“Ae gloamin’ as
the sinking sun
Gaed owre the
wastlin’ braes,
And shed on Oakwood’s
haunted towers
His bright but
fading rays,
Auld Michael sat his leafu’
lane
Down by the streamlet’s
side,
Beneath a spreading hazel
bush,
And watched the
passing tide.”
The bright rays of the setting sun
were shining over the valley of Ettrick, and lighting
up the stone turrets on the old tower of Oakwood.
For many a long year the old tower
had stood empty, while its owner, Sir Michael Scott,
one of the most learned men who ever lived, wandered
in distant lands, far across the sea.
He had been a mere boy when he left
it, to study at Durham and Oxford: then the love
of learning had carried him first of all to Paris,
where he had been famed for his skill in mathematics;
then to Italy, and finally to Spain, where he had
studied alchemy under the Moors, and had learned from
them, so ’twas said, much of the magic of the
East, so that he had power over spirits, and could
command them to come and go at his bidding, and could
read the stars, and cure the sick, and do many other
wonderful things, which made all men regard him as
a wizard.
And now that he had come back to his
old home once more, the country folk avoided him,
and gazed with awe at the great square tower where,
they said, he spent most of his time, practising his
magic art, and holding converse with the powers of
darkness.
The King, on the other hand, thought
much of this most learned knight, and would fain have
seen more of him at his court in Edinburgh, but Sir
Michael loved the country best, and spent most of his
time there, writing, or reading, or making experiments.
This evening, however, he was not
in his tower, but was sitting by the side of the Ettrick,
studying with deepest interest all the sights and
sounds of nature which were going on around him.
For he loved nature, this studious, quiet, middle-aged
man, and the sight of the little minnows darting about
in the water, and the trouts hiding under the stones,
and the partridges coming whirring across the cornfields,
gave him as much pleasure as all the wonderful sights
which he had seen in far-off lands.
Suddenly he raised his head and listened.
Far away in the distance he seemed to hear the sound
of trumpets, and the “thud,” “thud”
of horses’ hoofs, as if a body of men were riding
quickly towards him.
“Some strangers are approaching,”
he said to himself, “and if I am not mistaken
they are soldiers. I will hasten home and learn
their errand. Mayhap it is a message from his
Majesty the King.”
He rose to his feet slowly, for his
limbs were somewhat cramped with sitting, and walked
with stately dignity to the tower.
The riders had just arrived, and,
as he expected, they bore a message from the King.
As he approached, a knight clad in full armour rode
forward, preceded by a man-at-arms, and, bending low
over his horse’s neck, presented to him a parchment
packet, sealed with the Royal Seal.
“The King of Scotland, whom
God preserve, sends greetings to his loyal cousin
Sir Michael Scott,” he said, “and whereas
various French sailors have committed acts of piracy
on the high seas, and have attacked and robbed divers
Scottish vessels, he lays on him his Royal commands
that he will betake himself to France with all speed,
and deliver this packet into the hands of the French
King. And, further, that he will demand that
an answer to the writing contained therein be given
him at once, and that he hasten back with all dispatch,
and draw not rein, nor tarry, till he deliver the
answer to the King in Edinburgh.”
Sir Michael took the packet from the
messenger’s hand and bowed gravely. He
was accustomed to receive such orders, and everyone
wondered at the marvellously quick way in which he
obeyed them.
“Carry my humblest greetings
to his Majesty,” he answered, “and assure
him that I will lose no time, but will at once set
about making my preparations. By dawn of day
I will be gone, mounted on the swiftest steed that
ever the eye of mortal man gazed upon.”
“Is it swifter than the horse
which his Majesty keeps for his own use at Dunfermline?”
asked the soldier curiously. “For if it
is, it must indeed be a noble animal, and ’twould
fetch a good price among the barons of the court.
Ever since his Majesty has turned his mind so much
to horses, his courtiers have vied with each other
to see which of them could become the possessor of
the swiftest animal.”
“My horse is not for sale,”
said Sir Michael shortly, “not though men offered
me his weight in gold.”
The young officer bowed again.
There was something in Sir Michael’s tone which
forbade him asking to see the horse, much as he should
have liked to do so; so, giving a signal to his men,
he turned his horse’s head in the direction
of Edinburgh, and rode off, leaving Sir Michael standing
on the doorstep gazing after them, a strange smile
on his face.
“A good price,” he repeated;
“by my troth, ’twould need to be a very
good price which would buy my good Diabolus from
me. But I must go and summon him.”
Muttering strangely to himself, he
turned and entered the tower.
He went up the narrow, winding, stone
stairs until he reached a little iron-studded door.
This door was locked, but he opened it with a key
which hung from his girdle, and, entering the low-roofed
attic-room to which it led, he locked it again carefully
behind him. The attic was at the top of the tower,
and through the narrow windows which pierced three
of its walls, a glorious view was to be had over the
surrounding country.
But Sir Michael had not come up there
to admire the view; he had other work to do work
which seemed to need mysterious preparations.
First of all, he proceeded to dress
himself in a curiously shaped black cloak, and a hunting
cap made of hair, which he took down from a nail in
the wall. The cloak was very long, and completely
enveloped his figure, and, when he had pulled the
hairy cap well down over his eyes, no one would have
taken him, I warrant, for the quiet, middle-aged, master
of Oakwood.
When he was dressed he took down a
leaden platter from a shelf by the door, and, opening
a cupboard, he took out a little glass bottle full
of a clear amber-coloured liquid, which glowed like
melted fire. Setting down the platter on a little
round table in the middle of the room, he dropped
one or two drops of this liquid on it, and in an instant
they broke into tongues of flame which curled up high
above his head.
It was a strange and weird fire, enough
to frighten any man, but the still, dark-robed figure
standing beside it never moved, not even when a number
of tiny little imps appeared, clad in scarlet, and
green, and blue, and purple, and danced round and
round it on the table, tossing their tiny arms, and
twisting their queer little faces, as if they had
gone mad.
He waited patiently until the little
creatures had finished their dance and disappeared,
then he seized the platter, and, going to one of the
narrow windows, he flung it open, and, pushing the
platter through it, he threw it, with its burning
load, far out into the gathering twilight.
He watched the fire as it fell, in
glowing fragments, among the oak trees which surrounded
the tower, then he opened a small, black, leathern-bound
book, which lay chained to a monk’s desk which
stood in a corner. Opening it he read a few words
in an unknown tongue, then he turned to the window
again and waved a little silver wand over his head
three times.
“Come, Diabolus.
Come, Diabolus,” he muttered, and then
he knelt on the floor and waited eagerly, his eyes
fixed on the Western horizon.
The sun had sunk, but the sky was
clear, and one or two stars had appeared, and were
shining out peacefully, like little candles set in
a golden haze.
Presently, however, big black clouds
began to appear, and pile up, one against another,
till the little stars were blotted out, and the whole
sky became as black as night.
In a little time the dull muttering
of thunder could be heard far away over the woods.
It came nearer and nearer crash upon crash,
and roar upon roar while the lightning
flashed, and a perfect tempest of wind arose and lashed
the branches of the tall trees into fury. Truly
it was an awful storm.
The wizard felt the solid masonry
of the tower rock beneath him, but he was as calm
as if only a little gust of wind had been passing on
a summer’s day.
Still he knelt on, peering eagerly
into the darkness. At last his eyes grew bright
and keen, for he saw a shadowy form come floating through
the air, driven by the wind. He knew now that
his charm had worked, and that this was his familiar
spirit the spirit over whom he had most
control who had come in the form of a great
black horse, with flaming eyes, and flowing mane,
to carry him over the sea to France.
With one bound he flew through the
window, and alighted on its back.
“Now woe betide thee, Diabolus,”
he said, “if thou fliest not swiftly. For
I must be in Paris by daylight to-morrow.”
The huge black horse shook its mane,
and snorted fiercely, as if it understood, and without
more ado it flew on its way, its uncanny black-cloaked
rider seated on its back.
As soon as they had disappeared, the
storm died away, and the moon rose, and the little
stars shone out over Oakwood Tower as clearly and quietly
as if there had never been a cloud in the sky.
Meanwhile Sir Michael Scott and his huge black charger
were flying over hills, and valleys, and rivers, in
the darkness. They even flew over the sea itself,
and never halted until the day broke, and there, far
below, lay the city of Paris, dimly seen in the gray
morning light.
In the King’s Palace the lackeys
were hardly awake. They gazed at one another
in astonishment when the heavy iron knocker on the
great gate fell with a knock that echoed through the
courtyard.
“Who dares to knock so loudly
at this early hour?” asked the fat old porter
in great indignation. “Whoever it be, I
trow he may e’en wait outside till I have broken
my fast.”
But before he had done speaking the
knocker fell once more, and there was something so
commanding in the sound that the little man hurried
off, grumbling to himself, to get the key.
“Beshrew me if it doth not sound
like a messenger from some great king,” said
a man-at-arms who was standing by, and the porter’s
heart misgave him at the thought that perhaps by his
tardiness he had got himself into trouble.
But when he opened the great door,
instead of the company of armed men whom he dreaded
to see, there was only a solitary rider, muffled in
a great black cloak, and wearing a hairy cap drawn
down over his face, seated on an enormous black horse.
The stranger’s dress was so outlandish, and
his horse so big, that the porter crossed himself.
“Surely ’tis the Evil
One himself,” he muttered; and when the lackeys
heard his words, they crowded round the doorway.
They, too, were puzzled at Sir Michael’s appearance,
and began to laugh and jeer at him.
“He is like a hooded crow,” cried one.
“Nay, ’tis an old wife in her husband’s
clothes,” shouted another.
“Surely the cloak belonged to Noah,” cried
a third.
But they started back in dismay when
the muffled figure pushed up his cap, and demanded
an audience of the King.
“I come from the King of Scotland,”
he said haughtily, “and his business brooks
no delay.”
A shout of laughter greeted his demand.
“Thou a messenger from the King
of Scotland!” they cried. “A likely
story, forsooth! The King of Scotland sends not
beggars, in old rusty suits, as his ambassadors.
No, no, my good fellow, thou askest us to believe
too much. Whatever thou art, thou art not a king’s
messenger.”
“What!” cried Sir Michael.
“Ye refuse to do my bidding! and all because
I am not decked out in crimson and gold, and ridest
alone without a retinue. Well, ye shall see that
it is not always wise to judge of a man by his outward
appearance. Make way there.” And without
wasting any more words, he leaped from his horse,
and, throwing its bridle over a pillar, he strode
right through the middle of them, and made his way
to the King’s private apartment, without even
waiting to be announced.
Now the King of France was accustomed
to be treated with great ceremony, and when this dark-robed
man strode into his bed-chamber, and held out the
parchment packet to him, demanding an instant answer,
he was very indignant, and refused to open it.
“Thou sayest that thou comest
from the King of Scots,” he said. “Well,
I believe thee not. If thou wert Sir Michael
Scott, as thou sayest thou art, thou wouldst have
come with an armed escort, as befitted thy rank and
station. Therefore begone, Sirrah, and count thyself
happy that I have not had thee thrown into one of
the palace dungeons, as a punishment for thy insolence.”
“By my troth,” cried Sir
Michael angrily, “if this is the way thou wouldst
answer my master’s demands, I trow I can soon
bring thee to a better frame of mind.”
Without waiting for an answer, he
flung down the parchment packet on the floor, and
strode out of the room in the same way that he had
entered, leaving the angry King gazing after him in
astonishment.
“The fellow is mad,” he
cried to the nobles who stood round. “See
to it that he is shut up until he comes to his senses.”
But Sir Michael had already reached
the courtyard, and passed through the great door to
where his horse was waiting outside. He lowered
his voice and spoke gently to the mighty beast.
“Stamp, my steed, and show the
varlets that we are better than we seem to be,”
he said. And at his bidding the gigantic creature
lifted one of its forefeet, and brought it down with
all its might on the pavement.
In an instant it was as though an
earthquake were passing over the city. The great
towers of the Palace which frowned overhead rocked
and swayed, and all the bells on a hundred church
steeples chimed and jangled, until the air was thick
with the sound of them.
The King and his courtiers were very
much alarmed at these strange events, but they did
not like to own that it was the mysterious stranger
who was the cause of them. All the same, the King
called a hurried council, and when the nobles were
assembled, and seated in their places in the great
hall, he opened the parchment packet, and took out
the papers which it contained. When he had read
them his face flushed with anger. The King of
Scotland’s demands were very urgent, and moreover
they were stated in no uncertain language, and as he
considered that he was a much more powerful monarch
than King Alexander, he did not like to be dictated
to.
“Ah,” he said, “so
my Lord of Scotland lays down his own terms with a
high hand. Methinks he must learn that this is
not the way to obtain favours from France.”
“Ay, so in good sooth he must
learn,” repeated the nobles in one breath.
“And in order that the lesson be made plain,
we advise that his messenger be cast into prison,
and that no notice be taken of his requests.”
“Your advice pleases me well,”
said the King. “Command that the officers
seize the fellow at once. Certs, he may think
himself lucky that We permit his head to remain on
his shoulders.”
The command was given, but Sir Michael
had been growing more and more impatient that no more
notice seemed to be taken of his errand, and when
the officers of the guard appeared, and, instead of
handing him the French King’s answer, as he
had expected, laid their hands on him to drag him
off to prison, his anger knew no bounds.
“What,” he cried, “doth
the King still refuse to listen? By my troth,
he shall rue the delay,” and once more he whispered
in the black horse’s ear, and once more the
mighty creature lifted its great forefoot and brought
it down with a crash on the pavement.
The effect was even more terrible
than it had been before.
In an instant great thunder clouds
rolled up from the horizon, and a fearful storm broke
over the city. The thunder rolled and the lightning
flashed, and strange and weird figures were seen floating
in the air. The great bells which hung in the
steeple of the great Cathedral of Notre Dame gave
one awful crash, and then burst in two, while the towers
and pinnacles of the splendid church came tumbling
down in the darkness. The very foundations of
the Palace were shaken, and rocked to and fro, till
everyone within it was thrown to the ground. The
King himself was hurled from his throne of state,
and was so badly hurt that he cried aloud with pain
and fear.
As for the courtiers, they lay about
the floor in all directions, paralysed with terror,
crossing themselves, and calling on the Saints to
help them. They were so terrified that not one
of them thought of going to their Royal Master’s
aid.
The King was the first to recover
himself. “Alack! alack!” he groaned,
rising to his feet. “Woe betide the day
that brought this fellow to our land! Warlock
or wizard, I know not which, but one of them he must
be, for no mere mortal man could have had the power
to work this harm to our city.”
While he was speaking a loud trampling
of feet was heard outside the great hall, and all
the lackeys came tumbling in, pell-mell, without waiting
to do their reverence, just as if the King had been
any common man.
“O Sire,” they cried,
“grant the fellow anything and everything he
asks, and let him be gone. He threatens that
he will cause this awful beast to stamp yet once again,
and, if he does, the whole land of France will be
ruined. If your Majesty but knew what harm hath
been wrought in the city already!”
“Yes, let him begone,”
wailed the courtiers, slowly beginning to pick themselves
up from the floor, and feeling their bones to see if
any of them were broken.
And, indeed, the King was nothing
loth to grant their request, for he felt that if the
mysterious stranger were allowed to stand at the door
much longer his whole kingdom would be tumbling to
pieces about his ears. Better far that the King
of Scotland should be satisfied, even although it
was sorely against his inclinations.
With trembling fingers he picked up
the papers and once more read them. Then he wrote
an answer promising to fulfil all the Scotch King’s
demands and he sealed up the packet, and flung it to
the nearest lackey.
“Give it to him and bid him
begone,” he cried, and a sigh of relief went
round the hall, as a minute later the man returned
with the tidings that the great black horse and its
outlandish rider had vanished.
“Heaven grant that when next
my Cousin of Scotland sends an ambassador, he choose
another man,” said the King, and there was not
a soul in all the palace who did not breathe a fervent
“Amen.”
Meanwhile, Sir Michael and his wonderful
steed were speeding along on their homeward way.
They had crossed the north of France, and were flying
over the Straits of Dover, when the creature began
to think that it might work a little mischief on its
own account.
It had taken a sudden fancy to remain
in France for a while, and it thought how nice it
would be if it could pitch its master, whom it rather
feared than loved, over its head into the water, and
so be rid of him for ever.
It knew that as long as it was under
his spell, it had to do his bidding, but it knew also
that there were certain words which could break the
spell even of a wizard, and it began to wonder if it
would be possible to make Sir Michael pronounce one
of these.
“Master,” it said at last
slyly, for when it wanted it had the power of speech,
“I know little about Scottish ways, but I have
oft-times been told that the old wives and children
there mutter some words to themselves ere they go
to bed. ’Tis some spell, I warrant, and
I would fain know it. Canst tell me the words?”
Now the wily animal knew perfectly
well what words the children of Scotland were taught
to repeat as they knelt at night at their mother’s
knee, but it hoped that its master would answer without
thinking.
But Sir Michael had not studied magic
for long years for nothing, and he knew that if he
answered that the women and children in Scotland bowed
their knees and said their Pater Noster ere
they went to bed, the holy words would break the spell,
and he would be at the mercy of the fiend, who, when
he needed him, was obliged to take the form of a horse,
or serve him in any other way which he required.
So he shook the creature’s bridle
and answered sharply, “What is that to thee,
Diabolus? Attend to the business thou hast
in hand, and vex not thy soul with silly questions.
If thou truly desirest to know what the bairns are
taught to say at bed-time, then I would advise thee,
when thou art in Scotland, and hast time to spare
from thy wicked devices, to go and stand by a cottage
window, and learn for thyself. Mayhap the knowledge
will do thee good. In the meantime think no more
of the matter, unless thou wouldst feel the weight
of my wand on thy flanks.”
Now, if there was one thing which
the great horse feared, it was the wizard’s
magic wand, so he put his mind to his work, and flew
with all the swiftness he possessed northwards over
England, and across the Cheviots, until at last they
came in sight of Edinburgh, and the Royal Palace of
Holyrood.
Here Sir Michael slid from his back,
and dismissed him with a little wave of his wand.
“Avaunt, Diabolus,” he said, and at
the words the magic horse vanished into thin air,
and, strange to say, the black cloak and hairy cap
which the wizard had worn on the journey seemed to
fall from him and vanish also, and he was left standing,
a middle-aged, dignified gentleman, clad in a suit
of sober brown.
He hurried down to the Palace, and
sought an instant audience of the King. The lackeys
bowed low, and the doors flew open before him, as he
was led into his Majesty’s presence, for at the
Court of Holyrood Sir Michael Scott was a very great
person indeed.
But for once a frown gathered on King
Alexander’s face when he saw him. Kings
expect to be obeyed, and he was not prepared to see
the man appear whom he had ordered off to France with
all speed the day before.
“What ho! Sir Michael,”
he said coldly. “Is this the way that thou
carriest out our royal orders. In good sooth I
wish I had chosen a more zealous messenger.”
Sir Michael smiled gravely. “Wilt
please my Sovereign Lord to receive this packet from
the hand of the King of France?” he said with
a stately bow. “Methinks that he will find
that in it all his demands are granted, and that I
have obeyed his behests to the best of my power.”
The King was utterly taken aback.
He wondered if Sir Michael were playing some trick
on him, for it was absolutely impossible that he could
have gone and come from France in twenty-four hours.
When he opened the packet, however,
he saw that it was no trick. In utter amazement
he called for his courtiers, and they crowded round
him to examine the papers. They were all in order,
and all the requests had been granted without more
ado. Reparation was to be made for the damage
that had been done to the Scottish ships, and in future
all acts of piracy would be severely punished.
It was evident that the papers had been taken to Paris,
for there was the French King’s own seal, and
there was his name signed in his own handwriting,
though how they had been carried thither so quickly,
nobody ventured to say.
“’Tis safer not to ask,
your Majesty,” whispered one old knight, making
the sign of the Cross as he spoke, “for there
are strange tales afloat, which say that the Lord
of Oakwood keeps a familiar spirit in that ancient
tower of his, who is ready to do his bidding at all
times; and, by my soul, this goes far to prove it.”
The King looked round uneasily, in
case Sir Michael had heard this last sentence.
He felt that if this were true, and he were a wizard,
as men hinted, it was best not to incur his displeasure;
but he need not have been afraid. The Lord of
Oakwood loved not courts, and now that he had done
his errand, and the papers were safe in the King’s
hand, he had taken advantage of the astonishment of
the courtiers to slip unobserved through the crowd,
and, having borrowed a horse from the royal stables,
he was now riding leisurely out of the city, on his
way home to his old tower on the banks of the Ettrick.