronald was closely watched,
and fed on bread and water.


* New.


He was threatened with being flogged at the halberts, or with being
hung on a tree; but nothing would make him tell aught to his father's
enemies.  Yet, though he kept a brave front to "the Saxons," as he
named them, in the fulness of his heart and the solitude of his cell,
he wept for his parents, and repeatedly offered up the prayers his
mother taught him, and repeated to himself the twenty-second Psalm,
"Shi Dhia fhein 'm buachalich" (the Lord is my shepherd).

Oina speedily informed the family at Portnellan of all this.  She had
now grown to womanhood, and was the wife of Alaster Roy.  As a dealer
in eggs, butter, and milk, she frequented the fort, and there learned
the story of the young angler's capture.

This unwarrantable action filled MacGregor with just indignation, and
Helen with lively fears, lest her golden-haired Ronald might be
impressed for a sailor or soldier, or perhaps sold to the Dutch
planters for a slave; and Rob swore upon the bare blade of his sword
to raze Inversnaid to the ground, and to give Huske's flesh to the
eagles of Ben Lomond ere the sun of the next Beltane day had risen,
while his mother--an aged woman now--vowed that she too would march
to the rescue, though armed only with her spindle and scissors.




CHAPTER XXVI.

PAUL CRUBACH.

Before collecting his followers, or making preparations to storm
Inversnaid, and expel the royal troops from his patrimony, Rob Roy
resolved to make himself well acquainted with the strength and
resources of the garrison, and with the number of men and cannon at
Major Huske's disposal; and for this service he availed himself of
Oina, who brought him daily intelligence of the enemy.

Moreover, he had another very efficient spy in the person of Paul
Crubach, whose grotesque figure and quaint conduct made him a welcome
visitor to the soldiers, who jested and made fun with him, as a
half-witted being; but as usual with such characters in Scotland,
there was a "method in the madness" of Paul Crubach.

One night as he sat by the fireside, in the little farmhouse of
Portnellan, where Ronald's absence formed a source of perpetual
grief, he urged that before attacking Inversnaid the oracle of the
"House of Invocation" should be consulted; but Rob Roy though brave
as man could be, shrunk from seeking intercourse with the world of
spirits.

"Are you afraid?" exclaimed Paul Crubach, striking his cross-staff
fiercely on the floor with indignation.

"Afraid, Paul--yes, of the devil."

"Then I shall face the King of the Cats for you, and from him I shall
extort the knowledge whether ever again _the three glens_ shall be
ours."

The eyes of MacGregor sparkled.

"The old inheritance of Clan Alpine!" said he; "yes; Glenlyon,
Glendochart, and Glenorchy, shall again be ours, Paul, but first I
must root out and raze this nest of Saxon hornets at Inversnaid!"

"And set free my red-cheeked Ronald," added Helen, weeping with
sorrow and anger, as she twirled her spindle on the clay floor.

"But look before you leap, MacGregor; before marching learn what the
oracle may tell," urged the old man; "but I shall learn for you, if I
have not, as in past times, a vision before the hour, when, as the
bard of Cona says, 'the hunter awakes from his noon-day slumber, and
hears in his vision the spirits of the hill.'"

Rob shuddered as Paul spoke, for a strange wild glare flashed in the
eyes of this old man, who was supposed to be a seer, possessing the
gift of the second sight.

"If the time serves, Paul," resumed MacGregor, who wished to change
the subject, "I will inscribe on the rocks of Craigrostan and
Inversnaid, in Gaelic letters, my indisputable right thereto, in
defiance of the elector and his redcoats."

"Ah! thou art right," said Paul, grinding his teeth and brandishing
his cross-staff; "do so, even as MacMillan of South Knapdale, and the
MacMurachies of Terdigan and Kilberrie, had their charters carved
upon the rocks of their land."

"But alas, Paul, that time may never, never come," said Helen, with a
sad smile.

"And little would such charters avail me, good wife, if the good
claymore fails," said Rob, with irony in his eye and tone.

"Then," observed Greumoch, who sat in a corner smoking his pipe and
oiling his gun, "we have the fair sleek skins of the Saxons whereon
to write the story of our wrongs with a pen of pointed steel."

"Enough of this," said Paul Crubach, rising and drawing a deerskin
over his shoulders; "the sooner my task begins 'twill be the sooner
ended."

"Whither go you, Paul, and at this hour?" asked Rob, attempting to
detain his strange guest.

"To consult the _Tighghairm_.  Meet me at sunset on the second day
from this, at the Ladders, above Loch Katrine, and you will there
learn what the future has in store for us; whether we shall be the
victors at Inversnaid, whether your boy shall be freed, and whether
we shall again possess the three glens, which are the heritage of
Clan Alpine, or be vanquished and destroyed."

And before MacGregor, Helen, or Greumoch could interpose, Paul had
snatched his cross-staff, and, with his long white hair streaming
behind him in elf-locks, had rushed forth into the darkness.

MacGregor, whose intercourse with Englishmen and Lowlanders had made
him somewhat more a man of the world than his followers, was
nevertheless too strongly imbued with the old superstitions and
native predilections of his race and country not to await with
considerable interest, though mingled with doubt, the result of those
spells which all in the district believed the half-witted Paul
Crubach was capable of weaving, or the visions with which he was
supposed to be visited.

Accordingly, about the sunset of the second day, MacGregor, well
armed as usual, repaired alone to the appointed place of tryst.

The Ladders was the name of a dangerous and difficult track, which
then formed the only access to Loch Katrine from Callendar.

He entered the narrow pass, which is half a mile in length.  There
the rocks are stupendous in height, in some places seeming to impend
over the head of the wayfarer; in others, aged weeping birches hang
their drooping foliage over the basaltic cliffs from which they
spring, adding a wild beauty to the rugged gorge.

Across the summits of this pass, which is a portion of the famous
Trossachs, the dying sunlight shone in red and uncertain gleams,
through stormy clouds of dusky and saffron tints, for all the
preceding night loud peals of thunder had shaken the mountains, and
even yet the atmosphere was close and sulphurous.

At last Rob reached the Ladders, which consisted of steps roughly
hewn out of the solid rock.  By means of these, and ropes suspended
from the trees, to be grasped by the hand, the bold and hardy natives
of this part of the Highlands were wont to traverse the pass, which,
in time of war, one swordsman could defend against a thousand.

Rob slung his target on his shoulder, grasped the ropes, and from
step to step swung himself lightly up the beetling rocks until he
reached the summit, from whence he could see, far down below, Loch
Katrine, a lovely sheet of water ten miles in length, gleaming redly
in the last light of the sun, whose rays lingered yet on the vast
peak of Benvenue, and on the beautiful hills of Arroquhar, that
closed the view to the west.

In the loch is an islet, wherein, during the invasion of Scotland by
Oliver Cromwell, the Clan Gregor had placed all their aged men, their
women and children, for security.  On finding that the only boat
remaining was moored at the islet, an English soldier swam across to
seize it, but was stabbed to the heart by Iole MacGregor, the
grandmother of Rob's foster-brother, Callam MacAleister.

The scenery was alike wild and grand, and the great masses of lurid
and dun-coloured thunder-clouds that overhung the darkening hills
added to its effect.

With his keen and glittering eyes fixed on the place where the sun
had set, Paul Crubach sat on a fragment of volcanic rock.  He seemed
wan, pale, and weary; his masses of tangled hair and his primitive
garb of deerskin seemed to have been scorched by fire, and his bare
legs and arms were covered with scars and bruises.

Propping himself on his cross-staff, he arose with apparent
difficulty on the approach of MacGregor, who said, with anxiety,--

"In Heaven's name, what has happened--what have you done, Paul?"

"I have opened the House of Invocation.  I have consulted the oracle
of the _Tighghairm_," said he, solemnly.

"Did it speak?" asked Rob, with growing wonder.

"Listen; I passed the night in the Coir nan Uriskin."

"In the cave of the wild shaggy men!" exclaimed the other, starting
with more of actual fear than astonishment in his manner.

"Yea, even there," replied Paul, closing his eyes for a moment, and
sighing deeply.

"What did you see--what did you hear?"

"Listen, and I shall tell you what happened."




CHAPTER XXVII

THE HOUSE OF INVOCATION.

Paul related that after sunset on the preceding evening he had sought
that remarkable cavern or den, which lies at the base of Benvenue.

It is a deep and circular hollow in the side of the mountain, about
six hundred yards wide at the top, but narrows steeply towards the
bottom, on all sides surrounded by stupendous masses of shattered
rock, covered so thickly with wild birches that their interlaced
branches almost intercept the sunlight even at noon.

For ages, local superstition has made this place the abode of the
Urisks, wild shaggy men, or lubber-fiends, who were fashioned like
the ancient satyrs, being half-men and half-goats; thus their very
name was fraught with many indescribable terrors, and hence the spot
was avoided by the most hardy huntsmen, even at mid-day.

There Paul had repaired as the night was closing in, carrying with
him, instead of his cross-staff, the blade of an ancient sword
without a hilt, and a black cat securely tied in a bag.

Selecting the very centre of the coir, or hollow, he drew a circle
three times round him with the sword-blade, and collecting a quantity
of dry branches, dead leaves, and moss, he added some pieces of
coffin-boards, brought from his remarkable hut in Strathfillan, and
lighted a fire.  Amid the growing flames he thrust the sword-blade
firmly into the earth, with the point uppermost.

Then he drew from the bag the fated cat, the paws of which were
securely tied with a cord.  As the increasing flames rose fast, he
thrust the poor animal upon the upright sword, impaling it alive, the
supposed necessity of the ordeal rendering Paul completely callous
and heedless of the cruelty he was perpetrating.

Then the shrill cries of the tortured cat woke a thousand echoes
among the rocks of that ghastly hollow, while it spat and bit at the
steel on which its blood was dripping to hiss on the fire below.  Its
jaws were distended, and its protruding eyes glared like opals in the
light; its ears were laid flat, and every hair was bristling with
fear and agony, till scorched off by the rising flames.

Their lurid light cast strange and fantastic gleams on the rocks of
that solemn hollow; and when in the moaning night wind the birches
waved their drooping branches to and fro, the whole place seemed to
fill with moving figures of quaint and unearthly aspect.

As the yells of the tortured cat woke them up, sharp-nosed foxes
peeped forth from their holes with glittering eyes, fleet squirrels
scampered up the trees, and the birds screamed and whirred in flocks
out of the hollow; but fast and furiously there gathered from all
quarters cats, wild and domestic; over the bushes and rocks they came
swarming, as if to the rescue, with open mouths, protruding eyes,
extended claws, and backs erect; but they were compelled to pause,
being unable to enter the charmed circle, or it might be perhaps that
the glare of the fire terrified or bewildered them.

Cats in countless numbers--black, white, grey, and brindled--covered
all the rocks of the Coir nan Uriskin, according to Paul, denouncing
in fury the torment of their companion, till their spitting and
hissing sounded like the rush of a waterfall; for though many of
these sudden visitors were of the common size and kind, many more
were the wild cats of the mountains, which are four times larger than
the domestic, with yellow coats, black streaks, thick flat tails, and
are armed with claws and teeth well calculated to inspire terror.

Then as the branches of the trees waved to and fro, their shadows on
the weather-beaten rocks seemed more distinctly to assume the strange
form, the quaint and savage faces of the terrible Urisks, that
glimmered and jabbered at these unhallowed proceedings.  But the
resolute Paul continued to mutter,--

  See not this!
    Hear not that!
  Round with the spit,
    And turn the cat!


So he never looked about him nor quailed in his grim work, for he
knew that greater terrors would yet surround him ere the fiend he was
summoning would appear.  For if the _Gluasa-leabhra_ came to the
rescue of his tortured subject--this terrible king of the cats,
distinguished from all others of the mountain by his tiger-like
proportions and wondrous strength--Paul knew that _then_ would be the
critical moment of his fate; for if his heart failed him on hearing
the yell of this half-cat, half-demon, he must be overborne by the
whole living mass, which now covered the sides of the Coir nan
Uriskin; his body would be rent into a thousand pieces, and the
_future_ of Clan Alpine would never be learned!

The midnight air was growing dense and sulphurous; gleams of
lightning began to play about the bleak summit of Benvenue, and the
deep thunder grumbled in the distance.  Drops of hot rain were
falling heavily too; but Paul felt them not, for his heart leaped
within him as he shouted,--

"Wretch, come forth!  He is coming!--he is coming!"

The poor cat impaled upon the sword-blade was expiring now;
half-roasted alive, its eyeballs yet protruded from their sockets;
surcharged with blood, they had become red as rubies, and its mouth
opened and shut spasmodically.

White as milk or thistle-down, Paul's long and tangled hair glittered
in the wavering fire-light and in the livid gleams that shot athwart
the sky; but still he tossed his skeleton arms aloft, and whirled the
dying cat upon the sword-blade with a piece of burning brand.

In their sunken sockets Paul's eyeballs blazed like burning coals,
for every moment he expected to see the trembling earth open, and the
unchained fiend appear before him; but the rocks of the Coir nan
Uriskin trembled by no demoniac spell, but with the boom of the
pealing thunder alone.

Suddenly there was a splitting roar and a dreadful crash; a blinding
sheet of livid flame filled the whole hollow; for a moment the wet
rocks seemed to sparkle like masses of crystal, and the trees were
seen to toss and twist wildly upward their rending branches in the
blast.  Then all became darkness and all silence, save when the
thunder of the midnight storm grumbled in the distance far away.

A thunderbolt had struck the rocks of the hollow; Paul became
senseless, and remembered no more till morning dawned, when he found
himself lying near a thunder-riven rock in the Coir nan Uriskin amid
the ashes of his extinguished fire, and close by him the charred
remains of his victim still impaled by the sword-blade.

The adventures of the night--how much of these were true and how much
were _fancy_ the reader may easily determine--had sorely exhausted
the strength of this strange old man, to whose narrative Rob Roy
listened with astonishment, not unmingled with alarm, for the scene
of his spells was fraught with innumerable terrors.

"Thus, MacGregor, I have sinned and perilled my soul for nothing,"
groaned Paul, closing his eyes, as if in exhaustion; "I have invoked
in vain, and in vain has the terrible ordeal of the Tighghairm been
undergone!"

"If all this be true, Paul, you were near rousing the devil to little
purpose.  For had he told you that we would be victorious, we would
fight; if defeated and dispersed, _still_ would we fight, till the
last of us was gathered to his fathers.  So for true tidings of the
enemy I would rather trust to the lass Oina than to your devilish
cantrips."

"You would trust in a woman?" said Paul, disdainfully.

"She can reckon every redcoat in Inversnaid as well as you or I could
do, Paul."

"What said St. Colme of Iona?  'Where there is a cow there will be a
woman, and where there is a woman there will be _mischief_; so
neither one nor the other ever set foot on the Isle of the Waves in
_his_ time.'"

"An ungallant speech," said Rob, laughing.

"But a true one.  Pause and consider well, for a son of Fortune waits
and attains his end in peace; but the luckless hastens on
unadvisedly, and evil befalls him."

"Dioul!" said the other, with knitted brow; "I am no son of Fortune,
but an outlawed son of Alpine!  I thank you for your advice, Paul;
but return to Portnellan, and get food to restore your wasted
strength.  I will trust to the kind God above us," he added,
uncovering his head, and looking upward, "to Him and to my father's
sword, rather than to a voice from hell!  To-night I cross the hills
to Inversnaid, where my poor boy Ronald and my patrimony are alike
kept from me by these Saxon intruders.  Coll, Greumoch, MacAleister,
and the rest are to follow me with five hundred men.  We shall gather
at the burn foot, where it flows into Loch Lomond, on the third night
from this.  Sharp war brings sure peace; and ere the sun of the next
day shines upon the mountains, I shall cock my bonnet on the ruins of
Inversnaid, or lie low on the heather as death can lay me!"

With these words Rob and Paul Crubach parted.

The latter turned away with tottering steps to seek the farmhouse of
Portnellan, where Helen MacGregor, with her boys, Hamish and Duncan,
were to wait the issue of the attack upon the king's fort and
barrack; while Rob threw his target on his shoulder, and lithely and
agilely descended the precipitous ladder in the rocks, and alone, as
night was closing, sought the road to Callendar.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

ROB ROY'S CAVE.

The Red MacGregor knew well that the destruction of Inversnaid and
the dispersion of its garrison would render him popular even with his
enemies; for that fort had been built to overawe the Buchanans, the
Colquhouns of Luss, and the Stewarts of Ardvoirlich, as well as the
MacGregors; yet none but the latter had the daring to attempt its
capture.

It was always garrisoned by a strong party from the castle of
Dumbarton, relieved at regular intervals.

Full of thought and of the bold deed he had in contemplation,
MacGregor travelled alone by the northern base of Benvenue, from
whence, across the waters of Loch Katrine, he could see the lights
glittering in the windows of the thatched farmhouse, where his family
resided, at Portnellan, near where the western end of that lovely
sheet of water flows into Glengyle, and with a prayer on his lips for
their protection, and a sigh of hope for the future, he drew tighter
his girdle, secured his belted plaid upon his breast by his brooch,
and crossed the rugged mountain slope with long strides unerringly in
the dark, for the night was moonless, and after a journey of ten or
twelve miles, he reached his old lurking-place, the cavern, on the
banks of Loch Lomond.

From this place he could overlook the lands that were once his own,
and where whilom he had been able to count the grey smoke of a
hundred cottages rising in the clear air of an autumn evening, and
knew that in these humble abodes all loved him with a love that went
beyond the grave; but the times were changed, and with a sigh of
bitterness he entered the cavern.

He looked carefully to the flints and priming of his pistols, and
casting himself on a bed of dry soft heather, prepared for him in a
hollow of the rocks by the careful hands of Oina, he placed his drawn
sword beside him, and addressed himself to sleep, as he expected a
visit from her in the morning when she could leave the fort, where
she had been latterly engaged as the servant of an officer's wife.

Hour after hour passed, and MacGregor heard no sound but the night
wind as it swept the bleak mountain side, and tossed the wild whins
and brakens that fringed the mouth of his dark hiding-place.

Sleep was stealing gradually over him when some strange dark objects
appeared at the cavern mouth.  Starting, he snatched up his sword and
pistols; but paused, for the figures had short horns, floating
beards, and red glaring eyes that peered in at him from behind the
ledges of rock.

On the first alarm he thought that soldiers had tracked him hither;
then the diablerie of Paul's recent proceedings, and his strange
narrative of the night he had passed in the den of the Urisks,
flashed upon Rob's memory, and made his flesh creep; for now, head
after head, with horns and beard and red glancing eyes, came along
the lower edge of the cavern floor, appearing darkly and indistinctly
against the dim light without.

MacGregor levelled a pistol and fired; then there was a rush of many
feet down the slope, and on springing to the cavern mouth, he found
that he had been scared by a herd of poor mountain goats, which he
saw now leaping from rock to rock in terror and dismay.

Then Rob laughed aloud at the excitement or overstrained fancy which
had caused such unusual emotions of alarm; and he thought of the good
King Robert I., who had been similarly startled in the same place.
For we are told, that after his defeat by the rebellious Western
Highlanders at Dalree in Strathfillan, he fled down the glen, crossed
the Falloch, and alone and unattended reached Loch Lomond side, and
at Inversnaid took shelter in this same cavern.  There he slept in
his armour on the bare rocks, with his sword drawn by his side--the
sword that was never to be sheathed till Scotland were freed alike
from Western rebels and English invaders.

In the mirk midnight, the war-worn king awoke, and was at first
astonished, and then amused, to find the cave full of wild mountain
goats, whose lair it was; and tradition adds, that Bruce found
himself so comfortable among them, that when peace was proclaimed and
the Parliament met, he passed "a law whereby all goats should be
grass mail (or rent) free."

In that cave King Robert passed the night, and in the morning there
came to him Sir Maurice of Buchanan, who conducted him to Malcolm
Earl of Lennox.

On the same rock where, perhaps, the Bruce's head was pillowed, Rob
Roy dropped into a profound sleep, and the morning sun was shining
brightly on the woods of silver birch and sombre pine, and on the
green isles of Loch Lomond, when he awoke to find Oina seated near
him, with a little basket by her side, and a red plaid drawn over her
head, patiently watching him, and waiting the moment when he would be
stirring.  In one hand she had a hunting-bottle of usquebaugh, and in
the other a little quaich formed of juniper and birch staves
alternately, smoothly polished, and hooped with silver.

The little girl, with the thick brown tresses described in the first
chapter of our story, was now a tall matron, with her dark hair
gathered under a curchie.  Her brow was thoughtful and severe, for
many a time since the day on which her boy companion, Colin Bane, had
been slain by Duncan nan Creagh, had she looked death in the face
amid flashing swords and flaming rafters; and she was now, as stated,
the wife of Alaster Roy MacGregor.

"You have come at last, Oina," said Rob Roy.

"Say not that as a taunt," said she, "for I could not leave the fort
of Inversnaid before the gates were opened at daybreak."

"I did not say it tauntingly, Oina," replied Rob, patting her
shoulder; "but what of my poor boy Ronald?"

"He is still in a cell, where I cannot have speech with him."

"A cell!  How his free Highland soul must abhor such confinement!
Patience yet awhile, my boy, for the blades are on the grindstone
that ere long shall free you.  But do they keep surer watch than
usual at Inversnaid?"

"I cannot say; but more of the red soldiers arrived yesterday."

"More?" repeated Rob, starting.

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Forty at least; they came by a boat up Loch Lomond from Dumbarton."

"How many are in the fort now?"

"I have reckoned four companies of eighty men each."

"Three hundred and twenty muskets."

"Nay, for twenty of these have halberts."

"True--the sergeants."

"Then there are six _tairneanach_" (thunder-mouths).

"At the gate.  I have marked them from the hill; they are six-pound
cannon, I believe; but let us once pass the barrier and they will be
useless.  I have but five hundred claymores, yet I will make an
attempt, if it should cost me my life and the lives of all who adhere
to me," said Rob Roy, firmly.

"At what hour will you advance?"

"To-morrow night at twelve."

"Good.  I shall endeavour to dispose of the sentinel at the gate."

"With the dirk?  Nay, I like not that, Oina," said Rob Roy.

"Nay, with _this_," she replied, laughing, as she took the
hunting-bottle of whisky from the basket in which she had brought a
breakfast for MacGregor.

"To-morrow night we muster at the burn foot, near Inversnaid.  At
twelve the attack will commence--twelve remember, Oina; and if the
sentinel be not silenced by you, we must e'en trust to the
sledge-hammer first and the steel blade after."

When Oina left him to return to the fort the hours passed slowly and
anxiously with MacGregor, who in his hiding-place could hear the
drums when they were beaten at daybreak, sunset, and tattoo, in the
barrack at Inversnaid; and he prayed that the time might come when
that sound, which was rendered, by association, so hateful to a
Highland ear, would be hushed among his native hills for ever.

Whether victorious or not, Rob Roy could scarcely hope that an act so
daring as an attack on a royal garrison would pass unpunished; but he
heeded not.  By that deed he resolved to make a terrible protest
against the usurpation of his land, and the erection of such a
building in the country of the MacGregors.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE STORMING OF INVERSNAID.

The eventful night proved dark and cloudy.  The month was April, but
already the young buds had burst, and were in full leaf in the wild
woods that bordered Loch Lomond, when Rob clambered out of the deep
rocky fissure which formed the approach to his cavern, and sought the
place of tryst.

Sweeping down glen and corrie, the night wind came in squally gusts
to furrow up the waters of the Loch.  About the bare summits of the
mighty mountains which overlooked it, the red sheet-lightning gleamed
at times, giving a weird aspect to the black and silent scenery, as
rock, hill, and tree came forth for a moment in dark outlines upon
the lurid background, and then vanished into obscurity.

No sound broke the solemn stillness save those gusts of wind, or the
rushing cascade of the mountain burn that brawled from Inversnaid
over rocks and stones towards the loch, while the MacGregors arriving
in parties of ten, twenty--even forty--from the banks of Loch Arclet,
from Glengyle, Glenstrae, and the braes of Balquhidder, mustered at
the appointed place, every man armed with sword and dirk, target and
pistol.

In addition to these (the invariable weapons of the Highlander) many
had long muskets with bayonets, taken from the troops, and the
terrible _tuagh_, or pole-axe, and each wore a sprig of pine in his
bonnet.

A wild and warlike yet resolute band, they were anxious for the
conflict, as they had the traditionary and actual wrongs of their
race to avenge--the violation of their clan territory; and, moreover,
many of them had suffered by the spoliation or appropriation of their
cattle and sheep, which had been taken or shot by the king's
garrison; for, as stated elsewhere, cattle were then the whole wealth
of our mountaineers.  Forty head were a woman's dowry; the rents were
paid, daughters were portioned, and sons provided for in life by
herds and flocks.

With MacAleister, Greumoch, Alaster Roy, Rob found his eldest son
Coll already there.  There, too, came even old Paul Crubach, armed
with the hiltless sword on which he had impaled the unfortunate cat;
and on reckoning his force, Rob found that it consisted of five
hundred and two claymores, all men resolute and true as the steel of
which their weapons were made.

The milky light of the stars glimmered at times through the flying
clouds, on their swords and round shields studded with polished nails
and bosses of brass and steel, as they sat or stood in picturesque
groups, muttering and whispering, and chewing the _muilcionn_, as the
Highlanders name the spignel, which they were wont to chew like
liquorice or quids of tobacco, in winter and spring.

Measures for the attack were soon resolved on by a force alike
destitute of cannon, petards, or scaling-ladders.  They were simply
these: To advance to the gate in the ancient and classic form of a
wedge, led by Rob Roy; and if Oina had failed to remove or overcome
the sentinel, to trust to the sledge-hammer first and the sword-blade
after.

Those nearest in blood, highest in rank in the clan, and the best
armed, were to keep close by Rob in the conflict; so Coll,
MacAleister, and Greumoch were immediately in his rear, as the march
was begun in silence up the side of the stream, towards the point of
attack.

The cuarans, or shoes of untanned deerskin, then worn by-the
Highlanders, strapped sandalwise over the instep and ankles, enabled
this mass of men to advance over the rocky and rough ground as
silently and noiselessly as if they trod on the soft heather, or on
"the down of Cana," the cotton grass of which Ossian sang, and which
whitens the Highland mosses in spring, when the sheep crop it, before
it bursts into flower.

After a march of something less than a mile, before them, on an
eminence, rose the strong walls and black outline of the fort and
barrack they were about to assail.

Halting his men at some distance, MacGregor crept forward softly and
drew near the arched gate, on each side of which three pieces of
cannon frowned through embrasures of stone.

He listened intently for the step of the sentinel within, but heard
only the wind, as it moaned past the mouths of the cannon.

He uttered a shrill whistle like that of a curlew, a signal he had
agreed on with Oina, and her expected response, three knocks on the
gate, made his heart leap, for he now knew that the sentinel had
fallen into a snare, that she had succeeded in intoxicating him, and
that the outer barrier at least was open.  Hastening back to his men,
he exclaimed,--

"Come on, my lads, and follow me; the path is clear!"

He drew his sword, and a gleam of light seemed to pass over all the
dusky mass as every man followed his example, and rushing on like a
living flood, they flung themselves against the gate, within which
the sentinel was lying in his box quite intoxicated.

With shouts of "Dhia agus ar duthaich!  Bigh Hamish gu bragh!" ("God
and our country!  King James for ever!") the MacGregors burst into
the fort; but, unknown to them, there was, an inner gate of iron,
which secured the passage to the barracks.  This, Captain Clifford,
the officer commanding the main guard, instantly shut and secured;
and through the bars of it his men opened a fire of musketry, that in
five minutes brought the whole garrison under arms.

Swinging ponderous sledge-hammers, Rob Roy, MacAleister, and others,
strove in vain to beat or break down the malleable iron bars of this
unexpected barrier, through which the musketry flashed incessantly,
and many of their men were falling killed or wounded, while others
returned the fire with their long guns, which they discharged through
the barrier right into the faces of the redcoats.

The outworks of Inversnaid were completely in possession of the
MacGregors, but the inner wall, by its height, defied their efforts,
and Rob knew that from it and the barrack windows ere long there
would be opened a fire of musketry, which would decimate and destroy
his men, unless the heart of the place was entered, while
consternation existed in the garrison.

Already the windows were full of lights, as the soldiers were
dressing and arming in haste.  Sharply and rapidly the long roll was
beaten on the drum, and scores of voices were heard in clamour and
confusion within, while without rang the wild cheers of his men and
the pipes of Alpine, who played,--

  Oh that I had _three_ hands,--
  One for the sword and two for the pipe!


The red explosion of muskets and pistols echoed on both sides of the
barrier, which Captain Clifford, a resolute officer, who shared with
his men a hatred and fear of the Celts, defended with resolution;
expecting only extermination if taken, the King's Fusiliers acted
with great vigour and courage.

From an angle of the inner wall, which his men were now rapidly
lining, Major Huske shot off a number of lighted shells or bombs from
a little brass howitzer.  These soared through the air, forming long
and dazzling arcs of light, which enabled his Fusiliers to see the
number and disposition of the attacking force, and to direct their
fire upon the tumultuous mass of men wedged below the walls, where
the long blades of their brandished swords seemed to flash sharply up
from a sea of blue bonnets, red tartans, and round targets.

The soldiers, in their square-skirted red coats, white cross-belts,
and three-cornered hats, were rapidly lining all the walls, firing at
random as they came upon the platforms, till Huske lighted three
_cercles goudronnes_, by the blaze of which they directed their aim.

These are old gunmatches, pieces of rope dipped in pitch and tar,
made up in the form of a circle, to be placed upon ramparts during a
night attack.

The clear light they cast upon the strife, together with the sharp
and destructive explosion of three or four well directed
hand-grenades, were causing great consternation among the MacGregors,
some twenty or thirty of whom had fallen killed or wounded when the
bewildering cry of "_fire! fire!_" in the heart of the garrison,
produced a panic among the soldiers, and a red blaze was seen to
start above the roof of the barracks.  In fact, Oina, to create a
diversion, and distract the attention of the defenders, had thrown a
lighted candle into the lofts, where the hay and straw for the
officers' horses were stored.

A part of the wall was thus left undefended by Huske drawing off his
men to extinguish the flames.  At this part, the faithful and devoted
Oina threw down a ladder, up which the Highlanders scrambled with the
activity of wild cats; but at the same moment a stray bullet pierced
her head, and she fell lifeless across the wall with her arms and her
long dark hair spread over it.

Rob Roy was the first man in!

As he placed a foot upon the parapet, he stumbled and fell; but his
figure and red beard had been recognized by the light of the blazing
_cercles goudronnes_.

"The red MacGregor! down with him," exclaimed an officer; "at him, my
lads, with your bayonets breast high!"

Four soldiers rushed forward, and Rob's life had likely ended there,
had not Eoin Raibaich (John the Grizzled) a MacPherson who bore his
standard (for the Clan Vurich were the hereditary banner-bearers of
Clan Alpine), devotedly flung himself before him; and after thrusting
the point of the standard pole into the heart of one soldier,
received the bayonet of a second on his target, and those of the
other two in his own gallant breast.

"Righ Hamish gu bragh!" he exclaimed, and expired, as Greumoch
snatched the banner from his hand.  Then Rob Roy leaped down into the
heart of the place, and with shouts of triumph and fury, his men
spread over the whole barrack.

Paul Crubach was seen hobbling hither and thither, yelling like a
fiend; his cross-staff uplifted in one hand, his rusty sword-blade in
the other, and his long white hair streaming behind, and glittering
like hoar frost in the blaze of the burning haylofts, and the
flashing of the musketry.

Captain Clifford finding the rear turned, and the foe in the heart of
the garrison, opened the inner gate, and at the head of the main
guard forced a passage through and escaped.

By this avenue the whole garrison also escaped or were expelled,
being driven forth at the point of the sword.  Many cast aside their
muskets and belts, and fled down the glen of Inversnaid, they knew
not whither; but had they been pursued in the old Highland fashion,
not one could have escaped; however, Rob was merciful, and would not
permit a man to follow the fugitives.

Greumoch in the _mêlée_ caught Major Huske by his queue at the moment
he was rushing sword in hand through the gate of the fort.  The Celt
was about to hew the Saxon down, when the wig of the latter came off,
so he escaped bareheaded, while Greumoch fell heavily on his face.

"Oich," muttered he; "prutt-trutt! he has a sliddery grip that takes
an eel by the tail."

MacAleister soon discovered the cell wherein Ronald was confined, and
he rushed forth to embrace his father ere the fray was well over.

Rob's plaid was torn to pieces by bayonet thrusts and musket balls,
and he had a severe wound in his left shoulder, where a captain,
named Dorrington, stabbed him through the gate with his spontoon, a
pike then carried by all officers.

Save about fifteen or twenty soldiers who lay killed or wounded
(chiefly near the iron gate), not one of the garrison remained in
Inversnaid; but the barrack-yard was strewed with muskets, swords,
cartridge-boxes, blankets, haversacks, hats, and wigs; and there also
lay two drums, for the fugitives in their panic and desire to escape
abandoned everything, even to their regimental colour, for a standard
of the South British Fusiliers was found in Major Huske's quarters by
young Coll MacGregor, having the English rose embroidered upon it,
together with the white horse of Hanover, and the motto, _Nec aspera
terant_.

"Carry this to the farm of Portnellan, my boys," said Rob to his
sons, "and give it to your mother as a trophy of this night's work.
She has wept and wearied long for you, Ronald."

As there was no time to be lost, he gave orders to destroy the fort
utterly.  The wounded were carefully removed, and the slain
MacGregors he sent by a boat for interment on Inchcailloch, beside
the ruined church, which had been disused since 1621.

Among these was Oina, whom her husband had rolled in his plaid, as
the only shroud and coffin he had time to procure her.

The whole of the plunder found in the barracks and stores--arms,
powder, clothing, food, and money--Rob Roy, with his characteristic
generosity, gave to his poor and faithful followers, which completely
consoled them for many a stab, slash, and bruise received in the
attack.

To himself he reserved only the captured standard and a little
child--a boy of about three years of age--who was found asleep
peacefully in his bed amid all the horrid din and hurly-burly of the
night assault and capture.

On inquiring among the wounded soldiers whose boy this was, Rob was
informed that he was the only son of Major Huske; so he gave the
little fellow in care of his foster-brother, MacAleister, saying--

"Well, major, turn about is fair play.  You took my son--I now take
yours.  Carry him to Portnellan, Callam, and give him to Helen.  Tell
her (but it is needless) to keep the little Saxon tenderly, as if he
were our own, till such time as we can restore him to his father."

So MacAleister wrapped his plaid about the child, who screamed with
terror on seeing the Highlanders; for it was a common belief then in
England, and for long after, that they were wont to eat children,
like the ogres of the fairy tales.

Rob next ordered the cannon to be spiked and the barracks to be set
on fire.

"Alpine, strike up the _Brattach Ghael_!" said he to the piper, who
at once began the "White Banner," a famous pibroch of the Jacobite
clans.  "By the deed of to-night I shall teach these robber Whigs and
truckling Lowlanders to consider well ere again they build a fort on
our land; this will be the worst twist in their cow's-horn!"

Rob now gave orders to retire, with the wounded slung in plaids over
the shoulders of their comrades, who applied handfuls of nettles to
stop the bleeding of cuts and stabs; and the retreating MacGregors
saw the flames of the burning barrack and fort rising like a pyramid
of fire above the walls, as the daylight stole down the vast steeps
of Ben Lomond into its solemn glens and rocky corries.

The blaze was yet shining across the grey morning sky, when they
retreated to their fastnesses at the head of Loch Katrine, by the
wild way of Loch Arclet, whither MacGregor believed the bravest men
in the castles of Stirling or Dumbarton dared not follow him!




CHAPTER XXX.

THE FIGHT AT ABERFOYLE.

The little boy found at Inversnaid was kindly and tenderly received
by Helen MacGregor, who made him share the heather-couch of her
youngest son, Duncan, a hardy little Highland colt, who was about the
same age as the yellow-haired Saxon.  The arrival of the latter
created great speculation in the small clachan or farm-town of
Portnellan; but the poor boy, accustomed to other sights and sounds
than those around him now, was scared and terrified by the aspect of
the Highlanders, and mourned for his father and for the soldiers
among whom he had been reared, and clung to the skirts of Helen
MacGregor as his only protectress.

However, as children so young have but shallow griefs and short
memories, a few days found him quite reconciled to his fortune, to
little Duncan as a bedfellow and playmate; and he learned to sup his
porridge with a horn spoon from a large wooden trencher, and to make
a companion of the stag-hounds, collies, and otter-terriers, that
shared the fireside and sitting-room of the family of Portnellan.

"Alas!" said Helen, one evening, as she sat with the little stranger
on her knee; "this fair boy is too sweet, too good and beautiful to
find a proper place on earth."

"How--what mean ye, goodwife?" asked Rob, with displeasure.

"Such children never live to comb grey hairs."

"Say not so, Helen," said Rob, impressed by her manner.

"I would the youngling was with his own people.  I judge of their
sufferings by what I myself have suffered," said Helen, with a sigh.

"True, Helen," said Rob Roy, sternly, as he sat at the table oiling
the locks of his pistols; "but little cared they for our heartaches
when Ronald was their prisoner--fettered like a felon in the port of
Inversnaid, because he fished on the patrimony of his father, and
scorned to betray him for gold!"

"To seek the major at Dumbarton----"

"To seek Major Huske anywhere would be to seek death, even for him
who took the child to him.  A dab MacAleister gave him with his dirk
is not likely to have improved the major's temper; so let us bide our
time, Helen.  Our Highland air but ill suits Saxon lungs, yet the
blue-eyed boy thrives bravely, and our little Duncan loves him well.
They share their bannocks and cheese, their brochan and brose, like
sons of the same mother."

"Yet I would the child were with his," said Helen, earnestly.

"She is, I hope, in heaven," said Rob, looking upward.

"Dead!" exclaimed Helen; "mean you that she is dead?"

"Ay, Helen, even so.  She was killed by a cannon-ball at the siege of
Landau, in the Lowlands of Holland; and the poor child, then at her
breast, was covered with her blood.  Thus, poor Oina, who heard a
soldier say so, told me."

Helen's eyes filled with tears, as she kissed and caressed the
motherless boy, who, while creeping close to her, always viewed her
husband's red flowing beard, glaring tartans, and glittering weapons
(which he could scarcely lay aside for a moment, even by his own
hearthstone) with an undisguised fear and mistrust that frequently
made Rob and his henchman laugh heartily.

Helen dressed little Harry Huske in a home-made kilt and short coat,
which she adorned with buttons formed of those remarkable pebbles
which are found on the isle of Iona.  Her own hardy boys never wore
shoes except in winter, and then she fashioned for them soft warm
_cuarans_ of the red-deer's hide, to protect their feet from the
snow; but to little Harry, having been more gently nurtured, she gave
every luxury their circumstances would admit, and nightly she sang
him to sleep with her harp, and the plaintive old song of MacGregor
na Ruara.

Assisted and protected by Sir Humphry Colquhoun, James Grant of
Pluscardine, and others, Major Huske, though severely wounded, with
all his half-disarmed fugitives, reached the castle of Dumbarton,
which is more than twenty miles from Inversnaid, and from thence in a
few days, by order of Lieutenant-General Carpenter,
commander-in-chief in Scotland, a company of grenadiers, and three of
the line, were ordered to penetrate into the district of the
MacGregors, to punish them, and, if possible, to capture Rob Roy.

This party, notice of whose march was speedily brought to Portnellan
by Coll MacGregor and Greumoch, who had been scouting among the hills
of Buchanan, was commanded by Captain Clifford, whose residence at
Inversnaid had rendered him pretty conversant with the country.  The
tidings filled Helen and her household with something very like
dismay; but her husband fearlessly prepared for the emergency, and
resolved to meet the invaders in one of those narrow passes which
then formed the only avenues to the Highlands--avenues which no
foreign sword had ever been able to open up.

Clifford's detachment consisted of picked men of the South British
Fusiliers, all burning to avenge the late affair at Inversnaid and
the loss of their regimental colour.  As incentives to them, the
price of Rob Roy's head, the entire spoil--cattle, arms, and goods of
his adherents--were given in prospective; thus, they commenced the
expedition with great alacrity; and the noon of the third day after
quitting Dumbarton saw them crossing the mountains near Gartmore
House, and approaching the pass of Aberfoyle, intending by that
circuitous route to penetrate towards Loch Ard and the Trossachs, and
then fall suddenly in the night on Rob Roy's quarters.

They required no guide, as Captain Clifford alleged that he had shot
and fished over all the district, and knew it very well.

Brightly shone the steel bayonets and polished musket-barrels in the
setting sun of the May evening, and the redcoats looked gay and
gallant, while chatting and singing, for no fife was blown nor drum
beaten when the strong detachment of Captain Clifford entered the
valley of Aberfoyle; but little knew he what awaited him between the
Trossachs and Loch Katrine!

Clifford, a brave, handsome officer, rode at the head of the
Grenadiers, mounted on a fine white charger.  He was a good horseman,
and sat well in his saddle.  They seemed intended for each other,
steed and rider; both seemed to have high spirit and good blood in
them; and, in sooth, the steep and rugged mountain path they had to
traverse put both to the test.

He had a red feather in his cocked hat, and the snow-white curls of
his regimental Ramillies wig flowed over the low cut collar of his
wide-skirted scarlet coat.  He wore fine lace ruffles, and long black
riding-boots.

The Grenadiers had all conical caps of blue cloth, shaped like
episcopal mitres, but with scarlet flaps in front, whereon was worked
in worsted the white horse of Hanover.  Their wide skirts and loose
sleeves were all looped up, and they marched with their pouches open
and fuses in their hands.

The rest had their bayonets fixed and arms loaded.

Ere long the silence of the vast solitude on which they were
entering--the utter absence of all appearance of life or
inhabitants--made Captain Clifford begin to dread a surprise.  Anon,
even the voices of his men died away; they began to speak in
whispers, and as the purple shadows deepened amid that tremendous
mountain scenery, they kept closer in their ranks, and looked
anxiously about them, and at the narrow pass in front.

The arms taken at Inversnaid had, more than ever, completely equipped
the Clan Gregor; so now, in the gloomy gorge of Aberfoyle, one of the
greatest barriers between the Gael and the Lowlander, were posted in
ambush one hundred and sixty marksmen armed with muskets.  Under
Alaster Roy and Coll, eighty manned one side of the pass, and as many
under Greumoch were on the other.

There, too, was little Ronald, crouching among the thick heather,
armed with a long horse-pistol, and intent on deadly mischief, if he
could see Major Huske, whom he vowed should pay dear for his basket
of trout.

Well did Rob and his men know that, if conquered, death and
decimation awaited them, together with the utter ruin--it might be
the _extirpation_--of their families: for the terrible massacre at
Glencoe was still fresh in all their memories.

Moreover, they remembered that this spot was one of good augury; for
there, in the days of their grandsires, a fierce encounter took place
with a body of Cromwell's soldiers, who were cut to pieces, and some
of whom were buried in a grave which yet remains by the wayside.

Under Rob Roy in person, the main body of his men lay concealed right
in front of the marching soldiers.

Sombre twilight was stealing now across the deeper glens, but a
bright glory of sunshine yet lighted the vast mountain cones that
towered above the valley.

Clifford and his officers frequently uttered exclamations expressive
of admiration, for the vale of Aberfoyle, with its splintered rocks,
abrupt precipices, and richly-wooded hills, is singularly beautiful;
but when Loch Ard began to open its sheet of water on their view,
gleaming like a golden shield in the last light of the western sky,
the scene became more lovely still.

The dusky _iolar_ was seen winging his way to his eyry in the craggy
steeps; and the sweet notes of the _druidhu_, or Alpine blackbird,
rang loudly from the hazel woods; while the wild goat, perched on a
sharp pinnacle, with his long beard floating on the wind, looked down
on the marching troops.

Above hills covered with oak and birch, that waved in the evening
breeze like ostrich plumes, above even the saffron clouds, Ben Lomond
towered into the grey mist; and far across the placid lake fell its
shadow with that of the isle that holds the ruined tower of Murdoch,
Duke of Albany; while far in the distance rose the Alps of Arroquhar,
with their summits hid in mist, or capped still with the last year's
snow.

Such was the scene that opened beyond the dark and narrow defile on
which the soldiers were entering.

"A sergeant and three men to the front--double quick!" cried Captain
Clifford, as certain undefinable suspicions crossed his mind on
seeing that some large boulder-stones had been dislodged from the
rocks above, and were hurled down on the narrow pathway, as if to
form a barricade.  "Grenadiers," he added, "blow your fuses; be ready
to throw your grenades, and fall on at a moment's notice."

Still nothing was seen, though five hundred men and more were
crouching within musket range--crouching amid the long green braken,
the thick purple heather, and the wild bloom which grew so
luxuriantly that the crows and magpies built their nests in it; but
the tartans of the Highlanders blended with the colours of Nature so
admirably that they were still unseen, when at last the whole
detachment, officers and men, were _between_ the muzzles of the
musketeers who lay in ambush on both sides of that narrow and gloomy
gorge, and already the sergeant and his three advanced files were
clambering over the boulders and stones that lay beyond the ambush.

Before MacGregor's horn could give the signal, his son Ronald, unable
longer to restrain his anger and enthusiasm, fired his pistol, and
the ball struck Clifford's holsters.

Then red fire flashed fiercely from both sides of the dusky hollow,
as a hundred and sixty muskets poured their adverse volleys on the
unfortunate soldiers, who in a moment were panic-stricken, thrown
into confusion--a huddled mass--above their dead and dying.

Springing from amid the grey rocks, the MacGregors, with a
simultaneous shout, flung down their plaids and muskets, drew their
claymores, and amid the white curling smoke, rushed downward to the
charge.

"Steady, men, steady!" cried Captain Clifford, loudly and rapidly.
"Grenadiers to the centre!  Keep shoulder to shoulder, and face
outwards--close up in your ranks, and bayonet them as they come on!
Be firm, my Royal Fusiliers!"

"Firm, in the king's name, and we shall yet bear back these Highland
savages!" added Captain Dorrington, a brave officer who had served in
the war of the Spanish succession.

Leaping over bank, bush, and rock, with heads stooped behind their
targets in the usual Celtic fashion, their bodies bent, and sword and
dirk in hand, down came the MacGregors, in front and on both flanks,
like a herd of wild cats, all yelling, "Ard choille! ard choille!
Dhia agus ar duthaich!"

A confused volley was fired by the soldiers; but almost before the
bayonets could be brought from the "present" to the "charge," the
swordsmen were among them.  Stooping below the charged bayonets, they
tossed them upward by the target, dirking the front rank men with the
left hand, while stabbing or hewing down the rear rank men with the
right; thus, as usual in all Highland onsets, the whole body of
soldiers was broken, trod underfoot, and dispersed in a moment!

These were the whole tactics of the Scottish Highlanders.  Hence
their clan battles, no matter how many swordsmen might be engaged,
seldom lasted more than five minutes.  It was usually an
instantaneous charge--a rout--a killing, and all was over!

Captain Dorrington rushed sword in hand upon Greumoch, who, by a
single blow with his Lochaber axe, clove him literally through hat
and wig to the teeth; then, by the hook of the same weapon, he
dragged Captain Clifford from his saddle, and would have slain him
had not Rob Roy strode across the fallen officer, and by receiving
the blow on his own target, saved him.

Several soldiers, who had burst out of the press, leaped behind rocks
and stones, from whence they opened a desultory fire; but they were
soon pursued, and cut down or pistolled.

The whole detachment would have been destroyed in a few minutes, had
not Rob Roy, towering over the throng, shouted in English, and with a
voice that rose above the shrieks and shouts, the clash of weapons,
and explosion of firearms, which woke a thousand echoes in the narrow
pass, the overhanging rocks and mountains,--

"Surrender, yield--lay down your arms! on your lives lay them down,
and I promise you all quarter,--I, the Red MacGregor!"

On hearing this, his own men partly drew back, and many a claymore
was withdrawn from a thrust, or lowered from a cut, and the firing
instantly ceased.

"You hear what I have said, Captain Clifford," exclaimed Rob Roy; "to
resist now is to court death.  I know you are too brave a soldier to
deem rashness is valour."

"Unfix your bayonets, my lads, and ground your arms.  Grenadiers,
extinguish your matches," cried Captain Clifford, sullenly.  "Our
time for sure vengeance shall come anon.  But what manner of man are
_you_, sir," he added, turning fiercely to Rob Roy, "who dare thus
attack the king's troops on the open highway?"

"The pass of Aberfoyle, which leads to the country of Clan Alpine, is
_not_ an open highway, as you, captain, have found to your cost; and
as for me, I am the man your king and laws have made me," replied
MacGregor, sternly.

"Sir, is not our king yours?"

"Nay, sir.  You serve the Elector of Hanover.  Our king is far away
in France, beyond the sea; but we are his true liege men,
nevertheless.  We have no time to spend in talking, captain.  The
night darkens fast, and the sooner your men with the wounded get out
of the Highland bounds the better.  Do not be cast down, my friends,"
said he, still speaking English to the prisoners, who were now
huddled together in a crowd, and surrounded by the armed MacGregors;
"you are not the first men who have come into the Highlands to shear,
and have gone home closely shorn."

"But your terms: our fate, Mr. Rob Roy Campbell?" began Clifford, in
a blundering way.

"'Sdeath and fury!" exclaimed Rob; "call me Campbell again, and I
shall cleave you to the belt!"

"Excuse me; but I do not understand all this," said the officer; "are
you not named MacGregor Campbell?"

"Yes; by tyrannical acts of Parliament, which I treat with the scorn
they merit."

"Well, sir; your terms?"

"Are these,--Surrender your arms and ammunition; leave the Highland
border, and begone to England or the Lowlands; let us see you no more
in the country of the Clan Gregor."

"The Lowlands," said Clifford, haughtily; "sir, we are quartered in
the castle of Dumbarton."

"Where you are quartered, captain, is nothing to me."

"There will be a bloody reckoning for this," said Clifford through
his clenched teeth, as he gazed sadly on the mangled body of his poor
friend and comrade, Captain Dorrington.  "Chief, have you no fear for
the future?"

"I fear nothing," replied Rob, haughtily; "moreover I am no chief,
but a simple Highland gentleman, whom wrong and tyranny have driven
to desperation.  You have yet to learn, sir, that though the king may
create a titled noble, Heaven alone can make a Highland chief."

The English officer shrugged his shoulders, and gave a disdainful
smile, for to his ears this sounded like mere rhodomontade.

"To you, Captain Clifford," resumed Rob Roy, "I return your sword.
The arms of your men I retain for the service of King James and the
protection of my own people.  I restore you all to liberty; but bear
this message to the Saxon Governor of Dumbarton, to General
Carpenter, or whoever sent you hither, that of the next band which on
a hostile errand enters the country of Rob Roy, not one shall return
alive if I can help it--_not one_, by the blessed God of my
forefathers, and by St. Colme of Iona, for they shall be cut off root
and branch, and the eagle of the hill shall alone tell their fate."
He pressed his bare dirk to his lips as he spoke, and many of his men
followed the example.  "Go, sir; and may we never meet again.  My
foster-brother, with a hundred of my men, shall escort you so far as
Bucklyvie to assist in bearing your wounded.  After reaching that
place you will be safe from all molestation.  Farewell.  Strike up,
Alpine!" he said to the piper, while saluting the captain with one
hand and sheathing his sword with the other.

Then, as the disarmed band of soldiers, after getting, by Rob's
orders, a good dram of whisky each, carrying or supporting their
wounded, and escorted by MacAleister with a hundred picked men,
proceeded in the shadowy gloaming down the dark and rugged pass of
Aberfoyle, Alpine's great warpipe woke its many echoes with the
triumphant pibroch of "Glenfruin."

Only two MacGregors were killed, so instantaneous had been their
onset; but ten redcoats lay dead in the pass; and these the
MacGregors buried with reverence by the wayside, where their tomb may
yet be seen.

Encouraged by this victory to attempt greater enterprises, MacGregor
now resolved to break down into the Lowlands, to carry off the spoil
of his enemies; and remembering that it was about the time when the
rents of his great enemy the Duke of Montrose were collected, he
conceived the idea of visiting the chamberlain on the rent-day--of
putting the whole money in his own pocket, and, to punish his grace
for old scores, to carry off the obnoxious Killearn bodily into the
mountains.

"As the runnels from a hundred hills unite in one, and form a mighty
stream," said he, in a stirring address to his followers, "so must
all the branches of our outraged people now converge in one.  From
Glengyle and Glenstrae, from Menteith and Balquhidder, let us muster
and march--march down on those sons of little men, the Lowlanders;
and they shall shrink before us like dry leaves beneath the
lightning!  Our forefathers sleep on Inchcailloch; but we, alas! must
find our graves on the mountain side, where nothing shall mark them
to future times but a grey cairn or a greener spot amid the purple
heather."

"Down on the mongrel bodachs--down on the Whigamores!" responded his
followers, brandishing their swords with almost savage glee; for to
the Highlander then the single word Whig expressed the acme of
anything that was sordid, mean, and treacherous to king and country.




CHAPTER XXXI.

ROB SEIZES THE RENTS OF MONTROSE.

It was about the middle of summer in the year 1717, when Rob Roy,
leaving the main body of his followers, under his son Coll, posted
among the hills of Buchanan, where they had collected a great herd of
cattle, the spoil of their hereditary enemies, set forth with twenty
men and his favourite piper, Alpine, on a visit to Killearn.

MacAleister and Greumoch were, of course, among these chosen twenty,
who were literally his _Leine a chrios_--the select men of his
followers, meaning in English his "shirt of mail," or children of the
belt--men at all times ready to support, obey, defend, or die for him.

Fearing that Killearn might obtain tidings of his approach, and take
to flight with his grace of Montrose's money, Rob marched towards his
residence with great secrecy and rapidity; and avoiding the highways
passed through woods and defiles, and about twelve in the forenoon
presented himself suddenly at the Place of Killearn, as Grahame's
mansion is still named.

It stands a mile and a half south of the village of Killearn, at the
western extremity of Strathblane, in Stirlingshire, and having been
built in 1688, it was then surrounded by clumps of wood and
plantations.

Here MacGregor was informed by the terrified household that the laird
was at the Inn of Chapelerroch, where the tenantry of the duke had
been summoned to pay their rents; so he departed at once, with a
threat, that if they deceived him, he would return and burn the house
to the ground.

He soon reached the inn, which stands half-way between Buchanan House
(the duke's residence) and the village of Drymen; and close by it he
placed his men in a copsewood.

Killearn, with many of the duke's tenants, was in the dining-room,
and he had already given receipts for a large sum of money, when the
sound of a bagpipe was heard approaching.  The air played, "Up wi'
the Campbells and down wi' the Grahames," betokening something
hostile, they hurried to the windows, and great was the consternation
of Killearn when he beheld Rob Roy, but alone, or preceded only by
the piper, Alpine, advancing straight to the door of the inn.

Though in terror that his own life might be the forfeit of the
proceedings instituted against Rob nine years before, he sought to
preserve his master's property, and gathering up his rent-rolls,
receipts, and the bags containing the money, he flung them into a
loft above the room.

At that moment the door was thrown open, and with a respect that was
in no way assumed, the landlord ushered in Rob Roy, fully armed, with
a smile on his lip and irony in his clear grey eye, while Alpine
remained as a sentinel at the entrance of the inn.

"God save all here!" said MacGregor, bowing.

"A hundred thousand welcomes!" replied Killearn, whose dapper little
figure trembled in his buckled shoes, and he nervously fingered the
breeches bible that was always in one of the large flapped pockets of
his square-skirted black velvet coat.  He trembled so much that the
powder of his wig floated like a cloud about his head, as it was
shaken from the curls.

On this occasion, Rob wore a short green jacket profusely laced with
silver; a long red waistcoat, and scarlet woollen shirt open at the
neck; a belted plaid, and pair of deerskin hose and cuarans
elaborately cut and tied with thongs.  His sporan was ornamented with
silver and closed by a curious lock, which concealed two pistol
barrels that were always loaded, and would infallibly blow to pieces
the hands of any person attempting to open it while ignorant of its
secret springs.  (This singular clasp is now preserved in the Museum
of Antiquities at Edinburgh.)  In his bonnet was a long eagle's
feather, a tuft of pine, and the proscribed white cockade.

His lawless and predatory life had imparted a wild expression to his
eye and a boldness to his bearing that impressed all present; but one
of the duke's farmers, named MacLaren, gathering courage, pushed a
bottle of wine and another of whisky towards him, saying, with
affected confidence,--

"You will drink with us, MacGregor?"

"That will I do, blithely," replied Rob, as he filled up a silver
quaich with whisky, and drank it off, previously giving the old
Highland toast,--

"The Hills, the Glens, and _the People_!"

He then laid his sword and pistols on the table, and presenting his
little crooked snuff-mull to go round the company, in token of amity,
he said,--

"Keep your seats gentlemen, pray; do not let me interrupt you," and
proceeded to partake of the cold roasted meat, the bread, cheese, and
wine which had been provided as a repast for the tenants, about
thirty of whom were in the room.

While Rob was eating, the spirits of the party rose, and the bottle
went cheerfully round till he called to the piper, who stood outside
the inn near the open windows,--

"Alpine, strike up _Glenfruin_."

On hearing this order, which seemed the forerunner of mischief, the
chamberlain and tenants exchanged glances of uneasiness, which in no
way subsided when Rob stuck his pistols in his belt and snatched his
sword, as his henchman and other followers burst into the room, with
claymores drawn, and ranged themselves at the door and windows,
precluding all chances of escape.

"Now, Killearn," said Rob, for the first time addressing his enemy;
"you will perhaps have the kindness to inform me how you have come on
with your collection of his grace's rents?"

Hesitation and fear made the factor silent.

"Speak!" exclaimed Rob, impatiently.

"I have got nothing yet," stammered Killearn.

"How! nothing from all this goodly company?" asked Rob, with a
deepening frown.

"I have not yet begun to collect."

"Come, come, chamberlain; I know you of old, and so your tricks and
falsehoods will not pass with me.  I must reckon with you fairly by
the book.  Produce at once your ledger!"

Killearn, with the perspiration oozing on his temples, still
hesitated and began to protest; but Rob laid his watch on the table,
and cocking one of his steel pistols, said, with assumed calmness,--

"Killearn, I give you but three minutes to reflect and to obey me."

In terror of death the chamberlain grew deadly pale and looked sick
at heart, while a glassy stare dimmed both his eyes, which wandered
from the dial of the watch to the muzzle of the pistol, and then to
the blank faces of the shrinking farmers, who were seated at the
table as if rooted to their chairs.

"One minute has already passed," said Rob, as he began to hum an air,
a sure sign that further mischief was not far off; so Killearn,
seeing the utter futility of resistance, produced his rental-book and
bags of money.

"Now, Killearn, this is acting like a sensible man," said Rob Roy as
he uncocked the pistol and placed the watch in his pocket; "so help
yourself and take a dram, while I examine your accounts."




CHAPTER XXXII.

KILLEARN CARRIED OFF.

Rob Roy turned over leaf after leaf of the ledger, examined the whole
of the rental, drew from the farmers those sums which the chamberlain
had not yet received, and, pocketing a total of £3,227. 2s. 8d.
(Scots), with great formality granted receipts in full.

"I will have a due count and reckoning," said he, "with the Duke of
Montrose, when his grace repays me the sum of 3,400 merks Scots----"

"For what?" asked Killearn, gathering courage.

"Dare _you_ ask me for what?  For the havoc made on my property by
the troops whom Lord Cadogan sent to Craigrostan, and to burn my
dwelling-house at Auchinchisallan; to say nothing of the heirship of
my lands at Inversnaid.  When all these damages have been repaired
and repaid, I will then consider the _older_ scores (anent our
unlucky cattle speculation) that exist between your master and me."

"Suppose all this were done," said Killearn, "would you give up your
predatory habits, which keep the whole Highland border in hot water;
and would you teach your people those of industry?"

"Killearn, as for predatory habits, think you a Highlander ever felt
his conscience prick him for taking _spreaths_ of cattle from his
natural foemen the Lowlanders?  And as for habits of industry, a
kilted duinewassal at a shop-counter, or seated at the loom, would be
like an eagle in a cage, or a red-deer yoked to a plough," said Rob,
with an angry laugh.

"How will this wild life of yours end, MacGregor?"

"_Not_ where you anxiously wish it may end--on the gallows-tree; but
it shall end when our wrongs are righted."

"At civil law you have----"

"What!" interrupted MacGregor, with a fierce and hollow laugh, "would
you have me, upon whose head a price has been set for these nine
years past, sneak into the Lawyers' Court at Dunedin, among truculent
Whigs and psalm-singing pharisees, to crave and beg the restoration
of my patrimony?  The hills, with all their woods and waters, were
given to the Gael in the days of old, to be their dwelling-place and
inheritance, and none but He hath a right to deprive us of them."

"Then we part in peace, MacGregor?" urged Killearn.

"Part--far from it, my good chamberlain," said Rob.

"How?" asked Killearn, uneasily.

"I must have the pleasure of your company with me into the Highlands."

Killearn again grew deadly pale, and faltered out,--

"For what purpose?"

"To be kept as a hostage until Montrose pays me the sum of 3,400
merks which he is justly owing me."

"If he refuses?"

"Then, I will hang you, John Grahame of Killearn, on the highest tree
that grows by the banks of Loch Katrine!  Away with him, Greumoch.
Good night, gentlemen all.  Alpine, strike up; the _glomain_ grows
apace, and we must begone to the mountains with speed."

In less than an hour after this the unfortunate factor found himself
on the march with Rob Roy's men among the hills of Buchanan, from
whence the whole clan, with their spoil, departed under cloud of
night, by Auchintroig and Gartmore, and through the pass of Aberfoyle
towards the Trossachs.

In irony the piper played before him all the way, till, at a place
near Loch Ard, Alpine suddenly stopped as they passed a green knoll.

"Why do you pause?" asked MacGregor.

Alpine pointed to the green knoll.  It was a haunt of the fairies,
who had decoyed therein his own grandfather, also a piper (for he
played the clan into the action at Glenfruin), and he was seen no
more till on a Halloween night, about fifty years after.  His son,
then an aged man, on passing, saw the hillock open like a chamber,
and his father, still young and beardless, playing vigorously to
hundreds of quaint little dancers in green doublets and conical hats.

On finding himself conveyed into that Highland wilderness, whither
few Lowlanders dared to venture in those days, all hope for the
future died away in the heart of the unhappy Grahame of Killearn.

Chance of escape he had none.  He was secured by a rope round his
waist, and this was tied to the girdle of Greumoch MacGregor, who,
regardless of the failing strength and weak limbs of the dapper
little chamberlain, marched sullenly on, with his poleaxe on his
shoulder, a short tobacco-pipe in his mouth, and his vast plaid
floating behind him, dragging his prisoner over rocks and stones, up
steep ascents and down foaming watercourses, without pity or remorse,
and without giving him time either to breathe or implore rest and
pity.

With growing terror Grahame remembered his treatment of the wife of
MacGregor, when he pillaged Inversnaid, though under colour and
authority of the civil law; he knew that it was by his counsels that
the powerful Duke of Montrose had ruined poor Rob, and driven him to
the hillside as an outlaw and reiver; and he gave himself up for
utterly lost when the wild pass of Aberfoyle closed upon the rear of
the marching band, and the vast spoil of cattle they had collected at
the point of the sword.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

KILLEARN'S FATE.

Rob Roy conveyed his prisoner to the head of Loch Katrine, and by the
time he arrived there, exhausted by toil, by the rough nature of the
steep paths he had been forced to traverse with such unwonted
celerity, and moreover being in constant fear of a dreadful death by
hanging on a tree, being drowned like a cur with a stone at his neck,
or being shot by a platoon of MacGregors, the unhappy Killearn was in
a deplorable plight, and had long since become quite passive in the
hands of his captors.

By order of Rob Roy, Greumoch placed him in a boat, and rowed him to
an island in the loch, now well known to tourists as "Ellen's Isle;"
it was covered with the richest copsewood, and there, in a hut with
Greumoch and another equally grim Celt to watch him, Killearn
remained in captivity, during which nothing was known of his fate in
the Lowlands, until he was permitted to write to the duke.

This letter, which he was compelled to date from Chapelerroch, lest
the real place of his detention should become known, acquainted the
duke that he was the helpless prisoner of Rob Roy, who was resolved
to detain him until a ransom of 3,400 merks Scots was paid for the
damage by Lord Cadogan's troops at Craigrostan and Auchinchisallan;
adding, moreover, that he would receive "_hard usage_ if any military
party was sent after him."

In breathless suspense poor Mr. Grahame waited for a reply, but the
duke was in London, the means and the mode of postal transmission
were slow in those days, and no answer came to his prayer.

Greumoch frequently terrified him by saying he should be cut joint
from joint and sent to London in a hamper, packed in heather, like a
haunch of venison for the duke's table.

After being detained a considerable time, one day, when hope of
release was becoming more and more faint, Killearn saw a boat pulled
by eight sturdy rowers in MacGregor tartan, the chief colours of
which are red, green, and black, coming down the loch from Glengyle.

It reached the island, and a tall, armed Highlander, in whom he
recognized Rob Roy, leaped ashore, and advanced towards the hut,
followed by several of his men.

Killearn, believing that his last hour had arrived, and that they had
come to execute him, drew forth his breeches bible with trembling
hands, and so much did his tongue fail him that he could scarcely
reply to Rob's courteous but ironical salute.

"Killearn," said he, "I am come to set you at liberty.  Montrose,
your master, has proved as treacherous to you as he has been to me.
Little recks he whether I hang you on one of those trees, or give you
a swim in the loch with a stone at your neck!  You are free; and this
you must admit is very different treatment to that which _I_ should
experience if our circumstances were reversed, and I were _your_
prisoner, as now you are _mine_.  Return, with this advice from me.
Collect no more the rents of that land from whence I took you, as I
mean to be factor there myself in future."

"You, MacGregor?"

"I--and what matter is there for wonder?  All that country which
Montrose and more than he brink and boast as their own, is but a
portion of the heritage of Clan Alpine.  By false attainder and
studied legal villanies we have lost it; thus whatever is possessed
by the Grahames, the Murrays, and the Drummonds is ours, and ours it
shall be with the help of God and our good claymores!"

He then restored to the bewildered Killearn all his papers, receipts,
and rental-book, and sent him under an escort homeward through the
pass of Aberfoyle as far as the hills of Buchanan.

On this man, who had so greatly aided in his ruin, and who had so
grossly insulted his wife, he thus "took no personal satisfaction,"
says a writer, "which certainly shows the mildness of his character,
when we consider the habits and mode of thinking of the Highlanders
of his day."

In accordance with his threat he now proceeded to summon the whole
heritors and farmers of the western district of Stirlingshire, to
meet him in the old church of Drymen, there to pay the black-mail
which for some time past they had neglected to send to his nephew
Glengyle.

On the appointed day he marched there with five hundred men fully
armed, and took possession of the ancient church, which, as tradition
avers, the Wizard Napier (whose castle is close by) removed from
another place to its present site.

The land here belonged chiefly to the Grahames of Montrose and
Gartmore, yet such was the terror of MacGregor's name, that all the
farmers attended and duly paid the usual tribute--all at least save
one, who was bold enough to decline compliance; in consequence of
which his lands were instantly swept of everything that could be
carried off, or driven into the mountains.

Immediately on his return from London the Duke of Montrose applied to
the Scottish Commander-in-Chief, Lieutenant-General Carpenter, for a
sufficient body of troops to repress, if not totally root out, the
MacGregors, who were now feasting in ease, triumph, and jollity on
the plunder of his estates, in their fastnesses at the head of Loch
Katrine.

Rob Roy gave a grand entertainment in the old Highland fashion at
Portnellan, and the joviality was great, for the formerly poor and
penniless members of the clan he had enriched by the spoil of their
oppressors.

On this occasion deer and beeves were roasted whole, and laid on
hurdles or spars placed athwart the trunks of trees, so arranged as
to form a rustic table, at which hundreds could seat themselves.  For
a hall they had the open valley, bordered by the great mountains that
look down on Glengyle, canopied by the mists and clouds of heaven; in
the distance the blue water and the wooded isles of Loch Katrine, all
reddening in the setting sun, and overshadowed by the vast summit of
Benvenue.

Alpine and other pipers played, nor were harpers from the Western
Isles wanting to make music there, and plenteous libations of whisky
(that never paid duty to the king), of claret landed by French
smugglers, and of Helen's home-brewed ale went round in stoups and
quaichs and luggies.

There on Rob's right hand sat his aged mother, with the little
English boy, Harry Huske, upon her knee, for the child was
alternately the plaything and pet of her and of her daughter-in-law,
Helen MacGregor.

After this great open-air banquet reels were danced on the smooth
turf, and torches of blazing pine were tied to poles when the light
of the long, clear midsummer night began to fail.

But lo! a sudden gathering of dark clouds, and the playing of green
lightning about the summit of Benvenue, announced a coming storm,
warning all to separate and seek shelter ere midnight came.  Many
supposed the sudden storm which so rapidly followed this
entertainment was ominous of coming evil; but a few hours after it
was discovered to have been the means, perhaps, of saving Rob Roy and
all his followers from death or capture.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

GREUMOCH TAKEN.

On the evening of the rustic banquet, in compliance with the request
of the Duke of Montrose, three bodies of troops were on their march,
by three different routes, to surprise the whole of the MacGregors.

One party of the 15th Foot (then as we have said called Harrison's
Regiment) advanced from Glasgow; another of the South British
Fusiliers, under Major Huske, came from Stirling, accompanied by the
ungrateful Grahame of Killearn as Sheriff Depute of Dumbartonshire;
and a third party consisting of the Scots Royals (or 1st Regiment of
the Line) advanced from Finlarig.

But their marching was slow and devious, for the country was strange,
especially to the English troops, none of whom could be quartered in
Scotland prior to the Union in 1707.  The Highlands were then without
roads, and the Government possessed "no correct map of those
unexplored regions which," as a recent writer says, "were almost as
little known south of the Tweed--or we may rather say, _south of the
Tay_--as the African deserts, or the interior of North America."

Hence, a night march among those pathless mountains was an arduous
task in these times; and on this occasion the rain descended in
blinding torrents; the water-courses became white cascades; mere
runnels were swollen to streams, and streams became dark impassable
floods.  The guides led the troops astray, either wilfully or by
mischance; so that all arrived too late at the passes, and ere the
storm was fairly over, Rob Roy (whom they had hoped to pounce upon
when in bed) had intelligence of his unwelcome visitors, and got all
his men under arms.

Some firing took place about daybreak, and the king's troops
retreated, after the loss of only one man, a grenadier, who was shot
by Coll MacGregor from the summit of a rock; but in retiring the
Scots Royals captured and carried off Rob's right-hand man and long
tried follower, poor Greumoch MacGregor, who was immediately
transmitted to the Tolbooth of Creiff.*


* "Feb. --, 1717, Gremoch Gregorach, airt and part with Rob Roy
_alias_ MacGregor, in seizing of ---- Grahame of Killearn; robbing
him, carrying him away, and detaining him a prisoner several days.  A
party ordered to be sent by Brigadier Preston to guard him from
Crieff Gaol to Edinburgh."--_Records of the Tolbooth of Edinburgh_.


Greumoch had been taken when lurking in the clachan of Aberfoyle, a
circle consisting of ten large stones, a druidical temple, situated
on rising ground near the Parish manse.

On tidings reaching Edinburgh that this important outlaw had been
captured, Brigadier George Preston, of Valleyfield, governor of the
castle, despatched a sergeant and six troopers of Campbell's Dragoons
(the Scots Greys) to Creiff, where they received Greumoch, with
strict orders to watch him by day and night until delivered to the
civil authorities, and safely lodged in the heart of Midlothian.
Being the first of Rob's men who had fallen into their hands, and
moreover being that bold outlaw's chief follower and kinsman, it was
resolved by rope, by axe, and knife to make a terrible example of him
by a public execution--to have him hanged, drawn, and quartered.

But in all these barbarities they were nearly anticipated by the
burghers of Crieff, who hated the Celts for repeatedly burning their
town, and a mob followed the captive, shouting,--

"The wuddy--the wuddy! a tow--a tow!  let him fynd the wecht o'
himsel by the craig!" (which meant in English--"The gallows--the
gallows!  a rope--a rope! let him feel the weight of himself by the
neck!")

So cried the Lowlanders, as Greumoch was conducted by the troopers,
not, as the mob expected, to the fatal circle at the Gallow-hill,
where the Stewards of Strathearn held their courts of old, but away
on the road that led to the south.

Bound upon a horse, the sergeant marched his prisoner through the
long and lovely valley of the Earn; with carbines loaded, a trooper
rode on each side of him, with orders to shoot him down if he
attempted to escape.

A village near Dunblane formed their first halting place.  There one
of the troopers, who seemed less rough than his comrades, gave
Greumoch a dram, on which the sergeant said,--

"Come, Highlander, I'll teach you a toast.-"

"Will you?" asked Greumoch, sullenly.

"Yes--you dour-looking Redshank."

"Well--my glass is full."

"Here's to the health of King George--and to the confusion of his
enemies, including Rob Roy, the Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender!"

On hearing this offensive speech, Greumoch dashed the glass and its
fiery contents full into the eyes of the sergeant and half-blinded
him.

Inspired with rage, the non-commissioned officer ordered his men to
secure the prisoner beyond all chance of escape during the night.
The dragoons selected a heavy old-fashioned chair, in which they
placed Greumoch, and tied thereto his hands, arms, and legs, lacing
about him some twenty yards of rope, the knots of which were tied
behind; and now, deeming him secure beyond all hope of flight, they
stabled their horses, threw off their accoutrements, applied
themselves to the whisky-bottle, and after making very merry, retired
to rest in the outer room.

When all was dark and still, and poor Greumoch's hands and limbs were
fast becoming swollen, benumbed, and stiff--all but powerless, in
consequence of the cruel manner in which the soldiers had bound
him--he remembered having seen a knife on the table, where the
sergeant had left it by chance.

Could he but reach that knife!  But, tied as he was, of what use
could it be?  Yet there occurred to him an idea, which he resolved at
once to put in practice.

By vigorous, yet almost noiseless, efforts with his feet, he dragged
the chair across the room towards the table.  At last he reached it,
and, after being so frequently baffled that he was about to
relinquish the attempt in despair, he contrived to take up the knife
in his mouth, and to grasp the handle firmly with his teeth.

Then, by turning his head on each side alternately, he applied the
edge so successfully to the cords which crossed his shoulders, that
he soon severed them.  By this process he gradually got one hand
loose; but for many minutes it hung powerless by his side.  However,
anon he grasped the knife with it, and in a short time was free; but
on rising from the chair, so much were his limbs benumbed, that he
staggered like a tipsy man, and overturned both chair and table.
Heavily they fell with a crash on the floor!

Greumoch rushed to the window, opened it, and leaped into the dark
and silent street of the village; but at the same moment, from
another window of the house, two carbines flashed, and the balls
whizzed past as the troopers fired at him in their shirts.

"You are only dragoons," snouted Greumoch, in Gaelic; "and dragoons
never hit anything; so fire away!"

Then with a derisive laugh he disappeared in the darkness.




CHAPTER XXXV.

ROB'S NARROW ESCAPE.

The Duke of Montrose began to despair of ever capturing Rob Roy or of
conquering his men; but he distributed among his tenantry a great
number of muskets, bayonets, and swords, with plenty of ammunition,
that they might be able to defend themselves if attacked; but all
these military stores fell into the hands of the enemy, for Rob,
MacAleister, Greumoch, Coll, and other MacGregors, by a systematic
series of attacks or visits in the night, disarmed all the tenants in
succession; so the duke gained nothing by the arrangement.

Another insurrection for the House of Stuart was expected in the
Highlands; and as the MacGregors, by their conflicts, raids, and
depredations, had collected a great quantity of weapons, more than
were requisite for their personal equipment.  Rob Roy had all these
carefully oiled, packed in well-greased cowhides, and buried in
secret places, where perhaps many of them remain undiscovered to this
day.

The MacGregors daily became more daring, and sometimes drove away the
cattle from the parks, beneath the very windows of Buchanan House,
where the duke resided.  The practice of "lifting," as it was termed,
the cattle of a hostile clan was then, and for many years after,
common in the Highlands; and as the feud between Rob and his grace
was of the most bitter nature, he carried the system to the utmost
extent.

The duke's rental was principally payable in kind.  Thus Killearn had
established large granaries for storing up corn, meal, butter,
cheese, &c., at a place called Moulin and elsewhere, which he deemed
secure.  Yet at all these storehouses Rob Roy appeared regularly,
when least expected, and demanded supplies of grain, meal, or cheese
for the use of his family, his followers, or for the poor people of
the district, who were all devoted to him, for he was deemed the
friend and father, protector and champion, of all who were
necessitous, unfortunate, or oppressed.

For the quantities thus taken he regularly gave signed receipts,
which stated that he took these goods as a return in some part for
the property of which the duke had so unjustly deprived him; and at
times he frequently compelled the Montrose tenantry to convey the
goods thus appropriated to his house at Portnellan, or wherever they
were required.

In his desperation, Montrose resolved to attempt the capture of Rob
in person, and applied to the Privy Council for authority to raise a
body of horse and foot militia among his own dependants, supposing
probably that they would be better suited to a warfare among the
mountains than the troops of the line.

It is said that the duke had such a dread of the greater or more
active enmity of Rob Roy that, singularly enough, "_his name_ was
intentionally omitted, and the act was expressed in general terms, as
being one to repress sorners, robbers, and broken men--to raise the
hue-and-cry after them, to recover goods stolen by them, and to seize
their persons."

In consequence of the state of society which then existed in the
Highlands, where the people dwelt in tribes or communities and in
sequestered glens, which were separated by great mountain ridges, by
pathless forests, while deep defiles or narrow passes formed the only
access to the country, sudden raids and onslaughts, if vigorously
conducted, could be easily made, with great peril, however, and with
certain subsequent vengeance.

The two bodies of horse and foot now mustered and armed by Montrose
were composed of men entirely devoted to him, and more or less
antagonistic to the MacGregors, at whose hands they had all suffered
severely.  They wore the duke's livery--blue coats faced with red,
with trews of the Grahame tartan, and each wore in his bonnet a
laurel leaf.  There was not a man among them but had something to
revenge, in the shape of a farm burned, a kinsman slain, or a herd
carried off; so the measures now put in force against him compelled
Rob Roy to be more than ever wary, for although hitherto most
fortunate in all his achievements and escapes, he could not hope to
be always so.

Selecting a time when many of the MacGregors were absent at distant
fairs, on a dusky evening in the November of 1717, it was resolved to
beat up Rob's quarters.

Assisted by a few of the horse grenadiers of MacDougal (now a
lieutenant-colonel), the duke's militia, led by a gentleman named
Colonel Grahame, a brave and determined fellow, who had served under
Charles XII. in his war with Russia, passed rapidly and unseen
through the pass of Aberfoyle, and about midnight reached the house
and clachan of Portnellan, at the head of Loch Katrine.

There was no moon, and all was dark and still; not even a dog barked,
when the house, which was thatched with heather, was completely
surrounded on all sides by men with muskets loaded and bayonets
fixed.  The dragoons were led by the only unwilling member of the
expedition--Willie Gemmil, now a sergeant.

The cottages wherein MacAleister, Greumoch, and others dwelt,
adjoined the house of Rob, and formed a kind of small square, in the
centre of which was a patch of ground, cultivated as a kitchen
garden, and common to the whole community.

These cottages were built as such edifices are still constructed in
the Highlands.  The smoothed face of a rock made the floor; several
large boulders of black whin formed the corners of the gables, and a
few courses of turf plastered with clay made up the walls.  On the
rough pine _cabers_ of the roof lay the thatch, composed of fern with
its root ends outwards, and tied with ropes of twisted heather.

As these humble edifices burned like a heap of straw, Colonel Grahame
said,--

"Fire all these thatched roofs at once, and smoke the rascals out
like foxes.  Then shoot down every one who comes forth!"

"Nay, nay, colonel," said an old officer, a quartermaster named James
Stewart; "under favour, sir, I will have no hand in such butcherly
work.  Our orders are----"

"To seize or destroy Rob Roy at all hazards!"

"Yes; but we have not King William's sign-manual in our pockets to
make another Glencoe at the head of Loch Katrine," retorted the
quartermaster.

"Sirrah--do you dispute my orders?" began the colonel, furiously,
when Sergeant Gemmil approached and said,--

"Please your honours, to fire the cottages would rouse the whole
country on us, as if the fiery cross went through it; and we should
all be cut to pieces, horse and man, before we could escape by
Aberfoyle, or the pass of Loch Ard."

"Egad, you are right, sergeant; so let us beat up this rogue's
quarters more quietly," replied Grahame.

Though the house was humble, being merely a cottage with stone walls,
the door was strong; but it was soon dashed open by a musket butt;
then all shrunk back, with their bayonets at the charge, expecting
MacGregor, like a baited lion, to spring forth upon them sword in
hand, for all dreaded the length and strength of his arm; but instead
there appeared only three women trembling in their night-dresses.

One of these, an aged woman, was Rob's mother; the others were Helen
MacGregor and her foster-sister, who, when she married, had come with
her from her father's house of Comar, which stood on the eastern
slope of Ben Lomond.

On Colonel Grahame imperiously demanding "where Robert MacGregor
Campbell was?" they assured him that he and all his followers were
absent; and that if this was doubted, the house might be searched.

"Absent--where?" said Grahame, biting his long leather gauntlet with
undisguised vexation.

Ere the ladies could speak, a scout or spy named MacLaren--the same
person whom Rob had met at the inn of Chapelerroch--arrived,
breathlessly, to inform the colonel that on the preceding evening he
had seen MacGregor with a chosen party of his men at a change-house,
or wayside tavern, near Crianlarich in Strathfillan.

"You are sure of this?" said the colonel, sternly and suspiciously.

"Sure as that I now address you, sir."

"If this be true, you shall have ten guineas; but woe to you, rascal,
if you deceive us!  Sergeant Gemmil, look to this fellow, and if he
attempts to give us the slip before we reach Strathfillan shoot him
down."

Leaving the farmhouse untouched, for to fire it would have defeated
the object in view, the colonel's party, guided by the spy, proceeded
up Glengyle, from thence across the Braes of Balquhidder, and just as
day began to brighten the mountain peaks, they found themselves at
the lonely change-house of Crianlarich, which stood in a sequestered
and pastoral part of Strathfillan.

Rob Roy, as the spy informed them, was then in the house; but his
men, to the number of twenty, occupied a barn which adjoined it.  In
that place they feared no surprise, and kept no watch; thus, Colonel
Grahame, when he dismounted and approached the barn, on peeping
through one of the air openings in the wall, saw the MacGregors lying
asleep on some bundles of straw, with their swords, shields, and
muskets beside them.

"You are right, fellow," said he to MacLaren, to whom he gave at once
the promised guineas.  "There are twenty rogues asleep here, and we
shall cut them off to a man; but the master thief must be taken
before we rouse his followers.  Then I shall hang the keeper of this
tavern, and burn it down, without studying the scruples of our
quartermaster," he added, with a dark frown at Mr. Stewart.

A dismounted trooper applied the heel of his heavy jackboot to the
door of the house, and with a single kick made it fly open.

Softly though the troop had approached the dwelling, by riding on the
grass or heather, Rob had heard them, and was up, clad, and armed,
with his target braced upon his left arm, at the moment the door was
broken open.

He put forth his bonnet upon the point of a stick, and in the grey
twilight of the morning twenty muskets were discharged at it.  Then,
before the soldiers could reload, he sprang upon them with a shout,
and cut down two.  The noise of the volley having brought all his men
to their feet, they rushed from the barn and assailed the Grahames in
the rear, driving them and the horse grenadiers pell-mell round the
house, and severely wounding several of them.

"To the hills! to the hills! and follow me!" shouted Rob, as he slung
his shield on his back, and dashed off at his utmost speed towards
the mountains.

Under a fire of muskets and carbines, he and his men crossed unhurt a
torrent that foamed through the valley, and seeking a path, where few
infantry and certainly no cavalry could follow, they began a
leisurely retreat up the mountains towards the head of Loch Lomond.

Exasperated by this sudden and unlooked-for escape, Colonel Grahame
ordered the horse to make a detour, and the infantry to follow in
direct pursuit.

Then began a desultory skirmish, in which the MacGregors had all the
advantage; for their tartans blended with the dun-coloured heather
and green ferns, while the militia were fatally conspicuous in their
blue uniforms.  Thus, several were shot, and MacAleister threw the
spy, MacLaren, into a mill-race, near the House of Comar, where he
was swept away and drowned.

After this, "the Grahames thought proper to withdraw," and thus ended
another attempt to capture Rob Roy.

To avenge this defeat, and the capture of his factor, it is related
in the "Domestic Annals of Scotland," that the Duke of Montrose got
all his farmers in the Lennox armed and mounted, for the purpose of
attacking Rob; but Glune-dhu, the nephew of the latter, with the
MacGregors of Glengyle, attacked his grace's men, and surrounded and
disarmed them.  Of this encounter we are unable to furnish the
details; but, unfortunately for our hero, the next attempt had a very
different result.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

A WEIRD STORY.

In tracing the history of Rob Roy, we now come to one of those dark
and supernatural events which, according to Highland tradition, were
then a portion of the everyday life of the Scottish mountaineers, and
were the result of local influences, and by their minds being deeply
imbued in early youth by poetry and music, by legends anterior even
to the songs of Ossian, and by the solemn scenery of the vast
solitudes which formed their home.

The strange event referred to, occurred in the Tower of Glengyle.
Another version of it has been given by a celebrated essayist on the
superstitions of the Highlanders, but without stating the locality,
or who were the actors therein.

Some days after baffling Colonel Grahame's party at Crianlarich--and
while Montrose was planning a raid, to be led by himself in person
into the mountains, for the purpose of capturing Rob Roy--the latter,
with MacAleister, was hunting in the old Royal forest of Glenfinglas,
and among the hills that look down on Glenlochy, a long and narrow
vale in Breadalbane, where, in his father's time, Duncan of the Heads
resided, and where the ruins of his house are still to be traced
among the heather.

Rob and his foster-brother had urged the sport in the good old
Highland fashion, for then the clansman would pursue the antlered
stag for days, sleeping by night in his tartan plaid on the bleak
mountain side; or propped on the beetling rock, with his long gaff,
heedless alike of death or danger, would catch the scaly salmon in
the leap between the sky and the foaming cascade; but, as a recent
author says, "nothing short of starvation would make him take part in
the brutal German battues which now prevail in the Highlands."

When on hunting expeditions, Rob always gave the salmon taken, the
venison stalked, or the capercailzie and ptarmigan shot by his long
Spanish gun, to the poor, or to the aged who were no longer able to
hunt for themselves; and often he shared their huts, however humble;
for north of the Highland border Rob Roy was everywhere welcome among
the people.

The short autumn day was closing; the mountains were growing dark;
the eagle and hawk had gone to their eyry in the rocks of Benvenue,
though the wild grey geese were still floating on the bosom of Loch
Voil, when Rob and MacAleister took their way across the hills to
return home; but a storm came on as they descended Glengyle, so
instead of progressing towards Loch Katrine, MacGregor repaired to
the residence of his nephew, who, in conformity to the oppressive
laws passed against the clan, was compelled to name himself Gregor
MacGregor _Grahame_, yet is better known as Glune-dhu, and captain of
the castle of Doune under Prince Charles Edward.

On reaching the tower, Rob found that his nephew, the laird, with all
his followers, was absent on a hunting-match with the Earl of
Breadalbane; but the old housekeeper and butler made him welcome.
The two hunters had brought more than enough with them to sup the
whole household, for Rob had two bunches of blackcock and curlew at
his sword-belt, and MacAleister carried a small red deer slung over
his shoulder.

A blazing fire of bog-pine and fir-cones was made in the arched
fireplace of the old hall, and there the hunters prepared to pass the
night comfortably, after the toil of their late hunting expedition.

Supper over, a jorum of hot whisky-toddy was brewed in an antique
punchbowl; the iron gates of the tower were secured for the night;
the old servants retired to their beds, and Rob and MacAleister sat
by the ruddy hearth, talking of their late wanderings, of tidings
they expected to hear from Seaforth about a rising in the Western
Isles; and without any intention of passing the remainder of the
night elsewhere than by that jovial fire, and wrapped in their ample
plaids.

Their late arduous wanderings in the keen cold mountain air, with the
warmth of the glowing fire and the steaming punch, combined to make
Rob drowsy, and ere long he dozed off into a sound sleep; but
MacAleister, as he afterwards related, felt in no way able to follow
his leader's example, though particularly anxious to do so.  He
became acutely wakeful, for a strange and unwonted anxiety weighed
upon his mind, and at times a shudder passed over his frame--a
_grue_, as the Lowlanders term it--a supposed sign that an unseen
spirit hovers near you, or that some one is treading on the ground
which is to form your grave, however far away that ground may be.

His eyes wandered over the old and faded family portraits which
adorned the hall; he sought to shun them; but they seemed to exercise
a strange fascination over him, which compelled him to look at them
again and again, till they grew, to his alarm, almost instinct with
life.

There was Alaster of Glenstrae, who led the clan to battle at
Glenfruin, and who died on the gibbet at Edinburgh, looking grimly
out of his iron helmet.  There, too, was Colonel Donald MacGregor, in
his wig and breastplate, looking as fierce as when he slew Duncan nan
Cean, or carried terror among the Westland Whigs when the Highland
host came down in the days of the Covenanters.

There were others in laced coats and tartan plaids, but all armed to
the teeth--worthies who had departed this life with a foot of cold
steel in their bodies, leaving more quarrels and broadswords than
silver or gold behind them; and as he turned from one pale face to
another, while the candles burned down and the fire waxed low on the
hearth, MacAleister began to feel how,

  By dim lights seen, the portraits of the dead
  Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread!

Add to all this the wavering gleams of the fire, the weird shadows
they cast across the ancient hall, and the solemn sough of the
midnight wind without, as it swept down Glengyle and moaned through
the machicolated battlements of the old tower, shaking its grated
windows, and waving too and fro the russet-coloured tapestry that
overhung the doorway, driving out the brown moths to flutter about
the fading lights.

Meanwhile Rob Roy slept heavily.

By Highland superstition it had long been understood, that when two
persons were left thus, they should either both sleep at the same
time or keep each other awake; for if one slept, the other was left
to the mercy of the spirits of the air.

MacAleister called to MacGregor, but received no answer, and in the
vaulted hall the hollow echoes of his own voice affrighted even his
bold spirit.  Then as a sudden and heavy chill fell over his sturdy
frame, and a sickly and deadly fear stole into his heart, he strove
to rise and grasp his foster-brother, but found himself frozen,
riveted, chained, as it were, to his seat by a power or will superior
to his own!

At that moment the arras which closed the lower end of the hall, and
which had been violently shaken from time to time by the stormy gusts
of wind, was suddenly parted, and there entered two tall and
grim-looking gillies, in the Highland dress, and fully armed, bearing
lighted candles in antique silver branches.

Other figures, misty, wavering, and indistinct, appeared beyond; but
in the gillies MacAleister, with horror in his soul, recognized two
MacGregors whom he had seen slain in his boyhood, and whom he had
actually assisted to bury near the ruined church on Inchcailloch.

Behind the bearers of the candles came a bearded piper, with his pipe
on his shoulder, the drones decorated by long tartan streamers; the
bag was distended, and he fingered the notes of the chanter rapidly,
while his pale face seemed swollen by the exertion of playing; but
neither from the instrument nor the tread of his feet came the
slightest sound, as he passed like a shadow slowly round the hall,
without looking on either side, though his glazed eyes shone with a
blue weird gleam in the light of the fire; and then the henchman
discovered, by a peculiar mole and a wound on the right cheek, that
this was the phantom of Alpine's grandsire, who played the clan to
Glenfruin, and was said to have been spirited away by the _Dosine
Shie_, or fairies.

Then followed many ladies and gentlemen of the House of Glengyle, who
had been in their graves for years, with grey visages, wan, ghastly,
and solemn, and wearing costumes quaint in fashion and long since
obsolete, or to be seen only in such portraits as those which hung
around the hall.

Spellbound, incapable of motion, and while his leader slept soundly,
MacAleister saw all these phantoms take seats at the table beside
them; the ladies spreading out and gracefully disposing the ample
flounces of their great tub-fardingales, as if in life; the gentlemen
adjusting the curls of their cavalier locks, or great perukes; others
shook out the folds of their belted plaids, or ran their wan and
wasted fingers through their long wavy beards, as they seemed to
converse with each other, to assent or dissent, and sometimes
frown--conversed, but without a sound, for the pinched blue features
of their long and awfully solemn faces moved spasmodically, and their
gestures varied, as if they talked, but not a voice or a word reached
the ear of the terrified MacAleister.

At last one who closely resembled the portrait of Alaster of
Glenstrae, for his helmet was crested by the entire wing of a golden
eagle, and whose neck was moreover distorted as if by strangulation
(for Glenstrae had been ignominiously hanged), produced a pack of
cards, and then all proceeded to play.

The cards were scarcely dealt, when MacAleister saw the figure of
Oina--of his daughter--she who had perished at Inversnaid, with her
dark hair dishevelled and floating about her shoulders, wearing the
very plaid in which her husband buried her, hovering at the back of
those unearthly visitors; and with, deadly fear he perceived that she
was regarding him with a sad yet tender smile in her black
lack-lustre eyes.

It was remarkable that Oina's form was more palpable than the rest,
for some who had died ages ago were transparent, so that he saw other
objects through them.

After a time the players relinquished the cards, and some betook them
to what the Highlanders called _palmermore_ (the tables), which
requires three on each side, who throw the dice alternately; but
though shaken violently, neither boxes nor dice emitted the slightest
sound.

Now a muffled figure glided to the side of Oina.

On her regards being again turned to her father, this muffled figure
threw off a wet and dripping plaid, and lo!  MacLaren, the spy, whom
he had drowned in the millrace at Comar, stood before him, with a
malignant and demoniac grin on his cold and damp visage.

He drew near and breathed on the face of MacAleister, and so cold was
that breath, so icy and chill, that it seemed to freeze the marrow in
his bones.

At that moment a cock crew, and with a shriek the spellbound man
started to his feet, to find the fire extinguished, the candles
burned out in their sockets, MacGregor still muffled in his plaid and
fast asleep in a chair beside him, while grey dawn stole through the
grated windows of the gloomy castle hall.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE HAUNTED WELL.

Rob Roy was instantly roused by MacAleister, who, in an excess of
terror, related the vision of the past night, and begged that they
might retire from Glengyle at once, as his soul was filled with
dismay.

Rob, though deeming the whole affair a dream, as it was no doubt,
felt somewhat disturbed by the story; for MacAleister maintained that
it was a warning of his last hour being at hand; and still on his
pale, blanched face he seemed to feel the icy breath of the phantom
MacLaren.

Rob was too deeply imbued with the superstition of his time and
country not to feel unpleasantly impressed by the whole affair, and
fearing that something might be wrong at Portnellan, or that his
presence there might be necessary, he and his follower set forth at
once from the tower of Glengyle.

They proceeded quickly down the valley, passing through a dense old
wood, which had grown there for ages.

In this wood was a clear and silvery fountain, which flowed into a
tributary of Loch Katrine, and near it stood a little stone cross,
covered with green moss and grey lichens.  It had a great reputation
for sanctity, and though frequently removed and cast elsewhere by the
Presbyterians, by some means it always found its way back to the
well, which was said to have been haunted of old by a beautiful
fairy, with long flowing golden hair and shining garments--a water
spirit like the Undine of the German romance.

Seeking the old fountain, Rob took a long draught of its pure cool
stream, and drew aside a little way while MacAleister took off his
bonnet and proceeded to say a prayer, for the adventure of the past
night pressed heavy on his heart: but he had only uttered a single
sentence, when he started back in terror, exclaiming that the pale
grey face of MacLaren appeared under the water of the well, with the
old malignant smile on his lips and in his eyes.

"Your dreams have bewildered you, Callam," said Rob Roy; "take
courage--anon you will forget them."

But he had scarcely spoken, when there was a shout that woke every
echo in the wood, and bursting through the trees and bushes about
twenty dismounted troopers fell upon them, sword and carbine in hand.

MacGregor's claymore flashed from its sheath in a moment; and
opposing his shield to them, he was about to break through and
escape, when six levelled their carbines, and Colonel Grahame called
upon him to "surrender, or he would be shot down without mercy!"

"I know how to die, but not how to yield," replied MacGregor, proudly.

"Then die in your obstinacy!" exclaimed the colonel; "fire!"

But the troopers paused, on which the faithful MacAleister exclaimed
to his foster-brother in Gaelic.

"Let them fire at _me_, and when their guns are empty do thou break
through, thou who wert nursed at my mother's breast--and God speed!"

With these words MacAleister threw himself, sword in hand, upon the
troopers, who fired their carbines, and, pierced by four bullets, the
devoted foster-brother of Rob Roy fell dead on the grass!

The heart of the latter was wrung within him on witnessing this sad
catastrophe, and instead of flinging himself with fury on the
soldiers and breaking away, as his foster-brother had expected, and
had exhorted him to do, he stood for a minute with irresolution,
gazing at the corpse, from which the blood was yet welling, with rage
and sadness on his face and in his soul.

That minute of irresolution and grief lost all!

From every quarter of the wood, soldiers whom the firing had
summoned, came hurrying in, and hemmed round on every side by swords,
by levelled bayonets, halberts, and clubbed carbines, Rob Roy was
beaten to the ground, and when well-nigh senseless was disarmed and
bound with strong ropes, as if he had been a madman or a wild animal.

Then, on being dragged to his feet, he found himself the prisoner of
the Duke of Montrose, who surveyed him with a fierce and exulting
expression in his proud and haughty face.

"Oh!" exclaimed MacGregor, with a groan, "oh, eternal infamy! a
prisoner, and Montrose--_to thee_!"




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ROB ROY TAKEN.

The duke wore a blue coat, faced and cuffed with scarlet, richly
braided on the breast with broad bars of gold lace.  Save at the
throat, it was unbuttoned, and thus displayed a cuirass and gorget,
both of the finest steel, which he wore in lieu of a vest, and over
which fell the ends of his long cravat of Mechlin lace.  He had on a
three-cornered hat, a flowing white periwig, and black jackboots with
gold spurs; and a sword and a brace of silver-mounted pistols hung at
his waistbelt.

By his side were Colonel Grahame, Quartermaster Stewart, and others;
for his grace had come hastily into the mountains with three hundred
men, to reinforce the party from which Rob had escaped so
successfully at Crianlarich.

"At last, MacGregor Campbell," said the duke, through his clenched
teeth, while his eyes sparkled with triumph and resentment; "AT LAST
you are in my power, and your doom hangs upon my lips!"

MacGregor uttered a scornful laugh, and though his hands were bound
behind him, he drew his sturdy figure proudly up to its full height
and measured the duke with a provoking glance of profound
disdain--viewing him deliberately from head to foot.

"Now, my bold reiver, what have you to say?"

"For myself, my lord duke?"

"Yes," said Montrose, fiercely.

"Simply, that by fraud and force you have won a poor victory over a
single man.  _Use_ that victory as you please, Montrose, but _abuse_
it not."

"Nay, nay, I shall use it justly, as I am entitled to do; for you
know that you have long been a doomed felon, on whose head a price
has been set."

"By whom?" asked MacGregor, disdainfully.

"The king and government."

"A German usurper and Scottish traitors like yourself!" replied the
other furiously.

"Ha!--it matters not how you name them; you are nevertheless a
foredoomed felon, and as such shall you die!"

"And who caused me to be stigmatized as such--who but you?  Silence!
Duke of Montrose, and lead me where you will; but be silent, I say.
Honour is like fine steel--breathe upon it and the surface becomes
stained.  Sorely have you striven to stain the honour of Rob Roy; but
you have striven in vain; for Rob will be remembered among these
green mountains and in the hearts of the Gael--look down, O Heaven,
and bless them!--when you, duke so venal and corrupt, will be
remembered only as the enemy and oppressor of him you would destroy."

"Egad, I like your spirit, MacGregor!" said Colonel Grahame, as he
sheathed his sword with an emphatic jerk.

"My spirit may break, Colonel Grahame, but never shall it bend,"
replied Rob Roy; "I may have my faults like other men, but if the
best of us had these written on his forehead, he would, as the saw
hath it, pull his bonnet well over his eyes.  Till your chief made
himself my enemy, I was a quiet, a peaceful, and a God-fearing man;
but he made desolate my hearth and home; he seized my patrimony, and
cast me forth into the world a broken man, an outlaw, and a beggar,
with a price upon my head, to be hunted like a wild beast by soldiers
and militia, horse and foot--I, a Highland gentleman, whose lineage
was equal, if not superior to his own.  But as Fingal said to Swaran,
'The desert is enough for me, with all its deer and echoing woods!'
so I took my target and claymore, and retired to the steep mountain
and the wild forest, with my good wife and my little ones.  Since
then, all we have endured has been enough to summon all the spirits
of the Clan Alpine who have suffered and died since the field of
Glenfruin, back from blessed heaven to the vengeance of earth!"

"Let their spirits come," said the duke, with fierce irony; "see if
they will avail much, when you swing by the neck in the Broad Wynd of
Stirling, even as Alaster of Glenstrae swung after his fine day's
work at Glenfruin."

"We are not yet in the Broad Wynd of Stirling," said Rob,
confidently; "but set me free for five minutes--put my broadsword in
my hand, and here, on this plot of grass, will I fight you face to
face and foot to foot--ay, with three of your best men, if you
choose."

"I do not fight with felons," replied Montrose, loftily.

"Will you not meet me like a brave,--I cannot call you an honest,
man?"

"I do not fight with felons," was again the cutting reply.

MacGregor crimsoned with passion, and exclaimed hoarsely,--"Woe to
you, dastard duke!  Alas, that I should ever speak thus to one who
bears the good name that was borne by the Great Marquis, the gallant
Dundee!"

"Enough of this," said the duke, also becoming red and husky with
passion.  "To horse, gentlemen, and away for Stirling.  Colonel
Grahame, bind the villain to one in whom you can place implicit
trust, and let him be well watched.  The man who permits him to
escape, I will pistol with my own hand!"

MacGregor was secured to a horse behind a trooper, whose waistbelt
was passed through the belt from which his sword and pistols were
taken; his hands were also tied behind, so that it was impossible for
him either to slip or leap off; and in this ignominious fashion,
escorted by nearly four hundred of the duke's local militia, horse
and foot, he was carried away a prisoner.

As they departed from the Haunted Well, he gazed sadly at the
stiffened corpse of his faithful friend and foster-brother, Callam,
son of the arrow-maker,--one who had never failed him in many an hour
of peril, and whose remains were left where he fell, and where a
cairn now marks his grave.

The captors had to travel with great secrecy, lest the country people
should rise to the rescue of Rob Roy; but with all their speed the
journey of twenty miles towards the banks of the Forth occupied the
whole day, so rough and roadless was the district through which they
marched, down by Glenfinglas and Bochastle, through the pass of Leney
and by the beautiful Braes of Callender; and many a wistful glance
their unfortunate prisoner cast back to the mountains; for they
looked down on his secluded home, where his wife and children dwelt,
and where ere long they would be bewailing him in hopeless sorrow.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE FORDS OF FREW.

In his exultation at having personally made captive a prisoner so
important to the State, and for whose seizure a reward had been so
long offered, as a rebel, traitor, outlaw, and robber, the Duke of
Montrose ordered his trumpets to play and his kettledrummers to beat,
when the smoke, the steep ridge, the castled rock, and grey old walls
of Stirling appeared in the distance rising amid the green and lovely
valley of the Forth.

MacGregor gazed sullenly and fiercely at the distant fortress,
wherein, for a brief time, he would be a prisoner, if he could not
escape by the way.

They had now crossed Lanrick Mead and the green Braes of Doune, and
before them lay the long snaky windings of the Forth, which the duke
ordered his troopers to pass by the Fords of Frew--those deep and
treacherous fords which Rob knew so well that, as history tells us,
and as already related, he guided the army of Mar through them after
the battle of Sheriffmuir.

As they drew near the river, the duke, for the greater security of
his prisoner, ordered him to be bound anew with a horse-girth to
Quartermaster James Stewart, one of the most powerful and resolute of
his followers, adding, as he saw the buckle secured under his own
eye,--

"And you shall keep him company thus until we have him in the care of
the captain of Stirling Castle, or the goodman of the Tolbooth."

Stewart evinced some repugnance to this mode of conducting the
prisoner, for the latter and he were old acquaintances, who had
frequently trafficked in cattle in more peaceful and happy times.

Rob submitted in silence to this new arrangement; again the brass
trumpets sounded shrilly, and the kettledrums rang, as the horse
began their march towards the fords; but Rob heeded little this
display of pride and triumph, for all his thoughts were
elsewhere,--at the fireside of Portnellan, with his aged mother, his
wife, and children.

Again a prisoner!  Oh, how his brave heart yearned for them, and
trembled for their future, all the more that now the faithful and
unflinching MacAleister was gone.

Coll was now a man, strong, brave, and active; but had he sufficient
skill or strategy to maintain with success the desperate career which
his father might bequeath to him from the scaffold at Stirling?

And then there were Duncan and Hamish, with little Ronald, who was
always in scrapes and turmoils, and exhibited more scars and bruises
than even Greumoch, or the most veteran of the clan, what might their
fate--their future be?

Their ruddy sunburnt faces, their hearty boyish voices, all came
vividly to memory with the terrible question,--How were their lives
to end?

By a tender succession of links in his boys, he had beheld a future
life _beyond_ his own; for by the natural course of events they were
to see what he could never hope to see, or feel, or share in--the
coming time, which they were to enjoy (or endure) when his strong
hand was lying in the grave, when his sword had returned to the
anvil, and when on earth he could avail them no more.  But what an
heritage of danger had he to bequeath them!

Then the future plans of the Jacobites (with whose success he
identified the restoration of his people to their own name, and of
his patrimony to himself) came before him, for he was deeply involved
in their intrigues; and about the very time of this most unexpected
capture he was to have met a messenger from the Marquis of Seaforth,
as that noble was styled by the loyalists in Scotland--a messenger
who was to precede an invasion of the Highlands from Spain.

Twilight stole over the scenery.  The eagle had gone to its eyry in
the rocks; the lazy cormorant and the long-legged heron had forsaken
the shore, and all was silent, or nearly so, for no sound broke the
stillness now, save the tramp of the horses, or at times a loud
shriek that rung upon the wind, and wailed away in the distance.

It was the melancholy cry of the night-owl.

Darkness had set in when the leading files of the duke's column began
with great deliberation and care to cross the Forth at Frew.  Recent
rains had swollen the river, which made a brawling sound at the
fords, though it usually rolls silently and even somewhat sluggishly
through its lovely valley, a winding course of ninety miles towards
the sea.

While the centre and rear of the horsemen were halted by the margin
of the river, the others crossed, half-fording and half-swimming, and
thereafter scrambling up the rugged bank on the opposite side, Rob
Roy began to converse in low tones with the quartermaster, James
Stewart.

The grandson of the latter was some years ago an innkeeper at Loch
Katrine, and a guide to tourists; and it was to his relation of this
adventure that Sir Walter Scott was indebted for one of the most
stirring passages in his novel, wherein, however, he designates the
trooper to whom Rob was bound "Evan of the Brigglands."

Taking advantage of the darkness, the splashing, the shouting, and
noise as the troopers crossed cautiously by two at a time, Rob
implored Stewart, "by all the ties of old acquaintance, of common
humanity, and good neighbourhood, to give him some chance of escape
from an assured doom--a death of ignominy."

For some time Stewart heard him unmoved, till MacGregor began to
remind him that a day of terrible vengeance would assuredly come
anon, as he would leave to his sons and followers the task of
destroying all who were in any way accessory to his capture and
execution.

Stewart knew too well what the MacGregors were capable of attempting
and performing, to hear this without alarm, or to consider it an
empty threat; and to some emotions of compassion for Rob as an old
friend, and a sorely wronged and oppressed man, were now added those
of fear for himself and his possessions.

He made no reply; but when the voice of the duke was heard, as he
called from the opposite bank to bring over the prisoner, the
quartermaster guided his horse down the bank, and entered the dark
stream, which, with a loud rushing sound, was flowing rapidly past.

Overhead the stars shone clearly and coldly, yet the river and its
wooded banks were involved in gloom and obscurity; and when in the
middle of the stream, the quartermaster reined in his horse, as if
uncertain of its footing.

At that moment MacGregor felt the girth which secured them together
relaxed, as the buckle was parted, and the cord which bound his
wrists was cut, by the friendly hand of Stewart.

"'Tis well," he whispered, as he pressed the latter's hand; "you will
never repent the deed of to-night--never, if you live for a thousand
years!"

Slipping over the crupper of the horse, he dived into the river, and
swam under its surface for some yards, till he could emerge with
safety under the shade of a clump of willows, where he crept ashore,
quietly and unseen, exactly as described in the splendid novel which
bears his name.

On Stewart ascending the opposite bank, where the horsemen were
getting into their ranks, and forming in order under Colonel Grahame,
the duke instantly missed Rob Roy.

"Villain!" he exclaimed, "where is your prisoner?"

Stewart began to falter out something by way of explanation or
excuse, when the duke, blind with rage and fury, drew a long
horse-pistol from his holsters, and dealt him a blow on the head with
the steel butt--a blow from the effects of which his descendant (the
innkeeper) said he never recovered.

Carbines were now discharged up and down the stream, flashing in the
darkness and waking the echoes of the rocks.  A close search was made
on both banks by troopers on horse and foot, but vainly, till day
broke, for no trace could be discerned of the fugitive, who knew the
country better than his pursuers, and by that time had reached in
safety the hill of Vaigh-mhor, amid the rocks of which is a secret
cavern, the haunt of outlaws and robbers so lately as 1750.

There he lurked in safety until nightfall, after which he proceeded
with all speed back to the banks of Loch Katrine, and reached his
household at Portnellan, where his family were in despair, and where
Greumoch, his future henchman, was arraying five hundred men, for the
purpose of falling down into Stirlingshire to rescue or revenge him.

But now a messenger arrived who warned them that their swords were
required for another purpose, a third rising in the Highlands for
King James VIII., as he was named by the Scottish cavaliers.




CHAPTER XL.

SEAFORTH'S MESSENGER.

The preceding chapters of our story will in some degree have
illustrated to the reader the peculiar character, habits, and manner
of the Scottish Highlanders, and have shown how different they were
in many respects from their Lowland countrymen.

"The ideas and employments which their seclusion from the world
rendered habitual," says General Stewart of Garth, "the familiar
contemplation of the most sublime objects of nature--the habit of
concentrating their affections within the narrow precincts of their
own glens, or the limited circle of their own kinsmen--and the
necessity of union and self-dependence in all difficulties and
dangers, combined to form a peculiar and original character.  A
certain romantic sentiment, the offspring of deep and cherished
feeling, strong attachment to country and kindred, and a consequent
disdain of submission to strangers, formed the character of
independence; while an habitual contempt of danger was nourished by
their solitary musings, of which the honour of their clan, and a long
descent from brave and warlike ancestors, formed the theme.

"Thus their exercises, their amusements, their mode of subsistence,
their motives of action, their prejudices and their superstitions
became characteristic, permanent, and peculiar.  Firmness and
decision, fertility in resources, ardour in friendship, and a
generous enthusiasm were the result of such modes of life and such
habits of thought.  Feeling themselves separated by nature from the
rest of mankind, and distinguished by their language, their habits,
their manners, and their dress, they considered themselves the
original possessors of the country, and regarded the Saxons of the
Lowlands as strangers and intruders."

But to resume:--

The messenger who reached Portnellan was no other than Sir James
Livingstone, whom Rob had encountered after the devastation of
Kippen, and who had now changed sides and become a Jacobite in sheer
disgust of the atrocities of the Ministry after the battle of
Sheriffmuir.

From Seaforth, chief of the MacKenzies, he bore a letter to Rob Roy,
stating that he intended to rise in arms for the king, and desired
the aid and assistance of the Clan Alpine, when and where the bearer
would inform him, as it was dangerous to commit his plans to paper.

The writer was William MacKenzie, Earl of Seaforth, whose father had
been created a marquis by the exiled king.

"So, MacGregor, I have come at a fortunate time," said Sir James, as
they walked in conference together by the shore of Loch Katrine;
"your men I see are all in arms----"

"And prepared to do all that men can do," replied Rob; "but the
Lowlands are full of troops, close up to the Highland border; now
ships of war come at times even into the salt lochs of the Campbells,
and so the Highlands are scarcely what they were when we were boys,
Sir James."

"True; but one good battle may alter all that; and remember, Rob,
that the Grampians are still the _Dorsum Britanniae_."

"The what?" said MacGregor, with perplexity.

"The Backbone of Britain, as they were called of old by a Scottish
Kuldee."

"Seaforth refers me to you for information; where is he now?"

"At Madrid."

"Madrid--oich; that is a long way from the Braes of Balquhidder!"
said Rob, with fresh perplexity.

"At Madrid," repeated Livingstone, "where his Majesty James VIII. has
been received with all the honours due to the King of Great Britain
by Philip V., who is too good a monarch not to remember the claim of
King James to our throne--a claim derived from Scripture, which says,
'The right of the first-born is his.'"

"But what help does the Spanish king offer the Blue Bonnets if they
rise in arms?"

"Six thousand Spanish soldiers of the line, with twelve thousand
stands of arms, are to be embarked on board of ten ships of war,
under the command of the Irish Duke of Ormond."

"A brave man!" exclaimed Rob; "but where are these ships and
Spaniards?"

"At San Sebastian and elsewhere.  This armament will sail in the
early part of next year for the Western Isles, and will probably
arrive while yet the Highland passes are blocked up by snow.
Seaforth doubts not that you will join him, and if possible make
short work with the Munroes, the Rosses, and other Whig clans, who
will be sure to break into Kintail on the first tidings that the
Spanish keels have passed through the Sound of Slate.  With these
Spanish soldiers, and with these twelve thousand stands of arms, when
distributed among the loyal clans, and with the aid expected from the
Welsh and Irish, we may well hope, Rob, to crush both the English and
the Lowlanders; and by this day twelvemonth we may see every head
wearing its own bonnet, and the elector at home in Hernhausen."

All this sounded very well to Rob, who seldom required a great
incentive to attempt anything desperate, especially against Highland
Whigs, such as the Rosses, Munroes, or Grants; so he pledged himself
"to meet the Marquis of Seaforth in Kintail in the spring of the
following year, with at least four hundred good claymores;" and after
spending a few days at Portnellan, Sir James Livingstone departed to
visit some other Jacobite gentlemen, and seek their aid.

The Highland winter had now set in with its usual severity; the snow,
which drifted deep in the passes, rendered Rob safe from all attacks
at that time; so the days were occupied peacefully by his people in
attending to their cattle, hunting deer, and collecting fuel; the
evenings were spent with the harp and pipe, with sword play, or
practice with the target and claymore, in dancing and athletic
exercises; till the spring days came, and the ice began to melt in
the deep lochs, and the snow to dissolve in runnels of water down the
steep slopes of the mountains.

"The three Faoilteach have been as bad as the worst days of winter,"
said Rob, as he looked over the vast extent of hill and glen that lay
round his home; "so, please God, we shall have fair spring weather,
Helen, to meet Lord Seaforth in Kintail na Bogh."

It is a belief in the Highlands that if the _faoilteach_, three days
which January borrowed from February by the bribe of three young
lambs, prove fair and pleasant, there will be bad and stormy weather
throughout the ensuing year.

"I would you were safely back from Kintail," said Helen; "for danger,
it may be death, are before you, Rob.  Does not Paul Crubach say that
he has had visions of grey warriors riding along the steepest cliffs
of Craigrostan and Benvenue, where mortal horseman never rode, nor
living horse could keep its footing?"

"Likely enough, good wife; for poor Paul sees that which others never
see," said Rob, laughing.

And now on the 1st day of April, 1719, came a messenger from Sir
James Livingstone, to state that the Spanish fleet had sailed for the
Hebrides, and directing Rob to march for Glensheil with all the loyal
and discontented Highlanders he could collect, and to halt near the
head of Loch Hourn, till the Spaniards arrived.

"These Spaniards come from a land of wine and oranges," said Helen;
"how will our long kail and oat cakes agree with their dainty
stomachs?"

"Better than English bullets, Helen," said Rob.

When he departed with his followers from Portnellan he took with him
the little English boy, Harry Huske, for he doubted not that after
falling down into the Lowlands, or even before that time came to
pass, there would be many encounters with the Government troops, and
an opportunity must occur for restoring him to his father the major.

Helen MacGregor had become deeply attached to the child, who had many
pretty and winning ways; thus she wept bitterly when he was taken
from her, and is said to have repeated the ominous words of her
former prediction, "that the boy was too fair and beautiful to find a
place on earth."

Secretly though the messengers of Livingstone were despatched, the
Government were on the alert, and had their troops in the field
nearly as soon as the Jacobites, for so great was the terror in
England of this Spanish invasion, that aid was sought as usual from
Holland; and already six thousand Dutch infantry, with a great body
of British troops, were on the march for Scotland.

At that period, the fighting force of the Highlands consisted of at
least fifty thousand men; but so divided were the clans among
themselves, that seldom more than five thousand men at a time came
forth in any of the insurrections for the House of Stuart.




CHAPTER XLI.

ROB'S MARCH TO GLENSHEIL.

On this occasion Rob Roy had four hundred men with him, having left
the rest at home under Coll and Red Alaster MacGregor, with orders to
keep the pass of Loch Ard against any soldiers whom General Carpenter
might send by that route to plunder or destroy.

It was on a lovely day in April when the MacGregors, after a march of
more than eighty miles north-west across the mountains from Loch
Katrine, guided by a wandering harper named Gillian Ross, from the
Isle of the Pigmies, after skirting the vast waste of the braes of
Rannoch and the hills of Glenorchy--by ascending the Devil's
Staircase, and from thence, passing by the base of the snow-clad Ben
Nevis, whose summit was hidden in masses of grey vapour, by Corpach
(or the vale of the corpses), by Glen Arkaig and the head of Loch
Hourn, halted on the hills of Glensheil, in sight of the dim and
distant peaks of the Isle of Skye, and the waves of the Atlantic.

Along the base of the dark mountains which there start abruptly, like
masses of blue rock, from the deep salt lochs of the west, wreaths of
grey smoke were curling on the wind.  These were from the fires of
the busy burners of kelp--a manufacture the abolition of which, by
the Parliament of 1823, brought ruin and famine upon the poor
peasantry of Argyle and Ross.

The weather was mild and warm, though tempered by the breeze from the
ocean.  The MacGregors encamped on the sheltered side of a mountain
slope; a stray cow or so, and the deer of the glens, supplied them
with food, which they cooked in the old Scottish fashion, by boiling
the flesh in its own skin, or broiling it in fires formed of roots
from a morass, or dry branches from the nearest forest.

Every man carried his own oatmeal and hunting-bottle of usquebaugh;
and other incumbrance or baggage they had none, save their arms and
ammunition.

Little Harry Huske had become hardy now, and slept as snugly in the
neuk of Rob's or Greumoch's plaid, as when at home in Portnellan,
though he sometimes wept for his mother, as he had learned to call
Helen MacGregor.

The third day had been passed on the mountains thus, when a gentleman
in tartan trews, with a laced coat and periwig, was seen approaching
the camp, mounted on a strong Highland garron.

He and his followers (he had four armed men with him, clad in
Highland dresses of the MacKenzie tartan) wore in their bonnets the
white cockade, the forbidden badge of the House of Stuart;
consequently they were received with acclamations by the MacGregors,
though one of the visitors was no other than the redoubtable Duncan
nan Creagh, now somewhat bent and older than when we first introduced
him to the reader, but active, fierce, and resolute as ever.

On this occasion he acted as guide to Sir James Livingstone, the
mounted man in trews.

"Welcome, Sir James," said Rob Roy; "I trust you bring us good
tidings of the king and his adherents."

"Would to heaven I could do so," replied the baronet, with
unconcealed dejection.

"How?" asked the other, with alarm.

"The fleet, with all the Spanish troops and munitions of war, set
sail from San Sebastian for Scotland; but Heaven itself seems against
this most unlucky House of Stuart."

"Sir James Livingstone!"

"It is so; for Fortune and the elements are alike their enemies!"
exclaimed the other, bitterly.

"Speak quickly, Sir James," said MacGregor, stamping his foot on the
heather; "I am in no mode either for parables or riddles, after
marching all this distance, and leaving my family and my country all
but open to the enemy; and I know the tricks that Montrose and
Killearn are capable of playing me.  The fleet, you say, has sailed?"

"But encountered a dreadful gale off Cape Finisterre----"

"I know not where that may be."

"'Tis a headland off the coast of Brittany--where, it matters not;
but the storm lasted two entire days, and drove the armament back,
dismasted and battered, to the Spanish coast, thus disconcerting all
the plans of the Duke of Ormond and the friendly schemes of Philip V."

"Then we have marched here in vain!"

Sir James nodded his head sadly in assent.

"Has not a single vessel reached the Western Isles?"

"Yes; two frigates--only two--under the Spanish flag are now anchored
at Stornoway, in the Lewis, where they have landed the Marquis of
Tullybardine----"

"Tullybardine!" repeated Rob, with knitted brow.  "I remember him, a
fair-haired youth, at the castle of Blair, when his father, Duke John
of Athole, laid a black snare for me."

"Think not of that now, MacGregor," said Livingstone, earnestly; "he
is young and brave, and steadfast to our king."

"Who more?"

"The Lords Seaforth and Marischal, with some arms."

"How many?"

"Two thousand stands of muskets, and five thousand pistols.  And
there are three hundred Spanish soldiers."

"Any money?" asked Rob, quickly.

"Yes, some treasure in care of Don José de Santarem, a Knight of
Malta."

"Dioul!" said Rob, waving his bonnet; "matters are not so bad after
all.  We are in for it now, and must play out the game.  We cannot
disperse without fighting somebody, were it but to save from distress
the strangers who have come so far to serve our exiled king."

"Yes," added Sir James, bitterly; "and we have to save our own necks
from the gallows."

"Are we to seize birlinns, and cross to the Lewis?"

"No.  In a few days Seaforth will unfurl the Caberfeidh,* and come
hither with all his men; and to you his wishes are, that you shall
keep the pass of Strachells against all who approach it from the east
or south until he arrives in Glensheil.  The Rosses and Munroes are
already in arms for the elector."


* A famous banner of the MacKenzies.


"Let us cut the traitors to pieces," said Rob, "and then the loyal
and the timid alike will join us from all quarters."

In obedience to his instructions, Rob marched to the narrow pass
which is in the highest part of the district of Glensheil, or
_sheilig_ (the Vale of Hunting), that lies between the great forests
of Seaforth and Glengarry; but so long were the delays that the snow
had disappeared from the loftiest mountains, and the swallow and
cuckoo had come to the woods of evergreen pine and feathery birch,
ere the Spanish soldiers with the MacKenzies and the wild MacRaes
reached the camp of the MacGregors.

Leaving Stornoway, in the Isle of Lewis, they crossed to the
mainland, and fortifying the mouth of Loch Duich, took possession of
Eilan Donan, a castle of the MacKenzies, and placed cannon on it.

Meanwhile, General Joseph Wightman, an active and resolute officer,
was pushing on through the mountains from Inverness with a mixed
force, consisting of several companies of the 11th, 14th, and 15th
Regiments (then known respectively as Montague's Devonshire,
Clayton's Bedfordshire, and Harrison's Yorkshire), and two thousand
Dutch auxiliaries, with whom also came the Rosses, the Munroes, and
other clans who adhered to the House of Guelph.

Huske was the brigade-major.




CHAPTER XLII.

A STRANGE MEETING.

Marching with all speed by paths that were wild and rugged, the old
Fingalian war-paths, or tracks by which the cattle were driven, on
the 9th of June the troops of General Wightman came within ten miles
of the camp of Seaforth, when a halt was ordered just as the sun was
setting amid that solemn scenery, where a deep and secluded arm of
the sea penetrates among the hills of Glensheil.

"Major Huske," said General Wightman, as the wearied troops piled
their arms, posted sentinels, and prepared to cook some venison which
had been shot for them by the Munroes of Culcairn, "with an officer
and a hundred men of Montague's as an advanced guard, or rather as an
outlying picket, you will march one mile further on, and see them
properly posted.  Reconnoitre well before you halt, and if aught can
be seen of the enemy send back a messenger to me."

"For further instructions?"

"Yes.  Look well about you; for the notorious and desperate outlaw,
Robert MacGregor, or Campbell, who has been in arms against the
Government ever since the Revolution, is among these rebels, and may
give us more trouble with twelve men than Lord Seaforth could with so
many hundreds."

"Rob Roy!" exclaimed Huske, starting.

"Egad, yes; Rob himself," said the general, dismounting.  "You seem
surprised, major.  Did he give you so great a fright when he beat up
your quarters at Inversnaid?"

"Do not mistake me, General Wightman," replied Huske, with an air of
severity.  "It was but the start of an almost savage joy which I
experienced, on hearing that I was to have again opposed to me the
man to whom I owe the infliction of a terrible grief--the loss of my
son Harry, my poor little motherless boy!"

"Oh, your son--yes," said the general, in an altered voice; "I heard
that he perished unhappily--in the daring night attack on Inversnaid."

"Yes; and I would rather that he had perished when his mother did at
Landau, than in the hands of those half-naked Highland savages."

"Landau!  Zounds, major, I remember that unfortunate affair too, for
my tent was near yours, on the left of the lines.  You remember our
brigade was posted near the river Zurich?"

"But if I am spared to meet these MacGregors again I may teach this
Rob Roy to feel something of the torture I now feel; for two of his
sons, I have been told, are among his followers, and if one of them
fall into my hands again----"

"Well, do as you please, major, with Rob Roy and his sons; but beware
of ambuscades like that into which he lured Clifford and poor
Dorrington, at Aberfoyle.  And now move to the front, if you please.
Keep the picket under arms, and throw out a line of double sentinels
towards the pass in the mountains."

In obedience to this order Major Huske marched a hundred men of
Montague's Regiment to the distance of one mile from the main body,
and halting them among some wild whins for concealment, with orders
to remain accoutred, threw forward a chain of sentinels, whom he
posted in person, in such places as he thought they could best
observe the approach of the enemy, and communicate with each other,
or with the picket in their rear.

After this, as the night was clear and beautiful, he walked a little
way beyond them, to reconnoitre and observe the country.

The scenery was wild in the extreme.  On one side of a narrow inlet
rose a tall cliff, where the black iolar built his nest; at its base
lay the still water of the sea, where, in moonshine and sunshine
alike, the round black heads of the sea-dogs (whom the Celts supposed
to be fairies) were visible, as they swam to and fro, fixing their
dark and melancholy eyes on the twinkling stars or the passing boats.

On the other side of the inlet rose an ancient barrow or burial
mound, from which, as the peasantry averred, strange gleams of lustre
came at night, with sweet melodious sounds.

The place was said to be enchanted, for any person who sat thereon
and spoke aloud heard whatever they said repeated thrice.  Then it
was the fairies or the devil who replied; now it is only the
echo--the son of the lonely rock.

Huske was now nearly half a mile from his sentinels; but in the clear
summer twilight he could see their figures distinctly, with their
dark grey coats and white leggings; and then he thought of returning,
when an armed Highlander, who had been crouching among the heather,
rose up suddenly as an apparition, to bar his way.

His round shield was braced upon his left arm, and his drawn claymore
was glittering in his right hand.

Major Huske laid his hand on his sword, and stepping forward a pace
or two resolutely, found himself face to face with--ROB ROY!




CHAPTER XLIII.

MAJOR HUSKE'S REVENGE.

For a moment Rob, who had been scouting or reconnoitring in person by
the Earl of Seaforth's request, surveyed the major with evident doubt
and irresolution expressed in his sunburnt face, for this was the
hour when, as the Celts suppose, the spirits of evil are abroad, and
when wraiths and demons of the air may assume the forms of human
beings at will; while, on the other hand, Huske, to whom no such
absurd idea occurred, and who had just reason to respect and fear
Rob's personal strength, thrust his cocked-hat firmly upon his head,
and surveyed his foe, with fury and hatred sparkling in his sombre
eyes.

"So, villain!" he exclaimed, "we are fated to meet again!"

"Beware how we part, if this is to be the style of our conversation!"
replied MacGregor, sternly.

"Fellow, are you so ignorant, or so stupid, as to be unaware that by
uttering a shout or firing this pistol I can have you surrounded, and
hanged or shot, in three minutes?"

"Then, beware, Major Huske, how you fire the shot or utter the shout;
for ere you finished either, my father's sword would clatter in your
breast-bone," replied the other, quietly.

"Defend yourself, then, traitor though you be!" said Huske, drawing a
pistol from his girdle and cocking it.

"I am no traitor," retorted MacGregor, proudly, "for I never owned as
king the German prince you serve, but am the liegeman of James VIII.,
whose enemies may God confound!  Moreover, I have no wish to
encounter you again, Major Huske--at least, until this child, which
has been long my peculiar care, is in a place of safety."  As he
spoke he pointed to a boy, who was no other than little Harry, the
child taken at Inversnaid, and who was sound asleep on the soft
heather, with Rob's tartan plaid wrapped round him.

"Right," said Huske, hoarsely; "my time for retribution has come;
this child shall go before the Highland dog his father!"

Levelling his pistol in an instant, and before MacGregor could
interpose, the major shot the sleeping child through the body.  There
was a convulsive gasp, a shudder under the tartan plaid, and all was
over!  "Unfortunate wretch--oh, mistaken coward!" exclaimed Rob Roy,
in a piercing voice.  "Major Huske, by Heaven and St. Mary, you have
destroyed your own son!"

"How--how?" cried Huske, wildly; for the solemn and excited manner of
MacGregor impressed him with a terrible conviction of truth; "my son,
say you--my son?"

"I have spoken but too truly," said the Highlander, while, heedless
of what Huske might do with sword or pistol, he knelt, with a sob in
his throat, and unfolding the bloody plaid, showed to the
horror-stricken officer the dead body of a little golden-haired boy,
whose features he could not fail to recognize.

He covered his face with his hands, exclaiming--

"Oh, MacGregor, what dreadful deed is this I have done?"

There was a long pause, and then Rob said--

"My people found your son asleep in his little bed at Inversnaid, and
carefully preserved him until such time as he could be restored to
you, his father, or friends.  Hunted and proscribed as we are,
treated by such as you like wolves or other wild beasts, a hundred
difficulties were in the way of having the child thus restored; and
the poor little fellow learned to love us, to be the playmate of my
children, the sharer of our humble hearth and frugal board, while my
good and gentle wife, who knew that the boy was motherless, nurtured
him tenderly.  Being certain that you would be with the army sent
against Seaforth and the Spaniards, I brought hither the child that
we might restore him, in the hope that for the good deed we had done
you might allow, as we say in Scotland, bygones between us to be
bygones; but, alas! this is the restoration that Helen's heart
foreboded!"

"How, Macgregor?"

"When she predicted so often that the child was too sweet in temper
and too fair in form to find a place on earth; and now, woe worth the
hour! he has been sent by his father's hand to Heaven, from whence he
came!"

When MacGregor ceased, Huske had cast himself on his knees among the
heather, cowering down, in wretchedness, with his face buried in his
hands, and sobbing heavily; while the former covered up the little
body, tenderly and gently, in his plaid, lest the sight of its blood
should too much shock the murderer.

"Go, Major Huske,--return to your men," said he, laying a hand kindly
on the shoulder of the officer; "my hand can never inflict on you a
deeper wound than your own has done.  From my soul I pity you!  When
seeking to wrong me--wrong me cruelly and foully--you have destroyed
your fair little boy, whom I was learning to love as if he had been
my own; but," added Rob, taking off his bonnet and pointing upward,
"his pure spirit is among the flowers that the angels will gather at
the foot of His throne who is above us."

"Oh, MacGregor," groaned Huske, "end, I pray you, my existence!"

"That I may not do; and I pray you to avoid me when next we meet."

"Where?" asked Huske, incoherently.

"Where the angel of death is hovering--on the hills of Glensheil,"
replied Rob Roy, as he sprang up some rocks that were close by and
disappeared; for at that moment an officer named Captain Dawnes, who
had heard the explosion of the pistol, came hurriedly up with some
twenty men of the picket, all with their bayonets fixed.




CHAPTER XLIV.

THE BATTLE OF GLENSHEIL,

By sunrise on the 10th of June, the shrill pipes playing "Tulloch
Ard" (the gathering and war-cry of the MacKenzies) rang in Glensheil,
the dwelling place of the wild MacRaes, as the British redcoats, and
the Dutch in yellow uniforms, were seen to enter that beautiful
valley, which is fifteen miles in length, forming line by regiments
as they advanced into the open space.

The Marquises of Seaforth and Tullybardine, as the loyalists termed
both, with Rob Roy, took up a position at the narrow pass of
Strachells, the highest part of Glensheil.  With them was an
expatriated chieftain, Campbell of Glendaruail--a place which means
the Vale of Red Blood, where Magnus, King of Norway, perished with
his army in defeat.

The first troops that appeared were Harrison's Foot, a wing of the
15th Regiment, which thirty years before fought against Viscount
Dundee at the battle of Killycrankie.  They had philemot yellow
facings, and coats elaborately laced with white braid.

On their left were some of the clans who were adverse to the House of
Stuart, the Munroes in gay scarlet tartans, the Rosses, Sutherlands,
and others, whose appearance in the ranks of the enemy filled the
insurgent Highlanders with rage; and in front of the Rosses marched a
tall grey-bearded harper, playing on his harp.  This was Gillian
Ross, who had guided the MacGregors to Glensheil; and Rob Roy vowed,
if he came within arm's length of him, to "tear his chords asunder."

The other corps came up in succession, and gradually formed across
the valley, the Grenadiers marching in front of the line, with their
pouches open and fuses lighted.

General Wightman, a Dutch colonel named Van Rasmusson, and Major
Huske alone were mounted.

Seaforth's men, including the MacRaes, under Duncan nan Creagh, were
about a thousand strong, and all armed in the usual Highland fashion.
On their left were six companies of Spanish Infantry under Colonel
Don Alonzo de Santarem, and his brother Don José, a Knight of Malta.
A quarter of a mile eastward on their left flank were posted the
MacGregors under Rob Roy, whose orders were to make an attack upon
the enemy in flank.

On perceiving how the insurgents were posted, and that they had
formed a breastwork (which still remains) to protect the pass,
Wightman sent forward a line of skirmishers, who were completely
exposed to the long muskets and deadly aim of the Highland marksmen.
Thus, during the sharpshooting only one MacKenzie fell, while Huske's
horse was shot under him, and many soldiers of the line were killed
and wounded.

Here the clan of Munro, becoming impatient, made a rush forward, but
were driven back by the MacKenzies and Spaniards, and their leader,
George Munro of Culcairn, fell severely wounded.  As the Spaniards
continued to fire at or over him, while he lay on the ground, he said
to his servant, who was also his foster-brother, and who lingered
affectionately beside him,--

"Retire; leave me to my fate; but say to my father that I died here
with honour, and as became the race we spring from."

"Never," replied the other, bursting into tears; "how can you suppose
that I would forsake you now?  No, no, George Munro; I will save you
if I can, or remain and die with you!"

He then spread himself and his plaid over the body of Culcairn, to
interrupt the balls of the Spaniards, and received several severe
wounds before they were both rescued and dragged off the field by a
sergeant of the Munroes, who had sworn upon his dirk--the Holy
Iron--to accomplish the deliverance of his leader.

Prior to this, the MacGregors had been--_repulsed_!

"Rob Roy," says the new statistical account of Scotland, "acted with
more zeal than judgment by attacking the _rear_ of the enemy, before
their front became engaged."

On seeing the steady array of red and yellow uniforms advancing, the
impetuosity of his men could no longer be restrained by the same
rules of discipline which ordered Don Alonzo and his six companies of
Spaniards.

"Strike up, Alpine!" cried Rob to his piper; "fall on, my lads, and
cleave them down as a boy would cleave the thistles!"

Then in the usual Highland fashion, the whole tribe came down like a
living flood upon the foe, with their uplifted swords flashing in the
sunshine.  An officer thus describes the _fine_ motions of a
Highlander when charging:--"His first motion when descending to
battle was to place his bonnet firmly on his head by an emphatic
_scrug_; his second, to cast off his plaid; his third, to incline his
body horizontally forward, cover it with his target, rush to within
fifty paces of the enemy's line, discharge and drop his fusee or
rifle; his fourth, to dart within twelve paces, discharge and fling
his iron-stocked pistols at the foeman's head; his fifth, to draw
claymore and at him!"

The MacGregors wheeled round in a half circle, fired their muskets
and pistols, and then fell on the rear of the Dutch and 15th, who
faced about and received them on their bayonets, while some companies
of the second line opened an oblique fire which drove them back in
rout and confusion; not, however, until Rob had actually his hand
upon a regimental colour, after which, closing up hand to hand with
the Dutch colonel, Van Rasmusson, he unhorsed and slew him.  Dawnes,
a captain of the 15th, came rushing to the rescue of the Dutchman;
but a pistol-shot broke the blade of his sword near the hilt just as
Rob was closing on him.

"Pass on," said MacGregor, nobly, as he saluted with his sword the
defenceless officer, who almost immediately after was killed by a
stray bullet.

Driven up the hill in confusion and rage, the MacGregors now joined
the MacKenzies and MacRaes in defence of the pass; but previous to
this, a young clansman named Eoin MacPhadrig (John, son of Patrick
MacGregor) rushed back furiously among the Dutch like a tiger, and
slew five of them before he was bayoneted and killed.  With a
thousand reverberations the steep hills echoed the reports of the
firearms, the cries of the wounded, and the cheers of the combatants,
as the lines drew closer.

General Wightman now recalled his skirmishers, and ordered the
Grenadiers to advance.  They did so, blowing their matches and
throwing their hand-grenades as fast as possible.  By the bursting of
these, several Highlanders were wounded, and Lord Seaforth fell
severely injured by a splinter, while to add still more to the
confusion and sufferings of the wounded, the heather, which was dry
as tinder, soft, and deeply rooted, caught fire by these explosions,
and now sheets of flame rolled up the mountain sides, with clouds of
murky smoke.

Under cover of this the British and Dutch infantry made no less than
three desperate attacks upon the insurgents, but were repulsed, and,
after a three hours' engagement, these combined forces had to retire,
leaving the Highlanders in complete possession of the pass, where,
according to Wightman's despatch, lay one hundred and forty-two of
his soldiers, killed and wounded.*


* Captain Dawnes and two lieutenants of the 15th were killed;
Captains Moore and Heighington of the 14th were wounded; Culcairn's
thigh was broken.


Next day, seeing the utter futility of further resistance, Don
Alonzo, whose Spaniards were naturally cold and indifferent to the
cause, and who had suffered in the conflict, surrendered the
survivors, two hundred and seventy-four in number, to Major Huske, as
prisoners of war.

On this the MacKenzies and MacRaes dispersed to places where none
could follow them; and Wightman began his retreat for Edinburgh, a
march of more than a hundred and fifty miles.

The Marquis of Tullybardine, the Earls Marischal and Seaforth, and
Sir James Livingstone, after long concealment, and though £2,000 were
offered for each of their heads, escaped and reached the Continent in
safety; and thus ended, says Salmon, "this mighty Spanish invasion,
which had so much alarmed the three kingdoms."  Traces of this
conflict are still to be seen.  Gun-barrels and bullets are found in
the valley, and especially behind the manse of Glensheil, where the
Spaniards, before surrendering, blew up their magazine; and there is
yet shown the green grave of the Dutch colonel, Van Rasmusson, who
fell by the hand of Rob Roy, near the small cascade which flows into
the glen.




CHAPTER XLV.

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA.

Rob Roy and his followers being now left to themselves by the sudden
dispersion of the MacKenzies and MacRaes, while the Rosses, Munroes,
and others were still in arms against them, and while General
Wightman's troops, though retreating, covered the main roads that led
to the Perthshire highlands, were thus compelled to linger near the
shore of Loch Duich and in the castle of Eilan Donan for a few days
ere they could set out on their return home.

In the historical account of Rob Roy and his clan, we are told
briefly, that after Glensheil, "he and his party plundered a Spanish
ship, after it had been in possession of the English, which so
enriched him that he went to the braes of Balquhidder, and began
farming."

The details of this affair are as follows:--

On the night after the battle, Rob, on learning that Duncan nan
Creagh and other MacRaes were wandering over the field, dirking and
plundering the wounded, went there to drive them off, and to save as
many as possible of the poor fellows.

The early June morning dawned brightly in the dewy glen, which was
dotted thickly with red and yellow coats, among whom lay nearly
thirty Spaniards; and Rob saw with regret the body of Captain Dawnes;
it presented a deplorable spectacle, for both his eyes were shot out,
and his face was a mass of blood.

Near him was a Spanish officer, seated half upright against a large
stone; his dark-olive face was pale, ghastly, and sorrowful.  As Rob
approached, he raised his head, and opened his black and now
lack-lustre eyes with a vacant stare, as if the poor fellow sought to
assure himself that blindness and death had not yet come upon him.
His uniform was blue, richly laced with silver, and on his left
breast was the gold and eight-pointed cross of Malta.  He had
received two bullet wounds in the body, and appeared to be sinking
fast.

As Rob Roy, like most of the loyal Highlanders, was perhaps more a
Catholic than a Protestant, the cross upon the breast of the dying
Spaniard excited his interest, and stooping down, he asked in English
if he could assist him.

"_Aqua--aqua!_" (water--water!) muttered the sufferer, hoarsely, and
then added in good English, "Water, for the love of Heaven!"

"Run to the linn, Greumoch, and fill your quaich," said Rob, raising
the sufferer against his knee; "our forefathers lie under the shadow
of the old cross on Inchcailloch, and they died believing in it as
the sign of redemption unto men, so it would ill become us to neglect
the stranger, who, with the cross on his breast, dies here for King
James VIII.  Quick, Greumoch, dash in some whisky too--it comes not
amiss to the Saxons, and won't to the Spaniards!"

As soon as it was brought, he applied the quaich of cool spring water
and usquebaugh to the parched lips of the wounded officer, whose
tongue seemed to have become baked and hard by loss of blood and a
night of agony.

Rob now proposed to have his wounds looked to and the blood stanched;
but there were no surgeons near, and the Spaniard shook his head
sadly, as if to indicate that their efforts were useless, and his
eyes dilated wildly when Greumoch approached him with a bunch of wild
nettles, the old Highland panacea for all manner of cuts, stabs, and
slashes.

Then the Spanish cavalier smiled sadly, for he knew that he was
mortally wounded, and felt death in his heart.

"What is your name--your rank?" asked Rob, kindly.

"I am Don José de Santarem, a Knight of Malta."

"A relation of the Spanish colonel?"

"I am his brother; but Alonzo has left me to my fate."

"Upbraid him not," said Rob; "he has been sorely pressed by the men
of Culcairn and Morar Chattu, and is far down the glen by this time."

Had Rob said that he was "sorely pressed by the Medes and Persians,"
it would have been quite as intelligible to the Spaniard, who
said,--"Senor Escosse, could you get me a priest?"

"A priest!" reiterated Rob, with perplexity.

"That I may confess me before I die."

MacGregor shook his head.  "The priests are all banished or in their
graves," said he; "the faith of our forefathers is proscribed here
now--even as the Clan Alpine are proscribed by the Parliament and
paper courts of the Lowlanders."

"No priests?" sighed the Spaniard, with a start.

"Not one," said Rob, on which Greumoch, who knew a little English,
whispered,--

"Maybe Paul Crubach might do--he was mighty near being a priest once."

"No--no," said Rob.  "Yet there is the parish minister of Glensheil."

But the Spaniard shook his head with disdain, and the blood spirted
anew from his wounds.

"My forefathers lie buried in the chapel of our old castle at
Quebara, in Alava--each under marble, with helmet, sword, and gloves
of steel above his tomb; but I, a brother of St. John of Malta, must
lie here among heretics, and, it may be, in earth that is
unconsecrated otherwise than by the blessed dew of heaven!"

"Nay," said Rob, earnestly; "this shall not be!  You are dying, my
brave man--I can see death in your face, for I have seen it in the
faces of too many not to know it now; but I swear that you shall lie
in consecrated earth."

"Swear this to me!" gasped the Spaniard, writhing his body towards
the speaker, whose hand he grasped convulsively.

"I swear it!" said Rob, pressing his dirk to his lips.

"You vow on your steel, as we do in my country," said the Spaniard,
while his eyes sparkled with an unwonted light; "listen to me--I will
reward you, if I can."

"I seek no reward," said Rob Roy; "you are a Spaniard who came hither
to fight for our king, and against those lumbering louts, the Dutch,
who came from King William's country--bodachs, who know not a stag's
horn from a steer's stump, as the saying is."

"Alas! (_ay de mi!_) how little I thought to die in this wild land,"
said the Spaniard, closing his eyes, while his voice became more and
more husky; "but draw nearer; keep your oath, and I shall reward you.
I had charge of our treasure chest; it contains three thousand
pistoles of Madrid and Malaga."

"And where is this chest?" whispered Rob, very naturally becoming
more interested.

"It is on board a small galley or launch--which--which lies
wedged----"

"Where--where?" asked MacGregor; for the Spaniard's voice and powers
were failing fast.

"Wedged among the rocks, near where we formed a battery--"

"At the mouth of Loch Duich?"

"I know not how you name it--but 'tis there--there!"

"Good; speak on."

"Three British ships of war are hovering off the coast, and that
treasure will become their prize, if you do not anticipate them.  The
pistoles are--are--are in a coffer marked with the cross of Malta."
After this, the poor Spaniard relinquished his English, which was
very broken, and began to talk and pray incoherently in Spanish and
Latin, till gradually he became insensible, and in less than an hour
had ceased to exist.

Rob Roy kept his word, and as soon as Don José was dead, he wrapped
him up in a plaid, and conveyed him, with Alpine playing a lament in
front, to Killduich, and there buried him at the east end of that
ancient church, in a grave over which he placed a rough wooden cross,
and above which all his followers fired thrice their muskets and
pistols in the air.

That the Colonel Don Alonzo de Santarem did not endeavour to secure
the military chest before surrendering to General Wightman, was
probably because he was menaced by the Clans of Ross and Munro, who
hovered between him and the sea, and by threatening his little camp,
ultimately enforced his capitulation.

Rob now instantly seized boats, and with half his followers departed
in search of what he termed, "the Spaniard's legacy;" while Greumoch,
with the rest, occupied the castle of Eilan Donan, to await his
return.  It was evening now.  After a long and careful search--a
search which a dense fog impeded--in a sequestered creek of Loch
Duich, the MacGregors found the craft they sought, partly jammed upon
a reef.  She appeared to be the large, half-decked launch of one of
the Spanish frigates, both of which had now put to sea and
disappeared.  She lay in a deep chasm of the wild rocks, at the base
of a steep mountain, the sides of which had been bared and rent by
the _scriddans_ of a thousand years--for so the natives term those
water-torrents which at times hurl down gravel and massive stones, in
vast heaps, to desolate the fields, the shore, or whatever may lie at
the foot of these rugged hills in Kintail and Glensheil.

Here dense green ivy covered the brows of the chasm that beetled over
the sea, and under it the hawks, the wild pigeons, and the sea-birds
built their nests.  Lower down were holes and fissures, in which the
crabs and lobsters lurked, till the countrywomen came in boats to
drag them out with old corn sickles, or other iron instruments, and
by their songs and voices to scare the sea-dogs from the ledges,
where they lay basking in the sunshine.

The launch was mounted with pateraroes, but how she came to be in
such a situation we have no means of knowing; her crew, which
consisted of some thirty Spanish seamen, though all well armed,
jumped out of her, and fled up the rocks on the appearance of the
MacGregors, as they knew not whether they were friends or foes, and
were scared by their singular costume and bare limbs.

This craft, which was undoubtedly the launch of one of the frigates
(that is, a boat of the largest size, for carrying great weight), had
a kind of half-deck forward; and under the hatch of this, which was
well secured by locks, bars, and iron bands, Rob had no doubt the
money lay.  Just as he and a number of his followers sprang on board,
a shout from some of them who were higher up on the rocks drew his
attention to seaward.

The fog had risen now, like the lower end of a thick grey curtain,
showing the offing of Loch Alsh sparkling in silver ripples under the
rising moon, and there, creeping along the shore, were three British
frigates--doubtless the three of which the dying Spaniard had
spoken--under easy sail, with their topsails, white as snow,
glittering in the silvery sheen, though darkness yet obscured their
lower sails and hulls.

Right before the wind they had been standing up Loch Alsh, and
slightly altering their course, were now penetrating that branch of
it which is named Loch Duich.




CHAPTER XLVI.

EILAN DONAN.

Sailing up Loch Duich, favoured by the fog, they had approached
unseen to within a mile of where the Spanish launch lay in the creek,
and midway between were three large armed boats, full of seamen and
marines, pulling in shoreward with long and easy strokes.  Up, up
went the fog from the bosom of the brightening lake,--up the steep
slopes of the dark mountains; and now the full splendour of the moon
shone along the deep and narrow arm of the Atlantic, showing the
bayonets, cutlasses, and broad-bladed oars, as they flashed and
glittered in her silver rays.  These vessels were the _Mermaid_, the
_Dover_, and the _Stirling Castle_, three thirty-gun ships or
fourth-rates.  The latter was one of the old Scottish fleet
amalgamated with the English at the union, when Scotland had a
complete set of frigates named after her royal palaces and castles.

The sudden appearance and close proximity of their approaching foes
somewhat disconcerted even the MacGregors; but Rob, who was full of
strategy, formed his plans in a moment.

"Dioul!" said he; "to have this prize--the Spaniard's legacy--torn
out of our teeth at this moment will never do!  We must draw the
attention of these Sassenachs to another point."

"How--how?" asked his followers.

"By firing on them."

"But they are beyond range!"

"Never mind," said Rob; "they will soon be within it."

"Your plan--your plan?" asked some, with anxiety.

He sent twenty of his best marksmen with all speed to a point of rock
about a quarter of a mile above where the launch lay, with orders to
lure the enemy along the shore.

"Away, lads," said he, "and join us at Eilan Donan."

Running with the speed of hares, the MacGregors scampered over the
rocks, loading their long Spanish guns as they went, and on gaining
the place indicated, crouched among the whins and heather, from
whence they opened a fire on the boats, which were barely yet within
range of the firearms then in use.  Flash, flash, flash, went the
muskets redly out of the dark obscurity along the rocky shore, and a
thousand echoes repeated the reports.

The challenge was soon accepted.  A cheer rang across the shining
lake from the man-of-war boats, and with fresh energy the oarsmen
bent them to the task of rowing.  Ere long the marines and small-arm
men began to reply with their muskets; but they never hit one of the
MacGregors, who were protected and concealed by bushes,
boulder-stones, and ridges of rock; while the crowded boats presented
a large mark for their muskets, which they could level steadily over
the objects which protected them.

Leaping from rock to rock and from bush to bush, stooping down to
reload, and starting up to fire, the MacGregors lured the boats'
crews for nearly two miles up the loch in search of a landing-place,
and then left them; for the whole twenty marksmen, with a shout of
defiance and derision, plunged down a dark ravine, and took their way
leisurely to Eilan Donan, without one of them being injured, while,
on the other side, several unfortunate fellows were killed and
wounded in the baffled boats of the frigates.

In the meantime Rob Roy was not idle on board the launch.

The hatch of the foredeck was soon burst open, and the black coffer
described by the knight of Malta as being the military chest of the
Spanish expedition--at least, of that portion which his brother
commanded--was found.  It was speedily forced, and there, in canvas
bags, were found the heavy gold pistoles of Madrid and Malaga, each
of which was worth sixteen shillings and ninepence sterling.

While the firing between the marksmen and the boats' crews was
proceeding briskly, but receding up the loch, and while the frigates
with their starboard tacks on board, crept closer and closer in
shore, till Rob could hear the voice of the leadsman in the
forechains of each as they sounded constantly in these, to them,
almost unknown waters, he and his men were filling their dorlachs, or
haversacks, with the treasure, after which they eat and drank all the
provisions and liquors found in the launch, chiefly a bag of biscuits
and a keg of brandy.

Then, to prevent the boat from becoming a prize to any of the king's
ships, he ordered her to be set on fire, which was speedily done by
thrusting bundles of dry branches and tarred rope under the foredeck,
where her sails were stowed, and then applying a light.

The launch burned rapidly.  The glare of the conflagration and
explosion of the pateraroes as they became heated, soon attracted the
attention of the boats' crews, and brought them down the loch,
pulling with all their speed; but ere they reached the creek there
remained only a heap of charred and smouldering wood, with the brass
swivels or pateraroes, lying among it.  By this time Rob Roy and his
men had crossed the intervening hills, and were far on their way to
Lord Seaforth's castle of Eilan Donan.

They soon reached this fine old fortress, which had been built by
Alexander III. to protect Loch Duich from the Danes, and of which he
made Colin Fitzgerald (a brave Irishman, who served under his banner
at the victory of Largs) the first constable, in the year 1263.  It
consisted of a square keep, the walls of which measured four feet
thick.  It was surrounded by an outer rampart, and by water at full
tide.  Eilan Donan was a place of great strength, and the keep was
lofty and spacious.  The oldest parishioner (in 1793) remembered to
have seen Duncan nan Creagh and other Kintail men under arms on its
leaden roof, and dancing there merrily, ere they marched to the
battle of Sheriffmuir, from whence few of them ever returned.

Here Rob Hoy and the MacGregors took up their quarters.  Roaring
fires were lighted in the great kitchen, and a couple of deer were
soon roasting and sputtering on the spits, while ale and usquebaugh
went joyously round in quaichs, cups, and long blackjacks in the
hall, where the spoil--the treasure of the Spanish launch--was fairly
portioned out, every man sharing alike, while a large sum was put
aside for old and poor folks at home, not forgetting even Paul
Crubach.

In the midst of all this the boom of a distant cannon was heard;
another and another followed; and then a tremendous crash, as a
24-pound shot passed through the windows of the hall and tore down a
mass of masonry opposite.

All rushed to the windows or to the roof, and lo! with their
broadsides to the shore, there lay two of the frigates, the
_Mermaid_, under Commander Samuel Goodiere, and the _Dover_, under
Nicolas Robertson, with their foreyards backed, and opened ports,
from which the red flashes of the ordnance broke incessantly, as they
commenced a vigorous cannonade on Eilan Donan, which they had special
orders to destroy, as a stronghold of the house of Seaforth.

"This is no place for us now, lads," said Rob, "so, ho for the march
home.  We have many a step between this and Balquhidder, so the
sooner we depart the better."

Dislodged thus unexpectedly from Eilan Donan, to reach the mainland
Rob and his hardy followers forded that portion of the isthmus which
lay under water when the tide was at half ebb, and just as the clear
summer twilight was brightening into day, they retired among the
mountains that look down on the Sheil.

For some hours they could hear the din of the cannonade against Eilan
Donan, which was so completely battered and destroyed, that little or
nothing remains of it now, save its foundations, and a well in which,
a few years ago, a quantity of plate and firearms was discovered.
Several of the cannon-balls fired on this occasion have been found
from time to time by the country people, who used them as weights for
the sale of butter and cheese.

Not content with the demolition of the castle, the commanders of the
frigates landed their crews, and with great wantonness burned the old
church of Killduich to the ground, and pillaged the poor peasantry.

This severity was not unrequited by fate; for we learn from
Shomberg's "Naval Chronology," that Captain Nicolas Robertson was
soon after tried by a court-martial for keeping false musters and
defrauding the Government, in whose cause he was so zealous when in
the Highland lochs; and on the 4th April, 1740, Samuel Goodiere, then
a captain, was hanged for the murder of his own brother on board
H.M.S. _Ruby_ in the Bristol Channel.




CHAPTER XLVII.

THE HARPER'S RANSOM.

Towards the evening of the next day the MacGregors, on their homeward
march, found themselves in the country of the Camerons, at the head
of Loch Arkeig, a long and narrow sheet of water, lying between
rugged mountains, and stretching far away towards Glen Mhor n'Albyn,
or the great valley of Caledonia, which runs diagonally across the
kingdom from the German Sea to the Atlantic.  They bivouacked at the
head of the loch, lighted a fire, and having no enemies in the
neighbourhood, prepared to pass the night pleasantly, wrapped in
their plaids, on the soft blooming heather; but first Rob Roy placed
two sentinels on the drove road that led to and from their
halting-place, that perfect security might not be neglected.

The summer night was clear and warm, and every star shone brightly
amid the blue ether; all was stillness and deep silence, save where a
mountain stream, a tributary of Loch Arkeig, swept down, now over
falls and stony rapids, or among bold impending rocks spotted with
lichens and tufted with broom, and now among pale hazel groves and
black clumps of red-stemmed pine.

The MacGregors had scarcely been here two hours, and, weary with
their march and lulled by the hum of the hurrying stream, most of
them were fast asleep, when Rob heard his sentinels in violent
altercation with a stranger; and as the Gaelic language is deficient
neither in expletives nor maledictions, they were plentifully used on
this occasion.  On sending Greumoch to ascertain the cause of all
this, he soon returned, with his drawn dirk gleaming in one hand,
while by the other he dragged forward a harper, in whom, by the
firelight, Rob immediately recognized Gillian Ross the Islesman, who
had acted as their guide to Glensheil.

He was a man well up in years; his hair and flowing beard were snowy
white; but his cheek was ruddy, and his eyes had a merry twinkle
which showed that as a son of song he had led a jovial life and a
roving one, though among turbulent clans, in a wild country and in
perilous times.

His kilt and plaid were of the Ross tartan, which is gaily striped
with red, green, and blue; and his clairsach or little Scottish harp
was slung on his back by a belt, and covered with a case of tarpaulin
or tarred canvas--probably a piece of a boat-sail.  He carried a
blackthorn stick, and as his occupation was a peaceful one, he had no
weapon save a dirk, which, like the mouth-piece of his sporan, was
gaily adorned with silver.  "A spy, a spy!" cried the MacGregors,
starting up and crowding about him with ominous expressions in their
weatherbeaten faces.

"What is the meaning of this, thou son of the son of Alpine?" he
boldly demanded of Rob, in his figurative Gaelic; "the children of
the Gael should not draw their swords on each other, and still less
on a son of song."

"Yet, son of song," replied Rob, drily, "you played those Rosses and
Munroes, and the men of Morar Chattu, into battle against us near
Dounan Diarmed* in Glenshiel--the tomb of one whom Ossian loved.  Eh,
what say you to that?"


* A warrior of Fingal, whose grave lies near the manse of Glensheil.
Morar Chattu is the Celtic name of the Earls of Sutherland.


"There have been cold steel and hot blood between our people," began
the harper in a gentler tone.

"True; but that was in the times of old; and now the righteous cause
of our king should make even the false Whigs true, and every clan
unite in one."

"Even the Grahames with the Clan Alpine?" said the harper, with a
cunning smile.

"Yes--even the Grahames with the Clan Alpine!" repeated Rob, stamping
his foot on the heather.  "I could find in my heart forgiveness for
them all, would they but join the king."

"When that day comes, the lamb shall share the lair of the lion, and
the cushat-dove shall seek the nest of gled and iolar," replied the
harper, still smiling.

"Whence come you, and where is your home?"

"The Isle of the Pigmies, in the west--far away amid the sea,"
replied the harper with a sigh; "and would, MacGregor, I were there
now, where its black rocks are covered with sheets of snowy foam,
where the wild sea-birds wheel and scream above the breakers, and
where the level sunshine and the rolling sea go far together into its
gloomy caves and weedy chasms."

The harper referred to one of the Western Isles, a little solitary
place, where stand the ruins of a chapel, and where it was believed a
dwarfish race were buried of old; "for many strangers digging deep
into the earth have found, and do yet find," says Buchanan, "little
round skulls and the bones of small human bodies, that do not in the
least differ from the ancient reports concerning pigmies."

"I am grieved, harper, that you should die so far from your kindred
and their burial-place," said Rob, gravely.

"_Die!_ wherefore should I die?" asked the harper, starting, while
his countenance fell.

"Oogh ay!" exclaimed several MacGregors, who were yawning and
crowding round; "just let the bodach be hanged at once, and then we
shall go to sleep again."

"Or would you prefer to be drowned?" said Greumoch; "Loch Arkeig is
close by, and the water there is warm and deep."

"Neither is my wish," said the harper, fiercely; "I am a guiltless
man, and demand my freedom!"

"Why were you in the ranks of the king's rebels at Glensheil?" asked
Rob, sternly.

"I was _not_ in their ranks!"

"You played them into battle."

"But I fought not--nor was I even girded with a sword."

"By my father's soul, that mattered little!  A minstrel--a
harper--should not play the traitor like a glaiket gilly."

"I went but to sing of the fight, that the story of it might go down
to future times, even as the battles of our forefathers have come
down by the songs of the bards to us.  I went but as Ian Lom went
with Montrose to Inverlochy.  Had he fought there and fallen, who
would have told us how he,

  The bard of their battles, ascended the height
  Where dark Inverlochy o'ershadowed the fight,
  And saw the clan Donnell resistless in might!"


"Have you so committed to song our victory at Glensheil?" asked
MacGregor, with a sharp glance; but the harper hung his head.  "Ha!
then what sought you _here_ to-night?"

"Was it to spy upon us?" added several MacGregors, with scowling
brows; "answer, Islesman, while your skin is whole!"

"By the Black Stones of Iona, I swear that I knew not you were in the
land of Lochiel!" said the harper, earnestly; "and beware how you
spill my blood, for my mother was one of the Camerons, the sons of
the Soldier of Ovi.  I was peacefully pursuing my way to the fair of
Kill-chuimin."

"It may be so," said Rob Roy; "for that fair is almost at hand.  Tie
him to a tree; in the morning, I will speak with him again."

The harper submitted in silence, and was bound to a tree, when a
plaid was thrown over him and his harp, as a protection from the dew;
and Greumoch, with a true Highland grin or grimace, gave him a dram,
saying, "As it is the last you are likely to get, drain the quaich."

By dawn the MacGregors were all afoot again; they wiped and rubbed
their weapons to preserve them from rust; shook the crystal dew from
their kilts and plaids; then the pipes struck up a quick step, and
they proceeded on their homeward way, taking with them the harper,
concerning whom Rob Roy had given no instructions, for he was loth to
punish him, though deeming that he deserved to be so.

For two days he conveyed him thus a prisoner, telling him that if he
was actually going to the fair of Kill-chuimin (or the burial-place
of the Cumins, as the Highlanders called Port Augustus) his time
would not be lost, as their way lay so far together.

Towards the evening of the second day, they halted on a wild moorland
waste, called Blair na Carrahan, or the moor of the circles, for
there amid the vast expanse of purple heather were several large
Druidical rings, wherein, it was confidently affirmed, the fairies
always danced on the Eve of St. John; but more especially around a
large obelisk which stood in the centre of one, and was covered with
Runic figures.

When they halted in this desolate place, the harper became alarmed,
and begged so earnestly to be released, that Rob said,--

"You must ransom yourself----"

"Ransom!--do you speak of ransom to one who has not in the world a
coin the size of a herring scale?"

"Ransom yourself by a song or a story, I was about to say.  If either
meet with the general approval of my kinsmen, you shall be free--free
as the winds that shake the harebells and the broom on the braes of
Balquhidder; but fail us in song or story, and by the Grey Stone in
Glenfruin, you shall hang--hang like the false cullion I deem you!"

Gillian Ross made a double Highland bow; the cord was taken from his
wrists, and slung with a noose of very unpleasant aspect over the
Druid monolith, for thereon he was to hang, if he failed to win the
general applause.

The poor harper eyed it wistfully, and then seated himself on the
green grass in the centre of the fairy circle, around which the
MacGregors were lounging, with their arms beside them.  He uncased
his harp; and after running his fingers rapidly through the strings,
suddenly seemed to change his intention to sing, and said he would
tell them a story.  A murmur of assent responded.

On that vast purple moorland, bounded in the distance by the
countless dark-blue mountain peaks of Argyle, a picturesque group
they formed, those weather-beaten clansmen, in their garish tartans,
with their polished weapons, their round targets, and bare legs
stretched upon the heather.  Then there was also the green fairy
circle, in the centre of which rose the grey old obelisk, and at its
base reclined the bearded harper on his harp.  The sun as he set
beyond the western peaks crimsoned like a sheet of wine the heather
of the Blair na Carrahan, and tipped with ruddy light the harper's
silver beard and the glittering strings of his harp, as he told the
following story, which we render here, not in his poetical and
somewhat inflated Gaelic, but in our own way.




CHAPTER XLVIII.

MORRAR NA SHEAN, OR THE LORD OF THE VENISON.

Far away in the north of Caithness stands the castle of Braal, on an
eminence above the river Thurso.  It is a vast square tower, with
walls of great thickness, having the narrow stairs which lead to its
various stories formed in the heart of them.  A deep fosse lies on
its north side, and the remains of various other ditches and outworks
are traceable around it.

In the days of William I. of Scotland, surnamed the Lion, because he
first put that emblem on his banners and seals, this castle was one
of the many residences of Harold Earl of Caithness and Count of
Orkney, Lord of Kirkwall, Braal, and Lochmore, who was otherwise
named Morrar na Shean, or Lord of the Venison, from his passionate
love of hunting and all rural sports.

Yet his character was cruel, fierce, morose, and savage; and he loved
hunting chiefly because it was a means of indulging in bloodshed,
slaughter, and destruction.

He brained with his axe every hound which proved faulty; and on more
than one occasion, huntsmen who had erred, violated the rules of the
chase, or otherwise incurred his displeasure, were tied to trees and
left to be devoured by wolves.  One, named Magnus of Staneland, he
chained to a low rock in the sea, and left there to perish miserably
by drowning as the tide rose.

Harold was a handsome and stately man, of great stature and strength.
His fair hair and beard were curly and flowing; but his eyes were
keen and wicked in expression, and his brows were ever knitted as if
in perpetual defiance or wrath, unless at times when, gorged with
food or flushed with wine, he joined in the chorus of the harpers who
sang his praises at his banquets and festivals.

He could bend a stronger bow than three men could bend together.  He
was wont to twirl three sharp swords at once, catching each by its
hilt in turn; and he could walk lightly and agilely along the oars of
his great birlinn, or galley, when it was being propelled by the
rowers, most of whom were Finns or Wends, whom he had captured in the
Baltic and chained to its benches as slaves.

Though he gave vast sums towards the completion of the cathedral
church of St. Magnus, which had been founded at Kirkwall by his
predecessor, Count Rognwald of Orkney, in 1138, he was averred to be
at heart an infidel; and Adam Bishop of Caithness, an amiable and
gentle prelate, who frequently reproved his excesses, once said to
him,--

"Earl Harold, are you a heathen or a believer?  Do you hope for the
Valhalla of Odin or the Heaven of the Christians?"

"I believe in my strong arm and sharp sword," said he, haughtily.
"Am I a woman or a boy, that thou, a mitred monk, shouldst question
me thus?  Moreover, remember that I would rather be addressed as
Morrar na Shean--Lord of the Venison--than as lord of all our
uncounted isles."

And from that time he hated the old bishop in his heart; so much so,
that John of Harpidale, one of his chief followers, proposed to have
the prelate boiled alive in the great hunting cauldron, and given in
broth to their hounds.

The earl's galley had thirty benches of rowers; its prow was adorned
by the head of a horse, richly gilded, and its sides and stern shone
with gilding and plates of burnished brass; its sails were purple,
and along its sides hung the shields of John of Harpidale, Thorolf
Starkadder, and others, who were his vassals.  In its prow sat twenty
bearded harpers, with their harps, and to their songs the long sweeps
of the rowers kept time.

Wolves are said to have followed this great war-galley along the
shore, and screaming eagles, carrion crows, and other birds ventured
out to sea in expectation of the banquet that awaited them; for in
his quarrels and feuds with his island neighbours, Morrar na Shean
carried havoc and dismay wherever he went, and frequently
appropriated, without inquiry, the ships that sailed between the
Baltic coasts, the Elbe, and Flanders.

Then when his galley, with its purple sails shining in the sun, and
its long red streamers floating on the wind, was seen cleaving with
gilded prow the stormy seas that roll round the Orcades and Thule, it
spread terror, for the simple people of the isles believed it had
been built by the gnomes who abode in the sea-riven caves of Cape
Wrath, and that they had constructed it with such powerful spells,
that whenever the sails were spread, they directed its course
wherever the earl wished, without an order being issued.

On the 16th of April, 1150, the festival of St. Magnus the Martyr,
John of Harpidale and Thorolf Starkadder, on feeling some unpleasant
twinges of temporary compunction for their misdeeds, urged the earl
to visit either Rome or Kirkwall; for so great was the sanctity of
the Patron of the Isles, that the Orcadians were long wont to decide
by a throw of the dice whether they should pay their devotions at the
shrine of St. Peter or the Martyr of Orkney.

But Morrar na Shean laughed at them, and swore with a great oath that
he would visit neither, as he had merrier work to do.  Then,
collecting a great train of followers, he sailed away north, up the
Cattegat, to the assistance of the King of Denmark, Waldemar the
Great, who had recently repaired the wall of Gotrick, subdued the
pagans of Rugen, and called himself lord of all the countries
northward of the Elbe.

Earl Harold was long gone, and silence and emptiness reigned in the
hall and chambers of Braal; but there were peace and repose in
Caithness and the Isles.  The red deer roamed on the hills, unscared
by the bay of hound or the blast of horn; without fear, the fishers
put forth to cast their nets in Scapa Flow and the Sound of Yell, to
hunt the huge whale in the sandy bays, or the tusky walrus on the
seaweedy rocks; and the white-haired Bishop of Caithness began to
hope that they had all seen the last of the terrible Morrar na Shean.

But lo! one day, when the dark scud was driving fast across the
northern sky, when the boiling foam rose high on every storm-beat
cape and bluff, when the wild sea-fowl were flying far inland, and
the hissing waves rolled white as snow over the Skerries of the
Pentland Firth and the black Boars of Dungisbay Head, the well-known
purple sails of the great birlinn were seen, as she came flying
through the mist and spray, with her long sweeps flashing and the
sheen of helmets and bucklers glittering above her bulwarks in the
partial gleams of a stormy setting sun.

Then fast went the news over continent and isle that Morrar na Shean
had come again, and that he had brought with him, out of the distant
north, the Princess Gunhilda as his wife--the only daughter of
Waldemar, the Danish king; so many who feared more than they loved
him, crowded to see the dame who was now to be the lady of Braal and
mother of the future Earls of Caithness and Counts of Orkney.

With the wiry tinkle of harps, the blare of brass trumpets and of
hunting-horns, the voices of the rowers mingling with the regular
plash of the long sweeps to which they were chained, the great galley
came into the Bay of Inver-thorsa (or the mouth of the great river of
Thor), whence Thurso takes its name; and all the people of Caithness
were crowding on the shore, as thickly as the gulls and cormorants
that cluster on the rocky Clett, which guards the entrance of the
haven.

As she stepped ashore, the grace and beauty of the Danish princess
charmed all; but she seemed pale and sad, for she had espoused the
warlike Harold in obedience only to her father's will.  Yet they
seemed a stately pair.

She wore a blue silk tunic, a long flowing mantle of fine white
cloth, adorned by ribands and tassels of gold; a veil of rich lace
flowed from under the half-diadem which she wore above her golden
tresses in virtue of her rank as a king's daughter and an earl's
wife; and she had massive bracelets and armlets of gold.

The fierce Harold wore his lurich, or shirt of mail, that reached to
his knees, which were bare.  It was formed of fine rings of the
brightest steel.  He had long sandal-like boots of thick leather,
studded with gilt knobs; and a golden serpent surmounted his helmet,
which was of polished steel.  His mantle was of purple silk, and hung
from his shoulders by two sparkling brooches.

Massive bracelets of gold and silver were on his wrists.  He carried
a sword, a spear, a round shield of steel burnished like a mirror,
and wore at his right side a mattacuslash, or long Scottish arm-pit
dagger.

John of Harpidale, Thorolf Starkadder, and others, all similarly
armed, leaped noisily ashore, with helmets and hauberks ringing, and
brandished their swords in token of greeting to the people, and to
express joy on treading their native soil again.

And now the gathered multitude divided like the waves of the sea to
make way for an aged man who approached with a gilded pastoral staff
in his hand, but whose garments were humble as those of a cowled
friar.  He was Adam, Bishop of Caithness, and lately Abbot of
Melrose, who, preceded by his crossbearer, and followed by many
ecclesiastics of his diocese, came to bless the newly-married pair.

The countess, though the daughter of a powerful king, knelt
reverently and humbly to receive the old man's benison; but not so
the haughty earl, who had sworn never to bow his head to mortal man,
so he passed proudly on, and repaired to his castle of Braal.

On the very day after his arrival, he quitted the countess, and,
accompanied by John of Harpidale, by Thorolf Starkadder, and other
favourite companions, departed on one of his great hunting
expeditions.

There were with him more than five hundred huntsmen, armed with bows,
arrows, knives, and spears; and they had with them at least two
hundred of the strong, wiry, rough-haired Scottish hounds, to scour
the hills for game.

For many days the sport was carried over hill and through valley; and
every night the hunters formed a camp.  A fire was lighted of fuel
piled up as high a house, and often the houses of the poor were
unroofed for the purpose.

The glare of this great fire was visible at midnight from the
mountains of Pomona and the Pentland Skerries far away out in the
lonely ocean.  Around it were scores of pots and kettles boiling
salmon and chickens; and thereat were heathcocks, capercailzie,
ptarmigan, venison, boars' hams, and partridges, being baked,
broiled, roasted, or stewed; while ale, usquebaugh, and wines from
Burgundy and the Flemings of Ostende were drunk by the roystering
huntsmen, who often danced hand in hand round the vast roaring
pyramid of flame, as their pagan sires were wont to do at the
Baal-tein feasts of old, and if one by chance fell in, the fun was
all the greater.

At times they would fill their cups to the brim.  and standing in a
circle round Morrar na Shean, whose goblet was full of wine, of ale,
and of usquebaugh mixed together, they shouted,--

"Oh! Lord, let the world be turned upside down, that brave men may
make bread out of it!"

And then the cups were drained and, amid wild hurrahs, flung high
into the air.

Morrar na Shean, though he lived in so early an age of Scottish
history, was not without some skill in mechanics, for we are informed
that "there was a chest or some kind of machine fixed in the mouth of
the stream below the castle (of Lochmore), for catching salmon in
their ingress into the loch, or their egress out of it, and that
immediately on the fish being entangled in the machine, the capture
was announced to the family by the ringing of a bell, which the
struggles of the fish set in motion, by means of a fine cord, one end
of which was attached to a bell in the middle of an upper room, and
the other end to the machine in the stream below."

This was an ingenious fish-trap; but while the Lord of the Venison
pursued his more furious sports and drunken orgies, the poor Princess
Gunhilda was left in utter loneliness at the castle of Braal; and the
long nights which her husband spent in roystering among his wild
followers, were passed by her, often in tears, and at the deeply
arched windows of the lofty hall or of her bower chamber, watching
the merry dancers, the streamers of the northern lights, which made
her think of her Danish home, of her mother's farewell kiss, of the
castle of Axel-huis, and the green, waving woods of Zealand.

Harold was soon weary of his wife, for her extreme gentleness tired
him, and he loved her not, though he longed for a son--a little Count
of Orkney--to heir his vast possessions, and in whose baby face he
might see his own ferocious visage reflected.

He prayed at holy wells, and, candle in hand, he went bare-foot in
sackcloth garments, with ashes on his head, to every shrine of
sanctity in the Northern Isles; he sent gifts to Adam the bishop, and
offerings to the altar of St. Magnus at Kirkwall, with silver lamps,
rich garments, candles of perfumed wax, and jars of oil and wine;
seeking in return of the prebendaries only their prayers that he
might have a son; but on the Yule-day of 1153, the countess had a
daughter, whom she named after her mother the queen, Algiva.

Morrar na Shean was furious with disappointment; he reviled Bishop
Adam, and threatened to burn his cathedral, where prayers had proved
of so little avail.  Then for days and nights he sat drinking with
John of Harpidale and Thorolf Starkadder; and thereafter ordering his
great galley to be got in readiness, they put to sea, and were driven
by a storm so far as Rona, a lonely isle which lies far amid the
Atlantic sea, thirty leagues westward of the Orcades.  In Rona was a
little chapel, dedicated by a chief of the isles to St. Ronan, and it
was said to be guarded by an unseen spirit; for if any person in the
island died and a shovel was placed near the altar overnight, a grave
was found ready dug in the morning.

The place was lonely and solemn, for no sound was ever heard there
but the sough of the gusty sea-breeze, and the mournful moan of the
white waves as they clomb the echoing rocks.

Sad and soothing as was the scene, yet in sheer despite at being
driven so far away, Morrar and his followers ravaged this poor place,
destroyed the chapel, and slew some of the people on the adjacent
island of Suliska.  But the vengeance of Heaven pursued them; for
when returning, the great galley struck upon the Clett, a rock four
hundred feet in height, near the entrance of Thurso Bay, and many of
her crew were drowned.

Prior to this, Morrar na Shean had ceased to address Heaven, and now
appealed to the idols of his forefathers.  He visited the Temple of
the Moon in Innistore, and at midnight, with strange barbaric rites,
on his bare knees, spilt some of his blood by the self-inflicted stab
of a dagger, on the central stone of Power.

This was a great obelisk carved with serpents, and the jormagundror
great sea-snake, the emblem of eternity; and with many mystic emblems
and Runic inscriptions; and there between midnight and morn, he
prayed for the assistance of the Moon, of Odin, and Thor.  But all
this mummery was vain; for on his return he found that the countess
had given birth to _a second daughter_, whom she had named Erica; and
in the blindness of his wrath the earl struck her with his hand
clenched in his steel glove, and threatened to toss the child from
the windows of Braal into the Thurso.

Again with John of Harpidale, with the long-bearded Thorolf, and
other roysterers, he put to sea in the great galley, and sailed into
the Baltic, where they aided King Waldemar in the destruction of the
famous city of Iomsberg, the stronghold of the northern pirates, whom
on his return the earl imitated, for he destroyed several towns on
the shores of the Baltic, and robbed the churches of their holy
vessels.  Then the earl sought the aid of enchanters and wizards, and
passed whole nights in dark caverns and pine forests, where Druid
circles stood, hoping to see elves, demons, gnomes, or fairies, but
sought in vain.

He next sailed to the Isle of Rugen, where the Wends were still, in
the twelfth century, unbaptized pagans, who worshipped Svantavit, the
God of Light, in their capital, Arcona, which is situated on a high
rock above the waves of the Baltic.

Svantavit was a monstrous idol having four heads; but he was
consulted as an oracle, and the captain of every merchant ship which
made a good voyage was compelled to pay tribute to the priests of his
temple.

In the hands of this idol was a cornucopia, which in the first month
of every year was filled with precious wine; by looking into what
remained of it at Yule-tide, the chief-priest could predict peace or
war, dearth or plenty for the ensuing year; and this absurd paganism
existed in Rugen until the middle of the thirteenth century.  Ratzo,
King of the Isle, was a famous but aged warrior, who had destroyed
the flourishing city of Lubeck in 1134; so to him, and to the
chief-priest, the earl appealed, and laid at the foot of their
hideous idol in Arcona all the plunder of the Christian
churches--chalices of gold, lamps of silver, croziers studded with
precious stones, and altar-cloths covered with embroidery.

The priest accepted the plunder, ascended a ladder, and peeped into
the horn in the hands of the idol, where, as he averred, he could see
amid the wine the figure of a little boy, with an earl's coronet on
his head, and a sword in each hand.  So Morrar na Shean with joy
spread his purple sails upon the northern sea, and came home to find
that the countess had brought into the world _a third daughter_, whom
she named Thora.  The earl was ready to expire with passion.

"Let us return to Arcona!" said Thorolf Starkadder.

"For what purpose, fool?" asked the earl, gruffly.

"To destroy the temple of Svantavit, hang the false priest, and burn
his idol."

"Nay," said Morrar na Shean, grinding his teeth.  "I shall take other
vengeance upon fate, for fate has conspired against me."

"How--how?" asked his followers.

"Anon, ye shall hear!"

"Shall we not see?" asked Thorolf, grimly, for he was a lover of
mischief and cruelty.

"No," replied Morrar, briefly, as he gnawed his yellow moustaches in
wrath.




CHAPTER XLIX.

GUILT AND REMORSE OF MORRAR NA SHEAN.

One evening, when twilight was closing on the land and sea; when the
clouds were gathering in heavy masses that portended a storm, and
when the Thurso ran hoarsely and rapidly over its stony bed beneath
the castle wall, Harold commanded the countess to assume her hood and
cloak, and to accompany him.  "Whither?" she asked, timidly, for his
manner was strange, and he was sorely flushed with wine.

"Whither, matters not; but you shall learn when we reach the place."

"Do we go on foot?" she inquired, trembling, for there was a wild
glare in his eyes that terrified her.

"Yes."

"Alone--unattended?"

"Yes," he repeated, hoarsely.

Then the heart of the countess sank; but she was compelled to obey.
Her husband grasped her hand, and together they quitted the castle of
Braal by a private postern at the foot of a long and secret stair.

Gunhilda was silent; she pressed her ivory crucifix to her breast
with her left hand, for it was the parting gift of Absalon,
Archbishop of Denmark; her right was firmly grasped by her husband,
and she felt that _his_ hand was cold:--yea, cold as ice!

She had heard of his proceedings on the shores of the Baltic, and how
he had publicly worshipped the God of the Wends at Rugen; her soul
became a prey to grief and horror, and beneath her veil her tears
flowed hot and fast.

He led her along the banks of the Thurso for more than a mile, by a
dark and lonely path.  No one was near them; the hour was late, the
place was solitary, and the countess gazed anxiously about her for
succour, if required; but the pastoral hills were desolate.  Even the
sheep were in their folds, and there came no sound to her ear, save
the rush of the dark and hurrying stream.

It was a night in the pleasant month of June, and in that part of
Scotland at this season there is scarcely any darkness, the
reflection of the sun on the Atlantic being so distinctly visible for
the brief time that he is below the horizon, that one may read the
smallest print even at midnight.

As they drew near a little chapel which stood upon a rock above the
river, and was dedicated to St. Monina, the countess gathered
courage, and said,--"Unless you say, my lord, for what purpose you
have brought me hither in this secret manner, and at this unwonted
hour, I go not one step further with you!"

"Listen," said he, drawing his long arm-pit dagger, while a cruel and
wild glare came into his fierce blue eyes; "I have brought you hither
to slay you!"

"Oh, my soul foreboded as much!" said Gunhilda, in a breathless
voice; "to slay me--for what?  What crime have I committed?"

"None; yet I will not have a wife who is to be the mother of
baby-faced girls, whose husbands, if they get them, will rend and
divide my heritage among them.  I must have a son to heir me, as Earl
of Caithness, Count of Orkney, Lord of Braal and Lochmore, and to
transmit my name to future times; but thou----"

"I am the daughter of a king!" said the countess, haughtily.

"A king who is too far away to help you," said Harold, with a mocking
smile.

"But not too far away to avenge me!"

"Let him do so, if he will!" replied the barbarous earl, as he
grasped her wrists and dragged her shrieking, and on her knees,
towards the rocks which overhung the stream.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "my three helpless daughters--your
children--think of them with pity, if not with pity for me!"

"My daughters--name them not," said he, hoarsely, "lest I have them
drowned in boiling water, even as Halli and Leckner were in the days
of old!"

"I am not prepared to die!" she exclaimed in a piercing voice; "my
sins of omission are many; oh, have mercy on me!"

"Thou art better prepared than I," said Morrar na Shean.

"At least let me say one prayer in yonder chapel ere you slay me--in
pity for my sins and soul, permit me this."

"Go, then," said Morrar, grimly; "but return quickly, lest I drag you
from its altar."

With tottering steps Gunhilda hurried into the little chapel; but ere
three minutes had elapsed, the inexorable Morrar cried,
sternly,--"Come forth!"  There was no response.

"Come forth, Gunhilda, or by the Demon of the Wends I will drag thee
out!"

"I come--I come," replied a voice within the vaulted oratory, from
the arched windows of which a sudden light gleamed forth.

"'Tis well," said Morrar, "for my patience is nearly exhausted;" and
the countess, with her head bent, and muffled in her veil, approached
him from the arched doorway, through which a broad and rosy flake of
light was streaming.

Seizing her again by the arm, he dragged her to the edge of the
beetling rocks, where he meant to stab and toss her into the eddying
stream, which was rushing in full flood towards the sea; but,
marvellous to relate! as he tore the veil asunder, he beheld, not
Gunhilda, but a strange woman whose face was of wondrous beauty, and
whose head was encircled by a shining light.  Then he knew in his
heart that the spirit of St. Monina stood before him!  The dagger
fell from his hand; he closed his eyes with awe and dismay, and when
he looked again the figure had melted into thin air and disappeared.

Appalled by this incident, he rushed away to the wildest part of the
hills, and on being joined by Thorolf and John of Harpidale, he put
to sea as usual in his galley, and departed no one knew whither.

The countess was found by her attendants in a deep but soft slumber,
before the little altar of the river chapel; but immediately on her
return to Braal, she took her three daughters, Algiva, Erica, and
Thora, to Bishop Adam of Caithness, and besought him to conceal and
protect them; and leaving them with tears and prayers, she returned
to the home of her terrible husband, giving out that the children
were dead.

Meanwhile the bishop, with all speed, despatched them to the court of
King William the Lion, and consigned the three helpless girls to the
care of the Queen Ermengarde de Beaumont.

The vision he had beheld on that night by the river Thurso long
filled with terror the soul of Morrar na Shean; but after a time the
impression became fainter, and gradually he came to the conclusion
that the whole affair must have been a dream, originating most
probably in his wine-cup.

He was long of returning to Braal, and solaced himself by ravaging
Heligoland and plundering several of its towns, the sites of which
have long since been covered by the encroaching sea.  He then visited
Shetland, carrying havoc and dismay wherever he appeared, and
returning by Orkney, committed a crowning act of impiety at Kirkwall.
There was preserved there a silver bowl, in which St. Magnus had
baptized the earliest Christians of the Orcades.  It was of great
size, curiously carved, and was carefully preserved in the cathedral.*


* "It so far exceeds other bowls in size," says Buchanan, in his
"History of Scotland," "that it seems to be a relic of the feasts of
the Lapithæ."


Accompanied by his two inseparable comrades and mentors to mischief,
he entered that stately Gothic church, which is one of the finest in
Scotland, seized the great bowl, and filled it with wine, which he
solemnly consecrated to Odin.  Then, ascending the steps of the High
Altar, he quaffed it to the dregs, after exclaiming,--

"I worship thee, Odin, and I am a heathen!  A heathen will I die, if
thou givest me but a son to heir my lands, my isles, and to send down
my name to the days of other years."

For these proceedings they were all excommunicated by the Bishop of
Caithness, and while they laughed to scorn the prelate and his solemn
anathema, they swore by the blades of their swords and the shoulders
of their horses (the old oath of the northern pagans) to have a
terrible revenge upon him.

With this intention, after six years' absence, they returned home,
and again the great war-galley, with all its purple sails spread, was
seen to stand round the rocky bluff named the Clett, and come to
anchor in Scrabster Roads, on the western side of Thurso Bay.  On
landing, the earl repaired straight to the episcopal palace, with all
his followers, "to punish," as he said, "the bishop with the
serpent's tongue."  On seeing them approach, the old man came forth
to meet them; and on beholding his serene and reverend aspect, John
of Harpidale, Thorolf Starkadder, and other grim outlaws, were
somewhat abashed and appalled, and leaned irresolutely on their drawn
swords.

"After a six years' absence, come you here, Lord Harold, instead of
visiting your lady at Braal?" asked the bishop, with an air of
surprise that was not unmingled with alarm.

"The countess?--you speak not of my daughters."

"Alas! they are here no longer," said the bishop, evasively.

"Dead?" asked the earl, with a cold smile.

"To you and all of us."

"'Tis well," said Harold, grinding his teeth; "but I came not hither
to speak of them!"

"Of what then?" asked Bishop Adam, with anxiety.

"Of thyself, who hast dared to pour empty anathemas on me, for merely
drinking a bowl of wine in my own town of Kirkwall."

"Silence, thou blasphemous lord, who desecrated the altar of God by
the praises of a heathen idol!  I think of the coming time when thou
shalt die!"

"And what then?" asked Morrar, with a fierce and mocking laugh.

"In all thy vast possessions, who shall mourn thee?"

"The greyhounds in my hall, and the birds of prey, for whom I have
prepared many a banquet: yea, the black wolf and the yellow-footed
eagle too shall mourn for Morrar na Shean.  Priest, I have come to
punish your insolence.  Seize and drag him forth, Thorolf Starkadder!"

In a moment the mailed hands of Thorolf were wreathed in the white
hair and reverend beard of the old bishop, who was roughly dragged
through his own gate, and beaten to the earth beneath a shower of
blows dealt by clenched hands and the heavy iron hilts of swords and
daggers.  Breathlessly, and on his knees, he implored mercy,
beseeching them not to peril their souls by murder, and a sin so foul
as sacrilege, by imbruing their hands in the blood of a priest; but
the fury of cruelty and destruction was in their hearts.  Thorolf,
with his dagger, destroyed the eyesight of the poor old man; and John
of Harpidale cut out his tongue.

Then procuring the large cauldron in which food was usually prepared
for the staghounds of Morrar, they actually cast the blind and
bleeding bishop into it, and boiled him alive.*


* The scene of this terrible outrage is still shown near the Manse of
Halkirk.


On hearing of these proceedings, the Countess Grunhilda fled in
horror to the cathedral of Kirkwall, and took refuge with William
Bishop of Orkney, with whom she resided for several years, while her
daughters, under other names than their own, were growing up to
womanhood at the court of Queen Ermengarde, and while her husband,
the Lord of the Venison, spent his days in hunting and his nights in
drinking, carousing, fighting, and outrage, with his inseparable
ruffians, John of Harpidale and Thorolf Starkadder.

It was long before King William, who resided at the palace of Scone,
heard the correct details of these outrages, and then his soul was
filled with sorrow and indignation, for he was a gentle, wise, and
valiant king.

He resolved to punish the wicked Earl of Caithness, and for this
purpose two earls, named Roland and Gillechrist, were sent against
him with a body of troops.

Roland was the son of Uchtred, a brave lord of Galloway, who had
recently defeated the King of England at Carlisle, when preparing to
invade his province; and he had become the husband of Algiva, the
eldest daughter of Morrar na Shean.

Gillechrist had wedded Erica, the second daughter.  He was Earl of
Angus, and from this marriage are descended the clan and surname of
Ogilvie.  By a singular coincidence these two peers were now marching
against their father-in-law, with orders to subject him to the same
death as that by which the unhappy bishop died.

Morrar na Shean met them in a battle which was long and bloody,
though his people were cold in his cause.  The men whom he had drawn
from his county of Orkney and the town of Thurso ultimately gave way;
and four hundred were instantly hanged on the field.

The castle of Braal, to which the survivors fled, was attacked,
entered by the secret postern, and stormed.  Therein, after a
terrible conflict, were taken John of Harpidale and Thorolf
Starkadder, who were put to dreadful deaths, and then the fortress
was burned to the ground.

It was supposed that Morrar na Shean had perished in the flames; but
he had escaped by the postern--the same postern through which he had
led the countess to die--and reached his castle of Lochmore, a
secluded tower of great strength, which is situated at the end of a
loch, and overhangs the current of the Dirlet out of it.  There the
river is narrow, deep, and rapid.

This tower was then remote and little known, so there for years did
Morrar live, secluded, forgotten, and abandoned by all; and then, as
time crept on, he became a prey to remorse and horror.

Terrific visions and appalling spectres were said to haunt him, and
the unquiet souls of Thorolf, of John of Harpidale, and others who
had died in his service, were averred to wander at night through the
silent chambers of Lochmore, and their wailing voices were heard to
rise from the lake in the moonshine, and to mingle with the roar of
the Dirlet beneath the castle-wall.  At last no one would remain in
such a dwelling-place, and the wretched Morrar na Shean was left
entirely alone.

Then a sore illness came upon him with his growing years; and sick,
despairing, and sad at heart, the earl lay on what he feared was his
bed of death.

None were near him now: even the last of his hounds had gone to seek
another, a merrier, or it might be kinder master; and he wept the
salt, bitter tears of age, of sorrow, and repentance,--of an age that
was lonely and unfriended--of sorrow for his lost wife and
children--of repentance for a wasted life, and for his many
unatoned-for crimes and sacrileges.

He found himself abandoned on earth, and feared that he would be
excluded from Heaven.  He was wifeless, childless, friendless, and
alone--alone with only memory and the terrors of death and
superstition!

He saw the clear, bright stars in the northern sky sparkling through
the gloomy windows of Lochmore.  He heard the hoarse brawl of the
Dirlet beneath the castle wall; but he shut out the sound, for it
made him think of that terrible night when the swollen Thurso was
rushing over its stony bed, and Gunhilda was saved from his dagger by
the vision of St. Monina; and again he seemed to see that pale,
beautiful, and miraculous face shining amid its halo, in the twilight
before him.

The perspiration burst upon his wrinkled brow; he called wildly for
lights, but no one heard him now; and the echoes of his own voice
appalled him.  He trembled to be in the dark and alone; and yet there
was no darkness, for it was the clear twilight of the northern
summer, when the sun scarcely dips beneath the horizon.

"Old, old! childless and alone!" moaned the earl, crushed beneath the
weight of sad thoughts and unavailing sorrow, as he covered his grey
head beneath the coverlet, and sobbed heavily.

"Harold--husband," said a gentle voice, that thrilled through him,
and tremblingly he started and looked up.

Lo! in the clear light of the midsummer night, there stood by his
bedside the Countess Gunhilda, as he had last seen her, so fair and
stately, with her Danish tunic of blue silk, her flowing mantle, and
long lace veil, that fell over her shoulders from under her
half-diadem, the gems of which sparkled in the light of the stars.

Beside her, but a little way behind, stood three tall and handsome
girls, each of whom wore riding-hoods edged with pearls and long
white veils, which they held upraised, as they surveyed him with sad
and earnest eyes.

Believing that he saw but disembodied souls, the upbraiding spirits
of his wife and their three daughters--for midsummer night is the
time when demons, ghosts, and fairies are all supposed to be
abroad,--the lonely earl uttered a cry of wild despair and fainted.

Yet they were no spirits whom he had seen, but the Countess Gunhilda
and his three daughters, who, having heard of his sad and repentant
condition, had hastened to visit and console him, and arrived thus in
the night.

And with Thora, the youngest and the fairest, had come her
husband--for she, too, was wedded to William Sinclair, Lord of
Roslin; and thus from her descended the future Earls of Orkney, who
were also Dukes of Oldenburg.

On returning to consciousness Morrar na Shean came to a new life of
joy and happiness.  With these came a more sincere repentance.  He
spent the remaining years of his life in endeavouring to atone for
the atrocities of his youth, and died at a good old age when
Alexander II. was King of Scotland--passing peacefully away, while
the faces of his children and grandchildren were bowed in prayer
around him.

Such is the story of Morrar na Shean, the Lord of the Venison.




CHAPTER L.

THE RUINED HOUSE IN GLENSTRAE.

After the conclusion of his tale, Rob gave the harper a piece of
Spanish gold, and permitted him to pursue his own way.  The
MacGregors saw him no more; he was killed three years after, in the
September of 1722, when, by some of the MacKenzies, a party of the
king's troops under a captain MacNeil were lured into an ambush, and
so severely handled that they were compelled to retire to Inverness
in great disorder.

The day after Gillian left them saw the MacGregors traversing
Glenstrae, a wild and romantic valley which opens at the northern
base of Stronmiolchoin, a lonely mountain that forms the eastern
boundary of Glenorchy.

All these were possessions of which the clan had been deprived; and
there every hill and rock, every thicket and ruin, was connected with
some tradition of the past and of Clan Alpine.

The glen was desolate and lonely; for it had long since been swept of
its people by the hostile tribes who had leagued against them.

"Seid svas do piob, vich Alpine!" ("Strike up your pipe, son of
Alpine!") said Rob Roy, as they approached a mass of ruined walls
which rose on a gentle eminence in the glen.  "Here, to-day, let us
remember the true and faithful dead, who bequeathed to us the task of
avenging them!"

Then in the still and silent valley the wild lament of the MacGregors
rang mournfully and shrill, as Rob and his men, with their swords
drawn, advanced slowly to the ruins deisail-wise--by the way of the
sun's course,--and marched thrice round them, and then departed, but
with many a frowning glance and backward look.

This was the ruined residence of the chief, Alaster Roy of Glenstrae,
before the clan had been broken up and suppressed.  It had been
destroyed amid the events subsequent to the battle of Glenfruin.  At
the time of which we write a portion of the walls were standing; now
their foundations can scarcely be discerned above the blooming
heather.

With these old ruins is connected a tradition of the clan which
exhibits some of the strongest traits of the old Highland character.

Alaster Roy MacGregor of Glenstrae had but one son, a brave and
handsome youth, named Evan, to whom he was deeply attached, and whom,
as the future heir of all his possessions, he trained up with
peculiar care, leaving nothing undone to make him perfect as a
soldier and huntsman.

One day when Evan was deerstalking among the mountains he met the
young Laird of Lamond, who, with two attendants, was travelling from
Cowal towards the king's castle of Inverlochy, and they dined
together at a little inn or changehouse, near the Blackmount at the
mouth of Glencoe.

After dinner a dispute occurred; hot words ensued, for both were
passionate and fiery in spirit; and, drawing his dirk, young Lamond
killed Evan MacGregor by a single blow, and he fell across the table
at which they had been seated.

Horrified at what he had done, Lamond leaped from a window and fled,
but was pursued by Dugald Ciar Mhor and other MacGregors, who first
made short work with his two attendants.

The flight and pursuit were maintained on foot; and with Lamond, who
knew that he would be instantly sacrificed if taken, fear added wings
to his speed, so that ultimately he outstripped the friends of him he
had slain.

Ignorant of whither he went, as night was closing he found himself in
a lonely glen, where at the base of a mountain stood a tower, at the
gate of which he breathlessly demanded shelter, succour, and rest.

On being admitted, he asked what place this was?

"Stronmiolchoin--the house of Glenstrae!" replied the wondering
gateward.

"The dwelling of Alaster Roy?"

"Yes."

"Then I am lost--utterly lost!" exclaimed the unhappy Lamond, as he
sank exhausted on a seat.

"Lost! how--what mean you?" asked the laird of Glenstrae, coming
hurriedly forward.  "Who are you?"

"The son of Lamond of that Ilk."

"By whom are you pursued, that my house will fail to afford you
succour?" asked Glenstrae.

"I am pursued by MacGregors," replied the sinking fugitive, "and I
beseech you, by all the claims of hospitality and compassion, and by
your authority, to save me from them."

"You are safe," said Alaster, kissing the blade of his dirk; "but
what have you done--whom have you slain?"

"Whom?" reiterated Lamond, in a hollow voice.

"Yes; there is blood upon your hands, and on the hilt of your dirk."

"Alas!" said Lamond, and paused.

"Speak! for you are safe in the house of Glenstrae, whatever you have
done," said the chief impetuously; but the unhappy fugitive clasped
his hands, for a din of voices rang at the tower gate, and Dugald
Ciar Mhor, with other pursuers, came rushing in, bearing with them
the body of Evan, and after informing the unfortunate father of what
had occurred, they loudly demanded that the assassin should be
surrendered unto them.

"I have passed my word to protect him, and I must respect it, even in
this moment of agony!" replied Glenstrae, while the tears rolled over
his face; "never shall it be said that a MacGregor broke his word,
even to an enemy!"

In their rage and sorrow for what had occurred, his wife and daughter
besought him to yield the fugitive to the clansmen, that they might
put him to death; but Glenstrae stood over him with his sword drawn,
and said,--

"Let no man here dare to lay a hand upon him!  MacGregor has promised
him safety, and by the soul of my only and beloved son, whom he has
slain, he shall be safe while under the roof of Glenstrae--safe as if
beneath his own!"

And before the interment of Evan, when the sorrow and the angry
passions of the assembled clan would be roused to their full height,
the chief, with a chosen party, escorted young Lamond far across the
mountains, and almost to within sight of his home in Cowal.

"Farewell, Lamond," said he, gravely and sternly; "on your own land
you are now safe.  Farther I will not and cannot protect you.  Avoid
my people, lest your father may have to endure the sorrow that wrings
this heart of mine; and may God forgive you the woe you have brought
on the house of Glenstrae!"

In a few years after this, the Field of Glenfruin was fought; the
castle of Stronmiolchoin was destroyed, and Master of Glenstrae, then
an aged man, and all his people were proscribed fugitives.

Homeless, nameless, and a wanderer, with the severe parliamentary
acts of James VI. hanging over his head, the laird of Glenstrae had
to lurk in the caves and woods among the glens that had once been his
own, till he was captured by Sir James Campbell of Ardkinlass, from
whom ne made an escape, and fled to Cowal, a peninsula of Argyle,
that stretches far into the Firth of Clyde.

Here the young laird of Lamond found the poor old man, and received
and protected him in his house, with many other fugitives of the Clan
Gregor, saving them from Archibald Earl of Argyle and other powerful
enemies.

To the earl, Glenstrae at last yielded himself, on the solemn promise
that he should be sent out of Scottish ground--a promise which was
truly but fearfully kept!

He was marched as far as the English side of Berwick, under an escort
of the Scottish Horse Guard, commanded by David Murray, Lord Scone,
and then brought back to Edinburgh, where, with eighteen devoted men
of his surname, he was hanged on the 20th of January, 1604.

"Being a chief," says Birrel, "he was hanged his own height above the
rest of his friends."

It was the memory of severities such as these, together with their
local position, that fostered a spirit of resentment and ferocious
resistance to all civil law in the tribe of MacGregor.

"When I asked a very learned minister in the Highlands," says Dr.
Johnson, "which he considered the most savage clans, _those_, said
he, _which live next the Lowlands_."

This was the mere force of circumstances and position; and hence the
most warlike and predatory of the Lowland clans were those of the
borders adjoining England.




CHAPTER LI.

HE FIGHTS THE LAIRD OF BARRA.

"Rob Roy had two especial qualities," says the "New Picture of
Scotland" (published in 1807): "he spent his revenue generously, and
was a true friend to the widow and the orphan."

On his return to Portnellan, he now hoped that, by the treasure which
he had judiciously distributed among his people, they might, if the
persecution of them ceased, stock their little farms and take to
cattle-dealing, that they might all live in ease and comfort, and
that his sons might learn some of the arts of peace without
forgetting those of war.

Soon after his return from Glensheil, Rob heard that Grahame of
Killearn, who always treated the tenantry of Montrose with great
severity, had sequestrated, or distrained, the cows and furniture of
a poor woman who lived near the Highland border.

As she was a widow, and more especially as she was the widow of Eoin
Raibach, who had fallen at the storming of Inversnaid, he immediately
visited her cottage, and she burst into tears when she beheld him,
exclaiming,--

"MacGregor, _mo comraich ort_!" (my protection is thee.)

"And never was that appeal made to me in vain by the poor," replied
Rob; "I shall be your buckler and your sword of vengeance if
requisite, widow.  How much do you owe Killearn?"

"Three hundred marks; for which he has seized upon my two cows, the
food of my children--my spinning-wheel, which gives them
clothing--our beds and everything."

"When comes he here?" asked Rob, grimly.

"To-morrow; to-morrow will see us desolate and forlorn."

"Not so, widow.  Here are the three hundred marks; pay the greedy
vulture, and be sure that you get a receipt duly signed."

Duly as the morrow came, the legal messengers of Killearn arrived,
with carts to convey away the chattels of the widow, who paid them,
and received a receipt; but about a mile distant from her house, they
were met by Rob Roy, who, with a cocked pistol in his hand, forced
them to hand over the money to him.  He then gave them a severe
beating with a heavy stick, advised them to choose another trade than
the law, and returned the three hundred marks to the widow.

We are told that, under circumstances nearly similar, he relieved a
tenant on the Montrose lands who was three years in arrear of rent.
When the poor farmer offered to repay Rob's loan, the latter
replied,--

"No, no; I will get it back from Grahame of Killearn--yes, every
farthing, by Patrick of the Holy Crook! so keep the money, farmer."

MacGregor now leased some pasture-lands further among the mountains,
in that place with which his name is much associated, the braes of
Balquhidder, a name which signifies the dwelling-place where five
glens open.

He occupied the farmhouse of Inverlochluvig, at the head of the
braes, where there was excellent pasture for black-cattle and sheep;
and there was born, in 1724, his youngest son, Robin Oig, whose
stirring story and sad fate created a deep interest in future years.

Like all his brothers, young Robin was baptized in water brought by
Paul Crubach from the holy well of St. Fillan; and during the
ceremony was held over his father's broadsword, for it was a Highland
superstition that the voices of children who died without receiving
this warlike consecration were heard faintly wailing in the woods and
other lonely places at night.

Robin grew a sturdy but wild young Highlander; and afterwards bore
that sword with honour in the ranks of the 42nd Regiment.

At Muirlaggan, in Balquhidder, Rob built a comfortable house for his
mother, then a very aged woman; and he began to hope that the
government troops, the civil authorities, Athole, Montrose, and
Killearn, had forgotten him, and that he would be permitted to spend
a few years of his life in peace; but he hoped in vain!

To the land he now leased or occupied in Balquhidder he had an
hereditary claim, as a descendant of Dugald Ciar Mhor; but the
MacLarens of Invernentie had some similar right, and ere long this
proved the cause of much strife and bloodshed.

With great generosity Rob offered a portion of his share of the
Spanish treasure to redeem another bond which a neighbouring
proprietor held over the lands of his nephew, MacGregor of Glengyle.

Hamish MacLaren of Invernentie had lent a sum of money to Glengyle,
and by the tenor of the bond, the lands so held, or named therein,
"if the money was not repaid within ten years, were to be _forfeited
to the lender_, though the sum was less than half their value."

Knowing well that the utmost advantage would be taken of this unjust
contract, Rob Roy gave his nephew money sufficient to repay
Invernentie.

As the bond had but a few months now to run, Glengyle, with gratitude
and joy, hastened to his creditor and offered the money so generously
lent by his uncle.

Hamish MacLaren was a man of rough and forbidding exterior, with a
low forehead and black eyebrows that were thick, shaggy, and joined
in one.  His face was one of the lowest of the Celtic type, and
consequently expressed intense cunning, falsehood, and cruelty.  He
received Glengyle coldly--all the more so, perhaps, because he was a
near kinsman of that MacLaren whom MacAleister had flung into the
millrace at Comar.

"I cannot take the money," said he, bluntly.

"How--wherefore?" asked the other, with surprise.

"Because I cannot find our bond."

"It must and shall be found!" said Glengyle, impetuously.

"Must and _shall_!"

"Yes; there are but three months to run."

"Only three months?" repeated the other, with affected surprise.

"Yes--we have no time to lose."

"After the date at which the bond expires your lands will be
forfeited to me."

"How can you prove that if the bond be lost?"

"Ha, ha! it is recorded in the books of the sheriff of the county.
My friend Killearn looked to that."

"Here is your money--principal and interest," said Glengyle,
crimsoned with fury; "bond or no bond, take it and give me a receipt
in full, or woe unto you, Invernentie!"

But MacLaren was too wary either to accede or to lose his temper.  By
an exertion of cunning and flattery, he contrived to cajole Glengyle,
who promised to wait until the actual bond could be found; and for
the three following months MacLaren kept sedulously out of his way,
avoiding all visits, and receiving all messages and letters with
studied silence; and on the very day on which the stated time
expired, he took legal means to get himself _infeft_ in the lands
which he alleged to be forfeited.  At the same time, through Grahame
of Killearn, he served notices upon young MacGregor to remove from
these lands, with his family, tenants, and cattle, within eight days.

These proceedings were rendered darker by the circumstance that
Glengyle was labouring under a severe illness, which made him totally
incapable of defending himself.

Rob Roy was filled with rage on hearing of these lawless proceedings
against his nephew; for to him they seemed but a repetition of those
severities to which he had been subjected by Montrose.

"Greumoch," said he, "we cannot suffer Glengyle to be treated thus;
get our lads together, and we shall teach Invernentie a lesson he is
not likely to forget."

The _lads_ were soon collected, and at the head of two hundred of
them Rob marched into Strathfillan, whither, he heard, MacLaren of
Invernentie had gone to attend a fair which is usually held there on
the 3rd of July.

He traversed the vast extent of the fair--for the strath was covered
with great herds of cattle--searching in vain for Invernentie, until
he ascertained that, having sold all his stock, he had taken his way
homeward through Glendochart.

In those days nothing was paid for pasturing cattle; but as roads
were made, fields inclosed, and grass became valuable, the armed
drovers were forced to bargain for it in their routes to those fairs,
and more especially to Falkirk and Carlisle--innovations which they
bitterly hated.

A rapid march over the hills brought Rob and his men upon the
homeward path, at a point where it is joined by the road from
Tyndrum, some time before Invernentie could possibly have passed.
Rob was assured of this, and ere long he saw a party of armed men,
some of whom were mounted, coming along that beautiful valley which
the Dochart traverses in its course to the Tay.

That the men on foot were well equipped was evident, for the long
barrels of their Spanish muskets glittered in the sunshine, which
streamed athwart the winding valley, bathing in gold and purple light
the hills on one side, and casting into deep-blue shadow those on the
other.

The travellers, who were about twenty in number, on seeing the
MacGregors posted on the highway, began to prepare for service, by
loading their muskets; the footmen unslung their targets; the
horsemen loosened their swords in the sheaths, and looked to the
priming of their pistols, as they all came briskly up; and on Rob Roy
stepping forward to meet them, he found among the mounted men the
identical laird of Invernentie whom he sought, with Campbell of
Aberuchail, Stirling of Carden, and another gentleman whom he did not
recognize, but who was followed closely by several well-armed gillies
on foot.

"What does this meeting bode, MacGregor?" asked the baronet of
Aberuchail; "peace or war?"

"That is as may be," replied Rob; "my present business is with Hamish
MacLaren of Invernentie."

The latter smiled grimly, and under his black brows his keen, fierce,
hazel eyes glared forth like those of a polecat, as he said,--

"You must first speak with one who has travelled a long way to see
you, and who moreover is a friend of mine."

"A bad recommendation; but to whom do you refer?" asked MacGregor.

"He refers to _me_," said the strange traveller.  "I have indeed come
a long way to see you, MacGregor, and we meet most opportunely."

Rob surveyed the speaker with some surprise.  He was a man of great
stature and apparent strength, handsome, athletic, and in the prime
of life.  His sword, pistols, dirk, and powder-horn were richly
mounted with silver; he had three feathers in his bonnet, indicating
that he was a chief; but MacGregor recognized neither his badge nor
his tartan.

"And who may you be, sir, that have been so desirous to see me?" he
asked, haughtily.

"I am Roderick MacNeil of Barra," replied the other, on which Rob
saluted him by uncovering his head; for the MacNeils of Barra were an
old family in the Western Isles, famous for their antiquity--which
dated back to the days of the first Scottish settlers--for their
valour, and for their vanity: thus one of them, named Rory the
Turbulent, who lived in the days of James VI., in the vastness of his
Highland bombast, had a herald who proclaimed, in Gaelic, daily, from
the summit of his castle,--

"Hear ye people, and listen all ye nations!  MacNeil of Barra having
finished his dinner, all the kings and princes of the earth have
liberty to dine."

The chief who now confronted Rob Roy was considered one of the best
swordsmen in Scotland; and certainly he was the first in his native
Hebrides.  He was possessed of a high spirit, with a romantic love of
adventure.  He had heard of Rob Roy's skill in the use of his weapons
and his renown in arms; so he determined with his own hands to pub
his skill and valour to the test.

"And so," said he, while surveying him from head to foot, "you are
Rob Roy MacGregor, whom I have so long wished to meet."

"For what purpose?" asked the other, haughtily; "I never saw you
before, MacNeil, and by your bearing I care little if I never see you
again."

"I have heard much of your fame, MacGregor, and I have come
hither--I, Roderick MacNeil of Barra--to prove myself a better
swordsman than you!"

At these words he leaped from his horse, tossed the bridle to one of
his gillies, and drew his sword and dirk.

"Roderick MacNeil," said Rob, calmly, "I have no doubt of your being
what you assert--the Chief of Barra, and of a noble and ancient
lineage; a better swordsman, and it may be a better man, than I; but
I have no wish to prove it.  My business is with Invernentie here,
and I never fight a man without a reason.  With you I have no
quarrel; so keep your sword for the service of Scotland and her king."

"I do so keep my sword; but you must fight me, nevertheless," said
the other, imperiously.

"Fie, sir!" replied Rob, whose temper was rising; "this is a bad
trade you have taken to."

"Trade?"

"Dioul, yes!--molesting honest people on the open highway."

"Truly the taunt comes well from you--you, who have kept the whole
Highland border in hot water since Dundee fell at Rin Ruari!"

On the face of MacLaren of Invernentie there was a malicious smile,
which compelled Rob to seem calm; for he feared that if he fell in
this impending conflict, his nephew's interest would infallibly
suffer by the wiles and roguery of Invernentie and Killearn,
especially if aided by the bad influence of Athole and Montrose.

"Barra," said he, "I never draw my sword without a just cause of
quarrel.  Go your way in peace, and leave me to pursue mine."

Then Barra is recorded to have taunted him by saying,--

"_You are afraid--your valour is in words._"

"You shall have more than words," replied MacGregor, furiously, as he
unsheathed his sword.  "You have come a long way to see me, and shall
not go back without having done a portion of your errand.  My hand is
strong."

"And my sword sharp and sure."

"Neither sharper nor surer than mine, Barra," replied Rob Roy.

"That we shall see, MacGregor Campbell."

"And deeply shall you feel," said Rob, more than ever enraged at
being named Campbell.  "Greumoch," he added, "stand by the side of
Invernentie, and if he attempts either escape or foul play, slice him
down with your axe.  And now, Barra, have at you!"

While all who were on the pathway which traversed the glen assembled
in a large and excited circle around them, the two combatants engaged
with great fury, and not a sound was heard but the clash of their
blades and their deep breathing.  Both were brave to the utmost, and
both were equally skilled in the use of their weapons; but while
sentiments of mere family pride and military bravado animated Barra,
MacGregor was inspired by just indignation at being thus baited and
molested by a total stranger, and forced into an unexpected duel, at
a time so critical to the interests of his household and his nephew,
who by illness was unable to protect himself.

Both were so exceedingly well matched in strength and skill, that for
more than twenty minutes neither had in any way the advantage of the
other, till Barra made a feint, and then a fierce thrust at Rob's
bare throat; but he parried it by a circular whirl of his claymore,
which nearly wrenched the other's weapon away.

During a second thrust Rob caught the blade of Barra in the iron
loops of his basket-hilt, but being a younger man, the latter bounded
agilely back, and released his sword in time to save it, ere Rob
could snap the blade, or lock in and use his dirk.

After a time Barra's sword shook in his hand and bent--it was soon
full of deep notches; and fatigue rendered his arm weary,  He was
compelled to give ground step by step, till at last MacGregor tossed
aside his shield, and throwing all his strength into one tremendous
double-handed stroke, beat down his guard, snapped his blade like a
withered reed, and gave him a wound so severe that he "nearly cut off
his sword-arm, which confined him to the village of Killearn for
three months."

"When next we meet," cried Barra, as he fell into the arms of
Stirling of Carden, "our parting shall be different!"

But, fortunately, they never chanced to meet again.




CHAPTER LII.

INVERNENTIE PUNISHED.

Great was the exultation of the MacGregors, and with wild halloos of
triumph they crowded about their leader, who, with his characteristic
generosity, was one of the first to proffer assistance to the wounded
chief.

As the parties separated, Invernentie was whipping up his Highland
garron, preparatory to taking a speedy leave, when Greumoch inserted
the hook of his Lochaber axe in the collar of his coat, and roughly
tumbled him on the roadway.

Enraged by such treatment, MacLaren drew his dirk, and was rushing on
his captor, when the latter charged the pikehead of the axe full at
his breast, and would have killed him without mercy, but for the
interference of Campbell of Aberuchail and Rob Roy, who desired his
followers to seize and convey him to a small inn which stood at the
head of the strath; and there, as night was closing, MacLaren found
himself abandoned by his companions, helpless, and a prisoner of the
easily exasperated MacGregors, all somewhat excitable Celts,

                          whose patience
  Was apt to wear out on trifling occasions.


Hamish MacLaren, a dark, fierce, and resolute fellow, asked Rob Roy,
sternly, "for what purpose he had been separated from his friends,
disarmed, and brought as a prisoner to this solitary house?"

"Because, in the first place," said Rob, calmly, "I wish to speak
with you; and, in the second place, to punish you if you do not take
my advice."

"In what matter--dioul!--in what matter?" demanded MacLaren, knitting
his black brows till his gleaming eyes were almost hidden by them.

"The matter of the bond----"

"Which I hold over the lands of Grahame of Glengyle?"

"No; I know nothing of _that_ document," replied Rob, twirling one of
his pistols ominously round his forefinger by the trigger guard.

"Then to what do you refer?"

"To the bond which you allege to hold over the lands of my sick
nephew, Gregor _MacGregor_ of Glengyle."

"Well--well?"

"Hamish MacLaren of Invernentie," said Rob, making a great effort to
appear calm, "I have here the money to release this bond."

"But I decline it--the time has expired," said MacLaren, doggedly.

"It may have expired _now_," said Rob Roy; "but it had not expired
when, more than three months ago, Glengyle offered you the money,
principal and interest."

"I told him----"

"A falsehood--a black lie, Invernentie!  You told him the bond was
lost, when it was, and still is, in your charter-box; and now I
swear, by the Grey Stone of MacGregor, that until you produce that
bond, we part not company, in life at least!"

MacLaren's breast swelled with rage and spite.  His face grew ashy
white, and the veins of his forehead were swollen like whipcord, with
the baffled avarice and passion he strove in vain to conceal.

"Allow me to return to Invernentie," said he, in a husky voice and
with averted eyes, "and I shall send hither the bond, if I can find
it."

"Nay, we part not company until it is produced _here_; and if that
fails to be done, you shall go back to Invernentie heels foremost."

"How mean you?"

"In your coffin," replied MacGregor, with a dark and terrible frown.

Aware that he had to deal with one who did not stand on trifles,
MacLaren, apprehensive for the result, agreed that two of his
servants (who had ventured to the inn), accompanied by Coll and
Greumoch, should go to the house of Invernentie and get the bond,
while he remained as Rob's hostage in Strathfillan.

They were absent some time, as Invernentie (which means the conflux
of dark waters) was several miles distant; but on the evening of the
second day they returned with the bond, and placed it in the hands of
MacLaren, who, without opening it, tossed it across the table to Rob
Roy, saying, sullenly,--

"Here is your precious document, and now let me begone."

"Not quite so fast--tarry, I pray you," said Rob, as he read over the
paper, examined it in every particular, tore it into minute
fragments, and scattered them over the clay floor of the room.

"Now," he added, "here is the money of Glengyle."

"I shall record the discharge of the debt in the books of the
sheriff," said MacLaren, rising and putting on his bonnet.

"You and the sheriff may do exactly as you please," said Rob; "in
fact you have my full permission to hang yourselves, if it suits your
fancy; but, in the meantime, give me a discharge in full for the
money which you lent my nephew, Gregor _MacGregor_ of Glengyle."

Invernentie, who had some other roguish scheme in his head, most
unwillingly wrote and signed the required quittance, which Rob
carefully read, folded, and put in his pocket, together _with the bag
of money_, telling him that now he would not pay him a
farthing--"that the sum lost was too small a fine for the outrage he
had attempted to perpetrate in form of law, and that he might be
thankful that he escaped with a sound skin."

They separated.  MacLaren was choking with resentment, and vowed to
have a terrible revenge; but Rob and his men merely laughed at him,
as they marched off towards their new home on the braes of
Balquhidder.




CHAPTER LIII.

ATTACKED BY THE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

Rob having retired further north-west, was living in comparative
peace and ease at Balquhidder, though ever armed, watchful, and on
the alert; but now his old and wanton enemy, the Duke of Athole--an
enemy despite the cavalier sentiments of Tullibardine and his other
sons, and the sympathies of the gentle Duchess Katherine--during the
middle of 1724, made no less than _three_ vigorous attempts to
capture him, for he was still outlawed, and the warrants for his
apprehension were yet in full force against him, with ample rewards
for those who could achieve this hitherto perilous and difficult
task.  Of Athole's final attempts we shall briefly relate the success.

In retaliation for the trick so basely played him at the castle of
Blair, Rob had certainly more than once ravaged the estates of the
Duke of Athole, carried off the cattle, and put to the sword several
Drummonds who resisted.

Though he had drawn these reprisals on himself, Athole could as
little forgive such proceedings as his Grace of Montrose; and on his
return from a visit to London he secretly despatched a party of Lord
Polworth's Light Horse up the glens to Balquhidder, at a time when
most of the MacGregors were absent at fairs, or on the mountains
herding cattle.

MacLaren of Invernentie is said to have given them exact information
of Rob's movements, for they came upon him most unexpectedly, during
a fine summer evening when he was superintending a few of his people,
who were cutting turf with the _ceaba_, a long, narrow spade of
peculiar form, used by the Highlanders and Irish.  Suddenly there was
a cry of--

"The Redcoats! the Redcoats!" and the women threw down their
keallochs, or creels, as a party of troopers, on light active horses,
dashed round the shoulder of a rocky ridge, and came pellmell among
them, with swords flashing in the sunshine.

Rob had only three men with him, and save their dirks, each was armed
only with a turf-spade.  While he swung one of these implements
aloft, to use it like a poleaxe, resolved on making a desperate
defence, its shaft was shattered in his hand, as a trooper adroitly
broke it by a pistol-shot, and then spurred his horse right over him.

Rob lost his dirk, but plunged his skene-dhu deep into the bowels of
the animal, which reared wildly and threw his rider head downward
into the soft bog, where his spurred jack-boots stood upper-most in
the air.

Beaten down again under a shower of sword-blades and clubbed
carbines, MacGregor was made prisoner.  He was then mounted on a
horse and carried off, amid the yells, screams, and lamentations of
the women.  He was threatened with instant death if he attempted to
resist or escape; and, fortunately, on this occasion, they were
without a rope to bind him; but the officer in command, an Irish
captain, held a cocked pistol in his right hand, and rode by the side
of the prisoner.

"Remember," said he, "that your _head_ may be more easily carried
than your body, if you prove troublesome.  Forward--away for
Stirling--away at full speed!" were the orders; and the Light Horse
disappeared with MacGregor, while the turf-cutters flew to arms and
to muster others for rescue and revenge.

This, however, was unnecessary; for, when passing through a glen or
ravine which lies between the church of Balquhidder and Glendochart,
at a place where, on the side of the former, the ground is steep and
rugged, but on the latter has a long and gradual slope towards the
Dochart, Rob suddenly wrenched away the Irishman's pistol, which
exploded in the air, and slipping over his horse's crupper, sprang up
the rocks, where not a single trooper could follow him.

Enraged by the sudden escape of his prisoner, the officer spurred his
horse till the steel rowels tore the flesh; it bounded madly upward
against the rocks, and fell back upon its haunches, half-stunning its
rider; and to this day the place bears the name of _Shiam an
Erinich_, or the "Irishman's Leap."

A few days after this, Rob escaped again by mere coolness and
presence of mind, when in Glenalmond he encountered the same party of
Polworth's Light Horse, who instantly knew and greeted him with a
shout; while some drew their swords, others loaded their carbines,
and all spurred their horses on.  Rob was quite alone; he had been
separated from his eldest son and followers, with twenty of whom he
had been purchasing cattle at a neighbouring fair.

No succour was near.  The place of this _rencontre_ is a savage and
solitary pass, overlooked by hills about fourteen hundred feet in
height, the steep sides being pressed so close together as barely to
leave space at the bottom for a narrow path and the brawling river's
bed.  On their sides some meagre shrubs sprout from the fissured
rocks, beneath the shadow of which the Almond looks sombre, dark, and
inky, save when churned into brown foam, as it thunders over a linn,
or chafes on the obstructing boulders.

At the upper end of this lonely pass stands a grey and time-worn
block of stone, eight feet in height, which marks the grave of the
Scottish Homer--Ossian, the son of Fingal.

In the wildest and narrowest path of this mountain gorge, Rob
suddenly found himself confronted, about nightfall, by the same Irish
captain and his party of horse.  In an angle of the narrow way, where
an overhanging rock protected him on one side and the deep river's
bed on the other, he stood facing them, sword in hand, and covered by
his round shield; thus the troopers could see nothing beyond him.

As only one at a time could attack him, the leading trooper was
somewhat impressed by the resolute expression of his well-bearded
face, his stature, and firm posture of defence.

"I know whom you seek," said he, sternly; "but I swear that if you do
not instantly depart, not one of you shall return alive!  In less
than half an hour my men will have possession of the bridge of
Buchanty, and your retreat will be cut off."

On hearing this, the soldiers began to rein back their horses.

"Retire in time," resumed MacGregor, "and tell him who sent you that,
if any more of his pigmy race come hither, by the bones of our dead,
I will hang them up to feed the eagles!"

He then placed his horn to his mouth and blew a loud and ringing
blast, to which hill and river echoed.

On this, believing that the whole clan were concealed among the
rocks, from, whence a fire would be opened upon them, the troopers
seized by a panic, wheeled round their horses and retired at full
gallop, while Rob ascended the cliffs, and leisurely pursued his way
in another direction.

The government, in despair perhaps, were now ceasing to molest Rob
Roy, and the last time troops were sent against him was the sudden
despatch of a strong force of infantry from the castle of Stirling,
under Colonel Grahame.

This party were seen on their march to Callendar by some MacGregors,
who were driving a herd of cattle along the banks of the Forth, so
Rob was immediately apprised of the unwelcome visitors.  In an hour,
the whole fighting men of the braes of Balquhidder were in arms, and
had scouts posted at every pass and avenue; but as Rob had no wish to
subject his people to severity on his own account--for it was _he_
alone whom Grahame had orders to capture--he retired further off into
the mountains, a precaution he would not have adopted in his younger
and more fiery years.

The soldiers met with every opposition, and frequently with bloody
resistance from the MacGregors; and they had a four days' fruitless
search, toiling, with knapsacks and accoutrements, cocked hats,
pipe-clayed breeches, and long gaiters, up steep mountains, down
ravines, where they floundered, and sunk knee-deep among wet heather,
fern, and rushes; stumbling over precipices, and always misled by the
guides, who took the bribes of the officers, and then vanished into
the mist or a thicket, leaving them to shift for themselves, till the
evening of the fourth day found Colonel Grahame and his detachment,
starving, weary, and worn, occupying a deserted house on the verge of
the Lowlands, near the hills of Buchanan.

The rain was falling in torrents, and no sentinels were posted
without; so there Rob came upon them in the night, and, by throwing
in combustibles, set the house on fire about their ears.

This immediately dislodged the enemy.  As they rushed forth in
disorder and dismay, many were severely injured by bruises and by the
explosion of the ammunition in their pouches.  Many lost their
weapons, and "one man was killed by the accidental discharge of a
musket.  The military, thus thrown into confusion, broken down by
fatigue, and almost famished by want of provisions, withdrew from the
country of the MacGregors, happy that they had escaped so well."

This was--as we have stated--the _last_ encounter of Rob Roy with the
forces of the government.




CHAPTER LIV.

THE FINAL ATTEMPT OF ATHOLE.

It was the Lammas now of 1724, when the gool or wild marigold began
to make its appearance among the little corn patches on the sunny
side of the Highland hills; and in this month the mother of Rob Roy
(a daughter of the house of Glenfalloch), then in extreme old age,
being nearly a century old, expired at Muirlaggan, the house which he
had built for her.

Though her passing away had been long expected, her death was
accompanied by the omens and mysterious warnings then and still so
universally believed in among the Highlanders.  Rob's grey staghounds
howled mournfully the livelong night, a sure sign that they had seen
what the eyes of men could not--the shadow of Death enter the house
of Muirlaggan; and Paul Crubach, now aged, half-blind, and bent with
years, averred that on last Midsummer-eve he had beheld her figure
pass before him into the churchyard of Balquhidder with a shroud
_high_ upon her breast, a certain token that her death was close at
hand.

On the day preceding the funeral, and before the clan, tenants, and
gillies assembled to drink the dredgie, he came close to the chair of
Rob, who was seated at window, full of thought.

"Paul, you have been absent some days," said Rob kindly to the old
man, "and at your years----"

"I have been on Inchcailloch, and there I spent three nights," said
he, with unusual solemnity.

"Three dreary nights they must have been," said Rob, with a sad
smile; "a ruined church for shelter and the graves of the dead below
you."

"But I slept thereon, knowing that the dead would give me counsel
just and true; and in my dreams there appeared unto me twice one whom
I knew to be Dugald Ciar Mhor."

"How knew you this?"

"By his mouse-coloured hair and beard, and he told me--told me----"

"What--what?" asked Rob, impatiently; "oh, Paul--Paul--Dugald lies in
his grave in Glenlyon."

"It matters not--he told us to _beware of Athole_!"

"Paul, is not this mockery, and at such a time?  Beware of Athole?
We have done little else for these twenty years past."

"Above the graves of the dead we get counsel just and true," repeated
poor, old, half-witted Paul, ignorant that, sixteen centuries before,
Pomponius Mela recorded a similar idea.

The escapes of Rob had been so numerous and so desperate that they
became a byeword--a joke in the Highlands, where the people were wont
to say,--"You might as well attempt to say MacNab thrice with your
mouth shut as attempt to catch Rob Roy;" and believing himself to be
singularly favoured by fortune in that matter, he paid but little
attention to the warning of Paul till about sunset, when his son
Ronald came running in bareheaded and breathless from a cattle-fold
to announce that a party of soldiers were rapidly approaching the
house!

The natural grief which Rob was enduring for the death of his mother
turned into exasperation.  He now kept fewer men about him than had
been his wont in other times, and it chanced that, though some
hundreds would muster for the funeral on the morrow, there were not
ten in the house at this desperate crisis!

He buckled on his sword, thrust his loaded pistols in his belt, threw
his target on his arm, kissed Helen and the babe Robin at her breast,
and was rushing from the house to seek shelter on the hills, when the
Duke of Athole, with two hundred and fifty of his tenantry, all
mounted and armed with sword, pistol, and musketoon, drew up before
the door.

Keeping his hand on his sword, Rob saluted the duke, saying, with
that suave irony which a Highlander can so well assume,--

"I am obliged to your grace for coming unasked with such a goodly
company to attend my mother's funeral.  Glenfalloch and Breadalbane
will alike deem it an honour which neither they nor I expected."

"I have not come here for any such purpose," replied Athole,
haughtily, as he shook the long curls of his peruke, and kept his
horse well in hand, while keenly eyeing every motion of MacGregor.
"I have come but to crave the pleasure of your company so far as the
Tolbooth of Perth, where we shall settle some old scores at leisure."

"Indeed!" said Rob, sternly.  "Had I received sufficient notice of
your grace's visit, we had met at the pass of Loch Ard, not at my own
door, and I should have resorted to other means than temporising.
Within that chamber, duke, lies my mother in her coffin--a woman old
in years--yea, so old that she remembered the earliest days of
Charles I., to whom your grandsire, Earl John of Athole, was a
steadfast man mid true; so, should I die for it here upon the
threshold, I shall neither yield nor go to Forth your prisoner; for
now in death, as in life, my place shall be by my mother's side!"

"Enough of this," said Athole, coarsely; "the funeral may go on very
well without you."

Taken at vantage, however, Rob gradually perceived that he could gain
nothing by resistance; and, as the duke dismounted, and stood by the
bridle of his horse, he affected to comply with his wish.  Then
shrill screams and cries of lamentation rose from the women of the
tribe, great numbers of whom had already assembled at Muirlaggan; and
within the doorway of the house were seen the dark and scowling faces
of men, with the gleam of arms, as swords and skenes were drawn and
muskets loaded; for there Greumoch, Alaster Roy, and Rob's sons,
Coll, Duncan, Hamish, and Ronald, prepared, like brave youths, to
defend or die beside him.

A babel of hoarse and guttural Gaelic tongues rang on all sides, and
many of the duke's yeomanry had unsheathed their swords and unslung
their musketoons preparatory to carrying off the prisoner.

The voices of his sons, the lamentations of the women, thoughts of
Helen with the babe at her breast, and his mother lying dead in her
coffin, filled MacGregor's soul with desperation.  Thrusting aside by
main strength of arm half a dozen of the troopers who had begirt him,
he drew forth his claymore, and called upon them all to stand
back--back, upon their lives!

On this, snatching a pistol from his holsters, Athole fired it full
at the head of Rob, who at the same moment fell to the ground.  He
had only slipped a foot, but on seeing him fall a mingled yell
pierced the welkin, and before the smoke had cleared away, the duke
found himself in the grasp of a woman.

This was a sister of Rob, who had married her cousin Glenfalloch.  A
strong and active woman, of a fiery and affectionate temper, on
seeing her brother fall, she believed he was killed, and making a
furious spring at Athole, clutched his throat with such energy that
his grace was soon speechless.  He reeled and staggered, while his
followers, none of whom dared to use their pistol-butts or clenched
hands to a lady, were unable to release him, till Rob seized his
sister's wrist, and rescued him.  On this the lady fainted.

This strange and unseemly scuffle fortunately caused some delay.  For
a time the duke was unable to mount his horse; and ere he did so, the
mustering MacGregors, summoned by Greumoch, Paul, and the shrieking
women, from farm and clachan, came pouring in with brandished swords
and axes in such numbers that Colonel Grahame, who was present,
deeming discretion the better part of valour, seized the duke's horse
by the bridle, and gave the order to retire as fast as possible.

Rob permitted Athole to do so unmolested, and now, for a time, the
house of Muirlaggan, where the dead woman lay, presented that which
was not uncommon then in the Highlands in cases of either sorrow or
joy, a scene of fearful wrath and noisy uproar.

Had Athole come next day, he might have experienced a warmer
reception; for when Glengyle came in, more than seven hundred armed
men, with twenty pipers, attended the funeral, and thus the old lady
was born to her long home by her four grandsons; for in the Highlands
it was ever a boy's pride, and one of the tests of manhood, to be
permitted to act as bearer of a coffin, perhaps for many miles over
steep and rugged mountain-paths.

On this occasion, Paul Crubach stumbled and fell on his face as the
funeral procession approached the church of Balquhidder,
_deisail_-wise, and then the old superstition was whispered, that he
who stumbled at a burial was certain to be the _next_ whose coffin
would be borne that way; and this was fully realized when poor old
Paul was found dead in bed next morning.

The duke never again had an opportunity of molesting Rob Roy, as on
the 14th November of this year his grace paid the debt of nature at
his castle of Blair, in Athole.




CHAPTER LV

ROB ROY IN LONDON.

From this time forward the life of the Red MacGregor was passed in
ease and contentment; around him his sons grew to manhood, brave,
active, and hardy; while the sons of those who had followed him to
the battles of Sheriffmuir and Glensheil, to the storming of
Inversnaid, the pass of Loch Ard, and to many a desperate conflict,
became, under his care and advice, thriving cattle-dealers and
industrious farmers.  Yet neither he nor they were permitted entirely
to let their swords rest, or forget the warlike lessons of their
forefathers, for the battle of Culloden had not yet been fought, and
in disposition and character the secluded Highland clans were little
different from what their ancestors were when they routed the Romans
on the Grampians, and hemmed them within the wall of Agricola--as
their songs have it, "forcing the King of the World to retire beyond
his _gathered heaps_."

In 1727, George II. was crowned, and six months after it was known in
the Highlands that another "stranger filled the Stuarts' throne," and
perhaps as many years elapsed before it was known in some of the
Scottish isles, so dilatory was the transmission of news in the last
century.

Even Montrose had now ceased to molest Rob Roy, who in his prosperity
no longer "drew his grace's rents," but, extending his possessions
beyond Balquhidder, leased some mountain-farms from the Duke of
Argyle.  On learning this, Montrose, in whose breast the old emotion
of animosity still rankled, before the Lords of the Privy Council in
London, accused his grace, who was the famous Field-Marshal John Duke
of Argyle and Greenwich, of "fostering and protecting an outlaw."

"I do neither," replied he, angrily; "I only supply Rob Roy with the
wood of the forest, the fish of the stream, the grass of the glen,
and the deer of the hill--the common heritage of all Highlanders.
But you have afforded him cattle, corn, and meal; moreover, we are
informed that he is your grace's factor, and that on more than one
occasion he has collected your rents, especially at Chapelerroch."

Montrose, who felt the taunt implied his own inability to defend
himself, bit his lip in angry silence.

About this time Rob would seem to have visited England.

It is also said that he went so far south as London, as a _protégé_
of the Duke of Argyle, who was then in the zenith of his military and
political influence.  The story adds, that the duke requested Rob, in
his full Highland dress and arms, to promenade for some time before
St. James's Palace, where the attention of George II. was drawn to
him--his garb being somewhat unusual in such a locality, and more
especially in those days.

Some time after, when Argyle attended a royal levee, the king
observed that he had "lately seen a handsome Scots Highlander near
the palace."

"He was Robert MacGregor," replied the duke; "the identical outlaw
who has long kept the Highlands of Perthshire in a turmoil by his
resistance and resentments."

At this reply the king was very much incensed; but be the story as it
may, there appeared in London, about this time, a pretended memoir of
Rob, under the flattering title of _The Highland Rogue_.  "It is,"
says the groat novelist, "a catch-penny publication, bearing in front
the effigy of a species of ogre, with a beard a foot long, and
therein his actions are as much exaggerated as his personal
appearance."

It was during his absence in the south that Helen MacGregor enacted
the only bold and masculine part she is known to have played on the
stage of real life.

The proprietor of Achenriach, near the clachan of Campsie, having
refused to pay his arrears of black-mail, Helen, as her two eldest
sons were absent, being lieutenants in the Highland Watch under Glune
Dhu, mounted on horseback, with a pair of loaded pistols at her
saddlebow, and attended by Greumoch and twelve tall gillies fully
armed, with targets on their backs and long muskets sloped on their
shoulders, crossed the Campsie Fells, and presenting herself at the
gate of Achenriach, demanded of the laird the tax which was due to
her absent husband.

He speedily came forth with the money, saying, "Madam, I can refuse a
lady nothing--neither would I have the hardihood to oppose you."

In this district Rob's nephew levied black-mail till within little
more than a hundred years ago.




CHAPTER LVI.

THE DUELS WITH INVERNAHYLE AND ARDSHEIL.

As time stole on and ripening age wrinkled the brow and whitened the
beard of Rob Roy, he lived a quiet and inoffensive life.  A change
came gradually over him.  Time with its mellowing influences rendered
him less fierce, less irritable, and in the events that marked the
close of his career he showed less inclination to meet half-way those
who would seek a quarrel with him.

In the winter of 1727, while purchasing some cattle at the fair of
Doune, he obtained among others a cow from a woman who offered it for
sale.

On the following Sunday he happened to attend the parish church.  The
sermon of the minister was directed against the sin of covetousness,
fraud, and roguery; and his text was the Eighth Commandment.

Emphatically and amply did the divine expatiate upon his subject; and
with his eyes fixed resolutely on MacGregor, threw out so many
offensive hints, which were evidently meant for _him_, that Rob soon
found himself the centre of observation; and his heart swelled with
rage, while he could not but admire the daring of the man who thus
bearded one who might have fired both church and manse about his ears.

However, smothering his wrath, Rob waited quietly until the sermon
was over and the congregation had dispersed.  He then repaired to the
manse, and requested to see the minister, who met him with a calm and
unflinching front.

"Reverend sir," said he, "I was present, as you no doubt perceived,
at sermon this morning, and heard your discourse, every word of which
I understood, but should like to know what you _meant_ by it.  I am
an old man now, and have lived a bold and perilous life, but I shall
thank you to point out a single instance of fraud or roguery that has
dishonoured it.  If you cannot, as you have made me a spectacle to
your parishioners, by the souls of those who died in Glenfruin!  I
will compel you to retract your words in your own pulpit."

Unmoved by the stern bearing of Rob, whose right hand clutched his
dirk, the minister replied,--

"I own, MacGregor, that I alluded to you."

"Dioul, to me!" exclaimed Rob, furiously.

"To you.  Did you not buy a cow from a poor widow at the fair of
Doune--a cow at little more than half its value?"

"Sir, I was ignorant that she was poor, that she was a widow, and
considered her cow worth double what she asked for it; but is my
whole life to be slandered thus, and about a miserable cow?"

"Her family are starving--that cow was the last of her herd, for the
others all died of disease."

"If this be the case," said Rob, "I shall restore to her the cow with
double the sum I paid for it; here," he added, laying the bank-notes
on the table, "I leave the money with your reverence.  I shall do
more; she shall have eight cows, the best in my herd, and money to
stock her farm anew, for never shall it be said that a widow appealed
in vain to the sympathy of Rob Roy!"

After this time he passed nearly seven years in perfect peace; but in
1734 he became embroiled with a very powerful enemy, Stewart of Appin.

The clan of MacLaren laid claim to the land of Invernentie in
Balquhidder; to this the MacGregors also had a right, which they
enforced by the blades of their swords, expelling therefrom Hamish
MacLaren.  A portion of Balquhidder was certainly the ancient
patrimony of the Clan Laren, and their feud with the MacGregors was
embittered by the memory that the latter, in 1604, had slain
_forty-six_ of their householders, with all their wives and children,
as the criminal record has it.

In 1734, they appealed to Appin, chief of the Stewarts, a powerful
tribe, which could always muster from seven to eight hundred
swordsmen.  General Stewart of Garth, so lately as 1821, reckoned the
fighting force of this name at four thousand men.

The MacLarens assembled in great numbers; Appin reinforced them with
four hundred chosen men, and together they marched into Balquhidder,
where Rob Roy with all his kindred was in arms to oppose them.

The summer sun shone brightly on the grey walls of the old kirk of
Balquhidder, shaded by its dark yew-trees, and its quaint old
burial-ground studded with mossy head-stones, when close by it the
hostile clans approached each other in two lines, each man with his
round shield braced upon his left arm, and his sword brandished in
his right hand.

All the Stewarts had thistles in their bonnets; the MacLarens had
laurel leaves, and their war-cry, "Craig Tuirc!  Craig Tuirc!" was
shouted fiercely by a hundred tongues, for they were eager to engage.

Conspicuous in front of the MacGregors stood Rob Roy, in his waving
tartans; his once ruddy beard was now white with time, but his strong
form was erect as ever.  Anxious to avoid bloodshed, when the adverse
clans were about a hundred yards apart he stepped resolutely forward,
sheathed his sword and requested Stewart of Appin to meet him
half-way.  Stewart accordingly sheathed his weapon, and also stepped
forward from his line.

"Appin," said Rob, "I am deeply grieved that those who bear the royal
name should come as invaders into the land of Clan Alpine, whose race
is also royal.  Our forefathers were friends, and stood side by side
in battle on the braes of Rannoch.  The same inscription is on both
our sword-blades--see," he added, showing the favourite legend,
usually carved on all Scottish swords between 1707 and 1746,--

"PROSPERITY TO SCOTLAND, AND NO UNION."


"I have come but to right my kinsman Invernentie, and restore to him
the lands of which your people have reft him," replied Appin.

"Those lands were ours of old, Appin.  But hearken! we are all loyal
men to _the King_, and it were a pity we should weaken our mutual
strength by mortal conflict, so I shall consent that Hamish MacLaren
hold the lands of Invernentie at an easy quit-rent."

"To that will I agree blythely," said Appin, who was a tall, brave,
and handsome man, dressed in scarlet Stewart tartan, with a
grass-green coat covered with gold lace, and who had in his bonnet a
white rose, with the three feathers of his rank.

"'Tis well--so there's my thumb on't," said Rob, as they shook hands.
"But now," he added, "as we have here so many gallant men in arms, it
will be a shameful thing if we all separate 'thout a trial of skill;
so I here take the liberty of inviting any gentleman Stewart to
exchange a few blows with me for the honour of our respective clans."

On this, Appin's brother-in-law, Alaster of Invernahyle, sprang
forward, exclaiming,--

"I accept the challenge!"

"Good; and we shall lower our swords when the first blood is drawn."

The pipers struck up on both sides, as the two combatants engaged
with claymore, dirk, and target; but in a few minutes the red blood
spirted from the sword-arm of Rob Roy, who immediately lowered his
blade, and said,--

"I congratulate you, Alaster of Invernahyle, on being one of the very
few who have drawn blood from the veins of Rob Roy."

"Nay," said Stewart, as he offered his handkerchief to bind up the
wound, "without the advantages which youth and its agility give me, I
had come off with neither honour nor safety."

"I thank you, MacGregor," said Appin, "that your brave blood has
alone been shed here to-day.  Farewell!--we go back to the braes of
Appin.  If I survive you, this hand shall lay the first stone of your
cairn and bid it speak to future times."

"To you, Appin, thanks! you must indeed survive me.  The Red
MacGregor is _red_ only in name now--his hair is white as the snows
on Ben Lomond."

This was his _last_ appearance in arms.

Some time after this, in a trial of strength with Stewart of
Ardsheil, finding his eyesight dim, his sword-arm weak, and that he
was compelled to give ground, his cheek--a wrinkled cheek
now--flushed red with shame; tears stood in his eyes, and he flung
his old and faithful blade upon the heather.

"Never have I drawn thee without honour," he exclaimed; "but alas!
never shall I draw thee more!"

Ardsheil, a generous and high-spirited gentleman, was deeply moved by
the grief of the old warrior for his own decay of strength.  Picking
up the claymore, and presenting the hilt to Rob Roy, he politely
raised his bonnet, and said,--

"Shame on me, shame that I should have drawn on years and bravery
such as yours!  But give me your hand, MacGregor--your hand, and
henceforth let us be friends."

"Alas!" said Rob, sadly; "I am too old now to be your enemy!"




CHAPTER LVII.

THE CLOSING SCENE.

The health and strength of Rob Roy decayed rapidly after this, and
the winter of 1734, with its unusual severity, sorely affected his
shattered form.  Helpless as a child, he was confined to bed at last
by extreme old age rather than illness, at his house of
Inverlochluvig.

On an evening towards the end of December he sunk rapidly.  Helen,
then an aged woman, was his constant attendant, and he requested her
to throw open the windows that he might take a last farewell of the
sun, then setting in his ruddy splendour, and casting the purple
shadows of Ben More far across the snowclad braes of Balquhidder.

In the clear, frosty atmosphere of the winter eve he could hear the
cattle lowing in the fold, and the laughter of the children ringing
merrily from the adjacent clachan, and both were music to the old
man's ear.

"Death is at hand, Helen--close--close!" said he, sadly, to his wife;
"I may at times have been harsh--sharp with you."

"Oh, never--never to me, Rob," said she, sobbing heavily.

"If ever so, forgive me!"

"Forgive you, my poor old Rob!" she exclaimed, and threw her arms
around him.

"I have never asked forgiveness save from those I loved, and most of
them have gone before us, Helen.  The hands of my forefathers beckon
me; I can see their dim forms amid the blue mist on the hill!  Has
the sun set, Helen?"

"No--why?"

"It is growing so dark--so very dark--open the window!"

"It _is_ open," said Helen, in a broken voice.

"Oh that I could but have again the sweet perfume of the yellow broom
and purple heather-bell; or hear the hum of the mountain-bee and the
voice of the cushat-dove!  But who comes?" he added, as a step
approached softly.

'Twas old Alpine, who entered to say that MacLaren of Invernentie had
called to inquire for him.

Then there came over Rob Roy something of the same impulse which,
according to the English legend, animated the brave freebooter Robin
Hood, when he was propped up on his death-bed, to shoot a last
clothyard shaft with his trusty yew.

"MacLaren!" he exclaimed, rallying all his failing powers, while his
sunken eyes flashed with light; "raise me up, Helen!  Coll!  Hamish!
Robin Oig! bring me my bonnet and plaid, my pistols, dirk, and
claymore, and _then_ admit him; for never shall it be said that a
foeman saw Rob Roy defenceless and unarmed!"

His commands were immediately obeyed.  MacLaren entered and paid his
compliments by inquiring after the health of his formidable
neighbour, who maintained a cold and haughty civility during their
brief conference.

After MacLaren's departure Rob still sat up in bed, with his plaid
about him, and his sword in his hand, and he muttered scraps of
Ossian with his prayers.

"The winds shall whistle in my grey hair and not awake me.  The sons
of future years shall pass away--another race shall rise, for the
people are like the waves of ocean: like the leaves of woody Morven,
they pass away in the rustling blast, and _other_ leaves lift their
green heads on high.*  Now, Helen--wife," he added, "all is over!
Strike up, Alpine, _Ha til mi tulidh!_ (We return no more!)"


* Berrathon.


Old and blind almost, like his dying leader, Alpine, while the hot
tears streamed over his withered cheeks, played that solemn dirge,
and ere it was over Rob Roy had passed away, and Helen MacGregor and
her five sons were on their knees around a breathless corpse.

He expired on the 28th of December, 1734, in about the eightieth year
of his age, and his demise is recorded thus simply in the _Caledonian
Mercury_ newspaper of 9th January following:--

"_On Sunday se'nnight died at Balquhidder, in Perthshire, the famous
Highland partizan, ROB ROY._"

* * * * *

His funeral was the last in Perthshire at which a piper was employed,
according to General Stewart.

Helen did not survive him long.

The future of their sons--that future which had filled the soul of
poor Rob Roy with so many fears and anxieties--was varied, and the
fate of two was dark and tragic.

History tells us that Hamish commanded the MacGregors in the army of
Prince Charles, and that he had his leg broken by a cannon-ball at
the battle of Gladsmuir.  He escaped from the Castle of Edinburgh
with characteristic daring, and fled to France, where a free pardon
was offered him if he would betray another fugitive, named Allan
Breac Stewart; but he declined, saying,--

"I was born a Highland gentleman, and can never accept that which
would make me the disgrace of my family and the scoff of my country."

Shortly afterwards he died of _starvation_ in the streets of Paris,
when George III. was king.

In his thirteenth year Robin Oig shot MacLaren of Invernentie dead
between the stilts of his plough, for insulting his mother; and the
gun with which he perpetrated this terrible act is now at Abbotsford.
He fled, became a soldier in the 42nd Regiment, and fought gallantly
at Fontenoy, where he was wounded and taken prisoner by the French;
but five years after the battle, by an overstrained power of the
officers of the Crown, he died on the scaffold at Edinburgh.  For the
others, I must refer my readers to Burke's "Landed Gentry."

"Happily, now-a-days," says a recent writer, "the Celt and the
Sassenach--Scotsman and Englishman--fight side by side, under one
standard.  _How_ the brave soldiers of the Highlands fight has been
shown in many a glorious struggle--at Talavera, Salamanca, and
Waterloo; nor will history forget _the thin red line_ of Balaclava,
or the shrill pibroch of Havelock's small but gallant force, which
came like home-music to the ears and hearts of those who defended
Lucknow!"

* * * * *

At the east end of the old church of Balquhidder, within an enclosure
formed by the foundations of the more ancient Catholic place of
worship, lies the grave of Rob Roy.

It is covered by a rough stone of hard mica, on which a number of
emblems are rudely sculptured.  Among these the figure of a
Highlander and a large broadsword can be distinctly traced.

Under this stone, in February, 1754, were also interred the remains
of his son, Robin Oig.

Such is the story of ROB ROY the Outlaw.



THE END.



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