"Wae's me for Prince Chairlie."
Old Scotch Song.
It was a dark gloomy night in the year 1745. Huge clouds hung in heavy
masses over the sky, ready to discharge their heavy burden at any moment.
The thunder echoed and re-echoed with deafening crashes, as if the whole
artillery of heaven were arrayed in mighty warfare, and shook even the
giant crag on which the castle of Dunmorton was situated.
Fierce indeed was the tempest without, but within the castle raged one
still fiercer--that of two strong natures fighting a bitter battle. So
loud were their voices raised in altercation that the storm without was
scarce heeded.
Dunmorton was a fine old castle of the Norman type, with a large moat
surrounding it, and having all the characteristics appertaining to the
feudal state. To the rear of the moat, behind the castle, stretched broad
lands, on which were scattered many cottages, whose occupants had paid
feu-duty to the Lords of Dunmorton for many a generation. To the left of
these cottages stretched a large pinewood, with thickly grown underbrush,
where, in blissful ignorance of their coming fate, luxuriated golden
pheasants and many a fat brace of partridge.
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