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THE BROOCH OF LINDISFARNE

By JESSIE A. GAUGHAN

Author of "The Plucking of the Lily"

CHAPTER VI

THE CHIEF'S HOME-COMING

Nor half a Stuart? He is not half a man or his mother had not languished all these years in English hands. If I were James

"

Ella MacDonald paused, leaving to the imagination of her hearers the task of filling in the daring deeds she would do to liberate the Queen of Scots. For a little no one spoke. Their minds were busy picturing a sovereign princess, twice a queen, wearing out her days in captivity.

Hector MacLean had been telling of some of the doings of the Scottish Court, and by degrees the conversation had turned on King James and his luckless mother. Young MacLean, brave and high-spirited himself, knew not how to excuse the lukewarmness of the son for the mother's cause, and James had come in for the harshest criticism.

The subdued moan of the sea on the wild rocks of the Mull of Oa, seemed to those who rested among the sandhills of the Big Strand, to be mourning for her who once had ruled fair Scotland with an all-too-gentle sway.

"Why must the lion of Scotland crouch cowed before the leopards of England? The lion has become a dog," Muriel MacDonald scornfully broke in upon the silence, "and, like a whipped cur, he hides his tail between his legs and quails before the anger of a woman! Is there no manhood left in Scotland to dare what many a border reiver did in other days for brother reiver? The time was when Carlisle Jail was not strong enough to hold a Scottish cattle-lifter! And now a gentleman's house in rural England makes a safe cage for Scotland's noblest."

A hot flush spread over Hector MacLean's face at these indignant words, which seemed like a reproach to him, and Coll MacDonald frowned as at a personal insult.

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Carlisle is near at hand, Muriel," said Ella, who felt that her sister's words reflected vaguely on her lover's bravery, "but

Chartley Castle is in the heart of England. There are noble hearts in Scotland yet and brave men eager for their Queen's release, but who could hope to rescue her from there?"

Hector smiled his thanks at her for her vindication of their nation's manhood.

"The thing seems hopeless," he said; "yet, though every mile from Scottish ground to Chartley's towers is but an added bolt in Mary's prison door, there are those who hope to win through them all to free her. There was a strange scene in the King's council room before I came away. I heard the story from the Earl of Mar. The King had received from Chartley a letter in which his mother assured him of her love and trust, and begged him in the name of the tenderest and most sacred ties to aid her, and he was deeply moved. Mar, who knows him like a brother, says he loves his mother though he never knew her care, and that, to my mind, makes it all the stranger that he can content himself with sending messages of entreaty to the English Queen. At the Council he read a portion of his mother's letter. It was a piteous appeal, written from her bed and blotted with her tears, and harder hearts than James's found it difficult to hearken patient to her plaints of illness and harsh treatment. The debate ran high how they could help her, and in the midst of it all Earl St. Clair sprang to his feet, dashed his sword upon the council table, and spoke up for a raid on England."

"He was a man!" cried Muriel in admiration.

"

Some cried out that Chartley was far in the country of Elizabeth, but St. Clair swore that were it in the midst of Hell, he would not hesitate to ride there, had he but a few to follow. Who will fare southward for our country's honour, nay, for common charity?' was what he shouted."

There spoke the true spirit of the North. Would I had been there to hear," Coll cried excitedly.

"St. Clair is brave," continued Hector; "for even in the Council of Scotland it is scarce safe to be openly upon Queen Mary's side. It is hard to own that no man followed St. Clair's lead."

"What! None !" all three listeners exclaimed in tones in which anger mingled with surprise.

"Mar told me that the King's eyes flashed, and that something of the Stuart look came into them as he stared at St. Clair, but the Master of Gray, an arch-enemy of Mary, and the paid tool, I doubt not, of Walsingham, leant forward and

whispered in his ear. James flushed-Mar said tears trembled in his eyes-but he spoke no word, and no man stirred."

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A groan burst from Coll MacDonald. Then there was no MacDonald present," he cried hoarsely, "or shame so deep had not been put upon our King! I blame not James. He is not long escaped the bonds of those who tore his kingdom piecemeal to enrich themselves, under pretext of regency. Was ever a King of Scotland reared as he has been: to think of books instead of battles, kept as much a prisoner as his mother till a few years ago, and even yet none too sure upon his throne, with all his nobles pulling different ways? It would take the wisdom of Solomon to harness all the chiefs of Scotland together, and the strength of Samson to hold the reins. Had I been of the Council, or any of my name, St. Clair should not have stood alone!"

"Nor should he had any MacLean been there!" Ella declared, glancing at her lover for approval; but, instead of the spirited confirmation she expected from him, his cheek reddened, and he turned away his head.

It shames me, Ella, to hear you championing our clan," he said in a voice of keenest feeling; "for one of our kin sat at that council board."

"I thought a coward was a stranger to the Clan MacLean," said Muriel, in surprise.

"Weeds may grow in any garden," Coll hastily intervened, lest his scornful niece should say things even harder for Hector MacLean to hear. "Never a MacLean that I knew but was over-brave. I'll stake my life it was none of the MacLeans of Brolas or Ardgour or Pennycross."

"No! It was Allen MacLean of the Ross of Mull."

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"So? I thought no craven would have been found as near the head of a Highland clan as Allen is. I never met him, but much I have heard of him in different ways, and little good."

"I saw him once in Edinburgh," said Muriel, "and liked him not. He is no true MacLean. His manner was more like a Lowland preacher's than an Islesman's. His voice was like the purring of a great sleek cat. I hate him! "

Hector MacLean smiled despite himself. "I scarce consider him worth hating. There was little of the sleek feline in his voice when last I heard it, for I quarrelled outright with him on the way from Edinburgh. Kenneth cannot bear him, but my father finds him useful to manage things when he and I are absent. Allen's head is straight enough if his heart is not."

"

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"For that matter, King's Councils are more affairs of head than heart," quoth Coll MacDonald. "What said St. Clair?" 'Brief words. False Scotland!' he cried, in bitter rage, and flung from the room. I met him as he left. He seemed in mortal agony, brushing aside the proudest courtiers as if they were but pages."

"False Scotland! Oh, the shame of it!"'

flashed in anger.

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Muriel's eyes

'How could he say it? It is not Scotland,

but the King's Council that is false."

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"The words are not St. Clair's but the Queen's," Hector answered. In her letter she said she did not blame her son but false Scotland.' Even with her the nation is made to suffer dishonour instead of that parcel of cowards-Lowlanders for the most part-more English than Scotch in feeling, and over cunning not to count the cost of everything. It is a bitter truth that every second man about the Court is sworn to the English Queen; and those that are not dare not speak their minds in public, lest they that hear be paid slaves of England. But Mar hinted darkly to me of some plan there is afoot among the friends of the Queen, for her enlargement."

"God grant it good success," cried Muriel.

"Amen!" the others answered in a breath, and there fell once more a silence over them.

Upon the sands beneath, a herd of cattle, returning to their pasture, moved leisurely along, leaving a broad, clear-marked trail. First one and then another raised a shaggy head, red or brown or black, and uttered a loud and long-sustained bellow. Up by the stream they came led by a noble bull, and slowly vanished among the sandhills, sending, as they went, scores of rabbits that had been basking on the links skurrying towards their homes.

Away at the water's edge, long-legged sea-birds running actively behind each retreating wave, seeking what food the sands could yield them, caught the eye of Muriel MacDonald. She rose to her feet.

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We have forgotten time, Hector, listening to your woeful tales of Scotland's Queen," she said. "See, the tide is almost at the turn."

Coll sprang up and led the horses from where he had tethered them, and soon four faces were set towards Dunyvaig.

The horses, fresh and mettlesome, broke into a gallop, and never slackened speed till they breasted the incline leading from the strand. Was it not glorious to race through the warm,

still air in a breeze of their own making? Upon the gentlyrising moorland track they galloped again, spurning the pebbles, crushing to swift death the snakes that basked along the way; till, as they crested the ridge, the calm glistening waters, that bound the southern shores of Islay, came into view.

Dunyvaig Castle was near at hand though still hidden from the riders, when a sudden gun shot, quickly followed by a second, startled the horses.

"The Chief is home," was the message those guns bore to all who heard; for Sir Angus MacDonald's home-coming alone was so signalled.

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All's well," was the good news they carried to the riders. The weeks of suspense were forgotten, fear and anxiety were banished from their minds.

Dunyvaig was now visible, now hidden, with every bend of the road by the shore till they reached Lagavulin Bay. There MacDonald's stronghold stood out clear and bold in its well-chosen position on a rocky peninsula, showing three fronts to the water. Its northern side faced the land. Southward it looked out over the restless sea; eastward and westward over the southern shores of Islay. It was a castle of vast strength, a place to chill the hearts of captives and defy assault. Above it a flag hung limp in the motionless air, and a cloud of smoke lingered about its battlements.

In the islanded bay, MacDonald's galley lay at rest, and in the fortress itself, the Chief was calling for his daughters. Little did Ella think, as she hastened to welcome him, that she was soon to hear what would drive Mary Stuart's troubles from her mind to make room for sorrows all her own.

CHAPTER VII

FROM THE KING

THE sun was setting, flooding the sky with colour, burnishing the smooth sea till it lay like a sheet of gold, reddening the Islay moors, glorifying all things, making the western windows of Dunyvaig blaze like so many flames. His parting beams fell round a monolith grey with the lichen of ages, which once formed part of an altar for his worship. This high stone, raised by the mighty men of old, was set on end in the moor-' land westward from Dunyvaig.

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