THE WHITE SNAKE OF DALRY MOAT

"This pest he slaughtered.” Homer’s Illiad, Book 6th.

BARSKEOGH wood is celebrated in storied tale as the beloved haunt of the gay knights and fair young damsels of fairyland, who ever danced merrily along, beneath the broad oak's spreading shade, to sounds sweeter than the sweetest music that ever met the ear of mortal man.

The shepherd, as he strayed amongst the hills, heard the sweet sounds rising from the woods below; he kneeled upon the red heather, offered up a prayer to heaven, and then swiftly fled away, fearful lest chance should lead him where the fairy-raid was pushing on, and some young maiden bear him away from his family and friends, to the bowers of forgetfulness, in the land of bliss: And the nut- gathering school-boy, and the young maiden with the ruddy cheek, and love-laughing eye, stood and listened to the sweet music as it floated on the breeze: they weened it had been the angel minstrelsy of another world , and that they would then be carried away from the land of the living to the ‘land unknown.’ There too , the clauchan witches held their midnight revels by the light of the hunter's moon; and the famed sister of Lowran burn proudly rode on the branches of the forest ash, that overhangs the roaring linn of Earlston; and ‘ever and anon,’ quaffed up the warm life's blood of unchristened infant, sucked from its veins, together with the life which it sustained, by some vampyre spirit of the grave, who regorged the bloody draught into that dismal goblet, formed of the mouldering skull of some ancient warrior, stolen from its leaden coffin—or of some murderer—the fresh skin yet covering it, and the dark hair growing thereon, long and lank as it in life had been; whilst the young noviciates in Witchcraft's mysteries, merrily danced on the bosom of the pool beneath, amid the white spray of the dashing stream; to the music made by the scream of the owlet amongst the rocks—or the cry of the wolf hound for the farmer's roost, or the hut of the forester in the glen.

In the reign of a valiant King, whose name is now forgotten—but ‘twas long before Royal Bruce swayed the sceptre of ancient Caledonia—a tremendous White Snake infested the forest of Glenkens, and laid the country, for twenty miles round, in blood and desolation. ‘Twas white as the snow on the hill, fierce as the wild boar in the wood, and tall as the tufted fir on the mountain's brow. Rose there a cottage by the wild wood side, and smiled there peace unbroken, and innocence uncontaminated! Another day, and its floor is red with the blood of its inmates—their bodies lie around, and half choke up the entrance of its lowly thresh-hold. Today, the white cow feeds on the hill, fair and lovely to the eye, and the cottager's best support; she lives in joy, and thinks not of to-morrow—but to-morrow came, and that white cow shall never low there again; for her fleshless bones lie in the meadow stream; and life shall no more smile on that cottager, or the cow he valued so much!

Suspended from the trunk of the forest oak, the white snake appeared from amongst the trees—like the frozen stream on the mountain side—like the rainbow of Heaven after a summer shower, which has spangled with a glassy brightness the grass of the field, and the green leaf on the forest tree.

The wild boar approaches surly and slow—yells defiance alike to the beasts of the desert, and the lord of the manor tower.—Stately he passes on, and his eye soon met the mighty serpent he had often longed to encounter; his kindling blood flamed in anger—his yell rang through the forest like the meeting of a thousand knights in battle, and at one bound he sprang upon the white snake on the strong tree where it hang. He sprang upon the white snake, but his teeth rebounded from its impenetrable skin—the serpent's tail is twined around his gigantic body—his crackling bones are crushed in a thousand pieces; life is at an end, and his mighty heart is rent asunder for ever!

Next came the roebuck, fleet as the winds on the heath; stately he reared his branching antlers on high, then bounded away and away; but his proud career is at an end—the tear rolled down his cheek—he thought but once of his native wilds, and the green forest, of which he was the pride—cast one sad lingering look on river and sky—then sunk for ever within thy devouring jaws, fierce serpent of the wild!

Roderick M’Gill, Lord of Galloway, arose from his castle by the ocean wave: in feudal pride he seated himself upon his throne—his assembled barons stood around.

“I will give ten of the best steeds in my stable, to that bold warrior who meets the White Snake of Dalry in its woodland lair, and brings me its glancing skin on his spear," said Roderick M’Gill, addressing the knights who bore his name, and owned his authority; and the bold retainers who had served him so well in many a foray raid.

Forth stepped Sir Hugh Gillespie, a Rossian by birth, and a right vaļiant lord, and forth stepped Roderick Moss Roddoch with giant stride and prideful eye, “I am the first in blood, my lord, and I will be the first in battle!” exclaimed stern Moss Roddoch. “Sir Knights, your lineage is high in fame, and your names renowned," answered Roderick M’Gill. “And though the blood of bold Moss Roddoch claims alliance with the King upon the throne, yet, young Gillespie, thou first accepted thy chieftain's offer, and first in battle shall thy unconquered arm meet the White Adder of Glenkens.—But if thou return not in three days, then, Moss Roddoch , thine be sword and buckler—thine be victory, or a hero's grave!”

The chariot of the sun had cooled its burning steeds in the dark loch of far Loch Skeragh; and its last emerging rays faintly illuminated sky and tree, and played with a fitful gleam on the round shield and brazen buckler of Sir Hugh Gillespie, as he entered the wild woods of Barskeogh. The thought of danger never once awakened fear in the chieftain's breast: his steed stands in the glade; and its lord has penetrated far into the forest wild. His dauntless heart bounded in joy, and his thoughts are fixed on the ten steeds of Roderick M’Gill.

As Sir Hugh approached the banks of a lonely stream, that, almost unobserved, rolled on its mountain course, through thick clumps of forest trees, and grass taller than his helmet plume; he observed on his right hand a dark and impenetrable brake, formed of buckthorn, ‘with its berries red,' and dog-tree, with its blossoms white ; and scattered here and there, lay the bones and mangled bodies of many a stag, and many a mountain bull. The leaves rustled—the bushes were bent to the ground—and before the Knight could draw his sword from its scabbard, or raise his buckler in defence, the white serpent darted upon him, like the mountain eagle upon the ptarmigan amongst the heath; and in one moment, in its devouring jaws, disappeared sword and shield, helmet and plume, with the gallant Knight who bore them so stately in battle fray.

As rose that morning's sun, little weened Sir Hugh Gillespie, that he should never see it rise again; and little thought he that kingly form should rest in death, where now, alas! it lies!

The morning of the fourth day arose in heaven, but no tidings of Sir Hugh Gillespie; the rising sun brightly illuminated every object far and near; every bird on bush and tree sang for joy, and every animal in gay greenwood seemed to rejoice.

As the groom led the white steed of Rodderick Moss Roddoch from its stall, three times it reared on high, and thrice refused its gilded saddle, of which in battle it seemed so proud; and as the warrior set his foot in the silver stirrup, three drops of blood flowed from his heart, and fell on his lady's arm—sad and sorrowful forebodings of approaching danger, and of bloody conflict with lance and target.

Tannoch Tower heard the clanking of his horse's feet—Kenmore woods resounded to his bugle horn, and swift rode Roderick Moss Roddoch up Grennan bank. The narrow road that winds up the foot of the rocks, was almost covered with the dead bodies of men and women, and horses. The blood of the slain had dyed the bark of the oak trees, and deepened the red gravel of the road with a darker shade. But Roderick Moss Roddoch, trained in the field of battle from his earliest youth, was accustomed to view such scenes of death and destruction without a tear, or heaving one sigh for the gallant dead who lay around “Savage as h—l must this serpent be,” said stern Moss Roddoch; “but my good blade, that put to flight, on Dalarran field, a whole legion of gigantic Danes, shall never yield to the fiercest snake ever formed by the hand of Heaven!”

That morning had seen the rites of sepulture paid to the last remains of Janet Le Fleming, wife of Michal Le Fleming, blacksmith in the clauchan of St John. She had been interred with great funeral pomp and solemnity; for she was akin to a valiant knight, and her father was a stalwart warrior in the body guard of Roderick M’Gill. Her husband, Michal Le Fleming, was a cunning blacksmith—strong of arm, and proud of heart. His spear had borne to the ground many a young boar in the wood, and he could strike down a hart at the distance of a hundred feet. He had long meditated the destruction of the White Snake, and for that purpose had formed a coat of steel armour, covered with barbed springs, which opened and shut at pleasure; his helm and shield were of the same metal, and his sword once graced the thigh of a fierce warrior of Denmark.

As Michal Le Fleming sat at dinner, a boy, almost breathless, came running up the bill, and told the astonished blacksmith that the adder bore away in its teeth, the coffin, in which lay his beloved consort, Janet Le Fleming! For the White Snake was ac customed to enter the burying ground of Dalry, and, like a vampyre spirit, feast on the corses of the dead; and then it would lie for whole days together around the green Moat, where once in glory waved the golden eagles of imperial Rome, and the haughty legions forced their way over the smoking ruins of unconquered Caledonia!

The enraged Le Fleming instantly arrayed himself in his steel armour, and rushed from his cottage, breathing death in every word!

The snake had reared the curling folds of its body high in air, and with its teeth was tearing asunder the coffin boards, in which lay the remains of her, in life he had loved so well. Le Fleming, regardless of danger, rushed upon it at once; but his trusty spear, that never failed his hand, against its impenetrable scales was shivered in pieces; and, like Sir Hugh Gillespie, it swallowed Michal Le Fleming alive, ‘sword and shield, helmet and plume!’

But the dauntless Le Fleming, though immured in the cells of death, was determined not to submit in silence, to what he considered a death of shame. He turned himself round and round, and with the barbed springs of his steel armour, tore and lacerated its entrails and its body, till the life's blood gushed from the opening wounds,—filled the deep ditch of the Moat to the brim, and descending from thence, rushed to the river Ken beneath, and tinged with a bloody hue, for many a mile, the rapid river as it rolled away.

At length Le Fleming succeeded in forcing himself through a deep wound made between the opening of its scales, and again opened his eyes upon the light of life, and once more breathed the pure air of Heaven.

As the blood-covered Le Fleming arose from the earth, the tall plume and glittering armour of Roderick Moss Roddoch appeared from amongst the trees; and seeing the monster he had come to conquer stretched in death, and blooming on the brow of another the laurels he had hoped to win, anger kindled in his breast, and beamed in his dark eye, as he exclaimed in wrath, “What is thy name and lineage, stranger with the barbed shield?” “For I ween, I never met thee in battle field, or heard of thee in castle hall. Speak , savage barbarian , and say what thou art, or by the Holy Cross, I will pierce thee to the earth with my lance! I am Roderick Moss Roddoch—I am cousin to the King”!

And I am Michal Le Fleming, who never bore an insult from mortal man!” answered the blacksmith, drawing his sword. “Come on then, proud Knight, and try whether the royal blood of Roderick Moss Roddoch, or of Le Fleming, be the best.”—The Knight made no reply, but instantly couched his lance, and run a fierce tilt against the dauntless Le Fleming where he stood.

But the opposing sword of the blacksmith cut in two the spear from its staff, and he defended himself with the bravery of a warrior trained to battle from his youth.—In vain battered the Knight against the proof-mail of Le Fleming, for at every stroke his good blade was hacked and broken, and every blow of his assailant brought the red blood from the neck and chest of his gallant white steed. One blow, and the towering plume of stern Moss Roddoch is severed from the crest, where it danced in pride—another, and his round shield , with the arm that bore it, is laid upon the earth—a third blow, and the gallant Roderick Moss Roddoch, cousin to the King, lies a lifeless corse at the feet of Michal Le Fleming!

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