Tapestried Chamber, and Death of the Laird's Jock

"The Tapestried Chamber"

This is a ghost story. While travelling through the western counties, the general's attention was attracted by a picturesquely situated old castle, and, on inquiry at the inn where he changed horses, he learnt that its owner was a nobleman who had been his schoolfellow. He accordingly determined to call upon his lordship; and, having been persuaded to be his guest for a week, he was conducted at bedtime to an old-fashioned room, hung with tapestry, but comfortably furnished, and well lighted by two large candles and a blazing fire. The next morning Lord Woodville was informed by his servant that the general had been wandering in the park since an early hour and when he appeared at the breakfast table his countenance was haggard, his clothes carelessly put on, and his manner abstracted; moreover, he announced that he must depart immediately. Drawing him aside from the other visitors, his host pressed him for an explanation, and, after declaring that he would rather face a battery than recall the events of the night, he reluctantly narrated what he had undergone.

"Death of the Laird's Jock"

Armstrong had been known during his father's lifetime as the Laird's Jock, or son; and being possessed of great strength and courage, had distinguished himself in the use of a two-handed sword, bequeathed to him by a Saxon outlaw, in many of the single combats which took place between the English and Scottish borderers during the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

He had, however, grown old, and was bed-ridden, when his only son accepted the challenge of an English champion. But his heart swelled with joy at the news, and having entrusted the lad with his celebrated weapon, he insisted on being wrapped in plaids and carried to the spot selected for the encounter, attended by his daughter. His followers gazed sadly on their chieftain's withered features and shrunken form; but when the combatants met, and the Englishman brandished the sword over his fallen antagonist, the old laird, reanimated for an instant with his former vigour, sprang from the rock on which he was seated, and, having uttered a cry like that of a dying lion rather than a human being, sank into the arms of his clansmen broken-hearted, not at the death of his boy, but at their wounded honour, and the irreparable loss of his weapon.