University of Virginia Library

1. PART I.

The shadows of evening had settled down upon the moor
and the morass, the tangled brakes and haunted ravines of Ettrick,
with more than the wonted gloom of a December's night;
the distant moanings of the heavy gale foretold the storm that
was already brewing in the west, and a few broad flakes of

snow were felt, rather than seen, flitting through the gloomy
atmosphere. There needed no extraordinary sagacity to foresee
the sure approach of one of those tremendous flurries, as
they are termed, of hurricane and hail, which, bewildering to
the stranger in the full light of day, become perilous and appalling
even to the hardy natives, when encountered amid the
hills in the hours of solitude and darkness.

But it would seem that neither tempest nor obscurity had
power to check the solitary rider, who journeyed over hill and
dale with such unfaltering resolution, although at times it required
all the spirit and address of an accomplished cavalier to
force his jaded horse against the gusts which now raved across
the unsheltered moorland with almost irresistible violence.
The traveller was a tall and powerful man, whose firm seat and
martial bearing denoted the practised warrior, even more than
the arms, without which, in those days of wrong and rapine,
no one could hope to travel in security through districts of a
far less doubtful character than the marches of the Scottish
border. He wore an open headpiece, or bacinet of steel,
which, although its polish had been dimmed by the rust of
many a wintry day, yet glittered through the haze; a coat of
strong buff leather, once richly laced and fringed, though now
defaced and soiled, from many a hard-fought field — a heavy
gorget and broad plates upon the shoulders, with huge jack-boots
extending to the middle of the thigh, completed his defensive
arms. His weapons, however, partook strangely of
the equipments of a modern trooper, blended with that of the
paladins of chivalry; for in holsters, at his saddle-bow, were
suspended a pair of petronels, as they then were called — of a
construction infinitely more cumbrous, and scarce less bulky,
than the carabine of Napoleon's cuirassiers — while one of
those tremendous espaldrons, or two-handed swords, which had
not as yet become entirely obsolete — its huge crossed hilt

rising far above the shoulder of the wearer — jarred against
spur and stirrup with its ponderous scabbard.

The noble horse which bore him, carefully as it had been
selected for extraordinary points of blood and bone, was now
so utterly overdone with toil, that he reeled and tottered before
the sweeping blast, as though each freshening of the gale must
bear him to the earth. It was not, however, a moment in
which the rider could afford to spare his faithful servant; for
not only would it have been inevitable destruction to both man
and beast, to have passed the night upon those dreary wolds,
but the place and the hour had workers of evil more fearful
than the pelting shower, in the fierce mosstroopers of that dark
and dangerous district; the spur, therefore, and the curb, were
the only answers to his frequent stumbles, that the exigencies
of the situation would allow. A long and ragged hill, channelled
by many a petty torrent, with here and there a stunted
bush, or bare crag, looming against the gray horizon, stretched
its wearisome length before him; but so bitterly did the arrowy
sleet drive into his face, and so deeply was the snow already
drifted in every hollow pass and sheltered gully, that it
seemed impossible for any human eye to discover the meanders
of that rarely-travelled path. No hesitation, however, was to
be discovered in the dauntless eagerness with which he still
pressed onward, as though every inch of the snow-clad wilderness
were as familiar to his ken as the hall of his fathers. An
hour of toil and peril had elapsed before the summit was gained,
and the prospect, though still wild, became, at every step, less
dreary and monotonous. A thick growth of broom and brackens,
intermingled with the silver birch, and the still verdant
holly, clothed the gradual descent, while, at no wide intervals,
some gigantic beech or gnarled and twisted oak remained to
tell where once had flourished the mighty Caledonian forest.
In the budding time of spring there is no fairer region throughout

the varied scenery of Scotland, than the far-famed banks
of Esk; nor when autumn has cast her rich, though melancholy
tints upon the woodland, and the purple bloom of the
heather has succeeded to the greenness of the young herbage,
is the beauty of the declining, less attractive than that of the
mellowing, year; and even now, although the cold gale sighed
and howled among the creaking branches, there was something
less mournful in its tones, than when they swept, like the cry
of spirits, unmingled with any sound of earth across the naked
moor. Ere long the signs of man were apparent, first in solitary
pastures girded by dry stone dikes, and framed, as it
were, in a dark setting of coppice — then in continuous crofts,
with their lines of sheltering sycamores, and here and there
the rude peel-house of some feudal proprietor overlooking its
rural dependencies from battlement and bartizan. The track
was now more clearly marked, following the windings of a
tributary to the foaming Esk; the storm, too, had, in some degree,
abated, and the moon shone forth at intervals, from behind
the scudding wrack.

The rider, whose faculties had hitherto been occupied entirely
in the management of his horse, now looked abroad with
an air of satisfaction, as one who has reached, at length, the
haven of his hopes; his eye dwelt serenely on those inanimate
objects, which become so dear to the heart when connected
with recollections of the home which they environ; and even
his jaded beast gave token, by erected ear and livelier motion,
that he too was aware that his toils were well nigh ended.
Suddenly, as he wheeled abruptly round a promontory of rock
and wood, a gleam of light, as from a distant casement, flashed
for an instant on his sight, and was lost again to view, as the
ground fell precipitously to the brink of the stream. It seemed
an age to the wayworn soldier ere that brief ravine was passed,
and the welcome ray again shone out to greet him. For another

mile that beacon star was hidden a hundred times by
branch or brier, and a hundred times returned to bless his
soul; till at length revealed by the glare of its broad windows,
the lordly pile of Woodhouselee stood forth in bold relief from
the sheltering foliage of its secluded dell. “Dame Margaret
holds high festival to-night,” muttered the baron, beneath his
thick mustache, but there was a something in the tone which
belied the sentiment his words expressed, as if the speaker
would fain have imposed upon himself, and quelled some lurking
apprehension by the half-affected jest. And, in truth, the
noble Hamilton had rather looked for the sad solitude of a
well-night widowed bride, than for the mirth and revelry,
which became each instant more apparent, not in the illumination
only, but in the bursts of merriment and music that were
audible in every lull of the western gale.

A year had rolled its heavy hours along, since he had left
his lovely Margaret, a newly-wedded bride, in that forsaken
hall, to wield his blade in defence of Scotland's ill-starred
Mary. A fearful gloom had settled upon the champion's brow,
from the sad moment when he had torn himself from the embrace
of his distracted wife, and dashed his charger to its
speed, nor dared to look behind till the first ridge of hill had
concealed the temptations of his happy home. Never, for a
moment, had he hoped for success in that ill-omened cause;
never had he deemed that Mary would live again to fill the
throne of her forefathers; but honor — the honor of his name,
of his clan, and of his country — called him to lead his hardy
spears to join the muster of his princely chief; and, with a
heavy heart, but an undaunted spirit, had he lent his voice to
swell the cry of “God, and the Queen,” and spurred his
charger in the van of every skirmish, till the fatal action of
Langside destroyed the last hopes of his devoted party, and
drove the hapless Mary to seek protection from the honor and

compassion of her lion-hearted rival, the cruel and despotic
Elizabeth. Escaped from the perils of the field, he had fallen
into the hands of the infuriated lords, and doomed to seal his
allegiance on the scaffold, he had scarcely ever hoped to fold
his Margaret to his heart, or bless his infant son, ere he should
die. Month after month he lay in hopeless durance, lamenting
his own approaching dissolution less — far less — than the
effusion of noble blood, which daily glutted the vengeance of
his conquerors. Tidings, he had received none; nor was it
probable that she, for whom alone he lived, had obtained the
least assurance of her husband's situation; — hard she must
know his lot, and precarious, if not hopeless, his preservation.
For how, when Seyton, and Fleming, and Ogilvie, and Huntly,
were dispersed and slain — how should a Hamilton be safe?
— Or how — when the adherents of their wretched mistress
were prescribed and hunted down like beasts of chase — should
Bothwelhaugh alone be unharmed? When a pardon from the
regent's hand was tendered to the noble captive, it was with
feelings more nearly allied to frenzy than to joy, that he had
issued from the gloom of his dungeon, into the free air of
heaven. His limbs were again free — but to his mind there
was no freedom. Care, and defeat, and failure, had shed a
constant twilight over a temperament once buoyant and elastic,
beyond the boldest spirits of his age. Fiery, generous, and
enthusiastic, he had loved — as he had fought — almost with
fury. And, as is not unfrequently the case, the affections of
the rash and daring lover were wound up in the well-being of
the meekest, fairest flower of Scottish land.

Three months had hardly elapsed between the accomplishment
of all his joys in the possession of his gentle Margaret,
and the wide alarums that rang through every glen and cleugh,
when Mary burst from her imprisonment to draw a deeper ruin
on her devoted followers, and her own royal head; yet, in

those three months, the very nature of the borderer had been
changed. He, who was never at rest, save in the saddle;
who had no pleasures but in the foray or the fight, would loiter
now, “from morn to dewy eve,” in the bower of his bride.
With her he would wander whole days among the lovely
scenery of Roslin and of Hawthornden, or pore upon the
chansons and virelain, which had been transplanted from the
courtly realms of France to the bleak hills of Scotland. With
her he forgot the turbulent excitements of his former course in
the mild tranquillity of domestic bliss. With her he had resolved
to live, heedless of the world's sorrow, and, in her
arms, he had hoped to die. He was torn from her, and, from
that hour, hope was dead within him. He was condemned to
die, but recked not of his doom! He was set free, and he rejoiced
not! Even at the instant when he received advices
of her welfare, he felt no happiness. A heavy shadow hung
over him; a deep-engrossing sense of future evil — which,
though his reason might despise it, yet struck his spirits down
to the very dust, and cowed his high heart with unresisted
terror. When he had mounted his best horse, a pardoned, unattainted
noble, it was rather with the air of a wretch on his
way to the place of doom, than of a youthful bridegroom
speeding, in all the eagerness of joyful hope, to the chosen
of his bosom.

Gradually, however, as he neared the house of his fathers,
and learned that the devastating tide of war had swept past, at
a distance, leaving these rugged vales in unassailed security;
as he ascertained from the wandering hunter, or the lonely
shepherd of the hills, that his adored Margaret still sat unharmed
in her solitary bower, without a cause of sorrow, save
the absence of her lord, he had succeeded in casting grief behind
him. The free air of his native hills had dispelled the
gloom, which, for many a weary month, had weighed so heavily

upon his soul; and, at times, a touch of that reckless
gayety of mood, which had distinguished him of yore at the
feast and in the fray, broke forth in snatches of some lively
song, startling the moorland echoes with their unaccustomed
glee. Rapidly, however, as his mind had regained its native
elasticity, and loftily as his hopes had soared in their recovered
confidence, yet, with tenfold rapidly, did those vain hopes
sink, when his eyes beheld that strange illumination, and his
unwilling ears admitted those ill-timed sounds of glee. It was
not, however, with the poignant acuteness of an unexpected
blow, but rather with the stern and gloomy bitterness of a
long-foreseen calamity, that this new certainty of evil smote
upon his senses. Evil it must be! For how should she, on
whose affections he had staked his all, give loose to merriment,
while her wedded lord was languishing in a dark and
silent dungeon? How should she find pleasure in the dance,
or lend her soul to the voluptuous strains of the minstrel, unless
another tale of fickleness and falsehood were to be added
to the gloomy annals of human sin and misery? An overwhelming
rush of dark and terrible thoughts burst instantaneously
upon his mind. Love — jealousy — revenge, burning
almost to frenzy, were mingled with despondency, and doubt,
and terror! Yet, to the honor of his noble nature be it spoken,
the struggle lasted but for one instant! The untainted purity,
the sweet humility, the hallowed devotion of his bride rose on
his softened memory, and swept each dark suspicion from his
soul, almost before it had found birth — but, with repentance
for his momentary distrust of her, whom he now felt to be far,
far above the slightest taint of calumny or doubt, his fears increased
to such a point, that the bold warrior trembled in his
saddle like a weakly child, and his steel harness clattered on
his limbs convulsed as by an ague. Then, as his dread became
more definite, he gored his weary charger with the spur,
whirled his tremendous weapon from scabbard, and, with his
battle-cry, a “Hamilton to the rescue!” quivering on his lips,
ere a second had elapsed, he was driving along the broken
road at a pace, which, from the previous exhaustion of both
horse and rider, would have been deemed beyond the bounds
of nature. Hill and hollow, rock and wood, just glanced, like
meteors, on his view, and were swallowed up in distance, as
he rushed along. A short half mile was yet between him and
the solution of his hopes or fears. The path, which had
hitherto swept along the northern margin of the Eske, now
turned abruptly to the right, and, diving precipitously into the
dell, crossed the channel of the torrent by a ford, so dangerous
at periods from the rapid floods, which come down from the
moorlands after every summer's shower, and every winter's
storm, that a high and narrow bridge of planks had been
thrown across the chasm for the benefit of the timid or infirm.
No parapet or rail defended the sides of this perilous causeway,
though, scarcely a yard in breadth, it was reared high
above the slaty bed, supported partially by piers of rugged
masonry, and partially by blocks of the living rock, through
which the everlasting stream had cleft itself a passage. At a
single glance the borderer perceived, from the brawling fury
with which the turbid spray was hurled against the creaking
arches, that death must be the inevitable lot of any who should
brave the swollen ford. Without a pause, however, he drove
his steed, by dint of spur and tightened rein, across the clattering
planks. The hand of Providence was there! For, had
the charger's foot diverged one inch's breadth from its direction,
both horse and man had perished; the smallest swerve,
the slightest stumble, must have hurled them headlong to destruction.
Once only did his hoofs clash on the echoing timber,
a second stride, and the firm rock rang beneath him.
But scarcely had he cleared the bridge, before the horse swung
round, in mortal terror, as it were, of some aërial shape beheld
by him alone, with a violence that might well have cast a less-experienced
rider from his seat, ere he had discovered the
cause of his disaster. As it was, although with every advantage
of support from the steady hand and practised skill of the
cavalier, the over-driven beast staggered a pace or two, then,
with a heavy, though fruitless effort at recovery, fell, rolled
over and over, never to rise, and, ere-its master had regained
his footing, had stretched out all its limbs in the rigidity of
death.

Shaken as he was by the sudden shock, Hamilton had
sprung up, sword in hand, even with the speed of light; the
idea of an ambush flashed upon his senses as he fell, and he
arose prepared for deadly strife. But the brandished blade
sank powerless, and the half-uttered shout was smothered in a
prayer, as he beheld a tall and shadowy figure, white as the
drifted snow, its long, loose tresses floating on the wind, and
its pale lips uttering strange sounds of thrilling laughter.
Erect upon the last abutment of the bridge, the form, whatever
it might be, though it had escaped the notice of the rider, occupied
by the urgency of his position, had startled the horse
almost into the jaws of death, and, for a moment, as the soldier
gazed upon the apparition, the life-blood curdled at his
heart. Fearlessly, joyously, would he have plunged into the
mortal conflict; but thus arrayed against the powers of another
world, confirmed as such visions were in that dark age, even
by the doctrines of his church, what wonder that the boldest
spirit should shrink back from the unequal contest? Not
long, however, could fear, even of a supernatural caste, appal
a mind so resolute at all times, and now so wrought to desperation,
as that of Hamilton. “Maria sanctissima,” he muttered
— “ora pro nobis! Our border tales are true; it is the spirit
of the stormy water! But there is that within my soul tonight

that I must on, though the arch-fiend himself should
strive to bar my passage.” Grasping his ponderous weapon,
he strode forward, as if to meet an earthly foeman, calmly
resolved to prove his might against the terrors of a world invisible.
“In the name of him,” he whispered through his
hard-clenched teeth, “of whose most holy death thou hast no
portion, hence to thine-appointed place!” The shriek, which
burst from the ghastly form to whom he spake, might well
have raised the dead, if aught of earth had power to rend
their cerements, so high, so spiritually-piercing were its tones.
It ended, and a burst of horrid laughter rang upon the night-air,
and then the piteous wailing of unspeakable despair. The
moon, which had again been hidden for a while, now streamed
forth gloriously from a chasm in the rolling vapors, so suddenly
and so splendidly did the bright rays illuminate that
pallid shape, that, for an instant, he believed the light an emanation
from the form itself; but, in that instant, he recognised
the delicate and graceful limbs, the features lovely, despite
their livid paleness, of his own Margaret. Not a shade of
color varied the dead whiteness of her cheek or lip — not a
spark of intelligence gleamed from those eyes, once the
sources of unutterable love and lustre. The superb figure
scarcely veiled by one thin robe of linen — the bosom, pulse-less
as it seemed, to which was clasped a naked, new-born
babe — even the tones of her voice, altered as they were and
terrible, were all his Margaret's. Not a doubt existed in his
mind but that the spirit of his wife stood thus revealed before
him; and, as the conviction became strong, fear departed.
Grief, deep grief, was visible upon his brow; but grief exalted,
as it were, and purified by communion with the sainted
and imperishable part of one, who, even while loaded with the
imperfections of the mortal clay, had ever seemed a being
allied to heaven, more nearly than to earth.

Casting his sword far from him, he sank silently upon his
knees beside the stiffening carcase of his charger; with arms
outstretched, extended neck, and parted lips, he paused in
breathless expectation. Folding the infant closer to her cold
embrace, as though no mortal eye beheld, or ear attended, she
warbled, in a voice of surpassing sweetness, one of the most
pathetic ballads of her tuneful country: —

As her plaintive song ended, she flung an arm aloft with a
wild expression of terror, “Help! help!” she screamed; “to
arms! the foe! save — save me, Hamilton! — my lord, my
life, preserve me! O God! O God, is there no help from
earth, or heaven? Unhand me, villains! dearly shall ye rue
this night when Hamilton returns. Give me my child — my
blessed boy. Oh! mercy, mercy!” — Like a thunderbolt the
truth smote on his soul. It was his wife — his living wife —
driven forth into the snowy fields to perish with her babe. At
a single bound he stood beside her; madly he cast his arms
around her icy form — “Margaret,” he sobbed upon her bosom;
“my own — own Margaret, thy Hamilton is here.” “Villain,”
she shrieked; “thou Hamilton! avaunt! I know thee not!
would — would to God, my princely Hamilton were here; but
his glorious form I never shall behold again! But, see!” she
cried, “if thou hast yet a spark of mercy in thine iron heart,
receive and bear mine infant to his father's arms; behold;”
she moved the little body from her shivering breast, gazed
wistfully upon its shrunken features, and then, as the fatal
truth became apparent, “Cold — cold! oh! merciful Heaven!”
she faltered forth in calmer tones, and sank from her husband's
grasp upon the chilly soil. It was in vain that her half-frenzied
lord stripped his own frame of garment after garment to
fence her from the piercing storm; it was in vain that he
chafed her frozen limbs, and strove to wake her into life by
his warm breath; long did she lie sobbing and trembling as
though her heart would leap from its place, but not a symptom
of returning animation blessed his hopes; gradually she was
sinking into that sleep which knows no waking; pain and
grief were nearly over, and it seemed as if she were about to
pass, without another struggle, into the presence of her Creator.
Suddenly she rallied; her long-fringed lashes rose, and,
as she turned her eyes upon her husband's face, he saw, with

momentary rapture, that the wild glare of insanity had faded
from those liquid orbs, and that she knew him. “Was it a
dream?” she said; “O Hamilton, beloved husband, it is indeed
thus that we have met; met only to be parted for ever!
My babe, my blessed babe has gone before me. I saw his
little limbs convulsed with the last agony of cold, I felt the
last flutter of his balmy breath upon my lips, and then my
reason fled! But blessed be the Virgin, I have seen, and
known my lord.” Her words came forth more slowly, and, at
every pause, that dread forerunner of dissolution, the death-rattle,
was distinctly audible. “Fly, fly from this accursed
spot. Promise — that you will fly to save your precious life!
Oh! Hamilton — I am going — kiss me yet once again — bless
you, my husband — the ho — ly Virgin bless you — husband —
husband!”