A Legend of Montrose, Walter Scott [e reader books txt] 📗

ancient Gaelic melody, and the words, which were supposed to be very old, were in the same language; but we subjoin a translation of them, by Secundus Macpherson, Esq. of Glenforgen, which, although submitted to the fetters of English rhythm, we trust will be found nearly as genuine as the version of Ossian by his celebrated namesake. “Birds of omen dark and foul, Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl, Leave the sick man to his dream— All night long he heard your scream— Haste to cave and ruin’d tower, Ivy, tod, or dingled bower, There to wink and mope, for, hark! In the mid air sings the lark. “Hie to moorish gills and rocks, Prowling wolf and wily fox,— Hie you fast, nor turn your view, Though the lamb bleats to the ewe. Couch your trains, and speed your flight, Safety parts with parting night; And on distant echo borne, Comes the hunter’s early horn. “The moon’s wan crescent scarcely gleams, Ghost-like she fades in morning beams; Hie hence each peevish imp and fay, That scare the pilgrim on his way:— Quench, kelpy! quench, in bog and fen, Thy torch that cheats benighted men; Thy dance is o’er, thy reign is done, For Benyieglo hath seen the sun. “Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and deep, O’erpower the passive mind in sleep, Pass from the slumberer’s soul away, Like night-mists from the brow of day: Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb, Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone! Thou darest not face the godlike sun.”

As the strain proceeded, Allan M’Aulay gradually gave signs of recovering his presence of mind, and attention to the objects around him. The deep-knit furrows of his brow relaxed and smoothed themselves; and the rest of his features, which had seemed contorted with internal agony, relapsed into a more natural state. When he raised his head and sat upright, his countenance, though still deeply melancholy, was divested of its wildness and ferocity; and in its composed state, although by no means handsome, the expression of his features was striking, manly, and even noble. His thick, brown eyebrows, which had hitherto been drawn close together, were now slightly separated, as in the natural state; and his grey eyes, which had rolled and flashed from under them with an unnatural and portentous gleam, now recovered a steady and determined expression.

“Thank God!” he said, after sitting silent for about a minute, until the very last sounds of the harp had ceased to vibrate, “my soul is no longer darkened—the mist hath passed from my spirit.”

“You owe thanks, cousin Allan,” said Lord Menteith, coming forward, “to Annot Lyle, as well as to heaven, for this happy change in your melancholy mood.”

“My noble cousin Menteith,” said Allan, rising and greeting him very respectfully, as well as kindly, “has known my unhappy circumstances so long, that his goodness will require no excuse for my being thus late in bidding him welcome to the castle.”

“We are too old acquaintances, Allan,” said Lord Menteith, “and too good friends, to stand on the ceremonial of outward greeting; but half the Highlands will be here to-day, and you know, with our mountain Chiefs, ceremony must not be neglected. What will you give little Annot for making you fit company to meet Evan Dhu, and I know not how many bonnets and feathers?”

“What will he give me?” said Annot, smiling; “nothing less, I hope, than the best ribbon at the Fair of Doune.”

“The Fair of Doune, Annot?” said Allan sadly; “there will be bloody work before that day, and I may never see it; but you have well reminded me of what I have long intended to do.”

Having said this, he left the room.

“Should he talk long in this manner,” said Lord Menteith, “you must keep your harp in tune, my dear Annot.”

“I hope not,” said Annot, anxiously; “this fit has been a long one, and probably will not soon return. It is fearful to see a mind, naturally generous and affectionate, afflicted by this constitutional malady.”

As she spoke in a low and confidential tone, Lord Menteith naturally drew close, and stooped forward, that he might the better catch the sense of what she said. When Allan suddenly entered the apartment, they as naturally drew back from each other with a manner expressive of consciousness, as if surprised in a conversation which they wished to keep secret from him. This did not escape Allan’s observation; he stopt short at the door of the apartment—his brows were contracted—his eyes rolled; but it was only the paroxysm of a moment. He passed his broad sinewy hand across his brow, as if to obliterate these signs of emotion, and advanced towards Annot, holding in his hand a very small box made of oakwood, curiously inlaid. “I take you to witness,” he said, “cousin Menteith, that I give this box and its contents to Annot Lyle. It contains a few ornaments that belonged to my poor mother—of trifling value, you may guess, for the wife of a Highland laird has seldom a rich jewel-casket.”

“But these ornaments,” said Annot Lyle, gently and timidly refusing the box, “belong to the family—I cannot accept—”

“They belong to me alone, Annot,” said Allan, interrupting her; “they were my mother’s dying bequest. They are all I can call my own, except my plaid and my claymore. Take them, therefore—they are to me valueless trinkets—and keep them for my sake—should I never return from these wars.”

So saying, he opened the case, and presented it to Annot. “If,” said he, “they are of any value, dispose of them for your own support, when this house has been consumed with hostile fire, and can no longer afford you protection. But keep one ring in memory of Allan, who has done, to requite your kindness, if not all he wished, at least all he could.”

Annot Lyle endeavoured in vain to restrain the gathering tears, when she said, “ONE ring, Allan, I will accept from you as a memorial of your goodness to a poor orphan, but do not press me to take more; for I cannot, and will not, accept a gift of such disproportioned value.”

“Make your choice, then,” said Allan; “your delicacy may be well founded; the others will assume a shape in which they may be more useful to you.”

“Think not of it,” said Annot, choosing from the contents of the casket a ring, apparently the most trifling in value which it contained; “keep them for your own, or your brother’s bride.—But, good heavens!” she said, interrupting herself, and looking at the ring, “what is this that I have chosen?”

Allan hastened to look upon it, with eyes of gloomy apprehension; it bore, in enamel, a death’s head above two crossed daggers. When Allan recognised the device, he uttered a sigh so deep, that she dropped the ring from her hand, which rolled upon the floor. Lord Menteith picked it up, and returned it to the terrified Annot.

“I take God to witness,” said Allan, in a solemn tone, “that your hand, young lord, and not mine, has again delivered to her this ill-omened gift. It was the mourning ring worn by my mother in memorial of her murdered brother.”

“I fear no omens,” said Annot, smiling through her tears; “and nothing