JOHN BURNET OF BARNS (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI

HOW MASTER GILBERT BURNET PLAYED A GAME AND WAS CHECKMATED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII

THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES AND HOW A STRANGER RETURNED FROM THE WARS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII

I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, if my love were sailor-bred

And fared afar from home,

In perilous lands, by shoal and sands,

If he were sworn to roam,

Then, O, I'd hie me to a ship,

And sail upon the sea,

And keep his side in wind and tide

To bear him company.

"And if he were a soldier gay,

And tarried from the town,

And sought in wars, through death and scars,

To win for him renown,

I'd place his colours in my breast,

And ride by moor and lea,

And win his side, there to abide,

And bear him company.

"For sooth a maid, all unafraid,

Should by her lover be,

With wile and art to cheer his heart,

And bear him company."

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX

I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS AND FIND A COMPANION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BOOK II—THE LOW COUNTRIES

CHAPTER I

OF MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tam o' the Linn and a' his bairns

Fell into the fire in ilk ither's airms.

"Eh," quoth the binmost, "I have a het skin."

"It's hetter below," quo' Tam o' the Linn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His first question to me was in the Latin.

"What tongue do you speak?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was tempted to answer him in his own way.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II

I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART

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

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