The Fair Maid of Perth; Or, St. Valentine's Day, Walter Scott [reading tree .TXT] 📗

which superstition had suggested, and he now anxiously, but in a whisper, demanded of Hector: “Does the spell now darken thy spirit, Eachin?”

“Yes, wretch that I am,” answered the unhappy youth; “and yonder stands the fell enchanter!”

“What!” exclaimed Torquil, “and you wear harness of his making? Norman, miserable boy, why brought you that accursed mail?”

“If my arrow has flown astray, I can but shoot my life after it,” answered Norman nan Ord. “Stand firm, you shall see me break the spell.”

“Yes, stand firm,” said Torquil. “He may be a fell enchanter; but my own ear has heard, and my own tongue has told, that Eachin shall leave the battle whole, free, and unwounded; let us see the Saxon wizard who can gainsay that. He may be a strong man, but the fair forest of the oak shall fall, stock and bough, ere he lay a finger on my dault. Ring around him, my sons; bas air son Eachin!”

The sons of Torquil shouted back the words, which signify, “Death for Hector.”

Encouraged by their devotion, Eachin renewed his spirit, and called boldly to the minstrels of his clan, “Seid suas” that is, “Strike up.”

The wild pibroch again sounded the onset; but the two parties approached each other more slowly than at first, as men who knew and respected each other’s valour. Henry Wynd, in his impatience to begin the contest, advanced before the Clan Chattan and signed to Eachin to come on. Norman, however, sprang forward to cover his foster brother, and there was a general, though momentary, pause, as if both parties were willing to obtain an omen of the fate of the day from the event of this duel. The Highlander advanced, with his large sword uplifted, as in act to strike; but, just as he came within sword’s length, he dropt the long and cumbrous weapon, leapt lightly over the smith’s sword, as he fetched a cut at him, drew his dagger, and, being thus within Henry’s guard, struck him with the weapon (his own gift) on the side of the throat, directing the blow downwards into the chest, and calling aloud, at the same time, “You taught me the stab!”

But Henry Wynd wore his own good hauberk, doubly defended with a lining of tempered steel. Had he been less surely armed, his combats had been ended for ever. Even as it was, he was slightly wounded.

“Fool!” he replied, striking Norman a blow with the pommel of his long sword, which made him stagger backwards, “you were taught the thrust, but not the parry”; and, fetching a blow at his antagonist, which cleft his skull through the steel cap, he strode over the lifeless body to engage the young chief, who now stood open before him.

But the sonorous voice of Torquil thundered out, “Far eil air son Eachin!” (Another for Hector!) and the two brethren who flanked their chief on each side thrust forward upon Henry, and, striking both at once, compelled him to keep the defensive.

“Forward, race of the tiger cat!” cried MacGillie Chattanach. “Save the brave Saxon; let these kites feel your talons!”

Already much wounded, the chief dragged himself up to the smith’s assistance, and cut down one of the leichtach, by whom he was assailed. Henry’s own good sword rid him of the other.

“Reist air son Eachin!” (Again for Hector!) shouted the faithful foster father.

“Bas air son Eachin!” (Death for Hector!) answered two more of his devoted sons, and opposed themselves to the fury of the smith and those who had come to his aid; while Eachin, moving towards the left wing of the battle, sought less formidable adversaries, and again, by some show of valour, revived the sinking hopes of his followers. The two children of the oak, who had covered, this movement, shared the fate of their brethren; for the cry of the Clan Chattan chief had drawn to that part of the field some of his bravest warriors. The sons of Torquil did not fall unavenged, but left dreadful marks of their swords on the persons of the dead and living. But the necessity of keeping their most distinguished soldiers around the person of their chief told to disadvantage on the general event of the combat; and so few were now the number who remained fighting, that it was easy to see that the Clan Chattan had fifteen of their number left, though most of them wounded, and that of the Clan Quhele only about ten remained, of whom there were four of the chief’s bodyguard, including Torquil himself.

They fought and struggled on, however, and as their strength decayed, their fury seemed to increase. Henry Wynd, now wounded in many places, was still bent on breaking through, or exterminating, the band of bold hearts who continued to fight around the object of his animosity. But still the father’s shout of “Another for Hector!” was cheerfully answered by the fatal countersign, “Death for Hector!” and though the Clan Quhele were now outnumbered, the combat seemed still dubious. It was bodily lassitude alone that again compelled them to another pause.

The Clan Chattan were then observed to be twelve in number, but two or three were scarce able to stand without leaning on their swords. Five were left of the Clan Quhele; Torquil and his youngest son were of the number, both slightly wounded. Eachin alone had, from the vigilance used to intercept all blows levelled against his person, escaped without injury. The rage of both parties had sunk, through exhaustion, into sullen desperation. They walked staggering, as if in their sleep, through the carcasses of the slain, and gazed on them, as if again to animate their hatred towards their surviving enemies by viewing the friends they had lost.

The multitude soon after beheld the survivors of the desperate conflict drawing together to renew the exterminating feud on the banks of the river, as the spot least slippery with blood, and less encumbered with the bodies of the slain.

“For God’s sake—for the sake of the mercy which we daily pray for,” said the kind hearted old King to the Duke of Albany, “let this be ended! Wherefore should these wretched rags and remnants of humanity be suffered to complete their butchery? Surely they will now be ruled, and accept of peace on moderate terms?”

“Compose yourself, my liege,” said his brother. “These men are the pest of the Lowlands. Both chiefs are still living; if they go back unharmed, the whole day’s work is cast away. Remember your promise to the council, that you would not cry ‘hold.’”

“You compel me to a great crime, Albany, both as a king, who should protect his subjects, and as a Christian man, who respects the brother of his faith.”

“You judge wrong, my lord,” said the Duke: “these are not loving subjects, but disobedient rebels, as my Lord of Crawford can bear witness; and they are still less Christian men, for the prior of the Dominicans will vouch for me that they are more than half heathen.”

The King sighed deeply. “You must work your pleasure, and are too wise for me to contend with. I can but turn away and shut my eyes from the sights and sounds of a carnage which makes me sicken. But well I know that God will punish me even for witnessing this waste of human life.”

“Sound, trumpets,” said Albany; “their wounds will stiffen if they