JOHN BURNET OF BARNS (continued 4)

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX

AN ACCOUNT OF MY HOME-COMING

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

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

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

"There's an eye that ever weeps, and a fair face will be fain

When I ride through Annan Water wi' my bonny bands again."

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

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

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

BOOK III—THE HILLMEN

CHAPTER I

THE PIER O' LEITH

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

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

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

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

I stared in silent amazement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II

HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III

THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK

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

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

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

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

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

The chain was unlocked by a tremulous hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I knocked feebly, for my excitement was great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this was the tale he told.

CHAPTER IV

HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END

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

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

"By and by he gets up on his feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Captain also rose and looked at him disdainfully.

"'What would you do?' said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V

I CLAIM A PROMISE, AND WE SEEK THE HILLS

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

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

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

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

"I mind it well," said she.

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

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

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

"'And if he were a soldier gay

And tarried from the town,

And sought in wars, through death and scars,

To win for him renown,

I'd place his colours in my breast

And ride by moor and lea,

And win his side, there to abide

And bear him company.'

Was it not so?"

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

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

"'For sooth a maid, all unafraid,

Should by her lover be,

With wile and art to cheer his heart,

And bear him company.'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI

THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER

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

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

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

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

Here one of the others spoke up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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