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Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"

<h3> CHAPTER XXV. A LEGEND OF FIFE. </h3> I can only give you an old Scottish story of the last century, with the incidents of which I became familiar in my student days when attending the ancient university of St. Andrew's, where I worked my way manfully through the classes of chemistry, anatomy, and natural philosophy; and felt as proud of my academic gown as I have done in later years of my red coat and epaulettes, and perhaps as happy, too, for some of the most joyous days, and certainly the most uproarious nights of my past life, have been spent in the auld East Neuk of Fife—God bless it! And now for my legend. It was a cold night in the March of the year 1708. The hour of ten had tolled from the old Gothic collegiate church; beating on his drum, the drummer in the livery of the burgh had proceeded from the Market-cross to the ruins of St. David's Castle, and from thence to the chapel of St. Rufus, and having made one long roll or flourish at the point from whence his peregrination began, he adjourned to the "Thane of Fife" to procure a dram, while the good folks of Crail composed themselves for the night, and the barring of doors and windows announced that those who were within had resolved to make themselves comfortable and secure, while those unfortunate wights that were without were likely to remain so. Hollowly the German Sea was booming on the rocks of the harbour; and from its hazy surface a cold east wind swept over the flat, bleak coast of Crail; a star peeped at times between the flying clouds, and even the moon looked forth once, but immediately veiled her face again, as if one glance at the iron shore and barren scenery, unenlivened by hedge or tree, were quite enough to prevent her from looking again. The town-drummer had received his dram and withdrawn, and Master Spiggot, the gudeman or landlord of the Thane of Fife, the principal tavern, and only inn or hostel in the burgh, was taking a last view of the main street, and considering the propriety of closing for the night. It was broad, spacious, and is still overlooked by many a tall and gable-ended mansion, whose antique and massive aspect announces that, like other Fifeshire burghs before the Union in the preceding year, it had seen better days. Indeed, the house then occupied by Master Spiggot himself, and from which his sign bearing the panoplied Thane at full gallop on a caparisoned steed, swung creaking in the night wind, was one of those ancient edifices, and in former days had belonged to the provost of the adjoining kirk: but this was (as Spiggot said), "in the auld-warld times o' the Papistrie." The gudeman shook his white head solemnly and sadly, as he looked down the empty thoroughfare. "There was a time," he muttered, and paused. Silent and desolate as any in the ruins of Thebes, the street was half covered with weeds and rank grass that grew between the stones, and Spiggot could see them waving in the dim starlight. Crail is an out-of-the-way place. It is without thoroughfare and without trade; few leave it and still fewer think of going there, for there one feels as if on the very verge of society; for even by day, there reigns a monastic gloom, a desertion, a melancholy, a uniform and voiceless silence, broken only by the croak of the gleds and the cawing of the clamorous gulls nestling on the old church tower, while the sea booms incessantly as it rolls on the rocky beach. But there was a time when it was otherwise; when the hum of commerce rose around its sculptured cross, and there was a daily bustle in the chambers of its Town-hall, for there a portly provost and bailies with a battalion of seventeen corpulent councillors sat solemnly deliberating on the affairs of the burgh, and swelling with a municipal importance that was felt throughout the whole East Neuk of Fife; for, in those days, the bearded Russ and red-haired Dane, the Norwayer and the Hollander, laden with merchandise, furled their sails in that deserted harbour where now scarcely a fisherboat is seen; for on Crail, as on all its sister towns along the coast, fell surely and heavily that decay of trade which succeeded the Union in 1707. On the sad changes a year had brought about, Spiggot pondered sadly, and was only roused from his dreamy mood by the sudden apparition of a traveller on horseback standing before him; for so long and so soft was the grass of the street that his approach had been unheard by the dreamer, whose mind was wandering after the departed glories of the East Neuk. "A cold night, landlord, for such I take you to be," said the stranger, in a bold and cheerful voice, as he dismounted. "A cauld night and a dreary too," sighed poor Boniface, as he bowed, and hastened to seize the stranger's bridle, and buckled it to a ring at tha door-cheek; "but the sicht of a visitor does gude to my heart; step in, sir. A warm posset that was simmering in the parlour for myself is at your service, and I'll set the stall-boy to corn your beast and stable it." "I thank you, gudeman; but for unharnessing it matters not, as I must ride onward; but I will take the posset with thanks, for I am chilled to death by my long ride along this misty coast." Spiggot looked intently at the traveller as he stooped, and entering the low-arched door which was surmounted by an old monastic legend, trod into the bar with a heavy clanking stride, for he was accoutred with jack boots and gilded spurs. His rocquelaure was of scarlet cloth, warmly furred, and the long curls of his Ramilies wig flowed over it. His beaver was looped upon three sides with something of a military air, and one long white feather that adorned it, floated down his back, for the dew was heavy on it. He was a handsome man, about forty years of age, well sunburned, with a keen dark eye, and close-clipped moustache, which indicated that he had served in foreign wars. He threw his hat and long jewelled rapier aside, and on removing his rocquelaure, discovered a white velvet coat more richly covered with lace than any that Spiggot had seen even in the palmiest days of Crail. According to the fashion of Queen Anne's courtiers, it was without a collar, to display the long white cravat of point d'Espagne, without cuffs, and edged from top to bottom with broad bars of lace, clasps and buttons of silver the whole length; being compressed at the waist by a very ornamental belt, fastened by a large gold buckle. "Your honour canna think of riding on to-night," urged Boniface; "and if a Crail-capon done just to perfection, and a stoup of the best wine, at least, siccan wine as we get by the east seas, since that vile incorporating Union——" "Vile and damnable! say I," interrupted the stranger. "True for ye, sir," said Spiggot, with a kindling eye; "but if these puir viands can induce ye to partake of the hospitality of my puir hostel, that like our gude burrowtoun is no just what it has been——" "Gudeman, 'tis impossible, for I must ride so soon as I have imbibed thy posset." "As ye please, sir—your honour's will be done. Our guests are now, even as the visits of angels, unco few and far between; and thus, when one comes, we are loath to part with him. There is a deep pitfall, and an ugly gulleyhole where the burn crosses the road at the town-head, and if ye miss the path, the rocks by the beach are steep, and in a night like this——" "Host of mine," laughed the traveller, "I know right well every rood of the way, and by keeping to the left near the Auldlees may avoid both the blackpit and the sea-beach." "Your honour kens the country hereawa, then?" said Spiggot with surprise. "Of old, perhaps, I knew it as well as thee." The gudeman of the Thane scrutinised the traveller's face keenly, but failed to recognise him, and until this moment, he thought that no man in the East Neuk was unknown to him; but here his inspection was at fault. "And hast thou no visitors with thee now, friend host?" he asked of Spiggot. "One only, gude sir, who came here on a brown horse about nightfall. He is an unco' foreign-looking man, but has been asking the way to the castle o' Balcomie." "Ha! and thou didst tell of this plaguey pitfall, I warrant." "Assuredly, your honour, in kindness I did but hint of it." "And thereupon he stayed. Balcomie—indeed! and what manner of man is he?" "By the corslet which he wears under his coat, and the jaunty cock of his beaver, I would say he had been a soldier." "Good again—give him my most humble commendations, and ask him to share thy boasted posset of wine with me." "What name did you say, sir?" "Thou inquisitive varlet, I said no name," replied the gentleman, with a smile. "In these times men do not lightly give their names to each other, when the land is swarming with Jacobite plotters and government spies, disguised Jesuits, and Presbyterian tyrants. I may be the Devil or the Pope, for all thou knowest." "Might ye no be the Pretender?" said Spiggot, with a sour smile. "Nay, I have a better travelling name than that; but say to this gentleman that the Major of Marshal Orkney's Dragoons requests the pleasure of sharing a stoup of wine with him." "Sir, it mattereth little whether you give your name or no," replied the host bitterly; "for we are a' nameless now. Twelve months ago, we were true Scottish men, but now——" "Our king is an exile—our crown is buried for ever, and our brave soldiers are banished to far and foreign wars, while the grass is growing green in the streets of our capital—ay, green as it is at this hour in your burgh of Crail; but, hence to the stranger; yet say not," added the traveller, bitterly and proudly, "that in his warmth the Scottish cavalier has betrayed himself." While the speaker amused himself with examining a printed proclamation concerning the "Tiend Commissioners and Transplantation off Paroch Kirkis," which was pasted over the stone mantlepiece of the bar, the landlord returned with the foreign gentleman's thanks, and an invitation to his chamber, whither the Major immediately repaired; following the host up a narrow stone spiral stair to a snugly-wainscotted room, against the well-grated windows of which a sudden shower was now beginning to patter. The foreigner, who was supping on a Crail-capon (in other words a broiled haddock) and stoup of Bourdeaux wine, arose at their entrance, and bowed with an air that was undisguisedly continental. He was a man above six feet, with a long straight nose, over which his dark eyebrows met and formed one unbroken line. He wore a suit of green Genoese velvet, so richly laced that little of the cloth was visible; a full-bottomed wig, and a small corslet of the brightest steel (over which hung the ends of his cravat), as well as a pair of silver-mounted cavalry pistols that lay on the table, together with his unmistakable bearing, decided the Major of Orkney's that the stranger was a brother of the sword. "Fair sir, little introduction is necessary between us, as, I believe, we have both followed the drum in our time," said the Major, shaking the curls of his Ramilies wig with the air of a man who has decided on what he says. "I have served, Monsieur," replied the foreigner, "under Marlborough and Eugene." "Ah! in French Flanders? Landlord—gudeman, harkee; a double stoup of this wine; I have found a comrade to-night—be quick and put my horse to stall, I will not ride hence for an hour or so. What regiment, sir?" "I was first under Grouvestein in the Horse of Driesberg." "Then you were on the left of the second column at Ramilies—on that glorious 12th of May," said the Major, drawing the high-backed chair which the host handed him, and spreading out his legs before the fire, which burned merrily in the basket grate on the hearth, "and latterly——" "Under Wandenberg." "Ah! an old tyrannical dog." A dark cloud gathered on the stranger's lofty brow. "I belonged to the Earl of Orkney's Grey Dragoons," said the Major; "and remember old Wandenberg making a bold charge in that brilliant onfall when we passed the lines of Monsieur le Mareschal Villars at Pont-a-Vendin, and pushed on to the plains of Lens." "That was before we invested Doway and Fort-Escharpe, where old Albergotti so ably commanded ten thousand well-beaten soldiers." "And then Villars drew off from his position at sunset and encamped on the plain before Arras." "Thou forgettest, comrade, that previously he took up a position in rear of Escharpe." "True; but now I am right into the very melée of those old affairs, and the mind carries one on like a rocket. Your health, sir—by the way, I am still ignorant of your name." "I have such very particular reasons for concealing it in this neighbourhood, that——" "Do not think me inquisitive; in these times men should not pry too closely." "Monsieur will pardon me, I hope." "No apology is necessary, save from myself, for now my curiosity is thoroughly and most impertinently whetted, to find a Frenchman in this part of the world, here in this out-o'-the-way place, where no one comes to, and no one goes from, on a bleak promontory of the German Sea, the East Neuk of Fife." "Monsieur will again excuse me; but I have most particular business with a gentleman in this neighbourhood; and having travelled all the way from Paris, expressly to have it settled, I beg that I may be excused the pain of prevarication. The circumstance of my having served under the great Duke of Marlborough against my own king and countrymen is sufficiently explained when I acquaint you, that I was then a French Protestant refugee; but now, without changing my religion, I have King Louis' gracious pardon and kind protection extended to me." "And so you were with Wandenberg when his troopers made that daring onfall at Pont-a-Vendin, and drove back the horse picquets of Villars," said the Major, to lead the conversation from a point which evidently seemed unpleasant to the stranger. "'T was sharp, short, and decisive, as all cavalry affairs should be. You will of course remember that unpleasant affair of Wandenberg's troopers who were accused of permitting a French prisoner to escape. It caused a great excitement in the British camp, where some condemned the dragoons, others Van Wandenberg, and not a few our great Marlborough himself." "I did hear something of it," said the stranger in a low voice. "The prisoner whose escape was permitted was, I believe, the father of the youths who captured him, a circumstance which might at least have won them mercy——" "From the Baron!" "I forgot me; he was indeed merciless." "But as I left his dragoons, and indeed the army about that time, I shall be glad to hear your account of the affair." "It is a very unpleasant story; the more so as I was somewhat concerned in it myself," said the Major, slowly filling his long-stemmed glass, and watching the white worm in its stalk, so intently as he recalled all the circumstances he was about to relate, that he did not observe the face of the French gentleman, which was pale as death; and after a short pause, he began as follows:— "In the onfall at Pont-a-Vendin, it happened that two young Frenchmen who served as gentlemen volunteers with you in the dragoon regiment of Van Wandenberg, had permitted—how, or why, I pretend not to say—the escape of a certain prisoner of distinction. Some said he was no other than M. le Mareschal Villars himself. They claimed a court-martial, but the old baron, who was a savage-hearted Dutchman, insisted that they should be given up unconditionally to his own mercy, and in an evil moment of heedlessness or haste, Marlborough consented, and sent me (I was his aide-de-camp) with a written order to that effect, addressed to Colonel the Baron Van Wandenberg, whose regiment of horse I met 'en route' for St. Venant, about nightfall on a cold and snowy evening in the month of November. "Snow covered the whole country, which was all a dead level, and a cold, leaden-coloured sky met the white horizon in one unbroken line, save where the leafless poplars of some far-off village stood up, the landmarks of the plain. In broad flakes the snow fell fast, and directing their march by a distant spire, the Dutch troopers rode slowly over the deepening fields. They were all muffled in dark blue cloaks, on the capes of which the snow was freezing, while the breath of the men and horses curled like steam in the thickening and darkening air. "Muffled to the nose in a well-furred rocquelaure, with my wig tied to keep the snow from its curls, and my hat flapped over my face, I rode as fast as the deep snow would permit, and passing the rear of the column where, moody and disarmed, the two poor French volunteers were riding under care of an escort I spurred to the baron who rode in front near the kettle drums, and delivered my order; as I did so, recalling with sadness the anxious and wistful glance given me by the prisoners as I passed them. "Wandenberg, who had no more shape than a huge hogshead, received the dispatch with a growl of satisfaction. He would have bowed, but his neck was too short. I cannot but laugh when I remember his strange aspect. In form he looked nearly as broad as he was long, being nearly eight feet in girth, and completely enveloped in a rough blue rocquelaure, which imparted to his figure the roundness of a ball. His face, reddened by skiedam and the frost, was glowing like crimson, while the broad beaver hat that overshadowed it, and the feathers with which the beaver was edged, were encrusted with the snow that was rapidly forming a pyramid on its crown, imparting to his whole aspect a drollery at which I could have laughed heartily, had not his well-known acuteness and ferocity awed me into a becoming gravity of demeanour; and delivering my dispatch with a tolerably good grace, I reined back my horse to await any reply he might be pleased to send the Duke. "His dull Dutch eyes glared with sudden anger and triumph, as he folded the document, and surveyed the manacled prisoners. Thereafter he seized his speaking trumpet, and thundered out,— "'Ruyters—halt! form open column of troops, trot!' "It was done as rapidly as heavily-armed Dutchmen on fat slow horses knee deep among snow could perform it, and then wheeling them into line, he gave the orders— "'Forward the flanks, form circle, sling musquetoons! trumpeters ride to the centre and dismount.' "By these unexpected manoeuvres, I suddenly found myself inclosed in a hollow circle of the Dutch horsemen, and thus, as it were, compelled to become a spectator of the scene that ensued, though I had his Grace of Marlborough's urgent orders to rejoin him without delay on the road to Aire." "And—and you saw——" "Such a specimen of discipline as neither the devil nor De Martinet ever dreamed of; but thoroughly Dutch, I warrant you. "I have said it was intensely cold, and that the night was closing; but the whiteness of the snow that covered the vast plain, with the broad red circle of the half-obscured moon that glimmered through the fast-falling flakes, as it rose behind a distant spire, cast a dim light upon the place where the Dutchmen halted. But deeming that insufficient, Van Wandenberg ordered half-a-dozen torches to be lighted, for his troopers always had such things with them, being useful by night for various purposes; and hissing and sputtering in the falling snow flakes, their lurid and fitful glare was thrown on the close array of the Dutch dragoons, on their great cumbrous hats, on the steeple crowns of which, I have said, the snow was gathering in cones, and the pale features of the two prisoners, altogether imparting a wild, unearthly, and terrible effect to the scene about to be enacted on that wide and desolate moor. "By order of Van Wandenberg, three halberts were fixed into the frozen earth, with their points bound together by a thong, after which the dismounted trumpeters layed hands on one of the young Frenchmen, whom they proceeded to strip of his coat and vest. "Disarmed and surrounded, aware of the utter futility of resistance, the unfortunate volunteer offered none, but gazed wistfully and imploringly at me, and sure I am, that in my lowering brow and kindling eyes, he must have seen the storm that was gathering in my heart. "'Dieu vous bénisse, Officier,' cried the Frenchman in a mournful voice, while shuddering with cold and horror as he was stripped to his shirt; 'save me from this foul disgrace, and my prayers—yea, my life—shall be for ever at your disposal.' "'Good comrade,' said I, 'entreat me not, for here I am powerless.' "'Baron,' he exclaimed; 'I am a gentleman—a gentleman of old France, and I dare thee to lay thy damnable scourge upon me.' "'Ach Gott; dare—do you say dare? ve vill zee,' laughed Van Wandenberg, as the prisoner was dragged forward and about to be forcibly trussed to the halberts by the trumpeters, when, animated to the very verge of insanity, he suddenly freed himself, and rushing like a madman upon the Baron, struck him from his horse by one blow of his clenched hand. The horse snorted, the Dutch troopers opened their saucer eyes wider still, as the great and corpulent mass fell heavily among the deepening snow, and in an instant the foot of the Frenchman was pressed upon his throat, while he exclaimed— "'If I slay thee, thou hireling dog, as I have often slain thy clodpated countryman in other days,' and the Frenchman laughed fiercely, 'by St. Denis! I shall have one foeman less on this side of Hell.' "'Gott in Himmel! ach! mein tuyvel! mein Gott!' gasped the Dutchman, as he floundered beneath the heel of the vengeful and infuriated Frenchman, who was determined on destroying him, till a blow from the baton of an officer stretched him almost senseless among the snow, where he was immediately grasped by the trumpeters, disrobed of his last remaining garment, and bound strongly to the halberts. "Meanwhile the other prisoner had been pinioned and resolutely held by his escort, otherwise he would undoubtedly have fallen also upon Van Wandenberg, who, choking with a tempest of passion that was too great to find utterance in words, had gathered up his rotund figure, and with an agility wonderful in a man of his years and vast obesity, so heavily armed, in a buff coat and jack boots ribbed with iron, a heavy sword and cloak, clambered on the back of his horse, as a clown would climb up a wall: and with a visage alternating between purple and blue, by the effects of rage and strangulation, he surveyed the prisoner for a moment in silence, and there gleamed in his piggish grey eyes an expression of fury and pain, bitterness and triumph combined, and he was only able to articulate one word— "'Flog!' "On the handsome young Frenchman's dark curly hair, glistening with the whitening snow that fell upon it, and on his tender skin reddening in the frosty atmosphere, on the swelling muscles of his athletic form, on a half healed sabre-wound, and on the lineaments of a face that then expressed the extremity of mental agony, fell full the wavering light of the uplifted torches. The Dutch, accustomed to every species of extra-judicial cruelty by sea and land, looked on with the most grave stolidity and apathetic indifference; while I felt an astonishment and indignation that rapidly gave place to undisguised horror. "'Flog!' "The other prisoner uttered a groan that seemed to come from his very heart, and then covered his ears and eyes with his hands. Wielded by a muscular trumpeter, an immense scourge of many-knotted cords was brought down with one fell sweep on the white back of the victim, and nine livid bars, each red, as if seared by a hot iron, rose under the infliction, and again the terrible instrument was reared by the trumpeter at the full stretch of his sinewy arm. "Monsieur will be aware, that until the late Revolution of 1688, this kind of punishment was unknown here and elsewhere, save in Holland; and though I have seen soldiers run the gauntlet, ride the mare, and beaten by the martinets, I shall never oh, no! never forget the sensation of horror with which this (to me) new punishment of the poor Frenchman inspired me; and, sure I am, that our great Duke of Marlborough could in no way have anticipated it. "Accustomed, as I have said, to every kind of cruel severity, unmoved and stoically the Dutch looked on, with their grey, lacklustre eyes, dull, unmeaning, and passionless in their stolidity, contrasting strongly with the expression of startled horror depicted in the strained eyeballs and bent brows of the victim's brother, when after a time he dared to look on this revolting punishment. Save an ill-repressed sob, or half-muttered interjection from the suffering man, no other sound broke the stillness of the place, where a thousand horsemen stood in close order, but the sputtering of the torches in the red light of which our breaths were ascending like steam. Yes! there was one other sound, and it was a horrible one—the monotonous whiz of the scourge, as it cut the keen frosty air and descended on the lacerated back of the fainting prisoner. Sir, I see that my story disturbs you. "A corpulent Provost Mareschal, with a pair of enormous moustaches, amid which the mouth of his meerschaum was inserted, stood by, smoking with admirable coolness, and marking the time with his cane, while a drummer tapped on his kettledrum, and four trumpeters had, each in succession, given their twenty-five lashes and withdrawn; twice had the knotted scourge been coagulated with blood, and twice had it been washed in the snow which now rose high around the feet of our champing and impatient horses; and now the fifth torturer approached, but still the compressed lips and clammy tongue of the proud Frenchman refused to implore mercy. His head was bowed down on his breast, his body hung pendant from the cords that encircled his swollen and livid wrists; his back from neck to waist was one mass of lacerated flesh, on which the feathery snowflakes were melting; for the agony he endured must have been like unto a stream of molten lead pouring over him; but no groan, no entreaty escaped him, and still the barbarous punishment proceeded. "I have remarked that there is no event too horrible or too sad to be without a little of the ridiculous in it, and this was discernible here. "One trumpeter, who appeared to have more humanity, or perhaps less skill than his predecessors, and did not exert himself sufficiently, was soundly beaten by the rattan of the trumpet-major, while the latter was castigated by the Provost Mareschal, who, in turn for remissness of duty, received sundry blows from the speaking-trumpet of the Baron; so they were all laying soundly on each other for a time." "Morbleu!" said the Frenchman, with a grim smile, "'t was quite in the Dutch taste, that." "The Provost Mareschal continued to mark the time with the listless apathy of an automaton; the smoke curled from his meerschaum, the drum continued to tap-tap-tap, until it seemed to sound like thunder to my strained ears, for every sense was painfully excited. All count had long been lost, but when several hundred lashes had been given, Van Wandenberg and half his Dutchmen were asleep in their saddles. "It was now snowing thick and fast, but still this hideous dream continued, and still the scourging went on. "At last the altered sound of the lash and the terrible aspect of the victim, who, after giving one or two convulsive shudders, threw back his head with glazed eyes and jaw relaxed, caused the trumpeter to recede a pace or two, and throw down his gory scourge, for some lingering sentiment of humanity, which even the Dutch discipline of King William had not extinguished, made him respect when dead the man whom he had dishonoured when alive. "The young Frenchman was dead! "An exclamation of disgust and indignation that escaped me woke up the Baron, who after drinking deeply from a great pewter flask of skiedam that hung at his saddlebow, muttered "schelms" several times, rubbed his eyes, and then bellowed through his trumpet to bind up the other prisoner. Human endurance could stand this no more, and though I deemed the offer vain, I proposed to give a hundred English guineas as ransom. "'Ach Gott!' said the greedy Hollander immediately becoming interested; "but vere you get zo mosh guilder?' "'Oh, readily, Mynheer Baron,' I replied, drawing forth my pocket-book, 'I have here bills on his Grace the Duke of Maryborough's paymaster and on the Bank of Amsterdam for much more than that.' "'Bot I cannot led off de brisoner for zo little—hunder ponds—dat ver small—zay two.' "If one is not enough, Mynheer Baron, I will refer to the decision of his grace the captain-general.' "'Ach, der tuyvel! vill you?' said the Dutchman, with a savage gleam in his little eyes which showed that he quite understood my hint, 'vell, me vont quarrel vid you; gib me de bills and de schelm is yours.' "Resolving, nevertheless, to lay the whole affair before Marlborough, the moment I reached our trenches at Aire, I gave a bill for the required sum, and approaching the other Frenchman requested him to remain beside me; but he seemed too much confused by grief, and cold, and horror to comprehend what I said. Poor fellow! his whole soul and sympathies seemed absorbed in the mangled corpse of his brother, which was now unbound from the halberts and lay half sunk among the new-fallen snow. While he stooped over it, and hastily, but tenderly, proceeded to draw the half-frozen clothing upon the stiffened form, the orders of Van Wandenberg were heard hoarsely through his speaking-trumpet, as they rang over the desolate plain, and his troopers wheeled back from a circle into line—from line into open column of troops, and thereafter the torches were extinguished and the march begun. Slowly and solemnly the dragoons glided away into the darkness, each with a pyramid of snow rising from the steeple crown and ample brims of his broad beaver hat. "It was now almost midnight; the red moon had waned, the snow-storm was increasing, and there were I and the young Frenchman, with his brother's corpse, left together on the wide plain, without a place to shelter us." "Proceed, Monsieur," said the Frenchman, as the narrator paused; "for I am well aware that your story ends not there." "It does not—you seem interested; but I have little more to relate, save that I dismounted and assisted the poor Frenchman to raise the body from the snow, and to tie it across the saddle of my horse, taking the bridle in one hand, I supported him with the other, and thus we proceeded to the nearest town." "To Amientieres on the Lys," exclaimed the Frenchman, seizing the hands of the Major as the latter paused again; "to Armentieres, ten miles west of Lisle, and there you left them, after adding to your generosity by bestowing sufficient to inter his brother in the Protestant church of that town, and to convey himself to his native France. Oh! Monsieur, I am that Frenchman, and here, from my heart, from my soul, I thank you," and half kneeling, the stranger kissed the hand of the Major. "You!" exclaimed the latter; "by Jove I am right glad to see you. Here at Crail, too, in the East Neuk o' Fife—'t is a strange chance; and what in heaven's name seek ye here? 'T is a perilous time for a foreigner—still more, a Frenchman, to tread on Scottish ground. The war, the intrigues with St. Germains, the Popish plots, and the devil only knows what more, make travelling here more than a little dangerous." "Monsieur, I know all that; the days are changed since the Scot was at home in France, and the Frenchman at home in Scotland, for so the old laws of Stuart and Bourbon made them. A few words will tell who I am, and what I seek here. Excuse my reluctance to reveal myself before, for now you have a claim upon me. Oh! believe me, I knew not that I addressed the generous chevalier who, in that hour of despair, redeemed my life (and more than my life), my honour, from the scourge, and enabled me to lay the head of my poor brother with reverence in the grave. You have heard of M. Henri Lemercier?" "What! the great swordsman and fencer—that noble master of the science of defence, with the fame of whose skill and valour all Europe is ringing?" "I am he of whom Monsieur is pleased to speak so highly." "Your hand again, sir; zounds; but I dearly love this gallant science myself, and have even won me a little name as a handler of the rapier. There is but one man whom Europe calls your equal, Monsieur Lemercier." "My superior, you mean, for I have many equals," replied the Frenchman, modestly. "You, doubtless, mean——" "Sir William Hope, of Hopetoun." "Ah! Mon Dieu, yes, he has indeed a great name in Europe as a fencer and master of arms, either with double or single falchion, case of falchions, back-sword and dagger, pistol or quarter staff; and it is the fame of his skill and prowess in these weapons, and the reputation he has earned by his books on fencing, that hath brought me to-day to this remote part of Scotland." "Zounds!" said the Major, shaking back the long powdered curls of his Ramilies wig, and looking remarkably grave; "you cannot mean to have a bout with Sir William. He hath a sure hand and a steady eye; I would rather stand a platoon than be once covered by his pistol." "Monsieur, I have no enmity to this Sir William Hope, nor am I envious of his great name as a fencer. Ma foi! the world is quite wide enough for us both; but here lies my secret. I love Mademoiselle Athalie, the niece of Madame de Livry——" "How—the old flame of the great Louis!" "Oui," said Lemercier, smiling; "and many say that Athalie bears a somewhat suspicious resemblance to her aunt's royal lover; but that is no business of mine; she loves me very dearly, and is very good and amiable. Diable! I am well content to take her and her thirty thousand louis-d'or without making any troublesome inquiries. It would seem that my dear little Athalie is immensely vain of my reputation as a master of fence, and having heard that this Scottish Chevalier is esteemed the first man of the sword in Britain, and further, that report asserts he slew her brother in the line of battle at Blenheim, fighting bravely for a standard, she declared that ere her hand was mine, I must measure swords with this Sir William, and dip this, her handkerchief, in his blood in token of his defeat, and of my conquest." "A very pretty idea of Mademoiselle Athalie, and I doubt not Hopetoun will be overwhelmed by the obligation when he hears of it," said the Major of Orkney's, whose face brightened with a broad laugh, "and so much would I love to see two such brisk fellows as thou and he yoked together, at cut-and-thrust, that if permitted, I will rejoice in bearing the message of M. Lemercier to Sir William, whose Castle of Balcomie is close by here." "Having no friend with me, I accept your offer with a thousand thanks," said Lemercier. "Sir William did indeed slay an officer, as you have said, in that charge at Blenheim, where the regiment of the Marquis de Livry were cut to pieces by Orkney's Scots' Greys; but to be so good and amiable, and to love you so much withal, Mademoiselle Athalie must be a brisk dame to urge her favoured Chevalier on a venture so desperate; for mark me, Monsieur Lemercier," said the Major, impressively, "none can know better than I the skill—the long and carefully-studied skill—of Sir William of Hopetoun, and permit me to warn you——" "It matters not—I must fight him; love, honour, and rivalry, too, if you will have it so, all spur me on, and no time must be lost." "Enough; I should have been in my stirrups an hour ago; and dark though the night be, I will ride to Balcomie with your message." "A million of thanks—you will choose time and place for me." "Say, to-morrow, at sunrise; be thou at the Standing-stone of Sauchope; 't is a tall, rough block, in the fields near the Castle of Balcomie, and doubt not but Sir William will meet thee there." "Thanks, thanks," again said the Frenchman, pressing the hand of the Major, who, apparently delighted at the prospect of witnessing such an encounter between the two most renowned swordsmen in Europe, drank off his stoup of wine, muffled himself in his rocquelaure, and with his little cocked hat stuck jauntily on one side of the Ramilies wig, left the apartment, and demanded his horse and the reckoning. "Then your honour will be fulehardy, and tempt Providence," said the landlord. "Nay, gudeman, but you cannot tempt me to stay just now. I ride only through the town to Balcomie, and will return anon. The Hopetoun family are there, I believe?" "Yes; but saving my lady at the preachings, we see little o' them; for Sir William has bidden at Edinburgh, or elsewhere, since his English gold coft the auld tower from the Balcomies of that Ilk, the year before the weary Union, devil mend it!" "Amen, say I; and what callest thou English gold?" "The doolfu' compensation, o' whilk men say he had his share." "Man, thou liest, and they who say so lie! for to the last moment his voice was raised against that traitorous measure of Queensbury and Stair, and now every energy of his soul is bent to its undoing!" replied the Major, fiercely, as he put spurs to his horse, and rode rapidly down the dark and then grassy street, at the end of which the clank of his horse's hoofs died away, as he diverged upon the open ground that lay northward of the town, and by which he had to approach the tower of Balcomie. The Frenchman remained long buried in thought, and as he sipped his wine, gazed dreamily on the changing embers that glowed on the hearth, and cast a warm light on the blue delft lining of the fireplace. The reminiscences of the war in Flanders had called up many a sad and many a bitter recollection. "I would rather," thought he, "that the man I am to encounter to-morrow was not a Scot, for the kindness of to-night, and of that terrible night in the snow-clad plain of Arras, inspire me with a warm love for all the people of this land. But my promise must be redeemed, my adventure achieved, or thou, my dear, my rash Athalie, art lost to me!" and he paused to gaze with earnestness upon a jewel that glittered on his hand. It was a hair ring, bound with gold, and a little shield bearing initials, clasped the small brown tress that was so ingeniously woven round it. As he gazed on the trinket, his full dark eyes brightened for a moment, as the mild memories of love and fondness rose in his heart, and a bright smile played upon his haughty lip and lofty brow. Other thoughts arose, and the eyebrows that almost met over the straight Grecian nose of Lemercier, were knit as he recalled the ominous words of his recent acquaintance— "Mademoiselle Athalie must be a brisk dame to urge her favoured Chevalier on a venture so desperate." One bitter pang shot through his heart, but he thrust the thought aside, and pressed the ring to his lips. "Oh, Athalie," he said, in a low voice, "I were worse than a villain to suspect thee." At that moment midnight tolled from the dull old bell of Crail, and the strangeness of the sound brought keenly home to the lonely heart of Lemercier that he was in a foreign land. The hour passed, but the Major did not return. Morning came. With gray dawn Lemercier was awake, and a few minutes found him dressed and ready. He attired himself with particular care, putting on a coat and vest, the embroidery of which presented as few conspicuous marks as possible to an antagonist's eye. He clasped his coat from the cravat to the waist, and compressed his embroidered belt. He adjusted his white silk roll-up stockings with great exactness; tied up the flowing curls of his wig with a white ribbon, placed a scarlet feather in his hat, and then took his sword. The edge and point of the blade, the shell and pommel, grasp and guard of the hilt were all examined with scrupulous care for the last time; he drew on his gloves with care, and giving to the landlord the reckoning, which he might never return to pay, Lemercier called for his horse and rode through the main street of Crail. Following the directions he had received from his host, he hastily quitted the deserted and grass-grown street of the burgh (the very aspect of which he feared would chill him), and proceeded towards the ancient obelisk, still known as the "Standing Stone of Sauchope," which had been named as the place of rendezvous by that messenger who had not returned, and against whom M. Lemercier felt his anger a little excited. It was a cool March morning, the sky was clear and blue, and the few silver clouds that floated through it became edged with gold as the sun rose from his bed in the eastern sea—that burnished sea from which the cool fresh breeze swept over the level coast. The fields were assuming a vernal greenness, the buds were swelling on hedge and tree, and the vegetation of the summer that was to come—the summer that Lemercier might never see—was springing from amid the brown remains of the autumn that had gone, an autumn that he had passed with Athalie amid the gaieties and gardens of Paris and Versailles. At the distance of a mile he saw the strong square tower of Balcomie, the residence of his antagonist. One side was involved in shadow, the other shone redly in the rising sun, and the morning smoke from its broad chimneys curled in dusky columns into the blue sky. The caw of the rooks that followed the plough, whose shining share turned up the aromatic soil, the merry whistle of the bonneted plough-boys, the voices of the blackbird and the mavis, made him sad, and pleased was Lemercier to leave behind him all such sounds of life, and reach the wild and solitary place where the obelisk stood—a grim and time-worn relic of the Druid ages or the Danish wars. A rough mis-shapen remnant of antiquity, it still remains to mark the scene of this hostile meeting, which yet forms one of the most famous traditions of the East Neuk. As Lemercier rode up, he perceived a gentleman standing near the stone. His back was towards him, and he was apparently intent on caressing his charger, whose reins he had thrown negligently over his arm. Lemercier thought he recognised the hat, edged with white feathers, the full-bottomed wig, and the peculiar lacing of the white velvet coat, and on the stranger turning he immediately knew his friend of the preceding night. "Bon jour, my dear sir," said Lemercier "A good morning." replied the other, and they politely raised their little cocked hats. "I had some misgivings when monsieur did not return to me," said the Frenchman. "Sir William has accepted my challenge?" "Yes, monsieur, and is now before you," replied the other, springing on horseback. "I am Sir William Hope, of Hopetoun, and am here at your service." "You!" exclaimed the Frenchman, in tones of blended astonishment and grief. "Ah! unsay what you have said. I cannot point my sword against the breast of my best benefactor—against him to whom I owe both honour and life. Can I forget that night on the plains of Arras? Ah, my God! what a mistake: what a misfortune. Ah, Athalie! to what have you so unthinkingly urged me?" "Think of her only, and forget all of me, save that I am your antagonist, your enemy, as I stand between thee and her. Come on, M. Lemercier, do not forget your promise to mademoiselle; we will sheathe our swords on the first blood drawn." "So be it then, if the first is thine," and unsheathing their long and keen-edged rapiers, they put spurs to their horses, and closing up hand to hand, engaged with admirable skill and address. The skill of one swordsman seemed equalled only by that of the other. Lemercier was the first fencer at the Court of France, where fencing was an accomplishment known to all, and there was no man in Britain equal to Sir William Hope, whose "Complete Fencing Master" was long famous among the lovers of the noble science of defence. They rode round each other in circles. Warily and sternly they began to watch each other's eyes, till they flashed in unison with their blades; their hearts beat quicker as their passions became excited and their rivalry roused; and their nerves became strung as the hope of conquest was whetted. The wish of merely being wounded ended in a desire to wound; and the desire to wound in a clamorous anxiety to vanquish and destroy. Save the incessant clash of the notched rapiers, as each deadly thrust was adroitly parried and furiously repeated, the straining of stirrup-leathers, as each fencer swayed to and fro in his saddle, their suppressed breathing, and the champing of iron bits, Lemercier and his foe saw nothing but the gleam, and heard nothing but the clash of each other's glittering swords. The sun came up in his glory from the shining ocean; the mavis soared above them in the blue sky; the early flowers of spring were unfolding their dewy cups to the growing warmth, but still man fought with man, and the hatred in their hearts waxed fierce and strong. In many places their richly-laced coats were cut and torn. One lost his hat, and had received a severe scar on the forehead, and the other had one on his bridle hand. They often paused breathlessly, and in weariness lowered the points of their weapons to glare upon each other with a ferocity that could have no end but death—until at the sixth encounter, when Lemercier became exhausted, and failing to parry with sufficient force a fierce and furious thrust, was run through the breast so near the heart, that he fell from his horse gasping and weltering in blood. Sir William Hope flung away his rapier and sprang to his assistance, but the unfortunate Frenchman could only draw from his finger the ring of Athalie, and with her name on his lips expired—being actually choked in his own blood. Such was the account of this combat given by the horrified Master Spiggot, who, suspecting "that there was something wrong," had followed his guest to the scene of the encounter, the memory of which is still preserved in the noble house of Hopetoun, and the legends of the burghers of Crail. So died Lemercier. Of what Sir William said or thought on the occasion, we have no record. In the good old times he would have eased his conscience by the endowment of an altar, or foundation of a yearly mass; but in the year 1708 such things had long been a dead letter in the East Neuk; and so in lieu thereof, he interred him honourably in the aisle of the ancient kirk, where a marble tablet long marked the place of his repose. Sir William did more; he carefully transmitted the ring of Lemercier to the bereaved Athalie, but before its arrival in Paris she had dried her tears for the poor chevalier, and wedded one of his numerous rivals. Thus, she forgot him sooner than his conqueror, who reached a good old age, and died at his castle of Balcomie, with his last breath regretting the combat of that morning at the Standing Stone of Sauchope. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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