FLOWER O' THE HEATHER (continued 6)

"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.

CHAPTER XXXV

WITHIN SIGHT OF ST. GILES

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.

CHAPTER XXXVI

FOR THE SAKE OF THE COVENANT

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.

CHAPTER XXXVII

"OUT OF THE SNARE OF THE FOWLERS"

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.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE PASSING OF ANDREW AND JEAN

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."

CHAPTER XXXIX

FALSE HOPES

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.

CHAPTER XL

I SEEK A FLOWER

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.

CHAPTER XLI

IN THE HANDS OF THE PERSECUTORS

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.

CHAPTER XLII

IN THE TOLBOOTH OF DUMFRIES

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.