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"There’s a ball in Talla to-night,” said a Highland
native to his companion, as they passed along the lone Highland highway
that winds its serpentine form along the north shore of the Lake of
Monteith, one clear moonlight night about the fall of the year. “Ay,”
returned the other, “I hear the music; and see how the lights flash in
the windows!” They were right; there was a gathering of the chiefs
within the lordly halls of Talla. The Chief of Buchan was there; Lord
Rusky mingled with the guests; and Gartmore Barons strode through the
hall; while the young Graham of Gloschoil, the Earl’s kinsman, sat
chat-' ting with the Countess. The Earl was proud of his name, proud of
his title, and jealous of his fame; his heart was the warm heart of the
Highlander; his nature the fiery dash of the Celt—the first to resent an
insult—the first to forgive an injury. When a friend or foe chanced to
be injured, it grieved him at his heart, and could never be forgotten.
The field was his delight. The halls of his fathers were hung with
trophies of the chase. There were antlered heads from the forest of
Miling, the wolf from Craigvad, and the wild boar from his den in the
Pass; the eagle from Glenny, and the osprey from Arnmauch; the wild fox
and badger from the hill, and the otter from the lake. There, too,
dangled in gloomy array the glories of the war chief, wrecks of the
battle-field, gathered by a long list of illustrious ancestors, each
proud of his achievements, and whose trophies hung as heirlooms in the
family. Largs sent its shattered helmets—Falkirk its broken shields.
There were gory lances from Stirling Bridge, and
bloodstained swords from Bannockburn — all telling their own tale of
rivalry and death. The Earl’s heart beat high as he showed his guests
the trophies; and as his dark eye rolled from object to object, one
would think he felt proud of his descent from the great Dundaff. The
ladies played, and the Countess sang, while the chiefs drank their wine;
and so the night whiled merrily away. While the nobles laughed and
talked, and the rooms rang with the music of the ladies, down in the
servants’ hall sat a jovial crew. These were the servants of “ my
lords.” Conspicuous in the group was a short and thick well-made form,
with long grey hair, dark rolling eye, and countenance brown as the
heath on his native moor. That was “Stoat-the-Yrouach,” which means, in
readable language, “The Stumpy for the brae,” the Earl’s archer. Behind
him, on the wall, dangled a huge cross-bow and bunch of arrows, with
which, in their turn, he had brought down the “enemies of the king” in
many a battle-field, the wolf and the stag in the forest, the eagle and
ptarmigan on the mountain, and the sea-gull on the lake. In his hand was
a long sharp-pointed “sgian-dubh,” the cherished gift of his father, the
plaything of his early youth, and the trusty companion of his manhood
and riper years. The “Stoat” was a valued servant of the Earl, both on
account of his deeds in the “sgian-dubh” line, and his length of
service. He was long archer to the Earl, and the Earl’s son at Dounance.
It was at the latter place he performed some of his most distinguished
services, and on one occasion, at least, saved his master and family
from destruction by the M'Pherson. In early times, it is said, one
Norman M'Pherson was laird of Drunkie and Duchray, and was rather a
powerful rival to the Menteith family. By-and-by, however, MTherson fell
into debt, when he applied to the Earl’s son, at Dounance, to grant him
money on his property. Graham thinking this a good chance of getting
M'Pherson into his grasp, instantly gave him all he asked, under the
condition that, if the money was not paid off by a certain date, the
land should revert to Dounance. MTherson failed to fulfil the
conditions, and Graham took hold of Duchray. M'Pherson, driven to
despair, retired back on Drunkie, where he brooded over his revenge,
and “nursed his wrath to keep it warm.” After a while, M'Pherson
resolved to attack Dounance, murder the family, and retake Duchray. With
this purpose he left Drunkie with a number of his men, took Stoat-the-Vrouach
prisoner in his own house near the lake, and ordered the archer to lead
the way, at the same time offering him a large sum to betray Graham into
his hands. The night being dark was well fitted for such bloody work,
and on their arrival all was still within the castle. "Stand here,”
muttered the Stoat, my Lord has a secret knock which no one knows but
myself; I will leave the door open, and you will rush in at my heels.”
The archer stepped forward and gave the secret knock. "What brings the
Stoat here at this time of the night?” asked a voice from within. “Open:
the M'Phersons are at my back; they have come to be revenged for
Duchray; make haste, for God’s sake! or we are all lost,” whispered the
archer earnestly. Graham sprung from his couch, the massive door reeled
back on its hinges, and another moment saw the Stoat safe within the
castle portals. The Grahams were instantly armed, and rushing out upon
their foes, made short work of the M'Phersons, who, it is said, were all
killed. Norman was pursued by the renowned archer into a cave near to
Drunkie House, and there slain, the place being still called “Norman’s
Wood.” The Stoat was delighting his cronies with stories like these,
telling them scenes of other days and tales of bygone years; and if the
black sgian-dubh he held in his hand could but have whispered, it would
have told a tale of its own.
The archer had just finished M'Pherson afresh, when the
noise announced the parting of the chiefs, and each valet hastened to
the service of his lord; while the Earl’s boatmen feathered their oars,
ready to row their noble freights over the still waters. There were
laughing faces there, and the gentle zephyrs wafted around the fairy
island the happy parting, while the echoes whispered back the farewells.
The night was calm and clear, as if Nature smiled on the happy
gathering. The moon—“pale mistress of the night”—rose as only autumn
moons can rise, while the still waters reflected back the glories of a
star-pearl’d heaven. The mist crawled along the braes of Auchyle, and
Red-nock hills looked through the grey covering. The lake was quiet as a
“mill-pond”—only the zephyrs kissed its waters—no ripple on its bosom
save that in the trail of the scallop; but ever and anon was heard the
quack of the wild drake, startled by the splash of the oar; while far in
the still midnight came the moan of the owl, and
“The dookers dived beneath the stream,
And wondered what the thing could mean.”
The otter prowled along the shore; the bark of the fox
was heard far off among the dark recesses of Arnmauch; the wild swan
spread her wings to catch the floating zephyrs; and the cormorant
nestled among the reeds. When in wine the Earl was fiery and vain—fiery
to those who dared to ruffle his temper, and vain enough to fancy
himself the finest specimen of a man within the Earldom. As he sat on
his couch with the fair young Countess by his side, chatting over the
happy gathering, he suddenly exclaimed, “ Who do you think was the
best-looking man at the ball1?”The Countess looked surprised, and
smiling, replied, “What makes the Earl ask such a question?” “Oh, only
for your opinion,” replied the Earl dryly. The Countess sat closer to
the chief, and laying her lily hand on the shoulder of her haughty lord,
whispered into his ear, “Who but your own kinsman and tenant, Malise
Graham?” and starting from his side, the fair lady glided away to her
bedroom. For a time the Earl sat in wild bewilderment, his passion
inflamed with wine, and his brain reeling with the debauch; his brow
scowled like the thunder-cloud, and his eyes stared like fixed stars.
“Malise Graham,” he muttered to himself; and his recollection of seeing
him at several stages of the evening paying close attention to the
Countess, shot through his memory with meteoric flash.
“Villain!” exclaimed the Earl, “he’ll rue those deeds.
I’ll have his blood before to-morrow’s sun rises!” and, clutching his
dagger, the jealous lord staggered from his couch breathing curses on
his unhappy friend. “Bring me Stoat-the-Vrouach,” growled the enraged
chief, in tones that rang through every comer of the island; and the
only one of the castle who heard not the stern order was the fair
Countess, who, close in her bedroom and earnest at her devotions, was
all unconscious of the terrible scene about to be enacted, and of which
she was the unhappy cause. The faithful archer rushed to the presence of
his enraged master. “Go,” cried the Earl; “Gloschoil has dared to insult
his chief, and this night I have sworn to have his blood; take your men
and let him not escape.” The old servant looked surprised, and whispered
“What means my lord by this? Has the Earl forgotten that his friend is a
faithful and true vassal?” “That’s for me to judge,” cried the Earl
fiercely; “do my bidding, and mutter but a rebellious sentence and
to-morrow thy carcase shall hang on Miling.” With a heavy heart the
archer obeyed; and while, with crossbow slung on his shoulder and sword
unsheathed, he departed on his mission of death, the half unconscious
Earl slunk away to his bedroom. Malise Graham was slowly plodding his
homeward path, with neither friend nor guide—he needed none—these hills
were the hills of his youth—these his native glens. A thousand times his
youthful limbs had trod the breckan brae, when the rocks rang with his
boyish voice. Upon yon hill’s craggy face he had stalked the red-deer
and brought down the eagle; deep in that misty glen he had sought out
the wolf, and hunted the wild boar; away on the skirts of yonder valley,
he had met invading clans, when the clash of shields and the clang of
claymores rang wildly around him. Malise’s heart was light, he reflected
on the happy hours spent with his chief, and the thoughts of his young
wife and two prattling boys, that awaited his coming, cheered him on;
and as he turned down into his own native strath, there, sure enough,
was the light in the window, the traveller’s home star. Already he heard
the stifled bark of his favourite hound in the kennel at home; that
home, alas! he was never to reach. He dreamed not the toils of the
assassin, like the serpent’s embrace, were drawing closer and closer
around him—the Earl’s death-hounds treading at his heels,—only watching
the proper moment for striking the fatal blow. It soon arrived; and as
Stoat-the-Vrouach raised aloft his arm, the moon buried her face in a
cloud, as if Heaven frowned on the deed; one moment’s stillness, and a
wild yell burst among the shattered hills and awoke the slumbering
echoes of Auchray.
“What is that, mother?” cried a half-sleeping boy,
starting from his pillow, aroused by the dying cry of his father, as it
echoed wildly across Loch-Katrine, and rang among the scattered
buildings of Gloschoil. “That is father’s voice —something has befallen
him.” “Hush, boy,” replied the wakeful mother. “Nothing can befall thy
father; the night is clear and the lamp still burns in the -window;
’twas the growl of the watch-dog, or the cry of the eagle on the hill.
Your father is well acquainted with the track over the hills; the
Kittearns know him well; the Macgregors are friendly to the Graham; and
the M£Farlanes are thy mother’s kinsmen;—there is nothing to fear, and,
besides,
"Your father has his favourite sword,
Made by that man of fame,
And woe betide the single arm
That dares to meet the Graham. ”
And again the boy nestled himself to sleep. It was grey
dawn ere the wife of Malise Graham again looked out of the window. All
was still in the Highland glen; here and there the curling smoke
ascended from the cottars’ homes; the moor-cock was heard on the hill;
and the September hoarfrost lay thick and grey around the shores of
Loch-Katrine, nipping the already fading glories of summer. The fair
lady looked anxious, and whispered to herself, “My lord is long in
coming! ” Then, turning her eyes towards the “Path of the red post,” she
saw a number of men slowly approaching, carrying in their midst an
uncouth-looking object. A thrill of fear shot through her nerves. The
anxious -wife watched with eager eye, and as they drew near, she rushed
to meet the mournful cavalcade; and there, sure enough, was Malise
Graham, stark and cold, with the crimson tide oozing from his manly
heart. For a moment the Highland lady surveyed her murdered lord; her
cheek grew pale; her frame shook like a shattered reed; and with
hysteric groan she fell back among her native heather. And now
“On Katrine’s coast, the widowed dame
May wash the rocks with tears.”
On returning to consciousness, the widow’s first resolve
was revenge; and she determined on rousing her kinsmen, and bringing
down on the Earl the vengeance of
“The wild M'Farlane’s plaided clan.”
But being told of the utter hopelessness of the task, and
that there yet remained a cloud of mystery to be cleared away, she
abandoned the project.
While this sad scene was being enacted on the heathy
shores of Loch-Katrine, another, but of a less terrible description, was
going on at the Lake of Monteith. The Earl awoke, as only those who
awaken after a debauch can describe. The events of the previous night
shot like wild dreams through his brain, and a lingering remembrance of
his stem order to the archer floated before his distorted imagination.
As he sat looking up to the hill, with the lake calm around him, the
door of his room suddenly flew open, and in rushed “The Earl’s Niece,”
the orphaned daughter of the house of Dounance, but not the merry wee
thing of former mornings. True, the same blue eyes and rosy cheeks were
there, and the flaxen hair hung in its usual silken curls around her
neck; but there was a stillness in her eye, and a sadness in her young
face, which the Earl could not mistake. The niece was followed by the
Countess, also looking sadder than usual. And the Earl, whose mind was
haunted by the previous night’s events, was trying to banish them as
airy phantoms, when he began to see that they were stern realities. In a
fit of excitement, he started to his feet, exclaiming, “Is Malise Graham
then dead?” “Yes,” whispered the Countess; “and the sword of the archer
is gory with his blood.” The Earl looked pale; a scalding tear filled
his eye; and he paced the room impatiently. “ What made Stoat-the-Vrouach
obey such foolish orders?” he asked. “The archer remonstrated, and you
threatened to hang him,” replied the Countess. “Ay,” responded the Earl;
“pity I did not; but what is done cannot be undone. I will see to the
widow,” and he threw himself back on his couch. The Earl was true to his
promise; he gifted the widow her lifetime of Gloschoil, and otherwise
saw to the well-being of the family, for it is said he was deeply
grieved for the loss of his friend. Malise Graham had two sons, Malise
the elder, and Robert the younger. Malise was of a mild and gentle
nature, and inherited in a large degree the character of the Grahams.
Robert was a reckless spirit, in fact “a wild M'Farlane,” and partook
deeply of the spirit of the robber clan. All the wild fancies of youth
floated through his brain; the loch, the glen, and the hill were his
favourite delights; and he loved to rob the eyrie, and possess himself
of the young eagle. He would climb the rocks where no human foot had
ever been but his own, and whose brown surface was disturbed only by the
claws of wild cats, the talons of eagles, and by a thousand storms. The
sea-gull’s nests floating on the bosom of the wide-spreading loch, or
hidden among the reeds of the deep mountain tarn, were alike insecure
from the agile form of Robert Graham. From a mere boy he bore a mortal
hatred towards the Earl; and to be revenged for his father’s death was
his only and darling ambition. During the long wintry nights, when the
mother and her two sons sat by the blazing peat fire in their lone
Highland home, Robert, laying his dark curly head in his mother’s lap,
would lisp, “When I grow big I will punish the Earl for killing my
father.” A tear would dim the fond mother’s eye, and she would whisper,
“Hush boy, the Earl is kind; he will one day make you a man.”
One day, during midsummer, some years after the death of
Malise Graham, the Earl’s niece was sent by the Countess with presents
to the widow of Gloschoil. After roaming for some hours on the banks of
Loch-Katrine, Robert was sent by his mother to see the niece safe over
the rugged “pass of the red post.” Robert felt proud of the honour, for
although he hated the Earl, there was something that drew him towards
the fair young lady he could not describe, and with light hearts the
youthful pair disappeared among the heather. When Robert and his fair
charge left Gloschoil
“Noontide was slumbering on the hill,”
and the lambkins were sporting among the bracken knowes
with hearts as light as their oavil. They soon reached Auchray, when the
niece pulled the blue bell, and Robert gathered the wild clover, to
spread on his father’s cairn, while they added a stone each to the heap.
Robert gazed wistfully at the rude memento of his father’s death, a tear
stood in his dark eye, and his heart was full to over-flowing; for
although Robert was a reckless youth, he had a large and warm heart, and
be he friend or foe, who trusted in Robert Graham was never
disappointed, for his heart was as good as his nature was rash. The fair
lady saw the tear that dimmed her young friend’s eye, and she whispered,
“’Twas a sad night that, Robert; but the Earl repents it deeply.” Robert
was about to break out with threats against the Earl; that he would make
him rue the day he had done the deed;—but the thought of grieving the
niece prevented him, and he concealed the thoughts in his bosom. Robert
saw his fair charge over the hills; not parting with her until he put
her in sight of her own fairy lake; when bidding her adieu, he turned
his steps homewards to Gloschoil. Years rolled on; Robert grew to man’s
estate, and the hatred towards the Earl grew with his years. The
canker-worm of revenge gnawed wildly at his heart, and, in spite of a
mother’s warning and brother’s advice, the youth persisted in cherishing
the idea of one day revenging his father’s blood. In furtherance of his
darling ambition, he enlisted the sympathies of a large body of his
mother’s kinsmen, and other lawless robbers that inhabited the wild
shores of Loch-Katrine and Loch-Lomond, Robert promising them large
rewards. He soon found himself at the head of a powerful body of
banditti, all as eager for the fray as himself, and as earnest to share
the spoil. The Earl being wealthy, and having a large tract of rich
country, the hardy half-starved mountaineers looked forward to rich
rewards. One day, about twenty years after the death of Malise Graham,
the Earl had just returned from fishing on the lake, when his eyes
caught the sight of a boat approaching the island from the northern
shore. Landing, the messenger handed him a letter, and then retired as
he came. The Earl tore it open. It was short, but it could not be
mistaken; it read thus,—
“To the Earl.
“I come to revenge my father’s death.
Robert Graham.”
The old man looked bewildered; and gazed after the
messenger, but he had disappeared on the distant shore. The Earl
hastened into the hall, not knowing whither he went. For a time he paced
the room in a state of wild agitation, as if fully realising the nature
of his position; but recollecting himself, he sank calmly back on his
seat. At that moment the niece chanced to enter the room, and seeing the
sad countenance of her friend and benefactor, she playfully asked its
cause. “Ah! and well I might look sad!” replied the Earl. “To-night, I
am a dead man; and God knows but you’ll be houseless and homeless.
Robert Graham of Gloschoil has come to be revenged for his father’s
death.” “That cannot be,” exclaimed the maid, and snatching the letter
she rushed to the Countess with the fatal epistle. There was no time to
lose, the shades of evening were gathering fast around the lake, and
already the voice of the foemen came from Crockmelly. The sound of
the slogan was distinctly heard, and the cry of “Loch Sloy” echoed
wildly across Portend, I’ll tell you what to do,” whispered the
Countess. “Go and meet Robert Graham unarmed; take your niece along with
you; offer her to him for wife; and for dowry grant him a portion of
land.” The Earl, acting on the advice of his wife, met his young and
fierce kinsman on the shore of the lake. The old chief first broke
silence. “Robert Graham!” he exclaimed, “you have come to' be revenged
for your father’s death?” “Yes,” answered Robert. “I hope you will
forego your intention,” replied the Earl. “Never,” growled the youth. “I
am getting old now,” continued the Earl; “and I know you will not
shorten the waning life, nor make my wife a widow.” “You made my mother
a widow, and me fatherless,” cried the passionate boy. “I did,” replied
the Earl; “and it grieved me to the heart. But I did what in me lay to
make amends for it, and I am ready to do more now. Only give up your
intention, become peaceful, and I will give you that young lady for your
wife, with land for her dowry.” “What!” exclaimed Robert, “I become your
vassal? No, and I could not protect you now though I were willing,—for
“Heard’st thou not that loud a-hoy?
And yonder distant cry ‘ Loch Sloy’?
A hundred spearmen, like a tide
Come rushing down the deep lake side;
And loudly each for vengeance calls
To lordly homes and ruined walls.”
As the youth finished the last sentence, the niece sprang
from the Earl’s side, and throwing her arms around the neck of Robert
Graham, exclaimed; “O, for my sake, Robert, save the Earl!” Her tears
bathed his bosom, and her flaxen hair hung in silken tresses on his
breast. Robert started, the appeal reached his heart, and the
remembrance of the time when she pulled the blue bell, while he gathered
the wild clover to spread on his father’s cairn, shot with meteoric
flash through his memory. The young heroic soul was moved, the naked
sword was sheathed, and his men were signalled back from the hill. A
short time thereafter Robert Graham became the husband of the Earl’s
niece, and received as her dowry the lands of Bruchorn in Aberfoyle.
Robert Graham and the Earl’s niece lie in the lone island
of Inchmahome—the green sod resting lightly on their bosoms, while
zephyrs play around their grave; and although the storms of a hundred
years have rattled over them, their descendants still live, and many
respectable families in Monteith trace with pride their descent from the
Earl’s niece. |
