JOHN BURNET OF BARNS (continued 5)

"You are not of us," he said suddenly. "I heard you say a moment agone that you had no share in the inheritance of Jacob, but still chose to dwell among the tents of sin."

"Nay," I said very gently, for he was very old and of noble presence, "do not speak thus. Surely it is no sin to live at peace in the good earth in honour and uprightness, and let all nice matters of doctrine go by, esteeming it of more importance to be a good man and true than a subtle disquisitioner—thinking, too, that all such things are of little moment and change from age to age, and that to concern one's self much with them is to follow vain trifles. For the root of the whole matter is a simple thing on which all men are agreed, but the appurtenances are many, and to me at least of such small significance that I care for them not at all. I do not mind how a man worship his Maker, if he have but real devoutness. I do not care how a church is governed if the folk in it are in very truth God's people."

"You speak well, my son," said he, "and at one time I should have gone with you. Nor do I set any great value by doctrine. But you are young and the blood is still rich in your veins and the world seems a fair place, with many brave things to be achieved. But I am old and have seen the folly of all things, how love is only a delusion and honour a catchword and loyalty a mockery. And as the things of earth slip away from me, and the glory of my strength departs, I see more clearly the exceeding greatness of the things of God. And as my eyes cease to be set on earth, I see more nearly the light of that better country which is an heavenly. So I love to bide in these dark moors where the pomp of the world comes not, among men of grave conversation, for I have leisure and a fitting place to meditate upon the things to come."

"It may be," said I, "that some day I also be of your way of thinking. At present the world, though the Devil is more loose in it than I love, seems to me so excellent that I would pluck the heart of it before I condemn it. But God grant that I may never lose sight of the beauty of His kingdom."

"Amen to that," said the old man very reverently.

Truly, my thoughts on things were changing. Here was I in the very stronghold of the fanatics, and in the two chief, the old man and Master Lockhart, I found a reasonable mind and lofty purpose. And thus I have ever found it, that the better sort of the Covenanters were the very cream of Scots gentlefolk, and that 'twas only in the canaille that the gloomy passion of fanatics was to be found.

Meantime Nicol, who cared for none of these things, was teaching the child how to play at the cat's garterns.

CHAPTER VII

HOW TWO OF HIS MAJESTY'S SERVANTS MET WITH THEIR DESERTS

The next morn broke fair and cloudless, and ere the sun was up I was awake, for little time must be lost if we sought to win to Smitwood ere the pursuit began. The folk of the cave were early risers, for the need for retiring early to rest made them so; and we broke our fast with a meal of cakes and broiled fish almost before daylight. Then I went out to enjoy the fresh air, for it was safe enough to be abroad at that hour. Nothing vexed the still air on the green hillside save the flapping peewits and the faint morning winds.

Marjory meantime ran out into the sunshine with all the gaiety in the world. She was just like a child let loose from school, for she was ever of a light heart and care sat easily upon her. Now, although we were in the direst peril, she was taking delight in spring, as if we were once again children in Dawyck, catching trout in the deep pools of the wood. She left me to go out from the little glen, which was the entrance to the cave, into the wider dale of the Cor Water, which ran shallow between lone green braes. I heard her singing as she went down among the juniper bushes and flinty rocks, and then it died away behind a little shoulder of hill.

So I was left to my own reflections on the plight in which I found myself. For the first time a sort of wounded pride began to vex me. Formerly I had thought of nothing save how to save my own head and keep my love from my enemy, and cared not, if in the effecting of it, I had to crouch with the fox and be chased by the basest scum of the land. I cared not if I were put out of house and home and outlawed for years, for the adventurous spirit was strong within me. But now all my old pride of race rose in rebellion at the thought that I was become a person without importance, a houseless wanderer, the spoil of my enemies. It made me bitter as gall to think of it, and by whose aid my misfortune had been effected. A sort of hopeless remorse came over me. Should I ever win back the place I had lost? Would the Burnets ever again be great gentlemen of Tweeddale, a power in the countryside, having men at their beck and call? Or would the family be gone forever, would I fall in the wilds, or live only to find my lands gone with my power, and would Marjory never enter Barns as its mistress? I could get no joy out of the morning for the thought, and as I wandered on the hillside I had little care of what became of me.

Now at this time there happened what roused me and set me once more at peace with myself. And though it came near to being a dismal tragedy, it was the draught which nerved me for all my later perils. And this was the manner of it.

Marjory, as she told me herself afterwards, had gone down to the little meadows by the burnside, where she watched the clear brown water and the fish darting in the eddies. She was thus engaged, when she was aware of two horsemen who rode over the top of the glen and down the long hill on the other side. They, were almost opposite before she perceived them, and there was no time tor flight. Like a brave lass she uttered no scream, but stood still that they might not see her. But it was of no avail. Their roving eyes could not miss in that narrow glen so fair a sight, and straightway one called out to the other that there was a girl at the burnside.

Now had the twain been out on an ordinary foray it would have gone hard indeed with us. For they would have turned aside to search out the matter, and in all likelihood the hiding-place would have been discovered. But they had been out on some night errand and were returning in hot haste to their quarters at Abington, where their captain had none too gentle a temper. So they contented themselves with shouting sundry coarse railleries, and one in the plenitude of his greathearted ness fired his carbine at her. Without stopping further they rode on.

The bullet just grazed her arm above the wrist, cutting away a strip of dress. She cried out at the pain, but though frightened almost to death, she was brave enough to bide where she was, for if she had run straight to the cave it would have shown them the hiding-place. As soon as they passed out of view she came painfully up the slope, and I who had heard the shot and rushed straightway to the place whence it came, met her clasping her wounded wrist and with a pitiful white face.

"O Marjory, what ails you?" I cried.

"Nothing, John," she answered; "some soldiers passed me and one fired. It has done me no harm. But let us get to shelter lest they turn back."

At her words I felt my heart rise in a sudden great heat of anger. I had never felt such passion before. It seemed to whelm and gulf my whole being.

"Let me carry you, dear," I said quietly, and lifting her I bore her easily up the ravine to the cave.

When I got her within our shelter there was a very great to-do. The women ran up in grief to see the hurt, and the men at the news of the military wore graver faces. Master Lockhart, who was something of a surgeon, looked at the wound.

"Oh," he says, "this is nothing, a scratch and no more. It will be well as ever to-morrow. But the poor maid has had a fright which has made her weak. I have some choice French brandy which I aye carry with me for the fear of such accidents. Some of that will soon restore her."

So he fetched from some unknown corner the bottle which he spake of, and when her lips had been moistened, Marjory revived and declared her weakness gone. Now my most pressing anxiety was removed, which up till this time had been harassing me sore. For if my lady were to be hurt in this unfriendly place, what hope of safety would there be for either? When I saw that the wound was but trifling, the anger which had been growing in my heart side by side with my care, wholly overmastered me. All my pride of house and name was roused at the deed. To think that the lady who was the dearest to me in the world should be thus maltreated by scurrilous knaves of dragoons stirred me to fury. I well knew that I could get no peace with the thought, and my inclination and good-judgment alike made me take the course I followed.

I called to Nicol, where he sat supping his morning porridge by the fire, and he came to my side very readily.

"Get the two horses," said I quietly, that none of the others might hear of my madness, "one for me and one for yourself." Now the beasts were stabled in the back part of the cave, which was roomy and high, though somewhat damp. The entrance thereto lay by a like rift in the hillside some hundred yards farther up the glen. When I had thus bidden my servant I sauntered out into the open air and waited his coming with some impatience.

I asked him, when he appeared, if he had the pistols, for he had a great trick of going unarmed and trusting to his fleet legs and mother wit rather than the good gifts of God to men, steel and gunpowder. "Ay, laird, I hae them. Are ye gaun to shoot muirfowl?"

"Yes," said I, "I am thinking of shooting a muirfowl for my breakfast."

Nicol laughed quietly to himself. He knew well the errand I was on, or he would not have consented so readily.

I knew that the two dragoons had ridden straight down the Cor Water glen, making for the upper vale of Tweed and thence to the Clyde hills. But this same glen of Cor is a strangely winding one, and if a man leave it and ride straight over the moorland he may save a matter of two miles, and arrive at the Tweed sooner than one who has started before him. The ground is rough, but, to one used to the hills, not so as to keep him from riding it with ease. Also at the foot of the burn there is a narrow nick through which it thrusts itself in a little cascade to join the larger stream; and through this place the road passes, for all the hills on either side are steep and stony, and offer no foothold for a horse. Remembering all these things, a plan grew up in my mind which I hastened to execute.

With Nicol following, I rode aslant the low hills to the right and came to the benty tableland which we had travelled the day before. The sun was now well up in the sky, and the air was so fresh and sweet that it was pure pleasure to breathe it.

After maybe a quarter-hour's stiff riding we descended, and keeping well behind a low spur which hid us from the valley, turned at the end into the glen-mouth, at the confluence of the two waters. Then we rode more freely till we reached the narrows which I have spoke of, and there we halted. All was quiet, nor was there any sound of man or horse.

"Do you bide there," said I to my servant, "while I will wait here. Now I will tell you what I purpose to do. The two miscreants who shot Mistress Marjory are riding together on their way to their quarters. One will have no shot in his carbine; what arms the other has I cannot tell; but at any rate we two with pistols can hold them in check. Do you cover the one on the right when they appear, and above all things see that you do not fire."

So we waited there, sitting motionless in our saddles, on that fair morning when all around us the air was full of crying snipe and twittering hill-linnets. The stream made a cheerful sound, and the little green ferns in the rocks nodded beneath the spray of the water. I found my mind misgiving me again and again for the headstrong prank on which I was entered, as unworthy of one who knew something of better things. But I had little time for self-communings, for we had scarce been there two minutes before we heard the grating of hooves on the hill-gravel, and our two gentlemen came round the corner not twenty yards ahead.

At the sight of us they reined up and stared stock still before them. Then I saw the hands of both reach to their belts, and I rejoiced at the movement, for I knew that the arms of neither were loaded.

"Gentlemen," said I, "it will be at your peril that you move. We have here two loaded pistols. We are not soldiers of His Majesty, so we have some skill in shooting. Let me assure you on my word that your case is a desperate one."

At my words the one still looked with a haughty, swaggering stare, but the jaw of the other dropped and he seemed like a man in excess of terror.

"To-day," I went on, "you shot at a lady not half an hour agone. It is for this that I have come to have speech with you. Let us understand one another, my friends. I am an outlawed man and one not easy to deal with. I am the Laird of Barns—ah, I see you know the name—and let this persuade you to offer no resistance."

One of the twain still stood helpless. The other's hand twitched as if he would draw his sword or reach to his powder-flask, but the steely glitter of our barrels and my angry face deterred him.

"What do you want with us?" he said in a tone of mingled sulkiness and bravado. "Let me tell you, I am one of His Majesty's dragoons, and you'll pay well for any ill you do to me. I care not a fig for you, for all your gentrice. If you would but lay down your pop-guns and stand before me man to man, I would give you all the satisfaction you want."

The fellow was a boor but he spoke like a man, and I liked him for his words. But I replied grimly:

"I will have none of your bragging. Go and try that in your own stye, you who shoot at women. I will give you as long as I may count a hundred, and if before that you have not stripped off every rag you have on and come forward to me here, by God I will shoot you down like the dogs you are."

And with this I began solemnly to count aloud.

At first they were still rebellious, but fear of the death which glinted to them from the barrels of the pistols won the mastery. Slowly and with vast reluctance they began to disrobe themselves of belt and equipments, of coat and jackboots, till they stood before me in the mild spring air as stark as the day they were born. Their faces were heavy with malice and shame.

"Now," said I to Nicol, "dismount and lay on to these fellows with the flat of your sword. Give me your pistol, and if either makes resistance he will know how a bullet tastes. Lay on, and do not spare them."

So Nicol, to whom the matter was a great jest, got down and laid on lustily. They shouted most piteously for mercy, but none they got till the stout arm of my servant was weary.

"And now, gentlemen, you may remount your horses. Nay, without your clothes; you will ride more freely as you are. And give my best respects to your honourable friends, and tell them I wish a speedy meeting."

But as I looked in the face of one, him who had been so terror-stricken at the outset, I saw that which I thought I recognised.

"You, fellow," I cried, "where have I seen you before?"

And as I looked again, I remembered a night the year before on the Alphen road, when I had stood over this very man and questioned him on his name and doings. So he had come to Scotland as one of the foreign troops.

"I know you, Jan Hamman," said I. "The great doctor Johannes Burnetus of Lugdunum has not forgotten you. You were scarcely in an honest trade before, but you are in a vast deal less honest now. I vowed if ever I met you again to make you smart for your sins, and I think I have kept my word, though I had the discourtesy to forget your face at first sight. Good morning, Jan, I hope to see you again ere long. Good morning, gentlemen both."

So the luckless pair rode off homeward, and what reception they met with from their captain and their comrades who shall say?

Meanwhile, when they were gone for some little time, Nicol and I rode back by a round-about path. When I began to reflect, I saw the full rashness of my action. I had burned my boats behind me with a vengeance. There was no choice of courses before me now. The chase would be ten times hotter against me than before, and besides I had given them some clue to my whereabouts. You may well ask if the danger to my love were not equally great, for that by this action they would know at least the airt by which she had fled. I would answer that these men were of Gilbert's own company, and one, at least, of them, when he heard my name, must have had a shrewd guess as to who the lady was. My cousin's love affairs were no secret. If the man had revealed the tale in its entirety, his own action must necessarily have been exposed, and God help him who had insulted one whom Gilbert cared for. He would have flayed the skin from him at the very mention.

To my sober reason to-day the action seems foolhardy in the extreme, and more like a boyish frolic than the work of a man. But all I knew at the time, as I rode back, was that my pride was for the moment soothed, and my heart mightily comforted.

CHAPTER VIII

OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF CLYDE

If there had been haste before in our journey there was the more now, when in a few hours the countryside would be alive with our foes. I hurriedly considered in my mind the course of events. In three hours' riding the soldiers, all stark as they were, would come to Abington, and in three more the road to Douglasdale would be blocked by a dozen companies. It was no light thing thus to have set the whole hell's byke in Clydesdale buzzing about my ears.

We were not long in reaching the cave. Here to my joy I found Marjory all recovered from her fright, and the wound hurting her no more than a pin's scratch. When I spoke of immediate progress she listened gladly and was for setting out forthwith. I did not tell her of the soldiers' discomfiture, for I knew that she would fall to chiding me for my foolhardiness, and besides she would have more dismal fears for my future if she knew that I had thus incensed the military against me.

It was with much regret that I bade farewell to Master Lockhart and the old man; nor would they let me go without a promise that if I found myself hard pressed at any time in the days to come I would take refuge with them. I was moved by the sight of the elder, who laying his hand on my lady's head, stroked her fair golden hair gently and said, "Puir lass, puir lass, ye're no for the muirs. I foresee ill days coming for ye when ye'll hae nae guid sword to protect ye. But lippen weel to the Lord, my bairn, and He'll no forsake ye." So amid the speaking of farewells and well-wishes we rode out into the green moors.

How shall I tell of that morning ride? I have seen very many days in April now, for I am a man aging to middle life, but never have I seen one like that. The sky was one sheet of the faintest blue, with delicate white clouds blown lightly athwart it. The air was so light that it scarce stirred the grass, so cool that it made our foreheads as crisp and free as on a frosty winter's day, so mild that a man might have fancied himself still in the Low Lands. The place was very quiet save for a few sounds and these the most delectable on earth—the cries of sheep and the tender bleating of young lambs, the rise and fall of the stream, the croon of rock pigeons, and the sterner notes of curlew and plover. And the grass was short and lawnlike, stretching in wavy ridges to the stream, seamed with little rush-fringed rills and patched with fields of heath. Only when we gained the edge had we any view of country, and even then it was but circumscribed. Steep fronting hills, all scarred with ravines; beyond, shoulders and peaks rising ever into the distance, and below us the little glen which holds the head waters of Tweed.

We crossed the river without slacking rein, for the water scarce reached above our horses' pasterns. And now we struck up a burn called the Badlieu, at the foot of which was a herd's shieling. The spirit of the spring seemed to have clean possessed Marjory and I had never seen her so gay. All her past sorrows and present difficulties seemed forgotten, and a mad gaiety held her captive. She, who was for usual so demure, now cast her gravity to the winds, and seemed bent on taking all the joys of the fair morning. She laughed, she sang snatches of old songs, and she leaped her horse lightly over the moss-trenches. She stooped to pluck some early white wind-flowers, and set some in her hair and some at her saddle-bow.

"Nay, John," she cried, "if you and I must take to the hills let us do it with some gallantry. It is glorious to be abroad. I would give twelve months of sleepy peace at Dawyck for one hour of this life. I think this must be the Garden of Perpetual Youth in the fairy tale."

The same mad carelessness took hold on me also. Of a sudden my outlook on the world changed round to the opposite, and the black forebodings which had been ever present to distress me, seemed to vanish like dew before the sun. Soon I was riding as gaily as she; while Nicol, as he ran with great strides and unfaltering breath, he too became light-hearted, though to tell the truth care was not a commodity often found with him.

Soon we had climbed the low range which separates the Clyde glen from the Tweed and turned down the narrow ravine of the burn which I think they call Fopperbeck, and which flows into the Evan Water. Now it would have been both easier and quieter to have ridden down the broad, low glen of the Medlock Water, which flows into Clyde by the village of Crawford. But this would have brought us perilously near the soldiers at Abington, and if once the pursuit had begun every mile of distance would be worth to us much gold. Yet though the danger was so real I could not think of it as any matter for sorrow, but awaited what fate God might send with a serene composure, begotten partly of my habitual rashness and partly of the intoxication of the morn.

We kept over the rocky ravine through which the little river Evan flows to Annan, and came to the wide moorlands which stretch about the upper streams of Clyde. Here we had a great prospect of landscape, and far as eye could see no living being but ourselves moved in these desolate wastes. Far down, just at the mouth of the glen where the vale widens somewhat, rose curling smoke from the hamlet of Elvanfoot, a place soon to be much resorted to and briskly busy, since, forbye lying on the highway 'twixt Edinburgh and Dumfries, it is there that the by-path goes off leading to the famous lead mines, at the two places of Leadhills and Wanlockhead. But now it was but a miserable roadside clachan of some few low huts, with fodder for neither man nor beast.

As we rode we looked well around us, for we were in an exceeding dangerous part of our journey. To the right lay Abington and the lower Clyde valley, where my sweet cousin and his men held goodly fellowship. Even now they would be buckling saddle-straps, and in two hours would be in the places through which we were now passing. To the left was the long pass into Nithsdale, where half a score of gentlemen did their best to instil loyalty into the Whigs of the hills. I hated the land to that airt, for I had ever loathed the south and west countries, where there is naught but sour milk and long prayers without a tincture of gentrice or letters. I was a man of Tweeddale who had travelled and studied and mingled among men. I had no grudge against sheltering with the Tweedside rebels, who were indeed of my own folk; but I had no stomach for Nithsdale and Clydesdale rant and ill fare. Had not necessity driven me there I vow I should never have ventured of myself; and as I rode I swore oftentimes that once I were free of my errand I would seek my refuge in my own countryside.

And now we were climbing the long range which flanks the Potrail Water, which is the larger of the twin feeders of Clyde. Now we turned more to the north, and skirting the wild hills which frown around the pass of Enterkin, sought the upper streams of the Duneaton Water. I cannot call to mind all the burns we crossed or the hills we climbed, though they have all been told to me many a time and again. One little burn I remember called the Snar, which flowed very quietly and pleasantly in a deep, heathery glen. Here we halted and suffered our horses to graze, while we partook of some of the food which the folk of the Cor Water had sent with us. Now the way which we had come had brought us within seven miles of the dragoons' quarters at Abington, for it was necessary to pass near them to get to Douglasdale and Smitwood. But they had no clue to our whereabouts, and when they set forth against us must needs ride first to the Tweed valley.

Here in this narrow glen we were in no danger save from some chance wandering soldier. But this danger was the less to be feared, since if Gilbert had any large portion of his men out on one errand he would be sure to set the rest to their duties as garrison. For my cousin had no love for lax discipline, but had all the family pride of ordering and being obeyed to the letter. So we kindled a little fire by the stream-side, and in the ashes roasted some eggs of a muirfowl which Nicol had picked up on the journey; and which with the cheese and the cakes we had brought made a better meal than I might hope for for many days to come. We sat around the fire in the dry heather 'neath the genial sun, thanking God that we were still alive in the green world and with few cares save the frustrating of our foes. Marjory was somewhat less cheerful than in the morning, partly from the fatigue of riding, which in these waste places is no light thing, and partly because anxiety for my safety and sorrow at our near parting were beginning to oppress her. For herself, I verily believe, she had no care, for she was brave as a lion in the presence of what most women tremble at. But the loneliness of a great house and the never-appeased desire for knowledge of my safety were things which came nearer so rapidly that I did not wonder she lost her gaiety.

"Oh, what will you do alone in these places?" she said. "If you had but one with you, I should be comforted. Will you not let Nicol accompany you?"

Now when my lady looked at me with melting eyes and twined her hands in her eagerness, it was hard to have to deny her. But I was resolved that my servant should abide at Smitwood to guard her and bring me tidings if aught evil threatened.

"Nay, dear," I said, "that may not be. I cannot have you left with an old man who is helpless with age and a crew of hireling servants. I should have no heart to live in the moors if I had not some hope of your safety. Believe me, dear, I can very well defend myself. My skill of hillcraft is as good as any dragoon's, and I have heard folk say that I am no ill hand with a sword. And I know the countryside like the palm of my own hand, and friends are not few among these green glens. Trust me, no ill will come near me, and our meeting will be all the merrier for our parting."

I spoke heartily, but in truth I was far from feeling such ease of mind. For my old cursed pride was coming back, and I was beginning to chafe against the beggarly trade of skulking among the moors when I had a fine heritage for my own, and above all when I was a scholar and had thoughts of a peaceful life. I found it hard to reconcile my dream of a philosophic life wherein all things should be ordered according to the dictates of reason, with the rough and ready times which awaited me, when my sword must keep my head, and my first thought must be of meat and lodging, and cunning and boldness would be qualities more valuable than subtle speculation and lofty imagining.

In a little we were rested and rode on our way. Across the great moors of Crawfordjohn we passed, which is a place so lonely that the men in these parts have a proverb, "Out of the world and into Crawfordjohn." We still kept the uplands till we came to the springs of a burn called the Glespin, which flows into the Douglas Water. Our easier path had lain down by the side of this stream past the little town of Douglas. But in the town was a garrison of soldiers—small, to be sure, and feeble, but still there—who were used to harry the moors around Cairntable and Muirkirk. So we kept the ridges till below us we saw the river winding close to the hill and the tower of Smitwood looking out of its grove of trees. By this time darkness was at hand, and the last miles of our journey were among darkening shadows. We had little fear of capture now, for we were on the lands of the castle, and Veitch of Smitwood was famed over all the land for a cavalier and a most loyal gentleman. So in quiet and meditation we crossed the stream at the ford, and silently rode up the long avenue to the dwelling.

CHAPTER IX

I PART FROM MARJORY

"I've travelled far and seen many things, but, Gad, I never saw a stranger than this. My niece is driven out of house and home by an overbold lover, and you, Master Burnet, come here and bid me take over the keeping of this firebrand, which, it seems, is so obnoxious to His Majesty's lieges."

So spake the old laird of Smitwood, smiling. He was a man of full eighty years of age, but still erect with a kind of soldierly bearing. He was thin and tall, and primly dressed in the fashion of an elder day. The frosty winter of age had come upon him, but in his ruddy cheek and clean-cut face one could see the signs of a hale and vigorous decline. He had greeted us most hospitably, and seemed hugely glad to see Marjory again, whom he had not set eyes on for many a day. We had fallen to supper with keen appetite, for the air of the moors stirs up the sharpest hunger; and now that we had finished we sat around the hall-fire enjoying our few remaining hours of company together. For myself I relished the good fare and the warmth, for Heaven knew when either would be mine again. The high oak-roofed chamber, hung with portraits of Veitches many, was ruddy with fire-light. Especially the picture in front of the chimney by Vandyke, of that Michael Veitch who died at Philiphaugh, was extraordinarily clear and lifelike. Master Veitch looked often toward it; then he took snuff with a great air of deliberation, and spoke in his high, kindly old voice.

"My brother seems well to-night, Marjory. I have not seen him look so cheerful for years." (He had acquired during his solitary life the habit of talking to the picture as if it were some living thing.) "I can never forgive the Fleming for making Michael hold his blade in so awkward a fashion. Faith, he would have been little the swordsman he was, if he had ever handled sword like that. I can well remember when I was with him at Etzburg, how he engaged in a corner two Hollanders and a Swiss guard, and beat them back till I came up with him and took one off his hands."

"I have heard of that exploit," said I. "You must know that I have just come from the Low Countries, where the names of both of you are still often on men's lips."

The old man seemed well pleased.

"Ah," he said, "so you have come from abroad. In what place did you bide, may I enquire?"

"In the town of Leyden," said I, "for my aim was no more than to acquire learning at the college there. But I foregathered with many excellent Scots gentlemen from whom I heard the talk of the camp and the state."

"Say you so? Then what do you here? Did you return on the single errand of protecting my fair niece? But stay! I am an old man who cares not much for the chatter of the country, but I have heard—or am I wrong?—that you were not of the true party, but leaned to the Whigs?"

"Nay," I cried, "I beseech you not to believe it. God knows I am a king's man out and out, and would see all whigamores in perdition before I would join with them. But fate has brought me into a strange mixture of misfortunes. I land at Leith, expecting nothing save a peaceful homecoming, and lo! I find my cousin waiting with a warrant for my arrest. I am accused of something I am wholly innocent of, but I cannot prove it; nay, there is evidence against me, and my enemies in the Council are all-powerful. Moreover, if I suffer myself to be taken, Marjory is at the mercy of my foes. I take the only course; give the dragoons the slip, and ride straight to Tweeddale, escort her to a house where she will be safe and unknown; and when this is done take to the hills myself with a light heart. They are too ill-set against me for my setting any hope in going to Edinburgh and pleading my case. Was there any other way?"

"None," said Master Veitch, "but it is a hard case for yourself. Not the hiding among the moors; this is a noble trade for any young man of spirit. But the consorting with the vile fanatics of these deserts must go sore against your heart."

Now I, who had just come from the folk of the Cor Water, had no such dread of the hillmen, but I forebore to say it. For Master Veitch had been brought up in one school, those men in another. Both were blind to the other's excellencies; both were leal-hearted men in their own ways. It is a strange providence that has so ordered it that the best men in the world must ever remain apart through misunderstanding.

"But to come to my errand," said I. "I have brought you your niece for protection. You are a king's man, a soldier, and well known in the countryside. It is more than unlikely that any troops will come nigh you. Nor is it possible that the maid can be traced hither. I ask that you suffer her to abide in the house, while I take myself off that there be the less danger. And O, I beseech you, do not refuse me. She is your own flesh and blood. You cannot deny her shelter."

The old man's face darkened. "You take me for a strange kinsman, Master Burnet," he said, "if you think I would refuse my best aid to a kinswoman in distress. Do you think that you are the sole protector of my house?"

I bowed before his deserved rebuke.

"But for certain. Marjory may abide here as long as she will," he added cheerfully. "We will do our best to entertain her, though I am too old to remember well the likings of girls. And if anyone comes seeking her on errand of no good, by God, he will learn that William Veitch has not lost the use of his arm.

"May I ask," said I, "that my servant be allowed to stay? He knows the hills as scarce any other living man, he is faithful, and clever as you would hardly believe were I to tell you. With him in the house I should have no fear for its safety."

"So be it," said the old man; "I will not deny that my servants are not so numerous nor so active that another would not be something of an improvement. Has he any skill in cooking?" This he asked in a shamefaced tone, for old as he was he had not lost his relish for good fare.

"I will ask him," said I, and I called Nicol from the servants' quarters.

"Your master gives me a good account of you," said the cracked voice of the laird of Smitwood, "and I would fain hope it true. I wished to interrogate you about—ah, your powers—ah, of cooking pleasing dishes," and he waved his hand deprecatingly.

"Oh, your honour, I am ready for a' thing," said Nicol. "Sheep's heid, singit to a thocht, cockyleeky and a' kind o' soup, mutton in half a dozen different ways, no to speak o' sic trifles as confections. I can cook ye the flesh o' the red deer and the troots frae the burn, forbye haggis and brose, partan pies and rizzard haddies, crappit-heids and scate-rumpies, nowt's feet, kebbucks, scadlips, and skink. Then I can wark wi' custocks and carlings, rifarts, and syboes, farles, fadges, and bannocks, drammock, brochan, and powsowdie."

"That will do, you may go," said the old man, rubbing his hands with glee. "By my word, a genuine Scots gastronome, skilled in the ancient dishes of the land. I anticipate a pleasing time while he bides here."

It was long ere the worthy gentleman could get over his delight in the project of my servant's presence. Even after he had gone he sat and chuckled to himself, for he was known among his friends to have a fine taste for dainties. Meantime, the light was dying out of doors, and more logs were laid on the fire, till it crackled and leaped like a live thing. I have ever loved the light of a wood-fire, for there is no more heartsome thing on earth than its cheerful crackle when one comes in from shooting on the hills in the darkening of a winter's day. Now I revelled in the comfort of it, since on the morrow I would have no other cheer than a flaming sunset.

So we sat around the hearth and talked of many things till the evening was late. The old man fell to the memories of former folk, and told us tales of our forbears as would have made them turn in their graves could they have heard them. Of my house he had scarce a good word to speak, averring that they were all 'scape-the-gallows every one, but gallant fellows in their way. "There was never a Burnet," he cried, "who would scruple to stick a man who doubted his word, or who would not ride a hundred miles to aid a friend. There were no lads like the Burnets in all the countryside for dicing and feasting and riding breakneck on the devil's errand. But, Gad, if they were stubborn as bulls when they were down themselves, they were as tender as women to folk in trouble."

"There's one of their name like to be in trouble for many days to come," said I.

"Meaning yourself? Well, it will do you no ill. There's naught better for a young man than to find out how little the world cares whether he be dead or alive. And, above all, you that pretend to be a scholar, it will ding some of the fine-spun fancies out of your head. But for the Lord's sake, laddie, dinna get a bullet in your skull or you'll have me with all my years taking the field to pay back them that did it." He spoke this so kindly that I was moved to forget the first half of his words through the excellency of the second. In truth I much needed the rough lessons of hardship and penury, for at that time I was much puffed up in a self-conceit and a certain pride of letters as foolish as it was baseless.

"I must be off in the morning before the dawning, for I have to be on the hills ere the soldiers get abroad. I must beg of you not to disturb yourself, Master Veitch, for my sake, but just to bid them make ready for me some provisions; and I will slip off ere the household be awake. It is better to say farewell now than to have many sad leave-takings at the moment of departure. I have no fear of my journey, for my legs are as good as any man's and I can make my hands keep my head. Also, my mind is easy since I know that Marjory is safe here."

"Then I will even bid you good-bye, John," said he, "for I am an old man and keep early hours. If you will follow me I will take you to your chamber. Alison will take you to the old room, Marjory, where you have not been since you were a little lass scarce up to my knee." And with obvious intent he walked out.

"God keep you, John," my dear lass whispered on my shoulder. "I will never cease to think of you. Ana oh, be not long in coming back."

And this was the last I saw of my lady for many days.

CHAPTER X

OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE AND THE ENCOUNTER IN THE GREEN CLEUCH

I promise you I slept little that night, and it was with a heavy heart that I rose betimes and dressed in the chill of the morning. There was no one awake, and I left the house unobserved, whistling softly to keep up my spirits.

Just without, someone came behind me and cried my name. I turned round sharply, and there was my servant Nicol, slinking after me for all the world like a collie-dog which its master has left at home.

"What do you want with me?" I cried.

"Naething," he groaned sadly. "I just wantit to see ye afore ye gaed. I am awfu' feared, sir, for you gaun awa' yoursel'. If it werena for Mistress Marjory, it wad be a deal mair than your word wad keep me frae your side. But I cam to see if there was nae way o' gettin' word o' ye. My leddy will soon turn dowie, gin she gets nae sough o' your whereabouts. Ye'd better tell me where I can get some kind o' a letter."

"Well minded!" I cried. "You know the cairn on the backside of Caerdon just above the rising of Kilbucho Burn. This day three weeks I will leave a letter for your mistress beneath the stones, which you must fetch and give her. And if I am safe and well every three weeks it will be the same. Good day to you, Nicol, and see you look well to the charge I have committed to you."

"Guid day to you, sir," he said, and I protest that the honest fellow had tears in his eyes; and when I had gone on maybe half a mile and looked back, he was still standing like a stone in the same spot.

At first I was somewhat depressed in my mind. It is a hard thing thus to part from one's mistress when the air is thick with perils to both. So as I tramped through the meadows and leaped the brooks, it was with a sad heart, and my whole mind was taken up in conjuring back the pleasant hours I had spent in my lady's company, the old frolics in the wood of Dawyck, the beginnings of our love-making, even the ride hither from the Cor Water. Yesterday, I reflected, she was with me here; now I am alone and like to be so for long. Then I fell to cursing myself for a fool, and went on my way with a better heart.

But it was not till I had crossed the wide stream of the Douglas Water and begun to ascend the hills, that I wholly recovered my composure. Before, I had been straggling in low meadows which do not suit my temper, since I am above all things hill-bred and a lover of dark mountains. So now on the crisp spring grass of the slopes my spirits rose. Was not I young and strong and skilled in the accomplishments of a man? The world was before me—that wide, undiscovered world which had always attracted the more heroic spirits. What hardship was there to live a free life among the hills, under the sunshine and the wind, the clouds and the blue sky?

But my delight could never be unmixed though I tried. After all, was I free? I felt of a sudden that I was not one half equipped for a gipsy, adventurous life. I was tied down to custom and place with too many ties. I came of a line of landed gentlemen. The taint of possession, of mastery and lordship over men and land, was strong in me. I could not bring me to think of myself as a kinless and kithless vagabond, having no sure place of abode. Then my love of letters, my learning, my philosophy, bound me down with indissoluble bands. To have acquired a taste for such things was to have unfitted myself for ever for the life of careless vagabondage. Above all there was my love; and ever, as I went on, my thoughts came home from their aërial flights and settled more and more in a little room in a house in a very little portion of God's universe. And more and more I felt myself a slave to beloved tyrants, and yet would not have been free if I could.

It was always thus with me when alone: I must fall to moralising and self-communing. Still perhaps the master feeling in my mind was one of curiosity and lightheartedness. So I whistled, as I went, all the old tunes of my boyhood which I was wont to whistle when I went out to the hills with my rod and gun, and stepped briskly over the short heather, and snapped my fingers in the face of the world.

Now I dared not go back to Tweeddale by the way by which I had come, for the Clyde valley above Abington would be a hunting-ground of dragoons for many days. There was nothing for it but to make for the lower waters, ford the river above Coulter, and then come to Tweeddale in the lower parts, and thence make my way to the Water of Cor. Even this course was not without its dangers; for the lower glen of Tweed was around Dawyck and Barns, and this was the very part of all the land the most perilous to me at the moment. To add to this, I was well at home among the wilder hills; but it was little I knew of Clydesdale below Abington, till you come to the town of Lanark. This may at first seem a trifling misfortune, but in my present case it was a very great one. For unless a man knows every house and the character of its inmates he is like to be in an ill way if close watched and threatened. However, I dreaded this the less, and looked for my troubles mainly after I had once entered my own lands in Tweeddale.

At the time when the sun rose I was on a long hill called Craigcraw, which hangs at the edge of the narrow crack in the hills through which goes the bridle-road from Lanark to Moffat. I thought it scarce worth my while to be wandering aimlessly among mosses and craigs when something very like a road lay beneath me; so I made haste to get down and ease my limbs with the level way. It was but a narrow strip of grass, running across the darker heath, and coiling in front like a green ribbon through nick or scaur or along the broad brae-face.

Soon I came to the small, roofless shieling of Redshaw, where aforetime lived a villain of rare notoriety, with whose name, "Redshaw Jock," Jean Morran embittered my childhood. I thought of all these old pleasing days, as I passed the bare rickle of stones in the crook of the burn. Here I turned from the path, for I had no desire to go to Abington, and struck up a narrow howe in the hills, which from the direction I guessed must lead to the lower Clyde. It was a lonesome place as ever I have seen. The spring sunshine only made the utter desolation the more apparent and oppressive. Afar on the hillside, by a clump of rowan trees, I saw the herd's house of Wildshaw, well named in its remote solitude. But soon I had come to the head of the burn and mounted the flat tableland, and in a little came to the decline on the other side, and entered the glen of the Roberton Burn.

Here it was about the time of noon, and I halted to eat my midday meal. I know not whether if was the long walk and the rough scrambling, or the clean, fresh spring air, or the bright sunshine, or the clear tinkle of the burn at my feet, or the sense of freedom and adventurous romance, but I have rarely eaten a meal with such serene satisfaction. All this extraordinary day I had been alternating between excessive gaiety and sad regrets. Now the former element had the mastery, and I was as hilarious as a young horse when he is first led out to pasture.

And after a little as I sat there my mirth grew into a sober joy. I remembered all the poets who had sung of the delights of the open air and the unshackled life. I laughed at my former feeling of shame in the matter. Was there any ignominy in being driven from the baseness of settled habitation to live like a prince under God's sky? And yet, as I exulted in the thought, I knew all too well that in a little my feelings would have changed and I would be in the depths of despondency.

In less than an hour I had turned a corner of hill and there before me lay the noble strath of Clyde. I am Tweedside born and will own no allegiance save to my own fair river, but I will grant that next to it there is none fairer than the upper Clyde. Were it not that in its lower course it flows through that weariful west country among the dull whigamores and Glasgow traders, it would be near as dear to me as my own well-loved Tweed. There it lay, glittering in light, and yellow with that strange yellow glow that comes on April waters. The little scrubs of wood were scarce seen, the few houses were not in the picture; nothing caught the eye save the giant mouldings of the hills, the severe barren vale, and the sinuous path of the stream.

I crossed it without any mishap, wading easily through at one of the shallows. There was no one in sight, no smoke from any dwelling; all was as still as if it were a valley of the dead. Only from the upper air the larks were singing, and the melancholy peewits cried ever over the lower moorlands. From this place my course was clear; I went up the prattling Wandel Burn, from where it entered the river, and soon I was once more lost in the windings of the dark hills. There is a narrow bridle-path which follows the burn, leading from Broughton in Tweeddale to Abington, so the way was easier walking.

And now I come to the relation of one of the strangest adventures of this time, which as often as I think upon it fills me with delight. For it was a ray of amusement in the perils and hardships of my wanderings.

A mile or more up this stream, just before the path begins to leave the waterside and strike towards the highlands, there is a little green cleuch, very fair and mossy, where the hills on either side come close and the glen narrows down to half a hundred yards. When I came to this place I halted for maybe a minute to drink at a pool in the rocks, for I was weary with my long wanderings.

A noise in front made me lift my head suddenly and stare before me. And there riding down the path to meet me was a man. His horse seemed to have come far, for it hung its head as if from weariness and stumbled often. He himself seemed to be looking all around him and humming some blithe tune. He was not yet aware of my presence, for he rode negligently, like one who fancies himself alone. As he came nearer I marked him more clearly. He was a man of much my own height, with a shaven chin and a moustachio on his upper lip. He carried no weapons save one long basket-handled sword at his belt. His face appeared to be a network of scars; but the most noteworthy thing was that he had but one eye, which glowed bright from beneath bushy brows. Here, said I to myself, is a man of many battles.

In a moment he caught my eye, and halted abruptly not six paces away. He looked at me quietly for some seconds, while his horse, which was a spavined, broken-winded animal at best, began to crop the grass. But if his mount was poor, his dress was of the richest and costliest, and much gold seemed to glisten from his person.

"Good day, sir," said he very courteously. "A fellow-traveller, I perceive." By this time I had lost all doubt, for I saw that the man was no dragoon, but of gentle birth by his bearing. So I answered him readily.

"I little expected to meet any man in this deserted spot, least of all a mounted traveller. How did you come over these hills, which if I mind right are of the roughest?"

"Ah," he said, "my horse and I have done queer things before this," and he fell to humming a fragment of a French song, while his eye wandered eagerly to my side.

Suddenly he asked abruptly: "Sir, do you know aught of sword-play?"

I answered in the same fashion that I was skilled in the rudiments.

He sprang from his horse in a trice and was coming towards me.

"Thank God," he cried earnestly, "thank God. Here have I been thirsting for days to feel a blade in my hands, and devil a gentleman have I met. I thank you a thousand times, sir, for your kindness. I beseech you to draw."

"But," I stammered, "I have no quarrel with you."

He looked very grieved. "True, if you put it in that way. But that is naught between gentlemen, who love ever to be testing each other's prowess. You will not deny me?"

"Nay," I said, "I will not," for I began to see his meaning, and I stripped to my shirt and, taking up my sword, confronted him.

So there in that quiet cleuch we set to with might and main, with vast rivalry but with no malice. We were far too skilled to butcher one another like common rufflers. Blow was given and met, point was taken and parried, all with much loving kindness. But I had not been two minutes at the work when I found I was in the hands of a master. The great conceit of my play which I have always had ebbed away little by little. The man before me was fencing easily with no display, but every cut came near to breaking my guard, and every thrust to overcoming my defence. His incomprehensible right eye twinkled merrily, and discomposed my mind, and gave me no chance of reading his intentions. It is needless to say more. The contest lasted scarce eight minutes. Then I made a head-cut which he guarded skilfully, and when on the return my blade hung more loose in my hand he smote so surely and well that, being struck near the hilt, it flew from my hand and fell in the burn.

He flung down his weapon and shook me warmly by the hand.

"Ah, now I feel better," said he. "I need something of this sort every little while to put me in a good humour with the world. And, sir, let me compliment you on your appearance. Most admirable, most creditable! But oh, am I not a master in the craft?"

So with friendly adieux we parted. We had never asked each other's name and knew naught of each other's condition, but that single good-natured contest had made us friends; and if ever I see that one-eyed man again in life I shall embrace him like a brother. For myself, at that moment, I felt on terms of good-comradeship with all, and pursued my way in a settled cheerfulness.

CHAPTER XI

HOW A MILLER STROVE WITH HIS OWN MILL-WHEEL

I lay that night on the bare moors, with no company save the birds, and no covering save a dry bush of heather. The stars twinkled a myriad miles away, and the night airs blew soft, and I woke in the morning as fresh as if I had lain beneath the finest coverlet on the best of linen. Near me was a great pool in a burn, and there I bathed, splashing to my heart's content in the cold water. Then I ate my breakfast, which was no better than the remnants of the food I had brought away with me the day before from Smitwood; but I gulped it down heartily and hoped for something better. There will be so much complaining, I fear, in my tale ere it is done, that I think it well to put down all my praise of the place and the hours which passed pleasingly.

By this time I was on a little plateau, near the great black hill of Coomb Dod, a place whence three streams flow—the Camps Water and the Coulter Water to the Clyde, and the burn of Kingledoors to Tweed. Now here had I been wise I should at once have gone down the last-named to the upper waters of Tweed near the village of Tweedsmuir, whence I might have come without danger to the wilder hills and the Cor Water hiding-place. But as I stayed there desire came violently upon me to go down to the fair green haughlands about the Holmes Water, which is a stream which rises not far off the Kingledoors burn, but which flows more to the north and enters Tweed in the strath of Drummelzier not above a few miles from Barns itself and almost at the door of Dawyck. There I knew was the greater danger, because it lay on the straight line between Abington and Peebles, a way my cousin Gilbert travelled often in those days. But I was not disposed at that moment to think of gradations of danger; and indeed, after my encounter on the previous afternoon, I was in a haphazard, roystering mood, and would have asked for nothing better than a chance of making holes in my cousin or his company.

Now in Holmes Water glen there dwelled many who would receive me gladly and give me shelter and food if I sought it. There were the Tweedies of Quarter and Glencotho, kin to myself on the mother's side, not to speak of a score of herds whom I had dealings with. But my uppermost reason was to see once more that lovely vale, the fairest, unless it be the Manor, in all the world. It is scarce six miles long, wide at the bottom and set with trees and rich with meadows and cornland, but narrowing above to a long, sinuous green cleft between steep hills. And through it flows the clearest water on earth, wherein dwell the best trout—or did dwell, for, as I write, I have not angled in it for many days. I know not how I can tell of the Holmes Water. It tumbles clear and tremulous into dark brown pools. In the shallows it is like sunlight, in the falls like virgin snow. And overall the place hangs a feeling of pastoral quiet and old romance, such as I never knew elsewhere.

Midday found me in the nick of the hill above Glencotho debating on my after course. I had it in my mind to go boldly in and demand aid from my kinsman. But I reflected that matters were not over-pleasant between us at the time. My father had mortally offended him on some occasion (it would be hard to name the Tweedside gentleman whom my father had not mortally angered), and I could scarce remember having heard that the quarrel had been made up. I knew that in any case if I entered they would receive me well for the honour of the name; but I am proud, and like little to go to a place where I am not heartily welcome. So I resolved to go to Francie Smails, the herd's, and from him get direction and provender.

The hut was built in a little turn of the water beneath a high bank. I knocked at the door, not knowing whether some soldier might not come to it, for the dragoons were quartered everywhere. But no one came save Francie himself, a great, godly man who lived alone, and cared not for priest or woman. He cried aloud when he saw me.

"Come in by," he says, "come in quick; this is nae safe place the noo."

And he pulled me in to the hearth, where his mid-day meal was standing. With great good-will he bade me share it, and afterward, since he had heard already of my case and had no need for enlightenment thereon, he gave me his good counsel.

"Ye maunna bide a meenute here," he said. "I'll pit up some cauld braxy and bread for ye, for it's a' I have at this time o' year. Ye maun get oot o' the glen and aff to the hills wi' a' your pith, for some o' Maister Gilbert's men passed this morn on their way to Barns, and they'll be coming back afore nicht. So ye maun be aff, and I counsel ye to tak the taps o' the Wormel and syne cross the water abune the Crook, and gang ower by Talla and Fruid to the Cor. Keep awa' frae the Clyde hills for ony sake, for they're lookit like my ain hill i' the lambin' time; and though it's maybe safer there for ye the noo, in a wee it'll be het eneuch. But what are ye gaun to dae? Ye'll be makkin' a try to win ower the sea, for ye canna skip aboot on thae hills like a paitrick for ever.

"I do not know," said I; "I have little liking for another sea journey, unless all else is hopeless. I will bide in the hills as long as I can, and I cannot think that the need will be long. For I have an inkling, and others beside me, that queer things will soon happen."

"Guid send they dae," said he, and I bade him good-bye. I watched him striding off to the hill, and marvelled at the life ne led. Living from one year's end to another on the barest fare, toiling hard on the barren steeps for a little wage, and withal searching his heart on his long rounds by the canon of the book of God. A strange life and a hard, yet no man knows what peace may come out of loneliness.

Now had I taken his advice I should have been saved one of the most vexatious and hazardous episodes of my life. But I was ever self-willed, and so, my mind being set on going down the Holmes vale, I thought nothing of going near the Wormel, but set off down the bridle way, as if I were a King's privy councillor and not a branded exile.

I kept by the stream till patches of fields began to appear and the roofs of the little clachan. Then I struck higher up on the hillside and kept well in the shade of a little cloud of birk trees which lay along the edge of the slope. It was a glorious sunny day, such as I scarce ever saw surpassed, though I have seen many weathers under many skies. The air was as still and cool as the first breath of morning, though now it was mid-afternoon. All the nearer hills stood out clear-lined and silent; a bird sang in the nigh thicket; sheep bleated from the meadow, and around the place hung the low rustle of the life of the woods.

Soon I came to a spot above the bend of the water near the house called Holmes Mill. There dwelt my very good friend the miller, a man blessed with as choice a taste in dogs as ever I have seen, and a great Whig to boot—both of which tricks he learned from a Westland grandfather. Lockhart was his name, and his folk came from the Lee near the town of Lanark to this green Tweedside vale. From the steading came the sound of life. There was a great rush of water out of the dam. Clearly the miller was preparing for his afternoon's labours. The wish took me strongly to go down and see him, to feel the wholesome smell of grinding corn, and above all to taste his cakes, which I had loved of old. So without thinking more of it, and in utter contempt for the shepherd's warning, I scrambled down, forded the water, and made my way to the house.

Clearly something was going on at the mill, and whatever it was there was a great to-do. Sounds of voices came clear to me from the mill-door, and the rush of the water sang ever in my ears. The miller has summoned his family to help him, thought I: probably it is the lifting of the bags to the mill-loft.

But as I came nearer I perceived that it was not a mere chatter of friendly tongues, but some serious matter. There was a jangling note, a sound as of a quarrel and an appeal. I judged it wise therefore to keep well in the shadow of the wall and to go through the byre and up to the loft by an old way which I remembered—a place where one could see all that passed without being seen of any.

And there sure enough was a sight to stagger me. Some four soldiers with unstrung muskets stood in the court, while their horses were tethered to a post. Two held the unhappy miller in their stout grip, and at the back his wife and children were standing in sore grief. I looked keenly at the troopers, and as I looked I remembered all too late the shepherd's words. They were part of my cousin's company, and one I recognised as my old friend Jan Hamman of the Alphen Road and the Cor Water.

The foremost of the soldiers was speaking.

"Whig though you be," said he "you shall hae a chance of life. You look a man o' muscle. I'll tell you what I'll dae. Turn on the sluice and set the mill-wheel gaun, and then haud on to it; and if you can keep it back, your life you shall hae, as sure as my name's Tam Gordon. But gin you let it gang, there'll be four bullets in you afore you're an hour aulder, and a speedy meeting wi' your Maker. Do you wish to mak the trial?"

Now the task was hopeless from the commencement, for big though a man be, and the miller was as broad and high a man as one may see in Tweeddale, he has no chance against a mill-race. But whether he thought the thing possible or whether he wanted to gain a few minutes' respite from death, the man accepted and took off his coat to the task. He opened the sluice and went forward to the wheel.

Soon the water broke over with a rush and the miller gripped a spoke like grim death. For a moment the thing was easy, for it takes some minutes for the water to gather body and force. But in a little it became harder, and the sinews on his bare arms began to swell with the strain. But still he held on valiantly and the wheel moved never an inch. Soon the sweat began to run over his face, and the spray from the resisted water bespattered him plentifully. Then the strain became terrible. His face grew livid as the blood surged to his head, his eyeballs stood out, and his arms seemed like to be torn from their sockets. The soldiers, with the spirit of cruel children, had forgot their weapons, and crowded round the wheel to see the sport.

I saw clearly that he could not hold out much longer, and that unless I wanted to see a friend butchered before my eyes I had better be up and doing. We were two resolute men; I armed and with considerable skill of the sword, he unarmed, but with the strength of a bull. The most dangerous things about our opponents were their weapons. Could I but get between them and their muskets we could make a fight for it yet.

Suddenly as I looked the man failed. With a sob of weariness he loosed his hold. The great wheel caught the stream and moved slowly round, and he almost fell along with it. His tormentors laughed cruelly, and were about to seize him and turn back, when I leaped from the loft window like some bolt from a clear sky.

My head was in a whirl and I had no thought of any plan. I only knew that I must make the venture at any cost, or else be branded in my soul as a coward till my dying day.

I fell and scrambled to my feet.

"Lockhart," I cried, "here man, here. Run."

He had the sense to see my meaning. Exhausted though he was, he broke from his astonished captors, and in a moment was beside me and the weapons.

As I looked on them I saw at a glance where our salvation lay.

"Take these two," I said, pointing to the muskets. "I will take the others."

I cleared my throat and addressed the soldiers. "Now, gentlemen," said I, "once more the fortune of war has delivered you into my hands. We, as you perceive, command the weapons. I beg your permission to tell you that I am by no means a poor shot with the musket, and likewise that I do not stick at trifles, as doubtless my gallant friend Master Hamman will tell you."

The men were struck dumb with surprise to find themselves thus taken at a disadvantage. They whispered for a little among themselves. Doubtless the terrors of my prowess had been so magnified by the victims in the last escapade to cover their shame that I was regarded as a veritable Hector.

"Are you the Laird of Barns?" said the leader at last, very politely.

I bowed.

"Then give us leave to tell you that we are nane sae fond o' the Captain, your cousin," said he, thinking to soothe me.

"So much the worse for my cousin," said I.

"Therefore we are disposed to let you gang free."

"I am obliged," said I, "but my cousin is my cousin, and I tolerate no rebellion toward one so near of blood. I am therefore justified, gentlemen, in using your own arms against you, since I have always believed that traitors were shot."

At this they looked very glum. At last one of them spoke up—for after all they were men.

"If ye'll tak the pick o' ony yin o' us and stand up to him wi' the sma'-sword, we'll agree to bide by the result."

"I thank you," I said, "but I am not in the mood for sword exercise. However, I shall be merciful, though that is a quality you have shown little of. You shall have your horses to ride home on, but your arms you shall leave with me as a pledge of your good conduct. Strip, gentlemen."

And strip they did, belt and buckler, pistol and sword. Then I bade them go, not without sundry compliments as one by one they passed by me. There were but four of them, and we had all the arms, so the contest was scarcely equal. Indeed my heart smote me more than once that I had not accepted the fellow's offer to fight. The leader spoke up boldly to my face.

"You've gotten the better o' us the noo, but it'll no be long afore you're gettin' your kail through the reek, Master John Burnet."

At which I laughed and said 'twas a truth I could not deny.

CHAPTER XII

I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING

They had scarce been five minutes gone when the full folly of my action dawned upon me. To be sure I had saved the miller from death, but I had now put my own neck in the noose. I had given them a clue to my whereabouts: more, I had brought the hunt down on lower Tweeddale, which before had been left all but unmolested. It was war to the knife. I could look for no quarter, and my only chance lay in outstripping my pursuers. The dragoons dared not return immediately, for four unarmed soldiers would scarcely face two resolute men, fully armed and strongly posted. They could only ride to Abington, and bring the whole hornets' nest down on my head.

Another reflection had been given to me by the sight of these men. In all likelihood Gilbert had now returned and resumed the chief command of the troop, for otherwise there would have been no meaning in the journey to Dawyck and lower Tweeddale which these fellows had taken. And now that my dear cousin had come back I might look for action. There was now no more any question of foolish and sluggish soldiery to elude, but a man of experience and, as I knew well, of unmatched subtlety.

The miller was for thanking me on his knees for my timely succour, but I cut him short. "There is no time," said I, "for long thanks. You must take to the hills, and if you follow my advice you will hold over to the westlands where your friends are, and so keep the pursuit from Tweeddale, which little deserves it. As for myself, I will go up the Wormel, and hide among the scrogs of birk till evening. For the hills are too bare and the light too clear to travel by day. To be kenspeckle in these times is a doubtful advantage."

So without more ado I took myself off, crossed the fields with great caution, and going up a little glen in the side of the big hill, found a very secure hiding-place in the lee of a craig among a tangle of hazel bushes. I had taken some food with me from the mill to provision me during my night journey, and now I used a little of it for my afternoon meal. In this place I lay all the pleasant hours after midday till I saw the shadows lengthen and the sun flaming to its setting over the back of Caerdon. Then the cool spring darkness came down on the earth, and I rose and shook myself and set out on my way.

I shall ever remember that long night walk over hill and dale to the Cor Water for many reasons. First, from the exceeding beauty of the night, which was sharp and yet not cold, with a sky glittering with stars, and thin trails of mist on the uplands. Second, from the exceeding roughness of the way, which at this season of the year makes the hills hard for walking on. The frost and snow loosen the rocks, and there are wide stretches of loose shingle, which is an accursed thing to pass over. Third, and above all, for the utter fatigue into which I fell just past the crossing of Talla. The way was over the Wormel and the Logan Burn hills as far as Kingledoors. There I forded Tweed and struck over the low ridge to Talla Water. Thence the way was straight, and much the same as that which I had come with Marjory. But now I had no such dear escort, and I give my word that my limbs ached and my head swam oftentimes ere I reached my journey's end.

It was early dawning when I crossed the last ridge and entered the Cor Water valley. There was no sign of life in that quiet green glen, a thing that seemed eerie when one thought that somewhere in the hill in front men were dwelling. I found that short as had been my absence I had almost forgotten the entrance to the cave, and it was not without difficulty that I made out the narrow aperture in the slate-grey rock, and entered.

In the first chamber all was dark, which struck me with astonishment, since at five o'clock on a good spring day folk should be stirring. But all was still, and it was not till I had come into the second chamber, which, as I have told, was the largest in the place, that there were any signs of life. This was illumined in the first instance by a narrow crevice in the rock which opened into a small ravine. The faint struggling light was yet sufficient to see with, and by its aid I made out the old man who had spoken with me on that first night of my journey.

He was sitting alone, staring before him as is the way with the blind, but at the sound of my steps he rose slowly to his feet. One could see that the natural acuteness of his hearing was little impaired by years. I paused at the threshold and he stood listening; then he sank back in his seat as if convinced it was no enemy.

"Come in, John Burnet," he said, "I ken you well. How have you fared since you left us? I trust you have placed the maid in safe keeping."

I had heard before of that marvellous quickness of perception which they possess who have lost some other faculty; but I had never yet had illustration of it. So I was somewhat surprised, as I told him that all as yet was well, and that my lady was in good hands.

"It is well," said he; "and, Master Burnet, I fear you have come back to a desolate lodging. As ye see, all are gone and only I am left. Yestreen word came that that had happened which we had long expected. There was once a man among us whom we cast out for evil living. He has proved the traitor and there is no more safety here. They scattered last night, the puir feckless folk, to do for themselves among the moors and mosses, and I am left here to wait for the coming of the enemy."

"Do you hold your life so cheap," I cried, "that you would cast it away thus? I dare not suffer you to bide here. I would be a coward indeed if I did not take care of you."

A gleam of something like pleasure passed over his worn face. But he spoke gravely. "No, you are too young and proud and hot in blood. You think that a strong arm and a stout heart can do all. But I have a work to do in which none can hinder me. My life is dear to me, and I would use it for the best. But you, too, are in danger here; the soldiers may come at any moment. If you go far to the back you'll find a narrow way up which you can crawl. It'll bring ye out on the back side of the hill. Keep it well in mind, lad, when the time comes. But now, sit ye down, and give us your crack. There's a heap o' things I want to speir at ye. And first, how is auld Veitch at Smitwood? I once kenned him well, when he was a young, 'prising lad; but now I hear he's sair fallen in years and gien ower to the pleasures of eating and drinking."

I told him all of the laird of Smitwood that I could remember.

"It would be bonny on the muirs o' Clyde in this weather. I havena been out o' doors for mony a day, but I would like fine to feel the hill-wind and the sun on my cheek. I was aye used wi' the open air," and his voice had a note of sorrow.

To me it seemed a strange thing that in the presence of the most deadly danger this man should be so easy and undisturbed. I confess that I myself had many misgivings and something almost approaching fear. There was no possibility of escape now, for though one made his way out of the cave when the soldiers came, there was little hiding on the bare hillside. This, of course, was what the old man meant when he bade me stay and refused to go out of doors. It was more than I could do to leave him, but yet I ever feared the very thought of dying like a rat in a hole. My forebodings of my death had always been of an open, windy place, with a drawn sword and more than one man stark before me. It was with downcast eyes that I waited for the inevitable end, striving to commend my soul to God and repent of my past follies.

Suddenly some noise came to the quick ear of the old man, and he stood up quivering.

"John," he cried, "John, my lad, gang to the place I told ye. Ye'll find the hole where I said it was, and once there ye needna fear."

'Twas true, I was afraid, but I had given no signs of fear, and he had little cause to speak of it. "Nay," I said haughtily, "I will not move from your side. It were a dastardly thing to leave you, and the two of us together may account for some of the fiends. Besides there is as much chance of life here as out on the braeside, where a man can be seen for miles."

He gripped me fiercely by the arm so that I almost cried out for pain, and his voice came shrill and strange. "Gang where I tell ye, ye puir fool. Is this a time for sinfu' pride o' honour or mettle? Ye know not what evil is coming upon these men. Gang quick lest ye share it also."

Something in his voice, in his eye, overcame me, and I turned to obey him.

As I went he laid his hand on my head. "The blessing o' man availeth little, but I pray God that He be ever near you and your house, and that ye may soon hae a happy deliverance from all your afflictions. God bless and keep ye ever, and bring ye at the end to His ain place."

With a heart beating wildly between excitement and sorrow I found the narrow crevice, and crept upward till I came to the turning which led to the air. Here I might have safely hid for long, and I was just on the point of going back to the old man and forcing him to come with me to the same place of refuge, when I heard the sound of men.

From my vantage-ground I could see the whole cave clearly and well. I could hear the noise of soldiers fumbling about the entrance, and the voice of the informer telling the way. I could hear the feet stumbling along the passage, the clink of weapons, and the muttered words of annoyance; and then, as I peered warily forth, I saw the band file into the cave where sat the old man alone. It was as I expected: they were some twenty men of my cousin's company, strangers to me for the most: but what most occupied my thoughts was that Gilbert was not with them.

"By God, they're off," said the foremost, "and nothing left but this auld dotterel. This is a puir haul. Look you here, you fellow," turning to the guide, "you are a liar and a scoundrel, and if your thick hide doesna taste the flat o' my sword ere you're five hours aulder, my name's no Peter Moriston. You," this to the old man, "what's your name, brother well-beloved in the Lord?"

At their first coming he had risen to his feet and taken his stand in the middle of the cave, by the two great stone shafts which kept up the roof, for all the word like the pillars in some mighty temple. There he stood looking over their heads at something beyond, with a strange, almost pitying smile, which grew by degrees into a frown of anger.

"Ye've come here to taunt me," said he, "but the Lord has prepared for you a speedy visitation. Puir fools, ye shall go down quick to the bottomless pit like Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, and none shall be left to tell the tale of you. Ye have led braw lives. Ye have robbed the widow and the fatherless, ye have slain by your numbers men ye darena have come near singly, ye have been the devil's own braw servants, and, lads, ye'll very soon get your wages. Ye have made thae bonny lands o' Tweedside fit to spew ye forth for your wickedness. And ye think that there is nae jealous God in Heaven watching ower you and your doings and biding His time to repay. But, lads, ye're wrang for yince. The men ye thocht to take are by this time far from ye, and there is only one left, an auld feckless man, that will no bring muckle credit to ye. But God has ordained that ye shall never leave here, but mix your banes to a' time wi' the hillside stanes. God hae pity on your souls, ye that had nae pity on others in your lives."

And even as I watched, the end came, sudden and awful. Stretching out his great arms, he caught the two stone shafts and with one mighty effort pushed them asunder. I held my breath with horror. With a roar like a world falling the roof came down, and the great hillside sank among a ruin of rock. I was blinded by dust even in my secure seat, and driven half-mad with terror and grief. I know not how I got to the air, but by God's good providence the passage where I lay was distinct from the cave, and a rift in the solid rock. As it was, I had to fight with falling splinters and choking dust all the way. At last—and it seemed ages—I felt free air and a glimmer of light, and with one fresh effort crawled out beneath a tuft of bracken.

And this is why at this day there is no cave at the Cor Water, nothing but the bare side of a hill strewn with stones.

When I gained breath to raise myself and look around, the sight was strange indeed. The vast cloud of dust was beginning to settle and the whole desolation lay clear. I know not how to tell of it. It was like some battlefield of giants of old time. Great rocks lay scattered amid the beds of earth and shingle, and high up toward the brow of the hill one single bald scarp showed where the fall had begun.

A hundred yards away, by his horse's side, gazing with wild eyes at the scene, stood a dragoon, doubtless the one whom the ill-fated company had set for guard. I hastened toward him as fast as my weak knees would carry me, and I saw without surprise that he was the Dutchman, Jan Hamman, whom I had already met thrice before. He scarce was aware of my presence, but stood weeping with weakness and terror, and whimpering like a child. I took him by the shoulder and shook him, until at last I had brought him back to his senses, and he knew me.

"Where are they gone?" and he pointed feebly with his finger to the downfall.

"To their own place," I said, shortly. "But tell me one word. Where is your captain, Gilbert Burnet, that he is not with you to-day?"

The man looked at me curiously.

"He is gone on another errand, down Tweed toward Peebles."

Then I knew he was seeking for Marjory high and low and would never rest till he found her.

"I will let you go," said I to the man, "that you may carry the tidings to the rest. Begone with you quick. I am in no mood to look on such as you this day."

The man turned and was riding off, when he stopped for one word. "You think," he said, "that I am your enemy and your cousin's friend, and that I serve under the captain for his own sweet sake. I will tell you my tale. Three years ago this Captain Gilbert Burnet was in Leyden, and there also was I, a happy, reputable man, prosperous and contented, with the prettiest sweetheart in all the town. Then came this man. I need not tell what he did. In a year he had won over the silly girl to his own desires, and I was a ruined man for evermore. I am a servant in his company who worked my fall. Remember then that the nearer I am to Gilbert Burnet the worse it will fare with him." And he rode off, still pale and shivering with terror.

I mused for some time with myself. Truly, thought I, Gilbert has his own troubles, and it will go hard with him if his own men turn against him. And I set it down in my mind that I would do my best to warn him of the schemes of the foreigner. For though it was my cousin's own ill-doing that had brought him to this, and my heart burned against him for his villainy, it was yet right that a kinsman should protect one of the house against the plots of a common soldier.

CHAPTER XIII