These words were treated with contempt by M’Alister Indre, who mocked and laughed at the malicious prattle of a woman’s tongue.  But time proved only too truly how persistently the curse of the bereaved woman clung to the race of her oppressors, and, as Sir Bernard Burke remarks, it was in the reign of Queen Anne that the hopes of the house of M’Alister “flourished for the last time, they were blighted for ever.”  The closing scene of this prophetic curse was equally tragic and romantic; for, whilst espousing the cause of the Pretender, the young and promising heir of the M’Alisters was taken prisoner, and with many others put to death.  Incensed at the wrongs of his exiled monarch, and full of fiery impulse, he had secretly left his youthful wife, and joined the army at Perth that was to restore the Pretender to his throne.  For several months the deserted wife fretted under the terrible suspense, often silently wondering if, after all, her husband—­the last hope of the House of M’Alister—­was to fall under the ban of the widow’s curse.  She could not dispel from her mind the hitherto disastrous results of those ill-fated words, and would only too willingly have done anything in her power to make atonement for the wrong that had been committed in the past.  It was whilst almost frenzied with thoughts of this distracting kind, that vague rumours reached her ears of a great battle which had been fought, and ere long this was followed by the news that the Pretender’s forces had been successful, and that he was about to be crowned at Scone.  The shades of evening were fast setting in as, overcome with the joyous prospect of seeing her husband home again, she withdrew to her chamber, and, flinging herself on her bed in a state of hysteric delight, fell asleep.  But her slumbers were broken, for at every sound she started, mentally exclaiming “Can that be my husband?”

At last, the happy moment came when her poor overwrought brain made sure it heard his footsteps.  She listened, yes! they were his!  Full of feverish joy she was longing to see that long absent face, when, as the door opened, to her horror and dismay, there entered a figure in martial array without a head.  It was enough—­he was dead.  And with an agonizing scream she fell down in a swoon; and on becoming conscious only lived to hear the true narrative of the battle of Sheriff-Muir, which had brought to pass the Widow’s Curse that there should be no heir to the house of M’Alister.

This story reminds us of one told of Sir Richard Herbert, who, with his brother, the Earl of Pembroke, pursuing a robber band in Anglesea, had captured seven brothers, the ringleaders of “many mischiefs and murders.”  The Earl of Pembroke determined to make an example of these marauders, and, to root out so wretched a progeny, ordered them all to be hanged.  Upon this, the mother of the felons came to the Earl of Pembroke, and upon her knees besought him to pardon two, or at least one, of her sons, a request which was seconded by the Earl’s brother, Sir Richard.  But the Earl, finding the condemned men all equally guilty, declared he could make no distinction, and ordered them to be hanged together.