AS the self-exiled Eustace pursued his route, in troubled reverie, he was soon hailed by a masculine voice from a straggling thicket near the wayside. Glancing in that direction, he saw a man issue from among the trees, and step towards him. The man was in the humble garb of a gaberlunzie, and seemed a fair representative of the trade of mendicancy, which was numerously followed throughout the country in that age, and for ages afterwards. At a little distance he looked rather youngish; but on nearer approach he was seen to be elderly, perhaps about his grand climacteric. He was tall, spare, and erect of figure, lithe of limb, and with a shrewd, honest, weather-beaten, but unwrinkled countenance, and short, iron-grey locks appearing from under his broad blue bonnet. A wallet was slung at his back, and a leathern pouch or purse at the side of his waist-belt, in which was stuck a sheathed whinger, and he carried a stout kent or long staff with an iron spike at the end, which would prove a formidable weapon when wielded in a fray by a strong hand. Eustace stopped, and was saluted by the stranger, who doffed his bonnet and bowed low. Understanding that the man’s object was the solicitation of charity, Eustace gave him an alms which was received with effusive thanks, and dropped into the pouch.

“You’ll be gaun the Greenholm way, master?” said the stranger, deferentially.

“I am. But no farther than the village for the night.”

“Weel, master, I’m just gaun the same gate: and aiblins you winna be offended though a gaberlunzie should jog at your heels?”

Eustace looked at him, with a complacent smile, without replying to the question; but the smile seemed to be intended and accepted as a negative reply. They went on together, side by side.

“It’s a braw and bonnie nicht,” said the beggar, surveying the surrounding scenery with a gratified eye, and pointing here and there with his staff. “A braw May nicht indeed. Look to the lift—look to the earth—there’s beauty owre a’. See—the parting beams o’ the sun linger on the bald, rocky brow o’ yon hill, like a crown o’ glory, while a’ the dell aneath is losing itsel’ in the shadow, and the haze is rising that will soon ha’e the appearance o’ a loch. You hear the sweet sangs o’ the birds, the sough o’ the westland wind, and the everlasting plash o’ yon burnie that gushes owre its linn. The gowden clouds are sailing solemnly as if to strains o’ angel-music. How pleasant to wander, free as air, amang Nature’s charms!”

“It is so,” said Eustace, surprised at the elevation of the beggar’s tone. “But life passes through gloom and storm as well as through sunshine. We have our flowery May, and we have our wintry December. In some deep cleugh among the hills patches of last December’s snow will still be lying.”

“Ay, truly,” returned the mendicant, glancing keenly at the youth. “And, if I may presume, you seem to me, frae your words, to ha’e borne the brunt o’ a stormy fortune, though you’re o’ gentle rank, and in the morning o’ life, and no a grey carle like me, wha has warsled wi’ the warld sae lang an’ sair.”

“No one, whatsoever his station, is exempt from the frowns of fickle Fortune,” said Eustace. “In sooth, the more exalted the station, the more exposed is it to adverse blasts.”

“True, master, true,” responded the gaberlunzie. “The whirlwind, or the levin’-bolt, that rives and scatters in flinders the sturdy oak o’ a hunder years, spares the wee bush that grows lowly at its root.”

“But how came you, who must have been a man of mettle in your prime, to take to this wandering life?” questioned Eustace. “The world must have gone ill with you.”

“Ay, master, just as it has gane ill wi’ mony a better man,” answered the gaberlunzie, with a dry smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “I was born and bred in a peasant’s cot in the Lothians, and mony a year I spent in the service o’ my faither’s Laird. But service, you ken, is nae inheritance: and I ne’er rase aboon the lot o’ a simple hind, trauchling frae morning till nicht. I saw a’ my kith and kin laid aneath the yird. Sae I flung the gaberlunzie-wallet ower my shouther, and here I am.”

“And is the trade better to your liking and your profit?”

“Muckle better,” replied the wanderer. “I stravaig the country at my ain will, and the calling thrives wi’ me. I use my e’en and lugs, and aften see and hear what ithers dinna dream o’. A Border mosstrooper is aye richt glad to pay for my tidings, whilk may shew him how to mak’ a stroke o’ gude luck, or to save his neck frae the gallows. The same wi’ a Border knicht or baron, wha may be threatened wi’ the onfa o’ an enemy. Again, if a fair dame, shut up in her faither’s bower, has a love message to send to the lad o’ her heart, wha sae able to carry it, whether by word o’ mouth or in a sealed billet, as Willie Harthill, the gaberlunzie? I pass free frae the clay-bigging to the lordly ha’, and am aye welcome. Sae, master, the trade thrives weel, and if the times were mair troubled, it micht thrive better—wha kens?”

The wayfarer soon came within sight of the hamlet of Greenholm, which lay nestled in a hollow among grassy hills, whose sides were dotted with sheep, which shepherds and their dogs were collecting to fold for the night.

Eustace was asking some question when Willie stopped him with—“Hush! master. We are coming to haunted ground. Do you see thae bourochs—thae bonnie green knowes, that are freshened by the sweetest dew and blessed by the silveriest moonshine at midnicht hours?”

“Haunted ground!” muttered Eustace, not without a faint feeling of awe. He saw on one side of the path several gentle knolls, covered with verdure, and environed by broom bushes like a hedge; and coming nearer he perceived on the knolls some of those gracefully-formed grassy circles which so long perplexed the ignorance, and confirmed the superstition, of bygone ages. Tracing those mystic rounds, the Fairies were believed to dance their gay galliards in the moonlight. Our travellers paused a moment to contemplate the scene of Elfin revelry.

“You’ll ha’e whiles seen the gude neighbours, master?” said the gaberlunzie.

“Never,” answered Eustace; “the fairies are but figments of the imagination.”

“Dinna ca’ them by that name, whatever you may think o’ them,” said the other hastily. “You may freely ca’ them gude neighbours; but seelie wichts is the name they like best; for they say themsells—

“My forbears ha’e seen them: and I saw them twice mysel’ langsyne on the green at the burn-side ahint our laird’s Grange. What mair proof wad you seek? And as to their rings on the grass, the auld rhyme says—na, we maun gang on a bit,” he said, checking himself, “we maun get ayont the bourochs before I venture on a rhyme that ca’s the seelie wichts by a wrang name.”

They jogged on beyond the knolls, and then Willie, believing himself out of supernatural danger, recited the following words of warning—which, however, he did not presume to aver were the composition of some fairy versifier:—

Our travellers soon reached the outskirts of the village, which was situated at the foot of a hill, with a shallow stream running in front of the cottages, which all stood, in irregular order, on its farther bank. A few old and gnarled trees raised their leafy heads above the roofs. In the back-ground appeared a lofty square tower of the order known on the Border as Peels or Peelhouses, to which the neighbouring cottagers usually resorted for protection against an inroading enemy. The Peel had scarcely any windows save near the battlemented roof; but the walls were pierced with many shot-holes, and it was surrounded by a high and thick wall, with a strong portal. In the vicinity was a mound, on which stood a moss-monolith or stone-pillar, perhaps the last remnant of a Druidical circle, or perhaps the memorial of some doughty warrior who fell in battle ages before.

The hamlet looked poor and miserable, being composed of about a score of clay-walled and thatched cottages, which, on the occasion of an English inroad, would be unroofed and left empty, to let the foes work what ravage they might; but there being little or nothing to burn, the huts could be restored when the foray was over. The burn was bridged here and there by old planks, and stepping-stones were also seen in the water at different places. A troop of half-clad children romped about the burn-side; and some old men sate at doors, in the evening light, repairing rude implements of husbandry. When the two travellers were perceived by the youngsters, they eyed them attentively, and then, with a shrill outburst of delight, came running forward, and danced about the gaberlunzie, like the very elves of whom he had been speaking. He patted the heads of the girls, and chucked the chins of the boys, saying, meanwhile, to Eustace—“The bairns a’ ken the gaberlunzie. But are you kent here?”

“I am a stranger to the place,” answered Eustace.

Willie then addressed the merry group around him—“Enough o’ daffing, bairns. Come awa’ and let me get into ane o’ your couthy hames; for I am sair wearied this nicht wi’ lang travel.”

The imps set up another shout, and proceeded to escort the twain to the village, where most of the cottagers were attracted to their doors by the clamour.

“Weel, master,” said Willie, “will you condescend sae far as tae tak’ pat-luck wi’ me, or maun you ha’e a lodging for yoursel’?”

“One lodging will serve us both for the night,” answered Eustace. “I am not proud, and I am glad of an honest companion. I neither know nor care whether the people here recognise me; but recognition would do me no harm. Meantime you can tell them, if required, that I had lost my way before meeting with you.”

“And what name do you pass under?”

“Ruthven Somervil,” returned Eustace, without hesitation, having previously decided on that adoption. The surname was an honourable one on the Border, and had been so since the legendary times when an early Somervil killed a serpent or dragon that kept its lair in a wild glen of Linton parish in Roxburghshire—as the old rhyme commemorates:

“But,” added Eustace, “you need repeat the name to nobody.”

The cottagers greeted the gaberlunzie with kindly welcome; and the dress of Eustace bespoke for him a respectful reception, no one seeming to know who or what he was. A grey-headed sire and his dame invited the travellers into their dwelling. Homely viands were set before them, of which they partook with relish—Eustace being served apart. When the meal was over, neighbours came in, and solicited Willie to sing them some of his stock of songs. He complied, and a full supply of nappy liquor being procured at Eustace’s expense,

When the jovial company broke up, the aged host showed Eustace into a closet, furnished with a couch, and then bade the gaberlunzie ascend by a trap-stair to the loft above, where he would find a sleeping place. Eustace stretched himself on his couch, and slumber speedily overtook him. He slept soundly until the morning sun, beaming on his face, awoke him from strange dreams.