THE COMPLETE TALES OF MY LANDLORD (Illustrated Edition). Walter Scott
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shall be done gravely, and with discretion, like that of the worthy James Melvin, who executed judgment on the tyrant and oppressor, Cardinal Beaton.”
“I own to you,” replied Morton, “that I feel still more abhorrent at cold-blooded and premeditated cruelty, than at that which is practised in the heat of zeal and resentment.”
“Thou art yet but a youth,” replied Balfour, “and hast not learned how light in the balance are a few drops of blood in comparison to the weight and importance of this great national testimony. But be not afraid; thyself shall vote and judge in these matters; it may be we shall see little cause to strive together anent them.”
With this concession Morton was compelled to be satisfied for the present; and Burley left him, advising him to lie down and get some rest, as the host would probably move in the morning.
“And you,” answered Morton, “do not you go to rest also?”
“No,” said Burley; “my eyes must not yet know slumber. This is no work to be done lightly; I have yet to perfect the choosing of the committee of leaders, and I will call you by times in the morning to be present at their consultation.”
He turned away, and left Morton to his repose.
The place in which he found himself was not ill adapted for the purpose, being a sheltered nook, beneath a large rock, well protected from the prevailing wind. A quantity of moss with which the ground was overspread, made a couch soft enough for one who had suffered so much hardship and anxiety. Morton wrapped himself in the horse-man’s cloak which he had still retained, stretched himself on the ground, and had not long indulged in melancholy reflections on the state of the country, and upon his own condition, ere he was relieved from them by deep and sound slumber.
The rest of the army slept on the ground, dispersed in groups, which chose their beds on the fields as they could best find shelter and convenience. A few of the principal leaders held wakeful conference with Burley on the state of their affairs, and some watchmen were appointed who kept themselves on the alert by chanting psalms, or listening to the exercises of the more gifted of their number.
Chapter 23
Got with much ease — now merrily to horse.
Henry IV. Part I.
With the first peep of day Henry awoke, and found the faithful Cuddie standing beside him with a portmanteau in his hand.
“I hae been just putting your honour’s things in readiness again ye were waking,” said Cuddie, “as is my duty, seeing ye hae been sae gude as to tak me into your service.”
“I take you into my service, Cuddie?” said Morton, “you must be dreaming.”
“Na, na, stir,” answered Cuddie; “didna I say when I was tied on the horse yonder, that if ever ye gat loose I would be your servant, and ye didna say no? and if that isna hiring, I kenna what is. Ye gae me nae arles, indeed, but ye had gien me eneugh before at Milnwood.”
“Well, Cuddie, if you insist on taking the chance of my unprosperous fortunes”—
“Ou ay, I’se warrant us a’ prosper weel eneugh,” answered Cuddie, cheeringly, “an anes my auld mither was weel putten up. I hae begun the campaigning trade at an end that is easy eneugh to learn.”
“Pillaging, I suppose?” said Morton, “for how else could you come by that portmanteau?”
“I wotna if it’s pillaging, or how ye ca’t,” said Cuddie, “but it comes natural to a body, and it’s a profitable trade. Our folk had tirled the dead dragoons as bare as bawbees before we were loose amaist.— But when I saw the Whigs a’ weel yokit by the lugs to Kettledrummle and the other chield, I set off at the lang trot on my ain errand and your honour’s. Sae I took up the syke a wee bit, away to the right, where I saw the marks o’mony a horsefoot, and sure eneugh I cam to a place where there had been some clean leatherin’, and a’ the puir chields were lying there buskit wi’ their claes just as they had put them on that morning — naebody had found out that pose o’ carcages — and wha suld be in the midst thereof (as my mither says) but our auld acquaintance, Sergeant Bothwell?”
“Ay, has that man fallen?” said Morton.
“Troth has he,” answered Cuddie; “and his een were open and his brow bent, and his teeth clenched thegither, like the jaws of a trap for foumarts when the spring’s doun — I was amaist feared to look at him; however, I thought to hae turn about wi’ him, and sae I e’en riped his pouches, as he had dune mony an honester man’s; and here’s your ain siller again (or your uncle’s, which is the same) that he got at Milnwood that unlucky night that made us a’ sodgers thegither.”
“There can be no harm, Cuddie,” said Morton, “in making use of this money, since we know how he came by it; but you must divide with me.”
“Bide a wee, bide a wee,” said Cuddie. “Weel, and there’s a bit ring he had hinging in a black ribbon doun on his breast. I am thinking it has been a love-token, puir fallow — there’s naebody sae rough but they hae aye a kind heart to the lasses — and there’s a book wi’a wheen papers, and I got twa or three odd things, that I’ll keep to mysell, forby.”
“Upon my word, you have made a very successful foray for a beginner,” said his new master.
“Haena I e’en now?” said Cuddie, with great exultation. “I tauld ye I wasna that dooms stupid, if it cam to lifting things.— And forby, I hae gotten twa gude horse. A feckless loon of a Straven weaver, that has left his loom and his bein house to sit skirling on a cauld hill-side, had catched twa dragoon naigs, and he could neither gar them hup nor wind, sae he took a gowd noble for them baith — I suld hae tried him wi’ half the siller, but it’s an unco ill place to get change in-Ye’ll find the siller’s missing out o’ Bothwell’s purse.”
“You have made a most excellent and useful purchase, Cuddie; but what is that portmanteau?”
“The pockmantle?” answered Cuddie, “it was Lord Evandale’s yesterday, and it’s yours the day. I fand it ahint the bush o’ broom yonder — ilka dog has its day — Ye ken what the auld sang says,
‘Take turn about, mither, quo’ Tam o’ the Linn.’
“And, speaking o’ that, I maun gang and see about my mither, puir auld body, if your honour hasna ony immediate commands.”
“But, Cuddie,” said Morton, “I really cannot take these things from you without some recompense.”
“Hout fie, stir,” answered Cuddie, “ye suld aye be taking,— for recompense, ye may think about that some other time — I hae seen gay weel to mysell wi’ some things that fit me better. What could I do wi’ Lord Evandale’s braw claes? Sergeant Bothwell’s will serve me weel eneugh.”
Not being able to prevail on the self-constituted and disinterested follower to accept of any thing for himself out of these warlike spoils, Morton resolved to take the first opportunity of returning Lord Evandale’s property, supposing him yet to be alive; and, in the meanwhile, did not hesitate to avail himself of Cuddie’s prize, so far as to appropriate some changes of linen and other triffling articles amongst those of more value which the portmanteau contained.
He then hastily looked over the papers which were found in Bothwell’s pocket-book. These were of a miscellaneous description. The roll of his troop, with the names of those absent on furlough, memorandums of tavern-bills, and lists of delinquents who might be made subjects of fine and persecution, first presented themselves, along with a copy of a warrant from the Privy Council to arrest certain persons of distinction therein named. In another pocket of the book were one or two commissions which Bothwell had held at different times, and certificates of his services abroad, in which his courage and military talents were highly praised. But the most remarkable