Chapter 35

Whose mind's so marbled, and his heart so hard,
That would not, when this huge mishap was heard,
To th' utmost note of sorrow set their song,
To see a gallant, with so great a grace,
So suddenly unthought on, so o'erthrown,
And so to perish, in so poor a place,
By too rash riding in a ground unknown!

POEM, IN NISBET'S Heraldry, vol. ii.

WE have anticipated the course of time to mention Bucklaw's recovery and
fate, that we might not interrupt the detail of events which succeeded
the funeral of the unfortunate Lucy Ashton. This melancholy ceremony was
performed in the misty dawn of an autumnal morning, with such moderate
attendance and ceremony as could not possibly be dispensed with. A very
few of the nearest relations attended her body to the same churchyard to
which she had so lately been led as a bride, with as little free will,
perhaps, as could be now testified by her lifeless and passive remains.
An aisle adjacent to the church had been fitted up by Sir William Ashton
as a family cemetery; and here, in a coffin bearing neither name nor
date, were consigned to dust the remains of what was once lovely,
beautiful, and innocent, though exasperated to frenzy by a long tract of
unremitting persecution.

While the mourners were busy in the vault, the three village hags, who,
notwithstanding the unwonted earliness of the hour, had snuffed the
carrion like vultures, were seated on the "through-stane," and engaged
in their wonted unhallowed conference.

"Did not I say," said Dame Gourlay, "that the braw bridal would be
followed by as braw a funeral?"

"I think," answered Dame Winnie, "there's little bravery at it: neither
meat nor drink, and just a wheen silver tippences to the poor folk; it
was little worth while to come sae far a road for sae sma' profit, and
us sae frail."

"Out, wretch!" replied Dame Gourlay, "can a' the dainties they could gie
us be half sae sweet as this hour's vengeance? There they are that
were capering on their prancing nags four days since, and they are now
ganging as dreigh and sober as oursells the day. They were a' glistening
wi' gowd and silver; they're now as black as the crook. And Miss Lucy
Ashton, that grudged when an honest woman came near her--a taid may sit
on her coffin that day, and she can never scunner when he croaks. And
Lady Ashton has hell-fire burning in her breast by this time; and Sir
William, wi' his gibbets, and his faggots, and his chains, how likes he
the witcheries of his ain dwelling-house?"

"And is it true, then," mumbled the paralytic wretch, "that the bride
was trailed out of her bed and up the chimly by evil spirits, and that