Sir Quixote 
 
 of the Moors
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 SIR QUIXOTE OF THE 
 MOORS
 
 BUCKRAM SERIES. S. 
 
 SIR QUIXOTE OF THE MOORS. 
 A Scotch Romance. By John Buchan. 
 
 LADY BONNIE'S EXPERIMENT. 
 
 A quaint pastoral. By Tighe Hopkins. 
 
 KAFIR STORIES. 
 
 Tales of adventure. By Wm. Chas. Scully. 
 
 THE MASTER-KNOT 
 
 And " Another .Story." By CONOVER DuFF. 
 
 THE TIME MACHINE. 
 
 The Story of an Invention. By H. G. Wells. 
 
 THE PRISONER OF ZENDA. {^tst Ed.) 
 
 By Anthony Hope. A stirring romance. 
 
 THE INDISCRETION of the DUCHESS. 
 
 By Anthony Hope, {itk Edition^ 
 
 TENEMENT TALES OF NEW YORK. 
 By J. W. Sullivan. 
 
 SLUM STORIES OF LONDON. 
 
 (Neighbors of Ours.) By H. W. Nevinson. 
 THE WAYS OF YALE, isth Edition.) 
 
 Sketches, mainly humorous. By H. A. Beers. 
 
 A SUBURBAN VkS'XOKKL.isth Edition.) 
 
 American stories. By Henry A. Beeks. 
 JACK O'DOON. i-zd Edition.) 
 
 An American novel. By Maria Beale. 
 
 QUAKER IDYLS, {.^th Edition:) 
 
 By Mrs. S. M. H. Gardner. 
 A MAN OF MARK. i(>th Edition:) 
 
 A South American tale. By Anthony Hope. 
 SPORT ROYAL, i-^d Edition.) 
 And Other Stories. By Anthony Hope. 
 
 THE DOLLY DIALOGUES, iith Edition.) 
 
 By Anthony Hope. 
 A CHANGE OF AIR. (8M Edition.) 
 By Anthony Hope. With portrait. 
 
 JOHN INGERFIELD. (5M Edition.) 
 A love tragedy. By Jerome K. Jerome. 
 
 HENRY HOLT & CO.. New York.
 
 SIR QUIXOTE 
 
 OF THE MOORS 
 
 BEING SOME ACCOUNT OF AN 
 
 EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF 
 
 THE SI EUR DE ROHAINE 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN BUCHAN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 1895
 
 /8'9S 
 
 Copyright, 1895, 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOLT & CO. 
 
 THE MERSMON COMPANY PRESS, 
 RAHWAY, N. I.
 
 TO 
 
 GILBERT MURRAY 
 
 WHATSOEVER IN THIS BOOK IS NOT 
 
 WORTHLESS IS DEDICATED 
 
 BY HIS FRIEND.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The narrative, now for the 
 first time presented to the world, 
 was written by the Sieur de 
 Rohaine to while away the 
 time during the long period and 
 painful captivity, borne with 
 heroic resolution, which pre- 
 ceded his death. He chose the 
 English tongue, in which he 
 was extraordinarily proficient, 
 for two reasons : first, as an ex- 
 ercise in the language ; second, 
 because he desired to keep the 
 passages here recorded from the 
 knowledge of certain of his kins-
 
 VI 11 PREFACE. 
 
 folk in France. Few changes 
 have been made in his work. 
 Now and then an EngHsh idiom 
 has been substituted for a 
 French; certain tortuous ex- 
 pressions have been emended; 
 and in general the portions in 
 the Scots dialect have been 
 rewritten, since the author's 
 knowledge of this manner of 
 speech seems scarcely to have 
 been so great as he himself 
 thought.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER ^''^^ 
 
 I. On the High Moors, . i 
 
 II. I Fare Badly Indoors, 27 
 
 III. I Fare Badly Abroad, . 58 
 
 IV, Of my Coming to Lin- 
 
 dean, .... 76 
 
 V. I Pledge my Word, . 100 
 
 VI. Idle Days, . . • i34 
 VII. A Daughter of Hero- 
 
 DIAS, . . • -155 
 
 VIII. How I Set the Signal, 174 
 
 IX. I Commune with Myself, 202 
 
 X. Of my Departure, . 222
 
 SIR QUIXOTE OF THE 
 MOORS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ON THE HIGH MOORS. 
 
 EFORE me stretched a 
 black heath, over which 
 the mist blew in gusts, 
 and through whose midst the 
 road crept like an adder. 
 Great storm-marked hills 
 flanked me on either side, 
 and since I set out I had seen 
 their harsh outline against a 
 thick sky, until I longed for 
 flat ground to rest my sight 
 upon. The way was damp.
 
 2 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 and the soft mountain gravel 
 sank under my horse's feet ; 
 and ever and anon my legs were 
 splashed by the water from 
 some pool which the rain had 
 left. Shrill mountain birds flew 
 around, and sent their cries 
 through the cold air. Some- 
 times the fog would lift for a 
 moment from the face of the 
 land and show me a hilltop or 
 the leaden glimmer of a loch, 
 but nothing more — no green 
 field or homestead ; only a bar- 
 ren and accursed desert. 
 
 Neither horse nor man was 
 in any spirit. My back ached, 
 and I shivered in my sodden 
 garments, while my eyes were 
 dim from gazing on flying 
 clouds. The poor beast stum-
 
 ON THE HIGH MOORS. 3 
 
 bled often, for he had traveled 
 far on little fodder, and a hill- 
 road was a new thing in his ex- 
 perience. Saladin I called him — 
 for I had fancied that there was 
 something Turkish about his 
 black face, with the heavy tur- 
 ban-like band above his fore- 
 head — in my old fortunate days 
 when I bought him. He was 
 a fine horse of the Normandy 
 breed, and had carried me on 
 many a wild journey, though 
 on none so forlorn as this. 
 
 But to speak of myself. I 
 am Jean de Rohaine, at your 
 service ; Sieur de Rohaine in the 
 province of Touraine — a gen- 
 tleman, I trust, though one in a 
 sorry plight. And how I came 
 to be in the wild highlands of
 
 4 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 the place called Galloway, in 
 the bare kingdom of Scotland, I 
 must haste to tell. In the old 
 days, when I had lived as be- 
 came my rank in my native 
 land, I had met a Scot, — one 
 Kennedy by name, — a great 
 man in his own country, with 
 whom I struck up an intimate 
 friendship. He and I were as 
 brothers, and he swore that if I 
 came to visit him in his own 
 home he would see to it that I 
 should have the best. I thanked 
 him at the time for his bidding, 
 but thought little more of it. 
 
 Now, by ill fortune, the time 
 came when, what with gaming 
 and pleasuring, I was a beg- 
 gared man, and I bethought me 
 of the Scot's offer I had liked
 
 ON THE HIGH MOORS. 5 
 
 the man well, and I considered 
 how it would be no ill thing to 
 abide in that country till I 
 should find some means of bet- 
 tering my affairs. So I took ship 
 and came to the town of Ayr, 
 from which 'twas but a day's ride 
 to the house of my friend. 'Twas 
 in midsummer when I landed, 
 and the place looked not so 
 bare as I had feared, as I rode 
 along between green meadows 
 to my destination. There I 
 found Quentin Kennedy, some- 
 what grown old and more full 
 in flesh than I remembered him 
 in the past. He had been a 
 tall, black-avised man when I 
 first knew him ; now he was 
 grizzled, — whether from hard 
 living or the harshness of north-
 
 6 S//^ QUIXOTE. 
 
 ern weather I know not, — and 
 heavier than a man of action is 
 wont to be. He greeted me 
 most hospitably, putting his 
 house at my bidding, and swear- 
 ing that I should abide and 
 keep him company and go no 
 more back to the South. 
 
 So for near a month I stayed 
 there, and such a time of riot 
 and hilarity I scarce remember. 
 Mou Dieii, but the feasting and 
 the sporting would have re- 
 joiced the hearts of my com- 
 rades of the Rue Margot ! I 
 had already learned much of 
 the Scots tongue at the college 
 in Paris, where every second 
 man hails from this land, and 
 now I was soon perfect in it, 
 speaking it all but as well as
 
 ON THE HIGH MOORS. 7 
 
 my host. 'Tis a gift I have, 
 for I well remember how, when 
 I consorted for some months 
 in the low countries with an 
 Italian of Milan, I picked up a 
 fair knowledge of his speech. 
 So now I found mys*elf in the 
 midst of men of spirit, and a 
 rare life we led. The gentle- 
 men of the place would come 
 much about the house, and I 
 promise you 'twas not seldom 
 we saw the morning in as we 
 sat at wine. There was, too, the 
 greatest sport at coursing and 
 hunting the deer in Kennedy's 
 lands by the Water of Doon. 
 
 Yet there was that I liked 
 not among the fellows who 
 came thither, nay, even in my 
 friend himself. We have a
 
 8 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 proverb in France that the devil 
 when he spoils a German in the 
 making turns him into a Scot, 
 and for certain there was much 
 boorishness among them, which 
 to my mind sits ill on gentle- 
 men. They would jest at one 
 another till I thought that in a 
 twinkling swords would be out, 
 and lo ! I soon found that 'twas 
 but done for sport, and with no 
 evil intent. They were clown- 
 ish in their understanding, little 
 recking of the feelings of a man 
 of honor, but quick to grow 
 fierce on some tittle of provo- 
 cation which another would 
 scarce notice. Indeed, 'tis my 
 belief that one of this nation is 
 best in his youth, for Kennedy, 
 whom I well remembered as a
 
 ON THE HIGH MOORS. 9 
 
 man of courage and breeding, 
 had grown grosser and more 
 sottish with his years, till I was 
 fain to ask where was my friend 
 of the past. 
 
 And now I come to that 
 which brought on my departure 
 and my misfortunes. 'Twas 
 one night as I returned weary 
 from riding after a stag in the 
 haugh by the river, that Quen- 
 tin cried hastily, as I entered, 
 that now he had found some- 
 thing worthy of my attention. 
 
 ** To-morrow, Jock," says he, 
 " you will see sport. There 
 has been some cursed commo- 
 tion among the folk of the hills, 
 and I am out the morrow to 
 redd the marches. You shall 
 have a troop of horse and ride
 
 lo SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 with me, and, God's death, we 
 will have a taste of better 
 work ! " 
 
 I cried out that I could have 
 asked 'for naught better, and, 
 indeed, I was overjoyed that 
 the hard drinking and idleness 
 were at an end, and that the 
 rigors of warfare lay before 
 me. For I am a soldier by 
 birth and by profession, and I 
 love the jingle of steel and the 
 rush of battle. 
 
 So, on the morrow, I rode to 
 the mountains with a score of 
 dragoons behind me, glad and 
 hopeful. Diable ! How shall 
 I tell my disappointment? 
 The first day I had seen all — 
 and more than I wished. We 
 fought, not with men like our-
 
 ON THE HIGH MOORS. 1 1 
 
 selves, but with women and 
 children and unarmed yokels, 
 and butchered like Cossacks 
 more than Christians. I grew 
 sick of the work, and would 
 have none of it, but led my 
 men to the rendezvous sullenly, 
 and hot at heart. 'Twas well 
 the night was late when we 
 arrived, else I should have met 
 with Kennedy there and then, 
 and God knows what might 
 have happened. 
 
 The next day, in a great fit 
 of loathing, I followed my host 
 again, hoping that the worst 
 was over, and that henceforth I 
 should have something more to 
 my stomach. But little I knew 
 of the men with whom I jour- 
 neyed. There was a cottage
 
 12 S/J? QUIXOTE. 
 
 there, a shepherd's house, and 
 God ! they burned it down, and 
 the man they shot before his 
 wife and children, speaking 
 naught to him but foul-mouthed 
 reproaches and jabber about 
 some creed which was strange 
 to me. I could not prevent it, 
 though 'twas all that I could do 
 to keep myself from a mad 
 attack. 
 
 I rode up to Quentin Ken- 
 nedy. 
 
 "Sir," I said, "I have had 
 great kindness at your hands, 
 but you and I must part. I 
 see that we are made of differ- 
 ent stuff. I can endure war, 
 but not massacre." 
 
 He laughed at my scruples, 
 incredulous of my purpose, un-
 
 ON THE HIGH MOORS. 13 
 
 til at last he saw that I was 
 fixed in my determination. 
 Then he spoke half kindly : 
 
 " This is a small matter to 
 stand between me and thee. I 
 am a servant of the king, and 
 but do my duty. I little 
 thought to have disloyalty 
 preached from your lips ; but 
 bide with me, and I promise 
 that you shall see no more of it." 
 
 But my anger was too great, 
 and I would have none of him. 
 Then — and now I marvel at the 
 man's forbearance — he offered 
 me money to recompense me 
 for my trouble. 'Twas honestly 
 meant, and oft have I regretted 
 my action, but to me in my 
 fury in seemed but an added 
 insult.
 
 14 Sm QUIXOTE. 
 
 " Nay," said I angrily ; " I 
 take no payment from butchers. 
 I am a gentleman, if a poor 
 one. 
 
 At this he flushed wrathfully, 
 and I thought for an instant 
 that he would have drawn on 
 me ; but he refrained, and I 
 rode off alone among the moors. 
 I knew naught of the land, and 
 I must have taken the wrong 
 way, for noon found me hope- 
 lessly mazed among a tangle of 
 rocks and hills and peat-mosses. 
 Verily, Quentin Kennedy had 
 taken the best revenge by suf- 
 fering me to follow my own 
 leading. 
 
 In the early hours of my 
 journey my head was in such a 
 whirl of wrath and dismay, that
 
 ON' THE HIGH MOORS. 15 
 
 I had little power to think 
 settled thoughts. I was in a 
 desperate confusion, half angry 
 at my own haste, and half bit- 
 ter at the coldness of a friend 
 who would permit a stranger to 
 ride off alone with scarce a 
 word of regret. When I have 
 thought the matter out in after 
 days, I have been as perplexed 
 as ever ; yet it still seems to 
 me, though I know not how, 
 that I acted as any man of 
 honor and heart would approve. 
 Still this thought was little 
 present to me in my discom- 
 fort, as I plashed through the 
 sodden turf. 
 
 I had breakfasted at Ken- 
 nedy's house of Dunpeel in the 
 early morning, and since I had
 
 1 6 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 no provision of any sort with 
 me, 'twas not long ere the bit- 
 ing of hunger began to set in. 
 My race is a hardy stock, used 
 to much hardships and rough 
 fare, but in this inclement land 
 my heart failed me wholly, and 
 I grew sick and giddy, what 
 with the famishing and the cold 
 rain. For, though 'twas late 
 August, the month of harvest 
 and fruit-time in my own fair 
 land, it seemed more like win- 
 ter. The gusts of sharp wind 
 came driving out of the mist 
 and pierced me to the very 
 marrow. So chill were they 
 that my garments were of no 
 avail to avert them ; being, 
 indeed, of the thinnest, and cut 
 according to the fashion of
 
 ON THE HIGH MOORS. 1 7 
 
 fine cloth for summer wear at 
 the shows and gallantries of 
 the town. A pretty change, 
 thought I, from the gardens of 
 Versailles and the trim streets 
 of Paris to this surly land ; and 
 sad it was to see my cloak, 
 meant for no rougher breeze 
 than the gentle south, tossed 
 and scattered by a grim wind. 
 
 I have marked it often, and 
 here I proved its truth, that 
 man's thoughts turn always to 
 the opposites of his present 
 state. Here was I, set in the 
 most uncharitable land on 
 earth ; and yet ever before my 
 eyes would come brief visions 
 of the gay country which I had 
 forsaken. In a gap of hill I 
 fancied that I descried a level
 
 1 8 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 distance with sunny vineyards 
 and rich orchards, to which I 
 must surely come if I but has- 
 tened. When I stooped to 
 drink at a stream, I fancied ere 
 I drank it that the water would 
 taste like the Bordeaux I was 
 wont to drink at the little 
 hostelry in the Rue Margot ; 
 and when the tasteless liquid 
 once entered my mouth, the 
 disenchantment was severe. I 
 met one peasant, an old man 
 bent with toil, coarse-featured, 
 yet not without some gleams 
 of kindness, and I could not re- 
 frain from addressing him in 
 my native tongue. For though 
 I could make some shape at his 
 barbarous patois, in my present 
 distress it came but uneasily
 
 ON THE HIGH MOORS. 19 
 
 from my lips. He stared at me 
 stupidly, and when I repeated 
 the question in the English, he 
 made some unintelligible reply, 
 and stumbled onward in his 
 way. I watched his poor figure 
 as he walked. Such, thought 
 I, are the canaille of the land, 
 and 'tis little wonder if their 
 bodies be misshapen, and their 
 minds dull, for an archangel 
 would become a boor if he 
 dwelt here for any space of 
 time. 
 
 But enough of such dreams, 
 and God knows no man had 
 ever less cause for dreaming. 
 Where was I to go, and what 
 might my purpose be in this 
 wilderness which men call the 
 world ? An empty belly and a
 
 20 SII? QUIXOTE. 
 
 wet skin do not tend to sedate 
 thinking, so small wonder if I 
 saw little ahead. I was making 
 for the end of the earth, caring 
 little in what direction, weary 
 and sick of heart, with sharp 
 anger at the past, and never a 
 hope for the morrow. 
 
 Yet, even in my direst days, 
 I have ever found some grain 
 of expectation to console me. 
 I had five crowns in my purse ; 
 little enough, but sufficient to 
 win me a dinner and a bed at 
 some cheap hostelry. So all 
 through the gray afternoon I 
 looked sharply for a house, 
 mistaking every monstrous 
 bowlder for a gable-end. I 
 cheered my heart with think- 
 ing of dainties to be looked
 
 ON THE HIGH MOORS. 21 
 
 for ; a dish of boiled fish, or a 
 piece of mutton from one of 
 the wild-faced sheep which 
 bounded ever and anon across 
 my path. Nay, I was in no 
 mood to be fastidious. I 
 would e'en be content with a 
 poor fare, provided always I 
 could succeed in swallowing it, 
 for my desire soon became less 
 for the attainment of a pleasure 
 than for the alleviation of a 
 discomfort. For I was raven- 
 ous as a hawk, and had it in 
 my heart more than once to 
 dismount, and seek for the 
 sparse hill-berries. 
 
 And, indeed, this was like to 
 have been my predicament, for 
 the day grew late and I came 
 no nearer a human dwelling.
 
 2 2 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 The valley in which I rode 
 grew wider, about to open, as 
 I thought, into the dale of a 
 river. The hills, from rising 
 steeply by the wayside, were 
 withdrawn to the distance of 
 maybe a mile, where they lifted 
 their faces through the network 
 of the mist. All the land be- 
 tween them, save a strip where 
 the road lay, was filled with a 
 black marsh, where moor birds 
 made a most dreary wailing. 
 It minded me of the cries 
 of the innocents whom King 
 Herod slew, as I had seen the 
 dead represented outside the 
 village church of Rohaine in 
 my far-away homeland. My 
 heart grew sore with longing. 
 I had bartered my native coun-
 
 ON THE HIGH MOORS. 23 
 
 try for the most dismal on 
 earth, and all for nothing. 
 Madman that I was, were it 
 not better to be a beggar in 
 France than a horse-captain 
 in any other place ? I cursed 
 my folly sorely, as each fresh 
 blast sent a shiver through my 
 body. Nor was my horse in any 
 better state — Saladin, whom I 
 had seen gayly decked at a pro- 
 cession with ribbons and pretty 
 favors, who had carried me so 
 often and so far, who had 
 always fared on the best. The 
 poor beast was in a woeful 
 plight, with his pasterns bleed- 
 ing from the rough stones 
 and his head bent with weari- 
 ness. Verily, I pitied him 
 more than myself, and if I
 
 24 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 had had a crust we should 
 have shared it. 
 
 The night came in, black as 
 a draw-well and stormy as the 
 Day of Doom. I had now no 
 little trouble in picking out the 
 way from among the treach- 
 erous morasses. Of a sudden 
 my horse would have a fore- 
 foot in a pool of black peat- 
 water, from which I would 
 scarce, by much pulling, re- 
 cover him. A sharp jag of 
 stone in the way would all but 
 bring him to his knees. So 
 we dragged weari fully along, 
 scarce fearing, caring, hoping 
 for anything in this world or 
 another. 
 
 It was, I judge, an hour after 
 nightfall, about nine of the
 
 O.V THE FIIGH MOORS. 25 
 
 clock, when I fancied that some 
 glimmer shot through the thick 
 darkness. I could have clapped 
 my hands for joy had I been 
 able ; but alas ! these were so 
 stiff, that clapping was as far 
 from me as from a man with 
 the palsy. 
 
 "Courage!" said I, "cour- 
 age, Saladin ! There is yet 
 hope for us! " 
 
 The poor animal seemed to 
 share in my expectations. He 
 carried me quicker forward, so 
 that soon the feeble gleam had 
 grown to a broad light. Inn 
 or dwelling, thought I, there I 
 stay, for I will go not a foot 
 further for man or devil. My 
 sword must e'en be my /"(j/zrrzVr 
 to get me a night's lodging.
 
 26 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 Then I saw the house, a low, 
 dark place, unillumined save 
 for that front window which 
 shone as an invitation to trav- 
 elers. In a minute I was at 
 the threshold. There, in truth, 
 was the sign flapping above the 
 lintel, 'Twas an inn at length, 
 and my heart leaped out in 
 gratitude.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I FARE BADLY INDOORS. 
 
 I DROPPED wearily 
 from my horse and 
 stumbled forward to 
 the door. 'Twas close shut, 
 but rays of light came through 
 the chinks at the foot, and the 
 great light in the further win- 
 dow lit up the ground for some 
 yards. I knocked loudly with 
 my sword-hilt. Stillness seemed 
 to reign within, save that from 
 some distant room a faint sound 
 of men's voices was brought. 
 A most savory smell stole out 
 27
 
 2 8 S//^ QUIXOTE. 
 
 to the raw air and revived my 
 hunger with hopes of supper. 
 
 Again I knocked, this time 
 rudely, and the door rattled on 
 its hinges. This brought some 
 signs of life from within. I 
 could hear a foot on the stone 
 floor of a passage, a bustling as 
 of many folk running hither 
 and thither, and a great bark- 
 ing of a sheep-dog. Of a sud- 
 den the door was flung open, 
 a warm blaze of light rushed 
 forth, and I stood blinking be- 
 fore the master of the house. 
 
 He was a tall, grizzled man of 
 maybe fifty years, thin, with a 
 stoop in his back that all hill- 
 folk have, and a face brown 
 with sun and wind. I judged 
 him fifty, but he may have been
 
 I FARE BADL V INDOORS. 29 
 
 younger by ten years, for in 
 that desert men age the speed- 
 ier. His dress was dirty and 
 ragged in many places, and in 
 one hand he carried a pistol, 
 which he held before him as if 
 for protection. He stared at 
 me for a second. 
 
 " Wha are ye that comes dir- 
 lin' here on sic a nicht?" said 
 he, and I give his speech as I 
 remember it. As he uttered 
 the words, he looked me keenly 
 in the face, and I felt his thin, 
 cold glance piercing to the roots 
 of my thoughts. I liked the 
 man ill, for, what with his lean 
 figure and sour countenance, he 
 was far different from the jovial, 
 well-groomed fellows who will 
 give you greeting at any way-
 
 3° SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 side inn from Calais to Bor- 
 deaux. 
 
 "You ask a strange question, 
 and one little needing answer. 
 If a man has wandered for hours 
 in bog-holes, he will be in no 
 mind to stand chaffering at inn 
 doors. I seek a night's lodging 
 for my horse and myself." 
 
 " It's little we can give you, 
 for it's a bare, sinfu' land," said 
 he, " but such as I ha'e ye're 
 welcome to. Bide a minute, 
 and I'll bring a licht to tak' ye 
 to the stable." 
 
 He was gone down the pass- 
 age for a few seconds, and re- 
 turned with a rushlight encased 
 against the wind in a wicker 
 covering. The storm made it 
 flicker and flare till it sent
 
 / FARE BADL Y INDOORS. 3 ^ 
 
 dancing shadows over the dark 
 walls of the house. The stable 
 lay round by the back end, and 
 thither poor Saladin and his 
 master stumbled over a most 
 villainous rough ground. The 
 place, when found, was no great 
 thing to boast of — a cold shed, 
 damp with rain, with blaffs of 
 wind wheezing through it ; and 
 I was grieved to think of my, 
 horse's nightly comfort. The 
 host snatched from a rack a 
 truss of hay, which by its smell 
 was old enough, and tossed it 
 into the manger. " There ye 
 are, and it's mair than mony a 
 Christian gets in thae weary 
 days." 
 
 Then he led the way back 
 into the house. We entered a
 
 32 SI/? QUIXOTE. 
 
 draughty passage with a win- 
 dow at one end, broken in part, 
 through which streamed the 
 cold air. A turn brought me 
 into a Httle square room, where 
 a fire flickered and a low lamp 
 burned on the table. 'Twas so 
 home-like and peaceful that my 
 heart went out to it, and I 
 thanked my fate for the com- 
 fortable lodging I had chanced 
 on. Mine host stirred the blaze 
 and bade me strip off my wet 
 garments. He fetched me an 
 armful of rough homespuns, 
 but I cared little to put them 
 on, so I e'en sat in my shirt and 
 waited on the drying of my 
 coat. My mother's portrait, 
 the one by Grizot, which I have 
 had set in gold and wear always
 
 / FARE BADL V INDOORS. Zl 
 
 near my heart, dangled to my 
 lap, and I took this for an evil 
 omen. I returned it quick to 
 its place, the more so because I 
 saw the landlord's lantern-jaw 
 close at the sight, and his cold 
 eyes twinkle. Had I been wise, 
 too, I would have stripped my 
 rings from my fingers ere I 
 began this ill-boding travel, for 
 it does not behoove a gentleman 
 to be sojourning among beggars 
 with gold about him. 
 
 " Have ye come far the day ? " 
 the man asked, in his harsh 
 voice. " Ye're gey-like splashed 
 wi' dirt, so I jalouse ye cam 
 ower the AngeVs Ladder!' 
 
 "Angel's ladder!" quoth I, 
 " devil's ladder I call it ! for a 
 more blackguardly place I have
 
 34 S//i QUIXOTE. 
 
 not clapped eyes on since I first 
 mounted horse." 
 
 " Angel's Ladder they call it," 
 said the man, to all appearance 
 never heeding my words, " for 
 there, mony a year syne, an 
 holy man of God, one Ebenezer 
 Clavershaws, preached to a 
 goodly gathering on the shining 
 ladder seen by the patriarch 
 Jacob at Bethel, which extend- 
 ed from earth to heaven. 
 'Twas a rich discourse, and I 
 have it still in my mind." 
 
 " 'Twas more likely to have 
 been a way to the Evil One for 
 me. Had I but gone a further 
 step many a time, I should have 
 been giving my account ere this 
 to my Maker. But a truce to 
 this talk. 'Twas not to listen
 
 / FARE BADL V INDOORS. 35 
 
 to such that I came here ; let 
 me have supper, the best you 
 have, and a bottle of whatever 
 wine you keep in this accursed 
 place. Burgundy is my choice." 
 " Young man," the fellow said 
 gravely, looking at me with his 
 unpleasing eyes, " you are one 
 who loves the meat that perish- 
 eth rather than the unsearch- 
 able riches of God's grace. Oh, 
 be warned while yet there is 
 time. You know not the de- 
 liehts of o-ladsome communion 
 wi' Him, which makes the moss- 
 hags and heather-busses more 
 fair than the roses of Sharon 
 or the balmy plains of Gilead. 
 Oh, be wise and turn, for now is 
 the accepted time, now is the 
 day of salvation ! "
 
 36 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 Sacre ! what madman have I 
 fallen in with, thought I, who 
 talks in this fashion. I had 
 heard of the wild deeds of those 
 in our own land who call them- 
 selves Huguenots, and I was not 
 altogether without fear. But 
 my appetite was keen, and my 
 blood was never of the coolest. 
 
 " Peace with your nonsense, 
 sirrah," I said sternly ; " what 
 man are you whocome and prate 
 before your guests, instead of 
 fetching their supper? Let me 
 have mine at once, and no more 
 of your Scripture." 
 
 As I spoke, I looked him an- 
 grily in the face, and my bear- 
 ing must have had some effect 
 upon him, for he turned sud- 
 denly and passed out.
 
 / FA RE BA DL V IND ORS. 3 7 
 
 A wench appeared, a comely 
 slip of a girl, Avith eyes some- 
 what dazed and timorous, and 
 set the table with viands. 
 There was a moor-fowl, well- 
 roasted and tasty to the palate, 
 a cut of salted beef, and for 
 wine, a bottle of French claret 
 of excellent quality. 'Twas so 
 much in excess of my expecta- 
 tion, that I straightway fell 
 into a good humor, and the 
 black cloud of dismay lifted in 
 some degree from my wits. I 
 filled my glass and looked at 
 it against the fire-glow, and 
 dreamed that 'twas an emblem 
 of the after course of my life. 
 Who knew what fine things I 
 might come to yet, though now 
 I was solitary in a strange land?
 
 38 SII^ QUIXOTE. 
 
 The landlord came in and 
 took away the remnants him- 
 self. He looked at me fixedly- 
 more than once, and in his 
 glance I read madness, greed, 
 and hatred. I feared his look, 
 and was glad to see him leave, 
 for he made me feel angry 
 and a little awed. However, 
 thought I, 'tis not the first 
 time I have met a churlish host, 
 and I filled my glass again. 
 
 The fire bickered cheerily, 
 lighting up the room and com- 
 forting my cold skin. I drew 
 my chair close and stretched 
 out my legs to the blaze, till in 
 a little, betwixt heat and weari- 
 ness, I was pleasantly drowsy. 
 I fell to thinking of the events 
 of the day and the weary road
 
 / FARE BADL Y INDOORS. 39 
 
 I had traveled ; then to an 
 earher time, when I first came 
 to Scotland, and my hopes 
 were still unbroken. After all 
 this I began to mind me of the 
 pleasant days in France ; for, 
 though I had often fared ill 
 enough there, all was forgotten 
 but the good fortune ; and I 
 had soon built out of my brain 
 a France which was liker Para- 
 dise than anywhere on earth. 
 Every now and then a log 
 would crackle or fall, and so 
 wake me with a start, for the 
 fire was of that sort which is 
 common in hilly places — a great 
 bank of peat with wood laid 
 athwart. Blue, pungent smoke 
 came out in rings and clouds, 
 which smelt gratefully in my
 
 40 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 nostrils after the black out-of- 
 doors. 
 
 By and by, what with think- 
 ing of the past, what with my 
 present comfort, and what with 
 an ever hopeful imagination, 
 my prospects came to look less 
 dismal. 'Twas true that I was 
 here in a most unfriendly land 
 with little money and no skill 
 of the country. But Scotland 
 was but a little place, after all. 
 I must come to Leith in time, 
 where I could surely meet a 
 French skipper who would 
 take me over, money or no. 
 You will ask, whoever may 
 chance to read this narrative, 
 why, in Heaven's name, I did 
 not turn and go back to Ayr, 
 the port from which I had
 
 / FARE BADL V INDOORS. 41 
 
 come? The reason is not far 
 to seek. The whole land be- 
 hind me stank in my nostrils, 
 for there dwelt Ouentin Ken- 
 nedy, and there lay the scene 
 of my discomfiture and my 
 sufferings. Faugh ! the smell 
 of that wretched moor-road is 
 with me yet. So, with think- 
 ing one way and another, I 
 came to a decision to go for- 
 ward in any case, and trust to 
 God and my own good fortune. 
 After this I must have ceased 
 to have any thoughts, and 
 dropped off snugly to sleep. 
 I wakened, at what time I 
 know not, shivering, with a 
 black fire before my knees. 
 The room was black with dark- 
 ness, save where through a
 
 42 SI/? QUIXOTE. 
 
 chink in the window-shutter 
 there came a gleam of pale 
 moonlight. I sprang up in 
 haste and called for a servant 
 to show me to my sleeping 
 room, but the next second I 
 could have wished the word 
 back, for I feared that no 
 servant would be awake and 
 at hand. To my mind there 
 seemed something passing 
 strange in thus leaving a guest 
 to slumber by the fire. 
 
 To my amazement, the land- 
 lord himself came to my call, 
 bearing a light in his hand. I 
 was reasonably surprised, for 
 though I knew not the hour of 
 the night, I judged from the 
 state of the fire that it must 
 have been far advanced.
 
 / FARE BADL Y INDOORS. 43 
 
 " I had fallen asleep," I said, 
 in apology, " and now would 
 finish what I have begun. 
 Show me my bed." 
 
 " It '11 be a dark nicht and a 
 coorse, out-bye," said the man, 
 as he led the way solemnly 
 from the room, up a rickety 
 stair, down a mirk passage to a 
 chamber which, from the turn- 
 ings of the house, I guessed to 
 be facing the east. 'Twas a 
 comfortless place, and ere I 
 could add a word I found the 
 the man leaving the room with 
 the light. "You'll find your 
 way to bed in the dark," quoth 
 he, and I was left in blackness. 
 
 I sat down on the edge of 
 the bed, half-stupid with sleep, 
 my teeth chattering with the
 
 44 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 cold, listening to the gusts of 
 wind battering against the 
 little window. 'Faith! thought 
 I, this is the worst enter- 
 tainment I ever had, and I 
 have made trial of many. Yet 
 I need not complain, for I have 
 had a good fire and a royal 
 supper, and my present dis- 
 comfort is due in great part to 
 my own ill habit of drowsiness. 
 I rose to undress, for my bones 
 were sore after the long day's 
 riding, when, by some chance, 
 I moved forward to the window 
 and opened it to look on the 
 night. 
 
 'Twas wintry weather outside, 
 though but the month of Au- 
 cfust. The face of the hills 
 fronting me were swathed in
 
 / FARE BADL V INDOORS. 45 
 
 white mist, which hung low 
 even to the banks of the stream. 
 There was a great muttering in 
 the air of swollen water, for the 
 rain had ceased, and the red 
 waves were left to roll down 
 the channel to the lowlands and 
 make havoc of meadow and 
 steading. The sky was cum- 
 bered with clouds, and no clear 
 light of the moon came through ; 
 but since 'twas nigh the time of 
 the full moon the night was 
 not utterly dark. 
 
 I lingered for maybe five 
 minutes in this posture, and 
 then I heard that which made 
 me draw in my head and listen 
 the more intently. A thud of 
 horses' hoofs on the wet ground 
 came to my ear. A second, and
 
 46 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 it was plainer, the noise of some 
 half-dozen riders clearly ap- 
 proaching the inn. 'Twas a 
 lonesome place, and I judged 
 it strange that company should 
 come so late. 
 
 I flung myself on the bed in 
 my clothes, and could almost 
 have fallen asleep as I was, so 
 weary was my body. But there 
 was that in my mind which for- 
 bade slumber, a vague uneasi- 
 ness as of some ill approaching, 
 which it behooved me to com- 
 bat. Again and again I tried 
 to drive it from me as mere 
 cowardice, but again it returned 
 to vex me. There was nothing 
 for it but that I should lie on 
 my back and bide what might 
 come.
 
 I FARE BADL V INDOORS. 47 
 
 « 
 
 Then again I heard a sound, 
 this time from a room beneath. 
 'Twas as if men were talking 
 softly, and moving to and fro. 
 My curiosity was completely 
 aroused, and I thought it no 
 shame to my soldierly honor to 
 slip from my room and gather 
 what was the purport of their 
 talk. At such a time, and in 
 such a place, it boded no good 
 for me, and the evil face of the 
 landlord was ever in my mem- 
 ory. The staircase creaked a 
 little as it felt my weight, 
 but it had been built for heav- 
 ier men, and I, passed it in 
 safety. Clearly the visitors 
 were in the room where I had 
 supped. 
 
 " Will we ha'e muckle wark
 
 4^ SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 wi' him, think ye ? " I heard 
 one man ask. 
 
 " Na, na," said another, whom 
 I knew for mine host, "he's a 
 foreigner, a man frae a fremt 
 land, and a' folk ken they're 
 little use. Forbye, I had stock 
 o' him mysel', and I think I 
 could mak' his bit ribs crack 
 thegither. He'll no' be an ill 
 customer to deal wi'." 
 
 " But will he no' be a guid 
 hand at the swird ? There's 
 no yin o' us here muckle at 
 that." 
 
 '' Toots," said another, " we'll 
 e'en get him intil a corner, 
 where he'll no git leave to stir 
 an airm." 
 
 I had no stomach for more. 
 With a dull sense of fear I crept
 
 / FARE BADL Y INDOORS. 49 
 
 back to my room, scarce heed- 
 ing in my anger whether I 
 made noise or not. Good God ! 
 thought I, I have traveled by 
 land and sea to die in a moor- 
 land alehouse by the hand of 
 common robbers ! My heart 
 grew hot at the thought of the 
 landlord, for I made no doubt 
 but it was my jewels that had 
 first set his teeth. I loosened 
 my sword in its scabbard ; and 
 now I come to think of it, 'twas 
 a great wonder that it had not 
 been taken away from me while 
 I slept. I could only guess 
 that the man had been afraid 
 to approach me before the 
 arrival of his confederates. I 
 gripped my sword-hilt ; ah, how 
 often had I felt its touch under
 
 50 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 kindlier circumstances — when I 
 slew the boar in the woods at 
 Belmont, when I made the Sieur 
 de Biran crave pardon before 
 
 my feet, when I But peace 
 
 with such memories ! At all 
 events, if Jean de Rohaine must 
 die among ruffians, unknown 
 and forgotten, he would finish 
 his days like a gentleman of 
 courage. I prayed to God that 
 I might only have the life of 
 the leader. 
 
 But this world is sweet to all 
 men, and as I awaited death 
 in that dark room, it seemed 
 especially fair to live. I was 
 but in the prime of my age, 
 on the near side of forty, 
 hale in body, a master of the 
 arts and graces. Were it not
 
 / FARE BADL Y INDOORS. 5 ^ 
 
 passing hard that I should 
 perish in thiswise? I looked 
 every way for a means of escape. 
 There was but one — the little 
 window which looked upon the 
 ground east of the inn. 'Twas 
 just conceivable that a man 
 might leap it and make his 
 way to the hills, and so baffle 
 his pursuers. Two thoughts 
 deterred me ; first, that I had 
 no horse and could not con- 
 tinue my journey ; second, that 
 in all likelihood there would be 
 a watch set below. My heart 
 sank within me, and I ceased 
 to think. 
 
 For, just at that moment, I 
 heard a noise below as of men 
 leaving the room. I shut my 
 lips and waited. Here, I con-
 
 52 STR QUIXOTE. 
 
 eluded, is death coming to meet 
 me. But the next moment the 
 noise had stopped, and 'twas 
 evident that the conclave was 
 not yet closed. 'Tis a strange 
 thing, the mind of man, for I, 
 who had looked with despair at 
 my chances a minute agone, 
 now, at the passing of this im- 
 mediate danger, plucked up 
 heart, clapped my hat on my 
 head, and opened the window. 
 The night air blew chill, but 
 all seemed silent below. So, 
 very carefully I hung over the 
 ledge, gripped the sill with my 
 hands, swung my legs into the 
 air, and dropped. I lighted on 
 a tussock of grass and rolled 
 over on my side, only to recover 
 myself in an instant and rise to
 
 / FARE BADL Y INDOORS. 53 
 
 my feet, and, behold, at my 
 side, a tall man keeping sentinel 
 on horseback. 
 
 At this the last flicker of 
 hope died in my bosom. The 
 man never moved or spake, 
 but only stared fixedly at me. 
 Yet there was that in his face 
 and bearing which led me to 
 act as I did. 
 
 " If you are a man of honor," 
 I burst out, " though you are 
 engaged in an accursed trade, 
 dismount and meet me in com- 
 bat. Your spawn will not be out 
 for a little time, and the night is 
 none so dark. If I must die, I 
 would die at least in the open 
 air, with my foe before me." 
 
 My words must have found 
 some answering chord in the
 
 54 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 man's breast, for he presently 
 spoke, and asked me my name 
 and errand in the countryside. 
 I told him in a dozen words, 
 and at my tale he shrugged his 
 shoulders. 
 
 " I am in a great mind," says 
 he, " to let you go. I am all 
 but sick of this butcher work, 
 and would fling it to the 
 winds at a word. 'Tis well 
 enough for the others, who are 
 mongrel bred, but it ill be- 
 comes a man of birth like me, 
 who am own cousin to the 
 Maxwells o' Drurie." 
 
 He fell for a very little time 
 into a sort of musing, tugging 
 at his beard like a man in per- 
 plexity. Then he spoke out 
 suddenly :
 
 / FARE DADL V INDOORS. 55 
 
 ** See you yon tuft of willows 
 by the water? There's a space 
 behind it where a horse and 
 man might stand well con- 
 cealed. There is your horse," 
 and he pointed to a group of 
 horses standing tethered by the 
 roadside ; " lead him to the 
 place I speak of, and trust to 
 God for the rest. I will raise a 
 scare that you're off the other 
 airt, and, mind, that whenever 
 you see the tails o' us. you 
 mount and ride for life in the 
 way I tell you. You should 
 win to Drumlanrig by morning, 
 where there are quieter folk. 
 Now, mind my bidding, and 
 dae't before my good will 
 changes." 
 
 " May God do so to you in
 
 56 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 your extremity! If ever I 
 meet you on earth I will repay 
 you for your mercy. But a 
 word with you. Who is that 
 man ? " and I pointed to the 
 house. 
 
 The fellow laughed dryly. 
 " It's easy seen you're no 
 acquaint here, or you would 
 ha'e heard o' Long Jock o' the 
 Hirsel. There's mony a man 
 would face the devil wi' a regi- 
 ment o' dragoons at his back, 
 that would flee at a glint from 
 Jock's een. You're weel quit 
 o' him. But be aff afore the 
 folk are stirring." 
 
 I needed no second bidding, 
 but led Saladin with all speed 
 to the willows, where I made 
 him stand knee-keep in the
 
 / FARE BADL Y INDOORS. 57 
 
 water within cover of the trees, 
 while I crouched by his side. 
 'Twas none too soon, for I was 
 scarce in hiding when I heard 
 a great racket in the house, and 
 the sound of men swearing and 
 mounting horse. There was a 
 loud clattering of hoofs, which 
 shortly died away, and left the 
 world quiet, save for the broil 
 of the stream and the loud 
 screaming of moorbirds.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I FARE BADLY ABROAD. 
 
 LL this has taken a 
 long time to set down, 
 but there was little 
 time in the acting. Scarce 
 half an hour had passed from 
 my waking by the black fire 
 till I found myself up to the 
 waist in the stream. I made 
 no further delay, but, as soon 
 as the air was quiet, led Saladin 
 out as stilly as I could on the 
 far side of the willows, clam- 
 bered on his back (for I was 
 too sore in body to mount in 
 
 S8
 
 / FARE BADL V ABROAD. 59 
 
 any other fashion), and was 
 riding for dear life along the 
 moor road in the contrary 
 direction to that from which I 
 had come on the night before. 
 The horse had plainly been 
 well fed, since, doubtless, the 
 rufifians had marked him for 
 their own plunder. He covered 
 the ground in gallant fashion, 
 driving up jets and splashes of 
 rain water from the pools in 
 the way. Mile after mile was 
 passed with no sound of pur- 
 suers ; one hill gave place to 
 another; the stream grew wider 
 and more orderly ; but still I 
 kept up the breakneck pace, 
 fearina; to slacken rein. Fif- 
 teen miles were covered, as I 
 judged, before I saw the first
 
 6o SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 light of dawn in the sky, a red 
 streak in a gray desert ; and 
 brought my horse down to a 
 trot, thanking God that at last 
 I was beyond danger. 
 
 I was sore in body, with 
 clammy garments sticking to 
 my skin, aching in back and 
 neck, unslept, well-nigh as mis- 
 erable as a man could be. But 
 great as was my bodily discom- 
 fort, 'twas not one tittle to com- 
 pare with the sickness of my 
 heart. I had been driven to 
 escape from a hostel by a win- 
 dow like a common thief ; com- 
 pelled to ride, — nay, there was 
 no use in disguising it, — to flee, 
 before a pack of ill-bred vil- 
 lains ; I, a gentleman of France, 
 who had ruffled it with the best
 
 / FARE BADL V ABROAD. 6 1 
 
 of them in my fit of prosperity. 
 Again and again I questioned 
 with myself whether I had not 
 done better to die in that place, 
 fighting as long as the breath 
 was in my body. Of this I am 
 sure, at any rate, that it would 
 have been the way more sooth- 
 ing to my pride. I argued the 
 matter with myself, according 
 to the most approved logic, but 
 could come no nearer to the 
 solution. For while I thought 
 the picture of myself dying 
 with my back to the wall the 
 more heroical and gentleman- 
 like, it yet went sore against me 
 to think of myself, with all my 
 skill of the sword and the polite 
 arts, perishing in a desert place 
 at the hand of common cut-
 
 62 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 throats. 'Twas no fear of death, 
 I give my word of honor; that 
 was a weakness never found in 
 our race. Courage is a virtue 
 I take no credit for ; 'tis but a 
 matter of upbringing. But a 
 man loves to make some noise 
 in the earth ere he leaves it, or 
 at least to pass with blowings 
 of the trumpet and some man- 
 ner of show. To this day I 
 cannot think of any way by 
 which I could have mended my 
 conduct. I can but set it down 
 as a mischance of Providence, 
 which meets all men in their 
 career, but of which no man of 
 spirit cares to think. 
 
 The sun rose clear, but had 
 scarce shone for an hour, when, 
 as is the way in this land, a
 
 / FARE BADL V ABROAD. 63 
 
 fresh deluge of rain came on, 
 and the dawn, which had begun 
 in crimson, ended in a dull level 
 of gray. I had never been used 
 with much foul weather of this 
 sort, so I bore it ill. 'Twas 
 about nine of the morning when 
 I rode into the village of Drum- 
 lanrig, a jumble of houses in 
 the lee of a great wood, which 
 runs up to meet the descend- 
 ing moorlands. Some ragged 
 brats, heedless of the weather, 
 played in the street, if one may 
 call it by so fine a name ; but 
 for the most part the houses 
 seemed quite deserted. A 
 woman looked incuriously at 
 me ; a man who was carrying 
 sacks scarce raised his head to 
 view me ; the whole place was
 
 64 Slli QUIXOTE. 
 
 like a dwelling of the dead, I 
 have since learned the reason, 
 which was no other than the 
 accursed butchery on which I 
 had quarreled with Quentin 
 Kennedy, and so fallen upon 
 misfortune. The young and 
 manly were all gone; some to 
 the hills for hiding, some to the 
 town prisons, some across the 
 seas to work in the plantations, 
 and some on that long journey 
 from which no man returns. 
 My heart boils within me to this 
 day to think of it — but there ! 
 it is long since past, and I have 
 little need to be groaning over 
 it now. 
 
 There was no inn in the 
 place, but I bought bread from 
 the folk of a little farm-steading
 
 / FARE BADL Y ABROAD. 65 
 
 at one end of the village street. 
 They would scarce give it to 
 me at first, and 'twas not till 
 they beheld my woebegone 
 plight that their hearts relented. 
 Doubtless they took me for one 
 of the soldiers who had harried 
 them and theirs, little guessing 
 that 'twas all for their sake that 
 I was in such evil case. I did 
 not tarry to ask the road, for 
 Leith was too far distant for 
 the people in that place to know 
 it. Of this much I was sure, 
 that it lay to the northeast, so I 
 took my way in that direction, 
 shaping my course by the sun. 
 There was a little patch of 
 green fields, a clump of trees, 
 and a quiet stream beside the 
 village ; but I had scarce ridden
 
 66 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 half a mile beyond it when 
 once more the moor swallowed 
 me up in its desert of moss and 
 wet heather, 
 
 I was now doubly dispirited. 
 My short exhilaration of escape 
 had gone, and all the pangs 
 of wounded pride and despair 
 seized upon me, mingled with a 
 sort of horror of the place I had 
 come through. Whenever I 
 saw a turn of hill which brought 
 the AngeVs Ladder to my mind, 
 I shivered in spite of myself, 
 and could have found it in my 
 heart to turn and flee. In addi- 
 tion, I would have you remem- 
 ber, I was soaked to the very 
 skin, my eyes weary with lack 
 of sleep, and my legs cramped 
 with much riding.
 
 / FARE BADL V ABHOAD. 67 
 
 The place in the main was 
 moorland, Avith steep, desolate 
 hills on my left. On the right 
 to the south I had glimpses of a 
 fairer country, woods and dis- 
 tant fields, seen for an instant 
 through the driving mist. In 
 a trice France was back in my 
 mind, for I could not see an 
 acre of green land without com- 
 ing nigh to tears. Yet, and 
 perhaps 'twas fortunate for me, 
 such glimpses were all too rare. 
 For the most part, the way was 
 along succession of sloughs and 
 mires, with here a piece of dry, 
 heathy ground, and there an 
 impetuous water coming down 
 from the highlands. Saladin 
 soon fell tired, and, indeed, 
 small wonder, since he had come
 
 68 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 many miles, and his fare had 
 been of the scantiest. He 
 would put his foot in a bog-hole 
 and stumble so sharply that I 
 would all but lose my seat. 
 Then, poor beast, he would take 
 shame to himself, and pick his 
 way as well as his weary legs 
 would suffer him. 'Twas an evil 
 plight for man and steed, and 
 I knew not which to pity the 
 more. 
 
 At noon, I came to the skirts 
 of a long hill, Avhose top was 
 hidden with fog, but which I 
 judged to be high and lone- 
 some. I met a man- — the first 
 I had seen since Drumlanrig — 
 and asked him my whereabouts. 
 I learned that the hill was 
 called Queen's Berry, and that
 
 / FARE BADL V ABROAD. 69 
 
 in some dozen miles I would 
 strike the high road to Edin- 
 burgh. I could get not an- 
 other word out of him, but 
 must needs content myself with 
 this crumb of knowledge. The 
 road in front was no road, 
 nothing but a heathery moor, 
 with walls of broken stones 
 seaming it like the lines of 
 sewing in an old coat. Gray 
 broken hills came up for a 
 minute, as a stray wind blew 
 the mist aside, only to disap- 
 pear the next instant in a ruin 
 of cloud. 
 
 From this place I mark the 
 beginning of the most wretched 
 journey in my memory. Till 
 now I had had some measure 
 of bodily strength to support
 
 70 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 me. Now it failed, and a cold 
 shivering fit seized on my vitals, 
 and more than once I was like 
 to have fallen from my horse. 
 A great stupidity came over 
 my brain ; I could call up no 
 remembrance to cheer me, but 
 must plod on in a horror of 
 darkness. The cause was not 
 far distant — cold, wet, and de- 
 spair. I tried to swallow some 
 of the rain-soaked bread in my 
 pouch, but my mouth was as 
 dry as a skin. I dismounted to 
 drink at a stream, but the water 
 could hardly trickle down my 
 throat so much did it ache. 
 'Twas as if I were on the eve 
 of an ague, and in such a place 
 it were like to be the end of 
 me.
 
 / FARE BADLY ABROAD. 7 1 
 
 Had there been a house, I 
 should have craved shelter. 
 But one effect of my sickness 
 was, that I soon strayed woe- 
 fully from my path, such as it 
 was, and found myself in an 
 evil case with bogs and steep 
 hillsides. I had much to do in 
 keeping Saladin from danger; 
 and had I not felt the obliga- 
 tion to behave like a man, I 
 should have flung the reins 
 on his neck and let him bear 
 himself and his master to de- 
 struction. Again and again I 
 drove the wish from my mind — 
 " As well die in a bog-hole or 
 break your neck over a crag as 
 dwine away with ague in the 
 cold heather, as you are like to 
 do," said the tempter. But I
 
 72 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 steeled my heart, and made a 
 great resolve to keep one thing, 
 though I should lose all else — 
 some shreds of my manhood. 
 
 Toward evening I grew so 
 ill that I was fain, when we 
 came to a level place, to lay 
 my head on Saladin's neck, and 
 let him stumble forward. My 
 head swam, and my back ached 
 so terribly that I guessed 
 feverishly that someone had 
 stabbed me unawares. The 
 weather cleared just about 
 even, and the light of day flick- 
 ered out in a watery sunset, 
 'Twas like the close of my life, 
 I thought, a gray ill day and a 
 poor ending. The notion de- 
 pressed me miserably. I felt 
 a kinship with that feeble
 
 / FARE BADL Y ABROAD. 73 
 
 evening light, a kinship begot- 
 ten of equahty in weakness. 
 However, all would soon end ; 
 my day must presently have 
 its evening ; and then, if all 
 tales were true, and my prayers 
 had any efficacy, I should be in 
 a better place. 
 
 But when once the night in 
 its blackness had set in, I 
 longed for the light again, 
 however dismal it might be. 
 A ghoulish song, one which I 
 had heard long before, was ever 
 coming to my memory : 
 
 " La pluye nous a debuez et lave;?, 
 Et le soleil dessechez et noirciz ; 
 Pies, corbeaux " 
 
 With a sort of horror I tried 
 to drive it from my mind. A 
 dreadful heaviness oppressed
 
 74 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 me. Fears which I am 
 ashamed to set down thronged 
 my brain. The way had grown 
 easier, or I make no doubt my 
 horse had fallen. 'Twas a 
 track we were on, I could tell 
 by the greater freedom with 
 which Saladin stepped. God 
 send, I prayed, that we be 
 near to folk, and that they 
 be kindly ; this prayer I said 
 many times to the accompani- 
 ment of the whistling of the 
 doleful wind. Every gust 
 pained me. I was the sport of 
 the weather, a broken puppet 
 tossed about by circumstance. 
 
 Now an answer was sent to 
 me, and that a speedy one. I 
 came of a sudden to a clump of 
 shrubbery beside a wall. Then
 
 / FARE BADL V ABROAD. 75 
 
 at a turn of the way a light 
 shone through, as from a broad 
 window among trees. A few 
 steps more and I stumbled on 
 a gate, and turned Saladin's 
 head up a pathway. The rain 
 dripped heavily from the 
 bushes, a branch slashed me 
 in the face, and my weariness 
 grew tenfold with every second. 
 I dropped like a log before the 
 door, scarce looking to see 
 whether the house was great or 
 little ; and, ere I could knock 
 or make any call, swooned 
 away dead on the threshold.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OF MY COMING TO LINDEAN. 
 
 HEN I came to my- 
 self I was lying in a 
 pleasant room with a 
 great flood of sunlight drifting 
 through the window. My brain 
 was so confused that it was 
 many minutes ere I could guess 
 in which part of the earth I was 
 laid. My first thought was that 
 I was back in France, and I re- 
 joiced with a great gladness; 
 but as my wits cleared the 
 past came back by degrees, till 
 I had it plain before me, from 
 76
 
 MY COMING TO LINDEAN. 77 
 
 my setting-out to my fainting 
 at the door. Clearly I was in 
 the house where I had arrived 
 on the even of yesterday. 
 
 I stirred, and found my weak- 
 ness gone, and my health, save 
 for some giddiness in the head, 
 quite recovered. This was ever 
 the way of our family, who may 
 be in the last desperation one 
 day and all alive and active the 
 next. Our frames are like the 
 old grape tendrils, slim, but 
 tough as whipcord. 
 
 At my first movement some- 
 one arose from another part of 
 the room and came forward. I 
 looked with curiosity, and found 
 that it was a. girl, who brought 
 me some strengthening food- 
 stuff in a bowl. The sunlight
 
 78 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 smote her full in the face and 
 set her hair all aglow, as if she 
 were the Madonna. I could 
 not see her well, but, as she 
 bent over me, she seemed tall 
 and lithe and pretty to look 
 upon. 
 
 " How feel you ? " she asked, 
 in a strange, soft accent, speak- 
 ing the pure English, but with 
 a curious turn in her voice. " I 
 trust you are better of your ail- 
 ment." 
 
 " Yes, that I am," I said 
 briskly, for I was ashamed to 
 be lying there in good health, 
 ** and I would thank you, made- 
 moiselle, for your courtesy to 
 a stranger." 
 
 " Nay, nay," she cried, " 'twas 
 but common humanity. You
 
 MV COMING TO LhYDEAN. 79 
 
 were sore spent last night, both 
 man and horse. Had you trav- 
 eled far? But no," she added 
 hastily, seeing me about to 
 plunge into a narrative ; " your 
 tale will keep. I cannot have 
 you making yourself ill again. 
 You had better bide still a little 
 longer." And with a deft hand 
 she arranged the pillows and 
 was gone. 
 
 For some time I lay in a 
 pleasing inaction. 'Twas plain 
 I had fallen among gentlefolk, 
 and I blessed the good fortune 
 which had led me to the place. 
 Here I might find one to hear 
 my tale and help me in my ill- 
 luck. At any rate for the pres- 
 ent I was in a good place, and 
 when one has been living in a
 
 8o S//? QUIXOTE. 
 
 nightmare, the present has the 
 major part in his thoughts. 
 With this I fell asleep again, 
 for I was still somewhat wearied 
 in body. 
 
 When I awoke 'twas late 
 afternoon. The evil weather 
 seemed to have gone, for the 
 sun was bright and the sky 
 clear with the mellowness of 
 approaching even. The girl 
 came again and asked me how 
 I fared. " For," said she, " per- 
 haps you wish to rise, if you are 
 stronger. Your clothes were 
 sadly wet and torn when we 
 got you to bed last night, so 
 my father has bade me ask you 
 to accept of another suit till your 
 own may be in better order. 
 See, I have laid them out for
 
 MY COMING TO LINDEAN. «i 
 
 you, if you will put them on." 
 And again, ere I could thank 
 her, she was gone. 
 
 I was surprised and some- 
 what affected by this crowning 
 kindness, and at the sight of so 
 much care for a stranger whose 
 very name was unknown. I 
 longed to meet at once with 
 the men of the house, so I 
 sprung up and drew the clothes 
 toward me. They were of 
 rough gray cloth, very strong 
 and warm, and fitting a man a 
 little above the ordinary height, 
 of such stature as mine is. It 
 did not take me many minutes 
 to dress, and when once more I 
 found myself arrayed in whole- 
 some garments I felt my spirit 
 returning, and with it came
 
 52 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 hope, and a kindlier outlook on 
 the world. 
 
 No one appeared, so I opened 
 my chamber door and found 
 myself at the head of a stair- 
 case, which turned steeply 
 down almost from the threshold. 
 A great window illumined it, 
 and many black-framed pictures 
 hung on the walls adown it. 
 At the foot there was a hall, 
 broad and low in the roof, 
 whence some two or three 
 doors opened. Sounds of men 
 in conversation came from one, 
 so I judged it wise to turn 
 there. With much curiosity I 
 lifted the latch and entered 
 unbidden. 
 
 'Twas a little room, well fur- 
 nished, and stocked to the very
 
 MY COMING TO LINDEAN. 83 
 
 ceiling with books. A fire 
 burned on the hearth, by which 
 sat two men talking. They rose 
 to their feet as I entered, and 
 I marked them well. One was 
 an elderly man of maybe sixty 
 years, with a bend in his back 
 as if from study. His face was 
 narrow and kindly ; blue eyes, 
 like a Northman, a thin, twitch- 
 ing lip, and hair well turned 
 to silver. His companion was 
 scarce less notable — a big, 
 comely man, dressed half in the 
 fashion of a soldier, yet with 
 the air of one little versed in 
 cities. I love to be guessing a 
 man's station from his looks, 
 and ere I had glanced him over, 
 I had set him down in my mind 
 as a country laird, as these
 
 84 SIR QUIXOTE. . 
 
 folk call it. Both greeted me 
 courteously, and then, as I ad- 
 vanced, were silent, as if wait- 
 ing for me to give some account 
 of myself. 
 
 " I have come to thank you 
 for your kindness," said I awk- 
 wardly, " and to let you know 
 something of myself, for 'tis ill 
 to be harboring folk without 
 names or dwelling." 
 
 " Tush ! " said the younger ; 
 " 'twere a barbarity to leave 
 anyone without, so travel-worn 
 as you. The Levite in the 
 Scriptures did no worse. But 
 how feel you now? I trust 
 your fatigue is gone." 
 
 " I thank you a thousand 
 times for your kindness. Would 
 I knew how to repay it ! "
 
 MV COMING TO LINDEAN. 85 
 
 " Nay, young man," said the 
 elder, " give thanks not to us, 
 but to the Lord who led you 
 to this place. The moors are 
 hard bedding, and right glad I 
 am that you fell in with us 
 here. 'Tis seldom we have a 
 stranger with us, since my 
 brother at Drumlanrig died in 
 the spring o' last year. But I 
 trust you are better, and that 
 Anne has looked after you 
 well. A maid is a blessing to 
 sick folk, if a weariness to the 
 hale." 
 
 " You speak truly," I said, 
 " a maid is a blessing to the 
 sick. 'Tis sweet to be well 
 tended when you have fared 
 hardly for days. Your kind- 
 ness has set me at peace with
 
 86 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 the world again. Yesterday all 
 was black before me, and now, 
 I bethink me, I see a little ray 
 of light." 
 
 " 'Twas a good work," said 
 the old man, " to give you hope 
 and set you right with yourself, 
 if so chance we have done it. 
 What saith the wise man, ' He 
 that hath no rule over his 
 own spirit is like a city that 
 is broken down and without 
 walls ' ? But whence have you 
 come ? We would hear your 
 story." 
 
 So I told them the whole 
 tale of my wanderings, from 
 my coming to Kennedy to my 
 fainting fit at their own thresh- 
 old. At the story of my quar- 
 rel they listened eagerly, and I
 
 MY COM IX G TO LINDEAN. 87 
 
 could mark their eyes flashing, 
 and as I spake of my sufferings 
 in the 'desert I could see sym- 
 pathy in their faces. When I 
 concluded, neither spake for a 
 little, till the elder man broke 
 silence with : 
 
 " May God bless and protect 
 you in all your goings ! Well 
 I see that you are of the up- 
 right in heart. It makes me 
 blithe to have you in my 
 house." 
 
 The younger said nothing 
 but rose and came to me. 
 
 " M. de Rohaine," he said, 
 speaking my name badly, " give 
 me your hand. I honor you 
 for a gentleman and a man of 
 feeling." 
 
 " And I am glad to give it
 
 88 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 you," said I, and we clasped 
 Jiands and looked into each 
 other's eyes. Then we stepped 
 back well satisfied. For myself 
 I love to meet a man, and in 
 the great-limbed young fellow 
 before me I found one to my 
 liking. 
 
 " And now I must tell you 
 of ourselves," said the old man, 
 " for 'tis fitting that a guest 
 should know his entertainers. 
 This is the manse of Lindean, 
 and I am the unworthy man, 
 Ephraim Lambert, whom God 
 hath appointed to watch over 
 his flock in this place. Sore, 
 sore are we troubled by evil 
 men, such as you have known ; 
 and my folk, from dwelling in 
 decent cots, have to hide in
 
 MV COMING TO LINDEAM. 89 
 
 peat-hags and the caves of the 
 hills. The Lord's hand is 
 heavy upon this country ; 'tis a 
 time of trial, a passing through 
 the furnace. God grant we be 
 not found faithless ! This home 
 is still left to us, and thankful 
 we should be for it; and I 
 demand that you dwell with 
 us till you have settled on 
 your course. This man," he 
 went on, laying his hand on 
 the shoulder of the younger, 
 "is Master Henry Semple of 
 Clachlands, a fine inheritance, 
 all ridden and rieved by these 
 devils on earth, Captain Keith's 
 dragoons. Henry is of our be- 
 lief, and a man of such mettle 
 that the Privy Council was fain 
 to send down a quartering of
 
 90 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 soldiers to bide in his house 
 and devour his substance. 
 'Twas a thing no decent man 
 could thole, so off he comes 
 here to keep us company till 
 the wind blows by. If you look 
 out of the window over by the 
 side of yon rig of hill, ye'll get 
 a glimmer of Clachlands chim- 
 neys, reeking with the smoke 
 of their evil preparations. Ay, 
 ay, lads, burn you your peats 
 and fill up the fire with logs till 
 the vent's choked, but you'll 
 burn brawly yourselves some 
 fine day, when your master 
 gives you your wages." 
 
 He looked out as he spoke, 
 and into his kindly eyes came 
 a gleam of such anger and de- 
 cision as quite transfigured his
 
 MY COMING TO LIN DEAN. 9^ 
 
 face and made it seem more 
 like that of a troop captain 
 than a peaceful minister. 
 
 And now Master Semple 
 spoke up : " God send, sir, they 
 suffer for no worse a crime 
 than burning my peats and fire- 
 wood. I should count myself 
 a sorry fellow if I made any 
 complaint about a little visita- 
 tion, when the hand of the 
 Lord is smiting so sorely 
 among my fellows. I could 
 take shame to myself every 
 time I eat good food or sleep 
 in a decent bed, to think of 
 better men creeping aneath the 
 lang heather like etherts, or 
 shivering on the cauld hill-side. 
 There '11 be no such doings 
 in your land, M. de Rohaine ?
 
 92 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 I've heard tell of folk there like 
 us, dwelling in the hills to es- 
 cape the abominations of Rome. 
 But perhaps," and he hesitated, 
 " you are not of them ? " 
 
 " No," said I, " I am of your 
 enemies by upbringing; but I 
 dearly love a brave man, where- 
 ever I meet him. 'Tis poor 
 religion, say I, which would 
 lead one to see no virtue in 
 those of another belief. There 
 is one God above all." 
 
 " Ay, you speak truly," said 
 the old man ; " He has made 
 of one blood all the nations of 
 the earth. But I yearn to see 
 you of a better way of think- 
 ing. Mayhap I may yet show 
 you your errors?" 
 
 " I thank you, but I hold by
 
 A/y COMING TO LIN DEAN. 93 
 
 ' every man to his upbringing.' 
 Each man to the creed of his 
 birth. 'Tis a poor thing to be 
 changing on any pretext. For, 
 look you, God, who appointed 
 a man his place of birth, set 
 him his religion with it, and I 
 hold if he but stick to it he is 
 not far in error." 
 
 I spoke warmly, but in truth I 
 had thought all too little about 
 such things. One who has to 
 fight his way among men and 
 live hardly, has, of necessity, 
 little time for his devotions, 
 and if he but live cleanly, his 
 part is well done. Mon Dieu ! 
 Who will gainsay me? 
 
 " I fear your logic is faulty," 
 said Master Semple, "■ but it is 
 mighty inhospitable to be argu-
 
 94 S//i QUIXOTE. 
 
 ing with a guest. See, here 
 Anne comes with the lamp, and 
 supper will soon be ready." 
 
 The girl came in as he spake, 
 bearing a great lamp, which she 
 placed on a high shelf, and set 
 about laying the table for 
 supper. I had noticed her 
 little at first sight, for I was 
 never given to staring at maids ; 
 but now, as she moved about, 
 I found myself ever watching 
 her. The ruddy firelight striv- 
 ing with the serene glow of the 
 lamp met and flickered about 
 her face and hair. She was 
 somewhat brown in skin, like a 
 country maiden ; but there was 
 no semblance of rusticity in her 
 fair features and deep brown 
 eyes. Her hair hung over her
 
 MY COMING TO LIN DEAN. 95 
 
 neck as brown as the soft fur 
 of a squirrel, and the fire filled 
 it with fantastic shadows. She 
 was singularly graceful in fig- 
 ure, moving through the room 
 and bending over the table with 
 a grace which 'twas pretty to 
 contemplate, 'Twas strange to 
 note that when her face was 
 averted one might have guessed 
 her to be some village girl or 
 burgher's daughter ; but as 
 soon as she had turned her im- 
 perial eyes on you she looked 
 like a queen in a play. Her 
 face was a curious one, serious 
 and dignified beyond her years 
 and sex, yet with odd sparkles 
 of gayety dancing in her eyes 
 and the corners of her rosy 
 mouth.
 
 96 SIJ? QUIXOTE. 
 
 Master Semple had set about 
 helping her, and a pretty sight 
 it was to see her reproving and 
 circumventing his ckimsiness. 
 'Twas not hard to see the re- 
 lation between the two. The 
 love-light shone in his eye 
 whenever he looked toward 
 her ; and she, for her part, 
 seemed to thrill at his chance 
 touch. One strange thing I 
 noted, that, whereas in France 
 two young folks could not have 
 gone about the business of set- 
 ting a supper-table without 
 much laughter and frolic, all 
 was done here as if 'twere some 
 solemn ceremonial. 
 
 To one who was still sick 
 with the thought of the black 
 uplands he had traversed, of
 
 MY COMING TO LIN DEAN. 97 
 
 the cold, driving rain and the 
 deadly bogs, the fare in the 
 manse was like the apple to 
 Eve in the garden. 'Twas fine 
 to be eating crisp oaten cakes, 
 and butter fresh from the churn, 
 to be drinking sweet, warm 
 milk — for we lived on the plain- 
 est; and, above all, to watch 
 kindly faces around you in 
 place of marauders and low 
 ruffians. The minister said a 
 lengthy grace before and after 
 the meal ; and when the table 
 was cleared the servants were 
 called in to evening prayer. 
 Again the sight pleased me — 
 the two maids with their brown 
 country faces seated decently 
 by the door; Anne, half in 
 shadow, sitting demurely with
 
 98 S/J? QUIXOTE. 
 
 Master Semple not far off, and 
 at the table-head the white 
 hairs of the old man bowed 
 over the Bible. He read I 
 know not what, for I am not so 
 familiar with the Scriptures as 
 I should be, and, moreover, 
 Anne's grave face was a more 
 entrancing study. Then we 
 knelt, and he prayed to God to 
 watch over us in all our ways 
 and bring us at last to his pre- 
 pared kingdom. Truly, when 
 I arose from my knees, I felt 
 more tempted to be devout 
 than I have any remembrance 
 of before. 
 
 Then we sat and talked of 
 this and that, and I must tell 
 over all my misfortunes again 
 for mademoiselle's entertain-
 
 Jl/y COMING TO LINDEAN. 99 
 
 ment. She listened with open 
 wonder, and thanked me with 
 her marvelous eyes. Then to 
 bed with a vile-smelling lamp, 
 in a wide, low-ceilinged sleep- 
 ing room, where the sheets were 
 odorous of bog-myrtle and fresh 
 as snow. Sleep is a goddess 
 easy of conquest when wooed 
 in such a fashion.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I PLEDGE MY WORD. 
 
 F my life at Lindean 
 for the next three 
 days I have no clear 
 remembrance. The weather 
 was dry and languid, as often 
 follows a spell of rain, and the 
 long hills which huddled around 
 the house looked near and im- 
 minent. The place was so still 
 that if one shouted it seemed 
 almost a profanation. 'Twas so 
 Sabbath-like that I almost came 
 to dislike it. Indeed, I doubt 
 I should have found it irksome
 
 I PLEDGE MY WORD. lOl 
 
 had there not been a brawhng 
 stream in the glen, which kept 
 up a continuous dashing and 
 chattering. It seemed the one 
 hnk between me and that far- 
 away world in which not long 
 agone I had been a dweller. 
 
 The life, too, was as regular 
 as in the king's court. Sharp 
 at six I was awakened, and ere 
 seven we were assembled for 
 breakfast. Then to prayers, 
 and then to the occupations of 
 the day. The minister would 
 be at his books or down among 
 his people on some errand of 
 mercy. The church had been 
 long closed, for the Privy 
 Council, seeing that Master 
 Lambert was opposed to them, 
 had commanded him to be
 
 I02 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 silent ; and yet, mark you, so 
 well was he loved in the place 
 that they durst set no successor 
 in his stead. They tried it once 
 and a second time, but the un- 
 happy man was so taken with 
 fear of the people that he shook 
 the dust of Lindean off his feet, 
 and departed in search of a 
 more hospitable dwelling. But 
 the minister's mouth was shut, 
 save when covertly, and with 
 the greatest peril to himself, he 
 would preach at a meeting of 
 the hill-folk in the recesses of 
 the surrounding uplands. 
 
 The library I found no bad 
 one — I who in my day have 
 been considered to have some- 
 thing of a taste in books. To 
 be sure there was much weari-
 
 / PLEDGE MY WORD. 103 
 
 some stuff, the work of old 
 divines, and huge commentaries 
 on the Scriptures, written in 
 Latin and plentifully inter- 
 spersed with Greek and 
 Hebrew. But there was good 
 store of the Classics, both prose 
 and poetry, — Horace, who has 
 ever been my favorite, and 
 Homer, who, to my thinking, is 
 the finest of the ancients. 
 Here, too, I found a Plato, and 
 I swear I read more of him in 
 the manse than I have done 
 since I went through him with 
 M. Clerselier, when we were 
 students together in Paris. 
 
 The acquaintance which I 
 had formed with Master 
 Semple speedily ripened into a 
 fast friendship. I found it in
 
 I04 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 my heart to like this great 
 serious man — a bumpkin if 
 you will, but a man of courage 
 and kindliness. We were wont 
 to take long walks, always in 
 some lonely part of the country, 
 and we grew more intimate in 
 our conversation than I should 
 ever have dreamed of. He 
 would call me John, and this 
 much I suffered him, to save 
 my name from the barbarity of 
 his pronunciation ; while in 
 turn I fell to calling him 
 Henry, as if we had been born 
 and bred together. I found 
 that he loved to hear of my 
 own land and my past life, 
 which, now that I think of it, 
 must have had no little interest 
 to one dwelling in such soli-
 
 I PLEDGE MY WORD. 105 
 
 tudes. From him I heard of 
 his father, of his brief term 
 at the College of Edinburgh, 
 which he left when the strife 
 in the country grew high, and 
 of his sorrow and anger at the 
 sufferings of those who with- 
 stood the mandate of the king. 
 Though I am of the true faith, 
 I think it no shame that my 
 sympathy was all with these 
 rebels, for had I not seen 
 something of their misery my- 
 self? But above all, he would 
 speak of la belle Amie as one 
 gentleman will tell another of 
 his love, when he found that I 
 was a willing listener. I could 
 scarce have imagined such 
 warmth of passion to exist 
 in the man as he showed
 
 io6 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 at the very mention of her 
 name. 
 
 " Oh ! " he would cry out, 
 " I would die for her ; I would 
 gang to the world's end to pleas- 
 ure her ! I whiles think that I 
 break the first commandment 
 every day of my life, for I canna 
 keep her a moment out of my 
 thoughts, and I fear she's more 
 to me than any earthly thing 
 should be. I think of her at 
 nicht. I see her name in every 
 page of the Book. I thought 
 I was bad when I was over at 
 Clachlands, and had to ride 
 five miles to see her ; but now 
 I'm tenfold worse when I'm 
 biding aside her. God grant it 
 be not counted to me for sin ! " 
 
 "Amen to that," said I.
 
 I PLEDGE MY WORD. 107 
 
 'Tis a fine thing to see the love 
 of a maid ; but I hold 'tis a 
 finer to witness the passion of 
 a strong man. 
 
 Yet, withal, there was some- 
 thing sinister about the house 
 and its folk which to me was 
 the fly in the ointment. They 
 were kindness and charity 
 incarnate, but they were cold 
 and gloomy to boot, lacking 
 any grace or sprightliness in 
 their lives. I find it hard to 
 write this, for their goodness to 
 me was beyond recompense ; 
 yet I must set it down, since in 
 some measure it has to do with 
 my story. The old man would 
 look at me at times and sigh, 
 nor did I think it otherwise 
 than fitting, till I found from
 
 lo8 ^7^ QUIXOTE. 
 
 his words that the sighs were 
 on account of my own spiritual 
 darkness. I have no quarrel 
 with any man for wishing to 
 convert me, but to sigh at one's 
 approach seems a doleful way 
 of setting about it. Then he 
 would break out from his 
 wonted quietness at times to 
 rail at his foes, calling down 
 the wrath of Heaven to blight 
 them. Such a fit was always 
 followed by a painful exhaus- 
 tion, which left him as weak 
 as a child, ^nd shivering like 
 a leaf. I bitterly cursed the 
 state of a country which could 
 ruin the peace of mind of a 
 man so sweet-tempered by 
 nature, and make him the 
 sport of needless rage. 'Twas
 
 / PLEDGE MY WORD. 109 
 
 pitiful to see him creep off 
 to his devotions after any 
 such outbreak, penitent and 
 ashamed. Even to his daugh- 
 ter he was often cruelly sharp, 
 and would call her to account 
 for the merest trifle. 
 
 As for Master Henry, what 
 shall I say of him ? I grew to 
 love him like my own brother, 
 yet I no more understood him 
 than the Sultan of Turkey. 
 He had strange fits of gloom, 
 begotten, I must suppose, of 
 the harsh country and his 
 many anxieties, in which he 
 was more surly than a bear, 
 speaking little, and that mainly 
 from the Scriptures. I have 
 one case in my memory, when, 
 had I not been in a sense his
 
 no SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 guest, I had scarce refrained 
 from quarreling. 'Twas in the 
 afternoon of the second day, 
 when we returned weary from 
 one of our long wanderings. 
 Anne tripped forth into the 
 autumn sunlight singing a 
 catch, a simple glee of the 
 village folk. 
 
 " Peace, Anne," says Master 
 Henry savagely; "it little be- 
 comes you to be singing in 
 these days, unless it be a godly 
 psalm. Keep your songs for 
 better times." 
 
 "What ails you?" I ven- 
 tured to say. " You praised her 
 this very morning for singing 
 the self-same verses." 
 
 "And peace, you," he says 
 roughly, as he entered the
 
 / PLEDGE MY WORD, m 
 
 house; "if the lass hearkened 
 to your accursed creed, I should 
 have stronger words for her." 
 
 My breath was fairly taken 
 from me at this incredible rude- 
 ness. I had my hand on my 
 sword, and had I been in my 
 own land we should soon have 
 settled it. As it was, I shut my 
 lips firmly and choked down my 
 choler. 
 
 Yet I cannot leave with this 
 ill word of the man. That very 
 night he talked with me so 
 pleasingly, and with so friendly 
 a purport, that I conceived he 
 must have been scarce himself 
 when he so insulted me. In- 
 deed, I discerned two natures 
 in the man — one, hard, satur- 
 nine, fanatically religious ; the
 
 112 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 other, genial and kindly, like 
 that of any other gentleman of 
 family. The former I attributed 
 to the accident of his fortune ; 
 the second I held to be the 
 truer, and in my thoughts of him 
 still think of it as the only one. 
 
 But I must pass to the events 
 which befell on the even of 
 the third day, and wrought so 
 momentous a change in the life 
 at Lindean. 'Twas just at the 
 lighting of the lamp, when Anne 
 and the minister and myself sat 
 talking in the little sitting room, 
 that Master Henry entered with 
 a look of great concern on his 
 face, and beckoned the elder 
 man out. 
 
 " Andrew Gibb is here," said 
 he.
 
 I PLEDGE MY WORD. I13 
 
 " And what may Andrew 
 Gibb be wanting?" asked the 
 old man, glancing up sharply. 
 
 " He brings nae guid news, I 
 fear, but he'll tell them to none 
 but you ; so hasten out, sir, to 
 the back, for he's come far, and 
 he's ill at the waiting." 
 
 The twain were gone for 
 some time, and in their absence 
 I could hear high voices in the 
 back end of the house, con- 
 versing as on some matter of 
 deep import. Anne fetched the 
 lamp from the kitchen and 
 trimmed it with elaborate care, 
 lighting it and setting it in its 
 place. Then, at last, the min- 
 ister returned alone. 
 
 I was shocked at the sight of 
 him as he re-entered the room.
 
 114 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 His face was ashen pale and 
 tightly drawn about the lips. 
 He crept to a chair and leaned 
 his head on the table, speaking 
 no word. Then he burst out 
 of a sudden into a storm of 
 pleading. 
 
 "O Lord God," he cried, 
 "thou hast aye been good to 
 us, thou has kept us weel, and 
 bielded us frae the wolves who 
 have sought to devour us. Oh, 
 dinna leave us now. It's no' 
 for mysel' or Henry that I care. 
 We're men, and can warstle 
 through ills ; but oh, what am 
 I to dae wi' the bit helpless 
 lassie ? It's awfu' to have to 
 gang oot among hills and bogs 
 to bide, but it's ten times waur 
 when ye dinna ken what's gaun
 
 I PLEDGE MY WORD. 115 
 
 to come to your bairn. Hear 
 me, O Lord, and grant me 
 my request. I've no' been a' 
 that I micht have been, but oh, 
 if I ha'e tried to serve thee at 
 a', dinna let this danger over- 
 whelm us! " 
 
 He had scarcely finished, and 
 was still sitting with bowed 
 head, when Master Henry also 
 entered the room. His eyes 
 were filled with an austere 
 frenzy, such as I had learned 
 to look for. 
 
 "Ay, sir," said he, '"tis a 
 time for us a' to be on our 
 knees. But ha'e courage, and 
 dinna let us spoil the guid 
 cause by our weak mortal com- 
 plaining. Is't no' better to be 
 hunkering in a moss-hole and
 
 ii6 s/j;: QUIXOTE. 
 
 communing with the Lord than 
 waxing fat like Jeshurun in car- 
 nal corruption ? Call on God's 
 name, but no' wi' sighing, but 
 wi' exaltation, for He hath bid- 
 den us to a mighty heritage." 
 
 " Ye speak brave and true, 
 Henry, and I'm wi' your every 
 word. But tell me what's to 
 become o' my bairn? What 
 will Anne dae ? I once thought 
 there was something atween 
 
 you " He stopped abruptly 
 
 and searched the face of the 
 young man. 
 
 At his words Master Semple 
 had started as under a lash. 
 " Oh, my God," he cried, " I had 
 forgotten ! Anne, Anne, my 
 dearie, we canna leave ye, and 
 you to be my wife. This is a
 
 / PLEDGE M V WORD. 1 1 7 
 
 sore trial of faith, sir, and I 
 misdoubt I canna stand it. To 
 leave ye to the tender mercies 
 o' a' the hell-hounds o' dragoons 
 — oh, I canna dae't!" 
 
 He clapped his hand to his 
 forehead and walked about the 
 room like a man distraught. 
 
 And now I put in my word. 
 " What ails you, Henry? Tell 
 me, for I am sore grieved to see 
 you in such perplexity." 
 
 "Ails me?" he repeated. 
 " Aye, I will tell ye what ails 
 me"; and he drew his chair 
 before me. " Andrew Gibb's 
 come ower frae the Ruthen wi' 
 shure news that a warrant's oot 
 against us baith, for being at 
 the preaching on Callowa' Muir, 
 'Twas an enemy did it, and now
 
 Il8 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 the soldiers are coming at ony 
 moment to lay hands on us and 
 take us off to Embro'. Then 
 there '11 be but a short lease of 
 life for us ; and unless we take 
 to the hills this very nicht we 
 may be ower late in the morn- 
 ing. I'm wae to tak' sae auld 
 a man as Master Lambert to 
 wet mosses, but there's nothing 
 else to be dune. But what's to 
 become o' Anne? Whae's to 
 see to her, when the dragoons 
 come riding and cursing about 
 the toon? Oh, it's a terrible 
 time, John. Pray to God, if ye 
 never prayed before, to let it 
 pass." 
 
 Mademoiselle had meantime 
 spoken never a word, but had 
 risen and gone to her father's
 
 / PLEDGE MY WORD. I19 
 
 chair and put her arms around 
 his neck. Her presence seemed 
 to cheer the old man, for he 
 ceased mourning and looked up, 
 while she sat, still as a statue, 
 with her grave, lovely face 
 against his. But Master Scra- 
 pie's grief was pitiful to witness. 
 He rocked himself to and fro 
 in his chair, with his arms 
 folded and a set, white face. 
 Every now and then he would 
 break into a cry like a stricken 
 animal. The elder man was 
 the first to counsel patience. 
 
 " Stop, Henry," says he ; " it's 
 ill-befitting Christian folk to set 
 sic an example. We've a' got 
 our troubles, and if ours are 
 heavier than some, it's no' for 
 us to complain. Think o' the
 
 I20 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 many years o' grace we've had. 
 There's nae doubt the Lord 
 will look after the bairn, for 
 he's a guid Shepherd for the 
 feckless." 
 
 But now of a sudden a 
 thought seemed to strike 
 Henry, and he was on his feet 
 in a twinkling and by my side. 
 
 " John," he almost screamed 
 in my ear, " John, I'm going to 
 ask ye for the greatest service 
 that ever man asked. Ye'll no' 
 say me nay?" 
 
 " Let me hear it," said L 
 
 " Will you bide wi' the lass ? 
 You're a man o' birth, and I'll 
 swear to it, a man o' honor. I 
 can trust you as I would trust 
 my ainbrither. Oh, man,dinna 
 deny me ! It's the last hope
 
 I PLEDGE MY WORD. 121 
 
 I ha'e, for if ye refuse, we maun 
 e'en gang to the hills and leave 
 the pair thing alane. Oh, ye 
 canna say me nae ! Tell me 
 that ye'll do my asking." 
 
 I was so thunderstruck at 
 the request that I scarce could 
 think for some minutes. Con- 
 sider, was it not a strange thing 
 to be asked to stay alone in 
 a wild moorland house with 
 another man's betrothed, for 
 Heaven knew how many weary 
 days? My life and prospects 
 were none so cheerful for me to 
 despise anything, nor so varied 
 that I might pick and choose ; 
 but yet 'twas dreary, if no worse, 
 to look forward to any length 
 of time in this desolate place. 
 I was grateful for the house as
 
 122 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 a shelter by the way, yet I 
 hoped to push on and get rid, 
 as soon as might be, of this 
 accursed land. 
 
 But was I not bound by all 
 the ties of gratitude to grant 
 my host's request? They had 
 found me fainting at their door, 
 they had taken me in, and 
 treated me to their best; I was 
 bound in common honor to do 
 something to requite their kind- 
 ness. And let me add, though 
 not often a man subject to any 
 feelings of compassion, what- 
 ever natural bent I had this way 
 having been spoiled in the wars, 
 I nevertheless could not refrain 
 from pitying the distress of 
 that strong man before me. I 
 felt tenderly toward him, more
 
 I PLEDGE MY WORD. 123 
 
 SO than I had felt to anyone for 
 many a day. 
 
 All these thoughts raced 
 through my head in the short 
 time while Master Henry stood 
 before me. The look in his 
 eyes, the pained face of the 
 old man, and the sight of Anne, 
 so fair and helpless, fixed my 
 determination. 
 
 " I am bound to you in grati- 
 tude," said I, "and I would 
 seek to repay you. I will 
 bide in the house, if so you 
 will, and be the maid's pro- 
 tector. God grant I may be 
 faithful to my trust, and may 
 he send a speedy end to your 
 exile ?" 
 
 So 'twas all finished in a few 
 minutes, and I was fairly em-
 
 124 S/H QUIXOTE. 
 
 barked upon the queerest enter- 
 prise of my life. For myself I 
 sat dazed and meditative ; as 
 for the minister and Master 
 Semple, one-half of the burden 
 seemed to be lifted from their 
 minds. I was amazed at the 
 trusting natures of these men, 
 who had habited all their days 
 with honest folk till they con- 
 ceived all to be as worthy as 
 themselves. I felt, I will own, 
 a certain shrinking from the 
 responsibility of the task ; but 
 the Rubicon had been crossed 
 and there was no retreat. 
 
 Of the rest of that night how 
 shall I tell ? There was such a 
 bustling and pother as I had 
 never seen in any house since
 
 I PLEDGE MV WORD. 125 
 
 the day that my brother Denis 
 left Rohaine for the Dutch wars. 
 There was a running and scurry- 
 ing about, a packing of food, a 
 seeking of clothes, for the fugi- 
 tives must be off before the first 
 lig-ht. Anne went about with 
 a pale, tearful face ; and 'twas a 
 matter of no surprise, for to see 
 a father, a man frail and fallen 
 in years, going out to the chill 
 moorlands in the early autumn 
 till no man knew when, is a 
 grievous thing for a young maid. 
 Her lover was scarce in so dire 
 a case, for he was young and 
 strong, and well used to the life 
 of the hills. For him there 
 was hope ; for the old man but 
 a shadow. My heart grew as 
 bitter as gall at the thought of
 
 126 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 the villains who brought it 
 about. 
 
 How shall I tell of the morn- 
 ing, when the faint light was 
 flushing the limits of the sky, 
 and the first call of a heath- 
 bird broke the silence ! 'Twas 
 sad to see these twain with 
 their bundles (the younger 
 carrying the elder's share) 
 creep through the heather to- 
 ward the hills. They affected 
 a cheerful resolution, assumed 
 to comfort Anne's fears and 
 sorrow ; but I could mark be- 
 neath it a settled despair. 
 The old man prayed at the 
 threshold, and clasped his 
 daughter many times, kissing 
 her and giving her his blessing. 
 The younger, shaken with
 
 / PLEDGE MY WORD. 127 
 
 great sobs, bade a still more 
 tender farewell, and then 
 started off abruptly to hide his 
 grief. Anne and I, from the 
 door, watched their figures dis- 
 appear over the crest of the 
 ridge, and then went in, sober 
 and full of angry counsels. 
 
 The soldiers came about an 
 hour before mid-day— a band 
 from Clachlands, disorderly 
 rufiians, commanded by a 
 mealy-faced captain. They 
 were a scurrilous set, their 
 faces bloated with debauchery 
 and their clothes in no very 
 decent ojder. As one might 
 have expected, they were 
 mightily incensed at finding 
 their bird flown, and fell to
 
 128 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 cursing each other with great 
 good-will. They poked their 
 low-bred faces into every nook 
 in the house and outbuildings ; 
 and when at length they had 
 satisfied themselves that there 
 was no hope from that quarter, 
 they had all the folk of the 
 dwelling out on the green and 
 questioned them one by one. 
 The two serving-lasses were 
 stanch, and stoutly denied all 
 knowledge of their master's 
 whereabouts — which was in- 
 deed no more than the truth. 
 One of the two, Jean Crichope 
 by name, when threatened 
 with ill-treatment if she did not 
 speak, replied valiantly that 
 she would twist the neck of 
 the first scoundrelly soldier
 
 I PLEDGE MY WORD. 129 
 
 who dared to lay finger on her. 
 This I doubt not she could 
 have performed, for she was a 
 very daughter of Anak. 
 
 As for Anne and myself, 
 we answered according to our 
 agreement. They were very 
 curious to know my errand 
 there and my name and birth ; 
 and when I bade them keep 
 their scurvy tongues from de- 
 filing a gentleman's house, 
 they were none so well pleased. 
 I am not a vain man, and I 
 do not set down the thing I 
 am going to relate as at all 
 redounding to my credit ; I 
 merely tell it as an incident in 
 my tale. 
 
 The captain at last grew 
 angry. He saw that the law
 
 13° STR QUIXOTE. 
 
 was powerless to touch us, and 
 that nought remained for him 
 but to ride to the hills in 
 pursuit of the fugitives. This 
 he seemed to look upon as a 
 hardship, being a man to all 
 appearance more fond of the 
 bottle and pasty than a hill 
 gallop. At any rate he grew 
 wroth, and addressed to Anne 
 a speech so full of gross rude- 
 ness that I felt it my duty to 
 interfere. 
 
 " Look you here, sir," said I, 
 " I am here, in the first place, 
 to see that no scoundrel mal- 
 treats this lady. I would ask 
 you, therefore, to be more 
 civil in your talk or to get 
 down and meet me in fair 
 fight. These gentlemen," and
 
 / PLEDGE MY WORD. 131 
 
 I made a mocking bow to his 
 company, " will, I am assured, 
 see an honest encounter." 
 
 The man flushed under his 
 coarse skin. His reputation 
 was at stake. There was no 
 other course open but to take 
 up my challenge. 
 
 "You, you bastard French- 
 man," he cried, "would you 
 dare to insult a captain of the 
 king's dragoons? I' faith, I 
 will teach you better manners ;" 
 and he came at me with his 
 sword in a great heat. The 
 soldiers crowded round like 
 children to see a cock-fight. 
 
 In an instant we crossed 
 swords and fell to ; I with the 
 sun in my eyes and on the 
 lower ground. The combat
 
 132 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 was not of long duration. In 
 a trice I found that he was a 
 mere child in my hands, a bar- 
 barian who used his sword like 
 a quarter-staff, not even putting 
 strength into his thrusts. 
 
 " Enough ! " I cried ; "this is 
 mere fooling;" and with a 
 movement which any babe in 
 arms might have checked, 
 twirled his blade from his 
 hands and sent it spinning over 
 the grass. " Follow your 
 sword, and learn two things 
 before you come back — civility 
 to maids and the rudiments 
 of sword-play. Bah ! Begone 
 with you ! " 
 
 Some one of his men laughed, 
 and I think they were secretly 
 glad at their tyrant's discomfi-
 
 I PLEDGE MY WORD. 133 
 
 ture. No more need be said. 
 He picked up his weapon and 
 rode away, vowing vengeance 
 upon me and swearing at every 
 trooper behind him. I cared 
 not a straw for him, for de- 
 spite his bravado I knew that 
 the fear of death was in his 
 cowardly heart, and that we 
 should be troubled no more by 
 his visitations.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IDLE DAYS. 
 
 HAVE heard it said 
 by wise folk in France 
 that the autumn is of 
 all seasons of the year the most 
 trying to the health of a soldier ; 
 since, for one accustomed to the 
 heat of action and the fire and 
 fury of swift encounter, the de- 
 cay of summer, the moist, rot- 
 ting air, and the first chill pre- 
 ludes of winter are hard to 
 stand. This may be true of 
 our own autumn days, but in 
 the north country 'twas other- 
 134
 
 IDLE DAYS. 135 
 
 wise. For there the weather 
 was as sharp and clear as spring, 
 and the only signs of the season 
 were the red leaves and the 
 brown desolate moors. Lin- 
 dean was built on the slope of 
 the hills, with the steeps behind 
 it, and a vista of level land to 
 the front: so one could watch 
 from the window the red woods 
 of the low country, and see the 
 stream, turgid with past rains, 
 tearing through the meadows. 
 The sun rose in the morning in 
 a blaze of gold and crimson; 
 the days were temperately 
 warm, the afternoons bright, 
 and the evening another pro- 
 cession of colors. 'Twas all so 
 beautiful that I found it hard 
 to keep my thoughts at all on
 
 136 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 the wanderers in the hills and 
 to think of the house as under 
 a dark shadow. 
 
 And if 'twas hard to do this, 
 'twas still harder to look upon 
 Anne as a mourning daughter. 
 For the first few days she had 
 been pale and silent, going 
 about her household duties as 
 was her wont, speaking rarely, 
 and then but to call me to 
 meals. But now the pain of 
 the departure seemed to have 
 gone, and though still quiet as 
 ever, there was no melancholy 
 in her air ; but with a certain 
 cheerful gravity she passed in 
 and out in my sight. At first 
 I had had many plans to con- 
 sole her; judge then of my 
 delight to find them needless.
 
 IDLE DAYS. 137 
 
 She was a brave maid, I 
 thought, and Httle like the com- 
 mon, who could see the folly of 
 sighing, and set herself to hope 
 and work as best she could.. 
 
 The days passed easily 
 enough for me, for I could take 
 Saladin and ride through the 
 countryside, keeping always far 
 from Clachlands; or the books 
 in the house would stand me in 
 good stead for entertainment. 
 With the evenings 'twas differ- 
 ent. When the lamp was lit, 
 and the fire burned, 'twas hard 
 to find some method to make 
 the hours go by. I am not a 
 man easily moved, as I have 
 said ; and yet I took shame to 
 myself to think of the minister 
 and Master Henry in the cold
 
 138 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 bogs, and Anne and myself 
 before a great blaze. Again and 
 again I could have kicked the 
 logs off to ease my conscience, 
 and was only held back by 
 respect for the girl. But, of a 
 surety, if she had but given me 
 the word, I would have been 
 content to sit in the fireless 
 room and enjoy the approval 
 of my heart. 
 
 She played no chess ; indeed, 
 I do not believe there was a 
 board in the house ; nor was 
 there any other sport where- 
 with to beguile the long even- 
 ings. Reading she cared little 
 for, and but for her embroidery 
 work I know not what she 
 would have set her hand to. 
 So, as she worked with her
 
 IDLE DAYS. 139 
 
 threads I tried to enliven the 
 time with some account of my 
 adventures in past days, and 
 some of the old gallant tales 
 with which I was familiar. She 
 heard me gladly, listening as no 
 comrade by the tavern-board 
 ever listened ; and though, for 
 the sake of decency, I was 
 obliged to leave out many of 
 the more diverting, yet I flatter 
 myself I won her interest and 
 made the time less dreary. I 
 ranged over all my own exper- 
 ience and the memory of those 
 tales which I had heard from 
 others — and those who know 
 anything of me know that that 
 is not small. I told her of ex- 
 ploits in the Indies and Spain, 
 in Germany and the Low Coun-
 
 I40 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 tries, and in far Muscovy, and 
 'twas no little pleasure to see 
 her eager eyes dance and sparkle 
 at a jest, or grow sad at a sor- 
 sowful episode. Ma vie ! She 
 had wonderful eyes — the most 
 wonderful I have ever seen. 
 They were gray in the morning 
 and brown at noonday ; now 
 sparkling, but for the most part 
 fixedly grave and serene. 'Twas 
 for such eyes, I fancy, that men 
 have done all the temerarious 
 deeds concerning womankind 
 which history records. 
 
 It must not be supposed that 
 our life was a lively one, or 
 aught approaching gayety. The 
 talking fell mostly to my lot, 
 for she had a great habit of 
 silence, acquired from her
 
 IDLE DA YS. 141 
 
 lonely dwelling-place. Yet I 
 moved her more than once to 
 talk about herself. 
 
 I heard of her mother, a dis- 
 tant cousin of Master Semple's 
 father; of her death when 
 Anne was but a child of seven ; 
 and of the solitary years since, 
 spent in study under her 
 father's direction, in household 
 work, or in acts of mercy to 
 the poor. She spoke of her 
 father often, and always in such 
 a way that I could judge of a 
 great affection between them. 
 Of her lover I never heard, 
 and, now that I think the 
 matter over, 'twas no more 
 than fitting. Once, indeed, I 
 stumbled upon his name by 
 chance in the course of talk,
 
 142 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 but as she blusheci and started, 
 I vowed to fight shy of it ever 
 after. 
 
 As we knew well before, no 
 message from the hills could 
 be sent, since the moors were 
 watched as closely as the gate- 
 way of a prison. This added 
 to the unpleasantness of the 
 position of each of us. In 
 Anne's case there was the 
 harassing doubt about the 
 safety of her kinsfolk, that 
 sickening anxiety which saps 
 the courage even of strong 
 men. Also, it rendered my 
 duties ten times harder. For, 
 had there been any communi- 
 cation between the father or 
 the lover and the maid, I 
 should have felt less like a St.
 
 IDLE DAYS. 143 
 
 Anthony in the desert. As it 
 was, I had to fight with a terri- 
 ble sense of responsibiHty and 
 unhmited power for evil, and 
 God knows how hard that is 
 for any Christian to strive 
 with, 'Twould have been no 
 very hard thing to shut myself 
 in a room, or bide outside all 
 day, and never utter a word to 
 Anne save only the most neces- 
 sary; but I was touched by the 
 girl's loneliness and sorrows, 
 and, moreover, I conceived it 
 to be a strange way of execu- 
 ting a duty, to flee from it alto- 
 gether. I was there to watch 
 over her, and I swore by the 
 Holy Mother to keep the very 
 letter of my oath. 
 
 And so the days dragged by
 
 144 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 till September was all but gone. 
 I have always loved the sky 
 and the vicissitudes of weather, 
 and to this hour the impres- 
 sion of these autumn evenings 
 is clear fixed on my mind. 
 Strangely enough for that 
 north country, they were not 
 cold, but mild, with a sort of 
 acrid mildness ; a late summer, 
 with the rigors of winter under- 
 lying, like a silken glove over a 
 steel gauntlet. 
 
 One such afternoon I remem- 
 ber, when Anne sat busy at 
 some needlework on the low 
 bench by the door, and I came 
 and joined her. She had won- 
 derful grace of body, and 'twas 
 a pleasure to watch every move- 
 ment of her arm as she stitched.
 
 IDLE DAYS. 145 
 
 I sat silently regarding the land- 
 scape, the woods streaking the 
 bare fields, the thin outline of 
 hills beyond, the smoke rising 
 from Clachlands' chimneys, and 
 above all, the sun firing the 
 great pool in the river, and 
 flaming among clouds in the 
 west. Something of the spirit 
 of the place seemed to have 
 entered into the girl, for she 
 laid aside her needlework after 
 a while and gazed with brim- 
 ming eyes on the scene. So 
 we sat, feasting our eyes on the 
 picture, each thinking strange 
 thoughts, I doubt not. By 
 and by she spoke. 
 
 " Is France, that you love so 
 well, more beautiful than this,M. 
 de Rohaine?" she asked timidly.
 
 146 SIJ^ QUIXOTE. 
 
 " Ay, more beautiful, but not 
 like this ; no, not like this." 
 
 "And what is it like? I 
 have never seen any place other 
 than this." 
 
 '' Oh, how shall I tell of it ? " 
 I cried. " 'Tis more fair than 
 words. We have no rough 
 hills like these, nor torrents like 
 the Lin there ; but there is a 
 great broad stream by Rohaine, 
 as smooth as a mill-pond, where 
 you can row in the evenings, 
 and hear the lads and lasses 
 singing love songs. Then 
 there are great quiet meadows, 
 where the kine browse, where 
 the air is so still that one can 
 sleep at a thought. There are 
 woods, too — ah ! such woods — 
 stretching up hill, and down
 
 IDLE DAYS. 147 
 
 dale, as green as spring can 
 make them, with long avenues 
 where men may ride ; and, per- 
 haps, at the heart of all, some 
 old chateau, all hung with 
 vines and creepers, where the 
 peaches ripen on the walls and 
 the fountain plashes all the 
 summer's day. Bah ! I can 
 hardly bear to think on it, 'tis 
 so dear and homelike ; " and 
 I turned away suddenly, for 
 I felt my voice catch in my 
 throat. 
 
 "What hills are yonder?" 
 I asked abruptly, to hide my 
 feelings. 
 
 Anne looked up. 
 
 " The hills beyond the little 
 green ridge you mean ? " she 
 says. "That will be over by
 
 148 SI A' QUIXOTE. 
 
 Eskdalemuir and the top of 
 the Ettrick Water. I have 
 heard my father speak often of 
 them, for they say that many 
 of the godly find shelter there." 
 " Many of the godly ! " 
 I turned round sharply, 
 though what there was in the 
 phrase to cause wonder I can- 
 not see. She spoke but as she 
 had heard the men of her house 
 speak ; yet the words fell 
 strangely on my ears, for by a 
 curious process of thinking I 
 had already begun to separate 
 the girl from the rest of the 
 folk in the place, and look on 
 her as something nearer in 
 sympathy to myself. Faugh ? 
 that is not the way to put it. 
 I mean that she had listened so
 
 IDLE DAYS. 149 
 
 much to my tales that I had 
 all but come to look upon her 
 as a countrywoman of mine. 
 
 "Are you dull here, Anne?" 
 I asked, for I had come to use 
 the familiar name, and she in 
 turn would sometimes call me 
 Jean— and very prettily it sat 
 on her tongue. " Do you never 
 wish to go elsewhere and see 
 the world ? " 
 
 " Nay," she said. " I had 
 scarce thought about the 
 world at all. 'Tis a place I 
 have little to do with, and I 
 am content to dwell here for- 
 ever, if it be God's will. But I 
 should love to see your France, 
 that you speak of." 
 
 This seemed truly a desire 
 for gratifying which there was
 
 150 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 little chance ; so I changed 
 the subject of our converse, 
 and asked her if she ever sang. 
 " Ay, I have learned to sing 
 two or three songs, old ballads 
 of the countryside, for though 
 my father like it little, Henry 
 takes a pleasure in hearing 
 them. I will sing you one if 
 you wish it." And when I 
 bade her do so, she laid down 
 her work, which she had taken 
 up again, and broke into a curi- 
 ous plaintive melody. I cannot 
 describe it. 'Twould be as 
 easy to describe the singing of 
 the wind in the tree-tops. It 
 minded me, I cannot tell how, 
 of a mountain burn, falling 
 into pools and rippling over 
 little shoals of gravel. Now
 
 SIR QUIXOTE. 151 
 
 'twas full and strong, and now 
 'twas so eerie and wild that it 
 was more like a curlew's note 
 than any human thing. The 
 story was about a knight who 
 sailed to Norway on some 
 king's errand and never re- 
 turned, and of his lady who 
 waited long days at home, 
 weeping for him who should 
 never come back to her, I did 
 not understand it fully, for 
 'twas in an old patois of the 
 country, but I could feel its 
 beauty. When she had finished 
 the tears stood in my eyes, and 
 I thought of the friends I had 
 left, whom I might see no more. 
 But when I looked at her, to 
 my amazement, there was no 
 sign of feeling in her face.
 
 152 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 " 'Tis a song I have sung 
 often," she said, " but I do not 
 like it. 'Tis no better than the 
 ringing of a bell at a funeral." 
 
 " Then," said I, wishing to 
 make her cheerful, " I will sing 
 you a gay song of my own 
 country. The folk dance to it 
 on the Sunday nights at Ro- 
 haine, when blind Rene plays 
 the fiddle." So I broke into 
 the " May song," with its lilting 
 refrain. 
 
 Anne listened intently, her 
 face full of pleasure, and at the 
 second verse she began to beat 
 the tune with her foot. She, 
 poor thing, had never danced, 
 had never felt the ecstasy of 
 motion ; but since all mankind 
 is alike in nature, her blood
 
 IDLE DAYS. 153 
 
 stirred at the tune. So I sang 
 her another chanson, this time 
 an old love ballad, and then 
 again a war song. But by this 
 time the darkness was growing 
 around us, so we must needs 
 re-enter the house ; and as I 
 followed I could hear her 
 humming the choruses with 
 a curious delight. 
 
 "So ho, Mistress Anne," 
 thought I, " you are not the 
 little country mouse that I had 
 thought you, but as full of 
 spirit as a caged hawk. Faith, 
 the town would make a brave 
 lass of you, were you but 
 there ! " 
 
 From this hour I may date 
 the beginning of the better un- 
 derstanding — I might almost
 
 154 SI/^ QUIXOTE. 
 
 call it friendship— between the 
 two of us. She had been bred 
 among moorland solitudes, and 
 her sole companions had been 
 solemn praying folk ; yet, to my 
 wonder, I found in her a nature 
 loving gayety and mirth, songs 
 and bright colors — a grace 
 which her grave deportment did 
 but the more set off. So she 
 came soon to look at me with 
 a kindly face, doing little acts 
 of kindness every now and then 
 in some way or other, which I 
 took to be the return which she 
 desired to make for my clumsy 
 efforts to please her.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS. 
 
 HE days at Lindean 
 dragged past, and the 
 last traces of summer 
 began to disappear from the 
 face of the hills. The bent 
 grew browner, the trees more 
 ragged, and the torrent below 
 more turgid and boisterous. 
 Yet no word came from the 
 hills, and, sooth to tell, we 
 almost ceased to look for it. 
 *Twas not that we had forgot- 
 ten the minister and Master 
 Semple in their hiding, for the 
 
 I5S
 
 156 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 thought of them was often at 
 hand to sadden me, and Anne, 
 I must suppose, had many anx- 
 ious meditations ; but our Hfe 
 at Lindean was so peaceful and 
 removed from any hint of vio- 
 lence that danger did not come 
 before our minds in terrible 
 colors. When the rain beat at 
 night on the window, and the 
 wind howled round the house, 
 then our hearts would smite us 
 for living in comfort when our 
 friends were suffering the furi- 
 ous weather. But when the 
 glorious sun-lit morning had 
 come, and we looked over the 
 landscape, scarce free from the 
 magic of dawn, then we counted 
 it no hardship to be on the hills. 
 And rain came so seldom dur-
 
 DA UGHTER OF HERODIA S. 1 5 7 
 
 ing that time, and the sun so 
 often, that the rigor of the hill- 
 life did not appal us. 
 
 This may account for the way 
 in which the exiles slipped from 
 our memories for the greater 
 part of the day. For myself I 
 say nothing — 'twas but natural ; 
 but from Anne I must confess 
 that I expected a greater show 
 of sorrow. To look at her you 
 would say that she was bur- 
 dened with an old grief, so seri- 
 ous was her face ; but when she 
 would talk, then you might see 
 how little her heart was taken 
 up with the troubles of her 
 house and the care for her 
 father and lover. The girl to 
 me was a puzzle, which I gave 
 up all attempting to solve.
 
 158 SI/? QUIXOTE. 
 
 When I had first come to Lin- 
 dean, lo ! she was demure and 
 full of filial affection, and 
 tender to her lover. Now, 
 when I expected to find her 
 sorrowful and tearful at all 
 times, I found her quiet indeed, 
 but instinct with a passion for 
 beauty and pleasure and all the 
 joys of life. Yet ever and anon 
 she would take a fit of solemnity, 
 and muse with her chin poised 
 on her hand ; and I doubt not 
 that at such times she was 
 thinking of her father and her 
 lover in their manifold perils. 
 
 One day the rain came again 
 and made the turf plashy and 
 sodden, and set the Lin roaring 
 in his gorge. I had beguiled 
 the morning by showing Anne
 
 DA UGHTER OF HEROD I A S. 1 5 9 
 
 the steps of dancing, and she 
 had proved herself a ready- 
 pupil. To pleasure her I 
 danced the sword-dance, which 
 can only be done by those who 
 have great dexterity of motion ; 
 and I think I may say that I 
 acquitted myself well. The girl 
 stood by in wonderment, look- 
 ing at me with a pleasing mix- 
 ture of surprise and delight. 
 She had begun to look 
 strangely at me of late. Every 
 now and then when I lifted my 
 head I would find her great 
 eyes resting on me, and at my 
 first glance she would withdraw 
 them. They were strange eyes 
 — a mingling of the fawn and 
 the tiger. 
 
 As I have said, in a little
 
 i6o SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 time she had acquired some 
 considerable skill, and moved as 
 gracefully as though she had 
 learned it from her childhood, 
 while I whistled bars of an old 
 dancing tune. She had a little 
 maid who attended her, — Eff 
 she called her, — and the girl 
 stood by to watch while Anne 
 did my bidding. Then when 
 we were all wearied of the 
 sport, I fell to thinking of some 
 other play, and could find none. 
 'Twas as dull as ditch-water, till 
 the child Eff, by a good chance, 
 spoke of fishing. She could 
 get her father's rod and hooks, 
 she said, for he never used them 
 now ; and I might try my luck 
 in the Lin Water. There were 
 good trout there, it seemed, and
 
 DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS. i6i 
 
 the choice time of taking them 
 was in the autumn floods. 
 
 Now I have ever been some- 
 thing of a fisherman, for many 
 an hour have I spent by the big 
 fish pond at Rohaine. So I 
 got the tackle of Eff's father- 
 rude enough it was in all con- 
 science — and in the early after- 
 noon I set out to the sport. 
 Below the house and beyond 
 the wood the Lin foams in a 
 deep gully, falling over horrid 
 cascades into great churning 
 pools, or diving beneath the 
 narrow rocks. But above the 
 ravine there is a sudden change. 
 The stream flows equably 
 through a flat moor in sedgy 
 deeps and bright shimmering 
 streams. Thither I purposed
 
 l62 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 to go, for I am no lover of the 
 awesome black caldrons, which 
 call to a man's mind visions of 
 drowned bodies and pits which 
 have no ending. On the moor 
 with the wind blowing about 
 one 'twas a pleasure to be, but 
 faugh ! no multitude of fish 
 was worth an hour in that dis- 
 mal chasm. 
 
 I had not great success, and 
 little wonder, for my leisurely- 
 ways were ill suited for the alert 
 mountain fish. My time was 
 spent in meditating on many 
 things, but most of all on the 
 strange case in which I found 
 myself. For in truth my posi- 
 tion was an odd one as ever 
 man was in. 
 
 Here was I bound by my
 
 DA UGH TER OF HERODIA S. 163 
 
 word of honor to bide in the 
 house and protect its inmates 
 till that indefinite time when its 
 master might return. There was 
 no fear of money, for the min- 
 ister had come of a good stock, 
 and had more gear than is usual 
 Avith one of his class. But 
 'tw'as an evil thing to look for- 
 ward to — to spend my days in a 
 lonely manse, and wait the end 
 of a persecution which showed 
 no signs of ending. 
 
 But the mere discomfort was 
 nothing had it not been for two 
 delicate scruples which came to 
 torment me. Imprimis, 'twas 
 more than any man of honor 
 could do to dwell in warmth 
 and plenty, while his entertain- 
 ers were languishing for lack of
 
 1 64 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 food or shivering with cold in 
 the hags and holes of the moun- 
 tains. I am a man tolerably- 
 hardened by war and travel, yet 
 I could never abide to lie in bed 
 on a stormy night or to eat my 
 food of a sharp morning when I 
 thought of the old man dying, 
 it might be, unsheltered and 
 forlorn. Item, there was the 
 matter of the girl ; and I cannot 
 tell how heavy the task had 
 come to lie on my shoulders. I 
 had taken the trust of one whom 
 I thought to be a staid country 
 lass, and lo ! I had found her as 
 full of human passion as any 
 lady of the court. 'Twas like 
 some g-room who offers to break 
 a horse, and finds it too stiff in 
 temper. I had striven to do
 
 DA UGHTER OF HEROD I A S. 1 65 
 
 my duty toward her and make 
 her hfe less wearisome, and I 
 had succeeded all too well. 
 For I marked that in the 
 days just past she had come to 
 regard me with eyes too kindly 
 by half. When I caught her 
 unawares, and saw the curious 
 look on her face, I could have 
 bitten my tongue out with 
 regret, for I saw the chasm to 
 whose brink I had led her. I 
 will take my oath there was no 
 thought of guile in the maid, 
 for she was as innocent as a 
 child ; but 'tis such who are 
 oftentimes the very devil, since 
 their inexperience adds an edge 
 to their folly. 
 
 Thinking such thoughts, I 
 fished up the Lin Water till the
 
 1 66 S/j? QUIXOTE. 
 
 afternoon was all but past, and 
 the sunset began to glimmer in 
 the bog-pools. My mind was a 
 whirl of emotions, and no plan 
 or order could I conceive. But — • 
 and this one thing I have often 
 marked, that the weather curi- 
 ously affected my temper — the 
 soft evening light brought with 
 it a calm which eased me in the 
 conflict. 'Tis hard to wrangle 
 in spirit when the west is a flare 
 of crimson, and later when each 
 blue hill stands out sharp against 
 the yellow sky. My way led 
 through the great pine wood 
 above the Lin gorge, thence 
 over a short spit of heath to the 
 hill path and the ordered shrub- 
 bery of the manse. 'Twas fine 
 to see the tree stems stand out
 
 DA UGH TER OF HEROD I A S. 167 
 
 red against the gathering dark- 
 ^ ness, while their thick ever- 
 green heads were blazing like 
 flambeaux. A startled owl 
 drove past, wavering among the 
 trunks. The air was so still that 
 the light and color seemed all 
 but audible, and indeed the dis- 
 tant rumble of the falling stream 
 seemed the interpretation to 
 the ears of the vision which the 
 eyes beheld. I love such sights, 
 and 'tis rarely enough that we 
 see them in France, for it takes 
 a stormy upland country to 
 show to its full the sinking of 
 the sun. The heath with its 
 dead heather, when I came on 
 it, seemed alight, as happens in 
 March, so I have heard, when 
 the shepherds burn the moun-
 
 1 68 s/7i QUIXOTE. 
 
 tain grass. But in the manse 
 garden was the choicest sight, 
 for there the fading hght 
 seemed drawn to a point and 
 blazing on the low bushes and 
 coarse lawns. Each window in 
 the house glowed like a jewel, 
 but — mark the wonder — when 
 I gazed over the country there 
 was no view to be seen, but only 
 a slowly creeping darkness. 
 
 'Twas an eerie sight, and 
 beautiful beyond telling. It 
 awed me, and yet filled me 
 with a great desire to see it to 
 the full. So I did not enter 
 the house, but turned my steps 
 round by the back to gain the 
 higher ground, for the manse 
 was built on a slope. I loitered 
 past the side window, and
 
 DA UGH 7 ER OF HEROD/ A S. 169 
 
 gained the place I had chosen ; 
 but I did not bide long, for 
 soon the show was gone, and 
 only a chill autumn dusk left 
 behind. So I made to enter 
 the house, when I noticed a 
 light as of firelight dancing in 
 the back window. Now, I had 
 never been in that room before, 
 so what must I do in my idle 
 curiosity but go peeping there. 
 The room was wide and un- 
 furnished, with a fire blazing 
 on the hearth. But what held 
 me amazed were the figures on 
 the floor. Anne, with her skirts 
 kilted, stood erect and agile as 
 if about to dance. The girl 
 Eff sat by the fireplace, hum- 
 ming some light measure. The 
 ruddy light bathed the floor
 
 1 7° . SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 and walls and made all distinct 
 as noonday. 
 
 'Twas as I had guessed. In 
 a trice her feet began to move, 
 and soon she was in the middle 
 of the first dance I had taught 
 her, while la petite Eff sang the 
 tune in her clear, low voice. I 
 have seen many dancers, great 
 ladies and country dames, vil- 
 lage lasses and burgher wives, 
 gypsies and wantons, but, by 
 my honor, I never saw one 
 dance like Anne. Her body 
 moved as if by one impulse 
 with her feet. Now she would 
 bend like a willow, and now 
 whirl like the leaves of the 
 wood in an autumn gale. She 
 was dressed, as was her wont, 
 in sober brown, but sackcloth
 
 DA UGH TER OF HEROD I A S. 171 
 
 could not have concealed the 
 grace of her form. The fire- 
 light danced and leaped in her 
 hair, for her face was turned 
 from me ; and 'twas fine to see 
 the snow of her neck islanded 
 among the waves of brown 
 tresses. With a sudden swift 
 dart she turned her face to the 
 window, and had I not been 
 well screened by the shadows, 
 I fear I should have been ob- 
 served. But such a sight as 
 her face I never hope to see 
 again. The solemnity was 
 gone, and 'twas all radiant with 
 youth and life. Her eyes 
 shone like twin stars, the even 
 brown of her cheeks was 
 flushed with firelight, and her 
 throat and bosom heaved with
 
 17 2 SI J? QUIXOTE. 
 
 the excitement of the dance. 
 Then she stopped exhausted, 
 smiled on Eff, who sat like a 
 cinder-witch all the while, and 
 smoothed the hair from her 
 brow. 
 
 " Have I done it well ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 ' "As weel as he did it him- 
 selV the child answered. " Eh, 
 but you twae would make a 
 bonny pair." 
 
 I turned away abruptly and 
 crept back to the garden path, 
 my heart sinking within me, 
 and a feeling of guilt in my 
 soul. I was angry at myself 
 for eavesdropping, angry and 
 ashamed. But a great dread 
 came on me as I thought of 
 the girl, this firebrand, who had
 
 DA UGH TER OF HER ODIA S. 1 7 3 
 
 been trusted to my keeping. 
 Lackaday for the peace of 
 mind of a man who has to see 
 to a maid who could dance in 
 this fashion, with her father 
 and lover in the cold hills ! 
 And always I called to mind 
 that I had been her teacher, 
 and that my lessons, begun as 
 a harmless sport to pass the 
 time, were like to breed an 
 overmastering passion. Mon 
 Dieu ! I was like the man in 
 the Eastern tale who had raised 
 a spirit which he was powerless 
 to control. 
 
 And just then, as if to point 
 my meditations, I heard the 
 cry of a plover from the moor 
 behind, and a plaff of the chill 
 night-wind blew in my face.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HOW I SET THE SIGNAL. 
 
 HEN I set out to write 
 this history in the 
 EngHsh tongue, that 
 none of my own house might 
 read it, I did not know the hard 
 task that lay before me. For if 
 I were writing it in my own lan- 
 guage, I could tell the niceties 
 of my feelings in a way which 
 is impossible for me in any 
 other. And, indeed, to make 
 my conduct intelligible, I should 
 forthwith fall to telling each 
 shade of motive and impulse 
 174
 
 IWIV I SET THE SIGNAL. 175 
 
 which came to harass my mind. 
 But I am little skilled in this 
 work, so I must needs recount 
 only the landmarks of my life, 
 or I should never reach the end. 
 I slept ill that night, and at 
 earliest daylight was awake and 
 dressing. The full gravity of 
 the case was open to me now, 
 and you may guess that my 
 mind was no easy one. I went 
 down to the sitting room, where 
 the remains of the last night's 
 supper still lay on the table. 
 The -white morning light made 
 all things clear and obtrusive, 
 and I remember wishing that 
 the lamp was lit again and the 
 shutters closed. But in a trice 
 all meditations were cast to the 
 winds, for I heard the door at
 
 176 5/7? QUIXOTE. 
 
 the back of the house flung vio- 
 lently open and the sound of 
 a man's feet on the kitchen 
 floor. 
 
 I knew that I was the only 
 one awake in the house, so with 
 much haste I passed out of the 
 room to ascertain who the visi- 
 tor might be. In the center of 
 the back room stood a great 
 swart man, shaking the rain 
 from his clothes and hair, and 
 waiting like one about to give 
 some message. When he saw 
 me he took a step forward, 
 scanned me closely, and then 
 waited my question. 
 
 *' Who in the devil's name 
 are you ? " I asked angrily, for 
 I was half amazed and half 
 startled by his sudden advent.
 
 HO W I SET THE SIGNAL. 1 7 7 
 
 " In the Lord's name I am 
 Andrew Gibb," he responded 
 solemnly. 
 
 " And what's your errand ?" 
 I asked further. 
 
 " Bide a wee and you'll hear. 
 You'll be the foreigner whae 
 stops at the manse the noo ? " 
 
 "Go on," I said shortly. 
 
 "Thae twae sants, Maister 
 Lambert and Maister Semple, 
 'ill ha'e made some kind o' cov- 
 enant wi' you ? At ony rate, 
 hear my news and dae your 
 best. Their hidy-hole at the 
 held o' the Stark Water's been 
 betrayed, and unless they get 
 warning it '11 be little you'll 
 hear mair o' them. I've aye 
 been their freend, so I cam' 
 here to do my pairt by them."
 
 178 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 " Are you one of the hill- 
 men r 
 
 " Na, na ! God forbid ! I'm a 
 douce, quiet-leevin' man, and 
 I'd see the Kirk rummle aboot 
 their lugs ere I'd stir my shanks 
 frae my ain fireside. But I'm 
 behauden to the minister for the 
 Hfe o' my bairn, whilk is ower 
 lang a story for ye to hear ; and 
 to help him I would rin frae 
 Maidenkirk to Berwick. So 
 I've aye made it my wark to 
 pick up ony word o' scaith that 
 was comin' to him, and that's 
 why I'm here the day. Ye've 
 heard my news richt, ye're 
 shure ? " 
 
 "I've heard your news. Will 
 you take any food before you 
 leave ? "
 
 HOW I SET THE SIGXAL. 179 
 
 " Na ; I maun be off to be 
 back ill time for the kye," 
 
 " Well, good-day to you, An- 
 drew Gibb," I said, and in a 
 minute the man was gone. 
 
 Now, here I must tell what 
 I omitted to tell in a former 
 place. — that when the exiles 
 took to the hills they bade me, 
 if I heard any word of danger 
 to their hiding-place, to go by 
 a certain path, which they 
 pointed out, to a certain place, 
 and there overturn a little cairn 
 of stones. This was to be a 
 signal to them for instant move- 
 ment. I knew nothing of the 
 place of their retreat, and for 
 this reason could swear on my 
 oath with an easy conscience ; 
 but this scrap of enlightenment
 
 l8o SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 I had, a scrap of momentous 
 import for both life and death. 
 I turned back to the parlor 
 in a fine confusion of mind. By 
 some means or other the task 
 which was now before me had 
 come to seem singularly disa- 
 greeable. The thought of my 
 entertainers — I am ashamed to 
 write it — was a bitter thought. 
 I had acquired a reasonless 
 dislike to them. What cause 
 had they, I asked, to be crouch- 
 ing in hill-caves and first getting 
 honest gentlemen into delicate 
 and difificult positions, and then 
 troubling them with dangerous 
 errands. Then there was the 
 constant vision of the maid to 
 vex me. This was the sorest 
 point of all. For, though I
 
 HOW I SET THE SIGNAL. iSl 
 
 blush to own it, the sight of her 
 was not altogether unpleasing 
 to me ; nay, to put it positively, 
 I had come almost to feel an 
 affection for her. She was so 
 white and red and golden, all 
 light and gravity, with the 
 shape, of a princess, the mien 
 of a goddess, and, for all I knew 
 the heart of a dancing-girl. 
 She carried with her the air of 
 comfort and gayety, and the 
 very thought of her made me 
 shrink from the dark moors and 
 ill-boding errand as from the 
 leprosy. 
 
 There is in every man a latent 
 will, apart altogether from that 
 which he uses in common life, 
 which is apt at times to assert 
 itself when he least expects it.
 
 1 82 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 Such was my honor, for lo ! I 
 found myself compelled by an 
 inexorable force to set about 
 the performance of my duty. 
 I take no credit for it, since 
 I was only half willing, my 
 grosser inclination being all 
 against it. But something 
 bade me do it, calling me pol- 
 troon, coward, traitor, if I re- 
 fused ; so ere I left the kitchen 
 I had come to a fixed decision. 
 
 To my wonder, at the stair- 
 case foot I met Anne, dressed, 
 but with her hair all in disorder. 
 I stood booted and cloaked and 
 equipped for the journey, and 
 at the sight of me her face filled 
 with surprise. 
 
 " Where away so early, 
 John ?" says she.
 
 HOW I SET THE SIGNAL. 183 
 
 " Where away so early, Mis- 
 tress Anne?" said I. 
 
 " Ah, I slept ill, and came 
 down to get the morning air." 
 I noted that her eyes were dull 
 and restless, and I do believe 
 that the poor maid had had a 
 sorry night of it. A sharp 
 fear at my heart told me the 
 cause. 
 
 "Anne," I said sullenly, "I 
 am going on a hard errand, and 
 I entreat you to keep out of 
 harm's way till I return." 
 
 "And what is your errand, 
 pray? " she asked. 
 
 " Nothing less than to save 
 the lives of your father and 
 your lover. I have had word 
 from a secret source of a great 
 danger which overhangs them,
 
 1 84 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 and by God's help I would re- 
 move it." 
 
 At my word a light, half 
 angry and half pathetic, came 
 to her eyes. It passed like a 
 sungleam, and in its place was 
 left an expression of cold dis- 
 taste. 
 
 "Then God prosper you," 
 she said, in a formal tone, and 
 with a whisk of her skirts she 
 was gone. 
 
 I strode out into the open 
 with my heart the battlefield 
 of a myriad contending pas- 
 sions. 
 
 I reached the hill, over- 
 turned the cairn, and set out 
 on my homeward way, hardly 
 giving but one thought to the 
 purport of my errand or the
 
 HOW I SET THE SIGNAL. 185 
 
 two fugitives whom it was my 
 mission to save, so filled was 
 my mind with my own trouble. 
 The road home was long and 
 arduous; and more, I had to 
 creep often like an adder lest I 
 should be spied and traced by 
 some chance dragoon. The 
 weather was dull and cold, and 
 a slight snow, the first token 
 of winter, sprinkled the moor. 
 The heather was wet, the long 
 rushes dripped and shivered, 
 and in the little trenches the 
 peat-water lay black as ink. A 
 smell of damp hung over all 
 things, an odor of rotten- leaves 
 and soaked earth. The heavy 
 mist rolled in volumes close to 
 the ground and choked me as I 
 bent low. Every little while I
 
 1 86 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 stumbled into a bog, and foully 
 bedaubed my clothes. I think 
 that I must have strayed a 
 little from the straight path, 
 for I took near twice as long to 
 return as to go. A swollen 
 stream delayed me, for I had 
 to traverse its bank for a mile 
 ere I could cross. 
 
 In truth, I cannot put down 
 on paper my full loathing of 
 the place. I had hated the 
 moors on my first day's jour- 
 ney, but now I hated them 
 with a tenfold hatred. For 
 each whiff of sodden air, each 
 spit of chill rain brought back 
 to my mind all the difificulty of 
 my present state. Then I had 
 always the vision of Anne sit- 
 ting at home by the fire, warm,
 
 I/O IV I SET THE SIGNAL. 187 
 
 clean, and dainty, the very 
 counter of the foul morasses 
 in which I labored, and where 
 the men I had striven to rescue 
 were thought to lie hidden. 
 My loathing was so great that 
 I could scarce find it in my 
 heart to travel the weary miles 
 to the manse, every step being 
 taken solely on the fear of re- 
 maining behind. To make it 
 worse, there would come to 
 vex me old airs of France, airs 
 of childhood and my adven- 
 turous youth, fraught for me 
 with memories of gay nights 
 and brave friends. I own that 
 I could have wept to think of 
 them and find myself all the 
 while in this inhospitable 
 desert.
 
 1 88 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 'Tvvould be near mid-day, I 
 think, when I came to the 
 manse door, glad that my jour- 
 ney was ended. Anne let me 
 in, and in a moment all was 
 changed. The fire crackled in 
 the room, and the light danced 
 on the great volumes on the 
 shelves. The gray winter was 
 shut out and a tranquil summer 
 reigned within. Anne, like a 
 Lent lily, so fair was she, sat 
 sewing by the hearth. 
 
 " You are returned," she said 
 coldly. 
 
 "■ I am returned," I said 
 severely, for her callousness to 
 the danger of her father was 
 awful to witness, though in my 
 heart of hearts I could not have 
 wished it otherwise. As she
 
 HOJV I SET THE SIG.VAL. 189 
 
 sat there, with her white arms 
 moving athwart her lap, and 
 her hair tossed over her shoul- 
 ders, I could have clasped her 
 to my heart. Nay, I had 
 almost done so, had I not 
 gripped my chair, and sat with 
 pale face and dazed eyes till 
 the fit had passed. I have told 
 you ere now how my feelings 
 toward Anne had changed 
 from interest to something not 
 unlike a passionate love. It 
 had been a thing of secret 
 growth, and I scarcely knew it 
 till I found myself in the midst 
 of it. I tried to smother it 
 hourly, when my better nature 
 was in the ascendant, and hourly 
 I was overthrown in the contest 
 I fought against terrible odds.
 
 190 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 'Twas not hard to see from her 
 longing eyes and timorous con- 
 duct that to her I was the 
 greater half of the world. I 
 had but to call to her and she 
 would come. And yet — God 
 knows how I stifled that cry. 
 
 At length I rose and strode 
 out into the garden to cool my 
 burning head. The sleet was 
 even grateful to me, and I 
 bared my brow till hair and 
 skin were wet with the rain. 
 Down by the rows of birch 
 trees I walked, past the rough 
 ground where the pot-herbs 
 were grown, till I came to the 
 shady green lawn. Up and 
 down it I passed, striving hard 
 with my honor and my love, 
 fighting that battle which all
 
 HOW I SET THE SIGNAL. 191 
 
 must fight some time or other 
 in their Hves and be victorious 
 or vanquished forever. 
 
 Suddenly, to my wonder, I 
 saw a face looking at me from 
 beneath a tuft of elderberry. 
 
 I drew back, looked again, 
 and at the second glance I 
 recognized it. 'Twas the face 
 of Master Henry Temple of 
 Clachlands — and the hills. 
 
 'Twas liker the face of a wild 
 goat than a man. The thin 
 features stood out so strongly 
 that all the rest seemed to fall 
 back from them. The long, 
 ragged growth of hair on lip 
 and chin, and the dirt on his 
 cheeks, made him unlike my 
 friend of the past. But the 
 memorable change was in his
 
 192 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 eyes, which glowed large and 
 lustrous, Avith the whites greatly 
 extended, and all tinged with a 
 yellow hue. Fear and priva- 
 tion had done their work, and 
 before me stood their finished 
 product. 
 
 " Good Heavens, Henry ! 
 What brings you here, and 
 how have you fared ? " 
 
 He stared at me without 
 replying, which I noted as 
 curious. 
 
 "Where is Anne?" he asked 
 huskily. 
 
 " She is in the house, well 
 and unscathed. Shall I call 
 her to you ? " 
 
 " Nay, for God's sake, nay ! I 
 am no pretty sight for a young 
 maid. You say she is well ?"
 
 HO IV I SET THE SIGNAL. 193 
 
 " Ay, very well. But how is 
 the minister ?" 
 
 " Alas, he is all but gone. 
 The chill has entered his bones, 
 and even now he may be pass- 
 ing. The child will soon be an 
 orphan." 
 
 " And you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am no worse than the 
 others on whom the Lord's 
 hand is laid. There is a ring- 
 ing in my head and a pain at 
 my heart, but I am still hale 
 and fit to testify to the truth. 
 Oh, man, 'twill ill befa' those in 
 the day of judgment who eat 
 the bread of idleness and dwell 
 in peace in thae weary times." 
 
 " Come into the house ; or 
 nay, I will fetch you food and 
 clothing."
 
 194 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 " Nay, bring nought for me. 
 I would rather live in rags and 
 sup on a crust than be habited 
 in purple and fare sumptuously. 
 I ask ye but one thing : let the 
 maid walk in the garden that I 
 may see her. And, oh, man ! I 
 thank ye for your kindness to 
 me and mine. I pray the Lord 
 ilka night to think on ye here." 
 
 I could not trust myself to 
 speak. 
 
 "I will do as you wish," I 
 said, and without another word 
 set off sharply for the house. 
 
 I entered the sitting room 
 wearily, and flung myself on a 
 chair. Anne sat sewing as be- 
 fore. She started as I entered, 
 and I saw the color rise to her 
 cheeks and brow.
 
 HOW I SET THE SIGA'AL. 195 
 
 "You are pale, my dear," I 
 said; "the day is none so bad, 
 and 'twould do you no ill to 
 walk round the garden to the 
 gate. I have just been there, 
 and, would you believe it, the 
 grass is still wondrous green." 
 
 She rose demurely and obedi- 
 ently as if my word were the 
 law of her life. 
 
 " Pray bring me a sprig of 
 ivy from the gate-side," I 
 cried after her, laughing, " to 
 show me that you have been 
 there," 
 
 I sat and kicked my heels till 
 her return in a miserable state 
 of impatience. I could not 
 have refused to let the man 
 see his own betrothed, but God 
 only knew what desperate act
 
 196 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 he might do. He might spring 
 out and clasp her in his arms ; 
 she, I knew, had not a shred of 
 affection left for him ; she 
 would be cold and resentful ; 
 he would suspect, and then — 
 what an end there might be to 
 it all ! I longed to hear the 
 sound of her returning foot- 
 steps. 
 
 She came in soon, and sat 
 down in her wonted chair by 
 the fire. 
 
 "There's your ivy, John," 
 said she ; " 'tis raw and chilly in 
 the garden, and I love the fire- 
 side better." 
 
 '"TisAvell," I thought, "she 
 has not seen Master Semple." 
 Now I could not suffer him to 
 depart without meeting him
 
 HOW I SET THE SIGNAL. 197 
 
 again, partly out of pity for the 
 man, partly to assure my own 
 mind that no harm would come 
 of it. So I feigned an errand 
 and went out. 
 
 I found him, as I guessed, 
 still in the elder-bush, a tenfold 
 stranger sight than before. His 
 eyes burned uncannily. His 
 thin cheeks seemed almost 
 transparent with the tension of 
 the bones, and he chewed his 
 lips unceasingly. At the sight 
 of me he came out and stood 
 before me, as wild a figure as I 
 ever hope to see — clothes in 
 tatters, hair unkempt, and skin 
 all foul with the dirt of the 
 moors. His back was bowed; 
 and his knees seemed to have 
 lost all strength, for they
 
 198 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 tottered against one another. 
 I prayed that his sufferings 
 migh not have turned him 
 mad. 
 
 At the first word he spake I 
 was convinced of it. 
 
 " I have seen her, I have seen 
 her!" he cried. "She is more 
 fair than a fountain of gardens, 
 a well of living waters, and 
 streams from Lebanon. Oh, I 
 have dreamed of her by night 
 among the hills, and seen her 
 face close to me and tried to 
 catch it, but 'twas gone. Oh, 
 man, John, get down on your 
 knees, and pray to God to make 
 you worthy to have the charge 
 of such a treasure. Had the 
 Lord not foreordained that she 
 should me mine, I should ne'er
 
 HOW I SET THE SIGNAL. 199 
 
 have lifted up my eyes to her, 
 for who am I ? " 
 
 " For God's sake, man," I 
 broke in, " tell me where you 
 are going, and be about it quick, 
 for you may be in instant 
 danger." 
 
 "Ay," says he, " you are right. 
 I must be gone. I have seen 
 enough. I maun away to the 
 deserts and caves of the rocks, 
 and it may be lang, lang ere I 
 come back. But my love winna 
 forget me. Na, na ; the Lord 
 hath appointed unto me that I 
 shall sit at his right hand on 
 the last, the great day, and she 
 shall be by my side. For oh, 
 she is the only one of her 
 mother; she is the choice one 
 of her that bare her ; the daugh-
 
 2 CO S//? QUIXOTE. 
 
 ters saw her and blessed her ; 
 yea, the queens and concubines, 
 and they praised her." And 
 with some hke gibberish from 
 the Scriptures he disappeared 
 through the bushes, and next 
 minute I saw him running along 
 the moor toward the hills. 
 
 These were no love-sick rav- 
 ings, but the wild cries of a 
 madman, one whose reason had 
 gone forever. I walked back 
 slowly to the house. It seemed 
 almost profane to think of 
 Anne, so wholesome and sane, 
 in the same thought as this foul 
 idiot ; and yet this man had 
 been once as whole in mind and 
 body as myself ; he had suffered 
 in a valiant cause ; and I was 
 bound to him by the strongest
 
 HOiV I SET THE SIGNAL. 201 
 
 of all bonds — my plighted 
 word. I groaned inwardly as I 
 shut the house-door behind me 
 and entered into the arena of 
 my struggles.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I COMMUNE WITH MYSELF. 
 
 f.WAS late afternoon 
 when I re-entered, and 
 ere supper was past 
 'twas time to retire for the 
 night. The tension of these 
 hours I still look back on as 
 something altogether dreadful. 
 Anne was quiet and gentle, un- 
 conscious of what had hap- 
 pened, yet with the fire of pas- 
 sion, I knew too well, burning 
 in her heart. I was ill, rest- 
 less, and abrupt, scarce able to 
 speak lest I should betray my
 
 SELF-COMMUNINGS. 203 
 
 thoughts and show the war that 
 raged in my breast. 
 
 I made some excuse for retir- 
 ing early, bidding her good- 
 night with as nonchalant an air 
 as I could muster. The door 
 of my bedroom I locked be- 
 hind me, and I was alone in the 
 darkened room to fight out my 
 battles with myself. 
 
 I ask you if you can conceive 
 any gentleman and man of 
 honor in a more hazardous 
 case. Whenever I tried to 
 think on it, a mist came over 
 my brain, and I could get little 
 but unmeaning fantasies. I 
 must either go or stay. So 
 much was clear. 
 
 If I stayed — well, 'twas the 
 Devil's own work that was cut
 
 204 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 for me. There was no sign of 
 the violence of the persecution 
 abating. It might be many 
 months, nay years, before the 
 minister and Master Semple 
 might return. If they came 
 back no more, and I had sure 
 tidings of their death, then 
 indeed I might marry Anne. 
 But 'twas so hazardous an un- 
 certainty that I rejected it at 
 once. No man could dwell 
 with one whom he loved heart 
 and soul so long a time on such 
 uncertain chances and yet keep 
 his honor. Had the maid been 
 dull and passive, or had I been 
 sluggish in blood, then there 
 might have been hope. But 
 Ave were both quick as the 
 summer's lightning.
 
 SELF-COMMUNINGS. 205 
 
 If they came back, was not 
 the fate of the girl more hard 
 than words could tell ? The 
 minister in all likelihood would 
 already have gone the way of 
 all the earth ; and she, poor 
 lass, would be left to the care 
 of a madman for whom she had 
 no spark of liking. I pictured 
 her melancholy future. Her 
 pure body subject to the em- 
 braces of a loathsome fanatic, 
 her delicate love of the joys of 
 life all subdued to his harsh 
 creed. Oh, God ! I swore that 
 I could not endure it. Her face, 
 so rounded and lovely, would 
 grow pinched and white, her 
 eyes would lose all their luster, 
 her hair would not cluster lov- 
 ingly about her neck, her lithe
 
 2o6 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 grace would be gone, her foot- 
 steps would be heavy and sad. 
 He would rave his unmeaning- 
 gibberish in her ears, would ill- 
 treat her, it might be ; in any 
 case would be a perpetual sor- 
 row to her heart. "Oh, Anne," I 
 cried, " though I be damned for 
 it, I will save you from this ! " 
 
 If I left the place at once and 
 forever, then indeed my honor 
 would be kept, but yet not all ; 
 for my plighted word — where 
 would it be ? I had sworn that 
 come what may I should stand 
 by the maid and protect her 
 against what evil might come to 
 the house. Now I was think- 
 ing of fleeing from my post like 
 a coward, and all because the 
 girl's eyes were too bright for
 
 SELF- CO MM UNINGS. 207 
 
 my weak resolution. When 
 her lover returned, if he ever 
 came, what story would she 
 have to tell ? This, without a 
 doubt : " The man whom you 
 left has gone, fled like a thief 
 in the night, for what reason I 
 know not." For though I knew 
 well that she would divine the 
 real cause of my action, I could 
 not suppose that she would tell 
 it, for thereby she would cast 
 grave suspicion upon herself. 
 So there would I be, a perjured 
 traitor, a false friend in the eyes 
 of those who had trusted me. 
 
 But more, the times were vio- 
 lent, Clachlands and its soldiery 
 were nor far off, and once they 
 learned that the girl was unpro- 
 tected no man knew what evil
 
 2o8 SIA' QUIXOTE. 
 
 might follow. You may imagine 
 how bitter this thought was to 
 me, the thought of leaving my 
 love in the midst of terrible dan- 
 gers. Nay, more ; a selfish con- 
 sideration weighed not a little 
 with me. The winter had all but 
 come ; the storms of this black 
 land I dreaded like one born 
 and bred in the South ; I knew 
 nothing of my future course ; I 
 was poor, bare, and friendless. 
 The manse was a haven of shel- 
 ter. Without it I should be even 
 as the two exiles in the hills. 
 The cold was hard to endure ; 
 I dearly loved warmth and com- 
 fort ; the moors were as fearful 
 to me as the deserts of Mus- 
 covy. 
 
 One course remained. Anne
 
 SELF- COMM UNINGS. 209 
 
 had money; this much I knew. 
 She loved me, and would obey 
 my will in all things ; of this I 
 was certain. What hindered me 
 to take her to France, the land 
 of mirth and all pleasant things, 
 and leave the North and its wild 
 folk behind forever ? With 
 money we could travel expedi- 
 tiously. Once in my own land 
 perchance I might find some 
 way to repair my fortunes, for 
 a fair wife is a wonderous incen- 
 tive. There beneath soft skies, 
 in the mellow sunshine, among 
 a cheerful people, she would 
 find the life which she loved 
 best. What deterred me? 
 Nothing but a meaningless vow 
 and some antiquated scruples. 
 But I would be really keeping
 
 210 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 my word, I reasoned casuisti- 
 cally with myself, for I had 
 sworn to take care of Anne, 
 and what way so good as to 
 take her to my own land where 
 she would be far from the reach 
 of fanatic or dragoon? And 
 this was my serious thought, 
 comprenez bieu ! I set it down 
 as a sign of the state to which 
 I had come, that I was con- 
 vinced by my own quibbling. 
 I pictured to myself what I 
 should do. I would find her 
 at breakfast in the morning. 
 " Anne," I would say, " I love 
 you dearly ; may I think that 
 you love me likewise?" I 
 could fancy her eager, passion- 
 ate reply, and then I 
 
 almost felt the breath of her
 
 SEL F- COMM UNINGS. 2 1 1 
 
 kisses on my cheek and the 
 touch of her soft arms on my 
 neck. 
 
 Some impulse led me to open 
 the casement and look forth 
 into the windy, inscrutable 
 night: A thin rain distilled 
 on the earth, and the coolness 
 was refreshing to my hot face. 
 The garden was black, and the 
 bushes were marked by an 
 increased depth of darkness. 
 But on the grass to the left I 
 saw a long shaft of light, the 
 reflection from some lit win- 
 dow of the house. I passed 
 rapidly in thought over the 
 various rooms there, and with 
 a start came to an end. 
 Without a doubt 'twas Anne's 
 sleeping room. What did the
 
 212 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 lass with a light, for 'twas 
 near midnight? I did not 
 hesitate about the cause, and 
 'twas one which inflamed my 
 love an hundredfold. She 
 was sleepless, love-sick maybe 
 (such is the vanity of man). 
 Maybe even now my name 
 was the one on her lips, and 
 my image the foremost in her 
 mind. My finger-tips tingled, 
 as the blood surged into 
 them ; and I am not ashamed 
 to say that my eyes were 
 not tearless. Could I ever 
 leave my love for some tawdry 
 honor ? Mille tonneres ! the 
 thing was not to be dreamed 
 of. I blamed myself for 
 having once admitted the 
 thought.
 
 SELF-COMMUNINGS. 213 
 
 My decision was taken, and, 
 as was always my way, I felt 
 somewhat easier. I was weary, 
 so I cast myself down upon the 
 bed without undressing, and 
 fell into a profound sleep. 
 
 How long I slept I cannot 
 tell, but in that brief period of 
 unconsciousness I seemed to 
 be living ages. I saw my past 
 life all inverted as 'twere ; for 
 my first sight was the horror of 
 the moors, Ouentin Kennedy, 
 and the quarrel and the black 
 desolation which I had under- 
 gone. I went through it all 
 again, vividly, acutely. Then 
 it passed, and I had my man- 
 hood in France before my eyes. 
 And curiously enough, 'twas 
 not alone, but confused with
 
 214 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 my childhood and youth. I 
 was an experienced man of the 
 world, versed in warfare and 
 love, taverns and brawls, and 
 yet not one whit jaded, but 
 fresh and hopeful and boylike. 
 'Twas a very pleasing feeling. 
 I was master of myself. I had 
 all my self-respect. I was a 
 man of unblemished honor, 
 undoubted valor. Then by 
 an odd trick of memory all 
 kinds of associations became 
 linked with it. The old sights 
 and sounds of Rohaine : cocks 
 crowing in the morning ; the 
 smell of hay and almond- 
 blossom, roses and summer 
 lilies ; the sight of green leaves, 
 of the fish leaping in the river; 
 the plash of the boat's oars
 
 SELF- CO MM UNINGS. 2 1 5 
 
 among- the water-weeds — all 
 the sensations of childhood 
 came back with extraordinary 
 clarity. I heard my mother's 
 grave, tender speech bidding 
 us children back from play, or 
 soothing one when he hurt him- 
 self. I could almost believe 
 that my father's strong voice 
 was ringing in my ear, when he 
 would tell stories of the chase 
 and battle, or sing ballads of 
 long ago, or bid us go to the 
 devil if we pleased, but go like 
 gentlemen. 'Twas a piece of 
 sound philosophy, and often 
 had it been before me in Paris, 
 when I shrank from nothing 
 save where my honor as a 
 gentleman was threatened. In 
 that dream the old saying came
 
 2i6 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 on me with curious force. 1 
 felt it to be a fine motto for 
 life, and I was exulting in my 
 heart that 'twas mine, and that 
 I had never stained the fair 
 fame of my house. \ 
 
 Suddenly, with a start I 
 seemed to wake to the con- 
 sciousness that 'twas mine no 
 more. Still dreaming, I was 
 aware that I had deceived a 
 lover, and stolen his mistress 
 and made her my bride. I 
 have never felt such acute 
 anguish as I did in that sleep 
 when the thought came upon 
 me. I felt nothing more of 
 pride. All things had left me. 
 My self-respect was gone like 
 a ragged cloak. All the old, 
 dear life was shut out from me
 
 SELF. COMMUNINGS. 2 1 7 
 
 by a huge barrier. Comfort- 
 able, rich, loving, and beloved, 
 I was yet in the very jaws of 
 Hell. I felt myself biting out 
 my tongue in my despair. My 
 brain was on fire with sheer 
 and awful regret. I cursed the 
 day when I had been tempted 
 and fallen. 
 
 And then, even while I 
 dreamed, another sight came 
 to my eyes — the face of a lady, 
 young, noble, with eyes like 
 the Blessed Mother. In my 
 youth I had laid my life at the 
 feet of a girl, and I was in 
 hopes of making her my wife. 
 But Cecilia was too fair for this 
 earth, and I scarcely dared to 
 look upon her she seemed so 
 saint-like. When she died in
 
 2i8 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 the Forest of Arnay, killed by 
 a fall from her horse, 'twas I 
 who carried her to her home, 
 and since that day her face was 
 never far distant from my mem- 
 ory. I cherished the image 
 as my dearest possession, and 
 oftentimes when I would have 
 embarked upon some madness 
 I refrained, fearing the reproof 
 of those grave eyes. But now 
 this was all gone. My earthy 
 passion had driven out my old 
 love ; all memories were rapt 
 from me save that of the sordid 
 present. 
 
 The very violence of my feel- 
 ing awoke me, and I found 
 myself sitting up in bed with 
 a mouthful of blood. Sure 
 enough, I had gnawed my
 
 SELF- CO MM UNINGS. 219- 
 
 tongue till a red froth was over 
 my lips. My heart was beat- 
 ing like a windmill in a high 
 gale, and a deadly sickness of 
 mind oppressed me. 'Twas 
 some minutes before I could 
 think; and then — oh, joy! the 
 relief! I had not yet taken 
 the step irremediable. The 
 revulsion, the sudden ecstasy 
 drove in a trice my former 
 resolution into thinnest air. 
 
 I looked out of the window. 
 'Twas dawn, misty and wet. 
 Thank God, I was still in the 
 land of the living, still free to 
 make my life. The tangible 
 room, half lit by morning, gave 
 me a promise of reality after 
 the pageant of the dream. My 
 path was clear before me, clear
 
 2 20 ^•/i? QUIXOTE. 
 
 and straight as an arrow ; and 
 yet even now I felt a dread of 
 my passion overcoming my re- 
 solve, and was in a great haste 
 to have done with it all. My 
 scruples about my course were 
 all gone. I would be breaking 
 my oath, 'twas true, in leaving 
 the maid, but keeping it in the 
 better way. The thought of 
 the dangers to which she would 
 be exposed stabbed me like a 
 dart. It had almost overcome 
 me. " But honor is more than 
 life or love," I said, as I set my 
 teeth with stern purpose. 
 
 Yet, though all my soul was 
 steeled into resolution, there 
 was no ray of hope in my heart 
 — nothing but a dead, bleak 
 outlook, a land of moors and
 
 SELF- COMMUNINGS. 2 2 1 
 
 rain, an empty purse and an 
 aimless journey. 
 
 I had come to the house a 
 beggar scarce two months be- 
 fore. I must now go as I had 
 come, not free and careless as 
 then, but bursting shackles of 
 triple brass. My old ragged 
 garments, which I had dis- 
 carded on the day after my 
 arrival, lay on a chair, neatly 
 folded by Anne's deft hand. It 
 behooved me to take no more 
 away than that which I had 
 brought, so I must needs clothe 
 myself in these poor remnants 
 of finery, thin and mud-stained, 
 and filled with many rents.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 OF MY DEPARTURE. 
 
 PASSED tlirough the 
 kitchen out to the 
 stable, marking as I 
 went that the breakfast was 
 ready laid in the sitting room. 
 There I saddled Saladin, grown 
 sleek by fat living, and rolling 
 his great eyes at me wonder- 
 ingly. I tested the joinings, 
 buckled the girth tight, and led 
 him round to the front of the 
 house, where I tethered him to 
 a tree and entered the door. 
 
 A savory smell of hot meats 
 came from the room and a
 
 OF MY DEPAR TURE. 223 
 
 bright wood fire drove away 
 the grayness of the morning. 
 Anne stood by the table, sHcing 
 a loaf and looking ever and 
 anon to the entrance. Her 
 face was pale as if with sleep- 
 lessness and weeping. Her hair 
 was not so daintily arranged 
 as was her wont. It seemed 
 almost as if she had augured 
 the future. A strange catch — 
 coming as such songs do from 
 nowhere and meaning nothing 
 — ran constantly in my head. 
 'Twas one of Philippe Des- 
 portes', that very song which 
 the Duke de Guise sang just 
 before his death. So, as I 
 entered, I found myself hum- 
 ming half unwittingly: 
 
 " Nous verrons, bergere Rosette, 
 Qui premier s'en repentira."
 
 2 24 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 Anne looked up as if startled 
 at my coming, and when she 
 saw my dress glanced fearfully 
 at my face. It must have told 
 her some tale, for a red flush 
 mounted to her brow and abode 
 there. 
 
 I picked up a loaf from the 
 table. 'Twas my one sacrifice 
 to the gods of hospitality. 
 'Twould serve, I thought, for 
 the first stage in my journey. 
 
 Anne looked up at me with a 
 kind of confused wonder. She 
 laughed, but there was little 
 mirth in her laughter. 
 
 " Why, what would you do 
 with the loaf ? " said she. " Do 
 you seek to visit the widows and 
 fatherless in their affliction?" 
 
 " Nay," said I gravely. " I
 
 OF MY DEPARTURE. 225 
 
 would but keep myself un- 
 spotted from the world." 
 
 All merriment died out of her 
 face. 
 
 "And what would you do?" 
 she stammered. 
 
 " The time has come for me 
 to leave, Mistress Anne. My 
 horse is saddled at the door. I 
 have been here long enough ; 
 ay, and too long. I thank you 
 with all my heart for your 
 kindness, and I would seek to 
 repay it by ridding you of my 
 company." 
 
 I fear I spoke harshly, but 
 'twas to hide my emotion, which 
 bade fair to overpower me and 
 ruin all. 
 
 " Oh, and why will you go ? " 
 she cried.
 
 226 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 " Farewell, Anne," I said, 
 looking at her fixedly, and I saw 
 that she divined the reason. 
 
 I turned on my heel, and 
 went out from the room. 
 
 " Oh, my love," she cried 
 passionately, " stay with me ; 
 stay, oh, stay ! " 
 
 Her voice rang in my ear 
 with honeyed sweetness, like 
 that of the Sirens to Ulysses of 
 old. 
 
 *' Stay ! " she cried, as I flung 
 open the house-door. 
 
 I turned me round for one 
 last look at her whom I loved 
 better than life. She stood at 
 the entrance to the room, with 
 her arms outstretched and her 
 white bosom heaving. Her 
 eyes were filled with an utter-
 
 OF M Y DEPAR TURK. 227 
 
 able longing, which a man may- 
 see but once in his life — and 
 well for him if he never sees it. 
 Her lips were parted as if to 
 call me back once more. But 
 no word came ; her presence 
 was more powerful than any 
 cry. 
 
 I turned to the weather. A 
 gray sky, a driving mist, and a 
 chill piercing blast. The con- 
 trast was almost more than my 
 resolution. An irresistible im- 
 pulse seized me to fly to her 
 arms, to enter the bright room 
 again with her, and sell myself, 
 body and soul, to the lady of 
 my heart. 
 
 My foot trembled to the step 
 backward, my arms all but felt 
 her weight, when that blind
 
 2 28 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 Fate which orders the ways of 
 men intervened. Against my 
 incHnation and desire, bitterly, 
 unwilHng, I strode to my horse 
 and flung myself on his back. 
 I dared not look behind, but 
 struck spurs into Saladin and 
 rode out among the trees. 
 
 A fierce north wind met me 
 in the teeth, and piercing 
 through my tatters, sent a 
 shiver to my very heart. 
 
 I cannot recall my thoughts 
 during that ride : I seem not to 
 have thought at all. All I know 
 is that in about an hour there 
 came into my mind, as from 
 a voice, the words : " Recreant ! 
 Fool ! " and I turned back. 
 
 THE END.
 
 Twenty 'first Edition. ^Buckram Series,) 754. 
 
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