The Scottish Cavalier: An Historical Romance, Volume 2 (of 3)Grant, James
History
The Scottish Cavalier: An Historical Romance, Volume 2 (of 3)
Grant, James
Scotland -- History -- 1649-1660 -- Fiction
The deep bark of a watchdog in some lonely cot made him start at
times, as it echoed among the copsewood; so did every distant sound,
and every peculiar shadow attracted his scrutiny. He kept his
sword-hilt ever at hand. Perilous to all, the times were especially
so to the soldiery, whose duties, dictated by the tyranny of the
Council, and the mistaken bigotry of James VII., made them obnoxious
to all--but more so to the oppressed Covenanters, whose vengeance and
hatred had been terribly evinced on several occasions.
It was the patrician regiment of Claverhouse they more particularly
reviled and abhorred; and several of his reckless cavaliers had
perished by the most villanous assassination. One was actually shot
dead in open day in the streets of Edinburgh; and soldiers were often
barbarously murdered in their solitary billets in the country. The
indiscriminate ferocity with which the guilty districts were
invariably scourged for those outrages, served but to make matters
worse. It has been remarked by some one, that though there were laws
for everything in Scotland, even to the shape of a woman's hood,
still it remained the most lawless kingdom in Europe.
Walter knew that his only personal enemy was Lord Clermistonlee, yet
every sound kept him on the qui vive, and interrupted the gayer
visions of his fancy, and his happy anticipations of the morrow, when
he had made an appointment to escort Lilian to the Castlehill and
Luckenbooths, then the favourite promenades of the loungers of the
time.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FENCING LESSON.
HOST. What say you to young Master Fenton? he capers, he dances, he
hath the eye of youth, he writes verses, he smells April and May; he
will carry't, he will carry't; 'tis in his buttons; he will carry't.
PAGE. Not by my consent, I promise you!
MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.
With the fumes of a late debauch still obscuring his faculties,
Clermistonlee sat next morning with his head reclined on his hand,
and breakfast before him, but untasted. His lordship was in a
decidedly bad humour. It was the 22nd of June, and he had been early
aroused by the cannon of the castle and the citadel of Leith saluting
in honour of the anniversary of the victory at Bothwell; and the deep
boom of the artillery, as they pealed over the city, drew many a
groan from the burning hearts of the subdued faction.
The morning was beautiful; a thin gauzy mist was curling up from the
loch, and rolling round the green foliage of the Trinity Park, and
the sable rocks of the Calton.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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