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Student Name: __________________
Class and Section __________________
Total Points (20 pts) __________________
Due: August 29, 2016 before the class

Project: Locker Puzzle

Armstrong Atlantic State University

Problem Description:
A school has 100 lockers and 100 students. All lockers are closed on the first day of
school. As the students enter, the first student, denoted S1, opens every locker. Then the
second student, S2, begins with the second locker, denoted L2, and closes every other
locker. Student S3 begins with the third locker and changes every third locker (closes it if
it was open, and opens it if it was closed). Student S4 begins with locker L4 and changes
every fourth locker. Student S5 starts with L5 and changes every fifth locker, and so on,
until student S100 changes L100.

After all the students have passed through the building and changed the lockers, which
lockers are open? Write a program to find your answer.

(Hint: Use an array of 100 Boolean elements, each of which indicates whether a locker is
open (true) or closed (false). Initially, all lockers are closed.)

Analysis:
(Describe the problem including input and output in your own words.)

Design:
(Describe the major steps for solving the problem.)

1
Coding: (Copy and Paste Source Code here. Format your code using Courier 10pts)

Testing: (Describe how you test this program)

Submit the following items:

1. Print this Word file and Submit to me before the class on the due day

2. Compile, Run, and Submit to LiveLab as Exercise7_15 (you must submit the program
regardless whether it complete or incomplete, correct or incorrect)

Solution:

#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

int main()
{
// Declare a constant value for the number of lockers
const int NUMBER_OF_LOCKER = 100;

// Create an array to store the status of each array

2
 // The first student closes all lockers
bool lockers[NUMBER_OF_LOCKER];
for (int i = 0; i < NUMBER_OF_LOCKER; i++) {
lockers[i] = false;
}

// Each student changes the lockers

for (int j = 1; j <= NUMBER_OF_LOCKER; j++) {
// Student Sj changes every jth clocker
// starting from the lockers[j - 1].
for (int i = j - 1; i < NUMBER_OF_LOCKER; i += j) {
lockers[i] = !lockers[i];
}
}

// Finds which one is open

for (int i = 0; i < NUMBER_OF_LOCKER; i++) {
if (lockers[i])
cout << "Locker " << (i + 1) << " is open" << endl;
}

return 0;
}

3
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left arms, in honour of my memory. Even the standard poles had the same
grim livery, which was very gratifying to me; as men have seldom an
opportunity of beholding the respect paid to their memory when defunct.

"Tell me, Ian," said I, when the congratulations had a little subsided;
"has Ernestine heard the rumour of my death?"

"She believes you to be a prisoner in Kiel."

"And these confounded badges of crape—for whom does she believe

they are worn?"

"For the Duke of Pomerania, as I told her."

"But old Bagislaus IV. is not dead."

"It matters not—his name was the first that occurred to me."

"Ah! pray, Ian, go—or send some one to say that I am safe—that I am
here, and in a few minutes will be by her side."

"Dioul! why not go yourself?"

"I dread the excess of joy——"

"Excess of joy never killed any one, whatever excess of grief may do.
Ah! if you only loved yourself half so well as you love this dark-eyed
woman——"

"Or as you love Moina," retorted I; for Ian, though he really admired
Ernestine, and considered it a duty to love her as his own kinswoman, had
never been altogether able to overcome his first prejudices against her
foreign taint, as he called her German accent and her Spanish blood.

"Moina dwells by Kilchiuman," said he, "and her eyes have never looked
on other hills than those whose shadows darken the waters of the Oich and
Garry. Moina is a daughter of the old race; she has no foreign blood in her
veins, or strange accents on her tongue."
 "But Ernestine is your natural-born kinswoman, and Moina is not."

"My kinswoman!—well, so she is—blood is warmer than water, and by

the Cairn na cuimihne!" said he, tossing up his bonnet, "I would march to
the cannon's mouth for her; but it is a devil of a pity her mother was a
stranger—a Spaniard."

"Nay, I think it has been a great improvement on the old Rollo blood; for
I am sure that two such beautiful dark eyes were never seen in the old
Tower at Cromartie; but while we chatter here like a couple of pyets, poor
Kœningheim is enduring, I fear me, the agonies of death."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE DYING SOLDIER.

The count had been conveyed on board of the Anna Catharina, where
Dr. Pennicuik examined his wound, and at once declared him to be past all
recovery.

As I have much to relate, instead of impertinently thrusting any more

love scenes before the reader, I must beseech him or her to imagine all my
meeting with Ernestine, and to believe that the keen sense of joy which the
poor girl experienced on beholding me again, was considerably abated and
tempered by the terrible plight in which her father's oldest and best friend
was brought on board of the king's ship.

Phadrig knocked at the cabin door, and with the most soldier-like
unconcern announced that the count was dying, and required my presence.
Ernestine burst into tears, and threw herself upon her knees to pray, while I
hurried along the lower deck (breaking my shins against stray shot, coils of
rope, and buckets of wadding) to reach the poor and comfortless berth, in
which one of the bravest spirits that ever endued with life a Scottish breast
was hovering between Eternity and Time.

As I went into the little cabin, the doctor was coming softly and slowly
out, with the air of a man who could do no more. His sleeves were tucked
up, and his hands were covered with blood.

"Doctor!" said I; he shook his head, and passed on.

Swinging by a rusty chain from a beam of the main deck, an iron lamp
lighted the scene I am about to describe. Its smoky and sickly radiance shed
a wavering and yellow gloom on the sloping walls of dark Memel wood,
the strong transverse beams, the knotty planks, and iron bolts of the ship; on
the brass culverins, which were laid alongside the closed parts, the
rammers, spunges, and other et cetera, beside them; and on the poor pallet
spread on the cabin floor, whereon lay Kœningheim, breathing heavily; his
features ghastly, and sharpened by pain and loss of blood, and contrasting
by their pallor with the blackness of his mustaches and hair, the long
cavalier locks of which were scattered over the pillow like those of a girl.
His eyes were closed. His fine manly neck and breast were bare, save where
the latter was crossed by a bandage, from beneath which the blood was
oozing.

Several officers were standing near; Danes in red dresses; Dutchmen in

yellow; and two of ours—these were Kildon and Culcraigie, who were as
soldier-like as their weatherbeaten visages, grizzled beards, and picturesque
costume—steel cuirasses and buff coats laced with silver—could make
them. They stood placidly waiting until the poor Scoto-Imperialist should
die.

Though I trod lightly, his ear detected the sound as I entered, and knelt
down by his side.

"Ah!" said he, opening his eyes; "it is you—I had almost forgotten; but
for this exquisite agony I could imagine that a sleep was coming over me. It
is the sleep, Rollo—the drowsy sleep—of death!"
 I took his hand in mine; alas! it was cold and clammy. "Count
Kœningheim, you wished to speak with me."

"I have something to tell you," said he; "something which I do not wish
others to hear."

I looked at Kildon and the group who stood with him; they immediately
retired on tiptoe, and closed the cabin door. I was left alone with the dying
man, who seemed to be considerably relieved by their absence, and said—

"I will see them all once more; but give me that cup again—the wine-
and-water—thank you."

The draught revived him, and he said with a bitter smile—

"After all my fighting and all my battles, I die in my bed, like other
people."

"Scarcely, Kœningheim, with that frightful wound."

"I was not always, as you may suppose, Albert Count of Kœningheim,"
said he with an effort, and a voice that trembled. "At home, in that dear land
I never more shall see, I was but Habbie Cunninghame of the Boortree-
haugh, a name which many in the north of Scotland must remember—but,
alas! with abhorrence and reprobation. Yet, if you knew all—you would
pity me."

He paused, and seemed to be gathering his thoughts; and, as he did so,

an expression of dark despair and agony stole over his beautiful face—for it
was beautiful in its supreme manliness.

"You may know what it is to feel love, and I have felt it too—and rage
and hatred; but you can never have known what it is to feel, as I now do, the
horrors of remorse. Oh, may you never, never know it!" He grasped my
hand convulsively, and fixed upon me his dark and agonized eyes. "I would
rather wish that even my worst enemy should die, than do as I have done—
and endure what I have endured!..... Never until this hour have I told my
secret to any one; it has been locked in my own breast. I have had none to
whom I could confide it, or in whose presence I might without shame shed
a tear. Laughter, sleep, drunkenness, the bottle, any thing was welcome, that
would make me forget myself; for to be in solitude—to be left for one
moment to reflection—was to be in—horror! and thus for thirty years I
have borne grief, rankling like a poisoned arrow in my heart."

"Can this be the lion-hearted soldier of the Empire!" thought I.

"I am a murderer—I have been an assassin!" said he, in a low and

terrible whisper; "do you not shrink from me?" His eyes closed, for they
were full of tears, and thus he did not see the startled expression of my face.
"Tears—tears! oh, that they fell on her grave! but do not shrink from me,"
he continued. "(I feel your hand relaxing.) I deserve your pity—rather than
your scorn. Ah, yes!—if you knew all—if you only knew all! I have been
bad—I have been passionate—wilful—obstinate—imperious! but not for
many a long, long year."

"Do not, I beseech you, add to the agonies of the present, by recalling
the bitterness of the past."

He was sinking rapidly; the slow, heavy, and painful effort of respiration
increased; his lower jaw quivered at times, and then his eye remained fixed,
even when he was addressing me. Never, but in the eyes of the dying, is that
wild, imploring, and unearthly glance visible. They seemed larger than
usual; brighter and more glistening. On closer examination, I was surprised
to find that, since the shot had struck him, he looked much older. Since
yesterday his hair had actually become grizzled, and his whole aspect was
that of a man bordering on fifty years of age.

"Is it not strange," said he, "that all the old Scottish prayers my poor
mother taught me when a child—prayers which I have never remembered
since—are crowding on my mind to-night, and hovering on my tongue,
with many of her pious and simple thoughts, just as if her voice had uttered
them yesterday, though the flowers of thirty summers have bloomed upon
her grave? Those prayers, to me so meaningless when I was a wee an' wilfu'
tot, find a terrible echo in my heart to-night——"
 "Sensibility," said he, after a long pause, "is often a source of the deepest
unhappiness. I have eaten and drunken; I have sung and roistered among
my comrades—and that passed for mirth, for they knew not my inner heart,
and the source of secret sorrow within me. I have often been glad to escape
from present thought by rushing into revelry, leaving to the future those
mental reproaches that revel was sure to cost me...... I can now look back
with pity and contempt on that devil-may-care exterior, which threw a thin
veil over my remorse."

He paused frequently, and his voice sometimes died away; but the night
wind, which blew through a chink of an adjacent gunport, re-animated him
from time to time.

"Oh! in an hour like this, how awful it seems to see behind me the
remembrance of a life misspent, and before me the dim and shadowy future
—the horrors—the ages—the uncounted ages of eternity! Oh, yes!" he
continued in a voice that was weaker, and broken by many a convulsive
sob; "the assumption of a reckless military character humiliated me.
Ernestine—poor Ernestine! when I am no more, and she has read these
papers, will see how unworthy I have been of the honour her good father
intended for me."

With hands that trembled, and frequently failed in their office, he drew
from his breast a small horn case about three inches square. It was
suspended to his neck by a slender chain of steel; and, opening it, he
showed me that it was a book, containing some thirty-five or forty pages,
closely filled with writing in a small and distinct hand.

"Take this," said he; "it is the story—the sad secret—of my life. It is,
moreover, a memorandum of all I possess, which I leave equally between
Ernestine and Gabrielle. I have three estates, two in poor old Scotland, (the
best blessings of God and Saint Andrew be on it!) I have a third at Vienna;
but I am the last of my race, and have left these girls, whom I have loved as
sisters—all—every thing!"

He gave me the volume, which was stained with his blood, (and had
been bruised by the death-shot in its passage through his breast,) and then
sank back exhausted. A violent shivering passed over his features; I thought
he was about to expire, and was hurrying to summon aid, when he rallied,
and again begged (what he had thrice before implored) that a Catholic
clergyman might be brought to him; but there was no such person to be
found either on board the Anna Catharina, or within cannon-shot of the
Danish posts. This was a source of terrible affliction to poor Kœningheim,
who belonged to the ancient faith; and his moans of mental agony were
greater than those conduced by the pain of his wound.

After being informed by the weeping Ernestine that all hope of obtaining
a priest was over, he never spoke again, but expired just as the ship's bell
uttered the first stroke of midnight.

It was a scene that I shall long remember. The yellow gleam of the
murky lamp that swung from the deck above; the grim and comfortless
cabin, with its starboard cannon; the blood-stained pallet, and the grim
corpse that lay upon it, stiffening into the cold, white, and marble rigidity of
death. No near or dear hand was there to do the last act of kindness, so his
eyes were closed by me. On her knees near the pallet was Ernestine, in tears
and prayer—young, beautiful, and with many years before her; while the
remains of that gallant and noble, but unhappy and remorse-stricken man,
were now only a breathless piece of clay.

To draw Ernestine away from this sad scene; to occupy her mind; to
gratify my own anxiety and curiosity to learn the story of poor
Kœningheim, that crime—the terrible memory of which had haunted him
through life, which had clouded the brilliancy of his achievements and the
splendour of his rank, shedding a horror and a bitterness over his dying
hour—I led her into the great cabin, which the royal kindness of Christian
had surrendered to her use; and there—after the pause of an hour or so—we
examined together the little manuscript book, and read it by turns; for I had
but a short time to tarry, as honour and duty required that I should repair to
my colours, and command my company in the redoubt upon the shore.

Written as sudden impulses of thought inspired, and in detached pieces,

but written with the faint hope that it might fall into the hands of some kind
comrade or pitying friend, the little secret manuscript of Kœningheim (or
Halbert Cunninghame) was a very remarkable—and to me interesting—
production; but as the story might seem incoherent as he narrated it, I have
told it here partly in my own way, and have used the second person,
whereas he wrote in the first. The chances that it would never have met a
human eye, were as a hundred to one; for it might have been plundered
from him on some field of battle by a dead-stripper, or have been buried
with him there; and then the secret of his life would have been hidden with
him in his bloody and unknown grave.

Much that he relates is part of our Scottish history.

His account of the battle of Glenlivat is among the most succinct and
correct I have seen; and, to preserve the unity of the whole, I have placed
the secret history of the Count in the Tenth Book of my narrative, instead of
an appendix, as I first intended. It shews the terrible circumstances by
which he was forced to fly his native country, and seek service and shelter
in foreign armies—and, as an outlaw and outcast, to change even his name,
lest some of the many Scotsmen who, as soldiers of Fortune, followed the
great princes of the German war, might discover him, and remember the
dark blot by which, in a fatal moment of recklessness and passion, he had
brought ruin and dishonour upon an ancient race and venerated name.

CHAPTER XXII.

COUNT KŒNINGHEIM'S STORY—THE LILY OF

CULBLEINE.

Few kirkyards in Scotland are more solemn or pleasing in aspect, or

more romantically situated, than that of Logie, which lies four miles from
the river Dee, in the parish of Logie-colstaine, in Aberdeenshire. It once
surrounded the kirk of St. Woloc, the bishop and confessor; but every
vestige of that ancient fane has now disappeared from the little mound of
rich holm land, that rises above the small hills and broad muirs of the
district, and from the bosom of which flows a miraculous spring called the
Poldow, which yet enjoys a high reputation among the peasantry, for the
cures it has wrought since the days when the good bishop blessed it, and
rested from his pious labours in Strathdon, Balvenie, and Mar.

On the holm of Logie Kirk, the mouldering tombs, the old headstones—
green with moss, or half sunk among the long dog-grass and broad-leaved
dockens—the hedges that in summer are white with blossoms of the
fragrant hawthorn, and one old gnarled yew, are all indicative of its being
an ancient burial-ground. Here and there a broad throchstone, resting on
four stunted balusters, spotted by grey lichens, and covered with letters half
defaced by mischief or by time, yet remain to indicate where some valiant
Knight of Cromar or Laird of the Garioch are lying; while the almost
flattened mounds, the small round headstones with unpretending and
unlettered fronts, taken perhaps from the bed of the adjacent burn, remain to
shew where many a shepherd, patient, poor and God-fearing, and many a
brave forester of Culbleine, who hacked and hewed, burned and shot as his
laird or leader commanded him; harrying the lands of the Gordons to-day,
and besieging the towers of the Leslies to-morrow—with many a bien
bonnet laird, stern in purpose, unflinching as Brutus, and true to Scotland's
kirk and king—yea, true as the steel of his good broadsword—are
mouldering, or have mouldered into dust.

Rest them, God!

On the green velvet bank which slopes up from a little tributary of the
Davinloch—a place where the winter grass grows rank, but where the white
daisies spot the summer turf—are two long gravestones lying side by side,
and somewhat apart from all the rest.

They cover the graves of two lovers.

Every person who passes through Cromar (as that part of Aberdeenshire
is named) is taken to see them, for there is a sad story connected with them
—a story which, to this hour, throws an occasional dash of sentimentality
over the village girls and bonneted ploughmen, and which was long the
theme of many a sad and many a dirge-like song. One of those stones was
inscribed with a legend which I cannot give here, as Kœningheim's
handwriting became so tremulous as to be illegible. On the other is carved a
Scottish sword, with the words:

Heir Lyis Kenneth Logie—ane honorabill man.

The history of these sequestered tombs, is the history of Kœningheim's

misfortunes and his crime.

————

In the sixteenth century, nearly the whole property of the now

suppressed parish of Logie, in Mar, belonged to two families, the Gordons
of Colstaine, and the Donaldsons of Culbleine—a vast forest. The dwelling
of the former, named the Moat of Colstaine, was a strong square fortalice,
surrounded by a barbican wall, which stood in the midst of a morass, not far
from the little kirkyard holm which I have just described. A river (now
shrunk to a runnel) washed this barbican on one side; a wet ditch defended
it on the other.

The residence of the Donaldsons was an old Scottish manor-house or

Place, having grated windows with loopholed-sills, vaulted apartments, and
turrets at the angles. It stood among some fine old sycamores and oaks, on
the moorland; and now my reader's eye may rest on the three leading
features of the parish of Logie, as they appeared in the year of grace 1594;
the grey old kirk of St. Woloc, with its graves dotting the green holm, its
buttressed wall begirt with hawthorn hedges, and shaded by dark yew-trees,
where the gled croaked by day and the owl screamed by night; lower down
on the waterside, the strong tower with its broad chimneys and stone roofs,
its grated casements and corbelled rampart; the great dule-tree before its
gate—an ash that was seldom without its "tassel," in the shape of a thief
from the south, or a Forbes hung in his boots, as the good people phrased it
then; the old baronial manor on the lea, half hidden among dark green
copsewood, with the smoke of its hall and spence, kitchen, bake and
brewhouses ascending into the air.
 In those days, the minister of the Kirk, the gudeman of the Place, and the
laird of the Tower, were the three undoubted dignitaries of the parish; and
when we remember that it was an age when the minister was (in his own
estimation) a greater man than ever Cardinal Beaton dared to be; when the
gudeman brought four-and-eighty horsemen, "weel boden in effeir of war,"
to the sheriff's quarterly Weaponshow; and that the laird marched thrice that
number, and had moreover the power of sending half the country-side to pit
or gallows, it must be allowed that the power of these three potentates in
1594, was infinitely greater than that enjoyed now by the Premier Duke of
Scotland.

Let us go back twenty years.

In the year 1574, when our story opens, the family at the Tower
consisted of the Lady Marjorie and her son, a boy of five or six years of
age. His father had been seized by one of those fits of wandering, which so
frequently possessed the Scottish noblesse of that and after times; and, with
two hundred stout pikemen, he had joined the Border legion of Sir Walter
Scott of Buccleugh, and died in his armour fighting—not for religion, as the
laird, honest man! cared very little about that—but for honour and glory, on
the walls of Namur. Some domestic quarrel—a sudden fit of spleen at his
lady—was urged in the parish as the reason of his departing from his quiet
little tower among the moors of Cromar, to fight the ferocious Spaniards
under Ferdinand of Toledo; for though Dame Marjorie was a stanch
Catholic (being a daughter of Halbert Cunninghame of the Boortree-haugh
in Glencairn), the laird had heard Knox preach in his youth, and thought he
was a Calvinist. Thus it was a dreich and doleful day, when a startled
servitor of the Tower announced in the morning that a branch had been
found at the foot of the dule-tree which overshadowed the gate.

Whenever a Gordon of Colstaine died, this old tree, like the oak of
Dalhousie, dropped one of its loftiest branches.

There was sore mourning in the solitary tower, for by that mysterious
warning the lady knew she was a widow, and that the father of her little boy
had fallen, fighting against her faith and the creed of his ancestors; but for
many a month no certain tidings came from that land, which has been so
often the grave of the Scottish soldier, until Jock of the Cleugh, a pikeman
who had followed the laird, came limping up to the barbican gate, with a
light purse and heavy heart, and a tattered doublet, to tell Lady Marjorie
how he had been one of that brave Border band, who had laid her husband
in his narrow bed before the gate of Sainte Alban.

Old Jock of the Cleugh went no further than the Moat of Colstaine; for
he deposited his crutches by the hall fire, and from thenceforward became
one of the principal personages in the household, though he spent his whole
time in drinking usquebaugh, flourishing his staff, and rehearsing tales of
the laird's prowess and his own, and the valiant deeds of the Scottish
Borderers, the bulwark of Flanders, and terror of the Spaniards. He taught
the stable-boys many a point of farriery they had never known before, and
the trenchermen many a trick with the dice, by which, however, they always
lost, and he always won; but he shewed them how to pick the lock of the
butler's pantry, to broach wine-casks without drawing the spigot; to train
hawks, and to tell fortunes on cards; but his principal pupil was young
Halbert Gordon, the son and heir of his umquhile leader. Partaking less of
his mother's gentle nature, than his father's lofty spirit, the boy was froward,
passionate, and bold; and thus, by the time he was ten years of age, Jock of
the Cleugh, who found him an apt scholar, had quite unfitted the little
fellow for living a quiet life, or adopting a peaceable avocation.

He had taught him to ride the wildest horses in the barony without bridle
or saddle, and at full speed; he had taught him to handle a sword twice the
length of himself, and to discharge a deadly shot, with arblast or arquebuse
—to scour armour, sharpen blades, cast bullets, and make up bandoliers of
powder. But there were many other features in the education acquired from
this wooden-legged preceptor, which were more exceptionable; for he
learned to drink "to a bluidy war," in a tass of raw usquebaugh, without
once winking; to make faces at Mr. Jowlar during sermon, to steal his
apples, and shoot his hens; to "cock his eye" at the dairymaid, and swear a
few round oaths in High Dutch or Low Country Spanish, which had the
double advantage of being more expressive than our plain Scottish, and less
expensive, being evasions of the act by which swearers and banners come
under the claws of the kirk-session; in short, under the tutelage of this old,
one-legged and one-eyed, red-visaged, hard-drinking, swearing and
storming veteran of the Flemish wars, young Halbert Gordon grew up a
little desperado; and, as he increased in years, his ferocious disposition, and
dangerous skill in using his hands, made him the aversion of all the young
lairds, his companions, and a source of secret fear to all the little ladies in
the neighbourhood.

The family of Donaldson at the Forest, consisted also of a widow, whose

husband had left her with one daughter, the heiress of the old manor and all
its pertinents. With her there also dwelt the son of a deceased sister, little
Kenneth Logie, a poor and penniless orphan, who had no home save that
which his kind aunt offered him; for his father, a ruined laird of Cromar,
had fallen in a raid between the Earl of Mar and the Forbeses.

Isolated as those widows were in that sequestered district, there was no

intercourse between them, and no community of feeling. The lady of the
Moat was a strict Catholic, though her husband had fought against the gory
banner of the Castiyador of Flanders. In her girlhood, she had heard Abbot
Quentin Kennedy preach; and her father had seen the body of the great
cardinal, hung naked and bleeding from the battlements of St. Andrews.

The lady of the Forest, the widow of umquhile John Donaldson, was a
rigid Calvinist, and looking upon all Catholics with due aversion, gave the
lady of the moated tower the utmost possible space when they met at the
weaponshows, the burrow-town market, or on the horse way, lest their
fardingales should touch; for each thought there was more than mortal
contamination in the person of the other. The Calvinist was "a heretic;" the
Catholic "an idolater;" and yet the poor for thirty miles round were wont to
aver, that two women more beneficent, gentle-hearted, and amiable, within
their own domestic circles, than the ladies of the Tower and Forest, could
not be found in the kingdom of Scotland. The mischievous fulminations of
the Reverend Maister Jowlar, the parish pastor, on one hand, and those of
Father Ogilvie (a wandering priest of the Scottish mission), on the other,
had left nothing undone to foster this unhappy state of local politics, and
their adverse advices fanned the flames of discord, till the aversion and
jealousy of the two brocaded and high-heeled dames extended downward
through all their dependants. Thus we can compare the two estates of
Colstaine and Culbleine only to two countries—a Catholic and a Protestant
—in a state of watchfulness, and prepared for instant war. Very little would
have brought the "heretics and idolaters" to blows; for if old Jock of the
Cleugh with his wooden-leg, was ready to advance at the head of the
Catholics, from the mosses and moorlands, on one side; the aged butler of
Culbleine, who had shouldered a pike in 1559, and lost an eye at the
memorable siege of Leith (fighting against M. d'Essé Epainvilliers, colonel-
general of the French infantry in the service of the Scottish queen), was
ready, on the other, to march at the head of the Calvinists; thus it required
all the terror of the sheriff and his deputies to keep peace in the parish
between the rival powers. But there were three little personages in this
community, who, for a time at least, had no share in those religious
heartburnings.

These were the little heiress of the Forest, her cousin, Kenneth Logie,
and Halbert Gordon of the Tower. When Lily Donaldson was ten, and the
boys two years older, they had frequently met in their rambles, and by
meeting became playmates. Little Lily had bright blue eyes, and fair hair;
she was light, happy, smiling, and seemed like a beautiful fairy—though
there never was a fairy, so round, so noisy, and so full of fun and laughter;
but Kenneth was a grave and quiet boy, with a mild eye and gentle voice, a
pale and thoughtful brow.

Old people were wont to tap him on the head, and say he was like his
mother.

Then Kenneth would bend his calm inquiring eyes on theirs, and wonder
what like this mother was; for he had never known any other parent than the
mother of Lily. Though their chance companion, Halbert Gordon (a dark-
eyed and black-haired boy), was a model of strength and health, he was
neither stronger nor healthier than Kenneth, but was more rash, proud,
passionate and resentful, than any boy in Croinar; and, as he rose in years,
those troublesome propensities waxed strong within him, and grew with his
growth. When his haughty mother, or Jock of the Cleugh, desired him to
finish his prayers by a malediction on "all obstinate heretics," he always
made a mental reservation in favour of his secret friends at the Forest—fair
Lily Donaldson, and her quiet cousin, Kenneth Logie.

Now it happens that the little people of this world will have their little
love dreams, as well as those who consider themselves men and women,
but are only grown children after all; and thus a secret sympathy expanded
in the hearts of little Kenneth and his pretty cousin—a sympathy which
Lily's mother (who loved her dead sister's son as if he were her own) left
nothing undone to fasten: and it strengthened fast this charming and
childish love.

They were ever together, and were never known to quarrel. In that lonely
pastoral district, all their amusements and objects were centred in each
other; for save the dark, sullen boy of the moated Tower, they knew no
other companion, and even he was known to them only by stealth.

Kenneth had no secrets from Lily, and Lily knew neither wish nor hope,
a sorrow or a joy, in which "cousin Kenneth" did not participate. They
seemed to have but one heart between them. The garden of the Place, with
its closely clipped and gigantic yew hedges bordering grass walks (in the
Scoto-French fashion), the fish-pond and the terraces, were the boundaries
of the Eden they inhabited.

They knew of no land that lay beyond the blue hills of Strathdon, which
seemed to them the verge of the habitable world. They indulged in visions,
and what little people do not? Lily saw herself a great lady riding on a white
palfrey, whose footcloth swept the ground; Kenneth saw himself the provost
of a city—the general of an army—the laird of a noble barony—a belted
earl, addressing the three estates in defence of the church, the laws, and
liberties of Scotland. These airy castles faded away at nightfall, but were as
brilliantly rebuilt in a thousand happy forms at their meetings next day.
They were ever together, as we have said, and year after year, as it passed
over their fair young brows, found them still wreathed with smiles.

The old lady of the Forest and the Lea, when she saw their curly heads
nestling in the same plaid, would often bless them, and say,—

"My puir bairns, ye were just made for ilk ither!"

And the old servitors of the Place loved to call them their "young laird
and leddy—man and wife," and were wont to foretell that one day they
would become so.
 Then the little pair looked with wonder into each other's bright eyes,
marvelling what "man and wife" meant, but resolving that, whatever it did
mean, they would not and could not love each other the less, or be less
happy than they were; but would still hunt bees and butterflies, gather hare
and heather bells, and make little chapels and houses in the green haughs,
when the hawthorn bloomed in summer.

The round of their pleasures was small, and the little chapel—nathless
the Reformation—was still a favourite amusement with the children of
Scotland, as it is now with those of continental countries. Thus, a mimic
altar was set up, with a cross and candles thereon; a circle of stones formed
its precinct; Halbert Gordon was the officiating priest, and little Lily his
whole congregation, and very devout she was; but without the circle of this
baby chapel Kenneth Logie would stand doubtfully aloof, for his aunt and
grim Master Jowlar had taught him to abhor such things, and, less
compliant than the gentle Lily, he dreaded Catholicism as burned children
dread the fire.

The banks of the kirk-burn, whose ceaseless waters came out of the
distant woods, and whose far off source was one of wonder to their infant
minds, reflected every day their smiling faces as they wove fairy caps
among the rushes, or set fleets of bluebells floating down its current; but the
bold young baron of the moated Tower led them elsewhere, for he shewed
Kenneth where the golden eagle and the dark osprey built their nests in the
perpendicular rocks of Baud-kroskie; and where the fierce fiumart nursed
its red cubs among the ivy-covered holes, daring him to climb with his
dagger in his teeth, to rob the former and slay the latter.

Then, when Kenneth modestly declined, the reckless Gordon, with a

triumphant glance at the little lady, and a laugh of scorn and derision, would
clench his poniard in his strong white teeth, and grasping the weeds, the ivy,
the rocks, or bushes, would ascend the steep cliffs like a squirrel, with the
clouds and mist above, and the waters of the Dee flowing deep and dark
below, while the two cousins held their breath with terror, as they watched
him. Then the eagle would be seen to fly from its eyry with a shriek, and,
torn from its bed, the nest would fall at the feet of Lily; or at times she was
still more terrified by a fox or a fiumart rolling down the rocks, drenched in
its blood. Then came Halbert Gordon, descending with the rapidity of an
evil spirit, with his cheek flushed and his eyes on fire, to laugh at Lily's
terror and Kenneth's timidity; to exult in his own superior daring—to
exhibit his bloody poniard, and say tauntingly—

"I will be a brave leal knight, even as my father was; but you, Master
Kenneth, may weel become a monk, and snuffle Latin in Logie-Kirk."

Though less rash and vindictive, Kenneth was a brave boy, too; and his
heart swelled with secret passion at these open taunts. Thus, by degrees, the
fierce little chieftain of the Tower learned to despise him, and, as their years
increased, he took every opportunity of endeavouring to lessen Kenneth in
the estimation of his cousin. The boys often quarrelled; but, boy like, they
just as often became apparent friends again. Kenneth Logie respected and
even loved Gordon for his bravery; but feared his proud and passionate
temper. Gordon admired Kenneth's skill as a deadly shot with the arquebuse
and pistolette, but despised his caution; while Lily instinctively loved her
cousin, and feared their companion, though he loved her well, for her
exceeding gentleness, her obliging disposition, and the grace with which
she said and did all those pretty nothings, which are as pleasing in the
artless little girl as in the winning and well-bred woman.

Time passed on.

The boys became youths, both tall and strong; while the fair wild-bud
that blossomed in the Forest of Culbleine, was daily unfolding some new
charm as it expanded into beauty and bloom.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE COUSINS.—THE STORY CONTINUED.

 Many years had glided thus away.

The summer of 1594 was at hand. Kenneth Logie was then twenty years
of age, and his cousin was two years younger. Kenneth, a handsome and
athletic lad, excelled in all the manly sports and exercises necessary to
complete the education of a Scottish gentleman. But Lily! The bud had
become a rose, the pretty child a beautiful woman; mild and happy, merry
or pensive, by turns. Lily, in her eighteenth year, had indeed become the
Lily of Logie—the Lily of the many songs in which her memory has been
embalmed. Heaven never created a being more beautiful!

There are some women whom we admire for their dazzling skin; for
their fine hair, or their sparkling eyes; for their dimpled hands, their
handsome ankles, or their necks of snow; but in every point of form and
feature fair Lily was admirable. She was one of those magnificent beings
that appear but once in a century. She was then the wonder, as she is still the
boast, of all Cromar and the Garioch.

Her violet-coloured eyes were soft and brilliant, but their lashes were of
the darkest brown; and her hair was of that bright hue which alternates
between auburn and gold, like the tresses attributed to Venus, or to
Scotland's martyred Mary. Her feet and hands were small, but beautifully
proportioned, and nothing could be more alluring than the sound of her
sweet voice; nothing more attractive than the happy vivacity and brilliance
of her manner, which was full of pretty retort and merry repartee.

Cousin Kenneth felt conscious that she was more than beautiful—that
she was supremely innocent and good; and he loved her with a quiet depth
of passion, which, as it was based on the most perfect feeling of security,
knew no warp or interruption in its current. Though he still called her his
"dear little wifie," a change had, of course, come over them since he had
first been taught to say so; for now the time approached when she was to
become—as he said—"his dear little bride in earnest."

Kenneth Logie was, more than ever, all the world to Lily! Save Halbert
Gordon, she had never been intimately acquainted with any other man; and,
though he was eminently handsome, there was a something in his air and in
his aspect, that made her shrink from the man still more than she had shrunk
from the boy. Yet Halbert was not without many external graces; he had a
swarthy cheek and a dark fierce eye, with a strong and well knit figure. He
carried a sword, which he used as if he had been born with it; he could ride
the wildest horses, break the strongest lances, throw the heaviest hammers,
and hit the most distant targets with the arrow or bullet; but there was a
certain air about him, somewhat between the soldier and the bravo, that
Kenneth never cared to imitate. Being laird of the moated Tower he was a
lesser baron, and head of a branch of the house of Huntly, while poor
Kenneth was but a penniless orphan, and in right of his future wife was
destined to be merely the gudeman of Culbleine.

At county meetings, at weaponshows, at kirk or market, wherever

Halbert presented himself, with a falcon on his dexter thumb, a sword and
dagger in his belt, a velvet mantle dangling on his left shoulder; his doublet
covered with lace, his bombasted trunk breeches and gold spurs, his bonnet
slouched over his fierce and devil-may-care dark eyes—he enforced
respect, and completely overshadowed the less assuming, but assuredly not
less brave, Kenneth Logie, who was inoffensive and quiet, as the other was
offensive and quarrelsome. Gordon was rakish and libertine; so old Jock of
the Cleugh had every reason to be satisfied with his pupil, whom he had
trained up in the path which he thought most proper for a gentleman and
soldier to pursue. Thus, in his twentieth year, Gordon's stormy and
licentious manners, together with his fierce disposition, made him a terror
and a proverb in the quiet and pastoral district of Cromar.

Save in occasional rides or chance walks, he never now saw the Lily of
Culbleine; for, although the chimneys of their dwellings were visible from
each other's windows, difference of faith, and certain dark rumours,
political and religious, which were then floating through Scotland, made
still wider that gulf between "Catholic and Presbyterian" which had always
separated their mothers as aliens and enemies. In short, an armed
insurrection of the Scottish Catholics, to co-operate with a Spanish invasion
of England, and to avenge the murder of Queen Mary, was hourly expected;
and James VI., with the Calvinists of the kingdom, were watchful and on
the alert. Thus, Gordon, though he cared not a rush for religion or any thing
else when a pretty woman was concerned, was restrained from visiting as a
man, the scenes where he had played as a boy, for his haughty soul could
not brook the idea of being an intruder. In a word, this wild gallant loved
Lily as he hated Kenneth, with his whole heart and his whole soul.

A region of fierce and sudden impulses, his breast knew but two
sentiments; for one cousin, love—for the other, hatred; and both these
sentiments were the offspring of an indomitable pride. The jealousy of the
sullen boy had become the settled hatred of the haughty man; and the age
was one when the bold Scot owned no laws save those which the heart
dictated and the sword enforced.

In the gloomy solitude of his mother's Tower he brooded over these

things, and envied Kenneth the society of a being so beautiful and so
winning; for he knew—to his agony—that the cousins were ever together,
where whilome they had played in childhood—that they read the same
books—that they had still but one heart and one soul between them. The
children had grown up into lovers, and he knew that, to them, a third
companion would be intolerable.

Full of bitterness as these thoughts swelled up in his fiery and resentful

heart, he would leap on horseback and gallop towards the Forest or the Lea,
in the hope of obtaining a glimpse of Lily; and when he did see her—

"A thousand furies!" he would exclaim, and abruptly turn horse; "that
puling ass is ever by her side!" Once he reined in his horse by the margin of
the Dee, that it might drink of the gurgling stream. The place was beautiful.
Cool and dark, deep and still, the river glided over its brown pebbles, and
scarcely a sunbeam reached it through the thick foliage of that leafy glen,
for overhead the trees entwined their branches like the arches of a vast
cathedral; and the coo of the cushat-dove, or the voice of the mavis alone
woke the echoing dingles. From gazing dreamily at the trout darting in the
calm depth of the summer pool, the sound of voices made Gordon raise his
head, and lo!

Kenneth Logie and his cousin Lily approached.

So full were they of themselves, and their own sweet conversation, that
they never perceived Halbert, who, motionless as an equestrian statue,
remained gazing at them with eyes that, like his heart, were full of fire. Fair
Lily wore a dress of light blue silk, that charmingly became her bright and
pure complexion; it had little white slashes, inlet at the shoulders; the wide
and hanging sleeves displayed her dimpled elbows, and the snowy
whiteness of her arms; she carried her hood in one hand, the other rested on
the arm of Kenneth; and her hair, which fell like a shower of gold upon her
neck and bosom, swept over his shoulder, when at times their heads were
bent together. The sunbeams, as they darted through the summer foliage,
gave an additional lustre to her hair and eyes; and, when she spoke or
smiled, her mouth, from time to time, revealed the whiteness of her close
and well set teeth.

The handsome youth who walked by her side seemed fully worthy of
this alluring girl, for his tall strong figure appeared to the utmost advantage
in a suit of green velvet, laced with Venetian gold; a black feather drooped
from his bonnet; he had a rapier in his belt and a falcon on his wrist.
Another sat on the hand of Lily, and the lovers were laughing merrily as
they flirted their birds, making them peck at each other, scream, and flap
their wings; for an old chronicler tells us, that at the Scottish court he was
considered the most finished gallant who could make his falcon play most
tricks with the falcon of a lady.

Their thoughts were wholly of that nearer and dearer relationship which
they were soon to bear unto each other; and as Lily bent her pure white
brow towards Kenneth's sunburnt cheek, she said more than once—

"Oh, cousin Kenneth! are we not the happiest beings in the world?"

"In our love for each other, we are, dearest Lily!"

"In every thing," and Kenneth assented by a kiss.

Their conversation was made up of those little nothings which are so

charming to lovers, but which will neither bear to be written nor rehearsed.

These were as molten lead to the heart of the unhappy Gordon; and when
he saw Lily smiling with joyous confidence as her favoured lover painted
many a vision of happiness to come, he felt that with all his love—a love
the stronger by its very hopelessness—he could have cursed her.
 Like a vision they passed before him, and disappeared down a vista of
the wood. His horse, which had raised its head as they passed, was again
drinking placidly; the river was running on; the trees were rustling their
green leaves overhead; but the miserable man remained as one entranced,
and the sound of their voices—one so charming, the other so hateful—
seemed to linger in his ear long after they were gone.

So much were they absorbed in each other, that they had never once
observed him; and his suit, which was of scarlet laced with silver, was, he
thought, assuredly conspicuous enough. Rage and fury filled his heart! But
he had learned something of importance from their conversation as they
passed, and on that information he resolved to act.

At six o'clock that evening, Lily Donaldson was to visit the miln of
Newtoun on a mission of kindness to the miller's wife, who was suffering
under a grievous illness; Kenneth was to meet her at the haugh by Deeside
as she returned. Full of desperate and despairing thoughts, Gordon resolved
to anticipate the lover, and, forcing his horse across the stream, he urged it
up the steep and wooded bank, where never horse or man had ascended
before, and rode straight back to his Tower among the morasses.

The bridge was up and the gates were shut, and such were the
precautions taken to prevent ingress and surprise, that even he had some
trouble in gaining admittance.

"What the devil is astir now—an English invasion? speak—thou—Jock

of the Cleugh!" he said angrily, on seeing that the whole place was in the
hurry of warlike preparation; that the barbican was strewn with swords and
lances; that twenty horses showed their barbed heads at their stable doors,
as if chiding his delay; that every man in the tower was busy in the
furbishment of steel bonnets and corslets, or grinding pike-heads, sword-
blades, and daggers.

"The Lords Argyle and Huntly are in arms," said Jock in a low whisper,
as he limped close to his master, "and sae the Grole o' the Garioch maun
mount and ride, ye ken."
 "Right, Jock! God's heavy malison be on him who lingers in joining the
gay Gordons!"

"The cock o' the north for ever!" added Jock, flourishing his wooden leg.

The fierce heart of young Gordon leaped with joy at these tidings. He
had long looked for them; "and now the hour had come when he hoped," as
he said, "to ride above his bridle in the blood of the accursed Calvinists," all
of whom he embodied in the idea of Kenneth Logie. Ascending to the hall,
which formed the first floor of the Tower, he found his stern and
enthusiastic mother, excited by vengeful and religious hopes, in close
council with Father Ogilvie, an itinerant priest of the Scottish mission, who,
while encountering innumerable perils and the most severe poverty,
travelled in disguise from one Catholic family to another. Garbed as a
peasant, and looking like a buirdly farmer from the braes of Angus, in a
canvass doublet and grey plaid, the priest was covered with dust, and, by
the mud on his gambadoes, seemed to have ridden both fast and far that
day.

"Joy, my son, Halbert—joy!" said his mother, while her eyes flashed fire.

"Welcome, my bairn," said the priest affectionately.

"So Huntly is in arms," said the young chieftain, with a kindling eye;
"and is ready to sweep from Scottish ground the accursed brood of Knox
and Calvin."

"Nay, my bairn," replied the old priest; "'tis Argyle who is in arms, with
the Campbells, the Grants, and McGregors, 12,000 strong, and these are
about to pour like a torrent down upon the Catholic lords. Thus, if all to
whom the cross and the cause of Heaven are dear, delay to join Lord
Huntly, the church of our fathers will sink even lower than Knox and
Wishart levelled it."

"Halbert," said his mother, whose fierce spirit—for she was a Borderer
—snuffed blood from afar; "in three hours ye will have twenty horsemen in
their harness, and prepared to march."
 "'Tis well," he replied through his clenched teeth, as he selected a sword
and carbine from among the many that hung upon the wall; "but one word,
good Father Ogilvie, where is the Lord Huntly's trysting-place?"

"His castle of Strathbogie, in the Garioch."

"In three hours then, mother, I will ride, to conquer or die with our chief
and our kinsmen."

There was a ghastly smile on Halbert's lips, and a deep and dire intent
was visible in his dark eyes, as he proceeded with the utmost care to fix a
match in his carbine, and hummed the while a surly song—

"'When the Grole o' the Garioch

Meet the bowmen of Lord Mar;
Upon the hill of Bennochie,
The Grole shall win the war!'

Ha—ha! mother, does not the old song say so?"

"My brave boy, I see there is determination on your brow," said the stern
matron, as she kissed her haughty son.

"Yea, madam," said he, grinding his teeth, and with a voice that made
even her start; "victory, vengeance, and death are in my heart." .........

The trysting-place beside the Dee was a most sequestered spot. In all the
windings of that beautiful river, by haugh and strath, there was not a
lonelier. Among the dense summer foliage of the old beech-trees, around
whose gnarled trunks the thick dark ivy clambered, the cushat-doves were
still cooing, while the black mavis and the merry merle sang on their
topmost boughs. Among rocks overhung by the clustering Gueldre-roses,
the sweet brier and the fragrant honeysuckle, the deep blue Dee was jarring
in tiny waves, that every rock and pebble fretted into little bells of foam;
while, numerous as the stars of the sky, the yellow buttercups, the wild
violets, and white gowans spangled the bright green grass on which the dew
was falling thick and fast; for it was evening now, and the last rays of the
sun were giving a farewell gleam on the clustered chimneys of the old
mansion of Culbleine, and the older spire of Logie kirk. The murmur of the
gliding water, and the rustle of the shady branches, the perfume of the
summer flowers, the voices of the happy birds, and the partial glimpses of
the evening sun, all combined to make beautiful the trysting-place where
fair Lily was to meet her lover-cousin, as she returned from the miln of
Newtoun.

On her arm hung a little basket, in which she had conveyed to the sick
wife of the miller the various comfits and medicaments the good old lady
her mother had so carefully prepared. Her plaid, though fastened under her
chin by a silver brooch, had fallen from her head, and permitted a shower of
curls to fall over her shoulders—those golden curls, such as the early
painters would have adored. There was a bloom on her rounded cheek, for
exercise had imparted a rosy tinge to it, and a rich red to her smiling lip;
while a clear light sparkled in her deep violet eyes, as she reached the place
of tryst, and looked anxiously round for her lover.

"Kenneth!" she exclaimed, on seeing a tall cavalier leaning against the

well-known tree, with a feather drooping over his eyes, and a mantle
dangling over his left arm, which rested on the muzzle of a carbine; "dear
Kenneth!"

He turned abruptly, and she beheld the olive face and dark glittering eyes
of Halbert of the Tower.

"I am not Kenneth Logie," said he courteously, raising his bonnet as he

slightly kissed her hand; "may I hope that I am not the less welcome to fair
Lily of the Forest?"

"Oh, no!" said she, concealing the terror with which his presence
inspired her; "why should you be unwelcome? Are you not my old
playmate, and, save Kenneth, the oldest friend I have known!"

Gordon stamped his foot at the name of his rival.

"And as your playmate in older and happier times, fair Lily, I now come
to bid you adieu; for I am going far from the woods of Logie and Culbleine,
and all those scenes around which your presence casts a charm."
 "For Flanders, where your poor father went before you?" she asked, with
a mixed feeling between sorrowful interest and joy at this good riddance to
the district; "to the wars of Low Germanie?"

"Nay—to wars certainly, but not so far off," he replied, with a deep
smile.

"And you came to bid me adieu, my poor old friend! It is so kind of you,
Master Halbert; but," she added suspiciously, "how knew you that I should
be here at this hour?"

"Surely it was intuition, Lily—some happy, some divine presentiment!"

He paused with something like confusion, and she glanced anxiously along
the shady forest vista by which she expected Kenneth Logie to approach.
Gordon drew off his long leather gauntlet, and took her soft small hand in
his.

"He is going far away," she thought, and did not withdraw it.

"Lily," said he, "where I am going, and on what errand, matters not at
present, for anon you will know all; but it is a mission of secresy, of danger,
and of death—one from which I may never return; and I could not leave
these, our native woods and glen, the hawthorn birks, and the bonnie brae
of Logie, without saying how long, how well, and how deeply I have loved
you—yea, loved you, Lily, from my boyhood upward. I cannot go forth, to
die perhaps, with this long-treasured secret in my heart. I could not fall in
battle happily, and have it buried with me, unconfessed, untold, and
unheard. I know all you would urge," he added, sighing deeply, and
speaking hurriedly; "Kenneth, your cousin—yes, yes—all say you love
him; but such attachments should not be—they are within degrees
forbidden by the church; moreover, I cannot believe it! Oh! think well of
the love I have to offer. Kenneth is the penniless orphan of a dowerless
bride, and a poor younger son. In this world he possesses nothing; I am a
lesser baron, with an estate here and another in Glencairn—my mother's
inheritance. I can summon a hundred horsemen in time of need. The Lords
of Badenoch, the Earls of Huntly and of Mar, have quartered their shields
with mine; and in the storm which is at hand, when a sword may be in every
Catholic hand, with its point at every Galvinist throat, you may find a worse
protector than Halbert of the Tower; but nowhere in broad Scotland will ye
find a better. Ponder, dearest Lily, over all I have said, for I must soon be
gone, as time and tide will wait for no man."

Lily trembled excessively; she became pale, and endeavoured to release

her hand from Gordon's, but his grasp tightened, and she struggled in vain.

"Think, think!" he continued; "think, Lily, from being the daughter of a

bonnet-laird, a mere Gudenian of the Wood, I can make you a lady of that
Ilk, and on the nameless bestow one of the best names in all the brave north
countrie."

"Halbert Gordon," replied Lily with some asperity, "my father's name is
as good as yours; and the wise Regent called him ever his leal man and true
in the Douglas' wars."

"James Stuart—pho! a heretic and regicide!"

"He who speaks slightingly of my father's friends involves my father's

honour, and cannot love me," replied Lily, endeavouring to free her hand.

"Thou wrongest me, and art unnecessarily angry, dearest Lily. I mean not
to slight the gudeman, thy father's memory; but thou hast not yet answered
me."

"Sir, I cannot answer while you detain me thus."

Gordon's dark eyes began to sparkle.

"You scorn me then—-you?"

"Nay, nay, Heaven forbid! but remember, that even if I could love you—
which is impossible—our religion—our religion! thou a Catholic—I a
Calvinist!"

Gordon uttered a bitter laugh.

"Fair Lily," said he; "a time is coming (yea, it is at hand!) when such
marriages will be as a boon from God to the accursed brood of Knox and
Calvin—of Rough and Wishart; but once more, dearest Lily, hear me——"

"Impossible—impossible!"

"I am going far away from these green woods, from Strathdon and
Strathdee, and I will have nothing of thee—of thee, I have loved so long to
look upon. Give me but a tress, a ringlet, however small; a riband, a glove
—a rag, a shred—oh Lily, Lily!—if you knew how I have loved you!"

"Halbert Gordon, it is improper to give such a gift—and impossible, too

——"

"And why is it either improper or impossible?" he asked suddenly,

confronting her with a cold and imperious aspect.

"Because," replied Lily, who trembled while she resented this lofty
bearing; "because my heart is no longer my own, and oh, Halbert! you
know that well."

Though this was quite the answer he expected, anguish distorted the
brow, and fury glared in the eyes of Gordon; for there was something
intensely exasperating in hearing such an avowal from her own beautiful
lips. His mouth was compressed, and his dark eyes regarded her fixedly
with a gloomy scrutiny.

Footsteps were heard approaching, and the clear clank of Rippon spurs,
that jangled as the wearer strode through the echoing glade. A joyful
expression spread over the face of fair Lily; but a spasm shot through the
heart of Gordon, for he knew that he was no longer wanted there, and that
Kenneth Logie approached.

Unable to confront this young man otherwise than as an enemy, and still
more unable to endure his meeting with Lily, Gordon bestowed upon her a
deep and inexplicable smile; threw his carbine into the hollow of his left
arm, and, crossing the Dee, though its waters came up to his waist-belt,
sprang up the opposite bank, and disappeared among the thick coppice that
covered it.
 "Fie, cousin Kenneth!" said Lily playfully, as she tapped him on the
cheek with her pretty hand; "is it thus ye keep tryst?"

Kenneth had been late in meeting her, and, as he had not seen Gordon
when approaching, he proposed that they should seat themselves by the
bank of the stream to converse a little; and, agitated as she had been by her
lucent painful interview, fair Lily gladly consented.

On the grassy brae, with the still water flowing at their feet, and the
hawthorn spreading its white and fragrant branches above them, they
conversed in low tones, with long pauses, for they were wrapped in the
purest and dearest of dreaming. Lily soon forgot the terrible, the fixed
regards of Halbert Gordon.

They knew not—those happy lovers—that from the opposite bank, and
scarcely a pistol-shot distant, two fierce eyes were watching them.

I have said that Kenneth Logie was handsome, strong, and active; the
bloom of twenty years was on his cheek, and his fine figure was displayed
to advantage by the Scoto-French costume of the Lowlands. His blue velvet
bonnet lay beside him, and his high white forehead, around which the dark
hair curled in heavy locks, was bare. He was all that a young girl dreams of
in her future lover; and his eyes, by turns expressive of pride, tenderness,
and impetuosity, were bent fondly on the golden-haired fairy that sat by his
side—she, whose ringlets poured like a shower upon his breast, and whose
soft violet eyes were raised to his, from, time to time, with appeals of
confiding tenderness; for he was the friend of her earliest memory, and all
her affections, and all her thoughts and hopes, were entwined with his idea
and his name.

And so it was with Kenneth; for the opinions, the feelings, the
sentiments of Lily, had ever been but the mirror of his own; and again and
again, by those glances which never pencil drew nor pen portrayed, he told
her that she was dearer to him than all the world beside.

So they dreamed on, this pure and happy pair of loving hearts; the old
oaks shook their rustling leaves above them; the hawthorn put forth its
sweet perfume, and the Dee murmured complacently by.
 Oh, they were so happy! so united—so one in thought, in heart, and
impulse!

Reclined on Kenneth's breast, Lily lay half embraced and half entranced,
with her eyes fixed on the still waters of the flowing stream, and the thick
green coppice, which cast a shadow on its surface. Suddenly her eyes
dilated with terror; her breast heaved; a voiceless cry arose to her lips, and
died there.

The brass muzzle of a carbine glittered among the thick alders opposite;
and a fierce eye glared along the polished barrel. She had only time to utter
a shriek, and throw herself as a shield before Kenneth, when a red flash
broke from among the green leaves; the report rang with a hundred
reverberations in the copsewood glen, and the beautiful Lily Donaldson fell
on the bosom of her lover, a corpse, with blood flowing in a torrent from
her lips.

Who could paint the terror, the despair, of Kenneth?

With glaring eyes and outstretched arms, he stood for a moment like a
statue of horror. His first impulse was to dash across the stream; to pierce
the thicket, and reach the heart of her destroyer; his second to fling himself
by her side, and endeavour to recall the life which had too surely fled for
ever.

Entering her left shoulder, the ball intended for his heart had pierced that
of Lily, and her pure spirit had departed to its Creator.

****

From that hour poor Kenneth was a sad and silent mourner.

****
 CHAPTER XXIV.

THE RAID OF MACALLUM MHOR.

The scarlet mantle and the blue bonnet of the murderer, with his crest
thereon, were found in the thicket, and left no doubt as to who was the
perpetrator of this terrible deed, which cast a gloom over all the fair north
countrie. His carbine was also found; for, though full of deadly hate against
his rival, Gordon had not the most remote intention of injuring Lily. The
moment he saw the frightful result of his fury, he had thrown down his
weapon in dismay, and fled like a madman to his Tower among the
morasses. In one hour from that time he had come forth again, sheathed in
full armour, and crossed the hills at the head of twenty mounted spearmen,
journeying no one knew whither.

Kenneth buried his Lily in the old kirkyard of Logie-colstaine, on the

grassy holme where, when the sun was in the west, the cross of St. Woloc's
spire might fall upon her grave; for those charming old superstitions which
cast a halo round the ancient faith, were yet lingering in the hearts of the
Scottish people; and thus, though rigid Calvinists, they laid Lily with her
feet to the east, and her fair head towards the setting sun, that, according to
the tradition of the early Christians, she might, at the day of doom, see our
Saviour when he comes from the east in his glory.

And there by her open grave, Kenneth Logie, with his head bare and his
sword drawn, knelt down among the damp mould—that hideous earth,
impregnated with the bones of other times; and on his blade and on his
Bible made a sad, a stern, but solemn vow of vengeance, which he called on
his Lily to hear, and their Maker to register in heaven. He was the last to
leave her grave; and, long after all others had departed, the lonely youth—
for he was but a youth—was seen to linger there.

Long, long and bitterly, he wept, even as a child weeps, and, embracing
the newly laid turf, kissed it many times; and the sun had set before he tore
himself away. But the thought of Halbert Gordon, and the reflection that
already four days had elapsed, nerved him anew; and, with lingering steps
and many a backward glance, he left the place where the Lily of the Forest
lay.

It was now generally known that the Protestant lords were in arms
against their Catholic fellow-subjects. Kenneth learned that Gordon had
ridden towards the north, and knew that, if he was to be found within the
kingdom of Scotland, it would be with his clansmen, the Gordons, beneath
the banner of Lord Huntly.

On the night after the funeral, a single horseman well mounted, and
armed after the fashion of a Lowland gentleman, with a close morion,
corslet and arm-pieces, gorget and steel gloves, with petronel, Glasgow axe,
and two-handed sword, rode forth alone from the old Place and oak-woods
of Culbleine. He crossed the Dee, and, leaving the glen, diverged upon the
open moorlands, which were then covered with heath and furze, and
watered by deep rivulets and swampy hollows; and, striking at once into the
road which led towards the west, never halted until he reached a place
where it dipped over a hill, and then he checked his horse and looked back.

Like a broad round silver shield, the summer moon was rising behind the
oak-woods he had left, and its beams glinted brightly on the spire of the old
ruined church, at the foot of which lay Lily's lonely grave. Its shadow was
falling full upon the spot where he knew she was lying.

This was her first night in the tomb—in that old and desolate burying-
ground, among the weedy graves, the mossy headstones, and remains of the
mouldering dead.

It seemed to Kenneth that she must be very cold and very lonely there.
The conviction was a bitter one, that she, so young, so beautiful, so golden-
haired—who had yet so much of this world about her—should be lying
there abandoned to decay, with no one beside her—among the ghastly dead,
and not as usual in her bed, in the little tapestried room which her own dear
hands had industriously decorated, and which Kenneth knew so well. The
idea had something in it frightful and unnatural.

It seemed as if she must still be living! Kenneth could not realise her
death. But there was an appalling recollection of a convulsed face, a mouth
flowing with blood, a grave, a coffin, a shovelling of earth, a batting down
of sods, a trampling of feet, and a sound of lamentation.

She was in her cold and sequestered grave for the first time, with the
midnight dew descending upon the grass that covered her.

The pale trooper shuddered, and, turning his horse, galloped furiously
down the opposite side of the hill, on his mission of vengeance.

****

At this time the hereditary commissary of the Isles under James VI.,
Archibald seventh Earl of Argyle, and nineteenth chief of his race, a youth
only twenty years of age, with the royal standard displayed, and half
authorised by the king, was levying war against the Catholics of Scotland;
but principally against his own enemies, the Earls of Huntly and Errol, who
were the heads of the Roman faction. As the old ballad says—

"Macallum Mhor came frae the west, with many a bow and brand,
To waste the Rinnes he thought it best, the Earl of Huntly's land."

Suddenly assembling 12,000 men, a force which included the hardy

islesmen of Sir Lauchlan M'Lean, the M'Intoshes under their chief, the
Grants of Urquhart under Gartenbeg, a lesser baron of the clan; the
M'Gregors and M'Neils under Barra, and the whole tribe of Campbell,
whose fighting force was never under 5000 claymores, together with all
whom a thirst for plunder, or feudal malice against the clan Gordon, could
induce to join him, Argyle marched through Badenoch in hostile array, with
pipes sounding and banners displayed. Repulsed by the MacPhersons, a
brave and military tribe who had thrown themselves into the strong fortress
of Ruthven, he poured down between the dark pine-woods of Strathspey, in
the territory of the Grants, and encamping at Drimnin, upon the beautiful
banks of the Avon—the winding river—summoned the Forbeses, the
Frazers, the Dunbars, and the M'Kenzies to his standard; but there one
solitary horseman alone joined him—Kenneth Logie of Culbleine.
 George Earl of Huntly, and Francis Earl of Errol, great constable of
Scotland, and hereditary leader of the feudal cavalry, the two nobles on
whom this warlike torrent had burst from the northern and western hills,
were in no way dismayed; for though steady and unflinching Catholics (and
as such suspected of having corresponded with the Spaniards, when their
Armada was fitted out against our old hereditary enemies), they knew that
James VI., far from being inimical to the Romish cause, was only
constrained by popular clamour, and the Reformed clergy, to levy war
against them. They knew well that in secret he was friendly to the faith for
which his mother—the poor victim of accumulated treasons—perished; and
that though he had sent Argyle, an impetuous and inexperienced youth,
against them, he would by no means take the field in person. They also
knew that the Grants of Gartenbeg, the Campbells of Lochnell, and other
Catholic families, who followed the banner of Argyle, with whom they
reckoned blood, could not feel warmly in his cause; and thus, never
doubting that God would give the victory to the cross which they carried on
their ensigns, those brave Lords of Huntly and of Errol took the field with
confidence.

At the head of a hundred horsemen, sheathed in complete armour, and

magnificently mounted, the very flower of his numerous vassalage, the
chief of the Hays left his house of Errol, and attended by the heir of
Bonnitoun, Crichton of Invernytie, and Innes of that Ilk, with all his clan,
who bore with them the skull of their patron St. Marnan, marched to the
castle of Strathbogie, the muster-place of the Gordons, in their pastoral
district, the Garioch.

On the way he was joined by Halbert Gordon of the moated Tower, with
his twenty horsemen.

To Strathbogie also came Allan M'Ildhui, chief of the clan Cameron,

and, after this junction, Huntly, whose forces amounted to only 1500 men,
marched towards the Calvinists, after each soldier had made his confession,
received communion, and sworn a solemn oath on the Holy Iron, to conquer
or to die.

Full of enthusiasm for battle, this little troop marched down by the
Bogie, and, as they defiled past the castle of Huntly, it is related that his
countess—the fair Henrietta of Lennox—held up her youngest son to see
the martial array. Pleased with the flash of steel, the note of the trumpet, and
patter of the kettledrum, he clapped his little hands and cried—

"Lord Daddy shall conquer and beat the Campbells!"

This was considered an omen of victory.

Crossing the dun mountains of the Garioch, they halted at Auchindoune,

on the same day that the overwhelming force of Argyle encamped at
Drimnin.

Passionate indeed was the eagerness, and fierce the joy, with which
young Kenneth Logie heard that the troops of Lord Huntly were in the
neighbourhood of the camp, and would soon be in view.

Young, brave, and enthusiastic, the valiant Argyle, the boy warrior—
unlike the traitors who succeeded him, and in after years betrayed their
country, and their king—sent forward a few horsemen under the Earl of
Athole, and with these went Kenneth Logie; for, being a gentleman
volunteer, without vassalage or attendants, his post was among the cavalry,
and wherever there was most danger.

The evening of Wednesday, the 2nd October, had closed on the vast
purple mountains and woods of sombre pine and silver birch that look down
on the glens of the Livat and Fiddich, when these reconnoitring troopers,
with their armour glittering in the starlight of the dying gloaming, rode
softly and silently in extended order, with swords drawn and matches
lighted, towards that part of the hills where they expected to see the forces
of Huntly appear.

A line of red fires, dotting the dark brow of a distant hill, marked the
bivouac of the Catholics. The smallness of its extent indicated their
numerical inferiority, and the hearts of the Calvinists swelled with joy. At
that moment a shot was heard; a horseman fell, and before Lord Athole's
trumpeter could sound a rally, Captain—afterwards Sir Thomas—Kerr, with
a troop of Huntly's cuirassiers, were upon them, shouting the Cathghairm of
their leader—
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