"ye hae ma condolences, auld Andrew!" "Keep 'em, keep 'em, Andy," growled McStegall in reply; "dinna break the rule o' ye life and gie awa' something for naething! Dinna fash ye puir old head; I hae ma beastie fra' the hill a' richt,-ay, I hae ma beastie, and ye'll hae ye chantie!" His words aroused a chorus of amazement amongst his hearers. What! a beast? Was Andrew also, for the first time in his long career, making a joke? Was he mad, or, less likely, fou? "A beast?" they shouted; "an' where, in the name o' John Barleycorn, does he lie?" "In the thirrd tent on the richt adoon the thirrd field-hospital," grunted the old fellow; "go an' spy, if ye dinna believe!" And they went and looked. McPherson's hurt proved comparatively trifling after all. The bullet had punctured the lung, and the actual closeness of the range had rushed the lead so cleanly through, that it had begun to heal almost at once by first intention. Part of his story Lord Donald heard at once from McStegall. The man, a tenant of the Duke, and an underkeeper on the forest, had suddenly vanished from the district, no one knew exactly why, when Traquair was a small boy at school. The rest was told by McPherson himself during his rapid convalescence. It appeared that the Duke, then young and foolish enough to go stalking alone, when out one day on the hill early in October, had caught his big underkeeper red-handed in the very act of slaying a hind with calf a' foot, the unmentionable crime in the forest. An angry altercation had led to actual blows. "Ay, m' lord," narrated McPherson, "I fought ye father, just on the knobbie of Ben Hinish, where the ptarmigan nest; ye mind, Andrew?" turning to McStegall, who was present; "but 'twas none of my seekin'-the fightin' I mean for he challenged and belled at me like a ruttin' stag, and there was no that much in the endin' o' it, either; he gie me twa stane, but he gie me also the shairpest and quickest left I aye saw on a mon. An' when 'twas over, and us twa lay pantin' amongst the whins, his Grace he said to me, 'A weel, Andy,' he said, 'ye'll jest hae the choice o' stannin' the law or quittin' the forest this varra day; which do ye tak?' 'Twas no that hard to make choice; it meant quittin' the glen any road, for which o' the lads wad speak with one wha had slain a hind? So I told his Grace, and he said, 'A' believe ye're richt, Andy, an' here's a twenty-pound note to pay yer way to Hell with.' And so a' flitted, Lord Donal', and sailed out here steerage, and became a citizen of this fusionless docken o'a clan, until the war came, and by then I had been so lang a darn't furriner that I didna' sae much mind servin', even had I the free will, which I hadna'. An' noo, m' lord, ye'll tak' me back to Traquair?-I thank ye, I thank ye!" TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN. BY ALFRED NOYES. VII. FLOS MERCATORUM. PART III. "AND by that light," quoth Clopton, "did he keep His promise. He was rich; but in his will He wrote those words which should be blazed with gold In London's Liber Albus : The desire And busy intention of a man, devout And wise, should be to fore-cast and secure He became The Father of the City. Felons died Shines like an angel's lanthorn through the night, He saw men wrapt in ignorance, and he raised The cry of the old and weary, and he built Even so he kept His prentice vows of Duty, Industry, Obedience, words contemned of every fool Who shrinks from law; yet were those ancient vows Let all who play their Samson be well warned That Samsons perish, too! Is London!" His monument "Ay," quoth Dekker, "and he deserves Well of the Mermaid Inn for one good law Rightly enforced. He pilloried that rogue Will Horold, who in Whittington's third year "Ay, sound wine, Indeed," replied the Clerk, "concerns the State, Were added unto him, until the bells More than fulfilled their prophecy. One great eve, Fair Alice, leaning from her casement, saw Of Whittington Palace-so men called his house A thousand archers in their white silk coats, A thousand mounted men in ringing mail, A thousand sworded henchmen; then, his Guild, When the King questioned him of how and whence, There is a sea, and who shall drain it dry?' The minstrels in the great black gallery tuned Were brimmed with dawn and sunset, and they drank The purple of the seas. And when the Queen, Catharine, wondered at the costly woods That burned upon his hearth, the Marchaunt rose, Then, overhead, the minstrels plucked their strings; Marchaunt Adventurers, O what shall it profit you Even so our sails break out when Spring is well begun! Each for all, and all for each, quoth Richard Whittington! Marchaunt Adventurers, the Spring is well begun! Break, break out on every sea, O, fair white sails of England! Marchaunt Adventurers, O what 'ull ye bring home again? What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be? Deride such prayers; but, from such simple hearts, But, if indeed she doubt, if she forget Whittington There, to his Arms, The Gules and Azure, and the Lion's Head Might move hard hearts to laughter, but I think The Honey-bee. And, far away, the bells Peal softly from the pure white City of God: So did he remember, so did he remember, How the might that makes a man is greater than his own! There, like little children, O their grey heads bowed together, Simply, as he prayed of old, a little lad alone. So did he remember, as he looked upon his shield again, Kneeling by his father's grave in little Pauntley chancel, So did he remember, so did he remember, Every bare-foot boy on earth is but a younger son. With folded hands he waits the Judgment, now! Ut fragrans nardus Fama fuit iste Ricardus. Slowly the great bell tolls across the world Flos Mercatorum, Fundator presbyterorum, .. |