By Loch and by Lin (10 page)

Without money, home, lands, or friends, what could the weary Heir of Linne do now? He walked down the causeway and his thoughts were bitter. He thought of his good old father who had lived well and comfortably for so many years on the yield of the lands of Linne. “God rest his soul!” cried the Heir of Linne. “Had I but heeded his counsel, I should not be forced to beg for my bread.”

He took a beggar's staff and a sack for food in his hand, and walked into the town to ask alms of any who would give. As he passed by the tavern, the merry men who had once lived high at his expense looked out and saw him going by.

“Give him a glass of wine!” cried some, but some cried “Nay!” and others said that if all the beggars in the town were sentenced to be hanged, they would make sure that he would be the first to be strung up for his idleness.

When he came down to the Gallowgate and walked along the quay, he saw the fishermen there, taking their rest. There was a time when these fellows, too, had had a taste of his bounty, but when they saw him come begging among them, with his ragged clothing and his beggar's staff and sack, they began to poke fun at him.

“Give him a fish!” cried some, but others laughed loud and said, “Nay, give him a fin!” and jeering at him, they drove him away from the quay. The Heir of Linne turned himself about and went back into the town. Cold, wet, and hungry he was that sorry day. His old nurse looked out and saw him as he went plodding by the house where she dwelt. She ran out and called to him, “Come in, my bairn! Come in! Rest here a while with me, and warm yourself by my fire.”

The Heir of Linne turned back and went into his nurse's house and sat down near the fire to dry his clothes, and she set food and drink out and bade him eat.

“Och, you've seen many happier days than these,” she said. “And in those days you did not lack for friends.”

“Give me a loaf of bread to take with me, nurse,” said the Heir of Linne. “And give me a flask of wine. I will pay you back again when I am once more the Laird of Linne.”

“You were once a bairn on my knee,” said the nurse. “And a bonnie bairn you were. For the sake of those days I will give you a loaf of my bread and a flask of my wine, but all the seas will go dry e'er you pay them back, for you'll not be the Laird of Linne again.”

The old nurse put good bread and a flask of wine in his sack, and wept to see him go out into the cheerless world again.

The Heir of Linne walked up the road to the castle that once was his own. He heard the sound of revelry inside and thought that men with such light hearts might take pity on his wretchedness. But when he knocked with his staff on the door, the porter looked out through the wicket and bade him begone and called him an idle vagabond.

The Heir of Linne sat down upon the cold stone of the step before the castle door. “If my father were still alive, he would not turn me away from his door,” he sighed. “I would that he were here today to counsel and comfort me. If I had heeded his advice, I'd still be Laird of Linne, but I've learned the lesson he tried to teach too late. I'd gladly listen to him now and heed his words of advice, but it is too late.”

Then, as he sat there on the cold stone, the thought came into his mind of the letter he once found in a corner of one of his empty chests. He wished now that he'd read it then, those many months before, because of the wisdom that it must have held. But where was the letter? He had put it away somewhere. He searched in his empty pockets, and in his pouch, and at last he found it in a torn place in the lining of his purse. He opened the fold of the letter and read his father's last message.

“My son,”
he read.
“When you have come to direst need and see the folly of your ways, you may fear it is too late to recover what you have lost. When you have nothing left and no hope of anything to come, go to the one person in the world who will help you with no expectation of gain.”

Who would help the Heir of Linne with no hope of gaining by it? Not John o' the Scales who had coveted his castle and lands and now called himself Laird of Linne. Not the young lairds who had clustered about him like flies about a honeypot while he had money, and forsaken him when he had none. Not the merry company in the tavern and the gambling rooms, and not the fishermen of the Gallowgate whom he had befriended to his cost. Only one person had helped him for love, with no hope of gain. He put his father's letter away, and took up his staff and his sack, and went to his old nurse.

He stood before her humbly. “Good nurse, I come at my father's bidding,” he said. “Tell me what to do.”

She saw, and did not need to ask, whether or not he rued the follies which had brought him to his sad state. She took him by the hand and drew him into her house. She led him to a small door built into the wall beneath the staircase, and put a key into his hand.

He put the key into the lock and turned it, and opened the door. He saw before him a small room which had been built into the wall. There was nothing in the room but three great chests, but when he threw back the lids he found that each chest was full of golden money to the top. At first he stood and stared, amazed at what he saw. Then his old nurse said. “'Twas your father had the room built here, and stored the chests away until you had left your foolish ways and learned to be wise.”

The Heir of Linne saw then that his father had foreseen that the wayward son must learn with pain and sorrow what the father had not been able to teach—that willful waste makes woeful want. Against that day, he had hidden half his fortune away so that his son would be able to start out in life again.

The Heir of Linne emptied his beggar's sack and set the bread and the flask of wine aside. He filled his sack with enough red gold to buy back the lands of Linne.

Then straightway along the road he went, and never stopped nor turned aside until he came again to the gate of the castle of Linne. He walked boldly in at the door, thrusting aside the porter who kept it. Into the castle hall he went and took a look at the company there.

There at the head of the table sat John o' the Scales, and his wife, in her finery, sat at the foot, while three fine lairds at either side kept the two of them company.

Then the Heir of Linne spoke up, and a saucy man was he. “My new-made laird, I'll take a cup of wine from your hand, since you do not bid me sit down with you.”

Then John o' the Scales leaned back in his chair, and mockingly replied, “If the Laird o' Linne himself were standing here face to face with me, I would be the very first one to see that the laird had a seat.” And full of pride at playing the laird, he began to jeer at the Heir of Linne.

Five of the lairds at the table joined in, but the sixth young callant said, “Come, man! Here are forty silver pennies for you. Come take them in your hand, and when these are gone you may come to me and I'll give you forty more. You were always a good fellow to me when you had gold to spend.”

“Och, my laird,” cried John o' the Scales, “I'll be as kind to the fellow as you. This beggar shall have his lands and his castle again if he likes, for one-third of the price I paid for them.”

Then he tossed a penny on the table top. “Good lairds, take witness,” said he, “and the best of witnesses you will be. This penny binds the bargain should the Heir of Linne agree to buy back his lands from me.”

“You've taken us for witnesses,” said the lairds, “and very good witnesses we will be. But whoever buys the lands of Linne, it will not be this poor beggarman.”

And John o' the Scales leaned back in his chair and laughed loud, and agreed.

But the Heir of Linne went up to the table and set upon it his beggar's sack. “I call you to witness, my nobles all,” said he, “that John o' the Scales has made the bargain, and sealed it with his own penny, that I may buy back my lands and my castle of Linne for one-third of the price he paid to me.”

Then he laid back the top of his beggar's sack and took out gold, and counted each piece as he laid it down, until he had taken enough from the sack to purchase back the lands of Linne.

“Now, John o' the Scales, that gold is yours. Take it up,” said the Heir of Linne. “But the lands and the castle are mine. From this day I myself will be the Laird of Linne!”

“Alas!” cried the wife of John o' the Scales. “Alas, and woe is me! This morning I was the Lady o' Linne, and now I'm only John o' the Scales' wife.”

“Alas!” cried John o' the Scales. “I am no longer Laird o' Linne!” He lost the title with the castle and the lands, for one-third of what he paid for them.

Then the Heir of Linne said to the good young laird who had given forty pennies to him. “Forty pennies you paid to me, but I will pay you back forty pounds. And because you have dealt fairly with me today, you shall be keeper of my forest and all within.”

Then he went back down into the town, and many there were who followed him, for the lairds had spread the news around. He came to his old nurse's house and there she stood smiling by the door.

“My good old nurse,” he said to her, “I'll pay you hundredfold for your loaf of bread and your flask of wine. And I vow that while you live you shall want for naught. But, good nurse, the seas still ebb and flow, and they have not gone dry, yet I am once more the Laird of Linne!”

Then the Heir of Linne, before them all, made a solemn vow that never again in his life would he endanger the lands of Linne. So he followed in the footsteps of his good old father and lived the rest of his days soberly and in comfort and ease on the yield of his lands as Laird of Linne.

The Tale of the

Knight and the Shepherd Lass

NOTHING is so pleasant as to ride out early on a sunny summer day when the birds are singing gaily in the trees, and the breeze is blowing fresh and cool, and the dew on the grass is still sparkling in the first rays of the morning sun. It was on such a day, a long, long time ago, that a gay young knight rode out through the gates of the High College to go to the court of the king. The air was bright and clear, his mind was untroubled by care, and his heart was light as he rode along, lifting his voice in a song as gay as that of the lark in the sky above. He rode the morning away, over hill and down dale, and about noontide he came to a hillside, and there he found a bonnie shepherd lass tending her ewes on the green grassy brae.

She was clad in a silken gown as green as the grass she sat upon, and she drank milk from a wee wooden bowl which she held in her two white hands. The knight pulled up his horse and bade her good day, and she looked up at him with a smile on her face. A bonnier lass he'd never seen, and it was not in his heart to be passing her by. He lighted down from his horse and let it stray among the sheep to crop the grass, while he sat down by the shepherd lass to pass a bit of time away.

“Where did you get your green silken dress?” the young knight asked the shepherd lass.

“My mother had the dress from a lady of high degree,” said the lass, “and as it was not suited to her, she gave it to me.”

“Are you not lonely here by yourself?” he asked.

“Nay,” she answered. “Why should I be? Have I not my flock of ewes to keep me company?”

“I'll bide here with you for a while,” said the knight. “Then you'll have my company, too.”

“That's as you please,” said the bonnie lass. But he saw by the twinkle in her eye that he was welcome to stay.

He took her hand and kissed her cheek and put his arm around her waist so trim. But she unwound his arm and took her hand away.

“If we are to be such very good friends, as you seem to think we shall be,” said she, “tell me what is your name, young man, for I'd like to know who you may be.”

“Some call me this, some call me that, but Ricci is my name,” said the knight.

“Ricci?” she said. “Ricci?” and she said it over and over again. “That is no Scottish name,” she said. “Indeed, it has a Latin sound.” The bonnie lass was learned and wise and to herself she said, “I know well what that name means. 'Tis Richard, that is this knight's true name.”

“What do you know of Latin, my lass?” asked the knight. “You'd not learn Latin from your ewes.”

“Och, nay!” said she. “But my father dwelt near High College once, and picked it up from the young lairds there, and all that he learned he taught to me.”

He meant to stay but an hour or two, but day followed after day, and he found the lass's company too much to his taste for him to go away. He spoke of love to the bonnie lass, and promised to be true, but when she asked when they should be wed, he thought it was time to ride away.

“I've tarried here too long,” he said. “So I'll bid you farewell,” said he.

“But if you leave me,” the lassie cried, “you'll break my heart in two!”

“Och, there are lads galore,” said he, “to mend the heart of a lass as bonnie as you.”

With his foot in the stirrup he leaped on his horse, and turned to ride away. She tucked her skirts above her knee, and ran along at his side. He had not enough courtesy to ask her if she'd like to ride, and she had too much pride to beg him to take her up on his horse with him. So he rode on and she ran on, all the livelong summer's day, and neither knight nor shepherd lass stopped till they came to the bank of the River Tay.

The waters ran wide and the waters ran fast, and then he turned to the lass and said, “Lass, if you're crossing o'er the stream, will you come up and ride with me?”

“That I will not,” the shepherd lass said. “For when I was still in my father's care I learned, and learned very well, when I came to deep water, to swim like any eel. And when I was still at my mother's side, I learned, and none learned better, to swim when the water runs fast, as well as any otter.”

So he plunged his steed into the flood and started to ride through, and she set her lily-white feet in the water and started to cross over the stream. First she waded and then she swam, and so fast did she go that she was out on the bank on the other side before he had gone halfway.