 | The Haunted Glen |  |
SCENE II.
Inside of the Cottage.Simon holding down a great Dog.
Sim.
Murder! murder! holloa!—Blood, and fire,
and desolation, ho!—Come a' here! Come a' here,
for the sake o' man, and life, and death, and—
Murder! murder! Ho!
Enter Cairney.
Cair.
What's the matter wi' ye, callant? What
ails ye?
What ails me! That's sic a question to
speer! Dinna ye see that I'm worried? Isna that
aneugh to ail me?—Worried to death—a' torn to
pieces, and chew'd to bird's-meat—and yet to come
and speer what ails me.—Come directly, and help
me to kill this devil!
Cair.
Let the dog gae, fool.—I'll command him
off.—Burly, get off, thief—Hame to your hole, dragon!
—Son, what were you seeking here?
Sim.
Hush! I may tell you—I was watching that
witch, Lula—I had gotten ae door opened, and another
unsneckit ere ever she heard a jerg; and I
was just ready to seize on her the moment she lay
down—
Cair.
And I was waiting to gi' ye help, provided
ye needit it.
Sim.
War ye, my dear dad? O that dog!—that
confoundit dog! we might hae had her bund hand
and fit afore this time, and brunt afore day-light.
Was it to kill her that you were watching
her?
Sim.
I wad like to hae her bund at ony rate. I
carena what come o' her, if I'm in hands wi' her
ony way; I wad just do ought till her that I could
get done.—But I'm gane now—There's no a hale
inch in my bouk.
Cair.
How in the wide world did the dog come
here to attact you, the very man he likes best?
Sim.
O, father, she's a witch—a rank witch—I saw
by her look that she's a witch; and I'll swear till't;
for her ee was set in her head, her lip was gaun, and
the veins o' her neck war a' stirring and heaving,
like wee moudieworts aneath the snaw.
Cair.
The behaviour of the dog is ayont my comprehension.
Sim.
O, father, she's a real witch!—if ye wad but
haud her till I scored her aboon the breath, or
gart her say the verse, ye wad see.—I'm a' rinnin'
witched, and drawn to her by some invisible strength.
And I'm sure naething short o' suppernatral power
could hae gart the hound brik his chain, and come
a' the gate here to worry me.
Cair.
It looks a little odd, I do confess.
Enter Lula.
Sim.
O, ye witch! ye unfernal correspondent!
Are ye there, wi' your angel face, and your wicked
devices? Ye hae a weel-faur'd polished outside—Ye
hae a brow, and a neck, and a breast, bonnier war
never seen; but the heart within is blacker than the
craw's wing. O, ye wild enchanter! ye hae power
o'er men and dogs!—See what ye hae done!—See
what ye hae brought me to. But ye shall never see
the light of day, if green widdy will bind, or red
lowe burn ye.
Heaven shield thy wits!—Dear Simon,
what is this?
Sim.
Dear Simon! Dear Simon!—Father, do ye
hear that?—O what will come o' me?—It is here
still!—Blood canna sloken't—Water canna drown't
—The tooth o' the maskiss dog canna gnaw it out
o' me! It is here still, lowing and scowdering me
up like a moorburn!—Dear Simon, she says!
Lula.
Indeed I do call you dear Simon. You
little know the regard I have for you, if you would
but behave yourself. Tell me then, seriously, what
brought you here?
Sim.
Gudefaith, that's a plumper!—Father, what
shall I say now?—I think I be stupid!—What
brought me here? Ye ken that o'er weel!—It was
yoursel, wi' your witchery, and your enchantments,
and your black art of Oxford. Confess your cantrips,
ye witch o' Bethel, that ye pat a weed in my
shoe, or drappit my doublet neist the heart wi' your
drew me here—ye draggit me here by a force ayont
the power o' man to broostle wi'—and ye hae the
'frontery to speer “what brought me here!”
Lula.
I draw you here! What raving is this?—
What does it mean?
Sim.
Ay, and wha was't brought the dog here—
the mangrel blood-hound, wi' his teeth like brogue-elshins,
to tear me, his master, to pieces? Was there
aught o' nature there?—Can ye deny that too?
Lula.
(Aside.)
Cairney, what does this mean? I
fear he is gone mad.
Cair.
Whisht, lassie! dinna let him hear.—He's
bitten.
Enter Knight, covered with mire.
Knight.
I have you now, Dame Lightfoot.—You have sped
Too well in your cursed plot. Was ever man
O, I'll have sweet revenge on you for this!
Lula.
I'm all amazement! How am I to blame?
How came you thus?
Knight.
So thou art mocking, art thou?
Deceitful minx! I'll drag you to the gulf
To which I was decoy'd, and treat you there
As your deservance merits.
Lula.
(Aside.)
O, Cairney, he is bitten too!
Cair.
I trow sae.—Did ye see aught o' my dog,
sir—a muckle gollaring hallanshaker beast like
yoursel, that whiles gangs snaiking about i' the
night-time?
Knight.
Hence with you, old bell-weather.—Come, dame,
I have to deal with you—You go with me.
Sim.
You! You tak away that lassie! Ye had better
no try't, gin ye like.—Chewed as I am, I'll maybe
ere that take place.
Enter Spirit, who has been lingering near.
Spirit.
(Aside.)
Now I'm invisible, I will
Have my sport, and have my fill;
With this elfin spear of mine,
I will prick him to the spine—
Take you that for curse and crime,
We shall meet another time.
(He wounds the Knight with a small lancet, who, turning round and seeing no one, knocks down Simon, and kicks him.)
Sim.
Holloa! Gie owre!—Deil's i' the carl!—
What is't ails the clairty thief?—Ill-faurd, glaury-like
tike, that ye are; whaten a gate's that to guide
fock i' their ain house?—We're a' witched thegither
—a' horn mad!—Ane lying thrawing his neck
like a half-worried tod—anither a' draiggled, and
her and canna get away, like laverocks owre an
edder.—O, ye witch! ye vilde witch! was't no
eneugh that I shoud be a' ae blister frae head to fit,
that ye boude to bring that muckle, dirty, hangit-like
whalp wi' your black airt, and eigg him up to
fa' to and mell on me! Oh, may the deil tak a'
witches an' worrying tikes, and nasty draiggle-tailed
gentlemen! Muckle hing-luggit, croudy-looking
thief!
(Knight kicks Simon, who cries out.)
Sim.
Oh! Ugh! Cease! Gie owre, I tell ye!
Damn the body! Ugh!
Enter Eps.
Eps.
Master, hae ye nouther mense nor good
manners? What's the matter, Cairney? Lula, my
bonny bairn, tell me what maks a' the stir at this
time o' night?
Alas, Eps! the muckle mangrel maskiss
has gaen mad, and bitten poor Sim, an' he's infected.
Eps.
O alack that ever I saw the day! What will
I do for my dear bairn? Cut out the bit, my man;
haste ye and cut out the bit.
Sim.
Hear till her now! Hear what she's saying!
The mair ane hears o' women he'll think the less o'
them! How can I cut out the bit when I'm a' bitten
owre the hale body? Ye may cut me a' out, an'
what kind of a son wad ye hae then? I might live
wanting a wee piece flesh, but I think I could hardly
do without the halewore o't. That's women's wit!
That's like ane o' their grand cures!—
(Leans forward
wardon the floor in a desponding way.)
—Aih wow! but
it is an awsome thing this! It never strak me afore,
but I see an' find it is a' owre true! Mad!—to gae
mad!—
(Weeps and cries out in despair.)
—Oh dreadfu'!
dreadfu'! to think o' ganging mad, and rinning
yauffing, and youlling, and froaing at the weiks o'
hint-legs o' the kye to pit them wud—and then to
be bund and smoored atween twa tikabeds—or drink
poison out of a lang laddle, an' a' the while biting
pieces out o't wi' my teeth—Oh, oh!— (Cries.)
—To
think that in a day, or an hour, I maun be rinnin'
setting up my reid een glentin like burning candles,
and whan ought comes near me to nurr and gurr.—
(Grins and howls like a dog.)
Eps.
O mercifu' heaven, it is coming on him already!
—My poor bairn!—What shall we do?
Sim.
And then to set up my gab to the lift, and
yauff, and bark, and bough-wough like a hund!
(Growls and barks like a dog, and springs forward on all four to bite the Knight's legs—He escapes, and is seized by the mastiff without—a great tumult is heard.)
Eps.
Haste, Cairney, gie the man some help or
he'll be killed.
Keep fast the door, or ye're a' gane thegither
—Let him tak it—time about's fair play—Deil
that he rive him a' to collops—what's he seeking
here?—Oh me! oh me! oh me!
Eps.
Hae patience, my poor man, Providence
will maybe hae mercy on ye yet.
Sim.
Let us alane o' your patience and providence,
mither—they're nae doctrines for a man gaun
mad. Ye'll soon see me rinning i' the lone hinging
by the kye wi' my teeth—ye may crack o' your providence
then.
Cair.
Get up, get up, Simon, an' tak heart.
Sim.
Na, na, I downa get up; it's mair feasible-like
to gang on four this way.
Cair.
Tell me how you feel, and what you feel
inclined to do. Wad ye like to bark, an' bite, an'
devour?
Sim.
I think I wad—I wad just like to flee on
aboon Lula there, and worry her.
You really feel inclined to do her a mischief?
Sim.
Ay, that I do!—I wad rather do good to
her than ill, if I could get it done; but I wad rather
be doing ill to her than naething ava'.
Eps.
I trow there's mair nature than madness in
that, an' I hope a' will be weel yet.—Come and let
us put you to bed, my poor luckless man.
Lula.
And I'll bathe your wounds, and dress them,
and watch with you, Simon, for my heart is sore for
you.
Sim.
Will you indeed, sweet Lula? Ah, ye are a
bit dear lassie for a' that's come and gane! But it's
a' ane to me—Shame, worrying, love, madness—
ony ane o' them's eneugh—but a' put thegither! Oh
dear! Oh dear!
(Exeunt.)
| The Haunted Glen | |