Castle by the sea, where, some say, the murdered Cardinal may now
and again be seen, in his red hat. In South Street he hears the
roll and rattle of the viewless carriage which sounds in that
thoroughfare. He loiters under the haunted tower on Hepburn's
precinct wall, the tower where the lady of the bright locks lies,
with white gloves on her hands. Might he not share, in the desolate
Cathedral, La Messe des Morts, when all the lost souls of true
lovers are allowed to meet once a year. Here be they who were too
fond when Culdees ruled, or who loved young monks of the Priory;
here be ladies of Queen Mary's Court, and the fair inscrutable Queen
herself, with Chastelard, that died at St. Andrews for desire of
her; and poor lassies and lads who were over gay for Andrew Melville
and Mr. Blair; and Miss Pett, who tended young Montrose, and may
have had a tenderness for his love-locks. They are a triste good
company, tender and true, as the lovers of whom M. Anatole France
has written (La Messe des Morts). Above the witches' lake come
shadows of the women who suffered under Knox and the Bastard of
Scotland, poor creatures burned to ashes with none to help or pity.
The shades of Dominicans flit by the Black Friars wall--verily the
place is haunted, and among Murray's pleasures was this of pacing
alone, by night, in that airy press and throng of those who lived
and loved and suffered so long ago -


`The mist hangs round the College tower,
The ghostly street
Is silent at this midnight hour,
Save for my feet.

With none to see, with none to hear,