Whose mind’s so marbled, and his heart so hard,

That would not, when this huge mishap was heard,

To th’ utmost note of sorrow set their song,

To see a gallant, with so great a grace,

So suddenly unthought on, so o’erthrown,

And so to perish, in so poor a place,

By too rash riding in a ground unknown!

POEM, IN NISBET’S Heraldry, vol. ii.

WE have anticipated the course of time to mention Bucklaw’s recovery and fate, that we might not interrupt the detail of events which succeeded the funeral of the unfortunate Lucy Ashton. This melancholy ceremony was performed in the misty dawn of an autumnal morning, with such moderate attendance and ceremony as could not possibly be dispensed with. A very few of the nearest relations attended her body to the same churchyard to which she had so lately been led as a bride, with as little free will, perhaps, as could be now testified by her lifeless and passive remains. An aisle adjacent to the church had been fitted up by Sir William Ashton as a family cemetery; and here, in a coffin bearing neither name nor date, were consigned to dust the remains of what was once lovely, beautiful, and innocent, though exasperated to frenzy by a long tract of unremitting persecution.

While the mourners were busy in the vault, the three village hags, who, notwithstanding the unwonted earliness of the hour, had snuffed the carrion like vultures, were seated on the “through-stane,” and engaged in their wonted unhallowed conference.

“Did not I say,” said Dame Gourlay, “that the braw bridal would be followed by as braw a funeral?”

“I think,” answered Dame Winnie, “there’s little bravery at it: neither meat nor drink, and just a wheen silver tippences to the poor folk; it was little worth while to come sae far a road for sae sma’ profit, and us sae frail.”

“Out, wretch!” replied Dame Gourlay, “can a’ the dainties they could gie us be half sae sweet as this hour’s vengeance? There they are that were capering on their prancing nags four days since, and they are now ganging as dreigh and sober as oursells the day. They were a’ glistening wi’ gowd and silver; they’re now as black as the crook. And Miss Lucy Ashton, that grudged when an honest woman came near her — a taid may sit on her coffin that day, and she can never scunner when he croaks. And Lady Ashton has hell-fire burning in her breast by this time; and Sir William, wi’ his gibbets, and his faggots, and his chains, how likes he the witcheries of his ain dwelling-house?”

“And is it true, then,” mumbled the paralytic wretch, “that the bride was trailed out of her bed and up the chimly by evil spirits, and that the bridegroom’s face was wrung round ahint him?”

“Ye needna care wha did it, or how it was done,” said Aislie Gourlay; “but I’ll uphaud it for nae stickit job, and that the lairds and leddies ken weel this day.”

“And was it true,” said Annie Winnie, “sin ye ken sae muckle about it, that the picture of auld Sir Malise Ravenswood came down on the ha’ floor, and led out the brawl before them a’?”

“Na,” said Ailsie; “but into the ha’ came the picture — and I ken weel how it came there — to gie them a warning that pride wad get a fa’. But there’s as queer a ploy, cummers, as ony o’ thae, that’s gaun on even now in the burial vault yonder: ye saw twall mourners, wi’ crape and cloak, gang down the steps pair and pair!”

“What should ail us to see them?” said the one old woman.

“I counted them,” said the other, with the eagerness of a person to whom the spectacle had afforded too much interest to be viewed with indifference.

“But ye did not see,” said Ailsie, exulting in her superior observation, “that there’s a thirteenth amang them that they ken naething about; and, if auld freits say true, there’s ane o’ that company that’ll no be lang for this warld. But come awa’ cummers; if we bide here, I’se warrant we get the wyte o’ whatever ill comes of it, and that gude will come of it nane o’ them need ever think to see.”

And thus, croaking like the ravens when they anticipate pestilence, the ill-boding sibyls withdrew from the churchyard.

In fact, the mourners, when the service of interment was ended, discovered that there was among them one more than the invited number, and the remark was communicated in whispers to each other. The suspicion fell upon a figure which, muffled in the same deep mourning with the others, was reclined, almost in a state of insensibility, against one of the pillars of the sepulchral vault. The relatives of the Ashton family were expressing in whispers their surprise and displeasure at the intrusion, when they were interrupted by Colonel Ashton, who, in his father’s absence, acted as principal mourner. “I know,” he said in a whisper, “who this person is, he has, or shall soon have, as deep cause of mourning as ourselves; leave me to deal with him, and do not disturb the ceremony by unnecessary exposure.” So saying, he separated himself from the group of his relations, and taking the unknown mourner by the cloak, he said to him, in a tone of suppressed emotion, “Follow me.”

The stranger, as if starting from a trance at the sound of his voice, mechanically obeyed, and they ascended the broken ruinous stair which led from the sepulchre into the churchyard. The other mourners followed, but remained grouped together at the door of the vault, watching with anxiety the motions of Colonel Ashton and the stranger, who now appeared to be in close conference beneath the shade of a yew-tree, in the most remote part of the burial-ground.

To this sequestered spot Colonel Ashton had guided the stranger, and then turning round, addressed him in a stern and composed tone.—“I cannot doubt that I speak to the Master of Ravenswood?” No answer was returned. “I cannot doubt,” resumed the Colonel, trembling with rising passion, “that I speak to the murderer of my sister!”

“You have named me but too truly,” said Ravenswood, in a hollow and tremulous voice.

“If you repent what you have done,” said the Colonel, “may your penitence avail you before God; with me it shall serve you nothing. Here,” he said, giving a paper, “is the measure of my sword, and a memorandum of the time and place of meeting. Sunrise tomorrow morning, on the links to the east of Wolf’s Hope.”

The Master of Ravenswood held the paper in his hand, and seemed irresolute. At length he spoke —“Do not,” he said, “urge to farther desperation a wretch who is already desperate. Enjoy your life while you can, and let me seek my death from another.”

“That you never, never shall!” said Douglas Ashton. “You shall die by my hand, or you shall complete the ruin of my family by taking my life. If you refuse my open challenge, there is no advantage I will not take of you, no indignity with which I will not load you, until the very name of Ravenswood shall be the sign of everything that is dishonourable, as it is already of all that is villainous.”

“That it shall never be,” said Ravenswood, fiercely; “if I am the last who must bear it, I owe it to those who once owned it that the name shall be extinguished without infamy. I accept your challenge, time, and place of meeting. We meet, I presume, alone?”

“Alone we meet,” said Colonel Ashton, “and alone will the survivor of us return from that place of rendezvous.”

“Then God have mercy on the soul of him who falls!” said Ravenswood.

“So be it!” said Colonel Ashton; “so far can my charity reach even for the man I hate most deadly, and with the deepest reason. Now, break off, for we shall be interrupted. The links by the sea-shore to the east of Wolf’s Hope; the hour, sunrise; our swords our only weapons.”

“Enough,” said the Master, “I will not fail you.”

They separated; Colonel Ashton joining the rest of the mourners, and the Master of Ravenswood taking his horse, which was tied to a tree behind the church. Colonel Ashton returned to the castle with the funeral guests, but found a pretext for detaching himself from them in the evening, when, changing his dress to a riding-habit, he rode to Wolf’s Hope, that night, and took up his abode in the little inn, in order that he might be ready for his rendezvous in the morning.

It is not known how the Master of Ravenswood disposed of the rest of that unhappy day. Late at night, however, he arrived at Wolf’s Crag, and aroused his old domestic, Caleb Balderstone, who had ceased to expect his return. Confused and flying rumours of the late tragical death of Miss Ashton, and of its mysterious cause, had already reached the old man, who was filled with the utmost anxiety, on account of the probable effect these events might produce upon the mind of his ............