Gilbert Cumin, Lord of Glenchearnich, as that country, watered by the river Dulnan, was denominated, was usually called Gibbon More, from his enormous size and strength. His chief residence was at Kincherdie, on the north-western bank of the Spey, on the brink13 of the river, just where there is now a ferry across to [316]Gartenmore, the vurra place, sir, where, as you have recorded in your book of “The Floods,” the worthy Mrs. Cameron made her miraculous14 voyage upon a brander. The old chronicler tells us, that the house stood on a green moat, fenced by a ditch, the vestiges15 of which are yet to be seen. A current tradition beareth, that at night a salmon16 net was cast into the pool below the wall of the house, and a small rope tied to the net, and brought in at the window, had a bell hung at it, which rung when a salmon came in and shook the net, so that the beast was quickly transferred from the river to the pot. What think ye of that, Mr. Clifford?
Well, whilst Gibbon More Cumin flourished, the ceremony of Cumin-making was always performed by his own hands. At the door of his castle there stood a huge stone, which I have often myself seen when I was a boy, and which, for ought I know, may be still in existence. It was hollowed out in the middle like an ancient baptismal font, and, indeed, it is by no means unlikely that it had been originally formed as such. Be this as it may, however, Gibbon More had it always filled with water for the refreshment20 of his fowls21. But, besides its uniform devotion to the truly ignoble22 purposes of his poultry23, it was also employed by him in the unseemly rites24 to which I have referred. When any of the strangers of whom I have spoken had a desire to be metamorphosed into a Cumin, he was brought incontinently to Kincherdie. There the gigantic Lord of Glenchearnich, with the observance of very great and decorous form, lifted him up, and having slowly and solemnly reversed the natural perpendicular25 position of the poor sinner, he held him up by the heels, as Thetis did her infant boy Achilles, and having dipped his head three times amid the pollutory potation, as I may call the hen’s water that filled the hollow stone, he set him, gasping26 and gaunting, upright on his legs again, telling him, in a stately tone, henceforward to live and do like a Cumin as he now was. But, notwithstanding this cantrip of Gibbon More’s, there was a marked distinction still preserved between those who were Cumins by blood and those who were thus manufactured by him by virtue28 of the chuckies’ water, for these children of adoption29 and their descendants had always [317]the degrading addition given to them of Cuminich clach-nan-cearc, or Cumins of the hen-trough.
It happened, about the time I am speaking of, that young Sir John Grant, son and heir of Sir Patrick Grant of Stratherrock, now the Laird of Freuchie, did one evening thus hold converse30 with a curious misformed waggish31 boy, who had no father, and who went by the familiar name of Archy Abhach, or Archy the Dwarf32. Kicked and cuffed33 as the youth had been about the castle, Sir John had taken compassion34 on him, and had made him his page; and the boy’s gratitude35 and attachment36 were consequently great.
“Why look ye so sad, sir?” demanded the boy, gently approaching his master, as he sat one evening on the battlement of the bartizan, looking towards the setting sun, with his head resting on the basket-hilt of his claymore, and his legs swinging about, as if he cared not whether he should swing himself over the wall or not. “Can poor Archy do nothing to rid thee of thy melancholy37 mood?”
“Nay38, boy,” said the knight39, kindly40 taking his hand, “I doubt thy powers can scarcely reach my malady41.”
“As yet thou knowest not the extent of my powers,” said the boy gravely, “nor can I show thee my remedy till thou makest me to know thy disease. Yet, methinks, my skill is such that I might dare shrewdly to guess at it. Hast thou not ta’en a heart-wound from a pair of bright eyes?”
“So far I must needs say, that, judging from this first effort of thine, thy skill in divining is not to be questioned,” said the knight.
“I will adventure further then, and say, that the slanting42 beams of yonder declining sun are now gilding43 the casement44 of thy lady-love,” said the boy Archy.
“O Archy, Archy!” cried the knight, giving full way to his feelings, “I have never enjoyed a moment’s peace since I beheld45 her at Whitsuntide at the church of Inverallan. She is an angel.”
“Granting that she be so,” said the boy, “for such they tell me must, reason or none, be yielded to all lovers—yea though the fair cause of their madness should be little less than a devil—granting, I say, that she be an angel, surely that should be no reason why thou shouldst thus mope and pine, Sir Knight.” [318]
“Thou forgettest, boy, that the hatred naturally born between a Cumin and a Grant forbids all hope on my part,” said Sir John despondingly.
“Methinks I could bring thee an instance where this hatred hath been exchanged for love,” said the boy.
“Where? when? with whom?” cried the knight eagerly.
“Here—now—and with Sir John Grant towards Matilda or Bigla Cumin, as she is called in the country here, daughter and heiress of the big Lord of Glenchearnich,” replied the boy laughing.
“Pshaw!” cried the knight, with a disappointed air.
“Nay, dear master,” said the boy; “and if thou hast been able to get over this natural-born antipathy46, why may not Bigla Cumin have been equally blessed by Heaven?”
“Ah!” cried the knight again, “would it might be so!”
“Wilt47 thou but give me leave to go to try what may be done?” demanded the boy. “Be assured I shall be better than most mediciners, for if I do no good, I shall take especial care to do no harm.”
“Kind boy, thou mayest e’en do thy best,” said the knight. “I well know thy zeal48 for thy master’s good; but were thy powers somewhat more equal to thy zeal, I should count more on the success of thine efforts.”
“Such as my poor powers may be, they shall be used to the utmost in thy service, Sir Knight,” said the boy. “Good night, then, so please thee; and farewell, it may be for some time, for I go on mine errand by to-morrow’s dawn, and the better I prosper49, the longer, perchance, may be mine absence.”
“Go, and may the Blessed Virgin50 guide thee and give thee luck,” said the knight. “But see, boy, that thou bringest thine own person into no peril51.”
“Trust me for that,” said Archy, as he disappeared from the bartizan.
The sun of next morning had scarcely well risen, and Gibbon More had just issued from his door to take a look at its face, that he might judge of the coming weather, when he descried52 an ill-formed dwarfish53 youth approaching, whose countenance54, though ill-favoured, had a certain prepossessing expression in it.
“Whence comest thou, little man?” demanded the Lord of Glenchearnich. [319]
“I come from the east,” said the boy readily; “my name is Archy—other name have I none—and I would fain be a Cumin.”
“Ha! ha! ha!—a Cumin, wouldst thou?” said Gibbon laughing. “By St. Mary, but our clan will be invincible55 when it shall be strengthened by such a powerful graff as thou! Tell me, what wouldst thou be good for, boy?”
“I could draw a bow at a pinch,” said the boy. “But I must needs confess that I were better for the service of some gentle lady’s bower56. I’d willingly be thy fair daughter the Lady Matilda’s page; and I’d serve her right faithfully.”
“If Bigla should fancy thy ugly face, I care not if she should have thee,” said Gibbon More, “for though thy countenance be homely58, it would seem to be honest.”
“Make me a Cumin, and the lady shall have no cause to complain of me,” replied the boy.
“Thou shalt have thy wish then, boy, without further delay,” said Gibbon More; and he straightway lifted up the youth, and, with more than ordinary gentleness, he performed the ceremony of the threefold ablution on him.
Archy Abhach, now converted into Archy Cumin, was speedily installed in his new office as page to the Lady Bigla, and, in his very first interview, he contrived59 to establish himself very firmly in the good graces of his fair mistress. But what might have been considered more wonderful, he made a no less favourable61 impression upon her handmaiden, a matter which jealousy64 might have rendered more difficult with any attendant of a less amiable65 disposition66 than the attached Agnes possessed67.
“There is something more than usually interesting about that poor friendless boy,” said the lady to Agnes, after her new page had been dismissed from her presence for a short time.
“A most interesting youth, notwithstanding the niggardly68 way in which dame69 Nature seems to have treated him,” said Agnes archly; “but as to his being friendless, I shrewdly suspect that he is a rogue70 for making that pretence71.”
“What mean you, Agnes?” demanded Bigla.
“I mean that the varlet had no need to have come to Kincherdie to look for protection, seeing that he hath long [320]been the favourite of one of the bravest young knights72 in all the country round,” said Agnes.
“Of whom do you speak?” demanded Bigla.
“Of a certain Sir John Grant, son and heir of old Sir Patrick Grant of Freuchie,” replied Agnes, with an air of mock gravity; “but, perhaps, you have never seen nor heard of the man.”
“O Agnes!” cried Bigla, energetically clasping her hands, and throwing down her eyes and blushing deeply.
“You have heard of him, then, lady?” said Agnes.
“A truce73 to your raillery,” said Bigla seriously, “and tell me quickly all you know or guess of this matter.”
“Why, all I know of the matter is simply this,” said Agnes, in the same tone, “last Whitsuntide the Lady Bigla Cumin saw, for the first time, the handsome young knight, Sir John Grant of Freuchie, at the church of Inverallan. The knight, with becoming gallantry, stepped gracefully75 forward and lifted the lady to her saddle, sighing deeply as he resigned the precious load to her prancing76 palfrey. The lady’s bower damsel, the quick-sighted Agnes Cumin, soon perceived that the said knight and lady had made a mutual77 impression on each other. With her wonted acuteness and ingenuity79, the said damsel soon extracted the truth from the said lady; and seeing that a misformed imp62 of a page, then in attendance on the said knight, hath now, without any apparent cause, left so good a master in order to undergo the ceremony of being baptized as a Cumin in the nauseous hen-trough, the said acute damsel ventures readily to pronounce that the flame burns as brightly and warmly at Freuchie as it does in my lady’s bower at Kincherdie—that is all.”
“But what can Sir John Grant mean by all this?” demanded Bigla, blushing more deeply than ever.
“To seek and secure an interview to be sure,” replied Agnes; “but I shall soon know what he would be at,” continued she. “I shall soon be at the bottom of it all.”
Without giving the Lady Bigla time to reply, the prompt and decided80 Agnes hurried away to hold converse with the page. Meeting, as they did, like two sharp flints, they were not long in striking fire enough to throw light upon the matter. Having mutually made one another fully57 aware of the position of affairs on both sides, they, without further hesitation81, proceeded, like two able plenipotentiaries, [321]to arrange plans for the future; and it was finally agreed between them, without further ceremony, that the high contracting parties should meet in person, on the ensuing evening, in the bourtree bower, at the lower end of the garden, beyond the rampart, and the page was forthwith despatched on a secret mission to the knight to inform him immediately of this so happy an arrangement.
“Blessed Virgin, what hast thou done, Agnes!” cried Bigla Cumin, ere she had well heard her maid to an end; and hiding her crimsoned83 face with both her hands, “What will Sir John Grant think of me?”
“He will call you an angel, as Archy tells me he has already done,” said Agnes coolly.
“Nay, nay, but this must not be!” said Bigla, starting from her chair. “Run, Agnes, and stop the boy from going on this most foolish and imprudent errand.”
“Stop him,” said Agnes. “You might as well ask me to stop Black Peter’s arrow after it has left his bowstring. The boy is half way to Freuchie by this time. He knows too well how warmly his news will be received to allow the grass to grow at his heels.”
“What will my father say to this strange arrangement, if it should come to his knowledge?” cried Bigla, “to meet as a lover the son of the head of the very house with which we have ever held so great enmity.”
“In the first place, your father, good man, must know nothing about this meeting,” said Agnes. “It concerns him not; secondly84, if there hath been ill blood for so long between the two clans, the sooner peace and friendship is re-established the better, especially after two of the principal persons have met together in a Christian85 church, as you and Sir John have done.”
“Agnes, Agnes!” cried the lady, with emotions of vexation not altogether unmingled, it must be confessed, with certain tinglings of a more agreeable nature, “Agnes, Agnes! thy precipitation in this matter hath brought me into a most distressing87 state of perplexity. I know not what to do.”
But before the morning’s sun had well risen, the page appeared in the lady’s presence, with a perfumed billet, sealed with a flame-coloured silk ribbon, and filled with such professions of love on the part of Sir John Grant, as brought tenfold blushes into the lovely face of Bigla; [322]and so touched her young heart as to leave her without a chance of withstanding the powerful arguments of her handmaiden Agnes, backed up as they were by the warm descriptions of his master’s sufferings, and the earnest solicitations for her compassion on him, which were so eloquently88 urged by the clever page. The result was, that, attended by Agnes, she did go tremblingly to the trysting place at the appointed hour—listened with a pleasure she had never felt before to all the knight’s fervent89 vows90; and both were made so happy by their mutual confessions91, that the prudential suggestions of Agnes and Archy were repeatedly required ere the tender separation could be effected. So well, however, was that and several other interviews of a similar nature planned and brought about by the two able auxiliaries92, that for a long time the easy Gibbon More had no suspicion that anything of the sort was going on. But at length it did happen, that as Sir John Grant was returning from one of these meeting, he was rather unluckily encountered, not far from the house of Kincherdie, by Hector, the confidential93 servant of Gibbon More. The man’s suspicions were so awakened94 by the circumstance of the knight being on foot, that he scrupled96 not to follow him at a distance, until he saw him join an attendant who held a couple of horses in a grove97 about a mile off. Full of his discovery, Hector went directly to Gibbon More; and there is no saying what the consequences might have been had not the Lord of Glenchearnich been a person of a temperament98 almost miraculously99 apathetical. So wonderful was his disposition in this respect, indeed, that it was only after his patience had been assailed100 and battered101, as it were, by repeated and most provoking attacks, that he ever could be excited at all. But then, indeed, when he was once roused, he became on the sudden like a raging lion, and his enormous strength and fearless courage being brought tremendously into action by his fury, the effects were quite terrific.
“So you think, Hector, that the young Stratherrock stripling has been here to look after Bigla,” said Gibbon, after hearing his man’s story to an end. “Hum,—ha! I did perceive that the maiden63 caught his eye at the church of Inverallan on Whitsuntide. Ha, ha, ha!—to think of a Grant being mated with her is too ridiculous. [323]But, for all that, I cannot blame the boy for bowing before the shrine102 of my daughter’s beauty. I’ll warrant the young goose came over here to try to get another peep, were it only of her robe as it might chance to sweep by her casement. Wiser folks than he have done as foolish things; I’ve done as much myself in my youth. But Bigla can know nought103 of this, so there is no harm done.”
Whether Hector’s renewed cautions did or did not succeed in making his master think something more of this matter than he was thus at first disposed to do, I cannot say; but certain it is, that the Lord of Glenchearnich was somewhat suddenly seized with the resolution of going some weeks earlier than he was wont78, to spend the summer months on his hill-grazing property of Delnahaitnich, near the source of the river Dulnan. This was a most untoward104 event for the lovers, not only because the distance between them was thus immensely increased, but because Gibbon More’s residence there was a small cottage, which might be called little better than a mere105 shealing,1 in or about which it would be next to impossible for them to meet without observation. And accordingly after this move was made, some weeks were vainly expended106 in fruitless attempts on the part of Archy Abhach to procure107 for his master Sir John, even the gratification of such a distant view of the Lady Bigla’s robe as her father described in his conversation with Hector. Yet Sir John often hovered108 about the place, and lay for many a night wrapped up in his plaid among the heather of the neighbouring forest with no other shelter but a projecting rock and the thick foliage109 of the firs that grew over it. Archy Abhach was almost as much disappointed as Sir John himself at being so baulked. His ingenuity was put to the very rack, but all without effect; because it somehow or other happened that Gibbon More never went from home, and so his daughter was never left for one moment out of his sight. The knight had thus no comfort but in the frequent letters and messages which Archy contrived to carry between the lovers, and which they were fain to employ for want of those more interesting interviews, of which they were now altogether deprived. [324]
It happened that Archy Abhach was one night sent with one of those letters towards the place where his master Sir John Grant was lying hid in the upper part of the forest of Dulnan, which then spread much higher over the hills than it now does. The moon was not yet risen, and the dense110 foliage overhead very much increased the darkness and the difficulty of his way. As he was scrambling111 along past the narrow mouth of a small ravine that opened on the course of the stream he was following, he came suddenly upon two men who were seated beside the dying embers of a fire which they seemed to have used for some purpose of rude and hasty cookery. Curiosity led him involuntarily to stop for a moment to observe them; but becoming instantly aware of his imprudence in doing so, he moved quickly away, and began to run as hard as he could. But the consequences which he dreaded113 were already incurred114, and he had not gone many paces when he heard footsteps hurrying after him. He fled as fast as his legs could carry him, but the darkness was such that he tripped and fell, and his neck was instantly in the grasp of a powerful hand.
“I have him fast,” said a rough voice in Gaelic; “it is but a very small boy after all. Shall I whittle115 his craig with my skian-dhu?”
“Not for thy life,” replied another voice in the same language. “Bring him along with thee, that we may see what he is. Why wouldst thou hurt the creature till we know something more about him?”
The man who had seized Archy now threw him over his shoulder as he would have done a dead hare, and groped his way back with him to the ravine, where a blaze being produced by a dry bush of heather, the boy was set down between them for examination. Archy on his part was not slow in using his eyes also, and in a much less time than I can tell it to you, he ran them over the bulky rough figure of the individual who had seized him, and then as hastily surveyed the compact well put-together active-looking person, and intelligent countenance of the other, who seemed in every respect to be the superior. This last was by no means strange to him, and, to the surprise of the man himself, he immediately addressed him by his name.
“Corrie MacDonald!” said he, “sure I am that thou [325]wilt never hurt any man belonging to Sir Patrick Grant of Stratherrock.”
But I must now tell you that this same Corrie MacDonald was a certain hero who flourished in those days in Lochaber, and who made himself dreaded all through Moray-land and its neighbouring districts by the periodical visits of plunder116 which he paid to them. Amongst other tracts117 of country, Strathspey and its tributary118 valleys were wont to be a prominent object of his attention. He had always a large band of followers119 at his command, who were equally expert in driving away herds120 of cattle, and brave in beating off the owners when they pursued with the hope of recovering them. Corrie was a reaver of no ordinary character; for, robber though he was, he had a natural fund of liberality and generosity121 about him; and he had so great a stock of native humour in him, that he was ever ready to indulge his waggish disposition at any expense; and no predatory expedition had ever half so great a relish122 for him, as that in which he could contrive60 to mix up a bit of a frolic. Many a cow and ox had Corrie MacDonald carried away from the extensive possessions of the Lord of Glenchearnich. But these trifling123 depredations124 never disturbed the good temper or overcame the patience of that most extraordinary man, the effect of whose unparalleled forbearance was to awaken95 in the inquiring mind of Corrie MacDonald a certain philosophic126 curiosity to ascertain127 by experiment to what extent it was capable of being stretched; and he had long panted for a favourable opportunity of bringing this investigation128 to a fair trial.
“Corrie MacDonald,” cried Archy Abhach, in a whining129 tone, “sure I am that thou who hast never had quarrel with Sir Patrick Grant of Stratherrock wilt never hurt any man belonging to him.”
“Thou art right,” replied Corrie. “Not only shall I respect the safety of every man belonging to Sir Patrick Grant, but I will even respect thee, who art but a mannikin, if thou canst prove thyself to be his. I have had peaceable passage to and fro through his grounds on Loch Ness side for too many years to do otherwise.”
“Then look ye here,” said Archy, plucking from his bosom130 the letter of which he was the bearer, and straightway showing the address, which was—To the honourable131 [326]and gallant74 knight. Sir John Grant of Freuchie, these, with speed.
“That is all well,” said Corrie. “But methinks, mannikin, that this is anything but the road to Freuchie, if I know aught of this country side.”
“My master is up in the forest, a little bit above this, waiting for my tidings,” said Archy.
“Aha!” cried Corrie, relaxing his features into a smile, “some love adventure, I warrant me. Awell! I am the last man to put hindrance132 in the way of any such matter, especially where Sir John Grant is concerned. Nay, I would willingly go a good way out of my road to help him on.”
“Sayest thou so, Corrie MacDonald!” cried the urchin133. “Then could I tell thee how thou mightest lend my master thy most effectual aid, and yet keep thine own road still, and that to thine own most abundant profit.”
“How may that be, my small man?” demanded Corrie. “If thou canst make thy plans clear to my conviction, thou shalt find me ready, zealous134, prompt, and decisive.”
“Thou knowest Gibbon More Cumin, lord of these broad lands of Glenchearnich,” said Archy.
“Know him?” said Corrie with a grin. “Well do I that.”
“He is living here hard by at Delnahaitnich,” continued the page. “He keeps home so close, that no one can even have a sight of his daughter, far less have speech of her. Couldst thou not carry away his cattle from the forest here, so as to furnish him with a reasonably rational object for travelling for a season?”
“By Saint Comb, but thou hast a wit larger than the tiny proportions of thy body might teach one to look for!” said Corrie. “The notion is excellent. I have long wished to work that lump of dough135 into a ferment136. And, by Saint Mary, as the creach will be carried off from under his very nose, I shall stir up his temper now, if it is to be stirred up at all by mortal man. So speed to thy master, and keep him advised to watch his time; and if I don’t by and by clear the way for him, by giving Gibbon More and his people a chase of a day or two through the hills after me and my men, I shall wonder of it.”
“Master, master,” cried Gibbon More’s man Hector, as he came running in to him next morning quite out of breath, “Corrie MacDonald has been in the forest last [327]night, and he has carried away every stot he could find on this part of your lands.”
“No—sure enough—he has not taken a single cow,” replied Hector, “I counted the cow-beasts myself, and they are all safe.”
“There was some civility in that, however,” said Gibbon laughing. “The fellow is a thief of some consideration; for if he hath left us the cows, thou knowest, Hector, that we shall have plenty of stot beasts by and by.”
“Ou aye, surely, sir,” said Hector as he retired138, very much disappointed by the manner in which his intelligence had been received.
Corrie was not without his spies; and the oxen were hardly well so far over the hill, on their way to Lochaber, as to be fairly considered beyond all reach of recovery, when he returned with some of his people to prowl about Delnahaitnich. There he soon learned from Archy Abhach the manner and speech with which Gibbon More had received the news of his loss.
“I’ll try him again,” said Corrie. “The fellow must be the dullest stirk that ever was calved.”
“The cows are all gone now, master!” cried the same ill-omened messenger, as he entered Gibbon More’s apartment next morning before he was out of bed.
“A plague upon the plundering139 thief,” cried Gibbon More, “has he taken the young beasts too?”
“No!” said the man, who was much disappointed to find that this, his second piece of bad news, was just as unsuccessful in rousing his master’s ire as his first had been. “He has not ta’en a single young beast, but, on my conscience, I’m thinking he has ta’en enough.”
“The villain140 robs by rule, I see,” said Gibbon; “but since the young beasts are safe, Hector, we shall have plenty of both cows and stots again, anon, you know.”
Corrie MacDonald, who was curious to find out how this second loss was to affect Gibbon, was absolutely piqued141 beyond endurance when he heard of the quiet manner in which he had taken it. Withdrawing a handful of his people from the large body of them who were then in charge of the second prey142 he had taken, he lay in ambush143 for a third night. [328]
“We’re altogether harried144 now then!” cried Hector, as he appeared the third morning with a face like a ghost. “Every young beast upon the place is gone.”
“What!” cried Gibbon More, starting up to hurry on his clothes in a state of the fiercest excitement, “does the caitiff make a butt145 of me? I can bear to lose my bestial146, but to be played on thus by a thieving scoundrel is more than man’s patience can suffer. I’ll teach these ruffians to crack their jokes upon me! Where is my two-handed sword?”
“Father, father! dear father, where are ye running to?” cried his daughter Bigla, as she met him raging out at the door like a roaring lion. “Where are you running without your bonnet147?”
“I have no time to speak now,” replied the infuriated Gibbon. “I’ll tell you all about it when I come back.”
“I fear he has gone on some rash and dangerous enterprise,” said Bigla, “run, run, Hector, and gather the people, and be after him with help as fast as you may.”
Hector was not slow; but he must have been active indeed, if he could have caught Gibbon More at the pace he was going. He rushed up the steep hill in front of his dwelling148, and was soon out of sight.
Gibbon had no sooner reached the summit, than, throwing his eyes abroad, he espied149 his young cattle feeding on the south side of the hill called the Geal-charn, or the Hoary150 Hill; and from the smoke which he observed curling up from a ravine at a short distance from the spot where the animals were scattered151 about, he at once conjectured152 that the robbers had chosen that concealment153 as a fit place for cooking their morning meal. He was right in this supposition; for, judging from his former apathy154, Corrie MacDonald had not quite calculated that this third act of depredation125 would lead to so speedy a pursuit.
“What a pity it is that Gibbon More Cumin has no more beasts left in Delnahaitnich,” said Corrie MacDonald to his people, with an ironical155 laugh, as they sat in a circle round the fire, devouring156 one of the young beasts they had killed.
“We need not come back here for a while, till he sends up some more stock from Kincherdie,” said one of his men.
“We have done not that much amiss in these three [329]turns,” said another. “I’m thinking we may be content to free him of blackmail157 for a season.”
“By the beard of St. Barnabas, but we’ll come back again and again, until we drive away every beast the cowardly loon158 has between this and Spey,” said Corrie. “What should we do with such a lump of butter, but keep melting at it as long as it will run.”
“Surely, surely,” replied several of them.
“Villains, do ye dare to laugh at me at the very moment when you are feeding at my cost?” cried Gibbon More, rushing suddenly and unexpectedly among them, like a raging wolf into a flock of penned sheep. “I’ll teach you to make a fool of me.”
The immense blade of his two-handed sword gleamed like a meteor in the air, flashed in the sun, and shed lightnings into their terrified eyes. Each of them tried to scramble160 to his feet as he best could; and one or two were shorn of their heads ere they could rise from the ground. Bonnets161 with heads in them fell to right and left, as I have seen ripe apples scattered from their parent bough162 by a violent gust163 of wind, or by the inroad of some thieving schoolboy. No one thought of anything else but flight; and the actions of all were as quick as their thoughts. But Gibbon More’s enormous double-edged weapon was quicker in the repetition of its sweeping164 cuts than even thought itself. On he went, slashing165 right and left after them as they fled, till he had strewed166 the ravine and the hill-side with about a dozen of their carcases, and then, breathless and overcome with rage, haste, and toil167, he sat himself down to rest on the heather. The remainder of the robbers were thus allowed to escape; and as he did not know the boasting Corrie MacDonald personally, that hero contrived to get safe away among the rest, and went home to Lochaber, somewhat less disposed to try experiments on the temper of Gibbon More Cumin, than he had declared himself to be before this his terrible and unlooked for onslaught.
Gibbon More’s people, with Hector at their head, arrived too late to share with him in the glory of his victory. But they were useful in burying the slain168. A few tumuli, which are still to be seen raising their green heads among [330]the heather on the southern declivity169 of the Geal-charn, were thrown up by them over the dead bodies; and they then had the satisfaction of driving home their master’s young cattle in safety to their native pasture, where the animals afterwards grew to be cows and oxen, entirely170 free from any further alarm from Corrie MacDonald.
I need not say that the sharp-witted page took good care that his master should profit by the temporary absence of Gibbon More. Sir John Grant was at the cottage immediately after the Lord of Glenchearnich had left it. But the knight had little advantage after all from an adventure which had cost Corrie MacDonald so dear. He had indeed the satisfaction of again beholding171 and conversing172 with Bigla; but, filled as she was at the time with alarm and anxiety about her father’s safety, she could talk about or listen to no other subject. The time of the Lord of Glenchearnich’s absence fled like a short dream. His anticipated travel of a few days had, by his own extraordinary activity and courage, been reduced to a few short hours, and the wary173 and watchful174 page had barely time to warn his master away, ere Gibbon More’s voice was heard calling to his people, as he returned to the house begrimed with the blood and soil of his recent conflict.
But Sir John’s more frequent opportunities of meeting with Bigla were soon afterwards again happily renewed by the return of Gibbon More to Kincherdie; and, by the ingenuity of the page, these stolen interviews passed over undiscovered even by the lynx-eyed Hector, whose energies were by this time somewhat diverted from their wonted watchfulness175, by a certain newborn affection which had recently possessed his bosom for the fair maid Agnes.
It happened on one occasion that Gibbon More chanced to go to a fair or market at Inverness. The streets were crowded with people, as well as with horses, cows, and oxen of all sorts. There might have been observed the eagle-winged bonnet of the chief, followed by his tail of clansmen and dependants176; and chieftains were seen promiscuously177 mingled86 with cattle-boys, gillies, and serfs of every degree and denomination178, thronging179 the public way. Many were the friendly salutations, and many the flashes of hostile defiance181 that passed among the various personages who, coming from distant parts of the country, chanced on that day to meet each other. Often was the authority of [331]the provost, the bailies, the sheriff, and other officials called into operation to quell182 embryo183 quarrels, and sometimes it was all that the united forces of these public functionaries184 could do to keep the restless and bloodthirsty dirks and claymores in their sheaths. Rarely did the mantled185 and well-wimpled damsels venture forth82 amidst the complication of dangers that were to be encountered at every step from the prevalence of those quarrels, as well as from the horns of the cattle and the heels of the horses. They contented186 themselves with saluting187 their friends from their open lattices; and many were the warm though distant acknowledgments that took place between the young and the fair ladies, who, whilst they were ostensibly occupied in gazing at the marvels188 in the street,—at the jesters and mummers who jingled189 their bells, or grinned with their painted faces, and trolled their rude and threadbare rhymes to ditties as unpolished, the pretty creatures were in reality altogether overlooking these vulgar absurdities190, and were holding interesting conversations by signals, only known to themselves, with their handsome Highland191 lovers in the street.
Bigla Cumin was an heiress of consequence, but she was moreover very beautiful, so that many were the eyes that sought her as she sat at a lofty balcony in the house of a burgher friend of her father’s, and not a few were those who endeavoured, and endeavoured in vain, to obtain one glance of recognition from her. I do not mean to say, however, that the lass was haughty192, but she bore herself with the modesty193 befitting her years and her sex. There was but one on whom she did vouchsafe194 to look with an eye of yespecial favour, and that was Sir John Grant. Her heart beat in double time when he and his father, Sir Patrick the Lord of Stratherrock, passed by in their gay red and green tartan, which, except in its broad blue lysts and in its want of those pure white sprainges which enliven that of the Cumin, had so general a resemblance to it, that at a little distance they might have been easily mistaken for each other. When the rays from her bright eyes shot across the street in a condescending195 smile in return for the more than merely courteous196 reverence197 which he made to her, their sunshine was concentrated, if I may so express myself, as if it had been met by the burning glasses of that most wonderful man Archimedes, and it was returned to her in one melting focus of adoration198. [332]
“Angel that she is!” said Sir John to his father.
“She is an angel, indeed, boy!” replied the elder knight; “and, moreover, there be angels enow in her father’s coffers, not to mention those broad acres of his which would give to the Grants so pretty a little principality in Strathspey. Stick to her, boy! She is well worth the winning.”
“Would I could but have an interview with her, freed from all chance of interruption from her old father!” said Sir John in a tone of vexation.
“Trust to me, dear master,” said Archy Abhach in a whisper, as at that moment he plucked the knight’s sleeve. “Watch well thy time! I have seen some one in the town here to-day who will be right willing to lend thee a helping199 hand.”
Gibbon More was not wont to go without the following of a chieftain on such occasions as this; and he generally bore his portly person over the crown of the causeway with a dignity which, when at home, he laid aside with his best bonnet, doublet, and plaid. The recognition between him and his new neighbour, as he called him, was remarkably200 warm and friendly on the part of Sir Patrick Grant, and very stately and condescending on his own side. His eyes were offended at the sight of the two Grants and their followers, and he sought relief from them in looking at a beautiful black palfrey which a West Highland gilly was leading down the street. The prancing, the caracoling, and the menage of the animal showed that it had been bred of the gentlest Arabian blood in some far away English pasture.
“Ho!” cried Gibbon, stopping the man. “Who is the owner of that beautiful creature?”
“I am the owner, sir,” replied a sharp-eyed little man, right well accoutred both as to his arms and garb201, but having no remarkable202 signs of any great rank about him.
“Are you for parting with the pretty creature?” inquired Gibbon More.
“I should not care much to part with him to a good customer,” replied the other.
“Is he young, gentle, sound, and sure-footed?” demanded Gibbon.
“I’ll answer all your questions by and by,” replied the West Highlander203, “if you will only do me the favour to satisfy me as to one point.” [333]
“What is that?” asked Gibbon More.
“Will you tell me what part of the country you come from?”
“From Strathspey, to be sure,” replied Gibbon.
“I guessed as much,” said the other. “I see, moreover, from the set of your tartan that you are a Cumin, and by your attire204, bearing, and following, I can guess that you are a gentleman of some note. Do you happen to know Gibbon More Cumin of your country?”
“Know Gibbon More Cumin!” cried he, laughing good humouredly; “if I know anyone, I should know him, seeing that he always lives in the house with me, and that we never eat a meal asunder205. I love him better than a brother. But not to keep you any longer in doubt—I am Gibbon More Cumin!”
“I am truly glad to see you,” said the West Highlander, seizing his hand and shaking it heartily206. “You are the man, of all others alive, to whom I am most obliged.”
“Ha, friend!” replied Gibbon, looking hard and seriously at him, “I cannot say that I recollect207 having ever seen you before; how then have I happened so to have obliged you?”
“Well!” said the other, “if you cannot remember that you ever saw me before, the greater was your kindness to me—unsight unseen, as we say. It is not every man that keeps such an easy reckoning as you do of the benefits for which his friends are indebted to him.”
“But what benefit have you had from me?” demanded Gibbon.
“I’ll tell you that,” said the West Highlander. “I’ll tell you that in a moment. You see, I have no less than three strapping208 lasses of daughters. I have married all the three, and to each one of them I gave a tocher which you provided.”
“Tut!” cried Gibbon laughing, “the man is demented. When did I ever give a tocher to daughter of yours? By St. Mungo, I have a strapping lass of a daughter of my own to portion. I have little ado therefore to portion those of other people.”
“What I say is nevertheless true,” replied the other. “And so sensible am I of the obligations I owe to you, that by way of a small return, and to show my gratitude, I must ask of you, as a favour, to accept of this horse of [334]mine as a present for your daughter; and if you will go to the inn with me, I shall be happy to give you a pint209 of French Claret, if such be to be had in the town, to drink good luck to the young lady and her new palfrey.”
“As I am a Cumin you are an honest fellow!” cried Gibbon More, shaking him again heartily by the hand. “But I prythee explain—I cannot accept either your present or your wine till you tell me who you are, and until you expound210 your riddle211 to me.”
“I am not sure how far I am safe to do that,” said the other archly, “especially here, on the High Street of Inverness; and you standing7 there with so many pretty men at your back.”
“If I have done you kindnesses heretofore,” said Gibbon, “what fear can you have of me now, stand where I will, or let me be backed as I may?”
“Why, then, you see,” said the other, with a certain degree of comical hesitation, “I must confess that I did, on one occasion, presume somewhat too far on your liberality, and in your anger you gave me such a fright, that I am not sure that I have just altogether got the better of it yet.”
“Ha! ha! ha! why, you give me more riddles212 every time you open your mouth,” replied Gibbon. “When did I ever give you a fright?”
“Ou! troth sudden and terrible was the fright you gave me!” said the man, “and surely after tochering of three daughters, each of them with twelve beautiful milch cows and a bull, all of which came from your pastures, I should have been contented. But I’m thinking that if I was a small thing over greedy, the fright I got from Gibbon More’s two-handed sword, as it flashed behind me on the Geal Charn, was enough to put all greed out of my head, so far at least as he was concerned.”
“Hoo!” exclaimed Gibbon with a long whistle, “ha! ha! ha! Corrie MacDonald! as I am a Cumin, you are a most merry conditioned rogue as ever I met with! Your hand again! I accept your handsome present, and I will go drink your pot of wine with you, with all my heart, to my daughter’s health, and to a better acquaintance between you and me. Ha! ha! ha! By St. Mary, but I am sorry now that I killed your men and so grievously frightened yourself. But, though the poor fellows are past all hope [335]of recovery now, I am resolved that your dread112 of me shall be drowned in your own flagon. Lead on then, my brave fellow, to your hostel213.”
Gibbon More had too much enjoyment214 in this unexpected meeting and merry-making to allow it to terminate very soon; but Bigla Cumin was in some degree recompensed for the tedious time she had to tarry for her father by the long interview which she enjoyed with Sir John Grant, as well as by the sight of the beautiful prancing palfrey, which was led out for her to ride home upon.
It was not very long after this occurrence that poor Gibbon More Cumin was seized with a sudden malady, of which he died after a few days’ illness, and he was carried by his friends and dependants to be laid to sleep in the tomb of his fathers. Jealous of the Grants even in his dying moments, he left Bigla, his orphan215 daughter and heiress, under the guardianship216 of some of the chieftains of his own clan, with earnest injunctions above all things to “keep her out of the fremyt2 hands of Freuchie.”
There was no one more anxious to fulfil this dying order of Gibbon’s than one of the Cumins, who at that time possessed Logie, which, in later times, became the patrimonial218 property of that more recent branch whence proceeded the worthy family which is now so designated. This gentleman had been for some time one of Bigla’s suitors; and his pretensions219 had been always favourably220 looked upon by her father. The days of mourning for the old man were not yet expired, when Logie came to Kincherdie, gaily221 apparelled, and well appointed and attended, and urging the authority of a father’s dying wish, he signified to Bigla his desire of taking her with him on the ensuing day to his residence on the banks of the river Findhorn, where, as his guest, and under the protection of his aged222 mother, she should find a safe and comfortable asylum223. Though satisfied that there was more of the warmth of the lover in the language in which this invitation was conveyed, than altogether befitted the character of a guardian217, yet the young maiden, in her present lonely state, could not well find any reasonable excuse for refusal, and accordingly she was compelled, however unwillingly224, to accept his offer, and she issued orders to her people to prepare for the journey. [336]
The prospect225 of so soon leaving that home where she had spent her whole life under the fostering care of her doting226 father, filled her heart with a double portion of sorrow; and after artlessly communicating her feelings to Logie and his friends, she craved227 their pardon, entreated228 them to entertain one another, and to make themselves at home, and then she sought the retirement229 of her chamber230, where she spent the remainder of the day, and the greater part of the evening, in giving way to that affliction which had more than one exciting cause.
“My dear mistress,” said her faithful maid Agnes Cumin, breaking in upon her as she sat in silent abstraction, with her moist cheek resting upon her hand, “why should you cry your eyes out thus? The night is soft and balmy, a little fresh air would do you good. Do let me throw this plaid over you, and be persuaded to step out a little, were it only as far beyond the walls as the bourtree bower at the lower end of the garden.”
“I cannot, my good Aggy,” replied Bigla, with a fresh flood of tears; “in sooth I have no heart.”
“Come! be persuaded to try the air,” said Agnes. “Who knows what sighs and tears may be at this moment idly fanning the leaves and watering the rosebuds231 of your own bonny bower.”
“What say you?” cried Bigla, starting up with a suddenly acquired energy. “What say you, Aggy? is he in the arbour?”
“Hush, my lady!” said the cautious girl, “he is there; and from his tears and sighs I should judge that his heart is well attuned232 to thine at this moment.”
“Let me fly to him!” exclaimed Bigla, “the moments are most precious;” and throwing her plaid hastily around her, she stole out beyond the barbican; and, having reached the garden, she ran on tiptoe to the simple elder-bush bower at the farther end of it, leaving Archy Abhach to keep watch against intrusion.
The scene between Bigla and her lover was tender and melting. For a time they did little else than weep and sigh together.
“Aggy tells me that you go with Logie to-morrow,” said Sir John at last. “How could you suffer yourself to be persuaded to agree to any such arrangement?”
“It was with no good will that I did so,” replied Bigla; [337]“but as Logie was armed with my dear departed father’s delegated authority, and as his proposal was backed by a parent’s dying wish, I could not withstand his request.”
“Holy Mother, then art thou lost to me for ever!” cried Sir John passionately233. “Canst thou thus coolly resolve, even for such a cause, to throw thyself into the very jaws234 of those from whom I can never hope to reclaim235 thee but by force of arms!”
“Force of arms!” said Bigla. “I question much whether any force of arms from the Grants could prevail against the men of my clan, who will have the keeping of me. But fear not, for the time is not far distant when the law will give me guidance of mine own affairs; then mayest thou reclaim me from myself with full assurance of a ready compliance236 on my part.”
“But what if these clansmen of thine should basely coerce237 thee to a hated union with one of themselves?—with Logie, for instance, who is old enough to be thy father!”
“I have no such fears,” replied Bigla.
“By the rood, but I have!” cried Sir John hurriedly. “You forget the old saying,—Whilst there are leaves in the forest there—a—a—a”——
“Nay,” said Bigla playfully, “do finish your proverb, Sir Knight. Whilst there are leaves in the forest there will be guile238 in a Cumin. Did your worship mean that as a compliment to me, or do you forget that I, too, am a Cumin?”
“Nay, nay, nay! my dearest Bigla, you are truth itself,” replied Sir John eagerly. “Pardon me, my love, for quoting this old saw; but, seriously, you are too valuable, too tempting239 a prize to be risked in any hands but—but—but”——
“But yours, as I presume thou wouldst say, good Sir Knight,” replied Bigla, interrupting him in the same playful tone.
“Thou hast said it, angel of my life!” exclaimed Sir John, rapturously kissing her hand. “I can and will resign thee to no one! Thou art my pledged, mine affianced bride!”
“I am, I am, indeed I am,” said Bigla tenderly.
“Then why shouldst thou put our mutual happiness to peril?” cried Sir John. “Why not secure it by flying [338]with me this moment? My horses and people are within a whistle of where we now are, and in half an hour’s riding or so we shall be safe within the walls of Castle Grant.”
“No, no, no!” replied she, “a stolen marriage would neither be for the credit of Sir John Grant nor for that of Bigla Cumin. Besides, I should be but a poor offering at Castle Grant were my broad lands not well buckled240 to my back.”
“I care not for thy lands,” said Sir John, “’tis thyself I would wed19, and not thine estates. And if that be all, let us to horse forthwith. Better for me to secure thy precious self, though with the chance of losing thy lands, than lose thee in trying to save thy lands.”
“’Tis gallantly241 resolved of thee, Sir John,” said Bigla; “but I cannot allow thy chivalrous242 ardour to do us both so serious an injury. All I ask of thee, then, is to trust everything to my discretion243 and resolution, and, depend upon it, thou hast nothing to fear.”
The parting between the two lovers was tender and prolonged, and it was only at length finally effected by the interference of Agnes and the page, who came running to tell them that the revellers in the hall were breaking up. And what he told them was true, for Bigla found that she required the exertion244 of some degree of ingenuity to effect her retreat to her chamber unnoticed.
An early hour of the next day beheld the cavalcade245, formed by the united trains of Bigla Cumin and her kinsman246 the Laird of Logie, winding247 away from her paternal248 mansion249, amidst the mingled lamentations and benedictions250 of her people. Bigla was mounted on her favourite palfrey, the beautiful and fleet courser of Arabian blood which was presented to her by Corrie MacDonald. Her maid Agnes rode by her side on an animal of mettle251 little short of that which carried her mistress. Logie and his friends, all well armed, surrounded both in a sort of irregular phalanx, which Bigla could not help thinking had more the appearance of a guard to prevent the escape of a prisoner, than that which might do her honour or give her protection. Her own followers were but few, and they were mixed up with those of the Laird of Logie. In the midst of them was the faithful page Archy, to whose care was committed the charge of a small iron-bound oaken chest, which contained [339]her family charters and other important documents. This Logie had especially insisted that she should carry with her, in order to secure its safety. The strange misformed urchin sat like an ape, mounted on a very remarkable milk-white steed, of noble courage and beautiful proportions, and whose action was in no degree inferior to his beauty. As this fine animal had been accustomed to carry Gibbon More himself for some years before his death, it was not wonderful that Bigla should have ridden up to caress252 him ere the march began, and whilst she did so she contrived to give some secret orders to the rider, which did not appear to have been poured into a deaf ear.
The sun was nearly in the meridian253 before the party reached that point on the edge of the high plain, immediately over the double valley of the rivers Findhorn and Divie. There, as you know, a grand and extensive view of these romantic twin glens is to be enjoyed, together with the broad, rich, and beautiful vale that is formed by their union, with the majestic254 combined stream winding away through it, between its rocky, irregular, and wooded banks, till it is lost amidst the vast extent of forest stretching widely along both sides of it, as it proceeds on its course towards the fertile plains of the low country of Moray, and its distant firth, the whole being bounded by the blue mountains of the north. Bigla had seen this glorious prospect more than once before, but she was an enthusiastic lover of nature, and, consequently, she was not sorry when she heard the Laird of Logie propose that they should alight for a few moments to rest themselves, and that they might enjoy it, at greater leisure, and with more ease to themselves. Logie did not make this proposal without private reasons of his own. Having contrived to seat himself apart with Bigla, he began to urge his passion with an energy which he had never ventured to employ before, and after using every argument that he thought might be most likely to prevail on her to yield to his suit, he seated her again on her palfrey, and as he rode down the wooded steeps by her side, he continued to press her eagerly on the same subject, without taking the trouble to use the delicacy255 of speaking in a tone which might have rendered their conversation private from those with whom they travelled.
“If you will only consent to be mine, fair Bigla,” said [340]he, “I will make you mistress of as much of the bonny land of Moray as your bright eyes can reach over.”
“Put your fate and mine upon the peril of this condition then,” said Logie eagerly.
“I trow I might safely do so, were I to bar all trick,” replied Bigla.
“Nay, then, thou art pledged to stand to the bargain,” said Logie.
“Ha, look there now, gentlemen!” cried Logie. “My fair ward27 and kinswoman Bigla Cumin here hath pledged her own pretty person to me, on condition that I shall make her mistress of as much of bonny Moray-land as her beauteous eyes can reach over. Now, how say you? Let her cast her eyes forward, and you will all bear me witness, my friends, that she can now see nothing of which I am not the undoubted owner.”
By this time, you must know the cavalcade had descended258 from the high grounds through the winding hollows of the steep wooded braes, till all the distant and more extended part of the landscape was lost by the rise of the opposite high grounds, and certainly from the umbrageous259 recess260 where they now stood, nothing was to be seen before them but the lands of Logie.
“The joke is very well,” said Bigla, not a little piqued, and reddening considerably261 at the liberty which had been thus taken with her before the men-at-arms who followed them; “but though Moray-land was all thine own from Ness to Spey, I would not have thee if thou wouldst lay it all at my feet.”
“Talk not so proudly, mistress!” said Logie, very much nettled262. “There are many maidens263 more than thy marrows264, who would be happy to mate with me, though I had nothing but this good claymore for my portion.”
“I doubt it not,” replied Bigla; “but as I am not one of these, it may be as well perhaps that we talk not again on any such subject.”
“A little less haughtiness265 would have better become thee,” said Logie. “You forget that you are not now on Dulnan side; and, moreover, you forget that I am your guardian.” [341]
“Nay, it is you who forget that you are my guardian,” replied Bigla. “I do feel, indeed, that I can never forget that thou art so; and, moreover, that there is a cruel difference between an unfeeling guardian and a fond father.”
“I am armed with thy father’s authority,” said Logie hastily; “and I will exert it.”
“To see, at least, that Freuchie’s son proffers268 no more suit to thee,” replied Logie. “If he took leave of thee last night beyond the barbican, I trow it shall be his last leave-taking of thee.”
“Last night!” said Bigla with surprise.
“Aye, last night,” said Logie bitterly. “Dost think I have not found out your secret meeting? Had I caught the caitiff his blood should have paid for his impudence269.”
“’Tis well to boast now, fair sir!” said Bigla, “now that thou hast no chance of any such encounter. Oh, would I were on my bonny Dulnan side again! but I trust that my foot shall soon be on its flowery turf.”
“That shall be when thou hast my permission,” said Logie, allowing his passion to get the better of him.
“What! am I so in restraint then?” said Bigla taking a scarf from her neck, and waving it behind her head in such a way, that it was hardly perceived to be a signal by any one but Archy Abhach. He no sooner observed it, however, than he began to rein270 his steed backwards271, until he fell behind the line of march.
“Aye, bold girl, thou shalt obey me ere long as thy husband as well as thy guardian!” continued Logie.
“Sayest thou so?” said Bigla, putting on her Arabian to a gentle canter over the meadow towards the ford17 of the Divie, whither they were then going, so as to rid herself in some degree of the throng180 by which she had been surrounded. Then turning in her saddle, she shouted aloud—“Ride, Archy, for thy life, man! Ride! ride! Men of Glenchearnich, follow your mistress. Come, Aggy, spur with me, and may Saint Mary be our guide!”
And with these words she and her maid boldly dashed their steeds, breast deep, into the ford, and quickly stemmed the stream of the Divie, whilst the well-tutored Archy Abhach wheeled his horse suddenly round at her [342]word, and, drawing his dirk, he pricked273 his milk-white sides till the red blood spurted274 from them, and the noble animal darted275 off, with his flea-bite of a burden, towards those wooded braes, down which they had so recently come. The Laird of Logie and his followers stood for some moments astounded276 on the mead272, before they could determine what to do. On the one hand fled the lady; and on the other hand the charters of her lands, her bonds, and her wadsets were already winging their way upwards277 through the woods; and the question was, which of the two objects of pursuit was the most important. Even after he had gathered his scattered recollection, Logie stood in doubt for a time. At length, seeing that Bigla Cumin had taken the direction of the house of Logie, so that he was still left, as he reckoned, between her and her own country, he quickly made his selection.
“After that miscreated devil on the white horse!” cried he. “Take the caitiff and the kist he carries!—take him dead or alive!—but, at all hazards take the kist!”
Off went the laird and his people helter-skelter after Archy Abhach, whilst the followers of Bigla Cumin were left at liberty to become her followers indeed. The waters of the Divie frothed and foamed278 again as they dashed through after her. I need not tell you, gentlemen, who know the carte de pays so well, that although Bigla rode off at first in the very direction in which the laird had wished her to go, I mean towards his own house, she had no sooner forced her way up the steep narrow path leading from the ford, than she found herself in a position where she had it in her power to choose between two ways—one stretching straight onwards towards the house of Logie, and the other leading directly back over the hills to the eastward279 of the Divie towards her own country, by a route different from that which she had travelled in the morning. There she stood for some moments on a conspicuous280 point overlooking the valley. But you may easily guess that she stopped not from any doubt that possessed her as to which of the two ways she should take—she only waited till her panting followers had clustered around her; for they had no sooner gathered than she waved her scarf again, and, amidst the shouts of her men-at-arms, she turned her horse’s head to the hill, and began to breast it most vigorously. Logie beheld her man?uvre, and it shook his [343]purpose for an instant. He gave hurried and contradictory281 orders, which only had the effect of slackening the pursuit after the urchin page, and Bigla had the satisfaction of seeing that faithful creature shooting far up among the bowery braes ere any final decision had been taken by the laird. At length, a small plump of horsemen were sent off towards the ford to pursue Bigla, whilst the remainder, with Logie at their head, renewed their chase after Archy Abhach and his precious casket.
“Who is he, think you, that rides hither with so much haste from the pass of Craig-Bey?” demanded Sir John Grant of the man-at-arms on watch, as he stalked along the bartizan of his castle to take a look over the country, about the time that the sun was hastening downwards282 to hide himself below the western horizon.
“If mortal man it be who looks so like a speck283 on the saddle, he either rides with hot news to spur him on, or he has some enemy after him,” replied the man.
“By’r lady, but you have guessed right well,” said Sir John; “for see! there comes a straggling line of some dozen of horsemen rattling284 like thunder through the pass.”
“Methinks that the elf who flies bears some strange burden behind him,” said the man-at-arms.
“He doth so, indeed,” said Sir John.
“Some common thief, I’ll warrant me, who hath carried away a booty from some usurious burgher of Forres,” said the man-at-arms.
“Be he what he may, his white horse is no carrion,” said Sir John. “How the noble animal devours285 the ground!”
“He is as like old Gibbon More’s favourite horse as one egg is to another,” said the man-at-arms as he drew nearer.
“Gibbon More’s, saidst thou?” exclaimed Sir John; “and, by all that is good, he that rides is like my faithful page; but see, he turns this way. Let’s to the barbican,” and, taking three steps down the narrow stair at each stride, he was at the barbican in a few moments.
“What, ho!” cried Sir John, as the horse came galloping286 up to the gate. “What, ho! Archy Abhach, is it you? What news of thy mistress?”
“I have neither time nor breath to speak of her at present,” cried Archy, leaping from his horse, and hastily [344]unbuckling the little charter-chest from behind the saddle of his reeking287 horse; “but here—catch!—there you have her charters and titles, being that which I reckon some of the people who are after me would think the best part of herself. There, catch, I say!” and with that, he threw the precious box clean over the top of the wall.
“Soh!” continued Archy, taking a long breath—“I have done my lady’s bidding like a true Cumin, and now I must draw to defend mine own head, like a true Grant, for the knaves288 will be upon me.”
“Thou shalt not long lack help, my brave little fellow!” cried Sir John, and in a moment, a party of armed Grants came crowding out from the gate at the heels of their young chief. And, as Archy’s pursuers came up one by one, they collected into a knot on the top of the heathery hillock, and then filed off without ever daring to come within bowshot of the walls.
“Now, tell me what has befallen the Lady Bigla?” cried Sir John Grant, impatiently addressing the page.
The faithful Archy Abhach gave him a brief outline of all he knew.
“To horse! to horse!” cried Sir John, hardly waiting till he had finished. “Holy St. Mary! she may be lost if we tarry.”
A very few minutes only were expended ere Sir John and his troop were mounted and away. They galloped289 after the retiring Cumins, but they could see nothing of them anywhere. He had got to the side of the hill of Craig-Bey, and was stretching his eyes in all directions, when the distant clash of conflict came up through the woods that sloped away into the glen to the right. Sir John gave the spur to his horse, and dashed down through the thicket290, calling to his men to follow him. In a grassy291 holm, by the side of a small stream, he found Bigla Cumin surrounded by her faithful but small band of followers, who were bravely defending her against a superior body of assailants. His sudden appearance immediately dispersed292 her enemies, and, overpowered by the fatigue293 occasioned by her long wearisome and rapid flight, as well as by the alarm which she had endured, she slipped from her palfrey, and sank exhausted294 on the ground. Sir John Grant was soon on his knees beside her, to support her weakness, and to calm her agitation295. She had owed her escape, in the [345]first place, to the swiftness and endurance of her favourite Arabian blooded palfrey, together with her own wonderful hardihood as a horsewoman, which, much surpassing that of the Lady Juliana Berners herself, had carried her over mountain and moss296, through bog297 and stream, in a manner altogether inconceivable; and, secondly, to the appearance of Sir John Grant, just as she had been attacked by a quickly formed ambush of the retreating Cumins, whose onset298 had given time to those who pursued her to come up, by which means she and her people being hemmed299 in on all sides would have been speedily overcome.
Ere the evening closed in, Bigla Cumin found herself safely housed within the walls of Castle Grant; and the very next day the priest’s blessing300 gave to Sir John Grant her fair hand, and with it her fair lands too.
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1
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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2
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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alienation
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| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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4
begetting
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| v.为…之生父( beget的现在分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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5
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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6
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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7
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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clans
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| 宗族( clan的名词复数 )； 氏族； 庞大的家族； 宗派 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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10
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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12
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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13
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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14
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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15
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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17
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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18
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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19
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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20
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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21
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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22
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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26
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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27
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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28
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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29
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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30
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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31
waggish
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| adj.诙谐的，滑稽的 | |
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32
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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33
cuffed
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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35
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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36
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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37
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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38
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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39
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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40
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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41
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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42
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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43
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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44
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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45
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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46
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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47
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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48
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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49
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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50
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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51
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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52
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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53
dwarfish
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| a.像侏儒的，矮小的 | |
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54
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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55
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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56
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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57
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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58
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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59
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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60
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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61
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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63
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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64
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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65
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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66
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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67
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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68
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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69
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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70
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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71
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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72
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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73
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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74
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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75
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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76
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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77
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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78
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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79
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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80
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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81
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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82
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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83
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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84
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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85
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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86
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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87
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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92
auxiliaries
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| n.助动词 ( auxiliary的名词复数 )；辅助工，辅助人员 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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95
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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96
scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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98
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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100
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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101
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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102
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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103
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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104
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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105
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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106
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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107
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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108
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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109
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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110
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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111
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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112
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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113
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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114
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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115
whittle
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| v.削（木头），削减；n.屠刀 | |
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116
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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117
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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118
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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119
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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120
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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121
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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122
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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123
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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124
depredations
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| n.劫掠，毁坏( depredation的名词复数 ) | |
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125
depredation
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| n.掠夺，蹂躏 | |
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126
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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127
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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128
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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129
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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130
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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131
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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132
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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133
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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134
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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135
dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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136
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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137
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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138
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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139
plundering
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的现在分词 ) | |
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140
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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141
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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142
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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143
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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144
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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145
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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146
bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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147
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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148
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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149
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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151
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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152
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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154
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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155
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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156
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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157
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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158
loon
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| n.狂人 | |
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159
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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160
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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161
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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162
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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163
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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164
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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165
slashing
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|
| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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166
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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167
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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168
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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169
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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170
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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171
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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172
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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173
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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174
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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175
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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176
dependants
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|
| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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177
promiscuously
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| adv.杂乱地，混杂地 | |
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178
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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179
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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180
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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181
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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182
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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183
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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184
functionaries
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| n.公职人员，官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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185
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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186
contented
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|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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187
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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188
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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189
jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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190
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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191
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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192
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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193
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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194
vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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195
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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196
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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197
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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198
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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199
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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200
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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201
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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202
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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203
highlander
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| n.高地的人，苏格兰高地地区的人 | |
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204
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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205
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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206
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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207
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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208
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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209
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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210
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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211
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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212
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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213
hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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214
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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215
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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216
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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217
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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218
patrimonial
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| adj.祖传的 | |
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219
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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220
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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221
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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222
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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223
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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224
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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225
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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226
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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227
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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228
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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229
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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230
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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231
rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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232
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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233
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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234
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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235
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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236
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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237
coerce
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| v.强迫，压制 | |
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238
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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239
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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240
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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241
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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242
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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243
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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244
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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245
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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246
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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247
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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248
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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249
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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250
benedictions
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| n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 )；（礼拜结束时的）赐福祈祷；恩赐；（大写）（罗马天主教）祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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251
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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252
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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253
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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254
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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255
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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256
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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257
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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258
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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259
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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260
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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261
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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262
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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263
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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264
marrows
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| n.骨髓（marrow的复数形式） | |
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265
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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266
proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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267
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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268
proffers
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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269
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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270
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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271
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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272
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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273
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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274
spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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275
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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277
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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278
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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279
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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280
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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281
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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282
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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283
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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284
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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285
devours
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| 吞没( devour的第三人称单数 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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286
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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287
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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288
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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289
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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290
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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291
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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292
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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293
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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294
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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295
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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296
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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297
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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298
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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299
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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300
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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