in a great measure extinguished. The love of the ancient cavaliers
was a licensed species of idolatry, which the love of Heaven alone
was theoretically supposed to approach in intensity, and which in
practice it seldom equalled. God and the ladies were familiarly
appealed to in the same breath; and devotion to the fair sex was as
peremptorily enjoined upon the aspirant to the honour of chivalry
as that which was due to Heaven. At such a period in society, the
power of beauty was almost unlimited. It could level the highest
rank with that which was immeasurably inferior.
It was but in the reign preceding that of Robert III. that beauty
alone had elevated a person of inferior rank and indifferent morals
to share the Scottish throne; and many women, less artful or less
fortunate, had risen to greatness from a state of concubinage, for
which the manners of the times made allowance and apology. Such
views might have dazzled a girl of higher birth than Catharine,
or Katie, Glover, who was universally acknowledged to be the most
beautiful young woman of the city or its vicinity, and whose renown,
as the Fair Maid of Perth, had drawn on her much notice from the
young gallants of the royal court, when it chanced to be residing
in or near Perth, insomuch that more than one nobleman of the
highest rank, and most distinguished for deeds of chivalry, were
more attentive to exhibit feats of horsemanship as they passed the
door of old Simon Glover, in what was called Couvrefew, or Curfew,
Street, than to distinguish themselves in the tournaments, where
the noblest dames of Scotland were spectators of their address.
But the glover's daughter - for, as was common with the citizens
and artisans of that early period, her father, Simon, derived his
surname from the trade which he practised - showed no inclination to
listen to any gallantry which came from those of a station highly
exalted above that which she herself occupied, and, though probably
in no degree insensible to her personal charms, seemed desirous to
confine her conquests to those who were within her own sphere of
life. Indeed, her beauty being of that kind which we connect more
with the mind than with the person, was, notwithstanding her natural
kindness and gentleness of disposition, rather allied to reserve
than to gaiety, even when in company with her equals; and the
earnestness with which she attended upon the exercises of devotion
induced many to think that Catharine Glover nourished the private
wish to retire from the world and bury herself in the recesses of
the cloister. But to such a sacrifice, should it be meditated, it
was not to be expected her father, reputed a wealthy man and having
this only child, would yield a willing consent.
In her resolution of avoiding the addresses of the gallant courtiers,
the reigning beauty of Perth was confirmed by the sentiments of
her parent.
"Let them go," he said - "let them go, Catharine, those gallants,
with their capering horses, their jingling spurs, their plumed
bonnets, and their trim mustachios: they are not of our class, nor
will we aim at pairing with them. Tomorrow is St. Valentine's Day,
when every bird chooses her mate; but you will not see the linnet
pair with the sparrow hawk, nor the Robin Redbreast with the
kite. My father was an honest burgher of Perth, and could use his
needle as well as I can. Did there come war to the gates of our
fair burgh, down went needles, thread, and shamoy leather, and out
came the good head piece and target from the dark nook, and the
long lance from above the chimney. Show me a day that either he or
I was absent when the provost made his musters! Thus we have led
our lives, my girl, working to win our bread, and fighting to defend
it. I will have no son in law that thinks himself better than me;
and for these lords and knights, I trust thou wilt always remember
thou art too low to be their lawful love, and too high to be their
unlawful loon. And now lay by thy work, lass, for it is holytide
eve, and it becomes us to go to the evening service, and pray that
Heaven may send thee a good Valentine tomorrow."
So the Fair Maid of Perth laid aside the splendid hawking glove
which she was embroidering for the Lady Drummond, and putting on
her holyday kirtle, prepared to attend her father to the Blackfriars
monastery, which was adjacent to Couvrefew Street in which they
lived. On their passage, Simon Glover, an ancient and esteemed burgess
of Perth, somewhat stricken in years and increased in substance,
received from young and old the homage due to his velvet jerkin and
his golden chain, while the well known beauty of Catharine, though
concealed beneath her screen - which resembled the mantilla still
worn in Flanders - called both obeisances and doffings of the
bonnet from young and old.
As the pair moved on arm in arm, they were followed by a tall
handsome young man, dressed in a yeoman's habit of the plainest
kind, but which showed to advantage his fine limbs, as the
handsome countenance that looked out from a quantity of curled
tresses, surmounted by a small scarlet bonnet, became that species
of headdress. He had no other weapon than a staff in his hand, it
not being thought fit that persons of his degree (for he was an
apprentice to the old glover) should appear on the street armed
with sword or dagger, a privilege which the jackmen, or military
retainers of the nobility, esteemed exclusively their own. He attended
his master at holytide, partly in the character of a domestic, or
guardian, should there be cause for his interference; but it was
not difficult to discern, by the earnest attention which he paid
to Catharine Glover, that it was to her, rather than to her father,
that he desired to dedicate his good offices.
Generally speaking, there was no opportunity for his zeal displaying
itself; for a common feeling of respect induced passengers to give
way to the father and daughter.
But when the steel caps, barrets, and plumes of squires, archers,
and men at arms began to be seen among the throng, the wearers of
these warlike distinctions were more rude in their demeanour than
the quiet citizens. More than once, when from chance, or perhaps from
an assumption of superior importance, such an individual took the
wall of Simon in passing, the glover's youthful attendant bristled
up with a look of defiance, and the air of one who sought to
distinguish his zeal in his mistress's service by its ardour. As
frequently did Conachar, for such was the lad's name, receive a
check from his master, who gave him to understand that he did not
wish his interference before he required it.
"Foolish boy," he said, "hast thou not lived long enough in my
shop to know that a blow will breed a brawl; that a dirk will cut
the skin as fast as a needle pierces leather; that I love peace,
though I never feared war, and care not which side of the causeway
my daughter and I walk upon so we may keep our road in peace and
quietness?"
Conachar excused himself as zealous for his master's honour, yet
was scarce able to pacify the old citizen.
"What have we to do with honour?" said Simon Glover. "If thou wouldst
remain in my service, thou must think of honesty, and leave honour
to the swaggering fools who wear steel at their heels and iron on
their shoulders. If you wish to wear and use such garniture, you
are welcome, but it shall not be in my house or in my company."
Conachar seemed rather to kindle at this rebuke than to submit to
it. But a sign from Catharine, if that slight raising of her little
finger was indeed a sign, had more effect than the angry reproof of
his master; and the youth laid aside the military air which seemed
natural to him, and relapsed into the humble follower of a quiet
burgher.
Meantime the little party were overtaken by a tall young man
wrapped in a cloak, which obscured or muffled a part of his face
- a practice often used by the gallants of the time, when they
did not wish to be known, or were abroad in quest of adventures.
He seemed, in short, one who might say to the world around him:
"I desire, for the present, not to be known or addressed in my own
character; but, as I am answerable to myself alone for my actions,
I wear my incognito but for form's sake, and care little whether
you see through it or not."
He came on the right side of Catharine, who had hold of her father's
arm, and slackened his pace as if joining their party.
"Good even to you, goodman."
"The same to your worship, and thanks. May I pray you to pass on?
Our pace is too slow for that of your lordship, our company too
mean for that of your father's son."
"My father's son can best judge of that, old man. I have business
to talk of with you and with my fair St. Catharine here, the
loveliest and most obdurate saint in the calendar."
"With deep reverence, my lord," said the old man, "I would remind
you that this is good St. Valentine's Eve, which is no time for
business, and that I can have your worshipful commands by a serving
man as early as it pleases you to send them."
"There is no time like the present," said the persevering youth,
whose rank seemed to be a kind which set him above ceremony. "I wish
to know whether the buff doublet be finished which I commissioned
some time since; and from you, pretty Catharine (here he sank his
voice to a whisper), I desire to be informed whether your fair
fingers have been employed upon it, agreeably to your promise? But
I need not ask you, for my poor heart has felt the pang of each
puncture that pierced the garment which was to cover it. Traitress,
how wilt thou answer for thus tormenting the heart that loves thee
so dearly?"
"Let me entreat you, my lord," said Catharine, "to forego this wild
talk: it becomes not you to speak thus, or me to listen. We are of
poor rank but honest manners; and the presence of the father ought
to protect the child from such expressions, even from your lordship."
This she spoke so low, that neither her father nor Conachar could
understand what she said.
"Well, tyrant," answered the persevering gallant, "I will plague you
no longer now, providing you will let me see you from your window
tomorrow, when the sun first peeps over the eastern hills, and give
me right to be your Valentine for the year."
"Not so, my lord; my father but now told me that hawks, far less
eagles, pair not with the humble linnet. Seek some court lady, to
whom your favours will be honour; to me - your Highness must permit
me to speak the plain truth - they can be nothing but disgrace."
As they spoke thus, the party arrived at the gate of the church.
"Your lordship will, I trust, permit us here to take leave of you?"
said her father. "I am well aware how little you will alter your
pleasure for the pain and uneasiness you may give to such as us
but, from the throng of attendants at the gate, your lordship may
see that there are others in the church to whom even your gracious
lordship must pay respect."
"Yes - respect; and who pays any respect to me?" said the haughty
young lord. "A miserable artisan and his daughter, too much honoured
by my slightest notice, have the insolence to tell me that my notice
dishonours them. Well, my princess of white doe skin and blue silk,
I will teach you to rue this."
As he murmured thus, the glover and his daughter entered the
Dominican church, and their attendant, Conachar, in attempting to
follow them closely, jostled, it may be not unwillingly, the young
nobleman. The gallant, starting from his unpleasing reverie, and
perhaps considering this as an intentional insult, seized on the
young man by the breast, struck him, and threw him from him. His
irritated opponent recovered himself with difficulty, and grasped
towards his own side, as if seeking a sword or dagger in the place
where it was usually worn; but finding none, he made a gesture of
disappointed rage, and entered the church. During the few seconds
he remained, the young nobleman stood with his arms folded on his
breast, with a haughty smile, as if defying him to do his worst.
When Conachar had entered the church, his opponent, adjusting his
cloak yet closer about his face, made a private signal by holding
up one of his gloves. He was instantly joined by two men, who,
disguised like himself, had waited his motions at a little distance.
They spoke together earnestly, after which the young nobleman retired
in one direction, his friends or followers going off in another.
Simon Glover, before he entered the church, cast a look towards the
group, but had taken his place among the congregation before they
separated themselves. He knelt down with the air of a man who has
something burdensome on his mind; but when the service was ended,
he seemed free from anxiety, as one who had referred himself and
his troubles to the disposal of Heaven. The ceremony of High Mass
was performed with considerable solemnity, a number of noblemen
and ladies of rank being present. Preparations had indeed been made
for the reception of the good old King himself, but some of those
infirmities to which he was subject had prevented Robert III
from attending the service as was his wont. When the congregation
were dismissed, the glover and his beautiful daughter lingered
for some time, for the purpose of making their several shrifts in
the confessionals, where the priests had taken their places for
discharging that part of their duty. Thus it happened that the
night had fallen dark, and the way was solitary, when they returned
along the now deserted streets to their own dwelling.
Most persons had betaken themselves to home and to bed. They who
still lingered in the street were night walkers or revellers, the
idle and swaggering retainers of the haughty nobles, who were much
wont to insult the peaceful passengers, relying on the impunity
which their masters' court favour was too apt to secure them.
It was, perhaps, in apprehension of mischief from some character of
this kind that Conachar, stepping up to the glover, said, "Master,
walk faster - we are dogg'd."
"Dogg'd, sayest thou? By whom and by how many?"
"By one man muffled in his cloak, who follows us like our shadow."
"Then will it never mend my pace along the Couvrefew Street for
the best one man that ever trode it."
"But he has arms," said Conachar.
"And so have we, and hands, and legs, and feet. Why, sure, Conachar,
you are not afraid of one man?"
"Afraid!" answered Conachar, indignant at the insinuation; "you
shall soon know if I am afraid."
"Now you are as far on the other side of the mark, thou foolish
boy: thy temper has no middle course; there is no occasion to make
a brawl, though we do not run. Walk thou before with Catharine,
and I will take thy place. We cannot be exposed to danger so near
home as we are."
The glover fell behind accordingly, and certainly observed a person
keep so close to them as, the time and place considered, justified
some suspicion. When they crossed the street, he also crossed it,
and when they advanced or slackened their pace, the stranger's
was in proportion accelerated or diminished. The matter would have
been of very little consequence had Simon Glover been alone; but
the beauty of his daughter might render her the object of some
profligate scheme, in a country where the laws afforded such slight
protection to those who had not the means to defend themselves.
Conachar and his fair charge having arrived on the threshold
of their own apartment, which was opened to them by an old female
servant, the burgher's uneasiness was ended. Determined, however,
to ascertain, if possible, whether there had been any cause for it,
he called out to the man whose motions had occasioned the alarm,
and who stood still, though he seemed to keep out of reach of the
light. "Come, step forward, my friend, and do not play at bo peep;
knowest thou not, that they who walk like phantoms in the dark are
apt to encounter the conjuration of a quarterstaff? Step forward,
I say, and show us thy shapes, man."
"Why, so I can, Master Glover," said one of the deepest voices that
ever answered question. "I can show my shapes well enough, only I
wish they could bear the light something better."
"Body of me," exclaimed Simon, "I should know that voice! And is
it thou, in thy bodily person, Harry Gow? Nay, beshrew me if thou
passest this door with dry lips. What, man, curfew has not rung
yet, and if it had, it were no reason why it should part father
and son. Come in, man; Dorothy shall get us something to eat, and
we will jingle a can ere thou leave us. Come in, I say; my daughter
Kate will be right glad to see thee."
By this time he had pulled the person, whom he welcomed so cordially,
into a sort of kitchen, which served also upon ordinary occasions
the office of parlour. Its ornaments were trenchers of pewter,
mixed with a silver cup or two, which, in the highest degree of
cleanliness, occupied a range of shelves like those of a beauffet,
popularly called "the bink." A good fire, with the assistance of a
blazing lamp, spread light and cheerfulness through the apartment,
and a savoury smell of some victuals which Dorothy was preparing
did not at all offend the unrefined noses of those whose appetite
they were destined to satisfy.
Their unknown attendant now stood in full light among them, and
though his appearance was neither dignified nor handsome, his face
and figure were not only deserving of attention, but seemed in some
manner to command it. He was rather below the middle stature, but
the breadth of his shoulders, length and brawniness of his arms,
and the muscular appearance of the whole man, argued a most unusual
share of strength, and a frame kept in vigour by constant exercise.
His legs were somewhat bent, but not in a manner which could be
said to approach to deformity, on the contrary, which seemed to
correspond to the strength of his frame, though it injured in some
degree its symmetry.
His dress was of buff hide; and he wore in a belt around his waist
a heavy broadsword, and a dirk or poniard, as if to defend his
purse, which (burgher fashion) was attached to the same cincture.
The head was well proportioned, round, close cropped, and curled
thickly with black hair. There was daring and resolution in the dark
eye, but the other features seemed to express a bashful timidity,
mingled with good humor, and obvious satisfaction at meeting with
his old friends.
Abstracted from the bashful expression, which was that of the moment,
the forehead of Henry Gow, or Smith, for he was indifferently so
called, was high and noble, but the lower part of the face was less
happily formed. The mouth was large, and well furnished with a set
of firm and beautiful teeth, the appearance of which corresponded
with the air of personal health and muscular strength which the
whole frame indicated. A short thick beard, and mustachios which
had lately been arranged with some care, completed the picture.
His age could not exceed eight and twenty.
The family appeared all well pleased with the unexpected appearance
of an old friend. Simon Glover shook his hand again and again,
Dorothy made her compliments, and Catharine herself offered freely
her hand, which Henry held in his massive grasp, as if he designed
to carry it to his lips, but, after a moment's hesitation, desisted,
from fear lest the freedom might be ill taken. Not that there was
any resistance on the part of the little hand which lay passive
in his grasp; but there was a smile mingled with the blush on her
cheek, which seemed to increase the confusion of the gallant.
Her father, on his part, called out frankly, as he saw his friend's
hesitation: "Her lips, man - her lips! and that's a proffer I
would not make to every one who crosses my threshold. But, by good
St. Valentine, whose holyday will dawn tomorrow, I am so glad to
see thee in the bonny city of Perth again that it would be hard to
tell the thing I could refuse thee."
The smith, for, as has been said, such was the craft of this
sturdy artisan, was encouraged modestly to salute the Fair Maid,
who yielded the courtesy with a smile of affection that might
have become a sister, saying, at the same time: "Let me hope that
I welcome back to Perth a repentant and amended man."
He held her hand as if about to answer, then suddenly, as one who
lost courage at the moment, relinquished his grasp; and drawing
back as if afraid of what he had done, his dark countenance glowing
with bashfulness, mixed with delight, he sat down by the fire on
the opposite side from that which Catharine occupied.
"Come, Dorothy, speed thee with the food, old woman; and Conachar
- where is Conachar?"
"He is gone to bed, sir, with a headache," said Catharine, in a
hesitating voice.
"Go, call him, Dorothy," said the old glover; "I will not be used
thus by him: his Highland blood, forsooth, is too gentle to lay
a trencher or spread a napkin, and he expects to enter our ancient
and honourable craft without duly waiting and tending upon his
master and teacher in all matters of lawful obedience. Go, call
him, I say; I will not be thus neglected."
Dorothy was presently heard screaming upstairs, or more probably
up a ladder, to the cock loft, to which the recusant apprentice
had made an untimely retreat; a muttered answer was returned, and
soon after Conachar appeared in the eating apartment. There was a
gloom of deep sullenness on his haughty, though handsome, features,
and as he proceeded to spread the board, and arrange the trenchers,
with salt, spices, and other condiments - to discharge, in short,
the duties of a modern domestic, which the custom of the time imposed
upon all apprentices - he was obviously disgusted and indignant
with the mean office imposed upon him.
The Fair Maid of Perth looked with some anxiety at him, as if
apprehensive that his evident sullenness might increase her father's
displeasure; but it was not till her eyes had sought out his for a
second time that Conachar condescended to veil his dissatisfaction,
and throw a greater appearance of willingness and submission into
the services which he was performing.
And here we must acquaint our reader that, though the private
interchange of looks betwixt Catharine Glover and the young mountaineer
indicated some interest on the part of the former in the conduct
of the latter, it would have puzzled the strictest observer to
discover whether that feeling exceeded in degree what might have
been felt by a young person towards a friend and inmate of the same
age, with whom she had lived on habits of intimacy.
"Thou hast had a long journey, son Henry," said Glover, who had
always used that affectionate style of speech, though no ways akin
to the young artisan; "ay, and hast seen many a river besides Tay,
and many a fair bigging besides St. Johnston."
"But none that I like half so well, and none that are half so
much worth my liking," answered the smith. "I promise you, father,
that, when I crossed the Wicks of Baiglie, and saw the bonny city
lie stretched fairly before me like a fairy queen in romance, whom
the knight finds asleep among a wilderness of flowers, I felt even
as a bird when it folds its wearied wings to stoop down on its own
nest."
"Aha! so thou canst play the maker [old Scottish for poet] yet?"
said the glover. "What, shall we have our ballets and our roundels
again? our lusty carols for Christmas, and our mirthful springs to
trip it round the maypole?"
"Such toys there may be forthcoming, father," said Henry Smith,
"though the blast of the bellows and the clatter of the anvil make
but coarse company to lays of minstrelsy; but I can afford them no
better, since I must mend my fortune, though I mar my verses."
"Right again - my own son just," answered the glover; "and I trust
thou hast made a saving voyage of it?"
"Nay, I made a thriving one, father: I sold the steel habergeon
that you wot of for four hundred marks to the English Warden of the
East Marches, Sir Magnus Redman. He scarce scrupled a penny after
I gave him leave to try a sword dint upon it. The beggardly Highland
thief who bespoke it boggled at half the sum, though it had cost
me a year's labour."
"What dost thou start at, Conachar?" said Simon, addressing himself,
by way of parenthesis, to the mountain disciple; "wilt thou never
learn to mind thy own business, without listening to what is passing
round thee? What is it to thee that an Englishman thinks that cheap
which a Scottishman may hold dear?"
Conachar turned round to speak, but, after a moment's consideration,
looked down, and endeavoured to recover his composure, which had
been deranged by the contemptuous manner in which the smith had
spoken of his Highland customer.
Henry went on without paying any attention to him. "I sold at
high prices some swords and whingers when I was at Edinburgh. They
expect war there; and if it please God to send it, my merchandise
will be worth its price. St. Dunstan make us thankful, for he was
of our craft. In short, this fellow (laying his hand on his purse);
who, thou knowest, father, was somewhat lank and low in condition
when I set out four months since, is now as round and full as a
six weeks' porker."
"And that other leathern sheathed, iron hilted fellow who hangs
beside him," said the glover, "has he been idle all this while?
Come, jolly smith, confess the truth - how many brawls hast thou
had since crossing the Tay?"
"Nay, now you do me wrong, father, to ask me such a question
(glancing a look at Catharine) in such a presence," answered the
armourer: "I make swords, indeed, but I leave it to other people to
use them. No - no, seldom have I a naked sword in my fist, save
when I am turning them on the anvil or grindstone; and they slandered
me to your daughter Catharine, that led her to suspect the quietest
burgess in Perth of being a brawler. I wish the best of them would
dare say such a word at the Hill of Kinnoul, and never a man on
the green but he and I."
"Ay - ay," said the glover, laughing, "we should then have a fine
sample of your patient sufferance. Out upon you, Henry, that you
will speak so like a knave to one who knows thee so well! You look
at Kate, too, as if she did not know that a man in this country
must make his hand keep his head, unless he will sleep in slender
security. Come - come, beshrew me if thou hast not spoiled as many
suits of armour as thou hast made."
"Why, he would be a bad armourer, father Simon, that could not
with his own blow make proof of his own workmanship. If I did not
sometimes cleave a helmet, or strike a point through a harness,
I should not know what strength of fabric to give them; and might
jingle together such pasteboard work as yonder Edinburgh smiths
think not shame to put out of their hands."
"Aha, now would I lay a gold crown thou hast had a quarrel with
some Edinburgh 'burn the wind' upon that very ground?"
["Burn the wind," an old cant term for blacksmith, appears in Burns:
Then burnewin came on like death,
At every chaup, etc.]
"A quarrel! no, father," replied the Perth armourer, "but a measuring
of swords with such a one upon St. Leonard's Crags, for the honour
of my bonny city, I confess. Surely you do not think I would quarrel
with a brother craftsman?"
"Ah, to a surety, no. But how did your brother craftman come off?"
"Why, as one with a sheet of paper on his bosom might come off from
the stroke of a lance; or rather, indeed, he came not off at all,
for, when I left him, he was lying in the Hermit's Lodge daily
expecting death, for which Father Gervis said he was in heavenly
preparation."
"Well, any more measuring of weapons?" said the glover.
"Why, truly, I fought an Englishman at Berwick besides, on the old
question of the supremacy, as they call it - I am sure you would
not have me slack at that debate? - and I had the luck to hurt
him on the left knee."
"Well done for St. Andrew! to it again. Whom next had you to deal
with?" said Simon, laughing at the exploits of his pacific friend.
"I fought a Scotchman in the Torwood," answered Henry Smith, "upon
a doubt which was the better swordsman, which, you are aware, could
not be known or decided without a trial. The poor fellow lost two
fingers."
"Pretty well for the most peaceful lad in Perth, who never touches
a sword but in the way of his profession. Well, anything more to
tell us?"
"Little; for the drubbing of a Highlandman is a thing not worth
mentioning."
"For what didst thou drub him, O man of peace?" inquired the glover.
"For nothing that I can remember," replied the smith, "except his
presenting himself on the south side of Stirling Bridge."
"Well, here is to thee, and thou art welcome to me after all these
exploits. Conachar, bestir thee. Let the cans clink, lad, and thou
shalt have a cup of the nut brown for thyself, my boy."
Conachar poured out the good liquor for his master and for Catharine
with due observance. But that done, he set the flagon on the table
and sat down.
"How now, sirrah! be these your manners? Fill to my guest, the
worshipful Master Henry Smith."
"Master Smith may fill for himself, if he wishes for liquor,"
answered the youthful Celt. "The son of my father has demeaned
himself enough already for one evening."
"That's well crowed for a cockerel," said Henry; "but thou art so
far right, my lad, that the man deserves to die of thirst who will
not drink without a cupbearer."
But his entertainer took not the contumacy of the young apprentice
with so much patience. "Now, by my honest word, and by the best
glove I ever made," said Simon, "thou shalt help him with liquor
from that cup and flagon, if thee and I are to abide under one
roof."
Conachar arose sullenly upon hearing this threat, and, approaching
the smith, who had just taken the tankard in his hand, and was raising
it to his head, he contrived to stumble against him and jostle him
so awkwardly, that the foaming ale gushed over his face, person,
and dress. Good natured as the smith, in spite of his warlike
propensities, really was in the utmost degree, his patience failed
under such a provocation. He seized the young man's throat, being
the part which came readiest to his grasp, as Conachar arose from
the pretended stumble, and pressing it severely as he cast the lad
from him, exclaimed: "Had this been in another place, young gallows
bird, I had stowed the lugs out of thy head, as I have done to some
of thy clan before thee."
Conachar recovered his feet with the activity of a tiger, and
exclaimed: "Never shall you live to make that boast again!" drew a
short, sharp knife from his bosom, and, springing on Henry Smith,
attempted to plunge it into his body over the collarbone, which
must have been a mortal wound. But the object of this violence was
so ready to defend himself by striking up the assailant's hand,
that the blow only glanced on the bone, and scarce drew blood. To
wrench the dagger from the boy's hand, and to secure him with a
grasp like that of his own iron vice, was, for the powerful smith,
the work of a single moment.
Conachar felt himself at once in the absolute power of the formidable
antagonist whom he had provoked; he became deadly pale, as he had
been the moment before glowing red, and stood mute with shame and
fear, until, relieving him from his powerful hold, the smith quietly
said: "It is well for thee that thou canst not make me angry; thou
art but a boy, and I, a grown man, ought not to have provoked thee.
But let this be a warning."
Conachar stood an instant as if about to reply, and then left the
room, ere Simon had collected himself enough to speak. Dorothy was
running hither and thither for salves and healing herbs. Catharine
had swooned at the sight of the trickling blood.
"Let me depart, father Simon," said Henry Smith, mournfully, "I
might have guessed I should have my old luck, and spread strife
and bloodshed where I would wish most to bring peace and happiness.
Care not for me. Look to poor Catharine; the fright of such an
affray hath killed her, and all through my fault."
"Thy fault, my son! It was the fault of yon Highland cateran, whom
it is my curse to be cumbered with; but he shall go back to his
glens tomorrow, or taste the tolbooth of the burgh. An assault upon
the life of his master's guest in his house! It breaks all bonds
between us. But let me see to thy wound."
"Catharine!" repeated the armourer - "look to Catharine."
"Dorothy will see to her," said Simon; "surprise and fear kill not;
skenes and dirks do. And she is not more the daughter of my blood
than thou, my dear Henry, art the son of my affections. Let me see
the wound. The skene occle is an ugly weapon in a Highland hand."
"I mind it no more than the scratch of a wildcat," said the armourer;
"and now that the colour is coming to Catharine's cheek again, you
shall see me a sound man in a moment."
He turned to a corner in which hung a small mirror, and hastily
took from his purse some dry lint to apply to the slight wound he
had received. As he unloosed the leathern jacket from his neck and
shoulders, the manly and muscular form which they displayed was not
more remarkable than the fairness of his skin, where it had not,
as in hands and face, been exposed to the effects of rough weather
and of his laborious trade. He hastily applied some lint to stop
the bleeding; and a little water having removed all other marks
of the fray, he buttoned his doublet anew, and turned again to the
table, where Catharine, still pale and trembling, was, however,
recovered from her fainting fit.
"Would you but grant me your forgiveness for having offended you
in the very first hour of my return? The lad was foolish to provoke
me, and yet I was more foolish to be provoked by such as he. Your
father blames me not, Catharine, and cannot you forgive me?"
"I have no power to forgive," answered Catharine, "what I have no
title to resent. If my father chooses to have his house made the
scene of night brawls, I must witness them - I cannot help myself.
Perhaps it was wrong in me to faint and interrupt, it may be, the
farther progress of a fair fray. My apology is, that I cannot bear
the sight of blood."
"And is this the manner," said her father, "in which you receive my
friend after his long absence? My friend, did I say? Nay, my son.
He escapes being murdered by a fellow whom I will tomorrow clear
this house of, and you treat him as if he had done wrong in dashing
from him the snake which was about to sting him!"
"It is not my part, father," returned the Maid of Perth, "to decide
who had the right or wrong in the present brawl, nor did I see what
happened distinctly enough to say which was assailant, or which
defender. But sure our friend, Master Henry, will not deny that he
lives in a perfect atmosphere of strife, blood, and quarrels. He
hears of no swordsman but he envies his reputation, and must needs
put his valour to the proof. He sees no brawl but he must strike
into the midst of it. Has he friends, he fights with them for love
and honour; has he enemies, he fights with them for hatred and
revenge. And those men who are neither his friends nor foes, he
fights with them because they are on this or that side of a river.
His days are days of battle, and, doubtless, he acts them over
again in his dreams."
"Daughter," said Simon, "your tongue wags too freely. Quarrels and
fights are men's business, not women's, and it is not maidenly to
think or speak of them."
"But if they are so rudely enacted in our presence," said Catharine,
"it is a little hard to expect us to think or speak of anything
else. I will grant you, my father, that this valiant burgess of
Perth is one of the best hearted men that draws breath within its
walls: that he would walk a hundred yards out of the way rather
than step upon a worm; that he would be as loth, in wantonness,
to kill a spider as if he were a kinsman to King Robert, of happy
memory; that in the last quarrel before his departure he fought
with four butchers, to prevent their killing a poor mastiff that
had misbehaved in the bull ring, and narrowly escaped the fate of
the cur that he was protecting. I will grant you also, that the poor
never pass the house of the wealthy armourer but they are relieved
with food and alms. But what avails all this, when his sword makes
as many starving orphans and mourning widows as his purse relieves?"
"Nay, but, Catharine, hear me but a word before going on with a
string of reproaches against my friend, that sound something like
sense, while they are, in truth, inconsistent with all we hear
and see around us. What," continued the glover, "do our King and
our court, our knights and ladies, our abbots, monks, and priests
themselves, so earnestly crowd to see? Is it not to behold the
display of chivalry, to witness the gallant actions of brave knights
in the tilt and tourney ground, to look upon deeds of honour
and glory achieved by arms and bloodshed? What is it these proud
knights do, that differs from what our good Henry Gow works out in
his sphere? Who ever heard of his abusing his skill and strength
to do evil or forward oppression, and who knows not how often it
has been employed as that of a champion in the good cause of the
burgh? And shouldst not thou, of all women, deem thyself honoured
and glorious, that so true a heart and so strong an arm has termed
himself thy bachelor? In what do the proudest dames take their
loftiest pride, save in the chivalry of their knight; and has the
boldest in Scotland done more gallant deeds than my brave son Henry,
though but of low degree? Is he not known to Highland and Lowland
as the best armourer that ever made sword, and the truest soldier
that ever drew one?"
"My dearest father," answered Catharine, "your words contradict
themselves, if you will permit your child to say so. Let us thank
God and the good saints that we are in a peaceful rank of life,
below the notice of those whose high birth, and yet higher pride,
lead them to glory in their bloody works of cruelty, which haughty
and lordly men term deeds of chivalry. Your wisdom will allow that
it would be absurd in us to prank ourselves in their dainty plumes
and splendid garments; why, then, should we imitate their full blown
vices? Why should we assume their hard hearted pride and relentless
cruelty, to which murder is not only a sport, but a subject of
vainglorious triumph? Let those whose rank claims as its right such
bloody homage take pride and pleasure in it; we, who have no share
in the sacrifice, may the better pity the sufferings of the victim.
Let us thank our lowliness, since it secures us from temptation.
But forgive me, father, if I have stepped over the limits of my
duty, in contradicting the views which you entertain, with so many
others, on these subjects."
"Nay, thou hast even too much talk for me, girl," said her father,
somewhat angrily. "I am but a poor workman, whose best knowledge
is to distinguish the left hand glove from the right. But if thou
wouldst have my forgiveness, say something of comfort to my poor
Henry. There he sits, confounded and dismayed with all the preachment
thou hast heaped together; and he, to whom a trumpet sound was
like the invitation to a feast, is struck down at the sound of a
child's whistle."