.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 46769
   :PG.Title: Flower o' the Heather
   :PG.Released: 2014-09-07
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Robert William Mackenna
   :DC.Title: Flower o' the Heather
              A Story of the Killing Times
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1922
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

=====================
FLOWER O' THE HEATHER
=====================

.. clearpage::

.. pgheader::

.. container:: titlepage center white-space-pre-line

   .. vspace:: 4

   .. class:: xx-large

      FLOWER O' THE HEATHER

   .. class:: medium

      A STORY OF THE KILLING TIMES

   .. vspace:: 2

   .. class:: large

      BY ROBERT WILLIAM MACKENNA

   .. class:: small

      AUTHOR OF "THE ADVENTURE OF DEATH," "THE
      ADVENTURE OF LIFE," "THROUGH A TENT DOOR"

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. class:: medium

      LONDON
      JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: verso center white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: small

      FIRST EDITION ...... October, 1922
      Reprinted .......... October, 1922
      Reprinted .......... December, 1922
      Reprinted .......... January, 1923
      Reprinted .......... November, 1923
      Reprinted .......... January, 1925
      Reprinted, 3s. 6d. . May, 1925
      Reprinted .......... July, 1926
      Reprinted .......... August..1926
      Reprinted .......... January, 1926
      Reprinted, 2s. ..... May, 1920
      Reprinted .......... January, 1927
      Reprinted, 3s. 6d. . May, 1927

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. class:: center small

      *Printed in Great Britain by
      Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.*

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: dedication center white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: medium

      TO

   .. class:: medium

      JAMES MACKENNA, C.I.E., I.C.S.

   .. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center bold large

   CONTENTS

.. class:: noindent small

   CHAPTER

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

I.  `On Devorgilla's Bridge`_
II.  `Trooper Bryden of Lag's Horse`_
III.  `By Blednoch Water`_
IV.  `The Tavern Brawl`_
V.  `In the Dark of the Night`_
VI.  `In the Lap of the Hills`_
VII.  `The Flute-player`_
VIII.  `A Covenanter's Charity`_
IX.  `The Story of Alexander Main`_
X.  `The Field Meeting`_
XI.  `Flower o' the Heather`_
XII.  `The Greater Love`_
XIII.  `Pursued`_
XIV.  `In the Slough of Despond`_
XV.  `In the Haven of Daldowie`_
XVI.  `Andrew Paterson, Hill-Man`_
XVII.  `An Adopted Son`_
XVIII.  `The Wisdom of a Woman`_
XIX.  `The Making of a Daisy Chain`_
XX.  `Love the All-Compelling`_
XXI.  `The Hired Man`_
XXII.  `"The Least of these, My brethren"`_
XXIII.  `The Search`_
XXIV.  `Baffled`_
XXV.  `The Shattering of Dreams`_
XXVI.  `Hector the Packman`_
XXVII.  `On the Road to Dumfries`_
XXVIII.  `For the Sweet Sake of Mary`_
XXIX.  `Beside the Nith`_
XXX.  `In the Tiger's Den`_
XXXI.  `The Cave by the Linn`_
XXXII.  `Toilers of the Night`_
XXXIII.  `The Going of Hector`_
XXXIV.  `The Flight of Peter Burgess`_
XXXV.  `Within Sight of St. Giles`_
XXXVI.  `For the Sake of the Covenant`_
XXXVII.  `"Out of the snare of the Fowlers"`_
XXXVIII.  `The Passing of Andrew and Jean`_
XXXIX.  `False Hopes`_
XL.  `I seek a Flower`_
XLI.  `In the Hands of the Persecutors`_
XLII.  `In the Tolbooth of Dumfries`_
XLIII.  `By the Tower of Lincluden`_
XLIV.  `"Quo Vadis, Petre?"`_
XLV.  `On the Wings of the Sea-Mew`_
XLVI.  `Sunshine after Storm`_
XLVII.  `The End; and a Beginning`_

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON DEVORGILLA'S BRIDGE`:

.. class:: center x-large bold

   FLOWER O' THE HEATHER

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER I

.. class:: center medium bold

   ON DEVORGILLA'S BRIDGE

.. vspace:: 2

It is a far cry from the grey walls of Balliol College
to the sands at Dumfries, and there be many ways
that may lead a man from the one to the other.  So
thought I, Walter de Brydde of the City of Warwick,
when on an April morning in the year of grace 1685
I stood upon Devorgilla's bridge and watched the
silver Nith glide under the red arches.

I was there in obedience to a whim; and the whim,
with all that went before it--let me set it down that
men may judge me for what I was--was the child
of a drunken frolic.  It befell in this wise.

I was a student at Balliol--a student, an' you
please, by courtesy, for I had no love for
book-learning, finding life alluring enough without that
fragrance which high scholarship is supposed to
lend it.

It was the middle of the Lent term, and a little
band of men like-minded with myself had assembled
in my room, whose window overlooked the quadrangle,
and with cards, and ribald tales, and song,
to say nothing of much good beer, we had spent a
boisterous evening.  Big Tom had pealed five score
and one silvery notes from Christ Church Tower, and
into the throbbing silence that followed his mighty
strokes, I, with the fire of some bold lover, had flung
the glad notes of rare old Ben's "Song to Celia."  A
storm of cheers greeted the first verse, and, with
jocund heart, well-pleased, I was about to pour my
soul into the tenderness of the second, when
Maltravers, seated in the window-recess, interrupted me.

"Hush!" he cried, "there's a Proctor in the
Quad, listening: what can he want?"  Now when
much liquor is in, a man's wits tend to forsake him,
and I was in the mood to flout all authority.

"To perdition with all Proctors!" I exclaimed.
"The mangy spies!"  And I strode to the window
and looked out.

In the faint moonlight I saw the shadowy figure
of a man standing with face upturned at gaze below
my window.  The sight stirred some spirit of
misrule within me, and, flinging the window wide, I
hurled straight at the dark figure my leathern
beer-pot with its silver rim.  The contents struck him
full in the face, and the missile fell with a thud on
the lawn behind him.  There was an angry splutter;
the man drew his sleeve across his face, and stooping
picked up the tankard.  In that moment some trick
of movement revealed him, and Maltravers gasped
"Zounds!  It's the Master himself."

And so it proved--to my bitter cost.  Had I been
coward enough to seek to hide my identity, it would
have been useless, for the silver rim of my leather
jack bore my name.  Thus it came to pass that I
stood, a solitary figure, with none to say a word in
my behoof before the Court of Discipline.

I felt strangely forlorn and foolish as I made
obeisance to the President and his six venerable
colleagues.  I had no defence to offer save that of
drunkenness, and, being sober now, I was not fool
enough to plead that offence in mitigation of an
offence still graver: so I held my peace.  The Court
found me guilty--they could do none other; and in
sonorous Latin periods the President delivered
sentence.  I had no degree of which they could deprive
me: they were unwilling, as this was my first
appearance before the Court, to pronounce upon me a
sentence of permanent expulsion, but my grave offence
must be dealt with severely.  I must make an apology
in person to the Master; and I should be rusticated
for one year.  I bowed to the Court, and then drew
myself up to let these grey-beards, who were shaking
their heads together over the moral delinquencies of
the rising generation, see that I could take my
punishment like a man.  The Proctor touched me on the
arm; my gown slipped from my shoulders.  Then I
felt humbled to the dust.  I was without the pale.
The truth struck home and chilled my heart more than
all the ponderous Latin periods which had been
pronounced over me.

The Court rose and I was free to go.

Out in the open, I was assailed by an eager crowd
of sympathisers.  Youth is the age of generous and
unreasoning impulses--and youth tends ever to take
the side of the condemned, whatever his offence.
Belike it is well for the world.

I might have been a hero, rather than a man disgraced.

"So they have not hanged, drawn, and quartered
you," cried Maltravers, as he slipped his arm through mine.

"Nor sent you to the pillory," cried another.

I told the crowd what my punishment was to be.

"A scurrilous shame," muttered a sympathiser.
"What's the old place coming to?  They want
younger blood in their Court of Discipline.  Sour old
kill-joys the whole pack of them: nourished on Latin
roots till any milk of human kindness in them has
turned to vinegar."

I forced a laugh to my lips.  "As the culprit," I
said, "I think my punishment has been tempered
with mercy.  I behaved like a zany.  I deserve my
fate."

"Fac bono sis animo: cheer up," cried Maltravers,
"the year will soon pass: and we shall speed your
departure on the morrow, in the hope that we may
hasten your return."

I went to my rooms and packed up my belongings,
sending them to the inn on the Banbury Road, where
on the morrow I should await the coach for Warwick.
Then I made my way to the Master and tendered him
my apology.  He accepted it with a courtly grace
that made me feel the more the baseness of my offence.
The rest of the day I spent in farewell visits to friends
in my own and other colleges--and then I lay down to
rest.  Little did I think, as I lay and heard the mellow
notes of Big Tom throb from Tom Tower, that in a
few weeks I should be lying, a fugitive, on a Scottish
hill-side.  The future hides her secrets from us behind
a jealous hand.

Morning came, and I prepared to depart.  No
sooner had I passed out of the College gateway than
I was seized by zealous hands, and lifted shoulder
high.  In this wise I was borne to the confines of the
City by a cheerful rabble--to my great discomfort,
but to their huge amusement.  The sorrow they
expressed with their lips was belied by the gaiety written
on their faces, and though they chanted "*Miserere
Domine*" there was a cheerfulness in their voices ill
in keeping with their words.

When we came to the confines of the City my bearers
lowered me roughly so that I fell in a heap, and as I
lay they gathered round me and chanted dolorously a
jumble of Latin words.  It sounded like some priestly
benediction--but it was only the reiterated conjugation
of a verb.  When the chant was ended Maltravers
seized me by the arm and drew me to my feet: "Ave
atque vale, Frater: Good-bye, and good luck," he said.

Others crowded round me with farewells upon their
lips, the warmth of their hearts speaking in the
pressure of their hands.  I would fain have tarried, but
I tore myself away.  As I did so Maltravers shouted,
"A parting cheer for the voyager across the Styx,"
and they rent the air with a shout.  I turned to wave
a grateful hand, when something tinkled at my feet.
I stooped and picked up a penny: "Charon's beer
money," shouted a voice.  "Don't drink it yourself,"--at
which there was a roar of laughter.  So I made
my way to The Bay Horse, sadder at heart, I trow,
than was my wont.

The follies of youth have a glamour when one is in
a crowd, but the glamour melts like a morning mist
when one is alone.  I seated myself in the inn parlour
to await the coach for Warwick, and as I sat I
pondered my state.  It was far from pleasing.  To return
disgraced to the house of my uncle and guardian was
a prospect for which I had little heart.  Stern at the
best of times, he had little sympathy with the ways of
youth, and many a homily had I listened to from his
sour lips.  This last escapade would, I knew, be judged
without charity.  I had disgraced my family name, a
name that since the days when Balliol College was
founded by Devorgilla had held a place of honour on
the college rolls.  For generations the de Bryddes
had been *alumni*, and for a de Brydde to be sent down
from his Alma Mater for such an offence as mine
would lay upon the family record a blot that no
penitence could atone for or good conduct purge.
So my reception by my guardian was not likely to
be a pleasant one.  Besides there was this to be
thought of: during my last vacation my uncle, a man
of ripe age, who had prided himself upon the stern
resistance he had offered all his life to what he called
the "wiles of the sirens," had, as many a man has
done, thrown his prejudices to the winds and espoused
a young woman who neither by birth nor in age
seemed to be a suitable wife for him.  A young man
in love may act like a fool, but an old man swept off
his feet by love for a woman young enough to be his
granddaughter can touch depths of foolishness that
no young man has ever plumbed.  So, at least, it
seemed to me, during the latter half of my vacation,
after he had brought home his bride.  She was the
young apple of his aged eye, and there was no longer
any place for me in his affections.

I turned these things over in my mind, and then I
thought longingly of my little room at Balliol.  To
numb my pain I called for a tankard of ale.  As I did
so my eye was caught by a picture upon the wall.  It
was a drawing of my own college, and under it in black
and staring letters was printed: "Balliol College,
Oxford.  Founded by the Lady Devorgilla in memory
of her husband John Balliol.  The pious foundress
of this college also built an Abbey in Kirkcudbrightshire
and threw a bridge over the Nith at Dumfries.
*Requiescat in pace*."

A sudden fancy seized me.  Why need I haste me
home?  Surely it were wiser to disappear until the
storm of my guardian's wrath should have time to
subside.  I would make a pilgrimage.  I would hie
me to Dumfries and see with my own eyes the bridge
which the foundress of Balliol had caused to be built:
and on my pilgrimage I might perchance regain some
of my self-respect.  The sudden impulse hardened
into resolution as I quaffed my ale.  Calling for pen
and paper I proceeded to write a letter to my uncle.
I made no apology for my offence, of which I had little
doubt he would receive a full account from the college
authorities; but I told him that I was minded to do
penance by making a pilgrimage to Devorgilla's
bridge at Dumfries and that I should return in due
time.

As I sealed the letter the coach drew up at the door,
and I gave it to the post-boy.  With a sounding horn
and a crack of the whip the coach rolled off, and,
standing in the doorway, I watched it disappear in a
cloud of dust.  Then I turned into the inn again
and prepared to settle my account.  As I did so I
calculated that in my belt I had more than thirty
pounds, and I was young--just twenty--and many a
man with youth upon his side and much less money in
his purse has set out to see the world.  So I took
courage and, having pledged the goodman of the house to
take care of my belongings against my return, I
purchased from him a good oak staff and set out upon my
journey.

Thus it was that a month later I stood, as I have
already told, upon the bridge at Dumfries.  A farm
cart, heavily laden, rolled along it, and lest I should be
crushed against the wall I stepped into the little alcove
near its middle to let the wagon pass.  It rattled
ponderously over the cobbled road and as it descended the
slope towards the Vennel Port there passed it, all
resplendent in a flowing red coat thrown back at the
skirt to display its white lining, the swaggering figure
of a gigantic soldier.  He stalked leisurely along the
bridge towards me, and as he passed I looked at him
closely.  His big, burnished spurs clanked as he
walked and the bucket tops of his polished jack-boots
moved to the bend of his knees.  From his cocked hat
a flesh-coloured ribbon depended, falling upon his
left shoulder, and touching the broad cross-strap of
his belt, which gripped his waist like a vice, so that he
threw out his chest--all ornate with a blue plastron
edged with silver lace--like a pouter pigeon.  In his
right hand he carried a supple cane with which ever
and anon he struck his jack-boot.  Behind him, at
a prudent distance, followed two boys, talking
furtively, lip to ear.  As they passed me I heard the
one whisper to the other:

"Liar!  It's the King richt eneuch.  My big
brither tellt me, and he kens!"

"It's naething o' the kind," said the other.  "I'll
hit ye a bash on the neb.  He's only a sergeant o'
dragoons," and without more ado the lads fell upon
each other.

What the issue might have been I cannot tell, for,
hearing the scuffle behind him, the sergeant turned
and began to retrace his steps.  At the sound of his
coming the combatants were seized with panic; their
enmity changed to sudden friendship, and together
they raced off towards the town.  The sergeant
descended upon me, and tapping me on the chest with the
butt of his stick, said:

"You're a likely young man.  What say you to
taking service wi' His Majesty?  It's a man's life, fu'
o' adventure and romance.  The women, God bless
them, canna keep their een off a sodger's coat.  Are
ye game to 'list?  There are great doings toward,
for the King wants men to root out the pestilent
Whigs frae the West country.  Will ye tak' the
shilling?"

The suggestion thus flung at me caught me at
unawares.  I turned it over rapidly in my mind.  Why
not?  As a soldier, I should see some of the country,
and if the worst came to the worst I had money enough
in my belt to buy myself out.

Moreover I might do something to redeem myself
in the eyes of my uncle--for had not the de Bryddes
fought nobly on many a stricken field for the King's
Majesty.  So, without more ado, I stretched out my
hand, and the King's shilling dropped into it.

"Come on," said the sergeant brusquely, "we maun
toast the King at my expense," and he led the way to
the Stag Inn near the Vennel Port.  In the inn-parlour
he called for drinks, and ogled the girl who brought
them.  We drank to His Majesty--"God bless him:"
and then the sergeant, after toasting "The lassies--God
bless them," became reminiscent and garrulous.
But ever he returned to wordy admiration of a woman:

"I tell ye," he said, "there's no' the marrow o'
the Beadle o' St. Michael's dochter in the hale o'
Dumfries; an' that's sayin' a lot.  The leddies o' the
King's Court--an' I've seen maist o' them--couldna
haud a candle tae her."  He threw a kiss into the air;
then he drank deeply and called for more ale.  "By
the way," he said, "what dae ye ca' yersel'?--and
whaur did ye get sic legs?  They're like pot-sticks,
and yer breist is as flat as a scone.  But we'll pu' ye
oot, and mak' a man o' ye."

"My name is de Brydde," I replied, ignoring his
criticisms of my person.

"De Brydde," he repeated.  "It sounds French.
Ye'd better ca' yersel' Bryden.  It's a guid Scots
name, and less kenspeckle.  Pu' yer shouthers back,
and haud up yer heid."

Two dragoons entered the tavern, and the sergeant
was on his dignity.

"Tak' this recruit," he said, "to heidquarters, and
hand him ower to the sergeant-major.  He's a likely
chiel."

I rose to accompany the men, but the sergeant
tapped me on the shoulder:

"Ye've forgotten to pay the score," he said.  "Hey,
Mary," and the tavern maid came forward.

The King's shilling that was mine paid for the
sergeant's hospitality.  It's the way of the army.

So I became Trooper Bryden of Lag's Horse.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TROOPER BRYDEN OF LAG'S HORSE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II


.. class:: center medium bold

   TROOPER BRYDEN OF LAG'S HORSE

.. vspace:: 2

After the cloistered quiet of Balliol I found my new
life passing strange.

Sir Robert Grierson of Lag, our Commanding
Officer, was a good soldier, a martinet and a firm
believer in the power of the iron hand.  He was, we
knew, held in high favour by the authorities, and he
had been granted a commission to stamp out, by all
means in his power, the pestilent and bigoted pack
of rebels in Dumfriesshire and Galloway who called
themselves Covenanters.  He was quick of temper,
but he did not lack a kind of sardonic humour, nor
was he without bravery.  A King's man to the core,
he never troubled his mind with empty questionings;
his orders were to put down rebellion and to crush the
Covenanters, and that was enough for him.

My fellow-troopers interested me.  Some of them
were soldiers of fortune who had fought upon the
Continent of Europe--hard-bitten men, full of strange
oaths and stranger tales of bloody fights fought on
alien soil.  In their eyes the life of a soldier was the
only life worth living, and they held in contempt less
bellicose mortals who were content to spend their
days in the paths of peace.  Of the rest, some were
Highlanders, dreamy-eyed creatures of their emotions,
in which they reined in with a firm hand in the presence
of any Lowlander, but to which they gave free vent
when much liquor had loosened their tongues.  Brave
men all--from their youth accustomed to hardship
and bloodshed--fighting was as the breath of their
nostrils.  To me, accustomed to the milder ales of
England, their capacity for the strong waters of the
North was a revelation.  They could drink, undiluted,
fiery spirits of a potency and in a quantity that would
have killed me.  I never saw one drunk; and at the
end of an evening of heavy indulgence there was not a
man among them but could stand steady upon his
feet and find his way unaided back to billets.  So far
as I could see the only effect of their potations was that
after the fourth or fifth pot they became musical and
would sing love-songs in the Gaelic tongue with a
moisture gathering in their eyes like dewdrops.  After
that they tended to become theological, and would
argue angrily on points of doctrine too abstruse for
me to follow.  The Lowlanders were a curious mixture
of sentimentality and sound common-sense.  They
carried their drink less well than the Highlanders, but
they too were men of unusual capacity--at least to
my way of thinking--and always passed through a
theological phase on their way to a condition of
drunkenness.

I do not know whether my companions found as
much interest in studying me as I derived from
observing them.  Probably they pitied me, as the
Highlanders did the Lowlanders.  I had not been born in
Scotland: that, in their eyes, was a misfortune which
almost amounted to a disgrace.  My incapacity to
rival them in their potations, and my inability to
take part in their theological discussions, made them
regard me with something akin to contempt.  Once
I overheard a Highlander whisper to a Lowlander,
"Surely she iss a feckless creature," and I guessed
with a feeling of abasement that he was speaking
of me.  On the whole, they treated me with a rude
kindliness, doing all they could to make me acquainted
with the elements of the rough-and-ready discipline
which was the standard of the troop, and protecting
my ignorance, whenever they dared, from the harsh
tongue of the sergeant-major.

We were mounted men, but our weapons were those
of foot-soldiers.  Our horses, stout little nags, known
as Galloways, were simply our means of conveyance
from place to place.  If we had been called upon to
fight, we should probably have fought on foot, and we
were armed accordingly, with long muskets which we
bore either slung across our shoulders or suspended
muzzle-downwards from our saddle-peaks.

Equipped for rapid movement, we carried little
with us save our weapons: but under his saddle-flap
each dragoon had a broad metal plate, and behind the
saddle was hung a bag of oatmeal.  When we bivouacked
in the open, as many a time we did, each trooper
made for himself on his plate, heated over a camp fire,
a farle or two of oat-cake, and with this staved off the
pangs of hunger.  It was, as the sergeant had said,
a man's life--devoid of luxury, compact of hardship
and scanty feeding, with little relaxation save what
we could find in the taverns of the towns or villages
where we halted for a time.

In my ignorance, I had thought that when we set
out from Dumfries to march through Galloway we
should find, opposed to us somewhere, a force of
Covenanters who would give battle.  I had imagined
that these rebels would have an army of their own
ready to challenge the forces of the King: but soon
I learned that our warfare was an inglorious campaign
against unarmed men and women.  We were little
more than inquisitors.  In the quiet of an afternoon
we would clatter up some lonely road to a white
farm-house--the hens scattering in terror before us--and
draw rein in the cobbled court-yard.

Lag would hammer imperiously upon the
half-open door, and a terrified woman would answer the
summons.

"Whaur's the guid-man?" he would cry, and when
the good-wife could find speech she would answer:

"He's up on the hills wi' the sheep."

"Think ye," Lag would say, "will he tak' the Test?"

"Ay, he wull that.  He's nae Whig, but a King's
man is John,"--and to put her words to the proof we
would search the hills till we found him.  When found,
if he took "The Test," which seemed to me for the
most part to be an oath of allegiance to the King,
with a promise to have no dealings with the pestilent
Covenanters, we molested him no further, and Lag
would sometimes pass a word of praise upon his sheep
or his cattle, which would please the good-man
mightily.

But often our raids had a less happy issue.  As
we drew near to a house, we would see a figure steal
hastily from it, and we knew that we were upon the
track of a villainous Covenanter.  Then we would
spur our horses to the gallop and give chase: and what
a dance these hill-men could lead us.  Some of them
had the speed of hares and could leap like young deer
over boulders and streams where no horse could follow.
Many a sturdy nag crashed to the ground, flinging its
rider who had spurred it to the impossible; and if
the fugitive succeeded in reaching the vast open spaces
of the moorland, many a good horse floundered in the
bogs to the great danger of its master, while the
fleet-footed Covenanter, who knew every inch of the ground,
would leap from tussock to tussock of firm grass, and
far out-distance us.

Or again, we would learn that someone--a suspect--was
hiding upon the moors, and for days we would
search, quartering and requartering the great stretches
of heather and bog-land till we were satisfied that our
quarry had eluded us--or until, as often happened, we
found him.  Sometimes it was an old man, stricken
with years, so that he could not take to flight:
sometimes it was a mere stripling--a lad of my own
age--surrounded in his sleep and taken ere he could flee.
The measure of justice meted to each was the same.

"Will ye tak' the Test?"  If not--death, on the
vacant moor, at the hands of men who were at once
his accusers, his judges, and his executioners.

Sometimes when a fugitive had refused the Test,
and so proclaimed himself a Covenanter, Lag would
promise him his life if he would disclose the
whereabouts of some others of more moment than himself.
But never did I know one of them play the coward:
never did I hear one betray another.  Three minutes
to prepare himself for death: and he would take his
bonnet off and turn a fearless face up to the open sky.

And then Lag's voice--breaking in upon the holy
silence of the moorland like a clap of thunder in a
cloudless sky--"Musketeers!  Poise your muskets!
make ready: present, give fire!" and another rebel
would fall dead among the heather.

The scene used to sicken me, so that I could hardly
keep my seat in the saddle, and in my heart I thanked
God that I was judged too unskilful as yet to be chosen
as one of the firing party.  That, of course, was
nothing more than sentiment.  These men were rebels,
opposed to the King's Government, and such malignant
fellows well deserved their fate.  Yet there began
to spring up within me some admiration for their
bravery.  Not one of them was afraid to die.

Sometimes, of a night, before sleep came to me, I
would review the events of the day--not willingly, for
the long and grisly tale of horror was one that no man
would of set purpose dwell upon, but because in my
soul I had begun to doubt the quality of the justice
we meted out.  It was a dangerous mood for one who
had sworn allegiance to the King, and taken service
under his standard: but I found myself beginning to
wonder whether the people whom we were harrying
so mercilessly and putting to death with as little
compunction as though they had been reptiles instead of
hard-working and thrifty folk--as their little farms
and houses proved--were rebels in any real sense.  I
had no knowledge, as yet, of what had gone before, and
I was afraid to ask any of my fellows, lest my
questioning should bring doubt upon my own loyalty.  But I
wondered why these men, some gone far in eld and
others in the morning of their days, were ready to die
rather than say the few words that would give them
life and liberty.  Gradually the light broke through
the darkness of my thoughts, and I began to
understand that in their bearing there was something more
than mere disloyalty to the King.  They died unflinching,
because they were loyal to some ideal that was
more precious to them than life, and which torture
and the prospect of death could not make them
forswear.  Were they wrong?  Who was I, to judge?
I knew nothing of their history, and when first I set
out with Lag's Horse I cared as little.  I had ridden
forth to do battle against rebels.  I found myself one
of a band engaged in the hideous task of exercising
duress upon other men's consciences.  The thought
was not a pleasant one, and I tried to banish it, but it
would come back to me in the still watches when no
sound was audible but the heavy breathing of my
sleeping companions,--and no sophistry sufficed to
stifle it.

Day after day we continued our march westward
through Galloway, leaving behind us a track of
burning homesteads, with here and there a stark figure,
supine, with a bloody gash in his breast, and a weary
face turned up to the eternal sky.  The sky was laughing
in the May sunshine: the blue hyacinths clustered
like a low-lying cloud of peat-smoke in the woods by
the roadside, and the larks cast the gold of their song
into the sea of the air beneath them.  The whole
earth was full of joy and beauty; but where we passed,
we left desolation, and blood and tears.

As the sun was setting we rode down the valley of
the Cree, whose peat-dyed water, reddened by the glare
in the sky, spoke silently of the blood-stained moors
which it had traversed in its course.  A river of blood:
a fitting presage of the duties of the morrow that had
brought us to Wigtown!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BY BLEDNOCH WATER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   BY BLEDNOCH WATER

.. vspace:: 2

Sharp and clear rang out the bugle notes of the
reveille, rending the morning stillness that brooded
over the thatched houses of Wigtown.  We tumbled
out of our beds of straw in the old barn where we had
bivouacked--some with a curse on their lips at such
a rude awakening, and others with hearts heavy at
the thought of what lay before us.  To hunt hill-men
among the boulders and the sheltering heather of
their native mountains was one thing: for the hunted
man had a fox's chance, and more than a fox's
cunning: but it was altogether another thing to execute
judgment on two defenceless women, and only the
most hardened among us had any stomach for such
devil's work.  Inured to scenes of brutality as I had
become, I felt ill at ease when I remembered the task
that awaited us, and, in my heart, I nursed the hope
that, when the bugle sounded the assembly, we should
learn that the prisoners had been reprieved and that
we could shake the dust of Wigtown from our feet
forever.

It was a glorious morning: and I can still remember,
as though it were yesterday, every little event of these
early hours.  I shook the straw from my coat and went
out.  There was little sign of life in the street except
for the dragoons hurrying about their tasks.  My
horse, tethered where I had left him the night before,
whinnied a morning greeting as I drew near.  He was
a creature of much understanding, and as I patted his
neck and gentled him, he rubbed his nose against my
tunic.  I undid his halter and with a hand on his
forelock led him to the watering trough.  The clear water
tumbled musically into the trough from a red clay
pipe that led to some hidden spring; and as my nag
bent his neck and dipped his muzzle delicately into
the limpid coolness, I watched a minnow dart under
the cover of the green weed on the trough-bottom.
When I judged he had drunk enough I threw a leg
over his back and cantered down the street to the barn
where we had slept.  There, I slipped the end of his
halter through a ring in the wall, and rejoined my
companions who were gathered round the door.

We had much to do; there was harness to polish,
bridles and bits to clean, and weapons to see to--for
Sir Robert was a man vigilant, who took a pride in
the smartness of his troop.

"It's a bonnie mornin' for an ugly ploy," said
Trooper Agnew, as I sat down on a bench beside him
with my saddle on my knees.  From his tone I could
tell that his heart was as little in the day's work as
mine.

"Ay, it's a bonnie morning," I replied, "too bonnie
for the work we have to do.  I had fain the day was
over, and the work were done, if done it must be."

"Weel, ye never can tell: it may be that the women
will be reprieved.  I've heard tell that Gilbert Wilson
has muckle siller, and is ready to pay ransom for his
dochter: an' siller speaks when arguments are waste
o' wind."  He spat on a polishing rag, and rubbed his
saddle vigorously.  "They tell me he's bocht Aggie
off: and if he can he'll buy off Marget tae.  But
there's the auld woman Lauchlison: she has neither
siller nor frien's wi' siller, and I'm fearin' that unless
the Royal Clemency comes into play she'll ha'e tae droon."

"But why should they drown?" said I, voicing
half unconsciously the question that had so often
perplexed me.

"Weel, that's a hard question," replied Agnew, as
he burnished his bit, "and a question that's no for
the like o' you and me to settle.  A' we ha'e to dae is
to carry oot the orders of our superior officers.  We
maunna think ower muckle for oorsel's."

I was already well acquainted with this plausible
argument, and indeed I had heard Lag himself justify
some of his acts by an appeal to such dogma; but
I was not satisfied, and ventured to remonstrate:

"Must we," I asked, "do things against which our
conscience rebels, simply because we are commanded
to do so?"

Agnew hesitated for a moment before replying,
passing the end of his bridle very deliberately through
a buckle, and fastening it with care.

"Conscience!" he said, and laughed.  "What
richt has a trooper to sic' a thing?  I've nane
noo."  He lowered his voice--and spoke quickly.
"Conscience, my lad!  Ye'd better no' let the sergeant
hear ye speak that word, or he'll be reporting ye tae
Sir Robert for a Covenanter, and ye'll get gey short
shrift, I'm thinkin'.  Tak' the advice o' ane that
means ye nae ill, and drap yer conscience in the water
o' Blednoch, and say farewell tae it forever.  If ye
keep it, ye'll get mair blame than praise frae it--and
I'm thinkin' ye'll no' get ony promotion till ye're
weel rid o't."

"Whit's this I hear aboot conscience?" said
Davidson, a dragoon who was standing by the door
of the barn.

"Oh, naething," said Agnew.  "I was just advising
Bryden here to get rid o' his."

"Maist excellent advice," said Davidson.  "A
puir trooper has nae richt to sic a luxury.  Besides,
it's a burden, and wi' a' his trappings he has eneuch
to carry already."  He paused for a moment--looked
into the barn over his shoulder and continued: "To
my way o' thinkin', naebody has ony richt to a
conscience but the King.  Ye see it's this way.  A
trooper maun obey his officers: he has nae richt o'
private judgment, so he has nae work for his
conscience to do.  His officers maun obey them that are
higher up--so they dinna need a conscience, and so it
goes on, up, and up till ye reach the King, wha is the
maister o' us a'.  He's the only body in the realm
that can afford the luxury: and even he finds it a
burden."

"I'm no surprised," interjected Agnew.  "A
conscience like that maun be an awfu' encumbrance."

"Ay, so it is," replied Davidson.  "They do say
that the King finds it sic a heavy darg to look after
his conscience that he appoints a man to be its
keeper."

Agnew laughed.  "Does he lead it about on a chain
like a dog?" he asked.

"I canna tell you as to that," replied Davidson,
"but it's mair than likely, for it maun be a
rampageous sort o' beast whiles."

"And what if it breaks away," asked Agnew,
laughing again, "and fleshes its teeth in the King's
leg?"

"Man," said Davidson, "ye remind me: the very
thing ye speak o' aince happened.  Nae doot the
keeper is there to haud back his conscience frae worrying
the King, but I mind readin' that ane o' the keepers
didna haud the beast in ticht eneuch, and it bit the
King.  It had something to dae wi' a wumman.  I've
forgotten the partic'lers: but I think the King was
auld King Hal."

"And what happened to the keeper?" asked Agnew.

"Oh, him," replied Davidson.  "The King chopped
his heid off.  And that, or something like it, is what
will happen to you, my lad," he said, looking
meaningly at me, "if Lag hears ye talk ony sic nonsense.
If thae damnable Covenanters didna nurse their
consciences like sickly bairns they would be a bit mair
pliable, and gi'e us less work."

I would gladly have continued the conversation,
but we were interrupted by the appearance of the
cook, who came round the corner of the barn staggering
under the weight of a huge black pot full of our
morning porridge.

"Parritch, lads, wha's for parritch?" he called,
setting down his load, and preparing to serve out our
portions with a large wooden ladle.  We filed past
him each with our metal platter and a horn spoon in
our hands, and received a generous ladleful.  The
regimental cook is always fair game for the would-be
wit, and our cook came in for his share of chaff; but
he was ready of tongue, and answered jibe with
jibe--some of his retorts stinging like a whip-lash so that
his tormentors were sore and sorry that they had
challenged him.

Soon the last man was served and all of us fell to.

When our meal was over there was little time left
ere the assembly sounded.  As the bugle notes blared
over the village, we flung ourselves into our saddles,
and at the word turned our horses up the village street.
The clatter of hoofs, and the jingle of creaking harness
brought the folks to their doors, for the appeal of
mounted men is as old as the art of war.  We were
conscious of admiring glances from many a lassie's
eye, and some of the roysterers among us, behind the
back of authority, gave back smile for smile, and
threw furtive kisses to the comelier of the women-folk.

Near the Tolbooth Sir Robert awaited us, sitting his
horse motionless like a man cut out of stone.  A sharp
word of command, and we reined our horses in, wheeling
and forming a line in front of the Tolbooth door.
There we waited.

By and by we heard the tramp of horses, and
Colonel Winram at the head of his company rode down
the other side of the street and halted opposite to us.
Winram and Lag dismounted, giving their horses into
the charge of their orderlies, and walked together to
the Tolbooth door.  They knocked loudly, and after
a mighty clatter of keys and shooting of bolts the
black door swung back, and they passed in.  We waited
long, but still there was no sign of their return.  My
neighbour on the right, whose horse was champing its
bit and tossing its head in irritation, whispered:
"They maun ha'e been reprievit."

"Thank God for that," I said, out of my heart.

But it was not to be.  With a loud creak, as though
it were in pain, the door swung open, and there came
forth, splendid in his robes of office, Sheriff Graham.
Followed him, Provost Coltran, Grier of Lag, and
Colonel Winram.  Behind them, each led by a gaoler,
came two women.  Foremost was Margaret Lauchlison,
bent with age, and leaning on a stick, her thin
grey hair falling over her withered cheeks.  She did
not raise her eyes to look at us, but I saw that her lips
were moving silently, and a great pity surged up in
my breast and gripped me by the throat.  Some four
paces behind her came Margaret Wilson, and as she
passed out of the darkness of the door she raised her
face to the sky and took a long breath of the clean
morning air.  She was straight as a willow-wand,
with a colour in her cheeks like red May-blossom, and
a brave look in her blue eyes.  Her brown hair
glinted in the sunlight, and she walked with a steady
step between the ranks of horsemen like a queen
going to her coronal.  She looked curiously at the
troopers as she passed us.  I watched her coming,
and, suddenly, her big child-like eyes met mine, and
for very shame I hung my head.

Some twenty yards from the Tolbooth door, beside
the Town Cross, the little procession halted, and the
town-crier, after jangling his cracked bell, mounted
the lower step at the base of the cross and read from a
big parchment:

.. vspace:: 2

"God save the King!  Whereas Margaret Lauchlison,
widow of John Mulligan, wright in Drumjargon,
and Margaret Wilson, daughter of Gilbert Wilson,
farmer in Penninghame, were indicted on April 13th,
in the year of grace 1685 before Sheriff Graham,
Sir Robert Grierson of Lag, Colonel Winram, and
Captain Strachan, as being guilty of the Rebellion
of Bothwell Brig, Aird's Moss, twenty field
Conventicles, and twenty house Conventicles, the Assize
did sit, and after witnesses heard did bring them in
guilty, and the judges sentenced them to be tied to
palisadoes fixed in the sand, within the floodmark of
the sea, and there to stand till the flood overflows
them.  The whilk sentence, being in accordance with
the law of this Kingdom, is decreed to be carried out
this day, the 11th of May in the year of grace 1685.
God Save the King."

.. vspace:: 2

When he ceased there was silence for a space,
and then Grier of Lag, his sword scraping the gravel
as he moved, walked up to the older prisoner, and
shouted:

"Margaret Lauchlison, will ye recant?"

She raised her head, looked him in the eyes with
such a fire in hers that his gaze fell before it, and in
a steady voice replied:

"Goodness and mercy ha'e followed me a' the days
o' my life, and I'm no' gaun back on my Lord in
the hour o' my death,"--and she bowed her head
again, as though there was nothing more to be said,
but her lips kept moving silently.

Lag turned from her with a shrug of the shoulders,
and approached the younger prisoner.  She turned
her head to meet him with a winsome smile that
would have softened a heart less granite hard; but
to him her beauty made no appeal.

"Margaret Wilson," he said, "you have heard
your sentence.  Will ye recant?"

I can still hear her reply:

"Sir, I count it a high honour to suffer for Christ's
truth.  He alone is King and Head of His Church."

It was a brave answer, but it was not the answer
that Lag required, so he turned on his heel and
rejoined the Sheriff and the Provost.  I did not hear
what passed between them, but it was not to the
advantage of the prisoners, for the next moment I
saw that the gaoler was fastening the old woman's
left wrist to the stirrup leather of one of the troopers
who had been ordered to bring his horse up nearer
the Town Cross.  Many a time since I have wondered
whether it was ill-luck or good fortune that made
them hit on me to do such a disservice for Margaret
Wilson.  It may have been nothing more than blind
chance, or it may have been the act of Providence--I
am no theologian, and have never been able to
settle these fine points--but, at a word from Lag,
her gaoler brought the girl over beside me, and
shackled her wrist to my stirrup leather.  I dared
not look at her face, but I saw her hand, shapely
and brown, close round the stirrup leather as though
she were in pain when the gaoler tightened the thong.

"Curse you," I growled, "there's no need to cut
her hand off.  She'll not escape," and I would fain
have hit the brute over the head with the butt of
my musket.  He slackened the thong a trifle, and as
he slouched off I was conscious that my prisoner
looked up at me as though to thank me: but I dared
not meet her eyes, and she spoke no word.

There was a rattle of drums, and we wheeled into
our appointed places, and began our woeful journey
to the sea.  Heading our procession walked two
halberdiers, their weapons glistening above their
heads.  Followed them the Sheriff and the Provost:
and after these Winram and the troopers in two
lines, between which walked the prisoners.  Lag rode
behind on his great black horse.  It was a brave sight
for the old town of Wigtown--but a sight of dule.

Down the street we went, but this time there were
no glances of admiration cast upon us: nothing but
silent looks of awe, touched with pity.  Ahead I saw
anxious mothers shepherding their children into the
shelter of their doors, and when we came near them
I could see that some of the children and many of
the women were weeping.  I dared not look Margaret
Wilson in the face, but I let my eyes wander to her
hair, brown and lustrous in the sunshine.  My hand
on the reins was moist, my lips were dry, and I
cursed myself that ever I had thrown in my lot with
such a horde of murderers.  Agnew's words about
conscience kept ringing in my ears, and I felt them
sear my brain.  Conscience indeed!  What kind of
conscience had I, that I could take part in such a
devilish ploy?  If I had had the courage of a rabbit
I would have swung the girl up before me, set spurs
to my horse, broken from the line and raced for life.
But I was a coward.  I had no heart for such high
adventure, and many a time since, as I have lain in
the dark before the cock-crowing, I have been
tortured by remorse for the brave good thing I was
too big a craven to attempt.

The procession wound slowly on, then wheeled to
the left and descended to the river bank.  I believe
the Blednoch has altered its course since that day.
I have never had the heart to revisit the scene, but
men tell me so.  Then, it flowed into the sea over a
long stretch of brown sand just below the town.
It was neither broad, nor yet very deep: but when
the tide of Solway was at its full it flooded all the
sand banks, and filled the river-mouth so that the
river water was dammed back, and it became a
broad stream.

Far out on the sand I saw a stake planted: and
another some thirty paces nearer shore.  They led
the old woman, weary with her walk, to the farther
stake, and tying her to it left her there.  Down the
channel one could see the tide coming in--its brown
and foam-sprinkled front raised above the
underlying water.  Cruel it looked, like some questing
wild beast raising its head to spy out its prey.  A
halberdier came and severed the thong that fastened
Margaret Wilson to my stirrup leather, and led her
away.  My eyes followed her, and as she passed my
horse's head she looked at me over her shoulder and
our eyes met.  I shall see those eyes until the Day
of Judgment: blue as the speedwell--blue, and
unafraid.

They led her to the nearer stake, and bound her
there.  There was a kind of mercy in their cruelty,
for they thought that if the younger woman should
witness the death of the elder one she might be
persuaded to recant before she herself was engulfed.
Quickly, as is its wont, the Solway tide rushed over
the sand.  Before Margaret Wilson was fastened to
the stake, the water was knee-deep where Margaret
Lauchlison stood: and soon it was at the maiden's
feet.  As the first wave touched her there was a
murmur like a groan from some of the town folk who
had followed us and stood behind us in little knots
upon the river bank.  The tide flowed on, mounting
higher and higher, until old Margaret Lauchlison
stood waist deep in a swirl of tawny water.  She was
too far out for us to hear her if she spoke, but we
could see that she had raised her head and was
looking fearlessly over the water.  And then the
younger woman did a strange thing.  Out of the fold
of her gown over her bosom she drew a little book,
opened it and read aloud.  A hush fell upon us:
and our horses, soothed by the music of her voice,
stopped their head-tossing and were still.  She read
so clearly that all of us could hear, and there was a
proud note in her voice as she ended: "For I am
persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels,
nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor
things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other
creature, shall be able to separate us from the love
of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."  Then
she kissed the open page, and returned her testament
to her bosom, and in a moment burst into song:

   |  "My sins and faults of youth
   |    Do Thou, O Lord, forget!
   |  After Thy mercy think on me,
   |    And for Thy goodness great."

She sang like a bird, her clear notes soaring up to
the blue vault of heaven, out of the depths of a heart
untouched by fear.  I heard Agnew, who was ranged
next me, mutter "This is devil's work," but my
throat was too parched for speech.  Would she never
cease?  On and on went that pure young voice,
singing verse after verse till the psalm was finished.
When she had ended the tide was well about her
waist, and had already taken Margaret Lauchlison
by the throat.

"What see ye yonder, Marget Wilson?" shouted
Lag, pointing with his sword to the farther stake.

She looked for a moment, and answered: "I see
Christ wrestling there."

Then there was a great silence, and looking out to
sea we saw a huge wave sweep white-crested over the
head of the older woman, who bent to meet it, and
was no more seen.  The law had taken its course
with her.

There was a murmur of angry voices behind us,
but a stern look from Lag silenced the timorous
crowd.  Setting spurs to his horse he plunged into
the water, and drew up beside the nearer stake.
He severed the rope that bound the girl, whereat a
cheer rose from the townsfolk who imagined that the
law had relented and that its majesty was satisfied
with the death of one victim.  He turned his horse
and dragged the girl ashore.  As they reached the
bank, he flung her from him and demanded:

"Will ye take the oath?  Will ye say 'God Save
the King?'"

"God save him an He will," she said.  "I wish
the salvation of all men, and the damnation of none."

Now to my thinking that was an answer sufficient,
and for such the town folk took it, for some of them
cried: "She's said it!  She's said it!  She's saved!"

Lag turned on them like a tiger: "Curse ye," he
shouted, "for a pack o' bletherin' auld wives!  The
hizzy winna' recant.  Back intil the sea wi' her,"
and gripping her by the arm he dragged her back,
and with his own hands fastened her again to the
stake.  Her head fell forward so that for an instant
her face lay upon the waters, then she raised it
proudly again.  But a halberdier, with no pity in his
foul heart, reached out his long halberd, and placing
the blade of it upon her neck pushed her face down
into the sea.

"Tak' anither sup, hinny," he said, and leered at
the townsfolk: but they cried shame upon him and
Lag bade him desist.

On came the waters, wave after wave, mounting
steadily till they reached her heart: then they swept
over the curve of her bosom and mounted higher and
higher till they touched her neck.  She was silent
now--silent, but unafraid.  She turned her face to
the bank, and, O wonder, she smiled, and in her eyes
there was a mystic light as though she had seen the
Invisible.  The cruel waves came on, climbing up
the column of her throat until, as though to show
her a mercy which man denied her, the sea swirled
over her and her face fell forward beneath the waves.
Her brown hair floated on the water like a piece of
beautiful sea-wrack, and the broken foam clung to it
like pearls.  Justice--God forgive the word--justice
had been done: and two women, malignant and
dangerous to the realm because they claimed the
right to worship their Maker according to the dictates
of their conscience, had been lawfully done to death.

There was a rattle of drums, and we fell into rank
again.  I looked across the water.  Far off I saw a
gull flash like a streak of silver into the waves, and
near at hand, afloat upon the water, a wisp of brown
seaweed--or was it a lassie's hair?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TAVERN BRAWL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE TAVERN BRAWL

.. vspace:: 2

It was high noon as we cluttered up the hill, back to
our camping-place.  Our day's work was done, but
it was not till evening that we were free to go about
our own affairs.  Try as I might I could not blot out
the memory of the doings of the morning, and when
night fell I took my way with half a dozen
companions to the inn that stood not far from the Tolbooth
in the hope that there I might find some relief from
the scourge of my thoughts.  In the sanded kitchen,
round a glowing fire--for though it was May the
nights were still chilly--we found many of the
townsfolk already gathered.  Some were passing a patient
hour with the dambrod, seeking inspiration for crafty
moves of the black or white men in tankards of the
tavern-keeper's ale.  Others were gathered round the
fire smoking, each with a flagon of liquor at his elbow.

I sat down at a little table with Trooper Agnew,
and called for something to drink.  I was in no mood
for amusement, and spurned Agnew's suggestion that
we should play draughts.  The inn-keeper placed
a tobacco jar between us.

"Ye'll try a smoke?" he queried.  "It's guid
tobacco: a' the better, though I hardly daur mention
it, that it paid nae duty."

Nothing loth, Agnew and I filled our pipes, and the
inn-keeper picking up a piece of red peat with the
tongs held it to our pipes till they were aglow.  It
was, as mine host had said, good tobacco, and under
its soothing influence and the brightening effect of
his ale my gloom began to disappear.  From time
to time other troopers dropped in, and they were
followed by sundry of the townsfolk with whom, in
spite of the events of the morning, we red-coat men
were on good terms.  Close by the fire sat one of the
halberdiers--the man who had pushed the head of
the drowning girl under the water with his halberd.
The ale had loosened his tongue.

"I dinna ken," he said, "but the thing lies here:
if thae stiff-necked Covenanters winna' tak' the oath
to the King, it is the end o' a' proper order in the
country."  He spat a hissing expectoration upon the
glowing peat.  "I'm a man o' order masel'.  I
expect fowk to obey me in virtue o' ma office just as
I'm ready to obey them as God and the King ha'e
set abune me."

He spoke loudly as though challenging his audience;
but no one made answer.

The silence was broken by the clatter of draughts as
two players ended a game and set about replacing the
men for another joust.  The halberdier took a long
draught from his mug.

"Tak' anither sup, hinny," he said, reminiscently,
as he set the tankard down.  Then drawing the back
of his hand across his mouth he continued: "It was
a fine bit work we did this mornin', lads.  I rarely
ta'en pairt in a better job.  There's naethin' like
making an example o' malignants, and I'm thinkin'
it will be lang before ony mair o' the women o' this
countryside are misguided enough to throw in their
lot wi' the hill-preachers.  She was a thrawn auld
besom was Marget Lauchlison.  I have kent her
mony a year--aye psalm-singing and gabbling texts.
Will ye believe it, she's even flung texts at me.
Me! the toon's halberdier!  'The wicked shall fall by his
own wickedness,' said she: 'The wicked shall be
turned into Hell'; 'The dwelling place of the wicked
shall come to naught.'  Oh, she had a nesty tongue.
But noo she's cleppin' wi' the partans, thank God.
Here, Mac, fill me anither jorum.  It tak's a lot o'
yill tae wash the taste o' the auld besom's texts off
ma tongue."

The inn-keeper placed a full tankard beside him.

"Tak' anither sup, hinny," he said with a laugh,
and drank deeply.  "Lag was by-ordnar' the day;
I thocht he was gaun to let the bit lassock off when he
dragged her oot o' the water.  But nae sic thing,
thank God!  Ma certes, he's a through-gaun chiel,
Lag.  The women-fowk thocht she had ta'en the aith
when she said 'God save him, an He will.'  But Lag
kent fine what was in her black heart.  She wanted
only to save her life.  She was far better drooned--the
young rebel!  Naethin' like makin' an example
o' them when they are young.  Certes, I settled her.
Tak' anither sup, hinny."

A peal of laughter rang through the kitchen.  It
was more than I could stand; for notwithstanding all
I had seen and done as a trooper some spark of chivalry
still glowed in my heart, and I was under the spell of
her blue and dauntless eyes.  I sprang to my feet.

"Curse you for a black-hearted ruffian!" I shouted.
"None but a damned cur would make sport of two
dead women."

A silence absolute and cold fell upon the gathering
at my first words, and as I stood there I felt it oppress
me.

"Whit's this, whit's this," cried the halberdier.
"A trooper turned Covenanter!  I'm thinkin' Lag
and Winram will ha'e something to say to this, an
they hear o't."

"Be silent!" I thundered.  "I am no Covenanter,
but it would be good for Scotland if there were more
such women as we drowned this morning, and fewer
men with such foul hearts as yours."

It was an ill-judged place and time for such a speech,
but I was on fire with anger.  The halberdier rose to
his feet, flung the contents of his tankard in my face,
roared with laughter, and cried, "Tak' anither sup,
hinny."

This was beyond endurance.  With one leap I was
upon him and hurled him to the ground.  He fell
with a crash; his head struck the flagged floor with
a heavy thud, and he lay still.  I had fallen with him,
and as I rose I received a blow which flung me down
again.  In an instant, as though a match had been set
to a keg of powder, the tavern was in an uproar.  What
but a moment before had been a personal conflict
between myself and the halberdier had waxed into a
general mêlée.

Some joined battle on my side, others were against
me, and townsmen and troopers laid about them
wildly with fists, beer-pots, and any other weapons
to which they could lay their hands.  The clean
sanded floor became a mire of blood and tumbled ale,
in which wallowed a tangle of cursing, fighting men.

Just when the fray was at its hottest the door of the
kitchen was thrown open, and the sergeant of our
troop stood in its shadow.

"What's this?" he shouted, and, as though by
magic, the combat ceased.

None of us spoke, but the inn-keeper, finding speech
at last, said: "A maist unseemly row, sergeant, begun
by ane o' your ain men, wha wi' oot provocation felled
ma frien' the halberdier wha lies yonder a'maist deid."

The sergeant strode to the body of the halberdier
and dropped on his knees beside it.

"What lousy deevil has done this?" he cried.

"The Englishman," said the inn-keeper; "Nae
Scotsman would ha'e felled sic a decent man
unprovoked."

I looked at the halberdier, and saw with relief
that he was beginning to recover from his stupor.

"Fetch us a gill o' your best, Mac," said the
sergeant.  "We'll see if a wee drap o' Blednoch will
no' bring the puir fellow roon'.  And you, Agnew,
and MacTaggart, arrest Trooper Bryden.  Lag will
ha'e somethin' to say aboot this."

Agnew and MacTaggart laid each a hand on my
shoulder, but my gorge was up and I resented being
made a prisoner.  I looked towards the door; there
were four or five troopers in a knot beside it and escape
in that direction was impossible; but behind me there
was a stair.  One sudden wrench and I tore myself
from my captors and raced wildly up it.  At the top,
a door stood open.  I flung it to in the faces of Agnew
and MacTaggart, who were racing up behind me, and
shot the bolt.  Frail though it was, this barrier would
give me a moment's respite.  I found myself in an
attic room, and to my joy saw, in the light of the
moon, a window set in the slope of the roof.  Rapidly
I forced it open, and threw myself up and out upon the
thatched roof.  In a moment I was at its edge, and
dropped into the garden at the back of the inn.  As I
dropped I heard the door at the stair-head crash and
I knew that my pursuers would soon be upon me.
Crouching low I dashed to the bottom of the garden,
broke my way through the prickly hedge and flew
hot-foot down the hill.

In the fitful light I saw the gleam of the river, and
knew that my escape was barred in that direction.  I
saw that I must either run along the brae-face
towards the sea, or inland up-river to the hills.  As I
ran I came to a quick decision and chose the latter
course.  I glanced over my shoulder, and, though I
could see by the lights in their windows the houses
in the main street of the town, I could not distinguish
any pursuers.  Behind me I heard confused shoutings,
and the loud voice of the sergeant giving orders.
Breathless, I plunged into a thick growth of
bracken on the hill-side and lay still.  I knew
that this could afford me only a temporary refuge,
but it served to let me regain breath, and as I
lay there I heard the sergeant cry: "Get lanterns
and quarter the brae-side.  He canna ford the
water."

I lay in my hiding-place until the lights of the
lanterns began to appear at the top of the brae, then I
rose stealthily and, bent double, hurried to the edge
of the bed of brackens.  Here, I knew, I was
sufficiently distant from my nearest pursuer to be outside
his vision, while his twinkling light gave me the clue
to his whereabouts.  Then I turned and tore along the
hillside away from the town.  When I had covered
what I thought was the better part of a mile, I lay
down under the cover of a granite boulder.  Far
behind me I could see the wandering lights, and I
knew that for the moment I had outdistanced my
pursuers; and then to my great belief I heard the notes
of the Last Post rise and fall upon the night air.  I
smiled as I saw the scattered lights stop, then begin
to move compactly up the hill.  At least half an hour,
I judged, must elapse before the pursuit could be
renewed, and I felt with any luck that interval ought
to suffice for my escape.  It was too dark--and I was
not sufficiently acquainted with the country-side--to
take my bearings, but I knew that the river Cree
flowed past the town of Newton-Stewart, and
behind the town were the hills which had afforded
many a Covenanter a safe hiding-place from pursuit.
Caution prevented me from making for the high
road, though the speed of my progress might
there be greater.  Caution, too, forbade my keeping
to the brink of the river.  My greatest safety
seemed to lie along the tract between them, so I
set boldly out.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE DARK OF THE NIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE DARK OF THE NIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

I had not gone far when my ears caught a familiar
sound--the beat of hoofs on the high road.  I paused
to listen, and concluded that two horsemen were
making for Newton-Stewart.  I guessed the message
they carried, and I knew that not only was I likely to
have pursuers on my heels, but that, unless I walked
warily, I was in danger of running into a cordon of
troopers who would be detailed from Newton-Stewart
to search for me.  I was a deserter, to whom Lag
would give as little quarter as to a Covenanter.  The
conviction that there was a price on my head made
me suddenly conscious of the sweetness of life, and
drove me to sudden thought.

By some means or other, before I concealed myself
in the fastnesses of the hills, I must obtain a store of
food.  The hiding Covenanter, I remembered, was
fed by his friends.  I was friendless; and unless I
could manage to lay up some store of food before I
forsook the inhabited valleys nothing but death
awaited me among the hills.  As I thought of this,
an inspiration of courage came to me.  Though it
would be foolishness to walk along the high road I
might with advantage make better speed and possibly
find a means of obtaining food if I walked just beyond
the hedge which bordered it.  Sooner or later I should
in this way come to a roadside inn.  With this thought
encouraging me, I plodded steadily on.  The highway
was deserted, and no sound was to be heard but the
muffled beat of my own steps upon the turf.  If
pursuers were following me from Wigtown, I had left
them far behind.  It might be that Lag, thinking
shrewdly, had decided that no good purpose was to be
served by continuing the pursuit that night, for he
knew that a man wandering at large in the uniform of a
trooper would have little opportunity of escaping.  So,
possibly, he had contented himself by sending the
horsemen to Newton-Stewart to apprise the garrison
there.  Perhaps at this very moment he was chuckling
over his cups as he thought how he would lay me by
the heels on the morrow.  In fancy I could see the
furrows on his brow gather in a knot as he brooded
over my punishment.

Then, borne on the still night air, I heard the click
and clatter of uncertain footsteps coming towards me.
I crouched behind the hedge and peered anxiously
along the road: then my ears caught the sound of a
song.  The wayfarer was in a jovial mood, and I
judged, from the uncertainty of his language, that he
was half-drunk.  I waited to make sure that the man
was alone, then I stole through the hedge and walked
boldly to meet him.

"It is a fine night," I said, as I came abreast of
him.  He stopped in the middle of a stave and
looked me up and down.

"Aye, it's a fine nicht," he replied.  "Nane the
waur for a drap o' drink.  Here!  Tak' a dram, an
pledge the King's health."  He searched his pockets
and after some difficulty withdrew a half-empty
bottle from the inside of his coat and offered it to me.
"The King, God bless him," I said, as I put it to
my lips.

"It's a peety ye're no' traivellin' my road," said
the wayfarer.  "A braw young callant like you wi'
the King's uniform on his back would mak' a
graun convoy for an auld man alang this lanely
road."

"No," I answered, as I handed him his bottle,
"My way lies in another direction."

"Ye'll no' happen to be ane o' Lag's men, are ye?"  He
did not await my reply, but continued: "He's a
bonnie deevil, Lag!  He kens the richt medicine for
Covenanters: but I ken the richt medicine for Jock
Tamson," and putting the bottle to his lips he drank
deep and long.  Then he staggered to the side of
the road and sat down, and holding the bottle towards
me said: "Sit doon and gi'es yer crack."

Now I had no wish to be delayed by this
half-drunken countryman; but I thought that he might
be of service to me, so I seated myself and pretended
once again to take a deep draught from his bottle.
He snatched it from my lips.

"Haud on," he said, "ye've got a maist uncanny
drouth, and that bottle maun last me till Setterday."

"Unless you leave it alone," I said, "it will be
empty ere you reach home."

"Weel, what if it is?" he hiccoughed.  "The
Lord made guid drink and I'm no' the man to spurn
the mercies o' the Creator."

"Well," I said, "your drink is good, and I'm as
dry as ashes.  Can you tell me where I can get a
bottle."

"Oh, weel I can, an' if ye're minded to gang and
see Luckie Macmillan, I'll gi'e ye a convoy.  The
guid woman'll be bedded sine, but she'll rise tae see
to ony frien' o' Jock Tamson's.  Come on, lad," and
he raised himself unsteadily to his feet and, taking
me by the arm, began to retrace his steps in the
direction from which he came.

We followed the high road for perhaps a mile, and
as we went he rambled on in good-natured but
somewhat incoherent talk, stopping every now and then
while he laid hold of my arm and tapped my chest
with the fingers of his free hand to emphasise some
empty confidence.  He had imparted to me, as a
great secret, some froth of gossip, when he exclaimed:

"Weel: here we are at Luckie's loanin' and the
guid-wife is no' in her bed yet; I can see a licht in
the window."

We turned from the high road and went down the
lane, at the bottom of which I could discern the dark
outline of a cottage.  As we drew near I was startled
by the sound of a restless horse pawing the ground
and, quick in its wake, the jangle of a bridle chain.
A few more steps and I saw two horses tethered to
the gatepost, and their harness was that of the
dragoons.  I was walking into the lion's den!

"So Luckie's got company, guid woman,"
hiccoughed my companion.  "I hope it's no' the
gaugers."

I seized on the suggestion in hot haste:

"Wheesht, man," I hissed, "they are gaugers sure
enough, and if you are caught here with a bottle of
Luckie's best, you'll be up before Provost Coltran at
the next Session in Wigtown."

"Guid help us! an' me a God-fearin' man.  Let's
rin for't."

As he spoke, the door of the cottage was thrown
open and in the light from it I saw one of the troopers.
Placing a firm hand over my companion's mouth I
dragged him into the shadow of the hedge, and
pushing him before me wormed my way through to
its other side.

Here we lay, still and silent, while I, with ears
alert, heard the troopers vault into their saddles and
with a cheery "Good night, Luckie," clatter up the
lane to the high road to continue their way to
Newton-Stewart.

We lay hidden till the noise of their going died in
the distance, then we pushed our way back through
the hedge and made for the cottage.  Jock beat an
unsteady tattoo on the door.

"Wha's knockin' at this time o' nicht?" asked a
woman's voice from behind the door.

"Jock Tamson, Luckie, wi' a frien'."

"Jock Tomson!--he's awa' hame to his bed an
'oor sin'."

"Na, Luckie, it's me richt eneuch, and I've brocht
a frien', a braw laddie in the King's uniform, to see ye."

The King's uniform seemed to act as a charm, for
the door was at once thrown open and we entered.

With a fugitive's caution I lingered to see that the
old woman closed the door and barred it.  Then,
following the uncertain light of the tallow candle
which she carried, we made our way along the sanded
floor of the passage and passed through a low door
into a wide kitchen.  Peat embers still glowed on the
hearth, and when Luckie had lit two more candles
which stood in bottles on a long deal table I was able
to make some note of my surroundings.  Our hostess
was a woman far gone in years.  Her face was
expressionless, as though set in a mould, but from
beneath the shadow of her heavy eyebrows gleamed
a pair of piercing eyes that age had not dimmed.
She moved slowly with shuffling gait, half-bowed as
though pursuing something elusive which she could
not catch.  I noticed, too, for danger had quickened
my vision, that her right hand and arm were never
still.

She stooped over the hearth and casting fresh
peats upon it said: "And what's yer pleesure, gentlemen?"

"A bottle o' Blednoch, Luckie, a wheen soda
scones and a whang o' cheese; and dinna forget the
butter--we're fair famished," answered Jock, his
words jostling each other.  Our hostess brought a
small table and set it before us, and we sat down.
Very speedily, for one so old, Luckie brought our
refreshment, and Thomson, seizing the black bottle,
poured himself out a stiff glass, which he drank at a
gulp.  I helped myself to a moderate dram and set
the bottle on the table between us.  Thomson seized
it at once and replenished his glass, and then said as
he passed the bottle to the old woman:

"Will ye no tak' a drap, Luckie, for the guid o'
the hoose?"

She shuffled to the dresser and came back with a
glass which she filled.

"A toast," said Thomson.  "The King, God bless
him," and we stood up, and drank.  The potent
spirit burned my mouth like liquid fire, but my
companions seemed to relish it as they drank deeply.  I
had no desire to dull my wits with strong drink, so, as
I helped myself to a scone and a piece of cheese,
I asked Luckie if she could let me have a little water.

"Watter!" cried Thomson.  "Whit the deevil
d'ye want wi' watter?  Surely you're no' gaun to
rot your inside wi' sic' feckless trash."

"No," I said, "I just want to let down the whisky."

"Whit!" he shouted, "spile guid Blednoch wi'
pump watter!--it's a desecration, a fair abomination
in the sicht o' the Lord.  I thought frae yer brogue
ye were an Englishman.  This proves it; nae
stammick for guid drink; nae heid for theology.
Puir deevil!"--and he shook his head pityingly.

I laughed as I watched my insatiable companion
once more empty his glass and refill it.

"An' whit are ye daein' on the road sae late the
nicht, young man?" said Luckie, suddenly.  "Lag's
men are usually bedded long afore noo.  Are ye
after the deserter tae, like the twa dragoons that
were here a bittock syne?"

I had made up my mind that my flight and
identity would best be concealed by an appearance
of ingenuous candour, so I replied without hesitation:

"Yes, I am.  He has not been here to-night, has he?"

"Certes, no," exclaimed the old woman.  "This
is a law-abiding hoose and I wad shelter neither
Covenanter nor renegade King's man."

My words seemed to disarm her of any suspicion
she might have had about me, and she busied herself
stirring the peat fire.

Its warmth and the whisky which he had consumed
were making Jock drowsy.  He had not touched any
of the food, and his chin had begun to sink on his
chest.  Soon he slipped from his seat and lay huddled,
a snoring mass, on the flagged floor.  Luckie made as
though to lift him, but I forbade her.

"Let him be: he'll only be quarrelsome if you
wake him, and he's quite safe on the floor."

"That's as may be," said Luckie, "but ye're no'
gaun to stop a' nicht, or ye'll never catch the deserter,
and ye canna leave Jock Tamson to sleep in my
kitchen.  I'm a dacint widda' woman, and nae
scandal has ever soiled my name; and I'll no' hae
it said that ony man ever sleepit in my hoose, and
me by my lane, since I buried my ain man thirty
years sin'."

"That's all right," I replied, "have no fear.  If
Jock is not awake when I go, I'll carry him out and
put him in the ditch by the roadside."

The old woman laughed quietly.  "Fegs, that's
no' bad; he'll get the fricht o' his life when he
waukens up in the cauld o' the mornin' and sees the
stars abune him instead o' the bauks o' my kitchen."

I had been doing justice to the good fare of the
house, but a look at the "wag-at-the-wa'" warned
me that I must delay no longer.  But there was
something I must discover.  I took my pipe from
my pocket and as I filled it said: "I should think,
Luckie, that you are well acquainted with this countryside."

"Naebody better," she replied.  "I was born in
Blednoch and I've spent a' my days between there
and Penninghame Kirk.  No' that I've bothered the
kirk muckle," she added.

"Then," I said, "suppose a deserter was minded
to make for the hills on the other side o' the Cree,
where think you he would try to cross the river?"

"If he wisna a fule," she said, "he'd ford it juist
ayont the Carse o' Bar.  Aince he's ower it's a straicht
road to the heichts o' Millfore."

"And where may the Carse o' Bar be?" I asked.
"For unless I hurry, my man may be over the water
before I can reach it."

"It's no' far," she said, "and ye canna miss it.
Ony fule could see it in the dark."

"Well, I must be off," I said.  "Grier o' Lag is
no easy taskmaster and I must lay this man by the
heels.  I'll haste me and lie in wait by the Carse of
Bar, and if my luck's in, I may catch him there.
What do I owe you, and may I have some of your
good scones and a bit of cheese to keep me going?"

She brought me a great plateful of scones, which I
stowed about my person with considerable satisfaction;
then I paid her what she asked, and, picking
up Jock, bore him towards the door.  He made no
resistance, and his head fell limply over my arm as
though he were a person dead, though the noise of
his breathing was evidence sufficient that he was only
very drunk.  Luckie opened the door and stood by it
with a candle in her hand.  I carried Jock down the
lane and deposited him underneath the hedge.  Then
I went back to the cottage to bid my hostess good night.

"If ye come through to the back door," she said.
"I'll pit ye on the straicht road for the Carse o' Bar."

I followed her through the kitchen, and she opened
a door at the rear of the house and stood in its shadow
to let me pass.

"Gang richt doon the hill," she said, "and keep
yon whin bush on yer left haun; syne ye'll come to a
bed o' bracken,--keep that on yer richt and haud
straicht on.  By an' by ye'll strike the water edge.
Haud up it till ye come to a bend, and that's the
place whaur the deserter will maist likely try to cross
it.  Ony fule can ford the Cree; it tak's a wise body
to ken whaur.  Guid nicht to ye."

"Good night," I answered, as I set out, turning
for a moment for a last look at the bent old woman
as she stood in the dancing shadows thrown by the
candle held in her shaking hand.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE LAP OF THE HILLS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE LAP OF THE HILLS

.. vspace:: 2

As I set out I saw that the moon was rapidly sinking.
Much time had been lost, and I must needs make haste.
I hurried past the whin bush, and by-and-by came to
the bed of brackens.  Just as I reached it the moon
sank, but there was still enough light to let me see
dimly things near at hand.  I judged that the river
must lie about a mile away, and to walk that distance
over unknown ground in the dark tests a man in a
hundred ways.  I did not know at what moment some
lurking figure might spring upon me from the shelter
of the brackens, and, clapping a hand on my shoulder,
arrest me in the King's name.  I had no weapon of
defence save a stout heart and a pair of iron fists.
Even a brave man, in flight, is apt to read into every
rustle of a leaf or into every one of the natural sounds
that come from the sleeping earth an eerie significance,
and more than once I halted and crouched down to
listen closely to some sound, which proved to be of
no moment.

Conscience is a stern judge who speaks most clearly
in the silences of the night when a man is alone, and as
I groped my way onward the relentless pursuing voice
spoke in my ear like some sibilant and clinging fury
of which I could not rid myself.  The avenger of blood
was on my heels: some ghostly warlock, some
awesome fiend sent from the pit to take me thither!
The horror of the deed in which I had taken part in
the morning gripped me by the heart.  I stumbled
on distraught, and as I went I remembered how once
I had heard among the hills a shrill cry as of a child in
pain, and looking to see whence the cry had come I
saw dragging itself wearily along the hillside, with ears
dropped back and hind-limbs paralysed with fear, a
young rabbit, and as I looked I saw behind it a weasel
trotting briskly, with nose up and gleaming eyes, in
the track of its victim.  I knew enough of wood-craft
to realise that the chase had lasted long and that from
the time the weasel began the pursuit until the
moment when I saw them, the issue had been certain; and
I knew that the rabbit knew.  Such tricks of fancy
does memory play upon a man in sore straits.  I saw,
again, the end of the chase--the flurry of fur as the
weasel gripped the rabbit by the throat; I heard its
dying cry as the teeth of its pursuer closed in the veins
of its neck; and there in the dark, I was seized with
sudden nausea.  I drew a long breath and tried to
cry aloud, but my tongue clave to the roof of my
mouth; fear had robbed me of speech.  Then a
sudden access of strength came to me and I began to run.
Was it only the fevered imaginings of a disordered
brain, or was it fact, that to my racing feet the racing
feet of some pursuer echoed and echoed again?
Suddenly my foot struck a boulder.  I was thrown
headlong and lay bruised and breathless on the ground--and
as I lay the sound of footsteps that had seemed
so real to me was no more heard.

I was bruised by my fall and my limbs were still
shaking when I struggled up, but I hurried on again,
and by and by the tinkle of the river as it rippled
over its bed fell on my ear like delicate, companionable
music.  When I reached its edge I sat down for a
moment and peered into the darkness towards the
other side; but gaze as I might I could not see across
it.  It looked dark and cold and uncertain, and though
I was a swimmer I had no desire to find myself flung
suddenly out of my depth.  So, before I took off my
shoes and stockings, I cut a long wand from a willow
near, and with this in my hand I began warily to
adventure the passage.  I stood ankle deep in the water
and felt for my next step with my slender staff.  It
gave me no support, but it let me know with each step
the depth that lay before me.  By-and-by I reached
the other side, and painfully--because of my naked
feet--I traversed it until I came to the green sward
beyond.  Here I sat down in the shelter of a clump of
bushes and put on my shoes and stockings.  The cold
water had braced me, and I was my own man again.

As I set out once more I calculated that the sun
would rise in three hours' time, and I knew that an
hour after sunrise it would be dangerous for me to
continue my flight in the open.  For, though the
country-side was but thinly peopled, some shepherd
on the hills or some woman from her cottage door
might espy a strange figure trespassing upon their
native solitude.  To be seen might prove my undoing,
so I hurried on while the darkness was still upon the
earth.

When day broke I was up among the hills.  Now I
began to walk circumspectly, scanning the near and
distant country before venturing across any open
space; and when the sun had been up for an hour,
and the last silver beads of dew were beginning to dry
on the tips of the heather, I set about finding a
resting-place.  It was an easy task, for the heather and
bracken grew luxuriantly.  I crawled into the middle
of a clump of bracken, and drawing the leafy stems
over me lay snugly hid.  I was foot-sore and hungry,
but I helped myself to Luckie's good provender, and
almost as soon as I had finished my meal I was fast
asleep.

When I awoke I was, for a moment, at a loss to
understand my surroundings.  Then I remembered
my flight, and all my senses were alive again.  I
judged from the position of the sun that it must be
late afternoon.  Caution made me wary, and I did
not stir from my lair, for I knew that questing troopers
might already be on the adjacent hill-sides looking for
me, and their keen eyes would be quick to discern any
unusual movement in the heart of a bed of bracken,
so I lay still and waited.  Then I dozed off again, and
when I awoke once more, the stars were beginning to
appear.

Secure beneath the defence of the dark, I quitted
my resting-place.  So far, fortune had smiled upon
me; I had baffled my pursuers, and during the hours
of the night the chase would be suspended.  The
thought lent speed to my feet and flooded my heart with
hope.  Ere the break of morn I should have covered
many a mile.  So I pressed on resolutely, and when
the moon rose I had already advanced far on my way.

As I went I began to consider my future.  My aim
was to reach England.  Once across the border I
should be safe from pursuit: but in reaching that
distant goal I must avoid the haunts of men, and until
such time as I could rid myself of my trooper's uniform
and find another garb, my journey would be
surrounded with countless difficulties.  I estimated that
with care my store of food would last three days.
After that the problem of procuring supplies would
be as difficult as it would be urgent.  I dared not
venture near any cottage: I dared not enter any village
or town, and the more I thought of my future the
blacker it became.  Defiantly I choked down my fears
and resolved that I should live for the moment only.
There was more of boldness than wisdom in the
decision, and when I had come to it I trudged on
blithely with no thought except to cover as many miles
as possible before the day should break.

When that hour came I found myself standing by
the side of a lone grey loch laid in the lap of the hills.
On each side the great sheet of water was surrounded
by a heather-clad ridge, from whose crest some ancient
cataclysm had torn huge boulders which lay strewn
here and there on the slopes that led down to the water
edge.  Remote from the haunts of man, it seemed to
my tired eyes a place of enchanting beauty; and I
stood there as though a spell were upon me and
watched the sun rise, diffusing as it came a myriad
fairy tints which transformed the granite slabs to silver,
and lighted up the mist-clad hill-side with colours of
pearl and purple and gold.

I watched a dove-grey cloud roll gently from the
face of the loch and, driven by some vagrant wind,
wander ghost-like over the hill-side.  The moor-fowl
were beginning to wake and I heard the cry of the
cock-grouse challenge the morn.  Pushing my way
through the dew-laden beds of heather, I ascended to
the crest of the slope which ran up from the loch, and
looked across the country.  Before me rolled a
panorama of moor and hill, while in the far distance the
morning sky bent down to touch the earth.  There
was no human habitation in sight; no feather of
peat-smoke ascending into the air from a shepherd's cot;
no sheep or cattle or living thing; but the silence was
broken by the wail of the whaups, which, in that
immensity of space, seemed charged with woe.  I
descended from the hill-top and passed round the end
of the loch to reconnoitre from the ridge on the other
side.  My eyes were met by a like expanse of moor
and hills.  Here, surely, I thought, is solitude and
safety.  Here might any fugitive conceal himself till
the fever of the hue and cry should abate.  For a
time at least I should make this peaceful mountain
fastness my home.

When I came down from the ridge I walked along
the edge of the loch till I came upon a little stream
which broke merrily away from the loch-side and
rippled with tinkling chatter under the heather and
across the moorland till the brown ribbon of its course
was lost in the distance.  Half-dreaming I walked
along its bank.  Suddenly in a little pool I saw a
trout dart to the cover of a stone.  With the zest of
boyhood, but the wariness of maturer years, I groped
with cautious fingers beneath the stone and in a few
seconds felt the slight movements of the little fish as
my hands closed slowly upon it.  In a flash it was out
on the bank--yards away, and soon other four lay
beside it.  I had found an unexpected means of
replenishing my larder.  With flint and steel and tinder
I speedily lit a handful of dry grass placed under the
shelter of a boulder, and adding some broken stems of
old heather and bits of withered bracken I soon made
a pleasant fire over which I cooked my trout on a flat
stone.  I have eaten few breakfasts so grateful since.

The meal over, I took care to extinguish the fire.
Then, in better cheer than I had yet been since the
moment of my desertion, looking about for a resting-place
I found a great granite boulder projecting from
the hill-side and underneath its free edge a space where
a man might lie comfortably and well hidden by the
tall bracken which over-arched the opening.  Laying
a thick bed of heather beneath the rock, I crawled in,
drawing back the brackens to their natural positions
over a hiding-place wonderfully snug and safe.

I judged from the position of the sun that it was
near six of the morning when I crawled into my bed,
and soon I was fast asleep.  It was high noon when I
awoke and peered cautiously through the fronds of the
bracken on a solitude as absolute as it was in the early
hours of the morning.  I felt sorely tempted to venture
out for a little while; but discretion counselled
caution, and I lay down once more and was soon fast
asleep.  When I awoke again I saw that the sun was
setting.

I rose and stretched my stiffened limbs.  The loch
lay in the twilight smooth as a sheet of polished glass.
I went down to its edge and, undressing, plunged into
its waters, still warm from the rays of the summer sun.
Greatly refreshed, I swam ashore, dressed, and ate
some food from my rapidly diminishing store.  I had
found in the burn-trout an unexpected addition to
my larder, but it was evident that very soon I should
be in sore straits.

Suddenly, I heard a shrill sound cleave the air.
Quickly I crawled under the shelter of the nearest
rock and listened.  The sound was coming from the
heather slopes on the other side of the loch and I
soon became aware that it was from a flute played by
a musician of skill.  I was amazed and awed.  The
gathering darkness, the loneliness of the hills, the
stillness of the loch, gave to the music a weird and
haunting beauty.  I could catch no glimpse of the
player, but now I knew that I was not alone in this
mountain solitude.  The music died away only to
come again with fresh vigour as the player piped a
jigging tune.  It changed once more, and out of the
darkness and distance floated an old Scots melody--an
echo of hopeless sorrow from far off years.  It
ceased.

I waited until the darkness was complete, and,
taking a careful note of the bearings of my hiding-place,
I set out with silent footsteps to the other side
of the loch to see if I could discover, without myself
being seen, this hill-side maker of music.  Slowly I
rounded the end of the loch, and stole furtively along its
edge till I came to a point below the place from which
I judged the melody had come.  There, crouching
low, and pausing frequently, I went up the slope.
Suddenly I heard a voice near me, and sank to the
ground.  No man in his senses speaks aloud to
himself!  There must be two people at least on this
hill-side, and my solitude and safety were delusions!
I cursed myself for a fool, and then as the speaker
raised his voice I knew that I was not listening to men
talking together, but to a man praying to his Maker--a
Covenanter--a fugitive like myself--hiding in these
fastnesses.  Silently as I had come I stole away and
left the moorland saint alone with his God.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FLUTE-PLAYER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FLUTE-PLAYER

.. vspace:: 2

The moon was breaking through a wreath of clouds
when I came to the end of the loch again, and its light
guided me to my hiding-place.  As I had lain asleep
all day, I was in no need of rest, so I set out along the
hill-side to stretch my limbs and explore my
surroundings further.  All was silent, and the face of the
loch shone in the moonlight like a silver shield.

The unexpected happenings of the last hour filled
my mind.  I had been told once and again that the
Covenanters were a dour, stubborn pack of kill-joys,
with no interests outside the narrow confines of their
bigotry.  A flute-playing Covenanter--and, withal,
a master such as this man had shown himself to be--was
something I found it hard, to understand.  And
more than once since that fatal day at Wigtown I had
thought of winsome Margaret Wilson, whose brave
blue eyes were of a kind to kindle love in a man's heart.
She, the sweet maid, and this soulful musician of the
hills, made me think that after all the Covenanters
must be human beings with feelings and aspirations,
loves and hopes like other men, and were not merely
lawless fanatics to be shot like wild cats or drowned
like sheep-worrying dogs.

I wondered whether this Covenanter had been
hiding on the other side of the loch long before I came;
or whether he had been driven by the troopers from
some other lair a few hours before and was but a
passer-by in the night.  No man, in flight, resting
for a time would have been so unwary as this
flute-player.  He must have been there long enough to
know that his solitude was unlikely to be disturbed
by any sudden arrival of troopers, and, if so, he must
have some means of supplying himself with food.  An
idea seized me.  If he, like myself, was a fugitive in
hiding I might be able to eke out my diminishing store
by procuring from him some of the food which I
imagined must be brought to him by friends.  But then,
how could I expect that one, whose enemies wore the
same coat as I did, would grant me this favour.  Even
if I told him my story, would he believe me?

However, I resolved that, when the morning broke,
I would try to make friends with this man:
but--my uniform?  From his hiding-place he would
doubtless observe my approach, and either conceal
himself the closer or escape me by flight.  Turning the
matter over in my mind, I continued my walk along
the loch-side, and suddenly, because I was not paying
full heed to the manner of my going, my feet sank under
me and I was sucked into a bog.  A "bottomless"
bog so common in these Scottish moors would quickly
have solved my difficulties.  With no small effort I
raised my head above the ooze and slime, withdrew my
right arm from the sodden morass, out of which it
came with a hideous squelch, and felt all round for
some firm tussock of grass or rushes.  Luckily finding
one, I pulled upon it cautiously, and it held--then
more firmly, and still it held.  Clinging to it I withdrew
my left arm from the morass, and, laying hold on
another tussock, after a prolonged and exhausting
effort I succeeded in drawing myself up till I was able
to rest my arms on a clump of rushes that stood in the
heart of the bog.  Resting for a little to recover
myself, I at last drew myself completely out; and as
I stood with my feet planted firmly in the heart of the
rushes, I saw a clump of grass, and stepped upon it,
and from it, with a quick leap, to the other side.  As
I stood wet and mud-drenched, it suddenly flashed
upon me that this untoward event might turn to my
advantage.  The brown ooze of the bog would
effectually hide the scarlet of my coat.  Even if the
fugitive on the other side of the loch should see my
approach, he would not recognise in this mud-stained
wanderer an erstwhile spick-and-span trooper of
Lag's Horse.

I made my way carefully to the water edge and
washed the bitter ooze from my face and hands.  Then
I took off my tunic--having first carefully taken from
its pockets the remains of my store of food, now all
sodden--and laid it on a boulder to dry.  Then I
paced up and down briskly, till the exercise brought a
grateful warmth to my limbs.

I sat down and looked wonderingly over the broad
surface of the loch.  A wind had sprung up, warm and
not unkindly, which caught the surface of the water
and drove little plashing waves against the gravel
edge.  As I listened to their chatter I suddenly
heard footsteps close at hand.  Throwing myself
flat on the ground I waited.  Who was it?  The
Covenanter ought to be at the other side of the loch.
Was there another refugee as well as myself on this
side, or was it a pursuer who had at last found me,
and had I escaped death in the bog only to face it a
few days hence against a wall in Wigtown with a firing
party before me?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A COVENANTER'S CHARITY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   A COVENANTER'S CHARITY

.. vspace:: 2

The footsteps drew nearer and stopped.  I had been
seen.  There was a long pause, then a voice in level,
steady tones said: "Are you a kent body in this
country-side?"

I rose quickly to my feet and faced the speaker.
I could see him as a dark but indistinct figure standing
some yards from me on the slope of the brae, but I
knew from the lack of austerity in his tones that he
was no trooper, and I thought that in all likelihood
he would prove to be the player of the flute.

"Need a man answer such a question?" said I.
"What right have you to ask who I am?"

"I have no right," he replied, as he drew nearer--"no
title but curiosity.  Strangers here are few and
far between.  As for me, I am a shepherd."

"A strange time of night," said I, "for a shepherd
to look for his sheep."

"Ay," answered the voice, "and my flock has been
scattered by wolves."

"I understand," I said.  "You are a minister of the
Kirk, a Covenanter, a hill-man in hiding."

He came quite close to me and said: "I'm no'
denying that you speak the truth.  Who are you?"

"Like you," I replied, "I am a fugitive--a man
with a price on his head."

"A Covenanter?"

"No; a deserter from Lag's Horse."

"From Lag's Horse?" he exclaimed, repeating my
words.  "A deserter?"

Uncertain what to say, I waited.  Then he continued:

"May I make so bold as to ask if your desertion is
the fruit of conviction of soul, or the outcome of some
drunken spree?"

I have not the Scottish faculty for analysing my
motives, and I hardly knew what to say.  Was I a
penitent, ashamed and sorry for the evil things in
which I had played a part, or did I desert merely to
escape punishment for my part in the drunken
brawl in the tavern?  I had not yet made a serious
attempt to assess the matter; and here, taken at
unawares in the stillness of the night among the silent
hills, I was conscious of the near presence of God before
whose bar I was arraigned by this quiet interlocutor.

"I am wet to the skin and chilled to the bone, for
only an hour ago I foundered in a bog, but if you will
walk with me," I said, "I will tell you the story and
you shall judge."

"It is not for man to judge, for he cannot read the
heart aright, but if you will tell me your story I will
know as much of you as you seem already to know of
me," he said, as he took me by the arm.  "Like you,"
he continued, "I am a fugitive; and if you are likely
to stop for long in this hiding-place, it were well that
we should understand each other."

As we paced up and down, I told him the whole
shameful tale.

When I had finished he sat down on the hill-side
and, burying his face in his hands, was silent for a
space.  Then he rose, and laying a hand upon my
shoulder peered into my face.  The darkness was yet
too great for us to see each other clearly, but his
eyes were glistening.

"It is not," he said, "for me to judge.  God
knows! but I am thinking that your desertion was
more than a whim, though I would not go the length
of saying that you have repented with tears for the
evil you have done.  May God forgive you, and may
grace be given you to turn ere it is too late from the
paths of the wicked."

As I told him my story I had feared that when he
heard it he would have nothing more to do with me:
but I had misjudged his charity.  Suddenly he held
his hand out to me, saying:

"Providence has cast us together, mayhap that
your soul may be saved, and mine kept from withering.
I am ready to be your friend if you will be mine."

I took his outstretched hand.  I had longed for
his friendship for my own selfish ends, and he, who
had nothing to gain from my friendship, offered me
his freely.

The night had worn thin as we talked, and now in
the growing light I could see my companion more
clearly.  He seemed a man well past middle life;
before long I was to learn that he was more than three
score years and ten, but neither at this moment nor
later should I have imagined it.  He was straight as
a ramrod, spare of body and pallid of face, save where
on his high cheek-bones the moorland wind and the
rays of the summer sun had burned him brown.  The
hair of his head was black, streaked here and there by
a few scanty threads of silver.  His forehead was
broad and high, his nose was well-formed and
somewhat aquiline, and his brown eyes were full of light.
It was to his eyes and to his mouth, around which
there seemed to lurk some wistful playfulness, that his
face owed its attraction.  He was without doubt a
handsome man--I have rarely seen a handsomer.

As I peered into his face and looked him up and
down, somewhat rudely I fear, he was studying me
with care.  My woebegone appearance seemed to
amuse him, for when his scrutiny was over he said:

"Ye're no' ill-faured: but I'm thinking Lag
would be ill-pleased if he saw one of his dragoons in
sic a mess."

"I trust he won't," I said with fervour, and my
companion laughed heartily.

He laid a hand upon my arm, and with a twinkle
in his eye said: "The old Book says: 'If thine
enemy hunger, feed him.'  Have you anything to eat?"

I showed him what I had and invited him to help
himself, as I picked up my tunic and slipped it on.

"No, no," he replied, "I am better provided than
you.  The Lord that sent the ravens to Elijah has
spread for me a table in the wilderness and my cup
runneth over.  Come with me and let us break our
fast together.  They do say that to eat a man's salt
thirls another to him as a friend.  I have no salt to
offer you, but"--and he smiled--"I have plenty of
mutton ham, and I am thinking you will find that
salt enough."

The light was rapidly flooding the hill-side as we
took our way round to his side of the loch.

"Bide here a minute," he said, as he left me beside
a granite boulder.

I guessed that, with native caution, he was as yet
averse to let me see his resting-place, or the place in
which he stored his food.  In my heart of hearts the
slight stung me, and then I realised that I had no
right to expect that a Covenanter should trust me
absolutely, on the instant.  In a few moments he was
back again, and I was amazed at the quantity of food
he brought with him.  It was wrapped in a fair cloth
of linen, which he spread carefully on the hill-side,
arranging the food upon it.  There were farles of
oatcake, and scones, besides the remains of a goodly leg
of mutton.  When the feast was spread he stood up
and taking off his bonnet began to pray aloud.  I
listened till he had finished his lengthy prayer,
refraining from laying hands upon any of the toothsome
food that lay before me.  When he had ground out
a long "Amen," he opened his eyes and replaced his
bonnet.  Then he cut a generous slice of mutton and
passed it to me.

"I never break my fast," he said, "without
thanking God, and I am glad to see that you are a
well-mannered young man.  I dare hardly have
expected so much from a trooper."

"Ah," I answered, "I have had advantages denied
to most of the troopers."

He nodded his head, and lapsing into the speech of
the country-side, as I had yet to learn was his wont
whenever his feelings were stirred, he said:

"That reminds me of what once befell mair than
thirty years sin' when I was daunnerin' along the
road from Kirkcudbright to Causewayend.  It was
a summer day just like this, and on the road I
foregathered wi' a sailor-body that had come off a schooner
in Kirkcudbright.  We walked along and cracked,
and I found him, like every other sailor-man, to be an
interesting chiel.  By and by we cam' to a roadside
inn.  I asked him to join me in a bite and sup.  The
inn-keeper's lass brocht us scones and cheese and a
dram apiece, and when they were set afore us, I, as
is my custom, took off my bonnet and proceeded to
thank the Lord for these temporal mercies.  When
I opened ma een I found that my braw sailor lad had
gulped doon my dram as weel as his ain, while I was
asking the blessing.  'What dae ye mean by sic a
ploy?' says I; but the edge was ta'en off ma anger
when the sailor-man, wiping his moo' wi' the back o'
his haun', said, 'Weel, sir, the guid Book says ye
should watch as weel as pray.'"

At the memory of the trick played upon him my
companion burst into laughter, and I have rarely
heard a happier laugh.

He was a generous host, and pressed me to take my fill.

"There is plenty for us both," he said.  "Dinna
be blate, my lad, help yersel'."  Then as he offered
me another slice of mutton, he said: "I am thinking
that the ravens are kinder to me than they were to
Elijah, for, so far as I know, they never brocht him
a mutton ham.  But who ever heard o' a braxy sheep
in the wilds o' Mount Carmel!" and he laughed
again.

When our meal was over he looked me up and down
again.  I could see that he was distressed at the
condition of my clothing, but I explained to him that
I considered my fall into the bog a blessing in disguise,
since it toned down the bright colour of my garments
and would make them less easily seen upon the moorland.

"That's as may be, but ye're an awfu' sicht.  However,
I've no doubt that when the glaur dries it winna
look so bad."

As he talked I was divesting myself of my uniform,
and as I stood before him in my shirt he looked me
over again and said: "You might disguise yourself
by making a kilt out o' your coat, but twa sic'
spindle shanks o' legs would gi'e you awa' at once.
I know well, since ye're an Englishman, ye werena'
brought up on the carritches, and I can see for myself
ye got no oatmeal when ye were a bairn."

I laughed, as I tossed my last garment aside, and
running to the edge of the loch plunged into its depths.
He watched me as I swam, and when I came to the
shore again I found him drying my outer garments
over a fire which he had kindled.

"It'll be time for bed," he said, "in a few minutes.
You take your ways to your own hidie-hole and I will
take my way to mine; and may God send us sweet
repose.  No man can tell, but I am thinking there
will be no troopers up here the day.  They combed
this loch-side a fortnight sin', and when they had
gone I came and hid here.  Maist likely they'll no' be
back here for a long time."

I thanked him for his hospitality, and as I turned
to go I said: "Where shall I find you to-night, for I
should like to have more of your company?"

"Well," he answered, "I always sleep on this side
of the loch; and when night falls and a' thing seems
safe, it is mair than likely ye'll hear me playing a bit
tune on the flute.  When ye hear that, if ye come
round to this side and just wait a wee, ye'll likely see
me again.  Good morning! and God bless you!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE STORY OF ALEXANDER MAIN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE STORY OF ALEXANDER MAIN

.. vspace:: 2

I made for my hiding-place, and, snugly covered up
in my lair, I was soon asleep.  In the late afternoon
I awoke.  What it was that woke me I know not,
but as I lay half-conscious in the dreamy shallows
that lie around the sea of sleep, I heard something
stir among the brackens not far from me.  I raised
myself on an elbow, and separating the fronds above
me gazed in the direction from which the sound came.
Less than a score of paces away a winsome girl was
tripping briskly along the hill-side.  Her head was
crowned with masses of chestnut-brown hair which
glistened with a golden sheen where the sunlight
caught it.  Over her shoulders was flung lightly a
plaid of shepherd's tartan.  Her gown was of a dull
reddish colour, and she walked lightly, with elastic
step.  I was not near enough, nor dare I, lest I
should be seen, crane my neck beyond my hiding-place
to see her features clearly, but I could tell that
she was fair to look upon.  My eyes followed her
wistfully as she rapidly ascended the slope, but in a
moment she was out of sight over its crest.  I
wondered who she could be.  This mountain fastness
was a place of strange surprises.  I pondered long
but could find no light, so I settled myself to sleep
again; but ere I slept there flitted through my
waking dreams the vision of a winsome maid with
hair a glory of sun-kissed brown.

On waking, my first thought was of her, and
anxiously and half-hopefully I peeped into the
gathering darkness to see if she had come back again;
but there was nothing to see except the beds of
heather, purple in the gathering twilight, and the
grey shadows of the granite rocks scattered along the
hill-side.

I judged that the time had come when I might
with safety issue from my hiding-place, so I ventured
forth.  Sitting down upon the hill-side I helped
myself to some of my rapidly diminishing food.  As
I did so, I thought with gratitude of the hermit on
the other side of the loch, who, of his large charity,
had made me free of his ample stores.

And then the truth flashed upon me--the little
bird which brought his food was no repulsive, croaking
raven, but a graceful heather-lintie--the girl whom I
had seen that afternoon.

When I had finished eating, I went down to the
edge of the loch and, stooping, drank.  Then I
returned to my seat and waited.  The stars were
coming out one by one, and the horn of the moon
was just appearing like the point of a silver sickle
above a bank of clouds when I heard the music of the
flute.  It pulsated with a haunting beauty, like some
elfin melody which the semi-darkness and the
intervening water conspired to render strangely sweet.
Evidently the player was in a happy mood, for his
notes were instinct with joy, and, though they lacked
that mystic sadness which had so thrilled me a night
ago, they cast a glamour over me.  When the music
ceased I tarried for a space, for I had no desire to
break in upon the devotions of my friend; but by
and by I made my way round to the other side of
the loch.

I found the hermit awaiting me.  He bade me
"Good e'en" and asked if I had had anything to
eat.  I told him that I had already satisfied my
hunger.

"That is a pity," he said, "for the ravens have
been kind to-day and have brought me a little
Galloway cheese forby twa or three girdles-fu' o' guid,
crisp oatcake; by the morn they'll no' be so tasty,
so just try a corner and a wee bit o' cheese along
with me."

Little loth, I assented, and soon I was enjoying
some of his toothsome store.  I ate sparingly, for I
had already blunted the edge of my hunger and I had
no wish to abuse his generosity.  As I nibbled the
crisp oatcake I thought of the girl I had seen on the
hill-side, and in a fit of curiosity said: "I have been
thinking that though the Lord sent the ravens to
feed Elijah, he has been sending somebody bonnier
and blither to feed you--in fact no raven, but a
heather-lintie!"

He looked at me quickly, and replied: "I am no'
sayin' yea or nay; and at any rate you have no call
to exercise your mind with what doesna concern you."

The rebuke was a just one and I was sorry for my
offence.

When our meal was over, he took me by the arm.
"What say you to a walk by the light o' the moon?"
he asked.  "I'll guarantee you will fall into no more
bogs, for I know every foot of these hills as well as
I know the palm of my hand."

"Your pleasure is mine," I said.  So we set out,
and as we went he talked.

"Last night," he said, "you told me your story;
to-night, if you care to listen, I will tell you mine.

"I am an older man by far than you are, and I will
never see the three-score and ten again.  As my days
so has my strength been.  I have seen a feck of things
and taken part in many a deed that will help to make
history.  You may think I boast myself, but listen.
My name is Alexander Main, and, as you ken, I am
a minister of the Kirk of Scotland.  The year 1638
saw me a student in the Glasgow College--that is
long syne, and they were stirring times.  Ye may have
heard of that great gathering in the Greyfriars Kirk
at Edinburgh on the last day of February 1638, when
we swore and put our names to the National Covenant.
It was a great day.  The crowd filled kirk and yard.
Well do I mind the gallant Warriston reading the
Covenant, much of which had come glowing from his
own pen--but most of all I mind the silence that fell
upon us when the reading was over.  Then the good
Earl of Sutherland stepped forward and put his name
to it, and man followed man, each eager to pledge
himself to the bond.  Some of us, I mind well, wrote
after their names the words 'Till death,' and others
signed it with their blood."

"And what might this Covenant be?" I asked.

"Ah," he said, "I had forgotten.  Briefly the bond
was this: 'to adhere to and defend the true religion
of Presbyterianism, and to labour to recover the purity
and liberty of the Gospel as it was established and
professed in the Kingdom of Scotland.'  It was to put
an end to all endeavours to foist prelacy upon us and
to signify our adherence to the Presbyterian form of
Church-government which King James himself had
sworn to uphold in this Kingdom of Scotland, that we
put our names to the bond.  Not that we were against
the King, for in the Covenant it was written plain
that we were ready with our lives to stand to the
defence of our dread sovereign, the King's Majesty.
The wave of fervour spread like a holy fire from that
old kirkyard through the length and breadth of
Scotland, and the noblest blood in the land and the flower
of its intellect signed the Covenant.  Later on there
came a day when those who stood for liberty of
conscience in England as well as Scotland made a
compact.  That was the Solemn League and Covenant,
whereby we bound ourselves to preserve a reformed
religion in the Church of Scotland.  The memory of
man is short, and it has almost been forgotten that
the solemn league was a joint Scottish and English
affair, and that it was ratified by the English
Parliament.  These things were the beginning, but since
then this puir kingdom has passed through the fire."

He paused and sighed deeply, then picking up the
thread of his words again he told me the chequered
history of the Covenanters for close on fifty years.
It was a story that thrilled me--a record of suffering,
of high endeavour, of grievous wrong.  Of his own
sufferings he made little, though he had suffered sore,
and I, who had never felt the call to sacrifice myself for
a principle, was humbled to the dust as I listened.  He
spoke in accents tense with emotion, and sometimes
his voice rang with pride.  I was too spell-bound to
interrupt him, though many questions were upon my lips.

At last he ceased, as though the memories he was
recalling had overwhelmed him, then he resumed:

"So, in some sort, my story is the story of puir auld
Scotland, for the past fifty years.  It is a tragedy, and
the pity is--a needless tragedy!  If the rulers of a
land would study history and human nature, it would
save them from muckle wrong-doing and oppression.
It has been tried before and, I doubt not, it will be
tried many a time again, but it will never succeed--for
no tyrant can destroy the soul of a people by brute
force.  They call us rebels, and maybe so we are, but
we were not rebels in the beginning.  Two kings
signed the bond: the Parliament passed it.  We
remained true to our pledged word; the kings forgot
theirs, and they call us the law-breakers.  And some
call us narrow-minded fanatics.  Some of us may be;
for when the penalty of a man's faith is his death, he
may come to lay as much stress on the commas in his
creed as on the principles it declares.  No man has
the right to compromise on the fundamentals.

"Sometimes I wonder if I had my life to live over
again whether I would do as I have done.  Maist
likely I should, for all through I have let my conscience
guide me.  I have no regrets, but only a gnawing
sorrow that sometimes torments me.  I have been in
dangers many, and I have never lowered my flag,
either to a fear or to a denial of my faith, and yet the
Lord has not counted me worthy to win the martyr's
crown."  His voice broke, and he hesitated for a
moment, then went on: "I have fought a good fight;
I have almost finished my course, but whether I have
kept the faith is no' for me to say.  I have tried.

"The night of Scotland's woe has been long and
stormy; but the dawn of a better day is not far off,
and she will yet take her place in the forefront of the
nations as the land in which the battle for liberty
of conscience was fought and won.

"Look ye," and he pointed to the east, where the
darkness was beginning to break as the sun swung up
from his bed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FIELD MEETING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FIELD MEETING

.. vspace:: 2

A week passed uneventfully.  Each night I joined my
friend and the glad notes of his flute were still our
signal: each morning we parted to sleep through the
daylight hours each in his own hiding-place.

I was strangely attracted by this old man.  He was
a gentle spirit, quick to take offence, often when none
was meant, but equally quick to forget.  He had a
quaint humour, flashes of which lightened our converse
as we walked together in the night, and he had all
the confidence of a little child in the abiding love of
God.  As I parted with him one morning, he said:

"I doubt you'll no' ken what day of the week this is."

I was quick to confess my ignorance.

"Well," he said, "it is Saturday, and ye'll no' hear
me playing the nicht.  On such a nicht one is too near
the threshold of the Sabbath day lichtly to engage in
sic a worldly amusement.  However, if ye'll come
round to my side of the loch about the usual time, we'll
tak' a bite o' supper together--after that ye'd better
leave me to my meditations in view of the Lord's
Day, for I am preaching the morn."

"In which church, may I ask?" I said, forgetting
for a moment where I was.

"In the kirk of the moorland," he answered, "which
has no roof but God's heaven, and no altar but the
loving hearts of men and women!"

A sudden desire sprang up in my heart.  "Sir,"
I said, hesitatingly, "I do not consider myself worthy,
but I should count it a high honour if I may come
with you."

He paused before he answered: "The House is the
Lord's, He turns no man from His door: come, an
you wish it."  Then he laughed, and looking me up
and down said: "Man, but you're an awfu' sicht if
you are coming.  Ye wadna like to appear before Lag
in sic unsoldierly trappings: daur ye face God?"  Then
he laid a hand on my shoulder, and looking
into my face with his piercing eyes, said: "The Lord
tak's nae pleasure in the looks o' a man, and belike
he pays little heed to claes or the beggar at the rich
man's gate wouldna have had much of a chance; it is
the heart that counts, my lad, it is the heart, and a
contrite heart He will not despise."  Then he gripped
me by the hand, and said: "Awa to your bed and come
an' look for me by and by, and syne we'll set out for
the kirk.  It is a long road to travel and ye'll need a
good rest before we start."

So I left him and made my way back to my own side
of the loch.  There I undressed and looked ruefully
at my mud-bespattered garments.  They certainly
were far from that soldierly spotlessness of which I
had been so proud when first I donned them.  But the
mud on them was quite dry, so I made a heather brush,
and brushed them well.  Then I took them down to the
loch-side and washed out some of the more obstinate
stains, then laying them to dry among the brackens
I sought my bed.

When I awoke night had fallen, so, leaving my hiding
place, I sought my garments and put them on.

I judged that it must be nearly ten o'clock as I went
round the head of the loch to seek my friend.  I found
him awaiting me at our trysting-place and we ate our
meal in silence.  When we had finished, he said:
"Wait for me here; I will come again ere long," and
disappeared into the darkness.  I sat in the starlit
silence watching the moon's fitful light move upon the
face of the waters.  Many thoughts passed through
my mind.  I wondered what reception I, in a trooper's
uniform, would receive at the hands of the hill-men
whom I was shortly to meet.  Would the guarantee
of the minister be credential sufficient: then a doubt
assailed me.  I knew that as a deserter I was under
penalty of death--but even a deserter, if captured,
might still be pardoned; but to have, as a further
charge in the indictment against him, that of
consorting with proscribed hill-men and taking part
in a Conventicle would rob me of the last chance of
pardon if I should ever fall into the hands of my
pursuers.  For a moment I was tempted to withdraw
from this new adventure.  Then I spurned myself
for a coward.  I owed my life to the friendliness of this
old man, who daily gave me so ungrudgingly of his
store, and I felt that it would be base and ungrateful
to withdraw now, since, after all, the invitation to
accompany him was of my own seeking.

The moments passed slowly, and I judged that more
than an hour had elapsed since he left me.  I began
to grow uneasy.  Had he lost me in the dark, or had he
judged me unworthy to accompany him, and gone off
alone?  I rose to my feet, determined to make a
search for him, when I heard the rustle of his
footsteps, and in a moment he was beside me.

"Did you think I wasna comin' back?" he queried.
"I have just been wrestling with a point o' doctrine;
but I've got the truth o't now.  Come!" and he set
out along the hill-side.

He walked slowly, absorbed in deep meditation.
I followed close on his heels, seeking to make sure of
my footsteps by keeping as near him as possible.  He
seemed in no mood to talk, and I held my tongue.

When we had walked for two hours, he stopped
suddenly and said: "We are half-way there now.
I think that we might take a rest," and he sat down
on a hummock on the hill-side.

I sat down beside him, and more by way of breaking
the silence than from any special desire to talk--for
I had little to say, I remarked: "What a beautiful
night!"

He grunted, and in spite of the darkness I could
see him shrug his shoulders with displeasure.

"Wheesht, man," he said.  "This is nae time to
speak about sic things.  Have ye forgotten it is the
Sabbath day?"

I was unprepared for such a rebuff, and a hot reply
sprang to my lips, but I felt unwilling to hurt his
feelings, so I held my tongue.

He sat with his knees drawn up towards his chin,
his clasped hands holding them, and his eyes fixed on
the distance.

I stretched myself lazily upon the hill-side and
awaited his pleasure.

We rested for a long time, and then, as the eastern
sky began to break into light, he rose to his feet and
saying, "It is time to go on," he set out again.  I
followed close behind him as before.  He walked with
his hands clasped behind his back, his two thumbs
revolving ceaselessly round each other.

Out of the ebb of night, day rose like a goddess.
Before me was beauty unspeakable.  The moorland
was covered by a thin vale of mist.  Here and there,
where the sun was reflected from it, it shone like silver,
and where some mischievous hill-wind had torn a rent
in it, a splash of brown heath or a tussock of purple
heather broke colouringly through.  The world was
waking up from its slumber.  A hare, startled, sprang
along the hill-side before us--its ears acock, its body
zig-zagging as though to evade some apprehended
missile.  The whaups called to each other mournfully,
and, high above us, unseen, a lark poured out
its soul in sparkling song.

I was beginning to wonder when we should arrive
at our destination, when my companion turned
suddenly to the left and walked downhill into the
valley.  Here, for a time, we followed what had been
the bed of an ancient stream, long since dried up, until
we came to a cleft between the hills which gradually
widened out into a kind of amphitheatre.  Almost
for the first time since we had left our hiding-place,
my companion spoke.

"This is the trysting-place," he said.  "The folk
will be here ere long.  I'll leave ye while I complete
my preparations," and saying "Rest ye," he walked
on through the amphitheatre and disappeared.

I stretched myself upon my back and drew my
bonnet over my eyes.  I know not how long I lay thus,
but suddenly I was conscious that someone was standing
beside me, and opening my eyes I saw the minister
at my side.

"They are beginning to come," he said, as he looked
out through the cleft by which we had entered the
hollow.  My gaze followed his, and I saw at some
distance a man of middle age, followed by two younger
men, coming in single file towards us.  My companion
left me and hurried to meet them.  I saw him
approach the eldest with outstretched hand which was
taken and shaken vigorously; then he greeted the two
younger men, and the four stood, a little knot in the
morning light, talking earnestly.

From glances that were cast from time to time in
my direction, I knew they were talking of me.  The
colloquy lasted for some time.  My friend was
apparently vouching for my trustworthiness with many
protestations, for I could see him strike the palm of
his left hand with his clenched right fist.  At last the
minister and the elder man came towards me.  The
two younger men separated, one climbing to the top
of the ridge on one side of the amphitheatre and the
other ascending the slope upon its other side.

I surmised that these two younger men were to play
the part of sentinels to give timely warning, if need
arose, of the coming of the dreaded troopers.  They
had no weapons but shepherd's crooks.

As the two elder men approached me, I rose, and
as they drew nearer I heard my friend still pleading
for me.  "I believe that, at heart, he is no' a bad
young man, but being English, his opportunities
have been few, and he is strangely lacking in a
knowledge o' the fundamentals, but I am hoping that
he may yet prove to be a brand plucked from the
burning."

With difficulty I restrained a smile, but I took a step
towards them and, bowing to my friend's companion
who stood straight-backed and stalwart before me,
I said: "My uniform is but a poor passport to your
trust, but the heart beneath it is not a false heart and
none of your people need fear ill from me."

The old man offered me his hand.  "Young man,"
he said, "I hae little cause to trust your coat, but if
your creedentials satisfy the meenister, they're guid
enough for Tammas Frazer."

"That's richt, Thomas!" cried the minister,
"that's richt.  As the Buik says: 'Charity suffereth
long and is kind'!"

We stood silent for an embarrassed moment, until
the hill-man said: "And noo, Meenister, ye'll gi'e us a
word afore I set the kirk in order," and lifting their
bonnets the two men closed their eyes.

I followed their example, and then the minister
lifted up his voice and, in tones of pathetic earnestness,
besought the blessing of God upon all the doings of the
day; sought, too, for divine protection for all who at
the hazard of their lives should come to worship there
that Sabbath morning.

When the prayer was over, Thomas turned to me,
and said: "You are a likely young man and a hefty;
we had better leave the man o' God to his meditations.
Come and lend me a hand."

For a moment I was at a loss to understand what he
meant, but I followed him, and when he picked up a
small boulder I did likewise and together we carried
the stones to the sloping hillside and arranged them at
short intervals from each other.  Altogether we
gathered some thirty or forty stones, which we set in
semi-circular rows.  Opposite to these, on the other side
of the amphitheatre, we built a little mound of boulders
and laid upon the top of it a great flat rock.  This was
to be the preacher's pulpit, and I was struck with the
care that Thomas devoted to its building.  When it
was finished he stood upon it and tested it.  Satisfied,
he descended from it, saying: "It'll dae fine.  There's
naething like a guid foundation for a sermon," and
in his austere eyes a light flickered.

By this time other worshippers had begun to gather
and were thronging round the minister in little clusters.
From the looks cast in my direction I knew that I was
the object of more than one inquiry, and while my
recent companion went forward to greet some other of
the worshippers, I hung back a little shamefacedly.
Seeing my hesitation the minister beckoned me, and
when I came near he placed a hand upon my shoulder
and said:

"My friends, here is the prodigal.  He has eaten
of the husks of the swine, but, I think, he has at last
set his foot on the road to his Father's house."

It was a strange introduction, received in silence by
the little group, and with a mounting colour I looked
at the people and they looked at me.  There was a
glint of challenge in the eyes of some of the men and
a hint of suspicion in others.  The older women looked
at me with something I took for pity; the younger
ones pretended not to look at all.  The silence was
embarrassing, but it was broken by the minister who
said:

"And now, my friends, it is time to begin our
service.  Will you take your places?" and turning to
me he said, "Young man, I think ye'd better come
and sit near the pulpit, where I can see that ye behave
yersel'!"

In silence, and with a demure sobriety as though
they were crossing the threshold of a holy place, they
stepped across the dip in the amphitheatre and
seated themselves upon the stones laid ready for them.
I walked behind the minister towards his pulpit.  A
couple of paces from it he stopped and raised his
right hand high above his head.  On the top of the
hill that faced us I saw one of the sentinels spring erect
and hold his hand aloft, and turning, we saw that the
sentinel on the other hill top had made a like signal.
It was a sign that all was well, and that the service
might safely begin.

The minister mounted his pulpit and I sat down a
little below it.  In a voice which rang melodiously
through the silence he said: "Let us worship God by
singing to His praise the 121st psalm."  He read the
psalm from beginning to end and then the congregation,
still sitting, took up the refrain and sang slowly
the confident words.  It was a psalm which to these
hill-folk must have been charged with many memories.

There was more of earnestness than of melody in
the singing, but suddenly I was aware of one voice
that sounded clear and bell-like among the jumble of
raucous notes.  My ears guided my eyes and I was
able to pick the singer out.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FLOWER O' THE HEATHER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   FLOWER O' THE HEATHER

.. vspace:: 2

She was a girl of some twenty years who sat on the
slope opposite to me.  Her features were regular and
fine and in strange contrast to the rugged
countenances that surrounded her.  From underneath the
kerchief that snooded her hair a wanton lock of gold
strayed over the whiteness of her high forehead.  I
caught a glimpse of two pink ears set like wild roses
among the locks that clustered round them.  She sat
demurely, unaware of my rapt scrutiny.  Her lips
were red as ripe cherries, and as she sang I saw behind
them the glint of white and regular teeth.  Her eyes
I could not catch; they were lifted to the distant
sky over the hill-tops; her soul was in her singing.
One hand rested in her lap, the other hung down by
her side, and almost touched the grass beside her
rough seat.  The open book upon her knees was open
for form's sake only.  She was singing from her heart
and she knew the words without appeal to the printed
page.  I took my eyes from her with difficulty and let
them wander over the little congregation of which
she was a part, but I found no face there which could
hold them, and quickly they turned again to look upon
this winsome maid.

She had lowered her eyes now, and as I glanced
across at her I met their level gaze.  There was a
glint of light in them such as I have seen upon a
moorland tarn when the sunbeams frolic there, and as I
looked at her I was aware that something within me
was beating against my ribs like a wild caged bird.

When the psalm was ended the minister behind me
said solemnly, "Let us pray," and over against me I
saw the heads of the congregation bend reverently.
Some sat with clasped hands, others buried their faces
in the hollow of their palms.  My devotions were
divided, and before the preacher had completed his
sentences of invocation I found myself peeping
through my separated fingers at the girl.  Her eyes
were closed, her dainty hands were clasped delicately.
I had never, till that moment, known that the human
hand may become as subtle an instrument for expressing
the feelings as the human eye.  In her clasped
hands I saw the rapture of a splendid faith: I saw
devotion that would not shrink from death; I saw love
and sacrifice.

The preacher prayed on, embracing in his petitions
the furthest corners of the universe.  His words fell
on my ears, but I did not hear them, for at that
moment my whole world centred in this alluring daughter
of the Covenant.

Once again I was conscious that my heart was
thumping wildly, and I was selfish enough to wonder
whether my presence was disturbing her devotions
as much as hers was destroying mine.  But she gave
no sign.  The lustrous pools of her eyes were hidden
from my gaze behind the dropped lids.  So long as she
was unaware of it, I felt no hesitation in letting my
eyes dwell upon her, to drink in the beauty of her
soul-filled face.

I was still gazing upon this vision when suddenly
the prayer ended.  I can tell no more of the service.
I only know that in that little band of worshippers
I was one of the most fervent--but I fear that I was
worshipping one of God's creatures rather than God
Himself.

After the benediction had been pronounced over the
standing congregation, I looked up at the sky and
judged that well-nigh three hours must have elapsed
since we sang the opening psalm, and to me it had
passed in a flash.  Never before had I known the
minutes fly upon such winged feet.

I shook myself out of my dream and turned
towards the minister.  He had dropped on his knees
and was engaged in silent prayer.  Unwilling to
disturb him, I turned once more toward the congregation
which had already arisen from its stony pews and
was standing clustered in little knots.  I hesitated for
a moment, and as I hung uncertain I felt an arm slip
through mine.  It was the minister.

"Come," he said, "you must get to know some of
my flock.  I could tell, my lad, as ye sat at my
feet during the service that you were strangely
moved."

Good honest man!  I had been strangely moved,
but by other emotions than those for which he gave
me credit!

As he talked, we had descended the slope and stood
in the hollow.  The congregation gathered round us;
many of the men, and some of the older women,
grasped the preacher warmly by the hand.  There was
no effusiveness in these salutations, but a quiet
earnestness that bespoke their love for him.

"Ye were michty in prayer the day," said one, while
I heard another exclaim: "Ye divided the word
maist skilfully, sir.  The twalfth heid micht ha'e
been expanded wi' advantage, but your fourteenth was
by-ordinar'.  I never heard finer words o' grace,
no even frae godly Samuel Rutherford himself.  God
keep ye, sir."  "Ay," said another.  "When ye
gied oot yer sixth heid says I tae masel', 'Noo, how
will he handle that ane: but, sir, ye were maisterfu',
an' I was mair than satisfied."

These words of praise were accepted by the minister
with a modest derogation: "I am but a frail
mouthpiece," he said.  "The message has suffered through
my poor imperfections."

In the press around him I was suddenly conscious
of *her* presence.  I saw his face light up with a smile
as he stretched his hand out to her: "Mary, lass," he
said, as he drew her towards him, "ye're a woman
grown.  It seems but yesterday that I baptised you."

My eyes were on her face, and I saw the colour
mount beneath her healthy brown as she smiled.  I
felt I would have given all of life that might lie before
me had that smile been for me.  With ears alert I
waited to hear her speak.  Softly, and in sweet accents,
within whose music there was a note of roguery,
she answered:

"If the wee ravens didna grow up, wha would bring
food to Elijah?"

The minister laughed.  "It was a fine cheese, Mary,
and your oatcakes couldna be bettered in the shire.
What say you, young man?" he said, turning to me.

The moment I had dreamed of had come, and the
eyes of the girl were turned expectantly upon me, and
then, fool that I was, any readiness of wit I had,
oozed through the soles of my feet and left me
standing in the adorable presence, an inarticulate dolt.
I mumbled I know not what, but she laughed my
confusion aside.

"If there are twa mouths to fill," she said, "the
ravens will ha'e to fly into the wilderness a wee oftener.
I maun tell mither."

She looked at me, and then with a glint in her
beautiful eyes that made me think she had not been
altogether unaware of my scrutiny during the service,
said: "For a trooper, ye behaved very weel," and then
lest I might imagine that I was more to her than the
merest insect that hides among the heather, she turned
once more to the minister.

I was too young then to know that, be she Covenanter's
daughter or Court lady, woman is ever the same,
with the same arts to provoke, the same witchery to
allure, the same artfully artless skill to torture and
to heal the heart of man.  She had turned away from
me, but in doing so she had drawn me closer to herself,
and I was rivetted to the ground where I stood, ready
to stand there for ever--just to be within sound of her
voice, within arm's length of her hand.  Suddenly she
disentangled herself from the little group and going
to its outskirts placed her hand upon the arm of a
middle-aged bearded man and brought him to the
minister.  There was something in the shape of the
forehead and eyebrows of the man that made me
think he might be her father, and my thought was
confirmed when the minister, taking him by the hand,
said:

"Andrew, you have a daughter to be proud of.
Her mither's ain bairn, and a bonnie lass."

Her father paid no attention to the compliment,
and as though to bring back the thoughts of the man
of God from such a worldly object as a pretty girl,
said:

"And when may we expect ye tae honour our hoose
by comin' for the catechisin'?"

"God willing, I shall be at Daldowie on Friday next,
and, Andrew, I'll expect ye to be sounder in the proofs
than ye were last time."

"And now," he said, turning to me, "we must be
going.  We have a long road before us.  God keep
you all.  Good-bye," and without another word he
strode away.  I followed him, and as I passed the
girl she glanced at me and her lips moved.  I
hesitated and stopped, and O wonder! she had stretched
out her hand to me.

"Good-bye," she said.  "Tak' care of the minister.
Maybe you'll convoy him to the catechisin'."

"Trust me," I said.  "No harm shall touch a hair
of his head if I can fend it off."

"Thank you," she replied.  "I think I can trust
you, in spite o' your coat," and she dropped my
hand.

That was all: but her words and the trust she was
ready to place in me had made my whole world glow.
I hurried after the minister, walking on air, and felt
sorely tempted to burst into song, but I knew that, on
such a day, to have done so would have rendered
me suspect of wanton godlessness and I restrained
myself; but it was only outwardly.  My heart was
singing like a clutch of larks, and the rugged hill-side
was covered with springing flowers.  Once before I
had felt the spell of a woman, but never till now had
any daughter of Eve cast such a glamour over me.
Was it love?  Was it love?  And if it were--was it
love on my side alone?  It must be, for how dare I
think that a renegade trooper, hall-marked by a
uniform that to these simple folk meant blood and death,
could awaken in the sweet soul of that innocent girl
feelings such as she had stirred within my breast,
I pictured her again: I saw her sweet brown eyes,
and I remembered the glory of her hair, which for a
moment I had seen in all its beauty when her kerchief
had slipped back.  It was chestnut-brown, coiled in
great masses, save just above her brow, where in some
mood of whim nature had set a golden curl like an
aureole.  And as I fondly recalled her features one by
one I found myself thinking that behind the demure
repose of her face there lurked some elfin
roguishness--something elusive that gave her a mysterious charm.

I walked on in a maze of dreams, but was called
sharply back to earth by the voice of the minister.

"Where are you going, my lad?  Are you making
for the border, or where?  Our road lies up the brae
face," and turning I discovered that, in my dreams,
instead of following the minister I was walking
obliquely away from him.  I ran to rejoin him, but I
had no excuse ready to explain my error, nor did he
ask for one.  We resumed our walk together and in
a moment or two he said:

"Well, what think you o' a Conventicle?"

There was no mental reservation in my reply:
"Never, sir, did I so enjoy a religious service."

"Enjoy?" he repeated, questioningly.  "Enjoy? that
is a worldly word to use concerning such a
privilege."

I looked at him sharply, half suspecting that he had
guessed the cause of my appreciation of the
field-meeting; but there was nothing in his solemn
countenance to make me think he suspected me of duplicity.

"You English folk," he continued, "have queer
ways of using your own language.  I can understand
a hungry man enjoying a hearty meal; but enjoying
a privilege seems wrong.  One accepts a privilege
with a thankful and humble heart."  Then he stopped
suddenly, stamping his foot upon the ground.
"Alexander Main," he said, "ye're wrong.  You are
misjudging the young man; ye're growing old, and the
sap in your heart is drying up.  Shame on you that
you should ever doubt that a man may rejoice at
being privileged to enter the presence of God."  Then
he stretched out his hand: "Forgive me, young man.
We Scots have perhaps lost our sense of joy in our
sense of duty, but we are wrong, wrong, wrong!"

His wonted kindliness of heart was bubbling over.
My joy had come from a very human source and sorely
was I tempted to explain myself: but I held my peace.

We took the path again and plodded along the hillside
until we came to the top of a long ridge.  As we
drew near it the minister signalled to me to crouch
down, and on his hands and knees he crawled up and
peered long and earnestly over the other side.  I knew
the reason of his caution.  If he stood erect on the
brow-top his dark figure, sharp-cut against the sky,
might be seen by some patrol of troopers on the
moorland.  His caution brought me back sharply from
the land of dreams.  He and I were hunted men.

Apparently his scrutiny satisfied him, for he turned
round and, sitting down, said: "We may rest here
awhile."  I sat beside him and together we scanned the
valley that lay below us.  It seemed to be a vast
solitude, but as I looked I began to pick out here and
there a moving figure, and startled, I called his
attention to them.  He looked and, after a pause,
made answer: "They are only the moorland folk
making their ways home.  See yonder, that is no
trooper, but a woman.  Poor, harried sheep!  May
the Great Shepherd guide them all to the fold of home,
and in His own good time to the fold abune."  I looked
again, scanning the moorland with sharpened eyes in
the hope that afar I might catch a glimpse of her whose
life had touched mine so tenderly that day; but I
could not discern her.

I was stirred by a strange desire to talk, and I began
to put to my companion questions about some of his
flock, and by devious paths I led him to the subject
that was really in my heart.

"Mary," he said, "what would you know about
Mary?" and then he smiled.  "Oh, that is how the
land lies, is it?  Well, I'm no' surprised.  She's a
bonnie lass, and as good as she is bonnie, and a likely
lass to take a young man's eye.  But put her out of
your mind.  She's no' for you.  The dove maunna'
mate wi' the corbie."

"She must be a brave woman," I said, "for I
understand that she brings us our food."

"Wha tell't ye that?" he exclaimed, turning upon
me sharply and lapsing into the fashion of speech
which was ever his refuge when he was moved.

"Well, sir," I answered, "you said as much, and
I put two and two together."

"Did I?" he exclaimed.  "Well, ye maun guess nae
mair; dinna forget this is the Sabbath day."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GREATER LOVE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE GREATER LOVE

.. vspace:: 2

Idly I pulled a little sprig of thyme which grew beside
me, and crushing it between my fingers inhaled its
perfume.

My companion watched me, saying: "Wonderful! wonderful! what
glories there are in creation.  Many
a time I've lain awake at nights and thought about it
all.  Flowers on the moor, far bonnier than anything
that ever man fashioned; birds in the air lilting
sweeter melodies than man can make; the colour
spilled across the sky when the sun sets; the mist on
the hills.  Glory everywhere; but nothing to the glory
yonder"--and he raised his eyes to the heavens.

When we had rested for a time, my companion
rose and we set out again.

The sun was setting when we came within sight of
our hiding places.

"Come to my side of the loch," he said.  "Ye'll
want your supper before ye make for your bed," and
together we made for the place where we had already
enjoyed so many meals together.  I went to the
little stream to see if haply I might discover a trout
there, but he forbade me sternly.

"Must I tell ye again that it is the Sabbath day?
Ye maunna catch fish the nicht."

He left me for a moment, and sought his little
store, and when he came back, we took our meal in
silence.  When we had finished he said: "I am
wearied to-night; God send us sweet repose," and
kneeling down he commended us both and "all good
hill-folk" to the protection of the Almighty.  He
prayed too for his little congregation, and as he did
so I wondered if another prayer might at that hour
be ascending like incense from the lips of the girl
who had begun to haunt my heart; and I wondered
if in her petitions there would be any thought of me.

When his prayer was over the old man rose to his
feet, and laying a hand upon my shoulder while I
bowed my uncovered head he lifted his face to the
sky and gave me his blessing.  There was a catch
in my voice as, touched at heart and humbled, I bade
him "Good night."

I walked round the end of the loch and sought my
hiding-place, but though I was fatigued I could not
fall asleep.  The stars were glittering afar, and I
wondered if at that moment she, too, were looking
up at their beauty.  I lived through once again all
the incidents of the day in which she had played a
part.  I heard her sweet voice singing, I saw the
light upon her hair, the glint in her eyes and, once
again, I felt the pressure of her hand.  There in the
darkness I lifted my own right hand to my lips and
kissed it--for had she not touched it?  Then I fell
asleep, but even as I slept she walked, an angel,
through my dreams.

When I awoke my first thought was of her: then,
as I looked up at the sky, I judged that the day was
already some hours past the dawn.  Cautiously I
separated the fronds of brackens and looked along
the moor.  What I saw made me draw back in
horror: then, with a beating heart, I took courage
and peeped carefully through once more.

The troopers were upon us, and on my side of the
loch there were some twenty who, scattered about,
on horseback, were quartering and requartering the
whole hill-side.  I looked warily across to the other
side of the loch.  There I could see none.  I knew
that my safety lay in absolute stillness.  A
movement of one of the bracken stems beneath which I
lay might betray me--even my breathing might be
heard, and I knew the uncanny instinct with which
a trooper's horse was sometimes aware of the presence
of a fugitive when his rider might be ignorant.  As I
listened to the voices of the troopers, and heard the
hoofs of their horses, I felt a sudden love for all the
timorous hunted creatures of the earth.  In imagination
I saw a hare, with ears laid back, and eyes dilate
with fear, lying clapped in her form.

In my extremity I thought of Mary, and wondered
if she knew of my peril.  My lips were dry as sand,
my hands were moist, and my heart was beating
loudly, so that I thought the sound of it must be
heard by my pursuers.  Would it be a speedy death
there on the moorland, or would I be taken to
Wigtown and given a trial?  Life had never seemed
sweeter than in that morning hour, and now fate was
about to dash the cup of happiness from my lips.  I
dared not stir to look again through the brackens,
but I knew from the sound of the voices that some of
the troopers were now close to my hiding-place.
With ears alert I listened.  Surely that was Agnew's
voice.  I heard the jangle of bridle chains, and the
creak of stirrup leathers: I could hear the heavy
breathing of the horses--they were closing in upon
me on every side.  One minute more and I should
be discovered, and then, death!  And I, because I
had learned to love, had grown afraid to die.

Suddenly, clear and shrill, the sound of a flute
came from the far side of the loch.  What madness
was this?  Did not the old man know that the
troopers were upon us?  In the very teeth of danger
he was calmly playing a tune that I had heard more
than once in the moonlit hours of the night.  O fool!
What frenzy had seized him?

The sound reached the troopers.  I heard a voice
shout, "What the devil is that?" and the tramp
of the horses ceased.  The player played on....
There was a sharp word of command; the horses
were spurred to the gallop, and raced to the other
side of the loch.  As they passed my hiding-place
one of them almost brushed my feet with its hoofs.
The player played on....  There was no tremor in
his notes; clear and shrill they cleft the moorland
air.  I took courage and peered out.  Look where I
might I could see no trooper on my side of the loch,
but on the other side I saw them rapidly converging
to the place from which the music came.  The player
ceased as suddenly as he had begun, and lying there
in my hiding-place I cursed him for his folly.  Never
before had I heard his flute save in the hours of
darkness.  And then the truth flashed upon me.  It was
not madness: it was sacrifice!  He had seen my
danger, and to save me, with no thought of self, he
had done this thing.

Would they find him?  I, with no skill in prayer,
found myself praying fervently that he might escape.
Then something within me cried: "You can save
him--show yourself."  It was the voice of Mary,
and, startled, I peered through the brackens to see
if she could be near, but there was no one to be seen
on my side of the loch and nothing to be heard but
the trailing of the wind along the tops of the heather.
"Save him!" cried the voice again.  I sprang to
my feet and shouted, but the wind carried my voice
away over my shoulder.  Then I heard loud cries on
the other side of the loch and I knew that the troopers
had found the Minister....  Could I save him
now? ... Was any good purpose to be served
by my surrender, or did it mean simply that two
lives would be taken in place of one?  Again I heard
the voice: "Too late," it said, "too late," and it
was the voice of Mary, choked with tears.

I threw myself down again, and cursed myself for
a coward.  I could not see what was happening on
the other side of the loch.  For a time there was the
tumult of many voices, and then all was still.  I
knew what that meant.  Lag or Claver'se or whatever
devil incarnate might be at the head of the troop was
putting my friend to the test.  Would he take the
oath?  I knew that to him allegiance to his God was
far more precious than fealty to an earthly king.  I
could see the whole scene: he, calm, in the circle of
his accusers, with the firing party charging their
weapons.  I could hear the bullying voice of the
commander trying to break his spirit, and then I
knew--for I had seen it--that he would be given five
minutes to make his peace with God.  Little need
for that! ... The crash of muskets tore the silence
and I knew that Alexander Main, hillman, and Saint,
had won his crown of glory at the last.

I felt the tears brim in my eyes, and trickle scalding
down my cheeks.  Then I was seized with dread once
more.  Would the troopers be content with this one
victim, or would they come again to my side of the
loch and continue their search?  I knew not; I
could only wait for whatever might happen.  In a
few minutes I should know.

I could hear the sound of the troopers' voices and
their laughter, and peering through the brackens I
saw the little cavalcade go back to the edge of the
loch where they gave their horses to drink.  In a
body they marched to the end of the loch.  If they
swung round to the left and came again to quarter
my side of the hill, my fate was sealed.  With hands
clenched I waited, watching.  I was taut as a
bow-string with suspense.  The string snapped: I was
free!--for when they reached the end of the loch,
they set their horses to the ascent that led to the top
of the hill, and in half an hour the last of them had
disappeared.  And there on my bed of heather
beneath the brackens I lay and cried like a child.

I lay there till the sun went down; then in the
gloaming I stole round to the other side of the loch
to look for my friend.  I found him at last.  He was
lying on his back, with eyes open, looking into the
depth of the sky.  There was a smile upon his face,
a smile of pride and unspeakable joy.  A great
bloody gash, where the murderous bullets had struck
him, lay over his heart.  Beside him, face downward,
lay an open book.  I picked it up reverently.  It was
his Bible, and a splash of blood lay upon the open
page across these words: "They shall hunger no
more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun
light on them, nor any heat."  Gently I closed the
book, and sat down beside him.  I had lost a friend;
a friend who had shown me the greater love; he
was a Covenanter, and I--God help me!--I had
been a persecutor.  My heart was torn by shame
and remorse: but in the dim light his quiet pale face
was smiling, as though he was satisfied.

Suddenly a thought struck me.  I must give him
burial, and quick on the heels of the thought came
another: The dead need no covering but the kindly
earth; would it be sacrilege to strip him of his
clothes?  He had no further need of them, while I
was in sore straits to get rid of my uniform.  I knelt
down and peered into his face.  The smile there
gave me courage.  In life he had been shrewd and
kindly, and I knew that in death he would understand.
So, very gently, I began to strip him.  As I
took his coat off something fell from the pocket.  It
was his flute.  I put it beside his Bible.  I have kept
both till this day.

Then when I had stripped him, I cast about in
my mind for some means to give him burial.  Not
far away I knew there was a gash in the hill-side
where once some primeval tarn had been.  Reverently
I lifted his body and bore it thither.  Gently I laid
it down, and standing with bowed head under the
starlit sky, I pronounced over that noble dust all I
could remember of the English burial service.  Did
ever Covenanter have a stranger burial?  I trow
not.  Then reverently I happed him over with
heather and brackens and turf which I tore from the
hill-side, and laboured on until the trench was filled
and I had built a cairn of stones over it.

So I left him sleeping there, and, as I turned away,
I was overwhelmed by a sense of loss and loneliness.

I gathered up the clothing which I had taken from
his body, and bore it to the side of the loch.  There,
from the coat, I washed the stains of blood, and laid
it on the sward to dry.

Occupied as I had been, I was unconscious of the
flight of time; but I was reminded by a sudden access
of hunger.  A problem faced me, for I had no food
of my own.  For days I had been depending on the
charity of my friend; and I did not know where his
store lay hidden.  In that wilderness it was well
secreted lest any questing bird or four-footed creature
of the moorlands might find it.  A sudden apprehension
seized me, and, with its coming, my hunger
disappeared.  I hurried to the place where we were
wont to take our evening meal together, and then I
walked in the direction which he had usually taken
when he went to fetch the provender.  I sought
beneath likely tussocks of heather and under the
shadow of boulders and beneath the shelves of
overhanging turf, where some sheep, aforetime, had had a
rubbing place.  But nowhere could I find a trace of
his store.  Baffled, I determined that I would seek
my hiding-place and lie down to sleep for the rest of
the night.  In the morning, with the help of the
light, perhaps my quest would be rewarded.  So I
betook myself to my heather bed, and as I crawled
under the bracken--and laid myself down, I thought
how, but for the divine charity of my dead friend, I
should at that hour have been sleeping the sleep of
death.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PURSUED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   PURSUED

.. vspace:: 2

Morning came, clear and bright, and as I stepped
out from my hiding-place I was conscious that the
air of the dawn had served to whet my hunger.  I
hurried to the other side of the loch and renewed my
search.  Crouching down I ferreted in every likely
nook and corner, but found nothing.  Was it that
there was nothing to find?  Was the larder already
empty, or had the troopers discovered it after they
had done their deed of blood, and rifled it of its poor
contents?  Whatever the case, my search, repeated
over and over again during the course of the
morning--till I knew every blade of grass and bracken-frond
on that side of the loch--revealed nothing.
While I searched, my hunger abated; when I paused
I was painfully conscious of it, and then, suddenly,
I remembered the little trickling stream and in a
moment I was bending over it seeking for trout.
My search was rewarded and ere long I had caught
enough to make a meal.  Hunger made me forget
discretion, and I lit a fire to cook them.

While the stone on which I was to broil my meal
was warming in the flames, I went to the loch side and
picked up the garments of my dead friend.  Hastily
I divested myself of my uniform, and filling the
pockets, which I had emptied of my possessions, with
large stones, I swam into the middle of the loch and
let the heavy burden drop into its depths.  Then I
made for the shore, and ran in the sunlight till the air
had dried me, and then aglow and breathless I donned
the clothing of the dead preacher.  I felt the flute in
the pocket of his coat and drew it out, looking at it
with fond eyes, and placed it to my lips--but as I
was about to blow, I stopped.  It would be sacrilege
for unclean lips like mine to call one note from this
the plaything and the solace of the dead saint, so I
replaced it in my pocket.

I cooked my fish, and, forgetful of the risk I ran,
omitted to extinguish my fire.  I stretched my hands
out to enjoy its warmth and watched the silver grey
spirals of smoke coil like ghostly things into the blue
atmosphere.

I sat in a reverie, and after awhile I rose to make
another search for the undiscovered hiding-place of
the old man's hoard.

I had wandered afield, and had come to the brow of
the hill.  When I rose from my crouching position to
stretch myself, I saw a sight that chilled me.  Less than
half a mile away was a company of troopers who were
riding at a gallop.  I flung myself upon my face and
prayed that my dark figure against the horizon had
escaped notice, and then the thought flashed upon me
that they were coming direct to the place where I
was, and the fire which I had left burning was the
beacon that had attracted them.  Doubtless they
had been continuing their search for me in another
quarter of these mountain fastnesses, and now
through my own folly I had shown them where to
find me.

Crouching low, I raced to the loch side.  Then,
remembering that the loch was in the cup of the hills,
and that until they reached the summit of the slope
they could not see me.  I rose erect and raced with all
my speed to the end of the loch and on.  Fear lent
wings to my feet.  To be safe at all I must put many
miles between my pursuers and myself before I
thought of hiding.  The country was practically
unknown to me, but I remembered roughly the way
we had taken when we went to the hill-meeting, and
I imagined that somewhere in that direction my
greatest safety would lie.

Never stopping to look back, but with panting
breath, hot-foot I ran, leaping over boulders and
crashing through the heather, until my limbs almost
refused to respond to my desires; then I flung myself
down into a deep bed of bracken and turned to scan
the way I had come.  Already I had travelled far,
and, when I looked back, piercing the distance with
eager eyes, I could see no trace of my pursuers.

Though there was no sign of them, I dared not
count on safety till I had placed a much greater
distance between us or until night should fall.  So, when
I had recovered my breath, I left my shelter and
hurried on.  As I went I recognised some of the
landmarks I had passed two days before, and by and by I
came to the gorge in the hills where the service had
taken place.  As I entered the little amphitheatre my
eyes wandered instinctively to the stone where Mary
had sat, but, to my surprise, the stones were no longer
there in orderly array.  I looked to where the pulpit
had been, but it was scattered.  Then I knew that
some of the worshippers before they left that hallowed
spot had, with crafty foresight, scattered the stones
that might have been a witness to some band of
troopers that a "field preaching" had taken place.
Wearily I ascended the slope on one side of the
amphitheatre and crouching low among the heather
I scanned the surrounding country.  The afternoon
was now far advanced, and the evening shadows were
beginning to gather.  Look where I might I could see
no sign of my pursuers, and, glad at heart, I decided
that here I should rest for an hour or two and then
continue my flight when the darkness fell.  There
was something holy about the place, for she had
worshipped here.

My long run had exhausted me, so I crawled into a
clump of bracken and was soon asleep, my last
waking thoughts being of Mary, and not of my danger.

When I woke the moon was high in the heavens.
I was conscious of hunger and thirst, but I had not the
wherewithal to appease them: but I hoped that on
my way I might stumble upon some moorland rivulet,
or at the worst a pool of brackish water among the
moss-hags.  Hunger a man can bear, but thirst is
torture to a fugitive.

Somewhere an owl hooted drearily and the eerie
sound in that place of desolation startled me, alive
in every sense to anything unexpected.

As I began my flight once more I was conscious that
my limbs were stiff, but in a few moments, as
movement began to warm me, the stiffness disappeared.
On a trackless moor it is ever a hard thing for a man
unacquainted with the country-side to make much
speed, and I had to go warily lest I should stumble,
as once before, into some treacherous bog.

The wind had risen and was bringing with it an
army of clouds that swept, a dark host, across the sky.
Suddenly the darkness was rent by a flashing blade of
light which shook like a sword of molten metal held
by some giant in the skies, and then, as though a
thousand iron doors were flung against their
doorposts, the heavens crashed round me.  The wild peal
of thunder rolled through the night air.  Caught by
every trembling hill-top, it reverberated and reverberated
again till it pulsed into silence.  My ears ached.
The lightning and the thunder had brought me to a
standstill, when again the sky was torn by a blaze of
fire.  Hard on its heels came another thunderclap
and with it a deluge of rain.  Every drop was a
missile, stinging my face like a whip-lash.  Startled, I
made haste to seek cover from the storm, but I had
left the hills behind me and there was no friendly
boulder near at hand.

I turned to look to the hill-side, when, again, a shaft
of lightning like a mighty javelin hurtled earthward
from the sky.  The whole hill-side was lit up by its
blaze, and I saw its point strike a great rock of granite
that stood on the slope and cleave it in twain.  The
darkness closed like a door and ere the following peal
hammered upon my ears I heard the crash of the
shattered boulder as headlong it roared down the hillside.

The air was heavy with the smell of sulphur; the
earth was sodden beneath my feet.  My clothes hung
heavily upon me and at every step the water oozed
from my shoes.

Remembering a trick of the moor men I dropped on
my knees and tore up a piece of turf and scooped
away some of the underlying earth with my hands.
Quickly the water oozed into the bowl from the ground
round about it, and when I had given it a moment to
settle, I bent and drank deeply.  Then I rose and
hurried on and, in the hope of discovering some shelter
ere long, I broke into a run.  It was a foolish thing to
do, for save when a lightning flash lit up the ground I
could not see more than a yard or two ahead.

Suddenly, as though a red-hot knife had struck me,
I felt a stab of pain in my right ankle, and I fell upon
my face.  The fall winded me, and as I lay while the
pitiless rain beat upon me, I tried to realise what had
happened.  I had trodden upon a stone which had
betrayed my foot; my foot had slipped on its edge,
and I knew from the pain that I had done myself an
injury.

I tried to gather myself up, but every effort sent a
pang to my heart.  Slowly I raised myself upon my
hands and knees, and then with a great effort I lifted
myself to my feet, but I found that I could not bear
the pressure of my injured foot upon the ground.  I
tried to raise it, but the movement only redoubled my
agony, and, bemoaning my fate, I lowered myself
gently to a sitting posture on the wet earth.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND

.. vspace:: 2

It was too dark to see the injured part, but from the
increasing pressure on the edge of my shoe I knew
my foot was swelling.  Soon the pain of the pressure
became intolerable, and with an effort I leaned over and
undid the lace.  This gave me some relief, but when
I tried to remove the shoe the pain compelled me to
desist.  But, taking courage, I made trial once more
and succeeded at last in getting it off.  Then I removed
my sock.  Very gently I passed a hand over the
injured part.  I could feel that it was greatly swollen.
My foot lay at an angle which led me to think that one
or other of the bones of my leg had been broken.  My
heel dropped backwards, and the inner edge of my foot
was twisted outward.  If I kept the limb at rest the
pain was tolerable; if I moved it the agony was more
than I could support.  The falling rain upon it was
like a cooling balm, and gave me relief, but as I sat
there--sodden, helpless--alone amid the desolation
of that vast moorland, I was overwhelmed by a sense
of my misfortune.  Twice already had I escaped from
the troopers' hands, and now, unless succour, which
seemed outside the range of hope, should come to
me, I was doomed to a lingering death.

I prayed for the dawn to break, and then I realised
that dawn could bring me no hope, and I ceased to
care whether it were light or dark.  But the dawn came
nevertheless, and with it a wind that swept the
rain-clouds out of the sky.  I tore up some tufts of heather
and made a soft couch upon which to rest my injured
limb; then, wet though I was and cold, I lay down and
ere long had fallen asleep.  I know not how long I
slept, but when I woke my head was on fire and I
was aching in every limb.  My tongue was parched like
a piece of leather and I was tortured by a burning
thirst, so that I was fain to pluck the grass and heather
that lay within my reach and suck from them the
scanty drops of moisture that still clung to them.
To add to my distress, I was seized with a violent
shivering which shook my whole body and caused my
injured limb to send stabbing darts of pain all through
my being.  I laid a hand upon my forehead and found
that it was burning hot, and I knew that I was in the
grip of some deadly fever.  I called for help in my
extremity, but my voice was weak as a child's and the
only reply that came to me was the cry of a startled
whaup.  Well, what did it matter if I had to die?
Surely it were better to be freed by a speedy death,
than to lie there a helpless log until I should die of
starvation.

I closed my eyes again and drifted into a dreamy
state of partial comfort, from which I was awakened
by a violent pain in my right side.  My breathing
had become difficult.  Every movement of my chest
was torment, and, to add to my miseries, I began
to cough.  I opened my eyes and looked into the
depths of the sky as though to summon help out of the
infinite; but all I could see was a pair of carrion
crows that were circling above me, waiting, I had little
doubt, for the moment when the breath should leave
my body and their foul feasting could begin.

So this was to be the end of it--a week or two, and
all that would be left would be a heap of bones,
bleaching in the wind and rain of that vast moor.

I closed my eyes again, and drifted once more into
a pleasant state of drowsiness, and suddenly I was
my own man again, strong and sound in limb as I had
ever been: free from pain, and without a care in the
world.  I was walking gaily along a road that stretched
before me into infinite distance.  Birds were singing
around me and in the sweet air of the morning there
was the scent of hedgerow flowers.  Far off, near the
summit of the hill where the road seemed to end,
a woman was waiting for me.  She was beckoning to
me to make haste, and though I hurried fleet-foot
towards her, she remained as far away as ever.  The
woman was Mary.  Try as I might, I could not reach
her.  Then a miracle happened: she came towards
me.  A radiant welcome shone in her face: her arms
were outstretched I called to her and held out eager
hands towards her: but she drifted past me, and was
gone, and, heavy at heart, I fell back, a sodden,
tortured thing, on the cold wet moors.  My eyes
opened.  The carrion crows still circled above me:
but not for long.

Once more I was on a journey, moving, a formless
mass, beneath a leaden sky with no moon or sun or
stars to guide me; myself a part of the darkness that
surrounded me.  In this strange world in which I
found myself there were other formless shapes like
my own, each drifting noiselessly and without
contact through infinite leagues of space.  The mass that
was me was not me.  It was separate from me, yet
indissolubly united to me.  I was perplexed.  Was I
the mass or was the mass some other being?  I had
no being of my own apart from the mass, and yet the
mass was not me.  Where was I?--What was I?--Who
was I?  I had no pain, no hands or feet, no
torturing thirst, no fever-racked body.  Was I
disembodied?  If so, what was I now?  In agony of
mind, I, who had no mind, struggled to puzzle the
problem out; and then, suddenly, the grey mass that
had perplexed me rolled from my sight, and I found
myself once more lying upon the moor in pain, alone.
The sky above me was sprinkled with stars; night
had come again: the day had brought me no succour.

If I lay here any longer, surely the troopers would
find me.  I must up and on.  It seemed to me that a
great hand came out of the sky and blotted out my pain
as someone might blot out an error upon a child's slate.
I was strong again.  I sprang to my feet.  My limb
was sound once more.  I ran across the moor like a
hind let loose and in the darkness I stepped over a
precipice and fell unendingly down.  The minutes
passed, and I saw them gather themselves into little
heaps of hours that stood like cairns of stone on the
top of the precipice.  The hours piled themselves
into days and the days into weeks, till the top of the
precipice was covered with stones, and still I was
falling through unending space.  Some time--I know
not when--I must have come to the bottom of the
precipice.  I felt no crash, but the heaped-up cairns of
the minutes and hours and days disappeared from my
sight, and I ceased to know anything.  I cannot tell
how long this deep oblivion lasted.  Once only did
I wake from it partially.  I felt a twinge of pain as
though someone had moved me, and then all was dark again.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE HAVEN OF DALDOWIE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE HAVEN OF DALDOWIE

.. vspace:: 2

A man may go to the very gate of death without
knowing that he has stood within its shadow till he
returns once more to the sunshine of life.  I know not
how long I lay, an unconscious mass, at the foot of the
dream precipice of my delirium, but an hour came
when I opened my eyes again.  I opened them slowly,
for even to lift my lids was an effort, and I looked above
me to see if the carrion crows were still watching me.
Instead I saw a low thatched roof, and in amazement
I let my eyes wander to every side.  I was lying on a
soft mattress laid on a garret floor.  My head was
pillowed on a snowy pillow of down.  Beside my couch
stood a three-legged stool and on it there was a bowl
of flowers.  I stretched out a weak hand to take one.
I picked up a buttercup that flaunted its proud gold
before me, and I pressed it to my lips.  I lay in a
reverie and tried to gather together all I could
remember of the past.  I recollected my flight
from the troopers, the thunderstorm and the rain,
and then I remembered my injured limb.  I tried
to move it and found that it was firmly bound.
I was too weak to raise myself and turn down the
bedclothes to examine it, but there was further food
for thought in the fact that my injury had been
cared for.

Where was I?--and who had brought me here and
nursed me back to life again?

Perplexed I could find no light to guide me, and
weary with fruitless thoughts I fell asleep.

When I woke up again my eyes rested upon a
woman who was just beginning to appear through a
trap-door in the floor.  She entered the garret, bearing
a cup whose contents gave off a generous odour.  She
came to my bedside and, carefully removing the
flowers from the stool, sat down upon it, and looked
at me.  My wide-awake eyes met her astonished gaze.

"Thank God," she said, "ye're better.  Ye've
been queer in the heid for mair than a fortnicht, and
me and Andra' had lang syne gi'en ye up."

She dropped on her knees beside me and, slipping
her left arm gently under my pillow, raised me and
put the cup to my lips.

"Here," she said, "drink some o' this."

I drank a long draught, and never have I tasted
anything with savour so exquisite.

All too soon the cup was empty and the warmth of
its contents sent a glow through my wasted body.
I was about to ask where I was and how I had come
there, when I remembered that I had another duty
to perform.  So, in a voice that shook from weakness
and emotion, I said:

"I know not who you are, but you have saved my
life, and I would thank you."

"Wheesht," she said.  "You are far ower weak to
talk yet.  When you have had a guid nicht's sleep and
a wee drap mair nourishment, it will be time enough.
Haud yer wheesht the noo like a guid bairn and gang
to sleep," and she drew the coverlet up round my
neck and tucked it about me.  Some old memory buried
in the margin of my consciousness stirred within me.
Just so had my mother tucked me to sleep many a
time and oft, when I was a little lad, and the memory
brought the tears to my eyes.  I said nothing, for the
will of the woman was stronger than mine at the
moment, and I must needs obey it.  I watched her
place the bowl of flowers upon the stool: then, after
smoothing my pillow, she went to the trap-door, passed
through it and disappeared.

For a time I lay looking up at the straw roof.  My
eyes followed the black rafters that supported it, and
I tried to count the knots in the beams: but the light
which trickled through the window had begun to fade,
and as I tried to count I fell asleep.

When I woke again it was dark, but a faint beam
from the moon made a pool of silver on the coverlet
that lay over me.  I heard a voice in the room beneath
me.  I listened eagerly, but could not distinguish any
words, and as I listened it dawned upon me that the
voice was that of someone reading aloud.  Then there
was a pause: and in the silence that followed I heard
a grating sound as though a chair were pushed a little,
over a sandstone floor, and again the voice spoke.
Then I knew that, in the kitchen beneath me the
people under whose roof I rested were worshipping
their God.  I, a trooper and deserter, had been
succoured by some of the moorland folk, and had found
refuge in a Covenanter's cottage!

I lay and thought long of all that I owed to these
hunted hill-folk.  Twice had I, one of their
persecutors, been succoured from death through their
charity.

Some time soon after dawn I was wakened by sounds
in the room beneath me.  I heard a creak as though
a hinge were moved, and the clank of a chain, and I
knew that the good wife had swung her porridge-pot
over the fire and was preparing breakfast for her
family.  The delicious aroma of slow-cooked porridge
began to assail my nostrils and I was conscious that
I was hungry.

I wondered if by any chance I should be forgotten;
then I banished the uncharitable thought.  By and
by I heard the sound of footsteps in the kitchen and
then a confused murmur of voices.  I knew that the
family had gathered to break their fast, and I waited
with all the patience I could command.  The minutes
passed slowly and every moment my hunger grew
more and more intolerable: but at last the time of
waiting was over.  I heard footsteps ascending the
ladder to my garret.  The trap-door was thrown open,
the top of a head appeared, a hand reached up and
placed a bowl on the floor, and the head disappeared
once more.  Then again I heard footsteps ascending
the ladder, and this time the woman came into the
room bearing a second bowl.  She picked up the one
she had laid upon the floor and came to my bedside.

"Ye've sleepit weel?" she said, inquiry in her
voice.  "Ye're lookin' somethin' like a man this
mornin'.  See, I ha'e brocht you your breakfast."

She laid her burden down, and clearing the bowl
of flowers from the stool, placed a hand adroitly
behind my pillow and propped me up.  For a moment
the room spun round me.  Then she placed the bowl
of porridge in my lap and poured a stream of milk over
it, saying: "Can ye feed yersel', or maun I feed ye
like a bairn?"  She gave me a horn spoon, and with
a shaky hand I fed myself.  She sat watching me, but
did not speak again till I had finished my meal.

"That's better," she said.  "You'll soon be yersel'
again.  It's the prood woman I am.  I never yet knew
a man sae ill as you ha'e been pu' through.  Man, but
for the grace o' God and our Mary, the craws on the
moor would ha'e picked yer banes white long ere noo."

Startled, I looked at her.  She had said "Mary."  Could
it be that this Mary was the Mary of my dreams?
I ventured to speak.

"I cannot thank you enough for all you have done
for me.  But I do not know where I am nor how I
came here.  I remember nothing since I lay upon the
moor, waiting for death."

"Weel," she said, "to make a long story short,
ye're in the laft o' Andrew Paterson's fairm-hoose at
Daldowie.  Mary fand ye lyin' on the moor, in a kin'
o' stupor.  She got an awfu' fricht, puir lassie.  First
she thocht ye micht be ane o' the hill-fowk, and then
she thocht ye had a kent face, and lookin' again, she
minded that she had seen ye wi' the meenister at the
field-meeting, the Sabbath afore.  She saw ye were
gey near deid, but she jaloused ye werena' quite,
because ye kept muttering tae yoursel'.  So she raced
hame like a hare and wadna' rest till she had ta'en
her faither oot to fin' ye.  They carried ye here on the
tail-board o' a cairt, and that's three weeks sin';
and here ye lie and here ye'll bide till ye're a weel man
aince mair."

As the full meaning of her words dawned upon me,
I was uplifted with joy.  Mary had found me!  She
had known me!  She had cared enough for me to
think that I was worth saving!  Her big heart had
pitied my necessity, and to her I owed my life!
A sudden access of strength ran through my being.
The blood coursed in my veins; I felt it pulse in my
temples.  It must have brought a glow to my cheeks,
for the woman said:

"Ye're better--a lot better the day.  The parritch
has put a bit o' colour in your cheeks."

I found my tongue.  "Will you," I said, "please
thank your husband and your daughter"--I had fain
said Mary with my lips: I said it in my heart--"for
what they have done for me.  Later, I hope to
thank them myself."

"Oh, aye," she said, "ye'll be seein' them later
on when ye're better.  But I'll tell them.
Meantime, maybe the nicht, when his work's dune, the
guid-man'll be comin' up to see ye himsel'.  He's got
a wheen questions he wants to ask ye.  For instance,
we're sairly troubled because you were wearin' the
meenister's claes when Mary found ye, and in ane o'
your pockets ye had the meenister's Bible.  And though
ane or twa o' the hill-fowk hae been up to look for the
guid man in his hiding-place, naebody has seen him and
we're mair than a wee troubled.  We ken ye were a
trooper, and though the meenister vouched for ye
himsel' at the meeting, Andra says that ye canna make
a blackfaced tup into a white ane by clippin' its 'oo',
and we hope ye haena dune the guid man a mischief.
To tell ye the truth, when we got ye here and found
the meenister's claes on ye, my guid-man was for puttin'
ye oot on the moor again and leavin' ye to dee.  But
Mary pleaded for ye, and I minded my aan lad, so we
hid ye here and nursed ye."

She said no more, and before I could explain she
had descended the ladder and shut the trap-door.

The day passed rapidly; I slept and woke and
slept and woke again.  The good woman came to me
more than once with food, but she did not talk to me
again nor would she let me talk to her.

"The morn is the Sabbath day.  I ha'e nae doot
Andra' will come up to see ye sometime, and ye can
tell him your story then."  That was her good night
to me, and when she had descended I heard again,
as on the previous evening, the sound of these devout
folk at their evening prayer.

Then all was silent and I slept.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ANDREW PATERSON, HILL-MAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   ANDREW PATERSON, HILL-MAN

.. vspace:: 2

The shrill crowing of a cock woke me, just as the
first rays of the sun were stealing through the skylight.
I lay adrowse, half sleeping, half awake, listening for
the first sound of the house coming to life.  The cock
sounded his bugle again.  Somewhere a hen cackled,
and then all was still.

My eyes wandered round the garret.  A mouse
had stolen out of some cranny and was examining
the room.  He seemed unaware of my presence, for
he sat solemnly in the middle of the floor with his
tail curved like a sickle and proceeded to preen
himself, till some unwitting movement of mine startled
him and he scampered to his hole.

Slowly the minutes passed, then I heard movements
in the kitchen beneath me.  I knew that the day might
be a difficult one for me, for sometime during its
course I had to explain to the master of the house
how I came to be disguised in the garb of the minister.
My tale was a plain enough one, and I thought it
would not be hard to clear myself of any suspicion
of having had a hand in his death; but I could not
be sure.  Kind though my succourers had been, I
knew that they were likely to be distrustful of one
who had once been a trooper.  The minister had
been their friend, and it was but natural that they
should feel his death keenly and be all too ready to
suspect me of complicity in bringing it about.  I
determined to tell the tale simply, and I trusted
that my words would carry conviction.  If not, what
then?  I knew the fanatic spirit with which the
hill-folk were sometimes charged.  Would the master of
the house, in his wrath, lay hands upon me and
wring the life from my body?  The evil, uncharitable
thought was crushed down.  They had shown me
such love in the hours of my weakness that they
were hardly likely to sacrifice me to their suspicions now.

As I pondered, the trap-door was raised, and,
bearing my breakfast, the master of the house entered
the garret.  "Hoo are ye the day?" he asked.

"Better, I thank you, much better;--I owe my life
to you and yours;--I shall never be able to repay
you."

He set the food upon the stool before he answered.
"Ye're gey gleg wi' your tongue.  Naebody was
talkin' aboot payin'.  Haud your wheesht, and sup
your parritch.  I jalouse ye need them.  Later on
I'll be comin' up for a crack.  There's a wheen things
that are no' clear in my min'.  The thing lies here:
hoo did ye come by the minister's claes and his
Bible?" and he looked at me with a steely glance,
that, had I not been guiltless, would have covered
me with confusion.

"I am ready," I said, "to tell you the whole story
as soon as you are ready to listen."

"Weel," he answered, "I'm comin' back sune,"
and he went to the trap-door and descended, closing
it behind him.

I made a hearty meal and was pleased to discover
my strength was coming back to me.  When I had
finished I must have dropped into a sleep, from
which I was wakened by hearing footsteps in the
room once more.  The man had returned, and under
his arm he was carrying a bundle of heather, while in
his hand there was a mass of wool.  He knelt beside
my bed and, turning up the blankets, said:

"Afore we begin to talk I think I'd better see
aboot this leg o' yours."

He undid the bandages, and looking down I saw
that beneath them the ankle had been carefully
padded with wool and heather.  I knew now the
purpose of the things he had brought with him, for
he stripped off the pad with which the ankle was
surrounded and began to make a fresh one.
Apparently he had some knowledge of the healing art.
He ran his fingers gently over the joint and then bade
me try to move the foot.  I found that movement
was difficult, but that though it was painful it did
not provoke such suffering as that which I remembered
having experienced upon the moor.

"It's daein' fine," he said.  "It was a bad break,
but by and by ye'll be able to walk again, though I
fear ye'll aye be a lamiter.  But Jacob himsel'--a
better man than you--hirpled for the maist pairt o'
his life."

As he talked he was binding my foot again, and
when he had finished, it felt most comfortable.

"And noo," he said, "let me hear what ye ha'e
to say for yersel'.  The facts are black against ye.
We fand you on the moor in the meenister's claes: ye
had the guid man's Bible in your pocket: when last
he was seen you were in his company: and nocht
has been heard o' him frae that day to this.  What
say ye?" and he looked at me piercingly.

Without more ado I told him how the brave old
saint had given his life that mine might be saved,
and how I had buried his body in the silence of the
hills, taking his clothes to disguise myself and bringing
away his Bible as a precious possession.

As I talked I watched the changing emotions chase
each other across his face.  At first his eyes were
watchful with suspicion, but as I continued he seemed
thrilled with a tensity of expectation, and when I
told him how the end had come with the rattle of
muskets I saw his strong, gnarled hands clench, and,
through his tightened lips, he muttered, "The black
deevils," and then the tears stole down his
weather-beaten cheeks.

When I had finished there was a silence which at
last he broke:

"A man o' God, a saint if ever there was ane.
We'll miss him sairly here I'm thinkin', but they will
be glad to ha'e him on the other side."  Then he rose
from the stool and gripping my right hand, crushed
it in his own.  "I believe you, my lad, I believe you,
and if Alexander Main counted you worthy to die for,
Andrew Paterson o' Daldowie may count you worthy
o' a share of his kail and saut.  I maun gang and tell
the wife; her and Mary are anxious to ken the
truth": and he made for the trap-door and began
to go down.  But just before his head disappeared
he turned and called: "Maybe I'll come back the
day to see ye again, but if I dinna', the wife'll be up
to look after ye, and if I'm spared I'll be up masel'
the morn.  This is nae day to talk aboot the dambrod.
I'll speir ye aboot it some ither time."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN ADOPTED SON`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN ADOPTED SON

.. vspace:: 2

It is needless to trace day by day the events of the
next fortnight.  Each morning found me with
increasing strength.  The good wife of the house was
continually solicitous for my welfare, and had I been
son of hers she could not have bestowed more care
upon me.  She took a pride in every sign of returning
strength.  Daily she brought me shreds of family
gossip; news of the crops; news of the cattle; told
me, with housewifely pride, how many chickens had
come from her last sitting of eggs.

More than once, in our talk, I tried to turn the
conversation to Mary; but never with much success.
Shyness kept me from advances too direct.  Sometimes
she would tell me of the hill-men; and once
she told me, with pride flashing in her eyes, of her son.

"He died," she said, "at Drumclog.  It was a
short, sharp fecht, and the dragoons reeled and fled
before the Bonnets o' Blue.  My laddie was sair
wounded, and died in the arms o' guid Maister Main.
His last words were: 'Tell my mither no' to greet.
It's been a graun' fecht, and oor side's winnin'.'"  There
were no tears in her eyes as she told me the
tale, but when she had finished she laid a hand upon
my head and gently stroked my hair.  "He was sic'
anither as you, when he fell," and she turned and
left me.  Of an evening the farmer would sometimes
come up, bringing with him a dambrod, and many a
well-fought game we had together.  He played
skilfully and usually won, which gave him considerable
satisfaction.

"Ye canna' beat Daldowie on the dambrod," he
would say, with a twinkle in his eyes.  "Scotland
owes little enough to Mary Stuart, the Jezebel, but
she or some o' her following brocht this game wi'
them, and that is something they'll be able to say for
themselves on the Judgment Day.  They'll mak' a
puir enough show that day, or I'm mistaken, but the
dambrod will coont on their side."

When we had played for a week, and Saturday
night came, he brought up a slate with a record of
the score.

"It's like this, ye see," he said.  "We've played
a score and half o' games.  I ha'e won a score and
seven, and you won three--which ye shouldna' ha'e
done ava' if I had opened richt and no foozled some
o' the moves wi' my king.  So ye're weel bate, and
it's as weel for you that I dinna' believe in playin' for
money, or it is a ruined lad ye'd be the nicht."

There was a gleam of satisfaction in his grey eyes,
and I could see that to have beaten me so soundly
had given him great pleasure.

"We'll no play the nicht; it's gettin' ower near
the Sabbath," he continued, "but I'll bate ye even
better next week."

I should have been lacking in gratitude if I had not
begun to develop a warm affection for my friends.
Simple folks, their joys were simple ones, but they
were both filled with the zest of life; and in spite
of the daily peril in which they lived, sunshine,
rather than clouds, seemed to overhang their dwelling.

There came a day when, after examining my
ankle with care, the old man said: "I think we
micht try to get ye on your legs," and he raised me
in his arms and set me on my feet.  The garret spun
round me, and the floor rose like the billows of the
sea and would have swept me down had it not been
for his strong arm.

"Steady lad, steady," he said.  "Ye'll fin' your
feet in a wee.  Just shut your een for a minute and
then open them again.  I'll haud ye fast; dinna' be
feart!"

I did as he bade me and found that the floor had
become steady again; then, supported by his arm,
I essayed to walk.  To my joy I discovered that,
though the effort cost me pain, I was able to walk
from one end of the room to the other.  The old man
was delighted.

"Jean," he cried, "come awa' up to the laft.
Bryden can walk," and I saw the trap-door rise to
admit her.

She stood with her hands on her hips: "It bates
a'," she said.  "The nicht ye cam' I never thocht
to see you on your legs again, but ha'e a care, Andra,
the lad's weak yet; help him back intil his bed
and I'll fetch him a bowl o' sheep's-heid broth for his
supper."

And when I was comfortably settled once more,
she was as good as her word.

Next day she brought me a strong ash stick, and
with its help and the aid of her arm I was able to walk
round the loft in some comfort.

Day by day my strength grew and I began to look
forward to the hour when I should be able to join my
friends in the kitchen below, when I hoped to see
Mary face to face.  It may have been nothing more
than a coincidence--though, as I listened eagerly, I
flattered myself it might be for joy that I was so far
recovered--that on the night I first began to walk
again, I heard Mary singing a song.

As the hour drew nearer when I should meet her,
I began to be covered with confusion.  How would
she receive me?

At last the great day came.  In the late afternoon
Andrew brought me a suit of clothes.

"The wife sent ye them," he said.  "She thocht
they were nearer your size than the meenister's," and
he laid them on the stool beside my bed and turned his
back upon me: then brushing a sleeve across his eyes,
he said: "I'm thinkin' it cost Jean a lot to tak' them
oot o' the drawer; ye see they were Dauvit's."

Had I needed any proof of the love they bore me, I
had it now.  I was to enter the circle round their hearth
clad in the garments of their dead son.  I had learned
enough of the quiet reserve of these hill-folks to know
that any words of mine would have been unseemly,
so I held my peace, and with the help of the good man
put the garments on.  Then leaning on my stick and
aided by his strong arm I walked to the trap-door.
Slowly I made my way down the ladder, guided at
every step by Andrew who had preceded me, and
by and by my feet touched the flagged floor of the
kitchen.  The old woman hurried to my side, and
between them they guided me to a large rush-bottomed
chair set in the ingle-nook beside the fire.

"Nae sae bad, nae sae bad," said the good wife.
She looked at me when I was seated and with a
sudden "Eh, my!" she turned and shoo'd with her apron
a hen that had wandered into the kitchen.

Eagerly I looked round, but there was no sign of
Mary.  The peat smoke which circled in acrid coils
round the room stung my eyes and blurred my vision,
but I was able to take note of the things around me.
The kitchen was sparsely furnished and scrupulously
clean.  Against one wall stood a dresser with a row
of china bowls, and above them a number of pewter
plates.  A "wag-at-the-wa'" ticked in a corner near.
A settle stood on the other side of the peat fire from
that on which I was seated, and a table, with
well-scoured top, occupied the middle of the floor.

The good man having satisfied himself that I was
all right, went out, and his wife, taking a bowl from
the dresser, filled it with water.  I watched her as she
proceeded with her baking.  As she busied herself
she talked briskly.

"Ye ken," she said, "you ha'e been under this roof
weel ower a month, and yet ye've never tellt us a word
aboot yersel', mair than we fand oot.  Hae ye got a
mither o' your ain, and hoo did you, an Englishman,
fin' yer way to this pairt o' the country?  Weel I
ken that, ever since Scotland gi'ed ye a king, Scotsmen
ha'e been fond o' crossin' the border, but I never heard
tell o' an Englishman afore that left his ain country
to come North, unless," she added, with a twinkle in
her eye, "he cam' as a prisoner."

It was an invitation to unbosom myself, of which
I was ready enough to avail me, and I told her some of
my story.  "So ye're College bred," she said.  "That
accounts for your nice ceevility.

"They tell me," she continued, "that England's
a terrible rich country, that the soil is far kindlier
than it is up here and that farmer bodies haena' sic' a
struggle as we ha'e in Scotland."  She did not wait
for my reply, but added: "I am thinkin' maybe that
is why, as I ha'e heard, the English ha'e na' muckle
backbane, and are readier to listen to sic' trash as the
Divine Richt o' Kings."

I tried to explain to her that it was the strain of
monarchs whom we had imported from Scotland who
laid most stress upon this right, but, as I talked, a
shadow filled the doorway, and, looking up, I saw
Mary.  With a struggle I raised myself to my feet.

"Sit doon, sit doon," said the good-wife, "it's
only oor Mary."

"You forget," I answered, "it is to your daughter,
who found me, that I owe my life.  By rights I should
kneel at her feet."

"Hear to him!  If it hadna' been for Mary's mither
and the wey she looked efter ye and fed ye wi' chicken
soup and sheep's-heid broth, forby parritch and
buttermilk and guid brose made by her ain hand, ye
wadna' be sittin' there!"

"Wheesht, mither, wheesht," said Mary: and with
a smile in her eyes that made me think of the stars
of the morning in a rose tinged sky, she held out both
her hands to me.  I took them and bent to kiss them,
but they were hastily withdrawn, and looking up I
saw a flush upon her cheeks, but I did not read
resentment in her eyes.

"Ha'e ye fetched in the kye, Mary?" asked her mother.

"Aye," she replied, "they're a' in their stalls."

Indeed, one could hear the rattle of chains and the
moving of hoofs on the other side of the wall.

"Weel, ye'd better start the milkin'.  I'll be oot in
a wee to help ye," and without a word more Mary took
her departure.  My ears were all alert, and, in a
moment, I heard her slapping the flank of a cow.  Then
her stool grated on the cobbles, and I caught the
musical tinkle of the milk as it was drawn into the
pail; and to my delight Mary began to sing.

I listened eagerly.  She was singing a love song!
The old woman heard her too, for she said: "Dae ye
ken ocht aboot kye?"  I hastened to tell her that I
knew nothing.  "Weel," she said, "it's a queer
thing, but ye can aye get mair milk frae a coo if ye
sing at the milkin'.  If ye sing a nice bricht tune ye'll
get twa or three mair gills than if ye dinna sing ava.
Noo, that's Meg she's milkin', and Meg has got near as
muckle sense as a human being.  On Sabbath, ye
ken, it would be a terrible sin to sing a sang to the coo
when ye're milkin' her, so I've got to fa' back on the
psalms.  But ye've got to be carefu'.  For instance,
if ye sang the 'Auld Hundred' to Meg, ye wadna' get
near sae muckle milk, because it's solemn-like, than
ye wad if ye sang her a psalm that runs to the tune o'
'French.'  Forby, I aince had a servant-lass that sang
a paraphrase when she was milkin' Meg, and the puir
cratur' was that upset that she was milked dry before
the luggy was a quarter filled, and when I went masel'
to strip her, she put her fit in the pail--a thing I've
never kent her dae afore or since."

I laughed.

"Ay," she continued, "an' waur than that, the
lass poured the luggy that she had drawn frae Meg
among the other milk, and the whole lot turned.
Sic' wastry I never kent afore, and ye may be sure
that nae paraphrase has ever been sung in my byre
since.  The guid man was that upset--no' wi' the
loss o' the milk--but at the thocht that a paraphrase
had been sung in his byre to his coo on the Sabbath
day that on the Monday he gi'ed the wench notice."

"I should have thought," I said, "that Mary's
voice would persuade the milk from the most reluctant
cow."

"I dinna' ken aboot that," she answered: "She's
no as guid a milker as her mother, and though my
voice is timmer noo I'll guarantee to get mair milk
at a milkin' than ever Mary'll fetch ben the hoose."

I would fain have continued the conversation, but
the baking was over, and the good woman left to join
her daughter.  Mary still sang on and I sat in rapture,
my heart aglow.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WISDOM OF A WOMAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WISDOM OF A WOMAN

.. vspace:: 2

I saw no more of Mary that day, for ere the milking
was over Andrew returned from the fields and after
studying me for a moment said: "I think it's time
for your bed."  Whereat he helped me carefully up
the ladder, and left me to disrobe myself.  That
night, when the moon came out and filled my room
with a glory that was not of this earth, I lay and
dreamed of Mary, and through the silence of my dream
I could hear once again the witching notes of her song.

Day after day I was gently assisted down the ladder,
and each day I spent a longer time sitting by the
peat fire.  Most often my only companion in the
kitchen was the good wife, and between us an intimate
understanding began to spring up.  I felt she liked
to have me sitting there, and more than once she
would look wistfully at me, and I knew from the sigh
with which she turned again to her work that she was
thinking of her dead boy.

Her face was attractive, though time had chiselled
it deeply--and her eyes were shrewd and kindly.  In
repose her features were overcast by a mask of
solemnity, but at each angle of her mouth a dimple lurked,
and a ready smile, which started there or in her eyes,
was perpetually chasing away all the sterner lines.

Mary came and went, busy at times on duties about
the steading, sometimes on duties further afield, and
more than once she set off laden with a well-filled
basket and I knew that she was taking succour to some
fugitive hill-man hidden on the moors.  Always she
treated me with kindness--with those innumerable
and inexpressible little kindnesses that mean nothing
to most people, but which to one in love are as drops
of nectar on a parched tongue.  Sometimes she would
bring me flowers which she had gathered on the moor;
and proud I was when on a day she fastened a sprig
of heather in my coat.

Sometimes of a night the dambrod was brought
out and the old man would beat me soundly once again.

But an evening came when he had no heart to play.
He had been moody all day long, and when I suggested
a game he said with a groan: "No' the nicht! no'
the nicht!  I ha'e mair serious things in mind."

I was at a loss to understand his reluctance, for
hitherto he had always been eager for a game, but
when I began to urge him to play, his wife interrupted
me saying:

"Na, na, leave the man alane.  If ye want to play,
ye can play wi' Mary."

I needed no second invitation, nor did the suggestion
seem unwelcome to Mary, who brought the board and
the men and set them upon the table.  Hers were the
white men, mine the black: but after the first move
or two the grace of her hand as it poised above the
board cast such a spell over me that I began to play
with little skill, and she was an easy victor.  We
played several games, all of which she won: and the
only sound that disturbed our tourney was the tinkle
of her laugh when she cornered me, or the click of her
mother's needles as she knitted in the ingle-nook.
But every now and then the old man groaned as though
he were in great distress, and looking at him I saw
that his head was buried in his hands.

When our tourney was over Mary gathered up the
men and restored them to a drawer, and as she did so
she turned to her mother and said:

"Oh, mother, you ha'e never given the minister's
Bible and his flute back to the gentleman."

"Nae mair I ha'e," said her mother.  "Fetch
them here," and Mary brought them to her.  She took
the Bible and handed it to me.  It opened at the
blood-stained page.  Mary had come behind my
chair; I was conscious that she was leaning over me.
I could feel her hair touch my face, and then when she
saw the stain a hot tear fell and struck my hand.  I
lifted my face towards her, but she had turned away.
Without a word I handed the open book to her mother.

"Eh, dear, the bluid o' a saint," she said, and she
closed the book reverently and gave it back to me.

The silence was broken by the good man.  "Ay,
the bluid o' a saint," he groaned--"ane o' the elect."

And that night for the first time I was present at
the "taking o' the Book."  Evening after evening as
I had lain in the garret, I had heard these good folk
at their worship.  To-night I was permitted to take
part in the rite, and though I have worshipped in the
beautiful churches of Oxford and the storied
Cathedrals of my own native land, I was never more
conscious of the presence of God than in that little farm
kitchen on the Galloway moors.

One afternoon as I sat watching the good wife at
her baking, I asked her how it was that her husband
and she had succeeded in escaping the attentions of
the troopers.

"Oh," she said, "we ha'ena' escaped.  Lag often
gi'es us a ca', but there's a kin' o' understandin'
between him and me.  It's this way, ye see; before
she got married my mother was a sewing-maid to his
mother, and when my faither deid and she was left
ill-provided, and wi' me to think o', she went back to
Mistress Grierson and tellt her her trouble.  Weel,
Mrs. Grierson liked my mother and she took her
back, and she said: 'Mrs. Kilpatrick,' says she,
'if you will come back, you can bring wee Jean wi'
ye.  What a bairn picks will never be missed in a
hoose like this, and the lassie can play wi' my Robert.
Ye see he has neither brither nor sister o' his ain, and
is like to be lonely, and your lassie, bein' six or seeven
years aulder than him, will be able to keep him oot
o' mischief.'

"And so it cam' aboot, and for maybe eight years
I was as guid as a sister to him.  But he was aye a
thrawn wee deevil--kind-hearted at times, but wi'
an awfu' temper.  Ye see his mother spoiled him.
Even as a laddie he was fond o' his ain way, and he
was cruel then tae.  I min' weel hoo he set his dog
on my white kittlin, but I let him ken aboot it,
because when the wee thing was safe in the kitchen
again I took him by the hair o' the held and pu'd
oot a guid handfu'.  My mither skelped me weel,
but it was naething to the skelpin' I gie'd him the
first chance I got.  His mother never correkit him;
it was 'puir Rob this, and puir Rob that,' and if it
hadna' been that every noo and then, when my
mither's patience was fair worn oot, she laid him
ower her knee, I'm thinkin' Lag would be a waur
man the day than he gets the blame o' bein'.  There's
guid in him; I'm sure o't, for even the de'il himsel'
is no' as black as he's painted: but his heid has been
fair turned since the King sent for him to London
and knighted him wi' his ain sword.

"I bided in his mother's hoose till I was maybe
seventeen years auld, and then my mither got mairrit
again and left Dunscore to come and live near Dairy.
Weel, I had never seen Lag frae that day till maybe
a year sin', when the troopers began to ride through
and through this country-side.  Ae day I was
oot-bye at the kirn when I heard the soond o' horses
comin' up the loanin', and turnin', I saw Lag ridin'
at the heid o' a company o' armed men.  There was
a scowl on his face, and when I saw him and minded
the ill wark that I heard he had done in ither pairts,
I was gey feart.  He shouted an order to his troop
and they a' drew rein.  Then he cam' forrit tae me.
'Woman,' he said, 'Where's yer man?'

"'Fegs," says I, 'Rab Grier, that's no' a very
ceevil way to address an auld frien'.  Woman indeed!
I am Mistress Paterson that was Jean Kilpatrick,
that has played wi' ye mony a day in yer mither's
hoose at Dunscore.'  'Guid sakes,' he cried, vaultin'
oot o' his saddle, 'Jean Kilpatrick!  This beats a'.'  And
he pu'd aff his ridin' gloves and held oot his
hand to me.  Then he shouted for ane o' his troopers
to come and tak' his horse, and in he walks to the
kitchen.  Weel, we cracked and cracked, and I
minded him o' mony o' the ploys we had when we
were weans thegither.

"Syne, Mary cam' in wi' a face as white as a sheet.
She had seen the troopers, and was awfu' feart: but
I saw her comin' and I said: 'Mary lass, tak' a bowl
and fetch my auld frien' Sir Robert Grier a drink o'
buttermilk.'  And that gie'd the lassie courage, for
she took the bowl and went oot-bye to the kirn, and
in a minute she cam' back wi' the buttermilk; so I
set cakes and butter afore him and fed him weel, and
as he ate he said: 'Ay, Jean, ye're as guid a baker
as your mither.  D'ye mind how you and me used
to watch her at the bakin' in the old kitchen at
Dunscore, and how she used to gie us the wee bits
she cut off when she was trimming the cake, and let
us put them on the girdle ourselves?'  And as he
talked he got quite saft-like and the scowl went aff
his face a' thegither.

"Then he began to tak' notice o' Mary.  'So this
is your dochter,' he said.  He looked her up and
doon: 'I see she favours her mither, but I'm thinkin'
she's better lookin' than you were, Jean.  Come
here, my pretty doo!' he says, and as Mary went
towards him I could see she was a' o' a tremble.  He
rose frae his chair an' put his arm roon' her shoulder
and made as though to kiss her.  Wed, I could see
Mary shrinkin' frae his touch, and the next minute
she had gie'd him a lood skelp on the side o' his
face wi' her haun, and wi' her chin in the air, walked
oot o' the door.  I looked at Lag.  There was anger
on his broo, but he pu'd himsel' thegither and
dropped back in his chair, sayin': 'Jean, ye've
brocht her up badly.  That's puir hospitality to a
guest.'  'Weel, Rob,' says I, 'the lassie's no' to
blame.  It maun rin in her blood, for mony a guid
skelpin' my mither has gi'en ye,--I ha'e skelped ye
masel', and noo ye've been skelped by the third
generation.'  Whereat he let a roar o' laughter oot o'
his heid that shook the hams hangin' frae the baulks.
And that set his memory going, and he said, 'D'ye
mind the day I set my dog on your kitten, and you
pu'd a handfu' o' hair oot o' my heid?' and he took
his hat off, saying, 'I am thinkin' that is the first place
on my pow that is going bald.'  'Ay,' says I, 'weel
I mind it, and the lickin' I got.'  'Yes,' says he,
laughin', 'but ye paid me back double.'  And he
roared wi' laughter again.

"We were crackin' as crouse as twa auld cronies,
when he said: 'And noo, Jean, a word in yer lug.
I had nae thocht when I cam' up here I was gaun to
meet an auld frien'.  I cam' to ask you and your
man, will ye tak' the Test.  But I am no' gaun to
ask the question o' ye.  For the sake o' the auld
days, this hoose and they that live in it are safe, so
far as Robert Grierson o' Lag is concerned.  But that
is between you and me.  Dinna be lettin' your man
or your dochter, the wee besom, consort wi' the
hill-men.  The times are stern, and the King maun be
obeyed.  But ye can trust me that I will not do your
hoose a mischief.  Whaur's your guid man?'  'He's
oot on the hills wi' the sheep,' says I, 'but he will be
back before lang,' and I went to the door to look,
and there he was comin' doon the brae face.  He had
seen the troopers and I'm tellin' ye he was gey scared.
I waved to him to hurry, and he, thinkin' that I was
in danger, cam' rinning.  'Come awa ben the hoose,'
says I.  'There's an auld frien' o' mine come to see
us,' and I brocht him in, and presented him to Lag.

"Lag was gey ceevil to him, and said naething
aboot oaths or tests, but talked aboot sheep and kye,
and syne said: 'And noo I'll ha'e to be awa'.  I
will tak' anither sup o' your buttermilk, Jean,' and
then he shook me by the haun' and would ha'e shaken
Andra's tae, but Andra wadna tak' a haun' that was
stained wi' innocent blood.  It was an affront to
Lag, but a man like that aye respects anither man
wi' courage, and he walked oot o' the door.  He
sprang into the saddle and the troop formed up and
clattered doon the loanin', and the last I saw o' Lag
he had turned his heid and was wavin' his haun as
he gaed roond the corner at the brae-fit."

"And what of Mary," I said.  "What was she
doing in the meantime?"

Her mother laughed.  "We looked high and low
for her and at last we found her in a hidie-hole in
the haystack, greetin' like a wean.  She had made
up her mind, puir lassie, that Lag would shoot baith
her faither and me, because she had boxed his lugs."

"And have you had no trouble since?" I asked, for
I knew that the promise given by Lag would be
binding on none but himself, and should a troop
Captain like Winram or Claver'se come to Daldowie,
disaster might fall on the household.

"Oh, ay," she said, "we've seen Lag mair than
aince since then.  He was here twa or three weeks
sin' when you were lyin' up in the laft, and he asked
aboot you.  He speired whether we had seen ocht
o' a young man in a trooper's uniform wanderin'
aboot the moors.  Ye were up in the laft sleepin' as
cosy as a mowdie, but I telt him I'd seen nae young
man in ony trooper's uniform.  I wasna fule enough
to tell him that I'd seen a trooper in the meenister's
claes.  'Weel,' he said, 'should ye see sic an ane,
dinna forget there's a price upon his heid.  He is a
deserter, and Rab Grier mak's short work o' deserters.'

"So, ye see, so far as Lag's concerned, Daldowie's
safe enough.  But Andra, puir stubborn buddy, is no'
sure o' the richts o't.  He is a queer man, Andra,
and like lots mair o' the hill-men he wad sooner
wear the martyr's crown than his ain guid bannet.
But I'm no' made that way.  I find the world no' a bad
place ava, and I'm content to wait in it till it pleases
the Almichty to send for me: and I'm no' forcin'
His haun by rinnin' masel' into danger when a bowl
o' buttermilk and a farle o' oatcake serves wi' a
jocose word to mak' a frien' o' ane that micht be a
bitter enemy.  That was a wise word o' Solomon's--maybe
he learned it frae ane o' his wives--'Every
wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish
plucketh it down with her hands.'  Even Andra
daur'na say that Jean Paterson, his wife, is a fule."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MAKING OF A DAISY CHAIN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MAKING OF A DAISY CHAIN

.. vspace:: 2

A day came when at last I was considered strong
enough to venture out-of-doors, and on that day, to
my joy, I had Mary for a companion.  Lending me
the support of her arm, she guided me to a grassy
hillock beside a little stream that ran down the face
of the brae.  Many a time I had dreamed of this
moment when I should be alone with her--but now
that it was come I found myself bereft of words.
Apparently, she did not notice my silence but talked
merrily as she sat down beside me.  Yet, though my
tongue was holden so that I could not speak, the
scales had fallen from my vision and Mary looked
more beautiful than ever.  I looked into her eyes
and for the first time saw the secret of their loveliness.
They were brown as a moorland stream--but a
moorland stream may be a thing of gloom, and in her
eyes there was nothing but glory.  I saw the secret.
The rich, deep brown was flecked with little points
of lighter hue, as though some golden shaft of sunlight
had been caught and held prisoner there, and when
she smiled the sleeping sunshine woke and danced
like a lambent flame.

Daisies were springing all round us, and as she
talked she began to weave a chain.  The play of her
nimble fingers as she threaded the star-like flowers
captivated me.  I offered my clumsy aid, and she
laughed merrily at my efforts; but every now
and then our hands touched, and I was well content.

When the Chain was completed I doubled it, and
said: "Now, Mary, the crown is ready for the Queen."

She bent her head towards me playfully and I
placed the daisies on her glistening hair, nor could I
resist the temptation of taking that dear head of hers
between my hands, making as my excuse the need to
set the garland fair.

"Ay," she said, "I am thinkin' it is no' the first
time that you ha'e done this.  Tell me aboot the
English lassies.  Are they bonnie?"

"I know very little about them," I replied, and
she, with twinkling eyes, returned:

"Ye dinna expect me to believe that, dae ye?"

With mock solemnity I laid my hand upon my
heart and swore I spoke the truth, but she only
laughed.

"Tell me," she said, "are they bonnie?  I've
heard tell they are."

"Well, Mary," I answered, "there may be bonnie
lassies in England, but I've seen far bonnier ones in
Scotland."

She plucked a daisy and held its yellow heart against
her chin.  "Oh ay," she said, "I've heard that the
Wigtown lassies are gey weel-faured.  Nae doot,
when ye were a sodger there, ye had a sweetheart."

"No," I said, "I had no sweetheart in Wigtown,
although I saw a very bonnie lass there."

"I knew it, I knew it," she cried.  "And maybe
ye helped her to make a daisy chain?"

"No, Mary," I said, "I never had a chance.  I
saw her only for an hour."

"But ye loved her?" and she looked at me quickly.

"No," I answered, "I had no right to love her.
If I had loved her I should have tried to save her.
She's dead now, but I do not think I can ever forget her."

"Oh," she said, "then you canna forget her.
You're never likely to love anither lassie?  But ye
speak in riddles.  Wha was she?  Tell me."

It was a hard thing to do, but there was nothing
for it.  So I told her the story of Margaret Wilson.
She listened breathlessly with mounting colour.  Her
eyes dilated and her lips parted as she sat with awe
and pity gathering in her face.

When I had finished she turned from me in silence
and looked into the distance.  Then she sprang to
her feet and faced me, with glowing eyes.

"And you were there!  You!" she cried.  "You
helped the murderers!  O God!  I wish I had left
you on the moor to die!"

This was my condemnation: this my punishment;
that this sweet girl should turn from me in horror,
hating me.  I bent my head in shame.

She stood above me, and when I dared to lift my
eyes I saw that her hands, which she had clasped,
were trembling.

"Mary," I murmured, and at my voice she started
as though my lips polluted her name, "Mary--you
cannot know the agony I have suffered for what I
did, nor how remorse has bitten into my heart
torturing me night and day.  It was for that I became
a deserter."

"You deserted, and put yoursel' in danger o' death
because you were sorry," she said slowly, as though
weighing each word.

"Yes," I answered, "that is why I deserted," and
I looked into her eyes, from which the anger had
faded.

"I'm sorry I was so hasty.  I didna mean to be
cruel.  Forget what I said.  I meant it at the
meenute, but I dinna mean it noo," and she held
out both her hands impulsively.  I clasped them,
and drew her down beside me again, and she did not
resist.  For a moment or two she sat in silence
pulling at the blades of grass around her.  Then she
laid a hand upon my arm, and said quietly:

"Tell me aboot her again.  Was she really very
bonnie?"

"Yes," I replied, "very bonnie."

"The bonniest lassie you ever saw?"

"Yes, the bonniest lassie I had ever seen till then."

"Oh," she exclaimed, "then you've seen a bonnier?
And where did ye see her?"

A woman versed in the wiles of her sex would not
have thrown the glove down so artlessly.  Unwittingly
she had challenged me to declare my love--and
I was sorely tempted to do so: but I hesitated.
A riper moment would come, so I answered simply:

"Yes, I have seen a bonnier lassie among the hills."

"Oh," she exclaimed, and looked at me questioningly,
"and what was she daein' there?"

I laid a hand upon hers as I replied: "Now, little
Mistress Curiosity, do not ask too much."

She drew her hand away quickly, and brushed it
with the other as though to rid it of some defilement.
I fear the taunting name had given her umbrage.

"I think you are a licht-o'-love," she said.

"Mary!" I exclaimed, offended in my turn.
"What right have you to say such a thing?"

"Weel," she answered, "what else would you ha'e
me think.  Ye lo'ed Margaret Wilson: ye tell me
ye've seen a bonnier lass amang the hills, and when
I found you on the moors you were repeatin' a lassie's
name ower an' ower again--and her name wasna
Margaret."

"I was repeating the name of a lassie?" I
exclaimed dubiously.

"Ay, ye were that," she made answer, "or ye
wadna be here the day.  It was that made me tak'
peety on you.  I was sorry for the lassie, whaever
she micht be, and I thocht if I had a lad o' my ain
I should like him to be croonin' ower my name, as
you were daein' hers.  So I ran hame an' fetched
faither, an' we cairried ye to Daldowie."

"And what was the name of the lassie?" I asked,
looking at her eagerly.

"Oh I ye kept sayin'--Mary--Mary--Mary--in a
kind o' lament."

My heart bounded: there was riot in my veins.
"It was your name, Mary--yours--and none other.
There is no other Mary in my life."

She looked at me in amazement--her eyes alight.
"Surely ye dinna expect me to believe that?  You'd
only seen me aince--and hardly spoken to me.  It
couldna be me ye meant."

I made both her hands captive.  "Mary, it was.
I swear it."

She drew her hands sharply away: "Then you
had nae richt tae tak' sic' a liberty.  Ye hardly
kent me,"--and she sprang up.  "I maun fetch the
kye," she cried as she hastened off.

I watched her drive them in; then she came for
me and led me carefully back to the house.  It seemed
to me that there was some message tingling from her
heart to mine through the arm with which she
supported me--but she spoke no word.

As we drew near the door, her mother came out to
meet us and catching sight of the forgotten chaplet,
exclaimed: "Mary, whatever are ye daein' wi' a
string o' daisies in your hair?  Ye look like a
play-actress."

Laughingly Mary removed the wreath.  "It was
only a bairn's ploy," she said; then to my great
cheer, she slipped the flowers into her bosom.

"Come awa' in," said Jean: and she assisted me
to my place by the fire.

An adventurous hen with a brood of chickens--little
fluffy balls of gold and snow--had followed us,
and with noisy duckings from the mother, the little
creatures pecked and picked from the floor.  Jean
clapped her hands at them: "Shoo! ye wee
Covenanters!" she cried.

I laughed, as I said, "Why do you call them
Covenanters?"

"Weel," she replied, "I often think that chickens
and the hill-men ha'e muckle in common.  Ye see
maist Covenanters tak' life awfu' seriously.  They
ha'e few pleasures frae the minute they come into the
world.  A kitten will lie in the sun playin' wi' a bit
o' 'oo', and a wee bit puppy will chase its tail for
half an hour on end: but wha ever saw a chicken
playin'?  They dinna ken the way.  It's scrape,
scrape, pick, pick, frae the day they crack the shell
till the day their necks are wrung.  And your
Covenanter's muckle the same.  He's so borne doon wi'
the wecht o' life that he has nae time for its joys.
They're guid men, I'm no' denyin', but I sometimes
think they've got queer notions of God.  They fear
God, and some o' them are feart o' Him.  There's a
difference--a big difference.  I aye like to think o'
the Almichty as a kind-hearted Father: but to hear
some even o' the best o' the hill-men talk o' Him,
ye micht weel think He was a roarin' fury chasin'
weans oot frae amang the young corn wi' a big stick.
But there are others.  Now godly Samuel Rutherford
and your frien' Alexander Main were brimfu' o' the
joy o' life.  They kent the secret; and it warmed
their hearts and made them what they were.  I like
to think o' the love of God spread ower the whole
earth like a May mist on the moors--something that
is warm, that has the dew in it and that comes wi'
refreshment to puir and lowly things.

"I was brocht up on the Catechism--strong meat
and halesome--but it seems to me that noo and then
we lose our sense o' the richts o' things.  Now there's
Andra; he believes that the Catechism hauds a' the
wisdom o' man aboot God; and it is a wise book;
but to my way o' thinkin', God is far bigger than the
Catechism, and some o' us haena learned that yet.
Ye canna shut God in a man-made book that ye can
buy for tippence."

I laughed as I said: "Mistress Paterson, you
interest me greatly, but I fear that some of the
things you say to me would shock the good men of
the flock."

She laughed heartily as she replied: "Fine I ken
that.  Ye maunna' say a word o' this to Andra, for
if he heard tell o' what I ha'e been sayin', he would
be prayin' for me like a lost sheep every nicht when
he tak's the Book, and it would be a sair affront for
the guid-wife o' the hoose to be prayed for alood by
her ain man, afore strangers."

I laughed.  "You may trust me," I said, and she
continued:

"I ha'e my ain ways o' thinkin'.  I've aye had
them and in my younger days I ha'e nae doot I was
a sair trial to Andra.  He had juist to get used to it,
however, and noo he lets me alane and maybe I am
a better woman for that.  At ony rate, I am quite
prepared to dee for the Cause if the Lord wills, but
I'm no' gaun to look for my death as Andra is
sometimes ready to dae in ane o' his uplifted moods, by
daein' onything silly.  Ye've seen him sit by the
fireside sometimes, wi' his heid in his haun's, groanin'.
He is a guid man, as naebody kens better than I dae:
but every noo and then he gets terrible upset aboot
himself.  Maist days he is quite sure that he is ane
o' the elect.  But every noo and then, if he tak's
haggis to his supper, he's in a black mood next day
and is quite sure that he is ane o' the castaways.
Mony a time I ha'e heard him wrestlin' wi' the
spirit, wi' mony groans, and when I ha'e gane to
him he has been moanin'--'I'm no' sure.  Am I ane
o' the elect or am I no'?'  I ken weel it's no his
conscience but only the haggis that's tormentin' him.
So I juist gi'e him a dish o' herb tea, and next day
he is that uplifted that he thinks he's fit to be ta'en
like Elijah in a chariot straicht to heaven."

Her face melted in a smile, and for the first time
I saw that the winsomeness of Mary's smile was a
gift from her mother: then she continued:

"You're very ceevil.  You aye ca' me Mistress
Paterson, and I suppose that's only richt, but it's a
wee bit stiff.  It makes me think o' the meenister
at a catechisin'.  My name's Janet, but naebody
ever ca's me that but Andra--and only when he's no'
weel pleased wi' me.  I'm Jean to them I like, and
to them that like me, an' ye can ca' me Jean if it
pleases ye."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LOVE THE ALL-COMPELLING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   LOVE THE ALL-COMPELLING

.. vspace:: 2

As the days passed I began to be able to go further
and further afield.  I needed no support save the
good ash stick which Andrew had given to me, but
for love's sweet sake I dissembled if Mary was at
hand to help me.

A day came when I gave serious thought to my
future.  I was unwilling to tear myself away from
Daldowie, for the spell of love bound me, but I felt
that I could not continue to trespass indefinitely
upon the hospitality of my friends.

And there was another matter of grave moment.
Apparently, from what Jean had told me, Lag was
in the habit of visiting Daldowie from time to time.
So far, he had learned nothing of my presence there;
but a day might come when I should be discovered,
and that would expose my friends to deadly peril.
I dared not think of that possibility, and yet it was
real enough.  I turned these things over in my
mind, but always hesitated on the brink of decision,
because I could not live without Mary.

We were thrown much together.  Sometimes I
would accompany her when she went about her duties
on the farm; and many a pleasant hour we spent
together on the green hill-side.  Almost daily I
discovered some new and beautiful trait in her character.
To know her was to love her.  No words can paint
her.  Vivid, alluring, she was like a mountain
stream--at one time rippling over the shallows of life alive
with sunny laughter, or again, falling into quiet
reflective pools, lit by some inner light--remote,
mysterious.  Her haunting variety perplexed me
while it charmed me.

Sometimes I was tempted to throw ardent arms
about her and pour my love into her ears in a torrent
of fervid words.  That is the way of the bold lover,
but I feared that to declare my love in such cavalier
fashion might defeat its end.  None but a woman
with some rude fibres in her being can care to be
treated in such fashion--and I imagined that Mary's
soul was delicate and fragile as a butterfly's wing, and
would be bruised by such mishandling.

My love for her grew daily, but I hesitated to
declare it till I should know whether it was returned.
And Mary gave me no clue.  If on a day she had lifted
me to the heights of bliss by some special winsomeness,
she would dash my hope to the earth again by avoiding
me for a time so that I was thrown back on my
thoughts for companionship.  And they gave me little
solace.  Over and over again I remembered the
warning of the dear old saint of the hills: "She's
no' for you.  The dove maunna mate wi' the
corbie."

At nights I lay awake distraught.  Was her
kindness to me, her winning sweetness, no more
than the simple out-pouring of a woman's heart
for a man she pitied?  I had no need of pity: I
hated it: my heart hungered for love.  I had yet
to learn that there is always pity in a woman's
love.

At last I brought my fevered mind to a resolute
decision.  I would speak.  For the sake of those who
had succoured me I must leave Daldowie, but before
I went I must try to find out the secret in Mary's
heart.

The hour came unsought, and took me almost unaware.

We had wandered further afield than was our
wont, and on a mellow autumn afternoon we sat
by the side of a burn.  We had been chatting
gaily, when, suddenly, silence fell between us like
a sword.

I looked at Mary.  Her eyes were fixed on distance,
and my gaze fell from the sweet purity of her face to
the rich redness of the bunch of rowan berries set in
the white of her bodice.

"Mary," I began, "I have something to say to
you."  She turned and looked at me quickly, but did
not speak.

I drew an anxious breath and continued: "I am
going away."

Her pointed little chin rose quickly, and she spoke
rapidly: "You're gaun away.  Whatever for?"

"It is not my will," I said, "but need that urges me.
Your mother, your father, and, more than all, you
have been kind to me--you found me in sore straits
and succoured me.  My presence at Daldowie
means danger to you all, and for your sakes I
must go."

Pallor swept over her face: the red berries at her
breast moved tremulously.

"Danger," she said--"the hill-folk think little o'
danger: that needna' drive ye away.  Is there nae
ither reason?"

Before I could speak she continued: "I doot there's
some English lassie waiting for ye ayont the Border,"
and turning her face away from me she whispered,
"It maun e'en be as ye will."

"Mary," I said, "you wrong me.  If you could
read my heart you would know what I suffer.  I hate
to go.  I am leaving friendship and love behind
me----"

I paused, but she did not speak.  "Before God," I
said, "I shall never forget Daldowie, and--you."

Her hands were folded in her lap--and I took them
gently in mine.

"Our lives have touched each other so delicately,
that I shall never forget you.  Dearest, I love you."

She uttered a little startled cry and drew her hands
away.  "Love you with all the fire of my heart," I
said, "and if I succeed in escaping across the border
I shall dream always of the day when I may come
back and ask you to be my wife.  Mary--tell me--have
you a little corner in your heart for me?--You
have had the whole of mine since first you spoke to me."

Her face was a damask rose: her lips curved in a
smile, and a dimple danced alluringly on her left
cheek: her eyes were lit as though a lamp were hidden
in their depths, but all she said was,--"I daur say I
can promise ye that."

I drew her towards me and took her, gently resisting,
into my arms.  "O Mary mine," I whispered.  Her
hand stole up and gently stroked my hair, and as
she nestled to me I could feel a wild bird fluttering
in her breast.  "I love you, Mary," and bending
over her dear face I kissed her where the dimple still
lingered.

"Sweetheart," she murmured, as her arms closed
about my neck, and her lips touched mine.

The old earth ceased to be: heaven was about us,
and above us a high lark sang:--my love was in my arms.

A little tremor, as when a leaf is stirred, stole over
her.  I held her close, and bent to look at her.  Twin
tears glistened on her eyelids.  "Flower o' the
Heather," I whispered, "little sweetheart--what ails you?"

She took a long breath--broken like a sigh.

"I am feared," she said.

"Afraid? dearest, of what?"

Her lips were raised to my ear.

"Afraid o' love," she whispered: "for when you
kissed me a wee bird flew into my heart and whispered
that nae woman ever loved without sorrow."

"Dearest," I said.  But she stopped me, and
continued:--"But I wouldna lose the love for a' the
sorrow that may lie in its heart--for it's the sorrow
that makes the love worth while."

"My own Mary," I whispered, "in my arms
no sorrow shall ever touch you.  I will protect you!"

"My love, my love," she murmured brokenly,
"ye canna thwart God."

So still she lay that I could hear the beating of my
heart.  I looked at her sweet face half hidden against
my coat.  There was upon it a beauty that I had never
seen before.  Reverence that was half awe swept over
me, and I bowed my head, for I had seen into the holy
place of a woman's soul.

Suddenly she let her arms fall from my neck, and
freeing herself gently from my embrace she seated
herself by my side.

"I'm sorry," she said gently.  "I ha'e spoilt your
happy moments wi' my tears.  But they're no tears
o' sorrow: they're juist the joy bubbling up frae a
heart ower fu'.  I can let ye go noo--since I ken ye
love me.  Love can aye surrender, selfishness aye
clings."

"Are you sending me away, Mary?"

"Oh no!  No!  No!  It's because I love you I
wad ha'e you go.  You're in danger here, and I
ken--oh, I ken ye'll come back."

"And now," I answered proudly, "I do not wish
to go.  I cannot go."

"But you're in danger here.  If they find you
they'll kill you."

"Beloved," I whispered, "to leave you now would
be worse than death."

She buried her head on my shoulder, and sat silent.
The door had swung back and shown us the kingdom
of love with its laughing meadows and enchanted
streams.  But amid all that beauty each of us had
caught a glimpse of the shadow that lay across our
lives.

Suddenly she lifted her face and gazed at me
with troubled, wistful eyes.  "I ken ye ought to
go: but an ye winna it's no for me to send you.
My heart cries for you, and," she added slowly,
"I've got a notion.  About this time o' year my
faither aye hires a man.  Ye could ha'e the place
for the askin'.  Ye're strong enough noo to help
him, and naebody would ever jalouse that the
hired man at Daldowie was Trooper Bryden o'
Lag's Horse."

Her ready wit had found the way out.

"Dear little witch," I cried, and kissed her fragrant
hair--"You have brought light into the darkness.
I shall offer myself to your father, and by faithful
service show my gratitude: but more than that I
shall ask him for you."

Her eyes shone.  "Speir at him for the place," she
said, "and let the second question bide till ye've
spoken to mither.  Faither loves me--I ken weel:
but he's dour and sometimes contrairy, and winna
understand.  But mither's heart is young yet.  She'll
help us."

"O winsome little wiseacre," I whispered, and held
my open arms out to her.

She sprang up.  "I maun leave you," she said.
"I want to be alane--to tell the flowers and the birds
my secret, but maist o' a' to tell it ower and ower again
to masel'.  I'll see ye by and by--and maybe ere
then ye'll ha'e talked to mither."

She turned and walked lightly away, crooning a
song.  I watched her longingly as she went, palpitating
with life and love, an angel of beauty, the sun on
her hair.

For long I sat in a delightful reverie, then I rose
and made my way slowly to the house.

Mary loved me!--the moor winds sang for me.
They knew our secret.

I found Jean at her spinning-wheel, alone in the
kitchen.  The moment seemed opportune, so, without
any preface, I opened my heart to her.

"You must have seen," I said, "that Mary and I
are very warm friends.  Indeed we are more than
friends, for we love each other, and I would make
her my wife; but she will not promise without
your consent and her father's.  Dare we hope
for it?"

She stopped her spinning and took a long breath.
"So that's the way o't," she said.  "I thocht as
muckle, and I'm no' ill-pleased, for I like ye weel.
But I dinna ken aboot her faither.  He's a queer man,
Andra.  If ye speir at him he'll want to ken if ye
are ane o' the elect, and by your answer ye'll stand
or fa'.

"Weel dae I mind his ongoin's when he speired me.
A Scotsman's aye practical even in his love-making:
but Andra was waur than practical, he was theological.
But he couldna help it--that's aye been his weakness.
As a maitter o' fact maist Scotsmen are as fu' o'
sentiment as an egg is fu' o' meat.  But ye've to
crack their shell afore ye fin' that oot.  An' they'll
watch ye dinna.  For they're feared that if ye fin'
they're saft i' the hert ye micht think they were saft i'
the heid as weel.  Weel, as I was sayin', he had been
courtin' me for maybe a twalmonth.  No that he
ever talked love--but he would drap into my step-faither's
hoose o' a nicht maybe twice a week, and crack
aboot horses and craps, and sheep, and kye, tae the
auld man, and gi'e me a 'Guid E'en' in the bye-goin'.
But aince I catched him keekin' at me through his
fingers when we were on our knees at the worship--and
though I was keekin' at him mysel' I never let
on.  But I thocht tae mysel' he was beginnin' to tak'
notice o' ane o' the blessings o' the Lord--and so it
turned oot, for maybe a month later he brocht me a
bonnie blue ribbon frae Dairy; and he cam' to me
in the stack-yaird and offered it tae me, kind o'
sheepish-like.  It was a bonnie ribbon, and I was awfu'
pleased; and first I tied it roon my neck, and then I
fastened it among my hair.  And he looked on, gey
pleased-like himsel': and then a kind o' cloud cam'
ower his face and he said, 'Eh, Jean, ye maunna set
your affections on the gauds o' this earth.'  I was
that angry that I nearly gi'ed him back the ribbon;
but it was ower bonnie.

"Weel, a week or twa went by, and ae nicht in
the gloamin' I met him on the road--accidental like.
He was gey quate for a time, then he laid a haun' on
my airm and said, very solemn: 'Jean, I love ye:
are ye ane o' the elect?'  My heart gi'ed a big loup,
for I guessed what was comin', and juist to gain time
I answered, 'I'm no' sure, Andra,' says I, 'but I
hope sae.'  'Oh, but ye maun be sure; ye maun
be sure.  Hope is no' enough,'--and he turned on his
heel and went down the road again.  Weel, I went
back tae the hoose a wee bit sorry, for I liked him
weel; and it seemed tae me I had frichtened him
awa.  But that nicht in my bed I thocht things ower,
and said tae mysel'--'Jean, my lass, it's a serious
step gettin' married, but it's a lot mair serious
remainin' single, and guid young men are scarce, and
you are a tocherless lass.  What are ye gaun tae dae?'
So I worked oot a plan in my heid.  After maybe a
week, Andra cam' back for a crack wi' my
step-faither, and seein' him comin' up the road I went
oot tae meet him.  He was a wee blate at the first,
but I helped him oot wi't.  'Andra,' says I, 'dae
ye mind what ye said the last nicht ye were here?'
'I do, Jean,' says he.  'Weel,' says I, 'I've been
thinkin' very hard since then.  Ye believe, I hope, in
fore-ordination?'  'Certainly,' says he, 'Predestination
is a cardinal doctrine.'  'I ken,' I said, 'and it
was fore-ordained that you should tell me that you
lo'e me.  You were fore-ordained tae lo'e me: I was
fore-ordained tae lo'e you--and I like ye weel: and
if ye let my puir human uncertainty as tae my election
stand in the way, ye are fleein' in the face o' Providence
wha fore-ordained that we should love each other.'  He
was a bit ta'en aback, I could see; for he stood
quate for a while.  Then he turned and said, "I
daurna dae that: I daurna.  Jean, will ye tak' me?'  'It
was fore-ordained that ye should ask me that
question,' I answered, 'and it was fore-ordained that
I should say "Ay."  I'll be a guid wife tae ye, Andra.'  And
I ha'e been, though even yet he's no' sure if I'm
ane o' the elect or no.

"Whiles he thinks I am.  I mind the morning
after Dauvit was born--I was ane o' the elect
then.  He sat by the bedside, takin' keeks every
noo and then at the wee lamb sleepin' in the
fold o' my airm, and repeatin' lang screeds oot o'
the Song o' Solomon, wi' the love-licht in his e'e,
till the howdie turned him oot, sayin' it was no'
seemly for an elder o' the kirk tae be using sic
holy words tae a mere woman.  A mere woman
forsooth! and me a mither!  She was a barren
stock hersel', ye see.

"But I'm haverin' awa--and no' answerin' your
question.  Let things bide a wee as they are.  Andra
thinks a lot o' ye; but he has got tae ken ye better
afore he'll judge ye tae be a fit husband for Mary.
I'll tell ye when the time is ripe tae speir at him.
Meantime the lassie winna rin awa frae ye; and if
ye'll tak' the advice o' an auld woman, there's twice
as muckle joy in the courtin' days as there is in the
level years o' wedded life; sae mak' the maist o'
them, and the Lord bless ye baith."

My little sweetheart had been right.  Her mother
understood.

Later I sought her, and found her alone in the
gloaming--the lover's hour.

"And what does mither say?" she asked.

Briefly I told her.  She laughed happily:--

"I kent it wad be a' richt."

As she stood before me--her face upturned, her
eyes eager, I slipped an arm about her, and would
have drawn her to me, but she drew back.

"Dinna spoil it," she said--"maybe the morn"--and
she smiled.  "I want to keep the wonder
o' your first kiss till then: it's a kind o' sacrament."

She laid her hands upon my shoulders, and her
words tumbled over each other.

"Love is magical.  Since you kissed me I have
wakened frae sleep: every meenute has had rose-tipped
wings: the silence sings for me, and the moor
wind plays a melody on the harp o' my hert.  Can ye
no' hear it?"

I would have answered as a lover should, but she
continued: "No, no!  Ye canna hear it.  I'm sure
there maun hae been a woman wi' the shepherds on
the plains o' Palestine the nicht they heard the angels
sing.  Nae man ever heard the angels sing till a
woman telled him they were singing.  Men are deaf
craturs."

"Mary," I cried, "I am not deaf.  I hear the
angels singing whenever you speak"--and I seized
her hands.

"Dinna talk havers," she answered, and raced off;
but at the corner of the house she turned and, poised
on tip-toe, shadowy among the shadows, she blew me
a kiss with either hand.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HIRED MAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HIRED MAN

.. vspace:: 2

There was nothing for me to do but lay to heart
the advice of my friend Jean.  Mary's suggestion
that I should offer my services to her father took root
in my mind, and next day I broached the matter to
him.  I began by assuring him of my sense of
indebtedness to him and his good wife for all that they
had done for me.  Money I told him could not repay
him; whereat he shrugged his shoulders and made a
noise in his throat as though the very mention of
such a thing hurt him.

Then I told him that one of two alternatives lay
before me--either to leave Daldowie and endeavour
to make my way across the border, or to stay on at
the farm and try to repay by service the heavy debt
under which I lay.  He heard all I had to say in
silence, but when I had finished he spoke:

"There's a lot o' places no' as guid as Daldowie.
I couldna hear o' ye leavin' us yet.  Ye see,
Jean--that's the wife--has ta'en an awfu' fancy tae ye;
and as for masel', I like a man aboot the hoose.  A
man like me gets tired wi' naething but womenfolk
cackling roon' him.  I think wi' a bit o' experience
ye'd mak' no' a bad fairmer.  When winter comes
wi' the snaw there's a lot o' heavy work to be done
feedin' the nowt, forby lookin' after the sheep.
Last winter I lost half a score in a snaw-drift, and
that is mair than a man like me can afford in sic
tryin' times.  I was ettlin' to hire a man in the back
end o' the year; but if you like to stop you can tak'
his place.  I think I could learn ye a lot: and in
the lang winter nichts me and you'll be able to ha'e
some guid sets to on the dambrod.  But a word in
your lug.  If ye're stoppin' on here ye'd better drap
that English tongue o' yours, and learn to talk like a
civilised body.  It'll be safer.  I've noticed that
when a Scotsman loses his ain tongue, an' talks like
an Englishman, he loses a bit o' his Scots backbane.
Maybe in your case the thing will work the
ither wey"--and he struck me heartily on the
shoulder.

So the bargain was made, and I entered into the
service of Andrew Paterson of Daldowie and of Jean
his wife.  I was already the devoted bond-slave of
Mary.

Andrew announced our pact that evening as we
sat round the fire.  "Jean," he said, "I've hired a
man."

Her knitting needles clicked a little faster: "And
where did ye get him?" she asked.  "I ha'e seen
naebody aboot the steadin' the day, and the hirin'
fair is no' till October."

Out of the corner of my eyes I saw a smile on
Mary's face.

"Wha dae ye think?" said Andra.  "Bryden
here has speired for the job, and as he seems to ha'e
the makin' o' a fairmer in him, I agreed to gi'e him
a try."

Jean laid her knitting in her lap.  "Andra, are
ye sure ye're daein' richt?"

Involuntarily I started.  Was Jean about to turn
against me?  But there was wisdom in her question,
for she knew her husband better than I did.  There
was irritation in his voice:

"Of course I'm daein' richt, woman.  It's like ye
to question the wisdom o' your man.  He never does
onything richt."  He swung himself round on the
settle and crossed his knees angrily.

"But," returned Jean, "do ye no' see the risk
ye're runnin'?  Lag's ridin' through the countryside,
and what dae ye think he'll say if he finds that
a deserter is serving-man at Daldowie?"

"I ha'e thocht o' a' that, Jean," he replied.
"He'll juist hae to keep oot o' sicht when your godless
frien' Lag is aboot."

His wife seemed about to raise further objections,
but he silenced her: "Haud yer tongue, Jean, and
gang on wi' yer knittin'.  My min's made up, and
I am no' gaun to be turned frae my ain course by a
naggin' woman.  Let's hear nae mair o't."  And then
raising his voice he ended: "I'll be maister in ma ain
hoose, I tell ye."

This little passage of arms, planned by the shrewd
wit of Jean, served but to establish her husband in
his purpose.  The good wife picked up her knitting
again, and for a time there was no sound but the click
of her needles.  Then, of a sudden, Andrew turned
to Mary who, in the semi-darkness, had stretched out
her hand and touched mine gently and said: "Mary,
licht the cruise and bring the Book."

In this fashion I became a willing servant at
Daldowie.  The days passed pleasantly.  Andrew
took a pride in his farm.  "A Paterson," he would
say, "has farmed here since Flodden.  Man, that
was an awfu' thrashin' you English gi'ed us yonder;
but we've paid ye back tenfold.  We sent the Stuarts
tae ye,"--and he would laugh heartily.  The original
little parcel of land had, I learned, been a gift made
to an Andrew Paterson after that fateful combat,
and each succeeding generation of his descendants
had with incessant toil sought to bring under cultivation
a few more acres of the unfruitful moor, until now
Daldowie was a heritage of which any man might
be proud.  The love of his land was a passion in
Andrew's blood.

My desire to make myself of use impressed him,
and he taught me much agricultural lore.  I found,
as I had long suspected, that under his dour exterior
there was much native shrewdness, and not a little
pawky humour.  But of that gift he had not such a
rich endowment as his wife.  In his silent way, he
cherished a great affection for her, and though he
had never, in my hearing, expressed himself in any
terms of endearment, I knew that in his heart of
hearts he regarded her as a queen among women.
Sometimes he would talk to me of the trials of the
hill-men.  Of the justice of their cause he was
absolutely convinced, and now and then his devotion
to it seemed to me to border on fanaticism.  He
could find no good word to say for the powers that
were arraigned against the men of the Covenant, and
once, in a burst of anger, he said:

"I ken I can trust the wife, but this colloguin' wi'
Lag is a disgrace to my hoose, and nae guid can come
o't.  She thinks that wi' him for a frien' she's
protectin' them she likes best, but I'm thinkin' the
Almichty canna be pleased, for what says the Book:
'Him that honoureth Me will I honour,' and ye canna
honour the Lord by feedin' ane o' His worst enemies
on guid farles o' oatcake--wi' butter forby.
Hooever, ye ken her weel enough to understaun' how
thrawn she is, and ony word frae me would only
mak' her thrawner.  Ye're no' mairrit yoursel', and
I doot ye ken nocht o' the ways o' women, but that's
ane o' them."

I had enough mother-wit to hold my tongue.

Autumn ebbed--and the purple moor turned to bronze.

Winter descended upon the land and the moor
was shrouded in snow; but ere the snow fell, the
sheep had been gathered into the lower fold and none
were lost.  Each short, dark day was followed by
the delight of a long and cosy evening by the fireside,
what time the baffled wind howled over the
well-thatched roof.  Andrew and I would engage in
doughty combats on the dambrod, while Mary and
her mother plied their needles busily: and
sometimes, to my great delight, when Andrew was not in
the mood for such worldly amusement, Mary would
take his place at the game.  He is a poor lover who
cannot, amid the moves of the black and white men,
make silent but most eloquent love, and many a
tender message leaped across the checkered board
from my eyes to Mary's, and from Mary's to mine.
Once on an evening when we had been playing
together while her father slept in the ingle-nook, and
Jean busied herself with her knitting, Mary brushed
the men aside and resting her elbows on the table
poised her chin on her finger-tips.  My eyes followed
the perfect line of her white arms from her dimpled
elbows, half-hidden in a froth of lace, to her slender
hands that supported the exquisite oval of her face.

"Let's talk," she said.

"Yes, talk," I answered.  "I shall love to listen,
and as you talk I'll drink your beauty in."

She wrinkled her nose into the semblance of a
frown, and then laughed.

"For a book-learned man ye're awfu' blate."

"Ah, sweetheart," I answered, "no man can learn
the language of love from books.  That comes from life."

"No," she said, laughingly; "no' frae life, but
frae love.  I'm far far wiser than you"--and she
held her hands apart as though to indicate the breadth
of her wisdom--"and I learned it a' frae love.  For
when you knocked at the door o' my he'rt an' it flew
open to let you in, a' the wisdom that love cairries
in its bosom entered tae.  So I'm wiser than you--far
wiser."  She leaned towards me.  "But I'm yer
ain wee Mary still--am I no?  Let me hear ye say
it.  Love is like that.  It makes us awfu' wise, but
it leaves us awfu' foolish.  Kiss me again."

Book-learning teaches no man how to answer such
a challenge--but love does, and I need not set it down.

Sometimes Mary would read aloud old ballads of
love and high adventure--while Andrew and I sat
listening, and Jean, as she knitted, listened too.  As
she read, she had a winsome trick of smoothing back
into its place a little lock of hair that would persist
in straying over her left ear.  That vagrant curl
fascinated me.  Evening by evening I watched to see
it break loose for the joy of seeing her pretty hand
restore it to order.  I called it the Covenanting curl,
and when she asked me why, I stole a kiss, and said,
"Because it is a rebel," whereat she slapped me
playfully on the cheek, and whispered, "If ye are a
trooper ye should make it a prisoner," which I was
fain to do, but she resisted me.

Jean took a kindly though silent interest in our
love-making, but if Andrew knew, or guessed what
was afoot, he made no sign.  His fits of depression
grew more frequent; but whether they were due to
uncertainty as to his own spiritual state or to sorrow
and anger at the continued harrying of the hill-folk
I was not able to tell, and Jean did not enlighten me,
though in all likelihood she knew.

So the happy winter passed, and spring came again
rich in promise.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"THE LEAST OF THESE, MY BRETHREN"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center medium bold

   "THE LEAST OF THESE, MY BRETHREN"

.. vspace:: 2

April was upon us--half laughter, half tears--when
rumour came to us that the persecutions of the
hill-men were becoming daily more and more bitter; but
of the troopers we ourselves saw nothing.  From
what we heard we gathered that their main activities
were in a part of the country further west, and we
learned that Lag and his dragoons were quartered
once again in Wigtown.  One morning, when Mary
went to the byre to milk the cows, we heard her cry
in alarm, and in a moment she came rushing into the
house, saying, "Oh, mither, there's a man asleep in
Meg's stall."

Her father and I hurried out, and entered the
cow-shed abreast.  Stretched on a heap of straw beside
the astonished Meg lay a young man clad in black.
There was such a look of weariness upon his face that
it seemed a shame to waken him; but Andrew,
whispering to me, "It is ane o' the hill-men," took
him by the shoulder and shook him not unkindly.
The youth sat bolt upright--fear in his startled eyes.
He stared at Andrew and then at me, and in a
high-pitched voice exclaimed:

"The Lord is on my side.  I will not fear what
men can do unto me."

"I thocht sae," said Andrew, "ye're ane o'
oorsels: but what are ye daein' in my byre?"

To this the only reply was another quotation from
the scriptures: "The Lord hath chastened me sore,
but He hath not given me over unto death."

"Puir laddie," said Andrew, "come awa ben the
hoose and ha'e your parritch."

Again the youth spoke: "This is the Lord's
doing: it is marvellous in our eyes."

Andrew took him by the arm and led him into the
kitchen.  He was placed in a chair by the fire and
sat looking wistfully and half-frightenedly around
him.  His face was thin and white save that on one
cheek a scarlet spot flamed like a rose, while over
his high, pale forehead swept a lock of dark hair.
As he held his hands out to catch the warmth of the
glowing peat, I saw that they were almost transparent;
but what caught my gaze and held it rivetted
was the state of his thumbs.  Both of them were
black and bruised as though they had been subjected
to great pressure, and I knew that the boy had
recently been put to the torture of the thumbscrews.

Mary and her mother vied with each other in
attentions to him.  A bowl of warm milk was offered
to him, and with trembling hands he raised it to his
lips.  As he did so I saw the perspiration break upon
his forehead.  While she busied herself with the
preparation of the morning meal, Andrew questioned
him, but his answers were so cloaked in the language
of the scriptures that it was hard to decipher his
meaning.

When he had finished his porridge, which he ate
eagerly as though well-nigh famished, Jean took him
in hand.

"Now, young man," she said, "tell us yer story.
Wha are ye, and whence cam' ye?"

A fit of violent coughing interfered with his speech,
but the seizure passed, a bright light gleamed in his
sunken eyes, and he said: "In the way wherein I
walked they have privily laid a snare for me.  I
looked on my right hand and beheld, but there was
no man that would know me.  Refuge failed me.
No man cared for my soul.  They have spread a net
by the wayside; they have set gins for me.  Let
the wicked fall into their own nets, whilst that I
withal escape."

Jean sighed, and turned to Andrew with a look
of bewilderment.  "The bairn's daft," she said,
"beside himsel' wi' hunger and pain.  He's had the
thumbkins on; look at his puir haun's."

The youth continued in a high-pitched monotone:
"Surely Thou wilt slay the wicked, O God.  Depart
from me, therefore, ye bloody men.  Deliver me, O
Lord, from mine enemies.  I flee unto Thee to hide me."

"Clean doited, puir laddie, clean doited," said
Jean.  "I'm thinkin', Andra, ye'd better convoy
him up to the laft and let him sleep in Bryden's bed.
Maybe when he has had a rest, he'll come to his
senses."

Andrew put his arm gently through that of the
youth and raised him to his feet.  "Come your
ways to bed, my lad; when ye've had a sleep ye'll
be better," and he led him toward the ladder.

As he ascended he still rambled on: "They have
gaped upon me with their mouth.  They have
smitten me upon the cheek reproachfully.  Are not
my days few?  Cease then, and let me alone, that
I may take comfort a little," and with Andrew
urging him on, he disappeared into the upper room.

In a few moments Andrew descended the ladder
and returned to the kitchen.  "I've got him safely
bedded," he said.

"Ay, puir laddie," answered Jean, as she busied
herself clearing away the dishes.  "I wonder wha
he can be?  Maist likely he has escaped frae the
dragoons.  If they set the hounds on his track, they'll
be here afore the day is weel begun."

The thought hardly needed expression.  It was
present in the minds of each of us; and gathering
round the fire we took counsel together.  That the
lad was in sore need we agreed; but how best to
help him was the difficulty.  Should the dragoons
come to the house we knew that their search would
be a thorough one, for though Lag's compact with
Jean still held so far as the safety of herself, her
daughter, and her husband was concerned, we knew
that it would be of no avail in the case of this fugitive.
And, further, there was the question of my own
presence there, hitherto undiscovered.

The kindly wisdom of a woman's mind was
expressed by Jean: "At ony rate there is naething
to be done in the meantime but wait and let the lad
rest.  Maybe after he has had a sleep he will no'
be quite so doited, and be mair able to tell us
something aboot himsel'."

"Ye're richt, woman," said Andrew.  "Meantime,
I'll awa' doon the road, and see if there's ony
troopers aboot.  And you, Bryden, had better gang
up to the high field and coont the sheep.  Ye'd best
be oot o' the road if the troopers should come aboot."

It was partly from solicitude for her welfare and
partly for love's sweet sake that I said to Jean,
"And what of Mary?  May she come with me?"

"Ay!" said her mother, "she micht as weel; but
if naething happens, ye'd best come doon within
sicht o' Daldowie at dinner-time.  If the road is
clear, ye'll see a blanket hanging oot in the stack-yard."

Little loth, Mary and I took our departure.  As
we went we talked of the stranger, but very soon our
thoughts glided into other channels; and ere we had
reached the high field, the great drab world with all
its miseries had been forgotten and we were living
in our own kingdom of love.

We found a sheltered nook and sat us down.

"Why do you love me?" said Mary suddenly,
crossing her pretty ankles and smoothing her gown
meditatively over her knees.

"Because you are the fairest and the sweetest
lassie in the whole wide world "--and I kissed her.

"That's awfu' nice--but I doot it's no true.  There
maun be far bonnier lassies than me.  At the best
I'm only a wild rose.  An' I'd rather you loved me
for my soul than for the beauty ye see in me.  That
will a' wither by and by, and maybe your love will
wither then tae.  But if ye love me for my soul it
will blossom and grow worthier in the sunshine o'
your love, and a love like that can never dee."

"And why, my little philosopher," I asked,
challenging her, "do you love me?  I am all
unworthy."

"No, no!" she cried--her eyes gleaming.  "I
love you, because--because"--she halted, and ticked
the words off upon her fingers: "Because you are
brave, and big, and awfu' kind, and no ill-looking,
and because your blue-grey trusty een kindle a fire
in my hert.  No, no!  That's a' wrong.  I love you
because--juist because you are you.  A puir reason
maybe--but a woman's best."

So the morning hours slipped by, and when noon was
near at hand we began to saunter down the hill-side.

When we came in sight of the farm we looked
eagerly to the stack-yard, and there saw displayed the
token of safety, so we hurried down.

When we reached the house we found the fugitive
seated by the fire.  His sleep had soothed his tired
brain, and Jean had been able to discover something
of his history.

Two days before, he had been seized by the dragoons
and brought before Claver'se: and with a view to
extracting information from him, Claver'se had put him
to the test of the thumbscrews.  He had refused to
speak, and the torture had been continued till God,
more compassionate than man, had delivered him from
his sufferings by a merciful unconsciousness.  As
Jean told us his tale he listened, and every now and
then interrupted her.

"For dogs have compassed me.  The assembly of
the wicked have enclosed me.  But He hath not
despised nor abhorred the supplication of the afflicted.
And now," he said, "I must go.  Even as I slept the
Lord appeared to me in a vision and said 'Arise, get
thee hence.'  I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,
from whence cometh mine aid."

Jean pressed him to remain.

"No," he said, "I must be gone."

"But you are no' fit to gang, lad," said Jean firmly
but kindly.  "Ye dinna ken the moors ava.  Ye'll
be wanderin' into a bog or deein' amang the heather
like a braxy sheep."

"Listen," he said, raising his hand, the while his
eyes shone, "Listen!  Dinna ye hear the voice
bidding me go forth?" and he hurried to the door; but
he paused on the threshold, and raising his eyes to the
roof-tree, said, "Be Thou not far from me, O Lord."

"He's clean daft, Andra," said Jean; "if he'll no'
stay ye'd better tak' him awa' and hide him in a kent
place.  Tell him to stop there and we'll maybe be
able to look after him.  Meantime," she said, seizing
some farles of oatcake and a large piece of cheese,
"put this in yer pocket and awa' after him.  Maybe
the fresh air will bring some sense to his puir heid.
An' here, tak' this plaid for him," and she lifted a
plaid from a hook behind the door.  "He's got plenty
o' the fire o' releegion in his hert, but it winna keep his
feet warm, and the nichts are cauld.  And, Andra, tak'
care o' yersel', and dinna be runnin' ony risks.  It's
a' very weel to dee for the Cause, but it would be a
peety if a level-heided man like you were to lose your
life in tryin' to save a puir daft wean.  Haste ye, man,
or he'll be in Ayrshire afore ye catch him."

Andrew sprang after him, turning when some steps
from the door to say, "I'll be back before nicht.  God
keep ye a'."

We stood, a little group of three, just outside the
threshold watching the pursuit, and before they twain
had passed out of sight Andrew had caught the young
man and taken him by the arm, as though to quiet him.

"Losh peety me," said Jean, as she turned to go
indoors, "what a puir bairn.  I wonder wha his
mither is?"

The afternoon dragged wearily on.  From time to
time I made my way to the foot of the loaning and,
hidden by a thorn bush, anxiously scanned the
country-side.  There were no troopers to be seen.

In the kitchen Mary and her mother were busily
engaged with household tasks, and I sat on the settle
watching them.  We did not speak much, for heavy
dread had laid its hand upon us all.  The hours moved
on leaden feet.

On gossamer wings an amber-banded bee buzzed in,
teasing the passive air with its drone as it whirred
out again.  The "wag-at-the-wa'" ticked monotonously.
On the hill-side the whaups were calling, and
nearer at hand one heard the lowing of the cows.  A
speckled hen brooding in the sand before the door,
spread her wings and, ruffling her breast-feathers,
threw up a cloud of tawny dust.  Somewhere in the
stack-yard a cock crew, and with clamour of
quacking a column of ducks waddled past the doorway to
the burn-side.  When her baking was over, Jean,
wiping the meal from her hands, went out into the
open.  Mary came and sat on the settle beside me,
and as I took her hand it felt strangely cold.  I sought
to cheer her.

After a few minutes Jean returned.  "There's
naething to be seen ava," she said.  "There's nae sign
o' the troopers, nor o' Andra.  I wish he were safe at
hame."

I hastened to assure her that there was nothing to
be feared for Andrew.  Witless though the demented
lad might be, in build and strength he was no match
for Andrew, should he be seized with frenzy and
endeavour to attack his guide.

"I suppose ye're richt.  As a rule I ha'e mair
common-sense, but I'm anxious."

Mary joined her counsel to mine.  "He'll be a'
richt, mither," she said: "it's no' yet six o'clock,"
and rising, she went out to call the cows.  Her sweet
voice thrilled the silent air: "Hurley, hurley."

When she had gone I made my way to the foot of
the loaning again and from the shelter of the
thorn-bush studied the landscape.

It lay, an undulating picture of beauty, in the
mellow light of the early evening--purple and golden
and green.  No dragoons were in sight.

When I reached the house again I found that Jean
was no longer there.  Thinking that she had gone to
search for Andrew, I hastened to look for her, and
by and by discovered her standing upon the top of
a hillock on the edge of the moor.  As I drew near
she exclaimed: "Whatever can be keepin'
him?"  Together we stood and scanned the distance.  Far
as the eye could reach we could discern no human
being.  I tried, with comforting words, to still the
turmoil of Jean's heart.

"I'm an auld fule," she said, "but when ye've
had a man o' yer ain for mair than thirty year, it
mak's ye gey anxious if ye think he is in danger.  Ye
see, my mither had 'the sicht,' and sometimes I think
I've got it tae.  But come awa' back to the hoose:
the milkin' will be ower and it maun be near supper-time."

We returned, and found Mary preparing the evening
meal.  We gathered round the table, and though each
of us tried to talk the meal was almost a silent one.
The "wag-at-the-wa'" ticked off the relentless
minutes; the sun sank to his rest; the night came,
and still there was no sign of Andrew.

The slow-footed moments dogged each other by
and still he did not come.  When the hands of the
clock marked the hour of ten, I rose and went to the
door.  The night was still; the stars looked down on
the thatched roof of Daldowie, heedless of the dread
that brooded over it.  I strained my ears to catch
any sound of approaching footsteps, but all was silent
as the grave.  I rejoined Jean and Mary beside the
fire.  They were gazing anxiously into its embers.
Mary lifted her eyes with a question flashing from
them.  I shook my head, and she turned her gaze
once more on the glowing hearth.

"Whatever can be keepin' the man?" said Jean,
looking up suddenly.  "It's nearly ten oors sin' he
left us.  Mary," she said, turning to her daughter
and speaking firmly, "ye'd better awa' to your bed.
Your faither'll be vexed if he sees ye sittin' up for
him; but afore ye gang, bring me the Book."  Adjusting
her horn-rimmed spectacles she said, "We'll
juist ha'e the readin'," and opening the Book she read
the 46th Psalm.  When she had finished she took her
spectacles off and wiped them with her apron.  "I
feel better noo," she said.  "I ha'e been a silly,
faithless woman.  Whatever would Andra think o'
me, his wife, if he kent the way I ha'e been cairryin'
op this day.  He'll be back a' richt afore lang.  Gang
your ways tae bed, Mary."

Mary took the Book from her mother and bore it to
its accustomed place on the dresser.  Then she came
back and standing behind her mother placed a hand
upon each cheek and tilting the careworn face upward,
kissed her upon the forehead.  With a demure
"Good night" to me, she was about to go, but I
sprang up and, clasping her to me, kissed her.  Her
cheeks were pale and cold, but the ardour of my lips
brought a glow to them ere I let her escape.

Her mother and I sat by the fire so wrapt in thought
that we did not observe how it was beginning to fail;
but at last I noticed it and picking up fresh peats laid
them upon the embers.

"Losh," said Jean, starting from her seat, "what
a fricht ye gi'ed me.  I thocht I was a' by my lane,
and I was thinkin' o' the auld days when first I cam'
to Daldowie as its mistress.  Happy days they were,
and when the bairns cam'--happier still!  Ah me!"  She
lapsed into silence again, and when next she
moved she turned to the clock.  "Dear, dear," she
said, reading its signal through the gathering darkness;
"it's half-ane on the nock and he's no' back yet.
I'm thinkin' he maun ha'e ta'en shelter in some
hidie-hole himsel', fearfu' lest he should lose his way in the
nicht.  Gang awa' up to the laft and lay ye doon:
your e'en are heavy wi' sleep.  I'll be a' richt here by
my lane.  And mind ye this, if, when Andra comes
back in the mornin', he has no' a guid excuse for ha'ein
kept me up waitin' for him, I'll gi'e him the rough
edge o' my tongue.  Mark my words, I will that!"

At the risk of offending her, I refused to obey her.
"No," I said, "that would not be seemly.  I'll keep
watch with you.  While you sleep I shall keep awake,
and when I sleep you shall keep vigil."

"Weel," she said, "you sleep first.  I'll waken ye
when I feel like gaun to sleep mysel'."

I closed my eyes, and though I fought against sleep,
the drowsy warmth overcame me.

When I woke, I felt stiff and cold.  The grey light
was already beginning to filter in through the windows
and beneath the door.  The cock was welcoming the
sunrise.  I looked at the clock.  It was half-past
four, and Jean was sitting with her elbows upon her
knees and her face buried in her hands.  She raised
her head and looked at me.

"Why did you not wake me?" I asked.

"I couldna ha'e slept in ony case," she answered
shortly.  "Listen!  Is that him comin'?"

Together we listened, but no sound broke the stillness,
till once again the cock crew shrilly.  I went to
the door and threw it open.  The morning air smote
on my face, and the long draughts which I breathed
woke my half slumbering brain.  Jean came and stood
beside me, and together we looked towards the moor;
but there was no sign of Andrew.

"The morning has come now," I said, "and if he
had to take shelter for the night, he will soon be afoot
again and ere long we shall be welcoming him home."

"I hope sae," she said.  "Meantime, I had better
get the parritch ready.  When he does come hame
he'll be gey near famished, and we'll be nane the waur
o' something to eat oorsel's."

We turned to the door again, and as we did so
I heard footsteps, and, looking in, saw Mary.  Her
face was grey with weariness, and dark rings encircled
her beautiful eyes.  Her quick wit read our faces
and ere I could speak she exclaimed, her voice
trembling:

"Is he no' back yet?  Whatever can ha'e happened
to him?  I maun go and find him," and hastening to
the door she gazed eagerly out.

"No," said her mother, "he's no' back yet; but
I'm thinkin' he canna be lang noo."

"Are ye sure, mither, are ye sure, or are ye juist
guessin'?" she cried.  "Oh, where can he be?"

"Mary," said her mother sternly, "it's time to
milk the kye.  Gang awa tae your duty, and if he's
no' hame by the time the parritch is ready, ye can gang
an' look for him; but meantime, control yersel'."

"Oh, mither," she sobbed, "it's faither.  He may
ha'e slipped and broken his leg, or he may ha'e fallen
into a bog.  Mither, mither!" and she clasped her
hands nervously, "we maun dae something.  We
canna' bide like this, an' no' ken."

I sought to comfort her with gentle words.

Of that loathly dread which lay most heavily upon
our hearts, not one of us spoke.  Mary, her heart on
fire, had spoken for us all, but her-mother did not
allow her anxiety to shake her firm common-sense.

"A' that ye say may be true, lassie," she said, "but
ye'll no' be as weel able to look for your faither if ye
gang withoot your parritch.  Get the kye milket,
and when ye've had your breakfast, if Andra is no'
back, ye'd better gang and look for him."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SEARCH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SEARCH

.. vspace:: 2

During the morning meal we discussed what was to
be done.  None of us knew to which hiding-place
Andrew had taken the fugitive.  There were,
however, two possibilities; he might have taken him to
a remote corner of the moor which Mary knew,
whither, on occasion, she had aforetime borne food
to some hidden fugitive.  I had never been to this
hiding-place, but I knew the way to the hill-top
where my own retreat had been.  In the end, we
decided that Jean should remain at Daldowie, while
Mary made her way across the moor to the one
hiding-place and I went to the other.  Jean would
fain have joined in the search, but we made her see
the wisdom of remaining at the farm.

"I suppose you're richt," she said, "but it's
dreary wark sittin' idle."

I seized my stick, Mary threw her plaid over her
shoulders, and together we were about to set out,
when Jean spoke suddenly.

"Can ye cry like a whaup?" she asked, addressing
herself to me.

"Yes," said Mary, "I had forgotten; that is the
sign--three whaup calls and a pause while you can
count ten, then twa whaup calls and a pause again,
then three whaup calls aince mair.  That," she said,
"is a signal that we settled on long ago," and pursing
her mouth she gave a whaup call so clear and true
that it might have come from the throat of a bird.

"Yes," I said, "I can cry like a whaup.  But
when am I to use the signal?"

"You had best try it every now and then; for
somewhere on the way it may reach the ears of
Andra.  He'll ken it an' answer ye in the same way,
and ye'll ken you've found him."

Mary took her mother in her arms and kissed her.
If she had been given to tears I know that her eyes
would have brimmed over then; but the brave old
woman bore herself stoutly.

"Ye'll tak' care o' yoursels, bairns," she said,
"and even if ye shouldna find Andra, be sure to come
back afore nicht.  If you dinna meet him on the
hills, you'll likely find him at his ain fireside when ye
get back again."

So we set out.  For a time our paths led in the
same direction and when we came to the edge of the
moor Mary sent her whaup calls sailing through the
morning air.  We waited, but there was no reply;
then we walked on together.  She was very quiet,
and anything I could find to say seemed strangely
empty: but I slipped my arm through hers and she
returned its pressure gently, so that I knew she could
hear my heart speak.  All too soon we came to the
place where we must separate.

"That," she said, "is where I found you," and
she pointed to a green patch among the heather.

"Come," I said, and we left the path for a moment
and stood together there.  In the hush of the
morning, with no witness but the larks above us, I
took her in my arms and kissed her passionately.
"Here," I said, "life and love came to me: and
happiness beyond all telling,"--and I kissed her
again.

She nestled to me for a moment, then shyly drew
herself away.  "Has it meant a' that to you?"
she whispered.  "Then what has it meant to me?
It has brocht love into my life, beloved, and love is
of God."

I folded her in my arms again, and held her.  A
little tremor shook her as I bent and kissed her on
the brow and eyes and lips.  "Flower of the Heather,
God keep you," I said.  On my little finger was a
silver ring.  It bore the crest of my house.  I drew
it off, and taking Mary's hand in mine I slipped it
upon her finger and kissed it as it rested there.
"For love's sweet sake," I said.

She gazed at her finger and then looked at me
archly, her wonted playfulness awaking.  "I wonder
what faither will say?  He'll read me a sermon, nae
doot, on setting my affections on the things o' this
world; but I winna care.  A' I want is to find him;
and if he likes he can preach at me till the crack o'
doom."

I smiled at her upturned face.  "And when we
find him, Mary, as find him we will, I will ask him to
let me marry you."

A light flashed in her eyes that all morning had
been strained and sad.  "Let's find him quick," she
said.  "Noo we maun awa.  That is your road,
and this is mine.  Good-bye, and God bless you,"
and she lifted her face to me.

I would fain have prolonged the happy moment,
but reason prompted me to be strong, so I bent and
kissed her fondly, little dreaming of all the sorrow
that the future held.  At the end she showed herself
to be more resolute than I was, for it was she who
tore herself away.  I watched as she sped lightly
over the tussocks of heather like a young fawn, then
I turned and took the path she had indicated to me,
a path which I had blindly followed amidst storm
and lightning once before.  Ere I had gone far I
turned to follow her with my eyes, and as I watched
she turned to look for me.  I waved my hand to her,
and she waved back to me.  The sunlight fell on
that dear head of hers and, even across the distance,
I could see the brown of her hair and the witching
coil of gold set like an aureole above her forehead.

I plodded forward steadily, looking to right and
left and from time to time uttering the whaup call.
But there was no answer; nor did I anywhere see
sign of Andrew.  When I turned again to look for
Mary she had passed out of sight and, though I
scanned the distance eagerly, I could catch no glimpse
of her.

My path had begun to lead me up the hills and as
I went I was conscious that the strength of my
injured limb was not all that I had thought.  On the
level it served me well enough, but on the slopes the
strain began to tell.  I was not to be beaten, however,
by mere physical pain and struggled on with all the
spirit I could command, though my progress was
hindered seriously.  It was close to noon when I
came to the place of the hill-meeting where I had
first seen Mary face to face.  I clambered down into
the hollow.  It was a place of hallowed memories.
In the hope that Andrew might be near, I uttered
the whaup call: but there was no reply.  I sat down,
and took from my pocket some of the food with
which Jean had provided me, and as I ate I pondered.
I was not yet half way to my destination and the
portion of the road that lay before me was harder
far than that along which I had come.  I judged that
in my crippled state it would be evening before I
could reach the loch-side, and to return to Daldowie
again that day would be impossible.  I dared not go
back without having completed my search.  To fail
of accomplishing my part of the quest would be
disloyalty to the friends to whom I owed my life.

My absence for a night would doubtless cause
them anxiety, and as I thought of Mary's pain I
was sore tempted to abandon my search and turn
back to Daldowie at once.  But I remembered my
debt to Andrew and determined that at all costs I
should see this matter through to the end.

Possibly Andrew was lying somewhere in my path
with a broken limb such as I myself had sustained,
and if I abandoned the search, his death would be
upon my head.  When I considered what Mary
would think of me in such a case, shame smote me;
so, without more ado, I set out again and battled on
until, as the sun began to climb down the western
sky, I found myself within sight of the loch.

Always the twilight hour is the hour of memories,
and as I made what haste I could towards the great
sheet of water they crowded in upon me.  There, on
the right, was the hiding-place which had afforded
me shelter for so many nights: there on a memorable
day I had caught sight of Mary, remote yet bewitching:
there, on the other side, was the place where
Alexander Main lay sleeping.  Then I remembered
the mission upon which I had come and uttered the
whaup call.  The sound was flung back by some
echoing rock, but there was no response from any
human throat.  Again I uttered it, but no answer
came; Andrew was not here.  I made my way round
the end of the loch and sought the little cairn of
stones beneath which rested the body of my friend.
Taking my bonnet off, I bent reverently above the
little mound.  He had given his life for me.  Had
I yet shown myself worthy of such sacrifice?  I
plucked a handful of early heather, purple in the
dying light, and laid it among the grey stones of the
cairn.  Purple is the colour of kings.  Then I stole
away, and once more uttered the whaup call; but
there was no answer, save that some mere-fowl rose
from the surface of the lake and on flittering, splashing
wings, furrowing the water, fled from my presence.

I sought the place where I had hidden aforetime
and where but for my friend I should have been
captured by the dragoons.  It was undisturbed.  No
one, apparently, had made use of it since I had been
there.  In my weary state and with my aching limb,
it was useless to try to return to Daldowie in the
darkness.  Haply Andrew was already safe, with
Mary and Jean, by his own fireside.  I pictured them
sitting there; I saw them at the taking of the Book;
I heard Mary's voice leading the singing, and I knew
that to-night they would be singing a psalm of
thanksgiving.  I heard again, as I had so often heard when
lying in the garret above the kitchen, the scrape of
the chairs upon the flagged floor as the worshippers
knelt to commit themselves to the care of the Eternal
Father: and I knew that somewhere in his petitions
Andrew would remember me; and his petition would
rise on the soft wings of Mary's faith and soar above
the high battlements of heaven, straight to the ear
of God.

I wondered whether my absence would distress
them.  Mary, I knew, would be on the rack of
anxiety.  Her mother, no doubt, would be anxious
too: but their anxiety would be tempered by the
wise counsel of Andrew who would point out to them,
no doubt with emphasis, and possibly with some
tart comment on the witlessness of women, that it
was not to be expected that I, a lamiter, could
accomplish such a long journey in the space between
daylight and sunsetting.  I could hear him say:
"I could ha'e tellt ye afore he started.  The lad's a'
richt; but it's a lang road, and would tax even
me, an' auld as I am I'm a better man than Bryden
ony day."

As I pondered these things the darkness fell, lit
by a myriad scintillant stars which mirrored themselves
in the depths of the lake so that as I sat there
I seemed to be in the centre of a great hollow sphere,
whose roof and floor were studded with innumerable
diamonds.  For a time I sat feasting my eyes on this
enchanting spectacle; then I crawled into my
hiding-place and pillowing my head on a sheaf of dead
bracken leaves I composed myself to sleep.  I slept
heavily and when I awoke the hour of dawn was
long past.  Some old instinct made me push aside
the overhanging fronds with a wary hand and peep
out cautiously; but there was nothing to be seen
except the great rolling hillside.  As of old, the
laughing waters of the loch called to me, and soon I
was revelling in their refreshing coolness.

When I had clambered out I scampered along the
edge of the loch till I was dry, then putting on my
clothing I sat down and breakfasted.  I had not
much food left; hardly enough to blunt my appetite,
but I hoped that I should be able to make good speed
on the homeward journey, and that in a few hours
I should once again rejoin the expectant household
at Daldowie.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BAFFLED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   BAFFLED

.. vspace:: 2

My meal over I went to the loch-side, and dropping on
my hands and knees took a long draught of the cool
water.  Then, raising myself, I uttered the whaup call,
but I did not expect any answer and I received none.
I looked across the loch to the little cairn that stood
sentinel above the sainted dead, and then I turned
and made for home and Mary.

I climbed up the slope to my left and scanned the
moor.  For miles and miles it spread before me, but
far as the eye could reach there was no one to be seen.
Then the spell of the solitude fell upon me, and I
began to understand how, in the dawn of the world,
the dim-seeing soul of man had stretched out aching
hands in the lone places of the earth if haply it might
find God.

The mood passed, and I prepared to haste me on
my journey.  Taking my bearings carefully, I decided
to make straight for Daldowie.  The ache in my
injured limb had abated and I found that I could make
fair speed.  My heart was light; I was going back to
Mary, and I should find Andrew safe.  The larks
above me were storming the heavens with their song;
my heart was singing too; and soon my lips were
singing as well.  I sang a love-song--one of Mary's
songs--and as I sang I smiled to think that I was
practising the art of what Andrew had called
"speaking like a ceevilised body."

Midday came, as the sun above me proclaimed, and
I judged that already I was half-way home, when
suddenly, in the distance, I saw some moving figures.
The wariness of a hill-man flung me at once upon my
face, and peering through a tuft of sheltering heather,
I looked anxiously towards them.

They were mounted men, and I saw that they were
troopers.  I counted them anxiously.  They were
searching the moor in open order and I was able to
make out a dozen of them.  They were between me
and Daldowie.  Had they seen me?  Were they
coming in my direction?  Breathless I watched.  I
knew that if they had seen me, they would put spurs
to their horses and come galloping towards me.  They
made no sign--I had not been noticed.  I was lying
in the open with nothing to hide me but the tuft of
heather through which I peered.  There was not
enough cover there to hide a moor fowl, but close at
hand was a bush of broom, and worming myself
towards it, I crawled under it and lay hidden.

To the unskilled eye, the distance across the rolling
face of a moor is hard to measure, but I judged the
dragoons were at least a mile from me.

As I watched I saw them gather together in a
cluster.  Had they found Andrew, or might it be the
poor demented lad whom Andrew had risked his life
to hide, or was it some other hunted hill-man?  My
ears were taut with expectation as I waited for the
rattle of muskets; but I was wrong.  I saw the troopers
fling themselves from the saddles and in a moment a
little column of smoke began to steal into the air, and
I knew that they had off-saddled to make their
mid-day meal.  That gave me a respite, and I thought
hurriedly what I had best do.  Should I endeavour to
worm my way further afield until I might with safety
rise to my feet and race back to my old hiding-place
beside the loch?

Almost I felt persuaded to do so, then I remembered
that this would place a greater distance between
myself and Mary, and she herself might be in danger.  A
chilling fear seized me.  What was it I had heard of
Lag?  Was it not that he and his dragoons had gone
further west, and were quartered again at Wigtown?
If that were so, then possibly the dragoons before me
were Winram's men, and the promise of protection
given by Lag to the good folk of Daldowie would no
longer hold.  The horror of it!  What could I do?
My fears had taken such hold on me that my strength
ebbed, and I was as water poured out upon the ground.
It was not fear for myself that unmanned me, but a
torturing anxiety for Mary's safety.  The hour of
their midday meal seemed endless.  So long as they
rested I was safe, and yet, with a strange perversity,
I longed for the moment when once again they should
mount their horses and continue their quest.  Anxiously
I looked up at the sun.  Already he was past the
meridian and I breathed a sigh of relief.  In his haste
lay my safety, for the close of day would bring the
search to an end, for a time at least, and then I could
return to my loved one.

At last I saw the troopers climb into their saddles.
Was it fancy, or did my eyes deceive me?  They
seemed to have altered the direction of their search.
Spreading out across the moor, trampling every bit
of heather under foot, they searched eagerly, but their
backs were towards me.  I breathed again, for if they
did not change their course once more, I should remain
undiscovered.

The moments went by on leaden feet, but the sun
marched steadily on through the sky.  Still the
troopers quartered and requartered the same tract of
moor, and still, to all seeming, their quest was fruitless.
I found myself wondering what they were looking
for.  Was it a quest at a venture, or were they
searching for the boy who, two days ago, had found shelter
at Daldowie?  Two days ago!  Was that all?  It
seemed far longer.  What was Mary doing now?
It was drawing near the time of the milking.
Perhaps at this very moment she was out on the hill-side
bringing in the cows.  Dear little Mary: I could hear
her call them home: see her tripping winsomely
along the hill-side.  My heart cried out to her.

The sound of a whistle cut the air and the dragoons
turned their horses.  It was the signal for their
home-going, and a strange voice which I did not know for
mine, though it issued from my lips, said "Thank God."

I watched till the last scarlet coat had disappeared
before I ventured to bestir myself and it was not until
nearly an hour had elapsed that I ventured to resume
my journey.  With all wariness, I hurried through the
gathering dusk.  Ere long I came to the place where
the black remnants of the dragoons' fire still lay like
an ugly splash upon the moor.  I passed it by and
hurried on.  Only a few short miles now separated me
from Daldowie.  Before me lay a little hill.  Bravely
I breasted it, full of hope that once over it I should be
within eye-range of home, but when I reached its
summit I saw a sight that once again made me fling
myself flat on my face.  Some two miles away a fire
was burning, and clearcut against its light I could see
the dark shadows of men and horses.  Danger still
confronted me.  For some reason the troopers were
bivouacking upon the moor, right upon the path
which I must follow if I would reach Daldowie,
There was nothing for it but to steal down the hill-side
and seek a resting-place.  As I stole away, I bethought
myself that in all likelihood they were camping there
in order to continue their search on the morrow.
With this in mind, it seemed to me that my chief hope
of safety lay in hiding myself somewhere on that
portion of the waste which they had examined with such
care already.  So I made for the place where their
fire had been, and, using it as a landmark, I struck off
at a right angle.  A mile away, where the trampled
heather proclaimed that it had been well searched,
I found a resting-place and lay down to sleep.

Soon after dawn I was awake again.  I turned over
and peered out cautiously.  Nowhere could I see any
trace of the troopers, but the morning was yet young,
and I judged that it was too early for them to be far
afield.  I had little doubt that ere long they would
come again and I dared not stir from my place lest I
should be seen.  The morning hours dragged wearily
by.  The moor was still, save for a trailing wind, and
all was silent but for the song of the lark, the cry of
the peewit and the melancholy wail of the whaup.

At last the sun reached the meridian, and I ventured
forth from my hiding-place.  Stealthily I crept along
until I reached the crest of the hill, from which I had
descried the bivouac of the dragoons.  I stretched
myself flat upon its summit, and looked anxiously
down.  The bivouac fire was quenched; there was
no sign of horse or trooper.  I looked to every point
of the compass, but all was vacant moor.  Whither
the troopers had gone I could not tell, nor did I
care so long as they had gone from the path that led
me to my Mary.

So, with heart uplifted, I proceeded on my way,
slowly at first and cautiously, but gradually gaining
speed.  By and by I came to the place where they
had bivouacked and found close at hand a rush-grown
deep pool of water.  On hands and knees I lapped the
cool liquid, and then I laved my face and hands and
felt refreshed and clean.  In less than an hour now,
Mary would be in my arms.  The thought lent new
strength to my limbs.  Almost I ventured to burst
into song again, but I knew that would be madness.
So, though my heart was singing a madrigal, my lips
kept silence.

At last I came within sight of the hill where the
sheep were pastured.  I looked at it lovingly.  It was
the first thing to welcome me home; but as I looked
I saw no sheep upon it.  But what of that?  Probably
during the three days of my absence, Andrew had
taken them to some other hill-side.  I hastened on.
Before me lay the green slope from which many a time
I had helped Mary to gather in the cows.  I scanned
it eagerly, half expecting to see her, sweet as a flower,
but she was not there.  Mayhap at this moment she
was busy at the milking.  In fancy I heard her singing
at her task.  Only a few more steps and I should see
the kindly thatched roof of that little moorland farm
that sheltered her I loved.  O Mary mine!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SHATTERING OF DREAMS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SHATTERING OF DREAMS

.. vspace:: 2

Love smote me and I ran.  In a moment I was within
sight of the house.  Then horror struck me; the
house was gone, and there was but a pointed gable
wall, blackened by smoke, and beside it a great
dark mass which still smouldered in the afternoon
sunlight.

I stood for a moment turned to stone, then dashed
forward.  The air was acrid with the smell of burning
straw.  What devil's work had been afoot while
I was on the moors?  Had Lag been false to his
promise, or had Winram done this thing?  What had
happened to Mary, to her mother, to Andrew?  Where
could they be?  Were they alive or dead?  As
these questions flamed in my tortured mind I walked
rapidly round the still smouldering ruins of the house.
If murder had been done, surely there would be some
sign.  Eagerly I looked on every side; then I peered
into the heart of the ruins.  Horror of horrors!  God
in heaven!--what did I see?  Half buried among the
grey-black ashes was a charred and grinning skull.
The lower jaw had dropped away and the socket
where the eyes had been gaped hideously.  I sprang
upon the smouldering mass.  My feet sank into the
thick ashes, which burned me, but I cared not.  There
was mystery here, and horror!  I stirred the ashes with
my stick, and beneath them found a charred skeleton,
so burned that no vestige of clothing or of flesh was
left upon it.  As I stood aghast, the wind descended
from the hills and lifted a great cloud of black dust
into the air.  It swirled about me and blew into my
eyes so that, for a moment, I was blinded.  Then
the wind passed, and with smarting eyes I saw two
other skeletons.

Mary!--the heart of my heart, the light of my
life, my loved one--Mary was dead!  Tears blinded
me.  I tried to call her name--my voice was
broken with sobbing: my whole body trembled.
I stooped and reverently separated the ashes
with my hands.  What though they burned me, I
cared not.  Was not Mary dead?  Nothing else
mattered.

The fire had done its work thoroughly.  There was
no vestige of clothing or flesh left upon the bones;
but on one of the skulls, which was surely that of
Mary's mother, there was a hole drilled clean, and I
knew then that the cruelty of the persecutors had
been tempered with mercy.  I knew what had
happened: Andrew and Jean and Mary--sweet
Mary--had been shot in cold blood, and then their
bodies had been cast into the blazing furnace of their
old home.  So this was the King's Justice!  Oh, the
cruelty insensate, vile and devilish.  I continued
blindly to rake among the ashes.  Then as they
dropped through my fingers something remained in
my hand.  I looked.  It was a ring, half melted by
the flames; the ring I had given to Mary.  I pressed
it to my trembling lips.  My sobs choked me: my
heart was breaking.

Half mad with grief I stepped from among the
ashes on to the scorched grass.  A fit of hopeless
desolation seized me.  All the dreams which, but a
week ago, I had so fondly cherished had vanished into
nothingness.  Had I anything to live for now?
Would it not be better to go out into the hills
and seek some company of fiendish dragoons and
declare myself to be a Covenanter--and die as
my friends had done?  If there were anything in
the faith of Alexander Main and of Andrew and
Jean and Mary, that would mean reunion with
her whom I loved.  But what was the good?
There was no heaven.  It was all an empty lie.
There was no God!--nothing but devils--and the
earth was Hell.

The mood of anger passed, and there came a storm
of grief such as I have never known.  Physical pain
I knew of old, but this torture of the spirit was
infinitely more cruel than any bodily suffering I had
ever experienced.  I threw myself down on the
ground and for a long space lay with my face buried
in my hands.  I tried to think that as I lay there
Mary's spirit was beside me.  I spoke to her in little
whispers of love and stretched out aching arms to
enfold her; but no answering whisper came out of
the void, and my arms closed about the empty air.
I lay long in my agony.

Then I bethought myself of my state.  Here I had
found life and hope and love; and now hope and
love had been rudely stolen from me, and only the
ashes of life remained.  Let me up and away and
forget!  But could I ever forget?  Would I ever
wish to forget the spell of Mary's voice, the
roguish witchery of her eyes, the sweet tenderness
of her lips?  So long as life should last, I should
remember.

I lifted my face to the sky.  A myriad stars
sparkled there, like the dust of diamonds, and one
star shone brighter than all the rest.  I called it
Mary's star.  It was a childish fancy; but it gave
me comfort, and of comfort I had sore need.  Then
I began to consider what I had best do.  I should
remain no longer in this tortured and persecuted
country.  It would avail me nothing to remain.
Mary was dead: Scotland was nothing to me now.

I rose to my feet.  I was chilled to the bone and
grief had sapped my strength.  My ears caught the
sound of trickling water.  I was parched with thirst.
I made my way to the water-pipe where many a time I
had helped Mary to fill her pail, and bending down
I let the cool jet splash into my mouth, and washed
my hands and face.

I had grown calmer now and was able to think
more clearly and to fix my mind upon my purposes.
At daybreak I should set out.  In a few days I
should be over the Border.  And if, on my way, I
met a company of dragoons, the worst they could do
would be the best for me and I should be content
to die.

Slowly I made my way to the stack-yard.  Here I
scooped out a resting-place in one of the stacks, and
covering myself up with the warm hay I tried to
sleep.  But with my spirit on the rack of agony sleep
was denied me so, after a time, I climbed out of my
hiding-place and kept vigil beside the ashes of my
beloved.  As I sat with the tears stealing down my
cheeks memory after memory came back to me.  I
recalled the sweet sound of Mary's voice--her dainty
winsomeness.  I thought of Jean--the warm-hearted,
shrewd, and ever kindly: and of Andrew--dour,
upright, generous.  These were my friends--no man
ever had better: and Mary was my beloved.  And
now I was bereft and desolate.  Just there--I could
see the place in the dark--she had stood, a dainty
shadow poised on tip-toe, and had blown me a kiss
with either hand.  And now I was alone, with none
but the silent stars to see my anguish.  What was it
Mary had said?--"I wouldna lose the love for the
sorrow that may lie in its heart."  I had tasted the
chalice of love--now I was drinking the bitter cup of
sorrow to the dregs.

When morning broke I made ready for my journey.
I turned to go, then torn by love stood in tears beside
the dear dust of her whom I had lost.  Then, as
though an iron gate had fallen between my past and
me, I strode down the loaning.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HECTOR THE PACKMAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   HECTOR THE PACKMAN

.. vspace:: 2

When the rude hand of calamity has blotted the light
from a man's life all things change.  The sun shone
over me--but I resented his brightness.  The birds,
sang cheerfully--but there was dirge in my heart.
Now and then a wayfarer passed me--but he seemed
to belong to another world than mine.  I had nothing
in common with him.  My soul was among the
blackened ruins of Daldowie, where Mary, the light
of my eyes, and Jean and Andrew my loyal friends
slept, united in death as they had been in life.  I
envied their peace.

Sometimes as I walked I stumbled--tears blinding
me.  My life was a barren waste--my heart a
desolation.  Nothing mattered--Mary was dead.  So, in a
maze of torturing thoughts I journeyed till, some
four days after leaving Daldowie--I have no memory
of the precise time--I gathered from a passer-by
that I was only seven miles from Dumfries.
Before me, huddled together on the left side of the
road, was a cluster of cottages.  From their roofs
steel-blue clouds of smoke were rising.  The
atmosphere was one of quiet peace, and with my eyes set
upon the brown road before me I plodded wearily on.
The highway was bordered on each side by a low
hedge, when suddenly that on my right hand came
to an end and gave place to a green tongue of grassy
lawn, which divided the road upon which I was
walking from another that swept away to the right.
When I came abreast of this grassy promontory, I
saw that it was occupied by a man.  He sat under
the shade of a beech tree; a pipe was between his
lips and in his left hand he held a little leather-covered
book.  An open pack lay beside him.  The sound of
my footsteps caught his ear and he turned towards
me and looked at me with a pair of cold grey eyes.

"A very good day to you," he said, and I halted
to return his salutation.  "I wonder if you can help
me," he continued.  "Ha'e you the Latin?"  The
unexpected nature of the question startled me,
awaking me from my torpor, and I asked him to
repeat himself.  "It's this wey," he said: "this
wee bookie is the work o' a Latin poet ca'd Horace,
a quaint chiel, but ane o' my familiars.  Now I was
juist passin' a pleasant half-'oor wi' him, and I ha'e
come across a line or twa that I canna get the hang
o' ava.  But if ye ha'ena the Latin, ye'll no' be able
to help me."

"Maybe I can help," I answered, and walking
towards him I seated myself by his side.

"It's this bit," he said, laying his forefinger on
the place.  I took the little volume, and, after pausing
for a moment to pick up some knowledge of the
context, I suggested a rendering.

"Dod, man," he said, "ye've got it.  That mak's
sense, and is nae doot what Horace had in his heid.
Let's hear a bit mair o't."  I proceeded to translate
a little more when he stopped me saying, "No, no,
let's ha'e the Latin first; and then I'll be better able
to follow ye."

With memories of Balliol swelling within me, I
proceeded to do as he bade me.  I read to the end of
the ode and was about to translate it when he
broke in:

"I see," he said, "you're an Oxford man; sic'
pronunciation never fell frae the lips o' ane o' Geordie
Buchanan's school."

I felt my disguise drop from me before the piercing
intuition of this strange wayfarer and for a moment
I was at a loss how to protect myself.  "Possibly,"
I said, "my pronunciation may be of the Oxford
school, but, be that as it may, you surprise me.
One hardly expects to come across a packman who
reads the classics."

"No," he said, "there is only ae Hector the
packman, and that's me.  Ever since I took to the
road I have aye carried a volume o' Horace in my
pack.  Mony a time I ha'e found comfort in his
philosophy.  I am only a packman, but I ha'e
ambitions.  Can ye guess the greatest o' them?"

"To own a shop in Dumfries," I said.

A look of distress crossed his face.

"Na, na," he said.  "Something far better."  He
bent towards his open pack and rummaged among its
contents, and as he did so I observed--what hitherto
had escaped my notice--that he had a wooden leg.
His right knee was bent at an angle and his foot was
doubled up behind his thigh, as though his knee-joint
had been fixed in that position by disease or injury;
and the bend of his knee was fixed in the bucket of a
wooden stump.  "Here they are," he said, and he
held up a bundle of small paper-covered books tied
together with a tape.  "Here they are.  Now can
ye no' see the degradation it is for a man like me to
hawk sic trash aboot the country."

I took the bundle and, looking at the title-page of
the uppermost book, read *The Lovers' Dream-Book,
being a True and Reliable Interpretation of Dreams
by Joseph the Seer*.  I looked at the second.  It was
*The Farmer's Almanac*, and the third was *The Wife
of Wigtown*.

"They're what we ca' chap-books," he said.  "I
sell them at a penny the piece, but they're awfu'
rubbish.  Now my ambition is to improve the taste
in letters o' the country folk.  For mony a year it
has been my hope and intention to lay mysel' on and
produce a *magnum opus*.  Now hoo dae ye think
this would look on a title page?--'Selections from
Odes of Horace done into braid Scots by Hector the
Packman,' or 'The Wisdom of Virgil on Bees and
Bee-keeping by the same author.'  Man, I'm thinkin',
for a work like that, I micht get a doctorate frae ane
o' the Universities.  Ay, I maun lay masel' on when
next winter comes."  He rummaged once more
among the contents of his pack, and picked out a
pot, the mouth of which was covered with a piece of
parchment.  "You'll ha'e heard tell o' my magical
salve; an infallible cure for boils or blains in man or
beast--it cures as it draws: a soothing balm for
burnt fingers: and a cream that confers upon a
lassie's cheek the tender saftness o' the rose."  He
removed the parchment and exhibited the ointment.
With his forefinger he transferred a piece of the
unguent to the back of his left hand and rubbed it in.
In a moment he held his hand up to me--"Did ye
ever see onything like that?  Every particle o' it is
gone.  Think o' the benefit that sic' a salve maun
confer upon the human epiderm.  I sent the King a
pot last year up to London, but I'm thinkin' it has
miscarried, for I ha'e never heard frae him yet.  Man,
there's a widda woman in Locharbriggs: she's
maybe thirty-five, but to look at her you would say
she was a lassie o' eighteen.  What has done it?
Hector's magical salve!  Her complexion is
by-ordinar.  Nae doot she was bonnie afore, but my
salve has painted the lily."

How long he might have rambled on I know not.
Our conversation was suddenly interrupted by the
clatter of horses approaching at a trot.  To our right
I could see dimly the waters of a loch behind a fringe
of trees.  The sound came from the road which
bordered the water.  In a moment there swept round
the corner of the loch and bore down upon us a little
company of grey-coated troopers mounted on grey
horses.

So this is the end, I thought, and braced myself for
the ordeal well content.  At the head of the cavalcade
rode a man with a long beard that reached below his
belt.  I noticed that he wore no boots, but that his
feet, thrust through his stirrups, were covered with
coarse grey stockings.  As he drew abreast of us, the
packman, with wonderful alacrity, sprang up and,
bonnet in hand, advanced to the edge of the road.

"A very good day to you, Sir Thomas, a very good
day," he said.

The horseman drew rein.  "Well, Hector," he said,
"turning up again like a bad penny!  What news
have you?"

"Nane but the best, sir, nane but the best.  I'm
juist makin' for hame frae the Rhinns o' Gallowa', and
a' through the country-side there is but ae opinion--that
the iron hand o' Lag is crushing the heart oot o'
the Whigs."

"That is good news, Hector, but juist what I
expected.  Rebels understand only one argument,
and that is the strong hand.  It is the only thing I
put faith in, as mony a Whig kens to his cost."

"Ye're richt, ye're richt, they ken ye weel.  May I
mak' sae bold as to offer you a truss o' Virginia weed,
Sir Thomas," and returning to his pack he picked up a
little bundle of tobacco and offered it to the horseman,
who took it and slipped it into his pocket.

"A welcome gift, Hector, and I thank you for it.  I
hope it has paid duty?"

"Sir," said the packman deprecatingly, "and me a
King's man!"

The rider smiled, and turning his fierce eyes upon
me, said, "Who is your companion, Hector?"

The fateful moment had come, and at that instant
my life hung on the thread of a spider's web.  But
my heart was glad within me.  I should find my Mary
on the other side.  The packman turned towards me:
"Oh, Joseph," he said, "he's a gangrel body like
masel'.  I ha'e been takin' him roond the country wi'
me to teach him the packman's job, so that when I
retire to devote masel' to the writin' o' books I can
hand ower the pack to him."

The quick lie took my breath away.

"Umph!" grunted the horseman, "and what's he
readin' there?"  Suddenly I remembered that I still
held the packman's Horace in my hand.  "I hope
he's a King's man and that he is no' sittin' there wi'
some Covenantin' book in his kneive?  Let me have
a look at that book, young fellow."

I rose and, approaching him, held out the little
leather-bound volume.  As I did so I noticed his sharp-cut,
flinty features, and a pair of thick and surly lips
half-hidden by the masses of hair on his face.  He
turned the book over and found its title page.

"Oh, I see, somebody's opera!  Weel, he canna'
be a Covenanter if he reads operas."

"Na," said Hector, "he's a King's man, and nae
Whig.  But I maunna delay ye, Sir Thomas, I hope
ye'll enjoy the Virginia weed.  Guid day to ye, sir."

"Good day, Hector."  The horseman urged his
horse with his knees, and the company, breaking into
a trot, swept past and turned on to the main road
which led towards the village.

As the last of the troopers swung round the corner,
the packman donned his bonnet, and sitting down
spat after the departing cavalcade.  "Bloody
Dalzell," he said, "the Russian Bear--a human deevil.
Damn him!"

The sudden change in the packman's demeanour
astonished me.  I looked at him searchingly, but he
had begun to arrange the contents of his bundle before
binding it up.

"Why did you tell Sir Thomas such a string of lies
about me?" I said.

He chuckled softly and looked at me, his left eyelid
drooping, his right eye alertly wide.  "I had ta'en
a fancy to ye," he said, "and I was loth to run the
risk o' partin' wi' a scholar when a lee micht keep him.
Hoo dae I ken that ye're no a Covenanter?  I was
takin' nae chances.  I nearly laughed in his face when
Sir Thomas, the ignorant sumph, thocht ye were
readin' a book o' operas.  That's a guid ane!  Mony
a laugh I'll ha'e in the lang winter nichts when I
remember it.  I'm no' askin' ye wha or what ye are.
You ha'e the Latin and I jalouse ye're an Englishman:
but till it pleases ye to tell me something aboot
yersel', I ken nae mair."

As he talked he was pulling his coarse linen covering
over his pack.  He buckled the broad strap which held
it together, and continued: "I suppose ye're makin'
for Dumfries.  So am I, but I'm no' travellin' the
direct road.  I'm haudin' awa' roon' by the loch to
New Abbey.  I aye like to visit the Abbey.  They ca'
it the Abbey o' Dulce Cor--a bonnie name and it
commemorates a bonnie romance."

My interest was awakened, and I asked him to tell me more.

"Ay," he said, "it's a bonnie tale, and guid to
remember.  I wonder if the widda at Locharbriggs
would dae as much for me as Devorgilla did for her
man.  Nae doot ye ha'e heard o' her.  I am credibly
informed that she built a college at Oxford, and
dootless ye ken she built the brig at Dumfries.  But she
did better than that, for when her man deid she carried
his heart aboot wi' her in a' her travels in a silver
casket.  She built the Abbey o' Dulce Cor to his
memory and she lies there hersel', wi' the heart o'
her husband in her bonnie white arms.  As the poet
has it:

   |  "In Dulce Cop Abbey she taketh her rest,
   |  With the heart of her husband embalmed on her breast."
   |

A memory of Mary flamed like a rose in my heart.
I choked down my tears and said:

"I have often heard of Devorgilla.  If I may, I
would gladly accompany you and visit her tomb."

"I'll be gled o' your company," he said.  "It's no'
every day I ha'e the chance o' a crack wi' a scholar.
Come on,"--and slinging a stick through the strap
round his pack, he swung it on to his shoulder and we
set out.

As I walked beside him I studied him.  He was tall
and thin, and walked with a stoop, his head thrust
forward, his neck a column of ruddy bronze.

"Ye're walking lame," he said, "but you are no' sae
handicapped as me.  This tree-leg o' mine is a terrible
affliction.  How cam' ye by your lame leg?"

"I was a soldier once," I said.  The answer seemed
to satisfy him, though I was conscious that, as I spoke,
the colour mounted to my cheeks.

The road upon which we found ourselves wound
gently, under the cover of far-stretching trees, by the
side of a beautiful loch.  On the other side of the road
the ground rose steeply up to the summit of a
heather-clad hill.  Suddenly through a break in the green
trees we had a vision of the loch.  Its waters lay blue
and sparkling in the sunlight.  Far off we could see
undulating pastures, and beyond them a belt of trees
in early foliage.  As we stood feasting our eyes the
packman exclaimed:

"Noo there's a pictur' that Virgil micht ha'e done
justice to.  It's a bit ootside the range o' Horace, but
I'm thinkin' Virgil wi' his e'e for a bonnie bit could ha'e
written it up weel."

"It's a bonnie place the world," he continued, "fu'
o' queer things, but to my thinkin' the queerest o'
them a' is man, though maybe woman is queerer.
Now there's the widda at Locharbriggs; onybody
would think that a woman would be proud to be wife
to Hector the packman--a scholar and the discoverer
o' a magical salve, wha' some day may ha'e a handle
to his name, forby maybe a title frae the King himsel';
but will ye believe me, though I ha'e speired at her
four times, I ha'e got nae further forrit wi' her than a
promise that she'll think aboot it."

I expressed sympathy and due surprise, and my
answer pleased him, for he said: "Man, I'm glad I
met ye.  Ye're a lad o' sense, and wi' some pairts as
weel, for ye ha'e the Latin."

For a time we walked in silence.

Soon we had left the pleasant loch behind us and the
road wound in the distance before us.  To our left the
land was low lying, with here and there a clump of
trees.  To our right a lower range of hills stretched
away to end in a great blue mass that dominated our
horizon.

"That's Criffel," he said, pointing to the hill, "and
juist at its foot nestles the Abbey o' the Sweet Heart.
I ha'e little doot that doon in the village I'll sell a
chap-book or twa.  Sic trash they are.  I maun lay masel'
on and get that book o' mine begun."

He was talking on, good-humouredly, when suddenly
a shrill cry for help came from a clump of trees
on our left.  Startled I rushed forward.  I reached the
edge of the copse and peered in, but could see nothing.
The cry came again, with an added note of agony;
and, heedless of danger, I rushed into the wood in the
direction from which it proceeded.  The packman had
apparently stayed behind me, for he was no longer by
my side.  Making what speed I could among the clustering
trees, I hurried on.  Suddenly I heard footsteps
racing behind me.  I turned.  Close behind me was
the fast-running figure of a man.  At a first glance
I thought it was the packman, but as he rushed past
me I saw that this was a beardless man sound in both
legs.  I could not imagine where he came from, and
yet his clothing was strangely like that of my recent
companion.  I followed the rushing figure and saw
that in his hand was a stout stick.  Then through
between the tree-trunks I saw the cause of the alarm.
In an open space in the heart of the wood were four
troopers in grey uniform, and I knew that I was about
to burst upon some scene of devilry.  A few steps
more, and I saw a girl tied to a tree.  About her stood
the troopers.  Two of them were holding one of her
arms with her hand outstretched: the other two were
busy lighting a long match.  From the agonising
scream I had heard, I knew that the torture had already
been once applied.  I could see the little spurt of flame
as the match flared up, and as I dashed forward my
ears were alert to hear her cry of pain.  But deliverance
was at hand.  Into the open space leaped the man who
had passed me.  His stick swung in the air.  Strongly
and surely it fell on the temple of the nearest soldier,
who dropped like an ox, bringing down a comrade in
his fall.

Startled, the others sprang aside, but they were too
slow.  Twice, with lightning speed, the stick rose and
twice it fell, and two more troopers went down.  I
quickened my pace.  The trooper who had been
knocked down by the fall of the first soldier sprang
to his feet, and flung himself upon the man.  Taken
from behind he was at a disadvantage and the soldier,
lifting him with a mighty effort, hurled him to the
ground.  Ere he could draw his pistol, I was upon
him.  My clenched fist caught him full on the chin,
and he crashed on his back and lay breathing
stertorously.

"A bonnie blow, lad!  I couldna ha'e done it
better mysel'," cried the stranger.

While I turned to the terrified girl and severed the
cords that bound her to the tree, the stranger was
kneeling beside the soldiers.

"They're no deid, nane o' them, worse luck! and
it will be a wee while before the three o' them that felt
the wecht o' my cudgel will come tae, but the fourth
would be nane the waur o' a langer sleep," and swinging
his stick he struck the recumbent figure a sickening
thud upon the side of the head.  "That's the proper
medicine to keep him quate."

I had been so absorbed in his doings that I had
turned my back upon the girl, and when I looked for
her again she was nowhere to be seen.  When my
companion saw that she had gone, he shook his head
gravely, saying:

"What was I tellin' ye?  Arena women the
queerest things on God's earth?"

I looked at him in astonishment; it was Hector
after all!

"Good heavens, it's you!" I exclaimed.

"Ay," he replied with a smile, half-closing his left
eye: "But haud your wheesht.  As the Latin has
it: '*Non omnes dormiunt qui clausos habent oculos.*'  A
trooper can sleep wi' an e'e open.  Tak tent, but
lend me a haun'."

From one of his pockets he produced a roll of
tarred twine.  Quickly cutting lengths from it, he
tied the feet of the unconscious men, whom we
dragged and laid starwise, on their backs, round one
of the tree-trunks.  He pulled the arms of each
above their heads and brought them round the tree
as far as possible, tying a cord firmly round their
wrists, and carrying it round the bole.  The skill he
displayed amazed me.  Long after they should regain
consciousness they would have to struggle hard
before they would be able to free themselves.  I felt
some satisfaction as I thought of their plight.  When
he had finished his work he surveyed each severely,
laying his hand upon their hearts.

"No, there is no' ane o' them deid.  They'll a'
come tae by and by.  But I'm thinkin' they'll be
sair muddled.  Come awa', lad."

"Let us look for the girl first," I suggested.

"Na, na," said he.  "By this time the lassie, wha
nae doot can rin like a hare, is half road to Kirkbean.
Now if it had been the widda--but that's a different
story."

Together we made our way to the edge of the copse.
Just inside it I discovered the discarded pack, and
beside it the wooden leg and long grey beard.

As my companion adjusted the wooden stump to
his knee, he said: "Ay, sic ploys are terribly sair
on a rheumatic knee."  Then he proceeded to put
on his beard, producing from one of his pockets a
little phial of adhesive stuff with which he smeared
his face.  I watched, with an ill-concealed smile.
"Noo," he said, "did ye ever see onything cleaner
or bonnier?  I'm a man o' peace, but when I'm
roused I'm a deevil.  Juist ae clout apiece, and they
fell like pole-axed stirks--the three o' them.  Bonnie
clouts, were they no'?"

I assured him that I had never seen foes so formidable
vanquished so rapidly and completely.

"Ye're a lad o' sense," he said; "that wasna' a
bad clout ye hit the last o' them yersel'; but he needed
a wee tap frae my stick to feenish him.  I like a clean
job.  Come on," and swinging his pack on to his
shoulder he led the way to the road.

The afternoon was drawing to a close when the
village of New Abbey appeared in sight.  Criffel
now stood before us, a great mountain, heather clad
and beautiful, like a sentinel above the little
township.  By the side of the stream, which divided our
path from the village, we stopped, and Hector
putting down his pack and taking off his coat
proceeded to wash his face and hands.  Nothing loth
I followed suit.

As he was about to hoist his pack on to his shoulder
again, he picked up his stick, and handing it to me
said: "Feel the wecht o' that."  I took it and found
it strangely heavy.  "It's loaded, ye see," he
said--"three and a half ounces o' guid lead let into the
heid o't.  Juist three and a half ounces--fower is
ower muckle; three would be ower little--and ye
saw for yersel' what it can dae.  A trusty frien', I
can tell ye.  Naebody kens it's loaded but me and
you and the Almichty, forby a wheen sodgers that
ha'e felt the wecht o't.  I ca' it 'Trusty.'  Come
on," and, slipping the weighted head of the stick
through the strap, he swung the pack on to his
shoulders and we made for the village.

When we came to the inn the packman led the
way through a flagged passage into a garden at the
back.  There, underneath a pear-tree, stood a
green-painted bench with a table before it.  Laying his
pack upon the end of the bench, he sat down and
pushed his bonnet back; I seated myself beside him.

"Noo," he said, "we maun ha'e something to eat.
What will ye ha'e?"

Not knowing what might be available, I hesitated.
Guessing the cause of my hesitation, he said: "Dinna
be feared: it's a guid meat-hoose and its 'tippenny'
is the best in the country-side.  As for me, I'm for a
pint o' 'tippenny,' and a fry o' ham and eggs.  The
King himsel' couldna dae better than that."

As he spoke a young girl had come through the
door and now stood before us.

"What ha'e ye got for twa tired travellers?"
asked Hector.  "We want the best; we're worthy
o't, and quite able to pay for it forby."

As the packman had foretold, ham and eggs were
forthcoming; and having given our order Hector
produced his pipe and proceeded to fill it.

When it was drawing satisfactorily he proceeded
to point out the beauties of the scene.  To the right
were visible great grey walls, moss-grown in places,
with here and there a bush springing among their
ruins.

"That," he said, "is part o' the wall o' the old
Abbey.  There," pointing to the right, "is a' that
remains o' the Abbey itsel'.  By and by we'll gang
and tak' a look at it."

Soon the girl returned with our food.  When we
had finished our meal Hector said:

"And noo I maun go and see my frien' the miller.
Meantime, I'll leave you in chairge o' the pack, and
if onybody should want to buy, you can mak' the
sale.  I hope ye'll prove yersel' a guid packman,"--with
which he stumped off.

In a moment or two the girl came to clear the table.
When she had done so, she returned, and looking at
me half shyly, said: "Are ye a packman tae?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Oh," she said, "then I wonder if ye ha'e sic a
thing as a dream-book in your pack?"  I opened
the pack, and spread its contents before her.  "No,
I dinna want onything else but a dream-book," she
said.  I found one, and, lifting a corner of her apron,
she produced a penny which she laid upon the table,
and with a finger already between the pages of the
book disappeared into the inn.

Left to myself, I drifted into a reverie.  Love--the
love of a man for a woman, and the love of a
woman for a man--seemed the greatest thing on the
earth.  The packman with his loved one at Locharbriggs;
this tavern maid with her sweetheart--for
did not her desire for a dream-book tell me that she
had a lover--were all under its spell.  I, too, had my
memories of love,--memories of infinite
tenderness--bitter--sweet--torn by tragedy.  I tried to banish
such thoughts from nay mind, for they brought naught
but pain, but, try how I might, I found they would
return.  Nor was it to be wondered at, for at that
moment I was within a stone's throw of Devorgilla's
monument to her own enduring affection.  I was
within sight of the place where her haunting love-story
had seen its fulfilment.  Within the hoary walls
of that great fane Devorgilla was sleeping her eternal
sleep with the heart of her husband upon her breast.
Yes, of a truth was it well said: "Many waters
cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown
it."  Hector would go to the widow, the tavern maid
would dream of her lover, while for me, love was
nothing but a memory.  But what a memory!  I
was conscious of Mary's presence--her spirit seemed
to enfold me in the warm breath of the evening.  I
almost felt her kiss upon my cheek.  Never before,
since that day when we had parted upon the moors,
had she seemed so near.  I slipped my hand into
my pocket and caressed the fragment of her ring.  I
drew it out and pressed it to my lips, and as I did so
I heard the stumping footsteps of the packman.
Quickly I slipped the ring out of sight and looked
towards the door.

Hector came through, carrying a tankard of ale in
each hand.

"Drouthy work, carryin' the pack," he said.
"Ha'e ye sold onything while I ha'e been away?"

"Only a dream-book to the little maid," I answered.

"Sic trash," he groaned, "sic trash, but they will
ha'e them.  But wait a bit; I'm gaun to lay masel'
on in the back end o' the year.  Did ye no' try to
sell a pot o' salve?"  I confessed that I had not.
"Man," he said, "ye'll no' mak' a guid packman.
I could aye sell a pot o' the balm to a lassie that buys
a dream-book.  But come on: the licht's juist richt
for seein' the Abbey at its best."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON THE ROAD TO DUMFRIES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   ON THE ROAD TO DUMFRIES

.. vspace:: 2

We drank our ale, and leaving the Inn turned into
the precincts of the Abbey, where for the first time
I had an opportunity of gazing upon its ruined
splendour.  Rarely have I seen such beauty in decay--the
mellow light of the evening lending to the red
sandstone of the aisles, the choir and the great
square tower a rosy hue that made them singularly
beautiful.  The packman led the way and halted
before a richly ornate stone that rested on a pedestal
below the great Gothic window.  He took his bonnet
off reverently and I followed suit, and together we
stood in silence.  "She lies here," he said, with a
break in his voice, and when I looked at him there
were tears in his eyes.  He sighed as though the
stone covered the remains of someone very dear to
him.  I knew what was in his mind.  This brave
follower of the open road, this deliverer of maidens in
distress, this egotistical packman, and self-styled
scholar was an incorrigible sentimentalist.  He was
thinking, I knew, of Devorgilla's beautiful devotion
to her husband, but the widow at Locharbriggs was
in his thoughts as well.  He turned and laid a hand
upon my arm as he donned his bonnet.

"Whaur are ye sleepin' the nicht?" he asked.

The question surprised me, for I had taken it for
granted that we should stay at the village inn.  "I
suppose," I said, "that I can get a bed in the tavern."

"Nae doot, nae doot," he said, "if so you like,
but I never sleep in a bed when I'm oot on the road.
It's safer to sleep in the open, especially when ye
wear a wooden leg that ye dinna exactly need.
Folks are inquisitive.  Come awa back to the inn
wi' me.  You can sleep there if ye like, but I'll come
back here.  It'll no' be the first time I ha'e slept by
the graveside o' Devorgilla."

We returned to the inn where I had no difficulty
in procuring a bed.  Hector shouldered his pack and
took his way back to the Abbey, but he was up
betimes and was hammering at my door with his
heavy-headed stick before I was awake.  We
breakfasted and set out for Dumfries.

Hector had lit his pipe and trudged along beside
me in silence.  Left to my own thoughts, I began
to study him.  Since we had joined company, he
had shown several phases of character difficult to
reconcile.  In the presence of Sir Thomas Dalzell
he had seemed to be an avowed enemy of the
Covenanters, yet, when Dalzell and his troopers were at
a safe distance, he had displayed contempt and
bitter hatred for them.  Then there was the attack
on the soldiers in the little copse by the roadside
on our way to New Abbey.  What was he?  Was the
calling of a packman, like his false beard and his
unnecessary wooden-leg, merely a mask?  I was puzzled,
but I determined that ere our journey should come to
an end I would do my utmost to unravel his secret.

When the packman's pipe was empty he returned
it to his pocket and broke into song.  The mood of
sentiment was upon him, and he sang a quaint old
song of unrequited love.  I failed to make out the
words; but I heard enough to know that he was
thinking, as always, of the widow.

About an hour after leaving the village we came
to the end of a long ascent.

"It's been a stiff clim'," said the packman, "we'd
better sit doon and rest a wee."  He threw off his
pack and we sat down upon some rising ground by
the roadside.  For a time I sat and drank in the
beauty which spread itself before me, but my reverie
was disturbed by Hector, who laid his hand upon
my knee and said, "I want to talk to you."  All
attention, I turned towards him, but he was slow to
begin.  Patiently I waited, and then, half turning
so that he looked me straight in the face with his
piercing right eye wide open, his left half shut, he
said:

"Nae doot ye're puzzled aboot me."  I wondered
whether he had been able to read the thoughts that
had flitted through my mind as we climbed the hill
from New Abbey.  "I think it is only richt," he
continued, "that before we gang ony further, I
should mak' masel' clear to you.  Maybe when I ha'e
opened my heart to you, you'll tell me something
aboot yersel' for, if I ha'e kept my counsel, so ha'e
you.  Rale frien'ship maun be built on mutual
confidence; withoot that, frien'ship is naething mair
than a hoose o' cairds.  Ye ken already that I am
no' a'thegither what I seem.  I'd better begin at the
beginnin'.  I'm an Ayrshire man, articled in my
youth to the Law and at ae time a student o' Glasgow
College; an' lang syne, when my blood was hot and
I was fu' o' ideals, I threw in my lot wi' the
Covenanters.  And I've suffered for it."  He pushed
down the rig-and-fur stocking on his left leg.  "Look
at that," he said.  I looked, and saw, where the skin
ran over the bone, a long, ugly brown scar.  "Ye'll
no' ken what that means?"  I shook my head.
"Weel," he said, "that's what the persecutors did
for me.  I've had 'the boot' on that leg, and until
my dying day I'll carry the mark.  But I'm no'
what they ca' a guid Covenanter.  I'm a queer
mixture, as maybe you yersel' ha'e already noticed.
I canna say that I'm a religious man, and though
my heart is wi' the lads that are ready to dee for the
Covenant, I fear that I masel' lack grace.  Hooever,
that's by the way.  Lang years sin' I cam' to this
country-side whaur naebody knew me, as a packman
wi' a tree-leg, and as such I am kent to maist o' my
acquaintances.  Wi' my pack on my shoulder I
wander through the country-side back and forrit
frae Dumfries to Portpatrick, and frae Portpatrick
back again to the Nith, wi' chap-books, and ribbons,
and pots o' salve, but a' the while I keep my e'en
and my ears open.  I get to ken the movements o'
the troopers, and I hear tell in the hooses o' the
Covenanters o' comin' hill-meetings and sic-like, and
mony a time I ha'e been able to drop a hint in the
richt place that has brocht to nought some crafty
scheme o' the persecutors and saved the life o' mair
than ane hill-man.  If ye like to put it that way, I
rin wi' the hare and hunt wi' the hounds.  I'm hand
in glove, to a' ootward seeming, wi' the persecutors
themselves.  I foregather wi' sodgers in roadside
inns, and it's marvellous hoo a pint or twa o'
'tippenny' and a truss o' Virginia weed will loosen their
tongues and gaur them talk.  I've listened quately,
and mony a time I've let fa' a remark that mak's
them believe that a' my sympathies are wi' them and
that I'm no' in wi' the Covenanters ava.  As a
matter o' solid fact, I am sae weel thocht o' by men
sic as Sir Robert Grier, Dalzell himsel' and Claver'se,
that mair than aince I ha'e been sent by them on
special commissions to find things oot; and I've
come back and I've tellt them what they wanted to
ken, and riding hell for leather they've gane off wi'
their dragoons to some wee thackit cottage on the
moors.  But they've never caught the bird they were
after.  Somebody--maybe it was me, I'm no'
sayin'--had drapped a timely warnin'; and though I tellt
the persecutors nae lee, I ha'e mair than aince gi'en
them cause to remember that truth lies at the bottom
o' a very deep well.  That's my story.  I'm a spy, if
ye like--an ugly word, but I ha'e na man's blood upon
my haun's or on my conscience.  And it's dangerous
wark, as you may weel ken.  Some day ane or other
o' my schemes will gang agley, and the heid and
haun's, and maybe the tree-leg as weel, o' Hector
the packman will decorate a spike on Devorgilla's brig
at Dumfries.  I wadna muckle mind; for life is
sometimes a weary darg, but I'd like, afore that day
comes, tae ha'e feenished my *magnum opus*.  I maun
really lay masel' on and get it begun.  It would be a
monument by which I micht be remembered.

"Sometimes as I walk my lane alang the roads I
think o' things.  Here and there I come across a wee
mound on the moorland, or maybe by the roadside,
and I ken it covers the body o' some brave man wha
has died for his faith.  Desolate, lonely, and scattered
cairns they are.  And then I think, that though this
is the day o' the persecutors, and though they be set
in great power, a day is comin' when a' their glory
will be brocht to naething.  By and by Grier o' Lag,
Dalzell and Claver'se, and a' the rest o' them will pay
the debt to Nature, and nae doot they will be buried
wi' muckle pomp and circumstance, and great
monuments o' carved stane will be set abune them.  But
in time to come, I'm thinkin', it will no' be their
tombs that will be held in reverence, but the lonely
graves scattered aboot the purple moors and the blue
hills.  It's them that will be treasured for ever as a
precious heritage.  We're a religious folk in Scotland,
or at least we get that name--but religion or no',
we love liberty wi' every fibre o' oor being, and in
days to come, generations yet unborn, wha may be
unable to understaun the faith for which the
hill-men died, will honour them because they were ready
to lay doon their lives in defiance o' a tyrant king.
Noo," he said, letting his eyes fall, "ye ken a' aboot
me that there's ony need to ken, and it's for ye to say
whether we pairt company here or whether we gang
on thegither."  He drew out his pipe and proceeded
to fill it.

For a moment I was at a loss.  Was he seeking to
entrap me into an open declaration of sympathy with
the Covenanters; or was he telling the truth?  His
confession had been an absolutely open one, so open
that if my sympathies were with the persecutors he
had placed himself completely in my hands.  He had
looked me straight in the face with one piercing eye
as though to read my soul, while the other was half
veiled as though to hide his own.  But his voice had
rung with fervour as he spoke of the lone graves of
the hill-men, and I remembered the fight in the wood.
He must have spoken the truth; so I took courage
and without further delay told him my story.  He
listened attentively, and when I had finished he said:

"Ay, the auld packman is richt again.  I thocht
aboot ye last nicht.  Man, I can read fowk like a
coont on a slate, and I'm richt gled to hear frae your
ain lips, what I had already guessed, that you're for
the Cause.  If I had thocht onything else, I wu'd
ha'e held my tongue."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FOR THE SWEET SAKE OF MARY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   FOR THE SWEET SAKE OF MARY

.. vspace:: 2

When with characteristic self-satisfaction the
packman had extolled his own intelligence, he lapsed into
silence.  As for me, the telling of my tale had
reawakened so many sad memories that for a time I sat
gazing before me, unable through my tears to see
the other side of the road.  Hector knocked the
ashes out of his pipe, and sighed.

"It is," he said, "ane o' the saddest stories I ha'e
ever heard.  Sic an experience is enough to mak' a
man bitter for the rest o' his days.  But if Mary was
only half o' what you ha'e tellt me she was, that's
no' what she wu'd like to see.  It's the prood woman
she wu'd be if she knew ye were minded to throw in
your lot wi' the Cause.  What are ye gaun to dae?"

"I am making for England," I answered.

Hector shook his head sadly.  "I've noticed the
same afore," he said, and paused.

"What have you noticed?" I asked.  "I do not
understand you."

He looked into the distance, and spoke as though
to himself.

"Ay!  It's the auld story.  Queer but awfu'
human.  There was Moses and Peter: the ane the
meekest o' men, but he lost his temper twice; the
ither the bravest and lealest o' the disciples, but he
turned coward."

"Explain yourself," I said.  "I cannot follow you."

"I mean nae offence, but I thocht ye wad hae been
quicker i' the uptak'.  D'ye no see that men fail
maist often on their strongest point?  Man, when a
man prides himsel' on his strong points it's time to
get down on his knees.  Ye tell me ye lo'ed the
lass--and nae doot ye did.  But ye're turning yer back
on love, and rinnin' awa'.  I'm surprised at ye.  If
sic a fate as has befallen Mary were to befa' the widda
at Locharbriggs, dae ye think I should rest until I
had dune something to avenge her.  Mind ye I'm no'
counsellin' violence, for I'm a man that loves peace.
Bloodshed is the revenge o' the foolish.  There are
better ways than that, and if ye'll throw your lot in
wi' mine, I'll show ye hoo ye can dae something for
the sake o' her ye loved and for the cause o' the
Covenant."  I listened in silence and shame.  His
words were biting into my heart.

He looked at me with eyes that seemed to peer into
the depths of my soul.  Then I found speech.  "Mary,"
I said, "was to me the most precious thing in all the
world.  If you can show me how I can render service
to the Cause she loved, I am ready to do your bidding."

He thrust out his right hand: "Put your haun'
there," he said; "you've spoken like a man.  Dae ye
mind what Horace says: '*Carpe diem, quam minimum
credula postera.*'  'Tak' time by the forelock and
never trust to the morn.'  A wise word that.  Fegs,
he was a marvel!  In fact he's gey near as fu' o'
wisdom as the guid Book itsel'.  We'll tak' time by
the forelock, and between us, if the Lord wills, we'll
dae something for the persecuted hill-folk and strike
a blow for Scotland and for liberty.  But we'll ha'e
to be gettin' on; the day'll no' tarry for us.  Let
us awa'."

Refreshed by our rest, we rose and took to the
road again.

A long descent lay before us and till we had
completed it neither of us spoke.  But when we reached
the foot of the hill Hector suddenly said:

"I've been thinkin' aboot your story.  It's wonderfu'
what bits o' gossip a packman can pick up on his
roonds.  Noo, you may be surprised to hear that I
kent a' aboot the shootin' o' the minister up on the
hills.  I heard the story frae a trooper in the inn at
Gatehouse.  To him it was a great joke, for he saw
naething in it but the silly action o' a daft auld man
wha's ain stupidity brocht aboot his death.  I
wonder, if he had kent the hale story as you and me
ken it, whether he would ha'e seen the beauty o't.
I'm thinkin' maybe no', for to size up a thing like
that richtly it maun be in a man's heart to dae the
like himsel'.  Ay, what a welcome the martyr would
get on the ither side!"  He paused for a moment,
then continued: "And it's queer that I heard aboot
you yersel' frae the same trooper.  He tellt me that
they cam' on the minister quite accidental-like; and
that they werena' lookin' for him ava.  They were
oot on the hills huntin' for a deserter, wha I'm
thinkin' was yersel'.  They didna find you, he said.
As a matter o' fact they believe that ye're deid--he
said as muckle.  So you may haud yer mind easy,
for unless an' ill win' blaws and ye're recognised by
ane o' yer fellow-troopers, ye're safe."

We trudged on steadily towards Dumfries.  My
heart was with Mary, and I did not speak.  The
packman was silent too--but while I was living in
the past he apparently was looking into the future,
for he said suddenly:

"It's a dangerous job I'm invitin' ye to tackle--a
job that calls for the best wit o' a man, and muckle
courage.  I'm thinkin' you dinna lack for either,
but time will show.  Ay: it will that.  As for me,"
he continued, after a pause, "I'm no' a religious man,
but hidden in a corner o' my soul I ha'e a wee lamp
o' faith.  But it doesna aye burn as brichtly as it
micht, and mony a time I sit by the roadside and
compare the man I wad like to be wi' the man that
I ken masel' to be; and it mak's me gey humble.
But I aye tak' courage when I think o' Peter.  He
found the road through life a hard path and he
tripped sae often ower the stanes that I sometimes
think, like me, he maun ha'e had a tree-leg.  But
at the end he proved himsel' to be gold richt through,
as dootless the Maister kent a' the while."  His voice
broke, and, looking at him, I saw tears streaming
down his cheeks.

"But noo, a word in your ear.  We're very near
Dumfries noo.  We'd better separate there, it will be
safer.  It behoves ye to ken where ye will fin' a
lodgin'.

"In Mitchell's Close at the brig' end there lives a
widda woman.  She kens me weel.  Her door is the
second on the left frae the mooth o' the close.  Her
name is Phemie McBride, and when ye tell her ye're
a frien' o' Hector the packman's she'll gie ye a welcome
and ask nae questions.  We should reach the toon
before twa o'clock.  You can ha'e bite and sup.  I'll
leave my pack at my lodgings and syne I'll be awa oot
to Locharbriggs to pay my respects to the widda.  At
six o'clock or thereabouts I'll look for ye at the Toon
Heid Port and we'll tak' a walk up the banks o' the
Nith thegither.  But, a word in yer lug.  Dumfries
is a stronghold o' the Covenanters; forby it is ane o'
the heidquarters o' the persecutors.  Lag himsel' has
a hoose there--so ye maun be carefu'.  Tak' a leaf
oot my book, and oot o' the book o' even a wiser man
than me--Be all things to all men, and mix neither
yer politics nor yer drink.  Haud your tongue, and
if ye ha'e to speak, keep half yer counsel tae yersel'."

I thanked him and promised to exercise all caution.
"And noo," he said, "for appearance' sake, I maun
be Hector the packman, again," and going to a
cottage by the wayside he knocked loudly at the door.  I
walked slowly on and in a moment or two he rejoined me.

With a twinkle in his eyes, he said: "Trade's bad
the day.  The guid-wife wanted neither a dream-book
nor a pot o' salve.  But that reminds me, it's gey
near three months sin' I saw the widda.  Noo you
yersel' ha'e kent the spell o' love.  I dinna want to
touch ye on a sair spot, but if ye were in my place,
what wad ye tak' tae yer sweetheart?"

I had no suggestion to offer, and said so.

"Weel," he said, "that's nae help.  I'll juist ha'e
a look at the jeweller's window in the High Street.
Maybe I'll see something there: but failin' that
there's aye a pot o' my balm."

"She will not need any of that," I answered.
"Your coming will bring a colour to her cheeks
without the aid of your magical salve."

"Man," said Hector, "I like ye.  Ye're a lad o'
promise; I'll mak' a man o' ye yet."

We were approaching another cottage on the outskirts
of the town, and once again Hector assumed the
role of the packman and tapped at the door.  When
he rejoined me he said: "I ha'e had some luck this
time, but no' muckle, because a' I sold was a
dream-book.  Awfu' trash, as ye weel ken."  He groaned
as though in anguish of spirit.  "And noo," he said,
"we'd better pairt company.  The brig' end o'
Dumfries is on this side o' the water."

So we parted, and I walked on ahead, until as I
descended a steep hill I saw the end of the bridge
before me.  I found Mitchell's Close without
difficulty and entered it.  The houses within it were
flinging back the glare of the sun from their
whitewashed walls.  I knocked at the second door on the
left, and after a little it was opened by an old woman.
Holding the latch in her hand, she stood between the
half-open door and the wall as though to block the
passage.

"Wha may ye be?"  she said.  "Ye ha'ena' a kent face."

"I am," I said, speaking low, "a friend of Hector
the packman."

She threw the door wide open at once, saying,
"Come awa ben."  I entered, and immediately she
shut and barred the door behind us, and led the way
into the kitchen, saying: "Ony frien' o' Hector the
packman is welcome here.  Can I get ye onything to eat?"

As I had not broken my fast since leaving New
Abbey, I was ready to do justice to the meal which she
made haste to spread before me.  Remembering
Hector's warning, I held my tongue, and as she waited
upon me the old woman kept her counsel to herself.
I could see that she was studying me closely; and
when the meal was over she said, suddenly:

"So ye're a frien' o' Hector's, are ye?  Whaur's
the man noo?"

"When I left him," I replied, "he was making his
way to his own lodging."

"Nae doot, nae doot; and by this time I jalouse
he's on the road to Locharbriggs."

I smiled.

"If ye are a frien' o' Hector's," she continued,
"ye've nae doot heard aboot the widow at Locharbriggs."

"Oh yes," I said.  "She bulks largely in his affections."

The old woman laughed heartily.  "She does that,
the silly auld man, but he'd better look somewhere
else, for she winna ha'e him.  I ken her weel; she's
my dochter."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BESIDE THE NITH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   BESIDE THE NITH

.. vspace:: 2

When the afternoon was mellowing into early evening
I stood upon Devorgilla's Bridge watching the river.
Much had happened to me since last I was there.  I
had drunk deep of joy and sorrow; and as I looked
down upon the slow-moving water, memory smote me
with both hands.  I laid my arms upon the parapet
of the wall and stood at gaze, but though I looked
before me, my mind was wandering backwards across
the chequered, love-lit, blood-stained months that
lay behind me.  The mood passed and my eyes
followed the stream as it issued from underneath the
dark arches and flowed slowly on until, in the distance,
glistening like a silver band, it swept round a bend and
was lost to view.  To my right, on the brow of a hill,
stood a windmill, its great arms aswing with hesitant
gait in the wind.  Beyond the windmill the hills
sloped down to the river, studded here and there by
a copse of trees, or the white gable of a cottage flinging
back a ray of sunlight.  To my left was the town of
Dumfries, with the Sands sloping down from the
nearer houses to the river, and the stately spire of
St. Michael's Church challenging the sky in the near
distance.  Beyond, rose a pleasant, tree-crowned hill,
on whose slopes I could see the figures of sheep and
cattle.

There were yet two hours before I had to meet
Hector at the Town Head Port, so, crossing the bridge,
I made for the Friar's Vennel, which I knew to be the
main thoroughfare from the brig-end to the centre of
the town.  It was a busy artery of traffic, lined upon
one side by shops and upon the other by comfortable
dwelling-places.  Some of the houses had gardens,
well-kept and orderly.  Here and there, between the
houses, was a narrow entry and looking down one of
these I discovered that it opened into a little court
upon each side of which stood small thatched cottages.

I sauntered up the Vennel, and shortly came to the
High Street--a broad and roomy thoroughfare.  Each
side of it was occupied by shops, well-stocked and
prosperous-looking, and in the centre of the street
were the booths of market-gardeners and fishermen,
who were making a brave display of their wares.

Leaving the booths behind me, I continued my
journey up the High Street.  By and by I came to a wider
portion of the street which the inhabitants know as
the Plain Stanes.  Here was the house of Lag, and I
gazed at it curiously.  A couple of soldiers stood at
the door, from which I judged that Sir Robert himself
was in residence; so, remembering I was a deserter, I
did not tarry long, but went on towards St. Michael's
Church.

I entered the churchyard and, sitting down under
the shadow of one of the gigantic tombstones, I
waited until I judged it was time to go and meet
Hector.

As I was going out I met a man whom I took to be
the grave-digger, and asked him to direct me to the
Town Head Port.

"Oh, ye're a stranger in these pairts," he said, as he
pointed out the way.  I made no answer save to
thank him and bid him good evening, and then I
hurried in the direction he had indicated.

I found the Port without difficulty and stood just
outside it, listening to the cawing of the rooks in the
tall trees on the green mound that separated me from
the river.

I had not long to wait ere Hector arrived.  He
slipped his arm through mine, and said:

"Let's awa' doon to the bank o' the water."

He was whistling merrily as we scrambled down the
bank, so I judged that the widow had been kind, and
ventured to say as much.  His only reply was:

"*Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo dulce loquentem.*"  I
asked after her health.

"Oh, she's fine, fine.  She was pleased wi' the
bonny kaim I took her.  Here's a bit o' wisdom for ye,
my lad.  If ye want to please a woman that ye like,
gi'e her some gaud to adorn hersel' wi'.  If she's plain
and no' weel-faured she'll tak' it as a compliment that
ye should wish to mak' her bonnie.  If she's bonnie to
begin wi', she'll tak' your bit giftie as a proof that ye
ha'e noticed wi' your ain een that she's weel-faured
and weel-lookin'."

Alas, for me all such joys were things of the dead past.

When we reached the river's edge we walked upstream.

I have not the pen of a poet, nor has the poet yet
been born whose pen could paint with fitting words the
glory of the shining Nith.  Hector says Virgil could
have done it; but I wonder.  There are beauties
beyond the range of words.  The eye can drink them in;
the soul can interpret them: and as the soul interprets
them, so are they revealed to the eye that sees them.

We walked for more than a mile till we came to a
lofty eminence, set tree-crowned above the stream.
When we had climbed to its summit Hector paused
beneath a giant beech tree which stood perilously
near the declivity that fell sheer to the river brink.
"Look," he said, and pointed down the river.  Lit
by the rays of the setting sun, it stretched like a
ruddy band of bronze into the distance, leading the
eye directly to the ruins of the old College of
Lincluden with its Gothic window and shattered
tower.  Beyond, the blue hills raised their brows
to the sky, from which, as from a golden chalice, a
stream of glory poured.

For each of Nature's pictures there is one divine
moment in the day.  It was now.

I stood in rapture till Hector touched my arm.
"It's bonnie," he said.  "I should say ye've naething
to match it in England, but we maun awa' hame.
Come on," and he led the way across a field to the road.
"This," he said, "is the shortest way back to the
toon.  I ha'e been alang it aince the day already, for
it leads tae Locharbriggs, and mair than likely I'll be
alang it the morn, for the widda was wonderfu' kind,
and though she wouldna exactly gang the length o'
namin' the day, she was mair amenable to reason
than I've ever kent her afore.  So the morn's mornin'
I'm makin' my way oot to her again: and maybe I'll
be lucky.  Ye never can tell, for didna' Virgil himsel'
say '*Varium et mutabile semper femina*'--'Woman is
a fickle jade onyway ye like to tak' her.'  Oh, these
auld poets, but they had the wise word every time.
Noo that we're comin' near the toon we'd better settle
what we are gaun to dae the morn.  As for me, I ha'e
mony things on haun and my time'll be a' ta'en up.
But I'll be free at six o'clock.  Ye can spend the day
as ye like, and I'll meet ye at that oor at the Vennel Port."

I promised that I should be at the trysting-place at
the time appointed.

We were now drawing near the town.  By and by
we came to the mound known as Christie's Mount,
and soon we could see the Plain Stones before us.  As
we swung round into the lower part of the High Street
we heard sounds of revelry coming from Lag's house
at the corner of the Turnpike Wynd.  We crossed to
the other side of the street and looked up.  Every
window was a blaze of light.  From an upper room
came the sound of wild voices of men far gone in their
cups, and every now and then shouts of laughter.
One laugh, a great raucous bellow, dominated all the
rest.

"That's Lag himsel'," whispered Hector.  "Eh,
it's awfu', awfu'.  While thae men o' blood are feastin'
and drinkin' there, saints o' the Covenant are sleepin'
under the cauld sky awa' on the hills."

Suddenly out of the darkness stepped a soldier,
who, seeing us gazing up at the house approached,
and as he passed scanned us keenly.  I nudged the
packman with my elbow and at once he led the way
up the High Street.  He did not speak until we were
near the Tolbooth, then he whispered:

"Ay, ye'll min' what I tellt ye; it's true ye've
to be carefu' what ye say in the toon o' Dumfries.
Dinna forget that.  A scarlet-coated loon like yon
kens nocht aboot Horace, and he, worthy man, as
always, has the richt word for the occasion: '*Redeat
miseris, abeat fortuna superbis.*'  Ye can translate
that literally for yersel', but I'll drap my renderin'
in yer lug."  Putting his mouth close to my ear he
whispered: "'May God bless the puir hill-men, and
damn Lag and a' his stiff-necked tribe.'  Noo a
guid nicht tae ye; I'll meet ye the morn at six o'clock
at the Vennel Port."

With some difficulty, for it was dark and the
streets were ill paved, I betook me down the Vennel,
and crossing the river made my way to my lodgings.
My sleep was dreamless, and when I awoke in the
morning a sparrow was twittering on the sill.  I
dressed quickly and went downstairs.  In the kitchen,
I found the old woman sitting at a well-scrubbed deal
table.  She had a pair of spectacles on her nose,
and on the table beside her lay an open Bible.  She
did not raise her eyes at my approach, but continued
to read in a sibilant whisper, keeping time to the
words as she pronounced them by beating the air
with her open hand.  I waited patiently until her
devotions were finished.

"A good morning to you, sir.  Ha'e ye sleepit
weel?" she asked.

"Thank you," I replied, "none better.  I am
sorry that I interrupted you in your religious duties."

"Oh, ye didna interrupt me," she said; "besides,
readin' the Book is no' a releegious duty, it's a
releegious privilege.  Belike ye dinna ken the
difference.  Nae doot that comes frae bein' a frien' o'
Hector's--Hector that is aye haverin' oot o' the auld
heathen poets.  If he kent as muckle aboot the
psalms o' a guid Presbyterian like Dauvit as he lets
on he kens aboot Horace, it wad, I'm thinkin', be a
lot better for his sowl, the silly auld gommeril.
Wantin' tae mairry a lassie a quarter o' a century
younger than himsel'!  Thank God she's got some o'
the sense o' her mither.  She winna ha'e him!  Noo,
lad, yer parritch is ready and I'll juist dish them
for ye."

When my meal was over I entered into conversation
with her again.

She had a caustic tongue and a good deal of quiet
humour, and she reminded me in some ways of Jean
at Daldowie; and with the thought of Daldowie
came memories of my lost love.  The mellow hand of
the years upon them may impart to our sorrows a
fragrance that mitigates their pain, but the wound
in my heart was still a recent one, ready to bleed at
a touch.

Almost unable to restrain myself, I picked up my
bonnet and going out crossed the bridge and came
down upon the Sands.  Along their length was
stretched a number of booths, and the Sands
themselves were thronged with people.  Apparently it
was a market day.  Leisurely, as I had nothing else
to do, I joined the crowd--buirdly, well-clad farmers;
robust looking farm-servants; sturdy farm wenches
with large baskets of butter and eggs upon their arms.

On the outskirts of the crowd a sailor, with a
bronzed face and great rings depending from his ears,
was putting a monkey through a series of antics to
the amusement of the young men and women who
stood around him in open-mouthed amazement.

When I had grown tired of watching him I made
my way to the Vennel Port, and then I walked
leisurely through the main streets of the old town.
When I came to its outskirts, just beside St. Michael's
Church, I bought some food and making my way to
the river-side I followed its course downwards.  By
and by I came to some rising ground, and climbing
up made my way through a rocky gorge and sat
down on the soft turf beneath an overhanging oak tree.

After a meal, I stretched myself upon my back,
and pulling my bonnet over my eyes composed
myself to sleep.  When I awoke I remembered that
I had promised to meet Hector at six o'clock.  By
the time I had retraced my steps the appointed hour
would be at hand.  So I descended to the river bank
and made my way towards the Vennel Port.

Six o'clock was striking when I reached it, but
Hector was not there.  Moment succeeded moment
and still he did not come.  Impatient I began to
walk up and down, crossing the Sands to look at the
river where fishermen were busy tempting the fish
with their flies.  I strolled back again to the Vennel
and walked up it for a short distance, descending
once again to the Port.  There was no sign of Hector,
and when the clock struck seven and I realised that
an hour had elapsed since I had come to the
trysting-place, anxiety assailed me.  This was not like the
packman.  Had some mischance befallen him?  He
had told me that his was dangerous work, and I
knew that he spoke the truth.  One false step, and
he would be undone.  At this very moment he might
be in grave danger.  Ill at ease, I went up to the top
of the Vennel, hoping to meet him.  My quest was
vain!  The clock struck eight: he had not yet
appeared.  As the time dragged on its leaden way I
remembered the long pathetic vigil I had shared with
Jean at Daldowie, and though the memory stabbed
me to the heart, I hugged it to me.  The hour of nine
struck on the Tolbooth clock; still there was no
sign of Hector.  Twilight gathered and deepened;
the stars stole out, and still he did not come.  When
another weary hour had passed I decided that it was
useless to wait longer, so, at the last stroke of the
hour, I crossed the bridge and made for my lodgings
in Mitchell's Close.  The good woman of the house
had not yet retired to rest, and I was fain to partake
of the supper which she had prepared for me.

During the meal I said nothing to her of my anxiety.
Hector had warned me to be careful in my speech,
and, fortunately, she showed no curiosity as to my
doings.  When supper was over I bade her good
night and went to my room.  Before undressing and
lying down, I looked through the window.  It was
a quiet summer night.  All the world seemed at
peace; but some dazed dread was knocking at the
door of my heart and I was sore troubled.
Something must have happened to Hector--of that there
could be little doubt.  For a time I lay awake in a
maze of anxiety: and it was not till after midnight
had boomed from the Tolbooth clock, that languor
stole over me and I slept.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE TIGER'S DEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXX


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE TIGER'S DEN

.. vspace:: 2

Suddenly I woke, startled.  Some noise had
disturbed me.  I listened intently.  Nothing stirred in
the house.  I sat up in bed, and peered into the
darkness, only relieved by the fitful light of the
moon stealing through the window.  What had
wakened me?  I waited anxiously; then I heard
three little taps, clear and metallic, upon the window.
I sprang up and looked out, and saw in the dim-lit
courtyard the tall figure of a man, who moved forward
when he saw me, and I recognised the wooden leg of
Hector.  Eagerly I undid the window, swinging it
back gently on noiseless hinges, and craned forward
into the night.  Hector put a hand to his mouth,
and whispered, "Wheesht! wheesht!" then walked
softly to the door of the house.  Hastily throwing on
some clothes I crept on tip-toe downstairs, and
opening the door admitted him to the kitchen.

With uplifted finger he whispered, "Haste ye, and
dinna wake the auld woman.  We'll talk on the
road."  As silently as possible I hastened to my
room and finished dressing; then, I rejoined the
packman.  As I entered the kitchen he was lifting
the poker from the fireplace.  "She'll understand--that's
a sign," he said, as he laid it carefully on the
top of the table.

"But what," I whispered, "about paying her?"

"Dinna worry on that score," he said; "she kens
me.  That's eneuch.  There's danger afoot.  Come on."

He led the way to the door, which he opened
noiselessly and together we passed out into the
courtyard.

At the mouth of the close he paused and peered
carefully in every direction.  Then he turned to me
and whispered, "There's naebody aboot."  We
passed quickly into the street, and, walking close to
the houses so that we were in their full shadow, we
hurried away.

From the direction we took I judged that our path
lay parallel to the course of the river on the side
opposite the town of Dumfries.  We had walked
perhaps a mile before Hector again broke the silence.
Still whispering, he said:

"Man, I've had an awfu' day.  Horace has the
richt word every time: '*Recenti mens trepidat metu*'--'My
hert's a' o' a dither wi' fricht.'  What's yer
name? ye've never tellt me."

For the first time it dawned on me that he did not
know my name.  He had called me Joseph at the
road-end when Dalzell had taken us unawares, but
since then the matter had never been mentioned
between us.  "My name is Walter de Brydde," I said.

"Ay," he said, "but what name was ye kent by
when ye were a trooper?"

"I called myself Bryden," I replied.

"That's it.  It was you richt enough.  Oh, I've
had a terrible day.  But I had better begin at the
beginning, and tell ye the hale story.

"This mornin' I left my lodgings wi' full purpose
and intention o' gaun to see the widda.  Weel, it's a
lang road and a drouthy, so before leavin' the toon I
drapped into the Hole i' the Wa', to ha'e a pint o'
tippenny.  It's a hoose I aye frequent when I'm in
Dumfries.  Weel, as I was tellin' ye, I was sittin' in
the corner, and I'd juist passed the time o' day wi'
the landlord, when in daundered twa sodgers.  As
soon as I saw the sicht o' their coats, my ears were
cocked to catch their words.  They were talkin' as
they cam' in.  The ane was sayin' to the ither; 'I
could stake my life it was him.'  They sat doon and
ordered their yill, and went on talkin'.  I didna
catch a' that they said, but they hadna been talkin'
long ere I guessed it was aboot you.  I juist got a
word noo and again, but I've pit them thegither.
They went something like this:

"'Aye, at Wigtown, the nicht efter the women
were drooned.'

"'Then what think ye he's daein' here?'

"'Oh, I canna tell that.'

"'I thocht ye had lang syne made up your mind
that he had deid on the moors like a braxy sheep.
What's this they ca'd him?----  Oh, ay,--Bryden.
What mak's you think it was him?'

"'Weel, I saw him yesterday in the High Street.
He had a week's growth on his face, and that in itsel'
is a disguise, and he walks wi' a limp, which he didna
dae when he was wi' us; but what jogged my memory
was a wee jerk he gied his shoothers.  I couldna
mind off-haun' where I had seen it afore.  Hooever,
an 'oor afterwards when I was thinkin' o' something
else, it flashed across me that Bryden used to move
his shoother and his left elbow exactly that wey.
So says I to masel', that's the man; and I went
back to the place where I'd seen him.  Of coorse he
was there nae langer.'

"'What are ye gaun to dae?  Ha'e ye tellt yer
Captain yet?"

"'No' me!  I'm no' sae saft.  I'm keepin' my
een open, an' if he's still in Dumfries I'll be comin'
across him ere lang and I'll arrest him on suspicion,
and tak' him afore Lag himsel'.  Man, there's a
price on his heid.'

"Weel, I had learned a lot, and I knew it was you
they were after, for I ha'e noticed the jerk o' your left
elbow tae.  So I made up my mind that afore I
should gang oot to Locharbriggs I wad slip across
to Phemie McBride's and gi'e ye warning.  So I
finished my yill and paid my score an' set oot.

"Juist as I was aboot to leave the close-mooth, a
dragoon clapped me on the shoother and said:
"'You're Hector the packman, are ye no?'

"'Ay,' says I.  'What of it?'

"'Weel,' says he, 'ye maun come wi' me.  Ye're wanted.'

"'Wanted?' says I.  'Wha wants me?'

"'Sir Robert Grier o' Lag.  I've nae doot ye've
heard tell o' him.'

"'Ay,' I answered, 'I ken Sir Robert weel.  What
does he want wi' me?'

"'Come and fin' oot for yoursel',' said he.  'An'
ye'd better mak' haste, for if we keep him waitin'
there'll be hell to pey.  Haste ye!'

"As we hurried doon tae Lag's hoose in the Plain
Stanes, I began to wonder if his summons could ha'e
onything to dae wi' the little affair you mind in the
woods near New Abbey.  I'm sayin' nae mair; even
the darkness may ha'e ears.

"Weel, by and by we cam' to the hoose at the
end o' the Turnpike Wynd, and I went up the stair
wi' the trooper.  He led me into a room, and we
waited there thegither.  As we waited I heard Lag's
voice comin' frae the next room.  He was swearin'
in a wey the very deil himsel' couldna' ha'e bettered.
He was yellin' like ane possessed for cauld water,
and as I stood in the room a wee bit drummer boy
cam' rinnin' up the stairs wi' a pail o' water that he
had brocht frae the Nith.  As he passed through the
room where I was standin', it went jaup, jaup,
jauppin' on the floor.  He knocked at Lag's door
and syne went in, and I heard the water being poured
into a basin.  Then I heard Lag shoutin', 'It's no
cauld ava.  It's boilin', ye wee deevil!  Get awa
doon to the water for anither pailfu',' and wi' fear
on his face the wee laddie raced through the room as
shairp as a hare and clattered doon into the street.

"Weel, I waited wi' the trooper in the antechamber
while the oaths frae the other side o' the
door cam' thick and fast.  I may say I listened wi'
a kind o' admiration.  Wi' some folk swearin' is
naething mair than a bad habit, but wi' Lag it seems
to be a fine art.  But that's by the way.  By and by
the sodger that had brocht me took courage and
knocked at the door.  It was opened by another
trooper.  The first trooper gave him a message for
Lag, and he shut the door and delivered it, for the
next thing I heard was Lag shoutin': 'Well, the
packman maun juist bide my time.  I'm far ower
bad to see him the noo!' so his body-servant cam'
oot again and tellt the trooper that had me in haun'.
He took me awa' doon the stairs to the kitchen
where there was a lot mair sodgers.  Weel, ye ken,
at this I was gey perplexed.  Here was I, haeing
promised to ca' on the widda in the mornin', held
a prisoner.  And I had you on my mind as weel, for
frae what I heard in the Inn, you were in danger.  So
I said to my guard:

"'If Sir Robert canna see me the noo, is there
ony need for me to bide here?  I'll gi'e ye my
promise to come back at four o'clock this afternoon,
when I hope Sir Robert will be able to see me.'

"'No, no,' said the sodger, 'that winna dae ava.
I'm takin' nae risks.'

"Weel, there was nothing for it but that I should
stop where I was, though it was sair against the grain.
Hooever, they produced a bottle o' 'Solway waters,'[#]
and I'm bound to say they didna lack for hospitality.
Nothing loth, I took a drappie, and then I took
anither, and we began to talk merrily.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Smuggled brandy.

.. vspace:: 2

"The mornin' slipped by, and still Lag wasna'
ready to see me.  Every noo and then the wee
drummer laddie raced through the kitchen wi' anither
pail o' water frae the Nith, and when he had
disappeared wi' the water jaup-jaupping ower the side
o' the bucket, the troopers would nudge each other
and say 'Guid sakes, his feet maun be in hell already,'
and the callousness o' their words would mak' me
shiver.  Fegs, the Latin has it best: '*Horresco
referens*'--'It gies me a grue to think o't.'

"By and by the clock struck one and we had oor
dinner thegither.  I'm bound to say that if the
troopers' 'Solway waters' was guid, the victuals
were likewise o' excellent quality, and I made a guid
meal.  It was maybe twa o'clock when the sodger
that had been in Lag's room cam' doon into the
kitchen.  I thocht noo my 'oor had arrived and that
I should yet ha'e time to get oot to Locharbriggs
afore I was due to meet you.  But nae sic luck!
'He's asleep noo,' he said.  'He's managed to droon
the pain in Nith water and a couple o' bottles o'
Oporto.'  Weel, I saw that the outlook was no' very
bricht for me; but I made anither attempt to
persuade my guard to let me away for an' 'oor or
twa, promisin' solemnly that I should return punctually.
But he would ha'e nane o't.  So there I was,
kept a prisoner, and the afternoon dragged wearily by.

"At lang last six o'clock cam', and I knew that
if you hadna fa'en into the haun's o' the troopers
you would be waitin' for me at the Port o' Vennel.
I was sair perplexed.  I wondered if I daur bribe
the wee drummer to tak' a note to you, and I had
framed a suitable epistle in Latin that I jaloused
nane o' thae ignorant troopers would understaun'.
Then I thocht better o't; for a note to you frae me
micht direct their attention to you, and I didna want
that.  The 'oors o' the evenin' flitted awa' and
by and by it cam' to half-past nine, and the sodger
cam' doon the stairs again and said: 'Sir Robert
is awake noo and wants to see the packman.'

"So I went up the stairs, and as I left the kitchen
ane o' the troopers laughingly cried after me:

"'If he wants to put "the boot" on ye, ye'd
best offer him your tree-leg.  He's likely tae be that
drunk he winna ken the differ.'

"The sodger that was his body-servant threw open
the door o' his room and said: 'The packman, sir,'
and in I stepped as bold as ye like.  He was sittin'
in a big chair wrapped in a lang flowered goon.  His
feet rested on twa big cushions and were rolled up
in bandages.  Juist beside the cushions stood a basin
o' water; it was the same, nae doot, that the wee
drummer boy had been kept busy fillin'.  Lag
glowered at me as I cam' through the door, and
twisted roon' in his chair.

"'Good evening, Sir Robert,' says I.  'I hope you
are feeling better.'

"His brow gathered in a knot, and he growled:
'Wha the devil said I had been ill?  I havena asked
ye here to talk aboot mysel'.  It's you I want to put
a few questions to.'

"'I am at yer service, sir,' I said.  'What can I
dae for you?'

"'Well,' says he, 'I've had a message from Sir
Thomas Dalzell.  He tells me that four of his
troopers were set on by a gang of ruffians in New
Abbey Road twa or three days sin', and seriously
mishandled; and he minds that he saw you on the road
at Loch End that very day.  He jalouses that after
he saw you you took the road to New Abbey.  What
he wants to ken is this: Did you see onybody on the
road that afternoon who might have been guilty o'
this criminal attack upon the soldiers o' His Majesty?'

"Weel, that was a straicht question, but it wasna
to be replied to wi' a straicht answer; so I thocht it
wiser to evade the issue, an' I said: 'Sir, can you
gi'e me ony further particlers?  Hoo mony sodgers
were there?  What was the number o' their
assailants?  Where did the attack take place, and what
happened to the sodgers?'

"That shook him off the scent, though, for a
minute, I was feared that he saw through me, for he
said: 'Now, Hector, ye talk like a damned hedge-lawyer.
There were four soldiers involved.  As far
as Sir Thomas can make out, the number of their
assailants was six or eight, and the attack took place
on the road about a mile and a half from New Abbey.
After being knocked senseless, the soldiers were
carried into a wood and tied to a tree.  They werena
found till next day.'

"Now I knew where we stood.  Dalzell and Lag
had got the scent a' wrang.  It wasna for me to gi'e
the scent richt.  So it didna cost me ony scruples
o' conscience to make replies to the facts that he had
laid before me.  'Sir Robert,' says I, 'the case
baffles me a' thegither.  I maun ha'e been very near
the wood ye speak o' at the time this attack was
made upon the troopers, but I saw nae sodgers on
the road, nor did I come across ony six or eight men
wha micht ha'e assailed them.  As a matter o' fact
I met naebody between Loch End and New Abbey,
except a puir auld body gatherin' a wheen sticks.'  And
then an idea occurred to me--for I knew that
if Lag or Dalzell couldna lay their hands upon the
men wha had attacked the troopers, they would
start harryin' every hoose, where there was a likely
young man, between Loch End and New Abbey.
That would only mean persecution for innocent folk;
so, though I was fain enough to save my ane skin
and yours, I didna' want others to be punished for
oor deeds, and I threw oot a suggestion at which
Lag jumped.  'It's only a theory o' mine, Sir Robert,'
I said, 'but it's juist possible that this assault on
the sodgers was made by the sailors frae some
smugglin' craft that micht be lyin' in the Solway
ayont New Abbey.'

"'Man, Hector,' he said, 'that's worth thinkin' o'.
There was a smuggler reported in the estuary a few
days syne.  I maun look into that.'

"And then the pain in his feet began to get bad,
and he cursed horribly.  When he got his breath
again, he looked at me and said:

"'And now, Hector, a word in your lug.  You're
supposed to be a guid King's man, and I have no
direct evidence that you are not; but it's a queer
thing that when you drop a hint to the King's
representatives aboot some hill-man's nest and the troopers
gang to harry it, there are nae eggs in it'; and he
glowered at me savagely.  'Have a care,' he growled,
'have a care!'

"I thocht it was time to change the subject, and
lookin' doon frae his face to his bandaged feet I said:
'I would coont it a high honour if ye wad permit me
to try some o' my magical salve on your feet.  I
can assure ye, sir, it has powers o' a high order; it's
used in the Court o' His Majesty the King himsel'.'  Wi'
that I produced a wee pot o' it oot o' my pocket.
'It will,' I said, 'produce instant relief and ensure
for ye a guid nicht's rest.  May I ha'e the honour o'
tryin' it, sir?'

"'Well,' says Lag, 'I'm ready to try anything.
Nobody but mysel' kens the torment I have been
suffering.  It's fair damnable.'

"Withoot anither word I dropped down on my
knees beside him and took off the cauld water
bandages wi' as much gentleness as I could; and
when they were off and I saw his feet, I kent hoo he
maun ha'e suffered.  They were the colour o'
half-ripe plums and that swollen that if ye put yer finger
on them ye left a dint as though they had been clay.
I said to mysel', says I, 'Hector, here's a test for yer
salve,' so I talked to Lag cheerily o' the wonderfu'
cures I had made afore, and a' the while, as gently as
I could, I was rubbin' his feet wi' it.  When I had
been rubbin' for the better pairt o' half an 'oor, he
said: 'Man, Hector, ye're nae fule.  Ye've gi'en me
greater ease than I've had a' day.  Did ye say ye
made this saw yoursel'?'  I told him it was my ain
discovery and that nane but me could supply it,
but if he would dae me the honour o' acceptin' a pot
or twa, he would mak' me a prood man.  Then I
bandaged his feet and washed my hands.

"'That's fine,' he said.  'Now, Hector, one good
turn deserves another,' and taking up a wee bell that
stood on a table beside him he rang it, and his
body-servant came back into the room.  'Bring a couple
o' bottles o' Malvoisie,' he ordered.  'And at the
same time fetch that soldier of Sir Thomas Dalzell's
wha brought the message this morning.'

"'In a few minutes back came the servant wi' a
couple o' bottles in his hand and behind him a trooper
wi' a bandage roond his heid.  I recognised him at
aince.  He was the fourth that we laid oot in the
wood.  When I saw him I maun say I got an awfu'
fricht; for if ye mind he was the ane that had a
chance o' seein' you and me.  I thocht tae masel'--Noo,
Hector, ye're in a bonnie hole, but neither by
act or word did I let on that I was perturbed, and I
waited for what should happen next.  Lag ordered
his man to open ane o' the bottles.  Then he poured
oot a glass for me and anither for himsel', and turnin'
to Dalzell's man, he said:

"'Can ye tell me if these ruffians that set on you
were sailors? and how many o' them were there a'
thegither?'

"The man hesitated for a wee and then answered:
'I'm no clear, sir, whether they were sailors or no'.
Ye see, sir, I got an awfu' crack on the heid, and
ever since I've felt gey queer like.  They may ha'e
been sailors; that I dinna ken, nor am I quite sure
hoo mony there were.  I min' only o' seein' twa
masel'; but I'm sure o' this, that nae twa sailors
nor twa onything else, short o' deevils, could ha'e
laid oot four sodgers o' the King's as we were laid oot.
There maun ha'e been aboot six o' them.  There
may ha'e been eight or ten, but I'm no sure ava, sir.'

"'Well,' said Lag, angry-like, 'that's no muckle
help.  Could you recognise one o' them if you were
to see him again?'

"I looked at the sodger oot of the corner of my e'e.
If I hadna had a wooden leg my knees would ha'e
knocked thegither, but I waited.

"'Yes, sir,' said the sodger, 'I'm sure o't.  I could
recognise baith o' the men that attacked me.'

"Lag pointed straicht at me.  'Tak' a look here,'
he said.  'Have you ever seen this man before?'

"I looked straicht at Sir Robert and wondered if
he was playin' wi' me as a cat plays wi' a moose, and
then I turned to the sodger so that he could tak' a
guid look at me; but a' the time I was considerin'
what micht be passin' in the crafty mind o' Lag,
cauld and cruel behin' his knotted brow.  Did he ken
the truth?  The sodger looked at me frae heid to
foot.  The licht in the room was dim, and by way o'
showin' that I feared naething, I said: 'By your
leave, Sir Robert,' and I lifted ane o' the lichted
candles frae the table and held it in my haun' so that
the sodger could tak' a guid look at me.  He scanned
me carefully again and shook his head, saying:

"'I ha'e never seen this man afore.  The man I
mind was clean shaved.'

"Wi' that I walked ower to the table and laid the
candlestick doon again.

"The sodger saluted and turned to go, but I spoke
up: 'Sir Robert,' said I, 'may I examine this puir
fellow's heid?  I micht by the application o' my
magical salve, with whose virtues you are already
acquaint, gi'e him some relief.'

"'Certainly, certainly,' said Lag, now in a good
temper.

"So wi' that I took the bandage off the trooper's
heid.  Ma certie! what a beauty I had put there wi'
my ain guid stick.  It was the size o' a pigeon's egg,
and when I felt it between my fingers I was prood o'
my handiwork.  But I never let on.  I examined it
wi' care; then by way o' raisin' a laugh oot o' Lag
I said: 'This young man has to thank Providence
that he was born wi' a thick heid.'  Saying which, I
took a little o' the salve and began to rub it on the
lump.  The fellow winced, but in the presence o' Lag
he was frichtened to mak ony resistance.  I put a
guid dressin' on the swelling and bound it up wi' a
kerchief.  He was wonderfu' gratefu', but at a sign
frae Lag he went off and I was left alane wi' Sir Robert.
He signed to me to sit doon, and passed me a glass o'
the Malvoisie.  As I took it he raised his glass and
said, 'The King, God save Him,' and I, mindin' the
advice I had gi'en to you to be a' things to a' men,
followed his example and said, 'The King, God save
Him,' and under my breath I added to masel', 'God
kens he needs it.'  Weel, I sat and cracked wi' Lag
for maybe half an 'oor and tellt him mair than ane
guid story and had a he'rty laugh or twa oot o' him.
Then I pushed the glass away, saying: 'By your
leave, Sir Robert, if ye're dune wi' me, I'll be obliged
for yer permission to return to my lodgings, for I
maun be off on the road the morn.'

"He raised nae objection, and said: 'You won't
forget to let me have a pot o' that saw.'

"'Certainly, Sir Robert,' I replied, 'you shall ha'e
it the first thing in the mornin': or, if it pleases you
to send a trooper wi' me you can ha'e a pot o't the
nicht.'

"'That's better,' he said.  'And you'll tak' this
bottle o' wine, and whenever ye ha'e a wee drap o't,
I hope you will think kindly o' Lag.  He's a man sorely
miscalled in this country-side.'

"'Thank ye kindly, Sir Robert,' says I.  'I shall
see that you are supplied wi' my magical salve for the
rest o' yer life.  And if on yer next visit to London
ye should ha'e the chance o' droppin' a word into the
ear o' His Majesty, ye micht juist ask him quietly
whether he has used that pot I sent him a twalmonth
sin'.  I'm inclined to imagine, between you and me,
Sir Robert, that it never reached His Majesty's ain
hand.  I think it was stopped on the wey by ane o'
the Court ladies wha used it to make hersel' beautiful.'

"He threw back his held and roared wi' laughter.

"'Man, Hector,' he said, 'ye're a caution.  But
mair than likely ye're richt.  I've been to the Court
mysel', and God kens some o' the women there would
need a' the magical saws in the world to make them
bonnie.  I'll juist put it to His Majesty, Hector, and
ask him,' and he roared wi' laughter again.

"He rang the bell, and his body-servant cam' in,
and he gave orders that ane o' the men was to
accompany me to my lodgings to get a pot o' salve.  So
I set oot, gled as you can weel guess, to be under the
open sky aince mair.  The sodger wha accompanied
me was a douce lad, and by way o' reward for his
convoy I gied him a wee bit o' Virginia weed to
himsel', forby four pots o' the salve to tak' to Sir
Robert.

"Juist as I let him oot o' the door o' my lodging,
the clock struck twal, and the soond o' it brocht back
to me the thocht that you wad be at a sair loss to ken
what had happened to me.  I turned things ower in
my mind and it seemed to me that Dumfries is no'
exactly a safe place for us at the moment.  So I
decided that in an 'oor or twa, when a' should be
quiet, I would slip ower and waken you and tak' ye
awa' oot o' danger.

"So here we are.  That's the true story o' a' that
has happened since I saw you last; and as we are
weel oot o' the toon and there's naebody aboot, I think
we micht rest oorsels a wee and, juist by way o'
celebratin' oor escape oot o' the tiger's den, we micht
sample the Malvoisie.  I've got Lag's bottle, and I
aye cairry a corkscrew."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CAVE BY THE LINN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CAVE BY THE LINN

.. vspace:: 2

We took turns at the bottle, and found the wine of
excellent quality.  After a short rest we resumed our
journey.  The moon had set and from some distant
farmyard a cock crew lustily, and I knew that
daybreak was not far off.

The wine, or the exercise, or the knowledge that he
had escaped from a situation of grave danger, had an
exhilarating effect upon the packman, who was now
in high spirits.  I ventured, while congratulating
him upon his escape, to ask where we might be going,
for I was at a loss to know.  Now and then I heard the
sound of running water, and in the grey of dawn I was
able to catch a glimpse of a stream to our right, which
I thought must be the Nith.

"We're drawing near Auldgirth," he said.  "Beyond
that we'll come to Closeburn, and no' lang after
that we'll be snug hidden in a cave at Crichope Linn."

Soon we came to a bridge, with three arches
spanning the brown river.  Hector scrambled down
through the bushes by the roadside and made his way
under the nearest arch, and I followed him.  A little
grassy bank lay between the pier of the bridge and the
water, and here we sat down.  The packman
unstrapped his wooden leg, and, with some groaning,
for the process evidently caused him discomfort,
removed his great shaggy beard.

"I'll bury my tree-leg here, for the time being,
but the beard I'll tak' wi' me in my pooch.  That's
sufficient disguise for me: as for you, you'll be nane
the waur o' a bit o' disguise as weel."

He took from his pack a pair of scissors, and set to
work upon my beard and whiskers.  As he did so,
doubt assailed me and I called to him to stop.  To be
clean-shaven once again was to expose myself to more
ready recognition, if it should ever be my lot to
encounter one of my former companions among Lag's
troopers.

"Ay, lad, ye're richt," said Hector.  "I should
ha'e thocht o' that mysel'.  But never mind, I've no'
done muckle damage yet.  Were you clean-shaven
when you were a trooper?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Weel," he said, "I'll do a bit o' fancy work on
your face, and I'll leave your upper lip alane and wi'
some o' my magical salve you can dress your
moustachios to make you look like a Cavalier.  Forby, I'll
leave you a wee tuft on your chin, like the King.  I'll
warrant neither the folk that saw you in Dumfries wi'
a fortnicht's growth on yer face, nor the troopers that
kent ye as a clean-shaven man, will be likely to
recognise you."

When he had finished his work he stood back and
looked at me carefully, poising his head upon one side,
and as was his wont half closing his left eye.  He was
evidently satisfied, for, with characteristic
self-complacency, he said:

"Man, Hector, ye're a lad o' mony pairts."

Out of his pack he produced a small looking-glass
of burnished steel and handed it to me.  In the
uncertain morning light the reflection of my face was not
very distinct, but enough to show that my disguise
was effective, for I hardly recognised myself.

"Come on," said Hector, swinging up his pack, and
crossing the bridge we continued our journey.

The country had the glamour of early summer upon
it.  Every bush was crowned with a coronal of green:
the fields were smiling with promise: the hill-sides
were dimpling with sunny laughter, and the river,
which now ran beside us, babbled cheerfully as it sped
on its way to the sea.

After a few more miles we saw, in the distance, a
long row of cottages flanking our way.  Hector
suddenly quitted the road, and, hidden behind a hedge,
we made a long detour in order to avoid them.

"Yon," said he, "is the village o' Closeburn.  The
curate's a spy and a tyrant.  It behoves us no' to be
seen."

Making use of all the cover we could, and continuing
our way till Closeburn was left behind, we came out
upon a narrow and unfrequented road overshadowed
by beech and oak trees.  The air thrilled with the song
of birds, and the spirit of the hour seemed to have
descended upon the packman, for as we trudged along
he whistled merrily.  By and by we came to the
edge of a wood.  Just on its margin we crossed a rustic
bridge which spanned a little brown rivulet that
trickled sinuously in and out between its mossy banks.
Following the line of the stream we entered the wood,
Hector leading the way.  The ground was a great
carpet of luscious green, save where it was spangled
over with beds of blue speedwell.  The foliage of the
trees--beech, oak and mountain ash, pine and fir--broke
up the rays of sunlight and the air within the
wood was delightfully cool.  Our path led steadily
up from the bed of the stream till it looked like an
amber thread meandering through a gorge a hundred
feet beneath us.  Here and there its course was checked
by a quiet pool, so still that one might think the
stream had ceased to flow; and where some branch of
a bush or tree touched the surface of the water it was
garlanded with a ball of tawny froth from which little
flakes broke away and studded the surface of the pool
like scattered silver coins.

We penetrated deep into the wood--the stream
chattering far below us--and at last Hector,
half-turning, and saying earnestly "Tak' tent," began to
clamber down the slope towards it.  I followed, and
in a few moments we had reached the edge of the water.
Leaping from stone to stone, Hector led the way past
a waterfall upon our left which, thin as veil of
gossamer and iridescent in the sunlight, fell from an
overhanging rock into the burn.

Just beyond us and to the right the stream issued
from a defile.  Above us, on both sides, the sandstone
rocks towered, and looking up from the depths one
could see the sky through the leafy screen of foliage
that overshadowed us.  Carefully choosing every
footstep, we continued up the stream.  The way,
though difficult, seemed quite familiar to the packman.

Suddenly the great sandstone walls which flanked
the stream began to close in upon us, rising sheer
from the water edge.  The stream thus confined into
straiter bounds became a broiling torrent.  To make
progress we were compelled to bestride it, finding
precarious foothold in little niches on the opposing
walls.  After a few more difficult steps the narrow
defile widened out and we stood upon the edge of a
great broad cup which was being steadily filled by
an inrush of water through a gorge at its upper end
similar to that along which we had come.  In shape
the cup was almost circular and looked like a huge
misshapen bowl of earthenware.  From its sides the
sandstone cliffs rose almost perpendicularly, but a
few feet above the water was a ledge broad enough
to walk upon.  It was a curious natural formation.
The basin at our feet was deep, so deep that I could
not see the bottom.  The water leaped into it through
the upper defile, churning its nearer edge into yellow
froth; but the turbulence of the leaping stream
swooned into quietness when it came under the spell
of the still water that lay deep and impassive in the
heart of the pool.  Half-way round its circumference,
poised on the ledge and heaped one upon another in
seeming disorder, stood a pile of boulders.  Hector
seized one of them with both hands.  He tugged at
it vigorously and it moved, disclosing a cleft in the
wall of the precipice through which a man might crawl.

"We're here at last," said Hector.  "Doon on
your hands and knees, and crawl in; there's naething
to fear."

I did as he bade me, and, carefully feeling the way
with my hands, thrust head and neck and shoulders
into the aperture.  After the light of the outer world
the interior of the cave was impenetrably dark.
Steadying myself with my hands, I proceeded to drag
my body after me and was about to rise to my feet
when suddenly something leaped upon me.  A pair
of hot hands closed upon my throat from behind and
a great weight hurled itself upon my back.  I tried
to scream, but the lithe fingers gripped my neck
and stifled me.  There was a clamour in my head as
though a thousand drums were rattling; lights
danced before my eyes.  Again I tried to scream,
but my tongue hung helpless out of my mouth and I
could hardly breathe.  I struggled fiercely, but the
hands that gripped my throat did not relax and
suddenly I seemed to be falling through infinite space
and then ceased to know anything.  I remembered
nothing until, at last, I felt somebody chafing my
hands.  Then out of the darkness I heard the voice
of Hector say quite cheerfully:

"Ye'll do.  Ye'll be a' richt in a minute or twa.
Noo I maun ha'e a look at the minister."

"What has happened?" I asked, but Hector did
not reply, so I raised myself and found him stooping
over the body of another man lying not far from me.

"Thank God," he said, "I ha'ena killed him.  His
skull is evidently as soond as his doctrine, and that's
sayin' a lot."

"Tell me what has happened?" I exclaimed.
"Who is this man?"

"As far," said he, "as I can mak' oot by the licht
o' these twa tallow candles, he is the Rev. Mr. Corsane,
the ousted minister o' Minniehive.  I canna
exactly tell what happened afore I cam' into the cave,
but juist as your feet were disappearing into the
hole, they began to dance in the air, remindin' me
o' the cantrips I ha'e seen a man perform when the
hangman had him in haun'.  I was at a sair loss to
ken what ye micht be daein', and I was mair puzzled
still when, just inside the cave, I heard a terrible
struggling.  Hooever, as ye weel ken, I'm nae coward,
so in I crawled, wi' my auld frien' 'Trusty' in my
kneive.  Though it was awfu' dark, I could mak' oot
twa men strugglin'.  Ane o' them was astride the
other and I judged that you were the nethermost.
I shouted, the man that had you by the throat let
ye go and flung himsel' on me.  I caught him a dunt
wi' the point o' my elbow juist ower his breist-bane.
He reeled back, but when he got his breath he rushed
at me again.  By this time my e'en were better used
to the darkness, so I up wi' 'Trusty' and gi'ed him
a clout on the side o' the heid, and here he lies.  Then
I lichted the candles I had brocht wi' me, and found
that he had gey near throttled you deid.  By the
look o' him I jaloused that he was the Rev. Mr. Corsane,
and then the whole thing was plain to me.
Maist likely he has been hidin' in this cave--a cave
weel kent by the Covenanters--so when you cam'
crawlin' in withoot word said or signal given, he
maun ha'e thocht it was ane o' the dragoons and
like a brave man he made up his mind to sell his life
dearly.  That's the story so far as I can mak' it oot
and I ha'e nae doot it's the true ane.

"But I wish ye would lay your hand ower his heart
and tell me I haena killed him, for I wouldna' like to
ha'e the death o' sic a godly man on my conscience."

I did as I was requested and I was able to reassure
the packman that the man's heart was beating
regularly and strongly, although somewhat slowly.

"Thank God," he said fervently.  "I'll see what
my salve will dae for him," and he opened a pot of
his ointment and proceeded to rub it gently into the
lump which his stick had raised upon the minister's
temple.  The effect, however, was far from being
immediate.  The minister lay with lips half parted
and eyes half open, breathing heavily, without signs
of returning consciousness.  Hector began to show
signs of alarm.

"If," he said, "this was only a dragoon I wouldna
worry: but this is a minister, a different breed o'
man a' thegither.  A clout that would dae nae mair
than gie a dragoon a sair heid micht kill a minister.
He maun be in a bad way if my salve winna revive him."

"Give him time," I said, "and let us see what
cold water will do."  Crawling out into the open, I
leaned over the pool and, filling my bonnet with
water, returned to the cave and sprinkled the
minister's face copiously.  I saw his eyelids flicker
as the first cold drop touched his forehead, and a
few minutes later he moved one of his hands.

"He's recovering," I said, and taking off my coat
I folded it and placed it beneath his head.  We
waited in great anxiety, and by and by saw other
signs of returning vitality.  The better part of an
hour had elapsed before the minister endeavoured to
raise himself upon his elbow, an effort which we
gently resisted.  Immediately afterwards, with eyes
staring up to the roof of the cave, he said:

"Where am I?  What has happened?"

I motioned to Hector to reply.

"Oh, ye're a' richt, and we are frien's.  Ha'e nae
fear.  Settle yoursel' doon, if ye can, for a sleep:
and when you ha'e rested we'll tell you everything."

Without demur the minister closed his eyes again,
and we were able to tell from his regular breathing
that he had fallen asleep.

Hector rose, whispering behind his hand: "If
you'll sit by the minister I'll close the door," and he
crawled noiselessly through the aperture and returned,
pushing his pack before him, and then closed the
opening, cutting off the thin shaft of daylight that
had been coming through it.

About an hour later the minister stirred in his
sleep, and turning over upon his side opened his eyes
and looked at me inquiringly.  Hector produced the
bottle of Malvoisie with which we had refreshed
ourselves on the roadside, and held it to the minister's
lips.

"This will refresh you," he said, and without
protest he drank.  He made some attempt to speak,
but Hector forbade him.  "No, no, sir, haud yer
wheesht a wee langer.  Dinna fash yoursel'.  We
are your frien's.  Ha'e nae fear and settle yoursel'
to sleep."

Like an obedient child, the minister did so.

The day passed and still the patient slept.  By
and by Hector went to the mouth of the cave and
peered through one of the chinks between the rocks.

"The nicht has come," he said.  "It's time we
were bedded."  Taking up the candle, he searched
the floor of the cave.  "Dae ye think," he asked,
"we daur lift the minister?  Here's his bed," and
he pointed to a heap of withered brackens in a corner.
I suggested that it might be an easier thing to carry
his bed to the minister, and, stooping down, I
gathered up an armful of the leaves, which I spread
upon the floor beside him.  So gently that he did
not stir we lifted the minister on to it, and once
more I slipped my folded coat under his head for a
pillow.  Hector drew off his coat and spread it over
the minister's chest, then seizing a corner of his pack
he pulled it up, scattering the contents in a jumbled
heap on the floor, and spread the canvas covering
over the lower part of the minister's body.

"That will keep him warm," he said.  "Now you
mak' your bed where ye will.  I'll keep watch for
the first pairt o' the nicht and I'll waken you by and
by, and ye can tak' yer turn."

Worn out with the experiences of the previous
night and day, I lay down not far off.  My neck still
ached from the strangling grip of the minister's
fingers, and the floor of the cave was a hard bed.
But I had lain in many strange places ere this and
soon I was fast asleep.  Once during the night I
awoke and peering through the shadows could discern
the figure of the minister on his bracken couch, and,
with hands clasped round his bent knees, the packman
sitting beside him.  But I judged that my time had
not yet come, for Hector made no sign and soon I
was asleep again.

I awoke cold and stiff as though I had been beaten.
Looking towards the doorway I could see a thin
streak of light filtering through, and I knew that day
had come.  Hector still sat motionless: he had kept
his vigil the whole night through.

I ventured to upbraid him because he had not kept
his word and wakened me in the night to share the
watch with him.  He laughed.

"It was a kind o' penance," he said.  "I ha'e
twa things on my conscience that will want a lot o'
expiation.  *Imprimis*, I felled the minister; *secundo*,
I gi'ed him some o' Lag's wine.  In the nicht I've
been thinkin' the second is the mair serious
transgression.  To godless men like you and me, Lag's
wine could dae nae hairm, but hoo think ye the wine
o' a persecutor will agree wi' the body o' a saint?
As like as no it will turn to gall in his blood and dae
him a peck o' hairm."

I laughed quietly.  "You may set your mind at
rest," I said.  "The wine was good.  Even though
it came from Lag's cellar, it will do the Covenanter
no harm."

While we were talking the minister began to move,
and in a few seconds opened his eyes.  In a moment
Hector was bending over him.

"Hoo are ye this morning, sir?" he said.  "I
hope ye ha'e rested weel?"

The minister raised himself upon his elbow, and
looked at Hector anxiously.  "Thank you," he said,
"I have had a good sleep, but my brain is in a strange
whirl and my head is very sore.  Have I been ill?"

"A' in good time, sir, a' in good time," said Hector,
cheerfully.  "You are in nae danger.  By and by
I'll tell ye a'.  Meantime ye maun break yer fast."

The packman rose and going to a shelf of rock on
which the candle stood picked up a bowl.

"Here, Bryden," he said.  "I'll open the door if
you crawl oot and fill this bowl at the linn."

He gripped the movable boulder and swung it
round and I crawled out into the open air.  The
morning sky above me was fleecy with soft clouds;
the air was full of melody; all the feathered world
was awake.  Thrush vied with blackbird, blackbird
with linnet, and linnet with the far off tremulous
lark.  I stood on the little sandstone platform above
the pool filling my lungs with great draughts of
morning air.  The haunting beauty of the place--the
mystical and impenetrable depths of the pool, the
tender foliage above me mirrored on its surface,
the soft wind of the morning throbbing with melody--all
conspired to cast a spell over me.  But I woke
from my dream as I remembered the stern realities
that beset me.  Leaning over I filled the bowl and
returned with it to the cave.  Hector had already
laid out the morning meal, but at the moment a desire
more urgent than hunger was upon me.

So I crawled once more into the open air and,
quickly undressing, dived into the pool, and swam
round it a dozen times.  Greatly refreshed I was about
to swing myself out, when I saw the shoulders of
Hector protruding from the aperture in the wall.  He
shook his head and smiled at me, saying:

"You gi'ed me a terrible fricht.  I heard the splash
and thocht ye had fa'en in.  Ye're a queer chiel; ye
like cauld water a lot better than I do," and he drew
his head back into the cave.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOILERS OF THE NIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXII


.. class:: center medium bold

   TOILERS OF THE NIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

The rest and sleep of the night had done the minister
good service; and though he still complained of
considerable pain in the head and bore upon it the
protuberant evidence of Hector's skill with his weapon,
he was able to join in our conversation.  In my
absence Hector had told him who we were and what had
happened.  He had some difficulty in recognising
Hector, beardless and lacking his tree-leg, but when the
packman had salted his conversation with an apposite
quotation from Horace, he had been compelled to
admit his identity and had hailed him as an old friend.

Hector's surmise had been correct.  The inhabitant
of the cave was none other than Mr. Corsane, who,
ousted from his charge and compelled to become a
wanderer, had made it his headquarters through many
a weary month.  It was a hiding-place in which he
could find shelter alike from the blasts of the storm
and from the persecutors.  Driven from his manse,
his church and his parish, a man with a price upon his
head, he did not remain in this cave from week's end
to week's end, a craven fugitive.  Constantly he had
ventured out.  Did sickness or sorrow visit one of the
homes of his little flock, he was instant in succour,
ready to bring to them at all times the spiritual help
and consolation for which they looked to him.  Wherefore,
though he was a minister without a charge, he
was not a minister without a people.

When the meal was over I besought Hector to
lie down and rest; and being satisfied that the
minister was now out of danger, he needed no second
bidding.

The weeks and months that followed were full of
interest and occupation.  As always, in the annals of
persecution, an hour had come when the malignity of
the tyrants reached its zenith.  In a wild endeavour
to break the spirit of the persecuted, they applied
themselves with increased fury and devilish ingenuity
to render the lives of their victims intolerable.

So it came to pass that more and more of the men
in the parishes round about us were driven to forsake
their homes and take to the moors or the hiding-places
among the hills.  Little cared the persecutors if the
land that should have laughed with rich crops sank
into desolation since none were left to cultivate it.
The malevolence of the oppressors gave Hector and
myself many opportunities of service.  By stratagem,
and sometimes by force, at great risk, and often after
lively encounters, we rescued more than one good man
and true from the clutches of the troopers and spirited
him away in the dead of night to a safe hiding-place.
I may not here set down these high adventures.  Some
other pen than mine may record them.  But for the
greater part our deeds were works of peace.  All
through the months of summer we would steal out
from the cave when the twilight came and, making for
some farm whose good man had been compelled to
flee, we would spend the hours of the night in performing
those tasks in the fields which, but for us, would
have been left undone.

Toiling all night through, we would steal back to the
sanctuary of our cave in the grey dawn, tired, but
proudly conscious that we had done something to
ease the burden which was weighing upon the heart of
some desolate woman.  We cut the clover, we mowed
the hay, we left it for a day or two to dry and then
stacked it into little cocks upon the field, and when the
time came, we sheared the sheep and did those
thousand and one things that a husbandman does in their
due season.  We were careful not to be seen, though
always when the night was at its darkest, Hector would
make his way to the farmhouse or cottage nearest
the field in which we were at work and almost invariably
he would find upon the window-sill a store of food
left for us.  For, though the children and the
superstitious might imagine that the mysterious labourers
in the fields were creatures from another world who
accomplished heavy tasks with the wave of a magic
wand, the good-wife of the house had more than a
shrewd suspicion that they were creatures of flesh and
blood who toiled with the sweat on their brows and
who had appetites that required satisfaction.

Nor did we confine our work to the farms near our
hiding-place.  In the course of his wanderings among
his flock, the minister would, now and then, hear of a
farm more remote that needed our care, and many a
night we walked for miles before we reached the fields
where our self-appointed tasks lay.  I felt, as Hector
did, that in this service we were doing something to
help the Cause of the Covenant.  And as honest work
ever offers to a man the best antidote to sorrow, my
heart began to be filled with a great contentment.
Mary was lost to me.  That thought and the sense of
desolation which it provoked was ever before me,
but my labours for the persecuted were some token
of the love I had borne her and I knew that she would
understand.

Sometimes, in the darkness, when my back ached
beyond endurance as I bent over some unaccustomed
task, I would cease for a moment to feel for that little
bit of metal lying over my heart that was all that
remained of the ring I had given her.  And its touch
would give me courage and my weariness would disappear.

Hector, I discovered, was a master of all the arts of
agriculture.  No task seemed too heavy for him, and
never have I seen a man so proficient at shearing sheep
or with such a subtle way of pacifying a querulous dog.
Dogs, indeed, were one of the dangers that beset us, for
more than once we spent the night at work on a farm
which was in the occupation of the soldiery.  If the
farm dog had but given the alarm, we might have found
ourselves surrounded and shot on the instant, or
compelled to flee for our lives.  But no dog ever barked
at Hector.  There was some indefinable understanding
between him and the faithful creatures.  A startled
collie would raise its head and thrust forward its
snout as though about to alarm the night, but, at a
whisper from Hector, it would steal up to him and rub
its head and shoulders in comradeship against his
legs.  This sympathy between himself and the dogs
made for our safety, and there was something else
which helped.  Most of the troopers were creatures of
the grossest superstition, thrilled with an uncanny
dread of warlocks, witches, and all the evil spirits of
the night.  Their bloody deeds by day filled their
nights with ghostly terrors, and more than once I have
known them desert a farm--upon which they had
descended to devour its substance like the
locusts--headlong and in fear when they found that the
"brownies" had been at work in the fields by night.
To them it had become a place uncanny, and they
would hastily take their departure, to the no small joy
of the farmer's wife and her little children.  To the
children a visit of the "brownies" was a thing to be
hailed with delight and shy amazement.

Once, after a heavy night's work, Hector and I were
resting in the early dawn beneath a hedgerow ere we
set out upon our long journey to the cave, when I
heard the voices of children on the road.  I looked
through the hedge and saw a little boy leading his
sister by the hand.  They climbed upon the bars of
the gate and surveyed the field before them.  Then
the quiet of the morning was broken by the shrill
voice of the lad, who, pointing to the mown hay,
shouted:

"Aggie, Aggie, the brownies ha'e been here," and,
leaping down from the gate so quickly as to capsize
his sister, who, awed by the mystery, did not burst into
tears, he rushed along the road to the house calling at
the top of his voice: "Oh, mither, mither, come and
see.  The brownies ha'e been working in the hay-field
and the hay is a' cut.  Oh, I wish my faither knew."

We waited till--at the urgent summons of her little
son--the woman had walked down the road to the gate
and had surveyed our handiwork.  We saw her stoop,
pick up her children, and kiss them fondly.  Then she
turned away that they might not see her tears, and,
at the sight, our own hearts grew strangely full.  We
waited until she had taken her little ones home, and
then we stole away.

"Puir lassie," said Hector, "puir lassie."

During the day I rarely ventured from the cave,
though now and then Hector would fare forth in
daylight on mysterious errands of his own.  I suspected
that he had some tryst to keep with the widow at
Locharbriggs, but he did not take me into his
confidence.  But usually he and I were birds of the night.
We were busy folk, and the minister was no less
occupied.  Messages would come to him mysteriously;
how, I was never able to discover; but by some means
he was kept informed not only as to the doings and
welfare of his own flock, but as to the larger happenings
throughout the whole country-side.  He knew what
men had been compelled to flee from their homes;
which others had been haled to Edinburgh and put
to torture in the hope that the persecutors might wring
from them some confession.  He knew the houses
which had been touched by the hand of sorrow, and
with no thought of self he would steal forth to offer
what consolation he could.  His quiet bravery
impressed me deeply, and I found myself developing a
lively admiration for him which rapidly grew into a
warm affection.

He was a man of large scholarship; no bigoted
fanatic, but a gentle and genial soul borne up perpetually
by an invincible faith in the ultimate triumph of
the cause for which he had already sacrificed so much,
and for which, if need be, he was ready to sacrifice his all.

In little fragments I had from time to time told him
my story.  I finished it one night as we sat together
outside our cave on the narrow ledge above the pool.
There may have been some anger in my voice, or some
bitterness in my words, for when my tale was ended
he was silent for a time.  Then he laid one of his hands
upon my knee and with the other pointed to the stream
as it poured through the gorge into the quietness of the
pool.

"See," he said, "the water in turmoil catches no
reflection of the sky, whereas the stars are mirrored
every one on the quiet face of the pool.  So it is with
human hearts.  Where bitterness and turmoil are there
can be no reflection of the heart of God.  It's the quiet
heart which catches the light."

He said no more, but, ever since, when storms have
risen in my soul I have remembered his words and the
memory of them has stilled the passion within me.

When the nights were too rough for work in the
fields, we would spend them in the cave together.
And sometimes Hector, who had a subtle mind, would
try to entangle the minister in the meshes of a
theological argument, and I would sit amazed at the thrust
and parry of wit against wit.  These discussions
usually ended in the defeat of Hector--though he
would never admit it.  More than once, at their
conclusion, the minister would say:

"We must never forget this; theology is but man's
poor endeavour to interpret the will of God towards
humanity.  It is not for me to belittle theology, but
at the end of all things it will not count for much.
It's the life of a man that counts; the life, and the faith
that has illumined it.  Theological points are but
sign-posts at the cross-roads, and sometimes not even
that.  Faith is the lamp that shows the wayfaring man
where to set his feet."

As the summer mellowed into early autumn, Hector
began to grow restless.  I ventured to suggest to him
that he was heart-sick for love.

He laughed.  "Maybe ye're richt," he said; "but
ye dinna imagine that I ha'e managed to live a' these
weeks withoot a sicht o' the widda.  No, no, my lad."

"And how runs the course of love?" I asked.

"Man," he answered, "I'm gettin' on fine.  I
verily believe Virgil was wrang when he said 'Woman
is a fickle jade.'  The widda's no fickle at ony rate.
D'ye ken she wears my kaim in her hair ilka day o'
the week.  It's the prood man I am."

"Then why this restlessness?" I asked.

He laughed as he replied: "Weel, to mak' a lang
story short, I am hungerin' for the road.  A man that
has got the wander fever in his bluid can never be lang
content in ae place.  I'm bidin' wi' you a week or
twa mair, for the time o' the hairst is at hand, but
when we ha'e cut a wheen o' the riper fields I'll ha'e to
leave ye for a bit.  I'll be back inside twa months,
and we'll settle doon then for the winter.  And when
I gang, dinna forget this, I'll keep my ears open for
ony news o' what happened at Daldowie, and maybe
when I come back I'll be able to tell ye hoo Mary deed."

The mention of Daldowie awoke in my heart a keen
desire to accompany him, and I told him so.

"No, no," he said, "no' yet.  By and by, if ye
like.  In the meantime yer duty lies here.  You've
got to look efter the minister.  As ye weel ken, he's
a feckless man at lookin' after himsel'.  Forby, you'll
ha'e work to dae.  The hairst winna' be ower when I
gang.  So you'd best juist bide here."

His arguments were not weighty, but obviously he
did not want my company and he had proved himself
so good a friend that I shrank from offending him by
insisting.  So, reluctantly, I agreed to remain behind.

"You will take care," I said.  "I fear that Lag has
begun to suspect you, and you may run into danger
unless you are wary."

He laughed as he replied: "Ah weel, as Horace
said, '*Seu me tranquilla senectus expectat, seu mors
atris circumvolat alis*' which ye can nae doot translate
for yersel', but which means in this connection, that
Hector will either see a peacefu' auld age by his ain
fireside wi' the widda, or the black-winged corbies will
pick his banes.  Man, Horace has the richt word every
time."

We did not discuss the matter of his departure
again, but continued our nightly tasks in the fields.
There was something peculiarly beautiful about our
work at this time.  The nights were short and never
wholly dark.  We would steal into a ripening field
of corn in the twilight, when the purple shadows lay
asleep among the golden grain.  As the light of day
gave place to the half-darkness of the night, the grain,
pierced by the silver shafts of the moon, grew lustrous
and shone like fairy jewels.  I paused in wonder every
time I bent to put my sickle between the tall blades.
It seemed almost a sacrilege to cut down such things
of beauty.

As the nights were short we could work only a few
hours before the daylight came again; but always
ere it came the slumbering earth was wakened by a
burst of melody.  When, in the east, one saw a little
lightening of the grey shadows, as though a candle
had been lit on the other side of some far off hill, one's
ear would catch the sound of a bird's pipe, solitary at
first and strangely alone.  That first adventurous
challenge would soon be answered from a myriad
hidden throats.  Far off, a cock would crow, and then
on every side, from the heart of hidden lark and pipit,
linnet and finch, a stream of melody would begin to
flow over the field.  The music increased in volume
as bird after bird awoke from its sleep in hedge,
and bush and tree, and the choir invisible poured its
cataract of song into that empty hour that lies in the
hand of time between the darkness and the dawn.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GOING OF HECTOR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE GOING OF HECTOR

.. vspace:: 2

September came with all its golden glory and each
day Hector became more and more restless.  When
the month was half sped he left us.  One morning on
our way home to the cave after a busy night of
harvesting he said:

"I'm gaun the nicht."  And though I urged upon
him that he could not have chosen a worse time, since
we had many fields yet to cut, I failed to dissuade him
from his purpose.  "No," he said, "I can bide nae
langer.  The fever is in my bluid, and there's nae
cure for it but the road."

When night came I accompanied him down the
course of the linn and on to the high road.  At the last
he laid many injunctions upon me, the chief being to
take care of our companion in the cave.

"He's a guid man," he said, "but a thochtless.  I
blame mysel' yet for the crack I gi'ed him on the heid.
It seems tae ha'e left him a bit confused.  Ye'll tak'
care o' him."

When the moment of parting came he took off his
bonnet, and gripping me fervently by the hand said:

"I'll be back ere lang, but if I dinna return, I should
like ye noo and then to gie a kindly thocht to the
memory o' the packman.  Maybe I may find a grave
under the open sky on the purple moorland; and if
that be my lot and ye should be spared for happier
days and can fin' the place where I lie, maybe ye'll
see that my cairn is no' left withoot a name.  But
dinna be carvin' ony extravagant eulogy on the stane.
Juist put the words 'Hector the packman.'  That'll
be enough for me--but it's the prood man I wad be,
lying in the mools beneath, if ye wad add a line or twa
o' Latin juist to let the unborn generations ken that I
was a scholar.  There are twa bit legends that come
ready to my min'; ane is,

   |  "Sciro potestates herbarum usumque medendi
   |  Maluit, et mutas agitare inglorius artes.

'He was skilly in the knowledge o' herbs and o' their
healing powers, and wi' nae thocht o' higher glory he
liked to practise that quiet art'--that's frae Virgil, as
ye will nae doot remember an' of course refers to my
salve.  But there's anither word frae my auld frien'
Horace; it's a fit epitaph for a man like me wha's life
has never been what it micht ha'e been:

   |          "... Amphora coepit
   |  Institui: currente rota cur urceus exit?

'The potter was minded to make a bonnie vessel;
why does naething but a botchery come frae the
running wheel?'"

Before I could make a fitting reply he dropped my
hand and left me.  I stood in the dusk watching him
go.  He glided into the shadows and soon he had
become as incorporeal as one of them.  With a sense of
desolation upon me, I made for the field where my
night's task awaited me, and laboured steadily till
the dawn.

As I made my way back to the cave I could not help
wondering where Hector might be.

There had been something almost ominous in the
manner of his parting.  Had he felt the shadow
hovering over him?--or was his farewell and his reference
to his possible death nothing more than an expression
of his curiously sentimental nature?

I could not decide: but I trusted that his natural
caution and his mother-wit, of which I knew something,
would carry him safely through.

Consoling myself with this thought, I entered the
wood and proceeded to make my way up the bed of
the stream.

A week or two passed undisturbed by any eventful
happening.  Night after night I continued my work
in the fields.  More than once the minister joined me,
lending me what aid he could.  But his spirit was
greater than his strength, and at last I had to ask him
for his own sake, and for the sake of those who counted
upon his ministrations, to reserve his energies for their
own special work.  Recognising his physical limitations,
he took my advice.

"Maybe," he said, "you're right.  Perhaps it was
given to me to be a sower only, and not a harvester.
The fields you are reaping were sown by other hands
than yours, and mayhap the ripe fruit which in the
good Providence of God may spring from the seed I
have sown will be gathered by other hands than mine.
But it matters little.  The thing is to sow honestly
and to reap faithfully, so that at the end of the day
when we go home for our wages we may win the
Master Harvester's 'Well done.'"

Even had he been physically capable of doing useful
work in the fields, it would have been unfair to expect
him to do it at this time.  His days were already full.
He was making preparations for a great Conventicle
to be held among the Closeburn hills early in October.
It was to be a very special occasion--a gathering
together of all the faithful to unite in that simple
love feast which has inspired with fresh courage and
inflamed with new devotion men and women throughout
the ages.  It was a brave, a hazardous thing to
venture on.

I was more than a little uplifted when he honoured
me by asking me if I would care to be a sentinel.

His request touched me deeply, and I felt that Mary
was smiling upon me with radiant eyes out of the unknown.

A few more days elapsed.  Another Sunday came
and went, the last before the great occasion.  I had
spent the day in the coolness of the cave, and the
minister had been out about his spiritual duties.  I
stole out and sitting on the ledge above the pool sat
dreaming in the twilight.  Far off in the fields beyond
the wood I heard a corncrake rasping out his raucous
notes.  There was a twitter of birds in the trees above
me as they settled down to sleep.

As I sat there I was joined by Mr. Corsane, who came
through the narrow defile below the pool.  He looked
weary and somewhat distraught; but though I
surmised that some anxiety oppressed him, he did not
offer to share it with me, so I held my peace.  Soon
he retired to rest and when midnight came I set off
to my labours.  I did not see him on my return to
the cave in the morning, nor had he come back by
evening when I left again.  But when on the morning
of Tuesday I came in sight of the pool, I discovered
him waiting for me on the ledge outside the cave.
He hailed me at once:

"I have been watching anxiously for your return.
I am in sore perplexity."

"Can I help you, sir?" I asked.

"If I were younger," he replied, "and could
perform the task myself, I would gladly do it; but it is
past my power.  It is an urgent matter--for it
concerns the safety of one dear to me and very precious
to the Cause."

"Command me," I exclaimed.  "I am ready to do
anything I can; only tell me how I may help."

"I have a friend in Edinburgh," he said, "Peter
Burgess by name.  His life is in danger.  I must get
a message to him ere Friday.  Will you take it?"

"Gladly," I cried.  "Trust me--and all the
persecutors in Scotland shall not prevent me."

A smile flickered upon his face.  "That is a reckless
boast," he said.  "But I trust you, and thank you."

"I am ready to start at once," I said.

"What?" he exclaimed.  "Weary as you are!"

"Certainly," I answered, "one must needs haste.
I'll have a plunge in the pool while you write your
letter, and after a mouthful of food, I'll be off."

By the time I had bathed and eaten, his message
was ready, and with a few last words of instruction
I was about to set off.  But he called me back.

"Have a care to your goings, my son.  Be wary! be
brave!  I trust you will succeed in reaching my
friend ere it is too late; but you cannot be back in
time for the great Assembly on Sabbath.  I shall miss
you."

He raised his hand in blessing, and, secreting the
letter about me, I turned, and was gone.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FLIGHT OF PETER BURGESS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FLIGHT OF PETER BURGESS

.. vspace:: 2

When night fell I was far away among the hills.  I
had made good progress and was well content.  I
should accomplish the journey in good time--of
that I was confident--so I crawled into a bed of
heather and slept soundly.

In the early morning I was awakened by the call
of the moor birds.  Before starting on my journey
again, I thought it wise to secrete the letter with
greater care, so I took off one of my shoes, and, making
a hollow in the heel, folded the letter tightly and placed
it there.  Then I took to the road again.

I had hoped to reach Edinburgh by noon on Thursday,
but when I came in sight of the city it was past
five o'clock.  The journey had proved more arduous
than I expected; but I was still in time.  The last
long mile accomplished, I reached the city.  The moon
had risen, and as I swung round beneath the grey
shadow of Holyrood I caught a glimpse of the noble
brow of Arthur's Seat towering high behind it.  I
passed the guard of soldiers at the Canongate without
challenge, for, apparently, they saw in me nothing
more than a travel-stained and dusty wanderer--some
gangrel body.

I did not wish to draw suspicion upon myself by
asking anyone to direct me to Halkerstone Wynd
where Peter Burgess dwelt.  But, meeting a boy, I
stopped him to ask where I could find the Tron
Kirk, which Mr. Corsane had given me as a landmark.
His reply was explicit enough, if somewhat rude.
"Follow yer nose," he said, "and ye'll be there
in five meenutes," which I took to mean that I was
to continue my journey up the hill.  Very shortly a
large church came into view, and as it took shape in
the moonlight a clock in its tower struck ten.  I
counted the strokes, and, turning, retraced my steps
and found at no great distance from the Church, as
the minister had told me, the Wynd which I sought.
The minister had given me careful instructions, so
that when I entered the Wynd I had no difficulty in
finding the house in which his friend lived.  The outer
door stood open, and I entered, passing at once into
the confusion of darkness; but I had learned from
Hector the wisdom of carrying a candle in one's
pocket, and lighting it, I looked around me.  I knew
that I should find Peter Burgess on the top floor of
the house, so, shading the candle with one hand, I
began the ascent.  Up, and up and up, in never
ceasing spirals wound the stair.  To me, weary with
my journey, it seemed interminable.  Between two
of its flights I paused, and leaning over the balustrade
looked downwards.  A chasm, black as pitch and
unfathomable to my straining eyes, gaped below me.
After a moment's rest I continued my ascent, and
by and by, breathless, I came to the top.  An oaken
door barred my further progress.  An iron knocker,
shaped like a lady's hand, hung gracefully upon its
middle beam.  I remember that as I seized it to
knock, I held it for a second while I looked at the
delicate metal filigree of lace that adorned the wrist.
Then I knocked three times--first gently, then more
firmly and, as no answer came, more loudly still.  At
last I heard movements on the other side, and in
the flickering candle-light I saw a little peep-hole
open, and a voice said "Who is it?"  I bent my
head to the tiny aperture and said in a whisper
"Naphthali," the password I had been told to use.
Instantly the peep-hole was closed, and the door was
thrown open.  "Enter and welcome," said the voice,
and I needed no second invitation.  I found myself
in a narrow passage at the end of which was a room
through whose open door a light shone.  The man
who had admitted me closed and barred the door and
then led the way to the room.  Then turning to me
he said:

"To what do I owe this late visit?"

"I bring," I replied, "a message from a friend,
but before I give it to you I must know who you are."

He went to a bookcase that stood against one of
the walls and from it withdrew a little calf-bound
volume.  Opening it he pointed to the book-plate
within.

On the scroll I read the legend "Ex libris Petri
Burgess," and I saw that the book was a copy of
Rutherford's *Lex Rex*.  I sat down at once on a
high-backed oak chair, and, taking off my shoe,
found the letter and handed it to him.  He took it
with a grave bow, and, breaking its seal, sat down at
the black-oak table in the centre of the room.

As he did so, I looked about me.  The room was
furnished with considerable taste and was lit by
two candles which stood in silver candlesticks on the
table.  Between the candlesticks lay a sheet of paper.
Beside them stood an ink-horn and a little bowl of
sand in which was a small bone spoon.  The light was
somewhat uncertain, and to read with greater ease he
drew one of the candlesticks nearer to him.

When he had read the letter through, he sat in a
fit of meditation, beating a gentle tattoo with the
fingers of his left hand upon the top of the table.
He read it again, and went towards the fireplace
where he tore the missive into tiny pieces and dropped
them into the fire.  Then he came back to the table.

"Forgive," he said, "my seeming lack of hospitality;
you must be worn out and famished.  Let me
offer you some refreshment."

I thanked him heartily, and in a few minutes he
had set food and wine before me.

He joined me in the repast, and as we sat at the
table I had an opportunity of studying him with
some care.  I judged him to be a man over sixty.
His face was refined and the delicate line of his
mouth which his beard did not conceal bespoke a
sensitive nature.  He treated me with a courtly
grace, asked interestedly as to my journey, and
inquired earnestly as to the progress of the Cause in
the South.  I told him all I knew, and when he heard
from my lips how Mr. Corsane, though evicted from
his Church, still regarded himself as the shepherd of
his people and was constant in his devotion and
instant in his service to them, he said:

"Good! good!  But how he must have suffered!
As for me," he continued, "I have no cave in which
to take refuge, so I must steal away like a thief in the
night.  Please God, ere morning I may find a boat
in which to escape to the Low Countries.  But you
must have bed and lodging; and ere I leave the city
I shall see you safely housed with a friend in the
Lawn Market."

When our meal was over my host pushed back his
chair and said:

"Now I must go."  He went to the bookcase, and
taking from it two or three volumes put them in the
pockets of his coat.  Turning to me with a smile, he
said: "A fugitive had best go unencumbered; but
I should be lost without a book."

He made up a small parcel of food, and then,
extinguishing one candle and taking the other from
its candlestick, he led the way to the door, and
together we passed out.  He locked the door from
the outside, and lighting the way with the candle,
which he still held in his hand, he conducted me
downstairs.

When we entered the High Street, we turned and
walked up past the Tron Kirk.

The streets were deserted, save for ourselves, for
midnight was at hand.

"The Castle," he said, "is just ahead of us, but
we are not going so far.  This is our destination,"
and he turned into a narrow Wynd on the right side
of the street and passed through an open door just
beyond its mouth.  In the shadow of the doorway
he lighted his candle and proceeded to climb the stair.
On the second floor he knocked gently at a door
which, after a pause, was opened noiselessly by an old
woman.

We entered.  My companion whispered a word or
two in her ear, and taking a leathern pouch from one
of his pockets pressed some money into her hand.

"Be kind to the lad," he said, "he has travelled far."

The old woman looked at me, and with the coins
still gleaming in her open palm, said: "Ye can trust
me, Maister Burgess.  He's no' to peety if he has
ane o' my guid cauf beds to sleep on, and a bowl o'
parritch in the morning."

Mr. Burgess held out his hand to me in farewell.
"God keep you," he said.  "And when you see my
friend again, tell him I thank him with all my heart.
If God will, I shall communicate with him when I
reach a place of safety.  If not----" and he raised
his eyes to the low ceiling and, dropping my hand,
turned and was gone.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WITHIN SIGHT OF ST. GILES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXV


.. class:: center medium bold

   WITHIN SIGHT OF ST. GILES

.. vspace:: 2

The old woman closed the door, and lighting a
candle led me to a room and left me.  I found that
the bed was all that she had claimed for it; and after
my many months of fitful sleep on my bracken
couch on the hard floor of the cave, and my weary
journey, this mattress of chaff, into which I sank as
soon as I lay down, seemed a couch for a king.  As I
turned over on my side and composed myself to sleep,
I had but one regret.  Weary as I found myself, it
would be impossible for me to get back to the cave
in time for the great Conventicle which was to be
held among the Closeburn hills upon the coming
Sabbath.

My sleep was dreamless, and when I awoke the
torch of the sun was blazing outside my narrow
window.  Having dressed myself, I made for the
kitchen, where I found the good-wife busy over the
fire.  She turned as she heard my footsteps and
asked:

"Are ye weel rested?  Ye maun be, for ye've
sleepit the better pairt o' twal 'oors.  I knocked at
your door at ten o'clock; syne I tappit again at
half-eleeven, but for a' the answer ye gi'ed, ye micht
ha'e been the Castle Rock.  So I juist left ye your
lane, and here ye are at lang last, famished nae
doot!"  I was surprised to learn that I had slept
so long, but the rest had done me good service and I
felt greatly refreshed.  "There's ae virtue aboot
parritch, forby ithers," she said--"a wee bit extra
boilin' does nae hairm, which is mair than can be
said for ony ither dish except sheep's-heid broth."

When my meal was over I rose to go, and as I
did so I offered to pay the good woman for her
hospitality.

"No, no," she said, as she shook her head.  "Maister
Burgess paid your lawin' for ye; and indeed there
was nae necessity, for ony frien' o' that saint o' God
is aye welcome to a bed and a sup o' parritch frae
Betty Macfarlane."

As I had given up all intention of trying to reach
Closeburn by the following Sunday, I thought I
might with advantage spend the rest of the day in
rambling round the historic town.  Such an
opportunity might not offer again, and I knew that
Scotland's story was graven upon the face of her
Capital.  Under the cover of the night I would
begin my journey home.  So I walked down the
Lawn Market, and descended the Canongate until I
came within sight of Holyrood.  As I went I admired
the lordly houses which flanked each side of the
thoroughfare--some of them gaunt, grey and
forbidding; others finely timbered; others again
turreted and adorned with stone-fretwork that
proclaimed the high skill of the carvers' art.  I lingered
for a time in front of Holyrood, thinking of the tragic
career of her whose spirit still seemed to haunt the
pile.  Then I made my way by the Cowgate to the
Grassmarket, where, sombre and menacing--the
symbol of the dark days through which this tortured
land was passing--stood the scaffold.  On that
forbidding gibbet I knew that many a brave martyr
had met his end.  The walls around me had heard
the intrepid challenge of their testimonies, while the
grim Castle rock, towering above, looked down
silent and frowning as though it scorned the cruelties
of man to his brother man.

From the Grassmarket I climbed up a tortuous
and steep wynd to the Lawn Market again.  By this
time the afternoon was far advanced, and evening
was at hand.  In the High Street, not far from the
church of St. Giles, I entered a tavern, and having
supped I looked at the clock in the Church Tower
and saw that it was close upon six.  I judged it
would be well to set out in another hour.  By so
doing I should have left the city behind me and be
far in the open country ere it was time to sleep; so I
settled myself comfortably on a chair in the
inglenook and called for another pot of ale.

When the clock in the church tower struck seven I
called for my score, and, having settled it, made my
way out into the High Street.  As I came out of the
tavern door two officers passed me.  I was less than
a couple of paces behind them as they walked down
the street.  Had I willed it so, I could not have failed
to catch some fragment of their talk, but my ears were
pricked to a lively attention when I heard one of them
say: "... Among the hills ... Closeburn."  I
caught a few disjointed words.  "Sabbath ... three
or four thousand ... a great occasion ... Claver'se,
Lag, ... something complete ... no miserable
failure ... Drumclog ... stamp out... no quarter
... woman or child."  A horror so sudden seized me that
I stood stock still, and the officers, unaware that I
had overheard them, walked on.

What had I heard?  The fell purport of the stray
words I had caught blazed before me in letters of
fire.  I knew of the great Conventicle that was to take
place among the hills above Closeburn.  I knew that
every little cottage and every homestead for miles
around that held a soul who professed allegiance to the
Cause would have its witness there.  By some
mischance the enemy had learned of the intended gathering,
and had plotted a master-stroke to destroy the
Covenanters.

The Cause was in jeopardy!  Destruction threatened
it.  And I, Walter de Brydde--one-time moss-trooper,
could save it!  I alone.  My hour had come.

The clock struck, and, startled, I awoke to action.

Forgetful that the news must be carried far, I
began to run.  Down past the Tron Kirk and on past
Halkerstone Wynd and on down the Canongate I ran,
until as I drew near the Town Port and saw the scarlet
colour of the soldier's uniforms, some gleam of caution
returned to me, and I slowed down to a walking pace
lest my speed should excite suspicion.  I shambled
past the sentinels unchallenged, but when I had put a
sufficient distance between them and myself, I broke
into a run once more and headed for the hills.  As I
sped along I made a hasty calculation.  It was now
eight o'clock on Friday evening.  To prevent the
massacre, I must reach Closeburn not later than
midnight on Saturday.  That would give time for a
message to be spread broadcast by willing couriers
in the darkness of the night, and faithful men could
be posted to give warning at every cross-road by which
the worshippers must pass as they made their way,
in the early dawn, to the appointed trysting-place.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FOR THE SAKE OF THE COVENANT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   FOR THE SAKE OF THE COVENANT

.. vspace:: 2

I had twenty-eight hours in which to reach Closeburn--time
sufficient to cover the distance, if I made an
average of three miles an hour.  And three miles an
hour was well within the compass even of a man lame
like myself.  Already I saw my task accomplished,
and the joy that filled my heart lent wings to my feet.
With hands clenched, and chest thrown forward, I
raced along until my breathing became a torment and
I had to stop.  I leaned against a wall by the roadside
panting violently, and as I rested, soberer thoughts
came to me.  This was foolishness!

Not in this way would I ever complete the journey;
nor was there need of such impetuous haste.  A
moderate speed on the level, a steady struggle up the
hills and all the speed I could command down them
would bring me safely to my goal within the allotted
time.  I looked back along the way I had come.  Far
off I could see the light gleaming in the windows of
the city, and high up, where a great black mass threw
its bulk towards the sky, I saw the red glare of the
brazier upon the Castle walls.  Already I had travelled
far, and when I had recovered my breath, I took to
the road again.  This time I did not run, but walked
steadily.

The moon climbed the heavens, and all the sky
was glad with little stars.  A gentle breeze had arisen
and white clouds were scurrying overhead; but the
cool of the wind was as refreshing balm and I plodded
steadily on.  Hour followed hour, and the moon sank
to rest and still I followed the winding road.  The first
rosy streaks of dawn were warming the eastern sky
when I sat down to rest.  I was well content.  My
steady pace had carried me far and though I was weary
I was confident.  In the daylight I should be able
to make better progress than during the darkness.
As I rested I became aware that the strength of the
wind had increased, and great leaden clouds were
beginning to sweep across the sky.  Rain began to
fall upon my upturned face.  The cooling drops were
welcome; it would be but a passing shower!  Thinking
thus I rose and continued my journey.  Then the
heavens opened and the rain came down in a flood.
Blown by the wind it struck my face and hands with
missile force and to shelter myself I left the road and
crawled under a whin-bush on the hill-side.  For a
time this gave me protection; but as the storm
increased the rain-drops beat their way through the
palisade of thorns, and poured mercilessly upon me
once more.  There was nothing to be gained by resting
here.  I was losing time.  Better up and on!  So I
took to the road again.  The wind had waxed to a
tempest and beat direct upon me, so that I had to
bend my head and put forth all my strength to fight
it.  I had not looked for this, but with dogged
determination I clenched my teeth and battled on.

On I struggled, unable to see more than a few paces
ahead of me; for the rain was like a cloud--so wet
that with every step the water streamed from my
shoes.  Should I ever reach the end of the journey?
I would though I fell dead!  It was for Mary's sake.

Hour after hour passed, and at last the storm began
to abate.  The fury of the rain lessened, and the
downpour settled into a drizzle.  The sky began to clear.
There were breaks in its leaden vault through which
a white tuft of cloud thrust an infrequent pennon,
and by and by the sun broke through the dull veil
that had hidden it, and the rain ceased.

Still the wind blew upon me with such force that
every now and then I was brought to a standstill.
When a lull came between one and the next more stern
blast, I would run a pace or two; but only to be baffled
again when the wind had gathered strength.  I cast
an anxious look up to the sky; the sun was visible
now, but there was no vigour in his rays.  It seemed
as though the rain had quenched his fire, and that
instead of looking into the heart of a furnace I gazed
upon a ball of grey ashes.  But what gave me pause
and filled me with sudden dread was his place in the
sky.  He was already well past the meridian.  The
steady progress of the night, in which I had taken such
satisfaction, counted for little set against the small
tally of the miles covered since the dawn.  The agony
in my heart whipped me to greater effort, and I tried
to run.  But the wind seized me, and smote me with
mighty buffets so that I had to desist and content
myself by making what poor speed I could.  On and on
I trudged--hour after hour boring my way head downwards
against the relentless wind, ashamed to count my
paces, for I knew that the tale of them, as each minute
slipped past, was less than a quarter of what it would
have been if fortune had not turned against me.  I had
left the moorland track now and was upon a stretch of
better road, sheltered in some fashion by trees upon
either side.  They broke the sterner fury of the blast and
the better surface of the road made speedier progress
possible.  Spurring myself to the effort I sprang forward.
Suddenly, to my joy, I saw on the hill-side above the
road a little white cottage.  I dragged myself up the
slope, sodden and weary, and as I drew near I noticed
the iron tyre of a cart-wheel leaning against the side of
the house, and near by a rusty anvil.  I knocked at the
door, which was opened immediately by a young woman.

"What's yer pleesure?" she asked.

"Something to eat--and the time o' day," I
answered.

"It's past five on the nock, an' if ye'll come awa'
ben ye can ha'e some provender."

She led the way into a large kitchen, and as she
busied herself in setting oat cakes and ale before me
I warmed myself by the fire.  I was in no mood for
delay, so I ate some of the food hastily, stored a little
in my pockets, drank my ale, and called for my score.
As I paid her I asked the distance to Moffat.

"Eight miles and a bittock, and the first bit is a'
uphill--an awfu' road: but easy after ye pass the
Beef-tub."

My heart sank, the hour was late--far later than I
had thought, and I had still far to go.

Bidding my hostess good day I hurried to the door,
threw it open--and walked into the arms of two
troopers.  Taken unawares I was startled, but quickly
recovering myself I bade them good day and tried
to pass them.

"No' sae fast, young man--no' sae fast.  Ye're
in a de'il o' a hurry," said one of the troopers--a
towering brawny giant--as he seized me by the coat.

"Unhand me," I cried.  "What right have you
to interfere with a loyal subject, engaged on his lawful
occasions?"

"Hear tae him, Sandy," said my captor.  "He
talks like a mangy lawyer.  'Lawful occasions!'  We'll
see aboot that.  What are ye daein' here?"

Eager to satisfy the man, and in the hope that by
doing so I should be permitted to continue on my way,
I answered:

"I am a traveller on my way to Dumfries--I have
been caught in the storm, and sought shelter and
refreshment in this house"--and I tried to wrench
myself from his grasp.

"A gey thin tale.  Whit think ye, Sandy?  As
like as no' he's a Covenanter."  And Sandy grunted
"Umphm."

Again I tried to shake myself free--but the giant flung
his arms about me, and lifting me up, struggle how I
might, as though I had been a child he carried me back
into the kitchen and thrust me roughly on a chair.

The woman of the house looked on open-eyed.

"Whit ken ye o' this man?" said the trooper,
turning towards her, but all the while keeping a firm
hold of me.

"Naething mair than yersel," she answered.  "He
cam' tae the door a bittock syne, and asked for something
tae eat--and he peyed his lawin' like a gentleman."

"Umphm," growled my tormentor; and Sandy
standing beside him answered "Umphm."

"Bring us something tae drink, Mirren, Solway
waters if ye hae them.  We're fair drookit," said my
captor.  "As for you," he said, tightening his grip
on my arm, "we'll ha'e to look into your case.
Sandy--fetch a tow."

Sandy followed the woman into another room, and
in a moment returned with a rope in his hand.

"What does this mean?" I shouted.  "You have
no right to interfere with me--and when I reach
Moffat I shall lodge a complaint with the Officer
Commanding."

"Shut yer jaw," bellowed the giant, and shook his
fist at me.

I sprang up--my clenched left fist smashed into his
face, and the blood streamed from him--but still he
held me.

Sandy sprang to his aid, and though I struggled like
one possessed I was quickly overpowered, flung
roughly on the chair and bound there.  The rope that
surrounded me, and held my arms close to my sides,
was drawn so tightly that I could hardly breathe.
They ran it round the back of the chair and under the
legs shackling each ankle.  I was helpless.  As he
bound me the giant cursed me soundly, pausing only
to spit blood from his foul mouth.

"Ye blasted hound!  Ye're no' what ye pretend.
We'll mak' ye talk in a wee.  Eh, Sandy?"  And
Sandy, binding my ankles, answered "Umphm."

When I was tied securely they stood away from me
and surveyed their handiwork.

"Umphm," said Sandy--as he poured out a glass of
Solway waters from the bottle which the woman had
brought, and raised it to his lips.  The two sat down
by the fire--the bottle between them--and for a time
turned all their attention to its contents.  I tried to
move--=but I was gripped as in a vice.  I was in sore
case.  I cared not what happened to myself, but there
was my message.  I alone could prevent the massacre
on the morrow, and now the proud hope I had
cherished of doing service to the Covenant was brought
to naught.  Was there a God in heaven, that such
things could be?  I was not left long to my thoughts.

Suddenly the giant rose, and standing over me
glowered into my eyes as he shouted:

"Are ye a Covenanter?"

Temptation assailed me.  If I denied the Covenant,
I could with a firmer claim demand to be set
free--and then I might yet carry my message through.
"No" was upon my lips--but it died unspoken there.
I heard the notes of a flute on a heather-clad hill-side:
saw again a heap of smouldering ashes where a home
of love had been.  I could not deny the Covenant.

Firmly I answered "I am"--and in the gathering
shadows I saw the radiant face of Mary smiling upon
me--as she blew me a kiss with either hand.

"Umphm," said Sandy, "I thocht as muckle."

"So ye're a Covenanter, are ye?" roared the giant.
"I'll learn ye!  Wull ye say 'God save the King?'"

"God save the King," I answered promptly.  "I
am a loyal subject and a Covenanter."

"Ye lie," he shouted.  "The Covenanters are a'
rebels.  Wull ye tak' the Test?"

In the cave at the Linn I had heard Hector repeat
the involved sentences of the Test with scorn upon
his lips, and I knew that this half-drunken trooper
could not possibly find his way through them; so I
answered:

"If you can put the Test to me you shall have my
answer."

Sandy--with the bottle in his hand--looked over
his shoulder and laughed softly.  The giant turned
upon him.  "Whit the deevil are ye lauchin' at"--and
then turning to me, "I'm nae scholar--and I
canna min' the words, but if I canna pit the Test to
you I can pit you tae the test--and by heaven I will."  A
look of fiendish cruelty swept over his hard face.

"Try him wi' the match," said Sandy.

"Ay--that'll test him."

While Sandy busied himself about my fastenings
to free my left arm for the ordeal, the other trooper was
trying to make the long match he had unwound from
his head-gear take light.  It was damp and would not
burn.  I watched in a strange state of abstraction.
Only a few minutes ago the vision of Mary had smiled
upon me.  Pain and torture were nothing to me now.
Let them do their worst!

"It winna burn: it's wat," said the giant.  Throwing
the match on the floor, he gripped my left arm
savagely and pushed back the sleeve of my coat.

"Rax me a live peat," he said, and Sandy picked
one up with the tongs and handed it to him.  He
seized the tongs, and held the peat against my arm
just above the wrist where the blue veins showed.
"That'll mak' ye talk, ye dog," he shouted.  But no
word escaped my lips.  My eyes sought the
distance--and there I saw the face of Mary--twin tears upon
her eyelids.  The pain was swallowed up by the joy.

"He's a dour deevil," growled Sandy.

"Ay: but we'll ha'e him yelling for mercy yet.
The peat's gaen cauld.  Gar it lowe, Sandy."

Sandy bent his head and blew upon the peat.  It
began to glow again--but I did not flinch.

"Rax me anither," said my tormentor, letting the
first fall and relaxing his grip of my arm.  For a
moment he turned to watch his companion pick up
another glowing peat--and in that moment I eased the
ropes about my right arm with my left hand.  They
slipped upwards and my right arm was free.

My tormentors did not observe it when they came
to me again and applied the torture to my left arm
once more.

Again Sandy lowered his head to blow upon the peat--and
in that instant my right arm shot out like a
steel spring, my fist crashed into his jaw and he fell in
a heap, knocking the legs from under the giant, who
fell heavily upon him.

"Ye clumsy lout!" he cried, as he rose in drunken
fury, and as Sandy lay motionless he kicked him
savagely with his heavy boots in the chest.

The kitchen door opened softly, and for a moment I
caught a glimpse of the woman's frightened face: then
she withdrew.

"Get up--I tell ye," roared the giant, kicking the
recumbent figure again.

My blow could have caused him only temporary
damage--but this savagery of the giant would kill him.

My eyes were on Sandy.  His pallid face grew ashen:
his chest was raised from the ground in a curve like
a bow as he took a convulsive breath: blood and froth
bubbled at his lips--and he lay still, his ashen pallor
deepening.

Fear seized the giant.  He dropped on his knees
beside the body.  "Get up, Sandy my lammie"--he
said, drunken tears falling down his cheeks.  "Ye're
no' deid.  Ye'll be a' richt in a meenute.  Get up,
lad.  Say ye're no' deid."

But Sandy lay motionless.

"You have killed him," I said.

"You lie," roared the trooper, springing to his feet
and facing me.  "You did it--an' ye'll pey for 't."

He seized me by the throat, and readjusted my
fastenings--binding me cruelly tight.  Then he took a
long draught from the bottle, and sat down.  I
watched him as he took a knife from his pocket, and
ran his thumb along its edge.

"I'll bluid him like a sheep," he muttered, as he
bent down and tried to sharpen the blade on the
hearth-stone.

I knew I could expect no mercy from this frenzied,
half-drunken brute.

A prayer stole up from my heart--not for mercy,
but for the safety of the hill-folks on the morrow, and
for the pardon of my own sins.  Only a shriven soul
could hope to be reunited with my beloved:--please
God, Mary would be waiting for me on the other side.

The trooper rose and came towards me.

"I'll bluid ye like a sheep," he snarled, and seizing
me by the hair swung my head over to one side.

Death stared me in the face, and, let me set it down
for the comfort of those who live in daily terror of
death, at that moment I felt no fear.

"Like a sheep," he mumbled--and swung his arm
back for the blow; but at that instant he crashed
forward carrying me before him, and his open knife
clattered on the floor.

"Thank God--oh, thank God," whispered a
woman's voice, as she drew me, still bound to the chair,
from under the heavy body of the giant.  In a trice she
had cut my bonds--and was chafing my numbed limbs.

"Ha'e I killed him?" she asked anxiously.

I looked at the giant.  He was breathing heavily--and
a long gash on the back of his head was spurting
jets of blood.

"No," I said--"only stunned him.  I owe my life
to you."

"Ay.  Tae me an' the tatie-beetle," she answered,
pointing to her weapon on the floor.  "But haste ye.
Tie him up afore he comes tae."

I bound him, hands and feet, with a grim satisfaction,
and left him lying on his face.

The woman watched me anxiously, urging me to
greater haste.

"And now," I said--"what of you?  You must escape."

"Oh, I'll be a' richt," she said, leading the way to
the other room.  "My man will be back in an 'oor.
Tie me in a chair--and gag me: and I'll tell a bonnie
story when Peter comes hame."

I did her bidding quickly, pouring out my gratitude
with fervent lips.

As I was about to gag her with her kerchief, she
forbade me for a moment, and said with tears in her eyes:

"God forgi'e me!  My mither was a Covenanter--an'--I
mairrit a trooper."

I bent down reverently and kissed her bound hands.

"You have done a greater service to the Covenant
than you know," I said, then springing up I dashed
from the house into the gathering darkness.

I had lost two precious hours--but by the mercy
of God I was still alive, and I should carry my message
through.

I raced down the slope to the road, and turned my
face to the long ascent.  The wind had abated, and
I could make better progress.  The cold air stung my
burnt arm, but as I set my mind to my task the pain
ceased to trouble me.

With hope still rising within me I struggled
on--breaking into a steady, mechanical trot.  As the
woman had said, the road was very bad, but, after
my strange deliverance from death, nothing could
daunt me, and I fought my way on.  The stars were
looking down upon me now, and I looked up at them
with a grateful heart.  At last I reached the top of
the hill, and the long descent lay before me.  I
paused for a moment to regain my breath, and saw
far below me that tender light which always hangs in
the sky, when night comes, above the habitations of
men, and I knew that I was looking down on Moffat.
As though the light were a beacon which beckoned
me, I started to run down-hill.

My stiff limbs warmed to their work and soon I was
running with some freedom.  On and on ... splashing
through the pools of water that lay in the path, with
eyes strained ever towards the gleam in the sky; on,
and on ... with clenched teeth and parted lips
through which my hurrying breath issued with the
poignant sound of a sob.  On, and on ... the rhythmic
sound of my footsteps throbbing through my brain.
Faster now, for the light was drawing nearer; on, and
on ... till just without the confines of the little
town I turned to the right lest the sound of my racing
feet should awake suspicion.  Skirting the township
cautiously, I came out upon the road again beyond it.

On, and on ... fear and desire lending speed to
my feet; and behind me the town clock striking ten.
God help me!--a score of miles still lay before me;
had I strength to accomplish the task?  The
perspiration broke out upon me, and for very weariness I
reeled as I ran.  At last I came to the place where I
must leave the highway and take to the open country.
It was harder going thus, but the way was more direct
and every moment was precious.  On, and on ... until
my mind divorced itself from my body, and in
a mood of abstraction contemplated the running
figure alongside which it sailed so easily.  On, and on
... the mind holding itself aloof and regarding with
a kind of pity the struggles of the tired body that was
plunging headlong across the fields.  Suddenly I was
conscious that something other than myself was
running along beside me ...  keeping step with my
step, measuring its paces with my paces, neck and
neck with me.  What ghostly companion was this?
I looked to the right and left but saw nothing, and,
as I looked, the sound of the attendant footsteps
ceased and I heard nothing but the tick-tack of my
own feet.  On, and on ... crashing through the
hedges, leaping over the low dykes, stumbling in the
ruts of the ploughed fields, wading the little streams,
... still I pressed on.  I was panting wildly now,
so that my breath whistled as the wind whistles
through a keyhole in winter.  Nothing mattered:
come life, come death, I should carry the tidings
through.  Once more the ghostly feet were audible,
keeping time with my own--pit-pat, pit-pat, step
for step.  I flung my arms to right and left, but they
touched vacancy, and the ghostly footsteps ceased.
On, and on, ... until a heavy languor stole over
me and filled me with the hunger of sleep.  My eyelids
drooped, so that for an instant I did not see the ground
before me, and I stumbled and almost fell.  I sprang
erect and shook myself.  Sleep meant death--not
for myself, but for thousands of others who had grown
to be dear to me, and on and on I ran.  But the
things that a man would do are conditioned by the
strength which God has given him, and the body,
though an obedient slave to the mind, sometimes
becomes a tyrant.  My limbs were heavy--no longer
things of flesh and blood, but compact of lead.  On,
and on ... knowing nothing now but that my task
was a sacred one, deaf to the sound of my own
footsteps, blind to the things around me, on and on I
reeled till sleep or something akin to it, seized me,
and for a time I raced on unconscious of what I did.
Stumbling, I fell to spring up again wildly alert.  I
should win through or die!  On and on--and on and
on ... till I sank helpless to the ground.

I slept: I dreamed:--

It was a peaceful Sabbath day.  In a hollow
among the hills above Closeburn a great gathering of
men and women and children was assembled to keep
the feast.  On a low table covered with a fair white
cloth stood the sacred elements.  Behind the table I
saw my friend of the cave at the Linn standing with
a look of rapture on his face.  The gathered people
were singing a psalm, when, suddenly, there was a
loud alarm.  The posted sentinels came hot-foot
with cruel tidings on their lips.  But it was too late.
From north and south and east and west, on horses
at the gallop, poured the dragoons--Claver'se's men,
Lag's men, Winram's men, Dalzell's men, all with
the blood-lust in their eyes--and in a moment that
peaceful hollow was a bloody shambles.  Muskets
rattled on every side; men, women and children fell.
Through and through that defenceless company the
wild troopers rode, spurring their horses to their
sickening task, trampling the women and children
underfoot, shooting the men with their bullets or
beating them down with the stocks of their muskets.
Screams and wild blasphemy rent the air that but
a moment before had been fragrant with the melodies
of love and adoration.  Lag himself I saw spur his
charger over a tangled mass of dead and dying right
at the sacred table.  The horse leaped, spurning to the
ground the Bread and Wine, and the man of blood,
swinging his sword high, brought it down upon the
head of the sainted minister, who fell cleft to the chin.
And I, by whose failure such deeds of blood had been
made possible, lay bound, a prisoner, hand and foot.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"OUT OF THE SNARE OF THE FOWLERS"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   "OUT OF THE SNARE OF THE FOWLERS"

.. vspace:: 2

A blaze of light as though the sun had sprung full
armoured to the height of heaven smote upon my
eyes.  I opened them, but in that brilliant glare I
could see nothing, though I heard voices about me:

"Wha' think ye he can be?"

"He hasna got a kent face," a woman's voice
replied.  "Some puir gangrel body nae doot.  But
what can he be daein' off the high road?"

I let the light filter through a chink between my
eyelids, and when I could bear its full brightness I
opened them and looked around me.  A little group
of five people bent over me--an old man, holding a
lantern, an old woman, and three young men whom
I took to be their sons.

As I looked round there came to me out of the
depths some memory of the happenings of the night.
I wondered dimly if the tragedy of which I had been
witness were reality, or dream.  Who could these
people be?  Were they some chance Samaritans who
had come upon me bound hand and foot, and
delivered me from the hands of the persecutors?  As
I wondered I heard the old woman say to her husband:

"Think ye he can be a hill-man? sic another as we
found in the laigh field after Rullion Green."

Hill-man! hill-man! the words burned themselves
into my torpid brain.  I gathered all my strength,
and raising myself so suddenly that they fell away
from me startled, I cried, "For the love of God, tell
me, are you hill-folks?"

"What o' that, what o' that?" asked the old man
cautiously.

Then I threw discretion to the winds.  "Tell me,"
I cried, my voice breaking, "are you hill-men, for I
bring tidings that will brook no delay."

They gathered round me again and looked at me
with anxious eyes.

"Got wi' it, lad," cried the old man, almost as
excited as myself, and with what speed I could I told
them all.  Breathlessly they listened.  "God in
heaven, save us," groaned the old man as I finished,
and then, turning to his sons he cried: "Boys, it's
yours to carry the message through.  Awa' wi' ye!
Post men at the cross-roads, scatter the news far and
wide, and the Cause may yet be saved."

Like hounds from the leash the lads sprang away
into the darkness.  With failing sight I saw them go,
then I sank back again wearily and knew no more.

Long afterwards I was conscious in a dim kind of
way of being lifted from the ground and borne gently
over what seemed to be an interminable distance;
but I was too drowsy and fatigued to care what was
happening to me.  When I opened my eyes I found
myself lying on a soft bed in a small farm kitchen.
A glowing fire was on the hearth and its pleasant
warmth pervaded the room.  The good man of the
house brought me a drink of something hot, which
put new life in my veins and I was my own man again.

I would fain have talked to my rescuers, but they
forbade me, and I sank once more into a drowse, but
ere I slept I heard, as I had heard so often in the old
house at Daldowie, the good man opening the Book
and saying, "Let us worship God by singing to His
praise a part of the 124th Psalm."

I slept deeply, and when I awoke it was late in
the Sabbath afternoon.  When they heard me stir
the kindly folk showed themselves assiduous in those
little courtesies which mean so much to a weary
man.  When I essayed to rise the old man was at
my bedside to lend me aid, and when I had risen he
brought me water wherewith to wash myself.  The
cool liquid took the stains of travel from my face
and hands, and at the same time purged me of
weariness.  On my left arm, where the torture had
been applied, was an ugly red sore all blisters at its
edges.  I looked at it with a kind of pride.  It was
the brand of the Covenant upon me.  The old man
bound it with a buttered cloth, to my great comfort.

The blind was drawn down over the window so
that the light within was restful.  I took my seat
upon the settle and the farmer's wife spread a meal
before me, and as I ate they questioned me.  From
them I gathered that when they came upon me lying
in a stupor in the fields, they were themselves upon
their way to the hill-meeting.  They had some ten
miles to travel, and as they had to measure their
speed by the speed of the good-wife, they had set
out soon after midnight.  I asked anxiously whether
they had news of what had taken place, and whether
their sons had succeeded in spreading the alarm
sufficiently widely to prevent the Covenanters
assembling.  To this the old man replied:

"I dinna ken for certain, but ye may tak' it frae
me that the troopers found naething but an empty
nest.  We'll be hearin' later on, for the lads will be
back ere long."  He stirred the peats with a stick,
and continued: "Man, it's wonderfu', wonderfu';
a' foreordained.  If I were a meenister what a graun'
sermon I could mak' o't!"

By and by night fell.  The good-wife lighted the
candles, and when another hour had elapsed the three
lads returned.  There was joy on their faces; and
there was joy in every heart in that little house when
they told us how their mission had sped.  With the
help of many others they had spread a warning so far
afield that no Covenanter came within a mile of the
assembly place.  Then they told us how, when their
task was fulfilled, they had watched unseen the
cavalcades of the dragoons invading from every point
of the compass the quiet sanctuary among the hills.
And they told too, with some glee, of the wrath of
the soldiery when after riding like hell-hounds full
tilt from every side they plunged into the hollow only
to find that their prey had escaped them.

Early next morning I arose, and would have taken
my departure, but the good man forbade me.

"If ye maun go, ye maun," he said, "but it
will be kittle work travellin' by day.  The dragoons
are like to be sair upset after the botchery o' yesterday
and nae doot they'll be scourin' the country lusting
for bluid.  So, ye'd better bide here till nicht comes
and the hawks are a' sleepin', and ye'll win through
to yer journey's end in safety."

His words were wise, and, though I knew that my
continued absence might cause Mr. Corsane anxiety,
I decided to take his advice.  When the night fell
and the moment of farewell came, the old man took
me by the hand:

"God keep ye," he said.  "Ye ha'e done a great
thing for the Covenant.  Years hence, when these
troublous days are a' by, the story will be told roond
mony a fireside o' the great race ye ran and the
deliverance ye brocht to the persecuted."

With the sound of kindly blessings following me
through the darkness, I set out and, long ere the
dawn, was safely concealed once more in the cave
above the Linn.

Mr. Corsane gave me a hearty welcome.  I assured
him that I had delivered his message in good time,
and then told him of all the events which had followed.
My story filled him with astonishment.  He himself
had been warned by Covenanting sentries who
challenged him as he was stealing in the early dawn
towards the trysting-place, and he had returned to
the cave and waited in a tumult of anxiety.  But
little had he imagined that I had brought the news.

"I never doubted your loyalty," he said, "but
this deed of yours has thirled you to the Covenant
for ever," and he laid his hands upon my shoulders
and let them rest there for a little space.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PASSING OF ANDREW AND JEAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PASSING OF ANDREW AND JEAN

.. vspace:: 2

The land was in the iron grip of winter.  No longer
was there any work for me in the fields, so that I
was driven to spend nights and days in idleness.  For
a man to rest from his labours may be a pleasant thing
for one weary, whose heart is at ease; but my
inactivity of body served but to fan the embers of
my hopes, and I was tortured by lively flames of
hope which would flare up within me only to expire
vacuously choked by the cold ashes of reality.  Mary
was dead; my life was desolate!

On a morning in mid December I crawled out upon
the sandstone ledge above the pool.  The air was
crisp and dry, so that my breath issued from my
mouth like a cloud of smoke; and, as I breathed, the
chill of the atmosphere bit into my blood.  The sky
above me was blue, like a piece of polished and highly
tempered steel; and only a few irresolute beams of
sunlight filtered through the gaunt branches of the
trees on the heights above me.  The stream, where it
poured into the pool, was festooned with dependent
sword-points of ice; and the pool itself, except in the
centre where the slow-moving waters still refused the
fetters of winter, was shackled in ice.  A robin was
perched on a tree above me--his buckler the one spark
of warmth, his song the one note of cheer.

I had paced up and down the narrow ledge several
times when I heard the sound of footsteps.  In the
clear air they rang like iron upon iron.  Alert, I
listened to discover their direction.  They came from
down the stream.  Someone was making his way
along the course of the rivulet towards the pool.
Could it be a dragoon on a quest at a venture, or was
our retreat discovered?  Quickly I hurried round the
edge of the pool.  There was no time to slip into the
cave without discovery--the footsteps were too close
at hand.  A spear of ice, and a stout heart could
hold the defile below the pool through which the
intruder must pass before he could reach the cave.
If I held the gorge, the minister would have time to
make good his escape.  His life was of greater worth
than mine.

A glow pervaded me: the lust of combat was
upon me.  Life was sweet: but to die fighting was
to die a death worth while, and the poignard of ice
which I held in my hand was a man's weapon.  I
peeped into the defile: the further end was blocked
by the body of a man who, with face bent downward,
was choosing his footsteps with care.  It was no
soldier in the trappings of war--but a countryman.
The man raised his face and I could have shouted
for joy: it was Hector!  He saw me at once, and
waved a hand to me, and, hot with expectation, I
awaited his coming.  Soon he had squeezed his way
through, and stood beside me.  I offered my hand in
welcome, and as I did so remembered that it still
held my murderous weapon.  I dropped it on the
instant and it fell into the pool, its sharp end cutting
a star-like hole in the sheet of ice.  The packman
laughed as he took my hand.

"So, so," he said, "ye thocht I was a trooper.
A puir weapon yon!  Gi'e me 'Trusty,'" and he
struck the rocks with the head of his stick so that
they rang.  "And hoo is a' wi' ye?" he continued--"and
the meenister?"

I had no need to reply, for at that moment he
emerged from the cave.

Our first greetings over, we hustled the packman
into the cave.  We spread food before him, and as
he ate we plied him with questions.  One question
was burning in my heart: but I knew the answer,
and had not the courage to put it; and as the
minister was hungering for news, I gave place to him
and held my peace.

How fared the Cause in the west country, and
were the hill-men standing firm?  That was the
essence of his questioning.  And Hector, with eyes
glowing so that they shone like little lamps in the
darkness of his face, told him all.  The cruelties of
the persecutors had reached their zenith: but neither
shootings, nor still more hideous tortures threatened,
could break the proud spirit of the Covenanters.  As
he talked, Hector's voice thrilled until his last
triumphant words rang through the cave like a
challenge and a prophecy.

"Ay," he cried, "though the King's minions heap
horror upon horror till every hill in the South o'
Scotland is a heather-clad Golgotha, the men will
stand firm: and generations yet unborn will reap
the harvest o' their sacrifice."

He ceased, and so deep a silence fell upon us that
through the rock wall I could hear the splash of an
icicle as it fell into the pool.  The minister's bowed
head was in his hands.  Awe and reverence fettered my
tongue.  Then Hector spoke again.  He had taken his
pipe from his pocket, and was filling it with care.

"And noo," he said, turning to me, "I ha'e news
for you."  A question sprang to my lips, but before
I could shape a word Hector held up his hand.
"You maun ask nae questions till my tale is done.
You can talk yer fill by and by: but hear me in
silence first."  I nodded my head, and he began.

"You mind I tellt ye, before I left, that when I
went west I should try to fin' oot what happened at
Daldowie.  Weel, on the road to Wigtown, I held
away up into the hills, and by and by I cam' to the
auld place.  It stood there--what had been a bien
hoose and a happy home--a heap o' ruins, ae gable-end
pointin' an angry finger tae the sky.  I looked
amang the ruins, for I minded what you had seen
there; but I saw naething but ashes and charred
stanes, save that Nature, a wee mair kindly than
man is, had scattered a flooer or twa oot o' her lap
in the by-gaun and they were bloomin' bonnily there.
By and by I took the road again, and though I go
as far West as the rocks below Dunskey, where the
untamed waves hammer the cliffs like an angry
stallion, I gathered nane o' the news I was seekin'.
But on the hame-comin' I dropped into the Ship and
Anchor at Kirkcudbright, and as I sat ower a pot o'
yill I heard a couple o' troopers haein' high words.
What the quarrel was aboot I dinna ken, but it
ended by ane o' them springin' up and ganging oot o'
the door.  As he went, he half turned and said, wi' a
laugh: 'Ye deserve what the guid-wife o' Daldowie
gied Claver'se.'  Whereat the dragoon left behin' let
a roar o' laughter oot o' him and took a lang pull at
his yill.  When he set it doon he laughed again, and
I jaloused that his anger had passed.  So I drew oot
my pipe and tobacco, and I offered him a fill.  He
took the weed gledly, and then I drew in to his table
and asked him to ha'e a drink.  I ordered 'Solway
waters,' for I ken hoo they can lowse the tongue, and
when they cam' I clinked glasses wi' him, and by way
o' settin' suspicion to rest, I drank to the King.  Soon
I had him crackin' away merrily.  But I didna learn
muckle frae him till I had plied him wi' mair drink,
and then his tongue got the better o' his discretion.
Suddenly he said wi' a laugh, 'I deserve what the
guid-wife o' Daldowie gied to Claver'se, dae I?
We'll see aboot that, my lad!' and he laughed again.
I had got my opening.

"'That seems to be a guid joke,' I said.  'If it's
worth tellin' I should like to hear it.'

"'Oh,' he answered, 'it's a graun' joke; but for
guidsake dinna be lettin' on tae Claver'se I tellt ye.
It's a sair point wi' him.'

"Little by little I got the story frae him in
fragments mair or less disjointed.  But since then I've
put it thegither, and I'll tell it in my ain way.

"Ae morning last April Claver'se and his troopers
were oot on the moors a mile or twa to the west o'
Dairy, when they saw twa men comin' towards them.
Ane o' the men was chasin' the other up and doon
amang the moss-hags, and the troopers put spurs to
their horses and sune had them surrounded.  When
Claver'se looked at them he recognised in ane o'
them a young Covenanter wha' had escaped twa
nichts afore frae a barn near New Galloway where
he had been flung after a dose o' the thumbikins.
The other was a much aulder man.  The younger o'
the twa was clean demented: and they could get
nae sense oot o' him--juist a screed o' haivers
whenever they questioned him.  The auld man was as
dour as a rock--and would gie nae account o' himsel',
but it was enough that he had been seen chasin' the
daft lad on the moors, belike wi' the intention o'
concealin' him in some hidie hole.  Weel, Claver'se
was for shootin' the auld man oot o' hand if he
wouldna speak, and said as much; but a' the answer
he got was 'I'm ready, sir.  Ye can dae nae mair
than kill my body,' and he took off his bonnet and
looked undaunted up at the sky.  Weel, just then
ane o' the troopers drew up alangside Claver'se and
spoke to him.  He had recognised the man as Andrew
Paterson o' Daldowie, and tellt Claver'se as much.
'O, ho!' said Claver'se, 'the old fox!  So this is
the guid-man o' Daldowie.  I think we had better
tak' him hame to his ain burrow.  Maybe we'll find
other game there.'  So wi' that they tied Andrew
and the lad to the stirrup leathers o' twa troopers
and made for Daldowie--maybe ten miles awa.

"As they drew near to Daldowie they saw a woman
standin' in the doorway lookin' into the distance
under the shade o' her hand.  She dropped her hand,
and made a half turn, and then she saw them comin'.
Wi' that she rushed into the hoose and closed the
door: but nae doot she was watchin' through a
crack, for when they were near enough for her to
see that her guid-man was a prisoner, she cam' oot
again and stood waitin'.  When they drew up she
threw oot her airms, and like a mither that rins tae
keep her bairn frae danger, she ran towards her man,
callin', 'Andra!  Andra!'  But at a sign frae
Claver'se ane o' the dragoons turned his horse across
her path and kept her off.  Then Claver'se louped
frae his horse, and tellin' ane o' the dragoons to lay
hold on the woman, and calling half a dozen to follow
him, drew his sword and walked in at the open door.

"Inside they made an awfu' steer, pokin' here and
searchin' there, nosin' even into the meal barrel and
castin' the blankets off the beds after Claver'se
himsel' had driven his sword through and through
them.  Then ane o' the troopers spied a ladder in
the corner, and up he goes into the loft, and Claver'se
follows him.  Then they cam' doon again, Claver'se
leadin' and no' lookin' pleased like.  He stalked oot
o' the kitchen into the open air.  Juist then the daft
laddie let a screech oot o' him, and Claver'se flung
up his heid.  'What the devil is he yelling about?'
he cried.  'I'll stop his girning!' and wi' that he
shouted an order and twa sodgers ran forward and
cuttin' the thongs frae his wrists, dragged him tae
the wall o' the hoose.  They cast their hands off him,
but stood near enough to keep him frae runnin' away.
He looked at the dragoons wi' a simple look on his
face, and then his e'en wandered away to the blue
hills in the distance,--'From whence cometh mine
aid,' he said.  But he spoke nae mair, for, wi' a quick
'Make ready: present: fire!'  Claver'se let his
sword drop, the muskets crashed, and the boy fell
deid.  'A good riddance,' said Claver'se, spurning
the body with his foot.  'There's enough daft folk
in the world,' and he laughed.

"There was a sudden turmoil among the men, and
the soond o' a woman's voice.  The guid-wife was
strugglin' to free hersel', and as she did so she shouted,
'Inhuman deevils!  Is there nae milk o' mercy in
yer herts?  What has the puir lad done that ye
should murder him?'  But a word frae her husband
quieted her, 'Jean,' he said--that was a'; but
she stood quite still and struggled nae mair, though
the tears streamed doon her face.  Then Claver'se
made a sign and Andra was unbound and led before
him, and at the same time the troopers let go their
hold o' the woman and she cam' and stood beside
her man.  'Daldowie,' says Claver'se, 'you have
long been suspected of consorting with and harbouring
the hill-men.  I have caught you red-handed to-day
in the act of succouring one of them; and in your
house I have found proof that you have sheltered
fugitives from justice.  What have you to say for
yourself?'  Andra looked his judge straight in the
face.  'The facts are against me, sir; but I ha'e
dune naething for which my conscience rebukes me,
and I am ready to answer to God.'

"'More cant!  More cant!' roared Claver'se.
'You have to answer to me, the representative of the
King.  God only comes into the question later,' and
he laughed as though he had said a clever thing.
'Will ye tak' the Test?  Will ye swear allegiance to
the King?'"

"'Time was,' said Andra, 'that I would gladly
ha'e sworn fealty to the King in things temporal; but
in things spiritual I am answerable to a Higher than
ony Stuart.  I was a loyal subject, like a' the
hill-folk, till the Stuarts broke their ain pledged word:
and ye canna' expect a Scot, least o' a' a Galloway
man, tae turn aboot like a weather-cock, when it
pleases the King to turn.'

"'Damnable treason,' shouts Claver'se.  'Don't
you know that the King is above the law, and reigns
by Divine Right?'

"Andra shook his head, but his wife answered:
'Ay, so the Stuarts say, but they waited till they got
to England before they blew that bubble.  Weel they
kent there were ower mony jaggy thistles in Scotland
for that bag o' win' tae last long this side o' the
border.'

"'Woman,' says Claver'se, angrily, 'be silent,'
and turning to Andra he said: 'You know you have
forfeited your life: many a man has died for less;
but I would not be hard on you.  Will you be done
with the Covenanters?  Say the word and you are
free.  Refuse'--and he waved his hand towards the
body o' the lad.  Andra followed the gesture wi' his
e'en.  Then he looked at Claver'se again--wi' nae
sign o' fear on his face.  'You ken my answer, sir, I
canna.'  And as Claver'se turned angrily away the
guid-wife threw her airms aboot her husband's neck
and sobbed, 'Oh, Andra, my ain brave man!'  The
dragoons had loosened their hold o' him, and he put
his airms aboot her, and patted her heid.  'Dinna
greet, lassie,' he murmured, 'dinna greet.  Death is
naething: only a doorway that lets us ben the
Maister's hoose.  I'll wait for ye yonder; the pairtin'
will no be lang.'

"Claver'se had turned to the dragoons and was
rapidly gi'eing them orders.  Twa sodgers laid hold
on the woman and tried to drag her awa' frae her
man, but wi' her face buried on his shoulder she clung
to him sobbing.  Wi' his ain hands he took her airms
frae his neck, and haudin' her face between his
palms, kissed her.  'My ain Jean,' he said, 'God keep
you.  You ha'e been a guid wife tae me,' and kissing
her again he left her and took his place by the wall
o' the hoose.  The firing party was ready.  Claver'se
half raised his sword to gi'e the signal; then he
checked himsel' and turned to Andra.

"'An' you will,' he said, 'you may have five
minutes to make your peace with your Maker.'

"'I thank you,' replied Andra, 'but that's settled
lang syne.'  Claver'se's blade rose sharply in the air.
'Ready,' he shouted--and the sword fell, and as its
point struck the ground, Andra Paterson o' Daldowie
passed ower unafraid.

"The smoke had no' had time to blaw frae the
muzzles o' the muskets ere Jean had broken frae her
captors, and flung hersel' on her knees beside the
body o' her man.  She raised his heid and held it in
her lap: and bendin' ower kissed his face.  'Andra,'
she cried, 'Andra--my ain bonnie man!  Waken,
Andra! waken! and speak to me.  Andra!  Andra!
Canna ye hear me?  It's me--Jean, yer ain wee lass:
ye mind, Andra, ca'in' me that lang syne afore
Dauvit was born.  Andra, speak to me!  Juist ae
wee word, Andra!'  She paused, and stared wildly
at the upturned face.  Then bursting into tears she
sobbed, 'Oh, Andra, my ain dear man, the faither
o' my bairns, they ha'e killed ye.'  As the tears
streamed doon her cheeks she took her kerchief frae
her neck and spread it ower his face.  Then lovingly
and tenderly she laid his heid doon and spreadin' her
open hands abune it said, 'Ane o' the elect noo.'

"Then she rose tae her feet.  As she did so she
noticed the body o' the lad, and wringing her hands
knelt doon beside it.  'Puir wee laddie,' she said.
'God comfort your mither, wherever she may be,'
and she bent ower and kissed his broo.  Then
springing up she faced Claver'se and the dragoons.
He was pacing up and doon restlessly, sword in hand.
Clenching her fists she shook them angrily at him.
'May God in heaven pey ye for this day's wark.
Inhuman fiends!  Are ye men born o' women--or
spawn o' the de'il?' and leaping forward sae suddenly
that Claver'se hadna time to throw himsel' on guard,
she seized his sword and wrenched it frae his grip
afore he knew that she was on him.  She swung up
the blade, and brocht it wi' a crash upon his heid.
It was sic a blow as would ha'e cleft him to the
chin, if she had had skill wi' the weapon.  But it
turned in her haun' so that she struck him wi' the
flat o't, and he fell senseless to the ground.  And then
she turned on the troopers--ae woman against twenty
armed men--striking richt and left, stabbing, lunging,
and thrusting till she had scattered the hale troop,
aghast at her onslaught, and the mischief she had
dune their leader.  But her triumph was short.  Four
o' the troopers plunged their spurs into their horses
and rode her down, and as she lay stunned ane o'
the troopers dismounting put his musket to her heid
and fired."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FALSE HOPES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   FALSE HOPES

.. vspace:: 2

The tears were streaming down my cheeks.

I could contain myself no longer.  "Then, Mary
is alive," I cried.  "Thank God! thank God!"

The packman raised a warning hand, and in a
steady voice which, to my fevered ears, sounded
harsh and cold, said: "Haud yer wheesht till I
feenish the story."  And with the sudden hope that
had sprung up in my breast quenched like a watered
flame, I knitted my hands together and waited.

"Weel," he went on, "after they had murdered
the guid-wife, the troopers gathered roond Claver'se
anxious-like, for he looked deidly.  But when they
had sprinkled water on his face, he began to come
tae himsel'.  By and by he opened his e'en and looked
aboot him dazed like.

"'What has happened?' he said; then, memory
coming back, he cried: 'Whaur the devil is the old
hell-cat?  Blow her brains out.'  The sergeant
saluted and said, 'Your orders ha'e already been
carried out, sir.'  Wi' that Claver'se pulled himsel'
thegither and sat up.  But he was a' o' a dither.
He couldna staun' by his lane, but there was enough
o' the de'il left in him to gi'e orders to set the steadin'
on fire and burn it to the ground.  When the place
was a' in a blaze and the roof had fallen in, he sent
off others to round up the cattle and the sheep and
drive them to Kirkcudbright.

"'Nothing like making a clean job o't,' he said.
Then wi' the help o' the sergeant he mounted his
horse, but his heid went licht again and he couldna
sit in the saddle.  So there was naething for it but to
cairry him back to heidquarters.  The sergeant and
maybe a dozen dragoons were left behind to see that
the fire didna gang oot till the bodies were
completely destroyed.  The rest set oot for heidquarters,
taking it in turns to cairry Claver'se on a stretcher
they had knocked thegither, while others drove the
cattle behin'.

"That is the story," said Hector, "as the trooper
telled it to me.  Though my heart was heavy, I
forced up the ghost o' a laugh when he had feenished
and said, 'So that was what the guid-wife o' Daldowie
did to Claver'se.  Weel, weel, a bonnie tale!'  Then
I plied him wi' mair drink, for there was something
else I wanted to ken, aboot which he had said naething.
And when he had primed his pipe aince mair I said
switherin'-like, as though I were tryin' to mind
something: 'Let me see.  I think in my traivels I
ha'e visited Daldowie.  If I'm no wrang I aince sold
a ribbon to a bonnie lass there, wha I took for the
dochter.  Did ye see onything o' her when ye were
up by?'  The trooper shook his heid.

"'No,' he said, 'I saw naething o' ony bonnie lass,
and it was as weel for her, for in the mood that
Claver'se was in he would ha'e made short work o'
her tae.  Are ye sure ye're no' mistaken?' he asked.

"'No, no,' I said, 'I'm no mistaken.  If I min'
richtly the lassie's name was Mary.'

"'Weel,' he replied, 'I saw naething o' her while I
was at Daldowie.  But I'm thinkin' that if she
happened to be hidin' onywhere aboot she wad be
discovered by the sergeant and the men that were left
behin', and mair than likely they'd mak' a clean
job by feenishing her tae.  Hooever,' he said, 'if it'll
be ony satisfaction to ye, I'll speir at ane o' the men
wha' was left behin' wi' the sergeant.  And if ye're
here the morn, at this time, it will gi'e me pleasure
tae drink the health o' the King wi' ye again and
I'll then be able to tell ye what ye want to ken.'

"Wi' that he rose, and I pressed anither truss o'
Virginia weed in his hand and promised to wait for
him in the inn the next day.  So off he went, but at
the door o' the parlour he turned and flung a kiss to
the servin'-maid wha was keekin' through the ither
door after him.  When I had had anither pipe, I
found a bield bit in a field, and, wi' my heid on my
pack, I settled myself to sleep.  I was in great hopes
o' hearin' mair when I met the trooper again: but
in the grey dawn I heard the soond o' horses coming
alang the road, and peepin' through the hedge I saw
Claver'se at the heid o' his dragoons makin' for the
hills.  The trooper I had cracked wi' was among
them.  That is the last I ever saw o' him, and as
they didna come back tae the toon that nicht, I
didna learn what he had to tell.  But I turned the
thing ower in my mind and said to mysel', 'Ane o'
twa things has happened--either Mary cam' back
and was ta'en by the troopers and martyred like her
father and mother, or she escaped and is somewhere
in hidin'.'  And I said to myself, 'Hector, if the
lassie's leevin', it's for you to find her.'  So I shouldered
my pack and set oot for the west again.  I wandered
frae hoose to hoose, frae cottage to cottage, frae
clachan to clachan, aye wi' the ae quest in my mind,
aye wi' the same question on my lips, and keepin'
my ears wide open to hear some whisper if I could
o' bonnie Mary Paterson.

"I went west as far as the sea.  On my road back
again I passed here and there and everywhere.  But
frae Portpatrick to the brig end o' Dumfries I saw
neither sign nor heard a word o' her."

He ceased, and a silence fell upon us, so heavy
that our hearts were crushed and not one of us dared
speak.  At last I rose, and crept out of the cave.
I stood on the ledge above the frozen pool and felt
the ice gather about my heart.  Was Mary dead or
not?  This awful uncertainty was harder to bear
than the knowledge I had believed was mine.  I
slipped my hand into the pocket over my heart and
drew from it the fragment of her ring.  It lay
glistening faintly in the light in my open hand, and
then I could not see it for my tears.  Mary was dead!
I sat down and buried my face in my hands.  My
soul was in the depths.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`I SEEK A FLOWER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XL


.. class:: center medium bold

   I SEEK A FLOWER

.. vspace:: 2

Many a time in the weeks that followed I pondered
over Hector's story.  Andrew--dour, stout-hearted,
and faithful--and Jean--shrewd, loving, and
whimsical--had borne themselves valiantly in the hour of
doom, and the darkness of the tragedy was illumined
by the thought of their high heroism.  My sorrow
was flushed with pride, though the pride was akin to
tears; but ever in my mind there was a torturing
doubt.  Reason urged me to believe that Mary was
dead.  But love, and desire which is the child of
love, bade me hope on.

More than once I laid bare my heart to the minister,
and from his wise words I gained much solace; but,
though he would not say so, I knew that in his heart
he believed that Mary had fallen into the hands of
the troopers and been done to death like her father
and mother.

A day came when I could bear the suspense no
longer.  Inaction served only to increase my torture
of mind.  I must seek Mary myself.

I told my companions what I purposed.  With one
voice they tried to dissuade me.  They pointed out
that such an enterprise was beset with hazard and
might lead to death.  Little did they know that
death had no terrors for such a love as mine, and that
I would have counted it a pleasant thing when weighed
against the unquenchable torment that burned in my
breast.  So I beat down all their objections until,
convinced that I was set in my purpose, they ceased
to oppose me and planned means whereby I might
the better carry out my quest.  It was from Hector
that the most useful suggestion came.

"Ye micht," he said, "gang through the country
as a packman, but frae what I mind o' your puir
success at New Abbey, you wouldna fill the pairt."  His
eyes twinkled.  "Besides," he continued, "I feel
that I ha'e a proprietary richt to ony customers
there are to be had in Galloway, and you micht be
interferin' wi' my business--an affront I couldna weel
thole.  Better pose as a puir gangrel body, wounded,
if ye like, in the wars.  Yer game leg is evidence
eneuch o' that, and when ye come to a toon or a wee
bit clachan, ye can aye turn an honest penny by
singin' a sang.  I mind ye tellin' me Mary was a
bonnie singer.  Belike ye min' some o' the songs she
sang--dootless weel-kent auld Scots sangs.  If she
were to hear ye singin' ane or ither o' them, mair
than likely, oot o' curiosity, she would come oot to
see wha it was that was singin' ane o' her ain sangs.
If ye keep yer e'en open as weel as yer ears, wha
kens but what ye may find her.  Besides, the disguise
o' a puir gangrel body is hardly likely to be seen
through by ony dragoons ye may come across, for
ye can aye, if ye like, if ye imagine there are troopers
aboot, sing a King's song, sic as 'Awa, Whigs, awa!'
and they'll never suspect ye o' bein' a Covenanter.
And dinna forget this; if ye ever want word o' Hector
the packman, ask at Phemie McBride's.  She'll no
hae forgotten ye, and she'll aye be able to tell ye
where ye'll find me.  If ye will gang, gang ye must;
but ae last word o' advice I would gi'e ye--dinna
be runnin' yersel' into needless danger and aye
remember that a guid ash stick laid on tae the heid
o' a trooper will mony a time thwart an evil deed
devised in his black he'rt.  There's nae ither man
I would dae it for, but I'm makin' ye a present o'
'Trusty,'" and he pressed his own stick into my hand.

So, just as the darkness had closed in, one January
night I set out.  Hector and the minister
accompanied me to the edge of the wood and, with many
good wishes and the blessing of the saintly man still
ringing in my ears, I took the road.  Before morning
broke I was close to Lincluden Abbey, and, under
the shelter of its hoary walls, I lay down and rested
for a while.  I slept till the late afternoon and,
having refreshed myself with food, which I procured
from a cottage near, I took the road again in the
twilight and, avoiding the town of Dumfries that lay
on the other side of the river, I made for the heart of
Galloway.

Day after day I wandered--hither and thither--not
blindly, but of set purpose.  Sometimes I travelled
upon the high road, and at other times I would leave
it and take to the less frequented by-paths in order
that no little sequestered cottage might escape me.
Here, there and everywhere I sought--one day close
down by the sea, the next far back in the solitary
places of the hills, questing--questing--questing--but
ever without avail.  Sometimes, when in a village
street I would essay to sing one of the sweet old
songs which I had heard so often fall golden from the
lips of her I loved, memories of happier days would
surge over me, and for very pain my voice would
falter and I would cease to sing.

And though, over and over again, the sound of my
singing would bring women, old and young, to the
open doors of their cottages, my hungering eyes never
caught a sight of that face for which they longed.
Sometimes a girl, standing in the doorway, pitying
my poor attempt at melody, would join her voice
to mine and lend to my singing a beauty that it
lacked; but though my ears were ever alert for the
lute-like voice of Mary, they were never gladdened
by the sound for which they ached.

And once on a day I stood blinded by tears beside
the ruins of Daldowie.

Day followed day, and still I wandered on.  Week
after week found my quest still fruitless, and at last
I stood upon the confines of the land where the sea
expends its futile thunder upon the black rocks by
Corsewall point.  I had reached the uttermost limit
of the journey I had set myself, and my journey had
been in vain.  So, with a heavy heart, I turned,
crushing down the sudden desire that had risen
within me to make an end of it all by hurling myself
into the sea.  The temptation was sore upon me--for
life gaped empty before me--but something
within me shouted "Coward," and I crushed the
impulse down.

On my homeward way I made greater speed than
I had done upon my outgoing.  Still I searched, and
still my search was vain.  At last when April had
come with laughter and tears and all her promise of
summer, I was within sight of Dumfries once more.

I had cause to remember Dumfries.  I knew that
within its gates danger might await me, but danger
had ceased to have any terrors for my stricken heart.
At the most, discovery could only mean death, and
death was preferable to a life without her whom I
loved.  When the town came within view I quickened
my steps and in the late afternoon I descended the
hill that led down to the bridge.  As I approached it
I was tempted to turn aside and seek the house of
Phemie McBride at once, for I remembered Hector's
parting words; but some impulse to stand again
upon the spot where Fate had descended upon me,
all bloody in the uniform of a Sergeant of Dragoons,
drove me onward.

When I reached the bridge I stepped into the little
alcove where aforetime my destiny had been so
strangely moulded, and leaning over looked down
upon the rushing stream.  My eyes followed the water
as it flowed into the distance.  Suddenly my gaze
was arrested by a crowd which I saw coming along
the Sands.  At such a distance I was unable to see
clearly, but I could make out mounted men and the
gleam from their trappings told me they were dragoons.
In their wake was a crowd, and as I watched I saw
it grow steadily.  Men and women and children
dashed out of the streets and alleys which opened on
to the Sands and joined the rabble behind the
troopers.  Discretion bade me have a care, but
curiosity impelled me and I crossed the bridge and
descended to the Sands.  Already a throng of folk
who had seen, in the distance, the approaching
company of troopers, had begun to assemble and I
mingled myself with them.  The soldiers were
advancing at a walking pace and from this and the
presence of the rabble at their heels I knew that they
had prisoners.  Ere long the sound of the horses'
hoofs was audible and rumour began to be busy
among the people around me.

"What's a' the steer?" asked a woman who had
just joined the crowd, her shawl slipping back from
her head on to her shoulders.  Her question was
addressed to the crowd, and out of it somebody made
answer.

"It's the troopers.  They say they've ta'en twa
Covenanters, a man and a woman, somewhere ayont
the Kingholm."

Steadily at a march the soldiers approached us.
With necks craned eagerly forward we tried to get a
glimpse of the prisoners.

"Wha are they?" asked a voice; but to this
there was no answer, for the cavalcade was almost
upon us.  Just as it came to the Port of Vennel the
officer turned in his saddle and rapped out a few
words of command.  The company divided into two,
the front half coming to a halt, and I saw that tied
to the stirrup leather of one of the troopers was a
man.  Wheeling to the right, without pause, the
second half of the company continued its march.
The crowd broke and ran across the intervening
space to catch a closer glimpse of the female prisoner.
Almost against my will I was carried on by the surge
of the people.  I could not see the woman's face, but
the sunlight fell upon her hair, and--God in heaven! it
was chestnut brown, and over her forehead, where
the light struck it, it shone like burnished gold.  My
heart shouted within me, but something--was it the
finger of God?--was laid upon my lips and they were
still.  Rudely flinging men and women aside, I
sprang forward that I might see the woman's face.
It was Mary in very deed--Mary, in the hands of the
persecutors, beautiful as a flower, pride in the poise
of her head, courage in her dauntless eyes.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE HANDS OF THE PERSECUTORS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XLI


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE HANDS OF THE PERSECUTORS

.. vspace:: 2

I reined in the impulse that seized me to spring
forward and attempt a rescue.  That way lay madness,
and the failure of all hope to effect my purpose.
If I adventured it I knew that I should be shot down
like a dog and that Mary would go to her fate
unsuccoured.  Wisdom lay in waiting to see how events
would shape themselves.  If, at the last, I found
that Mary was being taken to Christie's Mount to be
martyred on one of the gibbets there, then I should
not stand quietly by and see a merciless vengeance
wreak itself upon her.  If I could not rescue her, I
should die with her.

I mixed with the crowd again and was borne
onward as it surged up the Vennel.  In the press I
was thrust so near to Mary that, had I stretched out
my hand, I could have touched her, and though my
eyes sought her face and feasted upon it, I tore myself
away lest she should see me and in a moment of
recognition betray us both.  The cavalcade breasted
the hill up to the High Street and as we went the
crowd grew as every shop door added its unit.  Here
and there a high window was thrown open suddenly
and the head of a man or woman would appear, with
eyes downcast, to see what was going on in the street
below.  More than once I heard a word of pity fall
from unseen lips.

The company swung into the High Street.  Eager
new-comers thrust themselves forward and broke the
line of my vision so that it was difficult to keep Mary
in sight, but I watched for the aureole of gold set
among her chestnut hair, and seeing it my heart beat
high again.

By and by we came to the Tolbooth and the
cavalcade halted.  There was a loud knocking at the
door which, in a moment, was thrown wide open, and
two of the dragoons rode in with Mary between them.
Then the door was shut in our faces.  The crowd
hung uncertain for a little space, then it began to
disperse slowly till only a handful of curious idlers
was left gazing vacantly at the prison.  Of them I
was one, but though my body was idle my mind was
working at fever heat.  Mary was in the Tolbooth!
That meant, at the very least, that no immediate
travesty of justice was to be perpetrated upon her.
Perhaps, like the women at Wigtown, she would be
given a trial, and it might come to pass that she
would be found blameless and set free.

As though in answer to this thought the great
oaken door swung open again.  With eyes almost
starting from their sockets, I watched to see her come
forth.  But no; my hopes that had been soaring in
the sky crashed headlong to the earth.  The dragoons
that had led her in rode forth and the door closed
behind them.  The company formed up and set out
for its quarters and I was left gazing at the door as
though a spell were upon me.  Suddenly it flashed
upon me that to stand there with eyes riveted upon
the Tolbooth was to draw attention to myself; so I
turned slowly away and walked, as though I were a
casual wayfarer, down the High Street again.  By the
time I had reached the head of the Vennel my mind
was set.  Mary must be saved.  I should rescue her
or perish in the attempt.  A hive of schemes swarmed
in my brain, and my mind was perplexed and
divided.  Then I thought of Hector.  He, if anyone,
could aid me: but time was precious and where
could I find him?  Then I remembered Phemie
McBride, and quickening my pace I hurried down the
Vennel.  Near the Vennel Port a crowd was assembled
and when I came to the edge of it I found that my
way was blocked by the press of the people.  As I
stood waiting for a break through which to worm
myself, I overheard two boys talking together on its
outskirts:

"Ay, I'm tellin' ye, I ha'e juist seen a man shot."

"Get awa'!"

"Ay."

"Tell me aboot it."

"They stood him up on the Sands and six sodgers
stood afore him and took aim at his breist."

"Was he feart?"

"De'il a bit!"

"Get on."

"He never even trem'led.  But ane o' the young
sodgers was gey shaky.  Then the captain cried
'Fire' and they a' shot thegither.  The man gied
a kin' o' jump in the air and fell in a heap."

"Deid?"

"Ay, deid, but no quite, for ane o' his legs gied a
bit shake, and scraped the grun'.  Weel, the captain
took a lang pistol oot o' his belt a' covered wi' siller,
and bendin' doon pit it to his heid and fired."

"Behin' his lug?"

"Ay, behin' his lug."

"Eh, I wish I had been there!"

"Weel, never mind, ye'll come the morn wi' me."

"Whaur tae?"

"Tae the College pool and see them droonin' the woman."

"Are they gaun to droon a woman?"

"Ay, they are that."

"As shair as daith?"

"Ay, as shair as daith," and he drew a wet finger
across his dirty neck.

"Hoo will they droon her?"

"They'll pit her in a poke wi' twa channel stanes
and they'll fling her richt into the pool."

"Will she sink?"

"Ay, richt eneuch."

"I'm comin'."

"Come on, and I'll show ye the bluid o' the man
they shot; maybe we'll fin' a bullet."

My fingers itched to be at the throats of these
carrion-crows of the streets, to whom Mary's extremity
and mine was nothing more than an occasion of
amusement.

My heart cried within me--"O my beloved!" and
I pulled myself together and began to force a path
through the rabble and by and by succeeded in
reaching the Vennel Port.  Quickly I crossed the
bridge and made for the cottage of Phemie McBride.

I knocked anxiously at the door.  Would she
remember me and--would she know where Hector
was?  As these doubts and fears were racing through
my mind, the door was opened just far enough to
allow the good woman to protrude an inquiring face.
She looked at me penetratingly; then recognition
dawned:

"It's you, is it?"

"Where's Hector?" I answered brusquely.

"Come awa' ben," she said, "and see for yersel',"
and with that she threw the door wide open to allow
me to enter.  I sprang past her, and there, sitting
by the kitchen fire, his pipe aglow and his
well-thumbed copy of Horace in his hand, sat the
packman.  He sprang to his feet and grasped me warmly
by the hand.

"Man," he said, "ye couldna ha'e come at a
better time.  I'm fair graivelled by this passage in
Horace.  Can ye gie me the sense o't?"

"To perdition with Horace," I shouted.  "Mary's
in the Tolbooth of Dumfries and I want your help."

The book fell spinning from his hand and lay face
down on the floor.

"In the Tolbooth o' Dumfries!" he exclaimed.
"Wha tellt ye that?"

"I saw her enter less than an hour ago with my
own eyes," I said.

Hector stooped, and, before replying, picked up his
book.  "In the Tolbooth o' Dumfries," he said
slowly.  "Guid sakes!  I thocht the lassie was deid.
Ye're sure it's her?"

"As sure," I answered, "as I am that I am
speaking to you."

"Weel," he replied, "if that's so Horace maun
juist bide a wee.  This is a maitter that wants
considerin'.  Come awa' to my room," and he led the
way to the chamber in which, close on a year ago, I
myself had slept.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE TOLBOOTH OF DUMFRIES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XLII


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE TOLBOOTH OF DUMFRIES

.. vspace:: 2

That night, as the town clock spoke the hour of
nine with its silver tongue, any casual wayfarer
passing the Tolbooth might have seen an old, bowed
woman knocking timorously at its oaken door.
Under the shawl which covered her head and
enveloped her to the feet she held a letter, sealed with
a large seal.  After she had knocked for a second
time, the door was partially opened and a hurried
conversation took place between her and the jailer.
She handed him the letter and, in order the better to
read it, he admitted her within the door.  Its contents
satisfied him, for, at once, he led the way to a cell
and taking the great key from a chain that hung at
his belt, he unlocked the door and threw it open.

"Mary Paterson," he called, "are ye sleeping?
Here's yer auntie come to see ye wi' the special
warrant o' the Shirra' himsel'.  I never kent the like
o' this afore, but I ha'e his warrant for it sealed wi'
his ain seal."

There was no response.  So, seizing the old woman
rudely by the shoulder, the jailer thrust her forward
and closed the door behind her.  As the key grated
in the lock he growled through an iron grille set in
the solid wood: "Ye ha'e half an' 'oor thegither: no
ae minute langer."

I listened anxiously until I heard his footsteps die
gradually away: then with arms outstretched I
stepped forward into the darkness.

"Mary, Mary," I cried, in a loud whisper, and out
of the darkness a voice spoke:

"What trick is this?  Wha are ye?  I ha'e nae
aunt that would visit me.  In a' the world I am alane."

The sadness of that dear voice, once sweet with
witchery, unmanned me, but I knew that every
minute was precious and that there was need to make
haste.  "Mary," I said, "it is Walter, your own
beloved."

There was a pause, then a sob, and the sweet voice
said brokenly: "It canna be.  My loved ane is deid
lang syne.  Are ye someane come here for his ain
ill ends?"

"Mary," I said, "where are you?  Come to me! come
and lay your hand on my face and you will
know that it is I indeed."

There was a movement in the cell, and in the
darkness a little hand touched me timidly.  I seized it in
both my own, and smothered it with kisses.  Then
I drew a shrinking figure towards me and took Mary,
my own loved one, in my arms.  She nestled to me
sobbing gently, for she knew that I was in very deed
her lover come again.

"Beloved!" I whispered.  "Little flower of the
heather."  Oh the rapture of that long embrace for
which my heart had hungered through so many weary
months!  "Dear heart," I whispered, with my lips
set close to her little ear, "I have come to save
you.  Be brave, do what I bid you and all will be well."

"To save me?" she said.  "Oh, it's no' possible."

"Yes," I answered, "all things are possible to love."

Quickly, in whispers, for the minutes were rapidly
fleeing, I explained my plans to her.  Wrapped in
the great shawl with which I had disguised myself,
she was to impersonate the old woman who had come
to visit her, and, when the jailer returned, to quit
the dungeon with him and make her way to freedom
and to safety.

"Once you are out of the Tolbooth," I said,
"hurry to the Townhead Port.  By the side of the
Moat Hill you will find an old man waiting for you.
He will be smoking a pipe.  Trust him; and he will
take you to a place of safety."

I wrapped the shawl about her.  It covered her,
from head to foot.  Then she clung to me once more
while I hurriedly whispered the little words of love
with which my heart was full, and heard her sweet
whispers in return.  Suddenly she disengaged herself
from my arms, and seizing me by the hand, said:

"My love, my love, it canna be.  Why did I no'
think o' it afore.  I am escaping, and you are to be
left behin'.  No, I wunna, I canna dae it."

"What a foolish little Mary you are!" I murmured,
as I clasped her to me once again.  "Feel this," and
I guided her fingers along the rough edge of a file I
had concealed about me.  "Within an hour of your
escape I shall be with you.  There is only one iron
bar to file."  I turned her head and made her look at
the little window set in the wall high up near the roof
of the cell, through which the uncertain light of the
moon sent a faint beam.  "I knew all about this cell
before I came into it.  The friend to whom I am
sending you has been here himself.  He remembered
that there was but one bar to the window.  He it was
who told me how I should escape.  So, sweetheart,
be brave.  On you all depends.  If you love me, do
what I ask and we shall both soon be free."

She gave her promise as the silence was broken by
the sound of the approaching footsteps of the jailer.

"Be brave," I whispered, as I kissed her lips.
She clung to me in a brief storm of sobbing, but let
her arms fall as the key grated in the lock.  The door
was thrown open, and the light of a lamp trembled
athwart the darkness.

"Come on, auld wife," growled the jailer: "the
time's up.  Ha'e ye ta'en yer fareweel o' the lass?
I jalouse you'll no' see her again till she's swingin' at
the end o' a tow."

There was no answer but a burst of sobbing from
Mary, who turned from me.  I sank back into the
darkness of the cell, while she walked bowed as though
with age and sorrow towards the open door.  She
passed through, the door clanged behind her and the
key grated in the lock.  With ears pressed tight
against the door I listened eagerly to the sound of
their retreating footsteps.  Would she escape, or
would some mishap reveal her to the jailer?  My
heart, that was in a tumult of suspense, bounded for
joy when at last I heard the massive oak door close
with a hollow clang on the doorposts.  My loved one
was free, and I--well, what did it matter?  I had
held her in my arms once again: I had kissed her
sweet lips and with that memory to uphold me I
could go bravely to my death.  But hope beats high
in the heart of youth.  I ran my finger over the stout
file which I had brought with me.  In an hour--or
at most two--I should be at liberty.

I had learned from Hector that the jailer would
make a round of the Tolbooth at ten o'clock, now near
at hand.  On the last stroke of the hour on the town
clock a beam of light came through the grille in the
door and a voice said: "Is a' richt wi' ye?"  I
answered in a whisper.  Whether all was right or not
the jailer did not trouble to ascertain, for, with a
grunt, the light was withdrawn from the grille and
the sound of his footsteps faded away in the distance.
I threw off the woman's garments that encumbered me.

The moment had come for action.  The window,
with its solitary bar, was set high above my head,
and groping anxiously over the wall below for any
means by which I might raise myself up to it, I
found a few chinks, but none of them large enough
for the purpose.  Rapidly and noiselessly I scooped
some of the mortar from between several of the great
stones, and in a few minutes had succeeded in
clambering up to the window and laying hold of the
upright bar with my left hand.  The wall was a
thick one, and the outer sill of the window sloped
down at a sharp angle from the bar.  I recognised
that once the bar was severed I should have little
difficulty in squeezing myself through the window.
Confidently I set to work, beginning at the top of
the bar and filing on the inner side.  I soon discovered
that the iron was weather-beaten and rusty, and as
the dust of it fell upon my left hand, tightly clasped
about the base of the stanchion, I rejoiced to find
that my task was proving easier than I anticipated.
But when the bar was filed nearly half through at the
top, the cramped position in which I was compelled
to work began to weary me, and I dropped down
upon the floor of the cell to rest.  When I climbed up
again, I passed the file to the outer side of the bar
and set to work on it at the base.  My hope was that
when I had filed the stanchion half through, top and
bottom, I might be able to break it.  The tool bit
into the iron, and I worked feverishly.  Suddenly
there was a snap--the handle of the file was left in
my hand--the blade slid down over the sloping sill
ere I could catch it, and I heard it drop with a tinkle
in the street below.

For a moment I hung there in despair.  I was left
with nothing but my naked hands, and what could
they do against a stout iron stanchion and thick
stone walls.  I threw my whole weight upon the bar
and sought to break it through; but strive as I might
it would neither bend nor break.  A second time
I tried, but still without avail.  Its sharp edges
tore my hands so that they were wet with blood,
but, hardly conscious of physical pain, I continued to
struggle with it.  My efforts were fruitless, and from
sheer exhaustion I was compelled to desist.  I hung
for a moment on the edge of the sill, and then dropped
down into the cell.  My shaking legs refused to support
me and I sank in a heap on the ground, bathed in
perspiration, with panting breath and parched tongue.
As I lay there I remembered how I often watched a
bird beating its wings vainly against the bars of its
cage, and a great pity for all wild things made captive
rose within me.  Picking myself up I groped my way
round till I reached the door.  I felt for the grille.
Its bars were thin and rickety, but even if they were
removed my arm alone would scarcely go through
that tiny aperture.  I began to examine the door,
passing my hands carefully over it in the hope of
finding the lock.  The lock was upon the other side!
Escape in this direction was impossible, so I fumbled
my way round until I stood beneath the window once
more.  I climbed up to make another attack upon
the stanchion.  Still it resisted me, and, at last, for
very weariness I was compelled to desist and drop
down to the floor again.  The town clock struck one.
A few short hours--I could count them up on the
fingers of one hand--and I should be discovered, and
discovery meant death.  Well, Mary, my Mary, was
safe, and my sacrifice was a very little price to pay
for that.  I had held her in my arms; I was content
to die.  As I sat in the dark, memory after memory
of the things that had befallen me chased each other
through my brain.  Some were memories of unspeakable
happiness, others were memories touched by
pain, but even those of pain were made fragrant by
the knowledge that my loved one was free.

In Hector's keeping she would be safe from harm.
Hector--warm-hearted, beloved adventurer--I could
trust her to him.

Once again the silence was broken as the town
clock pealed out the hour of two.  As its last note was
dying I heard a muffled thud above me.  I looked
up quickly, but could see nothing except the faint
beam of light which came through the window, blocked
by that tantalising bar.  What had the sound been?
Was it some phantasm of my disordered brain?  My
senses were alert again, and I dragged myself once
more up to the window.  I peered out.  Across the
street I could see the roofs of the houses, but of the
street itself I could catch no glimpse.

My ears had deceived me; there was nothing to
be seen or heard.  I had taken hold of the iron
stanchion to steady myself, and the grip of my hand
upon it awoke in me a fresh desire to put it to the
test.  Perhaps it needed only one more effort to
break it!  I would try.  With legs wide apart I
planted both my feet flat against the wall, and,
bracing the muscles of my thighs until they were
tight as bowstrings, I flung the whole weight of my
body upon my outstretched arms, and, with breath
held, pulled.  Suddenly the beam of light that came
through the window was broken by a moving shadow,
as though a bird had flown across it, and almost in
the same instant something struck me sharply on the
chin, then fell between my extended limbs to the
floor.  In an instant I had dropped down into the
cell and on hands and knees was groping for the
missile.  As I did so, something touched my face,
and putting my hand out I caught a piece of cord.
This guided me at once to the object of my search,
and seizing it I discovered, to my amazement, that
it was a book.  The cord was firmly tied about it so
that I could not open it; but there was no need for
that.  Its size and the smoothness of its leather cover
told me that it was the copy of Horace which was
Hector's constant companion.  The darkness about
me glistened with a thousand stars.  Hope sprang on
tip-toe in my heart again.  Hector was just outside,
and I should yet escape.

The cord ran up from the volume into the air
towards the window, and, instinctively, I began to
pull it in.  From the weight of it I knew that there
was something upon the other end.  Foot by foot,
yard by yard, as a seaman passes a cable through his
hands, I hauled in the string until I heard a little
metallic click as the object attached to it struck the
stanchion set in the window, and the string became
taut.  Seizing the cord in my teeth, I scrambled up
the wall.  There on the sloping sill, one edge touching
the iron bar, lay my file.  I gripped it and would have
fallen to work upon the stanchion at once, but I saw
that I had not yet come to the end of the cord, which
ran over the outer edge of the sill and disappeared from
sight.  So, unlooping the file from the running knot
in which it was held, I continued to draw in the cord.
As it came up I saw it thicken and knew that my
faithful henchman in the street below was sending me
a rope.  Placing the file between my teeth, I hauled
the rope in feverishly till at last the lower end of it was
in my grip.  I dropped it into the cell behind me and
with new strength, but with infinite care, I set myself
again to my task upon the bar.  Now at the bottom,
and now at the top I worked, the iron dust falling
in little jets and trickling over the sill.  Was it fancy,
or was I working with greater skill?--the file seemed
to bite more deeply and more easily into the iron.
First on one side of the bar, then on the other, I
worked, changing from top to bottom, or from
bottom to top, as too long work in one position
cramped me.  Rasp, rasp ... I felt the bar vibrate
like a violin string in the hand that held it.  Rasp,
rasp, rasp ... and a puff of wind from the outside
blew the iron dust into my mouth and eyes.  What
cared I for that?  Rasp, rasp, rasp ... and the top
of the bar was cut so thin that I could break it through.
I gripped the file in my teeth and, seizing the stanchion
high up with both my hands, threw all my weight
upon it.  It bent just above its base, but did not break,
and where its iron fibres were at tensest strain in the
bottom of the groove which I had already cut, I set
the file to work once more.  The iron gave like crumbling
bread before the teeth of the file, till the bar was
so thin that with one hand I could bend it in whichever
direction I pleased.  One strong pull towards me,
one mighty thrust outwards, and the stanchion
broke with a snap so sudden that the hand which
held it shot out through the window.  I steadied
myself with my left hand on the inner edge of
the sill; then I dropped down on tip-toe and
seized the rope.  As I did so, my fingers touched
the volume which had brought me to safety.  Breaking
the string which bound it, I slipped it into my
pocket.  It would never do to leave it, neither would
it do to leave behind me the disguise I had worn.  I
gathered up the bundle and tied it tightly about with
the cord, the end of which I took in my teeth.  Then
with the rope round my neck I swarmed up the wall
to the window.  To my joy, when I reached it, I
found that in my efforts to break the bar I had bent
the lower end inwards.  The stump, thus curved,
would give a securer hold to the rope upon which I
was about to trust myself.  It seemed hardly strong
enough to bear my weight, but its length was ample,
far greater than I should need.  So I doubled it over
the stump of the stanchion and having passed it out
over the sill, began to worm myself through the
window.  Slowly and painfully I pushed my way
through, and at last my head and the upper part of
my body were beyond the aperture.  I bent forward,
gripping the rope as far off as my arms could reach,
and throwing my weight down upon my hands so that
the rope was taut, I wriggled myself through until I
felt my toes were touching the inner edge of the sill.

Now had the moment come for all my courage.
Slowly moving my hands one beyond another, I
disengaged my feet from the inner edge of the sill
and for a moment hung head downwards.  Would
the rope hold?  If not, I should crash upon the
pavement beneath me, a broken, lifeless mass.  But it
held!  As I felt my toes slipping down the slope of
the sill, I twisted my body to one side so that my
feet and legs described a half-circle, and for a moment
I swung to and fro against the wall like the pendulum
of a clock.  Then I lowered myself quickly.  Before
the last of the rope had run through my hands my feet
were upon the ground, and I was free.  Somewhere
a voice, close beside me, whispered, "No sae bad.  No
sae bad."  Turning, I saw Hector.  He patted me on
the back, and then whispered anxiously, "I hope you
ha'ena forgot to bring my Horace?"  I could have
screamed with laughter, but all I did was to nod my
head with vigour.  Then I took the cord from between
my teeth and proceeded to haul upon it.  The bundle
at its end caught for a moment as it was passing through
the window, and then fell, a dark mass out of the
heights above, and I caught it as it fell.  Hastily I
put it into Hector's hands, and seizing the lower end
of the rope jerked it once--twice--thrice.  The loop
above disengaged itself from the stanchion, and in
its fall struck me upon the upturned face.

The town-clock struck once.  "Half-fower," whispered
Hector.  "For God's sake let us hurry."  Quickly
I coiled the rope up into a hank.  Hector seized me
by the arm and half dragged me across the street to a
close mouth.  When I tried to thank him he stopped me.

"There's nae need o' that.  Awa' wi' ye to Lincluden.
Haste ye!  Below the big window ye'll fin'
a flicht o' steps.  The second moves when ye step on
it: but never mind--that's naething.  The fifth
seems firm: but it's no'.  I'm the only man that kens
that.  Shove hard at the left-hand bottom corner--and
crawl in when it swings roun', and stop there till
I come for ye.  Mary's a' richt and in safe hands.
Dinna fash yersel' aboot her; but gi'e me the rope.  I
lifted it off the Provost's drying-green, and though I
may be a liar, I'm no' a thief yet and I maun put it
back.  Awa' wi' ye like a hare."

I needed no second bidding.  Hurrying along under
the shadow of the houses, I soon found myself in a
little lane which ran down to the edge of the water.
I made for the Staked Ford, crossed the river hot-foot
there, and hot-foot raced on my way.  Dawn had not
yet begun to break when I reached the Abbey.  Once
within the shelter of its walls I had no difficulty in
finding the steps of which Hector had told me.  The
second moved as I trod upon it, but I remembered
his caution and hastened to the bottom.  Then I
turned, and kneeling on the last step I pushed hard
against the fifth as he had bidden me, and it swung
round.  I crawled into the cavity beneath it and,
turning, drew the step into place again.  Then on my
hands and knees, for there was not sufficient room to
do more, I crawled on until I found myself in a spacious
passage.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BY THE TOWER OF LINCLUDEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XLIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   BY THE TOWER OF LINCLUDEN

.. vspace:: 2

Under my feet was dry crisp sand, and knowing
that I was in perfect safety I lay down at full length.
I could sleep here undisturbed.  Mary was in good
hands: I had Hector's word for that, and ere long I
knew that I should see her again and be able to claim
her for my very own.  When I was able to tear my
thoughts away from the enchanted dreams of our
reunion, I fell upon sullen doubt.  We should be in
daily peril so long as we continued to remain in
Scotland.  There was nothing for it but to escape from
this tortured land.  But how?  I knew the ports were
watched, and I had heard how the roads that led to
the border were patrolled by the dragoons.  Mary's
escape and mine would spur the persecutors to
measures more stern.  At whatever risk, we must
attempt to get to England.  There lay safety.  And
then I thought of Hector.  Hector, the resourceful,
the indomitable, would find a way; and with this
thought in my mind, I settled down to sleep.

How long I slept I cannot tell, but when I awoke
and felt the sand beneath me and, reaching out,
touched upon either hand rough walls of stone, I
thought for a moment that I had been buried alive.
Then I remembered where I was.

I crawled along the passage until I was beneath the
steps.  A faint little feather of light came through the
chinks between them and from its tenuousness I
judged that it was night.  I must have slept all
through the day.  Cautiously I swung round the step
and crawled out until I stood within the precincts of
the Abbey beneath the Gothic window.

The sky was studded with stars.  I judged that I
might with safety go further afield to stretch my
limbs, so I stole out of the Abbey and walked across
the level lawn until I came to the edge of the river.
It moved silently through the darkness, so slowly as
to seem asleep, and I thought of my own quiet Avon.
I walked along the bank to the point where the Cluden
steals silently into the bosom of the shining Nith, to
flow on with it, one and indivisible, to the sea.

I followed the course of the stream downward
until the black, still surface of the College pool lay at
my feet.  As I stood there I listened to the faint
murmur of the river as it flowed at the foot of the
banks beneath.  There was love in its language, and I,
whose heart was aglow with love, could hear and
understand.  The Nith was whispering to the Cluden,
adrowse in its arms, such little tender messages as
soon I should be whispering to my beloved.  I drifted
away upon the soft wings of reverie to a land of dreams,
but I was brought back suddenly by hearing afar off
the sound of the town clock.  I counted its strokes.
It was midnight.  Midnight! and there was no sign
of Hector; nor had I yet seen Mary!  What could
have happened to them?  Had disaster befallen
them, and were all the high hopes which I had formed
doomed yet to be brought to the ground?  I dared
not think so, and, to rid myself of my fears, I threw off
my clothing and with a running leap plunged head
foremost into the College Pool.  The coldness of the water
stung me like a lash, but there was refreshment in it,
and with hope once more on tip-toe, I yielded myself
to the enjoyment of the moment, and swam until the
stiffness left my limbs.  Then I made for the bank
again, and when I had dressed sought my
hiding-place.  Sometime ere dawn, I imagined, Hector
would come to me, with news of Mary.  With this
hope in my mind I sat in my gloomy vault waiting
patiently.  Hour after hour went by, and still he did
not come, and at last sleep overcame me and I sank
into dreamland again.  When love sits on the throne
of a man's heart, dreamland is his empire, and on
winged feet I wandered with Mary at my side, through
the meads, flower-dappled, of that bewitching land.
Then I woke again, and realised that it was a dream
and that nothing surrounded me but darkness.

Once more I crawled beneath the stair and peeped
out.  It was broad day, but still Hector had not come.
Then fear seized me.  Had he fallen into the hands
of Lag and been done to death?  Was the price of my
freedom to be his life, and if he had been taken, where
was Mary?  I had his assurance that she was in a
place of safety.  There was comfort in that knowledge.
But the comfort was alloyed by the thought that I
had no knowledge whatever of her whereabouts and
that she was lost to me.  I was almost tempted to
throw caution to the winds, and quit my hiding-place
in broad daylight to go in search of them both.  I
stretched out my hand to seize the step and swing it
back, and then discretion returned to me and I
refrained.  Any rashness now might bring to nothing
all we had accomplished.  I must wait.  There was
nothing for it but patience and unwavering trust.
Every hour that dragged its weary length along was
leaden with torpor.  Would the day never come to
an end?  Hector, I knew, was not likely to come to
me save under the screen of the darkness, and the
darkness seemed very far off.  The longest day,
however, draws sometime to a close, and at last the
rays of light stealing through the chinks in the
staircase ceased to be burnished spears and were
transmuted into uncertain plumes of smoke.  The hour of
twilight had come; soon darkness would envelop the
earth, and with the darkness Hector might come.
I crawled out of the confined space in which I was
lying and sought the deeper part of the passage.  As
I did so, I heard a grating sound.  Someone was
moving the step.  It must be Hector!  Yet in that
moment of tense expectation I kept a grip upon myself
and did not move.  If, instead of Hector, it should
prove to be some murderous pursuer on my track,
I knew that in this darkness, to which my eyes through
long imprisonment had become accustomed, I should
have the advantage and might fall upon him unawares.
A voice spoke and my fears were set at naught.  The
packman had come!

"Are you there?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"Ha'e you got my Horace?"

"Confound Horace and all his works!  Where is Mary?"

"Mary, the bonnie lass! she's a' richt.  Ye micht
trust me for that.  Ye'll be seein' her in less than
half an 'oor.  Where's my book?"

I handed him the volume, and though I could not
see him I guessed from the sound of the leaves
fluttering through his fingers that he was examining
it carefully.

"It seems to be nane the waur, except that the
corner o' ane o' its braids is broken.  Man, it's a lucky
thing for you that I'm a scholar, and carry Horace
wi' me.  When I got tired o' waitin' for ye at the
trysting-place, I thocht that something must ha'e
gane wrang, so I gaed doon to the Tolbooth to ha'e
a look for mysel'.  I got a terrible shock when I
struck my foot on the file you had dropped.  I
thocht a' was up then; but it didna tak' me lang to
mak' up my mind.  At first I thocht o' flingin' the
file through the window, then I thocht that if I missed
it would mak' an unco' clatter and micht waken
somebody, so I fell back upon Horace and he served.
I put the book through the window at the second
shot, which is no' bad for an auld man, as ye will
dootless admit; and here ye are in safety.  Mony a
time Horace has fetched me oot o' the dungeons o'
despondency, but I never kent him help a body oot o'
the Dumfries Tolbooth afore."

The garrulous fellow would doubtless have continued
longer in a like strain, but I would have none
of it.  My heart was crying for my loved one.  "Tell
me," I exclaimed, "where is Mary?"

"Come on," he said with a laugh, "and see for
yoursel'."

He led the way out into the open and I followed
close behind him.  As we emerged a man approached
us out of the darkness.  I started and laid a hand
upon Hector's arm.

"There's naething to fear," he said.  "It's only
the minister frae the cave at the Linn.  He's come to
mairry you."

"To marry me," I exclaimed.  "Who has arranged it?"

"I ha'e nae doot," answered Hector, "Mary and
you arranged it lang syne on the braes at Daldowie.
A' I ha'e dune is to mak' your arrangements possible."

My heart was full.

The minister greeted me warmly, and together the
three of us made for the summit of the little knoll
beside the Abbey.  While Mr. Corsane was
congratulating me upon my escape and upon the rescue
of Mary, the packman had turned his back upon us
and was gazing earnestly towards the mouth of the
Cluden.  As we talked he interrupted us suddenly by
saying:

"They're coming noo, I can see them."  Along
the edge of the bank below us, three figures were
moving.  Soon they had begun to ascend the knoll.

"Mary's there," said Hector, "and the twa wi'
her are the good-man o' Nunholm and his better
three-quarters."

I sprang towards the advancing figures and calling
"Mary," clasped her in my arms.  There are moments
too sacred for speech.  I could only kiss her.  Then
linking my arm through hers I helped her to the top
of the mound.

There in the aisle of the trees with the light of the
kindly stars filtering through and falling on the
ground with a holier radiance than ever streamed
through the east window of a cathedral, the minister
made us one.  He could not unite our hearts.  That
had been done long ago.  He could only join our
hands.

Hector, as ever, proved himself to be a friend in
need, for, when the moment came for me to place a
ring upon Mary's finger, I realised with a pang that
I had none.  But Hector slipped one into my
hesitating hand, whispering, "It was meant for the
widda."  The simple service was soon over, but ere
he gave us his blessing the minister said:

"In quieter times, when I, please God, am restored
to my parish, your marriage will be registered in the
records of my church at Minniehive: meantime I
declare you man and wife in the sight of God and
according to the laws of this realm."  Then he raised
his hand to bless us.

I turned to embrace my wife; but Hector was
before me.  He kissed her loudly upon both cheeks,
and as he yielded her shrinking form to me said:
"Nae need o' my salve there.  They're as saft as
the damask rose."

"For ever, dearest," I whispered, as she clung to me.

"My ain dear man," she breathed; and on her
warm cheek close pressed against my own I felt a
tear.  I folded her in my arms.

"My children," said the minister, drawing near
is, "I must leave you now, and get me back to my
hiding-place: but may He who brought joy to the
wedding feast at Cana of Galilee company with
you all the days of your lives.  Good-bye."  He
turned, and was gone.

"Now," said Hector, "we maun hurry.  We ha'e
a lang road to travel afore daybreak.  Come on."

Together we began to hasten down the hill, and
soon were at the edge of the river close to the mouth
of the Cluden.  The good wife of Nunholm and her
husband led the way.  I took Mary in my arms and
carried her through the water behind them.  No
man ever bore a burden more precious.  Her arms
were about my neck.  In mid-stream I paused and,
bending, kissed her.  I had forgotten Hector behind us.

He sighed.  "Ay.  It mak's me jealous.  I wish
the widda was here.  But ye've a hale life-time o'
that afore ye, so haste ye, for we're no oot o' danger
yet."

Mary smiled proudly up at me in the moonlight.
"Nae danger maitters noo.  But let us haste."

When we came to the bank on the other side, the
farmer led the way to a hedge and we passed through
a gap into a field across which we hurried together.
In a few minutes we found ourselves beside a little
farm-house.

"Come awa' ben," said the farmer's wife, throwing
the door open.  "It's no' a very grand wedding
feast, but it'll dae to set you on the road, and it shall
never be said that the guid-wife o' Nunholm lacks in
hospitality."

We entered the kitchen and found an ample supper
awaiting us.  Mary had endeared herself, and little
wonder, to these good folks during the two days she
had spent with them, and they were full of anxiety
for her safety.

We made all the haste we could through the meal,
and when it was nearly over the door was thrown
wide to the wall and a shock-headed lad thrust his
body in.  The farmer turned to him: "Is a' richt,
Ebenezer?" he asked.

"Ay, faither, there's no' a trooper between here
and Dumfries."

We finished our meal, and bade the good wife and
her husband an affectionate farewell, the former
insisting on Mary's wrapping herself in her own best
plaid.

"Ye've a long road to travel, lassie," she said,
"and ye maunna catch cauld.  Tak' it as a keepsake,
and if ye're ever back in these pairts, dinna forget
tae come and see me."

I thanked the good man and his wife for their
kindness to us, and, Hector leading, we went out into
the night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"QUO VADIS, PETRE?"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XLIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   "QUO VADIS, PETRE?"

.. vspace:: 2

Ere the darkness had given place to the dawn we
three were lying in a copse of hazel bushes not far
from the Castle of Caerlaverock within a stone's
throw of the sea.  On leaving Nunholm we had made
a detour so as to avoid the town, and struck the road
to Glencaple far outside its boundaries.

The journey, made in stealth, had been without
adventure.  Hector led the way; Mary and I
followed close behind him arm in arm.  We had
spoken little; Mary and I hardly at all, for the
touch of her arm in mine, tender as a caress, was
more eloquent than speech; but Hector found time
to tell all he had done since the moment of my escape
from the Tolbooth.

For him the intervening hours had been crowded.
He had gone to the cave at the Linn to fetch the
minister to marry us: but he had also devised a means
to help us back to England, and it was for this end
that he had brought us to the place where we were.

"There was juist ae thing I failed to do, for I
hadna the time," he said.  "I intended to speir
again at the widda, for I should ha'e been a prood
man tae ha'e been mairried at the same time as
yoursels.  But the widda maun juist bide my time.
She's kept me waitin' lang enough.  She'll maybe
appreciate me a' the mair if I keep her waitin' in
turn.  Nae doot she'll miss me, for I'm comin' wi'
ye as far as the Isle o' Man.  Ye see this affair will
mak' a terrible steer in the toon o' Dumfries; and it
will be safer for me to be oot o' the road till the storm
blaws by.  Forby, it will gi'e me the chance o'
introducin' my magical salve to the Island.  Anthony
Kerruish, the maister o' the *Sea-mew*, tells me that it
is no kent there, and besides if I had a quate six
months in the island I micht get on wi' that *magnum
opus* o' mine."

Mary and I were delighted to learn that he was
coming with us, for well we knew that he could stay
behind only at grave risk.  As we thanked him, with
full hearts, for all he had done, he held up a
deprecating hand.

"Hoots," he said, "I've dune naething: and in
ony case I took my fee o' Mistress Bryden's cheeks."  He
laughed quietly as he stole out of the copse.

Dawn was breaking.  The dark shadow of Criffel
was turning to a ghostly grey, and on the face of the
water we could see, about half a mile away, a little
barque lying at anchor.  Hector lit a candle, and
taking off his bonnet passed it in front of the light
twice.  Then he blew the candle out.  His signal had
been seen; a little answering light flashed for a
moment on the deck of the barque, and was gone.
Then a man dropped into the boat that nestled under
the lee of the barque, and began to pull towards the
shore.  As he drove the boat on to the sand we
slipped out of our shelter.  I took Mary in my arms,
and, wading out into the tawny water, I placed her
in the boat.  Then I jumped in.  Hector, close
behind me, flung a leg into the boat: then I heard
him sigh so deeply that I thought he had bruised
himself.  I turned, and saw him withdraw his leg,
and seize the boat by the prow.  With a mighty shove
he sent her off the sand into the deep water, and
stood erect gazing after her.

"Good-bye," he said, with a tremor in his voice,
as he took off his bonnet.

"Good-bye?" I exclaimed doubtingly.  "What
do you mean?  I thought you were coming with us?"

"So I was," he answered.  "But I remembered
Peter: and I'm gaun back.  My work's no' feenished
yet."  And with that he splashed out of the water
and disappeared into the copse.

But we saw him again.  When we were safely on
board the barque, and the anchor was up, and the
skipper and his men were setting their sails to the
breeze, Mary and I stood on the poop and looked
anxiously back to the little wood by the water-side.
A figure came out of the shadows and waved a hand.
We waved back in answer, and the figure disappeared.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON THE WINGS OF THE SEA-MEW`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XLV


.. class:: center medium bold

   ON THE WINGS OF THE SEA-MEW

.. vspace:: 2

The wind and the tides favoured us, and the little
barque took to the sea like the bird whose name she
bore.

Before us a rosy path, painted by the rising sun,
stretched into the distance.  The soft winds of the
dawn filled the brown sails and carried us onward,
and the little waves patted the sides of our boat as
though they were the hands of the sea-maidens, come
from out of the deep to cheer us on our way.

We sat together in the stern of the boat, our feet
resting on a heap of tarry cordage.  I had wrapped
her plaid about her to keep my Mary warm--and
under its folds I had made her hands captive in one
of mine.

"I can hardly believe it," she said.  "It is amaist
ower guid to be true: to ha'e you by my side, my
ain man, when I thocht you were deid."

"And I," I answered, "thought that I had lost
you for ever.  Many a time, of a night, I have looked
up at the stars and chosen the brightest of them,
and called it Mary's star: because I thought it must
be your dwelling-place.  And all the while you were
not dead at all."

"And were you really very, very sorry when you
thocht that I was deid?" she asked, with a twinkle
in her eyes.

"Mary!" I exclaimed, "how can you?"  And
as there was no one to see but a following gull which
hung above us, I kissed her.  "But tell me," I
continued, "what happened to you after we parted on
the moors--and how came I to find this among the
ashes of Daldowie," and I drew out the fragment of
her ring and showed it to her.

"My ring!" she cried.  "The ring you gave me!
Did you fin' it there?  Oh, laddie!" and she nestled
against me so tenderly that, in that happy moment,
the weary months of pain through which I had lived
seemed as nothing.

Then she told me what had befallen her.  She had
gone to the hiding-place, but found no trace of her
father; and after seeking for him far and wide, but
without avail, she had decided to return home.  On
her way back she discovered troopers out upon the
moor between herself and home, and she had been
compelled to hide for the night among the heather.
It was not until late on the following afternoon that
she had ventured to steal back to Daldowie, only to
find her home in ashes.  As I had done, when I
returned upon the day following, she had found three
skeletons among the ruins, and, with horror of heart,
she had counted that one of them was mine.

"I leaped," she said, "among the ashes, and though
they burned me cruelly, I brushed them aside frae
the face that I thought was yours to see your smile
again.  But a' I saw was red embers and fleshless
bones.  Oh, sweetheart--how I cried!"  And she
buried her head upon my shoulder and sobbed for a
moment.  Then she raised her face and smiled.

"You maun think me silly.  I'm greetin' noo for
joy, I cried then for sorrow.  As mither used to
say--'Women are kittle cattle'--aren't we?" and she
smiled, until the light in her sweet eyes dried the
tears as the sun dries the dew from the heather bells.
"And I suppose," she added, "that's when I lost my
ring--though I didna miss it till I had left Daldowie
far behin' me."

"And where have you been," I asked, "since then?
Both Hector and I searched the length and breadth
of Galloway for you, but without avail."

"Oh, fie," she said.  "Ha'e you no' been tellin'
me that you thocht I was in the Kingdom of Heaven--and
you looked for me in the Kingdom o' Galloway,"
and in the playful notes of her voice I heard the echo
of her mother's.

"Where was I?" she continued.  "Weel, I was
within three miles o' Dumfries a' the time.  Ye see,
when I left Daldowie, I didna ken where tae go.  I
ran for miles and miles ower the hills, till I could run
nae langer; and then the dark fell, and I lay doon
among the heather and cried mysel' to sleep.  But
when the mornin' cam' I sat up and said to mysel',
'Mary Paterson--you maunna be a fool.'  I spoke
it oot lood--and it sounded sae like mither's voice
that I began to greet again, and I went on greetin'
till I could greet nae mair, and then I felt better."  She
looked at me roguishly.  "And after that," she
went on, "I set oot for Dumfries.  I thocht if I could
reach the Solway I micht wade across it to England,
but--I'm thinkin' noo that I've seen it, I would ha'e
been drooned in the attempt."  She laughed, and the
gull above us, with its yellow legs apart, and its tail
stretched tensely fan-wise, dropped down and touched
the sea with its beak, and having seized its prey,
wheeled round on wide wings and floated above us again.

"Food I got frae kindly cotters, and when at
last I reached Dumfries I set oot to mak' for Glencaple.
But when half-way there I sat doon by the road and
began to think, and then for the first time I missed my
ring, and thinkin' o' the day when you put it on my
finger and o' a' the love you bore me, I fair broke
doon and cried like a bairn.  I was greetin' sae sair
that I didna notice a lady dressed in black until she
was standing beside me.  Very gently she asked me
what ailed me, and the look in her face made me feel
that she had kent sorrow herse?--so I tellt her
everything.  Before I was finished she was greetin' as sair
as mysel', and then she slipped her airm through mine
and drew me to my feet and kissed me.  'I am but
a poor widow,' she said, 'whose husband and sons
have died for the Covenant: but the widow's cruse
never runs dry, and you are welcome to a share of
whatever the Lord sends me.'  She led me to her
bonnie wee hoose, set in a plantin' o' beech trees on
the Glencaple road, and she has been a mother to
me, and I a daughter to her ever since.  Sometimes
we would shelter fugitive hill-men--and often I ha'e
ta'en them food--and it was for that, for I was caught
red-handed, that I was made prisoner and thrown
into the Tolbooth."

"And that," I said, taking up the tale, "is how you
come now to be sitting, my wife, beside me."  I
kissed her beneath her little shell-like ear.

"Behave yoursel'," she said with mock sternness.
"The captain will see you!"

"And what if he does?" I asked, as I repeated the
offence.

"Did you see me on the road to the Tolbooth?"
she continued.

"Yes," I said, "that is where I saw you.  Just
when hope seemed utterly dead--you came."

The woman in her spoke: "Did I look feart?"
she asked.

"Not a bit; you looked as brave as you are."

She laughed as she replied, "I'm gled I didna show
it, for mither would ha'e been ashamed o' me if
she knew, but in my hert I was as frichtened as a
bairn."

"Never mind," I said, "you have nothing to fear
now.  You are mine for ever."

"For ever," she answered.  "That's a lang, lang
time; are ye sure ye'll never get tired o' me?"

"Sweetheart," I answered fervently, "long ago
you told me to love you for your soul.  I have learned
to do so, and such a love can never die"; and as the
captain's back was turned and there was neither
sea-gull nor sailor-man to see, I took her winsome face in
both my hands and smothered her with kisses.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SUNSHINE AFTER STORM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XLVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   SUNSHINE AFTER STORM

.. vspace:: 2

The morning after we had waved our farewell to
Hector saw us safe in the Isle of Man.  Here, through
the kindness of the skipper of the *Sea-mew*, we found a
lodging until such time as he could arrange for us a
passage to England on some barque that was sailing
thither.  Two days later we were on board the
*Kitty-wake*, which carried us safely to the port of
Liverpool.  On the outskirts of the town, in the little
village of Walton, in a cottage behind the old church
we found a lodging with the good woman to whom
the master of the *Kitty-wake* had commended us.

Now that I was back in England I determined to
seek a reconciliation with my uncle and guardian.
With some trepidation I wrote him a letter telling him
of all that had befallen me, asking his pardon for the
anxiety I must have caused him, and craving
permission to bring my wife to see him in the old home.
It was a hard letter to write, hard and perplexing, and
when it was completed I was far from satisfied with it.
But Mary, who helped me with wise words, assured
me that unless his heart were of adamant it would
melt him.  So I dispatched it, and waited anxiously
for a reply.  A fortnight passed, and there was no
answer; but one morning when the third week was
drawing to a close a post-boy on horseback knocked
loudly at the cottage door and I heard him ask:
"Does Walter de Brydde, Esquire, live here?"  I
rushed to the door and received the missive from his
hand.  "Four shillings to pay, sir," he said.  Gladly
I paid the fee, and gave him something wherewith to
slake his thirst at the nearest tavern.  Raising the
butt of his crop to his cap, he dug his heels into the
flanks of his horse and was off.

I hastened into Mary's room.  The letter was
heavily sealed with red wax and the superscription
upon it was in writing that I did not know.  All
excitement, I broke the seal.  The letter was from the
firm of notaries which for generations had conducted
the affairs of our family.  They begged to inform me
that my letter had been handed to them in their
capacity as notaries in charge of my uncle's affairs.
They regretted to announce that some seven months
ago he and his lady had died of a fever within a few
days of each other, the wife predeceasing her husband.
As my uncle had died without issue, they had the
honour to inform me that the estates passed to me as
the next heir male.  They noted with satisfaction
that I had taken unto myself a wife and they looked
forward with pleasure to making the acquaintance
of my lady at no distant date.  They took the liberty
of enclosing for my immediate necessities a draft upon
their agents in Old Hall Street in the city of Liverpool,
and they trusted that as early as should be convenient
to myself and my good lady we would return to
Warwick and take up our residence in the old manor.
They ventured to hope that the long and amicable
relations which had existed between my family and
their firm would continue.  They assured me of their
devoted services at all times, and they had the honour to
subscribe themselves my humble and obedient servants.

We read the surprising document with heads pressed
close together, amazement fettering our tongues.
Suddenly Mary drew away, and clasping her hands,
exclaimed:

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" I said.  "Why?  The silly old man
and his wife were nothing to you."

"Oh no, it's no' that.  I cam' to you a tocherless
lass wi' naething to gi'e ye but my love--and noo
ye're rich."

"Sweetheart!" I cried: and dropping the letter
with the draft upon the table, I took her in my arms
and drew her towards me.  "Your love is more to
me than all the riches of the Spanish Main.  Gold is
but dross: love is of God, and eternal."

She slipped an arm about my neck, and laid her
head upon my shoulder.

"Ye can kiss me," she said--and added roguishly
as she smiled at me--"if ye like."

So it came to pass that within a fortnight of
receiving the letter we arrived at Warwick, making the
journey, as became our state, in a hired carriage with
postilions.  The needle-women of Liverpool had done
their work well, and as I looked at the dainty figure,
all frills and furbelows, beside me in the carriage I
almost felt that I had lost the Mary I had learned to
love at Daldowie.  But the light in the pools of her
eyes, the aureole above her forehead, and the smile
on her bewitching face as she said, "Now, behave
yersel'.  Ye maunna crush my new goon," told me
it was Mary still.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE END; AND A BEGINNING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XLVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE END; AND A BEGINNING

.. vspace:: 2

A year has passed, and once again it is the month of
May.  My little flower of the heather, transported
from the hill-sides of Galloway and set in the kindlier
atmosphere of this southern clime, has blossomed
into a flower of rare beauty.  She has not a peer among
the ladies of Warwick, and that is saying much.

Sometimes, as we sit together on the green lawn
that slopes down to the quiet Avon, and think of all
the things that befell in the days that are dead, we
wonder if they were all a dream.  Yet in spite of what
she suffered among them, Mary sometimes whispers
to me that her heart is sick for the grey hills of
Galloway, for the sting of the wind on her cheeks,
for the cry of the whaup in her ears; and I find it
hard to comfort her.  But I think she will never
again be sick at heart for the hills of heather, for a new
joy has come into her life and mine.  A week ago the
wonder happened.

When, in the early dawn, the good nurse brought
me the news as I paced in a fever up and down my
study floor, I was all ardent, as any man would be, to
see my Mary and her child on the instant.  But the
nurse bade me curb my impatience, telling me that
Mary was asleep.  So I made my way out to the lawn,
and, leaning on the retaining wall, gazed down upon
the Avon.  Early roses wet with dew were pouring
their incense into the still air, and I plucked me a
handful for Mary.  As I stood by the wall with the flowers
in my hand I chanced to look up the river towards
the bridge, and on it I saw a man upon whose shoulders
was a pack.  Lighting my pipe, I sat down upon the
garden seat with the heap of roses beside me.  As I
sat there I heard a little voice that I had never heard
before.  Through the open window, my child was
joining its little cry to that of a jubilant bird, and my
heart was glad within me and the whole sun-kissed
earth was ringing with melody.  O Mary mine!

The sound of footsteps upon the carriage-drive
made me turn, and I saw--Hector.

I rushed to him with hands outstretched.
"Hector!" I cried, and shook him warmly by the hand.

"Ay, it's me richt eneuch.  I got your letter.  Ye
were wise to write in Latin--but, man, your
construction's awfu'--gey near damnable.  Ye should
mak' mair use o' the ablative absolute.  I was
pleased tae hear frae ye, though, and things being mair
settled up yonder I juist thocht I'd tak' a daunner
into England to pit you richt on ane or twa points o'
syntax.  An' hoo's your good lady?"

"Mary is splendid," I said.  "She has just this
morning given birth to a daughter."

"My best respects to her and my felicitations upon
this great event; but I'm sorry--I'll juist tak' the
road again and gang awa' hame.  I couldna ha'e
come at a waur time."

"My dear Hector, what do you mean?  Mary would
never forgive me if I let you go."  And, dropping into
the language which I knew he loved, I slipped my
arm through his and said, "Come awa' intae the
hoose."

To-night I have been penning the final pages of this
my book, with Hector sitting at his ease in a leathern
chair reading a volume from the well-stocked shelves
of the study.  And I--because my hand was weary,
or because my heart was aching for a sight of
Mary--stole up to her room a moment since.  She was lying
in the great carved oaken bed, with the light from
the candles in their silver sconces falling upon her
dear face and the glory of her hair as it lay outspread
on the lavender-scented pillow.  I bent over her, and
slipping an arm under her shoulders kissed her, and
she pushed down the white coverlet with her pretty
hand to let me peep at our daughter lying asleep in
the fold of her arm.

"Isn't she bonnie?" she whispered.  "I think
we'll ca' her Jean."

"Flower o' the heather and little heather-bell," I
said, and gathered them both in my arms.

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large bold

   *BY THE SAME AUTHOR*

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium bold

   THE ADVENTURE OF DEATH

.. vspace:: 2

An uplifting and strengthening book, free
from gloom, and written with literary
charm.  *Fifth Impression*

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium bold

   THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE

.. vspace:: 2

"Eloquent and popular talks, such as
have been commended to many renders by
Dr. Mackenna's 'Adventure of Death.'"--*The
Times.  Second Impression*

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium bold

   BRACKEN AND THISTLEDOWN

.. vspace:: 2

"A work of singular charm, gracious in
the spirit pervading it, pawky in its
humour, and bright and keen in its
delineation of character. The book should
make a very wide appeal."--*Liverpool
Post.  Third Impression*

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium bold

   THROUGH FLOOD AND FIRE

.. vspace:: 2

"Mr. Mackenna is a true son of Scott and
(dare it be said?) much more likely to
appeal to the younger generation than the
master. He has the power of vivid
story-telling, a remarkable gift for atmosphere
and his people are real human stuff."--*Daily Chronicle*

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center small

   ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::