CHAPTER III.

THE FIRST ACT IN A TRAGEDY--A WILD AND LAWLESS MAN--MUIRACHIE THE DWARF.

Next day seemed a long one to me. And school, with its tasks, its books and its slates and its drawing, was very irksome. As soon, however, as I got clear out and away, I started to run. For a whole mile I went on at a jog-trot, and finally plunged into a wood. The rest of the boys who came my way I had by this time left far behind. I did not care much for them anyhow; I much preferred to be alone, because the birds and the beasts, and all kinds of creatures, seemed to speak to me, and even the wild flowers nodded as I passed; while the feathery larch-trees and the pines whispered many a secret into my listening ear.

Besides, these lads were but lowland farmers' sons, and their chief conversation was about horses and cattle and crops. I rather glorified in the fact that I hated and despised all such menial ties, and that I could trace my descent through a long line of men who had fought in many a blood-stained field, both in their own country and far abroad.

These boys had not grandfathers who could tell them stories to make their flesh creep, and their hair stir as if the wind were blowing through it. Their grandfathers were old, feeble men, who hadn't a soul among them above a turnip or a leek; who had never been ten miles, in all their lives, beyond the fields that grew the corn for their porridge; men who were not only old, but looked old, bent and grizzled, and who, when you talked to them, put one hand behind an ear and yelled, "Eh--h? what d' ye say? Canna hear a single wird," and then stumped off looking uglier and sourer than ever. But my Auld-da was a hero and a warrior to boot.

As I trotted home that afternoon, with the stout saugh (willow) wand I carried, I smote off the head of many a tansy, but I spared the thistles.

I spared them because their pink or crimson blooms looked so bonnie against the green of the ferns; because they scented the evening air with their sweet perfume; because they made beds for the bumble-bees, but most of all, I spared them because they were the emblems of my native land--the land I had already learned to love.

I am sure Auld-da liked his "laddie," as he fondly called me, to come in of an evening and listen to his stories, or even his soliloquies. It is better even to speak to a boy than talk to a burning peat.

"Finished your dinner already, laddie?"

"Yes, Auld-da. It was only porridge and milk; that soon goes down, you know.

"Weren't you going to tell me a story, Auld-da?" I said, after a pause.

"A story! Well, boy, I have nothing but the truth to relate."

Though a Celt of Celts, Auld-da had no superstition. That had been born in him, no doubt, but contact with a rough world had worn it away long, long ago. But he had a genuine love for history and for poetry, and could repeat many of the longest poems of Burns and of Scott, ay, and even lengthy extracts from Ossian, but this, best in the Gaelic language.

"Well, Williamie, you know," he began to-night, "when the Pretender landed----"

"No, no," I cried, "you must begin your story quite like a story, you know."

"Shall I begin," he said, as he stirred up the fire till our shadows danced on the opposite wall, "shall I begin with the words, 'Once upon a time'?"

"O, no, Auld-da! that is only fit for children. I'm nearly a man, you know. I'm quite seven. But tell me, in the first place, where our people lived in those old days."

Auld-da looked at me and said:

"I seem to be there now, laddie, high up among the wild hills; far above are the dark woods, but far above these the mighty mass of bold Ben Wyvis, that sternly stands with his snow-clad shoulder to the west. Sailing round and round in the blue silence of the sky, is an eagle--Jove's own bird, they say--and not a sound save his wild scream pierces the stillness of the scene."

"A bit of poetry now, Auld-da? I beg."

"Well, well," he says, smiling.

"What lonely magnificence stretches around, Each sight how sublime, how awful each sound, All hushed and serene as a region of dreams, The mountains repose 'midst the roar of the streams."

I am not sure that I can give my grandfather's exact words, but I can follow the thread of his narrative as if told to me only the day before yesterday.

"But," he continued, "that which I have tried to describe to you was the wildest portion of the scenery, and lay far back and above the bonnie Braes of R----. And what I am about to tell you of happened many, many years before I was born. My people had not come from Struan a very long time. The house they occupied then was rather a pretentious sort of a building, and stood well up on a brae-land, and not far from a lovely and well-wooded dingle, where in spring and summer it was a treat to listen to the song of merle and thrush. At the bottom of this dingle was a fishing-stream, that, as a rule, ran singing over its pebbly bed to mingle its waters with the river that should bear it onwards to the sea.

"This river is and was the _Beauly_,* and not far from the bonnie banks, all among its woods and wilds, stood the castle of the Frasers of Lovat--_Belladrum_.

* Beauly: pronounce Bewley.

"Simon Fraser, the Lord of Lovat, was a cousin of my father's father, and it was on his account, I believe, that our people had come from Struan to settle in his lovely district, on a farm under the rebel lord.

"The town of Beauly, now so charming and pretty, was then but a hamlet, and the road leading along the south bank of the bonnie bay was little more than a bridle-path.

"My father's father, boy, was then a young and stalwart man. He lived, I may tell you, to the patriarchal age of 101, and was found, one day, sitting in the forest, his back against a pine-tree, his snuff-box in his hand--dead."

"Dead, Auld-da?"

"Ay, dead, dear boy. God had taken him. Every forenoon, in summer, he used to go for a walk into the cool, green depths of the wood, but that day he was missing, and that is how they found him.

"But, as I say, some years before the war broke out, and the fiery cross was sent through the glens to call the clans to arms, he was living a very peaceful life indeed. My father and sisters were but little tow-headed mites, my grandmother--Heaven rest her soul--was not very old. But a younger sister lived with them, and it is around her that this true story centres. Fiona* was her name. Fiona Stuart, just turned eighteen, with dark-brown eyes and tresses like the raven. They said she looked like some beautiful Italian girl, and the blue-eyed maidens of the braes and glens called her Gipsy. They were jealous of her beauty, as well they might be, for there was not a lad, far away or near, who did feel happy for all the week, if he got but a word or a smile from Fiona at the little church on Sunday.

* Pronounce Feeona

"At this time there was living at the castle a wild young Highlander, called Raoul McIvor, but usually known as Raoul Dhu, or Black Ronald. He was a great musician, both on pipes and violin, and this is, perhaps, the reason that he was so much and so often with Lord Lovat. Those were the high-drinking days, which I trust will never come again, and Raoul Dhu was nothing if not a bacchanalian and a reveller. In this respect he was eminently suitable as a companion for my grandfather's cousin, the arch-rebel Lovat.

"Raoul was a tall and handsome Highlander, who spent most of his time on the hills or lakes, shooting or fishing.

"One day he crossed our people's farm, and entered to beg for a glass of water. By his side was a splendid deerhound, which Fiona bent down to caress, her beautiful hair flowing over the dog's shoulders as she did so.

"'If you would care for that dog,' said Raoul, with an affectation of gallantry, 'you shall have him.'

"The dignity of this Highland maiden was offended. With cheeks on fire, she stood erect and angry. She looked at him just once, thanked him with a word, then court'sied and withdrew.

"Just then her brother-in-law entered.

"'What!' he said, 'is it water you are drinking in the house of a Robertson? Sit down, sir. You're a friend of my kinsman, Lord Lovat, but were you an enemy, no one leaves my house without bite and sup.'

"Raoul gladly took a seat, and so agreeable did he prove himself to be, that when at last Robertson bade him good-bye, it was with an invitation to return.

"So, laddie, Raoul Dhu came and came again; and, as he also took to visiting the little church on Sunday, some said he was about to become a Protestant.

"'Pooh!' said an old man, who was reputed to be gifted with the second sight; 'Raoul Dhu worships but one saint, and that is St. Fiona. Yet the sweet bit lassie will never wed a rake like Raoul Dhu.'

"If she would not, it was no fault of his. But Fiona gave him little encouragement, indeed.

"Raoul learned the meaning of her indifference one afternoon. The girl was walking near the edge of the great forest, that stretched away and away for many a mile towards the wild mountains. She was alone, if one can be called alone who has a book and a faithful collie dog.

"Perhaps Fiona did not know, so absorbed was she in her book, how far she had come. But she was startled at last by the report of a gun close by her.

"Next moment, a poor, bleeding hare rushed almost into her arms. The creature was crying in a most human way, as wounded hares do. Fiona bent over it, but its eyes were already glazing, and the beautiful creature died in her arms.

"She was still bending over it, and, I believe, shedding tears--her honest collie doing his best to comfort her--when she heard footsteps behind her.

"'Fiona!' said a voice she well knew.

"'Raoul Dhu,' she answered, 'was it you who killed this gentle creature?'

"'Sport, Fiona! Sport, my fair one!'

"There was something in his voice that offended her.

"She stooped once more, just to touch the hare, as if in pity for its fate, then bowing, was about to go.

"'One moment, Fiona. I would speak with you. I--I--I am a blunt, outspoken man, Fiona, and, when dealing with men, more fond of giving blows, I fear, than of making fine speeches. Fiona, I love you, and there's an end to it. You must marry me.'

"'Ronald McIvor,' she answered, with dignity, 'maidens of my clan are not accustomed to be dictated to, even by their kinsmen. As to marrying you, that I would never think of, even if I were free; but I am not. My heart is not my own to give. It is far, far away with my soldier boy, with ma ghaol ma chree, my Ian* Robertson. He is now fighting for his King and country in a foreign countrie.'

* Ian, pronounced Eean.

"Her heart was far away, as she said, and her eyes, also, at that moment had a far-away look in them. She was gazing southwards and eastwards, over the mountains, over the sea. But it was not the landscape she was gazing on. She saw not that, she saw but her soldier--an officer he was in the bold and gallant 1st. Saw him, too, as he stood before her on that last sad day when she bade him adieu.

"Raoul thought she never, looked more beautiful than she did then. But the love of wild and lawless men like this is like that of the wild beasts of the jungle, hardly, at times, to be distinguished from anger and hate.

"'He is a traitor,' he cried; 'a traitor to his lawful King--not your hateful, cow-lipped George, but a royal Stuart who will soon be here to claim his own. I hate your Ian, and, if we meet, I will sheath my dirk in his bosom.'

"'You dare not!'

"She was like a beautiful lioness at bay now.

"'I dare not! What is that, Raoul Dhu dare not?'

"He seized her arm in his passion and fury, so cruelly, too, that she screamed aloud.

"But help was at hand.

"Neither Fiona nor Raoul Dhu had noticed some creature that had leapt the green turf forest fence, and was creeping nearer and nearer through the long strong heather.

"It was a boy, or young man--you scarcely could have told which. A face wild and uncouth, though not unpleasant, a head all unkempt, a broad chest and long, long arms, as wiry as the sapling oak.

"He was close behind Raoul when Fiona screamed.

"Next moment he had sprung like a tiger on the strong man's back, and those sinewy arms of his tightened round his neck and held it as in a vice. Raoul's face grew almost black. He writhed and strained, and finally fell to the ground.

"The dwarf, for in height he was but little more, held a little longer, then slowly relaxed his grip and rose from the ground.

"'O, Muirachie,' cried Fiona, 'you have killed him!'

"'She'll no pe deaded whatefer, Miss Fiona. No, no. When ta dew falls ta rascal Raoul Dhu no pe deaded. O, no. Come, come!'

"I fear that poor Muirachie's English was not of the purest, but he did his best, and none can do more.

"A quarter of an hour after this Fiona was safe at home.

"She did not tell the adventure quite as it happened. Well she knew, that if she had done so, her stalwart brother-in-law would have followed Raoul and dirked him, even in the drawing-room of his kinsman, Simon Fraser, of Lovat.

"And now," said Auld-da, "the curtain drops, dear boy, on the first act of this Highland tragedy. An interval of four-and-twenty hours, Williamie, must elapse between the first and last acts."

Auld-da was a good disciplinarian, and I knew his word was law, and so I said, "Good-night!" and went home to bed--to think and dream.