Who’s that that rings the bell? Diablos, ho!
The town will rise.
Othello, Act II. Scene III.
The wild rumours1 which flew through the town, speedily followed by the tolling2 of the alarm bells spread general consternation3. The nobles and knights4, with their followers6, gathered in different places of rendezvous7, where a defence could best be maintained; and the alarm reached the royal residence where the young prince was one of the first to appear, to assist, if necessary, in the defence of the old king. The scene of the preceding night ran in his recollection; and, remembering the bloodstained figure of Bonthron, he conceived, though indistinctly, that the ruffian’s action had been connected with this uproar8. The subsequent and more interesting discourse9 with Sir John Ramorny had, however, been of such an impressive nature as to obliterate10 all traces of what he had vaguely11 heard of the bloody12 act of the assassin, excepting a confused recollection that some one or other had been slain13. It was chiefly on his father’s account that he had assumed arms with his household train, who, clad in bright armour14, and bearing lances in their hands, made now a figure very different from that of the preceding night, when they appeared as intoxicated15 Bacchanalians. The kind old monarch16 received this mark of filial attachment17 with tears of gratitude18, and proudly presented his son to his brother Albany, who entered shortly afterwards. He took them each by the hand.
“Now are we three Stuarts,” he said, “as inseparable as the holy trefoil; and, as they say the wearer of that sacred herb mocks at magical delusion19, so we, while we are true to each other, may set malice20 and enmity at defiance21.”
The brother and son kissed the kind hand which pressed theirs, while Robert III expressed his confidence in their affection. The kiss of the youth was, for the time, sincere; that of the brother was the salute22 of the apostate23 Judas.
In the mean time the bell of St. John’s church alarmed, amongst others, the inhabitants of Curfew Street. In the house of Simon Glover, old Dorothy Glover, as she was called (for she also took name from the trade she practised, under her master’s auspices), was the first to catch the sound. Though somewhat deaf upon ordinary occasions, her ear for bad news was as sharp as a kite’s scent24 for carrion25; for Dorothy, otherwise an industrious26, faithful, and even affectionate creature, had that strong appetite for collecting and retailing27 sinister28 intelligence which is often to be marked in the lower classes. Little accustomed to be listened to, they love the attention which a tragic29 tale ensures to the bearer, and enjoy, perhaps, the temporary equality to which misfortune reduces those who are ordinarily accounted their superiors. Dorothy had no sooner possessed30 herself of a slight packet of the rumours which were flying abroad than she bounced into her master’s bedroom, who had taken the privilege of age and the holytide to sleep longer than usual.
“There he lies, honest man,” said Dorothy, half in a screeching32 and half in a wailing34 tone of sympathy —“there he lies; his best friend slain, and he knowing as little about it as the babe new born, that kens36 not life from death.”
“How now!” said the glover, starting up out of his bed. “What is the matter, old woman? Is my daughter well?”
“Old woman!” said Dorothy, who, having her fish hooked, chose to let him play a little. “I am not so old,” said she, flouncing out of the room, “as to bide37 in the place till a man rises from his naked bed —”
And presently she was heard at a distance in the parlour beneath, melodiously38 singing to the scrubbing of her own broom.
“Dorothy — screech33 owl39 — devil — say but my daughter is well!”
“I am well, my father,” answered the Fair Maid of Perth, speaking from her bedroom, “perfectly well, but what, for Our Lady’s sake, is the matter? The bells ring backward, and there is shrieking40 and crying in the streets.”
“I will presently know the cause. Here, Conachar, come speedily and tie my points. I forgot — the Highland41 loon42 is far beyond Fortingall. Patience, daughter, I will presently bring you news.”
“Ye need not hurry yourself for that, Simon Glover,” quoth the obdurate43 old woman; “the best and the worst of it may be tauld before you could hobble over your door stane. I ken31 the haill story abroad; ‘for,’ thought I, ‘our goodman is so wilful45 that he’ll be for banging out to the tuilzie, be the cause what it like; and sae I maun e’en stir my shanks, and learn the cause of all this, or he will hae his auld44 nose in the midst of it, and maybe get it nipt off before he knows what for.’”
“And what is the news, then, old woman?” said the impatient glover, still busying himself with the hundred points or latchets which were the means of attaching the doublet to the hose.
Dorothy suffered him to proceed in his task till she conjectured46 it must be nearly accomplished47; and foresaw that; if she told not the secret herself, her master would be abroad to seek in person for the cause of the disturbance48. She, therefore, halloo’d out: “Aweel — aweel, ye canna say it is me fault, if you hear ill news before you have been at the morning mass. I would have kept it from ye till ye had heard the priest’s word; but since you must hear it, you have e’en lost the truest friend that ever gave hand to another, and Perth maun mourn for the bravest burgher that ever took a blade in hand!”
“Harry49 Smith! Harry Smith!” exclaimed the father and the daughter at once.
“Oh, ay, there ye hae it at last,” said Dorothy; “and whose fault was it but your ain? ye made such a piece of work about his companying with a glee woman, as if he had companied with a Jewess!”
Dorothy would have gone on long enough, but her master exclaimed to his daughter, who was still in her own apartment: “It is nonsense, Catharine — all the dotage50 of an old fool. No such thing has happened. I will bring you the true tidings in a moment,” and snatching up his staff, the old man hurried out past Dorothy and into the street, where the throng51 of people were rushing towards the High Street.
Dorothy, in the mean time, kept muttering to herself: “Thy father is a wise man, take his ain word for it. He will come next by some scathe52 in the hobbleshow, and then it will be, ‘Dorothy, get the lint,’ and ‘Dorothy, spread the plaster;’ but now it is nothing but nonsense, and a lie, and impossibility, that can come out of Dorothy’s mouth. Impossible! Does auld Simon think that Harry Smith’s head was as hard as his stithy, and a haill clan53 of Highlandmen dinging at him?”
Here she was interrupted by a figure like an angel, who came wandering by her with wild eye, cheek deadly pale, hair dishevelled, and an apparent want of consciousness, which terrified the old woman out of her discontented humour.
“Our Lady bless my bairn!” said she. “What look you sae wild for?”
“Did you not say some one was dead?” said Catharine, with a frightful54 uncertainty55 of utterance56, as if her organs of speech and hearing served her but imperfectly.
“Dead, hinny! Ay — ay, dead eneugh; ye’ll no hae him to gloom at ony mair.”
“Dead!” repeated Catharine, still with the same uncertainty of voice and manner. “Dead — slain — and by Highlanders?”
“I’se warrant by Highlanders, the lawless loons. Wha is it else that kills maist of the folks about, unless now and than when the burghers take a tirrivie, and kill ane another, or whiles that the knights and nobles shed blood? But I’se uphauld it’s been the Highlandmen this bout35. The man was no in Perth, laird or loon, durst have faced Henry Smith man to man. There’s been sair odds57 against him; ye’ll see that when it’s looked into.”
“Highlanders!” repeated Catharine, as if haunted by some idea which troubled her senses. “Highlanders! Oh, Conachar — Conachar!”
“Indeed, and I dare say you have lighted on the very man, Catharine. They quarrelled, as you saw, on the St. Valentine’s Even, and had a warstle. A Highlandman58 has a long memory for the like of that. Gie him a cuff59 at Martinmas, and his cheek will be tingling60 at Whitsunday. But what could have brought down the lang legged loons to do their bloody wark within burgh?”
“Woe’s me, it was I,” said Catharine —“it was I brought the Highlanders down — I that sent for Conachar — ay, they have lain in wait — but it was I that brought them within reach of their prey61. But I will see with my own eyes — and then — something we will do. Say to my father I will be back anon.”
“Are ye distraught, lassie?” shouted Dorothy, as Catharine made past her towards the street door. “You would not gang into the street with the hair hanging down your haffets in that guise62, and you kenn’d for the Fair Maid of Perth? Mass, but she’s out in the street, come o’t what like, and the auld Glover will be as mad as if I could withhold63 her, will she nill she, flyte she fling she. This is a brave morning for an Ash Wednesday! What’s to be done? If I were to seek my master among the multitude, I were like to be crushed beneath their feet, and little moan made for the old woman. And am I to run after Catharine, who ere this is out of sight, and far lighter64 of foot than I am? so I will just down the gate to Nicol Barber’s, and tell him a’ about it.”
While the trusty Dorothy was putting her prudent65 resolve into execution, Catharine ran through the streets of Perth in a manner which at another moment would have brought on her the attention of every one who saw her hurrying on with a reckless impetuosity wildly and widely different from the ordinary decency66 and composure of her step and manner, and without the plaid, scarf, or mantle67 which “women of good,” of fair character and decent rank, universally carried around them, when they went abroad. But, distracted as the people were, every one inquiring or telling the cause of the tumult68, and most recounting it different ways, the negligence69 of her dress and discomposure of her manner made no impression on any one; and she was suffered to press forward on the path she had chosen without attracting more notice than the other females who, stirred by anxious curiosity or fear, had come out to inquire the cause of an alarm so general — it might be to seek for friends for whose safety they were interested.
As Catharine passed along, she felt all the wild influence of the agitating70 scene, and it was with difficulty she forbore from repeating the cries of lamentation71 and alarm which were echoed around her. In the mean time, she rushed rapidly on, embarrassed like one in a dream, with a strange sense of dreadful calamity72, the precise nature of which she was unable to define, but which implied the terrible consciousness that the man who loved her so fondly, whose good qualities she so highly esteemed73, and whom she now felt to be dearer than perhaps she would before have acknowledged to her own bosom74, was murdered, and most probably by her means. The connexion betwixt Henry’s supposed death and the descent of Conachar and his followers, though adopted by her in a moment of extreme and engrossing75 emotion, was sufficiently76 probable to have been received for truth, even if her understanding had been at leisure to examine its credibility. Without knowing what she sought except the general desire to know the worst of the dreadful report, she hurried forward to the very spot which of all others her feelings of the preceding day would have induced her to avoid.
Who would, upon the evening of Shrovetide, have persuaded the proud, the timid, the shy, the rigidly77 decorous Catharine Glover that before mass on Ash Wednesday she should rush through the streets of Perth, making her way amidst tumult and confusion, with her hair unbound and her dress disarranged, to seek the house of that same lover who, she had reason to believe, had so grossly and indelicately neglected and affronted78 her as to pursue a low and licentious79 amour? Yet so it was; and her eagerness taking, as if by instinct, the road which was most free, she avoided the High Street, where the pressure was greatest, and reached the wynd by the narrow lanes on the northern skirt of the town, through which Henry Smith had formerly80 escorted Louise. But even these comparatively lonely passages were now astir with passengers, so general was the alarm. Catharine Glover made her way through them, however, while such as observed her looked on each other and shook their heads in sympathy with her distress81. At length, without any distinct idea of her own purpose, she stood before her lover’s door and knocked for admittance.
The silence which succeeded the echoing of her hasty summons increased the alarm which had induced her to take this desperate measure.
“Open — open, Henry!” she cried. “Open, if you yet live! Open, if you would not find Catharine Glover dead upon your threshold!”
As she cried thus frantically82 to ears which she was taught to believe were stopped by death, the lover she invoked83 opened the door in person, just in time to prevent her sinking on the ground. The extremity84 of his ecstatic joy upon an occasion so unexpected was qualified85 only by the wonder which forbade him to believe it real, and by his alarm at the closed eyes, half opened and blanched86 lips, total absence of complexion87, and apparently88 total cessation of breathing.
Henry had remained at home, in spite of the general alarm, which had reached his ears for a considerable time, fully89 determined90 to put himself in the way of no brawls91 that he could avoid; and it was only in compliance92 with a summons from the magistrates93, which, as a burgher, he was bound to obey, that, taking his sword and a spare buckler from the wall, he was about to go forth95, for the first time unwillingly96, to pay his service, as his tenure97 bound him.
“It is hard,” he said, “to be put forward in all the town feuds98, when the fighting work is so detestable to Catharine. I am sure there are enough of wenches in Perth that say to their gallants, ‘Go out, do your devoir bravely, and win your lady’s grace’; and yet they send not for their lovers, but for me, who cannot do the duties of a man to protect a minstrel woman, or of a burgess who fights for the honour of his town, but this peevish100 Catharine uses me as if I were a brawler101 and bordeller!”
Such were the thoughts which occupied his mind, when, as he opened his door to issue forth, the person dearest to his thoughts, but whom he certainly least expected to see, was present to his eyes, and dropped into his arms.
His mixture of surprise, joy, and anxiety did not deprive him of the presence of mind which the occasion demanded. To place Catharine Glover in safety, and recall her to herself was to be thought of before rendering102 obedience103 to the summons of the magistrates, however pressingly that had been delivered. He carried his lovely burden, as light as a feather, yet more precious than the same quantity of purest gold, into a small bedchamber which had been his mother’s. It was the most fit for an invalid105, as it looked into the garden, and was separated from the noise of the tumult.
“Here, Nurse — Nurse Shoolbred — come quick — come for death and life — here is one wants thy help!”
Up trotted106 the old dame107. “If it should but prove any one that will keep thee out of the scuffle,” for she also had been aroused by the noise; but what was her astonishment108 when, placed in love and reverence109 on the bed of her late mistress, and supported by the athletic110 arms of her foster son, she saw the apparently lifeless form of the Fair Maid of Perth.
“Catharine Glover!” she said; “and, Holy Mother, a dying woman, as it would seem!”
“Not so, old woman,” said her foster son: “the dear heart throbs111 — the sweet breath comes and returns! Come thou, that may aid her more meetly than I— bring water — essences — whatever thy old skill can devise. Heaven did not place her in my arms to die, but to live for herself and me!”
With an activity which her age little promised, Nurse Shoolbred collected the means of restoring animation112; for, like many women of the period, she understood what was to be done in such cases, nay113, possessed a knowledge of treating wounds of an ordinary description, which the warlike propensities114 of her foster son kept in pretty constant exercise.
“Come now,” she said, “son Henry, unfold your arms from about my patient, though she is worth the pressing, and set thy hands at freedom to help me with what I want. Nay, I will not insist on your quitting her hand, if you will beat the palm gently, as the fingers unclose their clenched115 grasp.”
“I beat her slight, beautiful hand!” said Henry; “you were as well bid me beat a glass cup with a forehammer as tap her fair palm with my horn hard fingers. But the fingers do unfold, and we will find a better way than beating”; and he applied116 his lips to the pretty hand, whose motion indicated returning sensation. One or two deep sighs succeeded, and the Fair Maid of Perth opened her eyes, fixed117 them on her lover, as he kneeled by the bedside, and again sunk back on the pillow. As she withdrew not her hand from her lover’s hold or from his grasp, we must in charity believe that the return to consciousness was not so complete as to make her aware that he abused the advantage, by pressing it alternately to his lips and his bosom. At the same time we are compelled to own that the blood was colouring in her cheek, and that her breathing was deep and regular, for a minute or two during this relapse.
The noise at the door began now to grow much louder, and Henry was called for by all his various names of Smith. Gow, and Hal of the Wynd, as heathens used to summon their deities118 by different epithets119. At last, like Portuguese120 Catholics when exhausted121 with entreating122 their saints, the crowd without had recourse to vituperative123 exclamations124.
“Out upon you, Henry! You are a disgraced man, man sworn to your burgher oath, and a traitor125 to the Fair City, unless you come instantly forth!”
It would seem that nurse Shoolbred’s applications were now so far successful that Catharine’s senses were in some measure restored; for, turning her face more towards that of her lover than her former posture126 permitted, she let her right hand fall on his shoulder, leaving her left still in his possession, and seeming slightly to detain him, while she whispered: “Do not go, Henry — stay with me; they will kill thee, these men of blood.”
It would seem that this gentle invocation, the result of finding the lover alive whom she expected to have only recognised as a corpse127, though it was spoken so low as scarcely to be intelligible129, had more effect to keep Henry Wynd in his present posture than the repeated summons of many voices from without had to bring him downstairs.
“Mass, townsmen,” cried one hardy130 citizen to his companions, “the saucy131 smith but jests with us! Let us into the house, and bring him out by the lug132 and the horn.”
“Take care what you are doing,” said a more cautious assailant. “The man that presses on Henry Gow’s retirement133 may go into his house with sound bones, but will return with ready made work for the surgeon. But here comes one has good right to do our errand to him, and make the recreant134 hear reason on both sides of his head.”
The person of whom this was spoken was no other than Simon Glover himself. He had arrived at the fatal spot where the unlucky bonnet135 maker136’s body was lying, just in time to discover, to his great relief, that when it was turned with the face upwards137 by Bailie Craigdallie’s orders, the features of the poor braggart138 Proudfute were recognised, when the crowd expected to behold139 those of their favorite champion, Henry Smith. A laugh, or something approaching to one, went among those who remembered how hard Oliver had struggled to obtain the character of a fighting man, however foreign to his nature and disposition140, and remarked now that he had met with a mode of death much better suited to his pretensions141 than to his temper. But this tendency to ill timed mirth, which savoured of the rudeness of the times, was at once hushed by the voice, and cries, and exclamations of a woman who struggled through the crowd, screaming at the same time, “Oh, my husband — my husband!”
Room was made for the sorrower, who was followed by two or three female friends. Maudie Proudfute had been hitherto only noticed as a good looking, black haired woman, believed to be “dink” and disdainful to those whom she thought meaner or poorer than herself, and lady and empress over her late husband, whom she quickly caused to lower his crest142 when she chanced to hear him crowing out of season. But now, under the influence of powerful passion, she assumed a far more imposing143 character.
“Do you laugh,” she said, “you unworthy burghers of Perth, because one of your own citizens has poured his blood into the kennel145? or do you laugh because the deadly lot has lighted on my husband? How has he deserved this? Did he not maintain an honest house by his own industry, and keep a creditable board, where the sick had welcome and the poor had relief? Did he not lend to those who wanted, stand by his neighbours as a friend, keep counsel and do justice like a magistrate94?”
“It is true — it is true,” answered the assembly; “his blood is our blood as much as if it were Henry Gow’s.”
“You speak truth, neighbours,” said Bailie Craigdallie; “and this feud99 cannot be patched up as the former was: citizen’s blood must not flow unavenged down our kennels148, as if it were ditch water, or we shall soon see the broad Tay crimsoned149 with it. But this blow was never meant for the poor man on whom it has unhappily fallen. Every one knew what Oliver Proudfute was, how wide he would speak, and how little he would do. He has Henry Smith’s buff coat, target, and head piece. All the town know them as well as I do: there is no doubt on’t. He had the trick, as you know, of trying to imitate the smith in most things. Some one, blind with rage, or perhaps through liquor, has stricken the innocent bonnet maker, whom no man either hated or feared, or indeed cared either much or little about, instead of the stout150 smith, who has twenty feuds upon his hands.”
“What then, is to be done, bailie?” cried the multitude.
“That, my friends, your magistrates will determine for you, as we shall instantly meet together when Sir Patrick Charteris cometh here, which must be anon. Meanwhile, let the chirurgeon Dwining examine that poor piece of clay, that he may tell us how he came by his fatal death; and then let the corpse be decently swathed in a clean shroud151, as becomes an honest citizen, and placed before the high altar in the church of St. John, the patron of the Fair City. Cease all clamour and noise, and every defensible man of you, as you would wish well to the Fair Town, keep his weapons in readiness, and be prepared to assemble on the High Street at the tolling of the common bell from the townhouse, and we will either revenge the death of our fellow citizen, or else we shall take such fortune as Heaven will send us. Meanwhile avoid all quarrelling With the knights and their followers till we know the innocent from the guilty. But wherefore tarries this knave153 Smith? He is ready enough in tumults154 when his presence is not wanted, and lags he now when his presence may serve the Fair City? What ails155 him, doth any one know? Hath he been upon the frolic last Fastern’s Even?”
“Rather he is sick or sullen156, Master Bailie,” said one of the city’s mairs, or sergeants157; “for though he is within door, as his knaves158 report, yet he will neither answer to us nor admit us.”
“So please your worship, Master Bailie,” said Simon Glover, “I will go myself to fetch Henry Smith. I have some little difference to make up with him. And blessed be Our Lady, who hath so ordered it that I find him alive, as a quarter of an hour since I could never have expected!”
“Bring the stout smith to the council house,” said the bailie, as a mounted yeoman pressed through the crowd and whispered in his ear, “Here is a good fellow who says the Knight5 of Kinfauns is entering the port.”
Such was the occasion of Simon Glover presenting himself at the house of Henry Gow at the period already noticed.
Unrestrained by the considerations of doubt and hesitation159 which influenced others, he repaired to the parlour; and having overheard the bustling160 of Dame Shoolbred, he took the privilege of intimacy161 to ascend162 to the bedroom, and, with the slight apology of “I crave163 your pardon, good neighbour,” he opened the door and entered the apartment, where a singular and unexpected sight awaited him. At the sound of his voice, May Catharine experienced a revival164 much speedier than Dame Shoolbred’s restoratives had been able to produce, and the paleness of her complexion changed into a deep glow of the most lovely red. She pushed her lover from her with both her hands, which, until this minute, her want of consciousness, or her affection, awakened165 by the events of the morning, had well nigh abandoned to his caresses166. Henry Smith, bashful as we know him, stumbled as he rose up; and none of the party were without a share of confusion, excepting Dame Shoolbred, who was glad to make some pretext167 to turn her back to the others, in order that she might enjoy a laugh at their expense, which she felt herself utterly168 unable to restrain, and in which the glover, whose surprise, though great, was of short duration, and of a joyful169 character, sincerely joined.
“Now, by good St. John,” he said, “I thought I had seen a sight this morning that would cure me of laughter, at least till Lent was over; but this would make me curl my cheek if I were dying. Why, here stands honest Henry Smith, who was lamented170 as dead, and toll’d out for from every steeple in town, alive, merry, and, as it seems from his ruddy complexion, as like to live as any man in Perth. And here is my precious daughter, that yesterday would speak of nothing but the wickedness of the wights that haunt profane171 sports and protect glee maidens172. Ay, she who set St. Valentine and St. Cupid both at defiance — here she is, turned a glee maiden173 herself, for what I can see! Truly, I am glad to see that you, my good Dame Shoolbred, who give way to no disorder174, have been of this loving party.”
“You do me wrong, my dearest father,” said Catharine, as if about to weep. “I came here with far different expectations than you suppose. I only came because — because —”
“Because you expected to find a dead lover,” said her father, and you have found a living one, who can receive the tokens of your regard, and return them. Now, were it not a sin, I could find in my heart to thank Heaven that thou hast been surprised at last into owning thyself a woman. Simon Glover is not worthy144 to have an absolute saint for his daughter. Nay, look not so piteously, nor expect condolence from me! Only I will try not to look merry, if you will be pleased to stop your tears, or confess them to be tears of joy.”
“If I were to die for such a confession,” said poor Catharine, “I could not tell what to call them. Only believe, dear father, and let Henry believe, that I would never have come hither; unless — unless —”
“Unless you had thought that Henry could not come to you,” said her father. “And now, shake hands in peace and concord175, and agree as Valentines should. Yesterday was Shrovetide, Henry; We will hold that thou hast confessed thy follies176, hast obtained absolution, and art relieved of all the guilt152 thou stoodest charged with.”
“Nay touching177 that, father Simon,” said the smith, “now that you are cool enough to hear me, I can swear on the Gospels, and I can call my nurse, Dame Shoolbred, to witness —”
“Nay — nay,” said the glover, “but wherefore rake up differences which should all be forgotten?”
“Hark ye, Simon!— Simon Glover!” This was now echoed from beneath.
“True, son Smith,” said the glover, seriously, “we have other work in hand. You and I must to the council instantly. Catharine shall remain here with Dame Shoolbred, who will take charge of her till we return; and then, as the town is in misrule, we two, Harry, will carry her home, and they will be bold men that cross us.”
“Nay, my dear father,” said Catharine, with a smile, “now you are taking Oliver Proudfute’s office. That doughty178 burgher is Henry’s brother at arms.”
Her father’s countenance179 grew dark.
“You have spoke128 a stinging word, daughter; but you know not what has happened. Kiss him, Catharine, in token of forgiveness.”
“Not so,” said Catharine; “I have done him too much grace already. When he has seen the errant damsel safe home, it will be time enough to claim his reward.”
“Meantime,” said Henry, “I will claim, as your host, what you will not allow me on other terms.”
He folded the fair maiden in his arms, and was permitted to take the salute which she had refused to bestow180.
As they descended181 the stair together, the old man laid his hand on the smith’s shoulder, and said: “Henry, my dearest wishes are fulfilled; but it is the pleasure of the saints that it should be in an hour of difficulty and terror.”
“True,” said the smith; “but thou knowest, father, if our riots be frequent at Perth, at least they seldom last long.”
Then, opening a door which led from the house into the smithy, “here, comrades,” he cried, “Anton, Cuthbert, Dingwell, and Ringen! Let none of you stir from the place till I return. Be as true as the weapons I have taught you to forge: a French crown and a Scotch182 merrymaking for you, if you obey my command. I leave a mighty183 treasure in your charge. Watch the doors well, let little Jannekin scout184 up and down the wynd, and have your arms ready if any one approaches the house. Open the doors to no man till father Glover or I return: it concerns my life and happiness.”
The strong, swarthy giants to whom he spoke answered: “Death to him who attempts it!”
“My Catharine is now as safe,” said he to her father, “as if twenty men garrisoned185 a royal castle in her cause. We shall pass most quietly to the council house by walking through the garden.”
He led the way through a little orchard186 accordingly, where the birds, which had been sheltered and fed during the winter by the good natured artisan, early in the season as it was, were saluting187 the precarious188 smiles of a February sun with a few faint and interrupted attempts at melody.
“Hear these minstrels, father,” said the smith; “I laughed at them this morning in the bitterness of my heart, because the little wretches189 sung, with so much of winter before them. But now, methinks, I could bear a blythe chorus, for I have my Valentine as they have theirs; and whatever ill may lie before me for tomorrow, I am today the happiest man in Perth, city or county, burgh or landward.”
“Yet I must allay190 your joy,” said the old glover, “though, Heaven knows, I share it. Poor Oliver Proudfute, the inoffensive fool that you and I knew so well, has been found this morning dead in the streets.”
“Only dead drunk, I trust?” said the smith; “nay, a candle and a dose of matrimonial advice will bring him to life again.”
“No, Henry — no. He is slain — slain with a battle axe191 or some such weapon.”
“Impossible!” replied the smith; “he was light footed enough, and would not for all Perth have trusted to his hands, when be could extricate192 himself by his heels.”
“No choice was allowed him. The blow was dealt in the very back of his head; he who struck must have been a shorter man than himself, and used a horseman’s battle axe, or some such weapon, for a Lochaber axe must have struck the upper part of his head. But there he lies dead, brained, I may say, by a most frightful wound.”
“This is inconceivable,” said Henry Wynd. “He was in my house at midnight, in a morricer’s habit; seemed to have been drinking, though not to excess. He told me a tale of having been beset193 by revellers, and being in danger; but, alas194! you know the man — I deemed it was a swaggering fit, as he sometimes took when he was in liquor; and, may the Merciful Virgin195 forgive me! I let him go without company, in which I did him inhuman196 wrong. Holy St. John be my witness! I would have gone with any helpless creature; and far more with him, with whom I have so often sat at the same board and drunken of the same cup. Who, of the race of man, could have thought of harming a creature so simple and so unoffending, excepting by his idle vaunts?”
“Henry, he wore thy head piece, thy buff coat; thy target. How came he by these?”
“Why, he demanded the use of them for the night, and I was ill at ease, and well pleased to be rid of his company, having kept no holiday, and being determined to keep none, in respect of our misunderstanding.”
“It is the opinion of Bailie Craigdallie and all our sagest197 counsellors that the blow was intended for yourself, and that it becomes you to prosecute198 the due vengeance199 of our fellow citizen, who received the death which was meant for you.”
The smith was for some time silent. They had now left the garden, and were walking in a lonely lane, by which they meant to approach the council house of the burgh without being exposed to observation or idle inquiry200.
“You are silent, my son, yet we two have much to speak of,” said Simon Glover. “Bethink thee that this widowed woman, Maudlin201, if she should see cause to bring a charge against any one for the wrong done to her and her orphan202 children, must support it by a champion, according to law and custom; for, be the murderer who he may, we know enough of these followers of the nobles to be assured that the party suspected will appeal to the combat, in derision, perhaps, of we whom they will call the cowardly burghers. While we are men with blood in our veins203, this must not be, Henry Wynd.”
“I see where you would draw me, father,” answered Henry, dejectedly, “and St. John knows I have heard a summons to battle as willingly as war horse ever heard the trumpet204. But bethink you, father, how I have lost Catharine’s favour repeatedly, and have been driven well nigh to despair of ever regaining205 it, for being, if I may say so, even too ready a man of my hands. And here are all our quarrels made up, and the hopes that seemed this morning removed beyond earthly prospect206 have become nearer and brighter than ever; and must I with the dear one’s kiss of forgiveness on my lips, engage in a new scene of violence, which you are well aware will give her the deepest offence?”
“It is hard for me to advise you, Henry,” said Simon; “but this I must ask you: Have you, or have you not, reason to think that this poor unfortunate Oliver has been mistaken for you?”
“I fear it too much,” said Henry. “He was thought something like me, and the poor fool had studied to ape my gestures and manner of walking, nay the very airs which I have the trick of whistling, that he might increase a resemblance which has cost him dear. I have ill willers enough, both in burgh and landward, to owe me a shrewd turn; and he, I think, could have none such.”
“Well, Henry, I cannot say but my daughter will be offended. She has been much with Father Clement207, and has received notions about peace and forgiveness which methinks suit ill with a country where the laws cannot protect us, unless we have spirit to protect ourselves. If you determine for the combat, I will do my best to persuade her to look on the matter as the other good womanhood in the burgh will do; and if you resolve to let the matter rest — the man who has lost his life for yours remaining unavenged, the widow and the orphans208 without any reparation for the loss of a husband and father — I will then do you the justice to think that I, at least, ought not to think the worse of you for your patience, since it was adopted for love of my child. But, Henry, we must in that case remove ourselves from bonny St. Johnston, for here we will be but a disgraced family.”
Henry groaned209 deeply, and was silent for an instant, then replied: “I would rather be dead than dishonoured210, though I should never see her again! Had it been yester evening, I would have met the best blade among these men at arms as blythely as ever I danced at a maypole. But today, when she had first as good as said, ‘Henry Smith, I love thee!’ Father Glover; it is very hard. Yet it is all my own fault. This poor unhappy Oliver! I ought to have allowed him the shelter of my roof, when he prayed me in his agony of fear; or; had I gone with him, I should then have prevented or shared his fate. But I taunted211 him, ridiculed212 him, loaded him with maledictions, though the saints know they were uttered in idle peevishness213 of impatience214. I drove him out from my doors, whom I knew so helpless, to take the fate which was perhaps intended for me. I must avenge146 him, or be dishonoured for ever. See, father, I have been called a man hard as the steel I work in. Does burnished215 steel ever drop tears like these? Shame on me that I should shed them!”
“It is no shame, my dearest son,” said Simon; “thou art as kind as brave, and I have always known it. There is yet a chance for us. No one may be discovered to whom suspicion attaches, and where none such is found, the combat cannot take place. It is a hard thing to wish that the innocent blood may not be avenged147. But if the perpetrator of this foul216 murder be hidden for the present, thou wilt217 be saved from the task of seeking that vengeance which Heaven doubtless will take at its own proper time.”
As they spoke thus, they arrived at the point of the High Street where the council house was situated218. As they reached the door, and made their way through the multitude who thronged219 the street, they found the avenues guarded by a select party of armed burghers, and about fifty spears belonging to the Knight of Kinfauns, who, with his allies the Grays, Blairs, Moncrieffs, and others, had brought to Perth a considerable body of horse, of which these were a part. So soon as the glover and smith presented themselves, they were admitted to the chamber104 in which the magistrates were assembled.
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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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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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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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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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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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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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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apostate
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| n.背叛者，变节者 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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retailing
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| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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melodiously
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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41
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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loon
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| n.狂人 | |
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43
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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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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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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48
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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49
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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50
dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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51
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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52
scathe
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| v.损伤；n.伤害 | |
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53
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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54
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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55
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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56
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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57
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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58
highlandman
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| 高原居民，山地居民； [H-](英国)苏格兰高地人 | |
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59
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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60
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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61
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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62
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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63
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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64
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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65
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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67
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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68
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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71
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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72
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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73
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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74
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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76
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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79
licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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81
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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85
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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86
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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brawls
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| 吵架，打架( brawl的名词复数 ) | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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brawler
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| 争吵者，打架者 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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110
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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111
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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112
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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113
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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114
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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115
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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117
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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118
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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119
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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120
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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121
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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122
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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123
vituperative
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| adj.谩骂的；斥责的 | |
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124
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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125
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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126
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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127
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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128
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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129
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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130
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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131
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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132
lug
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| n.柄，突出部，螺帽；(英）耳朵；（俚）笨蛋；vt.拖，拉，用力拖动 | |
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133
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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134
recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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135
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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136
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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137
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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138
braggart
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| n.吹牛者；adj.吹牛的，自夸的 | |
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139
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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140
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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141
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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142
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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143
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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144
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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145
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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146
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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147
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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148
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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149
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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151
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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152
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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153
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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154
tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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155
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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156
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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157
sergeants
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| 警官( sergeant的名词复数 )； （美国警察）警佐； （英国警察）巡佐； 陆军（或空军）中士 | |
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158
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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159
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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160
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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161
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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162
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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163
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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164
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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165
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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166
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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167
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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168
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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169
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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170
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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172
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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173
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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174
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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175
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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176
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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177
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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178
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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179
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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180
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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181
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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182
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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183
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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184
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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185
garrisoned
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| 卫戍部队守备( garrison的过去式和过去分词 )； 派部队驻防 | |
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186
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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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
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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189
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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190
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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191
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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192
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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193
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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194
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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195
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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196
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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197
sagest
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| adj.贤明的，貌似聪明的( sage的最高级 ) | |
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198
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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199
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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200
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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201
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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202
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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203
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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204
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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205
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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206
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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207
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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208
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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209
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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210
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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211
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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212
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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213
peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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214
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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215
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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216
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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217
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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218
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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219
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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