CHAPTER XXX.

DIES IRÆ II--WITH GARMENTS DYED IN BLOOD

It was on an evening mild and sweet as only (and rarely) late June affords, that Sholto and Maud had taken me out through the great gate of Thrieve, a little way across the isle, to breathe the fresh air, scented with the gorse and broom of the opposite Balmaghie shores and the more memorable fragrance of the white thorns. Which last struck my heart with a pang to think of the little house at Carlinwark, under its three sheltering thorns, all desolate--the love of generations turned to hate, honourable service to embattled enmity, even my Laurence biding his time to strike--only Sholto with me--and Maud. Yet I blessed God for these. Maud’s gentle arm it was which supported me as I tottered towards the ford, turning to watch the grey old castle of the Douglases stand up against the orange hand’s-breadth of evening light in the west, and to drink in the mild coolness of that midsummer season when in Scotland the sun stays out of bed till within three hours of midnight.

The three of us stood talking of this and that--of the fierce fighting about the castle of Abercorn, of which Sholto had gotten private word, of the Lindsays and the Crawfords, Maud’s highland kin, who were hard at it fighting for the Douglas in the north--chiefly, as she herself allowed, because their enemy Huntly was of the king’s party. And in especial we spoke of the tide of war that ever seemed to be driving nearer and nearer to us in our high and strong fortalice of Thrieve, the ultimate and natural stronghold of the Douglas race.

But, as always, Sholto and Maud strove to draw me from the subject, telling me of the children, of their sweet sayings and brave doings--how that Marcelle could read Latin as well as any Mess John--almost, indeed, as well as Laurence himself--how the twins fought fierce battles, for which their mother did soundly thwack them, but which she blamed their father with secretly encouraging--of gentle Ulric and David of the sturdy legs, just beginning to be a care as they carried him to the dangerous pool-edges of Dee and dark peaty deeps of the castle ditch.

But for me, though I knew their loving meaning, all would not do. It was the first time I had seen Thrieve thus, as it were from without--the place where I had loved and given myself without reserve, the place where I had been heartbroken! And there, beyond, clear upon its guarding ridge (on which the sun was spending his last beams), was the place where he lay, the son of one earl, the name-child of another greater and truer--yet (let me say it) one not easier to love.

And as I looked this way and that, it seemed as if the old dimming smoke began to rise out of the east, behind Carlinwark and Kelton, spreading south till the bold ridge of Ben Gairn melted behind it. Whirling and circling it came, like a dust-storm wind-driven along a road by which many horsemen have passed hasting to battle.

Yet was there one thing strange to me. The smoke was no longer, as formerly, black, like the reek of hell. But rather of a purplish colour, like the ascending incense of some sacred service in a great cathedral, such as I had seen in France, at Chartres, at Orleans, and in the long solemn aisles of Notre Dame.

All the same it was there without a doubt, whirling dun across the green fields, masking the clear compassing waters, and even (so it appeared to me) making my eyes smart with some bitter odour in the nostrils. Yet Sholto and Maud prattled on all unconscious, which, when I had observed, I knew that the appearance was solely for me, sent for my sake, perhaps because of the wickedness and lack of forgiveness I had been cherishing in my heart.

The sun sank swiftly, as if pulled under out of the way, like a child’s puppet of which its owner has grown tired. There was a fear on me, and I wished it to remain above the horizon, so that it might be day. Yet it would not bide a moment longer for all my wishing, but with one great seven-league bound the twilight strode across the earth. There was an after-glowing of sunset--I could see, but all made dim and misty for me by that strange upboiling of purple spume.

Nevertheless, I knew the thing existed not at all save in my own head. But all the same I saw it, and its acrid bite (as of fresh-spilt blood) stung my nostrils.

“God out of His quiet heaven help poor harassed, thrice-driven, tormented Margaret Douglas!” I prayed deep down in my heart’s heart. “Why are all these things heaped on a girl like me? Surely there are backs more stout for the burden? Surely sins more sinful than mine to be expiated? Why is this also laid on me?”

And yet in some wise it was merciful. The veiling mist was also on my spirit, whirling and benumbing. If I had been possessed of my old easy, careless sanity, I could not have borne that which was about to befall me.

“Come your ways home, Margaret. It grows late. The dews begin to fall!” said Maud gently. And on the other side her husband drew nearer me till he could touch my shoulder and waist. I know now that he only waited Maud’s signal to take me in his arms and carry me within, even as he would have done for Marcelle or little Ulric if they had gotten a hurt at play upon the leas.

For so was I cared for in those days--love striving vainly by easements of the body to minister to the deeper hurts of my soul.

But as I looked towards the fords of Dee there came upon me overwhelmingly the feeling that Something or Someone was approaching by way of the Hiding Hill--coming on my account, too. I could not see. The purple mist boiled and tossed tempestuously before my eyes, so that even Sholto and Maud seemed to dissolve and resolve, alternate, to pass and change even when I gripped them by the arms.

“_There--there! It comes--yonder!_” I whispered, “down the Hiding Hill! I can see it pass Earl William’s rock, where he used to turn and kiss his hand! Do you not see it, Maud? Do you not see it, Sholto?”

But Maud made answer only, “I see nothing, dearest. It is but your overwrought fancy. Come within! It waxes chill. Take her up, Sholto!”

But Sholto, with the soldier’s ear, quickened to catch far-off sounds, moved his hand slightly.

“Hush, Maud,” he murmured, “perhaps our dear lady is right. It seems that I do hear something; wait but one minute!”

But I, for whom IT came, could both hear and see clearly, in spite of that false boiling mist that was in my head, or behind the pupils of my eyes.

“It is coming,” I cried. “Yonder, Maud!”

I pointed with my hand.

“Do you not see it?” I almost screamed in terror. “Yonder--by the blasted thorn tree on the nether slope. It is shaped like a giant, all dark, and rides on a white horse tached with blood. Ah, let us go in now. I fear! I fear! Take me! Keep me! Let It not come near!”

Maud caught me in her arms; at the same moment, as if by instinct, Sholto drew his sword and advanced a pace in front of us.

“Stand back, Sholto!” I cried in yet deadlier terror, “out of the way, for Maudie’s sake and that of the babes! Why should you also die? It is no mortal born of mortal, I tell you, but Death riding on his pale horse! And he comes for me--for me. Let me go, Maud. Let me go! I am stronger now. I had fear--I own it--foolish fear. But it is past now. I am glad, glad! I shall see my babe--oh, let me go!”

And but for Maud’s strong arm thrown about me, I would have run forward to meet and welcome That which was coming toward me, through the dark waters of the ford.

As for Sholto, he stood still in the way, his sword ready in his hand. And the figure, looming huge and dark through the blinding smother of the reek and the gathering dark, came splashing through the ford. I strove to cry out, but my tongue clave instead, stick-dry, to the roof of my mouth.

But Sholto, duty making him strong, hailed the intruder like a sentinel on duty, “Who comes to Thrieve so late? Stand still, or reckon with Sholto M‘Kim!”

But the tall shape came on, wordless, making no answer--incognisant, as it were, of mortal speech, reckless of mortal threat, careless of life or death.

Through the gloom it loomed up like a man in dark armour--as, indeed, I had seen long ago--a man riding on a white horse, all splashed and furrowed with running blood, some dried and dark, some as if it had oozed fresh from between the joints of armour.

Figure liker unto Death on his pale horse with Hell following after, saw no man ever any. But even as on the night when I saw the Star I was miraculously sustained, so now in some measure the eddying mist surged less dense and dun, thinning out so that by turning my head I could see, as it were, a little to right and left, though not yet evenly before me.

Out of the river, up the steep and stony bank, climbed the vision. But not noiselessly--far otherwise indeed. At Thrieve they heard the horse snorting as it made the last spring to land, and the rattle of accoutrement as the driver swayed on the saddle.

The white horse, its red splatches but little cleansed by the water of the ford, now stood trembling in every limb. The Rider, helmless and pallid, sat silent as if dumb and unconscious--Death himself not more awful!

“Keep us, God in His heaven, lest our eyes be blasted!” I tried to murmur.

But the sword of Sholto M‘Kim clattered from his hand upon the shingle of the water edge.

“Help me,” he cried, “it is James Douglas--come home to Thrieve alone, wounded, stricken unto death!”

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