ADAM HEPBURN'S VOW (continued 3)

"I shall have a word to say to you for this wasting of my time, Martha," her mistress said, pointing towards the house; then turning to the curate, she added, with quiet, yet courteous dignity, "Sir, is it consistent with the gospel you are supposed to preach, to wile a servant-maid away from her household duties almost in the middle of the day, to confer with you in secret like this?"

The curate's sallow face flushed under the scathing rebuke which fell so quietly from those calm, proud lips.

"When I am not permitted to visit members of my flock at their masters' houses, I must perforce see them outside," he answered, with rude boldness, and yet his eyes instinctively sought the ground.

"Sir, I am not aware that the master of Rowallan has ever forbidden you his house," said Jane Gray, still calmly. "The members of the flock surely are ashamed of their shepherd, for Martha Miller has never ceased to disclaim all connection with your ministrations, and I am made aware to-day, for the first time, that she is on speaking terms with you."

"Madam, know you to whom you speak so disrespectfully?" quoth Mr. McLean in wrathful tones. "Know you that it is chiefly owing to my long forbearance with you and yours that the name and the house of Gray have not been totally extinguished?"

A slight smile curved for a moment Jane Gray's resolute lips, and the mild scorn it implied made the spirit of the curate chafe within him.

"Truly grateful are we for your forbearance towards us, Mr. McLean," she answered courteously. "I bid you good afternoon."

So saying, Jane Gray turned about and returned to the house. Upon second thoughts, she took no further notice of the occurrence to Martha Miller, deeming it more prudent to let her imagine it of no importance in the eyes of her mistress. Nevertheless, she redoubled her watchfulness, and took care that there was nothing in her actions to arouse the maid's suspicions. Hitherto, when conveying provisions to the dear ones in hiding, Jane Gray had simply been content to lock the barn door from the inside, and shut herself into the chaff-hole, so that none could possibly be witness to her descent into the cave. But now, after conference with her brother-in-law, they agreed that the safest plan would be for him to rise in the middle of the night and take down the food himself.

These precautions, however, were taken too late; for already the cunning eyes of Martha Miller had penetrated the secret of the chaff-hole.

CHAPTER XIV.

BETRAYED.

The soft and beautiful radiance of a mild September morning lay upon the vale of Inverburn. The sky, though not so cloudlessly blue as in the summer time, was bright and clear, and masses of soft, dove-coloured clouds were piled up on the horizon, foretelling the approach of a gentle rain. The rich hues of autumn were now upon the trees. Beech and hazel-nuts were already falling ripely to the ground, the rowans hung rich and red among their graceful leaves, blackberry and wild raspberry were plentiful and luscious, and in very sheltered early nooks the bramble was black upon the bough. Yes, the fruits which Dame Nature provides with such free and generous hands were not lacking, but what of the more substantial harvest, what of the yellow corn, which in September was wont either to be stacked upon the fields, or standing in rich and golden fulness, awaiting the sickle of the reaper. Ah! what indeed? Had some terrible dearth come upon the land, had a woeful drought withered and parched the fertile Clydesdale acres, and hushed the reapers song into the stillness of despair?

I said in a former chapter that the business of life seemed to be at a standstill in Inverburn. So it was still, and not in Inverburn alone, but throughout the length and breadth of Clydesdale, Liddesdale, and Nithsdale. For miles and miles the fields lay bleak and desolate, their only harvest being a wealth of weeds and thistles, which gave to the once fertile lands the appearance of a wilderness. What devastating breath had passed over the smiling land, what evil scourge had wrought this woeful desolation? The reason was not far to seek.

The emissaries of the Government, into whose hands full power over Scotland had been given, had swept the southern and western counties with a devastating host, who burned, killed, and plundered as they went, and left nothing but a trail of blood behind. And the tillers of the soil, left destitute in many instances of the barest necessaries of life, could only bow their heads over the desolation which had come upon them, and be thankful if they escaped with their lives.

And yet, in those days it came to be a question not easily answered, whether life could be called a boon.

It was a Sabbath morning, and that deep, solemn stillness peculiar to the Sabbath seemed to hallow the very air. The birds had hushed their songs of gladness as if in reverence for the holy day, the very voice of the river, rippling on its way, seemed to be subdued into a tender and melancholy cadence, instead of brawling noisily in its rocky bed, and the brown and yellow leaves upon the trees scarcely stirred to the response of the whispering breeze.

While it was yet early, long before the long rays of the noontide sun fell aslant the hills, there might have been seen in various by-paths and unfrequented ways, straggling little groups of two or three individuals all moving in the same direction. Following them, we come at length to a sweet and sheltered glade, by the side of the clear, swift-running Douglas Water. This sylvan retreat, which might have been a fairy's dressing-room, so rich was it in fresh green beauty, was warmly and safely protected by high hills, rising abruptly on either side, but was open at either end, a narrow path going westward to Inverburn, and another eastward, until it converged into what was called the Sanquhar road.

Upon the sloping banks at the base of the hill, and also seated on the greensward and the boulders nearer the edge of the stream, were gathered a goodly company of men, women, and children, of almost every rank, age, and calling. There were shepherds in their tartan plaids, uncouth figures in the homely garb of the outdoor labourer, well-dressed farmers, and a sprinkling of stalwart soldiers, who had escaped the slaughter at Rullion Green. There were also present Graham of Pitoy, with his wife and daughter, and Baxter of Thornilee, both gentlemen of considerable estate in the neighbourhood. Foremost amongst those seated on the hill might have been observed the red head of Watty McBean, which showed in full contrast against the spotless hue of Betty's white cap.

Several horses, which had brought people from a distance, were quietly enjoying a dainty bite at the fresh grass, which grew in luxuriance by the stream, and upon the heights there were some mounted horsemen apparently keeping watch, in order to give timely alarm if any marauders likely to molest the company should appear in sight.

There might have been about five hundred people gathered together, when there appeared round one of the windings of the stream the familiar figure of the minister of Inverburn, leaning upon the arm of his son David. They had just emerged from their hiding in the Corbie's Cliff in order to conduct the service in the glen. Many eyes filled with tears at sight of their beloved minister, and they shook their heads mournfully at the visible change wrought in his appearance by the long months of anxiety and solitary confinement. The minister of Broomhill also looked worn and thin, and his hair was now as white as snow.

When the ministers reached the centre of the little throng, a few minutes were spent in mutual greetings, and then Mr. Gray the elder stepped to the front of the huge boulder which served as a pulpit, and upon which a white cloth was spread, with the Bible above it. Folding his withered hands, he said, in solemn and trembling tones, "Let us pray." It seemed as if Nature hushed her many sounds in unison with the stillness which fell upon the assembled worshippers as the long-loved voice of their minister, in choice and appropriate language, gave utterance to a fervent and expressive prayer to the God of Heaven. A portion of the seventy-ninth psalm was then read, and sung to the sweet and mournful strain of "Martyrs." The words:

"Against us mind not former sins.

Thy tender mercies show;

Let them prevent us speedily,

For we're brought very low."

were sung with an intense and passionate fervour which told that it was indeed the cry of every heart present, and that it was not mere lip service which had brought them thither, almost at the very peril of their lives.

Turning to the prophetic pages of Isaiah, the minister chose for his text these comforting and appropriate words, "O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted; beloved, I will lay thy stones with fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires.... In righteousness shalt thou be established; thou shalt be far from oppression, for thou shalt not fear; and from terror, for it shall not come near thee."

In his own earnest and persuasive manner the venerable servant of God endeavoured to comfort his flock, assuring them that though they were now passing through the bitter waters of affliction, the Lord would not utterly forget his ancient Zion, but would yet restore her to liberty and peace. As he earnestly exhorted them to continue steadfast in the faith, and to bear manfully their light affliction, which was but for a moment, and would work out its own exceeding weight of glory, his eyes glowed and shone, and his face was transfigured by the light of a holy enthusiasm which shed a warm and cheerful influence upon the hearts of his hearers, and restored their fainting courage, until they felt indeed able to do and dare without faltering for the sake of Him who trod before them the weary vale of persecution and shame.

It was a moving sight to look upon the eloquent face of the preacher, which bespoke the inmost feelings of his soul, and to see his thin white locks fluttering in the breeze, while his wasted hands were alternately folded or upraised to enforce his earnest words. The multitude, hushed into rapt and breathless stillness, were unconscious of a figure stealing swiftly up the glen, until a slight scream fell from the lips of a woman, and Susan Gray of Hartrigge interrupted the sermon by hastily running to meet what appeared to be a wayfaring man, whose ragged garb and miserable appearance proclaimed that he had been long on the road and had suffered many privations. The minister paused, and turned his eyes towards the wanderer, in whose changed countenance he recognised the features of his first-born son.

The unexpected arrival of Hartrigge broke up the conventicle, and his relations, who were all present, flocked round him, while his friends and neighbours pressed closely behind, eager to hear the story of his adventures. But he seemed breathless, and unable to speak for a moment, and then his words were of ominous import.

"It is surely madness to be holding a meeting here, and the dragoons so near! They have pursued me since daybreak, and I have only escaped through being familiar with every by-path on the way. Scatter yourselves quickly, for they will be upon us in a moment. Father and David, let us make haste together to our usual hiding. I have longed for the Corbie's Cliff all day."

Just then a watcher on the western height blew a warning note on the trumpet, and in a few moments the assemblage melted away like mist in the noonday sun.

Jane Gray entreated her brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn, to flee with the ministers and Hartrigge to the friendly shelter of the Corbie's Cliff, but he stoutly refused, saying that the soldiers would not be likely to trouble Rowallan again, seeing they had met with so little success on their previous visit. But Jane herself was not at all sanguine, and as they stole homewards by the most unfrequented field paths, her mind was filled with strange misgivings regarding Martha Miller, the maid, who had gone home to spend the Sabbath day with her parents at the North Lodge, on Inverburn. She was walking a little in advance of Adam, and was the first to ascend the little hill, from which a glimpse of Rowallan could be had. She stood still there, for in the distance she saw the gleam of steel, and a party of horsemen riding rapidly up the road to the farm.

"See yonder, Adam!" she said, in a trembling whisper; "you must flee at once, either to the cave at Hartrigge, or into the Corbie's Hole, if you can reach it unseen."

"What! and allow you, a defenceless woman, to go down alone among these brutal fellows?" inquired Adam, incredulously. "You hardly know what you say, Jane."

"Yes, yes! I know very well; I am not afraid. They will not harm me. I have still some of the Burgundy which wrought the charm on Turner," she answered, hurriedly. "Oh, Adam! do make haste and flee, in case they catch sight of us."

Involuntarily Adam Hepburn grasped his sword, as his eyes turned towards the dragoons. Yet he hesitated; for when there were fifty to one, what would be his chance? Nay, certain death awaited him if he ventured in their midst.

"Run, run, Adam. I entreat you!" exclaimed Jane, in tones of keen distress. "You know there is a price upon your head; and I would not that I should witness a second deed of violence at Rowallan. Run, my brother; we cannot yet spare you from our midst."

"But you, Jane? It is selfish, cowardly, to leave you like this."

"No, no! I repeat, I am not afraid. I can easily frame an excuse for my absence from the place, should they question me. You can safely leave Rowallan in my hands. God gives a deep and peculiar courage even to frail women in these times, and I believe I could influence these men, bad as they are. Only go, for every moment you stay is an agony."

"Well, I will; and God forgive me if I am in the wrong, and may He protect you, my sister," said Adam, hoarsely. Then, with a fervent grip of the hand, they parted; Adam to steal with caution and speed to some safe hiding, and Jane to make her way down to Rowallan. She was a singularly brave and fearless woman, and yet her heart quailed a little as she made haste to get in by the back premises, hoping to reach the house and throw off her cloak before she was observed by the dragoons. She was greatly favoured in that respect, for the soldiers made a halt for some reason or other on the road, and she had slipped unobserved into the house before they rode into the farmyard. She threw off her cloak, tied an apron about her, and busied herself in the kitchen, just as if continuing her usual morning work. But when she heard them ride into the yard, with a great din and clatter, she took such a violent trembling that she was obliged to sit down in order to recover herself. However, when she heard a foot on the step, and a hand on the latch of the door, she regained calmness, and rose to her feet. She had purposely unbarred the kitchen door; therefore, somewhat to his own astonishment, he having been otherwise informed, the captain of the detachment found nothing to impede his entrance. He was still further amazed, on entering the kitchen, to behold a woman there, who turned her fair, calm face to him, as if in questioning surprise.

Captain McNab, though unflinching and uncompromising in the performance of duty, however painful or harsh it might be, was a gentleman, and did not address Jane Gray with that insolent familiarity which had characterised Sir James Turner's questioning.

"Sorry to disturb you, mistress," he said courteously enough. "I am astonished to find you here; we were credibly informed that all the inmates of the house had gone to a field-preaching about a mile distant, and that we should find the coast clear."

"Your informer might be more zealous than trustworthy, sir," Jane Gray made answer quickly, though her heart grew sick with apprehension. Doubtless Martha Miller had been the informant, and how many other secrets had she discovered and divulged?

"It was a wench, one of the serving-maids here, I believe," answered the Captain candidly. "We are in search of four desperate Whigs, two ministers and two farmers; but I think we will lay hands upon them here. Come, tell me, my sweet dame, how can so comely a gentlewoman as you countenance such disreputable rebellion?"

"What you term rebellion, sir, may convey another meaning to my mind," answered Jane Gray. "Pray, would you call it rebellion to desire to exercise liberty in matters pertaining to conscience?"

"Faith, you put it glibly," retorted the Captain, with a smile. "Many of my fellow officers would give but a rough denial to such rebellious words, but I would scorn to make war on women. Well, have you anything to drink in the house? I intended to force an entrance and ransack the cupboards, but it would have a sweeter relish if poured out by those fair hands."

"If you will be good enough to step into the inner room, sir, I will set what I have before you," answered Jane courteously.

"Thanks. I will step out first and see what speed they are making with their search. We have been well guided to the cunning corner which has sheltered the renegades so long, and the parson himself is with us to assist us in our work," said the Captain carelessly. "Faith, madam, I do not wonder that the folk get sick of his snivelling ministrations. He is a mean, despicable dog, whom it would do me good to thrash."

So saying, the Captain sauntered out to the yard again, and Jane Gray, stepping into a little closet, which had a window to the back, saw him enter the barn. Folding her hands, her white lips moved in an agony of prayer, for without a doubt the secret of the chaff hole was a secret no longer, and unless warned by the noise overhead, the fugitives could not possibly escape.

Several minutes passed, and at length Jane saw McLean, the curate, emerge from the barn with a very disgusted and chagrined expression on his ill-favoured face. He was followed shortly by Captain McNab, who, with his lieutenant, came slowly towards the house.

"They have found the nest, but the birds have flown," he said, in tones of annoyance, as he entered the kitchen. "With your permission, mistress, we will now taste your fare, while my men make a further investigation of the secret passage, which is indeed a cunningly devised hiding. Little wonder it has remained undiscovered so long."

Jane Gray drew a breath of relief, and a silent thanksgiving for deliverance vouchsafed arose to heaven from her grateful heart. She knew at once that the unusual stir and clamouring about the quiet homestead had penetrated the ears of the fugitives in their hiding, and given them timely warning to flee. Once out of the subterranean passage, they were comparatively safe, for there was many a cave and snug corner by the banks of the Douglas Water, where they could shelter till the kindly darkness fell. In about three-quarters of an hour, those who had followed the subterranean passage to its outlet returned to Rowallan, reporting that there was neither sight nor sound of the fugitives to be seen or heard.

Captain McNab, though considerably chagrined, for it would have been greatly to his credit and advantage to have laid hands on so many marked rebels, hid his feelings much better than the curate, who, forgetting his holy office, swore roundly in his disappointment; and vowed increased vengeance on the name and house of Gray. Serene and matchless was the contempt with which Jane Gray regarded him: she never allowed her eyes to rest on his countenance, and never betrayed, by look or gesture, that she heard the rude remarks he addressed to her.

Captain McNab bade Miss Gray a polite farewell, and even apologised for so disturbing her on a Sabbath morning, a courtesy which she gratefully acknowledged with an expressive glance from her fine eyes and a low bow.

Mounting his horse at the door, Captain McNab gave the word of command, and the troop rapidly rode away.

Then Jane Gray, unable to bear the unspeakable relief following upon the great strain upon her nerves, sank down on her knees and burst into tears.

CHAPTER XV.

BRAVE TO THE LAST.

Meanwhile Adam Hepburn had stolen across the fields to the glen with the intention of entering the hole in the Corbie's Cliff. He was making his way down the hill-side, keeping cautiously in shelter of the whins and bracken, for the dragoons were in sight, when, to his no small amazement, he saw the two ministers and Andrew Gray of Hartrigge emerge from the mouth of the subterranean passage with a haste which proclaimed that they were pursued. And now truly the poor fugitives were betwixt two fires, for there were dragoons scattered all over the surrounding hills, and some were so near that it was a marvel they were not at once discovered. They had to thank the luxuriance of the brushwood and tangle for affording them a shelter, and, if they could but remain unobserved till nightfall, they could then seek a safer hiding. Adam Hepburn crawled upon his hands and knees down through the thicket, and came up with the others, as they were creeping slowly along, hoping to reach the steep hill behind Hartrigge, where the cave was still undiscovered.

"We were betrayed in our hiding, and were only warned in time to flee by the noise overhead," whispered Andrew Gray. "See yonder!"

Lifting their heads the fugitives saw three dragoons emerge from the mouth of the Corbie's Cliff and look all round them, as if expecting to see those for whom they sought. In mortal terror the miserable Covenanters laid themselves flat down on their faces and pulled the friendly bracken over them, and waited breathlessly, thinking the dragoons would be certain to scour the entire glen.

"If they come I think I could silence the three," said Adam Hepburn, grimly; "only they might, by their cries, bring some of their mounted comrades upon us. They are not far distant, I trow, for I can hear the neighing of their horses even here."

After a few minutes' suspense, the anxious fugitives saw the dragoons re-enter the mouth of the cave; then they slowly crept yet a little farther along the glen, for every moment spent in this comparatively exposed place was not only precious, but laden with deadly peril. At length they arrived unmolested at the base of the steep hill behind Hartrigge, and, as it was crowned with a thick belt of fir trees, there was no fear of them being seen from above.

The minister of Inverburn, whose feeble strength was now utterly spent through excitement and suspense, had to be half carried up the rocky ascent, but at length all landed safely in the cave. It was but a small place, and very damp; a great contrast in every way to the comfortable hiding at Rowallan. After having recovered a little from his fatigue, the minister of Inverburn folded his hands and returned thanks for their deliverance; but Adam Hepburn sat gloomily in a corner, his hands grasping his sword, for it was foreign to his nature to flee before the enemy, and he felt as if he had sullied his manhood by deserting Rowallan, and leaving Jane Gray to encounter the dragoons alone. And yet there are times when even the bravest soldier is forced to admit that discretion is the better part of valour.

Meanwhile the body of dragoons, under command of Captain Ingram, who had ridden up to the glen to disperse the conventicle, baulked of their prey, had proceeded to Hartrigge, it being the only house in view. Captain Ingram was a very different man from his brother officer, who had so peaceably performed his duty at Rowallan. He was of a short, burly figure, with a countenance much swollen and disfigured by his drunken excesses, and his fiery eye gave some expression to the fierce and choleric nature of his temper. He was utterly void of one kindly feeling or generous impulse, and his troops were famous for their brutal and disgraceful behaviour, it being said of them that they showed no mercy to man, woman, or child.

Mistress Gray, who with her son, Gavin, had been present at the conventicle, had been in the house some little time before the dragoons surrounded Hartrigge.

The little ones, who had remained at home under charge of Jeanie, who was growing more sensible and womanly every day, began to cry at sight of the soldiers, remembering the occasion of their former visit, and how their father had been carried off as a prisoner. Gavin, however, exhibited his usual fearless spirit, and ran to the kitchen cupboard for the old fowling-piece; yet, poor lad, what could he do with it, against the powerful arms of a company of dragoons? Captain Ingram did not trouble to alight, but thundered at the door of the house with the butt-end of his musket, a summons which brought Mistress Gray tremblingly to the threshold.

"Hey, mistress! is this not the house of that vile renegade, Andrew Gray, son of the notorious field-preacher, the minister of Inverburn?" he asked, fiercely.

"It is the house of Andrew Gray," she made answer, sadly. "And I would that he were within its walls. They have not sheltered him these many weary days."

"Are you his wife? and are these his brats?" asked the Captain, pointing to the little ones clinging to her skirts.

She bowed her head, but made no verbal reply.

"Come, tell me, mistress, were you at the field preaching down in the glen yonder, listening to the snivelling of that old renegade, your husband's father?"

"I was there, sir," Susan Gray made answer, firmly, for she saw that it would be useless to deny it.

"Good! we have come upon one Whig dame at last who can speak the truth," said the Captain, in tones of satisfaction. "Come, oblige me still further, mistress, and give me the names of those who were present besides yourself."

"I went to listen to the preaching of the Word, sir, and not to count those who were present," answered Susan Gray, with fearless firmness.

"Well, if you will not tell me that, let me know the secret hiding of those who conducted the service. Come, now, mistress, you are completely in my power, and if you do not speak of your own free will, I may take measures to make you," said the Captain, significantly.

"I cannot tell whither they have fled, sir. I was too much taken up making my own escape, to look to them," she answered quietly.

"Just so. With your permission, mistress, we will have a look through the house, and if any of the renegades be found within, by the powers, I will punish them for your obstinacy," said the Captain, with an oath, and dismounting, he flung his reins to a dragoon, ordered some of them to follow him into the house, and others to make a complete search of the out-houses. Entering the kitchen, the Captain beheld young Gavin standing with the old fowling-piece in his hand, which sight caused him to burst into a loud laugh.

"So, my young friend, you are going to show fight. You are Andrew Gray's son, I take it. Here, Dawson, bind the young chip; we may have to screw the truth out of him by-and-by."

Gavin presented his gun, and drew the trigger, but it was dashed out of his hand, and he was bound hand and foot, and laid on the floor. Then the ruffians continued their search through the house, lifting many valuables as they went, but found no traces of the fugitives, nor any corner where they could possibly be hid. Those searching outside were equally unsuccessful, and Captain Ingram got into a great rage, and swore some dreadful oaths, which made Susan Gray tremble, and marvel that judgment did not overtake him at once.

Stepping out to the door, he again addressed Mistress Gray, and brutally demanded that she should at once divulge all she knew concerning the movements and probable hiding of her husband and his kindred. But Susan Gray resolutely shook her head, and maintained that she knew not whither they had fled.

"Here, Dawson, bring out that young branch of the rebel tree, and we will try to refresh his memory," said the captain, peremptorily, and young Gavin was presently brought out, and set up against the beech tree in front of the house.

At sight of her first-born son, the dearest of all her children to her heart, Susan Gray grew as pale as death, and leaned against the lintel of the door for support.

Captain Ingram then stepped forward, and pointing his sword at the young lad, swore at him, and bade him at once reveal his father's hiding, or suffer the consequences.

"Think you I would betray my father to save myself, sir?" asked the young Gavin, in a clear and steadfast voice, and his fine eye fearlessly looked into the face of his cruel questioner. "Not though I had twenty lives. I would lose them all rather than be guilty of such black treachery and cowardice."

In her boundless admiration of the courage of the boy, Susan Gray half forgot the agonising fear which rent her motherly heart.

"Sure, we have an out-and-out Covenanter here, boys!" said the Captain, looking round upon his dragoons. "Faith, I have shot many a man for less! but on account of his tender years we will give him another chance for his life."

At these ominous words Susan Gray gave a loud scream, and rushed forward as if to protect her son, but she was rudely pushed back, and sank down on her knees on the ground, uttering broken prayers to God, and almost beside herself in her agony.

"Now, my blithe young rebel," said Captain Ingram, fixing his mocking eyes on Gavin's pale yet steadfast face, "I give you twenty seconds to make up your mind. Reveal your father's hiding, or bear the penalty of your contempt for an officer of the King. Dawson, Baird, and Luttrell, have your muskets charged."

The lad winced slightly at the last words, but only for a moment; then he drew himself up as well as his bonds would allow.

"Life would be no boon at the price you ask," he then made answer, in a low yet firm voice. "You can only kill the body, and my blood will be on your head."

"You hear, mistress?" said Ingram, turning then to the kneeling figure of the mother. "Ten seconds of the twenty are gone. If you will yield the required information his life will be spared."

Susan Gray hesitated a moment. It was an awful moment for her, to be called upon to choose, as it were, betwixt husband and child.

"Mother, mother, don't be tempted!" cried Gavin. "What is my life compared with that of my father and grandfather, and uncle David? Let them shoot. I am not afraid to die. I remember Mr. Guthrie's fearlessness on the scaffold. I understand it now, for God is with me here, close beside me, and I will go straight to glory."

The sublimity of the lad's courage, the pathetic and beautiful faith with which he spoke, moved more than one of these hardened hearts to pity, but it only further enraged their brutal Captain.

"Get into the house, mistress, and shut the door," he said, curtly; "unless you want to see the young rebel receive his baptism of fire."

Susan Gray spoke not, but remained kneeling, with her face hidden in her hands; all feeling seemed to be frozen in her broken heart.

There was a moment's dread silence; then the sharp report of three musket shots, simultaneously fired, rang through the quiet Sabbath air. Then the order was given to march, and the dragoons, having finished their deadly work, turned their horses' heads away from Hartrigge. As they did so, a volume of smoke began slowly to arise from behind the house; they had finished their work of destruction by setting fire to the barn and granary ere they left. Little knew the brave men in hiding what was being enacted at so little a distance from them. The cave was too far away to admit of the sound of voices, or even the trampling of the horses to penetrate their ears, but they heard quite distinctly the report of musketry, and involuntarily all started to their feet.

"That sound comes from the house," said Hartrigge. "I must go and see what is being done there. I cannot sit here while these miscreants murder my wife and children in cold blood."

Adam Hepburn, only too ready to accompany his brother-in-law, grasped his sword, and the two stole cautiously up the hill in the friendly shelter of the trees. The two ministers, who were unarmed, followed at a little distance, so that, in case of alarm, they might yet make good their escape. The hearts of all four were filled with foreboding and anxious fears, for too well they knew the meaning of that portentous report. Arrived at the summit of the hill, Hartrigge stole a little in advance of Adam Hepburn, and thence could see the road, at the far end of which he caught a glimpse of the rear of the dragoons ere they emerged out upon the public highway. Satisfied that there was nothing to apprehend from them, he went boldly forward, and, emerging from the shadow of the trees, saw a sight which almost made his heart stand still. There on the greensward lay the prostrate form of his firstborn son, with his mother kneeling motionless by his side; the two little bairns were holding each other close and weeping bitterly; and Jeanie, with white face and dry eyes, was bathing a ghastly wound in her brother's left temple.

A moment more and those following more slowly up the hill were startled by the sound of a hoarse and bitter cry. Andrew Gray's iron composure, his absolute self-control were swept away, and, darting forward, he knelt by his murdered boy, calling him by every loving name, in accents of anguish and entreaty. It was in vain: life was gone!

Then there arose upon the wings of the soft September wind the echo of that desolate and anguished cry with which David of old bewailed his firstborn: "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would to God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!"

CHAPTER XVI.

AT THE DAWNING.

Shortly after midnight upon the Monday following that sad Sabbath day, Watty McBean rose up out of his bed, so quietly as not to disturb Betty asleep in the ben-end, and, hastily putting on his clothes, stole out of doors. The harvest moon was at its full, and a light almost as clear as day lay upon the silent earth. The moonlight was very favourable for Watty's purpose, and his face wore a well-pleased expression as he entered the stable where his faithful nag was peacefully asleep. She looked round whinnying at her master's step, but he paid no heed to her. Striking a light, he took from an empty stall which he used as a tool-house a pick and shovel. These he hoisted on his shoulder, and, leaving the stable, stole swiftly up the village street. As he passed Mistress Lyall's he shook his doubled fist at the darkened windows, for in that house several of the dragoons were stationed, under command not to leave the place until they had captured the notorious rebels, who were known to be in hiding in the neighbourhood; also certain words fell from his lips which were scarcely in keeping with his profession as a Christian, or with his old occupation of bell-ringer and minister's man in the parish. Once clear of the village, Watty somewhat slackened his pace, and leisurely ascended the manse brae to the churchyard. On this gentle eminence the air was scarcely so still, for a light breeze stirred the yellow leaves on the birks of Inverburn, and sighed with a mournful cadence through the long grasses waving above the last resting-place of the dead. Passing the manse gate Watty again shook his fist and applied a very expressive epithet to its unconscious inmate, which would have roused the ire of the Reverend Duncan McLean had he heard it. But he was enjoying his well-earned repose, for he had been very zealous for several days in assisting to ferret out rebellious insurgents.

Watty entered the churchyard and stepped lightly over the turf to the green enclosure where slept so many of those who had first seen the light in the manse of Inverburn. Laying down his implements, Watty paused a moment by the double head-stone and wiped his eyes, as he read the name of Gray, so oft repeated--husband and wife, parent and child, one after the other--until certain newly-chiselled words recorded that here also slept--

"AGNES GUTHRIE GRAY,

THE DEAR WIFE OF ADAM HEPBURN, OF ROWALLAN, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE UNTIMEOUSLY, IN THE FLOWER OF HER AGE, BEING SHOT BY DRAGOONS AT HER OWN DOOR, ON THE NINTH DAY OF MARCH, SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE, LEAVING HER SORROWING HUSBAND DESOLATE UPON THE FACE OF THE EARTH."

As he slowly spelled out these pathetic words, for Watty was no great scholar, tears chased each other down his rugged face, and the heaving of his broad chest told how deep was his emotion. But suddenly recovering himself, and as if ashamed of his weakness, he dashed the tears aside, and stepping back for his pick, began his work--that of digging a grave. It was a strange and weird occupation for that mysterious hour following upon midnight, and Watty might have been excused had he felt a little nervous over his task. But no such foolish fears disturbed him as he quickly and deftly shovelled out the earth; his mind was filled with sad regretful thoughts of the past, mingled with foreboding and anxious previsions of the future. And thus busily occupied, he made great speed with his work. The bell in the tower rang one, and then two, and still Watty did not halt, but ere the solemn hands moved round to three his work was done, for his spade had struck with a dull sound on Agnes Hepburn's coffin lid. Then he jumped out of the new-made grave, put on his coat again, and walked down to the churchyard gate. Just then he heard the first cock-crowing from the curate's hen-roost, and its echo was taken up by chanticleer on a neighbouring farm, announcing to whomsoever might be awake to hear, the dawning of another day. Stepping out of the gate, Watty looked anxiously up the road, and as anxiously down towards the village, fearing lest the marauders under Mistress Lyall's roof-tree should have obtained a scent of this morning's work. For about fifteen minutes Watty endured an agony of impatience and suspense. However, to his unspeakable relief, he beheld something moving at a considerable distance up the road. He at once advanced to meet it, and as he drew nearer he could distinguish four figures walking two abreast, and carrying something between them. They also breathed a sigh of relief at sight of Watty, for in these times, though appointments were made, none could predict what might transpire to prevent their being kept.

"All ready, Watty?" inquired the voice of Andrew Gray, of Hartrigge, the moment they were within speaking distance.

"A' ready," Watty whispered back, and walking to the rear of the little party, he relieved the minister of Inverburn at the end of the coffin. Then slowly, and with measured tread, they moved on to the churchyard gate, up the broad walk, and across the turf to the new-made grave. The coffin was then laid gently down on the grass, and Watty, bending forward, read the name on the plate,

"GAVIN GRAY, AGED 17."

Meanwhile, Adam Hepburn had moved over to the open grave, and was gazing down upon the coffin, which contained the remains of his beloved, with a strange far-off expression on his face. They saw that he had forgotten himself and them, and after waiting a moment, David Gray stepped forward and lightly touched his arm.

"We wait for you, Adam," he said gently. "Will you take the cord at the feet with me?"

Adam Hepburn started violently, and then stepping forward, took the cord held out to him; the minister of Inverburn and Hartrigge himself being at the head. Then very gently they lowered it into the grave, and when it grated upon the other, Adam Hepburn let go his hold, and turned aside with a deep groan. The minister of Inverburn took up a handful of earth, and let it fall loosely on the coffin lid. "Earth to earth, dust to dust, he has changed the corruptible for the incorruptible, and what is our loss is the lad's great gain," he murmured half dreamily. Then he laid his hand on the arm of the bereaved father, over whose rugged face a tremor had passed, like the first wave of a great sea, adding, with gentle force, "My son, come, let us go hence."

"Not yet; I will wait and help Watty," said Andrew Gray, in a hoarse whisper; but already Watty, with strong and willing arm, was rapidly filling up the grave.

"I wonder whose murdered body will next lie here," said Hartrigge, with strange, deep bitterness. "Truly, I think, father, we had need soon to extend our burial space."

"Do not speak so bitterly, my son. Let us be thankful that we have been permitted to give the dear lad honourable and Christian burial, with his forbears," said the old man gently. "If the Lord will, may I be the next to be laid here in peace."

"We'd better get out o' this unless we be tired o' life," said Watty, grimly, pointing with his forefinger to the first streak of dawn on the eastern horizon. "If we dinna get clear off afore the daw'in', some o' the manse folk will be sure to see us."

Mindful of Watty's warning, they prepared to leave the churchyard, and yet they were fain to linger, for many hallowed memories bound them to the place. Ere he turned to go, Andrew Gray took up the spade and gently beat down the turf on the grave, and his last look at his son's loved resting place was blinded by unwonted tears.

"Watty," said Adam Hepburn, as they walked out to the road, "you had better come with us now, and let us see that boasted hiding of yours on the Douglas Water. If we are to remain in this district it will take a securer shelter than the cave at Hartrigge to hold us."

"I'm willint eneuch to let ye see't; but what if I be catched comin' hame?" queried Watty, cautiously.

"You can gather some grass on the roadside, and say you were seeking a bite for old Kirsty, if they question you," said Adam. "But you can easily be home by half six at the latest, unless indeed the place be all the farther up the water."

"Na, na, it's no' that faur. Weel, I'll just hide my pick and shovel in the hedge, and gang," answered Watty; so the little party once more turned their faces to Hartrigge, where the bereaved mother sat in her desolate house, like Rachel, weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted.

They spoke but little as they walked, for the burden of his thoughts was sufficient for each. The air was now raw and chill, and the light struggling over hill and dale dispelled the tender radiance of the moon and gave an aspect almost wintry to the face of nature. The minister of Inverburn several times shivered and his hacking cough and attenuated appearance indicated that exposure was beginning to tell upon his aged frame. Looking at him, Watty more than once ominously shook his head, and whispered within himself that the minister was not long for this world. Thinking they might with safety venture into the house of Hartrigge for some warm breakfast, Andrew Gray, with his father and brother, turned up the road to the farm, while Adam Hepburn and Watty took their way by a near cut to the glen, which formed the bed of the Douglas Water. Relieved from the slight restraint of the minister's presence, Watty found his tongue, and launched forth into a very vehement tirade against the oppressors of the land, using terms and expressions which in happier times would not have failed to amuse his companion, but which now he passed unheeded. It was seldom indeed that a smile was seen on the face of Adam Hepburn, and since his wife's death no man or woman had ever heard him laugh. The keen and pleasant sense of humour which had given such a relish to his company and speech in days gone by, had deserted him now, and he was in every respect an altered man. None was more mournfully conscious of this change than Watty, who had been wont to have many a bantering jest with the farmer of Rowallan, for whom he had a great liking and respect.

In the glen the sleepy birds were beginning to stir among the boughs, and already the air was full of twitterings, and of the hum of insects early on the wing. A heavy dew had fallen in the night, and hung sparkling like diamonds in the hedgerows and on every blade of grass, making the footing very wet, especially where it grew long and rank, close to the water's edge.

As they passed the mouth of the Corbie's Cliff Watty McBean looked mournfully at the now visible entrance, for the dragoons with their swords had shorn away all the branches and the clinging tangles which had so securely hidden it before. So that no man could possibly hide there now and expect to be undisturbed.

"Eh, that limmer Martha Miller, if I had her I'd pay her out for her treachery!" muttered Watty. "It's just as weel she gaed awa' to her sister in Glesca. She wadna hae been safe muckle longer in the place. It was gettin' ower hot for her."

"Ay, she'll never prosper, Watty. She may grow rich for a time on the spoiling of the neighbours she betrayed, but her punishment will come by-and-by," said Adam, quietly.

"I'm sure I hope sae," returned Watty, fervently. "Weel, here we are. Are ye sure there's naebody in sicht?"

"Scarcely here, before five in the morning, Watty," said Adam, with a faint smile. "It is a dark and gloomy retreat this."

He spoke the truth. They had now reached a very deep and narrow part of the glen, the sides of which rose precipitously from the edges of the stream. These abrupt heights were so densely covered with trees, chiefly those dark and gloomy firs common to the mountainous portions of Scotland, that they looked like a solid and impenetrable mass. The water, though narrow, was very deep, and made a hoarse and hollow roaring as it rushed among its rough boulders, which looked as if they had become detached from the rocky heights above and rolled into the bed of the stream. The light admitted from the narrow space between the heights was very insufficient, and only seemed to add to the gloom. Even in summer the sunshine never penetrated the dark retreat, consequently the common wild flowers did not bloom, although ferns and mosses of rich and varied hues and rare and delicate form grew in beautiful luxuriance.

"D'ye see ony place whaur a body micht hide?" queried Watty, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Faith, Watty, I believe anybody might be safe enough where we are standing at this moment. No mounted pursuer, at least, could reach this spot," answered Adam Hepburn.

"Weel, follow me as best ye can, for there's nae road, no' even a sheep-track, to guide ye," said Watty and, immediately plunging into the thicket on the left, he began to scramble up the face of the steep.

It was with some difficulty that his companion followed, but, by swinging himself up by the strong undergrowth, he managed to keep Watty in sight. At length Watty altogether and mysteriously disappeared, and, though he called out to guide his companion to his whereabouts, Adam could not discover him. It was intensely dark, and there was scarcely room to stand upright, so densely did the trees grow together. Presently Watty appeared again, and then Adam saw that he stood in front of an overhanging bank almost concealed by long grass and bracken.

"Crawl in efter me," cried Watty, and, getting down on his hands and knees, he crept under the bank and disappeared. Adam followed his example, and, as Watty immediately struck a light, he saw, to his astonishment, that he was in a roomy cavern, where he could stand upright with the greatest ease.

"Well, Watty, this is a splendid place, and will doubtless be invaluable to us," he exclaimed. "It is well-nigh impossible that any one should discover this. But tell me, how many in Inverburn could point it out?"

"No' a leevin' soul but mysel'. I'll tell ye wha shewed it to me, auld Robbie Harden, mony a year afore he deed, an' I never telt a cratur," Watty assured him, solemnly.

"Ah, that is good! Well, Watty, I am certainly obliged to you for bringing me here," said Adam. "The thing is, I hope I can make my way to it again by myself."

"Oh, that's easy enough. If ye come down noo I'll let ye see the clue," said Watty, and, accordingly, they again scrambled through the thicket to the edge of the stream.

"Ye see that muckle black rock jist like a table," said Watty, pointing to a huge mass lying in the bed of the water. "It's jist directly opposite that. If ye keep straicht up ye canna' miss it."

"All right; I'll remember," said Adam, and the twain then left the ravine and rapidly retraced their steps towards the haunts of men.

It was now about half-past five, so Watty, in alarm lest he should be stopped and questioned, left Adam Hepburn just behind Hartrigge, and taking to his heels, fled with the utmost speed back to the village.

CHAPTER XVII

A SHOCK OF CORN FULLY RIPE.

The body of dragoons stationed in the village of Inverburn were so constantly upon the alert, and swept so wide a range of the surrounding district, that it was well-nigh impossible for the fugitives to leave their hiding either by night or day. They had removed to the safer hiding of Watty's hole in the Witches' Cleugh [glen or ravine], and thither Jane Gray, courageous as usual, carried their provisions, either in the very early morning, or after the moon was up at night. They had made the place as comfortable as it was possible under the circumstances, having formed themselves couches of dried leaves over which were spread the substantial coverings which Jane had carried to them by degrees. She was now abiding constantly at Hartrigge, where all Adam Hepburn's most valuable goods had been removed, and Rowallan shut up. As for the stock, the soldiers had relieved him of any anxiety regarding it by removing it all for their own use and profit. So Rowallan was now a deserted and desolate homestead, about which the owls screeched mournfully at night, and the bats flapped their weird wings unheeded and undisturbed against the shuttered windows.

The people of the village were now driven to church at the point of the sword, consequently the curate's services were no longer disgraced by meagre attendances. As the people listened to the mockery of worship he conducted within the now desecrated walls, they bowed their heads in sorrow and shame, knowing very well that directly the services were over he would be away drinking with the officers of the regiment. His excesses, which were not confined to week-days, had now become a public scandal, so much so, that Sir Thomas Hamilton in disgust had ceased to attend the church of Inverburn, and had returned to the ministrations of John Methven, at Lochlee.

The dragoons, being under command not to quit the place until they had laid hands on the four obstinate and cunning insurgents, who were lurking in the neighbourhood, growing tired of their quarters, began a more vigorous raid on the outlying farmhouses and homesteads, as well as a more thorough exploration of the woods and hills. But though they rode along the very heights above the hiding place of the wanderers they sought, and, dismounting, even made an attempt to explore the very thicket sheltering the cave, their search was unsuccessful.

Being quite aware of the very strict search going on, the fugitives were compelled to abide yet more closely in their shelter. It was now the end of the year, and though as yet little snow had fallen, there had been heavy rain storms accompanied by wild and bitter winds which almost froze the marrow in their bones. It being considered unsafe to make a fire, the fugitives suffered much from the cold, and from the dampness of their hiding-place. The minister of Inverburn, especially, suffered from its effects, and grew so weak that he was scarcely able to stand upright. He also complained of great pain and uneasiness of the chest, which indicated that the long exposure had wrought very evil effects upon his aged and delicate frame.

Towards midnight, one evening early in January, a slight snow being on the ground, and the roads rendered easy footing by a touch of frost, Mistress Gray of Hartrigge, accompanied by Jane, set out to carry provisions to the fugitives. Since her son's death, Susan Gray's feelings concerning the Covenanters and their persecutions had undergone a change. In times gone she had not been a very zealous Churchwoman, and had often remonstrated with her husband concerning what she considered his bigoted and unwise zeal; but now her hatred against the oppressors equalled, if not excelled, that of Andrew. Yet his was the outcome of true religious zeal, while hers was the result of outraged human feelings. And I fear that very many of those who followed the fortunes of the Covenanters were actuated by like feelings with Mistress Gray.

No thought of fear troubled these two women as they traversed their lonely way through the wilds to the Witches' Cleugh. They spoke but little as they went, for the time had now come when talking over troubles only made them seem worse to bear. They found it better to shut them up in their own hearts, and make no moan to the world. The bright light of the moon made the surrounding landscape indescribably beautiful, yet what eye had these two for what in happier times would have afforded them pleasure and delight? To them the beauty of Nature was obscured by the pall of bitter personal sorrow. When they reached the cleugh, Jane Gray put a whistle to her mouth and blew the signal, which those in hiding had learned to know and welcome. Andrew Gray hastened through the thicket to guide them up to the cave; and Jane walked on a little in front, guessing that her brother would have many things to say to his wife, whom he had not seen for some weeks. When they together entered the cavern, which was dimly lighted, quiet but expressive greetings passed between them, but somewhat to Jane's surprise and alarm, her father did not offer to rise and speak to them. She advanced to the side of the low bed, and holding the flickering light above it, saw such a deep and significant change in the dear features, that she could not repress a cry of anguish.

"My father seems very ill. How long has he been thus?" she exclaimed, turning to her brothers. The tones of her familiar and much-loved voice seemed to awaken the old man to struggling consciousness, for he presently stirred, and opened his eyes.

"Is that my daughter's voice?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes, father, I am here," answered Jane, and dropping on her knees, she took the wasted hands in her firm gentle clasp. "Tell me, do you feel much distressed? Do you suffer much pain?"

"Not much pain, only great uneasiness and oppression, my daughter," he answered. "If it be the precursor of my summons home, how gladly do I bear it all, if only my Lord sees fit to call me speedily from these troubles, which I fear I bear with but a poor measure of cheerfulness and patience. But being old and stricken in years, I have not the same endurance with these young men, your brethren."

Jane Gray's eyes filled with bitter tears, and for a space sobs prevented her from speaking. Susan Gray now moved over to the bed, and after looking steadfastly at the old man's face for a brief space, she said decidedly, "Grandfather is very ill. What say you to having him moved to a comfortable bed at Hartrigge?"

For a moment they looked somewhat surprised at her proposal, which involved considerable risk, but she hastened to reassure them.

"The dragoons have grown weary of searching through Hartrigge, and, indeed, I hear, that having become convinced that you are not in the district, they are about to shift their quarters. So I think we needna' fear for them. You could carry him home this very nicht between you, and be back safe in hiding afore the first peep o' day."

"God bless you for your suggestion, Susan," said Jane Gray, gratefully. "It is kind of you to risk your own safety, and that of your bairns and house, for our sakes."

After a brief hesitation it was resolved to act upon Mistress Gray's plan.

The old man being too weak to understand what they were talking about, lay perfectly still, only keeping his eyes fixed upon his daughter's face, as if they loved to dwell there. He seemed surprised when presently they began to roll the coverings round him, but did not ask any questions, nor did they tell him what was about to be done. He was so thin and attenuated that his light weight was as nothing to Andrew Gray, who carried him in his arms as easily as if he had been a child. After a little Adam relieved him, and thus that strange and mournful procession wended its way to the house of Hartrigge. The women-folk hurried on in front, and reaching the house considerably before the others, Jane made haste to get something hot prepared for them, while the mistress hung sheets and blankets at the cheerful kitchen fire, and carried up a shovelful of blazing peats to a little garret room, which was situated in the most remote and the safest part of the house. The bed was ready when the wanderers arrived, and the old man was at once undressed, and having had warm, dry, comfortable underclothing put on, was laid in the clean and cosy bed, where he stretched his limbs gladly, and wearily laid his head on the soft pillow, too thankful to ask where he was, so sweet and grateful was the unwonted comfort to his exhausted and pain-racked frame. His daughter held a warm drink to his lips, which when he had taken, he lay down and fell asleep. Meanwhile, in the chamber below the others were partaking of a hasty repast, wondering much at their own temerity in venturing within the house of Hartrigge, which, in spite of its familiarity, had a strange look, so long was it since their eyes had dwelt upon the interior of a dwelling made with hands. Leaving his food unfinished, Andrew Gray stole up to the chamber where he knew he should find his little ones asleep. As he looked upon the sweet, chubby faces of the two younger ones, and then on Jeanie's paler and more womanly features, his eyes grew strangely dim, and stooping he kissed them one after the other, so lightly that they did not even stir in their sleep. His wife presently joined him, and moving to his side, she leaned her head on his shoulder and he put his arm about her, and they stood for a brief space in utter silence.

The thoughts of each were too deep for words or tears.

"God will take care of you, wife, and keep our bairns," he said at length. "Fain would I tarry, but it is time we were going hence."

She nodded, and leaving the room, they rejoined David Gray and Adam, waiting with some impatience below. Then after many fervent farewells, and many injunctions to send word if any danger were likely to come near Hartrigge, so that, if possible, they might again remove the old man, the wanderers left the cheerful warmth and comfort of Hartrigge, and betook themselves to their bleak hiding in the dens and caves of the earth.

Next morning mistress Gray took little Jeanie aside, and told her that her grandfather was in the garret, and said she had trusted her with the secret, lest she should discover it, and unthinkingly speak of it outside.

Jeanie looked up into her mother's face with a wise, womanly expression, almost sad to see in so young a child.

"Oh, mother, you needna fear for me," she said quietly. "Though you hadna told me, I would have known very well not to tell any one of grandfather being here. But, mother, did he come in the middle of the night, and was father with him? I dreamed that father was standing by my bed last night, and that he kissed me, and was crying when he did it."

"It was nae dream, lassie," said her mother, through her tears; "your poor father was indeed here last night, and kissed and blessed you, and Sandy, and Nannie too."

For several days it seemed as if the minister of Inverburn were likely to recover, under the kind nursing of his daughter at Hartrigge. But the pain in the chest did not abate its severity, and though they did the utmost for him within their knowledge and skill, there was no visible improvement in his condition. They dared not send for a doctor, but had just to use their own means, and pray for a blessing.

In the course of a week, however, it became quite evident to the anxious watchers that death was not far off.

The day came at last when the old man, conscious himself of his approaching end, desired that his children might be gathered about his bed. Jane Gray ran in haste to the Witches' Cleugh, and in the darkening those in hiding stole up to Hartrigge.

When the dying servant of God saw all the faces beloved best on earth gathered round him, a well-pleased expression stole into his face. Looking at his first-born son, he desired him to raise him a little in the bed, in order that he might better utter his words of blessing and farewell. Then fixing his eyes on Andrew's face, he said, in low and solemn tones:--

"You have ever been a faithful and dutiful son to me, Andrew, for which the Lord will reward you. I have but one word of warning to give regarding the part you will take in the struggle which will shortly rage with hotter violence than it has hitherto done in the land. See to it that you fight for the Covenant with singleness of heart and purpose, out of pure love for its sweet and simple doctrines, and do not allow any personal spleen to mingle with your nobler aim, lest the blessing of the Most High be withheld. To you, David, my son, I have also a word to say. I bid you be of good courage, and fail not to strengthen and encourage your brethren in arms with the ministrations of your holy office whenever time and opportunity permit. And fear not those who can kill the body, for it is written, 'Whosoever shall lose his life for My sake shall find it.' To you, Adam Hepburn, the widowed spouse of my sweet Agnes, and dear to me as my own sons, my words will also be brief. I would seek to remind you that vengeance belongs only to the Lord, and that from high Heaven alone cometh sure retribution for deeds of blood. Therefore I would warn you that you strive to overcome your evil and revengeful passion, reminding you that it is not a spirit which the ransomed soul of your beloved could approve. It is written that he that slayeth with the sword shall perish by the sword. To you, my sweet and well-beloved daughter, Jane, who have indeed followed closely in your mother's footsteps, since the mournful day when that dear saint left this world for a better, I have simply to leave my gratitude and fatherly blessing. Your reward for many deeds and words of love will come by-and-by. And, last of all, Susan, my daughter, I would but call to your remembrance that our God can bind up the broken heart, and that your tears are treasured up against that day when He cometh to judge the quick and the dead. And the parting is but for a little while. Farewell, my children; save for your sakes I am not sorry to quit this earthy tabernacle, and enter upon the inheritance which my sweet Lord has kept for me since before the foundation of the world."

With these words the minister sank back exhausted among his pillows. It must not be supposed that he was able to utter the foregoing sentences as connectedly as they are written. Nay, they were spoken with much difficulty, and many long pauses, and his parched lips had to be continually moistened with the stimulant Jane kept ready at hand. He lay so still after the last words passed his lips that they almost feared he was gone. But at length his eyelids quivered slightly, and then they saw a seraphic smile dawning upon his face, as if some lovely vision had appeared to his soul. His lips moved slightly, and Jane, hastily bending down, caught the faintly whispered words:--

"Coming, O my sweet Lord Jesus!"

So, quietly and painlessly, he fell asleep.

"It is all over," said Hartrigge, huskily.

"For this present life only, Andrew," quietly answered the minister of Broomhill. "And, thanks be to His name, He has spared the green, and taken the ripe."

CHAPTER XVIII.

AT HAUGHHEAD.

In the grey twilight of a sweet spring evening, a figure, wearing the garb of a minister, entered the policies surrounding Haughhead, and keeping well within the shadow of the trees, stole across the park to the mansion house. The face of the wanderer was not that of an old man, and yet his hair was as white as snow. He looked worn and delicate, and walked slowly and with a somewhat lingering step, as if he had travelled far, and was very weary.

The house of Haughhead was a building of considerable pretension, and was beautifully situated on a richly wooded slope, directly facing the picturesque village of Broomhill. The grounds were ample and well kept, and looked their best that spring evening, for the trees were bursting into leaf, and the early spring flowers were blooming in the trim borders and among the smooth-grown turf. The wanderer looked about him with a sad and tender interest, for his surroundings were peculiarly familiar, and recalled to his mind many memories of the past. To this place, in the early days of his settlement in Broomhill, he had often come, lured by the sunny gleam in the blue eyes of Lilian Burnet. Through these very green and bosky glades he had wandered, with her light hand clinging to his arm, in the happy, careless days of their courtship; across that very threshold he had led his fair bride, accounting himself that day the happiest man in broad Scotland. Recalling these happy days, and contrasting them with the desolation which was his to-day, he could have fancied them but the vagaries of his own imagination. Although it was not yet dark outside, lights gleamed in the lower windows of the house, and all the shutters were closed, telling that the inmates had settled themselves within for the night. The minister hesitated for a moment at the base of the broad flight of steps which led up to the door, wavering in his purpose to seek admittance. Finally he stepped aside to one of the lower windows, at which the shutters had not been carefully closed, there being a broad chink left, through which a very good view of the interior of the room might be had. It was a large, pleasant, well-lighted chamber, with a log fire burning cheerfully on the hearth, and giving one the idea of comfort and homeliness. There were several persons in the room. Sitting in her high-backed chair was the prim-looking mistress of Haughhead, busy upon some embroidery. Opposite her, on the hearth, sat Burnet of Haughhead himself, with a small table drawn up before him, and a ponderous volume lying thereon, in whose pages he seemed engrossed. It was not upon these two, however, that the yearning eyes of the minister dwelt On the hearthrug two little children were busy at their play: two lovely children, a boy and girl, the former, having been very delicate in infancy, only able to toddle on his little legs, and his baby tongue only yet learning the mysterious language of words. A little apart, also busy with her sewing, sat their mother, a lovely creature, to all appearance scarcely yet out of her girlhood, with a round sweet innocent face, as delicate in hue as the tint of the lily and the rose combined, and clear liquid blue eyes, which had evidently never yet been dimmed by bitter tears. She was a picture of serene and happy repose, not a shadow crossed her fair face, and her low humming of a familiar melody seemed to indicate a heart at rest.

Familiar though he was with the shallowness of his wife's nature, David Gray, looking on her face, was amazed. He had expected to see her a little changed; he thought that a small measure of anxiety, a shadow of regret concerning him, might have left its impress on her face. But no, she looked younger, fairer, more free from care than he had ever seen her before. If there had been any lingering hope in his mind that the wife whom he still loved, thought of, or longed for him in her separation, it was dispelled at once and for ever. But for the two little ones playing at her feet, the years of her wifehood might have seemed only the shadow of a dream, so unchanged was she from the light and giddy girl who had ruled the house of Haughhead since her babyhood. Pleasant and suggestive as was the picture in that family room, it caused a deep, deep shadow to come upon the sad face of the minister of Broomhill. He felt himself utterly forgotten by those bound to him by the nearest and dearest of ties. They had put him away out of their hearts and lives as one undeserving of their love. Presently his painful thoughts were interrupted by the gruff voice of Gilbert Burnet, and every word was distinctly audible.

"Give your song words, Lily," he said; "this is just the time of night for music. Is the harp there?"

"Yes, father," the sweet, careless tones made answer, blithely, and David Gray saw her throw aside her work, and approach the corner of the room where the harp stood. Then she sat down, ran her white fingers lightly over the strings, tossed back her sunny ringlets in the coquettish fashion he remembered so well, and then began the sweet, stirring strains of an old ballad, which had ever been a favourite in days gone by. Listening to these sweet strains, the minister of Broomhill seemed to forget himself and his surroundings, until the abrupt cessation of the music, and a loud clapping of hands, caused him to start, and cast another look into the room. The children had now risen from their play, and were clapping their baby hands in glee over the music.

Looking upon their winsome faces, the faces of his own children, given to him by God, taken from him by man, a great wave of anguish, of unutterable yearning, swept over his soul. But he crushed it down, and turning about, stole away from the house by the way he had come. They had forgotten him, they had no need of him; henceforth he was without wife, or children, or home, a wanderer on the face of the earth. They were safe and sheltered under that roof-tree, because its heads had not identified themselves with rebellion and treason, while he was hunted, pursued, and tracked to the dens and caves of the earth, with a price set upon his head. And yet what of that? what though perils by sea and land, perils by persecution, encompassed him, when he possessed the sweet approval of his own conscience, and the ever-present consciousness of the presence and blessing of the Most High? To be accounted worthy had been his earnest cry ere these desolations had fallen upon him, and now was he one to shrink and stand back from the bearing of his cross, however heavy it might be? Nay, but a sweet peace stole into his heart, as these precious words of promise were whispered to him: "And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sister, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for My name's sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life."

Henceforth God and the Covenant were all he had to live and suffer for, all he could call his own indeed upon the earth. Therefore he would go forth gladly with his brethren on the morrow to join the Covenanting army assembling in the south.

Not many days after that, the women folk at Hartrigge were busy about their usual tasks, when a horse and rider came up to the front door, the latter loudly demanding admittance. Jane Gray went out at once, and great was her astonishment to behold Gilbert Burnet, the laird of Haughhead.

"Well, Jane Gray, 'tis a long time since we met," he said, grimly.

"It is, indeed, Mr. Burnet," answered Jane, quietly.

"And many ups and downs have taken place since then, eh?" he asked, more grimly still.

"You speak the truth," said Jane, coldly, not liking very well the manner in which he spoke. "Will you be pleased to alight from your horse, and step in? In my brother's name I can bid you welcome to his house, and his wife will speak to you within. She has been in poor health these few weeks, and is confined to her own chamber."

"I'll not come in to-day," said Haughhead, bluntly. "My business can be done here well enough. It will not take up much of your time."

"My time is at your disposal, Mr. Burnet. We are not hard pressed in these times," she said, with a faint smile.

"No, there is a mighty difference in Hartrigge since I saw it last. A great fool Andrew Gray was to leave his substantial holding and comfortable life for his present precarious existence," said Haughhead. "I suppose he is not about the place."

"No; nor has been for many, many months," answered Jane, briefly.

"Ah, I thought not. It was you I expected to see. Well, I suppose you have heard of the most gracious indulgence granted by the king to the outed and rebellious ministers?"

"Yes; we heard of it some days ago," answered Jane Gray, in a calm and unreadable voice.

"You know the generous terms it offers?" said Burnet, inquiringly. "If they will acknowledge the bishops, they are to be forgiven for past rebellion and inducted into the full enjoyment of their former benefices. If not, they are still to be allowed to preach in the kirks, and can come back to their manses and glebes."

"Yes; we heard that such were the king's terms, Mr. Burnet," said Jane Gray, but did not offer the information he was anxious to obtain.

"What, what are your brothers saying to it? What--in fact, hang it, woman!--will your brother David come back peaceably to Broomhill? You know very well what I want to be at!" said Haughhead, losing his temper and raising his voice.

Jane Gray looked him straight in the face with clear, calm, steadfast eyes.

"I fear not; in fact, Mr. Burnet, I know that the indulgence will make no difference whatsoever to my brother David. On no account will he now accept a living from the hands of a king who has proved himself so utterly unworthy of trust or loyal service. My brother, in common with many other thoughtful men, regards the new proclamation simply as a trap set to ensure the complete downfall of Presbyterianism in Scotland."

It was curious to watch the varying expressions on Gilbert Burnet's face as he listened to Jane Gray's fearless and unmistakable words.

"Gad, Jane Gray! you are not afraid! I should not wonder to see your proud head roll in the dust yet," he said, sarcastically. "Then your brothers will still keep themselves rebels at large, liable to be shot or hanged any day?"

"Until God sees fit to restore to the Church of Scotland a glorious liberty, crowned and sanctioned by His own blessing and approval, my brothers are content to undertake the risks involved by their firm upstanding for the Covenant," answered Jane Gray, with quiet but striking eloquence.

"Then you brothers are arrant fools, and deserve whatever fate may befall them!" fumed Haughhead. "Is David Gray in the neighbourhood? Could I see him? Although I am no bigoted zealot, I can pass my word of honour and keep it, as a gentleman should. He will come by no harm through me. I only desire to speak with him for a little space."

"It is impossible, Mr. Burnet. My brothers, and also my brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn, have left this district, and I know not where they may now be."

"I see you speak the truth. I had a message from my daughter, his wife," said Haughhead, carelessly. "I can deliver it to you. Possibly you may have some opportunity of communicating with him at no very distant date."

"I shall be very pleased to receive your message, Mr. Burnet, and to deliver it to David when opportunity offers."

"Well, it is just this, that if he will accept the king's generous indulgence and return to the manse of Broomhill, she will come back to him with her children, thus showing herself willing to overlook his long desertion."

Jane Gray drew herself up, and a slight colour rose in her cheek.

"Truly, Mr. Burnet, I think Lilian Gray cannot be a changed woman when she sent such a message to my brother," she said, proudly. "She should rather have couched her message in terms of humility, seeing she so wrongly and unkindly quitted him in the hour of his need."

"That is your way of looking at it. We hold that, by his folly, David Gray forfeited all claim on his wife's consideration," retorted Haughhead, angrily. "But it is no use arguing with a Gray, so I will be off, Jane Gray, wishing you a very good day."

"Stay, Mr. Burnet; will you tell me, please, how it is with the little ones, my brother's bairns?" said Jane, laying a pleading hand on his bridle rein. "I have a great yearning to see or hear something of them."

"Oh, they are well, and as bonnie bairns as eyes could wish to see--true Burnets both of them," answered Haughhead, stretching a point just to vex the heart of the woman before him. "Tell David that, and tell him that they'll soon forget they have a father at all."

With which parting shot, which brought an unbidden tear to Jane Gray's eye, the Laird of Haughhead gave his horse the rein and rode rapidly away.

CHAPTER XIX.

UNLOOKED-FOR NEWS.

In spite of the many stringent measures taken by the Government to suppress the field preachings and break the spirit of the Covenanters, the persecuted people continued to meet for worship in the mountain solitudes or in the moorland wilds, thus strengthening each others' hearts and hands, and renewing the bond of their precious Covenant, for which these hardships were endured.

Now no conventicle was held unless protected by an armed band ready to give the alarm and fight, if need be, the soldiers who might seek to disturb or disperse them. Consequently skirmishes were of very frequent occurrence, sometimes resulting in victory for the Presbyterians, sometimes in their utter defeat. In these encounters many lost their lives. Often were the heather and the mountain streams dyed with their blood, and yet the army never seemed to diminish in numbers, for there were ever some ready to fill the vacant places of those who had fallen.

The curates still continued to conduct Episcopal services in the kirks, but the supremacy of the bishops seemed no nearer being established in the last, because, with some exceptions, those who attended the ministrations were people of little note or reputation, with perhaps a few whom terror compelled to take their unwilling places in the kirks.

The struggles betwixt the Government and the Scottish Presbyterians had now extended over several years, and seemed yet no nearer a satisfactory termination. The Covenanters, with their intimate knowledge of their native hills and dales, had the advantage over the troopers sent to hunt and destroy them, and some of their mountain fastnesses were more impregnable than a fortified city. In open warfare they might easily have been cut to pieces, but time went on, and except the few skirmishes already referred to, the opponents had never met in battle. Such a state of affairs could not be satisfactory to the King of England, much less so to Lauderdale and the Archbishop of St. Andrews, who were his executors in Scotland.

When every troop of marauding dragoons was empowered to take captive, torture, or kill any man, woman, or child whom they even suspected of being a Covenanter, or of attending the Conventicles; when the property of unoffending individuals was confiscated and distributed among the spoilers; when the dwellings of peaceable country folk were robbed, and often burned to the ground without explanation or excuse; when those who were supposed to have afforded shelter or refreshment to the fugitives were fined and imprisoned without mercy, it might have been thought that there were no severer measures left in the Government repertoire, and that they might have abandoned the persecutions in despair of ever rooting Presbyterian principles out of Scotland. But as yet the Government had no such intention. Those in power met to discuss, and finally issued orders for the infliction of yet more stringent and cruel treatment upon the rebels. Every forgotten and long-abhorred torture was revived, and used as punishments by the unholy Courts, which made a mockery of administering justice in the land.

Well might the endurance of God's people quail beneath the yoke of the oppressor; well might their hearts be uplifted to Heaven in that despairing cry, "O Lord, how long!"

One evening about the middle of May, in the year 1679, several men were gathered together in a lonely farmhouse among the wilds of Lanarkshire. Among them we recognise Andrew Gray of Hartrigge, and his brother, David, the minister of Broomhill, also other two familiar faces, those of Adam Hepburn of Rowallan, and Watty McBean, the carrier of Inverburn. Having had his houses burned about his ears, his faithful nag and all his valuables stolen, Watty had become, instead of a man of peace, a man of war, and had joined the army lying in the Vale of Avondale. Betty had retired to Hartrigge, which was now entirely left to the women-folk, and was at the utter mercy of the soldiery. But as yet the homestead remained untouched, though fair Rowallan was razed to the ground.

From the appearance of the company gathered in the room, as well as from their remarks, it could be gathered that they were (with the exception of Watty, who would on no account let Adam Hepburn out of his sight) leaders among the insurgents. They were discussing the next steps to be taken by the army, and Sir Robert Hamilton, brother to the Laird of Inverburn, and a staunch, though moderate Presbyterian, was counselling cautious measures, to which Andrew Gray, Adam Hepburn, and some other fiery spirits listened with but a small show of patience, when there came a loud and peremptory knocking at the door. Involuntarily all sprang to their feet, and grasped their swords. If they were discovered, and the soldiers were without, there were twenty valiant and desperate men of them, who would fight dearly for their lives.

Adam Hepburn, sword in hand, fearlessly went to the outer door, and threw it open. In the faint and uncertain beams of the young May moon he saw only a solitary horseman, whose steed was panting and covered with foam, as if it had galloped many miles that day.

"Is this Windyedge, the house of Gideon Dickson?" the horseman asked in a thick whisper.

"Is it friend or foe?" queried Adam, briefly.

"Friend," replied the horseman, as briefly. "Is Sir Robert Hamilton within?"

"He is; but be good enough first to give me your name as a guerdon of your honour," said Adam.

"Tush! man," said the horseman impatiently; "well, John Balfour of Kinloch, synonymous with liberty at any price, is it not?"

Those within, hearing the whispered conference, now came crowding out to the door, and Sir Robert Hamilton, at sight of the figure on the horse, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and at once stepped across the threshold.

"John Balfour! What on earth brings you from Fife to this remote place? No paltry reason, I could swear."

"You speak the truth," returned Balfour grimly. "Is there any fellow who can put up my steed, who is in a sorry plight, poor wretch, as well he may, after his desperate ride. And is there any refreshment to be had within, for I am fainting with hunger and fatigue."

Gideon Dickson, the farmer of Windyedge, came out himself, and taking the exhausted animal's bridle-rein, led him away towards the stable. Then Balfour was conducted into the house, and refreshment immediately set before him. While he partook of his repast he spoke not, and those in the room who had hitherto only known him by hearsay as a fearless soldier, who would fight under the most desperate circumstances, now looked, not without astonishment, upon his person. In figure he was considerably under the middle height, but his frame was powerfully knit, and evidently possessed of great strength. His countenance was by no means prepossessing, being dark and forbidding, while a cast in his eye gave him a peculiarly fierce and unpleasant aspect. When he had finished his repast he looked round upon the assembled company, and then fixing his eyes on the face of Sir Robert Hamilton, briefly asked the question:--

"Are these present to be trusted?"

"Ay, truly," answered Sir Robert. "They are the picked men of our forces; therefore you may fearlessly open your mouth in their midst, John."

"And there are no traitors or spies within hearing?" further queried Kinloch, looking suspiciously round him.

"None; we are gathered here for consultation," replied Sir Robert. "Our forces are lying about a mile distant, under cover of the Loudon hill."

"That is well. But, tell me, have you had no news, of a very comfortable and pleasant nature, conveyed hither from Fife?" queried Balfour grimly.

Sir Robert shook his head and made answer that they had received no communication whatsoever from the shire of Fife.

"Nothing relating to that arch-fiend, James Sharp, of St. Andrews?"

"Nothing. Come, John, do not keep us in suspense. Can it be that the Lord has permitted judgment to fall on him at last?"

"Even so," said Balfour. "Know, then, that certain faithful servants of the Covenant, meeting the archbishop's carriage on Magus muir, on the third day of this present month, sent the perjured traitor to his just and righteous doom."

Sir Robert Hamilton was struck dumb in the intensity of his surprise and horror, for in a moment the consequences of that rash and indefensible act were made clear to his well-balanced mind. One or two others, notably the minister of Broomhill, also exhibited dismay, but the majority of those present received the news with a lively satisfaction, and even with a species of fierce joy which told that in their zeal they thirsted for blood.

"Who authorised, or led them to such a rash and unwise attack?" queried Sir Robert Hamilton. "They must have been blind and blood-thirsty zealots, surely, who killed a man in cold blood, without giving him a chance to defend himself."

An expression of fierce and bitter scorn crossed the dark face of Balfour as he made answer contemptuously.

"What of the many thousands who have been murdered in cold blood at Sharp's instigation and with his approval? The like mercy he showed to others was meted out to him. For my part, I would that he had ten other lives, to be taken from him in the same summary fashion."

"I am of your opinion, Mr. Balfour," said the deep voice of Adam Hepburn of Rowallan, and Kinloch immediately turned his deep-set eyes with approval on the speaker. Something in the dogged and resolute expression on his fine face, and in the gleam of his keen blue eye, riveted Balfour's attention and caused him to mentally resolve that they should become better acquainted with each other.

"And I, also," chimed in Andrew Gray in his quiet but weighty manner. "There could be no fate too harsh for such a traitor. Verily he has been a Judas in the Kirk of Scotland all his days, and his hands are dyed with the blood of hundreds of innocents whom he has betrayed."

Still Sir Robert Hamilton shook his head, and a troubled and anxious expression continued to dwell on his face.

"Come, tell me, John, who were the perpetrators of this deed of violence?" he asked. "Are any of them personally known to you?"

A grim smile stole into Kinloch's face as he made answer--

"Faith, they were all as well known to me as my own brothers, seeing I was in their midst, as also was my brother-in-law, David Hackstoun of Rathillet."

"David Hackstoun of Rathillet!" ejaculated Sir Robert in tones of utter amazement. "Very sure am I that so sweet and kindly a soul would not lay a hand even on the archbishop."

"Well, like Saul, he looked on, consenting unto his death," said Balfour. "I myself gave the traitor a sword thrust, just to wipe off old scores, but it was not these hands that finished him. Nevertheless, the crime is wholly charged upon my brother-in-law and myself, and I take it there will be a heavy ransom set upon our precious heads. After the deed was done we separated, David Hackstoun and I agreeing to join the forces here; but he would go home to see his wife first, else he had been here with me. It may be that his silly dallying may cost him his life."

"You are right in saying there will be a heavy price set on your heads," said Sir Robert Hamilton; "and, what is more, we will all need to gird about our swords and see to our armour, for now there will be no quarter for any professing Covenanting principles. I prophesy that the king will take steps to terribly avenge his primate's death."

"What of that?" queried Balfour, carelessly. "What ingenuity or revenge could suggest more terrible and bloody oppression than has been pressed on Scotland these past ten years?"

"Well, well, what's done can't be undone," said Sir Robert, with a somewhat mournful smile. "Now, lads, we had better to our discussions again. We were but planning a great field meeting for Sabbath week, at which a Communion Service might be held, and we were somewhat divided as to a suitable place of meeting."

"Are there many soldiers in the district?" asked Balfour.

"Ah, that we cannot tell. They rise mysteriously, as it were out of the bowels of the earth, when least expected," replied Sir Robert. "But I heard on good authority that that miscreant--for I can call him nothing else--John Graham of Claverhouse is in the west."

"Right well would I like to measure swords with him," said Balfour, with feverish eagerness. "Such a man is not fit to live."

"It's no' very easy gettin' at him," piped the shrill voice of Watty McBean. "I'm tell he rides a muckle black horse the deevil sent him, an' that nae man can owertak' him."

Balfour immediately turned his piercing eyes on Watty's face with a glance which covered him with confusion, for he had been surprised into speech without thinking.

"Be quiet, Watty," said Adam Hepburn promptly, which rebuke caused Watty to slink behind the door, chiefly to escape the gaze of Balfour, whom he had regarded with terror ever since his entrance.

"Those who are best acquainted with the district should be the fittest to choose a place of meeting," said Balfour. "What numbers have you at Loudon Hill?"

"About three hundred, and at a short notice we could speedily double or treble the number. There having been no fighting of late, very many have returned to their homes. Indeed, those with us are chiefly men whose goods have been confiscated and their dwellings pillaged and burned."

"I see no better spot than where our army now lies," said Adam Hepburn. "It is a sheltered and suitable place, and from the top of the hill our watchers could readily descry the enemy approaching from one side, while upon the other that wide and dreary morass is a bulwark in our defence."