NEITHER of the contending parties had yet appeared on the ground, although the hour of meeting was rather past, as shown by the position of the sun in the cloudless firmament. The Sheriff was indicating signs of uneasiness at the delay. But now, on the farther confines of the broomy moor, a dark, moving object was descried, which soon resolved itself into a rider, and by and by into a monk, habited in black frock and cowl, and mounted on a mule, which was trotting at an easy pace. This was an ecclesiastic, who had been summoned from the nearest religious house to assist in administering the judicial oath to the witnesses at the arbitration. The breast of his frock was bulged out by what had the appearance of a volume within it, which was retained in its place by the cord encircling his waist. It was a frequent custom of the time that priests went about the country, when required, to perform the sacraments of matrimony and baptism, carrying their missal in their breasts, and thereby acquiring the vulgar appellation of book-a-bosoms. Thus, we are told, in the Lay of the Last Minstrel, about the goblin page, when he discovered the magic book which William of Deloraine carried, that

The monk’s mule bore the commonest caparisons, but several small bells hanging at the bridle-reins, so that we may say of the rider, what old Dan Chaucer said of his pilgrim-father on the merry journey to Canterbury shrine, that

The dark brother rode up to the Sheriff, who, with a courteous salute, desired him to take position by his side.

Ere much longer time had fled a company of horsemen arrived—Lauder of Ballinshaw and retainers, prominent among which last was the gentle Johnston. Such of the party as were intended for witness-bearing dismounted. Ballinshaw was a wiry, short-statured man, bearing his advanced years well; but his sallow and shrivelled visage had an air of avarice and duplicity, which was attempted to be hidden under an evident mask of careless candour. Offering his hand to the Sheriff, he delivered himself as follows, in a wheezing, jog-trot tone:—

“My humble service, Sir Robert, to uttermost power. I’m a wee ahint the appointed time; but some o’ my witnesses were slack in coming forward; though I’m glad and proud to think that you’ll find them a’ leal and true men that wadna forswear themsel’s for a King’s ransom. Gude kens! I dinna wish to wheedle ony man oot o’ his richts, far less my neighbour, Royston Scott, though he has lang borne enmity to me without cause. I see I’m before-hand wi’ him: he’s no’ on the field yet.”

“No,” answered the Sheriff, “and if he delays much longer, I shall adjourn the meeting to another day.”

“He’s a thrawart tyke, as I ken to my cost,” replied Ballinshaw, shaking his head. “We micht ha’e lived in gude neighbourhood, and settled a’ disputes ower a friendly flagon; but na—he wad carry a’thing ower my head, kenning that I was a man o’ peace. I durstna hunt ower the ground ayont the burn. He slauchtered my hounds, chased my serving-men, and vowed that if I mysel’ daured to set foot across the holm, he wad be my death. Now, he ne’er had a shadow o’ richt to the ground; for, time out o’ mind, my forbears hunted ower it to the foot o’ the hill yonder, without let or hindrance.”

“And I presume you are possessed of legal evidence to prove your claim?” said the Sheriff. “Charters, and so forth?”

“Deil a scrap o’ write ha’e I, my lord—mair’s the pity,” responded Lauder, feigning a smile. “Ance in a day there was a muckle iron-banded kist, panged fu’ o’ musty parchments, that stood in the closet o’ the south turret; but a’e nicht the closet took fire, and kist and charters were burned to eizels, and gaed up in the air like peelings o’ ingans. Still, my witnesses are passing gude; and, Sir Robert, let me say—”

“They shall be heard in due course,” said the Sheriff. “Defer your statements till the proper time. I cannot listen to either party until both are present.”

“That’s gude law; for ilka man’s tale is gude till anither’s be tauld,” returned Ballinshaw. “But what I ha’e yet to say is meant for your private ear.”

“My duty is to act publicly, not privately,” said the Sheriff; but not willing to be harsh, he added—“If what you wish to say does not concern the case in hand, I am ready to hear you. Say on, and be brief.”

Ballinshaw took hold of the knight’s bridle, and led him slowly away out of earshot of the assemblage. “Sir Robert,” said the crafty Laird, coming to a stand, and speaking low, “as you cannot but be satisfied in your ain mind that I am likeliest, frae auld use and wont, to ha’e the richtfu’ claim to the disputed ground—”

“Stay,” interrupted the Sheriff, angrily. “This still affects the arbitration. Would you have me to prejudge the case? I cannot, in conscience, listen to you.”

“A moment, Sir Robert, a moment,” implored Lauder, holding tightly by the bridle. “I was thinking that, as you will mind, when we were baith in our youthy days—though I had the advantage o’ you in years—how you whiles cam’ to Ballinshaw wi’ your faither; and how I took you amang the bosky knowes to gather brambles and blaeberries; and sometimes made a fishingwand and tackle for you, and sorted your bow and arrows, and helpit you to climb trees for nests—ah! thae were lichtsome days: now, I say, I was thinking that maybe for langsyne and its friendship, you could ca’ me through the present troublesome business wi’ little din—and I wad mak’ up a purse—”

“Hah! you would pollute the source of justice by a foul bribe?” ejaculated the Sheriff, frowning deeply.

“Siller can do nae man harm,” said Lauder, with an insinuating smile. “You ken the proverb—‘There’s a time to gley, and a time to look even’: and wherefore shouldna a man gley for the sake o’ his ain pouch? Far be it frae my wish to wrang ony man; but Royston Scott has lang been kent as ane that cares na a whistle on his thumb for a’ the laws and shirras in braid Scotland; and it wadna be amiss in you, Sir Robert, to gi’e an auld friend a feather out o’ sic a corbie’s wing. I hear you’re pressed by Ben Magog, the Jew of Berwick, for some siller he lent you on bond. Settle this business in my favour, and I’ll help to clear you o’ the Jew’s grip.”

The Sheriff, in silent scorn, released his rein from Lauder’s hold. At that moment, the blast of a horn pealed from the adjacent hill, and a cry arose—“Yonder is Altoncroft at last, wi’ a sturdy clump o’ spears at his back!” The Sheriff, avoiding Lauder’s renewed clutch at his bridle, rode back to his train.

The summit of the height was crowned by a troop of horsemen, whose arms and armour flashed in the sunlight. They numbered double Ballinshaw’s party, which fact caused him to look nervous, and to whisper, in an agitated voice, to the gentle Johnston, who, with a stout aspect, strove to reassure him. The approaching band spurred hard down the grassy slope of the hill, and traversing the low ground like the shadow of a flying cloud, soon reached the rendezvous and drew bridle. Altoncroft was a man in the vigour of life, and of a tall and muscular figure, with a harsh cast of features, and fierce grey eyes. He wore a leathern jack, plated with mail on the breast and the sleeves, and a steel cap, from which a long red plume drooped down his back, whilst his weapons were lance, sword, and dagger.

“You are late in keeping tryst,” said the Sheriff.

“’Twill not deny,” answered Altoncroft, leaving his saddle and making a humble obeisance. “But, sooth to tell, my knaves broached a cask of double ale yesternight, and were loth to leave the dregs this morning. I crave your pardon, my lord Sheriff, and kiss your hand. And to the matter before us—I bring witnesses who, I think, will clearly establish my rights. I desire to have a free and fair decision, and will submit to it when it is pronounced; but I say frankly that if injustice be done me—”

“There shall be no injustice done either party,” responded the Sheriff. “Proceed we to business: and I trust that no broil will break the amity of our meeting, but that all will respect this emblem of peace,” pointing to the spear and glove, which his page held aloft. “Time wears on, and we shall proceed. Sergeants, proclaim and fence our court of arbitration.”

One of the sergeants blew his horn thrice, and then made the proclamation, and “fenced the court” (as the phrase was) against all disturbance, which was denounced under high pains and penalties. The contending parties, mostly dismounted, were arranged on either side of the Arbiter, who elected to hear Altoncroft’s evidence first. Altoncroft, like his opponent, had no documents of any kind to produce—his charters and sasines having long become non-existent, so that his case depended entirely upon what lawyers call parole proof. The monk, now on foot, and holding open his book, which was an old manuscript copy of the Gospels and richly illuminated, advanced to discharge the duty of administering the usual oath to the witnesses. This he did with all solemnity. Each man, when called in rotation, swore, with his right hand laid upon the sacred volume, and afterwards partook of a morsel of bread, and pronounced the imprecation that if he told an untruth the morsel might become mortal poison—a form probably borrowed from the Hebrew judicial procedure with the “water of jealousy.”

The bulk of Altoncroft’s proof, as expiscated chiefly by questions from the Sheriff, amounted somewhat to this—that the Laird’s predecessors seemed to have always regarded the disputed ground, embracing a wide portion of the moorland on one side of the Deadman’s Holm, as their own property, the burn being, to a considerable extent, the line of march. There were flaws in the witness-bearing, and much of it did not hang well together, as being inconclusive and sometimes contradictory hearsay. But Ballinshaw appeared to consider the proof as possessing a good deal of weight. When it came to his turn to adduce his witnesses, he whispered to Johnston, who was to be the first sworn—“Now comes the pinch, Edie; and for Gudesake dinna fail me! Thae Altoncroft rogues ha’e said ower muckle, and we maun damnify them, else we’re lost. Dinna you mind the bit aith; it’s just mere wind out o’ your mouth. Ne’er scruple, lad, in your master’s service. A fu’ purse aye heals a troubled conscience. Stand up stoutly for my richt, and ding them a’ doon. The lave o’ our men will follow you like a wheen sheep louping a dyke.”

“I daurna do mair than I ha’e promised, Laird, though it were for my ain faither,” responded Edie, shaking his head. “But trust me, what I promised, and what I’ll swear in the face o’ the sun, will bear you out. Tak’ nae fear.”

The Sergeant’s horn sounding again, Edie, assuming the firmest demeanour he could, laid down his spear, and presented himself for examination. He took the oath and the ordeal with becoming gravity, and then proceeded to depone how it consisted with his belief that the ground in question belonged to Ballinshaw. Edie swore that he had frequently heard his father, grandfather, and other discreet men, who knew the locality, say so: that this was the common understanding of the country: that he himself had often seen Ballinshaw hunt over the said portion of moorland. “And to make siccar,” added he, “if your lordship will please to walk ower the ground alang wi’ me, I will point out the true marches as they were aye considered.”

This was the most matter-of-fact proposal which had been as yet offered, and it was readily accepted. Edie took his way, accompanied by nearly the whole of the assemblage. He made a wide circuit, inclining sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left. “The auld march rins this way, according to what I’ve heard, and according to what I ken,” he repeatedly deponed. “I’m walking here on the land o’ Ballinshaw. I swear, on soul and conscience, that the yird aneath my feet is Ballinshaw’s sure and certain.”

In this way he traversed a large space of the moorland, greatly to the satisfaction of his master, whose cunning eyes sparkled with joy. But the fiery Laird of Altoncroft, unable to control his chagrin longer, suddenly confronted the witness and bade him halt. The undaunted Johnston obeyed, folding his arms, and giving his interrupter a sarcastic scowl.

“Do you, sirrah, dare to swear that what you are pointing out are the true boundaries of my lands?” demanded Altoncroft.

“What cause is there to doubt his word?” cried Ballinshaw, pressing to the support of his hopeful witness. “Let the worthy Shirra judge.”

“I tell you, Altoncroft,” said the witness, drawing himself up to his full height; “I tell you, as I ha’e sworn, that all alang the yird o’ Ballinshaw’s land has been aneath my feet. Will that content you?”

“Mis-sworn villain!” ejaculated Altoncroft, furiously.

“I’m nae mis-sworn villain,” retorted Johnston: “and were you and me here alane, wi’ only the broom-bushes around us, I wad gar you eat back your foul words. I ha’e seen your back before this day, and I may see it again.”

Altoncroft, stung by the retort, thrust his spear at the speaker’s body, piercing the iron-plated jack. Johnston uttered a yell of mingled rage and pain, and staggering back under the shock, vainly attempted to unsheath his sword, and then dropped to the ground at full length. An applauding cheer from one party of the spectators, and a vengeful cry from another, boded a general conflict. Swords were drawn, and spears lowered, and warlike slogans arose amidst the tumult. Altoncroft, having withdrawn his lance, would have repeated his thrust, had not Ruthven Somervil, on the impulse of the moment, started forward, and baring his blade, strode across the prostrate man to save him from further assault. A dozen spears were levelled at the youth’s breast, and as many advanced to protect him. The Sheriff spurred his horse into the press, and commanded all to keep the peace. His command had the effect of enforcing a pause.