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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 40014
   :PG.Title: John Burnet of Barns
   :PG.Released: 2012-06-17
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: John Buchan
   :DC.Title: John Burnet of Barns
              A Romance
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1899

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JOHN BURNET OF BARNS
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   John Burnet of Barns

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   *A Romance*

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   BY

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   JOHN BUCHAN

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   TORONTO:
   THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED.
   1899.

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   Copyright, 1898
   BY JOHN LANE

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   Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
   thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine, by THE COPP CLARK
   COMPANY, LIMITED, Toronto, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.

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   TO THE MEMORY OF
   MY SISTER
   VIOLET KATHARINE STUART

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   [Greek: Astêr prìn mèn élampes eni zôoìsin Heôos,
   nun dè oanôn lámpeis Hesperos en phthiménois.]

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   [Transcriber's note: the above Greek was transcribed
   from a poor-quality scan, so may not be quite correct]

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   Contents

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   BOOK I—TWEEDDALE

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   CHAPTER

   I.  `THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME IN THE WOOD OF DAWYCK`_
   II.  `THE HOUSE OF BARNS`_
   III.  `THE SPATE IN TWEED`_
   IV.  `I GO TO THE COLLEGE AT GLASGOW`_
   V.  `COUSINLY AFFECTION`_
   VI.  `HOW MASTER GILBERT BURNET PLAYED A GAME AND WAS CHECKMATED`_
   VII.  `THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES AND HOW A STRANGER RETURNED FROM THE WARS`_
   VIII.  `I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS`_
   IX.  `I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS AND FIND A COMPANION`_

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   BOOK II—THE LOW COUNTRIES

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   I.  `OF MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES`_
   II.  `I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART`_
   III.  `THE STORY OF A SUPPER PARTY`_
   IV.  `OUR ADVENTURE ON THE ALPHEN ROAD`_
   V.  `THE FIRST SUNDAY OF MARCH`_
   VI.  `THE FIRST MONDAY OF MARCH`_
   VII.  `I SPEND MY DAYS IN IDLENESS`_
   VIII.  `THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAMAW`_
   IX.  `AN ACCOUNT OF MY HOME-COMING`_

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   BOOK III—THE HILLMEN

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   I.  `THE PIER O' LEITH`_
   II.  `HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH`_
   III.  `THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK`_
   IV.  `HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END`_
   V.  `I CLAIM A PROMISE, AND WE SEEK THE HILLS`_
   VI.  `THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER`_
   VII.  `HOW TWO OF HIS MAJESTY'S SERVANTS MET WITH THEIR DESERTS`_
   VIII.  `OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF CLYDE`_
   IX.  `I PART FROM MARJORY`_
   X.  `OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE AND THE ENCOUNTER IN THE GREEN CLEUCH`_
   XI.  `HOW A MILLER STROVE WITH HIS OWN MILL-WHEEL`_
   XII.  `I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING`_
   XIII.  `I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE`_
   XIV.  `I FALL IN WITH STRANGE FRIENDS`_
   XV.  `THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN'S LAND`_
   XVI.  `HOW THREE MEN HELD A TOWN IN TERROR`_
   XVII.  `OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR`_
   XVIII.  `SMITWOOD`_

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   BOOK IV—THE WESTLANDS

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   I.  `I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN AT THE FORDS O' CLYDE`_
   II.  `AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND`_
   III.  `THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES`_
   IV.  `UP HILL AND DOWN DALE`_
   V.  `EAGLESHAM`_
   VI.  `I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET`_
   VII.  `OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE`_
   VIII.  `HOW NICOL PLENDERLEITH SOUGHT HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE`_
   IX.  `THE END OF ALL THINGS`_

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.. _`THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME IN THE WOOD OF DAWYCK`:

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   John Burnet of Barns
   
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   BOOK I—TWEEDDALE

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   CHAPTER I

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   THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME IN THE WOOD OF DAWYCK

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I have taken in hand to write this, the history of
my life, not without much misgiving of heart; for my
memory at the best is a bad one, and of many things
I have no clear remembrance.  And the making of
tales is an art unknown to me, so he who may read
must not look for any great skill in the setting down.
Yet I am emboldened to the work, for my life has been
lived in stirring times and amid many strange scenes
which may not wholly lack interest for those who live
in quieter days.  And above all, I am desirous that they
of my family should read of my life and learn the
qualities both good and bad which run in the race, and
so the better be able to resist the evil and do the good.

My course, by the will of God, has had something
of a method about it, which makes the telling the
more easy.  For, as I look back upon it from the
vantage ground of time, all seems spread out plain and
clear in an ordered path.  And I would but seek to
trace again some portion of the way with the light of
a dim memory.

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I will begin my tale with a certain June morning
in the year 1678, when I, scarcely turned twelve
years, set out from the house of Barns to the fishing
in Tweed.  I had escaped the watchful care of my
tutor, Master Robert Porter, the curate of Lyne, who
vexed my soul thrice a week with Cæsar and Cicero.
I had no ill-will to the Latin, for I relished the
battles in Cæsar well enough, and had some liking for
poetry; but when I made a slip in grammar he would
bring his great hand over my ears in a way which
would make them tingle for hours.  And all this,
mind you, with the sun coming in at the window and
whaups whistling over the fields and the great fish
plashing in the river.  On this morn I had escaped
by hiding in the cheese-closet; then I had fetched my
rod from the stable-loft, and borrowed tackle from
Davie Lithgow, the stableman; and now I was creeping
through the hazel bushes, casting, every now and
then, a glance back at the house, where the huge
figure of my teacher was looking for me disconsolately
in every corner.

The year had been dry and sultry; and this day was
warmer than any I remembered.  The grass in the
meadow was browned and crackling; all the foxgloves
hung their bells with weariness; and the waters were
shrunken in their beds.  The mill-lade, which drives
Manor Mill, had not a drop in it, and the small trout
were gasping in the shallow pool, which in our usual
weather was five feet deep.  The cattle were *stertling*,
as we called it in the countryside; that is, the sun
was burning their backs, and, rushing with tails erect,
they sought coolness from end to end of the field.
Tweed was very low and clear.  Small hope, I
thought, for my fishing; I might as well have stayed
with Master Porter and been thrashed, for I will have
to stay out all day and go supperless at night.

I took my way up the river past the green slopes
of Haswellsykes to the wood of Dawyck, for I knew
well that there, if anywhere, the fish would take in
the shady, black pools.  The place was four weary
miles off, and the day was growing hotter with each
passing hour; so I stripped my coat and hid it in a
hole among whins and stones.  When I come home
again, I said, I will recover it.  Another half mile,
and I had off my shoes and stockings and concealed
them in a like place; so soon I plodded along with
no other clothes on my body than shirt and ragged
breeches.

In time I came to the great forest which stretches
up Tweed nigh to Drummelzier, the greatest wood in
our parts, unless it be Glentress, on the east side
of Peebles.  The trees were hazels and birches in
the main, with a few rowans, and on the slopes of the
hill a congregation of desolate pines.  Nearer the
house of Dawyck were beeches and oaks and the
deeper shade, and it was thither I went.  The top
of my rod struck against the boughs, and I had some
labour in steering a safe course between the Scylla of
the trees and the Charybdis of the long brackens; for
the rod was in two parts spliced together, and as I had
little skill in splicing, Davie had done the thing for
me before I started.  Twice I roused a cock of the
woods, which went screaming through the shadow.
Herons from the great heronry at the other end were
standing in nigh every pool, for the hot weather was a
godsend to them, and the trout fared ill when the long
thief-like bills flashed through the clear water.  Now
and then a shy deer leaped from the ground and sped
up the hill.  The desire of the chase was hot upon
me when, after an hour's rough scramble, I came to
the spot where I hoped for fish.

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A stretch of green turf, shaded on all sides by high
beeches, sloped down to the stream-side.  The sun
made a shining pathway down the middle, but the
edges were in blackest shadow.  At the foot a lone
gnarled alder hung over the water, sending its long
arms far over the river nigh to the farther side.  Here
Tweed was still and sunless, showing a level of placid
black water, flecked in places with stray shafts of
light.  I prepared my tackle on the grass, making a
casting-line of fine horse-hair which I had plucked
from the tail of our own grey gelding.  I had no such
fine hooks as folk nowadays bring from Edinburgh,
sharpened and barbed ready to their hand; but rough,
homemade ones, which Tam Todd, the land-grieve,
had fashioned out of old needles.  My line was of
thin, stout whipcord, to which I had made the
casting firm with a knot of my own invention.  I had
out my bag of worms, and, choosing a fine red one,
made it fast on the hook.  Then I crept gently to the
alder and climbed on the branch which hung far out
over the stream.  Here I sat like an owl in the shade,
and dropped my line in the pool below me, where it
caught a glint of the sun and looked like a shining
cord let down, like Jacob's ladder, from heaven to the
darkness of earth.

I had not sat many minutes before my rod was
wrenched violently downwards, then athwart the
stream, nearly swinging me from my perch.  I have
got a monstrous trout, I thought, and with a fluttering
heart stood up on the branch to be more ready for
the struggle.  He ran up the water and down; then
far below the tree roots, whence I had much difficulty
in forcing him; then he thought to break my line by
rapid jerks, but he did not know the strength of my
horse-hair.  By and by he grew wearied, and I landed
him comfortably on a spit of land—a great red-spotted
fellow with a black back.  I made sure that he was
two pounds weight if he was an ounce.

I hid him in a cool bed of leaves and rushes on the
bank, and crawled back to my seat on the tree.  I
baited my hook as before, and dropped it in; and then
leaned back lazily on the branches behind to meditate
on the pleasantness of fishing and the hatefulness of
Master Porter's teaching.  In my shadowed place all
was cool and fresh as a May morning, but beyond, in
the gleam of the sun, I could see birds hopping
sleepily on the trees, and the shrivelled dun look of the
grass.  A faint humming of bees reached me, and the
flash of a white butterfly shot, now and then, like a
star from the sunlight to the darkness, and back again
to the sunlight.  It was a lovely summer's day, though
too warm for our sober country, and as I sat I thought
of the lands I had read of and heard of, where it was
always fiercely hot, and great fruits were to be had for
the pulling.  I thought of the oranges and olives and
what not, and great silver and golden fishes with
sparkling scales; and as I thought of them I began to
loathe hazel-nuts and rowans and whortleberries, and
the homely trout, which are all that is to be had in
this land of ours.  Then I thought of Barns and my
kinsfolk, and all the tales of my forbears, and I loved
again the old silent valley of Tweed—for a gallant tale
is worth many fruits and fishes.  Then as the day
brightened my dreams grew accordingly.  I came of
a great old house; I, too, would ride to the wars, to
the low countries, to Sweden, and I would do great
deeds like the men in Virgil.  And then I wished I
had lived in Roman times.  Ah, those were the days,
when all the good things of life fell to brave men,
and there was no other trade to be compared to war.
Then I reflected that they had no fishing, for I had
come on nothing as yet in my studies about fish and
the catching of them.  And so, like the boy I was, I
dreamed on, and my thoughts chased each other in a
dance in my brain, and I fell fast asleep.

I wakened with a desperate shudder, and found
myself floundering in seven feet of water.  My eyes
were still heavy with sleep, and I swallowed great
gulps of the river as I sank.  In a second I came to
the surface and with a few strokes I was at the side,
for I had early learned to swim.  Stupid and angry,
I scrambled up the bank to the green glade.  Here
a first surprise befell me.  It was late afternoon; the
sun had travelled three-fourths of the sky; it would
be near five o'clock.  What a great fool I had been
to fall asleep and lose a day's fishing!  I found my
rod moored to the side with the line and half of the
horse-hair; some huge fish had taken the hook.  Then
I looked around me to the water and the trees and the
green sward, and surprise the second befell me; for
there, not twelve paces from me, stood a little girl,
watching me with every appearance of terror.

She was about two years younger than myself, I
fancied.  Her dress was some rich white stuff which
looked eerie in the shade of the beeches, and her long
hair fell over her shoulders in plentiful curls.  She
had wide, frightened blue eyes and a delicately-featured
face, and as for the rest I know not how to
describe her, so I will not try.  I, with no more
manners than a dog, stood staring at her, wholly forgetful
of the appearance I must present, without shoes and
stockings, coat or waistcoat, and dripping with Tweed
water.  She spoke first, in a soft southern tone, which
I, accustomed only to the broad Scots of Jean Morran,
who had been my nurse, fell in love with at once.
Her whole face was filled with the extremest terror.

"Oh, sir, be you the water-kelpie?" she asked.

I could have laughed at her fright, though I must
have been like enough to some evil spirit; but I
answered her with my best gravity.

"No, I am no kelpie, but I had gone to sleep and
fell into the stream.  My coat and shoes are in a hole
two miles down, and my name is John Burnet of
Barns."  All this I said in one breath, being anxious
to right myself in her eyes; also with some pride in
the last words.

It was pretty to see how recognition chased the fear
from her face.  "I know you," she said.  "I have
heard of you.  But what do you in the dragon's hole,
sir?  This is my place.  The dragon will get you
without a doubt."

At this I took off my bonnet and made my best
bow.  "And who are you, pray, and what story is
this of dragons?  I have been here scores of times,
and never have I seen or heard of them."  This
with the mock importance of a boy.

"Oh, I am Marjory," she said, "Marjory
Veitch, and I live at the great house in the wood, and
all this place is my father's and mine.  And this is my
dragon's den;" and straightway she wandered into
a long tale of Fair Margot and the Seven Maidens,
how Margot wed the Dragon and he turned forthwith
into a prince, and I know not what else.  "But no
harm can come to me, for look, I have the charm,"
and she showed me a black stone in a silver locket.
"My nurse Alison gave it me.  She had it from a
great fairy who came with it to my cradle when I was
born."

"Who told you all this?" I asked in wonder, for
this girl seemed to carry all the wisdom of the ages in
her head.

"Alison and my father, and my brother Michael
and old Adam Noble, and a great many more—"  Then
she broke off.  "My mother is gone.  The
fairies came for her."

Then I remembered the story of the young English
mistress of Dawyck, who had died before she had been
two years in our country.  And this child, with her
fairy learning, was her daughter.

Now I know not what took me, for I had ever
been shy of folk, and, above all, of womankind.  But
here I found my tongue, and talked to my new
companion in a way which I could not sufficiently admire.
There in the bright sun-setting I launched into the
most miraculous account of my adventures of that
day, in which dragons and witches were simply the
commonest portents.  Then I sat down and told her
all the stories I had read out of Virgil and Cæsar,
and all that I had heard of the wars in England and
abroad, and the tales of the countryside which the
packmen had told me.  Also I must tell the romances
of the nettie-wives who come to our countryside from
the north—the old sad tale of Morag of the Misty
Days and Usnach's sons and the wiles of Angus.
And she listened, and thanked me ever so prettily when
I had done.  Then she would enlighten my ignorance;
so I heard of the Red Etin of Ireland, and the Wolf
of Brakelin, and the Seven Bold Brothers.  Then I
showed her nests, and gave her small blue eggs to
take home, and pulled great foxgloves for her, and
made coronets of fern.  We played at hide-and-go-seek
among the beeches, and ran races, and fought
visionary dragons.  Then the sun went down over
the trees, and she declared it was time to be going
home.  So I got my solitary fish from its bed of
rushes and made her a present of it.  She was
pleased beyond measure, though she cried out at my
hardness in taking its life.

So it came to pass that Mistress Marjory Veitch of
Dawyck went home hugging a great two-pound trout,
and I went off to Barns, heedless of Master Porter and
his heavy hand, and, arriving late, escaped a
thrashing, and made a good meal of the remnants of supper.





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.. _`THE HOUSE OF BARNS`:

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   CHAPTER II
   
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   THE HOUSE OF BARNS

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The house of Barns stands on a green knoll above
the Tweed, half-way between the village of Stobo and
the town of Peebles.  Tweed here is no great rolling
river, but a shallow, prattling stream, and just below
the house it winds around a small islet, where I loved
to go and fish; for it was an adventure to reach the
place, since a treacherous pool lay not a yard below
it.  The dwelling was white and square, with a
beacon tower on the top, which once flashed the light
from Neidpath to Drochil when the English came
over the Border.  It had not been used for half a
hundred years, but a brazier still stood there, and a
pile of rotten logs, grim mementoes of elder feuds.
This also was a haunt of mine, for jackdaws and owls
built in the corners, and it was choice fun of a spring
morning to search for eggs at the risk of my worthless
life.  The parks around stretched to Manor village
on the one side, and nigh to the foot of the Lyne
Water on the other.  Manor Water as far as Posso
belonged to us, and many a rare creel have I had out
of its pleasant reaches.  Behind, rose the long heathery
hill of the Scrape, which is so great a hill that while
one side looks down on us another overhangs the
wood of Dawyck.  Beyond that again came Dollar
Law and the wild fells which give birth to the Tweed,
the Yarrow, and the Annan.

Within the house, by the great hall-fire, my father,
William Burnet, spent his days.  I mind well his great
figure in the armchair, a mere wreck of a man, but
mighty in his very ruin.  He wore a hat, though he
seldom went out, to mind him of the old days when he
was so busy at hunting and harrying that he had never
his head uncovered.  His beard was streaked with
grey, and his long nose, with a break in the middle
(which is a mark of our family), and bushy eyebrows
gave him a fearsome look to a chance stranger.  In
his young days he had been extraordinarily handsome
and active, and, if all tales be true, no better than he
should have been.  He was feared in those days for
his great skill in night-foraying, so that he won the
name of the "Howlet," which never left him.  Those
were the high days of our family, for my father was
wont to ride to the Weaponshow with seven horsemen
behind him; now we could scarce manage four.  But
in one of his night-rides his good fortune failed him;
for being after no good on the hills above Megget one
dark wintry night, he fell over the Bitch Craig, horse
and all; and though he escaped with his life, he was
lamed in both legs and condemned to the house for the
rest of his days.  Of a summer night he would come
out to the lawn with two mighty sticks to support
him, and looking to the Manor Water hills, would
shake his fist at them as old enemies.  In his later
days he took kindly to theology and learning, both of
which, in the person of Master Porter, dined at his
table every day.  I know not how my father, who
was a man of much penetration, could have been
deceived by this man, who had as much religion as an
ox.  As for learning, he had some rag-tag scraps of
Latin which were visited on me for my sins; but in
eating he had no rival, and would consume beef and
pasty and ale like a famished army.  He preached
every Sabbath in the little kirk of Lyne, below the
Roman camp, and a woful service it was.  I went
regularly by my father's orders, but I was the only
one from the household of Barns.  I fear that not
even my attendance at his church brought me Master
Porter's love; for I had acquired nearly as much
Latin as he possessed himself, and vexed his spirit
at lesson-hours with unanswerable questions.  At
other times, too, I would rouse him to the wildest
anger by singing a profane song of my own making:

   |   "O ken ye his Reverence Minister Tam,
   |   Wi' a heid like a stot and a face like a ram?"

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To me my father was more than kind.  He was
never tired of making plans for my future.  "John,"
he would say, "you shall go to Glasgow College,
for you have the makings of a scholar in you.  Ay,
and we'll make you a soldier, John, and a good
honest gentleman to fight for your king, as your forbears
did before you."  (This was scarce true, for there
never yet was a Burnet who fought for anything but
his own hand.)  "No damned Whig for me.  Gad,
how I wish I were hale in the legs to be off to the
hills with the Johnstones and Keiths.  There wouldna
be one of the breed left from Tweedwell to the Brig
o' Peebles."  Then he would be anxious about my
martial training, and get down the foils to teach me a
lesson.  From this he would pass to tales of his own
deeds till the past would live before him, and his eyes
would glow with their old fire.  Then he would forget
his condition, and seek to show me how some parry
was effected.  There was but one result; his poor
weak legs would give way beneath him.  Then I had
to carry him to his bed, swearing deeply at his
infirmities and lamenting the changes of life.

In those days the Burnets were a poor family—a
poor and a proud.  My grandfather had added much
to the lands by rapine and extortion—ill-gotten gains
which could not last.  He had been a man of a violent
nature, famed over all the South for his feats of
horsemanship and swordsmanship.  He died suddenly, of
overdrinking, at the age of fifty-five, and now lies in
the kirk of Lyne beneath an effigy representing the
Angel Gabriel coming for his soul.  His last words
are recorded: "O Lord, I dinna want to dee, I dinna
want to dee.  If ye'll let me live, I'll run up the
sklidders o' Cademuir to a' eternity."  The folk of the
place seldom spoke of him, though my father upheld
him as a man of true spirit who had an eye to the
improvement of his house.  Of the family before
him I had the history at my finger-ends.  This was
a subject of which my father never tired, for he held
that the genealogy of the Burnets was a thing of vastly
greater importance than that of the kings of Rome or
Judah.  From the old days when we held Burnetland,
in the parish of Broughton, and called ourselves of
that ilk, I had the unbroken history of the family in
my memory.  Ay, and also of the great house of
Traquair, for my mother had been a Stewart, and, as
my father said often, this was the only family in the
country bide which could hope to rival us in antiquity
or valour.

My father's brother, Gilbert, had married the heiress
of a westland family, and with her had got the lands
of Eaglesham, about the headwaters of Cart.  His
son Gilbert, my cousin, was a tall lad some four years
my senior, who on several occasions rode to visit us
at Barns.  He was of a handsome, soldierly
appearance, and looked for an early commission in a Scots
company.  At first I admired him mightily, for he
was skilful at all sports, rode like a moss-trooper, and
could use his sword in an incomparable fashion.  My
father could never abide him, for he could not cease
to tell of his own prowess, and my father was used to
say that he loved no virtue better than modesty.  Also,
he angered every servant about the place by his
hectoring, and one day so offended old Tam Todd that
Tam flung a bucket at him, and threatened to duck him
in the Tweed; which he doubtless would have done,
old as he was, for he was a very Hercules of a man.
This presented a nice problem to all concerned, and I
know not which was the more put out, Tam or my
father.  Finally it ended in the latter reading Gilbert a
long and severe lecture, and then bidding Tam ask
his pardon, seeing that the dignity of the family had
to be sustained at any cost.

One other relative, though in a distant way, I must
not omit to mention, for the day came when every
man of our name was proud to claim the kinship.
This was Gilbert Burnet, of Edinburgh, afterwards
Divinity Professor in Glasgow, Bishop of Salisbury,
and the author of the famous "Bishop Burnet's
History of his Own Times."  I met him often in after
days, and once in London he had me to his house and
entertained me during my stay.  Of him I shall have
to tell hereafter, but now he was no more than a name
to me, a name which my father was fond of repeating
when he wished to recall me to gravity.

Tam Todd, my father's grieve, who managed the
lands about the house, deserves more than a passing
word.  He was about sixty years of age, stooped in the
back, but with long arms and the strength of a giant.
At one time he had fought for Gustavus, and might
have risen high in the ranks, had not a desperate desire
to see his native land come upon him and driven him
to slip off one night and take ship for Leith.  He
had come to Peebles, where my father met him, and
admiring his goodly stature, took him into his service,
in which Tam soon became as expert at the breeding
of sheep as ever he had been at the handling of a
pike or musket.  He was the best story-teller and the
cunningest fisher in the place, full of quaint foreign
words, French, and Swedish, and High Dutch, for
the army of Gustavus had been made up of the
riddlings of Europe.  From him I learned to fence with
the rapier, and a past-master he was, for my father told
how, in his best days, he could never so much as look
at Tam.  *Bon pied bon oeil* was ever his watchword,
and I have proved it a good one; for, short though it
be, if a man but follow it he may fear nothing.  Also,
he taught me a thing which has been most useful to
me, and which I will speak of again—the art of using
the broadsword or claymore, as the wild Highlanders
call it.  My school was on a strip of green grass
beside Tweed, and here I have had many a tough
encounter in the long summer nights.  He made me
stand with my back to the deep pool, that I might
fear to step back; and thus I learned to keep my
ground, a thing which he held to be of the essence of
swordsmanship.

My nurse, Jean Morran, was the only woman body
about the place.  She and Tam did the cooking
between them, for that worthy had learned the art
gastronomical from a Frenchman whose life he saved, and
who, in gratitude, taught him many excellent secrets
for dishes, and stole ten crowns.  She had minded me
and mended my clothes and seen to my behaviour ever
since my mother died of a fever when I was scarce
two years old.  Of my mother I remember nothing,
but if one may judge from my father's long grief and
her portrait in the dining-hall, she had been a good and
a gentle as well as a most beautiful woman.  Jean,
with her uncouth tongue and stern face, is still a clear
figure in my memory.  She was a kind nurse in the
main, and if her temper was doubtful from many sore
trials, her cakes and sugar were excellent salves to my
wronged heart.  She was, above all things, a famous
housewife, keeping the place spotless and clean, so
that when one entered the house of Barns there was
always something fresh and cool in the very air.

But here I am at the end of my little gallery, for
the place was bare of folk, and the life a lonely one.
Here I grew up amid the woods and hills and the clean
air, with a great zest for all the little excellencies of
my lot, and a tolerance of its drawbacks.  By the
time I had come to sixteen years I had swam in every
pool in Tweed for miles up and down, climbed every
hill, fished in every burn, and ridden and fallen from
every horse in my father's stable.  I had been as far
west as Tintock Hill and as far south as the Loch o'
the Lowes.  Nay, I had once been taken to
Edinburgh in company with Tam, who bought me a noble
fishing-rod, and showed me all the wondrous things
to be seen.  A band of soldiers passed down the High
Street from the Castle with a great clanking and
jingling, and I saw my guide straighten up his back
and keep time with his feet to their tread.  All the
way home, as I sat before him on the broad back of
Maisie, he told me tales of his campaigns, some of
them none too fit for a boy's ear; but he was carried
away and knew not what he was saying.  This first
put a taste for the profession of arms into my mind,
which was assiduously fostered by my fencing lessons
and the many martial tales I read.  I found among
my father's books the chronicles of Froissart and a
history of the Norman Kings, both in the English,
which I devoured by night and day.  Then I had
Tacitus and Livy, and in my fourteenth year I began
the study of Greek with a master at Peebles.  So
that soon I had read most of the "Iliad" and all
the "Odyssey," and would go about repeating the
long, swinging lines.  I think that story of the man
who, at the siege of some French town, shouted a
Homeric battle-piece most likely to be true, for with
me the Greek had a like effect, and made me tramp
many miles over the hills or ride the horses more hard
than my father permitted.

But this book-work was, after all, but half of my
life, and that the less memorable.  All the sights and
sounds of that green upland vale are linked for me
with memories of boyish fantasies.  I used to climb
up the ridge of Scrape when the sun set and dream
that the serried ranks of hills were a new country
where all was strange, though I knew well that an
hour of the morning would dispel the fancy.  Then
I would descend from the heights, and for weeks be so
fiercely set on the sports of the time of year that I had
scarcely time for a grave thought.  I have often gone
forth to the lambing with the shepherds, toiled all day
in the brown moors, and at night dropped straight off
to sleep as I sat in my chair at meat.  Then there
was the salmon-fishing in the late spring, when the
blood ran hot at the flare of the torches and the
shimmer of the spears, and I, a forlorn young fool,
shivered in my skin as the keen wind blew down the
water.  There was the swing and crackle of the stones
in winter when the haughlands of Manor were flooded,
and a dozen brown-faced men came to the curling and
the air rang with shouts and laughter.  I have mind,
too, of fierce days of snow when men looked solemn
and the world was so quiet that I whistled to keep me
from despondency, and the kitchen at Barns was like
a place in an inn with famishing men and dripping
garments.  Then Tweed would be buried under some
great drift and its kindly flow sorely missed by man
and beast.  But best I remember the loosening of
winter, when the rains from the moors sent down the
river roaring-red, and the vale was one pageant of
delicate greenery and turbid brown torrent.

Often I would take my books and go into the heart
of the hills for days and nights.  This, my father
scarce liked, but he never hindered me.  It was
glorious to kindle your fire in the neuk of a glen, broil
your trout, and make your supper under the vault of
the pure sky.  Sweet, too, at noonday to lie beside
the wellhead of some lonely burn, and think of many
things that can never be set down and are scarce
remembered.  But these were but dreams, and this is
not their chronicle; so it behooves me to shut my ear
to vagrom memories.

To Dawyck I went the more often the older I grew.
For Marjory Veitch had grown into a beautiful, lissom
girl, with the same old litheness of body and gaiety of
spirit.  She was my comrade in countless escapades,
and though I have travelled the world since then I have
never found a readier or a braver.  But with the years
she grew more maidenly, and I dared less to lead her
into mad ventures.  Nay, I who had played with her
in the woods and fished and raced with her as with
some other lad, began to feel a foolish awe in her
presence, and worshipped her from afar.  The fairy
learning of her childhood was but the index of a
wistfulness and delicacy of nature which, to my grosser
spirit, seemed something to uncover one's head before.
I have loved her dearly all my life, but I have never
more than half understood her; which is a good gift
of God to most men, for the confounding of vanity.

To her a great sorrow had come.  For when she
was scarce thirteen, her father, the laird of Dawyck,
who had been ever of a home-keeping nature, died from
a fall while hunting on the brow of Scrape.  He had
been her childhood's companion, and she mourned for
him as sorely as ever human being mourned for
another.  Michael, her only brother, was far abroad in
a regiment of the Scots French Guards, so she was
left alone in the great house with no other company
than the servants and a cross-grained aunt who heard
but one word in twenty.  For this reason I rode over
the oftener to comfort her loneliness.





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.. _`THE SPATE IN TWEED`:

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   CHAPTER III

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   THE SPATE IN TWEED
   
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The year 1683 was with us the driest year in
any man's memory.  From the end of April to the
end of July we had scarce a shower.  The hay-harvest
was ruined beyond repair, and man and beast
were sick with the sultry days.  It was on the last
Monday of July that I, wearied with wandering
listlessly about the house, bethought myself of riding to
Peebles to see the great match at bowls which is
played every year for the silver horn.  I had no
expectation of a keen game, for the green was sure to
be well-nigh ruined with the sun, and men had lost
spirit in such weather.  But the faintest interest is
better than purposeless idleness, so I roused myself
from languor and set out.

I saddled Maisie the younger, for this is a family
name among our horses, and rode down by the Tweed
side to the town.  The river ran in the midst of a
great bed of sun-baked gravel—a little trickle that a
man might step across.  I do not know where the
fish had gone, but they, too, seemed scared by the
heat, for not a trout plashed to relieve the hot silence.
When I came to the Manor pool I stood still in
wonder, for there for the first time in my life I saw the
stream dry.  Manor, which is in winter a roaring
torrent and at other times a clear, full stream, had not
a drop of running water in its bed; naught but a few
stagnant pools green with slime.  It was a grateful
change to escape from the sun into the coolness of the
Neidpath woods; but even there a change was seen,
for the ferns hung their fronds wearily and the moss
had lost all its greenness.  When once more I came
out to the sun, its beating on my face was so fierce
that it almost burned, and I was glad when I came to
the town, and the shade of tree and dwelling.

The bowling-green of Peebles, which is one of the
best in the country, lies at the west end of the High
Street at the back of the Castle Hill.  It looks down
on Tweed and Peebles Water, where they meet at
the Cuddie's Pool, and thence over a wide stretch
of landscape to the high hills.  The turf had been
kept with constant waterings, but, notwithstanding, it
looked grey and withered.  Here I found half the
men-folk of Peebles assembled and many from the
villages near, to see the match which is the greatest
event of the month.  Each player wore a ribband of
a special colour.  Most of them had stripped off their
coats and jerkins to give their arms free play, and some
of the best were busied in taking counsel with their
friends as to the lie of the green.  The landlord of the
Crosskeys was there with a great red favour stuck in his
hat, looking, as I thought, too fat and rubicund a man
to have a steady eye.  Near him was Peter Crustcrackit
the tailor, a little wiry man with legs bent from
sitting cross-legged, thin active hands, and keen eyes
well used to the sewing of fine work.  Then there
were carters and shepherds, stout fellows with bronzed
faces and great brawny chests, and the miller of the
Wauk-mill, who was reported the best bowl-player in
the town.  Some of the folk had come down like
myself merely to watch; and among them I saw
Andrew Greenlees, the surgeon, who had tended me
what time I went over the cauld.  A motley crowd
of the odds and ends of the place hung around or sat
on the low wall—poachers and black-fishers and all
the riff-raff of the town.

The jack was set, the order of the game arranged,
and the play commenced.  A long man from the
Quair Water began, and sent his bowl curling up the
green not four inches from the mark.

"Weel dune for Quair Water," said one.
"They're nane sae blind thereaways."

Then a flesher's lad came and sent a shot close on
the heels of the other and lay by his side.

At this, there were loud cries of "Weel dune,
Coo's Blether," which was a name they had for him;
and the fellow grew red and withdrew to the back.

Next came a little nervous man, who looked entreatingly
at the bystanders as if to bespeak their consideration.
"Jock Look-up, my dear," said a man solemnly,
"compose your anxious mind, for thae auld
wizened airms o' yours 'll no send it half-road."  The
little man sighed and played his bowl: it was
even as the other had said, for his shot was adjudged
a *hogg* and put off the green.

Then many others played till the green was crowded
at one end with the balls.  They played in rinks, and
interest fell off for some little time till it came to the
turn of the two acknowledged champions, Master
Crustcrackit and the miller, to play against one
another.  Then the onlookers crowded round once more.

The miller sent a long swinging shot which touched
the jack and carried it some inches onward.  Then a
bowl from the tailor curled round and lay between
them and the former mark.  Now arose a great
dispute (for the players of Peebles had a way of their own,
and to understand their rules required no ordinary
share of brains) as to the propriety of Master
Crustcrackit's shot, some alleging that he had played off
the cloth, others defending.  The miller grew furiously warm.

"Ye wee, sneck-drawin' tailor-body, wad ye set up
your bit feckless face against a man o' place and siller?"

"Haud your tongue, miller," cried one.  "Ye've
nae cause to speak ill o' the way God made a man."

Master Crustcrackit, however, needed no defender.
He was ready in a second.

"And what dae ye ca' yoursel' but a great,
God-forsaken dad o' a man, wi' a wame like Braid Law
and a mouth like the bottomless pit for yill and beef
and a' manner o' carnal bakemeats.  You to speak
abune your breath to me," and he hopped round his
antagonist like an enraged fighting-cock.

What the miller would have said no one may guess,
had not a middle-aged man, who had been sitting on
a settle placidly smoking a long white pipe, come up
to see what was the dispute.  He was dressed in a
long black coat, with small-clothes of black, and broad
silver-buckled shoon.  The plain white cravat around
his neck marked him for a minister.

"William Laverlaw and you, Peter Crustcrackit,
as the minister of this parish, I command ye to be
silent.  I will have no disturbance on this public
green.  Nay, for I will adjudge your difference myself."

All were silent in a second, and a hush of interest
fell on the place.

"But that canna be," grumbled the miller, "for
ye're nae great hand at the bowls."

The minister stared sternly at the speaker, who
sank at once into an aggrieved quiet.  "As God has
appointed me the spiritual guide of this unworthy
town, so also has He made me your master in secular
affairs.  I will settle your disputes and none other.
And, sir, if you or any other dare gainsay me, then I
shall feel justified in leaving argument for force, and
the man who offends I shall fling into the Cuddie's Pool
for the clearing of his brain and the benefit of his
soul."  He spoke in a slow, methodical tone, rolling
the words over his tongue.  Then I remembered the
many stories I had heard of this man's autocratic rule
over the folk of the good town of Peebles; how he,
alien like to whig and prelatist, went on his steadfast
path caring for no man and snapping his fingers at the
mandates of authority.  And indeed in the quiet fierce
face and weighty jaws there was something which
debarred men from meddling with their owner.

Such was his influence on the people that none
dared oppose him, and he gave his decision, which
seemed to me to be a just and fair one.  After this
they fell to their play once more.

Meantime I had been looking on at the sport from
the vantage-ground of the low wall which looked
down on the river.  I had debated a question of
farriery with the surgeon, who was also something of a
horse-doctor; and called out greetings to the different
players, according as I favoured their colours.  Then
when the game no longer amused me, I had fallen to
looking over the country, down to the edge of the
water where the small thatched cottages were yellow
in the heat, and away up the broad empty channel of
Tweed.  The cauld, where salmon leap in the spring
and autumn, and which is the greatest cauld on the
river unless it be the one at Melrose, might have been
crossed dryshod.  I began to hate the weariful,
everlasting glare and sigh for the clouds once more, and
the soft moist turf and the hazy skyline.  Now it was
so heavily oppressive that a man could scarce draw a
free breath.  The players dripped with sweat and
looked nigh exhausted, and for myself the sulphurous
air weighed on me like a mount of lead and confused
such wits as I had.

Even as I looked I saw a strange thing on the river
bank which chained my languid curiosity.  For down
the haugh, swinging along at a great pace, came a man,
the like of whom I had seldom seen.  He ran at a
steady trot more like a horse than a human creature,
with his arms set close by his sides and without bonnet
or shoes.  His head swung from side to side as with
excessive weariness, and even at that distance I could
see how he panted.  In a trice he was over Peebles
Water and had ascended the bank to the bowling-green,
cleared the low dyke, and stood gaping before
us.  Now I saw him plainer, and I have rarely seen a
stranger sight.  He seemed to have come a great
distance, but no sweat stood on his brow; only a dun
copper colour marking the effect of the hot sun.  His
breeches were utterly ragged and in places showed his
long supple limbs.  A shock of black hair covered
his head and shaded his swarthy face.  His eyes were
wild and keen as a hawk's, and his tongue hung out
of his mouth like a dog's in a chase.  Every man
stopped his play and looked at the queer newcomer.  A
whisper went round the place that it was that "fule
callant frae Brochtoun," but this brought no news to me.

The man stood still for maybe three minutes with
his eyes fixed on the ground as if to recover breath.
Then he got up with dazed glances, like one wakening
from sleep.  He stared at me, then at the players,
and burst into his tale, speaking in a high, excited
voice.

"I hae run frae Drummeller to bring ye word.
Quick and get the folk out o' the waterside hooses
or the feck o' the toun 'll be soomin' to Berwick in
an 'oor."

No one spoke, but all stared as if they took him for
a madman.

"There's been an awfu' storm up i' the muirs,"
he went on, panting, "and Tweed's com in' doun
like a mill-race.  The herd o' Powmood tellt me, and
I got twae 'oors start o't and cam off here what I
could rin.  Get the folk out o' the waterside hooses
when I bid ye, wi' a' their gear and plenishing, or
there'll no be sae muckle as a groat's worth left by
nicht.  Up wi' ye and haste, for there's nae time to
lose.  I heard the roar o' the water miles off, louder
than ony thunderstorm and mair terrible than an
army wi' banners.  Quick, ye auld doited bodies, if
ye dinna want to hae mourning and lamentation i' the
toun o' Peebles."

At this, as you may believe, a great change passed
over all.  Some made no words about it, but rushed
into the town to give the alarm; others stared stupidly
as if waiting for more news; while some were
disposed to treat the whole matter as a hoax.  This
enraged the newsbearer beyond telling.  Springing up,
he pointed to the western sky, and far off we saw a
thick blackness creeping up the skyline.  "If ye'll
no believe me," said he, "will ye believe the
finger of God?"  The word and the sight convinced
the most distrusting.

Now Tweed, unlike all other rivers of my knowledge,
rises terribly at the first rain and travels slowly,
so that Tweedsmuir may be under five feet of water
and Peebles high and dry.  This makes the whole
valley a place of exceeding danger in sultry weather,
for no man knows when a thunderstorm may break
in the hills and send the stream down a raging
torrent.  This, too, makes it possible to hear word of a
flood before it comes, and by God's grace to provide
against it.

The green was soon deserted.  I rushed down to
the waterside houses, which were in the nearest peril,
and in shorter time than it takes to tell, we had the
people out and as much of their belongings as were
worth the saving; then we hastened to the low-lying
cottages on Tweed Green and did likewise.  Some
of the folk seemed willing to resist, because, as they
said, "Whae kenned but that the body micht be a
leear and they werena to hae a' this wark for
naething?"  For the great floods were but a tradition,
and only the old men had seen the ruin which the
spate could work.  Nevertheless, even these were
convinced by a threatening sky and a few words from the
newsbearer's trenchant tongue.  Soon the High Street
and the wynds were thick with household belongings,
and the Castle Hill was crowded with folk to see the
coming of the flood.

By this time the grim line of black had grown over
half the sky, and down fell great drops of rain into the
white, sun-baked channel.  It was strange to watch
these mighty splashes falling into the little stagnant
pools and the runlets of flowing water.  And still the
close, thick heat hung over all, and men looked at the
dawnings of the storm with sweat running over their
brows.  With the rain came a mist—a white ghastly
haze which obliterated the hills and came down nigh
to the stream.  A sound, too, grew upon our ears, at
first far away and dim, but increasing till it became a
dull hollow thunder, varied with a strange crackling,
swishing noise which made a man eery to listen to.
Then all of a sudden the full blast of the thing came
upon us.  Men held their breaths as the wind and rain
choked them and drove them back.  It was scarce
possible to see far before, but the outlines of the gorge
of Neidpath fleeted through the drift, whence the river
issued.  Every man turned his eyes thither and strained
them to pierce the gloom.

Suddenly round the corner of the hill appeared a
great yellow wave crested with white foam and filling
the whole space.  Down it came roaring and hissing,
mowing the pines by the waterside as a reaper mows
down hay with a scythe.  Then with a mighty
bound it broke from the hill-barriers and spread over
the haugh.  Now, the sound was like the bubbling of
a pot ere it boils.  We watched it in terror and
admiration, as it swept on its awful course.  In a
trice it was at the cauld, and the cauld disappeared
under a whirl of foam; now it was on the houses,
and the walls went in like nutshells and the rubble
was borne onward.  A cry got up of "the bridge,"
and all hung in wonder as it neared the old stonework,
the first barrier to the torrent's course, the brave
bridge of Peebles.  It flung itself on it with fiendish
violence, but the stout masonwork stood firm, and the
boiling tide went on through the narrow arches,
leaving the bridge standing unshaken, as it had stood
against many a flood.  As we looked, we one and all
broke into a cheer in honour of the old masons who
had made so trusty a piece of stone.

I found myself in the crowd of spectators standing
next to the man who had brought the tidings.  He
had recovered his breath and was watching the sight
with a look half of interest and half of vexation.
When all was past and only the turbid river remained,
he shook himself like a dog and made to elbow his way
out.  "I maun be awa'," he said, speaking to
himself, "and a sair job I'll hae gettin' ower Lyne
Water."  When I heard him I turned round and
confronted him.  There was something so pleasing
about his face, his keen eyes and alert head, that I
could not forbear from offering him my hand, and
telling him of my admiration for his deed.  I was still
but a boy and he was clearly some years my elder, so
I made the advance, I doubt not, with a certain
shyness and hesitancy.  He looked at me sharply and
smiled.

"Ye're the young laird o' Barns," said he; "I
ken ye weel though ye maybe are no aquaint wi' me.
I'm muckle honoured, sir, and gin ye'll come
Brochtoun-ways sometime and speir for Nicol Plenderleith,
he'll tak ye to burns that were never fished afore and
hills that never heard the sound o' a shot."

I thanked him, and watched him slipping through
the crowd till he was lost to view.  This was my
first meeting with Nicol Plenderleith, of whose ways
and doings this tale shall have much to say.  The
glamour of the strange fellow was still upon me as
I set myself to make my road home.  I am almost
ashamed to tell of my misfortunes; for after crossing
the bridge and riding to Manor Water, I found that
this stream likewise had risen and had not left a bridge
in its whole course.  So I had to go up as far as
St. Gordians' Cross before I could win over it, and did
not reach Barns till after midnight, where I found my
father half-crazy with concern for me and Tam Todd
making ready to go and seek me.





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.. _`I GO TO THE COLLEGE AT GLASGOW`:

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   CHAPTER IV
   
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   I GO TO THE COLLEGE AT GLASGOW

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By this time I had grown a great stalwart lad, little
above the middle height, but broad and sinewy.  I had
made progress in all manly sports and could fling the
hammer almost as far as the Manor blacksmith, while in
leaping and running I had few rivals among lads of
my age.  Also I was no bad swordsman, but could
stand my own against all the wiles of Tam Todd, and
once even disarmed him to his own unspeakable disgust.
In my studies, which I pursued as diligently as I could
with no teachers and not over-many books, I had
made some little advance, having read through most
of the Greek tragedians and advanced some distance
in the study of Plato; while in the Latin tongue I
had become such an adept that I could both read and
write it with ease.

When I had reached the mature age of eighteen,
who should come up into our parts but my famous
relative, Master Gilbert Burnet, the preacher at
St. Clement's in London, of whom I have already spoken.
He was making a journey to Edinburgh and had turned
out of his way to revive an old acquaintance.  My
father was overjoyed to see him and treated him to the
best the house could produce.  He stayed with us two
days, and I remember him still as he sat in a great
armchair opposite my father, with his broad velvet
cap and grey, peaked beard, and weighty brows.  Yet
when he willed, though for ordinary a silent man, he
could talk as gaily and wittily as any town gallant; so
much indeed that my father, who was somewhat hard
to please, declared him the best companion he ever
remembered.

Before he left, Master Burnet examined me on my
progress in polite learning, and finding me well
advanced, he would have it that I should be sent
forthwith to Glasgow College.  He exacted a promise from
my father to see to this, and left behind him, when he
departed, letters of introduction to many of the folk
there, for he himself had, at one time, been professor
of divinity in the place.  As for myself, I was nothing
loth to go, and see places beyond Tweeddale and add
to my stock of learning; for about this time a great
enthusiasm for letters had seized me (which I suppose
happens at some time or other to most men), and I
conceived my proper vocation in life to be that of the
scholar.  I have found in an old manuscript book a
list of the titles of imaginary works, editions, poems,
treatises, all with my unworthy name subscribed as
the author.  So it was settled that I should ride to
Glasgow and take lodgings in the town for the sake
of the college classes.

I set out one November morning, riding Maisie
alone, for no student was allowed to have a servant,
nor any one below the degree of Master of Arts.
The air was keen and frosty, and I rode in high fettle
by the towns of Biggar and Lanark to the valley of
the Clyde.  I lay all night at Crossford in the house
of a distant relative.  Thence the next day I rode to
Hamilton and in the evening came to the bridge of
the Clyde at Glasgow.  Then I presented myself to
the Principal and Regents of the college and was duly
admitted, putting on the red gown, the badge of the
student class, than which I believe there is no more
hideous habiliment.

The college in those days was poor enough, having
been well-nigh ruined by the extortions of Lord
Middleton and his drunken crew; and it had not yet
benefited by the rich donations of the Reverend
Zachary Boyd of the Barony Kirk.  Still, the standard
of learning in the place was extraordinarily high,
especially in dialectic and philosophy—a standard
which had been set by the famous Andrew Melville
when he was a professor in the place.  I have heard
disputations there in the evenings between the
schoolmen and the new philosophers, the like of which
could scarcely be got from the length and breadth of
the land.

Across the High Street were the college gardens and
green pleasant orchards where the professors were
wont to walk and the scholars to have their games.
Through the middle ran the clear Molendinar Burn,
so called by the old Romans, and here I loved to
watch the trout and young salmon leaping.  There
was a severe rule against scholars fishing in the
stream, so I was fain to content myself with the sight.
For soon a violent fit of home-sickness seized me, and
I longed for the rush of Tweed and the pleasant sweep
of Manor; so it was one of my greatest consolations to
look at this water and fancy myself far away from the
town.  One other lad who came from Perthshire used
to come and stand with me and tell me great tales
of his fishing exploits; and I did likewise with him
till we became great companions.  Many afternoons
I spent here, sometimes with a book and sometimes
without one; in the fine weather I would lie on the
grass and dream, and in rough, boisterous winter
days I loved to watch the Molendinar, flooded and
angry, fling its red waters against the old stones of
the bridge.

No one of us was permitted to carry arms of any
kind, so I had to sell my sword on my first coming
to the town.  This was a great hardship to me, for
whereas when I carried a weapon I had some sense of
my own importance, now I felt no better than the
rest of the unarmed crowd about me.  Yet it was a
wise precaution, for in other places where scholars are
allowed to strut like cavaliers there are fights and duels
all the day long, so that the place looks less like an
abode of the Muses than a disorderly tavern.
Nevertheless, there were many manly exercises to be had,
for in the greens in the garden we had trials of skill at
archery and golf and many other games of the kind.
At the first mentioned I soon became a great master,
for I had a keen eye from much living among woods
and hills, and soon there was no one who could come
near me at the game.  As for golf, I utterly failed to
excel; and indeed it seems to me that golf is like the
divine art of poetry, the gift for which is implanted in
man at his birth or not at all.  Be that as it may, I
never struck a golf-ball fairly in my life, and I
misdoubt I never shall.

As for my studies, for which I came to the place,
I think I made great progress.  For after my first fit
of home-sickness was over, I fell in with the ways of
the college, and acquired such a vast liking for the
pursuit of learning that I felt more convinced than
ever that Providence had made me for a scholar.  In
my classes I won the commendation of both professors;
especially in the class of dialectic, where an analysis
of Aristotle's method was highly praised by Master
Sandeman, the professor.  This fine scholar and
accomplished gentleman helped me in many ways,
and for nigh two months, when he was sick of the
fever, I lectured to his class in his stead.  We were
all obliged to talk in the Latin tongue and at first my
speech was stiff and awkward enough, but by and by
I fell into the way of it and learned to patter it as
glibly as a Spanish monk.

It may be of interest to those of my house that I
should give some account of my progress in the several
studies, to show that our family is not wholly a
soldiering one.  In Greek I studied above others the
works of Plato, delighting especially in his Phaedo,
which I had almost by heart; Aristotle likewise, though
I read but little of him in his own tongue.  I
completed a translation of the first part of Plato's
Republic into Latin, which Master Sandeman was
pleased to say was nigh as elegant as George
Buchanan's.  Also I was privileged to discover certain
notable emendations in the text of this work, which
I sent in manuscript to the famous Schookius of
Groningen, who incorporated them in his edition then in
preparation, but after the fashion of Dutchmen sent
me no thanks.

As regards philosophy, which I hold the most
divine of all studies, I was in my first year a most
earnest Platonic; nay, I went farther than the master
himself, as is the way of all little minds when they
seek to comprehend a great one.  In those days I
went about in sober attire and strove in all things to
order my life according to the rules of philosophy,
seeking to free myself from all disturbing outside
powers and live the life of pure contemplation.  I
looked back with unutterable contempt on my past as
a turbid and confused medley, nor did I seek anything
better in life than quiet and leisure for thought and
study.  In such a condition I spent the first month
of my stay at Glasgow.

Then the Platonic fit left me and I was all for
Aristotle and the Peripatetics.  Here, at last, thought
I, have I got the *siccum lumen*, which Heraclitus
spoke of: and his distinct and subtle reasoning seemed
to me to be above doubt.  And indeed I have never
wondered at the schoolmen and others who looked
upon Aristotle as having reached the height of human
wisdom, for his method is so all-embracing and satisfying
that it breeds wonder in the heart of any man;
and it affords so sure a bottom for thought that men
become Aristotelians.

In the midsummer months I went down to Tweeddale
again, where I astonished my father and all in the
place with my new learning, and also grieved them.
For I had no love for fishing or shooting; I would
scarce ride two miles for the pleasure of it; my
father's tales, in which I delighted before, had
grown tiresome; and I had no liking for anything
save bending over books.  When I went to Dawyck
to see Marjory, she knew not what had come over
me, I was so full of whims and fancies.  "O
John," she said, "your face is as white as a
woman's, and you have such a horrible cloak.  Go and
get another at once, you silly boy, and not shame
your friends."  Yet even Marjory had little power
over me, for I heeded her not, though aforetime I
would have ridden posthaste to Peebles and got me a
new suit, and painted my face if I had thought that
thereby I would pleasure her.

When the autumn came again I returned to college
more inclined than ever for the life of a scholar.  I
fell to my studies with renewed zeal, and would
doubtless have killed myself with work had I not been
nearly killed with the fever, which made me more
careful of my health.  And now, like the weathercock
I was, my beliefs shifted yet again.  For studying the
schoolmen, who were the great upholders of Aristotle,
I found in them so many contradictions and phantasies
which they fathered on their master that, after reading
the diatribes of Peter Ramus and others against him,
I was almost persuaded that I had been grievously
misled.  Then, at last, I saw hat the fault lay not in
Aristotle but in his followers, who sought to find in
him things that were beyond the compass of his
thought.  So by degrees I came round toward the new
philosophy, which a party in the college upheld.
They swore by the great names of Bacon and Galileo
and the other natural philosophers, but I hesitated to
follow them, for they seemed to me to disdain all
mental philosophy, which I hold is the greater study.
I was of this way of thinking when I fell in one day
with an English book, a translation of a work by a
Frenchman, one Renatus Descartes, published in
London in the year 1649.  It gave an account of the
progress in philosophy of this man, who followed no
school, but, clearing his mind of all presuppositions,
instituted a method for himself.  This marked for me
the turning point; for I gave in my allegiance
without hesitation to this philosopher, and ever since I
have held by his system with some modifications.  It
is needless for me to enter further into my philosophy,
for I have by me a written exposition of the works of
this Descartes with my own additions, which I intend,
if God so please, to give soon to the world.

For two years I abode at the college, thinking that
I was destined by nature for a studious life, and
harbouring thoughts of going to the university of Saumur
to complete my studies.  I thought that my spirit
was chastened to a fit degree, and so no doubt it was,
for those who had feared me at first on account of
my heavy fist and straightforward ways, now openly
scoffed at me without fear of punishment.  Indeed,
one went so far one day as to jostle me off the causeway,
and I made no return, but went on as if nothing had
happened, deeming it beneath a wise man to be
distracted by mundane trifles.  Yet, mind you, in all
this there was nothing Christian or like unto the
meekness of our Master, as I have seen in some men; but
rather an absurd attempt to imitate those who would
have lived very differently had their lot been cast in
our hot and turbid days.

How all this was changed and I veered round of a
sudden to the opposite I must hasten to tell.  One April
day, towards the close of my second year, I was going
up the High Street toward the Cathedral with a great
parcel of books beneath my arm, when I heard a
shouting and a jingling, and a troop of horse came
down the street.  I stood back into the shelter of a
doorway, for soldiers were wont to bear little love to
scholars, and I did not care to risk their rough jests.
From this place I watched their progress, and a gallant
sight it was.  Some twenty men in buff jerkins and
steel headpieces rode with a fine clatter of bridles and
clank of swords.  I marked their fierce sun-brown
faces and their daredevil eyes as they looked
haughtily down on the crowd as on lower beings.  And
especially I marked their leader.  He sat a fine bay
horse with ease and grace; his plumed hat set off his
high-coloured face and long brown curls worn in the
fashion of the day; and as he rode he bowed to the
people with large condescension.  He was past in a
second, but not before I had recognized the face and
figure of my cousin Gilbert.

I stood for some minutes staring before me, while
the echoes of the horses' hooves died away down the
street.  This, I thought, is the destiny of my cousin,
only two years my elder, a soldier, a gentleman, a
great man in his place; while I am but a nameless
scholar, dreaming away my manhood in the pursuits
of a dotard.  I was so overwhelmed with confusion
that I stood gaping with a legion of thoughts and
opposing feelings running through my brain.  Then all
the old fighting spirit of my house rose within me.
By Heaven, I would make an end of this; I would get
me home without delay; I would fling my books into
the Clyde; I would go to the wars; I would be a
great cavalier, and, by the Lord, I would keep up the
name of the house!  I was astonished myself at the
sudden change in my feelings, for in the space of
some ten minutes a whole age had passed for me, and
I had grown from a boy to some measure of manhood.
I came out from the close-mouth with my head in the
air and defiance against all the world in my eye.

Before I had gone five spaces I met the lad who
had jostled me aforetime, a big fellow of a
raw-boned Ayrshire house, and before he could speak I
had him by the arm and had pulled him across the
way into the college gardens.  There I found a quiet
green place, and plucking off my coat I said, "Now,
Master Dalrymple, you and I have a small account to
settle."  With that we fell to with our fists, and in
the space of a quarter of an hour I had beaten him so
grievously that he was fain to cry for mercy.  I let
him go, and with much whimpering he slunk away in
disgust.

Then I went into the town and bought myself a
new blade and a fine suit of clothes—all with the
greatest gusto and lightness of heart.  I went to the
inn where Maisie was stabled and bade them have her
ready for me at the college gate in an hour.  Then
I bade good-bye to all my friends, but especially to
Master Sandeman, from whom I was loth to part.  I
did not fling my books into the Clyde as at first I
proposed, but left injunctions that they were to be sent
by the carrier.  So, having paid all my debts, for my
father had kept me well appointed with money, I
waved a long farewell and set out for my own country.





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.. _`COUSINLY AFFECTION`:

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   CHAPTER V

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   COUSINLY AFFECTION

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It was near midday before I started, so that night
I got no farther than the town of Hamilton, but lay
at the inn there.  The next morning I left betimes,
thinking to reach Barns in the afternoon.  As I rode
along the green sward by the side of Clyde, the larks
were singing in the sky and the trout were plashing in
the waters, and all the world was gay.  The apple
orchards sent their blossom across the road, and my
hat brushed it down in showers on my horse and
myself, so that soon we rode in a mail of pink and
white.  I plucked a little branch and set it in my hat,
and sang all the songs I knew as I cantered along.
I cried good-day to every man, and flung money to
the little children who shouted as I passed, so that I
believe if there had been many more boys on the road
I would have reached Tweeddale a beggar.  At
Crossford, where the Nethan meets the Clyde, I met a man
who had been to the salmon-fishing and had caught a
big salmon-trout; and as I looked, my old love for
the sport awoke within me, and I longed to feel a
rod in my hand.  It was good to be alive, to taste
the fresh air, to feel the sun and wind, and I
cried a plague on all close lecture-rooms and musty
books.

At Lanark I had a rare dinner at the hostel there.
The grey old inn had excellent fare, as I knew of old,
so I rode up to the door and demanded its best.  It was
blessed to see a man obey your words after for many
months being a servant of others.  I had a dish of
well-fed trout and a piece of prime mutton and as
good claret, I think, as I have ever tasted.  Then I
rode over Lanark Moor to Hyndford and through the
moor of Carmichael and under the great shadow of
Tintock.  Here the smell of burning heather came to
my nostrils, and so dear and homelike did it seem that
I could have wept for very pleasure.  The whaups
and snipe were making a fine to-do on the bent, and
the black-faced sheep grazed in peace.  At the top
of the knowe above Symington I halted, for there
before my eyes were the blue hills of Tweeddale.
There was Trehenna and the hills above Broughton,
and Drummelzier Law and Glenstivon Dod, and
nearer, the great Caerdon; and beyond all a long blue
back which I knew could be none other than the hill
of Scrape which shadowed Dawyck and my lady.

I came to Barns at three o'clock in the afternoon,
somewhat stiff from my ride, but elated with my
home-coming.  It was with strange feelings that I
rode up the long avenue of beeches, every one of
which I could have told blindfold.  The cattle looked
over the palings at me as if glad to see me return.
Maisie cocked up her ears at the hares in the grass,
and sniffed the hill air as if she had been in a prison
for many days.  And when I came to the bend of the
road and saw the old weatherbeaten tower, my heart
gave a great leap within me, for we Tweeddale men
dearly love our own countryside, doubtless by reason
of its exceeding beauty.

As I rode up Tam Todd came out from the back,
and seeing me, let fall the water which he was
carrying and ran to my side.

"Eh, Maister John," said he, "I'm blithe to see
ye back, sae braw and genty-like.  My airm's fair
like timmer wi' stiffness for want o' the backsword
play, and the troots in Tweed are turned as thick as
peas for want o' you to haul them oot; and twae
mornings last week there were deer keekin' in at the
front-door as tame as kittlins.  There's muckle need
o' ye at hame."

He would have gone on in this strain for an hour,
had I not cut him short by asking for my father.

"Middlin', just middlin'.  He misses ye sair.
He'll scarce gang out-doors noo, but he'll be a' richt
gin he sees ye again.  Oh, and I've something mair
to tell ye.  That wanchancy cousin o' yours, Maister
Gilbert, cam yestreen, and he'll be bidin' till the deil
kens when.  I'se warrant he's at meat wi' the auld
maister the noo, for he cam in frae the hills geyan
hungry."

Now at this intelligence I was not over-pleased.
My cousin was a great man and a gentleman, but
never at any time over-friendly to me, and I knew that
to my father he was like salt in the mouth.  I blamed
the ill-luck which had sent him to Barns on the
very day of my home-coming.  I needs must be on
my dignity in his company, for he was quick to find
matter for laughter, and it was hard that he should
come at the time when I longed so eagerly for the
free ways of the house.  However, there was no help
for it, I reflected, and went in.

In the passage I met Jean Morran, my old nurse,
who had heard the sound of voices, and come out to
see who the newcomer might be.  "Maister John,
Maister John, and is't yoursel'?  It's a glad day for
the house o' Barns when you come back"; and
when I gave her the shawl-pin I had brought her from
Glasgow, she had scarce any words to thank me with.
So, knowing that my father would be in the dining-hall
with his guest, I opened the door and walked
in unbidden.

My father sat at the head of the long oak table
which had been scoured to a light-brown and shone like
polished stone.  Claret, his favourite drink, was in
a tankard by his elbow, and many wines decked the
board.  Lower down sat my cousin, gallantly dressed
in the fashion of the times, with a coat of fine Spanish
leather and small-clothes of some rich dark stuff.  His
plumed hat and riding cloak of purple velvet lay on
the settle at his side.  His brown hair fell over his
collar and shoulders and well set off his strong, brown
face.  He sat after the fashion of a soldier, on the
side of his chair half-turned away from the table, and
every now and then he would cast a piece of meat to
Pierce, my old hound, who lay stretched by the fireplace.

My father turned round as I entered, and when he
saw me his face glowed with pleasure.  Had we been
alone we should have met otherwise, but it is not
meet to show one's feelings before a stranger, even
though that stranger be one of the family.  He
contented himself with looking eagerly upon me and
bidding me welcome in a shaking voice.  I marked
with grief that his eye did not seem so keen and brave
as before, and that he was scarce able to rise from his
chair.

My cousin half arose and made me a grand bow in
his courtly fashion.

"Welcome, my dear cousin," said he.  "I am
glad to see that your studies have had little effect on
your face."  (I was flushed with hard riding.)  "You
look as if you had just come from a campaign.  But
fall to.  Here are prime fish which I can commend;
and venison, also good, though I have had better.
Here, too, is wine, and I drink to your success, my
learned cousin"; and he filled his glass and drank it
at a gulp.  He spoke in a half-bantering tone, though
his words were kindly.  I answered him briskly.

"I had little thought to find you here, Gilbert, but
I am right glad to see you.  You are prospering
mightily, I hear, and will soon be forgetting your poor
cousins of Barns"; and after a few more words I set
myself to give my father a history of my doings
at Glasgow College.  Again, had we been alone, I
should have told him my causes for leaving and my
wishes for my after life, but since my cousin was
present, who had ever a sharp tongue, I judged it
better to say nothing.

I told my father all that I could think of, and then
asked how he had fared in my absence, for I had had
but few letters, and what of note had happened at
Barns.

"Ay, John," he said, "I'm an old man.  I fear
that my life here will be short.  I scarce can get
outside without Tam Todd to lean on, and I have little
sleep o' nights.  And John, I could wish that you
would bide at home now, for I like to see you beside
me, and you'll have learned all the folk of Glasgow
have to teach you.  I once wished you a soldier, but
I am glad now that I let the thing blow by, for I
would have cared little to have you coming here but
once in the six months, for a flying visit."

"Nay, uncle," said my cousin, "you do not put
the matter fairly.  For myself, I believe there is none
busier in Scotland than I, but, Gad, I have always
time to slip home to Eaglesham for a day or more.
But my father would care little though he never saw
me but once in the year, for each time I go back I
get a long sermon on my conduct, with my expenses
for the year as a text, till I am fairly driven out of the
house for peace."

At this my father laughed.  "Ay, ay," said he,
"that's like my brother Gilbert.  He was always a
hard man at the siller.  Man, I mind when we were
both the terrors o' the place, but all the while not a
thing would he do, if it meant the loss of a bodle.
Pity but I had taken after him in that, and John
would have been better supplied to-day."

"Oh," I answered, "I have all I need and more."

Hereupon my cousin spoke with a sneer in his
voice.  "A groat is enough for a scholar, but the
soldier must have a crown.  Your scholar, as doubtless
John can tell, is content if he have a sad-coloured
suit, some musty books, and a stoup of bad wine; but
your fine gentleman must have his horses and servants,
and dress himself like his quality for all the maids to
stare at, and have plenty of loose silver to fling to the
gaping crowd; and he is a poor fellow indeed if he
do not eat and drink the best that each tavern can
give.  As for me, I would as soon be a clown in the
fields as a scholar, with apologies to my cousin";
and he made me another of his mocking bows.

I answered as gently as I could that gentrice did
not consist in daintiness of eating and drinking or
boisterous display, and that in my opinion nothing
gave so fine a flavour to gentility as a tincture of
letters; but my father changed the conversation by
asking Gilbert what he had been after that day.

"'Faith, it would be hard to say," said he.  "I
got a gun from that long-legged, sour-faced groom and
went up the big hill above the trees to have a shot at
something.  I killed a couple of hares and sprung an
old muirfowl; but the day grew warm and I thought
that the wood would make a pleasant shade, so I e'en
turned my steps there and went to sleep below a great
oak, and dreamed that I ran a man through the bowels
for challenging my courage.  It was an ill-omened
dream, and I expected to meet with some mishap to
account for it ere I got back, but I saw nothing except
a lovely girl plucking primroses by the water side.
Zounds, Jock, what a fool you must be never to have
found out this beauty!  She had hair like gold and
eyes like sapphires.  I've seen many a good-looking
wench, but never one like her."

"And what did you do?" I asked, with my heart
beating wildly.

"Do," he laughed.  "Your scholar would have
passed in silence and written odes to her as Venus or
Helen for months; whereas I took off my bonnet and
made haste to enter into polite conversation.  But
this girl would have none of me; she's a rose, I
warrant, with a pretty setting of thorns.  She tripped
away, and when I made to follow her, became Madam
Fine-airs at once, and declared that her servants were
within easy reach, so I had better have a care of my
conduct."

My father shot a sharp glance at me, and addressed
my cousin.  "The maid would be Marjory Veitch,
old Sir John's daughter, at Dawyck.  He, poor
man, has gone to his account, and her brother is
abroad, so the poor girl is lonely enough in that great
house.  John and she have been friends from the
time they were children.  She has come here, too,
and a pretty, modest lass she is, though she favours
her mother rather than her father's folk."

At this intelligence my cousin whistled long and
low.  "So, so," said he, "my scholar has an eye
in his head, has he?  And Dawyck is not far off,
and—well, no wonder you do not care for the military
profession.  Though, let me tell you, it is as well for
the course of true love that there are few cavaliers in
this countryside, else Mistress Marjory might have
higher notions."

I answered nothing, for, though I loved Marjory
well, and thought that she loved me, I had never
spoken to her on the matter; for from childhood we
had been comrades and friends.  So I did not care to
reply on a matter which I regarded as so delicate and
uncertain.

My cousin was a man who grew sorely vexed by
receiving no answer from the object of his wit; and,
perhaps on this account, he went further than he
meant in his irritation.  "Nay, John," he went on,
"you're but a sorry fellow at the best, with your tags
from the Latin, and your poor spirit.  I am one of the
meanest of His Majesty's soldiers, but I can outride
you, I can beat you at sword-play, at mark-shooting,
at all manly sports.  I can hold my head before the
highest in the land; I can make the vulgar bow before
me to the ground.  There are no parts of a gentleman's
equipment in which I am not your better."

Now, had we been alone, I should not have
scrupled to fling the lie in his teeth, and offer to settle the
matter on the spot.  But I did not wish to excite my
father in his feeble health, so I made no reply
beyond saying that events would show the better man.
My father, however, took it upon himself to defend
me.  "Peace, Gilbert," he said.  "I will not have
my son spoken thus of in my own house.  He has
as much spirit as you, I'll warrant, though he is less
fond of blowing his own trumpet."  I saw with
annoyance that my father plainly thought my conduct
cowardly, and would have been better pleased had I
struck my cousin then and there.  But I knew how
cruelly excited he would be by the matter, and, in his
weakness, I feared the result.  Also, the man was
our guest, and my cousin.

When we rose from supper I assisted my father in
walking to his chair by the fire; for, though the
weather was mild and spring-like, his blood was so
impoverished that he felt the cold keenly.  Then my
cousin and myself strolled out of doors to the green
lawn, below which Tweed ran low and silvery clear.
I felt anger against him, yet not so much as I would
have felt towards another man, had he used the same
words; for I knew Gilbert to be of an absurd
boasting nature, which made him do more evil than he
had in his heart.  Still my honour, or pride (call it
what you please), was wounded, and I cast about me
for some way to heal it.

"Gilbert," I said, "we have both done much
work to-day, so we are both about equally wearied."

"Maybe," said he.

"But your horse is fresh, and a good one, as I
know; and you are a good horseman, as you say
yourself.  You had much to say about my poor
horsemanship at supper.  Will you try a race with me?"

He looked at me scornfully for a minute.  "Nay,
there is little honour to be got from that.  You
knew the ground, and your horse, for all I know,
may be swifter than mine.  It was not of horses I
spoke, but of the riders."

"In the race which I offer you," I answered,
"we will both start fair.  Do you see yon rift in the
hill beyond Scrape?  It is the Red Syke, a long dark
hole in the side of the hill.  I have never ridden there,
for the ground is rough and boggy, and I have never
heard of a horseman there since Montrose's rising.
Will you dare to ride with me to yonder place and
back?"

At this my cousin's face changed a little, for he
had no liking for breaking his neck on the wild hills.
And now, when I look back on the proposal, it seems
a mad, foolhardy one in very truth.  But then we
were both young and spirited, and reckless of our
lives.

"Mount and ride," said he.  "I'll be there and
back before you are half-road, unless, indeed, I have
to carry you home."

Together we went round to the stables, and I
saddled a black horse of my father's, for Maisie had
already travelled far that day.  The Weasel, we called
him, for he was long and thin in the flanks, with a
small head, and a pointed muzzle.  He was
viciously ill-tempered, and would allow no groom to
saddle him; but before I had gone to Glasgow I had
mounted and ridden him bareback up and down the
channel of Tweed till he was dead-beat, and I
half-drowned and shaken almost to pieces.  Ever since
this escapade he had allowed me to do what I liked
with him; and, though I did not find him as pleasant
to ride as the incomparable Maisie, yet I knew his
great strength and alertness.  My cousin's horse was
a good cavalry charger, strong, but, as I thought,
somewhat too heavy in the legs for great endurance.

We mounted and rode together out among the trees
to the fields which bordered on the hills.  I was sore
in the back when I started, but, after the first
half-mile, my sprightliness returned, and I felt fit to ride
over Broad Law.  My cousin was in an ill mood, for
the sport was not to his taste, though he felt bound
in honour to justify his words.

The spur of Scrape, which we came to, was called,
by the country people, the Deid Wife, for there an
Irish woman, the wife of one of Montrose's camp
followers, had been killed by the folk of the place
after the rout at Philiphaugh.  We had much ado
to keep our horses from slipping back, for the loose
stones which covered the face of the hill gave a feeble
foothold.  The Weasel took the brae like a deer, but
my cousin's heavy horse laboured and panted sorely
before it reached the top.  Before us stretched the
long upland moors, boggy, and cleft with deep
ravines, with Scrape on the right, and straight in
front, six miles beyond, the great broad crest of Dollar
Law.  Here we separated, my cousin riding forward,
while I thought the road to the left would be the
surer.  Clear before us lay the Red Syke, an ugly
gash, into which the setting sun was beginning to cast
his beams.

And now I found myself in a most perilous position.
The Weasel's feet were light and touchy, and
he stumbled among the stones and tall heather till I
had sore work to keep my seat.  My cousin's horse
was of a heavier make, and I could see it galloping
gallantly over the broken ground.  I cheered my steed
with words, and patted his neck, and kept a tight
hand on the rein.  Sometimes we slipped among the
shingle, and sometimes stumbled over rocks half-hid
in brackens.  Then we passed into a surer place
among short, burned heather.  The dry twigs gave
forth a strange, creaking sound as the horse's feet trod
on them, and puffs of grey dust and ashes, the sign
of the burning, rose at every step.  Then, beyond
this, we went to a long stretch of crisp mountain
grass, pleasant for both horse and rider.  We
splashed through little tumbling burns, and waded
through pools left by the spring rains.  But, of a
sudden, the ground grew softer, and even the Weasel's
light weight could not pass in safety.  At one time,
indeed, I reined him back just on the brink of a
treacherous well-eye, from which neither of us would
have returned.  I cast a glance at my cousin, who
was still ahead; his heavy charger was floundering
wearily, and he lashed it as if his life were at stake.
Then we passed the green bog and came to a great
peat-moss, full of hags, where the shepherds had
been casting peats.  Here the riding was more
difficult, for the holes whence the peats had come were
often some five feet deep, and it was no easy matter
to get a horse out of that treacherous black mud.
The Weasel did gallantly, and only once did I
dismount, when his hind feet were too deeply sunk to
permit him to leap.  Beyond me I saw my cousin,
riding swiftly, for the middle of the moss, as it
chanced, was the firmest and evenest place.  We
were now scarce a hundred yards from the ravine of
the Red Syke, and, even as I looked, I saw him reach
it, rest a second to give his horse breathing-space, and
then turn on his homeward way.

I came to the place a minute after, and having
compassion on my brave horse, I dismounted, and
eased him of my weight for a little.  Then I got on
his back again and set off.  Gilbert I saw before me,
riding, as I thought, in the worst part, and with a
fury that must tell sooner or later on his heavy steed.
I had scarce been a moment in the saddle, when, so
strange are the ways of horses, the Weasel became
aware, for the first time, of the other in front.
Before, it had been a toil for him, now it became a
pleasure, a race, which it lay with his honour to win.  He
cocked up his wicked, black ears, put down his head,
and I felt the long legs gathering beneath me.  I
cried aloud with delight, for now I knew that no horse
in Tweeddale could hope to match him when the
mood was on him.  He flew over the hags as if he
had been in a paddock; he leaped among the hard
parts of the green bog, from tussock to tussock, as
skilfully as if he had known nothing but mosses all
his days.  We came up with Gilbert at the edge of
the rough ground, lashing on his horse, with his face
flushed and his teeth set.  We passed him like the
wind, and were galloping among the rocks and
brackens, while he was painfully picking his steps.  A
merciful providence must have watched over the
Weasel's path that day, for never horse ran so
recklessly.  Among slippery boulders and cruel jagged
rocks and treacherous shingle he ran like a hare.  I
grew exultant, laughed, and patted his neck.  The
sun was setting behind us, and we rode in a broad
patch of yellow light.  In a trice we were on the
brow of the Deid Wife.  Down we went, slipping
yards at a time, now doubling along the side;
sometimes I was almost over the horse's head, sometimes
all but off the tail; there was never, since the two
daft lairds rode down Horsehope Craig, such a madcap
ride.  I scarce know how I reached the foot in safety:
but reach it I did, and rode merrily among the trees
till I came to the green meadowlands about the house
of Barns.  Here I dismounted and waited for my
cousin, for I did not care to have the serving-men
laugh at him riding in after me.

I waited a good half-hour before he appeared.  A
sorry sight he presented.  His breeches and jerkin
had more than one rent in them; his hat was gone;
and his face was flushed almost crimson with effort.
His horse had bleeding knees, and its shoulders shook
pitifully.

"Pardon me, Gilbert," I said in a fit of repentance;
"it was a foolish thing in me to lead you such a
senseless road.  I might have known that your horse
was too heavy for the work.  It was no fault of
yours that you did not come home before me.  I
trust that we may forget our quarrels, and live in
friendship, as kinsmen should."

"Friendship be damned," he cried in a mighty rage.





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.. _`HOW MASTER GILBERT BURNET PLAYED A GAME AND WAS CHECKMATED`:

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   CHAPTER VI
   
   .. vspace:: 1

   HOW MASTER GILBERT BURNET PLAYED A GAME
   AND WAS CHECKMATED

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That night I was too wearied and sore in body to
sleep.  My mind also was troubled, for I had made
an enemy of my cousin, who, as I knew, was not of
a nature to forgive readily.  His words about Marjory
had put me into a ferment of anxiety.  Here was my
love, bound to me by no promise, at the mercy of all
the gallants of the countryside.  Who was I, to call
myself her lover, when, as yet, no word of love had
passed between us?  Yet, in my inmost heart, I
knew that I might get the promise any day I chose.
Then thoughts of my cousin came to trouble me.  I
feared him no more than a fly in matters betwixt man
and man; but might he not take it into his head to
make love to the mistress of Dawyck? and all maids
dearly love a dashing cavalier.  At length, after much
stormy indecision, I made up my mind.  I would ride
to Dawyck next morn and get my lady's word, and
so forestall Gilbert, or any other.

I woke about six o'clock; and, looking out from
the narrow window, for Barns had been built three
hundred years before, I saw that the sky was
cloudless and blue, and the morning as clear as could be
seen in spring.  I hastily dressed, and, getting some
slight breakfast from Jean Morran, saddled Maisie,
who was now as active as ever, and rode out among
the trees.  I feared to come to Dawyck too early,
so I forded Tweed below the island, and took the
road up the further bank by Lyne and Stobo.  All
the world was bright; an early lark sang high in the
heaven; merles and thrushes were making fine music
among the low trees by the river.  The haze was
lifting off the great Manor Water hills; the Red
Syke, the scene of the last night's escapade, looked
very distant in the morning light; and far beyond all
Dollar Law and the high hills about Manorhead were
flushed with sunlight on their broad foreheads.  A
great gladness rose in me when I looked at the hills,
for they were the hills of my own country; I knew
every glen and corrie, every water and little burn.
Before me the Lyne Water hills were green as grass
with no patch of heather, and to the left, the mighty
form of Scrape, half-clothed in forest, lay quiet and
sunlit.  I know of no fairer sight on earth; and this
I say, after having travelled in other countries, and
seen something of their wonders; for, to my mind,
there is a grace, a wild loveliness in Tweedside, like
a flower-garden on the edge of a moorland, which is
wholly its own.

I crossed Lyne Water by the new bridge, just
finished in the year before, and entered the wood of
Dawyck.  For this great forest stretches on both sides
of Tweed, though it is greater on the side on which
stands the house.  In the place where I rode it was
thinner, and the trees smaller, and, indeed, around
the little village of Stobo, there lies an open part of
some fields' width.  At the little inn there, I had a
morning's draught of ale, for I was somewhat cold
with riding in the spring air.  Then I forded
Tweed at a place called the Cow Ford, and, riding
through a wide avenue of lime-trees, came in sight
of the grey towers of Dawyck.

I kept well round to the back, for I did not care
that the serving-folk should see me and spread tales
over all the countryside.  I knew that Marjory's
window looked sharp down on a patch of green lawn,
bordered by lime-trees, so I rode into the shadow and
dismounted.  I whistled thrice in a way which I had,
and which Marjory had learned to know long before,
when we were children, and I used to come and
beguile her out for long trampings among the hills.
To-day it had no effect, for the singing of birds
drowned my notes, so I had nothing left but to throw
bits of bark against her window.  This rude
expedient met with more success than it deserved, for in a
minute I saw her face behind the glass.  She smiled
gladly when she saw me, and disappeared, only to
appear again in the little door beside the lilacs.  She
had no hat, so her bright hair hung loose over her
neck and was blown about by the morning winds.
Her cheeks were pink and white, like apple-blossom,
and her lithe form was clad in a dress of blue velvet,
plainly adorned as for a country maiden.  A spray of
lilac was in her breast, and she carried a bunch of
sweet-smelling stuff in her hands.

She came gladly towards me, her eyes dancing with
pleasure.  "How soon you have returned!  And how
brave you look," said she, with many more pretty
and undeserved compliments.

"Ay, Marjory," I answered, "I have come back
to Tweeddale, for I have had enough of Glasgow
College and books, and I was wearying for the hills
and Tweed and a sight of your face.  There are no
maidens who come near to you with all their finery.
You are as fair as the spring lilies in the garden at
Barns."

"Oh, John," she laughed, "where did you
learn to pay fine compliments?  You will soon be as
expert at the trade as any of them.  I met a man
yesterday in the woods who spoke like you, though
with a more practised air; but I bade him keep his
fine words for his fine ladies, for they suited ill with
the hills and a plain country maid."

At this, I must suppose that my brows grew dark,
for she went on laughingly.

"Nay, you are not jealous?  It ill becomes a
scholar and a philosopher as you are, Master John, to
think so much of an idle word.  Confess, sir, that you
are jealous.  Why, you are as bad as a lady in a play."

I could not make out her mood, which was a new
one to me—a mocking pleasant raillery, which I took
for the rightful punishment of my past follies.

"I am not jealous," I said, "for jealousy is a
feeling which needs an object ere it can exist.  No
man may be jealous, unless he has something to be
jealous about."

"John, John," she cried, and shook her head
prettily, "you are incorrigible.  I had thought you
had learned manners in the town, and behold, you are
worse than when you went away.  You come here,
and your first word to me is that I am nothing."

"God knows," I said, "I would fain be jealous,
and yet—"  I became awkward and nervous, for I
felt that my mission was not prospering, and that I
was becoming entangled in a maze of meaningless
speech.  The shortest and plainest way is still the best
in love as in all things.

But I was not to be let off, and she finished my
sentence for me.  "If only you could find a worthy
object for your feeling, you mean," she said.
"Very well, sir, since I am so little valued in your
eyes, we will speak no more on the matter."

"Marjory," I said, coming to the matter at once,
"you and I have been old comrades.  We have fished
and walked together, we have climbed the hills and
ridden in the meadows.  I have done your bidding
for many years."

"True, John," she said with an accent of grudging
reminiscence, "you have dragged me into many
a pretty pickle.  I have torn my dress on rough
rocks and soaked my shoes in bogs, all in your
company.  Surely we have had a brave time together."

"You met a man in the wood yesterday who
would fain have made love to you.  That man was
my cousin Gilbert."

"Oh," she replied in a tone of mock solemnity
and amused wonder, for I had blurted out my last
words like the last dying confession of some prisoner.
"Verily you are honoured in your cousinship, John."

"It is against him and such as him that I would
protect you," I said.

"Nay," she cried, with an affected remonstrance.
"I will have no fighting between cousins on my
account.  I will even defend myself, as Alison did
when the miller made love to her."

"O Marjory," I burst out, "will you not give
me this right to defend you?  We have been old
companions, but it was only yesterday that I knew
how dearly I loved you.  I have had more cares since
yester-night than ever in my life.  We have been
comrades in childhood; let us be comrades on the
rough paths of the world."

I spoke earnestly, and her face, which had been
filled with mockery, changed gently to something
akin to tenderness.

"How little you know of women!" she cried.
"I have loved you for years, thinking of you at all
times, and now you come to-day, speaking as if you
had scarce seen me before.  Surely I will bear you
company in life, as I have been your comrade at its
beginning."

What followed I need scarce tell, since it is but part
of the old comedy of life, which our grandfathers and
grandmothers played before us, and mayhap our
grand-children will be playing even now when our back is
turned.  Under the spring sky among the lilies we
plighted our troth for the years, and I entered from
careless youth into the dim and resolute region of manhood.

With a great joy in my heart I rode home.  I took
the high way over the shoulder of Scrape, for I knew
that few folk ever went that road, and I wished to be
alone.  The birds were singing, the fresh clean air
was blowing on my face, and the primroses and
wind-flowers made a gay carpet under my horse's feet.  All
the earth seemed to partake in my gladness.  It was
a good world, I thought, full of true hearts, fair faces,
and much good; and though I have seen much
wickedness and sorrow in my day, I am still of the same
way of thinking.  It is a brave world; a royal world
for brave-hearted men.

When I came to Barns I found that my cousin had
gone out an hour since and left my father greatly
wondering at my absence.  He sat in the chair by the
fireplace, looking more withered and old than I had
ever seen him.  My heart smote me for not staying
at his side, and so I sat down by him and told him
many things of my doings in Glasgow, and how I
desired above all things to see the world, having had
my fill of books and colleges.  Then I told him what
he had long guessed, of my love for Marjory Veitch
and the promise which she had given me.  He heard
me in silence, but when he spoke, his words were
cheerful, for he had long liked the lass.  He made no
refusal, too, to the rest of my plans.  "You shall go
and see the world, John," he said, "and take my
blessing with you.  It ill becomes a young
mettlesome lad in these stirring times to lounge at home,
when he might be wearing a steel breastplate in the
King's Guards, or trying the manners of twenty
nations.  Though I could wish you to bide at home,
for I am an old broken man with few pleasures, and I
love the sight of your face."

"Nay, I will never leave you," I said, "an you
wish it.  I am young yet and a boy's road is a long
road.  Time enough for all."

After this I went out to see if the Weasel had come
to any mishap in the last night's ride.  I found him
as stout as ever, so I saddled him and rode away by
the green haughlands up the valley of the Manor, for
I longed for motion and air to relieve my spirit: and
coming home in the afternoon, I found my cousin
returned and sitting with my father in the dining-hall.

He glanced sharply at me when I entered, and I
saw by his looks that he was in no good temper.  His
heavy face was flushed and his shaggy eyebrows were
lowered more than their wont.

"Where have you been, Gilbert?" I asked.  "I
found you gone when I came back in the morning."

"I took my horse down to Peebles to the farrier.
Its knees were sorely hurt last night on your infernal
hills."

Now I knew that this was a lie, for I had looked
at his horse before I went out in the morning, and its
wounds were so slight that it would have been mere
folly to take him to a farrier; and Gilbert, I well knew,
was not the man to be in error where horses were
concerned.  So I judged that he had ridden in the
contrary direction, and gone to Dawyck, and, as I
inferred from his sour looks, met with no good
reception there.  I could afford to be generous; I felt a
sort of half-pity for his discomfiture, and forbore to
ask him any further questions.

We sat down to supper, he and I and my father, in
a sober frame of mind.  I was full of my own thoughts,
which were of the pleasantest; my cousin was plainly
angry with something or other; and my father, in his
weakness dimly perceiving that all was not right, set
himself to mend matters by engaging him in talk.

"You're a good shot with the musket, they tell
me, Gibbie," he said, using the old name which he
had called him by when he first came to Barns as a
boy, "and I was thinking that it would be a rare
ploy for you and John to go down the water to
Traquair, where Captain Keith's horse are lying.
He is an old friend of mine, and would be blithe to
see any of my kin.  They tell me he has great trials
of skill in all exercises, and that he has gathered half
the gentry in the place about him."

"John," said my cousin in a scornful voice,
"John is too busily employed at Dawyck to care much
for anything else.  A flighty maid is a sore burden
on any man."

"I would have you learn, Master Gilbert," I said
angrily, "to speak in a better way of myself and my
friends.  You may be a very great gentleman
elsewhere, but you seem to leave your gentility behind
when you come here."

Now my cousin and I were of such opposite natures
that I took most things seriously, while he found
matter for a jest in all—yet not in full good-nature, but
with a touch of acrid satire.

"Even a barn-door cock will defend his own roost.
How one sees the truth of proverbs!"

And then he added that which I will not set down,
but which brought my father and myself to our feet
with flashing eyes and quivering lips.  I would have
spoken, but my father motioned me to be silent.

"Gilbert," he said, his voice shaking with age and
anger, "you will leave this house the morn.  I will
have no scoundrelly fellow of your kidney here.  You
are no true nephew of mine, and God pity the father
that begat you."

My cousin smiled disdainfully and rose from his
chair.  "Surely I will go and at once when my
hospitable uncle bids me.  The entertainment in this
damned hole is not so good as to keep me long.  As
for you, Cousin John," and he eyed me malignantly,
"you and I will meet some day, where there are
no dotards and wenches to come between us.  Then
I promise you some sport.  Till then, farewell.  I
will down to Peebles to-night and trouble you no
more."  With a wave of his hand he was gone, and
five minutes later we heard his horse's hooves clatter
over the stones of the yard.

When he was gone his conduct came back to my
father with a rush, and he fell to upbraiding himself
for his breach of hospitality and family honour.  He
would have me call Gilbert back, and when I showed
him how futile it was, fell into low spirits and repented
in great bitterness.

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Now the worst of this day's business remains to
be told.  For when I looked at my father some time
after I found him sunk in his chair with his face as
pale as death.  With the help of Jean Morran and
Tam Todd I got him to bed, from which he never
rose, but passed peacefully away in the fear of God
two days later.  The heat into which he had been
thrown was the direct cause, and though I could not
very well lay the thing to my cousin's charge when
the man was already so far down the vale of years,
yet in my heart I set it against him.  Indeed from this
day I date my antagonism to the man, which before
had been a mere boyish rivalry.

I stayed with my father to the end.  Just before he
died he bade me come near and gave me his blessing,
bidding me be a better gentleman than he had been.
We did not bury him in the Kirk of Lyne, for he had
always said he never could abide to lie within walls.
but on a green flat above Tweed, where the echo of
the river and the crying of moorbirds are never absent
from his grave.





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.. _`THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES AND HOW A STRANGER RETURNED FROM THE WARS`:

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   CHAPTER VII

   .. vspace:: 1
   
   THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES AND HOW A STRANGER
   RETURNED FROM THE WARS

.. vspace:: 2

Of my doings for some months after my father's
death I must tell hastily.  I fell heir to the lands of
Barns, and being of age entered at once into my
possession.  The place remained the same as in my
father's time, the same servants and the same ways
about the house.  I lived simply as I had always
lived, spending my days in seeing to the land, in field
sports, and some little study, for I had not altogether
forsaken the Muses.  But all the time I felt as one
who is kept at home against his will, being
conscious of a restlessness and an inclination to travel
which was new to me, but which I doubt not is
common to all young men at this time of life.  I talked
much with Tam Todd of the lands which he had
visited, and heard of the Dutch towns with their strange
shipping, their canals and orderly houses, and of the
rough Norlanders, clad in the skins of wild animals,
who came down to the Swedish markets to trade; of
the soldiery of Germany and France and the Scots
who had gone over there to push their fortunes with
their swords; and what I loved best, of the salt sea
with its boundless waste of waters and wild tales of
shipwreck.  Formerly I had been wont often to bid
Tam sharply to hold his peace when he entered on
one of his interminable narrations; but now I sat and
drank in every word like a thirsty man.  It was the
winter-time, when the roads were often snowed up
and all the folk of the place gathered in the great
kitchen at nights round the fire; so it was the time
for stories and we had our fill of them.

One blustering day, the first Monday, I think, after
the New Year, when the ice was beginning to melt
from the burns and a wet, cold wind from the
north-west was blowing, I rode down to Peebles to settle
some matters about money with Saunders Blackett,
who had managed my father's affairs and was now
intrusted with mine.  All things were done to my
satisfaction; so bethinking myself that the way to
Barns was cold and long and that it was yet early in
the afternoon, being scarce four o'clock, I found
myself thinking pleasantly of the warm inn-parlour of the
*Pegasus*, so thither I went.

The *Pegasus* or "Peg" Inn stands at the corner of
the Northgate and the High Street, a black-gabled
building, once the town-house of the Govans of
Cardrona, and still retaining marks of its gentility in the
arms carved above the door.  A great sign flapped in
the wind, bearing on a white ground a gorgeous
representation of a winged horse soaring through clouds.
The landlord at this time was one Horsbrock, a portly,
well-looking man, who claimed to be kin to the
Horsbrocks of that ilk and held his chin two inches higher
in consequence.  The place was famed in all the
country round for good wine and comfort.

I stabled my horse and, bidding the host bring me
a bottle of Rhenish (so fine a thing it is to have
succeeded to lands and money), I went into the
low-ceilinged room where the company sat.  It was panelled
in a darkish wood, and hung round with old weapons,
halberds and falchions and what not, which glimmered
brightly in the firelight.  A narrow window gave it light,
but now it sufficed only to show the grey winter dusk
coming swiftly on.  Around the fire sat some few of the
men of Peebles, warming themselves and discussing the
landlord's ale and the characters of their neighbours.

They rose to give me welcome when I entered, for
my name and family were well known in the countryside.

"It's awfu' weather for man and beast, Laird,"
said an old man with a bent back, but still hale and
hearty in the face.  "A snawy winter I can abide,
and a wet yin, but drizzlin', dreepin', seepin' weather
wi' a wind that taks the heart out o' ye is mair than
my patience can stand."

"You have little need to speak, you folk," I said,
"living in a well-paved town with stones beneath
your feet and nothing more to do than go round a
street corner all day.  Up at Barns, with Tweed
swirling in at the yard gate, and the stables flowing
like a linn, and the wind playing cantrips day and
night in and out of the windows, you might talk."

"Ay, but, good sir," put in a thin voice which
came from a little man I had seen at the
bowling-green, "ye may thank the Lord for a roof abune
your heids and dry claes to put on, when sae many
godly folks are hiding like pelicans in the wilderness
among the high hills and deep mosses.  I bless the Lord
that my faither, that sant o' the Kirk, is not living in
thae evil times.  He was a man o' a truly great spirit,
and had he been alive, I'se warrant he wad hae been
awa to join them.  He was aye strong on his
conscience.  'John Look-up' so the godless called him.
'John Look-up,' said my mother, 'ye'll never be
pleased till we're a' joltin' in a cairt to the Grassmarket
o' Edinburgh.  And a braw sicht ye'll be, hanging
there like a hoodie-craw wi' a' your bairns aside
ye.'  Ay, these were often her words, for she had a
sarcastic tongue."

"Jock Look-up, my man," said another, "I
kenned your faither a' his days, and he was na the man
to hang.  He lookit up and he lookit a' ways.  He
was yin whae could baith watch and pray.  Gin ye
were mair like him, ye wad be a mair thrivin' man."

"Aboot the hill-folk," said the old man who had
first spoken, drinking his ale and turning up the
measure to see that no more was left, "did ye ever hear o'
my son Francie and what happened to him when he gaed
awa to Moffat wi' 'oo'?  He gaed ower by Traquair
and keepit the road till he got to Moffat, for he had
a horse that wasna ower sure o' its feet on the hills.
But when he had it a' sellt, whae does he meet in wi'
but Wull Hislop the travelling packman, whae's sair
needing a beast.  So Francie sells him his horse and
comes aff hame walking ower the muirs.  He gaed
up Moffat Water and ower the muckle hill they ca'
Corriefragauns, and got on nane sae bad till he cam
to the awfu' craigs abune Loch Skene.  He was
walking briskly, thinking o' hame and the siller in his
pouch and how he wad win to Peebles that nicht,
when he saw afore him the awfu'est sicht that ever he
had seen.  It was a man o' maybe the same heicht as
himsel, wi' a heid of red hair, and nae claes to speak
o', but just a kind o' clout about his middle.  He
began to speak in an outlandish voice and Francie
kenned at yince that he maun be yin o' thae Hieland
deevils brocht doun to hunt up the Whigs.  He was
for Francie's money, and he oot wi' a big knife and
flashed it up and doun.  But this was no to Francie's
liking.  'Put that doun, ye ill-looking deevil,' says
he, 'ye'll find I'm nane o' your hill-folk, but an
honest man frae Peebles wi' a nieve as hard as your
heid's saft, and if ye dinna let me by, I'll put ye in the
loch as sure as my name's Francie Trummle.'  The
body understood him brawly, and wi' a grunt slunk
aff among the heather, and Francie had nae mair bother
wi' him.  But O! it's an awfu' thing to think o' men o'
your ain blood hunted and killed wi' thae foreign craturs.
It maks me half-mindit to turn Whig mysel."

"Dinna fash yoursel, Maister Trummle," said a
younger man, a farmer by his looks, "ye're better
bidin' in peace and quiet at hame.  The Lord never
meant folk to gang among hills and peat-bogs, unless
after sheep.  It's clean against the order o' things.
But there's yae thing that reconciles me to this
Whig-hunting.  They're maistly wast-country folk, and
wast-country folk are an ill lot, aye shoving their
nebs where they're no want it.  There's no mony
Whigs in Tweeddale.  Na, na, they're ower canny."

Master Turnbull made as if he would have answered,
when a clatter of feet was heard in the passage,
and the door opened.  Two men entered, one a great
swarthy fellow well known for his poaching escapades
when the salmon came up the water, and the other,
Peter Crustcrackit the tailor.  They did not enter in
company, for Peter swaggered in with as gallant an
air as two bent legs and a small body could permit,
while the other slunk in with a half-apologetic look,
glancing keenly round to see who were the other
occupants of the room.

"The 'Peg' is honoured with your company
tonight, I see," said Peter, making a bow to me.
"'Tis the finest gathering that I remember: the Laird
o' Barns, worthy Maister Trumbull, myself, and my
honoured freend, Maister Simon Doolittle."

The black fisher lifted his face from the ale which
the landlord had brought.  "Your guid health,
gentlemen.  I'm prood o' your company, though I'm no
just fit for't, since I'm no half an 'oor oot o' the
Dookit Pool."

All eyes were turned to the speaker, and we saw
that his clothes hung limp and wet.

"And pray, how did you get there, Maister Doolittle?
Was't by the working o' Providence, or the
wiles o' sinfu' man?"

"A mixture o' baith.  I took a bit daunder up
Tweed to the Castle Rock to see how the water was
rinnin'.  It's been raither grimily for fishin' o' late.
Ye a' ken the rocks that they're no exactly the sort
o' place that a man wad choose for dancin' a reel in
tackety boots.  Weel, I was admiring the works o'
God as manifested in a big, deep, swirlin' hole, when
afore ever I kenned I was admirin' the hole frae the
middle o't.  I was gey near chokit wi' Tweed
water, but I wabbled a bit, and syne grippit a birk
and held on."

There was a pause and he took a draught of ale.

"Weel, I roared as loud as I could, and the auld
runt whae bides i' the Castle heard me.  He cam
doun and askit me what was wrang.  'Wrang,' says
I.  'If ye dinna ca' ten feet o' water and you no able
to soom, wrang, I just wis ye were here yoursel.'  So
he gangs cannily back and brings anither man to look
at me; and the twae thocht for a while, and then each
grippit an airm and after a gey wammlin' I got oot.
I was angry at their delay, for I couldna hae held on
muckle langer, so I kickit them baith an' cam aff here.
I've muckle need o' yill, fur I feel as if I had eaten
ten pund o' snaw."

"Come nearer the fire, Simon," said one.  "Ye're
a muckle tried man."

"I'm a' that," said the brown-faced poacher, and
relapsed into silence.

The lights were now lit in the streets of Peebles,
as we could see by the glimmer through the windows;
but in our room no lamp was needed, for the bright
firelight was sufficient for a man to read a little book
by.  The great shadows danced on the wall, bent and
crooked into a thousand phantasies; and the men by
the fire nodded and spoke little.  Then the old man
Turnbull began an argument with the tailor about
some clothes in which he said he had been cheated; and
Peter Crustcrackit, never a quiet-tempered man, was
rejoining with vigour.  I heard only fragments of their
talk, being taken up in dreaming of my future course,
and when I should go to see the world.

The mild-mannered man, him they called John
Look-up, was sleeping in his chair, and his jug of ale
which he had emptied hung limply in his hand.  In
a little it fell to the floor and rolled beneath his chair;
but the sleeper never stirred.  The poacher sat
shrouded in vapour, which the heat of the fire had
brought out of his wet garments, and a mingled smell
of damp cloth and burning wood filled the room.
The discordant voices of the tailor and his antagonist
rose and fell, now sinking to a mumbled whisper, and
now rising to sharp recrimination.  By and by they
came to an end of their dispute, and silence reigned
undisturbed; and I verily believe that in five minutes
we should all have been sound asleep, had not
something occurred to rouse us.

This was no less than the entrance of another
guest.  The door was flung open and a man entered,
swaggering with a great air and bearing into the
slumbrous place a breath of the outer world.  He was the
finest man I had ever seen, two inches and more
taller than myself, who am not short, and clean
made as a greyhound.  His face was tanned a deep
brown, and bare save for a yellow moustachio on his
upper lip.  His hair hung long and fine over his
shoulders, setting off the erect poise of his head.  He
had removed his cloak and hat, and showed a dress
of the height of fashion; his cravat was of delicate
foreign lace and the sash around his middle of the
finest silk.  But what I marked especially were his
features, the thin, straight nose, the well-bred chin, and
the clear eyes; but for a certain weakness in the jaw
I should have called it the handsomest face I had ever
seen.  More, it was a face that wis familiar to me.
I had seen the like of it before; but where I could
not tell, and I cudgelled my brains to think of it.

"Ah, my faith," said the stranger, speaking with
a foreign accent, "what have we here?  A room-full
of sleepy citizens.  Or drunk, egad, drunk, I believe."

And he walked over to where Peter Crustcrackit
sat nodding, and stared in his face.  Now the noise
wakened the rest; and Peter also, who sitting up with
a stupid air thought that he was still in the shop, and
cried hurriedly, "What d'ye lack, sir?  Silks or satins
or plain kersey," and ran into a recital of his wares.

The newcomer looked at him with an amused
smile.  "It is not difficult to tell your profession, my
friend.  The ninth of a man."

Then he surveyed the rest of us in turn with his
restless eyes, until his look fell upon me.  He must
have marked something about my appearance distinct
from the others, for he bowed and addressed me politely.

"You are not one of these fellows, I think.  May
I ask the favour of your name?  I have been long
absent from this country and have forgot faces."

"You are welcome to it," said I.  "They call
me John Burnet—of Barns," I added, for the first
time using my new-found title.

He crossed to my side in an instant and held out
his hand.  "Your hand, Master Burnet.  You and
I should be well known to each other, for we shall be
near neighbours.  You may have heard of Michael
Veitch of Dawyck, him that was soldiering abroad.
I am that same, returned like the prodigal from far
countries."

Now I knew where I had seen the face before.  It
was but a coarse and manly counterpart of Marjory's,
though I fancied that hers was still the braver and
stronger, if all were told.

"I have often heard of you," I said, "and I am
glad to be the first to bid you welcome to your own
countryside.  These are some men of the town,
honest fellows, who come here for their evening ale."

"Your health, gentlemen," he cried, bowing to
the company.  "Landlord, bring ale and a bottle of
your best Burgundy till I pledge these honest fellows."

"Eh, sirs," I heard Peter Crustcrackit mutter
under his breath, "sic an invasion o' gentles.  The
Northgate o' Peebles micht be the High Street o'
Embro', for a' the braw folk that are coming tae't.
I maun think aboot shifting my shop."

It would be well on for eight o'clock ere Master
Veitch and I left the *Pegasus* to ride homeward.  The
night was quieter and milder, and overhead a patch of
clear sky showed the stars.  He had with him two
serving-men who carried his belongings, but they rode
some little distance behind.  He was full of questions
about Dawyck and his kinsfolk there and the
countryside around; so I must needs tell him something
of what had passed between Marjory and myself.  He
seemed not ill-pleased.  "What," he cried, "little
Marjory, who was scarce higher than my knee when
I left!  To think that she should have grown into a
woman already!  And you say she is pretty?"

Which question gave me much opportunity for
such talk as one must use when he feels the littleness
of words.

Then he must ask me about myself, of my father,
of whose death he was ignorant, and what I purposed
to do.  "For I doubt," said he, "that you will
have but a dull time of it at Barns in that great
desolate house.  It little befits an active man to pine at
home like a mouse in a cell."

So from one thing to another, he had me to tell
him of all my desires, of how I longed above all
things to travel and see the world; and he spoke to
me in such a fashion that ere we had come to the ford
of Tweed my intention was fixed to ride out like the
Spanish Don to see what might befall me.





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.. _`I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS`:

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   CHAPTER VIII

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   I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS
   
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The next month was, I think, the busiest in my
life.  For from the evening of my meeting with
Michael Veitch my mind was firmly made up to go
to travel abroad, and with this determination came all
the countless troubles which a man must meet before
he can leave his home.  I was busy night and day,
now down at Peebles, now riding up Manor and all
over the Barns lands, seeing that all things were in
right order ere my departure.  I got together all the
money I desired, and with drafts on the Dutch bankers,
which the lawyer folk in Edinburgh got for me,
I was in no danger of falling into poverty abroad.

On Tam Todd I laid the management of all things
in my absence; and Tam, much impressed by his
responsibility, though it was a task which he had really
undertaken long before in the later years of my father's
life, went about his work with a serious, preoccupied
air, as of Atlas with the world on his shoulders.  I
had much ado in getting ready my baggage for the
journey, for I wished to take little, being confident
that I could buy all things needful abroad.  Jean
Morran, on the other hand, would have had me take
half the plenishing of the house of Barns, from linen
sheets to fresh-kirned butter, for I could not persuade
her to think otherwise than that I was going into a
desolate land among heathen savages.

Then I had to visit many folk up and down Tweed
to take farewell; and I had so many letters given me
to men of standing abroad, that, if I had delivered
them all, I should have had to spend more time than
I cared.  One I valued more than any other—a
letter written by Master Gilbert Burnet, of London,
to a professor in the university of Leyden—which I
hoped would bring me into the company of scholars.
For I had changed my original intention of going to
the wars, first, because I found on examination that,
in my inmost heart, I had that hankering after
learning which would never be sated save by a life with
some facilities for study; second, because, now that I
was the sole member of the house, it behooved me to
bide on the land and see to it, and any such thing as
soldiering would keep me away for too great a time.
I sent, too, to the College Library at Glasgow, for all
the books on the Low Countries to be had, and spent
much profitable time reading of the history of the
place, and how the land lay.

During these days I was much in the company of
the new master of Dawyck, and a most delectable
comrade I found him.  He had a vast stock of tales
and jests, collected in his travels, with which he
would amuse his friends; he was something of a
scholar, and could talk learnedly when he chose; and
he was expert at all outdoor sports, pressing me hard at
the sword-play, in which I prided myself on my skill.
He was of a free, generous nature, and singularly
courteous to all, high and low, rich and poor alike.
Yet, with all these excellencies, there was much that
I liked ill about him, for he was over-fond of
resorting to the taverns at Peebles, where he would muddle
his wits in the company of his inferiors.  His life
at Dawyck was none of the most regular, though,
indeed, I have little cause to blame him, being none
so good myself; though the vice of over-indulging in
wine was one that Providence always mercifully kept
me from.

He came perhaps every third day to Barns to ride
with me in the haugh, and he would abide to supper-time,
or even over night, making me fear for Marjory's
peace of mind.  To his sister he was most dutiful
and kind, and I was glad to think that now the days
might be more pleasant for her with her brother in
the house.  And it pleased me to think that when
I went abroad, my lady would be left in no bad
keeping.

The days, the short January days, passed quickly
over my head, and, almost ere I knew, the time had
come for my departure.  And now, when the hour
came so nigh, I felt some pain at the thought of
leaving home and my beloved countryside for unknown
places; though, to tell the truth, such thoughts were
not ill to dispel by the contemplation of the pleasures
in prospect.  Yet it was with mingled feelings that
I rode over to Dawyck on a sharp Monday afternoon
to bid Marjory farewell.

I found her in the low, dim room, looking to the
west, where she was wont to sit in winter.  A great
fire crackled cheerily on the hearth, and many little
devices about the place showed a woman's hand.
Holly, with scarlet berries, put colour into the sombre
walls, and Marjory herself, brighter than any flower,
made the firelight dull in the contrast; so fair she
looked, as she greeted me, with her bright hair and
unfathomable eyes.

"I have come to see you for the last time,
Marjory," I said; "to-morrow I set out on my travels."

"I am vexed that you are going away," and she
looked at me sadly; "it will be lonely in Tweeddale
without you."

"My dear lass, I will not be long.  Two years at
the longest, and then I will be home to you, and travel
no more.  What say you, Marjory?"

"Your will be done, John.  Yet I would I could
have gone with you."

"I would you could, my dear," I said.  "But
that might scarce be.  You would not like, I think,
to sail on rough seas, or bide among towns and
colleges.  You love the woods too well."

"Wherever you were," said she, with her eyes
drooped, "I would be content to be."

"But Marjory, lass," I spoke up cheerfully, for
I feared to make her sad, "you would not like me to
stay at home, when the world is so wide, and so many
brave things to be seen."

"No, no.  I have no love for folks who bide in
the house like children.  I would have you go and do
gallantly, and come home full of fine tales.  But where
do you mean to go, and how will you pass your time?"

"Oh," said I, "I go first to Rotterdam, where
I may reside for a while.  Then I purpose to visit
the college at Leyden, to study; for I would fain spend
some portion of my time profitably.  After that I
know not what I will do, but be sure that I will be
home within the two years.  For, though I am blithe
to set out, I doubt not that I will be blither to come
back again."

"I trust you may not learn in those far-away places
to look down on Tweeddale and the simple folks here.
I doubt you may, John; for you are not a steadfast
man," and, at this, she laughed and I blushed, for I
thought of my conduct at Glasgow.

"Nay, nay," I answered; "I love you all too
well for that.  Though the Emperor of Cathay were
to offer me all his treasure to bide away, I would
come back.  I would rather be a shepherd in
Tweeddale than a noble in Spain."

"Brave words, John," she cried, "brave words!
See you hold to them."

Then after that we fell to discussing Michael, and
his ways of amusing himself; and I bade Marjory
tell her brother to look in now and then at Barns to
see how Tam Todd fared.  Also I bade her tell him
that it was my wish that he should hunt and fish
over my lands as much as he pleased.  "And see
you keep him in order," I added, laughing, "lest he
slip off to the wars again."

"Oh, John," she said, with a frightened look,
"do not speak so.  That is what I fear above all
things, for he is restless, even here, and must ever be
wandering from one place to another."

"Tut, my dear," I said; "Michael, be sure, is
too honest a man to leave you again, when I am off,
once I have left you in his care.  Have no fear for
him.  But we are getting as dull as owls, and it is
many days since I heard your voice.  I pray you
sing me a song, as you used to do in the old days.
'Twill be long ere I hear another."

She rose and went without a word to her
harpsichord and struck a few notes.  Now Marjory had a
most wonderful voice, more like a linnet's than aught
else, and she sang the old ballads very sweetly.  But
to-day she took none of them, but a brisk martial
song, which pleased me marvellously well.  I will set
down the words as she sang them, for I have hummed
them many a time to myself:

   |   "Oh, if my love were sailor-bred
   |     And fared afar from home,
   |   In perilous lands, by shoal and sands,
   |     If he were sworn to roam,
   |   Then, O, I'd hie me to a ship,
   |     And sail upon the sea,
   |   And keep his side in wind and tide
   |     To bear him company.
   |
   |   "And if he were a soldier gay,
   |     And tarried from the town,
   |   And sought in wars, through death and scars,
   |     To win for him renown,
   |   I'd place his colours in my breast,
   |     And ride by moor and lea,
   |   And win his side, there to abide,
   |     And bear him company.
   |
   |   "For sooth a maid, all unafraid,
   |     Should by her lover be,
   |   With wile and art to cheer his heart,
   |     And bear him company."
   |

"A fine promise, Marjory," I cried, "and some
day I may claim its fulfilment.  But who taught you
the song?"

"Who but the Travelling Packman, or, maybe,
the Wandering Jew?" she said, laughingly; and I
knew this was the way of answer she used when she
would not tell me anything.  So, to this day, I know
not whence she got the catch.

Then we parted, not without tears on her part, and
blank misgivings on my own.  For the vexed
question came to disturb me, whether it was not mere
self-gratification on my part thus to travel, and whether
my more honourable place was not at home.  But
I banished the thoughts, for I knew how futile they
were, and comforted my brave lass as best I could.

"Fare thee well, my love," I cried, as I mounted
my horse, "and God defend you till I come again";
and, whenever I looked back, till I had passed the
great avenue, I saw the glimmer of Marjory's dress,
and felt pricked in the conscience for leaving her.





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.. _`I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS AND FIND A COMPANION`:

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   CHAPTER IX

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   I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS AND FIND A COMPANION

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It was on a fine sharp morning, early in February,
that I finally bade good-bye to the folk at Barns and
forded Tweed and rode out into the world.  There
was a snell feel in the air which fired my blood, and
made me fit for anything which Providence might
send.  I was to ride Maisie as far as Leith, where I
was to leave her with a man at the Harbour-Walk,
who would send her back to Tweeddale; for I knew
it would be a hard thing to get passage for a horse in
the small ships which sailed between our land and the
Low Countries at that time of year.

At the Lyne Water ford, Michael Veitch was
waiting for me.  He waved his hat cheerfully, and cried,
"Good luck to you, John, and see that you bide not
too long away."  I told him of a few things which
I wished him to see to, and then left him, riding up
the little burn which comes down between the Meldon
hills, and whither lies the road to Eddleston Water.
When I was out of sight of him, I seemed to have
left all my home behind me, and I grew almost
sorrowful.  At the top of the ridge I halted and looked
back.  There was Barns among its bare trees and
frosted meadows, with Tweed winding past, and
beyond, a silvery glint of the Manor coming down
from its blue, cold hills.  There was Scrape, with its
long slopes clad in firs, and the grey house of
Dawyck nestling at its foot.  I saw the thin smoke
curling up from the little village of Lyne, and Lyne
Kirk standing on its whin-covered brae, and the bonny
holms of Lyne Water, where I had often taken great
baskets of trout.  I must have stayed there, gazing,
for half an hour; and, whenever I looked on the
brown moors and woods, where I had wandered from
boyhood, I felt sorrowful, whether I would or no.

"But away with such thoughts," I said, steeling
my heart.  "There's many a fine thing awaiting me,
and, after all, I will be back in a year or two to the
place and the folk that I love."  So I went down
to the village of Eddleston whistling the "Cavalier's
Rant," and firmly shutting my mind against thoughts
of home.  I scarce delayed in Eddleston, but pushed
on up the valley, expecting to get dinner at the inn at
Leadburn, which stands at the watershed, just where
the county of Edinburgh touches our shire of
Tweeddale.  The way, which is a paradise in summer, was
rugged and cold at this season.  The banks of the
stream were crusted with ice, and every now and
then, as I passed, I raised a string of wild duck, who
fled noisily to the high wildernesses.

I came to Leadburn about eleven o'clock in the
forenoon, somewhat cold in body, but brisk and comforted
in spirit.  I had Maisie stabled, and myself went
into the hostel and bade them get ready dinner.  The
inn is the most villainous, bleak place that I have
ever seen, and I who write this have seen many.  The
rooms are damp and mouldy, and the chimney-stacks
threaten hourly to come down about the heads of the
inmates.  It stands in the middle of a black peat-bog,
which stretches nigh to the Pentland Hills; and if
there be a more forsaken countryside on earth, I do
not know it.  The landlord, nevertheless, was an
active, civil man, not spoiled by his surroundings; and
he fetched me an excellent dinner—a brace of
wild-fowl and a piece of salted beef, washed down with
very tolerable wine.

I had just finished, and was resting a little before
ordering my horse, when the most discordant noise
arose in the inn-yard; and, going to the window, I
beheld two great, strong serving-men pulling a collie
by a rope tied around the animal's neck.  It was a
fine, shaggy black-and-white dog, and I know not what
it could have done to merit such treatment.  But its
captors had not an easy task, for it struggled and
thrawed at the rope, and snarled savagely, and every
now and then made desperate sallies upon the hinder-parts
of its leaders.  They cursed it, not unnaturally,
for an ill-conditioned whelp, and some of the idlers,
who are usually found about an inn, flung stones or
beat it with sticks from behind.  Now I hate, above
all things, to see a beast suffer, no matter how it may
have deserved it; so I had it in my mind to go down
and put a stop to the cruelty, when some one else
came before me.

This was a very long, thin man, with a shock of
black hair, and a sunburnt face, attired in a disorder
of different clothes—a fine, though tarnished coat,
stout, serviceable small-clothes, and the coarsest of
shoes and stockings.  He darted forward like a hawk
from a corner of the yard, and, ere I could guess his
intentions, had caught the rope and let the dog go
free.  The beast ran howling to seek shelter, and its
preserver stood up to face the disappointed rascals.
They glared at him fiercely, and were on the point
of rushing on him, had not something in his
demeanour deterred them.

"Oh," said he, in a scornful voice, "ye're fine
folk, you Leidburn folk.  Braw and kindly folk.
Graund at hangin' dowgs and tormentin' dumb beasts,
but like a wheen skelpit puppies when ye see a man."

"Ye meddlin' deevil," said one, "whae askit ye
to come here?  The dowg was an ill, useless beast,
and it was time it was hangit."

"And what d'ye ca' yoursel?" said the stranger.
"I ken ye fine, Tam Tiddup, for a thievin', idle
vaigabond, and if every useless beast was hangit,
there wadna be yin o' ye here."

This made them grumble, and a stone was thrown,
but still something in the easy, dauntless air of their
enemy kept them back.

"But I'm no the man to let a dowg gang free
wi'oot giein' some kind o' return.  Ye're a' brave
men, dour warlike men, and I've nae doot unco keen
o' a fecht.  Is there no some kind o' green bit
hereaways whaur I could hae a fling wi' yin o' ye?  I'll
try ye a' in turn, but no to mak ill-feelin', I'll tak
the biggest yin first.  Will ye come, ye muckle
hash?" he said suddenly, addressing the tallest of the
number.

Now the man addressed had clearly no stomach for
fight, but he was tall and stout, and stood in fear
of the ridicule of his companions, and further, he
doubtless thought that he would have an easy victory
over the lean stranger, so he accepted with as good a
show of readiness as he could muster.

"Come on, ye flee-up-i'-the-air, and I'll see if I
canna pit thae fushionless airms o' yours oot o' joint."

I heard them appoint a flat place beside the burn,
just on the edge of the bog, and watched them
trooping out of the yard.  The rabble went first, with
a great semblance of valour, and the brown-faced
stranger, with a sardonic grin on his countenance,
stepped jauntily behind.  Now I dearly love a fight,
but yet I scarce thought fit to go and look on with the
rest; so I had Maisie saddled, and rode after them,
that I might look like some chance passer-by stopping
to witness the encounter.

When I came up to the place, there were already
some thirty men collected.  It was a green spot by
the side of the Hawes burn, with the frost not lifted
from the grass; and in the burn itself the ice lay
thick, for it flows sluggishly like all bogland waters,
The place was beaten down as if folk were used to go
there, and here the men made a ring about their
champion, some helping him to unbuckle his belt,
some giving advice about how to close with his
adversary.  The adversary himself stood waiting their
pleasure with the most unconcerned air, whistling
"The Green Holms o' Linton," and stamping his
feet on the ground to keep himself warm.

In a little the two were ready, and stood facing
each other on the cold moor.  A whistling wind came
in short blasts from the hills, and made their ears
tingle, and mine also, till I wished that I were one of
the two to have some chance of warming my blood.
But when once the fight began, I thought little more
of the cold.

The countryman gripped the stranger round the
middle and tugged desperately to throw him.  Up and
down, backwards and forwards they went, kicking up
in their struggle pieces of turf and little stones.
Once they were all but in the water, but the stranger,
seeing his peril, made a bold leap back and dragged
the other with him.  And now I feared that it was
going to go hard with the succourer of distressed dogs;
for his unwieldy opponent was pressing so heavily
upon him that I expected every moment to see him go
down.  Once I caught sight of his face, and, to my
surprise, it was calm as ever; the very straw he had
been chewing before being still between his teeth.

Now the fight took another turn; for my friend, by
an adroit movement, slipped below the other's arms,
flung himself backwards, just as I have seen a
tumbler do at a fair at Peebles, and before the other knew
his design, stood smiling before him.  The man's
astonishment was so great that he stood staring, and
if the stranger had used his advantage, he might have
thrown him there and then.  By and by he recovered
and came on, swearing and wrathful.  "Ye've slippit
awa' yince, ye ether, but I'll see that ye'll no dae't
again;" and with his sluggish blood roused to some
heat, he flung himself on his foe, who received him
much as a complacent maid receives the caresses of a
traveller.  The fellow thought his victory certain, and
put out all his strength; but now, of a sudden, my
friend woke up.  He twisted his long arms round his
adversary, and a mighty struggle began.  The great,
fat-bellied man was swaying to and fro like a basket
on a pack-horse; his face grew purple and pale at the
lips, and his body grew limper and weaker.  I expected
to see a good fight, but I was disappointed; for before
I knew, they were on the edge of the pool, tottered a
second, and then, with a mighty crunching and splashing,
bounded through the thin ice into the frosty water.

A great brown face, with draggled, black hair,
followed closely by a red and round one, appeared
above the surface, and two dripping human beings
dragged themselves to the bank.  The teeth of both
chattered like a smith's shop, but in the mouth of
one I espied a yellowish thing, sorely bitten and
crumbled.  It was the piece of straw.  A loud shout
greeted their appearance, and much laughter.  The
one slunk away with his comrades, in no very high
fettle, leaving the other shaking himself like a
water-dog on the grass.

I found the stranger looking up at me, as I sat my
horse, with a glance half-quizzical and half-deprecatory.
The water ran down his odd clothes and
formed in pools in the bare places of the ground.  He
shivered in the cold wind, and removed little
fragments of ice from his coat.  Then he spoke.

"Ye'll be the Laird o' Barns settin' oot on your
traivels?"

"Good Lord!  What do you know of my business?"
I asked, and, as I looked at him, I knew that
I had seen the face before.  Of a sudden he lifted
his arm to rub his eyebrows, and the motion brought
back to me at once a vision of excited players and a
dry, parched land, and a man perplexedly seeking to
convince them of something; and I remembered him
for the man who had brought the news to Peebles of
the rising of Tweed.

"I know you," I said.  "You are the man who
came down with news of the great flood.  But what
do you here?"

"Bide a wee and I'll tell ye.  Ye'll mind that ye
tellt me if ever I was in need o' onything, to come your
way.  Weel, I've been up Tweed, and doun Tweed,
and ower the hills, and up the hills, till there's nae
mair places left for me to gang.  So I heard o' your
gaun ower the seas, and I took it into my heid that
I wad like to gang tae.  So here I am, at your service."

The fellow's boldness all but took my breath away.
"What, in Heaven's name, would I take you with
me for?" I asked.  "I doubt we would suit each
other ill."

"Na, na, you and me wad gree fine.  I've heard
tell o' ye, Laird, though ye've heard little o' me,
and by a' accoonts we're just made for each ither."

Now if any other one had spoken to me in this tone
I should have made short work of him; but I was
pleased with this man's conduct in the affair just
past, and, besides, I felt I owed something to my
promise.

"But," said I, "going to Holland is not like
going to Peebles fair, and who is to pay your passage,
man?"

"Oh," said he, "I maun e'en be your body-servant,
so to speak."

"I have little need of a body-servant.  I am used
to shifting for myself.  But to speak to the purpose,
what use could you be to me?"

"What use?" the man repeated.  "Eh, sir, ye
ken little o' Nicol Plenderleith to talk that gait.
A' the folk o' Brochtoun and Tweedsmuir, and awa'
ower by Clyde Water ken that there's no his match
for rinnin' and speelin' and shootin' wi' the musket;
I'll find my way oot o' a hole when a' body else 'ill
bide in't.  But fie on me to be blawin' my ain
trumpet at siccan a speed.  But tak me wi' ye, and
if I'm no a' I say, ye can cry me for a gowk at the
Cross o' Peebles."

Now I know not what possessed me, who am usually
of a sober, prudent nature, to listen to this man;
but something in his brown, eager face held me
captive, and his powerful make filled me with admiration.
He was honest and kindly; I had had good evidence
of both; and his bravery was beyond doubting.  I
thought how such a man might be of use to me in
a foreign land, both as company and protection.  I
had taken a liking to the fellow, and, with our family,
such likings go for much.  Nevertheless, I was
almost surprised at myself when I said:

"I like the look of you, Nicol Plenderleith, and
am half-minded to take you with me as my servant."

"I thank ye kindly, Laird.  I kenned ye wad
dae't.  I cam to meet ye here wi' my best claes
for that very reason."

"You rascal," I cried, half laughing at his
confidence, and half angry at his audacity.  "I've a
good mind to leave you behind after all.  You talk
as if you were master of all the countryside.  But
come along; we will see if the landlord has not a
more decent suit of clothes for your back if you are
going into my service.  I will have no coughing,
catarrhy fellows about me."

"Hech," muttered my attendant, following, "ye
micht as weel expect a heron to get the cauld frae
wadin' in the water, as Nicol Plenderleith.  Howbeit,
your will be done, sir."

From the landlord at the inn I bought a suit of
homespun clothes which, by good fortune, fitted
Nicol; and left his soaked garments as part payment.
Clad decently, he looked a great, stalwart man,
though somewhat bent in the back, and with a strange
craning forward of the neck, acquired, I think, from
much wandering among hills.  I hired a horse to take
him to Edinburgh, and the two of us rode out of the
yard, followed by the parting courtesies of the host.

Of our journey to Edinburgh, I have little else to
tell.  We came to the town in the afternoon, and
went through the streets to the port of Leith, after
leaving our horses at the place arranged for.  I was
grieved to part from Maisie, for I had ridden her from
boyhood, and she had come to know my ways
wondrous well.  We found a vessel to sail the next morn
for Rotterdam, and bargained with the captain for our
passage.  When all had been settled, and we had
looked our fill upon the harbour and the craft, and felt
the salt of the sea on our lips, we betook ourselves
to an inn, *The Three Herrings*, which fronted the
quay, and there abode for the night.





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.. _`OF MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES`:

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   BOOK II—THE LOW COUNTRIES
   
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   CHAPTER I

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   OF MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES

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We were aboard on the next morning by a little
after daybreak, for the captain had forewarned me,
the night before, that he purposed to catch the
morning tide.  To one inland-bred, the harbour of Leith
was a sight to whet the curiosity,  There were
vessels of all kinds and sizes, little fishing smacks with
brown, home-made sails, from Fife or the Lothian
coast towns, great sea-going ships, many with strange,
foreign names on their sides, and full of a great bustle
of lading and unlading.  There was such a concourse
of men, too, as made the place like a continuous
horse-fair.  Half a dozen different tongues jabbered
in my ear, of which I knew not one word, save of
the French, which I could make a fair shape to speak,
having learned it from Tam Todd, along with much
else of good and bad.  There were men in red cowls
like Ayrshire weavers, and men in fur hats from the
North, and dark-skinned fellows, too, from the Indies,
and all this motley crew would be running up and
down jabbering and shrilling like a pack of hounds.
And every now and then across the uproar would come
the deep voice of a Scots skipper, swearing and
hectoring as if the world and all that is in it were his
peculiar possession.

But when we had cleared the Roads of Leith and
were making fair way down the firth, with a good
north-westerly breeze behind us, then there was a sight
worth the seeing.  For behind lay Leith, with its black
masts and tall houses, and at the back again,
Edinburgh, with its castle looming up grim and solemn,
and further still, the Pentlands, ridged like a saw,
running far to the westward.  In front I marked the low
shore of Fife, with the twin Lomonds, which you
can see by climbing Caerdon, or Dollar Law, or any
one of the high Tweedside hills.  The channel was
as blue as a summer sky, with a wintry clearness and
a swell which was scarce great enough to break into
billows.  The Kern, for so the vessel was called,
had all her sail set, and bounded gallantly on her way.
It was a cheerful sight, what with the sails filling to
the wind, and men passing hither and thither at work
with the cordage, and the running seas keeping pace
with the vessel.  The morning fires were being lit in
the little villages of Fife, and I could see the smoke
curling upwards in a haze from every bay and neuk.

But soon the firth was behind us, and we passed
between the Bass rock and the May, out into the
open sea.  This I scarcely found so much to my
liking.  I was inland-bred, and somewhat delicate in
my senses, so, soon I came to loathe the odour of fish
and cookery and sea-water, which was everywhere in
the vessel.  Then the breeze increased to a stiff wind,
and the Kern leaped and rocked among great rolling
billows.  At first the movement was almost pleasing,
being like the motion of a horse's gallop in a smooth
field.  And this leads me to think that if a boat
were but small enough, so as to be more proportionate
to the body of man, the rocking of it would be as
pleasing as the rise and fall of a horse's stride.  But
in a great, cumbrous ship, where man is but a little
creature, it soon grows wearisome.  We stood well
out to sea, so I could but mark the bolder features of
the land.  Even these I soon lost sight of, for the
whole earth and air began to dance wofully before my
eyes.  I felt a dreadful sinking, and a cold sweat began
to break on my brow.  I had heard of the sea-sickness,
but I could not believe that it was this.  This was
something ten times worse, some deadly plague which
Heaven had sent to stay me on my wanderings.

I leaned over the side of the ship in a very
disconsolate frame of mind.  If this was all I was to get
on my journey, I had better have stayed at home.  I
was landward-bred, and knew naught of boats, save
one which Tam Todd had made as a ferry across the
Tweed, and which was indeed more like a meal-chest
than aught else.  In it we were wont to paddle across
when we were fearful of wetting our shoon.  But
this rolling, boisterous ship and turgid seas were
strange to me, and I fear I fell monstrous sick.

Nicol Plenderleith had disappeared almost as soon
as he came aboard, and I saw him deep in converse
with the sailors.  When we had cleared the Forth he
came back to me, as I leaned disconsolately against
the bulwarks, and asked me how I did.  His lean,
brown face was not a whit changed by the rocking of
the ship; indeed, if he had been astraddle the
Saddleback in a gale he would not have been perturbed.
When he saw my plight he ran below and brought
brandy.

"Here, sir, tak some o' this.  It's tasty at a'
times, but it's mair than tasty the noo, it's halesome."

"Nicol," I groaned, "if I never gee home again,
I look to you to tell the folk in Tweeddale.  It's
terrible to die here of this villainous sickness, for I shall
certainly die if it continues.  Will it never cease?"

"I've been speirin' at the captain and by a'
accounts we're no at the warst o't.  He says it's juist
like the backs o' Leith.  If ye win by the Fisherraw
ye'll meet your death i' the Kettle Wynd, and, if by
any chance ye're no killed there, ye'll be dune for i'
the Walk.  He was speaking o' the stinks o' the
place and no the folk, for they're peaceable eneuch,
puir bodies.  'Weel,' says he, 'it's the same here.
It's ill for some folk to win by the Forth, but it's waur
i' the open sea, and when it comes to the Dutch waters,
it's fair awfu'.'  I wis, Laird, ye maunna dee."

This was poor consolation, and had I not formed
some guess of my servant's manners, I should have
been downhearted enough; but there was a roguish
twinkle in his eye, and, even as he spoke, his mouth
broadened to a grin.  I heard him humming the lines
of an old ditty which I supposed to have some
reference to my state:

   |   Tam o' the Linn and a' his bairns
   |   Fell into the fire in ilk ither's airms.
   |   "Eh," quoth the binmost, "I have a het skin."
   |   "It's hetter below," quo' Tam o' the Linn.
   |

But, sure enough, the captain's prophecy did not
come true.  For in a little the waves grew calmer,
and my sickness left me.  'Tis true that soon we
entered troubled waters once more, but I was fortified
with experience, and some measure of brandy, and so
could laugh defiance at the powers of the sea.

The wind throughout our course was fair in our
favour, so we made the journey in shorter time than I
had dared to hope for.  On the morning of the third
day a dense mist shut us in so that the captain was
much confused and angered.  But on the wind's rising,
the fog rolled back, and we went on our way once
more.  Early in the afternoon we sighted the mouth
of the Maas, and the tall lines of shipping which
told of the entrance to Rotterdam.  You may
imagine that all this was very strange to me, I who had
lived only among hills and rough woods, and had seen
the sea but once, and that afar off.  'Twas a
perpetual wonder to me to see the great sails moved up and
down according to the airt of the wind, and the little
helm guiding the great ship.  As I have said, I soon
got over all sickness, and was as hale as ever, so that
on the last two days of the voyage I ever look back as
upon a time of great pleasure.

But if my wonder was great in the open seas,
'twas still greater once we had entered the Dutch
river.  It was all so unlike my own land that the
home-sickness which travellers tell of had almost taken
hold of me.  There were all manner of ships—some
little coasting vessels, others, huge merchantmen which
brought home the wares of the Indies and the Americas.
There was such a jabbering, too, in Dutch,
of which tongue I knew naught, that I longed to hear
one good, intelligible word of Scots, for which cause
I kept my servant near me.  By and by we neared
the quay, and saw the merchants' great red storehouses
standing in long line, and the streets of the
city running back from the river.  Here we came to
an anchor.  Our journey was over, and I had to bid
farewell to captain and vessel and go ashore.

It is not to be expected that I should seek to
describe what is known to nigh everyone in these
days when a man thinks nothing of crossing to France
or Holland on any pretext or in any weather.  From
such, therefore, by word of mouth let he who desires
it seek information; for myself, I have enough to do
to write down the main acts of my life.

One thing I noted—that the air was somewhat soft
and damp, lacking, to my mind, the acrid strength of
the air of Tweeddale, or even of the Lothians.  But
all the streets were clean swept and orderly; the folk
well-groomed and well-looking; and the trees by the
riverside gave a pleasant surprise to one accustomed
to the grim, grey, narrow streets of the North.  I
made my way by the help of an inquisitive Scots
tongue and the French language to a decent hostelry
in the Grooce Markt just opposite the statue (but
lately erected) of the great Erasmus.  This pleased
me much, for to be near even the poor bronze figure
of so great a man seemed to lend to the place an air
of learning.  I employed myself profitably in reading
the Latin inscriptions; the others I could make no
more of than the rudest ploughboy in Scotland.

Both Nicol and I were up betimes in the morning,
that we might get the coach for Leyden, which started
almost from the door of our inn.  I solemnly set
down my testimony that the ale in that same house is
the most villainous in the world, for it made us both
dismal and oppressed, a trouble which did not leave
us till we had taken our seats in the diligence and the
horses were starting.

Of the events of that day's journey how shall I
tell?  Leyden is a day's length from Rotterdam to
the north, through a land flat as a girdle-cake.  The
horses were lumbering, sleepy brutes, and the driver
scarce any better, for every now and again he would
let them come to the walk for long distances, and
then, suddenly awaking to the fact that he must get
to his destination before night, get up and shout
wildly, and feebly flick their backs with his whip.
I had much ado to keep Nicol from trying to take
the reins from his hands, and, certainly, if that
firebrand had once taken them, we should have awakened
the quiet countryside, and, God helping us, might
even have awakened the driver.  I knew nothing of
the country, and heard but vaguely the names shouted
out by the guard of the coach; yet, somehow or
other, the name of Ryswick clung to my memory, and
I remembered it well when, long after, at that place
the treaty was signed which closed the war.  But at
that time the great duke was plain Master Churchill,
and there was no thought of war between our land
and France.  The place was so new to my eyes that
I rebelled against its persistent flatness and dull, dead
water-courses; but soon I came to acknowledge a kind
of prettiness in it, though 'twas of a kind far removed
from the wild loveliness of Tweedside.  The
well-ordered strips of trees, the poplars like sentinels
around the homesteads, the red-roofed homesteads
themselves, with their ricks and stables, had a homely
and habitable look, and such of the folk as we saw
by the roadside were as sleek and stolid as their land.
I could not think of the place as a nursery of high and
heroical virtues, but rather of the minor moralities of
good-sense and good-nature.

It was late in the afternoon when we came to
Leyden, and rattled down the rough street to the
market-place, which was the stopping-place of the
coach.  This was a town more comely and conformable
to my eye than the greater city of Rotterdam.
For here the streets were not so even, the houses not
so trim, and the whole showing a greater semblance
of age.  There were many streams and canals crossed
by broad, low bridges.  It was a time of great
mildness, for the season of the year.  The place had all
that air of battered age and historic worth which I have
observed in our own city of Edinburgh.  Even as I
looked on it my mind was full of memories of that
terrible siege, when the folk of Leyden held out so
stoutly against the black Spaniards, till their king
overthrew the dykes and saved the town by flooding the land.

It was my first concern to secure lodgings, since I
purposed to spend no little portion of my time here
for the next two years; and, as I had been directed
by my kinsman, Dr. Gilbert Burnet, I sought the
house of one Cornelius Vanderdecker, who abode in
a little alley off the Breedestraat.  Arrived there, I
found that the said Cornelius had been in a better
world for some fifteen months, but that his widow,
a tranquil Dutchwoman, with a temper as long as a
Dutch canal, was most willing to lodge me and treat
me to the best which the house could afford.  We
speedily made a bargain in bad French, and Nicol and
I were installed in rooms in the back part of the
house, overlooking a long garden, which ended in one
of the streams of water which I have spoken of.  It
was somewhat desolate at that time, but I could see
that in summer, when the straight trees were in leaf,
the trim flower-beds and the close-cropped lawn would
make the place exceeding pretty.  I was glad of it,
for I am country-bred and dearly do I love greenery
and the sight of flowers.

I delayed till the next morning, when I had got the
soil of travel from my clothes and myself once more
into some semblance of sprightliness, ere I went to
the college to present my letters and begin my
schooling.  So after the morning meal, I attired myself in
befitting dress and put Nicol into raiment suiting his
rank and company; and set out with a light heart to
that great and imposing institution, which has been
the star of Europe in philosophy and all other matters
of learning.  I own that it was with feelings of some
trepidation that I approached the place.  Here had
dwelt Grotius and Salmasius and the incomparable
Scaliger.  Here they had studied and written their
immortal books; the very place was still redolent of
their memories.  Here, too, unless my memory
deceived me, had dwelt the Frenchman, Renatus
Descartes, who had first opened a way for me from the
chaos of the schoolmen to the rectitude of true
philosophy.  I scarcely dared to enroll my unworthy
name in the halls of such illustrious spirits.  But I
thought on my name and race, and plucked up heart
thereupon to knock stoutly at the gates.  A short,
stout man opened to me, clad in a porter's gown, not
unlike the bedellus in the far-away college of
Glasgow, but carrying in his hand a black staff, and at
his belt a large bunch of keys.  It came upon
me to address him in French, but remembering
that this was a place of learning, I concluded that
Latin was the more fitting tongue, so in Latin I spoke.

"I am a stranger," I said, "from Scotland, bearing
letters for Master Sandvoort and Master Quellinus
of this place.  I pray you to see if they can grant me
an audience."

He faced round sharply, as if this were the most
ordinary errand in his life, and went limping across the
inner courtyard till he disappeared from view behind
a massive column.  He returned shortly and delivered
his message in a very tolerable imitation of the
language of Cæsar.

"Their worships, Master Sandvoort and Master
Quellinus, are free from business for the present, and
will see you in their chambers."  So bidding Nicol
stay in the courtyard, lest he should shame me before
these grave seniors (though 'twas unlikely enough,
seeing they knew no Scots), I followed the hobbling
porter through the broad quadrangle, up a long
staircase adorned with many statues set in niches in the
wall, to a landing whence opened many doors.  At
one of them my guide knocked softly, and a harsh
voice bade us enter.  "This is Master Sandvoort,"
he whispered in my ear, "and I trust he be not in one
of his tantrums.  See ye speak him fair, sir."

I found myself in a high-panelled room, filled with
books, and with a table in front of a fireplace, whereat
a man sat writing.  He wore a skullcap of purple
velvet, and the ordinary black gown of the doctor.
His face was thin and hard, with lines across the brow
and the heaviness below the eye which all have who
study overmuch.  His hair was turning to grey, but
his short, pointed beard was still black.  He had very
shaggy eyebrows, under which his sharp eyes shone
like the points of a needle.  Such was Master
Herman Sandvoort, professor of the Latin language in the
ancient college of Leyden.

His first question to me was in the Latin.

"What tongue do you speak?"

I answered that I was conversant with the English,
the French, and the Latin.

"Your letters, pray," he asked in French, and I
took them from my pocket and gave them to him.

"Ah," he cried, reading aloud, "you desire to
study in this university, and improve your acquaintance
with certain branches of letters and philosophy.
So be it.  My fee is five crowns for attendance at my
lectures.  I will not abate one tittle of it.  I will
have no more poor students come cringing and
begging to be let off with two.  So understand my
terms, Master Burnette."

I was both angry and surprised.  Who was this
man to address me thus?

"I pray you to finish the letter," I said curtly.

He read on for a little while, then he lifted his head
and looked at me with so comical an expression that
I had almost laughed.  Before, his face had been
greedy and cold; now it was worse, for the greed was
still there, but the coldness had vanished and left in
its place a sickly look of servility.

"Pardon me, pardon me, good Master Burnette;
I was in a great mistake.  I had thought that you
were some commoner from the North, and, God
knows, we have plenty of them.  I pray you forget
my words.  The college is most honoured by your
presence, the nephew, or is it the son, of the famous
Doctor Burnette.  Ah, where were my eyes—the lord
of much land, so says the letter, in the valley of the
Tweed.  Be sure, sir, that you can command all the
poor learning that I have at my disposal.  And if you
have not already found lodging, why if you will come
to my house, my wife and daughters will welcome you."

I thanked him coldly for his invitation, but refused
it on the ground that I had already found an abode.
Indeed, I had no wish to form the acquaintance of
Vrow Sandvoort and her estimable daughters.  He
gave me much information about the hours of the
lectures, the subjects which he proposed to treat of,
and the method of treatment; nor would he let me
depart before I had promised to dine at his house.

Outside the door I found the porter waiting for
me.  He led me across the hall to another door, the
room of Master Quellinus, the professor of Greek.

Here I found a different reception.  A rosy-cheeked
little man, with a paunch as great as a well-fed ox,
was sitting on a high chair, so that his feet barely
touched the ground.  He was whistling some ditty,
and busily mending his finger-nails with a little knife.

"Why, whom have we here?" he cries out, when
he saw me; "another scholar, and a great one.
Why, man, what do you at the trade, when you
might be carrying a musket or leading a troop of
pikemen?"

I was tempted to answer him in his own way.

"And what do you," I asked, "at the trade,
when you might be the chief cook to the French
king, with power to poison the whole nobility?"

He laughed long and loudly.  "Ah, you have me
there, more's the pity.  But what though I love my
dinner?  Did not Jacob the patriarch, and Esau, the
mighty Esau, though I have little credit by the
ensample?  But come, tell me your name, for I begin to
love thee.  You have a shrewd wit, and a pleasing
presence.  You may go far."

I gave him my letters, and when he had read them,
he came down from his perch and shook me by the hand.

"You are a Scot," he said.  "I never knew any
Scot but one, and he was hanged on a tree for
robbing the Burgomaster's coach.  I was a lad at school,
and I mind me 'twas rare sport.  So I have a kindly
feeling for your nation, though may God send you a
better fate than that one.  But what do you seek to
learn?  Greek?  Faugh, there is no Greek worth a
straw, save Anacreon, and he is not a patch upon our
moderns, on François Villon of Paris, whose soul God
rest, and our brave Desportes.  Philosophy?  Bah!
'Tis all a monstrous fraud.  I have sounded all the
depths of it, and found them but shallows.
Theology?  Tush!  You will learn more theology in an inn
in the Morschstraat than in all the schools.  Such are
my beliefs.  But God has compelled me for my sins
to teach the Hellenic tongue to a perverse generation
at the small sum of five crowns.  We study the
Republic of Plato, and I trust you may find some
profit.  You will dine with me.  Nay, I will take
no denial.  To-night, in my house, I will show you
how a quail should be dressed.  I have the very devil
of a cook, a man who could dress a dry goatskin to
your taste.  And wine!  I have the best that ever
came from the Rhineside and escaped the maw of a
swinish Teuton.  You will come?"

I could only escape by promising, which I did with
a good grace, for if there was little profit in Master
Quellinus's company, there was much pleasure.





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.. _`I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART`:

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   CHAPTER II

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   I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART

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The life at the college of Leyden was the most
curious that one could well conceive; yet ere I had
been there a week, I had begun heartily to like it.
The students were drawn from the four corners of
Europe: Swedes, great men with shaggy beards and
invincible courage; neat-coated Germans, Dutchmen
by the score, and not a few Frenchmen, who were the
dandies of the place.  We all gathered of a morning
in the dusky lecture-hall, where hung the portraits of
the great scholars of the past, and where in the
cobwebbed rafters there abode such a weight of dust that
a breeze coming through the high windows would stir
it and make the place all but dark.  Nor had I fault
to find with the worthy professors, for I found soon
that Master Sandvoort, though a miserly churl, had
vast store of Latin, and would expound the works of
Cornelius Tacitus in a fashion which I could not
sufficiently admire.  His colleague, too, who was the best
of good fellows in the seclusion of his house, in his
lecture-room was dignified and severe in deportment.
You never saw such a change in a man.  I went on
the first morning expecting to find little but
buffoonery; and lo! to my surprise, in walks my gentleman
in a stately gown, holding his head like an
archduke's; and when he began to speak, it was with the
gravest accents of precision.  And I roundly affirm
that no man ever made more good matter come out of
Plato.  He would show wherein he erred and wherein
he was wiser than those who sought to refute him;
he would weigh with the nicest judgment the *variae
lectiones* on each passage; and he would illustrate all
things with the choicest citations.  In truth, I got a
great wealth of good scholarship and sound
philosophy from my squire of bottle and pasty.

I was not the only Scot in Leyden, as I soon
discovered; for forbye that I had letters to Master Peter
Wishart, who taught philosophy in the college, there
abode in the town Sir James Dalrymple, afterwards
my Lord Stair, the great lawyer, and sometime a
professor in my old college, whose nephew I had so
cruelly beaten before I bade farewell to Glasgow.
He was a man of a grave deportment, somewhat bent
with study, and with the look of exceeding weight
on his face which comes to one who has shared the
counsel of princes.  There were also not a few
Scots lords of lesser fame and lesser fortune,
pensioners, many of them, on a foreign king, exiles from
home for good and evil causes.  As one went down
the Breedestraat of a morning he could hear much
broad Scots spoke on the causeway, and find many
fellow-countrymen in a state ill-befitting their rank.
For poverty was ever the curse of our nation, and I
found it bitter to see ignoble Flemings and Dutch
burghers flaunting in their finery, while our poor
gentlemen were threadbare.  And these folk, too,
were the noblest in the land, bearing the proudest
names, descendants of warriors and statesmen—Halketts
of Pitfirran, Prestons of Gorton, Stewarts,
Hays, Sinclairs, Douglases, Hamiltons, and Grahams.
It was their fathers and grandfathers who had won the
day at Rijnemants, under Sir Robert Stuart, when,
says Strada, "Nudi pugnant Scoti multi."  They
had fought to the death on the Kowenstyn dyke when
Parma beleaguered Antwerp.  And in all the later
wars they took their share—Scotts of Buccleuch,
Haigs of Bemersyde, Erskines, Grants, and
Kilpatricks.  In the Scots brigade in Holland had served
John Graham of Claverhouse, as some will have it,
the greatest soldier of our age.  I saw nothing of
him, for while I was in the Low Lands he was
already riding in the western hills, shooting and
hanging and dealing martial law to herds and weavers.
But I saw often the gallant figure of that Colonel
Hugh Mackay who met Claverhouse in that last and
awful fight in the Highland pass when the mountaineers
swept on the lowlanders like a winter storm,
and who marched to his death long after on the field of
Steinkirk, and fell with the words on his lips, "The
will of the Lord be done."  This valiant soldier had
made the Scots brigade into some semblance of that
doughty regiment which Lord Reay commanded under
the great Gustavus.  He had driven out all the
foreign admixture, and, by keeping it to Scotsmen of
gentle blood, rendered it well-nigh invincible.  But
the pay was poor, and they who entered it did so for
the sake of honour and for no notions of gain.

But though it cheers me yet to tell of such fellows,
and though it pleased me vastly to meet them in that
distant land, it is not of such that I must write.  As
I have said, forbye attending the two classes of Greek
and Latin, I resorted to the lectures of Master
Wishart, who hailed from Fife, and had taught philosophy
with much success among the Hollanders for some
twenty years.  He was well acquainted with my
family, so what does he do but bid me to his house at
Alphen one Saturday in the front of March.  For he
did not abide in Leyden, never having loved the ways
of a town, but in the little village of Alphen, some
seven miles to the northeast.

I accepted his bidding, for I had come there for no
other cause than to meet and converse with men of
learning and wisdom; so I bade Nicol have ready the
two horses, which I had bought, at eleven o'clock
in the forenoon.  One of the twain was a bay mare,
delicately stepping, with white pasterns and a patch
of white on her forehead.  The other was the
heavier, reserved for Nicol and what baggage I might seek
to carry, black and deep-chested, and more sedate
than his comrade.

It was a clear, mild day when we set out, with no
trace of frost, and but little cold.  The roads were
dry underfoot, and the horses stepped merrily, for
they were fresh from long living indoors.  The fields
on either side were still bleak, but the sowers were
abroad, scattering the seeds of the future harvest.
The waters that we passed were alive with wild-fowl,
which had wintered in the sea-marshes, and were now
coming up to breed among the flags and rushes of the
inland lakes.  The tender green was sprouting on the
trees, the early lark sang above the furrows, and the
whole earth was full of the earnest of spring.

Alphen is a straggling line of houses by a canal.
They are all well sized, and even with some pretension
to gentility, with long gardens sloping to the water,
and shady coverts of trees.  Master Wishart's stood
in the extreme end, apart from the rest, low-built,
with a doorway with stuccoed pilasters.  It was a
place very pleasant to look upon, and save for its
flatness, I could have found it in my heart to choose it
for a habitation.  But I am hill-bred, and must have
rough, craggy land near me, else I weary of the
finest dwelling.  Master Wishart dwelt here, since
he had ever a passion for the growing of rare flowers,
and could indulge it better here than in the town of
Leyden.  He was used to drive in every second day
in his great coach, for he lectured but three times a
week.

A serving-man took my horse from me, and, along
with Nicol, led them to the stable, having directed
me where, in the garden, I should find my host.  I
opened a gate in a quickset hedge, and entered upon
the most beautiful pleasure-ground that I had ever
beheld.  A wide, well-ordered lawn stretched straitly
down to the very brink of the canal, and though, as
was natural at that season of the year, the grass had
not come to its proper greenness, yet it gave promise
of great smoothness and verdure.  To the side of
this, again, there ran a belt of low wood, between
which and the house was a green all laid out into
flower beds, bright even at that early time with
hyacinths and jonquils.  Below this the low wood began
again, and continued to the borders of the garden,
full of the most delightsome alleys and shady walks.
From one of these I heard voices, and going in that
direction, I came of a sudden to a handsome arbour,
at the side of which flowered the winter-jasmine, and
around the door of which, so mild was the day, some
half-dozen men were sitting.

My host, Master Wishart, was a short, spare man,
with a long face adorned with a well-trimmed beard.
He had the most monstrous heavy brows that I have
ever seen, greater even than those of our Master
Sandeman, of whom the students were wont to say
that his eyebrows were heather-besoms.  His eyes
twinkled merrily when he spoke, and but for his great
forehead no one might have guessed that he stood in
the presence of one of the most noted of our schoolmen.

He rose and greeted me heartily, bidding me all
welcome to Alphen, saying that he loved to see the
sight of a Scots face, for was he not an exile here
like the Jews by the waters of Babylon?  "This is
Master John Burnet of Barns," said he, presenting
me to a very grave and comely man some ten years
my senior, "who has come all the way from
Tweedside to drink at our Pierian Spring."  The other
greeted me, looked kindly at me for a second, and
then asked me some question of my family; and
finding that a second cousin of his own on his mother's
side had once married one of my race, immediately
became very gracious, and condescended to tell me his
opinions of the land, which were none so good.  He
was, as I did not know till later, Sir William
Crichtoun of Bourhope; that Sir William who in after times
was slain in the rout at Cromdale when the forces of
Buchan and Cannon were caught unawares on the hillside.

I had leisure now to look around me at the others,
and a motley group they were.  There was Quentin
Markelboch, the famous physician of Leyden, who
had been pointed out to me in the street some days
before, a little, round-bellied man with an eye of
wondrous shrewdness.  There was likewise Master
Jardinius, who had lectured on philosophy at one time
in the college, but had now grown too old for aught
save sitting in the sun and drinking Schiedam—which,
as some said, was no great pity.  But the one I most
marked was a little, fiery-eyed, nervous man, Pieter
van Mieris by name, own cousin to the painter, and
one who lived for nothing else than to fight abstruse
metaphysical quarrels in defence of religion, which he
believed to be in great peril from men of learning,
and, but for his exertions on its behalf, to be unable
to exist.  It was he who first addressed me.

"I have heard that the true religion is wondrous
pure in your land, Master Burnet, and that men yet
worship God in simple fashion, and believe in Him
without subtleties.  Is that so, may I beg of you to
tell me?"

"Ay," I answered, "doubtless they do, when
they worship Him at all."

"Then the most pernicious heresy of the pervert
Arminius has not yet penetrated to your shores, I
trust, nor Pelagianism, which, of old, was the devil's
wile for simple souls?"

"I have never heard of their names," I answered
bluntly.  "We folk in Scotland keep to our own
ways, and like little to import aught foreign, be it
heresy or strong ale."

"Then," said my inquisitor triumphantly, "you
are not yet tainted with that most vile and pernicious
heresy of all, with which one Baruch Spinoza, of
accursed memory, has tainted this land?"

I roused myself at the name, for this was one I had
heard often within the past few weeks, and I had a
great desire to find out for myself the truth of his
philosophy.

"I am ashamed to confess," I said, "that I have
read none of his writings, that I scarcely know his
name.  But I would be enlightened in the matter."

"Far be it from me," said the little man earnestly,
"to corrupt the heart of any man with so pernicious
a doctrine.  Rather close thy cars, young man, when
you hear anyone speak his name, and pray to God to
keep you from danger.  'Tis the falsest admixture of
the Jewish heresy with the scum of ancient philosophy,
the vain imaginings of man stirred up by the
Evil One.  The man who made it is dead, and gone
to his account, but I would that the worthy magistrates
had seen fit to gibbet him for a warning to all the
fickle and light-minded.  Faugh, I cannot bear to
pollute my mouth with his name."

And here a new voice spoke.

"The man of whom you speak was so great that
little minds are unable to comprehend him.  He is
dead, and has doubtless long since learned the truth
which he sought so earnestly in life.  I am a stranger,
and I little thought to hear any Hollander speak ill
of Baruch Spinoza, for though God, in his mercy,
has given many good gifts to this land, He has
never given a greater than him.  I am no follower
of his, as they who know me will bear witness, but
I firmly believe that when men have grown wiser and
see more clearly, his name will shine as one of the
lights of our time, brighter, may be, even than the
great Cartesius."

The speaker was but newly come, and had been
talking with my host when he heard the declamation
of Master van Mieris.  I turned to look at him and
found a tall, comely man, delicately featured, but with
a chin as grim as a marshal's.  He stood amid the
crowd of us with such an easy carriage of dignity and
breeding that one and all looked at him in admiration.
His broad, high brow was marked with many lines,
as if he had schemed and meditated much.  He was
dressed in the pink of the fashion, and in his gestures
and tones I fancied I discerned something courtier-like,
as of a man who had travelled and seen much
of courts and kingships.  He spoke so modestly, and
withal so wisely, that the unhappy Pieter looked
wofully crestfallen, and would not utter another word.

A minute later, finding Master Wishart at hand, I
plucked him by the sleeve.

"Tell me, who is that man there, the one who spoke?"

"Ah," said he, "you do not know him, perhaps
you do not know his name; but be sure that when
you are old you will look back upon this day with
pleasure, and thank Providence for bringing you
within sight of such a man.  That is the great
Gottfried Leibnitz, who has been dwelling for a short
space in London, and now goes to Hanover as Duke
Frederick's councillor."

But just at this moment all thoughts of philosophy
and philosophers were banished from my mind by the
sudden arrival of a new guest.  This was no other
than the worthy professor of Greek, Master
Quellinus, who came in arrayed in the coarsest clothes,
with a gigantic basket suspended over his shoulders by
a strap, and a rod like a weaver's beam in his hand.
In truth the little man presented a curious sight.
For the great rod would not stay balanced on his
shoulders, but must ever slip upward and seriously
endanger the equipoise of its owner.  His boots were
very wide and splashed with mud, and round the
broad-brimmed hat which he wore I discerned many
lengths of horsehair.  My heart warmed to the man,
for I perceived he was a fellow-fisherman, and, in
that strange place, it was the next best thing to being
a fellow Scot.

He greeted us with great joviality.  "A good day
to you, my masters," he cried; "and God send you
the ease which you love.  Here have I been bearing
the heat and burden of the day, all in order that
lazy folk should have carp to eat when they wish it.
Gad, I am tired and wet and dirty, this last beyond
expression.  For Heaven's sake, Master Wishart, take
me where I may clean myself."

The host led the fisherman away, and soon he
returned, spruce and smiling once more.  He sat
down heavily on a seat beside me.  "Now, Master
Burnet," says he, "you must not think it unworthy
of a learned Grecian to follow the sport of the angle,
for did not the most famous of their writers praise it,
not to speak of the example of the Apostles?"

I tried hard to think if this were true.

"Homer, at any rate," I urged, "had no great
opinion of fish and their catchers, though that was
the worse for Homer, for I am an angler myself,
and can understand your likings."

"Then I will have your hand on it," said he,
"and may Homer go to the devil.  But Theocritus
and Oppian, ay, even Plato, mention it without
disrespect, and does not Horace himself say
'Piscemur'?  Surely we have authority."

But this was all the taste I had of my preceptor's
conversation, for he had been walking all day in miry
ways, and his limbs were tired: nor was I surprised
to see his head soon sink forward on his breast; and
in a trice he was sleeping the sleep of the just and
labouring man.

And now we were joined by a newcomer, no less
than Mistress Kate Wishart, as pretty a lass as you
will see in a day's journey.  She had been nurtured
by her father amid an aroma of learning, and, truly,
for a maid, she was wondrous learned, and would
dispute and cite instances with a fine grace and a skill
which astonished all.  To me, who am country-bred
and a trifle over-fastidious, she seemed a thought
pedantic and proud of her knowledge; but what is
hateful in a hard-featured woman is to be pardoned in
a fresh lass.  Her father brought me to her and
presented me, which she acknowledged with a courtsey
which became her mightily; but I spoke not two
words to her, for the old man led me away down one
of the alleys among the trees.

"Kate'll look after thae auld dotterels," said he,
speaking in the broadest Scots; "I brocht her out
that I micht get a word wi' ye my lane, for I'm fair
deein' for news frae the auld country.  First of a',
how is Saunders Blackett at Peebles?  Him and me
were aince weel acquant."  And when I had told him,
he ran off into a string of inquiries about many folk
whom I knew, and whom he once had known, which
I answered according to my ability.

"And now," he says, "I've bidden twa-three o'
the officers o' the Scots brigade to supper the nicht,
so ye'll see some guid Scots physiogs after thae fosy
Dutchmen.  Ye'll maybe ken some o' them."

I thanked him for his consideration, and after I
had answered his many questions, we returned to the
others, whom I found busily arguing some point in
divinity, with Mistress Kate very disgusted in their
midst.

"Gang intil the house wi' my dochter, John,"
said Master Wishart, and, giving her my arm, I did
as I was bid, while the others straggled after in twos
and threes.





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.. _`THE STORY OF A SUPPER PARTY`:

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   CHAPTER III

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   THE STORY OF A SUPPER PARTY

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My first thought on entering the supper-room was
one of amazement.  The owner of the house,
whom I had taken to be a man of simple tastes, here
proved himself to be a very Caliph for magnificence.
Many choice paintings looked down at us from the
sides, richly framed, and fitting into recesses in the
panelled walls.  The floor was laid with bright-dyed
rugs and carpets of Venetian stuff, and the chairs and
couches were of finely carven wood.  The whole
was lit with a long line of waxen candles in silver
sconces, which disputed the sovereignty with the
departing daylight.  But the choicest sight was the table
which was laden, nay heaped, with rich dishes and
rare meats, while in the glass and metal flagons the
wine danced and flamed.  I was of country-bred
habits, and the display at first all but took the breath
from me; indeed it was not a little time ere I could
take my eyes from it and turn them on the assembled
guests.

Those who had not been present in the garden
were gathered at the lower end of the room, whither
the master of the place betook himself to greet them.
I marked two or three of the burgher folk by their
dress and well-filled bellies, contrasting strangely with
the lean figure of a minister who stood among them
clothed in some decent, dark stuff, and wearing white
bands ostentatiously.  There were also some of the
officers in the Scots regiment, at least of that portion
of it which was then lying at Leyden.  Their dress
was sober compared with the richness of such
soldiery as I had seen in my own land, but against the
attire of the citizens, it was gaudiness itself.

I found myself sitting close to the head of the
table, on the right hand of my host, betwixt a portly
doctor of laws and my worthy Master Quellinus.
This latter was now all but recovered from his
fatigue, having slept soundly in the arbour.  He
was in a high good humour at the sight of the many
varied dishes before him, and cried out their merits to
me in a loud, excited tone, which made my cheeks
burn.  "There," he cried, "there is the dish I love
above all others.  'Tis hashed venison with young
herbs, and sour wine for a relish.  Ah, I have already
enjoyed it in anticipation.  In a few seconds I shall
have enjoyed it in reality.  Therefore I argue I have
gained two pleasures from it, whereas men of no
imagination have but one.  And, God bless my eyes! do
I see a plate of stewed eels over there before that thick
man in the brown coat?  Gad!  I fear he will
devour them all himself, for he looks to have capacity
and judgment.  Plague take him, I am in a very
torment of anxiety.  Prithee, my good John, seek out
a servant and bid him bring it over here."  I know
not how far he might have gone, had not all talking
been put an end to by the minister arising and saying
a lengthy Latin grace.  In the midst of it I stole a
glance at my neighbour, and his face wore so comical
an expression of mingled disgust and eagerness that I
could scarcely refrain from laughing.  But all did not
conduct themselves so well, for there was a great
disputation going on among some of the regiment
which much hindered the effect of the minister's Latin.
Indeed, I believe had he spoken another dozen words,
the patience of some would have gone altogether.

"Now," said Master Wishart from the head of
the table, "I trust, gentlemen, that ye may find the
entertainment to your liking.  Fall to heartily, for
this weather gives a keen edge to the appetite.
*Occupet extremum scabies*, as Horatius hath it; which being
translated into the vulgar idiom is 'Deil tak the
hin-most.'  Know you that proverb, John?  Come,
Master Quellinus, set to, man, ye've had a serious
day's work, and our fleshly tabernacles will not
subsist on nothing," adding in an undertone to me,
"though it's little pressing ye need, for to press ye
to eat is like giving a shog to a cairt that's fa'in ower
the Castle Rock."

I paid little heed to Master Quellinus's conversation,
which ran chiefly on viands, or to that of my
left-hand neighbour, whose mouth was too full for
words.  But I found great entertainment in watching
the faces and listening to the speech of some of the
other guests.  The table was wide and the light
dim, so that I had much ado to make out clearly
those opposite me.  I marked Mistress Kate, very
daintily dressed, talking gaily to some one at her side.

"Well, to tell you the truth, my dear Mistress Kate,
this land of yours is not very much to my liking.  To
be sure a soldier is contented wherever his duty calls
him, but there is no fighting to be done, and the sport
is not what I have found it elsewhere.  I am in such
a devilish strict place that, Gad, I cannot have a
game with a fat citizen without having to listen to
a rigmarole of half an hour's duration on the next
morning.  There is so much psalm-singing in the
place that an honest gentleman can scarcely raise a
merry song without having his voice stopped by half
a dozen sour-faced knaves.  'Faith, I wish I were
back in my own land, where there is some work for
a cavalier.  There is but one thing that I should
except," and he bowed low to his neighbour, "the
women, who are as beautiful as the men-folk are
hideous.  Though, in truth, I believe that the most
lovely of them all is a countrywoman of my own";
and again he made her a fine bow.

The voice and the tone were strangely familiar, but
for the life of me, I could not give them a name.
I could only note that the man was a big, squarely-made
fellow, and that he seemed to be in a mind to
make love to his host's daughter.  She made some
blushing reply to his compliments, and then, as luck
would have it, a servant set a light between us, and
the faces of both were revealed clearly to me.

I sat bolt upright in my chair with sheer astonishment.
For there, dressed in the habiliments of the
Scots regiment, and bearing himself with all his old
braggadocio, sat my cousin Gilbert.

Then I remembered how I had heard that he had
gone abroad to some foreign service, partly to escape
the consequences of some scrapes into which he had
fallen, partly to get rid of his many debts.  And here
he was, coming to the one place in Europe to which
I had chosen to go, and meeting me at the one table
which I had chosen to frequent.  In that moment I
felt as if the man before me were bound up in some
sinister way with my own life.

Almost at the same instant he turned his eyes upon
me, and we stared in each other's face.  I saw him
start, bend his head toward his companion and ask some
question.  I judged it to be some query about my
name and doings, for the next moment he looked
over to me and accosted me with a great semblance
of hilarity.

"What," he cries.  "Do I see my cousin John?
I had not dared to hope for such a welcome meeting.
How came you here?"  And he asked me a string
of questions.

I answered shortly and with no great cordiality,
for I still remembered the doings in Tweeddale, and
my heart was still sore in the matter of my father's
death.  Forbye this, Gilbert spoke with not a little
covert scorn in his tone, which I, who knew his ways
well, was not slow to detect.  It nettled me to think
that I was once more to be made to endure the
pleasantries of my cousin.

"And how goes all in Tweeddale, my dear cousin?"
said he.  "I condole with you on your father's
death.  Ah, he was a good man indeed, and there are
few like him nowadays.  And how does Tam Todd,
my friend, who has such a thick skull and merciless
arm?  And ah, I forgot!  Pray forgive my neglect.
How is fair Mistress Marjory, the coy maid who
would have none of my courtesies?"

The amazing impudence of the fellow staggered
me.  It almost passed belief that he should speak
thus of my father whose death had lain so heavily at
his door.  This I might have pardoned; but that at
a public table he should talk thus of my love irritated
me beyond measure.  I acted as I do always when
thus angered: I gave him a short answer and fell into
a state of moody disquietude.

Meanwhile my cousin, with all the gallantry in the
world, kept whispering his flatteries into the pretty
ears of Mistress Kate.  This was ever Gilbert's way.
He would make love to every tavern wench and kiss
every village lass on his course.  'Twas a thing I
never could do.  I take no credit for the omission,
for it is but the way God makes a man.  Whenever I
felt in the way to trying it, there was always
Marjory's face to come before my eyes and make me
think shame of myself.

As I sat and watched these twain I had no eyes for
any other.  The very sight of Gilbert brought back
to me all my boyhood in Tweedside, and a crowd of
memories came surging in upon me.  I fancied, too,
that there was something of Marjory in the little
graceful head at my cousin's elbow, and the musical,
quick speech.  I felt wretchedly jealous of him, God
knows why; for the sight of him revived any old
fragments which had long lain lurking in the corners
of my mind; and as he chatted gaily to the woman
at his side, I had mind of that evening at Barns when
I, just returned from Glasgow college, first felt the
lust of possession.  I sat and moodily sipped my
wine.  Why had I ever left my own land and suffered
my lady to be exposed to manifold perils? for with
the first dawnings of jealousy and anger came a
gnawing anxiety.  I had never felt such a sickness for home
before, and I cursed the man who had come to ruin
my peace of mind.  Yet my feeling toward my cousin
was not that of hatred; indeed I could not refrain from
a certain pity for the man, for I discerned in him much
noble quality, and was he not of my own blood?

"Come now," I heard Mistress Kate simper, "I
do not believe that tale of anyone, and above all, of
him; for a soberer does not live.  Fie, fie, Master
Gilbert, I took you for a more generous man."

"On my faith, my dear, it is true," replied my
cousin.  "For all his docile looks, he is as fond of
a game as the rest of us."

Now I guessed that my frolicsome cousin had been
traducing me to the fair Kate, and I grew not a little
hot.  But his next word changed my heat into fierce
anger.  For my cousin continued:

"What saith the Latin poet?" and he quoted a
couplet from Martial—a jest at the usual amusements
of the seemingly decent man.

I know not where he had got hold of it, for he was
no scholar; but it was full of the exceeding grossness
which is scarcely to be found outside that poet.  He
thought, I could guess, that the girl understood no
Latin, but, as I knew, she had a special proficiency
in that tongue.  She understood the jest only too
well.  A deep blush grew over her face from her
delicate throat to the very borders of her hair.  'Twas
just in such a way that Marjory had looked when I
first told her my love; 'twas in such a fashion she had
bade me farewell.  The thought of her raised a great
storm of passion in my heart against anyone who
would dare thus to put a woman to shame.  I strove
hard to curb it, but I felt with each second that it
would overmaster me.

"Well, John, what think you of my Latinity?"
asked my cousin from over the table.

"I think, I think," I cried, "that you are a
damned scurrilous fellow, a paillard, a hound; 'fore
God, Gilbert, I will make you smart for this," and,
ere I well knew what I did, I had seized my glass and
hurled it at his head.

It struck him on the cheek, scratching the skin,
but doing little hurt.

In a trice he was on his feet with his hand at his
sword.  One half the table rose and stared at the
two of us, while Master Wishart left the head and
came rushing to the back of my chair.  As for
myself, I felt such desperate shame at my conduct that
I knew not what to do.  I had now made a fool of
myself in downright earnest.  I felt my cheek tingling
and flaming, but I could do naught but look before me.

Then my cousin did a thing which gave him great
honour, and completed my shame; for bridling his
anger, as I saw with a mighty effort, he said calmly,
though his arms were quivering with rage:

"I would ask you to be more careful in your use
of glasses.  See, yours has flown right over to me
and played havoc with my cheek.  'Faith, it is no
light duty to sup opposite you, *mon ami*.  But, indeed,
gentlemen," and he bowed to the company, "'twas
but an unfortunate mischance."

At this all sat down again, and scarce five minutes
after, Gilbert rose to leave, and with him the other
gentlemen of his regiment.  Master Wishart bade
him sit down again, for the night was yet young, but
my cousin would not be persuaded.  He nodded
carelessly to me, kissed his hand to pretty Mistress
Kate, and swaggered out.

I sat dazed and meditative.  I was raw to many
things, but I knew well that Gilbert was not the man
to sit down under such an affront.  He had shielded
me for his own reasons, of which I guessed that
family pride was not the least; but he would seek a
meeting with all dispatch.  And, in truth, I was not averse
to it, for I had many accounts to settle with my dear
cousin.  I fell to thinking about the details of the
matter.  In all likelihood he would come on the
Monday, for the Sabbath was a day of too strict
propriety in this land as in my own, to allow of the settling
of any such business.  Well, come when he might,
I should be ready; and I rose from the table, for the
sooner I was back in Leyden, the better.

I took farewell of my host, and he could not
refrain from whispering in my ear at parting: "Jock,
Jock, my man, ye've made a bonny mess o't.  Ye'll
hae to fecht for it, and see ye dae't weel."

Nicol was waiting at the gate with the horses, and,
together, we turned on our homeward way.





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.. _`OUR ADVENTURE ON THE ALPHEN ROAD`:

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   CHAPTER IV

   .. vspace:: 1
   
   OUR ADVENTURE ON THE ALPHEN ROAD

.. vspace:: 2

We rode in silence for maybe half a mile, while I
turned over the events of the evening in my mind and
tried to find some way out of the difficulties in which,
by my own folly, I found myself placed.  Nicol
looked steadfastly before him and said never a word.
By and by I found the desire for some one to speak
with so overpowering that I up and asked him if he
had heard aught of the events of the evening.

"Ay, sir," said he, "I heard ye had some kind o'
stramash, but that was a'.  I trust ye're weel oot o't."

"Have you heard of my cousin Gilbert?" I asked.

"The wastland lad wha used to come aboot the
Barns?  Oh, aye!  I've heard o' him."

"I flung a glass at his face to-night," said I.

"I hope, sir, that he flung anither at yoursel'?" he
asked anxiously.

"No.  He swallowed the insult and left soon after.
He is not the man to let me off so easily."

"Whew," said Nicol, "but that's bad.  Wad ye
mind, Laird, if I rode on afore ye?"

"Why?" I asked.

"Cousins and sodger-folk are kittle cattle," said
he.  "I wadna wonder noo but that Maister Gilbert
were ahint a dyke.  I've heard tell o' some o' his
pliskies in his ain land, and he's no the lad to let a
midge stick in his throat."

I drew up my horse angrily.

"Nicol," I cried, "you are intolerable.  My
cousin is a gentleman of birth, and do you think he
is the man to kill from a dyke-side?  Fie on you,
you have the notions of a common roost-robber."

"Weel, away then, my lord," cries he.  "So be
it; but I've little faith in your Gilberts for a' their
gentrice.  I ken their breed ower weel.  But I maun
ride afore ye, for there are some gey rough bits on the
road, and I'm a wee bit mair sure in the saddle than
yoursel, wi' a' respect to your lairdship."

So the wilful fellow must needs ride before me,
looking sharply to the right and left as though we
were in far Muscovy instead of peaceful Holland.

As for me, I felt in no humour to listen to my
servant's tales or do aught than think dolefully on my
own matters.  The sight of my cousin and of
Mistress Kate had made me sore sick for home, and I
could have found it in my heart once and again to
take ship at the next sailing for Leith.  But these
thoughts I choked down, for I felt that they were
unbecoming to any man.  Yet I longed for Marjory
as never lover longed for his mistress.  Her bright
hair was ever before my sight, and her last words on
that February evening rang always in my head.  I
prayed to God to watch over her as I rode through
the stiff poplars on the way to Leyden.

As for my quarrel, I cared not a straw for Gilbert
and his ill-will, it having never been my nature to
be timorous toward men.  Nay, I looked forward to
meeting him with no little pleasure, for it had long
been an open question which of the twain was best
at the sword-play.

"Maister John," said Nicol, suddenly turning
round, "I saw twae men creeping roond thae scrunts
o' trees.  I wis they maunna be after ony ill."  We
were by this time nearing a black, inhospitable part
of the land, where the road ran across a moor all
covered with ferns and rushes and old trunks of trees.

"Ride on," said I; "if we turned for every man
that crosses the path, we should never leave our own
threshold."

He did as he was ordered, and our horses being put
to the canter, covered the ground gallantly, and our
stirrup-chains clinked in the silent night.

Suddenly, to my amazement, I saw Nicol fling
himself back in the saddle while his horse stumbled
violently forward.  It was one of the most ingenious
feats of horsemanship that I have ever witnessed.
The beast stood quivering, his ears erect with fright,
while I rode alongside.

"For God's sake, sir, take care," Nicol cried.
"There's some damned thing ower the road, and if I
hadna been on the watch it wad hae been a' ower wif
yae guid man.  Watch, for ye may get a shot in your
belly any meenute."

Now, as it chanced, it was that lively canter which
saved us, for the rogues who had set the trap had
retired a good way, not expecting us so early.  At
the sound of the stumble they came rushing up from
among the fern, and, ere I knew, a pistol shot cracked
past my ears, and another and another.

Two went wide; one hit my horse on the ear and
made him unmanageable, so that I sat there with my
beast plunging and kicking, at the mercy of
whosoever had a fourth pistol.

Nicol spoke not a word, but turning his horse,
dashed forward in the direction whence the shots had
come.  As it fell out, it was the best thing that
anyone could have done, for the robbers, not expecting
any such assault, were preparing to fire again.  As it
was, the forefeet of the horse took one villain on the
chest, knocking him senseless and well-nigh
trampling the life out of him.  A second gripped Nicol by
the sleeve, and attempted to drag him from the saddle;
which plan would doubtless have succeeded had not
my servant, pulling the pistol (which was not loaded)
from his holsters, presented it at the man's head with
such effect that the fellow in fear of his life let go and
fled across the moor.

By this time I had reduced my own animal to
something like submission.  I rode after Nicol and
came up just in time to see the third man of the band
(there were but three; for doubtless they trusted to
their trap for unhorsing if not stunning us) engaged
in a desperate struggle.  Nicol had him by the throat
with one hand and was endeavouring to squeeze the
breath out of him, while he in turn had his opponent
by the other arm, which he was twisting cruelly.
Had my servant been on foot the matter would
soon have ended, for the throat fared badly which
those long wiry hands once encircled; but being on
horseback he dared not lean forward lest he should
lose his seat.  My appearance settled it; for the
robber, freeing himself at one desperate leap, made off at
the top of his speed, leaving his pistols behind him.
There remained but the one whom Nicol's horse had
deprived of his senses.

Unfortunately the blow had not been a very severe
one, for he was not long in coming to himself.
There was some water in a little stagnant pool near at
hand which Nicol dashed in his face, and in a little
the man opened his eyes and looked up.

At the sight of us he started, and the events of
the past half hour came back to his memory.  Then
a look of sullen, obstinate anger came into his face,
and he lay still, waiting for events to take their course.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He made no answer.

I repeated the question several times, and still the
man kept his silence.

"Ye donnert scoondrel," cried Nicol, "tell us
whae ye are, or ye'll hang the morn on the
gallows-hill at Leyden."

Still the fellow would not speak.

"Let's tie him up," said Nicol, "and I'll ride
wi' him on the horse afore me.  He'll get justice
when we win to the toun."

But this was not my policy.  I had other things
to think of than bringing marauders to trial.  A
sudden thought struck me.

"I will try him another way," said I to Nicol.
"Do you stand aside."

The man lay on the ground where my servant's
horse had thrown him, with a belt round his legs, and
his arms knotted together.  I went up to him, and
stood over.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked sternly, in
as tragic a voice as I could assume.

The man stared sulkily, but did not speak.

"You fool," I cried, "do you think that thus you
will circumvent me?  Know that I am the great doctor,
Joannes Burnetus of Lugdunum, skilled in all arts of
earth and heaven, able to tell divinations and
prophecies, learned in all magic and witchery.  I know all
that thou hast done since thy birth, and thy father and
grandsire before thee, all the wickedness which shall
entitle thee to eternal damnation in that place which the
Devil is even now preparing for thee.  Yea, I can tell
thee the very death which thou shalt die——"

"Stop, stop," cried the fellow, "O most learned
sir, spare me.  I know thou knowest all things.  I
confess my sins, and oh, I promise you I shall mend
my ways.  Stop, I pray."

"There is still one ray of hope for thee," said I,
"but I cannot give my word that thou shalt ever gain
it, for thou hast advanced too far in sin already.  But
yet thou mayest escape, and there is but one way to
set about it—namely, to tell me of all thy wickedness.
I adjure thee, by the sacred sign *Tekel*, which
the Chaldaeans used of old; by *Men*, which was the
sign of the Egyptians; by the *Eikon* of the Greeks;
by the *Lar* of the Romans.  I summon thee by the
holy names of God, *Tetragrammaton, Adonay, Algramay,
Saday, Sabaoth, Planaboth, Pantbon, Craton,
Neupmaton, Deus, Homo, Omnipotens*; by *Asmath*, the name
of the Evil One, who is lord over thee and my
slave—I summon thee to tell me all thy deeds."

The man was frightened past all telling.  He tried
to crawl to my knees, and began a recital of all
manner of crimes and peccadilloes, from his boyhood till
the present hour.  I listened without interest.

"Had any Scot a part with thee in this night's
work?" I asked.

"No, there was none.  There were but Bol and
Delvaux beside myself, both Dutch born and bred."

My mind was lightened.  I never really believed
my cousin to have had any part in such a matter, but
I was glad to know it for truth.

"You may go now," I said, "go and repent, and
may God blast thee with all his fire if thou turnest
thy hand to evil again.  By the bye, thy name?  I
must have it from thy own lips."

"Jan Hamman, your lordship," said he.

"Well, God pity thee, Jan Hamman, if ever I
lay my hand on thee again.  Be off now."

He was off in a twinkling, running for his very life.
Nicol and I remounted, and rode onward, coming to
Leyden at the hour of one on the Sabbath
morning—a thing which I much regretted.





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.. _`THE FIRST SUNDAY OF MARCH`:

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   CHAPTER V

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   THE FIRST SUNDAY OF MARCH

.. vspace:: 2

I slept late on the next morning, so that it was
near nine o'clock ere I was up and dressed.  By the
time that I broke my fast I had had some leisure to
reflect upon the events of the preceding night and the
consequences which should ensue.  Nicol came to
me as soon as the meal was over, and together we sat
down to consult.

"This is the Sabbath, your honour," said Nicol,
"so ye may consider yoursel' free for the day at ony
rate."

"Not so free," said I, for I knew my cousin
Gilbert.  "The men I've to deal with have no more
respect for the Lord's day than you have for a Popish
fast, so we must put that out of account."

"Weel, weel," said Nicol, "if that's sae it maun
be sae.  Will ye gang oot wi' him the day?"

"No," said I, "not that I am caring for the day,
for you mind the proverb, 'the better the day the
better the work,' but, being in a foreign land, I am
loth to break with the customs of my country.  So
we'll keep the Sabbath, Nicol my lad, and let Gilbert
whistle."

Now I would not have him who may read this
narrative think, from my conduct on this occasion, that
I was whiggishly inclined, for, indeed, I cared naught
about such little matters.  I would have a man use
the Sabbath like any other day, saving that, as it seems
to me, it is a day which may profitably be used for
serious reading and meditation.  But I was ever of a
curious disposition, liking to be always in mind of
Tweeddale and the folk there, so that I kept the
Sabbath during my life abroad as strictly as a covenanting
minister on the moors of Ayr.

"Weel, Laird, that means ye'll no see the body
though he comes," said Nicol, "and, God help me,
if ye dae that there'll be a terrible stramash at the
street door.  I'se warrant auld Mistress Vanderdecker
'll get her ribs knockit in if she tries to keep them oot."

"They can make all the noise they please," said
I hotly, "but if it comes to that the two of us are
as good as their bit officers.  I ask for nothing better
than to take some of the pride out of Gilbert's friends
with the flat of my sword.  Then if they come
to-day and are refused entrance, they will come back
to-morrow, and all will be well."

"Then what am I to dae?  When the bodies
come to the door, I'm to say, 'His lordship's
compliments, but his lordship's busy keeping the Sabbath
in his upper chamber, and if ye will come back the
morn he'll look into your claims.'  'Faith, it's awfu'
like auld Sanders Blackett, the lawyer at Peebles, when
I gaed to him seeking the law o' the miller o' Rachan.
It was about nine o'clock yae winter's nicht when I
got there, and Sanders was at supper.  He stappit his
heid oot o' the window and, says he, 'Gang awa', my
man, and come back the morn.  I'm busy takin' the
books.'  But I saw by the een o' him that he was
daein' nae siccan thing.  'Oh,' says I, 'if ye ca'
kippered saumon and schnapps the books, I'm
content.  I'll just come in and help ye to tak them
tae.'  But he says verra angry, 'Go away, ye impious man,
lest the judgment of Heaven light upon you.  I've
godly Maister Clovenclaws assisting me in the solemn
ordinance.'  'Awa' wi' your Clovenclaws,' says I,
'I've come ten mile to speak wi' ye, and I'll no
gang hame wi'oot it.'  But I was just thinkin' I
would have to gang back after a', when a voice comes
frae the inside, 'Sanders, ye limb o' the deil, whaur's
the sugar?'  I kenned Maister Clovenclaws' voice
ower weel, so Sanders begins to think that it wadna
dae to let it be telled a' ower the toun that him and
the minister had been birling at the wine thegither.
So 'Come in, Maister Plenderleith,' says he verra
cannily, and in I gaed, and sic a nicht's drinking I
never saw.  I put Sanders in his bed, honest man,
about twae o'clock i' the morning, and syne Clovenclaws
and me gaed at it till daylicht.  I wantit to see
the body below the table afore I gaed, and he wantit
to see me, so we sat at it till I was fain to drap for
very decency's sake.  So what does the man dae but
lift me on his shouther and walk as straucht ower to
the manse as if he were new oot o' his bed; and
there he gied me some guid advice about no presumin'
to contend wi' my superiors, and let me oot at a back
door.  'Faith, it was an awfu' time."

"You will say to them that I am busy with other
work, and that I will be glad to see them to-morrow
about the matter they know of.  Most like they
will go away quietly, and if they do not it will
be the worse for their own skins.  You take my
meaning?"

"I'll dae your orders, sir, to the letter," said
Nicol, and I was well aware that he would.

I got my books out and set to work to read the
gospel of John in Greek for my spiritual benefit, but
I made little speed.  This was mainly the fault of
Nicol, who every few minutes came into the little
room where I sat, on some feigned errand.  I soon
divined the reason, for the same chamber contained a
great window, whence one might view the whole
length of the narrow street wherein the house was
situate, and even some little portion of the great
Breedestraat at the head.  It was plain that my
servant was not a little concerned on my account.

"Are ye sure that your honour's guid wi' the
small-swird?" he asked mournfully.  "If this room were
a wee bit braider and the day no what it is I micht gie
ye a lesson."

I did not know whether to laugh or to be angry.
"Why, you rascal," I cried, "do you know
anything of these matters?  There are many better
swordsmen than I in the world, but I think I am
more than a match for you."

"Weel," said Nicol modestly, "I've gien some
folk a gey fricht wi' the swird, but let that be.  I'll
be blithe if ye get the better o' him and a waefu' man
I'll be if he kills ye.  Lord, what 'll I dae?  I'll
hae to become a sodger in this heathen land, or soom
hame, whilk is a thing I am no capable o'."  And he
began to sing with a great affectation of grief:

   |   The craw killed the pussie O,
   |   The craw killed the pussie O,
   |   The wee bit kittlin' sat and grat
   |   In Jennie's wee bit hoosie O.

—in which elegant rhyme the reader will observe that
my cousin stood for the crow, I for the pussie, and
my servant for the kittlin'.

I laughed; but it is not seemly to stand by while
your own servant sings a song which compares you to a
cat, so I straightway flung a Greek lexicon at his head,
and bade him leave the room.  I much regretted the
act, for it was my only copy of the book, Master
Struybroek's, and the best obtainable, and by the fall
some leaves came out, and one, [Greek: *polypenthés*]
to [Greek: *polypous*], has not been renewed to this day.

After Nicol had gone I amused myself by looking
out of the window and watching the passers-by.  Some,
sober Dutch citizens with Bibles beneath their arms
and their goodly persons habited in decent black, were
striding solemnly to church, while their wives and
children came more slowly behind.  Others of the
lighter sort were wandering aimlessly on no purpose
but their own pleasure, but all I marked were dressed
out in their finest clothes.  What I noted most of all
was the greater colour in the streets than we have in
our own land.  For there, you will see little but blacks
and drabs and browns, while here the women were
often gaily arrayed in bright tints which gave a
pleasing look to the causeway.

I had not sat long when I noted two gentlemen
coming down the alley from the Breedestraat, very
finely clad, and with a great air of distinction in their
faces.  They kept the causeway in such a fashion
that all whom they met had to get into the middle of
the road to let them pass.  I half guessed their errand,
the more as the face of one of them seemed to me
familiar, and I fancied that he had been one of the
guests at the supper at Alphen.  My guess was
confirmed by their coming to a halt outside the door of my
lodging and attentively considering the house.
Meantime all their actions were plain to my view from the
upper window.

One of them stepped forward and knocked loudly.
Now I had bidden Nicol be ready to open to them
and give my message.  So I was not surprised when
I heard the street door opened and the voice of my
servant accosting the men.

I know not what he said to them, but soon words
grew high and I could see the other come forward to
his comrade's side.  By and by the door was slammed
violently, and my servant came tearing upstairs.  His
face was flushed in wrath.

"O' a' the insolent scoondrels I ever met, thae
twae are the foremost.  They wadna believe me when
I telled them ye were busy.  'Busy at what?' says
the yin.  'What's your concern?' says I.  'If ye
dinna let us up to see your maister in half a
twinkling,' says the ither, 'by God we'll make ye.'  'Make
me!' says I; 'come on and try it.  If it wasna for
your mither's sake I wal tie your necks thegither.'"

"Nicol," I said, "bring these men up.  It will
be better to see them."  My intention changed of
a sudden, for I did not seek to carry my finicking too
far.

"I was thinkin' sae, your honour," said Nicol,
"but I didna like to say it."

So in a little the two gentlemen came up the stairs
and into my room, where I waited to receive them.

"Gentlemen," said I, "I believe you have some
matter to speak of with me."

"Why do you keep such scoundrelly servants,
Master Burnet?" said one, whom I knew for Sir
James Erskine of Tullo.

"Your business, gentlemen," I said, seeking to
have done with them.  They were slight men, whom
I could have dropped out of the window; most unlike
the kind of friends I should have thought my cousin
Gilbert would have chosen.

"Well, if you will have our business," said the
elder, speaking sulkily, "you are already aware of the
unparalleled insult to which a gentlemen of our
regiment was subjected at your hands?"

"Oh, yes," I said gaily, "I had forgotten.  I
broke Gilbert's head with a wine-glass.  Does he
want to ask my pardon?"

"You seem to take the matter easily, sir," said
one severely.  "Let me tell you that Master Gilbert
Burnet demands that you meet him at once and give
satisfaction with your sword."

"Right," I cried, "I am willing.  At what hour
shall it be?  Shall we say seven o'clock to-morrow's
morning?  That is settled then?  I have no second
and desire none.  There is the length of my sword.
Carry my compliments to my cousin, and tell him I
shall be most pleased to chastise him at the hour we
have named.  And now, gentlemen, I have the honour
to wish you a very good day," and I bowed them out
of the room.

They were obviously surprised and angered by my
careless reception of their message and themselves.
With faces as flushed as a cock's comb they went
down stairs and into the street, and I marked that
they never once looked back, but marched straight
on with their heads in the air.

"Ye've gien thae lads a flee in their lug," said
Nicol.  "I wish ye may gie your cousin twae inches
o' steel in his vitals the morn."

"Ah," said I, "that is a different matter.  These
folk were but dandified fools.  My cousin is a man
and a soldier."

The rest of the day I spent in walking by myself in
the meadows beyond the college gardens, turning over
many things in my mind.  I had come to this land
for study, and lo! ere I well knew how, I was
involved in quarrels.  I felt something of a feeling of
shame in the matter, for the thing had been brought
on mainly by my over-fiery temper.  Yet when I
pondered deeply I would not have the act undone, for a
display of foolish passion was better in my eyes than
the suffering of an insult to a lady to pass unregarded.

As for the fight on the morrow I did not know
whether to await it with joy or shrinking.  As I have
said already, I longed to bring matters between the
two of us to a head.  There was much about him
that I liked; he had many commendable virtues; and
especially he belonged to my own house.  But it
seemed decreed that he should ever come across my
path, and already there was more than one score laid
up against him in my heart.  I felt a strange foreboding
of the man, as if he were my *antithesis*, which
certain monkish philosophers believed to accompany
everyone in the world.  He was so utterly different
from me in all things; my vices he lacked and my
virtues; his excellencies I wanted, and also, I trust,
his faults.  I felt as if the same place could not
contain us.

If I conquered him, the upshot would be clear
enough.  He could not remain longer in Leyden.
His reputation, which was a great one, would be gone,
and he would doubtless change into some other
regiment and retire from the land.  If, again, he had the
vantage of me, I had no reputation to lose, so I
might remain where I pleased.  So he fought with
something of a disadvantage.  It was possible that one
or other might be killed; but I much doubted it, for
we were both too practised swordsmen to butcher like
common cutthroats.  Nevertheless, I felt not a little
uneasy, with a sort of restlessness to see the issue of
it all—not fear, for though I have been afraid many
times in my life it was never because of meeting a
man in fair combat.

Toward evening I returned to my lodging and
devoted the remainder of the day to the study of the
books of Joshua and Judges for the comforting of my
soul.





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.. _`THE FIRST MONDAY OF MARCH`:

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   CHAPTER VI

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   THE FIRST MONDAY OF MARCH

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Nicol wakened me before dawn and I made haste
to get ready.  I looked to see that my sword was in
fit condition, for it was a stout cut-and-thrust blade of
the kind which speedily takes the rust.  Then having
taken a draught of strong ale to brace my nerves for
the encounter, I left the house and set off with my
servant for the college gardens.

The morning was clear and fresh.  The sun had
not yet fully arisen, but it was light enough to see two
hundred yards before me.  A sharp wind fluttered
my cloak, and sent a thrill of strength through me,
for it minded me of the hill breezes which were wont
to blow on the heights of Scrape.  There was scarce
anyone stirring save a few drowsy burghers whom it
behoved to be attending to their business in the early
morn.  I kept my cloak well over my face, for I did
not relish the notion of being recognised by anyone
on my errand.

Now, from the college gardens there stretches down
to the great canal a most beautiful pleasaunce, all set
with flower beds and fountains.  Beyond this, again,
is a more rugged land—a grove with great patches of
grass in it, and here it was that gentlemen of the
Scots regiment were wont to settle their differences.
The morning had been chosen as the time when it
was less likely that some interloping busybody might
interrupt us.

I cannot tell how I felt as I walked through the cool
morning air among the young herbs and trees which
still bore the dew upon them.  It minded me so keenly
of the mornings at home in Tweeddale, when I was
used to rise before daylight and go far up Tweed with
my rod, and bring back, if my luck were good, great
baskets of trout.  Now I was bound on a different
errand.  It was even possible that I might see my
own land no more.  But this thought I dismissed as
unworthy of one who would be thought a cavalier.

In time we came to the spot which the others had
fixed on.  There I found my men already waiting
me; my cousin stripped to his sark and small-clothes,
with his blade glimmering as he felt its edge; his
companions muffled up in heavy cloaks and keeping guard
over Gilbert's stripped garments.  They greeted me
shortly as I came up, so without more ado I took off
my coat and vest, and gave them into my servant's
keeping.  Then going up co my opponent I took his hand.

"Let there be no malice between us, Gilbert,"
said I.  "I was rash maybe, but I am here to give
account of my rashness."

"So be it, cousin," he said, as he took my hand
coldly.

We both stepped back a pace and crossed swords,
and in a trice we had fallen to.

My first thought, and I am not ashamed to confess
it, when I felt my steel meet the steel of my foe, was
one of arrant and tumultuous fear.  I had never before
crossed swords with anyone in deadly hatred; and in
my case the thing was the harder, for the feeling
against my cousin was not so violent a passion as to
make me heedless of aught else.  Before me, behind
the back of my antagonist, the thick underwood was
already filled with the twittering of birds, and a great
feeling of longing came upon me to get well through
with the affair and escape death.  For now a feeling
which I had not reckoned with came to oppress me—the
fear of death.  Had my wits been more about me,
I might have reflected that my cousin was too good a
swordsman to kill me and lay himself open to many
penalties.  But my mind was in such a confusion
that I could think of naught but an overwhelming
danger.

Howbeit, in a little this fit passed, and once more
I was myself.  Gilbert, for what reason I know not,
fenced swiftly and violently.  Blow came upon blow
till I scarce could keep my breath.  I fell at once
upon the defensive, and hazarded never a cut, but
set all my powers to preserving my skin.  And in
truth this was no easy task, for he had acquired a
villainous trick of passing suddenly from the leg-cut to
the head-stroke, so that more than once I came not up
to guard in time and had his sword almost among my
hair.  I could not guess what he meant by this strategy,
for I had ever believed that a man who began in a
hot-fit ended in a languor.  He sought, I doubt not, to
speedily put an end to the encounter by putting forth
his greater strength, hoping to beat down my guard or
bewilder me with the multiplicity of his flourishes.

Now this conduct of my opponent had an effect the
very counter of what he proposed.  I became
completely at my ease; indeed, I swear I never felt more
cool in my life.  This has ever been the way with
me, for I have always been at my best in the
extremest perils.  Oftentimes when things went very sore
with me, I was at a loss and saw no way of escape;
but let them get a little worse and I was ready to meet
them.  So now I was on the watch to frustrate every
moment, and since no man can fight rapidly and fight
well, I kept him at bay till he deemed it prudent to
give up this method.

But now when he came down to slow, skilful fence
I found my real danger.  We were well matched, as
had been proved in many a harmless encounter on
the turf by the Tweed.  I was something lighter, he
somewhat stronger in the arm and firmer in the body;
but taking us all in all we were as equal a pair as ever
crossed swords.  And now there was an utter silence;
even the birds on the trees seemed to have ceased.
The others no longer talked.  The sharp clatter and
ring of the swords had gone, and in its place was a
deadly *swish—swish*, which every man who has heard it
dreads, for it means that each stroke grazes the vitals.
I would have given much in that hour for another inch
to my arm.  I put forth all my skill of fence.  All
that I had learned from Tam Todd, all that I had
found out by my own wits was present to me; but try
as I would, and I warrant you I tried my utmost,
I could not overreach my opponent.  Yet I fenced
steadily, and if I made no progress, I did not yield my
ground.

With Gilbert the case was otherwise.  His play was
the most brilliant I had ever seen, full of fantastic
feints and flourishes such as is the French fashion.
But I could not think that a man could last for ever
in this style, since for one stroke of my arm there
were two of his and much leaping from place to place.
But beyond doubt he pressed me close.  Again and
again I felt his steel slipping under my guard, and it
was only by a violent parry that I escaped.  One
stroke had cut open my sleeve and grazed my arm,
but beyond this no one of us had suffered hurt.

But soon a thing which I had scarcely foreseen
began to daunt me.  I was placed facing the east,
and the rising sun began to catch my eyes.  The
ground was my own choosing, so my ill-luck was
my own and no fault of Gilbert's.  But it soon
began to interfere heavily with my play.  I could only
stand on guard.  I dared not risk a bold stroke, lest,
my eyes being dazzled by the light, I should
miscalculate the distance.  I own I began to feel a spasm
of fear.  More than one of my opponent's strokes
came within perilous nearness.  The ground too was
not firm, and my foot slid once and again when I tried
to advance.  To add to it all there was Gilbert's face
above the point of the swords, cold, scornful, and
triumphant.  I began to feel incredibly weak about the
small of the back, and I suppose my arm must have
wavered, for in guarding a shoulder-cut I dropped my
point, and my enemy's blade scratched my left arm
just above the elbow.  I staggered back with the shock
of the blow, and my cousin had a moment's
breathing-space.  I was so obviously the loser in the game,
that Gilbert grew merry at my expense.

"Well, John," he cried, "does't hurt thee?
My arm is somewhat rougher than Marjory's."

There seems little enough in the words, yet I
cannot tell how that taunt angered me.  In the mouth of
another I had not minded it, but I had a way of
growing hot whenever I thought of my cousin and my lady
in the same minute of time.  It called to my mind a
flood of bitter memories.  In this encounter, at any
rate, it was the saving of me.  Once more I was
myself, and now I had that overmastering passionate hate
which I lacked before.  When I crossed swords again
I felt no doubt of the issue and desired only to hasten
it.  He on his part must have seen something in my
eyes which he did not like, for he ceased his flourishes
and fell on defence.

Then it was that the real combat of the day
commenced.  Before it had been little more than a trial of
skill, now it was a deadly and determined battle.  In
my state of mind I would have killed my foe with a
light heart, however much I might have sorrowed for
it after.  And now he began to see the folly of his
conduct in the fore-part of the fight.  I was still fresh
and stout of arm; he was a little weary and his
self-confidence a little gone.

"By God, Gilbert, you will eat your words," I
cried, and had at him with might and main.

I fenced as I had never fenced before, not rashly,
but persistently, fiercely, cunningly.  Every attempt
of his I met and foiled.  Again and again I was within
an ace of putting an end to the thing, but for some
trifling obstacle which hindered me.  He now fought
sullenly, with fear in his eyes, for he knew not what
I purposed concerning him.  I warrant he rued his
taunt a hundred times in those brief minutes.

At last my opportunity came.  He made a desperate
lunge forward, swung half round and exposed his
right arm.  I thrust skilfully and true.  Straight
through cloth and skin went my blade, and almost ere
I knew I had spitted him clean through the arm just
above the elbow.  The sword dropped from his
helpless hand.

I had put forth too much strength, for as he
stumbled back with the shock of the wound I could not
check my course, but staggered heavily against him
and together we rolled on the ground.

In a second I was on my feet and had drawn out
my weapon.  With lowered point I awaited his
rising, for he was now powerless to continue.

"Well," said I, "have you had satisfaction?"

He rose to his feet with an ugly smile.  "Sufficient
for the present, cousin John," said he.  "I
own you have got the better of me this time.  Hi,
Stephen, will you lend me a kerchief to bind this
cursed wound?"

One of his companions came up and saw to his
wants.  I made to go away, for there was no further
need of my presence, but my cousin called me back.

"Farewell, John," he said.  "Let us not part in
anger, as before.  Parting in anger, they say, means
meeting in friendship.  And, 'faith, I would rather
part from you in all love and meet you next in
wrath."

"Farewell," I said carelessly as I departed, though
I was amazed to hear a man with a pierced arm speak
so lightly.  Courage was not a quality which my
cousin had to seek.  So I left him in high good
humour with myself, much pleased at my own prowess,
and sensible that all immediate annoyance from
that quarter was at an end.

Little man knows what God hath prepared for him.
Had it not been for his defeat, Gilbert had not left
Holland, and my greater misfortunes had never
happened.  And yet at that hour I rejoiced that I had rid
myself of a torment.

Nicol was awaiting me, and soon I was arrayed in
my coat once more, for the air was shrewdly cold.
My servant was pale as I had never seen him before,
and it was clear that he had watched the combat with
much foreboding.

"Eh, Maister John," he cried, "ye're a braw
fechter.  I never likit ye half as weel.  I thocht a'
was up whiles, but ye aye cam to yoursel' as sprig as
a wull-cat.  Ye're maybe a wee thing weak i' the
heid-cuts, though," he added.  "I'll hae to see to
ye.  It's no what ye micht ca' profitable to be aye
proddin' a man in the wame, for ye may prick him a'
ower and him no muckle the waur.  But a guid
cleavin' slash on the harns is maist judeecious.  It
wad kill a stirk."

It was still early and we had breakfasted sparely, so
we sought a tavern of good repute, *The Three Crows*,
and made a hearty meal, washing it down with the
best Rhenish.  I was so mightily pleased with my
victory, like a child with its toy, that I held my head
a full inch higher, and would yield the causeway to no
man.  I do believe if M. Balagny or the great Lord
Herbert had challenged me I would not have refused.

Some three days later I had sure tidings that my
cousin had sailed for Leith and was thought to have
no design of returning.





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.. _`I SPEND MY DAYS IN IDLENESS`:

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   CHAPTER VII

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   I SPEND MY DAYS IN IDLENESS

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Summer came on the heels of spring, and the little
strip of garden below my windows grew gay as the
frock of a burgher's wife on a Sunday.  There were
great lines of tulips, purple and red and yellow,
stately as kings, erect as a line of soldiers, which
extended down the long border nigh to the edge of the
water.  The lawn was green and well trimmed and
shaded by the orderly trees.  It was pleasant to sit
here in the evenings, when Nicol would bring out the
supper-table to the grass, and we would drink our
evening ale while the sun was making all the canal a
strip of beaten gold.  Many folk used to come of an
evening, some of them come to the university on the
same errand as myself, others, Scots gentlemen out of
place and out of pocket, who sought to remedy both
evils by paying court to the Stadtholder.  Then we
would talk of our own land and tell tales and crack
jests till the garden rang with laughter.  I could well
wish those times back, if I could bring with them the
*forte latus, nigros angusta fronte capillos, dulce loqui,
ridere decorum*.  But fie on me for such discontent!
Hath not God given good gifts for age as well as
youth—aye, perhaps in greater abundance?

I pursued my studies in the ancient literatures and
philosophy with much diligence and profit.  Nevertheless,
there was much to turn my attention, and I
doubt if I did not find the folk around me the more
diverting objects of study.  I lived in an air of
theology and philosophy and statecraft, hearing discussions
on these and kindred matters all the day long.  There
were many of my own countrymen in the place, who
are notoriously the most contentious of mankind: so
that I could scarcely walk down any street without
hearing some violent disputation in my own tongue.
As for the other people of the place, I found them both
civil and hospitable.

The routine of my days was as regular as clockwork,
for it was always part of my method to apportion my
day equally among my duties.  In the morning,
immediately upon rising, I went to Master Sandvoort's
lecture on the Latin tongue.  Then I broke my fast
in the little tavern, *The Gray Goose*, just at the south
entrance to the college.  It was a clean, well-fitted
place, where was found the fattest landlord and the
best ale in Holland.  Then at the hour of ten in the
forenoon I went to listen to the eloquence of Master
Quellinus.  Having returned thence to my lodging
I was wont to spend the time till dinner in study.
Thereafter I walked in the town, or resorted to the
houses of my friends, or read in the garden till maybe
four o'clock, when it was my custom to go to the
dwelling of Sir William Crichtoun (him whom I have
spoken of before), and there, in the company of such
Scots gentlemen as pleaded to come, to pass the time
very pleasantly.  From these meetings I had vast
profit, for I learned something of the conduct of affairs
and the ways of the world, in the knowledge of which
I had still much to seek.  Then home once more to
study, and then to bed with a clear conscience and
great drowsiness.

But there were several incidents which befell during
this time, and which served to break the monotony of
my life, which merit the telling.  Firstly, towards the
end of September who should come to visit me but my
kinsman, Gilbert Burnet of Salisbury, a scholar shrewd
and profound, a gentleman of excellent parts, and the
devoutest Christian it has ever been my lot to fall in
with.  He was just returning from his journey to
Italy, whereof he has written in his work, "Some
Letters to T.H.R.B. Concerning his Travels in Italy
and Holland."  It was one afternoon as I sat in the
arbour that Nicol came across the green followed by
an elderly man of grave and comely appearance.  It
was to my great joy that I recognised my kinsman.
He had alighted in Leyden that morning and proposed
to abide there some days.  I would have it that he
should put up at my lodgings, and thither he came after
many entreaties.  During his stay in the city he
visited many of the greater folk, for his fame had already
gone abroad, and he was welcome everywhere.  He
was a man of delightful converse, for had he not
travelled in many lands and mixed with the most famous?
He questioned me as to my progress in letters and
declared himself more than satisfied.  "For, John,"
said he, "I have met many who had greater knowledge,
but none of a more refined taste and excellent
judgment.  Did you decide on the profession of a
scholar I think I could promise you a singular success.
But indeed it is absurd to think of it, for you, as I
take it, are a Burnet and a man of action and one never
to be satisfied with a life of study.  I counsel you not
to tarry too long in this foreign land, for your country
hath sore need of men like you in her present distress."  Then
he fell to questioning me as to my opinions on
matters political and religious.  I told him that I was
for the church and the king to the death, but that I
held that the one would be the better of a little
moderation in its course, and that the other had fallen into
indifferent hands.  I told him that it grieved my heart
to hear of my own countrymen pursued like partridges
on the mountains by some blackguard soldiers, and
that when I did return, while deeming it my duty to
take the part of the king in all things, I would also
think it right to hinder to the best of my power the
persecution.  In this matter he applauded me.  It
pained him more than he could tell, said he, to think
that the church of his own land was in such an ill
condition that it did not trust its friends.  "What in
Heaven's name is all this pother?" he cried.  "Is a
man to suffer because he thinks one way of worshipping
his God better than another?  Rather let us
rejoice when he worships Him at all, whether it be at
a dyke-side or in the King's Chapel."  And indeed
in this matter he was of my own way of thinking.
When finally he took his leave it was to my great
regret, for I found him a man of kindly and sober
counsels.

Yet his visit had one result which I had little
dreamed of, for it led me to show greater friendliness
to such of the Scots covenanters as were refugees in
the town.  I learned something of their real godliness
and courage, and was enabled to do them many little
services.  In particular, such letters as they wished
to write to their friends at home I transmitted under
my own name and seal, since all communication with
Holland was highly suspected unless from a man of
approved loyalty.

The other matter which I think worth noting was
the acquaintance I formed with a Frenchman, one
M. de Rohaine, a gentleman of birth, who was in
great poverty and abode in a mean street off the Garen
Markt.  The way in which I first met him was
curious.  I was coming home late one evening from
Master Swinton's house, and in passing through a little
alley which leads from near the college to the Garen
Markt, I was apprised of some disturbance by a loud
noise of tumult.  Pushing forward amid a crowd of
apprentices and fellows of the baser sort, I saw a little
man, maybe a tailor or cobbler from his appearance,
with his back against a door and sore pressed by three
ruffians, who kept crying out that now they would
pay him for his miserly ways.  The mob was clearly
on their side, for it kept applauding whenever they
struck or jostled him.  I was just in the act of going
forward to put an end to so unequal a combat, when
a tall grave man thrust himself out of the throng and
cried out in Dutch for them to let go.  They
answered with some taunt, and almost before I knew he
had taken two of the three, one in either hand, and
made their heads meet with a sounding crack.  I was
hugely delighted with the feat, and broke forward to
offer my help, for it soon became clear that this
champion would have to use all his wits to get out of
the place.  The three came at him swearing vehemently,
and with evil looks in their eyes.  He nodded
to me as I took my stand at his side.

"Look after the red-beard, friend," he cried.  "I
will take the other two."

And then I found my hands full indeed, for my
opponent was tough and active, and cared nothing for
the rules of honourable warfare.  In the end,
however, my training got the mastery, and I pinked him
very prettily in the right leg, and so put him out of the
fight.  Then I had time to turn to the others, and
here I found my new-found comrade sore bested.  He
had an ugly cut in his forehead, whence a trickle of
blood crawled over his face.  But his foes were in a
worse case still, and when word came at the moment
that a body of the guard was coming they made off
with all speed.

The man turned and offered me his hand,

"Let me thank you, sir, whoever you may be,"
said he.  "I am the Sieur de Rohaine at your service."

"And I am Master John Burnet of Barns in Scotland,"
said I.

"What," he cried, "a Scot!"  And nothing
would serve him but that I must come with him to
his lodging and join him at supper.  For, as it seemed,
he himself had just come from Scotland, and was full
of memories of the land.

I found him a man according to my heart.  When
I spoke of his gallantry he but shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah," said he, "it was ever my way to get into
scrapes of that kind.  Were I less ready to mix in
others' business I had been a richer and happier man
to-day," and he sighed.

From him I learned something more of the condition
of my own land, and it was worse even than I had
feared.  M. de Rohaine had had many strange
adventures in it, but he seemed to shrink from speaking of
himself and his own affairs.  There was in his eyes a
look of fixed melancholy as of one who had encountered
much sorrow in his time and had little hope for more
happiness in the world.  Yet withal he was so gracious
and noble in presence that I felt I was in the company
of a man indeed.

If I were to tell all the benefit I derived from this
man I should fill a volume and never reach the end of
my tale.  Suffice it to say that from him I learned
many of the tricks of sword play, so that soon I
became as nigh perfect in the art as it was ever in my
power to be.  I learned too of other lands where he
had been and wars which he had fought; and many
tales which I have often told at home in Tweeddale I
first heard from his lips.  I was scarce ever out of his
company, until one day he received a letter from a
kinsman bidding him return on urgent necessity.  He
made his farewells to me with great regret, and on
parting bade me count on his aid if I should ever need
it.  From that day to this I have never cast eyes on
his face or heard tidings of him, but I herewith charge
all folk of my family who may read this tale, if ever
it be their fortune to meet with one of his name or
race, that they befriend him to the best of their power,
seeing that he did much kindness to me.

So the summer passed with one thing and another,
till, ere I knew, winter was upon us.  And I would
have you know that winter in the Low Countries is
very different from winter with us among the hills of
Tweed.  For here we have much mist and rain and
a very great deal of snow; also the cold is of a kind
hard to endure, since it is not of the masterful,
overbearing kind, but raw and invidious.  But there the
frost begins in late autumn and keeps on well till
early spring.  Nor was there in my experience much
haze or rain, but the weather throughout the months
was dry and piercing.  Little snow fell, beyond a
sprinkling in the fore-end of January.  Every stream
and pond, every loch and canal was hard and fast with
ice, and that of the purest blue colour and the keenest
temper I have ever seen.  All the townsfolk turned
out to disport themselves on the frozen water, having
their feet shod with runners of steel wherewith they
performed the most wondrous feats of activity.  The
peasant-girls going to market with their farm produce
were equipped with these same runners, and on them
proceeded more quickly than if they had ridden on
the highroad.

Often, too, during the winter, there were festivals
on the ice, when the men arrayed in thick clothes and
the women in their bravest furs came to amuse
themselves at this pastime.  I went once or twice as a
spectator, and when I saw the ease and grace of the
motion was straightway smitten with a monstrous
desire to do likewise.  So I bought a pair of runners
and fitted them on my feet.  I shall not dwell upon
my immediate experiences, of which indeed I have no
clear remembrance, having spent the better part of
that afternoon on the back of my head in great bodily
discomfort.  But in time I made myself master of the
art and soon was covering the ice as gaily as the
best of them.  I still remember the trick of the thing,
and five years ago, when the floods in Tweed made a
sea of the lower part of Manor valley, and the
subsequent great frost made this sea as hard as the
high-road, I buckled on my runners and had great diversion,
to the country folks' amazement.

In all this time I had had many letters from
Marjory, letters writ in a cheerful, pleasant tone, praying
indeed for my return, but in no wise complaining of
my absence.  They were full of news of the folk of
Tweedside, how Tam Todd was faring at Barns, and
what sport her brother Michael was having in the
haughlands among the wild-duck.  I looked eagerly
for the coming of those letters, for my heart was ever
at Dawyck, and though I much enjoyed my sojourning
in Holland, I was yet glad and willing for the
time of departure to arrive.  In January of the next
year I received a bundle of news written in the gayest
of spirits; but after that for three months and more I
heard nothing.  From this long silence I had much
food for anxiety, for though I wrote, I am sure, some
half-dozen times, no reply ever came.  The uneasiness
into which this put me cast something of a gloom
over the latter part of the winter.  I invented a
hundred reasons to explain it.  Marjory might be ill; the
letters might have gone astray; perhaps she had
naught to tell me.  But I could not satisfy myself
with these excuses, so I had e'en to wait the issue
of events.

It was not till the month of April that I had news
from my love, and what this was I shall hasten to tell.





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.. _`THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAMAW`:

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   CHAPTER VIII

   .. vspace:: 1
   
   THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAMAW

.. vspace:: 2

It was the third day of April, a day so cool and mild
that every one who could was in the open air, that
I sat in the little strip of garden behind my lodging,
reading the Symposium of Plato in the light of certain
digests of Master Quellinus.  The beds of hyacinth,
yellow and blue and red, were flaunting before my eyes,
and down by the water's edge the swallows were
twittering and skimming.  The soft spring wind fluttered
the leaves of my book and stirred my hair, so that I
found it hard indeed to keep my attention fixed.
Some yards behind me Nicol sat cleaning a fishing-rod,
for in the idle days he amused himself with
trying his skill among the sleepy streams.  He was
whistling some bars of "Leezie Lindsay," and the
tune, which I had often heard in Tweeddale, put me
much in mind of home and inclined my heart violently
to the place I had left.  So soon I found my Plato
lying listlessly on my lap, and my thoughts far away
over sea.

Just now, I knew, would be the lambing-time in
the Tweed hills, and all the valleys would be filled
with the noise of sheep.  The shepherds, too, would
be burning the bent, and the moors sending up wreaths
of pungent smoke.  I minded the smell so well that I
almost fancied it was in my nostrils in place of the
moist perfume of hyacinth and violet.  At Barns,
Tam Todd would be seeing to the young trees and
fishing in the full streams.  At Dawyck, Marjory
would be early abroad, plucking the spring flowers
and bringing in armfuls of apple-blossom to deck the
rooms.  The thought of Marjory gave me sudden
discomfort.  I reflected for the thousandth time that
I had heard nothing of her for months, and I fell to
wondering greatly at her silence.  By and by, what with
thinking of home and of her and chafing at her neglect,
I found myself in a very pretty state of discontentment.

It was just then that I heard a voice behind me, and
turning round saw Nicol approaching in company with
another.  The stranger was a man of remarkable
appearance.  He was scarcely the middle height, but his
breadth across the shoulders was so great that he
seemed almost dwarfish.  He had arms of extraordinary
length, so long that they reached almost to his
knees, like the Tartars in Muscovy that I have read
of.  His square, weather-beaten face was filled with
much good humour, and the two eyes which looked out
from beneath his shaggy brows were clear and shrewd.

"This is Maister Silas Steen o' the brig Seamaw,"
said Nicol, making an introduction, "whae has come
from Scotland this morning, and says he has letters
wi' him for you."  Having delivered himself, my
servant retreated, and left the newcomer alone with me.

"You'll be Master John Burnet of Barns?" said
he, looking at me sharply.

"The same, at your service," said I.

"It's just a bit letter for you," and he dived into
his pocket and produced a packet.

I took it hastily, for I had some guess who was the
writer.  Nor was I wrong, for one glance at the
superscription told me the truth.  And this is how it
ran:

.. vspace:: 2

"*For Master John Burnet in the house of Mistress
Vanderdecker near the Breedestraat, at Leyden*.

"DEAR JOHN: I have not written thee for long,
and I trust that thereby I have not given thee trouble.
I am well and happy, when this leaves me, though
desiring thy return.  I trust your studies are to your
satisfaction.  Tam Todd, from the Barns, was over
yestreen, and gave a good account of all things
there."

.. vspace:: 2

Then came a pause, and the writing was resumed
in a hurried, irregular hand.

.. vspace:: 2

"I am not free to write my will.  O John, dear
John, come back to me.  I am so unhappy.  I
cannot survive without thee another day" (this latter
word had been scored out and *month* put in its place).
"I am in dreadful perplexity.  Come quick.

"MARJORY."

.. vspace:: 2

You may imagine into what state of mind the
reading of this letter threw me.  My lady was in
trouble, that was enough for me, and she desired my
aid.  I guessed that the letter had been written
stealthily and that some trouble had been found in its
conveyance, for it bore the marks of much crumpling and
haste.  I could make no conjecture as to its meaning,
and this doubt only the more increased my impatience.

"From whom did you get this?" I asked.

"From a great, thin, swart man, who brought it
to me at Leith, and bade me deliver it.  I came post
haste from Rotterdam this day."

I ran over in my mind the serving-folk at Dawyck,
and could think of none such.  Then, like a flash,
I remembered Tam Todd.  This doubly increased my
fears.  If Marjory could get no porter for her
message save one of my own servants, then the trouble
must be at Dawyck itself.

I can find no words for the depths of my anxiety.
To think of Marjory in sorrow and myself separated
by leagues of land and sea well-nigh drove me
distracted.  There and then I resolved on my course.

"Your ship is at Rotterdam?" I asked.

"Yes," said the captain.

"When does she sail?"

"To-morrow night, when the cargo is on board."

"I'll give you twenty pieces of gold if you'll sail
to-night."

The captain shook his head.  "It canna be
done," he cried; "my freight is lace and schiedam,
worth four times twenty pieces, and I canna have a
voyage for naething."

"Listen," said I, "I am in terrible perplexity.
I would give you a hundred, if I had them; but I
promise you, if you bring me safely to the port of
Leith, they shall be paid.  Ride back to your vessel
and ship all the stuff you can, and I will be with
you at eleven o'clock this night, ready to sail."

The fellow shook his head, but said nothing.

"Man, man," I cried, "for God's sake, I implore
you.  It's a matter to me of desperate import.  See,
there are your twenty pieces, and I'll give you my
bond for eighty, to be paid when we win to Leith."

"Tut, Master Burnet," said he, "I will not be
taking your money.  But I'm wae to see you in
trouble.  I'll take you over the nicht for the twenty
pieces, and if I lose on the venture, you can make
it up to me.  It's safer carrying you and running
straight for the pier, than carrying schiedam and
dodging about the Bass.  And I'm not a man that
need count his pennies.  Forbye, I see there's a lady
in the case, and I deem it my duty to assist you."

I was at first astonished by the man's ready
compliance, but when I saw that he was sincere, I thanked
him to the best of my power.  "Be sure I shall not
forget this service, Captain Steen," said I; "and if
it is ever in my power to serve you in return, you may
count on me.  You will take some refreshment before
you go;" and, calling Nicol, I bade him see to the
stranger's wants.

Meantime it behooved me to be up and doing if I
was to sail that night.  I knew not what to think of
the news I had heard, for, as I thought upon the
matter, it seemed so incredible that aught could have gone
wrong that I began to set it all down to mere loneliness
and a girl's humours.  The strangeness of the
letter I explained with all the sophistry of care.  She
did not wish to disturb me and bring me home before
my time.  This was what she meant when she said
she was not free to write her will.  But at the end
her desolateness had overmastered her, and she had
finished with a piteous appeal.  Even so I began to
reason, and this casuistry put me in a more hopeful
frame of mind.  It was right that I should go home,
but when I got there I should find no cause for fear.
But there was much to be done in the town and the
college ere I could take my departure.  So when I had
paid all the monies that I owed, and bidden farewell
to all my friends (among whom Sir William Crichtoun
and Master Quellinus were greatly affected), I
returned to my lodgings.  There I found Nicol in great
glee, preparing my baggage.  He was whistling the
"Lawlands of Holland," and every now and then he
would stop to address himself.  "Ye're gaun
hame," I heard him saying, "ye're gaun hame to the
hills and the bonny water o' Tweed, and guid kindly
Scots folk, after thae frostit Hollanders, and fine tasty
parritsh and honest yill after the abominable meats and
drinks o' this stawsome hole.  And ye'd better watch
your steps, Nicol Plenderleith, my man, I'm tellin'
ye, and keep a calm sough, for there's a heap o' wark
to be dune, and some o' it geyan wanchancy."

"Good advice, Nicol," said I, breaking in upon
him; "see that you keep to it."

"Is that you, Maister John?  Ye'll be clean high
aboot gaun back.  Ye'll hae seen a' that's to be seen
here, for after a' it's no a great place.  And ye maun
mind and put a bottle o' French brandy in your
valise, or you'll be awfu' oot on the sea.  I think it's
likely to be coorse on the water."

I took my servant's advice, and when all was done
to my liking, I walked down to the college gate for
one last look at the place.  I was in a strange
temper—partly glad, partly sad—and wholly excited.  When
I looked on the grey, peaceful walls, breathing
learning and repose, and thought of the wise men who had
lived there, and the great books that had been written,
and the high thoughts that had been born, I felt a
keen pang of regret.  For there was at all times in
me much of the scholar's spirit, and I doubted
whether it had not been better for me, better for all,
had I chosen the life of study.  I reflected how little
my life would lie now in cloisters and lecture halls,
in what difficulties I would soon be plunged and what
troublous waters I might be cast upon.  My own
land was in a ferment, with every man's hand against
his brother; my love might be in danger; of a surety
it looked as if henceforward quiet and gentleness
might be to seek in my life.  I own that I looked
forward to it without shrinking—nay, with a certain
hopeful anticipation; but I confess also that I looked
at the past and all that I was leaving with a certain
regret.  Indeed, I was born between two stools; for,
while I could never be content to stay at home and
spend my days among books, on the other hand, the
life of unlettered action was repugnant.  Had it been
possible, I should have gladly dwelt among wars and
tumults with men who cared not for these things
alone, and could return, when all violence was at an
end, to books and study with a cheerful heart.  But
no man has the making of the world, and he must
even fit himself to it as he finds it.  Nor do I think
it altogether evil to have many desires and even many
regrets, for it keeps a man's spirit active, and urges
him on to valiant effort.  Of this I am sure, that
contentment is the meanest of the virtues.

As I left the place there was a cool, grey haze over
all the gardens and towers—mellow and soft and lucid.
But to the north, where lay the sea, there was a
broken sky, blue, with fitful clouds passing athwart.
It seemed, as it were, the emblem of my life—the
tranquil and the unsettled.  Yet in the broken sky there
was a promise of sunshine and brilliance, which was
not in the even grey; and this heartened me.

So at four that evening we mounted horse and rode
forth by the way we had come, and ere the hour of
eleven were on the wharf at Rotterdam, sniffing the
distant smell of the sea.





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.. _`AN ACCOUNT OF MY HOME-COMING`:

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   CHAPTER IX

   .. vspace:: 1
   
   AN ACCOUNT OF MY HOME-COMING

.. vspace:: 2

Captain Steen met me on deck and greeted me
heartily.  "There's a brisk wind from the sou'-east,"
said he, "which should speed us well;" and soon,
amid creaking of cordage and flapping of sails, we
dropped down the estuary and set our face sea-wards.
There was something of a squall of rain which beat
on us till we were fairly beyond the Dutch coast;
but after that it drew down to the west, and when I
awoke the next morn, the sky was blue and sunshiny,
and the soft south wind whistled gaily in the rigging.

Of my voyage home I do not purpose to tell at
length.  On it I met with none of the mishaps which
I had encountered before, so the brandy was wholly
needless.  Indeed, I found the greatest pleasure in
the journey; the motion of the ship gave me delight;
and it was fine to watch the great, heaving deserts
before and behind, when the sun beat on them at
mid-day, or lay along them in lines of gold and crimson
at the darkening.  The captain I found a friendly,
talkative man, and from him I had much news of the
state of the land whither I was returning.  Nor was
it of such a sort as to elate me, for it seemed as if, in
the short time I had been away, things had taken many
steps to the devil.  The truth of the matter, I fancy,
was that when I left Tweeddale I was little more than
a boy, with a boy's interests, but that now I had grown
to some measure of manhood and serious reflection.

But my time during the days of our sailing was in
the main taken up with thoughts of Marjory.  The
word I had got still rankled in my mind, and I
puzzled my brain with a thousand guesses as to its
purport.  But as the hours passed this thought grew less
vexatious, for was not I on my way home, to see my
love once more, to help her in perplexity, and, by
God's help, to leave her side never again?  So anxiety
was changed by degrees to delight at the expectation
of meeting her, and, as I leaned over the vessel's edge
and looked at the foam curling back from the prow, I
had many pleasing images in my fancy.  I would
soon be in Tweeddale again, and have Scrape and
Dollar Law and Caerdon before my eyes, and hear the
sing-song of Tweed running through the meadows.
I thought of golden afternoons in the woods of
Dawyck, or the holms of Lyne, of how the yellow
light used to make the pools glow, and the humming
of bees was mingled with the cry of snipe and the
song of linnet.  As I walked the deck there were
many pictures of like nature before me.  I thought of
the winter expeditions at Barns, when I went out
in the early morning to the snow-clad hills with my
gun, with Jean Morran's dinner of cakes and beef
tightly packed in my pocket; and how I was wont to
come in at the evening, numb and frozen, with maybe
a dozen white hares and duck over my shoulder, to
the great fire-lit hall and supper.  Every thought of
home made it doubly dear to me.  And more than all
else, there was my lady awaiting me, looking for the
sight of my horse's head at the long avenue of
Dawyck.  An old catch, which wandering packmen
used to sing, and which they called "The North
Countree," ran in my head; and, as I looked over the
vessel's bowsprit, I found myself humming:

   |   "There's an eye that ever weeps, and a fair face will be fain
   |   When I ride through Annan Water wi' my bonny bands again."
   |

Then I fell to thinking of the house of Barns, and
of the many things which I should do were I home.
There was much need of change in the rooms, which
had scarce been touched for years.  Also I figured to
myself the study I should make, and the books which
were to fill it.  Then out of doors there was need of
planting on the hillsides and thinning in the
haughlands; and I swore I should have a new cauld made
in Tweed, above the island, for the sake of the
fishing.  All this and more should I do "when I rode
through Annan Water wi' my bonny bands again."

We left Rotterdam on the evening of one day, and
sailed throughout the day following; and since we
had a fair wind and a stout ship, about noon on the
next we rounded the Bass and entered the Forth.  I
was filled with great gladness to see my native land
once more, and as for my servant, I could scarce
prevail upon him to keep from flinging his hat into
the sea or climbing to the masthead in the excess of
his delight.  The blue Lomonds of Fife, the long ridge
of the Lammermoors, and the great battlements of the
Pentlands were to me like honey in the mouth, so long
had I been used to flat lands.  And beyond them I saw
the line of the Moorfoots, ending in Dundreich, which
is a hill not five miles from the town of Peebles.

About three of the clock we entered Leith Roads
and awaited the signals for admission.  "The
Seamaw lies at the wast harbour for usual," said the
captain, "but there's something wrong thereaways the
day, so we maun e'en run into the east."  So, soon
amid a throng of barques at anchor and small boats
moving to and fro among them, we steered our course,
and in a very little lay against the grey, sea-washed
walls of the east quay.  There we landed, after
bidding farewell to the captain; and as my feet touched
the well-worn cobblestones, and I smelt the smell of
tar and herrings, I knew my own land.  The broad
twang of the fishermen, the shrill yatter of the
fishwives, the look of the black, red-tiled houses, and the
spires of the kirks—all was so Scots that it went
straight to my heart, and it was with a cheerful spirit
that, followed by my servant, I made for the inn of *The
Three Herrings*, where I purposed to sleep the night
ere I rode to Tweeddale on the morrow.  So much
for man's devices: this was to be to me the last day
of quiet life for many months.  But as I briskly
strode along the Harbour Walk, little I foresaw of the
dangers and troubles which awaited my coming.





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.. _`THE PIER O' LEITH`:

.. class:: center large

   BOOK III—THE HILLMEN
   
.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium
   
   CHAPTER I
 
   .. vspace:: 1

   THE PIER O' LEITH

.. vspace:: 2

When I came to the door of *The Three Herrings*,
I presented an imposing sight, with Nicol at my side
and two sailors at my back with my baggage.  The
landlord, who was taking the afternoon air against the
wall, made me a civil greeting, and placed his hostel
at my service, opining that I was a stranger of
consequence just come from abroad.  So bidding my
servant settle with the men, I followed my host upstairs
to a room where a fire was burning and some refreshment
laid on the table.  From below came the clink
of glasses and the snatch of a song.  The sun poured
in at the open window; a girl in the street was
singing the "Fishwives' Rant"; and all the world seemed
in gay spirits.

An excellent supper was brought, on which I fell
like a hawk, for the sea air had sharpened my hunger,
and landward dishes are better than the meat of a
ship.  I bade the landlord let no one enter save my
servant, for that I desired to be alone.  Then I fell
to summing up my monies, and various calculations
of a like nature, which it was proper to make on my
return; and, finally, I pushed away my chair from
the table, and, filling my glass, gave myself up to
pleasing fancies.

It was near the darkening, as I saw from the
window which opened on the back yard, and which at
that hour was filled with the red glow of sunset.  The
chimneys on the tall houses rose like spikes into the
still air, and somewhere in the place a bell was ringing
for I know not what.  Below in the room I heard
many mingled voices, and a high imperious tone as of
one accustomed to authority.  I guessed that some
body of soldiers was filling the tap-room.  I was in a
fine, contented frame of mind, well pleased with the
present, and looking cheerfully forward to the
morrow.  By and by I began to wish for Nicol's
presence and to wonder at his long absence.

I was just approaching a state of irritation with my
servant when the door was softly opened and the
defaulter appeared.  His face struck me with surprise,
for, whereas for usual it was merry and careless, it
was now filled with grave concernment.  He closed
the latch quietly behind him, and then slipped the
bolt, locked the door, and pocketed the key.

I stared in silent amazement.

"If it comes to the warst," he said, "we can
fecht for 't."

"What fooling is this?" said I.  "Tell me at
once, and have done with it.

"It's nae fooling, Laird, as ye'll be finding oot.
Sit still, for I've a long story to tell ye."  And,
having first listened for a noise from below, he began
his news, while I listened in much trepidation.

"I paid the men as ye tellt me, and syne I gaed
doun to my cousin's shop i' the Rope-Walk, just to
speir if they were a' weel; and then I cam' back to
the inn, thinking to get a bit quiet gless a' by mysel'
i' the chimley corner.  But when I gaed into the
room I fand it filled wi' muckle sodger folk, drinking
and sweering like deevils.  And the first man I clappit
eyes on was yin Jock Cadder, whae was yince a freend
o' mine, so sitting doun aside Jock, I fell into crack.

"Weel, I hadna been there mony meenutes when I
hears a loud voice frae the ither end calling for a
song.  And anither voice answered, no sae loud, but
weak and thin.  I jumpit up in my seat, for the
voices were weel kenned to me.  And there I saw at
the ither end o' the table your wanchancy cousin the
Captain, sitting glowrin' wi' his muckle een and
playing wi' his gless.  And aside him was nae ither than
Maister Michael Veitch, him o' Dawyck, but no like
what he used to be, but a' red aboot the een, and fosy
aboot the face, like a man that's ower fond o' the
bottle."

My heart leaped with a sudden terror at the news.
What on earth was Marjory's brother doing on the
Pier o' Leith in the company of my most bitter foe?
A great sense of coming ill hung over me as Nicol
went on.

"Weel, I was astonished; and speaking quiet in
Jock Cadder's ear, I asks him what it meant, and
what the twae were daein' here.  And this is what I
heard from him, for Jock never jaloused I had aught
to dae wi' ye, but thocht I was aye the same auld
hide-i'-the-heather I had been afore.  'When our
Captain cam back frae furrin pairts,' says he, 'he
gangs off to Tweeddale, your ain countryside, for it
seems there's a lassie there he's awfu' fond o'.  She's
the dochter o' auld Veitch o' Dawyck, rich, and, by
a' accoont, terrible bonny.  But she's trysted to the
Captain's cousin, Burnet o' Barns, whae has been in
Holland for mair nor a year.  It's weel kenned that
Maister Gilbert Burnet, when he gets a ploy intil his
heid, never stops till he wins his purpose; so he sets
himsel' to mak love to the lass.  And he couldna
dae this unless he were weel in favour wi' her brother
Michael, so he begins by winnin' him ower to his
side.  Noo Michael Veitch (that's him up there)
was aye uncommon fond o' wine and yill o' a' description,
so the Captain leads him on and on by drinkin'
wi' him at a' times, till noo the man is fair helpless.
But this wasna a', for if John Burnet cam hame
and fund this gaun on, he wad mak a rare camsteery,
and, by a' accoont, he's a stieve dour chiel.  So
Maister Gilbert, whae's high in favour wi' the Privy
Council, gangs and tells them o' some daeings o' his
cousin's abroad, o' some hobnobbing and plotting wi'
rebels and outlawed folk, and sending treasonable
letters to this land under his name; so he gets a
warrant for the lad's arrest as sune as he sets foot on Scots
earth—and a'body kens what that means, that he'll no
be troubled muckle mair wi' his cousin in this warld.
That's the reason we're doun here the day.  We've
had word that he's coming ower i' the Seamaw, whilk
lies at the wast harbour.  We've been sending doun
word thae last 'oors, but she's no in there yet, and
'ill no be noo till the morn.'

"That was what Jock Cadder tellt me, and I warrant
I was in a fine fricht.  It was clear the Captain
had nae mind o' me, for he lookit twae or three times
my way, and never changed his face.  I slips oot the
door wi'oot being noticed, and cam up here wi' a'
speed to tell ye the tale.  So, Laird, ye're in a close
hole, and there's just some auld wooden planking
atween you and the Tolbooth."

I cared little for the Tolbooth or anything else.
One thing, and one alone, claimed all my attention.
My whole soul was filled with a terror of anxiety, of
mad jealousy, and desperate fear for my lady's sake.
This was the cause of the letter, this the cause of her
silence.  I ground my teeth in helpless fury, and
could have found it in my heart to rush down to
Gilbert and choke the life in his throat.  I was so
appalled by the monstrousness of the thing that I could
scarce think.  My own danger was nothing, but that
Marjory should be the sport of ruffians—the thing
overpowered me.  It was too fearsome, too monstrous.

One thing was clear—that I must go to her at
once.  If Gilbert Burnet was on the Pier o' Leith,
Marjory Veitch at Dawyck would be quit of his
company.  Were I once there I could see her, and,
perchance, save her.  I cannot write down my full
trepidation.  My fingers clutched at my coat, and I could
scarce keep my teeth from chattering.  It was no
fright that did it, but an awful sickening anxiety
preying on my vitals.  But with an effort I choked down
my unrest, and centred all my thoughts on the present.
Were I only in Tweeddale I might yet find a way
out of the trouble.  But woe's me for the change in
my prospects!  I had come home thinking in the
pride of my heart to be welcomed by all and to cut a
great figure in my own countryside; and lo, I found
myself an outlawed man, whose love was in peril,
and whose own craig was none so sure.  The sudden
reversion all but turned my wits.

I walked to the window and looked down.  The
night was now dark, but below a glimmer from the
taproom window lit the ground.  It was a court
paved with cobblestones from the beach, where stood
one or two waggons, and at one end of which were
the doors of a stable.  Beyond that a sloping roof led
to a high wall, at the back of which I guessed was a
little wynd.  Once I were there I might find my way
through the back parts of Leith to the country, and
borrow a horse and ride to Tweeddale.  But all was
hazardous and uncertain, and it seemed as if my
chance of safety was small indeed.  I could but try,
and if I must perish, why then so it was fated to be.

"Nicol," said I, "bide here the night to keep off
suspicion, and come on as soon as you can, for the
days have come when I shall have much need of you."

"There's but ae thing to be dune, to tak to the
hills, and if ye gang onywhere from the Cheviots to
the Kells, Nicol Plenderleith 'ill be wi' ye, and ye
need hae nae fear.  I ken the hills as weel as auld
Sawtan their maister himsel'.  I'll e'en bide here, and
if ye ever win to Dawyck, I'll no be lang ahint ye.
Oh, if I could only gang wi' ye!  But, by God, if
ye suffer aught, there'll be some o' His Majesty's
dragoons that'll dree their wierd."  My servant spoke
fiercely, and I was much affected at the tenderness
for me which it betokened.

"If I never see you again, Nicol, you'll watch over
Marjory?  Swear, man, swear by all that's sacred that
you'll do my bidding."

"I swear by the Lord God Almighty that if ye
come to ony scaith, I'll send the man that did it to
Muckle Hell, and I'll see that nae ill comes ower
Mistress Marjory.  Keep an easy mind, Laird; I'll
be as guid as my word."

Without more ado I opened the window and looked
out.  My servant's talk of taking to the hills seemed
an over-soon recourse to desperate remedies.  Could
I but remove my sweetheart from the clutches of my
rival, I trusted to prove my innocence and clear
myself in the sight of all.  So my thoughts were less
despairing than Nicol's, and I embarked on my
enterprise with good heart.  I saw the ground like a pit
of darkness lie stark beneath me.  Very carefully I
dropped, and, falling on my feet on the cobblestones,
made such a clangour beneath the very taproom
window that I thought the soldiers would have been out
to grip me.  As it was, I heard men rise and come
to the window; and, crouching far into the lee of the
sill, I heard them talk with one another.  "Tut, tut,
Jock," I heard one say, "it is nothing but a drunken
cadger come to seek his horse.  Let be and sit down
again."  When all was quiet I stole softly over to
the other side, that I might scale the wall and reach
the wynd, for I dare not pass through the open close
into the Harbour Walk lest I should be spied and
questioned by the soldiers who were ever lounging
about.

But some fortunate impulse led me to open the
stable door.  A feebly-burning lantern hung on a peg,
and there came from the stalls the noise of horses
champing corn.  They were the raw-boned hacks of
the soldiers, sorry beasts, for the increase of the
military in the land had led to a dearth of horses.  But
there was one noble animal at the right, slim of leg
and deep of chest, with a head as shapely as a maiden's.
I rushed hotly forward, for at the first glance
I had known it for my own mare Maisie, the best in
all Tweeddale.  A fine anger took me again to think
that my cousin had taken my steed for his own
mount.  I had sent it back to Barns, and, forsooth,
he must have taken it thence in spite of the vigilant
Tam Todd.  But I was also glad, for I knew that
once I had Maisie forth of the yard, and were on her
back, and she on the highway, no animal ever foaled
could come up with her.  So I gave up all my designs
on the wall, and fell to thinking how best I could get
into the Harbour Walk.

There was but one way, and it was only a chance.
But for me it was neck or nothing, my love or a tow
in the Grassmarket; so I tossed my plumed hat, my
sword, and my embroidered coat on a heap of hay, tore
open my shirt at the neck, put a piece of straw
between my lips, and soon was a very tolerable presentment
of an ostler or farrier of some kind.  So taking
Maisie's bridle—and at my touch she thrilled so that
I saw she had not forgotten me—I led her boldly across
the court, straddling in my walk to counterfeit some
fellow whose work was with horses.  My heart beat
wildly as I went below the archway and confronted
the knots of soldiers, who, sitting on a low bench or
leaning against the wall, were engaged in loud talk
and wrangling.

"Ho, you, fellow, where are you going with the
Captain's horse?" cried one.  I knew by his tone
that the man was a Southron, so I had little fear of
detection.

"I'm gaun to tak it to the smiddy," said I, in my
broadest speech.  "The Captain sent doun word to
my maister, Robin Rattle, in the Flesh Wynd, that
the beast was to be ta'en doun and shod new, for she
was gaun far the neist day.  So I cam up to bring it."

The man looked satisfied, but a question suggested
itself to him.

"How knew you the one, if you were never here before?"

"It was the best beast i' the place," I said simply;
and this so put his mind at rest that, with a gratuitous
curse, he turned round, and I was suffered to go
on unmolested.

Down the Harbour Walk I led her, for I dared not
mount lest some stray trooper recognised the mare and
sought to interrogate me.  Very quietly and circumspectly
I went, imitating a stableman by my walk and
carriage as I best knew how, till in ten minutes I
came to the end, and, turning up the Fisherrow, came
into Leith Walk and the borders of Edinburgh.





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.. _`HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH`:

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   CHAPTER II

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   HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH

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The night was full of wind, light spring airs,
which rustled and whistled down every street and
brought a promise of the hills and the green country.
The stars winked and sparkled above me, but I had
no mind to them or aught else save a grey house in a
wood, and a girl sitting there with a heavy heart.
'Faith, my own was heavy enough as I led Maisie
through the West Vennel, shunning all but the darkest
streets, for I knew not when I might be challenged
and recognised, losing my way often, but nearing
always to the outskirts of the town.  Children brawled
on the pavement, lights twinkled from window and
doorway, the smell of supper came out of chink and
cranny.  But such things were not for me, and soon
I was past all, and near the hamlet of Liberton and
the highway to Tweeddale.

Now there was safety for me to mount, and it was
blessed to feel the life between my knees and the
touch of my mare's neck.  By good luck I had found
her saddled and bridled, as if some careless, rascally
groom had left her untouched since her arrival.  But
I would have cared little had there been no equipment
save a bridle-rope.  I could guide a horse on the
darkest night by the sway of my body, and it was
not for nothing that I had scrambled bareback about
the hills of Barns.  Maisie took the road with long,
supple strides, as light and graceful as a bird.  The
big mass of Pentland loomed black before me; then
in a little it fell over to the right as we advanced on
our way.  The little wayside cottages went past like
so many beehives; through hamlet and village we
clattered, waking the echoes of the place, but
tarrying not a moment, for the mare was mettlesome, and
the rider had the best cause in the world for his speed.
Now this errand which seems so light, was, in truth,
the hardest and most perilous that could be found.
For you are to remember that I was a man proscribed
and all but outlawed, that any chance wayfarer might
arrest me; and since in those troubled times any rider
was suspected, what was a man to say if he saw one
dressed in gentleman's apparel, riding a blood horse,
coatless and hatless?  Then, more, all the way to
Peebles lay through dangerous land, for it was the road
to the southwest and the Whigs of Galloway, and,
since the Pentland Rising, that part had been none of
the quietest.  Also it was my own country, where I
was a well-kenned man, known to near everyone, so
what might have been my safety in other times, was
my danger in these.  This, too, was the road which
my cousin Gilbert had travelled from Barns, and well
watched it was like to be if Gilbert had aught to do
with the matter.  But the motion of my mare was so
free, the air so fine, the night so fair, and my own
heart so passionate, that I declare I had forgotten all
about danger, and would have ridden down the High
Street of Edinburgh, if need had been, in my great
absence of mind.

I was recalled to my senses by a sudden warning.
A man on horseback sprang out from the shelter of a
plantation, and gripped my bridle.  I saw by the
starlight the gleam of a pistol-barrel in his hand.

"Stop, man, stop! there's nae sic great hurry.
You and me 'ill hae some words.  What hae ye in
your pouches?"

Now I was unarmed, and the footpad before me
was a man of considerable stature and girth.  I had
some remnants of sense left in me, and I foresaw that
if I closed with him, besides the possibility of getting
a bullet in my heart, the contest would take much
time, and would have an uncertain ending.  I was
fairly at my wit's end what with hurry and vexation,
when the thought struck me that the law and military
which I dreaded, were also the terror of such men as
this.  I made up my mind to throw myself on his
mercy.  Forbye, being a south-country man, the
odds were great that my name would be known to him.

"I have no money," I said, "for I came off this
night hot-speed, with a regiment of dragoons waiting
behind me.  I am the Laird of Barns, in Tweeddale,
and this day an outlaw and a masterless man.  So I
pray you not to detain me, for there's nothing on me
worth the picking.  I have not a groat of silver, and,
as you see, I ride in my shirt."

"Are ye the Laird o' Barns?" said the man, staring.
"Man, I never kent it or I wadna hae been sae
unceevil as to stop ye.  Be sure that I'm wi' ye, and
sae are a' guid fellows that likena thae langnebbit
dragoons and thae meddlesome brocks o' lawyers in
Embro.  Gang your ways for me.  But stop, ye've
nae airms.  This 'ill never dae.  Tak yin o' my
pistols, for I'll never miss it.  And see, gin ye tak
my advice and gin ye're gaun to Barns, gang off the
Peebles road at Leadburn, and haud doun by the
Brochtoun and Newlands ways, for a' the way atween
Leadburn and Peebles is hotchin' wi' sodgers and
what-ye-may-ca'-thems.  Guid e'en to ye, and a safe
journey."  The man rode off and almost instantly
was lost to my sight; but his act gave me assurance
that there was still some good left in the world,
though in the most unlikely places.

And now I saw before me the black woods of
Rosslyn and Hawthornden, and in the near distance
the roofs of the clachan of Penicuik.  There I knew
danger would await me, so taking a random turning
to the right, I struck towards the hills in the direction
of Glencorse.  The place was rough and moory, and
full of runlets of water, but Maisie was well used to
such land, for it was no worse than the haughs of
Manor, and level turf compared with the brow of
the Deid Wife or the shoulder of Scrape.  So in a
little, when the lights of Penicuik were well on the
left, I came to the Hawes Burn, which passes
the Inn of Leadburn, and tracking it downward,
came to the bald white house which does duty for a
hostel.

I dared not enter, though I was wofully thirsty,
but kept straight on to the crossroads where the two
paths to Tweeddale part asunder.  One—the way
by which I had gone when I set out on my travels—goes
over the moor and down by the springs of the
Eddleston Water, through the village of that name,
and thence down the vale to Peebles.  The other,
longer and more circuitous, cuts straight over the
rough moorlands to the little village of Newlands,
then over much wild country to Kirkurd, and the
high hills which hem in the hamlet of Broughton,
whence it is but five miles to the house of Dawyck.
It is a road which I have always hated as being dismal
and wild beyond any of my knowledge, but now I
was glad to be on it, for every step brought me
nearer to my love.

The country, in the main, is desolate heather and
bog, with here and there a white cot-house where
dwells a shepherd.  Of late I hear that many trees
have been planted and the bogs are being drained,
but at the time I speak of, all was still in its virginal
wildness.  The road, by a good chance, is dry and
easy to find, else there had been difficulties awaiting
me.  The night was clear and sharp, and a bright
moon made the path as plain as daylight.  I found
time to curse that moon whenever I neared human
dwellings, and to bless it heartily when I was in the
desert morasses again.

In a little I saw a hilltop which, by its broad, flat
shape I knew for the Black Mount, which lies above
the village of Dolphinton on the way to the west
country.  This is a landmark of great note in the
countryside, and now I could guess my whereabouts.
I made out that I must be scarce two miles from the
jumble of houses lining the highway which is named
Kirkurd, at which spot the road fords the deep, sullen
stream of Tarth.  Now this same Tarth a little way
down flows into the Lyne, which enters Tweed almost
opposite the house of Barns.  At other times I had
ridden the path down its side, for it is many miles the
shorter way.  But I knew well that Barns would be
watched like the courtyard of the Parliament House,
and I durst not for my life venture near it.  I deemed
it unprofitable to run the risk of capture for the sake
of an hour or two saved.  So after passing Kirkurd,
I held straight on over the black moors which lie
towards the watershed of the Broughton burn.

Now by good luck I had dismounted just after the
bridge and buckled Maisie's girth tight and eased the
saddle, for I suspected that now I was entering the
more dangerous country.  The issue showed that I had
guessed rightly, for just at the sharp turn of the road
over the Hell's Cleuch burn, I came near to my end.
I was riding carelessly at a rapid pace through the
thick wood of pines which cloaks the turn, when
suddenly, ere ever I knew, I was into the middle of
a detachment of horse riding leisurely in the sime
direction.

I do not well know how I acted, save that my pistol
went off in the mellay, and I saw a man clap his hand
to his shoulder in a vast hurry and swear freely.
Half a dozen hands were stretched to my bridle,
half a dozen pistols covered me at once.  Now I had
no leave to use my hands, my pistol I had fired, so
I was wholly at their mercy.  What happened I can
only guess, for I was in too great a flurry to have any
clear remembrance of the thing.  I was conscious of
striking one man fiercely on the cheek with my empty
pistol, and of kicking another on the shins with all
my might.  But my sudden appearance had startled
the horses so thoroughly that all the soldiers' time
was taken up in curbing them, so they had no leisure
to take aim at me.  A dozen shots cracked around
me, all going high into the air, and in a second I was
through them and on the highroad beyond, some
twenty paces in advance.

But by this time they were getting their horses
under, and I felt that there was no time to be lost if
I wished to see many more days on the earth.  I patted
Maisie's neck, which to a beast of her spirit was
the best encouragement, and set myself to a race for
life.  I kicked off my great boots to ease her, and
then, leaning forward, began the trial of speed.
Behind me I heard shouting and the beat of horses
getting into their stride.  Before me was the long, thin
highway, and black hills, and endless peatmosses.  I
had half a mind to leave the road and ride for the hills,
where I made sure no man of them could ever follow
me.  But I reflected that this would shut for me the
way to Dawyck, and I should have to lie hid in these
regions for weeks, for when my path was once seen
they would guard it more closely.  My only chance
was to outstrip them and so keep the country open
before me.

Now began the most terrible and desperate race
that I was ever engaged in.  I had tried my cousin
Gilbert and beaten him on the side of Scrape; now
his men were taking revenge for that episode in good
earnest.  At this time I was no more than out of
pistol shot, and though I kept this interval, and all
their balls fell short, it was an unpleasing thing to
be riding with shots behind you, any one of which,
for all you knew, might lodge in your spine.  So I
strained every nerve to increase the distance.

Maisie responded gallantly to my call.  I felt her
long, supple swing below me and the gathering of her
limbs.  I began to glory in the exhilaration of the
thing, and my spirits rose at a bound.  The keen, cool
air blew about my face, the moonlight danced on the
mare's neck, and the way in front was a long strip of
light.  Sometimes I could not tell whether or not I
was dreaming.  Sometimes I thought I was back in
Holland asleep in the garden, and that all this shifting
pageant of light and scenery, these cries and shots
behind, and this long, measured fall of hooves were
but the process of a dream.  I experienced the most
acute enjoyment, for all heavy cares for the future
were driven away by the excitement of the chase.  It
was glorious, I thought, and I cared not a straw for
the loss of place and fortune if the free life of the
open air and the hills was to be mine.  It was war
to the hilt between my cousin and myself; both had
flung away the scabbards; but I would master him
yet and show him which was the better man.  He
should learn that John Burnet was never so strong as
when he was most sorely pressed.

But this braggadocio exhilaration soon passed, and
in its place came some measure of forethought.  I
reflected that though I might distance my pursuers and
win to Dawyck, I would surely be tracked, and so
bring misfortune on my mistress and myself.  I had
as yet no clear plans for the future.  I had already all
but burned my boats, for this night's work was like
to get me into trouble on its own account.  The wild
notion of fleeing to the hills and trusting to God for
the rest commended itself to me more and more.
But one thing I must do—abide at Dawyck till such
time as Nicol should be able to join me.  I had the
most perfect trust in him; I had proved him a hundred
times, and I knew well that if mortal man could do
aught to mend my fortunes, he could do it.  So with
this thought I matured a plan for the present.  I must
put forth all my speed and win clean away from my
pursuers.  Now at Broughton there was an inn,
where abode an honest man, one Joshua Watson, who
had oft had dealings with me in the past.  He was an
old retainer of my house, and I knew that he would
see his roof and gear in a blaze before his eyes ere he
would see any harm come to a laird of Barns.  To
him I purposed to go and hide till the dragoons had
passed.  They had not recognised me, I knew, for
they were not men of our countryside; and if left to
themselves, would keep the highway to Moffat, and
have never a thought of turning aside into Tweeddale.

I whispered something to Maisie, and the good
mare set herself to the task.  She was still unjaded,
for I had used her to long wanderings, and she had
not forgotten the lesson.  I listened to her steady,
rhythmical breath and the measured beat of her
hooves, and I thanked Heaven that I had chanced on
her.  At first they were maybe an eighth of a mile
behind.  Soon the distance increased, little by little at
first, then by more and more as my mare got into her
long gallop and their coarse beasts began to tire.  We
passed the little lonely cot of Lochurd, nestling under
great green hills where the sheep bleat and the plovers
cry alway.  Then on by the lonely bog where men
came once to dig marl and left a monstrous wide
pit, filled with black water and with no bottom.
I paused for a second to let Maisie drink from a
burn which comes down from the Mount Hill.  Soon
we were at the turning where the road to Biggar and
the West goes off from the highway.  Here I stopped
to listen for a moment.  Far off and faint I heard the
noise of my pursuers, and judged they were near a
mile distant.  Then off again; and now the road
inclines downward, and as one rises over the crest of
brae, which the shepherds call the Ruchill End, there
bursts on the sight all the vast circle of hills, crowded
and piled together, which marks the course of Tweed.
Down the little glen of Broughton I rode, while the
burn made music by the highway, and it was hard to
think that death awaited a little behind.  Soon the
moors sank into fields, trees and cottages appeared,
a great stone mill rose by the water, and I clattered
into the village of Broughton.

The place was asleep, and, as I drew up at the inn,
but one light was apparent.  I hammered rudely at
the door till the landlord came, sleepy and yawning,
and bearing a candle in his hand.  At the sight of me
he started, for my danger was known over all
Tweeddale.  In a few words I told him of my pursuit and
my request.  He was a man of sparing speech, and,
saying nothing, he led me to the barn and showed me
a hole in a great bank of straw.  Maisie he took to
the stable.  "Ha'e nae fear," he said.  "Trust
me, I'll settle the hash o' thae gentry."

Sure enough, I had not been two minutes in the
place when I heard voices and the sound of horses,
and creeping to the narrow, unglazed window, saw
the dragoons draw up at the inn-door.  Much
shouting brought down the landlord, who made a great
show of weariness, and looked like one just aroused
from sleep.

"Heard you or saw you any man pass on horseback
about five minutes syne?" they asked.

"I daresay I did," said he.  "At ony rate, I
heard the sound o' a horse, and it's verra likely it was
on the Moffat road.  There's a hantle o' folk pass by
here at a' 'oors."

"Ye're sure he didna come in here?" they said
again.  "We'll search the house to see."

"Weel," said the landlord, "ye can dae as ye
like, but it seems a gey fule's errand.  I tell ye it's
lang past midnight, and we've a' been asleep here,
and naebody could hae gotten in unless I had opened
the door, for I hae a' the keys.  But come and look,
gentlemen, and I'll fetch ye some yill."

They drank the ale, and then seemed to think
better of their purpose, for they remounted.  "He'll
be aff to the hills at the heid o' Tweed," they said.
"He would never, gin he had ony sense, gang doun
Tweeddale, where there's nae hiding for man or
beast."  So with many wanton oaths they set off
again at a lazy gallop.





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.. _`THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK`:

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   CHAPTER III

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   THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK

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I knew well that I had little time to lose, and that
what must be done must be done quickly.  So as
soon as the tails of them were round the hillside, I
came out from my hiding-place and mounted Maisie
once more.  I thanked the landlord, and with a cry
that I would remember him if I ever got my affairs
righted again, I turned sharply through the burn and
down the path to Peebles.  It was touch or miss with
me, for it was unlikely that the highway between the
west country and the vale of Peebles would be freed
from the military.

Yet freed it was.  It may have been that the folk
of Tweedside were little caring about any religion,
and most unlike the dour carles of the Westlands, or
it may have been that they were not yet stirring.  At
any rate I passed unmolested.  I struck straight for
the ridge of Dreva, and rounding it, faced the long
valley of Tweed, with Rachan woods and Drummelzier
haughs and the level lands of Stobo.  Far down lay
the forest of Dawyck, black as ink on the steep
hillside.  Down by the Tweed I rode, picking my way
very carefully among the marshes, and guarding the
deep black moss-holes which yawned in the meadows.
Here daybreak came upon us, the first early gleam of
light, tingling in the east, and changing the lucent
darkness of the moonlit night to a shadowy grey
sunrise.  Scrape raised his bald forehead above me, and
down the glen I had a glimpse of the jagged peaks of
the Shieldgreen Kips, showing sharp against the red
dawn.  In a little I was at the avenue of Dawyck,
and rode up the green sward, with the birds twittering
in the coppice, eager to see my love.

The house was dead as a stone wall, and no signs
of life came from within.  But above me a lattice
was opened to catch the morning air.  I leapt to the
ground and led Maisie round to the stables which I
knew so well.  The place was deserted; no serving-man
was about; the stalls looked as if they had been
empty for ages.  A great fear took my heart.
Marjory might be gone, taken I knew not whither.  I fled
to the door as though the fiend were behind me, and
knocked clamorously for admittance.  Far off in the
house, as it were miles away, I heard footsteps and
the opening of doors.  They came nearer, and the
great house-door was opened cautiously as far as
possible without undoing the chain; and from within a
thin piping inquired my name and purpose.

I knew the voice for the oldest serving-man who
dwelt in the house.

"Open, you fool, open," I cried.  "Do you not
know me?  The Laird of Barns?"

The chain was unlocked by a tremulous hand.

"Maister John, Maister John," cried the old
man, all but weeping.  "Is't yoursel' at last?  We've
had sair, sair need o' ye.  Eh, but she'll be blithe to
see ye."

"Is your mistress well?" I cried with a great
anxiety.

"Weel eneuch, the puir lass, but sair troubled in
mind.  But that'll a' be bye and dune wi', noo that
ye're come back."

"Where is she?  Quick, tell me," I asked in
my impatience.

"In the oak room i' the lang passage," he said, as
quick as he could muster breath.

I knew the place, and without more words I set
off across the hall, running and labouring hard to
keep my heart from bursting.  Now at last I should
see the dear lass whom I had left.  There was the
door, a little ajar, and the light of a sunbeam slanting
athwart it.

I knocked feebly, for my excitement was great.

"Come," said that voice which I loved best in all
the world.

I entered, and there, at the far end of the room, in
the old chair in which her father had always sat,
wearing the dark dress of velvet which became her
best, and with a great book in her lap, was Marjory.

She sprang up at my entrance, and with a low cry
of joy ran to meet me.  I took a step and had her
in my arms.  My heart was beating in a mighty
tumult of joy, and when once my love's head lay on
my shoulder, I cared not a fig for all the ills in the
world.  I cannot tell of that meeting; even now
my heart grows warm at the thought; but if such
moments be given to many men, there is little to
complain of in life.

"O John," she cried, "I knew you would
come.  I guessed that every footstep was yours,
coming to help us.  For oh! there have been such
terrible times since you went away.  How terrible I
cannot tell you," and her eyes filled with tears as
she looked in mine.

So we sat down by the low window, holding each
other's hands, thinking scarce anything save the joy
of the other's presence.  The primroses were starring
the grass without, and the blossom coming thick and
fast on the cherry trees.  So glad a world it was that
it seemed as if all were vanity save a dwelling like the
Lotophagi in a paradise of idleness.

But I quickly roused myself.  It was no time for
making love when the enemy were even now at the
gates.

"Marjory, lass," I said, "tell me all that has
been done since I went away."

And she told me, and a pitiful tale it was—that
which I had heard from Nicol, but more tragic and
sad.  I heard of her brother's ruin, how the brave,
generous gentleman, with a head no better than a
weathercock, had gone down the stages to besotted
infamy.  I heard of Gilbert's masterful knavery, of
his wooing at Dawyck, and how he had despoiled the
house of Barns.  It seemed that he had spent days at
Dawyck in the company of Michael Veitch, putting
my poor Marjory to such a persecution that I could
scarce bide still at the hearing of it.  He would
importune her night and day, now by gallantry and
now by threats.  Then he would seek to win her
favour by acts of daring, such as he well knew how
to do.  But mostly he trusted to the influence of her
brother, who was his aider and abetter in all things.
I marvelled how a gentleman of family could ever
sink so low as to be the servant of such cowardice.
But so it was, and my heart was sore for all the toils
which the poor girl had endured in that great, desolate
house, with no certain hope for the future.  She
durst not write a letter, for she was spied on closely
by her tormentors, and if she had bade me return,
they well knew I would come with the greatest speed,
and so in knowing the time of my arrival, would lay
hands on me without trouble.  The letter which
reached me was sealed under her brother's eyes and
the postscript was added with the greatest pains and
sent by Tam Todd, who sat at Barns in wrath and
impotence.  Truly things had gone wrong with a
hearty good-will since I had ridden away.

But the matter did not seem much better now that
I had returned.  I was an outlawed man, with no
dwelling and scarce any friends, since the men of my
own house were either hostile or powerless to aid.
My estates were a prey to my enemies.  I had naught
to trust to save my own good fortune and a tolerably
ready sword, and, to crown all, my love was in the
direst danger.  If she abode at Dawyck the bitter
persecution must be renewed, and that the poor maid
should suffer this was more than I could endure.  I
had no fear of her faithfulness, for I knew of old
her steadfast heart and brave spirit, but I feared my
cousin as I feared no other on earth.  He cared not
a fig for the scruples of ordinary men, and he was
possessed of a most devilish cunning, before which I
felt powerless as a babe.  Yet I doubtless wronged
him by suspicion, for, after all, he was a Burnet, and
fought openly as a man of honour should.  But he
had a gang of marauding ruffians at his heels, and God
alone knew what might happen.

At all events, I must wait till what time my servant
Nicol should arrive from Leith.  I had no fear of his
failing, for he had the readiest wit that ever man had,
and I verily believe the longest legs.  He should be at
Dawyck ere noonday, when he should advise me as to
my course.  Nor was there any immediate danger
pressing, for so long as Gilbert abode at Leith he
could not come to Dawyck, and unless our schemes
grievously miscarried, he could not yet have been
apprised of my escape.  Moreover, the soldiers to
whom I had given the slip the night before, could as
yet have no inkling either of my identity or my
present harbour.  So for the meantime I was safe to
meditate on the future.

Marjory, woman-like, was assured that now I had
come back her sorrows were at an end.  She would
hear nothing of danger to be.  "Now that you are
here, John," she would say, "I am afraid of nothing.
I do not care if Gilbert return and plague me a
thousandfold more; I shall well support it if I know that
you are in the land.  It is for you I fear, for what
must you do save go to the hills and hide like the
hillmen in caves and peatbogs?  It is surely a sad use
for your learning, sir."

So the morning passed so quickly that I scarce
knew it.  We went together to a little turret-room
facing the north and fronting the broad avenue which
all must pass who come to the house; and here we
waited for the coming of Nicol.  I felt a fierce regret
as I looked away over the woods and meadows to the
little ridge of hills beyond which lay Barns, and saw
the fair landscape all bathed in spring sunshine.  It
was so still and peaceful that I felt a great desire to
dwell there with Marjory in quiet, and have done
forever with brawling and warfare.  I had come home
from the Low Countries with a longing for the plain
country life of Tweeddale, such as I had been bred
to.  I was prepared in heart to get ready my
fishing-rods and see to my guns, and begin again my
long-loved sports.  But harsh fate had decreed otherwise,
and I was to fare forth like a partridge on the
mountains, and taste the joys of the chase in a new manner.
But at the thought my spirits rose again.  I would
love dearly to play a game of hide-and-go-seek with
my cousin Gilbert, and so long as I had my sword
and my wits about me, I did not fear.  My one care
was Marjory, and this, in truth, was a sore one.  I
cursed my cousin right heartily, and all his
belongings, and vowed, deep down in my heart, to
recompense him some day for all his doings.

It is true that all this while it lay open to me to
brazen it out before His Majesty's Council, and try
to clear my name from guilt.  But as the hours passed
this method grew more distasteful to me.  There I
should be in a strange place among enemies and
scenes of which I knew nothing.  Innocent though
I might be, it was more than likely that I should find
myself worsted.  More, it seemed the gallanter thing
to contest the matter alone among the hills, a fight
between soldiers, with no solemn knaves to interfere.
So by this time I had all but resolved on the course
which my servant had first advised.

About twelve of the clock we saw a long figure
slinking up the avenue, keeping well in the shade of
the trees, and looking warily on all sides.  I knew
my man, and going down to the door, I set it open,
and waited for his coming.  Nor did I wait long.
When he saw me he changed his walk for a trot, and
came up breathing hard, like a hound which has had
a long run.  I led him into the dining-hall, and
Marjory prepared for him food and drink.  Never a
word spoke he till he had satisfied his hunger.  Then
he pushed back his chair, and looking sadly at my
lady, shook his head as though in dire confusion.

"A bonny bigging, Maister John," he said, "but
ye'll sune hae to leave it."

"That's a matter on which I have waited for your
coming," said I, "but I would hear how you fared
since I left you."

"I've nae guid news," he said sadly, "but such
as they are ye maun e'en hear them."

And this was the tale he told.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END`:

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   CHAPTER IV

   .. vspace:: 1
   
   HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END

.. vspace:: 2

"When you had gone oot," began Nicol, "I just
waited till I heard your footsteps gang oot o' the yaird.
Syne I gaed dounstairs to the landlord, whae is a
decent, comfortable kind o' man wi' no muckle ill
aboot him.  I telled him that my maister was terrible
unweel, and on no accoont maun be disturbit, but that
he maun hae the room to himsel' for the nicht.  The
man was verra vexed to hear aboot ye.  'Sae young
a chiel,' says he, 'it's awfu'.'  So I got my will,
and I kenned I wad be troubled by nae folk comin'
and speirin' aboot the place.  There was nae reason
why I shouldna gang awa' and leave the lawin', but
I had a kind o' irkin' to get anither glisk o' the
sodgers, so I e'en gaed into the room aside them.

"They were noo mair uproarious than afore.  Nane
were drunk, for 'faith, the Captain wasna the man to
let his men dae that, but a' were geyan wild and
carin' little aboot their language.  The Captain sits
at the heid o' the table sippin' his toddy wi' that
dour stieve face o' his that naething could move, and
that ye think wad be ashamed to sae muckle as lauch.
But Maister Veitch wasna like him.  He was singin'
and roarin' wi' the loudest, and takin' great wauchts
frae the bowl, far mair than was guid for him.

"By and by he gets up on his feet.

"'A health to the Captain,' he says.  'Drink,
lads, to the welfare o' that most valiant soldier and
gentleman, Captain Gilbert Burnet.  Ye a' ken the
errand ye're come on, to lay hands on a rebel and take
him to his proper place, and I drink to your guid
success in the matter.'  And he lifts up his glass and
spills some o' it ower the table.

"At this there was a great uproar, and they a' rose
wi' their glasses and cried on the Captain.  He sat a'
the while wi' a sort o' scornfu' smile on his face, as
if he were half-pleased, but thocht little o' the folk
that pleased him.

"'I thank you,' he says at last.  'I thank you all,
my men, for your good will.  We have done well
together in the past, and we'll do better in time to
come.  I will prove to the rebel folk o' this land that
Gilbert Burnet will make them obey.'

"'Faith, Gilbert,' says Maister Veitch, 'hae ye no
the grace to speak o' your verra guid friend?  I think
ye're beholden to me for a hantle o' your success.'

"The Captain looks at him wi' a glint o' guid
humour.  'No more, Michael,' says he, 'than the
cook owes to the scullion.  You do my dirty work.'

"'Dirty work, quotha,' cried Maister Veitch, who
was hot and flustered with wine.  'I wouldna tak
that from any other than yoursel', Gilbert, and maybe
no from you.'

"'Take it or not, just as you please,' said the
Captain, scornfully.  'It's no concern o' mine.'

"This angered the other, and he spoke up fiercely:

"I am of as guid blood as yoursel', Gilbert
Burnet.  Is a Tweeddale gentleman no as guid as a
bit westland lairdie?"

"'Faith, that is too much,' says the Captain.
'Michael, I'll make you answer for this yet.'  So he
sat with lowered brows, while Maister Veitch, to a'
appearance, had forgotten the words he had spoken.

"In a little the Captain dismisses the men to their
sleeping-quarters, and the pair were left alone, save
for mysel', whae being in the dark shadows near the
door escaped the sicht o' a'.  The two gentlemen sat
at the board eyeing each other with little love.  By
and by Gilbert speaks.

"Ye called me a bit westland lairdie no long
syne, Maister Veitch, if ye'll be remembering.'

"The ither looks up.  'And what if I did?' says
he.  'Is't no the fact?'

"'That it's no the fact I have a damned good
mind to let you see,' says the ither.

"Michael looks at him askance.  'This is a gey
queer way to treat your friends.  I've done a' in my
power to aid you in a' your pliskies.  I've turned
clean against the Laird o' Barns, who never did me
ony ill, a' for the sake o' you.  And forbye that,
I've done what I could to further your cause wi' my
sister, who is none so well inclined to you.  And this
is a' the thanks I get for it, Gilbert?'

"I saw by the dour face o' the Captain that he was
mortal thrawn.

"'And a' the thanks ye are likely to get,' says
he.  'Is't no enough that a man o' my birth and
fame should be willing to mate wi' one o' your paltry
house, a set o' thieves and reivers wi' no claim to
honour save the exaltation o' the gallows-rope?  Gad,
I think it's a mighty favour that I should be so keen
to take the lass from among you.'

"'By Heaven, that is too much to swallow!' said
Maister Michael, as some sparks o' proper feeling
rose in him at last; and he struggled to his feet.

"The Captain also rose and looked at him disdainfully.

"'What would you do?' said he.

"'This,' said the other, clean carried wi' anger;
and he struck him a ringing lick on the face.

"Gilbert went back a step, and (for his honour I
say it) kept his wrath doun.

"'That's a pity,' says he; 'that was a bad action
o' yours, Michael, as ye'll soon ken.  I'll trouble
ye to draw.'

"I hae felt vexed for mony folk in my life, but
never for yin sae muckle as puir Maister Veitch.  He
reddened and stumbled and plucked his sword from its
sheath.  He was dazed wi' wine and drowsiness, but
his enemy made nocht o' that.

"They crossed swirds and I watched them fall
to.  I was terrible feared, for I saw fine that the yin
was as angry as a bull, the ither as helpless as a sheep.
It was against a' decency to let sic a thing gang on,
so I ran forrit and cried on them to stop.  'D'ye no
see the man's fair helpless?' I cried out; but they
never seemed to hear me, but went at it as hard as
ever.

"At first baith fought nane sae bad, for baith were
braw swordsmen, and even in sic a plight Michael's
skill didna desert him.  Gilbert, too, was quieter
than was to be expectit.  But of a sudden a wild fury
seized him.  'I'll teach ye to speak ill o' me and my
house,' he cried in a voice like thunder, and cam on
like a storm o' hail.

"Michael fell back and tried to defend himsel'.
But the puir lad was sae dazed and foundered that frae
the first he had nae chance.  His blade wabbled at
every guaird, and he never risked a cut.  It was just
like a laddie gettin' his paiks frae a maister and keepin'
off the clouts wi' yae airm.

"And then he let his sword drop, whether wi'
weariness or no I canna tell, and stood glowrin'
afore him.  The Captain never stopped.  I dinna
think he ettled it, for when he began I think he didna
mean mair than to punish him for his words.  But
now he lunged clean and true.  Nae sword kept it
aff, nae coat o' mail wardit it, but deep into Michael's
breast it sank.  Wi' yae groan he fell back, and the
breath gaed frae his body.

"I could hardly contain mysel wi' rage and sorrow.
At first I was for rinnin' forrit and throttlin' the man,
but I got a glimpse o' his face, and that keepit me.
It was dark as a thunder-clud, and regret and
unquenched anger lookit oot o' his een.

"'This is a black business,' he says to himsel', 'a
black damnable business.  God knows I never meant
to kill the fool.'  And he began to walk up and
down wi' his heid on his breast.

"I felt that I had seen eneuch.  My whole hert
was sick wi' the peety o' the thing, and forbye it was
time for me to be going if I was ever to win to Tweedside.
So I slips frae the house, which was still quiet, for
naebody kenned o' the deed, and far away somewhere
I heard the lilt o' a sodger's song.  I sped doun the
Harbour Walk and syne into Embro', as though the
deil were ahint me.  When I won to Auchendinny
it was aboot three in the mornin', and I made a' the
haste I could.  I think I maun hae run a' the road
frae there to Leidburn.  Then I took ower the Cloch
hills and doun by Harehope and the Meldons.  I
crossed Lyne abune the Brig, and came doun Stobo
burn, and here I am.  I never met a soul for good or
ill, so the land's quieter thereaways than folk make
it oot.  But doun by the Eddleston Water there's a
geyan nest o' sodgers, so ye've nae time to lose,
Laird, if ye wad win to the hills."

When I turned to Marjory at the close of this tale
she was weeping silently; yet there was little bitterness
in her tears.  Her brother had, after all, made a
better end than one could have guessed from his life.
Indeed, I had small cause to feel kindness to him,
for he had betrayed his trust, and had been the author
of all the ills which had come upon my mistress.
But for her sake I was sad.

"Marjory," I said, "I have many scores to settle
with my cousin, for all his life he has done me ill,
and the time will come when I shall pay them.  I
will add this to the others.  Be assured, dear, that
your brother shall not be unavenged."

And Marjory dried her tears, and from that hour
spake never a word of Michael.  But I knew well
that deep in her heart remained an abiding sorrow
which chastened the gaiety of her spirits.





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.. _`I CLAIM A PROMISE, AND WE SEEK THE HILLS`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER V

   .. vspace:: 1
   
   I CLAIM A PROMISE, AND WE SEEK THE HILLS

.. vspace:: 2

And now I set myself resolutely to think out
something that might be the saving of my life and my
love.  I was in a perilous case, for when Gilbert
found that I had escaped him, he would come on
forthwith to Dawyck, and, in all likelihood, be here
ere nightfall.  One thing was clear—that I could not
bide myself nor leave Marjory to his tender mercies.
The hills for me; and for her—ah, that was the rub
in the matter!

At last I made out some semblance of a plan.
On the edge of Douglasdale, in the shire of Lanark,
dwelt William Veitch at the house of Smitwood, the
uncle of the dead Sir John, an old man well fallen in
the vale of years.  He was unmolested by all, being
a peaceable soldier who had served God and the king
in his day, and now thought of nothing save making
a good ending.  He would gladly take the lass, I
knew, and shelter her till such time as I should come
and take her again.  Nor would Gilbert follow her
thither, for no word should come to his ear of her
destined harbour, and he knew naught of the place
nor the relationship.  The plan came upon me with
such convincing force that I took no other thought
on the matter.  Nicol should be left there both as a
guard of the place—and who so vigilant?—and as
some means of communication between me and my
mistress.  For my own part, when once I had seen
my lass safely sheltered, I should take to the hills
with a light heart.  I should love to be free and
careless among the wide moors, and try my wits in a fair
contest against my sweet cousin.

I told the thing to Nicol and he gladly agreed.
Then I sought out Marjory, who had gone to make
some preparations for my flight, and found her talking
gravely to the old man, the only remaining servant.
I drew her to the little oak parlour.

"Marjory, lass," I said, "I am but new come
home, and I little thought to have to take flight again
so soon.  Do you mind ere I went to the Low
Countries I came here to bid you farewell, and you sang
me a song?"

"I mind it well," said she.

"Have you a remembrance of the air, my dear?
How did it go?" and I whistled a stave.

"Ay, even so.  You have a good ear, John."

"I think, too, that I have mind of a verse or so,"
said I.  "There was one which ran like this:

   |   "'And if he were a soldier gay
   |     And tarried from the town,
   |   And sought in wars, through death and scars,
   |     To win for him renown,
   |
   |   I'd place his colours in my breast
   |     And ride by moor and lea,
   |   And win his side, there to abide
   |     And bear him company.'

Was it not so?"

"Yes," she said, smiling; "how well you remember, John."

"And there was a refrain, too," I went on.

   |   "'For sooth a maid, all unafraid,
   |     Should by her lover be,
   |   With wile and art to cheer his heart,
   |     And bear him company.'"
   |

Marjory blushed.  "Why do you remind me of
my old song?" she said.  "It pains me, for I used
to sing it ere the trouble came upon us, and when we
were all as happy as the day was long."

"Nay," I said, "it is a song for the time of
trouble.  It was your promise to me, and I have
come to claim its fulfilment.  I am for the hills,
Marjory, and I cannot leave you behind.  Will you
come and bear me company?  I will take you to
Smitwood, where even the devil and my cousin
Gilbert could not follow you.  There you will be safe
till I come again when this evil time is past, for pass
it must.  And I will go to the hills with a blithe heart,
if once I knew you were in good keeping."

"Oh, John, to be sure I will follow you," she
said, "even to the world's end.  I will fare among
rough hills and bogs if I may but be near you.  But
I will go to Smitwood, for most terribly I dread this
place."

So it was all brought to a conclusion, and it but
remained to make ready with all speed and seek the
uplands.  We trusted ourselves wholly to Nicol's
guidance, for he knew the ways as he knew his own
name, and had a wide acquaintance with the hillmen
and their hiding-places.  On him it lay to find shelter
for us on the road and guide us by the most
unfrequented paths.  So we set about the preparing of
provisions and setting the house in order.  The old
man, who was the sole servant remaining, was left in
charge of the place against our uncertain return.  For
myself I should have taken but one horse, Marjory's
roan mare, and tramped along on foot; but Nicol
bade me take Maisie, for, said he, "I'll tak ye by
little-kenned ways, where ye may ride as easy as walk;
and forbye, if it cam to the bit, a horse is a usefu'
cratur for rinnin' awa on.  I could trot fine on my
feet mysel', but though ye're a guid man at the
sma'-swird, Laird, I doubt ye'd no be muckle at
that."  The words were wise, so I saddled Maisie and
prepared to ride her to Smitwood, and there leave her.

It was, I think, about three hours after midday when
we were ready to start on our journey.  A strange
cavalcade we formed—Marjory on the roan, dressed
plainly as for the hills, and with a basket slung across
the saddlebow, for all the world like a tinker's
pannier; I myself on Maisie, well-mounted and armed,
and Nicol on foot, lean and ill-clad as ever.  It was
not without a pang that we set out, for it is hard to
leave the fair and settled dwellings of home for
haphazard lodging among rough morasses.  Marjory in
especial could scarce refrain from tears, while I own
that as I looked down the vale and saw the woods of
Barns and the green hills of Manor, I could have
found it in me to be despondent.

But once we left the valley and began to ascend the
slopes, our spirits returned.  It was an afternoon
among a thousand, one such as only April weather
and the air of the Tweed valley can bring.  The sky
was cloudless and the wind sharp, and every hill and
ridge in the great landscape stood out clear as steel.
The grass was just greening beneath our feet, the
saugh bushes were even now assuming the little white
catkins, and the whole air was filled with a whistling
and twittering of birds.  We took our road straight
through the pine wood which clothes the western
slopes of Scrape.  The ground was velvet-dry, and
the deer fled swiftly as we neared their coverts.  It
was glorious to be abroad and feel the impulse of life
stirring everywhere around.  Yet I could not keep
from the reflection that at this very time the day before
I had been nearing the port of Leith in the Seamaw,
expecting nothing save a pleasant homecoming, and
thereafter a life of peace.  Truly in one short day
and night I had led a somewhat active life, and now
was fleeing from the very place I had most longed to
return to.

Soon we left the woods and came out on the
heathery brow of Scrape, and crossing it, entered
the deep glen where the burn of Scrape flows to join
the Powsail.  The heather had been burned, as is the
custom here in the early spring, and great clouds of
fine white dust rose beneath the hooves of our horses.
A dry crackling of twigs and the strident creak of
the larger roots as they grated on one another, filled
our ears.  Then once more we ascended, high
and ever higher, over rocks and treacherous green
well-eyes and great spaces of red fern, till we
gained the brow of the hill which they call
Glenstivon Dod, and looked down into the little glen
of Powsail.

We crossed the lovely burn of Powsail, which is
the most beautiful of all Tweedside burns, since the
water is like sapphire and emerald and topaz, flashing
in every ray like myriad jewels.  Here we watered
our horses, and once more took the hills.  And now
we were on the wild ridge of upland which heads the
glens of Stanhope and Hopecarton and Polmood, the
watershed 'twixt the vales of Tweed and Yarrow.
Thence the sight is scarce to be matched to my
knowledge in the south country of Scotland.  An endless
stretching of hills, shoulder rising o'er shoulder,
while ever and again some giant lifts himself clean
above his fellows, and all the while in the glen at our
feet Tweed winding and murmuring.

I asked Nicol what was the purpose of our
journey, for this was by no means the shortest way to
Douglasdale and Smitwood.  He answered that to go
straight to our destination would be to run our heads
into the lion's mouth.  He purposed that we should
go up Tweed to a hiding-place which he knew of on
the Cor Water, and then make over by the upper
waters of the Clyde and the Abington moors to the
house of Smitwood.  These were the more deserted
and least accessible places, whereas the villages and
lowlands around the skirts of the hills were watched
like the High Street of Edinburgh.

In a little we passed the wild trough where the
Stanhope Burn flows toward Tweed.  It was now
drawing toward the darkening, and the deep, black
glen seemed dark as the nether pit.  Had we not had
a guide to whom the place was familiar as his own
doorstep, we should soon have been floundering over
some craig.  As it was, our case was not without its
danger.  It is not a heartening thing to go stumbling
on hilltops in the dusk of an April evening, with
black, horrific hill-slopes sinking on all sides.
Marjory grew frightened, as I knew by the tightened
clutch at her horse's rein, and her ever seeking to
draw nearer me, but like the brave lass that she was,
she breathed never a word of it.  Every now and
then an owl would swoop close to our faces, or a great
curlew dart out of the night with its shrill scream,
and vanish again into the dark.  It was an uncanny
place at that hour, and one little to be sought by
those who love comfort and peace.  But the very
difficulty of the way gladdened us, for it gave us
assurance that we would be unmolested by wayfaring
dragoons.  By and by stars came out and the moon
rose, glorious and full as on the night before, when I
had ridden from Leith.  Then it served to light my
course to Dawyck, now to guide me from it.

We were now descending a steep hillside, all rough
with *sklidders*, and coming to the Water of Talla,
which we forded at a shallow a little below the wild
waterfall called Talla Linns.  Even there we could
hear the roar of the cataract, and an awesome thing
it was in that lonely place.  But we tarried not a
minute, but urged our horses up a desperate ravine till
once more we were on the crest of the hills.  And
now a different land was around us.  Far to the right,
where the Talla joins the Tweed, we could mark the
few lights of the little village of Tweedsmuir.  The
higher hills had been left behind, and we were on a
wide expanse of little ridges and moor which the
people of Tweedside call "The Muirs," and which
extends from the upper Clyde waters to the source of
the Annan and the monstrous hills which line its
course.  I had been but once before in the place, in
the winter time, when I was shooting the duck which
come here in great plenty.  To me, then, it had seemed
the bleakest place in God's creation, but now, under
the silver moonlight, it seemed like a fantastic fairyland,
and the long, gleaming line of Tweed like the fabled
river which is the entrance to that happy domain.

We were now near our journey's end, and in the
very heart of the moors of Tweed.  The night was
bright with moonlight, and we went along speedily.
Soon we came to a narrow upland valley, walled
with precipitous green hills.  Here Nicol halted.

"There'll be watchers aboot," he said, "and our
coming 'ill hae been tellt to the folk in the cave.
We'd better gang warily."  So we turned our horses
up the glen, riding along the narrow strip of
meadowland beside the burn.  I had heard of the place
before, and knew it for the Cor Water, a stream famous
for trout, and at this time, no less renowned among
the hillmen as a hiding-place.  For in the steep
craigs and screes there were many caves and holes
where one might lie hid for months.

Soon we came to a steep, green bank, and here we
drew rein.  Nicol whistled on his fingers, with a
peculiar, piercing note like a whaup's cry.  It was
answered by another from the near neighbourhood.
Again Nicol whistled with a different pitch, and this
time a figure came out as from the hillside, and
spoke.

"Whae are ye," he said, "that come here, and
what do ye seek?  If ye come in the Lord's name,
welcome and a night's lodging await ye.  If no, fire
and a sword."

"I'm Nicol Plenderleith," said my servant, "as
weel ye ken, John Laidlaw.  And these are twae
gentlefolk, whose names are no convenient to be
mentioned here, for hillsides hae ears.  If ye come
near, I'll whisper it in your lug."

The man approached and appeared well-satisfied.
He bade us dismount and led the horses off, while we
waited.  Then he returned, and bidding us follow,
led the way up a steep gully which scarred the
hillside.  In a little he stopped at an out-jutting rock,
and crept round the corner of it.  At the side next
the hill was an opening large enough to allow a man
of ordinary stature to pass, and here he entered and
motioned us to follow.





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.. _`THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER`:

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   CHAPTER VI

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   THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER

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The place we found ourselves in was a narrow
passage, very lofty and very dark, and with countless
jags of rough stone on all sides to affront the stranger.
Some few paces led us into a wider place, lit by some
opening on the hillside, for a gleam as of pale
moonlight was all about it.  There stood a sentinel, a tall,
grave man, dressed in coarse homespun, and brown
of the face.  Through this again we passed into
another straitened place, which in a little opened into a
chamber of some magnitude.

When I grew accustomed to the candle-light, I
made out that it was a natural cave in the whinstone
rocks, maybe thirty feet in height, square in shape,
and not less than thirty feet long.  The black sides
were rough and crusted, and hung in many parts with
articles of household gear and warlike arms.  But the
place was less notable than the people who were
sitting there, and greeted us as we entered.  In the
midst was a table of rough-hewn wood, whereon lay
the remnants of a meal.  Lit pine-staves cast an eerie
glow over all things, and in the light I saw the faces
of the company clear.

On a settle of stone covered with a sheep's fleece
sat an old man, large of limb and tall, but bent
and enfeebled with age.  His long hair fell down
almost to his shoulders; his features as the light fell
upon them were strong, but his eyes were sightless
and dull as stone.  He had a great stick in his hand
which he leaned on, and at our entrance he had risen
and stared before him into vacancy, conscious of
some new presence, but powerless to tell of it.  Near
him, along by the table-side, were two men of almost
like age, square, well-knit fellows, with the tanned
faces of hillmen.  I guessed them to be shepherds or
folk of that sort who had fled to this common refuge.
Beyond these again stood a tall, slim man of a more
polished exterior than the rest; his attitude had
something of grace in it, and his face and bearing
proclaimed him of better birth.  Forbye, there were one
or two more, gaunt, sallow folk, such as I had learned
to know as the extreme religionists.  These were busy
conversing together with bowed heads and earnest
voices, and took no heed of our arrival.  To add to
all, there were two women, one with a little child,
clearly the wives of the shepherds.

Our guide went forward to the man who stood by
the wall and whispered something to him.  In an
instant he came to us, and, bowing to Marjory, bade
us welcome.  "We are glad to see you here, Master
Burnet," said he.  "I am rejoiced to see the
gentlemen of the land coming forth on the side of the
Covenant.  It is you and such as you that we need,
and we are blithe to give you shelter here as long as
you care to bide with us.  It is a queer thing that two
men of the same house should be engaged in this
business on different sides."

Here one of the others spoke up.

"I trust, Master Burnet, ye have brought us good
news from the Lawlands.  We heard that ye had
great converse with the godly there, and we will be
glad to hear your account of how the guid cause
prospers over the water."

Now I felt myself in a position of much
discomfort.  The cause of my outlawry had clearly got
abroad, and here was I, credited with being a zealous
religionist and a great man among the Scots exiles in
Holland.  Whereas, as I have already said, I cared
little for these things, being not of a temper which
finds delight in little differences of creed or details
of ecclesiastical government, but caring little in what
way a man may worship his Maker.  Indeed, to this
day, while I can see the advantage of having fixed
rites and a church established, I see little use in
making a pother about any deviation.  So I now found
myself in an unpleasing predicament.  I must avow
my utter ignorance of such matters and my worldly
motives for thus seeking shelter, and in all likelihood,
win the disfavour of these folk, nay, even be not
suffered to remain.

"I thank you for your welcome," said I, "but I
must hasten to set matters right between us.  I am
not of your party, though it is my misfortune to have
to seek safety among the hills.  It is true I have been
in the Low Countries, but it was for the purposes of
study and seeing the world, and not for the sake of
religion.  If I must speak the truth, when I abode
there I had little care of such things, for they were
never in my way.  Now that I am returned and find
myself a fugitive, I am not a whit more concerned
with them.  My misfortunes arise from the guile of a
kinsman, and not from my faith.  So there you have
my predicament."

I made the declaration crudely and roughly, for the
necessity was urgent upon me of making it very plain
at the outset.  Another man would have been
repelled or angered, but this man had the penetration to
see through my mask of callousness that I was not
ill-disposed to his cause.

"It is no matter," he said.  "Though you were
the most rabid malignant, we would yet give you
shelter.  And, indeed, though you may not be of our
way of thinking in all matters, yet I doubt not you
are with us on the essentials.  Forbye, you are a
gentleman of Tweeddale, and it would be queer if you
werena right-hearted, Master John Burnet."

Some one of the disputants grumbled, but the
others seemed heartily to share in this opinion, and
bidding us sit down, they removed our travelling gear,
and set food before us.  Our appetites were sharp with
the long hill journey, and we were not slow in getting
to supper.  Meanwhile the long man to whom we
had first spoken busied himself with serving us, for in
that desert place every man was his own servant.
Afterwards Marjory went to the women, and soon
won their liking, for the heart would be hard indeed
which was not moved by her pretty ways and graces.

When I had done I sat down on the settle with the
rest, and the fire which burned in a corner of the
cave was made up, and soon the place was less dismal
but a thousandfold more fantastic.  I could scarce
keep from thinking that it was all a dream; that my
landing, and midnight ride, and Nicol's news, and my
perilous predicament were all figments of the brain.
I was too tired to have any anxiety, for I would have
you remember that I had ridden all the night and
most of the day without a wink of sleep, besides
having just come off a sea voyage.  My eyelids
drooped, and I was constantly sinking off into a doze.
The whole place tended to drowsiness; the shadows
and the light, the low hum of talk, the heavy air, for
the outlet for smoke was but narrow.  But the man
I have spoken of came and sat down beside me and
would engage me in talk.

"I do not think you know me, Master Burnet,"
said he; "but I knew your father well, and our
houses used to be well acquaint.  I am one o' the
Carnwath Lockharts, that ye may hae heard o'.  My
name is Francis Lockhart o' the Beltyne."

I knew him when he uttered the words, for I
had often heard tell of him for a gallant gentleman
who had seen service under Gustavus and in many
Low Country wars.  I complimented myself on his
acquaintance, which kindness he proceeded to repay.
So we fell to discussing many things—men I had
known in Leyden, men I had known in Tweeddale,
together with the more momentous question of the
future of each of us.  I gave him a full account of
my recent fortunes, that he might have wherewith to
contradict any rumours as to my reasons for taking to
the hills.  He in turn spoke to me of his life, and
his sorrow at the fate of his land.  The man spoke
in such unfeigned grief, and likewise with such a
gentleman-like note of fairness, that I felt myself
drawn to him.  It was while thus engaged that he
spoke a word which brought upon him the
condemnation of one of the ethers.

"Oh," said he, "I would that some way might be
found to redd up thae weary times and set the king
richt on his throne, for I canna but believe that in this
matter loyalty and religion go hand in hand; and that
were James Stewart but free from his wanchancy
advisers there would be less talk of persecuting."

At this one of the others, a dark man from the
West, spoke up sharply.  "What do I hear, Maister
Lockhart?  It's no by ony goodwill to James Stewart
that we can hope to set things richt in thae dark
times.  Rather let our mouths be filled with psalms
and our hands with the sword-hilt, and let us teach
the wanton and the scorner what manner o' men are
bred by the Covenant and the Word."

The speech was hateful to me, and yet as I looked
in the dark, rugged face of the man I could not keep
from liking it.  Here, at any rate, was a soul of
iron.  My heart stirred at his words, and I could
have found it in me to cast in my lot even with such
as these, and bide the bent with naught but a good
sword and faith in God.  Howbeit, it was well I
made no such decision, for I was never meant for one
of them.  I ever saw things too clearly, both the evil
and the good; and whereas this quality hinders from
swift and resolute action, it yet leads more plainly to
a happy life.

Then the old man, him whom I have spoken of,
beckoned to me with his staff and bade me come and
sit by him.  He looked so kinglike even in his
affliction that I thought on the old blind king Oedipus in
the Greek play.

"Ye kenna me, John Burnet, but weel ken I
you.  Often in the auld days your father and me had
gey ploys hunting and fechting roond a' the muirs o'
Tweed.  He was a guid man, was Gilbert, and I
hear he had glimpses o' grace in the hinner end."

"Maybe," said I, being in perplexity, for from
the grace that he spoke of, my father had ever been far.

"Ay, and I was sair vexed I saw him so little.
For he had to bide at hame for the last years, and I
was aye busied wi' other work.  Yeddie o' the Linns
was never an idle man, and less than ever in thae days."

At the mention of his name a flood of recollection
came in upon me.  I minded how I had heard of
the son of Lord Fairley, a great soldier who had won
high renown in the wars abroad: and how he had
returned a melancholy man, weighed down with the
grave cares of religion, and gone to the wilds of
Tweed to a hut just above the Linns of Talla, where
he spent his days in prayer and meditation.  The
name of Yeddie o' the Linns, as he was called among
the shepherds and folk of these parts, became an
equivalent for high-hearted devotion.  Then when the
wars began tales of him grew over the countryside.
In stature he was all but gigantic, famed over half
the towns of France for feats of strength, and no evil
living had impaired his might.  So at the outbreak
of the persecution he had been a terror to the soldiers
who harried these parts.  The tale ran of the four
men whom he slew single-handed at the Linns,
hemming them in a nook of rocks, and how often he had
succoured fugitives and prisoners, coming like an old
lion from the hills and returning no one knew whither.
There was also the tale of his blinding by a chance
splinter from a bullet-shot, and how he had lived
among the caves and hills, dangerous even in his
affliction.  Had I but known it, this cave was his
finding, and half the retreats in Tweeddale and
Clydesdale were known to him.  But now he was an
old man, who had long left his youth, and his strength
had all but gone from him.  He sat alone in his
great darkness, speaking little to the inmates or the
chance comers, save when he knew them for gentlemen
of birth; for though he might risk his life for the
common people, he had no care to associate with
them, being of the old Kirkpatricks of that ilk, as
proud a house as is to be found in the land.

"You are not of us," he said suddenly.  "I
heard you say a moment agone that you had no share
in the inheritance of Jacob, but still chose to dwell
among the tents of sin."

"Nay," I said very gently, for he was very old
and of noble presence, "do not speak thus.  Surely
it is no sin to live at peace in the good earth in
honour and uprightness, and let all nice matters of
doctrine go by, esteeming it of more importance to be a
good man and true than a subtle disquisitioner—thinking,
too, that all such things are of little moment and
change from age to age, and that to concern one's self
much with them is to follow vain trifles.  For the root
of the whole matter is a simple thing on which all
men are agreed, but the appurtenances are many, and
to me at least of such small significance that I care
for them not at all.  I do not mind how a man
worship his Maker, if he have but real devoutness.
I do not care how a church is governed if the folk in
it are in very truth God's people."

"You speak well, my son," said he, "and at one
time I should have gone with you.  Nor do I set
any great value by doctrine.  But you are young and
the blood is still rich in your veins and the world
seems a fair place, with many brave things to be
achieved.  But I am old and have seen the folly of
all things, how love is only a delusion and honour a
catchword and loyalty a mockery.  And as the things
of earth slip away from me, and the glory of my
strength departs, I see more clearly the exceeding
greatness of the things of God.  And as my eyes cease
to be set on earth, I see more nearly the light of that
better country which is an heavenly.  So I love to
bide in these dark moors where the pomp of the
world comes not, among men of grave conversation,
for I have leisure and a fitting place to meditate upon
the things to come."

"It may be," said I, "that some day I also be
of your way of thinking.  At present the world,
though the Devil is more loose in it than I love,
seems to me so excellent that I would pluck the heart
of it before I condemn it.  But God grant that I
may never lose sight of the beauty of His kingdom."

"Amen to that," said the old man very reverently.

Truly, my thoughts on things were changing.
Here was I in the very stronghold of the fanatics,
and in the two chief, the old man and Master
Lockhart, I found a reasonable mind and lofty purpose.
And thus I have ever found it, that the better sort of
the Covenanters were the very cream of Scots gentlefolk,
and that 'twas only in the *canaille* that the gloomy
passion of fanatics was to be found.

Meantime Nicol, who cared for none of these
things, was teaching the child how to play at the cat's
garterns.





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.. _`HOW TWO OF HIS MAJESTY'S SERVANTS MET WITH THEIR DESERTS`:

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   CHAPTER VII

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   HOW TWO OF HIS MAJESTY'S SERVANTS MET WITH
   THEIR DESERTS

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The next morn broke fair and cloudless, and ere
the sun was up I was awake, for little time must be
lost if we sought to win to Smitwood ere the pursuit
began.  The folk of the cave were early risers, for
the need for retiring early to rest made them so; and
we broke our fast with a meal of cakes and broiled
fish almost before daylight.  Then I went out to
enjoy the fresh air, for it was safe enough to be abroad
at that hour.  Nothing vexed the still air on the green
hillside save the flapping peewits and the faint
morning winds.

Marjory meantime ran out into the sunshine with
all the gaiety in the world.  She was just like a child
let loose from school, for she was ever of a light
heart and care sat easily upon her.  Now, although
we were in the direst peril, she was taking delight in
spring, as if we were once again children in Dawyck,
catching trout in the deep pools of the wood.  She
left me to go out from the little glen, which was the
entrance to the cave, into the wider dale of the Cor
Water, which ran shallow between lone green braes.
I heard her singing as she went down among the
juniper bushes and flinty rocks, and then it died away
behind a little shoulder of hill.

So I was left to my own reflections on the plight
in which I found myself.  For the first time a sort of
wounded pride began to vex me.  Formerly I had
thought of nothing save how to save my own head
and keep my love from my enemy, and cared not, if
in the effecting of it, I had to crouch with the fox
and be chased by the basest scum of the land.  I
cared not if I were put out of house and home and
outlawed for years, for the adventurous spirit was
strong within me.  But now all my old pride of
race rose in rebellion at the thought that I was
become a person without importance, a houseless
wanderer, the spoil of my enemies.  It made me bitter as
gall to think of it, and by whose aid my misfortune
had been effected.  A sort of hopeless remorse came
over me.  Should I ever win back the place I had
lost?  Would the Burnets ever again be great
gentlemen of Tweeddale, a power in the countryside,
having men at their beck and call?  Or would the
family be gone forever, would I fall in the wilds, or
live only to find my lands gone with my power, and
would Marjory never enter Barns as its mistress?  I
could get no joy out of the morning for the thought,
and as I wandered on the hillside I had little care of
what became of me.

Now at this time there happened what roused me
and set me once more at peace with myself.  And
though it came near to being a dismal tragedy, it was
the draught which nerved me for all my later perils.
And this was the manner of it.

Marjory, as she told me herself afterwards, had
gone down to the little meadows by the burnside,
where she watched the clear brown water and the fish
darting in the eddies.  She was thus engaged, when
she was aware of two horsemen who rode over the
top of the glen and down the long hill on the other
side.  They, were almost opposite before she
perceived them, and there was no time tor flight.  Like
a brave lass she uttered no scream, but stood still that
they might not see her.  But it was of no avail.
Their roving eyes could not miss in that narrow glen
so fair a sight, and straightway one called out to the
other that there was a girl at the burnside.

Now had the twain been out on an ordinary foray
it would have gone hard indeed with us.  For they
would have turned aside to search out the matter, and
in all likelihood the hiding-place would have been
discovered.  But they had been out on some night errand
and were returning in hot haste to their quarters at
Abington, where their captain had none too gentle a
temper.  So they contented themselves with shouting
sundry coarse railleries, and one in the plenitude of
his greathearted ness fired his carbine at her.  Without
stopping further they rode on.

The bullet just grazed her arm above the wrist,
cutting away a strip of dress.  She cried out at the
pain, but though frightened almost to death, she was
brave enough to bide where she was, for if she had
run straight to the cave it would have shown them the
hiding-place.  As soon as they passed out of view she
came painfully up the slope, and I who had heard the
shot and rushed straightway to the place whence it
came, met her clasping her wounded wrist and with
a pitiful white face.

"O Marjory, what ails you?" I cried.

"Nothing, John," she answered; "some soldiers
passed me and one fired.  It has done me no harm.
But let us get to shelter lest they turn back."

At her words I felt my heart rise in a sudden great
heat of anger.  I had never felt such passion before.
It seemed to whelm and gulf my whole being.

"Let me carry you, dear," I said quietly, and
lifting her I bore her easily up the ravine to the cave.

When I got her within our shelter there was a very
great to-do.  The women ran up in grief to see the
hurt, and the men at the news of the military wore
graver faces.  Master Lockhart, who was something
of a surgeon, looked at the wound.

"Oh," he says, "this is nothing, a scratch and no
more.  It will be well as ever to-morrow.  But the
poor maid has had a fright which has made her weak.
I have some choice French brandy which I aye carry
with me for the fear of such accidents.  Some of that
will soon restore her."

So he fetched from some unknown corner the bottle
which he spake of, and when her lips had been
moistened, Marjory revived and declared her weakness
gone.  Now my most pressing anxiety was removed,
which up till this time had been harassing me sore.
For if my lady were to be hurt in this unfriendly
place, what hope of safety would there be for either?
When I saw that the wound was but trifling, the
anger which had been growing in my heart side by
side with my care, wholly overmastered me.  All my
pride of house and name was roused at the deed.  To
think that the lady who was the dearest to me in the
world should be thus maltreated by scurrilous knaves
of dragoons stirred me to fury.  I well knew that
I could get no peace with the thought, and my
inclination and good-judgment alike made me take the
course I followed.

I called to Nicol, where he sat supping his morning
porridge by the fire, and he came to my side very
readily.

"Get the two horses," said I quietly, that none
of the others might hear of my madness, "one for
me and one for yourself."  Now the beasts were
stabled in the back part of the cave, which was roomy
and high, though somewhat damp.  The entrance
thereto lay by a like rift in the hillside some hundred
yards farther up the glen.  When I had thus bidden
my servant I sauntered out into the open air and
waited his coming with some impatience.

I asked him, when he appeared, if he had the
pistols, for he had a great trick of going unarmed and
trusting to his fleet legs and mother wit rather than
the good gifts of God to men, steel and gunpowder.
"Ay, laird, I hae them.  Are ye gaun to shoot
muirfowl?"

"Yes," said I, "I am thinking of shooting a
muirfowl for my breakfast."

Nicol laughed quietly to himself.  He knew well
the errand I was on, or he would not have consented
so readily.

I knew that the two dragoons had ridden straight
down the Cor Water glen, making for the upper vale of
Tweed and thence to the Clyde hills.  But this same
glen of Cor is a strangely winding one, and if a man
leave it and ride straight over the moorland he may
save a matter of two miles, and arrive at the Tweed
sooner than one who has started before him.  The
ground is rough, but, to one used to the hills, not so
as to keep him from riding it with ease.  Also at the
foot of the burn there is a narrow nick through which
it thrusts itself in a little cascade to join the larger
stream; and through this place the road passes, for
all the hills on either side are steep and stony, and
offer no foothold for a horse.  Remembering all
these things, a plan grew up in my mind which I
hastened to execute.

With Nicol following, I rode aslant the low hills
to the right and came to the benty tableland which
we had travelled the day before.  The sun was now
well up in the sky, and the air was so fresh and sweet
that it was pure pleasure to breathe it.

After maybe a quarter-hour's stiff riding we
descended, and keeping well behind a low spur which
hid us from the valley, turned at the end into the
glen-mouth, at the confluence of the two waters.
Then we rode more freely till we reached the narrows
which I have spoke of, and there we halted.  All
was quiet, nor was there any sound of man or horse.

"Do you bide there," said I to my servant,
"while I will wait here.  Now I will tell you what I
purpose to do.  The two miscreants who shot Mistress
Marjory are riding together on their way to their
quarters.  One will have no shot in his carbine; what
arms the other has I cannot tell; but at any rate we
two with pistols can hold them in check.  Do you
cover the one on the right when they appear, and
above all things see that you do not fire."

So we waited there, sitting motionless in our
saddles, on that fair morning when all around us the air
was full of crying snipe and twittering hill-linnets.
The stream made a cheerful sound, and the little green
ferns in the rocks nodded beneath the spray of the
water.  I found my mind misgiving me again and
again for the headstrong prank on which I was
entered, as unworthy of one who knew something of
better things.  But I had little time for self-communings,
for we had scarce been there two minutes before
we heard the grating of hooves on the hill-gravel, and
our two gentlemen came round the corner not twenty
yards ahead.

At the sight of us they reined up and stared stock
still before them.  Then I saw the hands of both
reach to their belts, and I rejoiced at the movement,
for I knew that the arms of neither were loaded.

"Gentlemen," said I, "it will be at your peril
that you move.  We have here two loaded pistols.
We are not soldiers of His Majesty, so we have some
skill in shooting.  Let me assure you on my word
that your case is a desperate one."

At my words the one still looked with a haughty,
swaggering stare, but the jaw of the other dropped and
he seemed like a man in excess of terror.

"To-day," I went on, "you shot at a lady not
half an hour agone.  It is for this that I have come
to have speech with you.  Let us understand one
another, my friends.  I am an outlawed man and one
not easy to deal with.  I am the Laird of Barns—ah,
I see you know the name—and let this persuade
you to offer no resistance."

One of the twain still stood helpless.  The other's
hand twitched as if he would draw his sword or reach
to his powder-flask, but the steely glitter of our barrels
and my angry face deterred him.

"What do you want with us?" he said in a tone
of mingled sulkiness and bravado.  "Let me tell
you, I am one of His Majesty's dragoons, and you'll
pay well for any ill you do to me.  I care not a fig
for you, for all your gentrice.  If you would but lay
down your pop-guns and stand before me man to
man, I would give you all the satisfaction you want."

The fellow was a boor but he spoke like a man,
and I liked him for his words.  But I replied grimly:

"I will have none of your bragging.  Go and try
that in your own stye, you who shoot at women.  I
will give you as long as I may count a hundred, and
if before that you have not stripped off every rag you
have on and come forward to me here, by God I will
shoot you down like the dogs you are."

And with this I began solemnly to count aloud.

At first they were still rebellious, but fear of the
death which glinted to them from the barrels of the
pistols won the mastery.  Slowly and with vast
reluctance they began to disrobe themselves of belt and
equipments, of coat and jackboots, till they stood
before me in the mild spring air as stark as the day
they were born.  Their faces were heavy with malice
and shame.

"Now," said I to Nicol, "dismount and lay on
to these fellows with the flat of your sword.  Give
me your pistol, and if either makes resistance he will
know how a bullet tastes.  Lay on, and do not spare
them."

So Nicol, to whom the matter was a great jest, got
down and laid on lustily.  They shouted most piteously
for mercy, but none they got till the stout arm
of my servant was weary.

"And now, gentlemen, you may remount your
horses.  Nay, without your clothes; you will ride
more freely as you are.  And give my best respects
to your honourable friends, and tell them I wish a
speedy meeting."

But as I looked in the face of one, him who had
been so terror-stricken at the outset, I saw that which
I thought I recognised.

"You, fellow," I cried, "where have I seen
you before?"

And as I looked again, I remembered a night the
year before on the Alphen road, when I had stood
over this very man and questioned him on his name
and doings.  So he had come to Scotland as one of
the foreign troops.

"I know you, Jan Hamman," said I.  "The
great doctor Johannes Burnetus of Lugdunum has not
forgotten you.  You were scarcely in an honest trade
before, but you are in a vast deal less honest now.  I
vowed if ever I met you again to make you smart for
your sins, and I think I have kept my word, though
I had the discourtesy to forget your face at first sight.
Good morning, Jan, I hope to see you again ere long.
Good morning, gentlemen both."

So the luckless pair rode off homeward, and what
reception they met with from their captain and their
comrades who shall say?

Meanwhile, when they were gone for some little
time, Nicol and I rode back by a round-about path.
When I began to reflect, I saw the full rashness of
my action.  I had burned my boats behind me with
a vengeance.  There was no choice of courses before
me now.  The chase would be ten times hotter
against me than before, and besides I had given them
some clue to my whereabouts.  You may well ask
if the danger to my love were not equally great, for
that by this action they would know at least the airt
by which she had fled.  I would answer that these
men were of Gilbert's own company, and one, at
least, of them, when he heard my name, must have
had a shrewd guess as to who the lady was.  My
cousin's love affairs were no secret.  If the man had
revealed the tale in its entirety, his own action must
necessarily have been exposed, and God help him
who had insulted one whom Gilbert cared for.  He
would have flayed the skin from him at the very
mention.

To my sober reason to-day the action seems
foolhardy in the extreme, and more like a boyish frolic
than the work of a man.  But all I knew at the time,
as I rode back, was that my pride was for the moment
soothed, and my heart mightily comforted.





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.. _`OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF CLYDE`:

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   CHAPTER VIII

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   OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF CLYDE

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If there had been haste before in our journey there
was the more now, when in a few hours the countryside
would be alive with our foes.  I hurriedly considered
in my mind the course of events.  In three
hours' riding the soldiers, all stark as they were, would
come to Abington, and in three more the road to
Douglasdale would be blocked by a dozen companies.
It was no light thing thus to have set the whole hell's
byke in Clydesdale buzzing about my ears.

We were not long in reaching the cave.  Here to
my joy I found Marjory all recovered from her fright,
and the wound hurting her no more than a pin's
scratch.  When I spoke of immediate progress she
listened gladly and was for setting out forthwith.  I
did not tell her of the soldiers' discomfiture, for I
knew that she would fall to chiding me for my
foolhardiness, and besides she would have more dismal
fears for my future if she knew that I had thus
incensed the military against me.

It was with much regret that I bade farewell to
Master Lockhart and the old man; nor would they
let me go without a promise that if I found myself
hard pressed at any time in the days to come I would
take refuge with them.  I was moved by the sight of
the elder, who laying his hand on my lady's head,
stroked her fair golden hair gently and said, "Puir lass,
puir lass, ye're no for the muirs.  I foresee ill days
coming for ye when ye'll hae nae guid sword to
protect ye.  But lippen weel to the Lord, my bairn, and
He'll no forsake ye."  So amid the speaking of
farewells and well-wishes we rode out into the green
moors.

How shall I tell of that morning ride?  I have seen
very many days in April now, for I am a man aging
to middle life, but never have I seen one like that.
The sky was one sheet of the faintest blue, with
delicate white clouds blown lightly athwart it.  The air
was so light that it scarce stirred the grass, so cool that
it made our foreheads as crisp and free as on a frosty
winter's day, so mild that a man might have fancied
himself still in the Low Lands.  The place was very
quiet save for a few sounds and these the most
delectable on earth—the cries of sheep and the tender
bleating of young lambs, the rise and fall of the
stream, the croon of rock pigeons, and the sterner
notes of curlew and plover.  And the grass was short
and lawnlike, stretching in wavy ridges to the stream,
seamed with little rush-fringed rills and patched with
fields of heath.  Only when we gained the edge had
we any view of country, and even then it was but
circumscribed.  Steep fronting hills, all scarred with
ravines; beyond, shoulders and peaks rising ever into
the distance, and below us the little glen which holds
the head waters of Tweed.

We crossed the river without slacking rein, for the
water scarce reached above our horses' pasterns.  And
now we struck up a burn called the Badlieu, at the
foot of which was a herd's shieling.  The spirit of
the spring seemed to have clean possessed Marjory and
I had never seen her so gay.  All her past sorrows
and present difficulties seemed forgotten, and a mad
gaiety held her captive.  She, who was for usual so
demure, now cast her gravity to the winds, and seemed
bent on taking all the joys of the fair morning.  She
laughed, she sang snatches of old songs, and she
leaped her horse lightly over the moss-trenches.  She
stooped to pluck some early white wind-flowers, and
set some in her hair and some at her saddle-bow.

"Nay, John," she cried, "if you and I must
take to the hills let us do it with some gallantry.  It
is glorious to be abroad.  I would give twelve months
of sleepy peace at Dawyck for one hour of this life.
I think this must be the Garden of Perpetual Youth
in the fairy tale."

The same mad carelessness took hold on me also.
Of a sudden my outlook on the world changed round
to the opposite, and the black forebodings which had
been ever present to distress me, seemed to vanish like
dew before the sun.  Soon I was riding as gaily as she;
while Nicol, as he ran with great strides and unfaltering
breath, he too became light-hearted, though to tell the
truth care was not a commodity often found with him.

Soon we had climbed the low range which separates
the Clyde glen from the Tweed and turned down the
narrow ravine of the burn which I think they call
Fopperbeck, and which flows into the Evan Water.
Now it would have been both easier and quieter to
have ridden down the broad, low glen of the Medlock
Water, which flows into Clyde by the village of
Crawford.  But this would have brought us perilously
near the soldiers at Abington, and if once the pursuit
had begun every mile of distance would be worth to us
much gold.  Yet though the danger was so real I
could not think of it as any matter for sorrow, but
awaited what fate God might send with a serene
composure, begotten partly of my habitual rashness and
partly of the intoxication of the morn.

We kept over the rocky ravine through which the
little river Evan flows to Annan, and came to the
wide moorlands which stretch about the upper streams
of Clyde.  Here we had a great prospect of landscape,
and far as eye could see no living being but ourselves
moved in these desolate wastes.  Far down, just at
the mouth of the glen where the vale widens
somewhat, rose curling smoke from the hamlet of
Elvanfoot, a place soon to be much resorted to and briskly
busy, since, forbye lying on the highway 'twixt
Edinburgh and Dumfries, it is there that the by-path goes
off leading to the famous lead mines, at the two places
of Leadhills and Wanlockhead.  But now it was but
a miserable roadside clachan of some few low huts,
with fodder for neither man nor beast.

As we rode we looked well around us, for we were
in an exceeding dangerous part of our journey.  To
the right lay Abington and the lower Clyde valley,
where my sweet cousin and his men held goodly
fellowship.  Even now they would be buckling
saddle-straps, and in two hours would be in the places
through which we were now passing.  To the left
was the long pass into Nithsdale, where half a score
of gentlemen did their best to instil loyalty into the
Whigs of the hills.  I hated the land to that airt, for
I had ever loathed the south and west countries, where
there is naught but sour milk and long prayers without
a tincture of gentrice or letters.  I was a man of
Tweeddale who had travelled and studied and mingled
among men.  I had no grudge against sheltering with
the Tweedside rebels, who were indeed of my own
folk; but I had no stomach for Nithsdale and
Clydesdale rant and ill fare.  Had not necessity driven me
there I vow I should never have ventured of myself;
and as I rode I swore oftentimes that once I were free
of my errand I would seek my refuge in my own
countryside.

And now we were climbing the long range which
flanks the Potrail Water, which is the larger of the
twin feeders of Clyde.  Now we turned more to the
north, and skirting the wild hills which frown around
the pass of Enterkin, sought the upper streams of the
Duneaton Water.  I cannot call to mind all the burns
we crossed or the hills we climbed, though they have
all been told to me many a time and again.  One little
burn I remember called the Snar, which flowed very
quietly and pleasantly in a deep, heathery glen.  Here
we halted and suffered our horses to graze, while we
partook of some of the food which the folk of the
Cor Water had sent with us.  Now the way which
we had come had brought us within seven miles of the
dragoons' quarters at Abington, for it was necessary
to pass near them to get to Douglasdale and
Smitwood.  But they had no clue to our whereabouts, and
when they set forth against us must needs ride first
to the Tweed valley.

Here in this narrow glen we were in no danger save
from some chance wandering soldier.  But this
danger was the less to be feared, since if Gilbert had any
large portion of his men out on one errand he would
be sure to set the rest to their duties as garrison.  For
my cousin had no love for lax discipline, but had all
the family pride of ordering and being obeyed to the
letter.  So we kindled a little fire by the stream-side,
and in the ashes roasted some eggs of a muirfowl
which Nicol had picked up on the journey; and which
with the cheese and the cakes we had brought made a
better meal than I might hope for for many days to
come.  We sat around the fire in the dry heather
'neath the genial sun, thanking God that we were
still alive in the green world and with few cares save
the frustrating of our foes.  Marjory was somewhat
less cheerful than in the morning, partly from the
fatigue of riding, which in these waste places is no
light thing, and partly because anxiety for my safety
and sorrow at our near parting were beginning to
oppress her.  For herself, I verily believe, she had no
care, for she was brave as a lion in the presence of
what most women tremble at.  But the loneliness
of a great house and the never-appeased desire for
knowledge of my safety were things which came
nearer so rapidly that I did not wonder she lost her
gaiety.

"Oh, what will you do alone in these places?" she
said.  "If you had but one with you, I should be
comforted.  Will you not let Nicol accompany you?"

Now when my lady looked at me with melting eyes
and twined her hands in her eagerness, it was hard to
have to deny her.  But I was resolved that my
servant should abide at Smitwood to guard her and bring
me tidings if aught evil threatened.

"Nay, dear," I said, "that may not be.  I
cannot have you left with an old man who is helpless
with age and a crew of hireling servants.  I should
have no heart to live in the moors if I had not some
hope of your safety.  Believe me, dear, I can very
well defend myself.  My skill of hillcraft is as good
as any dragoon's, and I have heard folk say that I
am no ill hand with a sword.  And I know the
countryside like the palm of my own hand, and friends are
not few among these green glens.  Trust me, no ill
will come near me, and our meeting will be all the
merrier for our parting."

I spoke heartily, but in truth I was far from feeling
such ease of mind.  For my old cursed pride was
coming back, and I was beginning to chafe against the
beggarly trade of skulking among the moors when I had a
fine heritage for my own, and above all when I was a
scholar and had thoughts of a peaceful life.  I found
it hard to reconcile my dream of a philosophic life
wherein all things should be ordered according to
the dictates of reason, with the rough and ready times
which awaited me, when my sword must keep my
head, and my first thought must be of meat and
lodging, and cunning and boldness would be qualities
more valuable than subtle speculation and lofty
imagining.

In a little we were rested and rode on our way.
Across the great moors of Crawfordjohn we passed,
which is a place so lonely that the men in these parts
have a proverb, "Out of the world and into
Crawfordjohn."  We still kept the uplands till we came
to the springs of a burn called the Glespin, which
flows into the Douglas Water.  Our easier path had
lain down by the side of this stream past the little
town of Douglas.  But in the town was a garrison of
soldiers—small, to be sure, and feeble, but still
there—who were used to harry the moors around Cairntable
and Muirkirk.  So we kept the ridges till below
us we saw the river winding close to the hill and the
tower of Smitwood looking out of its grove of trees.
By this time darkness was at hand, and the last miles
of our journey were among darkening shadows.  We
had little fear of capture now, for we were on the
lands of the castle, and Veitch of Smitwood was famed
over all the land for a cavalier and a most loyal
gentleman.  So in quiet and meditation we crossed the
stream at the ford, and silently rode up the long
avenue to the dwelling.





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.. _`I PART FROM MARJORY`:

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   CHAPTER IX

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   I PART FROM MARJORY

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"I've travelled far and seen many things, but,
Gad, I never saw a stranger than this.  My niece is
driven out of house and home by an overbold lover,
and you, Master Burnet, come here and bid me take
over the keeping of this firebrand, which, it seems, is
so obnoxious to His Majesty's lieges."

So spake the old laird of Smitwood, smiling.  He
was a man of full eighty years of age, but still erect
with a kind of soldierly bearing.  He was thin and
tall, and primly dressed in the fashion of an elder day.
The frosty winter of age had come upon him, but in
his ruddy cheek and clean-cut face one could see the
signs of a hale and vigorous decline.  He had greeted
us most hospitably, and seemed hugely glad to see
Marjory again, whom he had not set eyes on for many
a day.  We had fallen to supper with keen appetite,
for the air of the moors stirs up the sharpest hunger;
and now that we had finished we sat around the
hall-fire enjoying our few remaining hours of company
together.  For myself I relished the good fare and the
warmth, for Heaven knew when either would be mine
again.  The high oak-roofed chamber, hung with
portraits of Veitches many, was ruddy with fire-light.
Especially the picture in front of the chimney by
Vandyke, of that Michael Veitch who died at
Philiphaugh, was extraordinarily clear and lifelike.
Master Veitch looked often toward it; then he took snuff
with a great air of deliberation, and spoke in his high,
kindly old voice.

"My brother seems well to-night, Marjory.  I
have not seen him look so cheerful for years."  (He
had acquired during his solitary life the habit of talking
to the picture as if it were some living thing.)  "I
can never forgive the Fleming for making Michael
hold his blade in so awkward a fashion.  Faith, he
would have been little the swordsman he was, if he
had ever handled sword like that.  I can well
remember when I was with him at Etzburg, how he engaged
in a corner two Hollanders and a Swiss guard, and
beat them back till I came up with him and took one
off his hands."

"I have heard of that exploit," said I.  "You
must know that I have just come from the Low
Countries, where the names of both of you are still
often on men's lips."

The old man seemed well pleased.

"Ah," he said, "so you have come from abroad.
In what place did you bide, may I enquire?"

"In the town of Leyden," said I, "for my aim
was no more than to acquire learning at the college
there.  But I foregathered with many excellent Scots
gentlemen from whom I heard the talk of the camp
and the state."

"Say you so?  Then what do you here?  Did
you return on the single errand of protecting my fair
niece?  But stay!  I am an old man who cares not
much for the chatter of the country, but I have
heard—or am I wrong?—that you were not of the true
party, but leaned to the Whigs?"

"Nay," I cried, "I beseech you not to believe
it.  God knows I am a king's man out and out,
and would see all whigamores in perdition before I
would join with them.  But fate has brought me into
a strange mixture of misfortunes.  I land at Leith,
expecting nothing save a peaceful homecoming, and
lo!  I find my cousin waiting with a warrant for
my arrest.  I am accused of something I am wholly
innocent of, but I cannot prove it; nay, there is
evidence against me, and my enemies in the Council
are all-powerful.  Moreover, if I suffer myself to be
taken, Marjory is at the mercy of my foes.  I take
the only course; give the dragoons the slip, and ride
straight to Tweeddale, escort her to a house where
she will be safe and unknown; and when this is done
take to the hills myself with a light heart.  They are
too ill-set against me for my setting any hope in going
to Edinburgh and pleading my case.  Was there any
other way?"

"None," said Master Veitch, "but it is a hard
case for yourself.  Not the hiding among the moors;
this is a noble trade for any young man of spirit.  But
the consorting with the vile fanatics of these deserts
must go sore against your heart."

Now I, who had just come from the folk of the
Cor Water, had no such dread of the hillmen, but I
forebore to say it.  For Master Veitch had been
brought up in one school, those men in another.  Both
were blind to the other's excellencies; both were
leal-hearted men in their own ways.  It is a strange
providence that has so ordered it that the best men in the
world must ever remain apart through misunderstanding.

"But to come to my errand," said I.  "I have
brought you your niece for protection.  You are a
king's man, a soldier, and well known in the
countryside.  It is more than unlikely that any troops will
come nigh you.  Nor is it possible that the maid can
be traced hither.  I ask that you suffer her to abide
in the house, while I take myself off that there be the
less danger.  And O, I beseech you, do not refuse
me.  She is your own flesh and blood.  You cannot
deny her shelter."

The old man's face darkened.  "You take me for
a strange kinsman, Master Burnet," he said, "if
you think I would refuse my best aid to a kinswoman
in distress.  Do you think that you are the sole
protector of my house?"

I bowed before his deserved rebuke.

"But for certain.  Marjory may abide here as long
as she will," he added cheerfully.  "We will do our
best to entertain her, though I am too old to
remember well the likings of girls.  And if anyone comes
seeking her on errand of no good, by God, he will
learn that William Veitch has not lost the use of his arm.

"May I ask," said I, "that my servant be allowed
to stay?  He knows the hills as scarce any other
living man, he is faithful, and clever as you would
hardly believe were I to tell you.  With him in the
house I should have no fear for its safety."

"So be it," said the old man; "I will not deny
that my servants are not so numerous nor so active that
another would not be something of an improvement.
Has he any skill in cooking?"  This he asked in
a shamefaced tone, for old as he was he had not lost
his relish for good fare.

"I will ask him," said I, and I called Nicol from
the servants' quarters.

"Your master gives me a good account of you,"
said the cracked voice of the laird of Smitwood, "and
I would fain hope it true.  I wished to interrogate
you about—ah, your powers—ah, of cooking pleasing
dishes," and he waved his hand deprecatingly.

"Oh, your honour, I am ready for a' thing," said
Nicol.  "Sheep's heid, singit to a thocht, cockyleeky
and a' kind o' soup, mutton in half a dozen different
ways, no to speak o' sic trifles as confections.  I can
cook ye the flesh o' the red deer and the troots frae the
burn, forbye haggis and brose, partan pies and rizzard
haddies, crappit-heids and scate-rumpies, nowt's feet,
kebbucks, scadlips, and skink.  Then I can wark wi'
custocks and carlings, rifarts, and syboes, farles, fadges,
and bannocks, drammock, brochan, and powsowdie."

"That will do, you may go," said the old man,
rubbing his hands with glee.  "By my word, a
genuine Scots gastronome, skilled in the ancient dishes of
the land.  I anticipate a pleasing time while he bides
here."

It was long ere the worthy gentleman could get
over his delight in the project of my servant's
presence.  Even after he had gone he sat and chuckled to
himself, for he was known among his friends to have a
fine taste for dainties.  Meantime, the light was dying
out of doors, and more logs were laid on the fire, till it
crackled and leaped like a live thing.  I have ever
loved the light of a wood-fire, for there is no more
heartsome thing on earth than its cheerful crackle
when one comes in from shooting on the hills in the
darkening of a winter's day.  Now I revelled in the
comfort of it, since on the morrow I would have no
other cheer than a flaming sunset.

So we sat around the hearth and talked of many
things till the evening was late.  The old man fell to
the memories of former folk, and told us tales of our
forbears as would have made them turn in their graves
could they have heard them.  Of my house he had
scarce a good word to speak, averring that they were
all 'scape-the-gallows every one, but gallant fellows in
their way.  "There was never a Burnet," he cried,
"who would scruple to stick a man who doubted his
word, or who would not ride a hundred miles to aid a
friend.  There were no lads like the Burnets in all the
countryside for dicing and feasting and riding
breakneck on the devil's errand.  But, Gad, if they were
stubborn as bulls when they were down themselves,
they were as tender as women to folk in trouble."

"There's one of their name like to be in trouble
for many days to come," said I.

"Meaning yourself?  Well, it will do you no ill.
There's naught better for a young man than to find
out how little the world cares whether he be dead or
alive.  And, above all, you that pretend to be a
scholar, it will ding some of the fine-spun fancies
out of your head.  But for the Lord's sake, laddie,
dinna get a bullet in your skull or you'll have me with
all my years taking the field to pay back them that
did it."  He spoke this so kindly that I was moved
to forget the first half of his words through the
excellency of the second.  In truth I much needed the
rough lessons of hardship and penury, for at that time
I was much puffed up in a self-conceit and a certain
pride of letters as foolish as it was baseless.

"I must be off in the morning before the dawning,
for I have to be on the hills ere the soldiers get abroad.
I must beg of you not to disturb yourself, Master
Veitch, for my sake, but just to bid them make ready
for me some provisions; and I will slip off ere the
household be awake.  It is better to say farewell now
than to have many sad leave-takings at the moment
of departure.  I have no fear of my journey, for my
legs are as good as any man's and I can make my
hands keep my head.  Also, my mind is easy since I
know that Marjory is safe here."

"Then I will even bid you good-bye, John,"
said he, "for I am an old man and keep early hours.
If you will follow me I will take you to your
chamber.  Alison will take you to the old room, Marjory,
where you have not been since you were a little lass
scarce up to my knee."  And with obvious intent
he walked out.

"God keep you, John," my dear lass whispered
on my shoulder.  "I will never cease to think of
you.  Ana oh, be not long in coming back."

And this was the last I saw of my lady for many days.





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.. _`OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE AND THE ENCOUNTER IN THE GREEN CLEUCH`:

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   CHAPTER X
   
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   OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE AND THE
   ENCOUNTER IN THE GREEN CLEUCH

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I promise you I slept little that night, and it was
with a heavy heart that I rose betimes and dressed in
the chill of the morning.  There was no one awake,
and I left the house unobserved, whistling softly to
keep up my spirits.

Just without, someone came behind me and cried
my name.  I turned round sharply, and there was
my servant Nicol, slinking after me for all the world
like a collie-dog which its master has left at home.

"What do you want with me?" I cried.

"Naething," he groaned sadly.  "I just wantit
to see ye afore ye gaed.  I am awfu' feared, sir, for
you gaun awa' yoursel'.  If it werena for Mistress
Marjory, it wad be a deal mair than your word wad
keep me frae your side.  But I cam to see if there
was nae way o' gettin' word o' ye.  My leddy will
soon turn dowie, gin she gets nae sough o' your
whereabouts.  Ye'd better tell me where I can get
some kind o' a letter."

"Well minded!" I cried.  "You know the
cairn on the backside of Caerdon just above the
rising of Kilbucho Burn.  This day three weeks I will
leave a letter for your mistress beneath the stones,
which you must fetch and give her.  And if I am safe
and well every three weeks it will be the same.
Good day to you, Nicol, and see you look well to the
charge I have committed to you."

"Guid day to you, sir," he said, and I protest that
the honest fellow had tears in his eyes; and when I
had gone on maybe half a mile and looked back, he
was still standing like a stone in the same spot.

At first I was somewhat depressed in my mind.
It is a hard thing thus to part from one's mistress
when the air is thick with perils to both.  So as I
tramped through the meadows and leaped the brooks,
it was with a sad heart, and my whole mind was taken
up in conjuring back the pleasant hours I had spent in
my lady's company, the old frolics in the wood of
Dawyck, the beginnings of our love-making, even the
ride hither from the Cor Water.  Yesterday, I
reflected, she was with me here; now I am alone and
like to be so for long.  Then I fell to cursing
myself for a fool, and went on my way with a better
heart.

But it was not till I had crossed the wide stream
of the Douglas Water and begun to ascend the hills,
that I wholly recovered my composure.  Before, I
had been straggling in low meadows which do not
suit my temper, since I am above all things hill-bred
and a lover of dark mountains.  So now on the crisp
spring grass of the slopes my spirits rose.  Was not I
young and strong and skilled in the accomplishments
of a man?  The world was before me—that wide,
undiscovered world which had always attracted the more
heroic spirits.  What hardship was there to live a free
life among the hills, under the sunshine and the wind,
the clouds and the blue sky?

But my delight could never be unmixed though I
tried.  After all, was I free?  I felt of a sudden that
I was not one half equipped for a gipsy, adventurous
life.  I was tied down to custom and place with too
many ties.  I came of a line of landed gentlemen.
The taint of possession, of mastery and lordship over
men and land, was strong in me.  I could not bring
me to think of myself as a kinless and kithless
vagabond, having no sure place of abode.  Then my love
of letters, my learning, my philosophy, bound me
down with indissoluble bands.  To have acquired a
taste for such things was to have unfitted myself for
ever for the life of careless vagabondage.  Above all
there was my love; and ever, as I went on, my thoughts
came home from their aërial flights and settled more
and more in a little room in a house in a very little
portion of God's universe.  And more and more I
felt myself a slave to beloved tyrants, and yet would
not have been free if I could.

It was always thus with me when alone: I must
fall to moralising and self-communing.  Still perhaps
the master feeling in my mind was one of curiosity
and lightheartedness.  So I whistled, as I went, all
the old tunes of my boyhood which I was wont to
whistle when I went out to the hills with my rod and
gun, and stepped briskly over the short heather, and
snapped my fingers in the face of the world.

Now I dared not go back to Tweeddale by the way by
which I had come, for the Clyde valley above
Abington would be a hunting-ground of dragoons for many
days.  There was nothing for it but to make for the
lower waters, ford the river above Coulter, and then
come to Tweeddale in the lower parts, and thence
make my way to the Water of Cor.  Even this course
was not without its dangers; for the lower glen of
Tweed was around Dawyck and Barns, and this was
the very part of all the land the most perilous to me
at the moment.  To add to this, I was well at home
among the wilder hills; but it was little I knew of
Clydesdale below Abington, till you come to the town
of Lanark.  This may at first seem a trifling
misfortune, but in my present case it was a very great one.
For unless a man knows every house and the character
of its inmates he is like to be in an ill way if close
watched and threatened.  However, I dreaded this
the less, and looked for my troubles mainly after I
had once entered my own lands in Tweeddale.

At the time when the sun rose I was on a long hill
called Craigcraw, which hangs at the edge of the
narrow crack in the hills through which goes the
bridle-road from Lanark to Moffat.  I thought it scarce
worth my while to be wandering aimlessly among
mosses and craigs when something very like a road lay
beneath me; so I made haste to get down and ease
my limbs with the level way.  It was but a narrow
strip of grass, running across the darker heath, and
coiling in front like a green ribbon through nick or
scaur or along the broad brae-face.

Soon I came to the small, roofless shieling of Redshaw,
where aforetime lived a villain of rare notoriety,
with whose name, "Redshaw Jock," Jean Morran
embittered my childhood.  I thought of all these
old pleasing days, as I passed the bare rickle of stones
in the crook of the burn.  Here I turned from the
path, for I had no desire to go to Abington, and
struck up a narrow howe in the hills, which from
the direction I guessed must lead to the lower Clyde.
It was a lonesome place as ever I have seen.  The
spring sunshine only made the utter desolation the
more apparent and oppressive.  Afar on the hillside,
by a clump of rowan trees, I saw the herd's house of
Wildshaw, well named in its remote solitude.  But
soon I had come to the head of the burn and mounted
the flat tableland, and in a little came to the decline
on the other side, and entered the glen of the
Roberton Burn.

Here it was about the time of noon, and I halted
to eat my midday meal.  I know not whether if was
the long walk and the rough scrambling, or the clean,
fresh spring air, or the bright sunshine, or the clear
tinkle of the burn at my feet, or the sense of freedom
and adventurous romance, but I have rarely eaten a
meal with such serene satisfaction.  All this
extraordinary day I had been alternating between excessive
gaiety and sad regrets.  Now the former element had
the mastery, and I was as hilarious as a young horse
when he is first led out to pasture.

And after a little as I sat there my mirth grew into
a sober joy.  I remembered all the poets who had
sung of the delights of the open air and the
unshackled life.  I laughed at my former feeling of shame
in the matter.  Was there any ignominy in being
driven from the baseness of settled habitation to live
like a prince under God's sky?  And yet, as I exulted
in the thought, I knew all too well that in a little
my feelings would have changed and I would be in
the depths of despondency.

In less than an hour I had turned a corner of hill
and there before me lay the noble strath of Clyde.
I am Tweedside born and will own no allegiance save
to my own fair river, but I will grant that next to
it there is none fairer than the upper Clyde.  Were
it not that in its lower course it flows through that
weariful west country among the dull whigamores and
Glasgow traders, it would be near as dear to me as
my own well-loved Tweed.  There it lay, glittering
in light, and yellow with that strange yellow glow
that comes on April waters.  The little scrubs of
wood were scarce seen, the few houses were not in
the picture; nothing caught the eye save the giant
mouldings of the hills, the severe barren vale, and
the sinuous path of the stream.

I crossed it without any mishap, wading easily
through at one of the shallows.  There was no one
in sight, no smoke from any dwelling; all was as still
as if it were a valley of the dead.  Only from the
upper air the larks were singing, and the melancholy
peewits cried ever over the lower moorlands.  From
this place my course was clear; I went up the prattling
Wandel Burn, from where it entered the river, and
soon I was once more lost in the windings of the dark
hills.  There is a narrow bridle-path which follows
the burn, leading from Broughton in Tweeddale to
Abington, so the way was easier walking.

And now I come to the relation of one of the
strangest adventures of this time, which as often as
I think upon it fills me with delight.  For it was a
ray of amusement in the perils and hardships of my
wanderings.

A mile or more up this stream, just before the path
begins to leave the waterside and strike towards the
highlands, there is a little green cleuch, very fair and
mossy, where the hills on either side come close and
the glen narrows down to half a hundred yards.
When I came to this place I halted for maybe a
minute to drink at a pool in the rocks, for I was
weary with my long wanderings.

A noise in front made me lift my head suddenly
and stare before me.  And there riding down the
path to meet me was a man.  His horse seemed to
have come far, for it hung its head as if from
weariness and stumbled often.  He himself seemed to be
looking all around him and humming some blithe tune.
He was not yet aware of my presence, for he rode
negligently, like one who fancies himself alone.  As
he came nearer I marked him more clearly.  He was
a man of much my own height, with a shaven chin
and a moustachio on his upper lip.  He carried no
weapons save one long basket-handled sword at his
belt.  His face appeared to be a network of scars;
but the most noteworthy thing was that he had but
one eye, which glowed bright from beneath bushy
brows.  Here, said I to myself, is a man of many
battles.

In a moment he caught my eye, and halted abruptly
not six paces away.  He looked at me quietly for
some seconds, while his horse, which was a spavined,
broken-winded animal at best, began to crop the grass.
But if his mount was poor, his dress was of the richest
and costliest, and much gold seemed to glisten from
his person.

"Good day, sir," said he very courteously.  "A
fellow-traveller, I perceive."  By this time I had
lost all doubt, for I saw that the man was no dragoon,
but of gentle birth by his bearing.  So I answered him
readily.

"I little expected to meet any man in this deserted
spot, least of all a mounted traveller.  How did you
come over these hills, which if I mind right are of the
roughest?"

"Ah," he said, "my horse and I have done queer
things before this," and he fell to humming a
fragment of a French song, while his eye wandered
eagerly to my side.

Suddenly he asked abruptly: "Sir, do you know
aught of sword-play?"

I answered in the same fashion that I was skilled
in the rudiments.

He sprang from his horse in a trice and was
coming towards me.

"Thank God," he cried earnestly, "thank God.
Here have I been thirsting for days to feel a blade in
my hands, and devil a gentleman have I met.  I
thank you a thousand times, sir, for your kindness.
I beseech you to draw."

"But," I stammered, "I have no quarrel with you."

He looked very grieved.  "True, if you put it in
that way.  But that is naught between gentlemen,
who love ever to be testing each other's prowess.
You will not deny me?"

"Nay," I said, "I will not," for I began to see
his meaning, and I stripped to my shirt and, taking up
my sword, confronted him.

So there in that quiet cleuch we set to with might
and main, with vast rivalry but with no malice.  We
were far too skilled to butcher one another like
common rufflers.  Blow was given and met, point was
taken and parried, all with much loving kindness.  But
I had not been two minutes at the work when I found
I was in the hands of a master.  The great conceit
of my play which I have always had ebbed away little
by little.  The man before me was fencing easily with
no display, but every cut came near to breaking my
guard, and every thrust to overcoming my defence.
His incomprehensible right eye twinkled merrily, and
discomposed my mind, and gave me no chance of
reading his intentions.  It is needless to say more.  The
contest lasted scarce eight minutes.  Then I made a
head-cut which he guarded skilfully, and when on the
return my blade hung more loose in my hand he smote
so surely and well that, being struck near the hilt, it
flew from my hand and fell in the burn.

He flung down his weapon and shook me warmly
by the hand.

"Ah, now I feel better," said he.  "I need
something of this sort every little while to put me in a
good humour with the world.  And, sir, let me
compliment you on your appearance.  Most admirable,
most creditable!  But oh, am I not a master in the
craft?"

So with friendly adieux we parted.  We had never
asked each other's name and knew naught of each
other's condition, but that single good-natured contest
had made us friends; and if ever I see that one-eyed
man again in life I shall embrace him like a brother.
For myself, at that moment, I felt on terms of
good-comradeship with all, and pursued my way in a settled
cheerfulness.





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.. _`HOW A MILLER STROVE WITH HIS OWN MILL-WHEEL`:

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   CHAPTER XI

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   HOW A MILLER STROVE WITH HIS OWN MILL-WHEEL

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I lay that night on the bare moors, with no company
save the birds, and no covering save a dry bush of
heather.  The stars twinkled a myriad miles away,
and the night airs blew soft, and I woke in the
morning as fresh as if I had lain beneath the finest
coverlet on the best of linen.  Near me was a great
pool in a burn, and there I bathed, splashing to my
heart's content in the cold water.  Then I ate my
breakfast, which was no better than the remnants of
the food I had brought away with me the day before
from Smitwood; but I gulped it down heartily and
hoped for something better.  There will be so much
complaining, I fear, in my tale ere it is done, that I
think it well to put down all my praise of the place
and the hours which passed pleasingly.

By this time I was on a little plateau, near the
great black hill of Coomb Dod, a place whence three
streams flow—the Camps Water and the Coulter
Water to the Clyde, and the burn of Kingledoors to
Tweed.  Now here had I been wise I should at once
have gone down the last-named to the upper waters
of Tweed near the village of Tweedsmuir, whence I
might have come without danger to the wilder hills
and the Cor Water hiding-place.  But as I stayed
there desire came violently upon me to go down to
the fair green haughlands about the Holmes Water,
which is a stream which rises not far off the
Kingledoors burn, but which flows more to the north and
enters Tweed in the strath of Drummelzier not above
a few miles from Barns itself and almost at the door
of Dawyck.  There I knew was the greater danger,
because it lay on the straight line between Abington
and Peebles, a way my cousin Gilbert travelled often
in those days.  But I was not disposed at that
moment to think of gradations of danger; and indeed,
after my encounter on the previous afternoon, I was
in a haphazard, roystering mood, and would have asked
for nothing better than a chance of making holes in my
cousin or his company.

Now in Holmes Water glen there dwelled many
who would receive me gladly and give me shelter and
food if I sought it.  There were the Tweedies of
Quarter and Glencotho, kin to myself on the mother's
side, not to speak of a score of herds whom I had
dealings with.  But my uppermost reason was to see
once more that lovely vale, the fairest, unless it be
the Manor, in all the world.  It is scarce six miles
long, wide at the bottom and set with trees and rich
with meadows and cornland, but narrowing above to
a long, sinuous green cleft between steep hills.  And
through it flows the clearest water on earth, wherein
dwell the best trout—or did dwell, for, as I write, I
have not angled in it for many days.  I know not
how I can tell of the Holmes Water.  It tumbles
clear and tremulous into dark brown pools.  In the
shallows it is like sunlight, in the falls like virgin snow.
And overall the place hangs a feeling of pastoral quiet
and old romance, such as I never knew elsewhere.

Midday found me in the nick of the hill above
Glencotho debating on my after course.  I had it in
my mind to go boldly in and demand aid from my
kinsman.  But I reflected that matters were not
over-pleasant between us at the time.  My father had
mortally offended him on some occasion (it would be
hard to name the Tweedside gentleman whom my
father had not mortally angered), and I could scarce
remember having heard that the quarrel had been made
up.  I knew that in any case if I entered they would
receive me well for the honour of the name; but I am
proud, and like little to go to a place where I am not
heartily welcome.  So I resolved to go to Francie
Smails, the herd's, and from him get direction and
provender.

The hut was built in a little turn of the water
beneath a high bank.  I knocked at the door, not
knowing whether some soldier might not come to it,
for the dragoons were quartered everywhere.  But
no one came save Francie himself, a great, godly man
who lived alone, and cared not for priest or woman.
He cried aloud when he saw me.

"Come in by," he says, "come in quick; this
is nae safe place the noo."

And he pulled me in to the hearth, where his mid-day
meal was standing.  With great good-will he bade
me share it, and afterward, since he had heard already
of my case and had no need for enlightenment thereon,
he gave me his good counsel.

"Ye maunna bide a meenute here," he said.
"I'll pit up some cauld braxy and bread for ye, for
it's a' I have at this time o' year.  Ye maun get oot
o' the glen and aff to the hills wi' a' your pith, for
some o' Maister Gilbert's men passed this morn on
their way to Barns, and they'll be coming back afore
nicht.  So ye maun be aff, and I counsel ye to tak
the taps o' the Wormel and syne cross the water abune
the Crook, and gang ower by Talla and Fruid to the
Cor.  Keep awa' frae the Clyde hills for ony sake, for
they're lookit like my ain hill i' the lambin' time;
and though it's maybe safer there for ye the noo, in a
wee it'll be het eneuch.  But what are ye gaun to
dae?  Ye'll be makkin' a try to win ower the sea, for
ye canna skip aboot on thae hills like a paitrick for
ever.

"I do not know," said I; "I have little liking
for another sea journey, unless all else is hopeless.  I
will bide in the hills as long as I can, and I cannot
think that the need will be long.  For I have an
inkling, and others beside me, that queer things will
soon happen."

"Guid send they dae," said he, and I bade him
good-bye.  I watched him striding off to the hill, and
marvelled at the life ne led.  Living from one year's
end to another on the barest fare, toiling hard on the
barren steeps for a little wage, and withal searching his
heart on his long rounds by the canon of the book of
God.  A strange life and a hard, yet no man knows
what peace may come out of loneliness.

Now had I taken his advice I should have been
saved one of the most vexatious and hazardous
episodes of my life.  But I was ever self-willed, and so,
my mind being set on going down the Holmes vale,
I thought nothing of going near the Wormel, but set
off down the bridle way, as if I were a King's privy
councillor and not a branded exile.

I kept by the stream till patches of fields began to
appear and the roofs of the little clachan.  Then I
struck higher up on the hillside and kept well in the
shade of a little cloud of birk trees which lay along the
edge of the slope.  It was a glorious sunny day, such
as I scarce ever saw surpassed, though I have seen many
weathers under many skies.  The air was as still and
cool as the first breath of morning, though now it was
mid-afternoon.  All the nearer hills stood out clear-lined
and silent; a bird sang in the nigh thicket; sheep
bleated from the meadow, and around the place hung
the low rustle of the life of the woods.

Soon I came to a spot above the bend of the water
near the house called Holmes Mill.  There dwelt my
very good friend the miller, a man blessed with as
choice a taste in dogs as ever I have seen, and a great
Whig to boot—both of which tricks he learned from a
Westland grandfather.  Lockhart was his name, and
his folk came from the Lee near the town of Lanark to
this green Tweedside vale.  From the steading came
the sound of life.  There was a great rush of water
out of the dam.  Clearly the miller was preparing for
his afternoon's labours.  The wish took me strongly
to go down and see him, to feel the wholesome smell
of grinding corn, and above all to taste his cakes,
which I had loved of old.  So without thinking more
of it, and in utter contempt for the shepherd's
warning, I scrambled down, forded the water, and made my
way to the house.

Clearly something was going on at the mill, and
whatever it was there was a great to-do.  Sounds of
voices came clear to me from the mill-door, and the
rush of the water sang ever in my ears.  The miller
has summoned his family to help him, thought I:
probably it is the lifting of the bags to the mill-loft.

But as I came nearer I perceived that it was not a
mere chatter of friendly tongues, but some serious
matter.  There was a jangling note, a sound as of a
quarrel and an appeal.  I judged it wise therefore to
keep well in the shadow of the wall and to go through
the byre and up to the loft by an old way which I
remembered—a place where one could see all that
passed without being seen of any.

And there sure enough was a sight to stagger me.
Some four soldiers with unstrung muskets stood in
the court, while their horses were tethered to a post.
Two held the unhappy miller in their stout grip, and
at the back his wife and children were standing in sore
grief.  I looked keenly at the troopers, and as I looked
I remembered all too late the shepherd's words.  They
were part of my cousin's company, and one I
recognised as my old friend Jan Hamman of the Alphen
Road and the Cor Water.

The foremost of the soldiers was speaking.

"Whig though you be," said he "you shall hae
a chance of life.  You look a man o' muscle.  I'll
tell you what I'll dae.  Turn on the sluice and set
the mill-wheel gaun, and then haud on to it; and if
you can keep it back, your life you shall hae, as sure
as my name's Tam Gordon.  But gin you let it gang,
there'll be four bullets in you afore you're an hour
aulder, and a speedy meeting wi' your Maker.  Do
you wish to mak the trial?"

Now the task was hopeless from the commencement,
for big though a man be, and the miller was as broad
and high a man as one may see in Tweeddale, he has
no chance against a mill-race.  But whether he
thought the thing possible or whether he wanted to
gain a few minutes' respite from death, the man
accepted and took off his coat to the task.  He opened
the sluice and went forward to the wheel.

Soon the water broke over with a rush and the miller
gripped a spoke like grim death.  For a moment the
thing was easy, for it takes some minutes for the
water to gather body and force.  But in a little it
became harder, and the sinews on his bare arms began
to swell with the strain.  But still he held on valiantly
and the wheel moved never an inch.  Soon the sweat
began to run over his face, and the spray from the
resisted water bespattered him plentifully.  Then the
strain became terrible.  His face grew livid as the
blood surged to his head, his eyeballs stood out, and
his arms seemed like to be torn from their sockets.
The soldiers, with the spirit of cruel children, had
forgot their weapons, and crowded round the wheel
to see the sport.

I saw clearly that he could not hold out much
longer, and that unless I wanted to see a friend
butchered before my eyes I had better be up and doing.  We
were two resolute men; I armed and with considerable
skill of the sword, he unarmed, but with the strength
of a bull.  The most dangerous things about our
opponents were their weapons.  Could I but get between
them and their muskets we could make a fight for it yet.

Suddenly as I looked the man failed.  With a sob
of weariness he loosed his hold.  The great wheel
caught the stream and moved slowly round, and he
almost fell along with it.  His tormentors laughed
cruelly, and were about to seize him and turn back,
when I leaped from the loft window like some bolt
from a clear sky.

My head was in a whirl and I had no thought of
any plan.  I only knew that I must make the venture
at any cost, or else be branded in my soul as a
coward till my dying day.

I fell and scrambled to my feet.

"Lockhart," I cried, "here man, here.  Run."

He had the sense to see my meaning.  Exhausted
though he was, he broke from his astonished captors,
and in a moment was beside me and the weapons.

As I looked on them I saw at a glance where our
salvation lay.

"Take these two," I said, pointing to the
muskets.  "I will take the others."

I cleared my throat and addressed the soldiers.
"Now, gentlemen," said I, "once more the fortune
of war has delivered you into my hands.  We, as
you perceive, command the weapons.  I beg your
permission to tell you that I am by no means a poor
shot with the musket, and likewise that I do not stick
at trifles, as doubtless my gallant friend Master
Hamman will tell you."

The men were struck dumb with surprise to find
themselves thus taken at a disadvantage.  They
whispered for a little among themselves.  Doubtless the
terrors of my prowess had been so magnified by the
victims in the last escapade to cover their shame that
I was regarded as a veritable Hector.

"Are you the Laird of Barns?" said the leader at
last, very politely.

I bowed.

"Then give us leave to tell you that we are nane
sae fond o' the Captain, your cousin," said he,
thinking to soothe me.

"So much the worse for my cousin," said I.

"Therefore we are disposed to let you gang free."

"I am obliged," said I, "but my cousin is my
cousin, and I tolerate no rebellion toward one so near
of blood.  I am therefore justified, gentlemen, in
using your own arms against you, since I have always
believed that traitors were shot."

At this they looked very glum.  At last one of
them spoke up—for after all they were men.

"If ye'll tak the pick o' ony yin o' us and stand up
to him wi' the sma'-sword, we'll agree to bide by the
result."

"I thank you," I said, "but I am not in the
mood for sword exercise.  However, I shall be
merciful, though that is a quality you have shown little of.
You shall have your horses to ride home on, but your
arms you shall leave with me as a pledge of your good
conduct.  Strip, gentlemen."

And strip they did, belt and buckler, pistol and
sword.  Then I bade them go, not without sundry
compliments as one by one they passed by me.
There were but four of them, and we had all the
arms, so the contest was scarcely equal.  Indeed my
heart smote me more than once that I had not
accepted the fellow's offer to fight.  The leader spoke
up boldly to my face.

"You've gotten the better o' us the noo, but it'll
no be long afore you're gettin' your kail through the
reek, Master John Burnet."

At which I laughed and said 'twas a truth I could
not deny.





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.. _`I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING`:

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   CHAPTER XII

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   I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING

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They had scarce been five minutes gone when the
full folly of my action dawned upon me.  To be sure
I had saved the miller from death, but I had now put
my own neck in the noose.  I had given them a clue
to my whereabouts: more, I had brought the hunt
down on lower Tweeddale, which before had been left
all but unmolested.  It was war to the knife.  I could
look for no quarter, and my only chance lay in
outstripping my pursuers.  The dragoons dared not return
immediately, for four unarmed soldiers would scarcely
face two resolute men, fully armed and strongly
posted.  They could only ride to Abington, and bring
the whole hornets' nest down on my head.

Another reflection had been given to me by the
sight of these men.  In all likelihood Gilbert had
now returned and resumed the chief command of the
troop, for otherwise there would have been no
meaning in the journey to Dawyck and lower Tweeddale
which these fellows had taken.  And now that my
dear cousin had come back I might look for action.
There was now no more any question of foolish and
sluggish soldiery to elude, but a man of experience
and, as I knew well, of unmatched subtlety.

The miller was for thanking me on his knees for my
timely succour, but I cut him short.  "There is no
time," said I, "for long thanks.  You must take
to the hills, and if you follow my advice you will hold
over to the westlands where your friends are, and so
keep the pursuit from Tweeddale, which little
deserves it.  As for myself, I will go up the Wormel,
and hide among the scrogs of birk till evening.  For
the hills are too bare and the light too clear to travel
by day.  To be kenspeckle in these times is a
doubtful advantage."

So without more ado I took myself off, crossed the
fields with great caution, and going up a little glen in
the side of the big hill, found a very secure hiding-place
in the lee of a craig among a tangle of hazel bushes.
I had taken some food with me from the mill to
provision me during my night journey, and now I used
a little of it for my afternoon meal.  In this place I
lay all the pleasant hours after midday till I saw the
shadows lengthen and the sun flaming to its setting
over the back of Caerdon.  Then the cool spring
darkness came down on the earth, and I rose and
shook myself and set out on my way.

I shall ever remember that long night walk over
hill and dale to the Cor Water for many reasons.
First, from the exceeding beauty of the night, which
was sharp and yet not cold, with a sky glittering
with stars, and thin trails of mist on the uplands.
Second, from the exceeding roughness of the way,
which at this season of the year makes the hills hard
for walking on.  The frost and snow loosen the rocks,
and there are wide stretches of loose shingle, which
is an accursed thing to pass over.  Third, and above
all, for the utter fatigue into which I fell just past the
crossing of Talla.  The way was over the Wormel
and the Logan Burn hills as far as Kingledoors.
There I forded Tweed and struck over the low ridge
to Talla Water.  Thence the way was straight, and
much the same as that which I had come with
Marjory.  But now I had no such dear escort, and I give
my word that my limbs ached and my head swam
oftentimes ere I reached my journey's end.

It was early dawning when I crossed the last ridge
and entered the Cor Water valley.  There was no sign
of life in that quiet green glen, a thing that seemed
eerie when one thought that somewhere in the hill in
front men were dwelling.  I found that short as had
been my absence I had almost forgotten the entrance
to the cave, and it was not without difficulty that I
made out the narrow aperture in the slate-grey rock,
and entered.

In the first chamber all was dark, which struck me
with astonishment, since at five o'clock on a good
spring day folk should be stirring.  But all was still,
and it was not till I had come into the second chamber,
which, as I have told, was the largest in the place,
that there were any signs of life.  This was illumined
in the first instance by a narrow crevice in the
rock which opened into a small ravine.  The faint
struggling light was yet sufficient to see with, and by
its aid I made out the old man who had spoken with
me on that first night of my journey.

He was sitting alone, staring before him as is the
way with the blind, but at the sound of my steps he
rose slowly to his feet.  One could see that the
natural acuteness of his hearing was little impaired by
years.  I paused at the threshold and he stood listening;
then he sank back in his seat as if convinced it
was no enemy.

"Come in, John Burnet," he said, "I ken you
well.  How have you fared since you left us?  I
trust you have placed the maid in safe keeping."

I had heard before of that marvellous quickness of
perception which they possess who have lost some
other faculty; but I had never yet had illustration of
it.  So I was somewhat surprised, as I told him that
all as yet was well, and that my lady was in good
hands.

"It is well," said he; "and, Master Burnet, I fear
you have come back to a desolate lodging.  As ye
see, all are gone and only I am left.  Yestreen word
came that that had happened which we had long
expected.  There was once a man among us whom we
cast out for evil living.  He has proved the traitor
and there is no more safety here.  They scattered last
night, the puir feckless folk, to do for themselves
among the moors and mosses, and I am left here to
wait for the coming of the enemy."

"Do you hold your life so cheap," I cried, "that
you would cast it away thus?  I dare not suffer you
to bide here.  I would be a coward indeed if I did
not take care of you."

A gleam of something like pleasure passed over his
worn face.  But he spoke gravely.  "No, you are
too young and proud and hot in blood.  You think
that a strong arm and a stout heart can do all.  But
I have a work to do in which none can hinder me.
My life is dear to me, and I would use it for the best.
But you, too, are in danger here; the soldiers may
come at any moment.  If you go far to the back
you'll find a narrow way up which you can crawl.
It'll bring ye out on the back side of the hill.  Keep
it well in mind, lad, when the time comes.  But
now, sit ye down, and give us your crack.  There's
a heap o' things I want to speir at ye.  And first,
how is auld Veitch at Smitwood?  I once kenned
him well, when he was a young, 'prising lad; but
now I hear he's sair fallen in years and gien ower to
the pleasures of eating and drinking."

I told him all of the laird of Smitwood that I could
remember.

"It would be bonny on the muirs o' Clyde in this
weather.  I havena been out o' doors for mony a day,
but I would like fine to feel the hill-wind and the sun
on my cheek.  I was aye used wi' the open air," and
his voice had a note of sorrow.

To me it seemed a strange thing that in the
presence of the most deadly danger this man should be so
easy and undisturbed.  I confess that I myself had
many misgivings and something almost approaching
fear.  There was no possibility of escape now, for
though one made his way out of the cave when the
soldiers came, there was little hiding on the bare
hillside.  This, of course, was what the old man meant
when he bade me stay and refused to go out of doors.
It was more than I could do to leave him, but yet I
ever feared the very thought of dying like a rat in a
hole.  My forebodings of my death had always been
of an open, windy place, with a drawn sword and
more than one man stark before me.  It was with
downcast eyes that I waited for the inevitable end,
striving to commend my soul to God and repent of
my past follies.

Suddenly some noise came to the quick ear of the
old man, and he stood up quivering.

"John," he cried, "John, my lad, gang to the
place I told ye.  Ye'll find the hole where I said it was,
and once there ye needna fear."

'Twas true, I was afraid, but I had given no signs
of fear, and he had little cause to speak of it.  "Nay,"
I said haughtily, "I will not move from your
side.  It were a dastardly thing to leave you, and the
two of us together may account for some of the
fiends.  Besides there is as much chance of life here
as out on the braeside, where a man can be seen
for miles."

He gripped me fiercely by the arm so that I almost
cried out for pain, and his voice came shrill and
strange.  "Gang where I tell ye, ye puir fool.  Is
this a time for sinfu' pride o' honour or mettle?  Ye
know not what evil is coming upon these men.  Gang
quick lest ye share it also."

Something in his voice, in his eye, overcame me,
and I turned to obey him.

As I went he laid his hand on my head.  "The
blessing o' man availeth little, but I pray God that He
be ever near you and your house, and that ye may
soon hae a happy deliverance from all your afflictions.
God bless and keep ye ever, and bring ye at the end
to His ain place."

With a heart beating wildly between excitement
and sorrow I found the narrow crevice, and crept
upward till I came to the turning which led to the air.
Here I might have safely hid for long, and I was just
on the point of going back to the old man and forcing
him to come with me to the same place of refuge,
when I heard the sound of men.

From my vantage-ground I could see the whole
cave clearly and well.  I could hear the noise of
soldiers fumbling about the entrance, and the voice of
the informer telling the way.  I could hear the feet
stumbling along the passage, the clink of weapons,
and the muttered words of annoyance; and then, as
I peered warily forth, I saw the band file into the
cave where sat the old man alone.  It was as I
expected: they were some twenty men of my cousin's
company, strangers to me for the most: but what
most occupied my thoughts was that Gilbert was not
with them.

"By God, they're off," said the foremost, "and
nothing left but this auld dotterel.  This is a puir
haul.  Look you here, you fellow," turning to the
guide, "you are a liar and a scoundrel, and if your
thick hide doesna taste the flat o' my sword ere you're
five hours aulder, my name's no Peter Moriston.
You," this to the old man, "what's your name,
brother well-beloved in the Lord?"

At their first coming he had risen to his feet and
taken his stand in the middle of the cave, by the two
great stone shafts which kept up the roof, for all the
word like the pillars in some mighty temple.  There
he stood looking over their heads at something beyond,
with a strange, almost pitying smile, which grew by
degrees into a frown of anger.

"Ye've come here to taunt me," said he, "but
the Lord has prepared for you a speedy visitation.
Puir fools, ye shall go down quick to the bottomless
pit like Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, and none shall
be left to tell the tale of you.  Ye have led braw
lives.  Ye have robbed the widow and the fatherless,
ye have slain by your numbers men ye darena have
come near singly, ye have been the devil's own
braw servants, and, lads, ye'll very soon get your
wages.  Ye have made thae bonny lands o' Tweedside
fit to spew ye forth for your wickedness.  And
ye think that there is nae jealous God in Heaven
watching ower you and your doings and biding His time to
repay.  But, lads, ye're wrang for yince.  The men
ye thocht to take are by this time far from ye, and
there is only one left, an auld feckless man, that will
no bring muckle credit to ye.  But God has ordained
that ye shall never leave here, but mix your banes to
a' time wi' the hillside stanes.  God hae pity on your
souls, ye that had nae pity on others in your lives."

And even as I watched, the end came, sudden and
awful.  Stretching out his great arms, he caught the
two stone shafts and with one mighty effort pushed
them asunder.  I held my breath with horror.  With
a roar like a world falling the roof came down, and
the great hillside sank among a ruin of rock.  I was
blinded by dust even in my secure seat, and driven
half-mad with terror and grief.  I know not how I
got to the air, but by God's good providence the
passage where I lay was distinct from the cave, and a rift
in the solid rock.  As it was, I had to fight with
falling splinters and choking dust all the way.  At
last—and it seemed ages—I felt free air and a glimmer of
light, and with one fresh effort crawled out beneath
a tuft of bracken.

And this is why at this day there is no cave at the
Cor Water, nothing but the bare side of a hill strewn
with stones.

When I gained breath to raise myself and look
around, the sight was strange indeed.  The vast cloud
of dust was beginning to settle and the whole desolation
lay clear.  I know not how to tell of it.  It was
like some battlefield of giants of old time.  Great
rocks lay scattered amid the beds of earth and shingle,
and high up toward the brow of the hill one single
bald scarp showed where the fall had begun.

A hundred yards away, by his horse's side, gazing
with wild eyes at the scene, stood a dragoon,
doubtless the one whom the ill-fated company had set for
guard.  I hastened toward him as fast as my weak
knees would carry me, and I saw without surprise that
he was the Dutchman, Jan Hamman, whom I had
already met thrice before.  He scarce was aware of
my presence, but stood weeping with weakness and
terror, and whimpering like a child.  I took him by
the shoulder and shook him, until at last I had brought
him back to his senses, and he knew me.

"Where are they gone?" and he pointed feebly
with his finger to the downfall.

"To their own place," I said, shortly.  "But tell
me one word.  Where is your captain, Gilbert Burnet,
that he is not with you to-day?"

The man looked at me curiously.

"He is gone on another errand, down Tweed
toward Peebles."

Then I knew he was seeking for Marjory high and
low and would never rest till he found her.

"I will let you go," said I to the man, "that you
may carry the tidings to the rest.  Begone with you
quick.  I am in no mood to look on such as you this day."

The man turned and was riding off, when he
stopped for one word.  "You think," he said, "that
I am your enemy and your cousin's friend, and that I
serve under the captain for his own sweet sake.  I will
tell you my tale.  Three years ago this Captain
Gilbert Burnet was in Leyden, and there also was I, a
happy, reputable man, prosperous and contented, with
the prettiest sweetheart in all the town.  Then came
this man.  I need not tell what he did.  In a year he
had won over the silly girl to his own desires, and I
was a ruined man for evermore.  I am a servant in
his company who worked my fall.  Remember then
that the nearer I am to Gilbert Burnet the worse it
will fare with him."  And he rode off, still pale and
shivering with terror.

I mused for some time with myself.  Truly,
thought I, Gilbert has his own troubles, and it will
go hard with him if his own men turn against him.
And I set it down in my mind that I would do my
best to warn him of the schemes of the foreigner.
For though it was my cousin's own ill-doing that had
brought him to this, and my heart burned against him
for his villainy, it was yet right that a kinsman should
protect one of the house against the plots of a
common soldier.





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.. _`I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE`:

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   CHAPTER XIII

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   I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE

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This was in April, and now the summer began to
grow over the land.  The days grew longer and the
air more mild, the flowers came out on the hills, little
mountain pansies and eyebright and whortleberry, and
the first early bells of the heath; the birds reared their
young and the air was all filled with the cries of them;
and in the streams the trout grew full-fleshed and
strong.

And all through these days I lay close hid in the
wilds, now in one place, now in another, never
wandering far from Tweeddale.  My first hiding was in
a narrow glen at the head of the Polmood Burn in a
place called Glenhurn.  It was dark and lonesome,
but at first the pursuit was hot after me and I had no
choice in the matter.  I lived ill on the fish of the
burn and the eggs of wildfowl, with what meal I got
from a shepherd's house at the burn foot.  These
were days of great contemplation, of long hours spent
on my back in the little glen of heather, looking up
to the summer sky and watching the great clouds
fleeting athwart it.  No sound came to disturb me, I had
few cares to vex me; it was like that highest state of
being which Plotinus spoke of, when one is cumbered
not with the toils of living.  Here I had much grave
communing with myself on the course of my life, now
thinking upon it with approval, now much concerned
at its futility.  I had three very warring moods of
mind.  One was that of the scholar, who would flee
from the roughness of life.  This came upon me
when I thought of the degradation of living thus in
hiding, of sorting with unlettered men, of having no
thoughts above keeping body and soul together.  The
second was that of my father's son, whose pride
abhorred to flee before any man and hide in waste places
from low-born soldiers and suffer others to devour my
patrimony.  But the third was the best, and that
which I ever sought to keep with me.  It was that of
the gentleman and cavalier who had a wide,
good-humoured outlook upon the world, who cared not for
houses and lands, but sought above all things to guard
his honour and love.  When this was on me I laughed
loud at all my misfortunes, and felt brave to meet
whatever might come with a light heart.

In this place I abode till near the middle of the
month of June.  Twice I had gone to the cairn on
Caerdon and left a letter, which I wrote with vast
difficulty on fragments of paper which I had brought
with me, and received in turn Marjory's news.  She
was well and in cheerful spirits, though always
longing for my return.  The days passed easily in
Smitwood, and as none came there she was the better
hidden.  I wrote my answers to these letters with
great delight of mind, albeit much hardship.  The
ink in the inkhorn which I had always carried with
me soon became dry, and my pen, which I shaped
from a curlew's feather, was never of the best.  Then
after the writing came the long journey, crouching in
thickets, creeping timorously across the open spaces,
running for dear life down the hill-slopes, until I
came at length to the cairn on Caerdon, and hid the
letter 'neath the grey stones.

But about mid June I bethought me that I had
stayed long enough in that lonely place and resolved
to move my camp.  For one thing I wished to get
nearer Barns, that I might be within reach of my
house for such provisions as I required.  Also there
were signs that the place was no longer safe.  Several
times of late I had heard the voice of soldiers on the
moors above my hiding, and at any moment a chance
dragoon might stray down the ravine.  So late one
evening about midsummer I bade adieu to the dark
Glenhurn, and took off across the wild hills to the
lower vale of Tweed.

The place I chose was just at the back of Scrape,
between that mountain and a wild height called the
Pyke-stone hill.  It was a stretch of moss-hags and
rough heather, dry as tinder at this time, but, as I
well knew, in late autumn and winter a treacherous
flow.  Thither I had been wont to go to the
duck-shooting in the months of November and February,
when great flocks of mallard and teal settled among
the pools.  Then one has to look well to his feet,
for if he press on eager and unthinking, he is like to
find himself up to the armpits.  But if he know the
way of the thing, and walk only on the tufted rushes
and strips of black peat, he may take the finest sport
that I know of.  Here then I came, for the place
was high and lonesome, and with a few paces I could
come to the top of the Little Scrape and see the whole
vale of Tweed from Drummelzier to Neidpath.  I
had the less fear of capture, for the place was almost
impassable for horses; also it was too near the house
of Barns to be directly suspected, and the country
below it was still loyal and with no taint of whiggery.

Here then I settled myself, and made a comfortable
abode in a dry burn-channel, overarched with long
heather.  The weather was unusually warm and dry,
the streams were worn to a narrow thread of silver
trickling among grey stones, and the hot sun blazed
from morn to night in a cloudless sky.  The life, on
the whole, was very pleasing.  There was cold water
from a mossy well hard by when I was thirsty.  As
for food, I made at once an expedition to the nearest
cottage on my lands, where dwelt one Robin Sandilands,
who straightway supplied all my needs and gave
me much useful information to boot.  Afterwards he
came every second day to a certain part of the hill
with food, which he left there for me to take at my
convenience.  Hence the fare was something better
than I had had in my previous hiding-place.  Also it
was a cheerful life.  Up there on the great flat
hill-top, with nothing around me but the sky and the
measureless air, with no noises in my ear but the
whistle of hill-birds, with no view save great shoulders
of mountain, the mind was raised to something higher
and freer than of old.  Earthly troubles and little
squabbles and jealousies seemed of less account.  The
more than Catonian gravity of these solemn uplands
put to flight all pettiness and small ambition.  It has
been an immemorial practice in our borderland that
those of ruined fortunes, broken men, should take to
the hills for concealment, if need be, and in any case
for satisfaction.  Verily twelve months of that pure
air would make a gentleman of a knave, and a hero of
the most sordid trader.

However, ere June had merged in July, I found
myself in want of some companion to cheer my
solitude.  I would have given much for some like-minded
fellow-wayfarer, but since that might not be had I
was fain to content myself with a copy of Plotinus,
which I had got with all the difficulty in the world
from the house of Barns.  It happened on a warm
afternoon, when, as I lay meditating as was my wont
in the heather, a great desire came upon me for some
book to read in.  Nothing would do but that I must
straightway set out for Barns at the imminent peril of
my own worthless life.  It was broad daylight; men
were working in the fields at the hay; travellers were
passing on the highway; and for all I knew soldiers
were in the house.  But with a mad recklessness I
ventured on the quest, and, entering the house boldly,
made my way to the library and was choosing books.
Then I was startled by the noise of approaching steps,
and seizing hastily the first volume I could lay hands
on, set off for the hills at the top of my speed.  The
visit had renewed old recollections, and I spent a
bitter evening reflecting upon my altered position.

But toward the end of August, when the nights grew
longer and the sunsets stormy, a change came over
the weather.  The Lammas floods first broke the spell
of the drought, and for three clear days the rain fell
in torrents, while I lay in my hole, cold and
shivering.  These were days of suffering and hunger,
though I shrink from writing of them and have never
told them to anyone.  On the fourth I made an
incursion down to my own lands to the cottage of my
ally.  There I heard evil news.  The soldiers had
come oftener than of late and the hunt had been
renewed.  The reward on my head had been doubled,
and with much sorrow I had the news that the miller
of Holmes Mill had been taken and carried to
Edinburgh.  In these dim grey days my courage fell, and
it took all the consolations of philosophy, all my
breeding and manly upbringing to keep up my heart.  Also
it became more difficult to go at the three weeks' end
to the cairn on Caerdon with the letter for Marjory.

It was, as far as I remember, for I did not keep
good count, on the second day of September, that I
set out for Caerdon on my wonted errand.  I had had
word from Robin Sandilands that the countryside was
perilous; but better, I thought, that I should run into
danger than that my lady should have any care on my
account.  So I clapped the written letter in my pocket
and set out over the hills in a fine storm of wind.

I went down the little burn of Scrape, which flows
into Powsail about a mile above the village of
Drummelzier.  Had I dared I would have crossed the low
lands just above the village, and forded Tweed at
Merlin's Grave, and so won to Caerdon by Rachan
and Broughton.  But now it behooved me to be cautious,
so I kept straight over the hills; and, striking
the source of a stream called Hopecarton, followed it
to where it joined the river in the Mossfennan haughs.
All the time the wind whistled in my teeth and the
sharpest of showers bit into my skin.  I was soon
soaked to the bone, for which I cared very little, but
pushed steadfastly on through the rapidly-rising waters
of Tweed, and scrambled up the back of the Wormel.
Here it was stiff work, and my legs ached mightily ere
I reached the top and flung myself on the damp
heather to spy out the Holmes valley.

All seemed quiet.  The stream, now changed from
its clearness to a muddy brown, was rolling on its way
though the fields of stubble.  The few houses smoked
in peace.  The narrow road was empty of travellers....
Without hesitation I ran down the slopes,
caring not to look circumspectly to the left and
right....

I had not run far till something before me brought
me to a halt and sent me flat among the grass.  Just
below the house of Quarter, coming from the cover of
the trees, were half a score of soldiers.

My first thought was to turn back and give up the
project.  My second, to go forward and find a way to
cross the valley.  Happily the foliage was still there,
the heath was still long, the grass was dense: a man
might succeed in crossing under cover.

With a beating heart I crawled through the heather
to the rushes beside a little stream.  This I followed,
slowly, painfully, down to the valley, looking sharply
at every bare spot, and running for dear life when
under cover of bank or brae.  By and by I struck the
road, and raised myself for a look.  All was quiet.
There was no sign of any man about, nothing but the
beating of the rain and the ceaseless wind.  It was
possible that they had gone down the vale, and were by
this time out of sight.  Or maybe they had gone up
the water on their way to the moors of Clyde.  Or
still again they might have gone back to the house of
Quarter, which they doubtless loved better than the
rainy out-of-doors.  In any case they were not there,
and nothing hindered me from making a bold sally
across the open.

I rose and ran through the corn-field, cleaving my
way amid the thick stubble.  The heavy moisture
clung to my soaked clothes and the sweat ran over
my face and neck, but I held straight on till I gained
the drystone dyke at the other side and scrambled
across it.  Here I fell into the stream and was soaked
again, but the place was not deep and I was soon
through.  Now I was direct beneath the house, but
somewhat under the cover of the trees; and still there
was no sign of man and beast.  I began to think that
after all my eyes had deceived me, and taken nowt
for dragoons.  Such a trick was not impossible; I
had found it happen before at the winter's shooting.
With this pleasing hope I straightened my back and
ran more boldly up the planting's side till I gained
the moorlands above.  Here I paused for a second to
enjoy my success and look back upon the house.

Suddenly something cracked in the thicket, and a
voice behind me cried, "Stop.  Gang another step
and I fire."  So the cup of safety was dashed from
my lips at the very moment of tasting it.

I did not obey, but dashed forward to the high moors
with all my speed.  It was conceivable that the men
were unmounted and their horses stabled, in which
case I might get something of a lead.  If not, I
should very soon know by the clear convincing proof
of a shot in my body.

My guess was right, and it was some little time ere
I heard the cries of pursuers behind me.  I had made
straight for the top of the ridge where the ground was
rough for horses, and I knew that they could not
follow me with any speed.  I was aye a swift runner,
having been made long and thin in the shanks and
somewhat deep-chested.  I had often raced on the
lawn at Barns with my cousin for some trifling prize.
Now I ran with him again, but for the prize of my
own life.

I cannot tell of that race, and to this day the thought
of it makes my breath go faster.  I only know that I
leaped and stumbled and ploughed my way over the
hillside, sobbing with weariness and with my heart
almost bursting my ribs.  I never once looked
behind, but I could measure the distance by the sound
of their cries.  The great, calm face of Caerdon was
always before me, mocking my hurry and feebleness.
If I could but gain the ridge of it, I might find
safety in one of the deep gullies.  Now I had hope,
now I had lost it and given myself up for as good as
dead.  But still I kept on, being unwilling that
anyone should see me yield, and resolving that if I needs
must die I would stave it off as long as might be.

In the end, after hours—or was it minutes?—I
reached the crest and crawled down the other side.
They were still some distance behind and labouring
heavily.  Near me was a little ravine down which a
slender trickle of flood-water fell in a long cascade.
I plunged down it, and coming to a shelter of
overlapping rock crawled far in below, and thanked God
for my present safety.

Then I remembered my errand and my letter.  I
clapped my hand to my pocket to draw it forth.  The
place was empty—the letter was gone.  With a sickening
horror I reflected that I had dropped it as I ran,
and that my enemies must have found it.





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.. _`I FALL IN WITH STRANGE FRIENDS`:

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   CHAPTER XIV

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   I FALL IN WITH STRANGE FRIENDS

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I lay there, still with fright and anxiety, while the
wind roared around my hiding-place, and the noise of
the horses' feet came to my ears.  My first thought
was to rush out and meet them, engage the company
and get the letter back by force.  But a moment's
reflection convinced me that this was equal to rushing
on my death.  There was nothing for it but to bide
where I was, and pray that I might not be discovered.

The noise grew louder, and the harsh voices of the
men echoed in the little glen.  I lay sweating with
fear and I know not what foreboding, as I heard the
clatter of hooves among the slates and the heavy tread
of those who had dismounted and were searching every
tuft of heather.  I know not to this day how I
escaped.  It may be that their eyes were blinded with
mist and rain; it may be that my hiding-place was
securer than I thought, for God knows I had no time
to choose it; it may be that their search was but
perfunctory, since they had got the letter; it may be that
they thought in their hearts that I had escaped ever
the back of Caerdon and searched only to satisfy their
leader.  At any rate, in a little all was still, save for
the sound of distant voices, and with vast caution and
great stiffness of body I drew myself from the hole.

I have rarely felt more utterly helpless and downcast.
I had saved my skin, but only by a hairbreadth,
and in the saving of it I had put the match to my
fortunes.  For that luckless letter gave the man into
whose hands it might fall a clue to Marjory's whereabouts.
It is true that the thing was slight, but still it
was there, and 'twas but a matter of time till it was
unravelled.  All was up with me.  Now that I was
thus isolated on Caerdon and the far western ridges
of the Tweedside hills I could have little hope of
getting free, for to return to safety I must cross either
Holmes Water, which was guarded like a street, or
the lower Tweed, which, apart from the fact that it
was in roaring flood, could no more be passed by me
than the gates of Edinburgh.  But I give my word
it was not this that vexed me; nay, I looked
forward to danger, even to capture, with something
akin to hope.  But the gnawing anxiety gripped me
by the throat that once more my poor lass would be
exposed to the amenities of my cousin, and her easy,
quiet life at Smitwood shattered forever.  An
unreasoning fit of rage took me, and I dashed my foot on
the heather in my hopeless vexation.  I cursed every
soldier, and damned Gilbert to the blackest torments
which my heart could conjure.

But rage, at the best, is vain and I soon ceased.  It
was indeed high time that I should be bestirring myself.
I could not stay where I was, for in addition to being
without food or decent shelter, I was there on the
very confines of the most dangerous country.  Not
two miles to the north from the place where I lay the
hills ceased, and the low-lying central moorlands
succeeded, which, as being a great haunt of the more
virulent Whigs, were watched by many bands of
dragoons.  If my life were to be saved I must get back
once more to the wild heights of the upper Tweed.

I climbed the gully and, keeping lower down the
hill, made for the mountain, named Coulter Fell,
which is adjacent to Caerdon.  I know not why I
went this way, save through a fantastic idea of getting
to the very head of the Holmes Water and crossing
there.  Every step I took led me into more perilous
ground, for it took me farther to the westward.  It
was my sole chance, and in the teeth of the wind I
wrestled on over the long heather and grey sklidders,
slipping and stumbling with weariness and dispirit.
Indeed I know not if anything could have sustained
me save the motto of my house, which came always to
my mind.  *Virescit vulnere virtus*!  The old proud
saw cheered my heart wondrously.  I shall not shame
my kin, said I to myself; it shall never be said that
misfortune did aught to one of my name save raise
his valour.

When I reached the head of the ridge I thought that
the way was clear before me and that I had outdistanced
my pursuers.  I stood up boldly on the summit
and looked down on the Holmes Water head.  The
next minute I had flung myself flat again and was
hastening to retrace my steps.  For this was what I saw.
All up the stream at irregular intervals dragoons were
beating the heather in their quest for me.  Clearly
they thought that I had made for the low ground.
Clearly, also, there was no hope of escape in that
quarter.

With a heavy heart I held along the bald face of the
great Coulter Fell.  I know no more heartless mountain
on earth than that great black scarp, which on that
day flung its head far up into the mist.  The storm,
if anything, had increased in fury.  Every now and
then there came a burst of sharp hail, and I was fain
to shelter for a moment by lying on the earth.  Very
circumspectly I went, for I knew not when through
the wall of mist a gleam of buff coats or steel might
meet me.  In such a fashion, half-creeping, half
running, I made my way down the hills which flank the
Coulter Water, and came at length to the range of low
hills which look down upon Biggar and the lowlands
of Clyde.

I struggled to the top and looked over into the misty
haughs.  The day was thick, yet not so thick that I
could not see from this little elevation the plain features
of the land below.  I saw the tail trees of Coulter
House and the grey walls and smoking chimney.
Beyond was the road, thick in mud, and with scarce a
traveller.  All seemed quiet, and as I looked a wild
plan came into my head.  Why should I not go
through the very den of the lion?  What hindered me
from going down by the marsh of Biggar and the woods
of Rachan, and thence to my hiding-place?  It was
the high roads that were unwatched in these days, and
the byways which had each their sentinel.

But as I looked again the plan passed from my
mind.  For there below, just issuing from the gateway
of Coulter House, I saw a man on horseback, and
another, and still another.  I needed no more.  A
glance was sufficient to tell me their character and
purport.  Gilbert verily had used his brains to better
advantage than I had ever dreamed of.  He had fairly
outwitted me, and the three airts of north and south
and west were closed against me.

There still remained the east, and thither I turned.
I was shut in on a triangle of hill and moorland, some
three miles in length and two in breadth.  At the east
was the spur of hill at the foot of the Holmes Water
and above the house of Rachan.  If I went thither I
might succeed in crossing the breadth of the valley and
win to the higher hills.  It was but a chance, and in
my present weakness I would as soon have laid me
down on the wet earth and gone to sleep.  But I
forced myself to go on, and once more I battled with
the snell weather.

I do not very well remember how I crossed the
Kilbucho glen, and stumbled through the maze of little
streams and sheep drains which cover all the place.  I
had no more stomach for the work than an old dog has
for coursing.  To myself I could give no reason for
my conduct save a sort of obstinacy which would not
let me give in.  At a place called Blendewing I lay
down on my face and drank pints of water from the
burn—a foolish action, which in my present condition
was like to prove dangerous.  In the pine-wood at the
back of the shieling I laid me down for a little to rest,
and when once more I forced myself to go on, I was
as stiff as a ship's figure-head.  In this state I climbed
the little hills which line the burn, and came to the
limit of the range above the place called Whiteslade.

It was now about two o'clock in the afternoon, and
the storm, so far from abating, grew every moment
in fierceness.  I began to go hot and cold all over
alternately, and the mist-covered hills were all blurred
to my sight like a boy's slate.  Now, by Heaven,
thought I, things are coming at last to a crisis.  I
shall either die in a bog-hole, or fall into my cousin's
hands before this day is over.  A strange perverted
joy took possession of me.  I had nothing now to
lose, my fortunes were so low that they could sink no
farther; I had no cause to dread either soldier or
weather.  And then my poor silly head began to
whirl, and I lost all power of anticipation.

To this day I do not know how I crossed the foot
of the Holmes valley—for this was what I did.  The
place was watched most jealously, for Holmes Mill
was there, and the junction of the roads to the upper
Tweed and the moors of Clyde.  But the thing was
achieved, and my next clear remembrance is one of
crawling painfully among the low birk trees-and cliffs
on the far side of the Wormel.  My knees and hands
were bleeding, and I had a pain in my head so
terrible that I forgot all other troubles in this supreme
one.

It was now drawing towards evening.  The grey
rain-clouds had become darker and the shadows crept
over the sodden hills.  All the world was desert to
me, where there was no shelter.  Dawyck and Barns
were in the hands of the enemy.  The cave of the
Cor Water was no more.  I had scarce strength
to reach my old hiding-place in the hags above Scrape,
and if I did get there I had not the power to make
it habitable.  A gravelled and sanded couch with a
heathery roof is pleasant enough in the dry weather,
but in winter it is no better than a bog-hole.

Nevertheless I slid down the hill as best I could
and set myself to crossing the valley.  It was
half-filled with water pools which the flood had left, and
at the far side I saw the red, raging stream of Tweed.
I remember wondering without interest whether I
should ever win over or drown there.  It was a matter
of little moment to me.  The fates had no further
power to vex me.

But ere I reached the hillfoot I saw something
which gave me pause, reckless though I had come to
be.  On the one hand there was a glimpse of men
coming up the valley—mounted men, riding orderly
as in a troop.  On the other I saw scattered
soldiers dispersing over the haughland.  The thought
was borne in upon me that I was cut off at last from
all hope of escape.  I received the tidings with no
fear, scarcely with surprise.  My sickness had so
much got the better of me that though the heavens had
opened I would not have turned my head to them.
But I still staggered on, blindly, nervelessly,
wondering in my heart how long I would keep on my feet.

But now in the little hollow I saw something
before me, a glimpse of light, and faces lit by the glow.
I felt instinctively the near presence of men.
Stumbling towards it I went, groping my way as if I were
blindfold.  Then some great darkness came over my
brain and I sank on the ground.





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.. _`THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN'S LAND`:

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   CHAPTER XV

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   THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN'S LAND

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The next period in my life lies still in my mind
like a dream.  I have a remembrance of awaking and
an impression of light, and strange faces, and then all
was dark again.  Of those days my memory is a blank;
there is nothing but a medley of sickness and weariness,
light and blackness, and the wild phantoms of a
sick man's visions.

When I first awoke to clear consciousness, it was
towards evening in a wild glen just below the Devil's
Beef Tub at the head of the Annan.  I had no
knowledge where I was.  All that I saw was a crowd of men
and women around me, a fire burning and a great pot
hissing thereon.  All that I heard was a babel of every
noise, from the discordant cries of men to the yelping
of a pack of curs.  I was lying on a very soft couch
made of skins and cloaks in the shade of a little
roughly-made tent.  Beyond I could see the bare
hillsides rising shoulder on shoulder, and the sting of air
on my cheek told me that it was freezing hard.  But
I was not cold, for the roaring fire made the place
warm as a baker's oven.

I lay still and wondered, casting my mind over all
the events of the past that I could remember.  I was
still giddy in the head, and the effort made me close
my eyes with weariness.  Try as I would I could
think of nothing beyond my parting from Marjory at
Smitwood.  All the events of my wanderings for the
moment had gone from my mind.

By and by I grew a little stronger, and bit by bit
the thing returned to me.  I remembered with great
vividness the weary incidents of my flight, even up to
its end and my final sinking.  But still the matter
was no clearer.  I had been rescued, it was plain, but
by whom, when, where, why?  I lay and puzzled
over the thing with a curious mixture of indifference
and interest.

Suddenly a face looked in upon me, and a loud
strident voice cried out in a tongue which I scarce
fully understood.  The purport of its words was that
the sick man was awake and looking about him.  In
a minute the babel was stilled, and I heard a woman's
voice giving orders.  Then some one came to me
with a basin of soup.

"Drink, lad," said she; "ye've had a geyan
close escape but a' is richt wi' ye noo.  Tak this and
see how ye feel."

The woman was tall and squarely built like a man;
indeed, I cannot think that she was under six feet.
Her face struck me with astonishment, for I had seen
no woman for many a day since Marjory's fair face,
and the harsh commanding features of my nurse seemed
doubly strange.  For dress she wore a black hat tied
down over her ears with a 'kerchief, and knotted in
gipsy fashion beneath her chin.  Her gown was of
some dark-blue camlet cloth, and so short that it scarce
reached her knees, though whether this fashion was
meant for expedition in movement or merely for
display of gaudy stockings, I know not.  Certainly her
stockings were monstrously fine, being of dark blue
flowered with scarlet thread, and her shoon were
adorned with great buckles of silver.  Her outer
petticoat was folded so as to make two large pockets on
either side, and in the bosom of her dress I saw a great
clasp-knife.

I drank the soup, which was made of some wild
herbs known only to the gipsy folk, and lay back on
my couch.

"Now, sleep a wee, lad," said the woman, "and
I'll warrant ye'll be as blithe the morn as ever."

I slept for some hours, and when I awoke sure
enough I felt mightily strengthened.  It was now
eventide and the camp-fire had been made larger to
cook the evening meal.  As I looked forth I could
see men squatting around it, broiling each his own
piece of meat in the ashes, while several cauldrons
sputtered and hissed on the chains.  It was a wild,
bustling sight, and as I lay and watched I was not
sorry that I had fallen into such hands.  For I ever
loved to see new things and strange ways, and now I
was like to have my fill.

They brought me supper, a wild duck roasted and
coarse home-made bread, and a bottle of very
tolerable wine, got I know not whence unless from the
cellars of some churlish laird.  I ate it heartily, for I
had fasted long in my sickness, and now that I was
recovered I had much to make up.

Then the woman returned and asked me how I did.
I told her, "Well," and thanked her for her care,
asking her how I had been rescued and where I was.
And this was the tale she told me.

She was of the clan of the Baillies, the great gipsies
of Tweeddale and Clydesdale, offshoots of the house of
Lamington, and proud as the devil or John Faa
himself.  They had been encamped in the little haugh at
the foot of the Wormel on the night of my chase.
They had heard a cry, and a man with a face like
death had staggered in among them and fainted at
their feet.  Captain William Baillie, their leader, of
whom more anon, had often been well-entreated at
Barns in my father's time, and had heard of my
misfortunes.  He made a guess as to who I was and
ordered that I should be well looked after.  Meantime
the two companies of soldiers passed by, suspecting
nothing, and not troubling to look for the object of
their search, who all the while was lying senseless
beneath a gipsy tent.  When all was safe they looked
to my condition, and found that I was in a raging
fever with cold and fatigue.  Now the gipsies,
especially those of our own countryside, are great adepts in
medicine, and they speedily had all remedies applied
to me.  For three weeks I lay ill, delirious most of the
time, and they bore me with them in a litter in all
their wanderings.  I have heard of many strange
pieces of generosity, but of none more strange than
this—to carry with much difficulty a helpless stranger
over some of the roughest land in Scotland, and all for
no other motive than sheer kindliness to a house which
had befriended them of old.  With them I travelled
over the wild uplands of Eskdale and Ettrick, and with
them I now returned to the confines of Tweeddale.

"The Captain's awa' just noo," added she, "but
he'll be back the morn, and blithe he'll be to see ye
so weel."

And she left me and I slept again till daybreak.

When I awoke again it was morning, just such a
day as the last, frosty and clear and bright.  I saw by
the bustle that the camp was making preparations for
starting, and I was so well recovered that I felt fit to
join them.  I no longer needed to be borne like a child
in a litter, but could mount horse and ride with the
best of them.

I had risen and gone out to the encampment and
was watching the activity of man and beast, when one
advanced from the throng toward me.  He was a
very tall, handsome man, dark in face as a Spaniard,
with fine curling moustachios.  He wore a broad
blue bonnet on his head, his coat was of good green
cloth and his small-clothes of black.  At his side he
carried a sword and in his belt a brace of pistols, and
save for a certain foreign air in his appearance he
seemed as fine a gentleman as one could see in the
land.  He advanced to me and made me a very
courtly bow, which I returned as well as my
still-aching back permitted me.

"I am glad you are recovered, Master John Burnet,"
said he, speaking excellent English, though with
the broad accent which is customary to our Scots
lowlands.  "Permit me to make myself known to you.
I have the honour to be Captain William Baillie at
your service, captain of the ragged regiment and the
Egyptian guards."  All this he said with as fine an
air as if he were His Majesty's first general.

At the mention of his name I called to mind all I
had heard of this extraordinary man, the chief of all
the south-country gipsies, and a character as famous
in those days and in those parts as Claverhouse or my
lord the King.  He claimed to be a bastard of the
house of Lamington, and through his mother he traced
descent, also by the wrong side of the blanket, to the
Gay Gordons themselves.  Something of his assumed
gentrice showed in his air and manner, which was
haughty and lofty as any lord's in the land.  But in
his face, among wild passions and unbridled desires, I
read such shrewd kindliness that I found it in my
heart to like him.  Indeed, while the tales of his
crimes are hawked at every fair, the tales of his many
deeds of kindness are remembered in lonely places by
folk who have cause to bless the name of Baillie.  This
same captain had indeed the manners of a prince, for
when he bought anything he was wont to give his
purse in payment, and indignantly refuse to receive
change of any kind.  It is only fair to add that the
money was not got by honest means, but by the
plunder of the rich and churlish.  Yet though his ways
were roguish his acts were often most Christian-like
and courteous, and there were worse men in higher
places that this William Baillie.  More, he was
reputed the best swordsman in all Scotland, though, as
being barred from the society of men of birth and
education, his marvellous talent was seldom seen.  He
was of the most indomitable courage and self-possession,
and even in the court, when on his trial, he spoke
fearlessly to his judges.  I do not seek to defend him;
but to me and mine he did a good deed and I would
seek to be grateful.  When long afterwards he was
killed in a brawl in the alehouse of Newarthill, I heard
the tidings with some sorrow, for he died bravely,
though in an ignoble quarrel.

He now informed me with great civility of the
incidents of my escape and sickness.  When I thanked
him he waved me off with a great air.

"Tut, tut," said he, "that is a small matter
between gentlefolk.  I have often had kindness from
your father, and it is only seemly that I should do
my best for the son.  Besides, it is not in my nature
to see a man so sore pressed by the soldiery and not
seek to deliver him.  It is a predicament I have so
often been in myself."

A horse was brought for me, a little wiry animal,
well suited for hills and sure-footed as a goat.  When
I felt myself in the saddle once again, even though it
were but a gipsy hallion, I was glad; for to one who
has scrambled on his own feet for so many days, a
horse is something like an earnest of better times.
Captain Baillie bade me come with him to another
place, where he showed me a heap of gipsy garments.
"It is necessary," said he, "if you would ride with
us that you change your appearance.  One of your
figure riding among us would be too kenspeckle to
escape folk's notice.  You must let me stain your
face, too, with the juice which we make for our bairns'
cheeks.  It will wash off when you want it, but till
that time it will be as fast as sunburn."  So taking a
crow's feather and dipping it in a little phial, he with
much skill passed it over my whole face and hands.
Then he held a mirror for me to look, and lo and
behold, I was as brown as a gipsy or a Barbary Moor.
I laughed loud and long at my appearance, and when
I was bidden put on a long green coat, the neighbour
of the captain's, and a pair of stout untanned
riding-boots, I swear my appearance was as truculent as the
roughest tinker's.

Thus accoutred we set out, the men riding in front
in pairs and threes, the women behind with donkeys
and baggage shelties.  It was a queer picture, for the
clothing of all was bright-coloured, and formed a
strange contrast with the clear, chilly skies and the dim
moor.  There was no fear of detection, for apart from
the company that I was with, my disguise was so
complete that not even the most vigilant dragoon
could spy me out.  Our road was that which I had
already travelled often to my own great
weariness—down Tweed by Rachan and the Mossfennan haughs.
I had no guess at our destination; so when at
Broughton we turned to the westward and headed
through the moss towards the town of Biggar, I was
not surprised.  Nay, I was glad, for it brought me
nearer to the west country and Smitwood, whither
I desired to go with the utmost speed.  For with my
returning health my sorrows and cares came back
to me more fiercely than ever.  It could not be that
my cousin should find out Marjory's dwelling-place at
once, for in the letter there was no clear information;
only indefinite hints, which in time would bring him
there.  The hope of my life was to reach the house
before him and rescue my love, though I had no fixed
plan in my mind and would have been at a sore loss
for aid.  Nevertheless, I was quieter in spirit, and
more hopeful.  For, after all, thought I, though
Gilbert get my lass, he yet has me to deal with, and
I will follow him to the world's end ere I let him be.





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.. _`HOW THREE MEN HELD A TOWN IN TERROR`:

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   CHAPTER XVI

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   HOW THREE MEN HELD A TOWN IN TERROR

.. vspace:: 2

It was towards evening, a dark November evening,
that we came near the little town of Biggar.  The
place lies on a sandy bank raised from the wide moss
which extends for miles by the edge of the sluggish
stream.  It is a black, desolate spot, where whaups
and snipe whistle in the back streets, and a lane,
which begins from the causeway, may end in a pool
of dark moss-water.  But the street is marvellous
broad, and there, at the tail of the autumn, is held
one of the greatest fairs in the lowlands of Scotland,
whither hawkers and tinkers come in hordes, not to
speak of serving-men and serving-lasses who seek hire.
For three days the thing goes on, and for racket and
babble it is unmatched in the countryside.

We halted before the entrance to the town on a
square of dry in the midst of the water-way.  The
weather had begun to draw to storm, and from the
east, great masses of rolling cloud came up, tinged red
and yellow with the dying sun.  I know not how
many the gipsies were, but, with women and
children, they were not less in number than ninety or a
hundred.  They had with them a great quantity of
gear of all kinds, and their animals were infinite.
Forbye their horses and asses, they had dogs and
fowls, and many tamed birds which travelled in their
company.  One sight I yet remember as most curious.
A great long man, who rode on a little donkey,
had throughout the march kept an ugly raven before
him, which he treated with much kindness; and on
dismounting lifted off with assiduous care.  And yet
the bird had no beauty or accomplishment to merit his
good-will.  It is a trait of these strange people that
they must ever have something on which to expend
their affection; and while the women have their
children, the men have their pets.  The most grim and
quarrelsome tinker will tend some beast or bird and
share with it his last meal.

When the camp was made, the fire lit, and the
evening meal prepared, the men got out their violins
and bagpipes, and set themselves to enliven the night
with music.  There in the clear space in front of
the fire they danced to the tunes with great glee and
skill.  I sat beside the captain and watched the
picture, and in very truth it was a pleasing one.  The
men, as I have said, were for the most part lithe and
tall, and they danced with grace.  The gipsy women,
after the age of twenty, grow too harsh-featured for
beauty, and too manly in stature for elegance.  But
before that age they are uniformly pretty.  The free,
open-air life and the healthy fare make them strong
in body and extraordinarily graceful in movement.
Their well-formed features, their keen, laughing black
eyes, their rich complexions, and, above all, their
masses of coal-black hair become them choicely well.
So there in the ruddy firelight they danced to the
quavering music, and peace for once in a while lay
among them.

Meanwhile I sat apart with William Baillie, and
talked of many things.  He filled for me a pipe of
tobacco, and I essayed a practice which I had often
heard of before but never made trial of.  I found it
very soothing, and we sat there in the bield of the tent
and discoursed of our several wanderings.  I heard
from him wild tales of doings in the hills from the
Pentlands to the Cumberland fells, for his habits took
him far and wide in the country.  He told all with
the greatest indifference, affecting the air of an ancient
Stoic, to whom all things, good and evil alike, were
the same.  Every now and then he would break in
with a piece of moralising, which he delivered with
complete gravity, but which seemed to me matter for
laughter, coming, as it did, after some racy narrative
of how he vanquished Moss Marshall at the shieling
of Kippertree, or cheated the ale-wife at Newbigging
out of her score.

On the morrow all went off to the fair save myself,
and I was left with the children and the dogs.  The
captain had judged it better that I should stay, since
there would be folk there from around Barns and
Dawyck, who might penetrate my disguise and spread
the tidings.  Besides, I knew naught of the tinker
trade, and should have been sorely out of place.  So
I stayed at home and pondered over many things,
notably my present predicament.  I thought of all my
old hopes and plans—to be a scholar and a gentleman of
spirit, to look well to my lands and have a great name
in the countryside, to study and make books, maybe
even to engage in Parliament and State business.  And
what did I now?  Travelling in disguise among
tinkers, a branded man, with my love and my lands in
danger, nay all but lost.  It was this accursed thought
that made the bitterest part of my wanderings.

I was in such a mood when a servant came from
a farmhouse near to get one of the gipsies to come
and mend the kitchen pot.  As I was the only one
left, there was nothing for it but to go.  The
adventure cheered me, for its whimsicality made me laugh,
and laughter is the best antidote to despair.  But I
fared very badly, for, when I tried my 'prentice hand
at the pot, I was so manifestly incapable that the
good-wife drove me from the place, calling me an idle
sorner, and a lazy vagabond, and many other
well-deserved names.  I returned to the camp with my
ears still ringing from her cuff, but in a more
wholesome temper of mind.

The greater part of the others returned at the
darkening, most with well-filled pockets, though I fear it
was not all come by honestly; and a special feast was
prepared.  That gipsy meal was of the strangest yet
most excellent quality.  There was a savoury soup
made of all kinds of stewed game and poultry, and
after that the flesh of pigs and game roasted and
broiled.  There was no seasoning to the food save a
kind of very bitter vinegar; for these people care little
for salt or any condiment.  Moreover, they had the
strange practice of grating some hard substance into
their wine, which gave it a flavour as if it had been
burned in the mulling.

The meal was over and I was thinking of lying
down for the night, when William Baillie came back.
I noted that in the firelight his face was black with
anger.  I heard him speak to several of his men, and
his tone was the tone of one who was mastering some
passion.  By and by he came to where I sat and lay
down beside me.

"Do you wish to pleasure me?" he said, shortly.

"Why, yes," I answered; "you have saved my
life and I would do all in my power to oblige you,
though I fear that just now my power is little."

"It's a' I want," said he, leaving his more correct
speech for the broad Scots of the countryside.  "Listen,
and I'll tell ye what happened the day at the fair.
We tinker-folk went aboot our business, daein' ill to
nane, and behavin' like dacent, peaceable,
quiet-mainnered men and women.  The place was in a gey
steer, for a heap o' Wast-country trash was there frae
the backs o' Straven and Douglasdale, and since a'
the godly and reputable folk thereaways hae ta'en to
the hills, nane but the rabble are left.  So as we were
gaun on canny, and sellin' our bits o' things and
daein' our bits o' jobs, the drucken folk were dancin'
and cairryin' on at the ither end.  By and by doun
the Fair come a drucken gairdener, one John Cree.
I ken him weel, a fosy, black-hertit scoondrel as ever
I saw.  My wife, whom ye know, for it was her that
lookit after ye when ye were sick, was standin' at the
side when the man sees her.  He comes up to her
wi' his leerin', blackgairdly face, and misca's her for
a tinkler and a' that was bad, as if the warst in our
tribe wasna better than him.

"Mary, she stands back, and bids him get out or
she wad learn him mainners.

"But he wadna take a tellin'.  'Oh, ho, my
bawbee joe,' says he, 'ye're braw and high the day.
Whae are you to despise an honest man?  A wheen
tinkler doxies!'  And he took up a stane and struck
her on the face.

"At this a' our folk were for pittin' an end to
him there and then.  But I keepit them back and
bade them let the drucken ful be.  Syne he gaed awa',
but the folk o' the Fair took him up, and we've got
nocht but ill-words and ill-tongue a' day.  But, by
God! they'll pay for it the morn."  And the captain
looked long and fiercely into the embers.

"I hae a plan," said he, after a little, "and,
Master Burnet, I want ye to help me.  The folk of
the fair are just a wheen scum and riddlings.  There
are three o' us here, proper men, you and myself and
my son Matthew.  If ye will agree to it we three
will mount horse the morn and clear oot that fair, and
frichten the folk o' Biggar for the next twalmonth."

"What would you do?" said I.

"I hae three suits," he said, "o' guid crimson
cloth, which I got frae my grandfather and have
never worn.  I have three braw horses, which cam
oot o' England three year syne.  If the three o' us
mount and ride through the fair there will be sic a
scattering as was never heard tell o' afore i' the auld
toun.  And, by God, if that gairdener-body doesna
gang wud wi' fricht, my name's no William Baillie."

Now, I do not know what madness prompted me
to join in this freak.  For certain it was a most
unbecoming thing for a man of birth to be perched on
horseback in the company of two reckless tinkers to
break the king's peace and terrify His Majesty's lieges
of Biggar.  But a dare-devil spirit—the recoil from
the morning's despondency—now held me.  Besides,
the romance of the thing took me captive; it was as
well that a man should play all the parts he could in the
world; and to my foolish mind it seemed a fine thing
that one who was a man of birth and learning should
not scruple to cast in his lot with the rough gipsies.

So I agreed readily enough, and soon after went to
sleep with weariness, and knew nothing till the stormy
dawn woke the camp.

Then the three of us dressed in the crimson suits,
and monstrously fine we looked.  The day was dull,
cloudy, and with a threat of snow; and the massing
of clouds which we had marked on the day before
was now a thousandfold greater.  We trotted out
over the green borders of the bog to the town, where
the riot and hilarity were audible.  The sight of the
three to any chance spectator must have been
fearsome beyond the common.  William Baillie, not to
speak of his great height and strange dress, had long
black hair which hung far below his shoulders, and
his scarlet hat and plume made him look like the
devil in person.  Matthew, his son, was something
smaller, but broad and sinewy, and he sat his horse
with an admirable grace.  As for myself, my face
was tanned with sun and air and the gipsy dye, my
hair hung loosely on my shoulders in the fashion I
have always worn it, and I could sit a horse with the
best of them.

When we came near the head of the street we
halted and consulted.  The captain bade us obey
him in all and follow wherever he went, and above
all let no word come from our mouth.  Then we
turned up our sleeves above the elbows, drew our
swords and rode into the town.

At the first sight of the three strange men who
rode abreast a great cry of amazement arose, and the
miscellaneous rabble was hushed.  Then, in a voice
of thunder, the captain cried out that they had
despised the gipsies the day before, and that now was
the time of revenge.  Suiting the action to the word
he held his naked sword before him, and we followed
at a canter.

I have never seen so complete a rout in my life.
Stalls, booths, tables were overturned, and the crowd
flew wildly in all directions.  The others of the tribe,
who had come to see the show, looked on from the
back, and to the terrified people seemed like fresh
assailants.  I have never heard such a hubbub as
rose from the fleeing men and screaming women.
Farmers, country-folk, plowmen mingled with fat
burgesses and the craftsmen of the town in one wild
rush for safety.  And yet we touched no one, but
kept on our way to the foot of the street, with our
drawn swords held stark upright in our hands.  Then
we turned and came back; and lo! the great fair was
empty, and wild, fearful faces looked at us from
window and lane.

Then, on our second ride, appeared at the church
gate the minister of the parish, a valiant man, who
bade us halt.

"Stop," saul he, "you men of blood, and cease
from disturbing the town, or I will have you all clapt
in the stocks for a week."

Then the captain spoke up and told him of the
wrong and insult of the day before.

At this the worthy man looked grave.  "Go back
to your place," he said, "and it shall be seen to.  I
am wae that the folk of this town, who have the
benefit of my ministrations, set no better example to
puir heathen Egyptians.  But give up the quarrel
at my bidding.  'Vengeance is mine, and I will
repay,' saith the Lord."

"But haply, sir," said I, "as Augustine saith, we
may be the Lord's executors."  And with this we
turned and rode off, leaving the man staring in
open-mouthed wonder.





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.. _`OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR`:

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   CHAPTER XVII

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   OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR

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When we came to the camping-place it was almost
deserted.  The people had all gone to the fair, and
nothing was to be seen save the baggage and the
children.  The morning had grown wilder and a thin
snow was falling, the earnest of a storm.  The mist
was drawing closer and creeping over the boglands.
I minded an old saying of Tam Todd's, "Rouk's
snaw's wraith," and I looked for a wild storm with
gladness, for it would keep the dragoon gentry at
home and prohibit their ill-doing.

But just in front at the border of the fog and at the
extremity of the dry land, the captain saw something
which made him draw up his horse sharply and stare.
Then he turned to Matthew, and I saw that his face
was flushed.  "Ride a' your pith, man," he said,
"ride like the wind to the toun, and bid our folk
hurry back.  Nae words and be off."  And the
obedient son galloped away to do his bidding.

He gripped me by the arm and pulled me to the
side.  "Ye've guid een," he said.  "D'ye see that
ower by the laigh trees?"  I looked and looked again
and saw nothing.

"Maybe no," he said, "ye haena gipsy een; but
in half an' oor we'll a' ken what it means.  It's the
Ruthvens wi' the Yerl o' Hell.  I ken by their
red-stripit breeks and their lang scythe-sticks.  Ye maun
ken that for lang we've had a bluid-feud wi' that clan,
for the Baillies are aye gentrice and hae nae trokins
wi' sic blaggard tinklers.  We've focht them yince
and twice and aye gotten the better, and noo I hear
that little Will Ruthven, that's him that they ca' the
Yerl o' Hell for his deevilry, has sworn to fecht us
till there's no a Baillie left to keep up the name.  And
noo they've come.  'Faith there'll be guid bluid spilt
afore thae wratches learn their lesson."

The news struck me with vast astonishment and
a little dismay.  I had often longed to see a battle and
now I was to be gratified.  But what a battle!  A
fight between two bloodthirsty gipsy clans, both as
wild as peat-reek, and armed with no more becoming
weapons than bludgeons, cutlasses, and scythe-blades.
More, the event would place me in a hard position.
I could not fight.  It would be too absurd for words
that I should be mixed up in their mellays.  But the
man at my side expected me to aid him.  I owed my
life to him, and with these folk gratitude is reckoned
one of the first of the virtues.  To refuse William
Baillie my help would be to offer him the deepest
unkindness.  Yet I dismissed the thought at once as
preposterous.  I could no more join the fight than
I could engage in a pothouse or stable brawl.  There
was nothing for it but to keep back and watch the
thing as a silent spectator.

In a little I began to see the band.  It would
number, as I guessed, some hundred and ten, with women
and children.  The captain, as he looked, grew fierce
with excitement.  His dark eyes blazed, and his brow
and cheeks were crimson.  Ever and anon he looked
anxiously in the direction of the town, waiting for the
help which was to come.  As the foe came nearer
he began to point me out the leaders.  "There's
Muckle Will," he cried, "him wi' the lang bare
shanks, like the trams o' a cairt.  He's the strongest
and langest man frae the Forth to Berwick.  My
God, but it'll be a braw fellow that can stand afore
him.  And there's Kennedy himsel', that sonsy
licht-coloured man.  They say he's the best wi' the
sma'-sword in a' Nithsdale, but 'faith, he's me to reckon
wi' the day.  And there's that bluidy deil, Jean
Ruthven, whae wad fecht ony man in braid Scotland
for a pund o' 'oo'.  She's as guid as a man, and they
say has been the death o' mair folk than the Yerl
himsel'.  But here come our ain men.  Come on,
Rob and Wat, and you, Mathy, gang wide to the
right wi' some.  It's a great day *this*.  Nae wee
cock-fecht, but a muckle lang deidly battle."  And
the man's face was filled with fierce joy.

Meanwhile both the forces had taken up their
position opposing one another, and such a babel of tinkler
yells arose that I was deafened.  Each side had their
war-cry, and, in addition, the women and children
screamed the most horrible curses and insults against
the enemy.  Yet the battle was not arrayed in
haphazard fashion, but rather with some show of military
skill.  The stronger and bigger men of the clan with
the captain himself were in the middle.  On the
right and left were their sons, with a more mixed
force, and below all the women were drawn up like
harpies, looking well-nigh as fierce and formidable as
the men.

"You'll come to the front wi' me, Maister
Burnet," said the captain.  "Ye're a guid man o' your
hands and we'll need a' we can get i' the middle."

"No," said I, "I cannot."

"Why?" he asked, looking at me darkly.

"Tut, this is mere foolery.  You would not have
me meddling in such a fray?"

"You think we're no worthy for you to fecht
wi'," he said, quietly, "we, that are as guid as the
best gentlemen i' the land, and have saved your life
for ye, Master John Burnet.  Weel, let it be.  I
didna think ye wad hae dune it."  Then the tinker
blood came out.  "Maybe you're feared," said he,
with an ugly smile.

I turned away and made no answer; indeed, I could
trust myself to make none.  I was bitterly angry and
unhappy.  All my misfortunes had drawn to a point
in that moment.  I had lost everything.  A fatal
mischance seemed to pursue me.  Now I had
mortally offended the man who had saved my life, and
my outlook was drear enough.

I had been looking the other way for a second, and
when I turned again the fray had begun.  The Earl,
with a cutlass, had engaged the captain, and the
wings, if one may call them by so fine a word, had
met and mingled in confusion.  But still it was not a
general mellay, but rather a duel between the two
principal combatants.  The little man with the short
sword showed wondrous agility, and leaped and twisted
like a tumbler at a fair.  As for the Baillie, he had
naught to do but keep him at a distance, for he was both
better armed and better skilled.  As he fought he let
his eye wander to the others and directed them with
his voice.  "Come up, Mathy lad," he would cry.
"Stand weel into them, and dinna fear the lasses."
Then as he saw one of his own side creeping behind
the Earl to strike a back blow, he roared with anger
and bade him keep off.  "Let the man be," he
cried.  "Is't no eneuch to hae to fecht wi'
blaggards that ye maun be blaggards yoursel'?"

But in a little the crowd closed round them and
they had less room for play.  Then began a grim
and deadly fight.  The townspeople, at the word of
the tinkers fighting, had left the fair and come out in
a crowd to witness it.  It was a sight such as scarce
a man may see twice in his lifetime.  The mist rolled
low and thick, and in the dim light the wild, dark
faces and whirling weapons seemed almost monstrous.
Now that the death had begun there was little
shouting; nothing was heard save the rattle of the
cutlasses, and a sort of sighing as blows were given and
received.  The bolder of the women and boys had
taken their place, and at the back the little children
and young girls looked on with the strangest
composure.  I grew wild with excitement, and could scarce
keep from yelling my encouragements or my
warnings; but these had no thought of uttering a word.
Had there been a cloud of smoke or smell of powder
it would have seemed decent, but this quietness and
clearness jarred on me terribly.  Moreover, the
weapons they fought with were rude, but powerful to inflict
deep wounds, being all clubs and short swords and
scythe-blades fixed on poles.  Soon I saw ghastly cuts
on the faces of the foremost and blood-splashes on brow
and cheek.  Had there been horses it would not have
seemed so cruel, for there would have been the rush
and trample, the hot excitement of the charge and
the recoil.  But in the quiet, fierce conflict on foot
there seemed nothing but murder and horror.

At first the battle was fought in a little space, and
both sides stood compact.  But soon it widened,
and the wings straggled out almost to the edge of the
bog-water.  The timid onlookers fled as from the
plague, and I, in my station in the back, was in
doubts whether I should bide still or no.  But in front
of me were the girls and children, and I thought if
I could do naught else I might bide still and see to
them.  For the horns of the Ruthven's company
(which was far the larger) threatened to enclose the
Baillies, and cut off their retreat.  Meantime the
mist had come down still closer and had given that
decent covering which one desires in a bloody fray.
I could scarce see the front ranks of our opponents,
and all I could make out of my friends was the
captain's bright sword glinting as he raised it to the
cut.

But that soon happened which I had feared.  For
the Ruthvens, enclosing our wings, had all but
surrounded us, since the captain had put the weaker
there and left all the more valiant for the centre.
Almost before I knew I saw one and another great
gipsy rush around and make towards the girls who
had not joined the battle.  In that moment I saw
the bravest actions which it has ever been my lot to
see.  For these slim, dark-haired maids drew knives
and stood before their assailants, as stout-hearted as
any soldiers of the King's guard.  The children raised
a great cry and huddled close to one another.  One
evil-looking fellow flung a knife and pierced a girl's
arm....  It was too much for me.  All my
good resolutions went to the wind, and I forgot
my pride in my anger.  With a choking cry I drew
my sword and rushed for him.

After that I know not well what happened.  I
was borne back by numbers, then I forced my way
forward, then back I fell again.  At first I fought
calmly, and more from a perverted feeling of duty
than any lust of battle.  But soon a tinker knife
scratched my cheek, and a tinker bludgeon rattled
sorely against my head.  Then I grew very hot and
angry.  I saw all around me a crowd of fierce faces
and gleaming knives, and I remember naught save
that I hurled myself onward, sword in hand, hewing
and slashing like a devil incarnate.  I had never
drawn blade in overmastering passion before, and
could scarce have thought myself capable of such
madness as then possessed me.  The wild moss-trooping
blood, which I had heired from generations
of robber lords, stood me in good stead.  A reckless
joy of fight took me.  I must have seemed more
frantic than the gipsies themselves.

At last, I know not how, I found my way to the
very front rank.  I had been down often, and blood
was flowing freely from little flesh wounds, but as yet
I was unscathed.  There I saw William Baillie
laying about him manfully, though sore wounded in the
shoulder.  When he saw me he gave me a cry of
welcome.  "Come on," he cried, "I kenned ye
wad think better o't.  We've muckle need o' a guid
man the noo."  And he spoke truth, for anything
more fierce and awesome than the enemy I have never
seen.  The Earl of Hell was mangled almost to
death, especially in the legs and thighs.  The flesh
was clean cut from the bone of one of his legs, and
hung down over the ankles, till a man grew sick at
the sight.  But he was whole compared with his
daughter, Jean Ruthven, who was the chief's wife.
Above and below her bare breasts she was cut to the
bone, and so deep were the gashes that the movement
of her lungs, as she breathed, showed between the
ribs.  The look of the thing made me ill with
horror.  I felt giddy, and almost swooned; and yet,
though white as death, she fought as undauntedly as
ever.  I shunned the sight, and strove to engage her
husband alone, the great fair-haired man, who, with
no weapon but a broken cutlass, had cleared all
around him.  I thrust at him once and again and
could get no nearer for the swing of his mighty arms.
Then the press behind, caused I suppose by the
Ruthvens at the back, drove me forward, and there
was nothing for it but to grapple with him.  Our
weapons were forced from our hands in the throng,
and, with desperate energy, we clutched one another.
I leaped and gripped him by the neck, and the next
instant we were both down, and a great, suffocating
wave of men pressed over us.  I felt my breath stop,
and yet I kept my grip and drew him closer.  All
was blackness around, and even as I clutched I felt
a sharp thrill of agony through my frame, which
seemed to tear the life from my heart, and I was lost
to all.





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.. _`SMITWOOD`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII

   .. vspace:: 1
   
   SMITWOOD

.. vspace:: 2

That I am alive to this day and fit to write this
tale, I owe to William Baillie.  He saw me fall and
the press close over me, and, though hard beset
himself, he made one effort for my salvation.  "Mathy,"
he cried, "and Tam and Andra, look after your man
and get him up," and then once more he was at
death-grips.  They obeyed his bidding as well as they
might, and made a little ring in the centre around me,
defending me with their weapons.  Then they
entwined us and lifted me, senseless as I was, to the
light and air.  As for Kennedy, he was heavy and
florid, and his life had gone from him at the first
overthrow.

I do not know well how I was got from the fray.
I think I would have been killed, had not the
Ruthvens, whose best men were wounded, given way a
little after.  Their trick of surrounding the enemy,
by spreading wide their wings, was not wise and met
with sorry success.  For it left their middle so weak,
that when Kennedy and the valiant Earl had been
mastered, there remained no resistance.  So when
my friends made haste to push with me to the back
they found their path none so hard.  And after all
that there was nothing but confusion and rout, the
one side fleeing with their wounded, the other making
no effort to pursue, but remaining to rest and heal
their hurts.

As I have said, I was unconscious for some time,
and when I revived I was given a sleeping draught of
the gipsies' own making.  It put me into a profound
slumber, so that I slept for the rest of the day and
night and well on to the next morning.  When I
awoke I was in a rough cart drawn by two little
horses, in the centre of the troop who were hurrying
westward.  I felt my body with care and found that
I was whole and well.  A noise still hummed in my
head and my eyes were not very clear, as indeed was
natural after the fray of the day before.  But I had
no sore hurt, only little flesh scratches, which twinged
at the time, but would soon be healed.

But if this was my case it was not that of the rest
of the band.  The battle had been like all such gipsy
fights—very terrible and bloody, but with no great roll
of dead.  Indeed, on our side we had not lost a man,
and of the enemy Kennedy alone had died, who, being
a big man and a full-blooded, had been suffocated in
his fall by the throng above him.  It was just by little
that I had escaped the same fate, for we two at the
time had been in death-grips, and had I not been thin
and hardy of frame, I should have perished there and
then.  But the wounds were so terrible on both sides
that it scarce seemed possible that many could ever
recover.  Yet I heard, in after days, that not one died
as a result of that day's encounter.  Even the Earl of
Hell and his daughter Jean recovered of their wounds
and wandered through the country for many years.
But the sight of the folk around me on the march was
very terrible.  One man limped along with a great
gash in his thigh in which I could have placed my
open hand.  Another had three fingers shorn off, and
carried his maimed and bandaged hand piteously.  Still
a third lay in the cart with a breast wound which
gaped at every breath, and seemed certain ere long to
bring death.  Yet of such strength and hardihood was
this extraordinary people that they made light of such
wounds, and swore they would be healed in three
weeks' time.  Perhaps this tenacity of life is due in
some part to their excellent doctoring, for it is certain
that these folk have great skill in medicaments, and
with herb-concoctions, and I know not what else, will
often perform wondrous cures.  I have my own case
as an instance—where first I was restored from a high
fever by their skill, and, second, from a fit of
suffocation far more deadly.

The storms of the day before had passed and a light
frost set in which made the air clear and sharp and
the countryside plain even to the distances.  We
were passing under the great mass of Tintock—a high,
hump-backed hill which rises sheer from the level land
and stands like a mighty sentinel o'er the upper Clyde
valley.  We travelled slow, for the wounded were not
fit to bear much speed, and many of the folk walked
to suffer the horses to be yoked to the carts.  After
a little I espied the captain walking at the side, with
his shoulder and cheeks bandaged, but as erect and
haughty as ever.  Seeing that I was awake, he came
over beside me and asked very kindly after my health.
His tenderness toward me was as great as if I had been
his son or nearest blood-kin.  When I told him that
I was well and would get down and walk beside him,
he said that that would be a most unbecoming thing
and would never do, but that he would have a horse
brought me from the back.  So a horse was brought,
an excellent black, with white on its fetlocks, and I
mounted; and despite some little stiffness, found it
much to my liking.

He told of the end of the battle and all the details
of its course.  He was in the highest spirits, for
though his folk were sore wounded, they had yet
beaten their foes and sent them off in a worse plight
than themselves.  Above all he was full of a childish
vanity in his own prowess.  "Saw you that muckle
bullion, Kennedy, Master Burnet?  I gied him some
gey licks, but I never could win near eneuch to him
for his muckle airm.  You grippit him weel and he'll
no bother us mair.  His ain folk 'll keep quiet eneuch
aboot the affair, I'll warrant, so we may look to hear
naething mair aboot it.  I'm thinking tae, that the
Yerl 'll no seek to come back my gate again.  I
tried to mak him fecht like a gentleman, but faith,
he wadna dae't.  He just keepit cuttin' at my shanks
till I was fair wild, and telled some o' our ain folk to
tak the legs frae the body wi' a scythe-stick.  I haena
seen a fecht like it since that at the Romanno Brig
fifteen years syne, atween the Faas and the Shawes,
when they were gaun frae Haddington to Harestane.
Our folk wad hae been in't if they hadna come't up
ower late and juist seen the end o't."

"And will you have no farther trouble about the
matter?" I asked.  "If the justice gets word of it
will you not suffer?"

"Na, na," he said, with conviction, "nae fear.
Thae things dinna come to the lugs o' the law.  We
didna dae ony hairm except to oorsels, and there's
nane o' us killed save Kennedy whae dee'd a naitural
death, so there can be nae word aboot that.  Forbye,
how's the law to grip us?"  And he turned on me a
face full of roguish mirth which looked oddly between
the bandages.  "If they heard we were at Biggar
Moss yae day and cam after us, afore the morn we
wad be in the Douglas Muirs or the Ettrick Hills.
We're kittle cattle to fash wi'.  We gang slow for
ordinar, but when aucht presses we can flee like a
flock o' stirlins."

"Then where are you going?" I asked.

"Where, but to Lancrick," he said.  "There's
a fair comes on there Monday three days, and the
muir is grand beddin'.  I didna ask your will on
the maitter, for I kenned a' places the noo were
muckle the same to ye, provided they were safe and
no ower far away frae the wast country."

"That's true enough," I said, thinking sadly of
Marjory and my miserable plight.  I had not told
Baillie anything of my story, for I did not care to
commit it to such ears.  But I was glad that we travelled
in this airt, for I had still in my heart a wild hope
that by some fortunate chance I should be in time to
save my love.

About midday we came to Lanark Moor, where
the baggage and shelties, as well as most of the women
and children, were left behind to find an encampment.
As for us, we pushed on to the town to see what was
doing and hear some news of the countryside.  I had
no fear of detection, for in my new guise I passed for
the veriest gipsy in the land.  I was still clothed in
my suit of crimson, but the fight had made it torn in
many places, and all smirched with mire and
bog-water.  Also, my face was not only stained with the
captain's dye, but the storms and dust of the encounter
had deepened its colour to the likeness of an Ethiop.
I had not a rag left of gentility, save maybe the sword
which still swung at my side.  In this fashion I rode
by Baillie's elbow in a mood neither glad nor sad, but
sunk in a sort of dogged carelessness.  The entrance
to the town was down a steep path from the moor,
for the place is built above the gorge of Clyde, yet
something lower than the surrounding moorlands.
Far on all sides I had a view of the wide landscape,
from the rugged high hills of Tweeddale and the upper
Clyde to the lowlands in the west which stretch to
Glasgow and the sea.

But when we came to the town there was a great
to-do, men running about briskly and talking to one
another, old women and young gossiping at house and
close doors, and the upper windows filled with heads.
There was a curious, anxious hum throughout the air,
as if some great news had come or was coming ere
long.  I forgot for a moment my position and leaned
from the saddle to ask the cause of a man who stood
talking to a woman at the causeway side.  He looked
at me rudely.  "What for d'ye want to ken, ye
black-faced tinkler?  D'ye think it'll matter muckle
to you what king there is when you're hangit?"  But
the woman was more gracious and deigned to give me
some sort of answer.  "There's word o' news," she
said.  "We kenna yet what it is, and some think ae
thing and some anither, but a' are agreed that it'll
make a gey stramash i' the land.  A man cam ridin'
here an hour syne and has been closeted wi' the
provost ever since.  Honest man, his heid 'll be fair
turned if there's onything wrung, for he's better at
sellin' tatties than reddin' the disorders o' the
state."  And then the man by her side bade her hold her peace,
and I rode on without hearing more.

By and by we came to the market-place where
stands the ancient cross of Lanerick, whereat all
proclamations are made for the Westlands.  Straight
down from it one looks on the steep braes of Kirkfieldbank
and the bridge which the Romans built over the
river; and even there the murmur of the great falls in
Clyde comes to a man's ear.  The place was thronged
with people standing in excited groups, and the
expression on each face was one of expectancy.  Folk had
come in from the country round as on some errand of
enquiry, and the coats of a few of the soldiery were
to be discerned among the rest.  But I had no fear of
them, for they were of the lowlands regiment, and had
no knowledge of me.  The sight of us, and of myself
in especial, for Baillie had changed his garb, caused some
little stir in the crowd and many inquisitive looks.

The captain came up to me.  "There's dooms
little to be dune here," he cried; "the place is in sic
a fever, I canna think what's gaun to happen.  We
may as weel gang back to the muirs and wait till things
quiet doun."

"I know not either," said I, and yet all the time
I knew I was lying, for I had some faint guess at the
approach of great tidings, and my heart was beating
wildly.

Suddenly the crowd parted at the farther end and a
man on a wearied grey horse rode up toward the cross.
He held a bundle of papers in his hand, and his face
was red with hurry and excitement.  "News," he
cried hoarsely, "great news, the greatest and the best
that the land has heard for many a day."  And as
the people surged round in a mighty press he waved
them back and dismounted from his horse.  Then
slowly and painfully he ascended the steps of the cross
and leaned for a second against the shaft to regain his
breath.  Then he stood forward and cried out in a
loud voice that all in the market-place might hear.
"I have ridden post-haste from Edinbro' with the
word, for it came only this morn.  James Stewart has
fled from the throne, and William of Orange has
landed in the South and is on his way to London.
The bloody house has fallen and the troubling of Israel
is at an end."

At that word there went through the people a
sound which I shall never forget as long as I live—the
sigh of gratitude for a great deliverance.  It was
like a passing of a wind through a forest, and more
terrible to hear than all the alarums of war.  And
then there followed a mighty shout, so loud and long
that the roofs trembled, and men tossed bonnets in air
and cried aloud and wept and ran hither and thither
like madmen.  At last the black cloud of the persecution
had lifted from their land, and they were free to
go and tell their kinsmen in hiding that all danger was
gone for ever.

As for myself, what shall I say?  My first feeling
was one of utter joy.  Once more I was free to go
whither I liked, and call my lands my own.  Now I
could overmaster my cousin and set out to the saving
of my lass.  Indeed I, who am a king's man through
and through, and who sorrowed in after days for this
very event, am ashamed to say that my only feeling
at the moment was one of irrepressible gladness.  No
one, who has not for many months been under the
shadow of death, can tell the blessedness of the release.
But even as I joyed, I thought of Marjory, and the
thought recalled me to my duty.

"Have you a fast horse?" I said to the captain.

He looked at me in amazement, for the tidings
were nothing to him, and in my face he must have
read something of my tale.

"You mean—" he said.

"Yes, yes," said I; "it means that I am now
safe, and free to save another.  I must be off hot-foot.
Will you lend me a horse?"

"Take mine," said he, "it's at your service, and
take my guidwill wi' ye."  And he dismounted and
held out his hand.

I mounted and took his in one parting grip.  "God
bless you, William Baillie, for an honest man and a
gentleman," and I was off without another word.

It must have been a strange thing for the people of
Lanark to see me on that day, as they ran hither and
thither to tell the good tidings.  For, in all my savage
finery, I dashed up the narrow street, scattering folk
to the right and left like ducks from a pond, and
paying no heed to a hundred angry threats which rang
out behind me.  In a little I had gained the moor,
and set my face for Douglasdale and my lady.  Smitwood
was but ten miles away and the path to it easy.
In a short hour I should be there, and then—ah, then,
it could not be otherwise, it must be, that Marjory
should be there to greet me, and be the first to hear
my brave news.

I passed over the road I had come, and had no
time to reflect on the difference in my condition from
two hours agone, when abject and miserable I had
plodded along it.  Now all my head was in a whirl,
and my heart in a storm of throbbing.  The horse's
motion was too slow to keep pace with my thoughts
and my desires; and I found me posting on ahead of
myself, eager to be at my goal.  In such wild fashion
I rode over the low haughlands of Clyde, and forded
the river at a deep place where it flowed still and
treacherous among reeds, never heeding, but
swimming my horse across, though I had enough to do to
land on the other side.  Then on through the benty
moorlands of Douglas-side and past the great wood
of the Douglas Castle.  My whole nature was
centred in one great desire of meeting, and yet even in
my longing I had a deadly suspicion that all might
not be well—that I had come too late.

Then I saw the trees and the old house of Smitwood
lying solemn among its meadows.  I quickened
my horse to fresh exertion.  Like a whirlwind he
went up the avenue, making the soft turf fly beneath
his heels.  Then with a start I drew him up at the
door and cried loudly for admittance.

Master Veitch came out with a startled face and
looked upon me with surprise.

"Is Marjory within?" I cried, "Marjory!  Quick,
tell me!"

"Marjory," he replied, and fell back with a white
face.  "Do you seek Marjory?  She left here two
day's agone to go to you, when you sent for her.  Your
servant Nicol went after her."

"O my God," I cried, "I am too late;" and
I leaned against my horse in despair.





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.. _`I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN AT THE FORDS O' CLYDE`:

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   BOOK IV—THE WESTLANDS
   
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   CHAPTER I

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   I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN AT THE FORDS O' CLYDE

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For a second I was so filled with despair at Master
Veitch's news that my mind was the veriest blank and
I could get no thought save that bitterest of all—that
my lady was gone.  But with a great effort I braced
myself to action.

"And what of my servant Nicol?" I asked, and
waited breathlessly for the answer.

"Oh, he was away on the hills seeking ye, Master
Burnet.  When he got no word Marjory was in sic a
terror that nothing would suffice her but that he maun
off to Tweeddale and seek every heather-buss for word
of ye.  He hadna been gone twae days when half-a-dozen
men, or maybe more, came wi' horse and a'
and a letter frae you yoursel, seekin' the lass.  They
said that a' was peaceably settled now, and that you
had sent them to fetch her to meet you at Lanerick.
I hadna a thocht but that it was a' richt and neither
had the lass, for she was blithe to gang.  Next day,
that was yestreen, here comes your servant Nicol wi'
a face as red as a sodger's coat, and when he finds
Marjory gone he sits down wi' his heid atween his
hands and spak never a word to any man.  Then
aboot the darkening he gets up and eats a dinner as
though he hadna seen meat for a twal'month.  Then
off he gangs, and tells na a soul where he was gaun."  The
old man had lost all his fine bearing and correct
speech, and stood by the door shivering with age and
anxiety.

A whirlwind of thoughts passed through my mind.
Now that the old order was at end, Gilbert's power
had gone with it, and he was likely to find it go hard
with him soon.  There was but one refuge for him—in
his own lands in the west, where, in his great house
of Eaglesham or his town dwelling in Glasgow, he
might find harborage; for the very fact that they were
in the stronghold of the Whigs made them the more
secure.  Thither he must have gone if he had any
remnant of wit, and thither he had taken my lady.
And with the thought my whole nature was steeled
into one fierce resolve to follow him and call him to
bitter account.  My first fit of rage had left me, and
a more deadly feeling had taken its place.  This earth
was too narrow a place for my cousin and me to live
in, and somewhere in these Westlands I would meet
him and settle accounts once and for all.  It was not
anger I felt, I give you my word.  Nay, it was a
sense of some impelling fate behind driving me
forward to meet this mm, who had crossed me so
often.  The torments of baffled love and frustrated
ambition were all sunk in this one irresistible impulse.

I clambered on my horse once more, and a strange
sight I must have seemed to the gaping servants and
their astonished master.

"I am off on the quest," I cried, "but I will give
you one word of news ere I go.  The king has fled
the land, and the Dutch William goes to the throne."  And
I turned and galloped down the avenue, leaving
a throng of pale faces staring after my horse's tail.

Once on the road I lashed my animal into a mad
gallop.  Some devil seemed to have possessed me.
I had oft thought fondly in the past that my nature
was not such as the wild cavaliers whom I had seen,
but more that of the calm and reasonable philosopher.
Now I laughed bitterly at these vain imaginings.  For
when a man's heart is stirred to its bottom with love
or hatred all surface graces are stripped from it and
the old primeval passions sway him, which swayed
his father before him.  But with all my heat I felt a
new coolness and self-possession.  A desperate calm
held me.  In a little all things would be settled, for
this was the final strife, from which one or other of
the combatants would never return.

The dull November eve came on me ere I reached
the Clyde.  'Twas no vantage to ford the stream, so
I rode down the left bank among the damp haughs and
great sedgy pools.  In a little I had come to the awful
gorge where the water foams over many linns and the
roar of the place is like the guns of an army.  Here
I left the stream side and struck into the country,
whence I returned again nearly opposite the town of
Lanark, at the broad, shallow place in the river, which
folk call the Fords o' Clyde.

Here there is a clachan of houses jumbled together
in a crinkle of the hill, where the way from the
Ayrshire moors to the capital comes down to the bank.
Here there was an inn, an indifferent place, but quiet
and little frequented; and since there was little to be
got by going further I resolved to pass the night in the
house.  So I rode down the uneven way to where I
saw the light brightest, and found the hostel by a
swinging lamp over the door.  So giving my horse
to a stableman, with many strict injunctions as to his
treatment, I entered the low doorway and found my
way to the inn parlour.

From the place came a great racket of mirth, and
as I opened the door a glass struck against the top
and was shivered to pieces.  Inside, around the long
table, sat a round dozen of dragoons making merry
after their boisterous fashion.  One would have
guessed little indeed from their faces that their
occupation was gone, for they birled at the wine as if the
times were twenty years back and King Charles (whom
God rest) just come anew to his throne.

I had never seen the soldiers before, but I made a
guess that they were disbanded men of my cousin's
company, both from their air of exceeding braggadocio
which clung to all who had any relation to Gilbert
Burnet, and also since there were no soldiers in this
special part of the Clyde dale save his.  I was in no
temper for such a racket, and had there been another
room in the house I should have sought it; but the
inn was small and little frequented, and the
accommodation narrow at the best.  However, I must needs
make the most of it, so shutting the door behind I
sought a retired corner seat.  I was still worn with
my exertions of yesterday and weary with long riding,
so I was blithe to get my limbs at rest.

But it was clear that three-fourths of the company
were in the last state of drunkenness, and since men
in liquor can never let well alone, they must needs
begin to meddle with me.

"Gidden," said one, "what kind o' gentleman
hae we here?  I havena seen sic a fellow sin' yon
steeple-jaick at Brochtoun Fair.  D'ye think he wad
be willin' to gie us a bit entertainment?"

Now you must remember that I still wore my suit
of torn and dirty crimson, and with my stained face
and long hair I must have cut a rare figure.

But had the thing gone no further than words I
should never have stirred a finger in the matter, for
when a man's energies are all bent upon some great
quarrel, he has little stomach for lesser bickerings.
But now one arose in a drunken frolic, staggered over
to where I sat, and plucked me rudely by the arm.
"Come ower," he said, "my man, and let'sh see ye
dance the 'Nancy kilt her Coats.'  You see here
twelve honest sodgers whae will gie ye a penny a piece
for the ploy."

"Keep your hands off," I said brusquely, "and
hold your tongue.  'Twill be you that will do the
dancing soon at the end of a tow on the castle hill,
when King William plays the fiddle.  You'll be
brisker lads then."

"What," said he in a second, with drunken
gravity.  "Do I hear you shpeak treason against his
majesty King James?  Dod, I'll learn ye better."  And
he tugged at his sword, but being unable in his
present state to draw it with comfort, he struck me a
hard thwack over the shoulder, scabbard and all.

In a moment I was ablaze with passion.  I flung
myself on the fellow, and with one buffet sent him
rolling below the table.  Then I was ashamed for
myself, for a drunken man is no more fit for an honest
blow than a babe or a woman.

But there was no time for shame or aught save
action.  Three men—the only three who were able
to understand the turn of affairs—rose to their feet in
a trice, and with drawn swords came towards me.
The others sat stupidly staring, save two who had
fallen asleep and rolled from their seats.

I picked up my chair, which was broad and heavy
and of excellent stout oak, and held it before me like
a shield.  I received the first man's awkward lunge
full on it, and, thrusting it forward, struck him fair
above the elbow, while his blade fell with a clatter on
the floor.  Meantime the others were attacking me to
the best of their power, and though they were singly
feeble, yet in their very folly they were more
dangerous than a mettlesome opponent, who will keep always
in front and observe well the rules of the game.
Indeed, it might have gone hard with me had not the
door been flung violently open and the landlord
entered, wringing his hands and beseeching, and close at
his heels another man, very tall and thin and dark.  At
the sight of this second my heart gave a great bound and
I cried aloud in delight.  For it was my servant Nicol.

In less time than it takes to write it we had
disarmed the drunken ruffians and reduced them to order.
And, indeed, the task was not a hard one, for they
were a vast deal more eager to sleep than to fight, and
soon sank to their fitting places on the floor.  Forbye
they may have had some gleam of sense, and seen how
perilous was their conduct in the present regiment of
affairs.  Then Nicol, who was an old acquaintance
of the host's, led me to another room in the back of
the house, where we were left in peace; and sitting
by the fire told one another some fragment of our tales.

And first for his own, for I would speak not a
word till he had told me all there was to tell.  He
had had much ado to get to Caerdon, for the hills were
thick with the military, and at that wild season of the
year there is little cover.  When he found no letter
he set off for the hiding-place above Scrape, where he
knew I had been, and found it deserted.  Thence
he had shaped his way again to Smitwood with infinite
labour and told Marjory the fruit of his errand.  At
this her grief had been so excessive that nothing would
content her but that he must be off again and learn by
hook or crook some word of my whereabouts.  So
began his wanderings among the hills, often attended
with danger and always with hardship, but no trace of
me could he find.  At last, somewhere about the
Moffat Water, he had forgathered with a single tinker
whom he had once befriended in the old days when
he had yet power to help.  From this man he had
learned that the Baillies had with them one whom he
did not know for certain, but shrewdly guessed as the
laird of Barns.  With all speed he had set off on this
new quest and followed me in my journey right to the
moss of Biggar.  Here all signs of the band came to
an end, for most of the folk of the place knew naught
of the airt of the gipsy flight, and such as knew were
loth to tell, being little in a mood to incur the Baillies'
wrath.  So naught was left for him but to return to
the place whence he had started.  Here he was met
with the bitter news that I have already set down.
He was thrown into a state of utter despondency, and
sat for long in a fine confusion of mind.  Then he
fell to reasoning.  There was no place whither
Gilbert could take a woman save his own house of
Eaglesham, for Dawyck and Barns were too near the hills
and myself.  You must remember that at this time
my servant had no inkling of the momentous event
which had set our positions upside down.  Now, if
they took her to the west they would do so with all
speed; they had but one day's start; he might yet
overtake them, and try if his wits could find no way
out of the difficulty.

So off he set and came to this inn of the Clyde fords,
and then he heard that on the evening before such a
cavalcade had passed as he sought.  But he learned
something more the next morn; namely, that my
cousin's power was wholly broken and that now I was
freed from all suspicion of danger.  Once more he
fell into a confusion, but the one thing clear was that
he must find me at all costs.  He had heard of me
last at the town of Biggar not fifteen miles off; when
I heard the great news he guessed that I would ride
straight for Smitwood; I would hear the tidings that
the folk there had to tell, and, if he knew aught of
me, I would ride straight, as he had done, on the track
of the fugitives.  So he turned back to the inn, and abode
there awaiting me, and, lo! at nightfall I had come.

Then for long we spoke of my own wanderings,
and I told him many tales of my doings and sufferings
up hill and down dale, as did Ulysses to the Ithacan
swineherd.  But ere long we fell to discussing that far
more momentous task which lay before us.  It
behooved us to be up and doing, for I had a horrid fear
at my heart that my cousin might seek to reach the
western seacoast and escape to France or Ireland, and
thus sorely hinder my meeting with my love.  I had
no fear but that I should overtake him sooner or later,
for fate had driven that lesson deep into my heart, and
to myself I said that it was but a matter of days, or
weeks, or maybe years, but not of failure.  I was for
posting on even at that late hour, but Nicol would
have none of it.

"Look at your face i' the gless, sir," said he,
"and tell me if ye look like muckle mair ridin' the
day.  Ye're fair forwandered wi' weariness and want
o' sleep.  And what for wad ye keep thae queer-like
claes?  I'll get ye a new suit frae the landlord, decent
man, and mak ye mair presentable for gaun intil the Wast."

I looked as he bade me in the low mirror, and saw
my dark face, and wind-tossed hair, and my clothes
of flaming crimson.  Something in the odd contrast
struck my fancy.

"Nay," I said, grimly, "I will bide as I am.  I
am going on a grim errand and I will not lay aside
these rags till I have done that which I went for
to do."

"Weel, weel, please yersel'," said my servant,
jauntily, and he turned away, whistling and smiling
to himself.





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   CHAPTER II

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   AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND

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I slept like a log till the broad daylight on the next
morn woke me, and with all speed I got up and dressed.
I found myself much refreshed in body.  My
weariness was gone, and the dull languor which had
oppressed me had given place to a singular freshness
of spirit.

When I went below I found my servant ready and
waiting, with the horses saddled and my meal
prepared.  The soldiers had gone early, paying no score;
for when their liquor had left them they had wakened
up to the solemn conviction that this countryside was
not like to be a pleasant habitation for them for many
months to come.  So they had gone off to Heaven
knows where, cutting my bridle-rein as a last token
of their affection.

It was near ten o'clock ere we started, the two of
us, on our road to the West.  I had travelled it many
times, for it was the way to Glasgow, and I found
myself calling up, whether I would or no, a thousand
half-sad and half-pleasing memories.  At this place I had
stopped to water my horse, at this cottage I had halted
for an hour, at this hostel I had lain the night.  Had
I not looked at my comrade every now and then, I
might have fancied that I was still the schoolboy, with
his wide interest in letters and life, and little
knowledge of either, with half a dozen letters in his pocket,
looking forward with fear and hope to town and
college.  Heigh-ho!  Many things had come and gone
since then, and here was I still the same boy, but
ah! how tossed and buffeted and perplexed.  Yet I would
not have bartered my present state for those careless
and joyous years, for after all this is a rugged world,
with God knows how many sore straits and devilish
temptations, but with so many fair and valiant rewards,
that a man is a coward indeed who would not battle
through the one for the sweet sake of the other.

As we went Nicol talked of many things with a
cheery good humour.  His was an adventure-loving
mind, and there were few things which he would not
brave save the routine of settled life.  Now, as the
November sun came out, for the morn was frosty and
clear, his face shone with the sharp air and the
excitement of the ride, and he entertained me to his views
on the world and the things in it.  The ground was
hard as steel underfoot, the horse's hooves crackled
through the little ice-coated pools in the road, and
a solitary thrush sang its song from a wayside wood
and seemed like a silver trump calling to action and
daring.

"What think ye o' the hills, Laird?" said my
servant.  "Ye've been lang among them, and ye'll ken
them noo in anither way than if ye had just trampit
ower them after wild-jucks or ridden through them to
Yarrow or Moffatdale.  I've wandered among them
since I was a laddie five 'ear auld, and used to gang oot
wi' my faither to the herdin'.  And since then I've
traivelled up Tweed and doun Tweed, and a' ower the
Clydeside and the Annanside, no to speak o' furrin
pairts, and I can weel say that I ken naucht sae awfu'
and sae kindly, sae couthy and bonny and hamely,
and, at the same time, sae cauld and cruel, as juist
thae green hills and muirs."

"You speak truly," said I.  "I've seen them in
all weathers and I know well what you mean."

"Ay," he went on, "thae lawlands are very bonny,
wi' the laigh meadows, and bosky trees and waters as
still as a mill-pound.  And if ye come doun frae the
high bare lands ye think them fair like Heev'n.  But
I canna bide lang there.  I aye turn fair sick for the
smell o' moss and heather, and the roarin' and routin'
o' the burn, and the air sae clear and snell that it gars
your face prick and your legs and airms strauchten
oot, till ye think ye could run frae here to the Heads
o' Ayr."

"I know all of that," said I, "and more."

"Ay, there's far mair," said he.  "There's the
sleepin' at nicht on the grund wi' naething abune you
but the stars, and waukin' i' the mornin' wi' the birds
singin' i' your lug and the wind blawin' cool and free
around you.  I ken a' that and I ken the ither, when
the mist crowds low on the tap o' the hills and the
rain dreeps and seeps, or when the snaw comes and
drifts sae thick that ye canna stand afore it, and there's
life neither for man nor beast.  Yet wi' it a' I like
it, and if I micht choose the place I wad like best to
dee in, it would be in the lee side o' a muckle hill,
wi' nae death-bed or sic like havers, but juist to gang
straucht to my Makker frae the yirth I had aye
traivelled on.  But wha kens?" and he spurred up
his horse.

"Nicol," said I, after a long silence, "you know
the errand we go on.  I have told you it, I think.
It is to find my cousin and Mistress Marjory.  If God
grant that we do so, then these are my orders.  You
shall take the lady home to Tweeddale, to Dawyck,
which is her own, and leave me behind you.  I may
come back or I may not.  If I do, all will be well.
If I do not, you know your duty.  You have already
fulfilled it for some little time; if it happens as I say,
you shall continue it to death.  The lass will have
no other protector than yourself."

"E'en as ye say," cried he, resuming his hilarity,
though whether it was real or no I cannot tell.  "But
dinna crack aboot siccan things, Laird, or ye'll be
makkin' our journey nae better than buryin'.  It's a
wanchancy thing to speak aboot death.  No that a
man should be feared at it, but that he should keep a
calm sough till it come.  Ye mind the story o' auld
Tam Blacket, the writer at Peebles.  Tam was deein',
and as he was a guid auld man the minister, whae was
great at death-beds and consolation, cam to speak to
him aboot his latter end.  'Ye're near death,
Tammas,' says he.  Up gets auld Tam.  'I'll thank ye no
to mention that subject,' he says, and never a word
wad he allow the puir man to speak."

So in this way we talked till we came to where the
road leaves the Clyde valley and rises steep to the high
land about the town of Hamilton.  Here we alighted
for dinner at an inn which bears for its sign the Ship of
War, though what this means in a town many miles
from the sea I do not know.  Here we had a most
excellent meal, over which we did not tarry long, for
we sought to reach Glasgow ere nightfall, and at that
season of the year the day closes early.

As we rode down the narrow, crooked street, I had
leisure to look about me.  The town was in a ferment,
for, as near the field of Bothwell Brig, where the Whigs
had suffered their chiefest slaughter, it had been well
garrisoned with soldiers, and the news of the Prince
of Orange's landing put the place into an uproar.
Men with flushed, eager faces hurried past with wonder
writ large on their cheeks; others stood about in knots
talking shrilly; and every now and then a horseman
would push his way through the crowd bearing fresh
tidings to the townsfolk or carrying it thence to the
West country.

Suddenly, in the throng of men, I saw a face which
brought me to a standstill.  It was that of a man,
dark, sullen, and foreign-looking, whose former
dragoon's dress a countryman's coat poorly concealed.
He was pushing his way eagerly through the crowd,
when he looked into the mid-street and caught my
eye.  In an instant he had dived into one of the
narrow closes and was lost to sight.

At the first glance I knew my man for that soldier
of Gilbert's, Jan Hamman, the Hollander, whom
already thrice I had met, once in the Alphen Road,
once at the joining of the Cor Water with Tweed,
and once at the caves of the Cor, when so many of
His Majesty's servants went to their account.  What
he was about in this West country I could not think,
for had he been wise he would have made for the
eastern seacoast or at least not ventured into this
stronghold of those he had persecuted.  And with the
thought another came.  Had not he spoken bitterly
of his commander? was he not the victim of one of
my fair cousin's many infamies? had he not, in my
own hearing, sworn vengeance?  Gilbert had more
foes than one on his track, for here was this man,
darkly malevolent, dogging him in his flight.  The
thought flashed upon me that he of all men would
know my cousin's plans and would aid me in my
search.  I did not for a moment desire him for an
ally in my work; nay, I should first frustrate his
designs, before I settled matters with Gilbert, for it was
in the highest degree unseemly that any such villain
should meddle in matters which belonged solely to our
house.  Still I should use him for my own ends, come
what might.

I leaped from my horse, crying on Nicol to take
charge of it, and dashed up the narrow entry.  I had
just a glimpse of a figure vanishing round the far
corner, and when I had picked my way, stumbling
over countless obstacles, I found at the end an open
court, roughly paved with cobbie-stones, and beyond
that a high wall.  With all my might I made a great
leap and caught the top, and lo!  I looked over into a
narrow lane wherein children were playing.  It was
clear that my man had gone by this road, and would
now be mixed among the folk in the side street.  It
was useless to follow further, so in some chagrin I
retraced my steps, banning Nicol and the Dutchman
and my own ill-luck.

I remounted, making no answer to my servant's
sarcastic condolences—for, of course, he had no
knowledge of this fellow's purport in coming to the
Westlands, and could only look on my conduct as a
whimsical freak.  As we passed down the street I kept
a shrewd lookout to right and left if haply I might see
my man, but no such good luck visited me.  Once
out of the town it behooved us to make better speed,
for little of the afternoon remained, and dusk at this
time of year fell sharp and sudden.  So with a great
jingling and bravado we clattered through the little
hamlets of Blantyre and Cambuslang, and came just
at the darkening to the populous burgh of Rutherglen,
which, saving that it has no college or abbey, is a
more bustling and prosperous place than Glasgow
itself.  But here we did not stay, being eager to win
to our journey's end; so after a glass of wine at an
inn we took the path through the now dusky meadows
by Clyde side, and passing through the village of
Gorbals, which lies on the south bank of the river,
we crossed the great bridge and entered the gates just
as they were on the point of closing.

During the latter hours of the day I had gone over
again in mind all the details of the doings of past
weeks.  All seemed now clear, and with great
heartiness I cursed myself for errors, which I could scarce
have refrained from.  The steps in Gilbert's plan lay
before me one by one.  The letter had given him only
the slightest of clues, which he must have taken weeks
to discover.  When at last it had been made clear
to him, something else had engaged his mind.  He
must have had word from private sources, shut to the
country folk, of the way whither events were trending
in the state.  His mind was made up; he would make
one desperate bid for success; and thus he shaped his
course.  He sent men to Smitwood with the plausible
story which I had already heard from my servant,
how all breach was healed between us, and how this
was her escort to take her to me.  Then I doubted
not he had bidden the men show her as proof some
letter forged in my name on the model of the one I
had lost on Caerdon, and also give her some slight hint
of the great change in the country to convince her that
now he could do no ill even had he desired it, and
that I was now on the summit of fortune.  The poor
lass, wearied with anxiety and long delay, and with no
wise Nicol at hand to give better counsel, had suffered
herself to be persuaded, and left the house with a glad
heart.  I pictured her disillusion, her bitter regrets,
her unwilling flight.  And then I swore with
redoubled vehemence that it should not be for long.

We alighted for the night at the house of that
Mistress Macmillan, where I lodged when I first came
to college.  She welcomed us heartily, and prepared
us a noble supper, for we were hungry as hawks, and
I, for one, tired with many rough adventures.  The
house stood in the Gallow Gate, near the salt market
and the college gardens; and as I lay down on the
fresh sheets and heard the many noises of the street
with the ripple of the river filling the pauses, I thanked
God that at last I had come out of beggary and
outlawry to decent habitation.





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.. _`THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES`:

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   CHAPTER III

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   THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES

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The next morn the weather had changed.  When
I looked forth through the latticed panes to the street,
it was a bleak scene that met my eyes—near a foot of
snow, flakes tossing and whirling everywhere, and the
roofs and gables showing leaden dull in the gloom.
Had I been in another frame of mind I should have
lost my spirits, for nothing so disheartened me as
heavy, dismal weather.  But now I was in such a
temper that I welcomed the outlook; the grey, lifeless
street was akin to my heart, and I went down from
my chamber with the iron of resolution in my soul.

My first care was to enquire at Mistress Macmillan
if she knew aught of my cousin's doings, for the
town-house of the Eaglesham Burnets was not two
streets distant.  But she could give me no news, for,
said she, since the old laird died and these troublous
times succeeded, it was little that the young master
came near the place.  So without any delay I and my
servant went out into the wintry day, and found our
way to the old, dark dwelling in the High Street.

The house had been built near a hundred years
before, in the time of Ephraim Burnet, my cousin's
grandfather.  I mind it well to this day, and oft as
I think of the city, that dreary, ancient pile rises to fill
my vision.  The three Burnet leaves, the escutcheon
of our family, hung over the doorway.  Every window
was little and well-barred with iron, nor was any sign
of life to be seen behind the dreary panes.  But the
most notable things to the eye were the odd crow-step
gables, which, I know not from what cause, were all
chipped and defaced, and had a strange, pied appearance
against the darker roof.  It faced the street and
down one side ran a little lane.  Behind were many
lesser buildings around the courtyard, and the back
opened into a wynd which ran westward to the city walls.

I went up the steps and with my sword-hilt
thundered on the door.  The blows roused the echoes of
the old place.  Within I heard the resonance of
corridor and room, all hollow and empty.  Below me
was the snowy street, with now and then a single
passer, and I felt an eerie awe of this strange house,
as of one who should seek to force a vault of the dead.

Again I knocked, and this time it brought me an
answer.  I heard feet—slow, shuffling feet, coming
from some room, and ascending the staircase to
the hall.  The place was so void that the slightest
sound rang loud and clear, and I could mark the
progress of the steps from their beginning.  Somewhere
they came to a halt, as if the person were considering
whether or not to come to the door, but by and by
they advanced, and with vast creaking a key was
fitted into the lock and the great oak door was opened
a little.

It was a little old woman who stood in the opening,
with a face seamed and wrinkled, and not a tooth in
her head.  She wore a mutch, which gave her a most
witch-like appearance, and her narrow, grey eyes, as
they fastened on me and sought out my errand, did
not reassure me.

"What d'ye want here the day, sir?" she said in
a high, squeaking voice.  "It's cauld, cauld weather,
and my banes are auld and I canna stand here bidin'
your pleesur."

"Is your master within?" I said, shortly.  "Take
me to him, for I have business with him."

"Maister, quotha!" she screamed.  "Wha d'ye
speak o', young sir?  If it's the auld laird ye mean,
he's lang syne wi' his Makker, and the young yin has
no been here thae fower years.  He was a tenty bit
lad, was Maister Gilbert, but he gaed aff to the wars
i' the abroad and ne'er thinks o' returnin'.  Wae's
me for the puir, hapless cheil."  And she crooned
on to herself in the garrulity of old age.

"Tell me the truth," said I, "and have done with
your lies.  It is well known that your master came
here in the last two days with two men and a lady,
and abode here for the night.  Tell me instantly if he
is still here or whither has he gone."

She looked at me with a twinkle of shrewdness and
then shook her head once more.  "Na, na, I'm no
leein'.  I'm ower neer my accoont wi' the Lord to
burden my soul wi' lees.  When you tae are faun i'
the hinner end o' life, ye'll no think it worth your
while to mak up leesome stories.  I tell ye the young
maister hasna been here for years, though it's blithe I
wad be to see him.  If ye winna believe my word, ye
can e'en gang your ways."

Now I was in something of a quandary.  The
woman looked to be speaking the truth, and it was
possible that my cousin could have left the city on
one side and pushed straight on to his house of
Eaglesham or even to the remoter western coast.  Yet the
way was a long one, and I saw not how he could have
refrained from halting at Glasgow in the even.  He
had no cause to fear my following him there more
than another place.  For that I would come post-haste
to the Westlands at the first word he must have well
known, and so he could have no reason in covering
his tracks from me.  He was over-well known a figure
in his own countryside to make secrecy possible; his
aim must be to outrace me in speed, not to outwit me
with cunning.

"Let me gang, young sir," the old hag was groaning.
"I've the rheumaticks i' my banes and I'm sair
hadden doon wi' the chills, and I'll get my death if I
stand here longer."

"I will trust you then," said I, "but since I am
a kinsman of your master's and have ridden far on a
bootless errand, I will even come in and refresh
myself ere I return."

"Na, na," she said, a new look, one of anxiety
and cunning coming into her face, "ye maun na dae
that.  It was the last word my maister bade me ere
he gaed awa'.  'Elspeth,' says he, 'see ye let nane
intil the hoose till I come back.'"

"Tut, tut, I am his own cousin.  I will enter if
I please," and calling my servant, I made to force an
admittance.

Then suddenly, ere I knew, the great door was
slammed in my face, and I could hear the sound of a
key turning and a bar being dropped.

Here was a pretty to-do.  Without doubt there was
that in the house which the crone desired to keep from
my notice.  I sprang to the door and thundered on it
like a madman, wrestling with the lock, and calling
for the woman to open it.  But all in vain, and after
a few seconds' bootless endeavour, I turned ruefully
to my servant.

"Can aught be done?" I asked.

"I saw a dyke as we cam here," said Nicol, "and
ower the back o't was a yaird.  There was likewise
a gate i' the dyke.  I'm thinkin' that'll be the back
door o' the hoose.  If ye were awfu' determined,
Laird, ye micht win in there."

I thought for a moment.  "You are right," I
cried.  "I know the place.  But we will first go back
and fetch the horses, for it is like there will be wild
work before us ere night."

But lo and behold! when we went to the inn stable
my horse was off.  "I thocht he needit a shoe," said
the ostler, "so I just sent him doun to Jock
Walkinshaw's i' the East Port.  If ye'll bide a wee, I'll send
a laddie doun to bring him up."

Five, twenty, sixty minutes and more we waited
while that accursed child brought my horse.  Then
he came back a little after midday; three shoes had
been needed, he said, and he had rin a' the way, and
he wasna to blame.  So I gave him a crown and a
sound box on the ears, and then the two of us set off.

The place was high and difficult of access, being
in a narrow lane where few passers ever went, and
nigh to the city wall.  I bade Nicol hold the horses,
and standing on the back of one I could just come to
within a few feet of the top.  I did my utmost by
springing upward to grasp the parapet, but all in vain,
so in a miserable state of disappointed hopes I desisted
and consulted with my servant.  Together we tried
the door, but it was of massive wood, clamped with
iron, and triply bolted.  There was nothing for it but
to send off to Mistress Macmillan and seek some
contrivance.  Had the day not been so wild and the lane
so quiet we could scarce have gone unnoticed.  As it
was, one man passed, a hawker in a little cart,
seeking a near way, and with little time to stare at the two
solitary horsemen waiting by the wall.

Nicol went off alone, while I kept guard—an aimless
guard—by the gate.  In a little he returned with
an old boat-hook, with the cleek at the end somewhat
unusually long.  Then he proposed his method.  I
should stand on horseback as before, and hang the
hook on the flat surface of the wall.  When, by dint
of scraping, I had fixed it firmly, I should climb it
hand over hand, as a sailor mounts a rope, and with
a few pulls I might hope to be at the summit.

I did as he bade, and, with great labour, fixed the
hook in the hard stone.  Then I pulled myself up,
very slowly and carefully, with the shaft quivering in
my hands.  I was just gripping the stone when the
wretched iron slipped and rattled down to the ground,
cutting me sharply in the wrist.  Luckily I did not
go with it, for in the moment of falling, I had grasped
the top and hung there with aching hands and the
blood from the cut trickling down my arm.  Then,
with a mighty effort, I swung myself up and stood
safe on the top.

Below me was a sloping roof of wood which ended
in a sheer wall of maybe twelve feet.  Below that in
turn was the great yard, flagged with stone, but now
hidden under a cloak of snow.  Around it were stables,
empty of horses, windy, cold, and dismal.  I cannot
tell how the whole place depressed me.  I felt as
though I were descending into some pit of the dead.

Staunching the blood from my wrist—by good luck
my left—as best I might with my kerchief, I slipped
down the white roof and dropped into the court.  It
was a wide, empty place, and, in the late afternoon,
looked grey and fearsome.  The dead black house
behind, with its many windows all shuttered and
lifeless, shadowed the place like a pall.  At my back
was the back door of the house, like the other locked
and iron-clamped.  I seemed to myself to have done
little good by my escapade in coming thither.

Wandering aimlessly, I entered the stables, scarce
thinking what I was doing.  Something about the
place made me stop and look.  I rubbed my eyes and
wondered.  There, sure enough, were signs of horses
having been recently here.  Fresh hay and a few oats
were in the mangers, and straw and dung in the stalls
clearly proclaimed that not long agone the place had
been tenanted.

I rushed out into the yard, and ran hither and
thither searching the ground.  There were hoof-marks—fool
that I was not to have marked them before—leading
clearly from the stable door to the gate on the
High Street.  I rushed to the iron doors and tugged
at them.  To my amazement I found that they
yielded, and I was staring into the darkening street.

So the birds had been there and flown in our brief
absence.  I cursed my ill-fortune with a bitter heart.

Suddenly I saw something dark lying amid the
snow.  I picked it up and laid it tenderly in my
bosom.  For it was a little knot of blue velvet ribbon,
such as my lady wore.





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.. _`UP HILL AND DOWN DALE`:

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   CHAPTER IV

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   UP HILL AND DOWN DALE

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I rushed up the street, leaving the gates swinging
wide behind me, and down the lane to where Nicol
waited.  In brief, panting words I told him my tale.
He heard it without a movement, save to turn his
horse's head up the street.  I swung myself into the
saddle, and, with no more delay, we made for our
lodgings.

"There is but one thing that we may do," said I.
"The night is an ill one, but if it is ill for us 'tis ill
for them."  And at the words I groaned, for I thought
of my poor Marjory in the storm and cold.

At Mistress Macmillan's I paid the lawing, and
having eaten a hearty meal, we crammed some food
into our saddle-bags and bade the hostess good-bye.
Then we turned straight for the west port of the city.

It was as I had expected.  The gates were just at
the closing when the twain of us rode up to them and
were suffered to pass.  The man looked curiously at
my strange dress, but made no remark, as is the fashion
of these taciturn Westland folk, and together we rode
through and into the bleak night.  The snow had
ceased to fall early in the day, but now it came on
again in little intermittent driftings, while a keen wind
whistled from the hills of the north.  The land was
more or less strange to me, and even my servant, who
had a passing acquaintance with many countrysides,
professed himself ignorant.  It was the way to the
wild highlands—the county of Campbells and
Lennoxes—and far distant from kindly Christian folk.  I
could not think why my cousin had chosen this path,
save for the reason of its difficulty and obscurity.  I
was still in doubt of his purpose, whether he was
bound for his own house of Eaglesham or for the more
distant Clyde coast.  He had clearly gone by this gate
from the city, for this much we had learned from the
man at the port.  Now, if he sought Eaglesham, he
must needs cross the river, which would give us some
time to gain on his track.  But if he still held to the
north, then there was naught for it but to follow him
hot-foot and come up with him by God's grace and our
horses' speed.

I have been abroad on many dark nights, but never
have I seen one so black as this.  The path to the
west ran straight from our feet to the rugged hills
which dip down to the river edge some ten miles off.
But of it we could make nothing, nor was there
anything to tell us of its presence save that our horses
stumbled when we strayed from it to the moory land
on either side.  All about us were the wilds, for the
town of Glasgow stood on the last bounds of settled
country, near to the fierce mountains and black
morasses of the Highlandmen.  The wind crooned and
blew in gusts over the white waste, driving little flakes
of snow about us, and cutting us to the bone with its
bitter cold.  Somewhere in the unknown distances
we heard strange sounds—the awesome rumble of
water or the cry of forlorn birds.  All was as bleak
as death, and, in the thick darkness, what might
otherwise have seemed simple and homelike, was filled
with vague terrors.  I had shaped no path—all that I
sought was to hasten somewhere nearer those we
followed, and on this mad quest we stumbled blindly
forward.

When we had gone some half-dozen miles a light
shone out from the wayside, and we descried a house.
It was a little, low dwelling, with many sheds at the
rear; clearly a smithy or a humble farm.  My servant
leaped down and knocked.  The door was opened,
a warm stream of light lay across the snowy road.  I
had a glimpse within, and there was a cheerful kitchen
with a fire of logs crackling.  A man sat by the
hearth, shaping something or other with a knife, and
around him two children were playing.  The woman
who came to us was buxom and comely, one who
delighted in her children and her home.  The whole
place gave me a sharp feeling of envy and regret.
Even these folk, poor peasants, had the joys of
comfort and peace, while I, so long an outlaw and a
wanderer, must still wander hopeless seeking the lost,
cumbered about with a thousand dangers.

"Did any riders pass by the road to-day?" I asked.

"Ay, four passed on horses about midday or maybe
a wee thing after it, twae stoot fellows, and a
braw-clad gentleman and a bonny young leddy.  They didna
stop but gaed by at a great rate."

"What was the lady like?" I asked, breathlessly.

"Oh, a bit young thing, snod and genty-like.  But
I mind she looked gey dowie and I think she had been
greetin'.  But wherefore d'ye speir, sir?  And what
are ye daein' oot hereaways on siccan a nicht?  Ye
best come in and bide till mornin'.  We've an orra
bed i' the house for the maister, and plenty o' guid,
saft straw i' the barn for the man."

"Did they go straight on?" I cried, "and whither
does this way lead?"

"They went straight on," said she, "and the road
is the road to the toun o' Dumbarton."  And she
would have told me more, but with a hasty word of
thanks, I cut her short, and once more we were off
into the night.

From this place our way and the incidents thereof
are scarce clear in my memory.  For one thing the
many toils of the preceding time began at last to tell
upon me, and I grew sore and wearied.  Also a heavy
drowsiness oppressed me, and even in that cold I
could have slept on my horse's back.  We were still
on the path, and the rhythmical jog of the motion
served to lull me, till, as befell every now and then,
there came a rut or a tussock, and I was brought to
my senses with a sharp shock.  Nicol rode silently
at my side, a great figure in the gloom, bent low, as
was always his custom, over his horse's neck.  In
one way the state was more pleasing than the last, for
the turmoil of cares in my heart was quieted for the
moment by the bodily fatigue.  I roused myself at
times to think of my purpose and get me energy for
my task, but the dull languor would not be exorcised,
and I always fell back again into my sloth.  Nevertheless
we kept a fair pace, for we had given the rein
to our animals, and they were fresh and well-fed.

Suddenly, ere I knew, the way began to change
from a level road into a steep hill-path.  Even in the
blackness I could see a great hillside rising steeply to
right and to left.  I pulled up my horse, for here there
would be need of careful guidance, and was going on
as before when Nicol halted me with his voice.

"Laird, Laird," he cried, "I dinna ken muckle
aboot the Dumbarton road, but there's yae thing I ken
weel and that is that it keeps i' the laigh land near the
waterside a' the way, and doesna straiggle ower
brae-faces."

This roused me to myself.  "Did we pass any
cross-road?" I asked, "for God knows the night is
dark enough for any man to wander.  Are you sure
of what you say?"

"As sure as I am that my fingers are cauld and
my een fair dazed wi' sleep," said he.

"Then there is naught for it but to go back and
trust to overtaking the path.  But stay, are these not
the hills of Kilpatrick, which stretch down from the
Lennox to the Clyde and front the river at this very
Dumbarton?  I have surely heard of such.  Our
highway must lie to our left, since we clearly have
turned to the right, seeing that if we had turned to
the left we should have reached the water.  If then
we strike straight from here along the bottom of this
slope, will we not reach the town?  The chances are
that we should never find our path, whereas this way
will bring us there without fail, if we can stomach
some rough riding."

"Weel, sir, I'm wi' ye wherever ye like to gang.
And I'll no deny but that it's the maist reasonable
road to tak, if ye're no feared o' breakin' your craig
ower a stane or walkin' intil a peat-bog.  But we
maun e'en lippen to Providence and tak our chance
like better men."

So wheeling sharply to our left, we left the path
and rode as best we could along the rough bottom of
the hills.  It was a tract of rushy ground where many
streams ran.  Huge boulders, tumbled down from the
steeps, strewed it like the leaves of a hazel wood in
autumn.  On one hand the land lay back to the haughlands
and ordered fields, on the other it sloped steeply
to the hills.  Stumps of birk-trees and stray gnarled
trunks came at times, but in general the ground was
open and not unsuited for horses in the light of day.
Now it was something more than difficult, for we
came perilous near oftentimes to fulfilling my servant's
prophecy.  Once, I remember, I floundered fair into
a trench of moss-water with a vile muddy bottom,
where I verily believe both horse and man would have
perished, had not Nicol, who saw my misfortune and
leaped his beast across, pulled me fiercely from my
saddle to the bank, and the twain of us together
extricated the horse.  In this fashion, floundering and
slipping, we must have ridden some half-dozen miles.
All drowsiness had vanished with the rough and ready
mode of travel.  Once more the thought of my lady
and her plight, of my wrongs and my misfortunes,
tormented me with anxiety and wrath, and stamped
yet more firmly my errand on my soul.

Now, however, we were suddenly brought to an
end in our progress.  Before us lay a little ravine,
clogged with snow, in whose bottom a burn roared.
It was a water of little size, and, in summer weather,
one might all but have leaped it.  Now the snow had
swollen it to the semblance of a torrent, and it chafed
and eddied in the little gorge, a streak of dark, angry
water against the dim white banks.  There was nothing
for it but to enter and struggle across, and yet, as
I looked at the ugly swirl, I hesitated.  I was nigh
numbed with cold, my horse was aching from its
stumbling, there was little foothold on the opposing
bank.  I turned to Nicol, who sat with his teeth
shaking with the bitter weather.

"There is naught for it," said I, "but to risk it.
There is no use in following it, for we shall find no
better place in a ravine like this."

Even as I spoke my servant had taken the plunge,
and I saw horse and man slip off the snowy bank into
the foam.  I followed so closely that I lost all sight
of them.  To this day I remember the feelings of the
moment, the choking as an icy wave surged over my
mouth, the frantic pulling at the bridle-rein, the wild
plunging of my horse, the roar of water and the splash
of swimming.  Then, with a mighty effort, my brave
animal was struggling up the further side, where my
servant was already shaking the water from his clothes.

This incident, while it put me in better heart, vastly
added to my bodily discomfort.  An icy wind shivering
through dripping garments may well chill the blood
of the stoutest.  And for certain the next part of the
way is burned on my memory with a thousand
recollections of utter weariness and misery.  Even my
hardy servant could scarce keep from groaning, and I,
who was ever of a tenderer make, could have leaned
my head on my horse's neck and sobbed with pure
feebleness.

The country was now rough with tanglewood, for
we were near the last spur of the hills, ere they break
down on the river.  Somewhere through the gloom
lights were shining and moving, as I guessed from a
ship on the water.  Beyond were still others, few in
number, but fixed as if from dwelling-houses.  Here
at last, I thought, is the town of Dumbarton which I
am seeking, and fired with the hope we urged on the
more our jaded beasts.

But lo! when we came to it, 'twas but a wayside
inn in a little clachan, where one solitary lamp swung
and cast a bar of light over the snowy street.  I
hammered at the door till I brought down the landlord,
shivering in his night-dress.  It might be that my
cousin had halted here, so I asked the man if he had
any travellers within.

"Nane, save twae drunk Ayr skippers and a Glesca
packman, unless your honour is comin' to keep them
company."

"Has anyone passed then?" I cried.

"How could I tell when I've been sleepin' i' my
bed thae sax 'oor?" he coughed, and, seeing we were
no sojourners, slammed the door in our face.

We were numb and wretched, but there was naught
for it but to ride on further to the town.  It could
not be far, and there were signs of morn already in the
air.  The cold grew more intense and the thick pall
of darkness lifted somewhat toward the east.  The
blurred woods and clogged fields at our side gradually
came into view, and as, heart-sick and nigh fordone
with want of sleep, we rounded the great barrier ridge
of hill, an array of twinkling lights sprang up in front
and told us that we were not far from our journey's
end.  Nevertheless, it was still dark when we rode
into a narrow, cobbled street and stopped at the first
hostelry.

Now, both the one and the other were too far gone
with weariness to do more than drop helplessly from
the horses and stagger into the inn parlour.  They gave
us brandy, and then led us to a sleeping-room, where
we lay down like logs and dropped into a profound
slumber.

When we awoke the morning was well advanced.
I was roused by Nicol, who was ever the more
wakeful, and without more delay we went down and
recruited our exhausted strength with a meal.  Then I
summoned the landlord, and asked, more from habit
than from any clear expectation, whether any travellers
had lodged over night.

The man answered shortly that there had been a
gentleman and a maid, with two serving-men, who
had but lately left.

In a great haste I seized on my hat and called loudly
for the horses.  "Where did they go?" I said; "by
what way?  Quick, tell me."

"They took the road doun to the ferry," said he,
in great amazement.  "It's no an 'oor since they gaed."

Thereupon I flung him his lawing, and we rushed
from the house.





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.. _`EAGLESHAM`:

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   CHAPTER V
   
   .. vspace:: 1

   EAGLESHAM

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It was dawning morn, grey and misty, with a thaw
setting in on the surface of the snow.  Down the
narrow, crooked streets, with a wind shivering in our
teeth, we went at a breakneck gallop.  I lashed my
horse for its life, and the poor brute, wearied as it
was by the toils of the night, answered gallantly to my
call.  Sometimes, in a steep place, we slipped for
yards; often I was within an ace of death; and at one
street-turning with a mighty clatter Nicol came down,
though the next minute he was up again.  A few
sleepy citizens rubbed their eyes and stared from their
windows, and in the lighted doorway of a tavern, a
sailor looked at us wonderingly.

In less time than it takes to tell, we were at the
water-edge.  Here there is a rough quay, with something
of a harbour behind it, where lie the sugar-boats
from the Indies, when the flood-tide is too low to
suffer them to go up stream to the city.  Here, also,
the ferry four times daily crosses the river.

Before us the water lay in leaden gloom, with that
strange, dead colour which comes from the falling of
much snow.  Heavy waves were beginning to roll
over the jetty, and a mist was drooping lower and
ever lower.  Two men stood by an old anchor coiling
some rope.  We pulled up our horses and I cried out
in impatience where the ferry might be.

"Gone ten meenutes syne," said one, with no
change on his stolid face.  "There she is gin ye hae
een i' your heid to see."

And he pointed out to the waste of waters.  I
looked and saw a sail rising and sinking in the trough
of the waves.

"When does she return?" I cried out, with many
curses on our laggard journey.

"Whiles in an 'oor, whiles in twae.  She'll be
twae the day ere she's back, for the ferryman, Jock
Gellatly, is a fou' as the Baltic wi' some drink that
a young gentleman gave him."

So we turned back to the harbour tavern, with all
the regrets of unsuccess.

The man had said two hours, but it was nearer
three, ere that wretched shell returned, and, when it
came, 'twas with a drunken man who could scarce
stagger ashore.  I was in no mood for trifling.

"Here, you drunken swine," I cried, "will you
take us across and be quick about it?"

"I maun hae anither gless o' Duncan's whusky,"
said the fellow, with a leer.

"By God, and you will not," I cried.  "Get
aboard and make no more delay, or, by the Lord, I'll
throw you into the stream."

The man hiccuped and whined.  "I canna, I
canna, my bonny lad.  I had ower muckle guid yill
afore I sterted, and I maun hae some whusky to keep
it doon.  I'm an auld man, and the cauld air frae the
water is bad for the inside.  Let me be, let me be,"
and he lay down on the quay with the utter
helplessness of a sot.

"Here is a devil of a mess," I cried to Nicol.
"What is to be done?"

"I'll hae to tak the boat mysel', Laird," said
my servant, quietly.  "If I droon ye, dinna complain."

Indeed, I was in no mood for complaining at
anything which would carry me further on my quest.
With some difficulty we got the horses aboard and
penned them in the stalls.  Then Nicol hoisted the
sail, and we shoved off, while I kept those at bay with
a boat-hook who sought to stop us.  Once out on the
stormy waters I was beset with a thousand fears.  I
have ever feared the sea, and now, as we leaped and
dived among the billows, and as the wind scoured us
like a threshing floor, and, above all, as the crazy boat
now almost lay sideways on the water, I felt a dreadful
sinking of my courage, and looked for nothing better
than immediate death.  It was clear that Nicol, who
knew something of seamanship as he knew of most
things, had a hard task to keep us straight, and by his
set face and white lips, I guessed that he, too, was
not without his fears.  Nevertheless, the passage
was narrow, and in less time than I had expected,
we saw a dim line of sand through the fog.  Running
in there, we beached the coble, and brought the horses
splashing to shore.

The place was dreary and waste, low-lying, with
a few huts facing the river.  Beyond the land seemed
still flat, though, as far as the mist suffered me to see,
there seemed to be something of a rise to the right.
My feet and hands were numbed with cold, and the
wound in my wrist, which I got in scaling the wall,
smarted till it brought the water to my eyes.  I was
so stiff I could scarce mount horse, and Nicol was in
no better plight.

We rode to the nearest cottage and asked whither
the folk had gone who landed with the last ferry.
The woman answered gruffly that she had seen none
land, and cared not.  At the next house I fared little
better; but at the third I found a young fisher lad,
who, for the sake of a silver piece, told me that they
had headed over the moor about three hours ago.

"And what lies beyond the moor?" I asked.

"Beyond the muir," said he, "is a muckle hill they ca'
Mistilaw, a' thick wi' bogs, and ayont it there are
mair hills and mosses, and syne if ye ride on ye'll
come to Eaglesham, whaur the muirs end and the guid
lands begin.  I yince was ower there wi' my faither,
aboot a cowt, and a braw bit place it is, and no like
hereaways."

So Nicol and I, with dogged hearts and numbed
bodies, rode into the black heath where there was no
road.  The snow had lost all hardness and was thick
and clogging to our horses' feet.  We made as good
speed as we could, but that, after all, was little.
About midday we had crossed the first part of our
journey and were clambering and slipping over the
shoulder of Mistilaw.  This hill is low and trivial
contrasted with our great Tweedside hills, but it well
deserves its name, for it is one vast quagmire, where
at all seasons mists and vapours hang.  Beyond it, and
all through the afternoon, we struggled among low
hills and lochs.  We halted at a solitary shepherd's
hut among the wilds, and ate a vile meal of braxy and
oaten-cake.  Then again we set forth, and, in the
darkening, came to the wide moor which is the last
guard of the wastes and borders the pleasant vale of
the Cart.

Now here I fell into a great fit of indecision.  It
was clear that Gilbert and Marjory were but a little
way off in the House of Eaglesham, and I had almost
reached the end of my travels.  But here my plans
came to a sudden end.  Was I to ride forward and
boldly demand my cousin to let her go?  I knew my
cousin's temper; he could make but one reply, and at
last some end would be placed to our feud.  But with
this came another thought.  Gilbert was not a man
of one device but of many.  If I sought to wrest my
lady from his hands by force, it was most likely that
he would be the winner.  For he was ever ripe for
high, bold and dastardly policies, and at such a time
was little likely to be punctilious.

So in my extremity I fell to consulting with Nicol,
and between us we devised a plan.  I liked it so well
that I lost all dismal forebodings and proceeded to put
it in action.  Night fell just as we came to the
meadows above the village, and the twinkling lights of the
place served as our guides.  There was an inn there
which I remembered of old time, for the innkeeper
had come originally from Tweeddale.  At first I would
shun the place, but then I remembered that the man
was dead these half-dozen years, and all the place
so changed that I was secure from recognition, even
had I not been so disguised and clad.  So without any
fear we rode up to the door and sought admittance.

The place was roomy and wide; a clean-swept floor,
with a fire blazing on the hearth, and a goodly smell
of cooked meat everywhere.  They brought us a meal,
which we ate like hungry men who had been a long
day's journey in a snow-bound world.  Then I lay
back and stared at the firelight, and tried hard to fix
my mind on the things which were coming to pass.
I found it hard to determine whether I was asleep or
awake, for the events of the past hours were still mere
phantasmagoria in my memory.  Through all the
bewildering maze of weariness and despair, and
scrupulosity of motive, there was still that one clear
thought branded on my mind.  And now, as I sat
there, the thought was alone, without any clear
perspective of the actors or the drama to be played.  I
scarce thought of Marjory, and Gilbert was little in
my mind, for the long series of cares which had been
mine for so many days had gone far to blunt my
vision, and drive me to look no further than the next
moment or the next hour.  I was dull, blank,
deadened with this one unalterable intention firm in my
heart, but, God knows! little besides.

About nine or ten, I know not rightly, my servant
roused me and bade me get ready.  He had ordered
the landlord to have the horses round to the door,
giving I know not what excuse.  I mounted without
a thought, save that the air was raw and ugly.  We
rode down the silent street out on to the heath, where
the snow was deeper, and our steps all but noiseless.
The night was clear and deadly chill, piercing to the
marrow.  A low snow-fog clothed the ground, and
not a sound could we hear in that great, wide world,
save our own breathing and our horses' tread.  A sort
of awe took me at the silence, and it was with solemn
thoughts that I advanced.

In a mile we left the heath, and, dipping down into
the valley of the stream, entered a wood of pines.
Snow powdered us from the bare boughs, and a dead
branch crackled underfoot.  Then all of a sudden,
black and cold and still, from the stream-side meadows
and all girt with dark forest, rose the house.  Through
the tree trunks it looked ghostly as a place of the dead.
Then I remembered that this was the hill-front, where
no habitable rooms were; so, marvelling no more at
the dearth of light, we turned sharp to the left and
came on the side looking to the river.

Two lights twinkled in the place, one in the
basement, and one in the low, first story.  I cast my
memory back over old days.  One was from the
sitting-parlour where the old Gilbert Burnet had chosen
to spend his days, and the other—ah, I had it, 'twas
from the sleeping-room of the old Mistress Burnet,
where she had dragged out her last years and drawn
her last breath.  But for these there was no other
sign of life in the house.

We crossed the snowy slope to the black shadow
of the wall, where we halted and consulted.  By this
time some life and spirit had come back to my
movements, and I held myself more resolutely.  Now I
gave my servant his orders.  "If so happen we get
Mistress Marjory safe," said I, "you will ride off
with her without delay, down the valley to the Clyde
and then straight towards Tweeddale.  You will get
fresh horses at Hamilton, and till then these will serve
your purpose.  Once in her own countryside there
remains nothing for you save to see that you do her
bidding in everything.  If God so will it, I will not
be long in returning to you."

Then, with no more words, we set our faces to our task.

The light in the window above us still shone out
on the white ground.  Many yards to our left another
patch of brightness marked where the other lamp
burned.  There was need of caution and stillness,
else the master of the place would hear.  I kicked my
shoes from my feet, though it was bitter cold, and set
myself to the scaling the wall.  The distance was
little, scarce twenty feet, and the masonry was
rough-hewn and full of projecting stones, yet I found the
matter as hard as I could manage.  For my hands
were numbed with the excessive chill, and the cut in
my wrist still ached like the devil.  I was like to
swoon twenty times ere I reached the corner of the
window.  With a sob of exhaustion I drew myself up
and stared at the curtained window.

Very gently I tapped on the pane, once, twice,
three times.  I heard a quick movement of surprise
within, then silence once more, as if the occupant of
the room thought it only the snow drifting.  Again I
rapped, this time with a sharp knock, which men use
who wait long outside a gate in a windy night.  Now
there could be no doubt of the matter.  A hand drew
the curtains aside, and a timid little face peered out.
Then of a sudden the whole folds were swept back
and my lady stood before me.

She wore her riding-dress still, but a shawl of some
white stuff was flung around her shoulders.  There
she stood before my sight, peering forth into the
darkness, with surprise, fright, love, joy chasing one
another across her face, her dear eyes sad and tearful,
and her mouth drawn as with much sorrow, and her
light hair tossed loosely over her shoulders.  It was
many lone and dismal months since I had seen her,
months filled with terrors and alarums, and
heart-sickening despair.  And now, as she was almost within
my reach at last after so many days, my heart gave a
great bound, and with one leap the burden of the past
shook itself from my shoulders.

"Open the window, dear," I cried, and with
trembling hands she undid the fastenings and swung
the lattice open.  The next moment I had her in my
arms, and felt her heart beating close to mine, and the
soft, warm touch of her neck.  "Marjory lass," I
cried, "how I have missed you, dear!  But now I
have you and shall never leave you more."  And
I drew her closer to me, while she could only sob the
more.

Then, with a mighty effort, I recalled myself to
the immediate enterprise.  The sound of the horses
shuffling the snow without forced on me the need of
action.

"My servant is without with horses," I said.
"You must go with him, dear.  It is our only safety.
By to-morrow you will be in Tweeddale, and in a
very little while I will come to you."

"But do you not go just now?" she cried, in
anxiety, still clinging to me.

"No, Marjory dear," said I, soothing her as best
I could, "I cannot come yet.  There are some things
which need my special care.  If you think yourself,
you will see that."

"Is it aught to do with Gilbert Burnet?  Oh, I
dare not leave you with him.  Come with me, John,
oh, come.  I dare not, I dare not."  And the poor
child fell to wringing her hands.

"Marjory," I said, "if you love me do as I bid
you.  I will come to no scaith.  I promise you I will
be with you at Dawyck ere the week is out."

So she put a brave face on the matter, though her
lips still quivered.  I went to the window and looked
down to where Nicol stood waiting with the horses.
Then I thought of a plan, and, finding none better,
I cried to him to mount to the window-sill, for I knew
his prowess as a climber, and the uncommon toughness
of his arm.  The horses were too jaded and
spiritless to need any watching.

I caught up my lady in my arms and stepped out
upon the ledge.  Then very carefully and painfully I
lowered myself, still clinging to the sill, till I found
a foothold in a projecting stone.  Below us were
Nicol's arms and into them I gave my burden.  I
heard him clambering down by degrees, and in a very
little, for the height was small, he had reached the
ground.  Then I followed him, slipping the last few
feet, and burying myself in a bank of snow.

I had brought a heap of warm furs from the room,
and these I flung round my love's shoulders.  My
heart ached to think of her, weary from the day's hard
riding, setting forth again into the cold of a November
night.

"Oh, John," she said, "no sooner met than
parted.  It is ever our fate."

"It will be the last time, dear," I said, and I
kissed her face in her hood.

Then, with many injunctions to my servant, I bade
them good-bye, and watched the figure which I loved
best in all the world, disappear into the darkness.
With a sad and yet cheerful heart I turned back and
clambered again into the chamber.

There were Marjory's things scattered about, as
of one who has come from a long journey.  Something
on a table caught my eye, and, taking it up,
I saw it was a slip of withered heather.  Then I
minded how I had given it her one summer long ago
on the Hill of Scrape.

I kicked off my boots, and in utter weariness of
body and mind, I flung myself on the bed and was
soon asleep.





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.. _`I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI

   .. vspace:: 1
   
   I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET

.. vspace:: 2

I slept till dawn the dreamless sleep of those who
have drowned care in bodily exertion.  It was scarce
light when I awoke, and, with the opening of the
eyes, there came with a rush the consciousness of my
errand.  I leaped out of bed, and sitting on the edge
considered my further actions.

First I sought to remove from my person some of
the more glaring stains of travel.  There was water
in the room, bitter cold and all but frozen, and with
it I laved my face and hands.

Then I opened the chamber door and stepped out
into one of the long corridors.  The house was still,
though somewhere in the far distance I could hear the
bustle of servants.  I cast my mind back many years,
and strove to remember where was the room where
the morning meal was served.  I descended the
staircase to the broad, high hall, but still there were no
signs of other occupants.  One door I tried, but it
was locked; another, with no better fate, till I began
to doubt my judgment.  Then I perceived one
standing ajar, and, pushing it wide, I looked in.
Breakfast was laid on the table, and a fire smoked on
the hearth.  I entered and closed the door behind me.

There was a looking-glass at the far end, and, as I
entered, I caught a glimpse of my figure.  Grim as
was my errand, I could have laughed aloud at the
sight.  My hair unkempt, my face tanned to the
deepest brown, my strange scarlet clothes, marred as
they were by wind and weather, gave me a look so
truculent and weird that I was half afraid of myself.
And then this humour passed, and all the sufferings of
the past, the hate, the despairing love, the anxious
care came back upon me in a flood, and I felt that
such garb was fitting for such a place and such a
season.

I warmed my hands at the blaze and waited.  The
minutes dragged slowly, while no sound came save
the bickering of the fire and the solemn ticking of a
clock.  I had not a shade of fear or perturbation.
Never in all my life had my mind been so wholly at
ease.  I waited for the coming of my enemy, as one
would wait on a ferry or the opening of a gate, quiet,
calm, and fixed of purpose.

At last, and it must have been a good hour, I heard
steps on the stair.  Clearly my cousin had slept long
after his exertions.  Nearer they came, and I heard
his voice giving some orders to the servants.  Then
the door was opened, and he came in.

At first sight I scarcely knew him, so changed was
he from the time of our last meeting.  He was grown
much thinner and gaunter in countenance, nor was
his dress so well-cared for and trim as I remembered
him.  The high, masterful look which his face always
wore had deepened into something bitter and savage,
as if he had grown half-sick of the world and cared
naught for the things which had aforetime delighted
him.  His habit of scorn for all which opposed him,
and all which was beneath him, had grown on him
with his years and power, and given him that look as
of one born to command, ay, and of one to whom
suffering and pain were less than nothing.  As I
looked on him I hated him deeply and fiercely, and
yet I admired him more than I could bear to think,
and gloried that he was of our family.  For I have
rarely seen a nobler figure of a man.  I am not little,
but in his presence I felt dwarfed.  Nor was it only
in stature that he had the preëminence, for his step
was as light and his eye as keen as a master of fence.

He had expected a very different figure to greet him
at the other side of the table.  In place of a lissom
maid he saw a grim, rough-clad man waiting on him
with death in his eyes.  I saw surprise, anger, even
a momentary spasm of fear flit across his face.  He
looked at me keenly, then with a great effort he
controlled himself, and his sullen face grew hard as stone.

"Good morning to you, Master John Burnet,"
said he.  "I am overjoyed to see you again.  I had
hoped to have had a meeting with you in the past
months among your own hills of Tweedside, but the
chance was denied me.  But better late than never.
I bid you welcome."

I bowed.  "I thank you," I said.

"I have another guest," said he, "whom you
know.  It is a fortunate chance that you should both
be present.  This old house of Eaglesham has not
held so many folk for many a long day.  May I ask
when you arrived?"  The man spoke all the while
with great effort, and his eyes searched my face as
though he would wrest from me my inmost thoughts.

"An end to this fooling, Gilbert," I said, quietly.
"Marjory Veitch is no more in this house; with the
escort of my servant she is on her road to Tweeddale.
By this time she will be more than half-way there."

He sprang at me like a wild thing, his face suddenly
inflaming with passion.

"You, you—" he cried, but no words could come.
He could only stutter and gape, with murder staring
from his visage.

As for me the passion in him roused in me a far
greater.

"Yes," I cried, my voice rising so that I scarce
knew it for mine.  "You villain, liar, deceiver,
murderer, by the living God, the time has now come
for your deserts.  You tortured my love and harassed
her with hateful captivity; you slew her brother, your
friend, slew him in his cups like the coward you are;
you drove me from my house and lands; you made me
crouch and hide in the hills like a fox, and hunted
me with your hell-hounds; you lied and killed and
tortured, but now I am free, and now you will find
that I am your master.  I have longed for this day,
oh, for so long, and now you shall not escape me.
Gilbert Burnet, this earth is wide, but it is not wide
enough for you and me to live together.  One or other
of us shall never go from this place."

He made no answer but only looked me straight in
the face, with a look from which the rage died by
degrees.  Then he spoke slowly and measuredly.
"I think you are right, Cousin John," said he, "the
world is too small for both of us.  We must come to
a settlement."  And in his tone there was a spice
of pity and regret.  Then I knew that I had lied, and
that this man was stronger than I.

For a little we stood looking across the table at each
other.  There was an extraordinary attraction in the
man, and before the power of his keen eyes I felt my
wits trembling.  Then, with his hand, he motioned
me to sit down.  "The morning air is raw, Cousin
John.  It will be better to finish our meal," and he
called to his servant to bring in breakfast.

I have never eaten food in my life under stranger
circumstances.  Yet I did not fear aught, but satisfied
my hunger with much readiness.  As for him, he toyed
and ate little.  Once I caught him looking over at
me with a shade of anxiety, of dread in his gaze.
No word passed between us, for both alike felt the
time too momentous for any light talk.  As the
minutes fled I seemed to discern some change in his
manner.  His brows grew heavier and he appeared to
brood over the past, while his glance sought the
pictures on the walls, and my face in turn, with
something of fierceness.  When all was over he rose and
courteously made way for me to pass, holding the door
wide as I went out.  Then he led me to a little room
at the other side of the hall, whence a window opened
to the garden.

"You wish to be satisfied," he said, "and I grant
you that the wish is just.  There are some matters
'twixt me and thee that need clearing.  But, first, by
your leave, I have something to say.  You believe me
guilty of many crimes, and I fling the charge in your
teeth.  But one thing I did unwittingly and have often
repented of.  Michael Veitch fell by his own folly and
by no fault of mine."

"Let that be," said I; "I have heard another tale."

"I have said my say; your belief matters naught
to me.  One thing I ask you.  Where has the girl
Marjory gone?  If fate decides against you, it is but
right I should have her."

"Nay," I cried, passionately, "that you never
shall.  You have caused her enough grief already.
She hates the sight of you even as I, and I will do
nothing to make her fall into your hands."

"It matters little," he said, with a shrug of his
great shoulders.  "It was only a trifling civility which
I sought from you.  Let us get to work."

From a rack he picked a blade, one such as he
always used in any serious affray, single-edged and
basket-hiked.  Then he signed to me to follow, and
opened the window and stepped out.

The morning was murky and damp.  Fog clothed
the trees and fields, and a smell of rottenness hung
in the air.  I shivered, for my clothes were thin
and old.

Gilbert walked quickly, never casting a look behind
him.  First we crossed the sodden lawn, and then
entered the pine wood, which I had skirted on the
night before.

In a little we heard the roaring of water and came
to the banks of the stream, which, swollen by the
melting snows, was raving wildly between the barriers
of the banks.  At the edge was a piece of short turf,
some hundred yards square, and drier than the rest of
the ground which we had traversed.  Here Gilbert
stopped and bade me get ready.  I had little to do
save cast my coat, and stand stripped and shivering,
waiting while my enemy took his ground.

The next I know is that I was in the thick of a
deadly encounter, with blows rattling on my blade as
thick as hail.  My cousin's eyes glared into mine,
mad with anger and regret, with all the unrequited
love and aimless scheming of months concentrated in
one fiery passion.  I put forth my best skill, but it
was all I could do to keep death from me.  As it was
I was scratched and grazed in a dozen places, and
there was a great hole in my shirt which the other's
blade had ripped.  The sweat began to trickle over
my eyes with the exertion, and my sight was half
dazed by the rapid play.

Now it so happened that I had my back to the
stream.  This was the cause of my opponent's sudden
violence, for he sought to drive me backwards, that,
when I found myself near the water, I might grow
bewildered.  But I had been brought up to this very
trick, for in the old days in Tweeddale, Tam Todd
would have taken his stand near the Tweed and striven
to force me back into the great pool.  In my present
danger these old memories came back to me in a flood,
and in a second I was calm again.  This, after all,
was only what I had done a thousand times for sport.
Could I not do it once for grim earnest?

In a very little I saw that my cousin's policy of
putting all his strength out at the commencement was
like to be his ruin.  He was not a man built for long
endurance, being too full in blood and heavy of body.
Soon his breath came thick and painfully; he yielded
a step, then another, and still a third; his thrusts
lacked force, and his guards were feeble.  He had
changed even from that tough antagonist whom I
had aforetime encountered, and who taxed my mettle
to the utmost.  Had it not been that my anger still
held my heart, and admitted no room for other
thoughts, I would even have felt some compunction
in thrusting at him.  But now I had no pity in me.
A terrible desire to do to him as he had done to my
friends gripped me like a man's hand.  The excitement
of the struggle, and, perhaps, the peril to my
own life, roused my dormant hate into a storm of fury.
I know not what I did, but shrieking curses and
anathemas, I slashed blindly before me like a man
killing bees.  Before my sword point I saw his face
growing greyer and greyer with each passing minute.
He was a brave man, this I have always said for him;
and if any other in a like position, with an enemy at
his throat and the awful cognisance of guilt, still keeps
his stand and does not flee, him also I call brave.

Suddenly his defence ceased.  His arm seemed to
numb and his blade was lowered.  I checked my cut,
and waited with raised point.  An awful delight was
in my heart, which now I hate and shudder to think
on.  I waited, torturing him.  He tried to speak, but
his mouth was parched and I heard the rattle of his
tongue.  Still I delayed, for all my heat seemed turned
into deadly malice.

Then his eyes left my face and looked over my
shoulders.  I saw a new shade of terror enter them.
I chuckled, for now, thought I, my revenge has come.
Of a sudden he crouched with a quick movement,
bringing his hands to his face.  I was in the act of
striking, when from behind came a crack, and
something whistled past my ear.  Then I saw my cousin
fall, groaning, with a bullet through his neck.

In a trice my rage was turned from him to the
unknown enemy behind.  With that one shot all rancour
had gone from my heart.  I turned, and there,
running through the trees up the river bank, I saw a man.
At the first look I recognised him, though he was
bent well-nigh double, and the air was thick with fog.
It was the fellow Jan Hamman.

I ran after him at top speed, though he was many
yards ahead of me.  I have never felt such lightness
in my limbs.  I tore through thicket and bramble,
and leaped the brooks as easily as if I were not spent
with fighting and weak from the toils of months.
My whole being was concentrated into one fierce
attempt, for a thousand complex passions were tearing
at my heart.  This man had dared to come between
us; this man had dared to slay one of my house.  No
sound escaped my lips, but silently, swiftly, I sped
after the fleeing figure.

He ran straight up stream, and at every step I
gained.  Somewhere at the beginning he dropped his
pistol; soon he cast away his cap and cloak; and when
already he heard my hot breathing behind him he cried
out in despair and flung his belt aside.  We were
climbing a higher ridge beneath which ran the stream.
I was so near that I clutched at him once and twice,
but each time he eluded me.  Soon we gained the
top, and I half-stumbled while he gained a yard.
Then I gathered myself together for a great effort.
In three paces I was on him, and had him by the
hair; but my clutch was uncertain with my faintness,
and, with a wrench, he was free.  Before I knew his
purpose he swerved quickly to the side, and leaped
clean over the cliff into the churning torrent below.

I stood giddy on the edge, looking down.  There
was nothing but a foam of yellow and white and brown
from bank to bank.  No man could live in such a
stream.  I turned and hastened back to my cousin.

I found him lying as I had left him, with his head
bent over to the side and the blood oozing from his
neck-wound.  When I came near he raised his eyes
and saw me.  A gleam of something came into them;
it may have been mere recognition, but I thought it
pleasure.

I kneeled beside him with no feelings other than
kindness.  The sight of him lying so helpless and still
drove all anger from me.  He was my cousin, one
of my own family, and, with it all, a gentleman and
a soldier.

He spoke very hoarsely and small.

"I am done for, John.  My ill-doing has come
back on my own head.  That man——"

"Yes," I said, for I did not wish to trouble a man
so near his end with idle confessions, "I know, I
have heard, but that is all past and done with."

"God forgive me," he said, "I did him a wrong,
but I have repaid it.  Did you kill him, John?"

"No," I said; "he leaped from a steep into the
stream.  He will be no more heard of."

"Ah," and his breath came painfully, "it is well.
Yet I could have wished that one of the family had
done the work.  But it is no time to think of such
things.  I am going fast, John."

Then his speech failed for a little and he lay back
with a whitening face.

"I have done many ill deeds to you, for which I
crave your forgiveness."

"You have mine with all my heart," I said,
hastily.  "But there is the forgiveness of a greater,
which we all need alike.  You would do well to seek it."

He spoke nothing for a little.  "I have lived a
headstrong, evil life," said he, "which God forgive.
Yet it is not meet to go canting to your end, when in
your health you have crossed His will."

Once again there was silence for a little space.
Then he reached out his hand for mine.

"I have been a fool all my days.  Let us think no
more of the lass, John.  We are men of the same
house, who should have lived in friendship.  It was
a small thing to come between us."

A wind had risen and brought with it a small, chill
rain.  A gust swept past us and carried my cast-off
cloak into the bushes.  "Ease my head," he gasped,
and when I hasted to do it, I was even forestalled.
For another at that moment laid His hand on him, and
with a little shudder his spirit passed to the great and
only judge of man's heart.

I walked off for help with all speed, and my
thoughts were sober and melancholy.  Shame had
taken me for my passion and my hot-fit of revenge;
ay, and pity and kindness for my dead opponent.  The
old days when we played together by Tweed, a
thousand faint, fragrant memories came back to me, and
in this light the last shades of bitterness disappeared.
Also the great truth came home to me as I went, how
little the happiness of man hangs on gifts and graces,
and how there is naught in the world so great as the
plain virtues of honour and heart.





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.. _`OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE`:

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   CHAPTER VII

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   OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE

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Of the events of the time following there is little
need to give an exact account.  There was some law
business to be gone through in connection with my
cousin's death and the disposing of the estate, which
went to an East country laird, a Whig of the Whigs,
and one like to make good and provident use of it.
Then, when I would have returned to Tweeddale, I
received a post from my good kinsman, Dr. Gilbert
Burnet, which led me first to Edinburgh and then so
far afield as London itself.  For it was necessary, in
the great confusion of affairs, that I should set myself
right with the law and gain some reparation for my
some-time forfeited lands.

So to the great city I went, posting by the main
road from Edinburgh, and seeing a hundred things
which were new and entertaining.  I abode there
most all the winter, during the months of December,
January, February, and March, for there was much to
do and see.  My lodging was in my kinsman's house
near the village of Kensington, and there I met a great
concourse of remarkable folk whose names I had heard
of and have heard of since.  Notably, there were
Master John Dryden, the excellent poet, my Lord
Sandwich, and a very brisk, pleasing gentleman, one
Mr. Pepys, of the Admiralty.  I had great opportunity
of gratifying my taste for books and learned society,
for my kinsman's library was an excellent one, and
his cellars so good that they attracted all conditions
of folk to his house.  Also I had many chances of
meeting with gentlemen of like degree with myself,
and many entertaining diversions we had together.
Nor did I neglect those in Tweeddale, for I sent news
by near every post that went to the North.

But when the spring came, and there was no further
need for tarrying in the South, with a light heart I net
off homewards once more.  I journeyed by
Peterborough and York in the company of one Sir
C. Cotterell, a gentleman of Northumberland, and abode
two days at his house in the moors, where there was
excellent fishing.  Then I came northwards by the
great Northumberland road by the towns of Newcastle
and Morpeth, and crossed the Cheviot Hills, which
minded me much of my own glen.  At Coldstream
I crossed the Tweed, which is there grown a very
broad, noble river, and then rode with all speed over
the Lammermoors to Edinburgh.  I stayed there no
longer than my duty demanded; and when all was
settled, one bright spring day, just after midday, set
out for Barns.

The day, I remember, was one of surprising brightness,
clear, sunshiny, and soft as midsummer.  There
are few ways I know better than that from the capital
to my home—the bare, windy moorlands for one half,
and the green glens and pleasant waters of the other.
It was by this road that I had come to Leith to ship
for Holland; by this road that I had ridden on that
wild night ride to Dawyck.  Each spot of the
wayside was imprinted on my memory, and now that my
wanderings were over, and I was returning to peace
and quiet, all things were invested with a new delight.
Yet my pleasure was not of the brisk, boisterous order,
for my many misfortunes had made me a graver man,
and chastened my natural spirits to a mellow and
abiding cheerfulness.

At Leadburn was the inn where I had first met my
servant Nicol, my trusty comrade through so many
varying fates.  I drank a glass of wine at the place
for no other cause than a sentimental remembrance.
The old landlord was still there, and the idle ostlers
hung around the stable doors, as when I had passed
before.  Down in the bog-meadow the marsh-marigolds
were beginning to open, and the lambs from the
hillside bleated about their mothers.  The blue,
shell-like sky overhead arched without a cloud to the green,
distant hills.

When I came to the place on the Tweedside road,
called the Mount Bog, I dismounted and lay down on
the grass.  For there the view opens to the hills of
my own countryside.  A great barrier of blue, seamed
with glens, all scarred in spots with rock and shingle,
lifting serene brows from the little ridges to the wide
expanse of the heavens.  I named them one by one
from east to west—Minchmoor, though it was hidden
from sight, where fled the great Montrose after the
fatal rout of Philiphaugh; the broad foreheads of the
Glenrath heights above my own vale of Manor, Dollar
Law, Scrape, the Drummelzier fells, the rugged
Wormel, and, fronting me, the great Caerdon, with
snow still lining its crannies.  Beyond, still further and
fainter lines of mountain, till like a great tableland the
monstrous mass of the Broad Law barred the distance.
It was all so calm and fragrant, with not a sound on
the ear but the plash of little streams and the boom
of nesting snipe.  And above all there was the thought
that now all peril had gone, and I was free to live as
I listed and enjoy life as a man is born to do, and
skulk no more at dyke-sides, and be torn no longer
by hopeless passion.

When I rode through the village of Broughton and
came to the turn of the hill at Dreva, the sun was
already westering.  The goodly valley, all golden
with evening light, lay beneath me.  Tweed was one
belt of pure brightness, flashing and shimmering by
its silver shores and green, mossy banks.  Every
wood waved and sparkled in a fairy glow, and the hills
above caught the radiance on their broad bosoms.  I
have never seen such a sight, and for me at that hour
it seemed the presage of my home-coming.  I have
rarely felt a more serene enjoyment, for it put me at
peace with all the earth, and gilded even the
nightmare of the past with a remembered romance.  To
crown it there was that melodious concert of birds,
which one may hear only on such a night in this
sweet time o' year.  Throstles and linnets and the
shriller mountain larks sang in the setting daylight, till
I felt like some prince in an eastern tale who has found
the talisman and opened the portals of the Golden Land.

Down the long, winding hill-path I rode, watching
the shadows flit before me, and thinking strange
thoughts.  Fronting me over the broad belt of
woodland, I saw the grey towers of Dawyck, and the green
avenues of grass running straight to the hill.

By and by the road took me under the trees, among
the cool shades and the smell of pine and budding
leaves.  There was a great crooning of wood-doves,
and the sighing of the tenderest breezes.  Shafts of
light still crept among the trunks, but the soft
darkness of spring was almost at hand.  My heart was
filled with a great exaltation.  The shadow of the past
seemed to slip from me like an old garment.

Suddenly I stopped, for somewhere I heard a faint
melody, the voice of a girl singing.  'Twas that voice
I would know among ten thousand, the only one in
all the world for me.  I pulled up my horse and
listened as the notes grew clearer, and this was what
she sang:

   |   "First shall the heavens want starry light,
   |     The seas be robbèd of their waves;
   |   The day want sun, the sun want bright,
   |     The night want shade, and dead men graves;
   |       The April, flowers and leaf and tree,
   |       Before I false my faith to thee.
   |           To thee, to thee."
   |

There came a pause, and then again, in the fragrant
gloaming, the air went on:

   |   "First shall the tops of highest hills
   |     By humble plains be overpry'd;
   |   And poets scorn the Muses' quills,
   |     And fish forsake the water-glide;
   |       And Iris lose her coloured weed
   |       Before I fail thee at thy need."
   |

I stood in shadow and watched her as she came in
sight, sauntering up the little, green glade, with a
basket of spring flowers swinging on her arm.  Her
hat of white satin hung loose over her hair, and as she
walked lightly, now in the twilight, now in a sudden
shaft of the western sun, she looked fairer than aught
I had ever seen.  Once more she sang with her clear
voice:

   |   "First direful Hate shall turn to Peace,
   |     And Love relent in deep disdain;
   |   And Death his fatal stroke shall cease,
   |     And Envy pity every pain;
   |       And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile,
   |       Before I talk of any guile."
   |

But now the darkness had come in good earnest, and
I could scarce see the singer.  "First Time shall
stay," the voice went on:

   |   "First Time shall stay his stayless race,
   |     And Winter bless his brows with corn;
   |   And snow bemoisten July's face,
   |     And Winter, Spring and Summer mourn."
   |

Here the verse stopped short, for I stepped out and
stood before her.

"Oh, you have come back," she cried.  "At last,
and I have looked so long for you."

"Indeed, dear lass, I have come back, and by
God's grace to go no more away."

Then leading my horse, I walked by her side down
the broad path to the house.  We spoke nothing, our
hearts being too busy with the delights of each other's
presence.  The crowning stone was added to my
palace of joy, and in that moment it seemed as if earth
could contain no more of happiness, and that all the
sorrows of the past were well worth encountering for
the ecstasy of the present.  To be once more in my
own land, with my own solemn hills looking down
upon me, and that fair river wandering by wood and
heather, and my lady at my side, was not that
sufficient for any man?  The purple, airy dark, odorous
with spring scents, clung around us, and in the pauses
of silence the place was so still that our ears heard
naught save the drawing of our breath.

At the lawn of Dawyck I stopped and took her
hands in mine.

"Marjory," I said, "once, many years ago, you
sang me a verse and made me a promise.  I cannot
tell how bravely you have fulfilled it.  You have
endured all my hardships, and borne me company
where I bade you, and now all is done with and we
are returned to peace and our own place.  Now it is
my turn for troth-plighting, and I give you it with all
my heart.  God bless you, my own dear maid."  And
I repeated softly:

   |   "First shall the heavens want starry light,
   |     The seas be robbèd of their waves;
   |   The day want sun, the sun want bright,
   |     The night want shade, and dead men graves;
   |       The April, flowers and leaf and tree,
   |       Before I false my faith to thee."
   |

And I kissed her and bade farewell, with the echo
still ringing in my ears, "to thee, to thee."

I rode through the great shadows of the wood,
scarce needing to pick my path in a place my horse
knew so well, for once again I was on Maisie.  The
stillness clung to me like a garment, and out of it,
from high up on the hillside, came a bird's note,
clear, tremulous, like a bell.  Then the trees ceased,
and I was out on the shorn, green banks, 'neath which
the river gleamed and rustled.  Then, all of a sudden,
I had rounded the turn of the hill, and there, before
me in the dimness, stood the old grey tower, which
was mine and had been my fathers' since first man
tilled a field in the dale.  I crossed the little bridge
with a throbbing heart, and lo! there was the smell
of lilac and gean-tree blossom as of old coming in great
gusts from the lawn.  Then all was confusion and
much hurrying about and a thousand kindly greetings.
But in especial I remember Tam Todd, the placid,
the imperturbable, who clung to my hand, and sobbed
like the veriest child, "Oh, Laird, ye've been lang
o' comin'."





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.. _`HOW NICOL PLENDERLEITH SOUGHT HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE`:

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   CHAPTER VIII

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   HOW NICOL PLENDERLEITH SOUGHT HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE

.. vspace:: 2

Now, at last, I am come to the end of my tale, and
have little more to set down.  It was on a very fresh,
sweet May morning, that Marjory and I were married
in the old Kirk of Lyne, which stands high on a knoll
above the Lyne Water, with green hills huddled around
the door.  There was a great concourse of people,
for half the countryside dwelled on our land.
Likewise, when all was done, there was the greatest feast
spread in Barns that living man had ever seen.  The
common folk dined without on tables laid on the green,
while within the walls the gentry from far and near
drank long life and health to us till sober reason fled
hot-foot and the hilarity grew high.  But in a little
all was over, the last guest had clambered heavily on
his horse and ridden away, and we were left alone.

The evening, I remember, was one riot of golden
light and rich shadow.  The sweet-scented air stole
into the room with promise of the fragrant out-of-doors,
and together we went out to the lawn and thence
down by the trees to the brink of Tweed, and along
by the great pool and the water-meadows.  The glitter
of that brave, romantic stream came on my sight, as
a sound of old music comes on the ears, bringing a
thousand half-sad, half-joyful memories.  All that life
held of fair was in it—the rattle and clash of arms,
the valour of men, the loveliness of women, the glories
of art and song, the wonders of the great mother earth,
and the re-creations of the years.  And as we walked
together, I and my dear lady, in that soft twilight in
the green world, a peace, a delight, a settled hope
grew upon us, and we went in silence, speaking no
word the one to the other.  By and by we passed
through the garden where the early lilies stood in white
battalions, and entered the dining-hall.

A band of light lay on the east wall where hung the
portraits of my folk.  One was a woman, tall and
comely, habited in a grey satin gown of antique
fashion.

"Who was she?" Marjory asked, softly.

"She was my mother, a Stewart of Traquair, a
noble lady and a good.  God rest her soul."

"And who is he who stands so firmly and keeps
hand on sword?"

"That was my father's brother who stood last at
Philiphaugh, when the Great Marquis was overthrown.
And he with the curled moustachios was his father,
my grandfather, of whom you will yet hear in the
countryside.  And beyond still is his father, the one
with the pale, grave face, and solemn eyes.  He died
next his king at the rout of Flodden.  God rest them
all; they were honest gentlemen."

Then there was silence for a space, while the light
faded, and the old, stately dames looked down at us
from their frames with an air, as it seemed to me, all
but kindly, as if they laughed to see us playing
in the old comedy which they had played themselves.

I turned to her, with whom I had borne so many
perils.

"Dear heart," I said, "you are the best and fairest
of them all.  These old men and women lived in
other times, when life was easy and little like our
perplexed and difficult years.  Nevertheless, the virtue
of old times is the same as for us, and if a man take
but the world as he find it, and set himself manfully
to it with good heart and brave spirit, he will find
the way grow straight under his feet.  Heaven bless
you, dear, for now we are comrades together on
the road, to cheer each other when the feet grow
weary."

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On the morning of the third day from the time I
have written of, I was surprised by seeing my servant,
Nicol, coming into my study with a grave face, as if
he had some weighty matter to tell.  Since I had
come home, I purposed to keep him always with me,
to accompany me in sport and see to many things on
the land, which none could do better than he.  Now
he sought an audience with a half-timid, bashful look,
and, when I bade him be seated, he flicked his boots
uneasily with his hat and looked askance.

"I hae come to bid ye fareweel, sir," at length he
said, slowly.

I sprang up in genuine alarm.

"What nonsense is this?" I cried.  "You know
fine, Nicol, that you cannot leave me.  We have
been too long together."

"I maun gang," he repeated, sadly; "I'm loth to
dae 't, but there's nae help for 't."

"But what?" I cried.  "Have I not been a good
friend to you, and your comrade in a thousand perils?
Is there anything I can do more for you?  Tell me,
and I will do it."

"Na, na, Maister John, ye've aye been the best o'
maisters.  I've a' thing I could wish; dinna think
I'm no gratefu'."

"Then for Heaven's sake tell me the reason,
man.  I never thought you would treat me like
this, Nicol."

"Oh, sir, can ye no see?" the honest fellow cried
with tears in his eyes.  "Ye've been sae lang wi'
me, that I thocht ye kenned my natur'.  Fechtin'
and warstlin' and roamin' aboot the warld are the very
breath o' life to me.  I see ye here settled sae braw
and canty, and the auld hoose o' Barns lookin' like
itsel' again.  And I thinks to mysel', 'Nicol
Plenderleith, lad, this is no for you.  This is no the kind
of life that ye can lead.  Ye've nae mair business
here than a craw among throstles.'  And the thocht
maks me dowie, for I canna get by 't.  I whiles
think o' mysel' bidin' quiet here and gettin' aulder
and aulder, till the time passes when I'm still brisk
and venturesome, and I'm left to naething but regrets.
I maun be up and awa', Laird, I carena whither.
We a' made different, and I was aye queer and daft
and no like ither folk.  Ye winna blame me."

I tried to dissuade him, but it was to no purpose.
He heard me patiently, but shook his head.  I did
not tax him with ingratitude, for I knew how little
the charge was founded.  For myself I was more sorry
than words, for this man was joined to me by ties of
long holding.  I longed to see him beside me at Barns,
an unceasing reminder of my stormy days.  I longed
to have his sage counsel in a thousand matters, to
have him at my hand when I took gun to the hills
or rod to the river.  I had grown to love his
wind-beaten face and his shrewd, homely talk, till I counted
them as necessary parts of my life.  And now all such
hopes were dashed, and he was seeking to leave me.

"But where would you go?" I asked.

"I kenna yet," he said.  "But there's aye things
for man like me somewhere on the earth.  I'm
thinkin' o' gaun back to the abroad, whaur there's
like to be a steer for some time to come.  It's the
life I want and no guid-fortine or bad-fortine, so I
carena what happens.  I trust I may see ye again,
Maister John, afore I dee."

There was nothing for it but to agree, and agree
I did, though with a heavy heart and many regrets.
I gave him a horse to take him to Leith, and offered
him a sum of money.  This he would have none of,
but took, instead, a pair of little old pistols which had
been my father's.

I never saw him again, though often I have desired
it, but years after I heard of him, and that in the
oddest way.  I corresponded to some little extent with
folk in the Low Countries, and in especial with one
Master Ebenezer van Gliecken, a learned man and
one of great humour in converse.  It was at the time
when there was much fighting between the French
and the Dutch, and one morn I received a letter from
this Master van Gliecken, written from some place
whose name I have forgot, a rascally little Holland
town in the south.  He wrote of many things—of
some points in Latin scholarship, of the vexatious and
most unpolitic state of affairs in the land, and finally
concluded with this which I transcribe....
"Lastly, my dear Master John, I will tell you a tale
which, as it concerns the glory of your countrymen,
you may think worth hearing.  As you know well,
this poor town of ours has lately been the centre of a
most bloody strife, for the French forces have assaulted
it on all sides, and though by God's grace they have
failed to take it, yet it has suffered many sore
afflictions.  In particular there was a fierce attack made
upon the side which fronts the river, both by boat and
on foot.  On the last day of the siege, a sally was made
from the gate of the corner tower, which, nevertheless,
was unsuccessful, our men being all but enclosed
and some of the enemy succeeding in entering the
gate.  One man in particular, a Scot, as I have heard,
Nicolo Plenderleet by name, with two others who were
both slain, made his way to the battlements.  The
gate was shut, and, to all appearance, his death was
certain.  But they knew not the temper of their
enemy, for springing on the summit of the wall, he
dared all to attack him.  When the defenders pressed
on he laid about him so sturdily that three fell under
his sword.

"Then when he could no longer make resistance,
and bullets were pattering around him like hail, and
his cheek was bleeding with a deep wound, his spirit
seemed to rise the higher.  For, shouting out taunts
to his opponents, he broke into a song, keeping time
all the while with the thrusts of his sword.  Then
bowing gallantly, and saluting with his blade his ring
of foes, he sheathed his weapon, and joining his hands
above his head, dived sheer and straight into the river,
and, swimming easily, reached the French lines.  At
the sight those of his own side cheered, and even our
men, whom he had so tricked, could scarce keep from
joining.

"Touching the editions which you desired, I have
given orders to the bookseller on the quay at
Rotterdam to send them to you.  I shall be glad, indeed,
to give you my poor advice on the difficult matters
you speak of, if you will do me the return favour of
reading through my excursus to Longinus, and giving
me your veracious opinion.  Of this I send you a copy.

"As regards the Scot I have already spoken of, I
may mention for your satisfaction that in person he
was tall and thin, with black hair, and the most
bronzed skin I have ever seen on a man...."

When I read this letter to Marjory, her eyes were
filled with tears, and for myself I would speak to no
one on that day.





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.. _`THE END OF ALL THINGS`:

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   CHAPTER IX

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   THE END OF ALL THINGS

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I am writing the last words of this tale in my house
of Barns after many years have come and gone since
the things I wrote of.  I am now no more young, and
my wife is no more a slim maid, but a comely woman.
The years have been years of peace and some measure
of prosperity.  Here in Tweeddale life runs easily and
calm.  Our little country matters are all the care we
know, and from the greater world beyond there comes
only chance rumours of change and vexation.  Yet the
time has not been idle, for I have busied myself much
with study and the care of the land.  Many have
sought to draw me out to politics and statecraft, but
I have ever resisted them, for after all what are these
things of such importance that for them a man should
barter his leisure and piece of mind?  So I have even
stayed fast in this pleasant dale, and let the bustle and
clamour go on without my aid.

It is true that more than once I have made journeys
even across the water, and many times to London,
on matters of private concern.  It was during one
of these visits to Flanders that I first learned the
importance of planting wood on land, and resolved to
make trial on my own estate.  Accordingly I set
about planting on Barns, and now have clothed some
of the barer spaces of the hills with most flourishing
plantations of young trees, drawn in great part from
the woods of Dawyck.  I can never hope to reap the
benefit of them myself, but haply my grandchildren
will yet bless me, when they find covert and shade
where before was only a barren hillside.

Also in Tweed I have made two caulds, both for
the sake of the fish and to draw off streams to water
the meadows.  In the wide reaches of water in Stobo
Haughs I have cut down much of the encumbering
brushwood and thus laid the places open for fishing
with the rod.  Also with much labour I have made
some little progress in clearing the channel of the river
in places where it is foully overlaid with green weed.
The result, I am pleased to think, has been good, and
the fish thrive and multiply.  At any rate, I can now
make baskets that beforetime were counted impossible.
My crowning triumph befell me two years ago in a
wet, boisterous April, when, fishing with a minnow
in the pool above Barns, I landed a trout of full six
pound weight.

The land, which had fallen into neglect in my
father's time and my own youth, I did my utmost to
restore, and now I have the delight of seeing around
me many smiling fields and pleasant dwellings.  In
the house of Barns itself I have effected many changes,
for it had aforetime been liker a border keep than an
orderly dwelling.  But now, what with many works
of art and things of interest gathered from my travels
abroad, and, above all, through the dainty fingers of
my wife, the place has grown gay and well-adorned,
so that were any of its masters of old time to revisit
it they would scarce know it for theirs.

But the work which throughout these years has lain
most near to my heart has been the studies which I
have already spoken of.  The fruit of them, to be
sure, is less than the labour, but still I have not been
idle.  I have already in this tale told of my exposition
of the philosophy of the Frenchman Descartes, with
my own additions, and my writings on the philosophy
of the Greeks, and especially of the Neo-Platonists—both
of which I trust to give to the world at an early
time.  As this story of my life will never be
published, it is no breach of modesty here to counsel all,
and especially those of my own family, who may see
it, to give their attention to my philosophical treatises.
For though I do not pretend to have any deep learning
or extraordinary subtlety in the matter, it has yet been
my good fate, as I apprehend it, to notice many things
which have escaped the eyes of others.  Also I think
that my mind, since it has ever been clear from
sedentary humours and the blunders which come from mere
knowledge of books, may have had in many matters a
juster view and a clearer insight.

Of my own folk I have little to tell.  Tam Todd
has long since gone the way of all the earth, and lies
in Lyne Kirkyard with a flat stone above him.  New
faces are in Barns and Dawyck, and there scarce
remains one of the old serving-men who aided me in my
time of misfortune.  Also many things have changed
in all the countryside, and they from whom I used to
hear tales as a boy are now no more on the earth.  In
Peebles there are many new things, and mosses are
drained and moors measured out, till the whole land
wears a trimmer look.  But with us all is still the
same, for I have no fancy for change in that which
I loved long ago, and would fain still keep the
remembrance.  Saving that I have planted the hillsides, I
have let the moors and marshes be, and to-day the
wild-duck and snipe are as thick on my land as of old.

As for myself, I trust I have outgrown the
braggadocio and folly of youth.  God send I may not have
also outgrown its cheerfulness and spirit!  For certain
I am a graver man and less wont to set my delight in
trifles.  Of old I was the slave of little
things—weather, scene, company; but advancing age has
brought with it more of sufficiency unto myself.
The ringing of sword and bridle has less charm, since
it is the reward of years that a man gets more to the
core of a matter and has less care for externals.  Yet
I can still feel the impulses of high passion, the glory
of the chase, the stirring of the heart at a martial tale.
Now, as I write, things are sorely changed in the land.
For though peace hangs over us at home, I fear it is
a traitor's peace at the best, and more horrific than
war.  Time-servers and greedy sycophants sit in high
places, and it is hard to tell if generous feeling be not
ousted by a foul desire of gain.  It is not for me to
say.  I have no love for king or parliament, though
much for my country.  I am no hot-headed king's
man; nay, I never was; but when they who rely upon
us are sold for a price, when oaths are broken and
honour driven away, I am something less of one than
before.  It may be that the old kings were better,
who ruled with a strong hand, though they oft ruled
ill.  But, indeed, I can say little; here in this valley
of Tweed a man hears of such things only as one hears
the roar of a stormy sea from a green inland vale.

As I write these last words, I am sitting in my old
library at Barns, looking forth of the narrow window
over the sea of landscape.  The afternoon is just
drawing to evening, the evening of a hot August day,
which is scarce less glorious than noon.  From the
meadow come the tinkling of cattle bells and the gentle
rise and fall of the stream.  Elsewhere there is no
sound, for the summer weather hangs low and heavy
on the land.  Just beyond rise the barrier ridges, green
and shimmering, and behind all the sombre outlines
of the great hills.  Below in the garden my wife is
plucking flowers to deck the table, and playing with
the little maid, who is but three years old to-day.
Within the room lie heavy shadows and the mellow
scent of old books and the faint fragrance of blossoms.

And as I look forth on this glorious world, I know
not whether to be glad or sad.  All the years of my
life stretch back till I see as in a glass the pageant of
the past.  Faint regrets come to vex me, but they
hardly stay, and, as I look and think, I seem to learn
the lesson of the years, the great precept of time.  And
deep in all, more clear as the hours pass and the
wrappings fall off, shines forth the golden star of honour,
which, if a man follow, though it be through
quagmire and desert, fierce faces and poignant sorrow,
'twill bring him at length to a place of peace.

But these are words of little weight and I am too
long about my business.  Behold how great a tale
I have written unto you.  Take it, and, according to
your pleasure, bless or ban the narrator.  Haply it
will help to while away a winter's night, when the
doors are barred and the great logs crackle, and the
snow comes over Caerdon.

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