"Kenneth,"said the old outlaw,"hear the last words of the sire of thy father.A Saxon soldier,and Allan of the Red-hand,left this camp within these few hours,to travel to the country to Caberfae.Pursue them as the bloodhound pursues the hurt deer --swim the lake-climb the mountain--thread the forest--tarry not until you join them;"and then the countenance of the lad darkened as his grandfather spoke,and he laid his hand upon a knife which stuck in the thong of leather that confined his scanty plaid."No!"said the old man;"it is not by thy hand he must fall.They will ask the news from the camp--say to them that Annot Lyle of the Harp is discovered to be the daughter of Duncan of Ardenvohr;that the Thane of Menteith is to wed her before the priest;and that you are sent to bid guests to the bridal.Tarry not their answer,but vanish like the lightning when the black cloud swallows it.--And now depart,beloved son of my best beloved!I shall never more see thy face,nor hear the light sound of thy footstep--yet tarry an instant and hear my last charge.Remember the fate of our race,and quit not the ancient manners of the Children of the Mist.We are now a straggling handful,driven from every vale by the sword of every clan,who rule in the possessions where their forefathers hewed the wood,and drew the water for ours.But in the thicket of the wilderness,and in the mist of the mountain,Kenneth,son of Eracht,keep thou unsoiled the freedom which I leave thee as a birthright.Barter it not neither for the rich garment,nor for the stone-roof,nor for the covered board,nor for the couch of down--on the rock or in the valley,in abundance or in famine--in the leafy summer,and in the days of the iron winter--Son of the Mist!be free as thy forefathers.Own no lord--receive no law --take no hire--give no stipend--build no hut--enclose no pasture --sow no grain;--let the deer of the mountain be thy flocks and herds--if these fail thee,prey upon the goods of our oppressors --of the Saxons,and of such Gael as are Saxons in their souls,valuing herds and flocks more than honour and freedom.Well for us that they do so--it affords the broader scope for our revenge.
Remember those who have done kindness to our race,and pay their services with thy blood,should the hour require it.If a MacIan shall come to thee with the head of the king's son in his hand,shelter him,though the avenging army of the father were behind him;for in Glencoe and Ardnamurchan,we have dwelt in peace in the years that have gone by.The sons of Diarmid--the race of Darnlinvarach--the riders of Menteith--my curse on thy head,Child of the Mist,if thou spare one of those names,when the time shall offer for cutting them off!and it will come anon,for their own swords shall devour each other,and those who are scattered shall fly to the Mist,and perish by its Children.
Once more,begone--shake the dust from thy feet against the habitations of men,whether banded together for peace or for war.
Farewell,beloved!and mayst thou die like thy forefathers,ere infirmity,disease,or age,shall break thy spirit--Begone!--begone!--live free--requite kindness--avenge the injuries of thy race!"
The young savage stooped,and kissed the brow of his dying parent;but accustomed from infancy to suppress every exterior sign of emotion,he parted without tear or adieu,and was soon far beyond the limits of Montrose's camp.
Sir Dugald Dalgetty,who was present during the latter part of this scene,was very little edified by the conduct of MacEagh upon the occasion."I cannot think,my friend Ranald,"said he,"that you are in the best possible road for a dying man.Storms,onslaughts,massacres,the burning of suburbs,are indeed a soldier's daily work,and are justified by the necessity of the case,seeing that they are done in the course of duty;for burning of suburbs,in particular,it may be said that they are traitors and cut-throats to all fortified towns.Hence it is plain,that a soldier is a profession peculiarly favoured by Heaven,seeing that we may hope for salvation,although we daily commit actions of so great violence.But then,Ranald,in all services of Europe,it is the custom of the dying soldier not to vaunt him of such doings,or to recommend them to his fellows;
but,on the contrary,to express contrition for the same,and to repeat,or have repeated to him,some comfortable prayer;which,if you please,I will intercede with his Excellency's chaplain to prefer on your account.It is otherwise no point of my duty to put you in mind of those things;only it may be for the ease of your conscience to depart more like a Christian,and less like a Turk,than you seem to be in a fair way of doing."
The only answer of the dying man--(for as such Ranald MacEagh might now be considered)--was a request to be raised to such a position that he might obtain a view from the window of the Castle.The deep frost mist,which had long settled upon the top of the mountains,was now rolling down each rugged glen and gully,where the craggy ridges showed their black and irregular outline,like desert islands rising above the ocean of vapour.
"Spirit of the Mist!"said Ranald MacEagh,"called by our race our father,and our preserver--receive into thy tabernacle of clouds,when this pang is over,him whom in life thou hast so often sheltered."So saying,he sunk back into the arms of those who upheld him,spoke no further word,but turned his face to the wall for a short space.
"I believe,"said Dalgetty,"my friend Ranald will be found in his heart to be little better than a heathen."And he renewed his proposal to procure him the assistance of Dr.Wisheart,Montrose's military chaplain;"a man,"said Sir Dugald,"very clever in his exercise,and who will do execution on your sins in less time than I could smoke a pipe of tobacco."
