him to assume superior rank as an officer, to a gentleman private in the Life-Guards. The Life-Guards man was killed in the rencontre, and his antagonist was executed for murder.
The character of Bothwell, except in relation to the name, is entirely ideal.]
Great personal strength, and dexterity in the use of his arms, as well as the remarkable circumstances of his descent, had recommended this man to the attention of his officers. But he partook in a great degree of the licentiousness and oppressive disposition, which the habit of acting as agents for government in levying fines, exacting free quarters, and otherwise oppressing the Presbyterian recusants, had rendered too general among these soldiers. They were so much accustomed to such missions, that they conceived themselves at liberty to commit all manner of license with impunity, as if totally exempted from all law and authority, excepting the command of their officers. On such occasions Bothwell was usually the most forward.
It is probable that Bothwell and his companions would not so long have remained quiet, but for respect to the presence of their Cornet, who commanded the small party quartered in the borough, and who was engaged in a game at dice with the curate of the place. But both of these being suddenly called from their amusement to speak with the chief magistrate upon some urgent business, Bothwell was not long of evincing his contempt for the rest of the company.
“Is it not a strange thing, Halliday,” he said to his comrade, “to see a set of bumpkins sit carousing here this whole evening, without having drank the king’s health?”
“They have drank the king’s health,” said Halliday. “I heard that green kail-worm of a lad name his majesty’s health.”
“Did he?” said Bothwell. “Then, Tom, we’ll have them drink the Archbishop of St Andrew’s health, and do it on their knees too.”
“So we will, by G—,” said Halliday; “and he that refuses it, we’ll have him to the guard-house, and teach him to ride the colt foaled of an acorn, with a brace of carabines at each foot to keep him steady.”
“Right, Tom,” continued Bothwell; “and, to do all things in order, I’ll begin with that sulky blue-bonnet in the ingle-nook.”
He rose accordingly, and taking his sheathed broadsword under his arm to support the insolence which he meditated, placed himself in front of the stranger noticed by Niel Blane, in his admonitions to his daughter, as being, in all probability, one of the hill-folk, or refractory presbyterians.
“I make so bold as to request of your precision, beloved,” said the trooper, in a tone of affected solemnity, and assuming the snuffle of a country preacher, “that you will arise from your seat, beloved, and, having bent your hams until your knees do rest upon the floor, beloved, that you will turn over this measure (called by the profane a gill) of the comfortable creature, which the carnal denominate brandy, to the health and glorification of his Grace the Archbishop of St Andrews, the worthy primate of all Scotland.”
All waited for the stranger’s answer.—His features, austere even to ferocity, with a cast of eye, which, without being actually oblique, approached nearly to a squint, and which gave a very sinister expression to his countenance, joined to a frame, square, strong, and muscular, though something under the middle size, seemed to announce a man unlikely to understand rude jesting, or to receive insults with impunity.
“And what is the consequence,” said he, “if I should not be disposed to comply with your uncivil request?”
“The consequence thereof, beloved,” said Bothwell, in the same tone of raillery, “will be, firstly, that I will tweak thy proboscis or nose. Secondly, beloved, that I will administer my fist to thy distorted visual optics; and will conclude, beloved, with a practical application of the flat of my sword to the shoulders of the recusant.”
“Is it even so?” said the stranger; “then give me the cup;” and, taking it in his hand, he said, with a peculiar expression of voice and manner, “The Archbishop of St Andrews, and the place he now worthily holds;—may each prelate in Scotland soon be as the Right Reverend James Sharpe!”
“He has taken the test,” said Halliday, exultingly.
“But with a qualification,” said Bothwell; “I don’t understand what the devil the crop-eared whig means.”
“Come, gentlemen,” said Morton, who became impatient of their insolence, “we are here met as good subjects, and on a merry occasion; and we have a right to expect we shall not be troubled with this sort of discussion.”
Bothwell was about to make a surly answer, but Halliday reminded him in a whisper, that there were strict injunctions that the soldiers should give no offence to the men who were sent out to the musters agreeably to the council’s orders. So, after honouring Morton with a broad and fierce stare, he said, “Well, Mr Popinjay, I shall not disturb your reign; I reckon it will be out by twelve at night.—Is it not an odd thing, Halliday,” he continued, addressing his companion, “that they should make such a fuss about cracking off their birding-pieces at a mark which any woman or boy could hit at a day’s practice? If Captain Popinjay now, or any of his troop, would try a bout, either with the broadsword, backsword, single rapier, or rapier and dagger, for a gold noble, the first-drawn blood, there would be some soul in it,—or, zounds, would the bumpkins but wrestle, or pitch the bar, or putt the stone, or throw the axle-tree, if (touching the end of Morton’s sword scornfully with his toe) they carry things about them that they are afraid to draw.”
Morton’s patience and prudence now gave way entirely, and he was about to make a very angry answer to Bothwell’s insolent observations, when the stranger stepped forward.
“This is my quarrel,” he said, “and in the name of the good cause, I will see it out myself.—Hark thee, friend,” (to Bothwell,) “wilt thou wrestle a fall with me?”
“With my whole spirit, beloved,” answered Bothwell; “yea I will strive with thee, to the downfall of one or both.”
“Then, as my trust is in Him that can help,” retorted his antagonist, “I will forthwith make thee an example to all such railing Rabshakehs!”
With that he dropped his coarse grey horseman’s coat from his shoulders, and, extending his strong brawny arms with a look of determined resolution, he offered himself to the contest. The soldier was nothing abashed by the muscular frame, broad chest, square shoulders, and hardy look of his antagonist, but, whistling with great composure, unbuckled his belt, and laid aside his military coat. The company stood round them, anxious for the event.
In the first struggle the trooper seemed to have some advantage, and also in the second, though neither could be considered as decisive. But it was plain he had put his whole strength too suddenly forth, against an antagonist possessed of great endurance, skill, vigour, and length of wind. In the third close, the countryman lifted his opponent fairly from the floor, and hurled him to the ground with such violence, that he lay for an instant stunned and motionless. His comrade Halliday immediately drew his sword; “You have killed my sergeant,” he exclaimed to the victorious wrestler, “and by all that is sacred you shall answer it!”
“Stand back!” cried Morton and his companions, “it was all fair play; your comrade sought a fall, and he has got it.”
“That is true enough,” said Bothwell, as he slowly rose; “put up your bilbo, Tom. I did not think there was a crop-ear of them all could have laid the best cap and feather in the King’s Life-Guards on the floor of a rascally change-house.—Hark ye, friend, give me your hand.” The stranger held out his hand. “I promise you,” said Bothwell, squeezing his hand very hard, “that the time will come when we shall meet again, and try this game over in a more earnest manner.”
“And I’ll promise you,” said the stranger, returning the grasp with equal firmness, “that when we next meet, I will lay your head as low as it lay even now, when you shall lack the power to lift it up again.”
“Well, beloved,” answered Bothwell, “if thou be’st a whig, thou art a stout and a brave one, and so good even to thee—Hadst best take thy nag before the Cornet makes the round; for, I promise thee, he has stay’d less suspicious-looking