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A Legend of Montrose-Part25_WALTER SCOTT(1771-1832)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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While the stranger thus spoke, he withdrew the shade of a dark

lantern, by whose feeble light Dalgetty could only discern that



the speaker who had thus mysteriously united himself to their

company, and mixed in their conversation, was a tall man, dressed



in a livery cloak of the Marquis. His first glance was to his

feet, but he saw neither the cloven foot which Scottish legends



assign to the foul fiend, nor the horse's hoof by which he is

distinguished in Germany. His first enquiry was, how the



stranger had come among them?

"For," said he, "the creak of these rusty bars would have been



heard had the door been made patent; and if you passed through

the keyhole, truly, sir, put what face you will on it, you are



not fit to be enrolled in a regiment of living men."

"I reserve my secret," answered the stranger, "until you shall



merit the discovery by communicating to me some of yours. It may

be that I shall be moved to let you out where I myself came in."



"It cannot be through the keyhole, then," said Captain Dalgetty,

"for my corslet would stick in the passage, were it possible that



my head-piece could get through. As for secrets, I have none of

my own, and but few appertaining to others. But impart to us



what secrets you desire to know; or, as Professor Snufflegreek

used to say at the Mareschal-College, Aberdeen, speak that I may



know thee."

"It is not with you I have first to do," replied the stranger,



turning his light full on the mild and wasted features, and the

large limbs of the Highlander, Ranald MacEagh, who, close drawn



up against the walls of the dungeon, seemed yet uncertain whether

his guest was a living being.



"I have brought you something, my friend," said the stranger, in

a more soothing tone, "to mend your fare; if you are to die to-



morrow, it is no reason wherefore you should not live to-night."

"None at all--no reason in the creation," replied the ready



Captain Dalgetty, who forthwith began to unpack the contents of a

small basket which the stranger had brought under his cloak,



while the Highlander, either in suspicion or disdain, paid no

attention to the good cheer.



"Here's to thee, my friend," said the Captain, who, having

already dispatched a huge piece of roasted kid, was now taking a



pull at the wine-flask. "What is thy name, my good friend?"

"Murdoch Campbell, sir," answered the servant, "a lackey of the



Marquis of Argyle, and occasionallyacting as under-warden."

"Then here is to thee once more, Murdoch," said Dalgetty,



"drinking to you by your proper name for the better luck sake.

This wine I take to be Calcavella. Well, honest Murdoch, I take



it on me to say, thou deservest to be upper-warden, since thou

showest thyself twenty times better acquainted with the way of



victualling honest gentlemen that are under misfortune, than thy

principal. Bread and water? out upon him! It was enough,



Murdoch, to destroy the credit of the Marquis's dungeon. But I

see you would converse with my friend, Ranald MacEagh here. Never



mind my presence; I'll get me into this corner with the basket,

and I will warrant my jaws make noise enough to prevent my ears



from hearing you."

Notwithstanding this promise, however, the veteran listened with



all the attention he could to gather their discourse, or, as he

described it himself, "laid his ears back in his neck, like



Gustavus, when he heard the key turn in the girnell-kist." He

could, therefore, owing to the narrowness of the dungeon, easily



overhear the following dialogue.

"Are you aware, Son of the Mist," said the Campbell, "that you



will never leave this place excepting for the gibbet?"

"Those who are dearest to me," answered MacEagh, "have trode that



path before me."

"Then you would do nothing," asked the visitor, "to shun



following them?"

The prisoner writhed himself in his chains before returning an



answer.

"I would do much," at length he said; "not for my own life, but



for the sake of the pledge in the glen of Strath-Aven."

"And what would you do to turn away the bitterness of the hour?"



again demanded Murdoch; "I care not for what cause ye mean to

shun it."






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