JOHN BURNET OF BARNS (continued 7)

From the place came a great racket of mirth, and as I opened the door a glass struck against the top and was shivered to pieces. Inside, around the long table, sat a round dozen of dragoons making merry after their boisterous fashion. One would have guessed little indeed from their faces that their occupation was gone, for they birled at the wine as if the times were twenty years back and King Charles (whom God rest) just come anew to his throne.

I had never seen the soldiers before, but I made a guess that they were disbanded men of my cousin's company, both from their air of exceeding braggadocio which clung to all who had any relation to Gilbert Burnet, and also since there were no soldiers in this special part of the Clyde dale save his. I was in no temper for such a racket, and had there been another room in the house I should have sought it; but the inn was small and little frequented, and the accommodation narrow at the best. However, I must needs make the most of it, so shutting the door behind I sought a retired corner seat. I was still worn with my exertions of yesterday and weary with long riding, so I was blithe to get my limbs at rest.

But it was clear that three-fourths of the company were in the last state of drunkenness, and since men in liquor can never let well alone, they must needs begin to meddle with me.

"Gidden," said one, "what kind o' gentleman hae we here? I havena seen sic a fellow sin' yon steeple-jaick at Brochtoun Fair. D'ye think he wad be willin' to gie us a bit entertainment?"

Now you must remember that I still wore my suit of torn and dirty crimson, and with my stained face and long hair I must have cut a rare figure.

But had the thing gone no further than words I should never have stirred a finger in the matter, for when a man's energies are all bent upon some great quarrel, he has little stomach for lesser bickerings. But now one arose in a drunken frolic, staggered over to where I sat, and plucked me rudely by the arm. "Come ower," he said, "my man, and let'sh see ye dance the 'Nancy kilt her Coats.' You see here twelve honest sodgers whae will gie ye a penny a piece for the ploy."

"Keep your hands off," I said brusquely, "and hold your tongue. 'Twill be you that will do the dancing soon at the end of a tow on the castle hill, when King William plays the fiddle. You'll be brisker lads then."

"What," said he in a second, with drunken gravity. "Do I hear you shpeak treason against his majesty King James? Dod, I'll learn ye better." And he tugged at his sword, but being unable in his present state to draw it with comfort, he struck me a hard thwack over the shoulder, scabbard and all.

In a moment I was ablaze with passion. I flung myself on the fellow, and with one buffet sent him rolling below the table. Then I was ashamed for myself, for a drunken man is no more fit for an honest blow than a babe or a woman.

But there was no time for shame or aught save action. Three men—the only three who were able to understand the turn of affairs—rose to their feet in a trice, and with drawn swords came towards me. The others sat stupidly staring, save two who had fallen asleep and rolled from their seats.

I picked up my chair, which was broad and heavy and of excellent stout oak, and held it before me like a shield. I received the first man's awkward lunge full on it, and, thrusting it forward, struck him fair above the elbow, while his blade fell with a clatter on the floor. Meantime the others were attacking me to the best of their power, and though they were singly feeble, yet in their very folly they were more dangerous than a mettlesome opponent, who will keep always in front and observe well the rules of the game. Indeed, it might have gone hard with me had not the door been flung violently open and the landlord entered, wringing his hands and beseeching, and close at his heels another man, very tall and thin and dark. At the sight of this second my heart gave a great bound and I cried aloud in delight. For it was my servant Nicol.

In less time than it takes to write it we had disarmed the drunken ruffians and reduced them to order. And, indeed, the task was not a hard one, for they were a vast deal more eager to sleep than to fight, and soon sank to their fitting places on the floor. Forbye they may have had some gleam of sense, and seen how perilous was their conduct in the present regiment of affairs. Then Nicol, who was an old acquaintance of the host's, led me to another room in the back of the house, where we were left in peace; and sitting by the fire told one another some fragment of our tales.

And first for his own, for I would speak not a word till he had told me all there was to tell. He had had much ado to get to Caerdon, for the hills were thick with the military, and at that wild season of the year there is little cover. When he found no letter he set off for the hiding-place above Scrape, where he knew I had been, and found it deserted. Thence he had shaped his way again to Smitwood with infinite labour and told Marjory the fruit of his errand. At this her grief had been so excessive that nothing would content her but that he must be off again and learn by hook or crook some word of my whereabouts. So began his wanderings among the hills, often attended with danger and always with hardship, but no trace of me could he find. At last, somewhere about the Moffat Water, he had forgathered with a single tinker whom he had once befriended in the old days when he had yet power to help. From this man he had learned that the Baillies had with them one whom he did not know for certain, but shrewdly guessed as the laird of Barns. With all speed he had set off on this new quest and followed me in my journey right to the moss of Biggar. Here all signs of the band came to an end, for most of the folk of the place knew naught of the airt of the gipsy flight, and such as knew were loth to tell, being little in a mood to incur the Baillies' wrath. So naught was left for him but to return to the place whence he had started. Here he was met with the bitter news that I have already set down. He was thrown into a state of utter despondency, and sat for long in a fine confusion of mind. Then he fell to reasoning. There was no place whither Gilbert could take a woman save his own house of Eaglesham, for Dawyck and Barns were too near the hills and myself. You must remember that at this time my servant had no inkling of the momentous event which had set our positions upside down. Now, if they took her to the west they would do so with all speed; they had but one day's start; he might yet overtake them, and try if his wits could find no way out of the difficulty.

So off he set and came to this inn of the Clyde fords, and then he heard that on the evening before such a cavalcade had passed as he sought. But he learned something more the next morn; namely, that my cousin's power was wholly broken and that now I was freed from all suspicion of danger. Once more he fell into a confusion, but the one thing clear was that he must find me at all costs. He had heard of me last at the town of Biggar not fifteen miles off; when I heard the great news he guessed that I would ride straight for Smitwood; I would hear the tidings that the folk there had to tell, and, if he knew aught of me, I would ride straight, as he had done, on the track of the fugitives. So he turned back to the inn, and abode there awaiting me, and, lo! at nightfall I had come.

Then for long we spoke of my own wanderings, and I told him many tales of my doings and sufferings up hill and down dale, as did Ulysses to the Ithacan swineherd. But ere long we fell to discussing that far more momentous task which lay before us. It behooved us to be up and doing, for I had a horrid fear at my heart that my cousin might seek to reach the western seacoast and escape to France or Ireland, and thus sorely hinder my meeting with my love. I had no fear but that I should overtake him sooner or later, for fate had driven that lesson deep into my heart, and to myself I said that it was but a matter of days, or weeks, or maybe years, but not of failure. I was for posting on even at that late hour, but Nicol would have none of it.

"Look at your face i' the gless, sir," said he, "and tell me if ye look like muckle mair ridin' the day. Ye're fair forwandered wi' weariness and want o' sleep. And what for wad ye keep thae queer-like claes? I'll get ye a new suit frae the landlord, decent man, and mak ye mair presentable for gaun intil the Wast."

I looked as he bade me in the low mirror, and saw my dark face, and wind-tossed hair, and my clothes of flaming crimson. Something in the odd contrast struck my fancy.

"Nay," I said, grimly, "I will bide as I am. I am going on a grim errand and I will not lay aside these rags till I have done that which I went for to do."

"Weel, weel, please yersel'," said my servant, jauntily, and he turned away, whistling and smiling to himself.

CHAPTER II

AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND

I slept like a log till the broad daylight on the next morn woke me, and with all speed I got up and dressed. I found myself much refreshed in body. My weariness was gone, and the dull languor which had oppressed me had given place to a singular freshness of spirit.

When I went below I found my servant ready and waiting, with the horses saddled and my meal prepared. The soldiers had gone early, paying no score; for when their liquor had left them they had wakened up to the solemn conviction that this countryside was not like to be a pleasant habitation for them for many months to come. So they had gone off to Heaven knows where, cutting my bridle-rein as a last token of their affection.

It was near ten o'clock ere we started, the two of us, on our road to the West. I had travelled it many times, for it was the way to Glasgow, and I found myself calling up, whether I would or no, a thousand half-sad and half-pleasing memories. At this place I had stopped to water my horse, at this cottage I had halted for an hour, at this hostel I had lain the night. Had I not looked at my comrade every now and then, I might have fancied that I was still the schoolboy, with his wide interest in letters and life, and little knowledge of either, with half a dozen letters in his pocket, looking forward with fear and hope to town and college. Heigh-ho! Many things had come and gone since then, and here was I still the same boy, but ah! how tossed and buffeted and perplexed. Yet I would not have bartered my present state for those careless and joyous years, for after all this is a rugged world, with God knows how many sore straits and devilish temptations, but with so many fair and valiant rewards, that a man is a coward indeed who would not battle through the one for the sweet sake of the other.

As we went Nicol talked of many things with a cheery good humour. His was an adventure-loving mind, and there were few things which he would not brave save the routine of settled life. Now, as the November sun came out, for the morn was frosty and clear, his face shone with the sharp air and the excitement of the ride, and he entertained me to his views on the world and the things in it. The ground was hard as steel underfoot, the horse's hooves crackled through the little ice-coated pools in the road, and a solitary thrush sang its song from a wayside wood and seemed like a silver trump calling to action and daring.

"What think ye o' the hills, Laird?" said my servant. "Ye've been lang among them, and ye'll ken them noo in anither way than if ye had just trampit ower them after wild-jucks or ridden through them to Yarrow or Moffatdale. I've wandered among them since I was a laddie five 'ear auld, and used to gang oot wi' my faither to the herdin'. And since then I've traivelled up Tweed and doun Tweed, and a' ower the Clydeside and the Annanside, no to speak o' furrin pairts, and I can weel say that I ken naucht sae awfu' and sae kindly, sae couthy and bonny and hamely, and, at the same time, sae cauld and cruel, as juist thae green hills and muirs."

"You speak truly," said I. "I've seen them in all weathers and I know well what you mean."

"Ay," he went on, "thae lawlands are very bonny, wi' the laigh meadows, and bosky trees and waters as still as a mill-pound. And if ye come doun frae the high bare lands ye think them fair like Heev'n. But I canna bide lang there. I aye turn fair sick for the smell o' moss and heather, and the roarin' and routin' o' the burn, and the air sae clear and snell that it gars your face prick and your legs and airms strauchten oot, till ye think ye could run frae here to the Heads o' Ayr."

"I know all of that," said I, "and more."

"Ay, there's far mair," said he. "There's the sleepin' at nicht on the grund wi' naething abune you but the stars, and waukin' i' the mornin' wi' the birds singin' i' your lug and the wind blawin' cool and free around you. I ken a' that and I ken the ither, when the mist crowds low on the tap o' the hills and the rain dreeps and seeps, or when the snaw comes and drifts sae thick that ye canna stand afore it, and there's life neither for man nor beast. Yet wi' it a' I like it, and if I micht choose the place I wad like best to dee in, it would be in the lee side o' a muckle hill, wi' nae death-bed or sic like havers, but juist to gang straucht to my Makker frae the yirth I had aye traivelled on. But wha kens?" and he spurred up his horse.

"Nicol," said I, after a long silence, "you know the errand we go on. I have told you it, I think. It is to find my cousin and Mistress Marjory. If God grant that we do so, then these are my orders. You shall take the lady home to Tweeddale, to Dawyck, which is her own, and leave me behind you. I may come back or I may not. If I do, all will be well. If I do not, you know your duty. You have already fulfilled it for some little time; if it happens as I say, you shall continue it to death. The lass will have no other protector than yourself."

"E'en as ye say," cried he, resuming his hilarity, though whether it was real or no I cannot tell. "But dinna crack aboot siccan things, Laird, or ye'll be makkin' our journey nae better than buryin'. It's a wanchancy thing to speak aboot death. No that a man should be feared at it, but that he should keep a calm sough till it come. Ye mind the story o' auld Tam Blacket, the writer at Peebles. Tam was deein', and as he was a guid auld man the minister, whae was great at death-beds and consolation, cam to speak to him aboot his latter end. 'Ye're near death, Tammas,' says he. Up gets auld Tam. 'I'll thank ye no to mention that subject,' he says, and never a word wad he allow the puir man to speak."

So in this way we talked till we came to where the road leaves the Clyde valley and rises steep to the high land about the town of Hamilton. Here we alighted for dinner at an inn which bears for its sign the Ship of War, though what this means in a town many miles from the sea I do not know. Here we had a most excellent meal, over which we did not tarry long, for we sought to reach Glasgow ere nightfall, and at that season of the year the day closes early.

As we rode down the narrow, crooked street, I had leisure to look about me. The town was in a ferment, for, as near the field of Bothwell Brig, where the Whigs had suffered their chiefest slaughter, it had been well garrisoned with soldiers, and the news of the Prince of Orange's landing put the place into an uproar. Men with flushed, eager faces hurried past with wonder writ large on their cheeks; others stood about in knots talking shrilly; and every now and then a horseman would push his way through the crowd bearing fresh tidings to the townsfolk or carrying it thence to the West country.

Suddenly, in the throng of men, I saw a face which brought me to a standstill. It was that of a man, dark, sullen, and foreign-looking, whose former dragoon's dress a countryman's coat poorly concealed. He was pushing his way eagerly through the crowd, when he looked into the mid-street and caught my eye. In an instant he had dived into one of the narrow closes and was lost to sight.

At the first glance I knew my man for that soldier of Gilbert's, Jan Hamman, the Hollander, whom already thrice I had met, once in the Alphen Road, once at the joining of the Cor Water with Tweed, and once at the caves of the Cor, when so many of His Majesty's servants went to their account. What he was about in this West country I could not think, for had he been wise he would have made for the eastern seacoast or at least not ventured into this stronghold of those he had persecuted. And with the thought another came. Had not he spoken bitterly of his commander? was he not the victim of one of my fair cousin's many infamies? had he not, in my own hearing, sworn vengeance? Gilbert had more foes than one on his track, for here was this man, darkly malevolent, dogging him in his flight. The thought flashed upon me that he of all men would know my cousin's plans and would aid me in my search. I did not for a moment desire him for an ally in my work; nay, I should first frustrate his designs, before I settled matters with Gilbert, for it was in the highest degree unseemly that any such villain should meddle in matters which belonged solely to our house. Still I should use him for my own ends, come what might.

I leaped from my horse, crying on Nicol to take charge of it, and dashed up the narrow entry. I had just a glimpse of a figure vanishing round the far corner, and when I had picked my way, stumbling over countless obstacles, I found at the end an open court, roughly paved with cobbie-stones, and beyond that a high wall. With all my might I made a great leap and caught the top, and lo! I looked over into a narrow lane wherein children were playing. It was clear that my man had gone by this road, and would now be mixed among the folk in the side street. It was useless to follow further, so in some chagrin I retraced my steps, banning Nicol and the Dutchman and my own ill-luck.

I remounted, making no answer to my servant's sarcastic condolences—for, of course, he had no knowledge of this fellow's purport in coming to the Westlands, and could only look on my conduct as a whimsical freak. As we passed down the street I kept a shrewd lookout to right and left if haply I might see my man, but no such good luck visited me. Once out of the town it behooved us to make better speed, for little of the afternoon remained, and dusk at this time of year fell sharp and sudden. So with a great jingling and bravado we clattered through the little hamlets of Blantyre and Cambuslang, and came just at the darkening to the populous burgh of Rutherglen, which, saving that it has no college or abbey, is a more bustling and prosperous place than Glasgow itself. But here we did not stay, being eager to win to our journey's end; so after a glass of wine at an inn we took the path through the now dusky meadows by Clyde side, and passing through the village of Gorbals, which lies on the south bank of the river, we crossed the great bridge and entered the gates just as they were on the point of closing.

During the latter hours of the day I had gone over again in mind all the details of the doings of past weeks. All seemed now clear, and with great heartiness I cursed myself for errors, which I could scarce have refrained from. The steps in Gilbert's plan lay before me one by one. The letter had given him only the slightest of clues, which he must have taken weeks to discover. When at last it had been made clear to him, something else had engaged his mind. He must have had word from private sources, shut to the country folk, of the way whither events were trending in the state. His mind was made up; he would make one desperate bid for success; and thus he shaped his course. He sent men to Smitwood with the plausible story which I had already heard from my servant, how all breach was healed between us, and how this was her escort to take her to me. Then I doubted not he had bidden the men show her as proof some letter forged in my name on the model of the one I had lost on Caerdon, and also give her some slight hint of the great change in the country to convince her that now he could do no ill even had he desired it, and that I was now on the summit of fortune. The poor lass, wearied with anxiety and long delay, and with no wise Nicol at hand to give better counsel, had suffered herself to be persuaded, and left the house with a glad heart. I pictured her disillusion, her bitter regrets, her unwilling flight. And then I swore with redoubled vehemence that it should not be for long.

We alighted for the night at the house of that Mistress Macmillan, where I lodged when I first came to college. She welcomed us heartily, and prepared us a noble supper, for we were hungry as hawks, and I, for one, tired with many rough adventures. The house stood in the Gallow Gate, near the salt market and the college gardens; and as I lay down on the fresh sheets and heard the many noises of the street with the ripple of the river filling the pauses, I thanked God that at last I had come out of beggary and outlawry to decent habitation.

CHAPTER III

THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES

The next morn the weather had changed. When I looked forth through the latticed panes to the street, it was a bleak scene that met my eyes—near a foot of snow, flakes tossing and whirling everywhere, and the roofs and gables showing leaden dull in the gloom. Had I been in another frame of mind I should have lost my spirits, for nothing so disheartened me as heavy, dismal weather. But now I was in such a temper that I welcomed the outlook; the grey, lifeless street was akin to my heart, and I went down from my chamber with the iron of resolution in my soul.

My first care was to enquire at Mistress Macmillan if she knew aught of my cousin's doings, for the town-house of the Eaglesham Burnets was not two streets distant. But she could give me no news, for, said she, since the old laird died and these troublous times succeeded, it was little that the young master came near the place. So without any delay I and my servant went out into the wintry day, and found our way to the old, dark dwelling in the High Street.

The house had been built near a hundred years before, in the time of Ephraim Burnet, my cousin's grandfather. I mind it well to this day, and oft as I think of the city, that dreary, ancient pile rises to fill my vision. The three Burnet leaves, the escutcheon of our family, hung over the doorway. Every window was little and well-barred with iron, nor was any sign of life to be seen behind the dreary panes. But the most notable things to the eye were the odd crow-step gables, which, I know not from what cause, were all chipped and defaced, and had a strange, pied appearance against the darker roof. It faced the street and down one side ran a little lane. Behind were many lesser buildings around the courtyard, and the back opened into a wynd which ran westward to the city walls.

I went up the steps and with my sword-hilt thundered on the door. The blows roused the echoes of the old place. Within I heard the resonance of corridor and room, all hollow and empty. Below me was the snowy street, with now and then a single passer, and I felt an eerie awe of this strange house, as of one who should seek to force a vault of the dead.

Again I knocked, and this time it brought me an answer. I heard feet—slow, shuffling feet, coming from some room, and ascending the staircase to the hall. The place was so void that the slightest sound rang loud and clear, and I could mark the progress of the steps from their beginning. Somewhere they came to a halt, as if the person were considering whether or not to come to the door, but by and by they advanced, and with vast creaking a key was fitted into the lock and the great oak door was opened a little.

It was a little old woman who stood in the opening, with a face seamed and wrinkled, and not a tooth in her head. She wore a mutch, which gave her a most witch-like appearance, and her narrow, grey eyes, as they fastened on me and sought out my errand, did not reassure me.

"What d'ye want here the day, sir?" she said in a high, squeaking voice. "It's cauld, cauld weather, and my banes are auld and I canna stand here bidin' your pleesur."

"Is your master within?" I said, shortly. "Take me to him, for I have business with him."

"Maister, quotha!" she screamed. "Wha d'ye speak o', young sir? If it's the auld laird ye mean, he's lang syne wi' his Makker, and the young yin has no been here thae fower years. He was a tenty bit lad, was Maister Gilbert, but he gaed aff to the wars i' the abroad and ne'er thinks o' returnin'. Wae's me for the puir, hapless cheil." And she crooned on to herself in the garrulity of old age.

"Tell me the truth," said I, "and have done with your lies. It is well known that your master came here in the last two days with two men and a lady, and abode here for the night. Tell me instantly if he is still here or whither has he gone."

She looked at me with a twinkle of shrewdness and then shook her head once more. "Na, na, I'm no leein'. I'm ower neer my accoont wi' the Lord to burden my soul wi' lees. When you tae are faun i' the hinner end o' life, ye'll no think it worth your while to mak up leesome stories. I tell ye the young maister hasna been here for years, though it's blithe I wad be to see him. If ye winna believe my word, ye can e'en gang your ways."

Now I was in something of a quandary. The woman looked to be speaking the truth, and it was possible that my cousin could have left the city on one side and pushed straight on to his house of Eaglesham or even to the remoter western coast. Yet the way was a long one, and I saw not how he could have refrained from halting at Glasgow in the even. He had no cause to fear my following him there more than another place. For that I would come post-haste to the Westlands at the first word he must have well known, and so he could have no reason in covering his tracks from me. He was over-well known a figure in his own countryside to make secrecy possible; his aim must be to outrace me in speed, not to outwit me with cunning.

"Let me gang, young sir," the old hag was groaning. "I've the rheumaticks i' my banes and I'm sair hadden doon wi' the chills, and I'll get my death if I stand here longer."

"I will trust you then," said I, "but since I am a kinsman of your master's and have ridden far on a bootless errand, I will even come in and refresh myself ere I return."

"Na, na," she said, a new look, one of anxiety and cunning coming into her face, "ye maun na dae that. It was the last word my maister bade me ere he gaed awa'. 'Elspeth,' says he, 'see ye let nane intil the hoose till I come back.'"

"Tut, tut, I am his own cousin. I will enter if I please," and calling my servant, I made to force an admittance.

Then suddenly, ere I knew, the great door was slammed in my face, and I could hear the sound of a key turning and a bar being dropped.

Here was a pretty to-do. Without doubt there was that in the house which the crone desired to keep from my notice. I sprang to the door and thundered on it like a madman, wrestling with the lock, and calling for the woman to open it. But all in vain, and after a few seconds' bootless endeavour, I turned ruefully to my servant.

"Can aught be done?" I asked.

"I saw a dyke as we cam here," said Nicol, "and ower the back o't was a yaird. There was likewise a gate i' the dyke. I'm thinkin' that'll be the back door o' the hoose. If ye were awfu' determined, Laird, ye micht win in there."

I thought for a moment. "You are right," I cried. "I know the place. But we will first go back and fetch the horses, for it is like there will be wild work before us ere night."

But lo and behold! when we went to the inn stable my horse was off. "I thocht he needit a shoe," said the ostler, "so I just sent him doun to Jock Walkinshaw's i' the East Port. If ye'll bide a wee, I'll send a laddie doun to bring him up."

Five, twenty, sixty minutes and more we waited while that accursed child brought my horse. Then he came back a little after midday; three shoes had been needed, he said, and he had rin a' the way, and he wasna to blame. So I gave him a crown and a sound box on the ears, and then the two of us set off.

The place was high and difficult of access, being in a narrow lane where few passers ever went, and nigh to the city wall. I bade Nicol hold the horses, and standing on the back of one I could just come to within a few feet of the top. I did my utmost by springing upward to grasp the parapet, but all in vain, so in a miserable state of disappointed hopes I desisted and consulted with my servant. Together we tried the door, but it was of massive wood, clamped with iron, and triply bolted. There was nothing for it but to send off to Mistress Macmillan and seek some contrivance. Had the day not been so wild and the lane so quiet we could scarce have gone unnoticed. As it was, one man passed, a hawker in a little cart, seeking a near way, and with little time to stare at the two solitary horsemen waiting by the wall.

Nicol went off alone, while I kept guard—an aimless guard—by the gate. In a little he returned with an old boat-hook, with the cleek at the end somewhat unusually long. Then he proposed his method. I should stand on horseback as before, and hang the hook on the flat surface of the wall. When, by dint of scraping, I had fixed it firmly, I should climb it hand over hand, as a sailor mounts a rope, and with a few pulls I might hope to be at the summit.

I did as he bade, and, with great labour, fixed the hook in the hard stone. Then I pulled myself up, very slowly and carefully, with the shaft quivering in my hands. I was just gripping the stone when the wretched iron slipped and rattled down to the ground, cutting me sharply in the wrist. Luckily I did not go with it, for in the moment of falling, I had grasped the top and hung there with aching hands and the blood from the cut trickling down my arm. Then, with a mighty effort, I swung myself up and stood safe on the top.

Below me was a sloping roof of wood which ended in a sheer wall of maybe twelve feet. Below that in turn was the great yard, flagged with stone, but now hidden under a cloak of snow. Around it were stables, empty of horses, windy, cold, and dismal. I cannot tell how the whole place depressed me. I felt as though I were descending into some pit of the dead.

Staunching the blood from my wrist—by good luck my left—as best I might with my kerchief, I slipped down the white roof and dropped into the court. It was a wide, empty place, and, in the late afternoon, looked grey and fearsome. The dead black house behind, with its many windows all shuttered and lifeless, shadowed the place like a pall. At my back was the back door of the house, like the other locked and iron-clamped. I seemed to myself to have done little good by my escapade in coming thither.

Wandering aimlessly, I entered the stables, scarce thinking what I was doing. Something about the place made me stop and look. I rubbed my eyes and wondered. There, sure enough, were signs of horses having been recently here. Fresh hay and a few oats were in the mangers, and straw and dung in the stalls clearly proclaimed that not long agone the place had been tenanted.

I rushed out into the yard, and ran hither and thither searching the ground. There were hoof-marks—fool that I was not to have marked them before—leading clearly from the stable door to the gate on the High Street. I rushed to the iron doors and tugged at them. To my amazement I found that they yielded, and I was staring into the darkening street.

So the birds had been there and flown in our brief absence. I cursed my ill-fortune with a bitter heart.

Suddenly I saw something dark lying amid the snow. I picked it up and laid it tenderly in my bosom. For it was a little knot of blue velvet ribbon, such as my lady wore.

CHAPTER IV

UP HILL AND DOWN DALE

I rushed up the street, leaving the gates swinging wide behind me, and down the lane to where Nicol waited. In brief, panting words I told him my tale. He heard it without a movement, save to turn his horse's head up the street. I swung myself into the saddle, and, with no more delay, we made for our lodgings.

"There is but one thing that we may do," said I. "The night is an ill one, but if it is ill for us 'tis ill for them." And at the words I groaned, for I thought of my poor Marjory in the storm and cold.

At Mistress Macmillan's I paid the lawing, and having eaten a hearty meal, we crammed some food into our saddle-bags and bade the hostess good-bye. Then we turned straight for the west port of the city.

It was as I had expected. The gates were just at the closing when the twain of us rode up to them and were suffered to pass. The man looked curiously at my strange dress, but made no remark, as is the fashion of these taciturn Westland folk, and together we rode through and into the bleak night. The snow had ceased to fall early in the day, but now it came on again in little intermittent driftings, while a keen wind whistled from the hills of the north. The land was more or less strange to me, and even my servant, who had a passing acquaintance with many countrysides, professed himself ignorant. It was the way to the wild highlands—the county of Campbells and Lennoxes—and far distant from kindly Christian folk. I could not think why my cousin had chosen this path, save for the reason of its difficulty and obscurity. I was still in doubt of his purpose, whether he was bound for his own house of Eaglesham or for the more distant Clyde coast. He had clearly gone by this gate from the city, for this much we had learned from the man at the port. Now, if he sought Eaglesham, he must needs cross the river, which would give us some time to gain on his track. But if he still held to the north, then there was naught for it but to follow him hot-foot and come up with him by God's grace and our horses' speed.

I have been abroad on many dark nights, but never have I seen one so black as this. The path to the west ran straight from our feet to the rugged hills which dip down to the river edge some ten miles off. But of it we could make nothing, nor was there anything to tell us of its presence save that our horses stumbled when we strayed from it to the moory land on either side. All about us were the wilds, for the town of Glasgow stood on the last bounds of settled country, near to the fierce mountains and black morasses of the Highlandmen. The wind crooned and blew in gusts over the white waste, driving little flakes of snow about us, and cutting us to the bone with its bitter cold. Somewhere in the unknown distances we heard strange sounds—the awesome rumble of water or the cry of forlorn birds. All was as bleak as death, and, in the thick darkness, what might otherwise have seemed simple and homelike, was filled with vague terrors. I had shaped no path—all that I sought was to hasten somewhere nearer those we followed, and on this mad quest we stumbled blindly forward.

When we had gone some half-dozen miles a light shone out from the wayside, and we descried a house. It was a little, low dwelling, with many sheds at the rear; clearly a smithy or a humble farm. My servant leaped down and knocked. The door was opened, a warm stream of light lay across the snowy road. I had a glimpse within, and there was a cheerful kitchen with a fire of logs crackling. A man sat by the hearth, shaping something or other with a knife, and around him two children were playing. The woman who came to us was buxom and comely, one who delighted in her children and her home. The whole place gave me a sharp feeling of envy and regret. Even these folk, poor peasants, had the joys of comfort and peace, while I, so long an outlaw and a wanderer, must still wander hopeless seeking the lost, cumbered about with a thousand dangers.

"Did any riders pass by the road to-day?" I asked.

"Ay, four passed on horses about midday or maybe a wee thing after it, twae stoot fellows, and a braw-clad gentleman and a bonny young leddy. They didna stop but gaed by at a great rate."

"What was the lady like?" I asked, breathlessly.

"Oh, a bit young thing, snod and genty-like. But I mind she looked gey dowie and I think she had been greetin'. But wherefore d'ye speir, sir? And what are ye daein' oot hereaways on siccan a nicht? Ye best come in and bide till mornin'. We've an orra bed i' the house for the maister, and plenty o' guid, saft straw i' the barn for the man."

"Did they go straight on?" I cried, "and whither does this way lead?"

"They went straight on," said she, "and the road is the road to the toun o' Dumbarton." And she would have told me more, but with a hasty word of thanks, I cut her short, and once more we were off into the night.

From this place our way and the incidents thereof are scarce clear in my memory. For one thing the many toils of the preceding time began at last to tell upon me, and I grew sore and wearied. Also a heavy drowsiness oppressed me, and even in that cold I could have slept on my horse's back. We were still on the path, and the rhythmical jog of the motion served to lull me, till, as befell every now and then, there came a rut or a tussock, and I was brought to my senses with a sharp shock. Nicol rode silently at my side, a great figure in the gloom, bent low, as was always his custom, over his horse's neck. In one way the state was more pleasing than the last, for the turmoil of cares in my heart was quieted for the moment by the bodily fatigue. I roused myself at times to think of my purpose and get me energy for my task, but the dull languor would not be exorcised, and I always fell back again into my sloth. Nevertheless we kept a fair pace, for we had given the rein to our animals, and they were fresh and well-fed.

Suddenly, ere I knew, the way began to change from a level road into a steep hill-path. Even in the blackness I could see a great hillside rising steeply to right and to left. I pulled up my horse, for here there would be need of careful guidance, and was going on as before when Nicol halted me with his voice.

"Laird, Laird," he cried, "I dinna ken muckle aboot the Dumbarton road, but there's yae thing I ken weel and that is that it keeps i' the laigh land near the waterside a' the way, and doesna straiggle ower brae-faces."

This roused me to myself. "Did we pass any cross-road?" I asked, "for God knows the night is dark enough for any man to wander. Are you sure of what you say?"

"As sure as I am that my fingers are cauld and my een fair dazed wi' sleep," said he.

"Then there is naught for it but to go back and trust to overtaking the path. But stay, are these not the hills of Kilpatrick, which stretch down from the Lennox to the Clyde and front the river at this very Dumbarton? I have surely heard of such. Our highway must lie to our left, since we clearly have turned to the right, seeing that if we had turned to the left we should have reached the water. If then we strike straight from here along the bottom of this slope, will we not reach the town? The chances are that we should never find our path, whereas this way will bring us there without fail, if we can stomach some rough riding."

"Weel, sir, I'm wi' ye wherever ye like to gang. And I'll no deny but that it's the maist reasonable road to tak, if ye're no feared o' breakin' your craig ower a stane or walkin' intil a peat-bog. But we maun e'en lippen to Providence and tak our chance like better men."

So wheeling sharply to our left, we left the path and rode as best we could along the rough bottom of the hills. It was a tract of rushy ground where many streams ran. Huge boulders, tumbled down from the steeps, strewed it like the leaves of a hazel wood in autumn. On one hand the land lay back to the haughlands and ordered fields, on the other it sloped steeply to the hills. Stumps of birk-trees and stray gnarled trunks came at times, but in general the ground was open and not unsuited for horses in the light of day. Now it was something more than difficult, for we came perilous near oftentimes to fulfilling my servant's prophecy. Once, I remember, I floundered fair into a trench of moss-water with a vile muddy bottom, where I verily believe both horse and man would have perished, had not Nicol, who saw my misfortune and leaped his beast across, pulled me fiercely from my saddle to the bank, and the twain of us together extricated the horse. In this fashion, floundering and slipping, we must have ridden some half-dozen miles. All drowsiness had vanished with the rough and ready mode of travel. Once more the thought of my lady and her plight, of my wrongs and my misfortunes, tormented me with anxiety and wrath, and stamped yet more firmly my errand on my soul.

Now, however, we were suddenly brought to an end in our progress. Before us lay a little ravine, clogged with snow, in whose bottom a burn roared. It was a water of little size, and, in summer weather, one might all but have leaped it. Now the snow had swollen it to the semblance of a torrent, and it chafed and eddied in the little gorge, a streak of dark, angry water against the dim white banks. There was nothing for it but to enter and struggle across, and yet, as I looked at the ugly swirl, I hesitated. I was nigh numbed with cold, my horse was aching from its stumbling, there was little foothold on the opposing bank. I turned to Nicol, who sat with his teeth shaking with the bitter weather.

"There is naught for it," said I, "but to risk it. There is no use in following it, for we shall find no better place in a ravine like this."

Even as I spoke my servant had taken the plunge, and I saw horse and man slip off the snowy bank into the foam. I followed so closely that I lost all sight of them. To this day I remember the feelings of the moment, the choking as an icy wave surged over my mouth, the frantic pulling at the bridle-rein, the wild plunging of my horse, the roar of water and the splash of swimming. Then, with a mighty effort, my brave animal was struggling up the further side, where my servant was already shaking the water from his clothes.

This incident, while it put me in better heart, vastly added to my bodily discomfort. An icy wind shivering through dripping garments may well chill the blood of the stoutest. And for certain the next part of the way is burned on my memory with a thousand recollections of utter weariness and misery. Even my hardy servant could scarce keep from groaning, and I, who was ever of a tenderer make, could have leaned my head on my horse's neck and sobbed with pure feebleness.

The country was now rough with tanglewood, for we were near the last spur of the hills, ere they break down on the river. Somewhere through the gloom lights were shining and moving, as I guessed from a ship on the water. Beyond were still others, few in number, but fixed as if from dwelling-houses. Here at last, I thought, is the town of Dumbarton which I am seeking, and fired with the hope we urged on the more our jaded beasts.

But lo! when we came to it, 'twas but a wayside inn in a little clachan, where one solitary lamp swung and cast a bar of light over the snowy street. I hammered at the door till I brought down the landlord, shivering in his night-dress. It might be that my cousin had halted here, so I asked the man if he had any travellers within.

"Nane, save twae drunk Ayr skippers and a Glesca packman, unless your honour is comin' to keep them company."

"Has anyone passed then?" I cried.

"How could I tell when I've been sleepin' i' my bed thae sax 'oor?" he coughed, and, seeing we were no sojourners, slammed the door in our face.

We were numb and wretched, but there was naught for it but to ride on further to the town. It could not be far, and there were signs of morn already in the air. The cold grew more intense and the thick pall of darkness lifted somewhat toward the east. The blurred woods and clogged fields at our side gradually came into view, and as, heart-sick and nigh fordone with want of sleep, we rounded the great barrier ridge of hill, an array of twinkling lights sprang up in front and told us that we were not far from our journey's end. Nevertheless, it was still dark when we rode into a narrow, cobbled street and stopped at the first hostelry.

Now, both the one and the other were too far gone with weariness to do more than drop helplessly from the horses and stagger into the inn parlour. They gave us brandy, and then led us to a sleeping-room, where we lay down like logs and dropped into a profound slumber.

When we awoke the morning was well advanced. I was roused by Nicol, who was ever the more wakeful, and without more delay we went down and recruited our exhausted strength with a meal. Then I summoned the landlord, and asked, more from habit than from any clear expectation, whether any travellers had lodged over night.

The man answered shortly that there had been a gentleman and a maid, with two serving-men, who had but lately left.

In a great haste I seized on my hat and called loudly for the horses. "Where did they go?" I said; "by what way? Quick, tell me."

"They took the road doun to the ferry," said he, in great amazement. "It's no an 'oor since they gaed."

Thereupon I flung him his lawing, and we rushed from the house.

CHAPTER V

EAGLESHAM

It was dawning morn, grey and misty, with a thaw setting in on the surface of the snow. Down the narrow, crooked streets, with a wind shivering in our teeth, we went at a breakneck gallop. I lashed my horse for its life, and the poor brute, wearied as it was by the toils of the night, answered gallantly to my call. Sometimes, in a steep place, we slipped for yards; often I was within an ace of death; and at one street-turning with a mighty clatter Nicol came down, though the next minute he was up again. A few sleepy citizens rubbed their eyes and stared from their windows, and in the lighted doorway of a tavern, a sailor looked at us wonderingly.

In less time than it takes to tell, we were at the water-edge. Here there is a rough quay, with something of a harbour behind it, where lie the sugar-boats from the Indies, when the flood-tide is too low to suffer them to go up stream to the city. Here, also, the ferry four times daily crosses the river.

Before us the water lay in leaden gloom, with that strange, dead colour which comes from the falling of much snow. Heavy waves were beginning to roll over the jetty, and a mist was drooping lower and ever lower. Two men stood by an old anchor coiling some rope. We pulled up our horses and I cried out in impatience where the ferry might be.

"Gone ten meenutes syne," said one, with no change on his stolid face. "There she is gin ye hae een i' your heid to see."

And he pointed out to the waste of waters. I looked and saw a sail rising and sinking in the trough of the waves.

"When does she return?" I cried out, with many curses on our laggard journey.

"Whiles in an 'oor, whiles in twae. She'll be twae the day ere she's back, for the ferryman, Jock Gellatly, is a fou' as the Baltic wi' some drink that a young gentleman gave him."

So we turned back to the harbour tavern, with all the regrets of unsuccess.

The man had said two hours, but it was nearer three, ere that wretched shell returned, and, when it came, 'twas with a drunken man who could scarce stagger ashore. I was in no mood for trifling.

"Here, you drunken swine," I cried, "will you take us across and be quick about it?"

"I maun hae anither gless o' Duncan's whusky," said the fellow, with a leer.

"By God, and you will not," I cried. "Get aboard and make no more delay, or, by the Lord, I'll throw you into the stream."

The man hiccuped and whined. "I canna, I canna, my bonny lad. I had ower muckle guid yill afore I sterted, and I maun hae some whusky to keep it doon. I'm an auld man, and the cauld air frae the water is bad for the inside. Let me be, let me be," and he lay down on the quay with the utter helplessness of a sot.

"Here is a devil of a mess," I cried to Nicol. "What is to be done?"

"I'll hae to tak the boat mysel', Laird," said my servant, quietly. "If I droon ye, dinna complain."

Indeed, I was in no mood for complaining at anything which would carry me further on my quest. With some difficulty we got the horses aboard and penned them in the stalls. Then Nicol hoisted the sail, and we shoved off, while I kept those at bay with a boat-hook who sought to stop us. Once out on the stormy waters I was beset with a thousand fears. I have ever feared the sea, and now, as we leaped and dived among the billows, and as the wind scoured us like a threshing floor, and, above all, as the crazy boat now almost lay sideways on the water, I felt a dreadful sinking of my courage, and looked for nothing better than immediate death. It was clear that Nicol, who knew something of seamanship as he knew of most things, had a hard task to keep us straight, and by his set face and white lips, I guessed that he, too, was not without his fears. Nevertheless, the passage was narrow, and in less time than I had expected, we saw a dim line of sand through the fog. Running in there, we beached the coble, and brought the horses splashing to shore.

The place was dreary and waste, low-lying, with a few huts facing the river. Beyond the land seemed still flat, though, as far as the mist suffered me to see, there seemed to be something of a rise to the right. My feet and hands were numbed with cold, and the wound in my wrist, which I got in scaling the wall, smarted till it brought the water to my eyes. I was so stiff I could scarce mount horse, and Nicol was in no better plight.

We rode to the nearest cottage and asked whither the folk had gone who landed with the last ferry. The woman answered gruffly that she had seen none land, and cared not. At the next house I fared little better; but at the third I found a young fisher lad, who, for the sake of a silver piece, told me that they had headed over the moor about three hours ago.

"And what lies beyond the moor?" I asked.

"Beyond the muir," said he, "is a muckle hill they ca' Mistilaw, a' thick wi' bogs, and ayont it there are mair hills and mosses, and syne if ye ride on ye'll come to Eaglesham, whaur the muirs end and the guid lands begin. I yince was ower there wi' my faither, aboot a cowt, and a braw bit place it is, and no like hereaways."

So Nicol and I, with dogged hearts and numbed bodies, rode into the black heath where there was no road. The snow had lost all hardness and was thick and clogging to our horses' feet. We made as good speed as we could, but that, after all, was little. About midday we had crossed the first part of our journey and were clambering and slipping over the shoulder of Mistilaw. This hill is low and trivial contrasted with our great Tweedside hills, but it well deserves its name, for it is one vast quagmire, where at all seasons mists and vapours hang. Beyond it, and all through the afternoon, we struggled among low hills and lochs. We halted at a solitary shepherd's hut among the wilds, and ate a vile meal of braxy and oaten-cake. Then again we set forth, and, in the darkening, came to the wide moor which is the last guard of the wastes and borders the pleasant vale of the Cart.

Now here I fell into a great fit of indecision. It was clear that Gilbert and Marjory were but a little way off in the House of Eaglesham, and I had almost reached the end of my travels. But here my plans came to a sudden end. Was I to ride forward and boldly demand my cousin to let her go? I knew my cousin's temper; he could make but one reply, and at last some end would be placed to our feud. But with this came another thought. Gilbert was not a man of one device but of many. If I sought to wrest my lady from his hands by force, it was most likely that he would be the winner. For he was ever ripe for high, bold and dastardly policies, and at such a time was little likely to be punctilious.

So in my extremity I fell to consulting with Nicol, and between us we devised a plan. I liked it so well that I lost all dismal forebodings and proceeded to put it in action. Night fell just as we came to the meadows above the village, and the twinkling lights of the place served as our guides. There was an inn there which I remembered of old time, for the innkeeper had come originally from Tweeddale. At first I would shun the place, but then I remembered that the man was dead these half-dozen years, and all the place so changed that I was secure from recognition, even had I not been so disguised and clad. So without any fear we rode up to the door and sought admittance.

The place was roomy and wide; a clean-swept floor, with a fire blazing on the hearth, and a goodly smell of cooked meat everywhere. They brought us a meal, which we ate like hungry men who had been a long day's journey in a snow-bound world. Then I lay back and stared at the firelight, and tried hard to fix my mind on the things which were coming to pass. I found it hard to determine whether I was asleep or awake, for the events of the past hours were still mere phantasmagoria in my memory. Through all the bewildering maze of weariness and despair, and scrupulosity of motive, there was still that one clear thought branded on my mind. And now, as I sat there, the thought was alone, without any clear perspective of the actors or the drama to be played. I scarce thought of Marjory, and Gilbert was little in my mind, for the long series of cares which had been mine for so many days had gone far to blunt my vision, and drive me to look no further than the next moment or the next hour. I was dull, blank, deadened with this one unalterable intention firm in my heart, but, God knows! little besides.

About nine or ten, I know not rightly, my servant roused me and bade me get ready. He had ordered the landlord to have the horses round to the door, giving I know not what excuse. I mounted without a thought, save that the air was raw and ugly. We rode down the silent street out on to the heath, where the snow was deeper, and our steps all but noiseless. The night was clear and deadly chill, piercing to the marrow. A low snow-fog clothed the ground, and not a sound could we hear in that great, wide world, save our own breathing and our horses' tread. A sort of awe took me at the silence, and it was with solemn thoughts that I advanced.

In a mile we left the heath, and, dipping down into the valley of the stream, entered a wood of pines. Snow powdered us from the bare boughs, and a dead branch crackled underfoot. Then all of a sudden, black and cold and still, from the stream-side meadows and all girt with dark forest, rose the house. Through the tree trunks it looked ghostly as a place of the dead. Then I remembered that this was the hill-front, where no habitable rooms were; so, marvelling no more at the dearth of light, we turned sharp to the left and came on the side looking to the river.

Two lights twinkled in the place, one in the basement, and one in the low, first story. I cast my memory back over old days. One was from the sitting-parlour where the old Gilbert Burnet had chosen to spend his days, and the other—ah, I had it, 'twas from the sleeping-room of the old Mistress Burnet, where she had dragged out her last years and drawn her last breath. But for these there was no other sign of life in the house.

We crossed the snowy slope to the black shadow of the wall, where we halted and consulted. By this time some life and spirit had come back to my movements, and I held myself more resolutely. Now I gave my servant his orders. "If so happen we get Mistress Marjory safe," said I, "you will ride off with her without delay, down the valley to the Clyde and then straight towards Tweeddale. You will get fresh horses at Hamilton, and till then these will serve your purpose. Once in her own countryside there remains nothing for you save to see that you do her bidding in everything. If God so will it, I will not be long in returning to you."

Then, with no more words, we set our faces to our task.

The light in the window above us still shone out on the white ground. Many yards to our left another patch of brightness marked where the other lamp burned. There was need of caution and stillness, else the master of the place would hear. I kicked my shoes from my feet, though it was bitter cold, and set myself to the scaling the wall. The distance was little, scarce twenty feet, and the masonry was rough-hewn and full of projecting stones, yet I found the matter as hard as I could manage. For my hands were numbed with the excessive chill, and the cut in my wrist still ached like the devil. I was like to swoon twenty times ere I reached the corner of the window. With a sob of exhaustion I drew myself up and stared at the curtained window.

Very gently I tapped on the pane, once, twice, three times. I heard a quick movement of surprise within, then silence once more, as if the occupant of the room thought it only the snow drifting. Again I rapped, this time with a sharp knock, which men use who wait long outside a gate in a windy night. Now there could be no doubt of the matter. A hand drew the curtains aside, and a timid little face peered out. Then of a sudden the whole folds were swept back and my lady stood before me.

She wore her riding-dress still, but a shawl of some white stuff was flung around her shoulders. There she stood before my sight, peering forth into the darkness, with surprise, fright, love, joy chasing one another across her face, her dear eyes sad and tearful, and her mouth drawn as with much sorrow, and her light hair tossed loosely over her shoulders. It was many lone and dismal months since I had seen her, months filled with terrors and alarums, and heart-sickening despair. And now, as she was almost within my reach at last after so many days, my heart gave a great bound, and with one leap the burden of the past shook itself from my shoulders.

"Open the window, dear," I cried, and with trembling hands she undid the fastenings and swung the lattice open. The next moment I had her in my arms, and felt her heart beating close to mine, and the soft, warm touch of her neck. "Marjory lass," I cried, "how I have missed you, dear! But now I have you and shall never leave you more." And I drew her closer to me, while she could only sob the more.

Then, with a mighty effort, I recalled myself to the immediate enterprise. The sound of the horses shuffling the snow without forced on me the need of action.

"My servant is without with horses," I said. "You must go with him, dear. It is our only safety. By to-morrow you will be in Tweeddale, and in a very little while I will come to you."

"But do you not go just now?" she cried, in anxiety, still clinging to me.

"No, Marjory dear," said I, soothing her as best I could, "I cannot come yet. There are some things which need my special care. If you think yourself, you will see that."

"Is it aught to do with Gilbert Burnet? Oh, I dare not leave you with him. Come with me, John, oh, come. I dare not, I dare not." And the poor child fell to wringing her hands.

"Marjory," I said, "if you love me do as I bid you. I will come to no scaith. I promise you I will be with you at Dawyck ere the week is out."

So she put a brave face on the matter, though her lips still quivered. I went to the window and looked down to where Nicol stood waiting with the horses. Then I thought of a plan, and, finding none better, I cried to him to mount to the window-sill, for I knew his prowess as a climber, and the uncommon toughness of his arm. The horses were too jaded and spiritless to need any watching.

I caught up my lady in my arms and stepped out upon the ledge. Then very carefully and painfully I lowered myself, still clinging to the sill, till I found a foothold in a projecting stone. Below us were Nicol's arms and into them I gave my burden. I heard him clambering down by degrees, and in a very little, for the height was small, he had reached the ground. Then I followed him, slipping the last few feet, and burying myself in a bank of snow.

I had brought a heap of warm furs from the room, and these I flung round my love's shoulders. My heart ached to think of her, weary from the day's hard riding, setting forth again into the cold of a November night.

"Oh, John," she said, "no sooner met than parted. It is ever our fate."

"It will be the last time, dear," I said, and I kissed her face in her hood.

Then, with many injunctions to my servant, I bade them good-bye, and watched the figure which I loved best in all the world, disappear into the darkness. With a sad and yet cheerful heart I turned back and clambered again into the chamber.

There were Marjory's things scattered about, as of one who has come from a long journey. Something on a table caught my eye, and, taking it up, I saw it was a slip of withered heather. Then I minded how I had given it her one summer long ago on the Hill of Scrape.

I kicked off my boots, and in utter weariness of body and mind, I flung myself on the bed and was soon asleep.

CHAPTER VI

I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET

I slept till dawn the dreamless sleep of those who have drowned care in bodily exertion. It was scarce light when I awoke, and, with the opening of the eyes, there came with a rush the consciousness of my errand. I leaped out of bed, and sitting on the edge considered my further actions.

First I sought to remove from my person some of the more glaring stains of travel. There was water in the room, bitter cold and all but frozen, and with it I laved my face and hands.

Then I opened the chamber door and stepped out into one of the long corridors. The house was still, though somewhere in the far distance I could hear the bustle of servants. I cast my mind back many years, and strove to remember where was the room where the morning meal was served. I descended the staircase to the broad, high hall, but still there were no signs of other occupants. One door I tried, but it was locked; another, with no better fate, till I began to doubt my judgment. Then I perceived one standing ajar, and, pushing it wide, I looked in. Breakfast was laid on the table, and a fire smoked on the hearth. I entered and closed the door behind me.

There was a looking-glass at the far end, and, as I entered, I caught a glimpse of my figure. Grim as was my errand, I could have laughed aloud at the sight. My hair unkempt, my face tanned to the deepest brown, my strange scarlet clothes, marred as they were by wind and weather, gave me a look so truculent and weird that I was half afraid of myself. And then this humour passed, and all the sufferings of the past, the hate, the despairing love, the anxious care came back upon me in a flood, and I felt that such garb was fitting for such a place and such a season.

I warmed my hands at the blaze and waited. The minutes dragged slowly, while no sound came save the bickering of the fire and the solemn ticking of a clock. I had not a shade of fear or perturbation. Never in all my life had my mind been so wholly at ease. I waited for the coming of my enemy, as one would wait on a ferry or the opening of a gate, quiet, calm, and fixed of purpose.

At last, and it must have been a good hour, I heard steps on the stair. Clearly my cousin had slept long after his exertions. Nearer they came, and I heard his voice giving some orders to the servants. Then the door was opened, and he came in.

At first sight I scarcely knew him, so changed was he from the time of our last meeting. He was grown much thinner and gaunter in countenance, nor was his dress so well-cared for and trim as I remembered him. The high, masterful look which his face always wore had deepened into something bitter and savage, as if he had grown half-sick of the world and cared naught for the things which had aforetime delighted him. His habit of scorn for all which opposed him, and all which was beneath him, had grown on him with his years and power, and given him that look as of one born to command, ay, and of one to whom suffering and pain were less than nothing. As I looked on him I hated him deeply and fiercely, and yet I admired him more than I could bear to think, and gloried that he was of our family. For I have rarely seen a nobler figure of a man. I am not little, but in his presence I felt dwarfed. Nor was it only in stature that he had the preëminence, for his step was as light and his eye as keen as a master of fence.

He had expected a very different figure to greet him at the other side of the table. In place of a lissom maid he saw a grim, rough-clad man waiting on him with death in his eyes. I saw surprise, anger, even a momentary spasm of fear flit across his face. He looked at me keenly, then with a great effort he controlled himself, and his sullen face grew hard as stone.

"Good morning to you, Master John Burnet," said he. "I am overjoyed to see you again. I had hoped to have had a meeting with you in the past months among your own hills of Tweedside, but the chance was denied me. But better late than never. I bid you welcome."

I bowed. "I thank you," I said.

"I have another guest," said he, "whom you know. It is a fortunate chance that you should both be present. This old house of Eaglesham has not held so many folk for many a long day. May I ask when you arrived?" The man spoke all the while with great effort, and his eyes searched my face as though he would wrest from me my inmost thoughts.

"An end to this fooling, Gilbert," I said, quietly. "Marjory Veitch is no more in this house; with the escort of my servant she is on her road to Tweeddale. By this time she will be more than half-way there."

He sprang at me like a wild thing, his face suddenly inflaming with passion.

"You, you—" he cried, but no words could come. He could only stutter and gape, with murder staring from his visage.

As for me the passion in him roused in me a far greater.

"Yes," I cried, my voice rising so that I scarce knew it for mine. "You villain, liar, deceiver, murderer, by the living God, the time has now come for your deserts. You tortured my love and harassed her with hateful captivity; you slew her brother, your friend, slew him in his cups like the coward you are; you drove me from my house and lands; you made me crouch and hide in the hills like a fox, and hunted me with your hell-hounds; you lied and killed and tortured, but now I am free, and now you will find that I am your master. I have longed for this day, oh, for so long, and now you shall not escape me. Gilbert Burnet, this earth is wide, but it is not wide enough for you and me to live together. One or other of us shall never go from this place."

He made no answer but only looked me straight in the face, with a look from which the rage died by degrees. Then he spoke slowly and measuredly. "I think you are right, Cousin John," said he, "the world is too small for both of us. We must come to a settlement." And in his tone there was a spice of pity and regret. Then I knew that I had lied, and that this man was stronger than I.

For a little we stood looking across the table at each other. There was an extraordinary attraction in the man, and before the power of his keen eyes I felt my wits trembling. Then, with his hand, he motioned me to sit down. "The morning air is raw, Cousin John. It will be better to finish our meal," and he called to his servant to bring in breakfast.

I have never eaten food in my life under stranger circumstances. Yet I did not fear aught, but satisfied my hunger with much readiness. As for him, he toyed and ate little. Once I caught him looking over at me with a shade of anxiety, of dread in his gaze. No word passed between us, for both alike felt the time too momentous for any light talk. As the minutes fled I seemed to discern some change in his manner. His brows grew heavier and he appeared to brood over the past, while his glance sought the pictures on the walls, and my face in turn, with something of fierceness. When all was over he rose and courteously made way for me to pass, holding the door wide as I went out. Then he led me to a little room at the other side of the hall, whence a window opened to the garden.

"You wish to be satisfied," he said, "and I grant you that the wish is just. There are some matters 'twixt me and thee that need clearing. But, first, by your leave, I have something to say. You believe me guilty of many crimes, and I fling the charge in your teeth. But one thing I did unwittingly and have often repented of. Michael Veitch fell by his own folly and by no fault of mine."

"Let that be," said I; "I have heard another tale."

"I have said my say; your belief matters naught to me. One thing I ask you. Where has the girl Marjory gone? If fate decides against you, it is but right I should have her."

"Nay," I cried, passionately, "that you never shall. You have caused her enough grief already. She hates the sight of you even as I, and I will do nothing to make her fall into your hands."

"It matters little," he said, with a shrug of his great shoulders. "It was only a trifling civility which I sought from you. Let us get to work."

From a rack he picked a blade, one such as he always used in any serious affray, single-edged and basket-hiked. Then he signed to me to follow, and opened the window and stepped out.

The morning was murky and damp. Fog clothed the trees and fields, and a smell of rottenness hung in the air. I shivered, for my clothes were thin and old.

Gilbert walked quickly, never casting a look behind him. First we crossed the sodden lawn, and then entered the pine wood, which I had skirted on the night before.

In a little we heard the roaring of water and came to the banks of the stream, which, swollen by the melting snows, was raving wildly between the barriers of the banks. At the edge was a piece of short turf, some hundred yards square, and drier than the rest of the ground which we had traversed. Here Gilbert stopped and bade me get ready. I had little to do save cast my coat, and stand stripped and shivering, waiting while my enemy took his ground.

The next I know is that I was in the thick of a deadly encounter, with blows rattling on my blade as thick as hail. My cousin's eyes glared into mine, mad with anger and regret, with all the unrequited love and aimless scheming of months concentrated in one fiery passion. I put forth my best skill, but it was all I could do to keep death from me. As it was I was scratched and grazed in a dozen places, and there was a great hole in my shirt which the other's blade had ripped. The sweat began to trickle over my eyes with the exertion, and my sight was half dazed by the rapid play.

Now it so happened that I had my back to the stream. This was the cause of my opponent's sudden violence, for he sought to drive me backwards, that, when I found myself near the water, I might grow bewildered. But I had been brought up to this very trick, for in the old days in Tweeddale, Tam Todd would have taken his stand near the Tweed and striven to force me back into the great pool. In my present danger these old memories came back to me in a flood, and in a second I was calm again. This, after all, was only what I had done a thousand times for sport. Could I not do it once for grim earnest?

In a very little I saw that my cousin's policy of putting all his strength out at the commencement was like to be his ruin. He was not a man built for long endurance, being too full in blood and heavy of body. Soon his breath came thick and painfully; he yielded a step, then another, and still a third; his thrusts lacked force, and his guards were feeble. He had changed even from that tough antagonist whom I had aforetime encountered, and who taxed my mettle to the utmost. Had it not been that my anger still held my heart, and admitted no room for other thoughts, I would even have felt some compunction in thrusting at him. But now I had no pity in me. A terrible desire to do to him as he had done to my friends gripped me like a man's hand. The excitement of the struggle, and, perhaps, the peril to my own life, roused my dormant hate into a storm of fury. I know not what I did, but shrieking curses and anathemas, I slashed blindly before me like a man killing bees. Before my sword point I saw his face growing greyer and greyer with each passing minute. He was a brave man, this I have always said for him; and if any other in a like position, with an enemy at his throat and the awful cognisance of guilt, still keeps his stand and does not flee, him also I call brave.

Suddenly his defence ceased. His arm seemed to numb and his blade was lowered. I checked my cut, and waited with raised point. An awful delight was in my heart, which now I hate and shudder to think on. I waited, torturing him. He tried to speak, but his mouth was parched and I heard the rattle of his tongue. Still I delayed, for all my heat seemed turned into deadly malice.

Then his eyes left my face and looked over my shoulders. I saw a new shade of terror enter them. I chuckled, for now, thought I, my revenge has come. Of a sudden he crouched with a quick movement, bringing his hands to his face. I was in the act of striking, when from behind came a crack, and something whistled past my ear. Then I saw my cousin fall, groaning, with a bullet through his neck.

In a trice my rage was turned from him to the unknown enemy behind. With that one shot all rancour had gone from my heart. I turned, and there, running through the trees up the river bank, I saw a man. At the first look I recognised him, though he was bent well-nigh double, and the air was thick with fog. It was the fellow Jan Hamman.

I ran after him at top speed, though he was many yards ahead of me. I have never felt such lightness in my limbs. I tore through thicket and bramble, and leaped the brooks as easily as if I were not spent with fighting and weak from the toils of months. My whole being was concentrated into one fierce attempt, for a thousand complex passions were tearing at my heart. This man had dared to come between us; this man had dared to slay one of my house. No sound escaped my lips, but silently, swiftly, I sped after the fleeing figure.

He ran straight up stream, and at every step I gained. Somewhere at the beginning he dropped his pistol; soon he cast away his cap and cloak; and when already he heard my hot breathing behind him he cried out in despair and flung his belt aside. We were climbing a higher ridge beneath which ran the stream. I was so near that I clutched at him once and twice, but each time he eluded me. Soon we gained the top, and I half-stumbled while he gained a yard. Then I gathered myself together for a great effort. In three paces I was on him, and had him by the hair; but my clutch was uncertain with my faintness, and, with a wrench, he was free. Before I knew his purpose he swerved quickly to the side, and leaped clean over the cliff into the churning torrent below.

I stood giddy on the edge, looking down. There was nothing but a foam of yellow and white and brown from bank to bank. No man could live in such a stream. I turned and hastened back to my cousin.

I found him lying as I had left him, with his head bent over to the side and the blood oozing from his neck-wound. When I came near he raised his eyes and saw me. A gleam of something came into them; it may have been mere recognition, but I thought it pleasure.

I kneeled beside him with no feelings other than kindness. The sight of him lying so helpless and still drove all anger from me. He was my cousin, one of my own family, and, with it all, a gentleman and a soldier.

He spoke very hoarsely and small.

"I am done for, John. My ill-doing has come back on my own head. That man——"

"Yes," I said, for I did not wish to trouble a man so near his end with idle confessions, "I know, I have heard, but that is all past and done with."

"God forgive me," he said, "I did him a wrong, but I have repaid it. Did you kill him, John?"

"No," I said; "he leaped from a steep into the stream. He will be no more heard of."

"Ah," and his breath came painfully, "it is well. Yet I could have wished that one of the family had done the work. But it is no time to think of such things. I am going fast, John."

Then his speech failed for a little and he lay back with a whitening face.

"I have done many ill deeds to you, for which I crave your forgiveness."

"You have mine with all my heart," I said, hastily. "But there is the forgiveness of a greater, which we all need alike. You would do well to seek it."

He spoke nothing for a little. "I have lived a headstrong, evil life," said he, "which God forgive. Yet it is not meet to go canting to your end, when in your health you have crossed His will."

Once again there was silence for a little space. Then he reached out his hand for mine.

"I have been a fool all my days. Let us think no more of the lass, John. We are men of the same house, who should have lived in friendship. It was a small thing to come between us."

A wind had risen and brought with it a small, chill rain. A gust swept past us and carried my cast-off cloak into the bushes. "Ease my head," he gasped, and when I hasted to do it, I was even forestalled. For another at that moment laid His hand on him, and with a little shudder his spirit passed to the great and only judge of man's heart.

I walked off for help with all speed, and my thoughts were sober and melancholy. Shame had taken me for my passion and my hot-fit of revenge; ay, and pity and kindness for my dead opponent. The old days when we played together by Tweed, a thousand faint, fragrant memories came back to me, and in this light the last shades of bitterness disappeared. Also the great truth came home to me as I went, how little the happiness of man hangs on gifts and graces, and how there is naught in the world so great as the plain virtues of honour and heart.

CHAPTER VII

OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE

Of the events of the time following there is little need to give an exact account. There was some law business to be gone through in connection with my cousin's death and the disposing of the estate, which went to an East country laird, a Whig of the Whigs, and one like to make good and provident use of it. Then, when I would have returned to Tweeddale, I received a post from my good kinsman, Dr. Gilbert Burnet, which led me first to Edinburgh and then so far afield as London itself. For it was necessary, in the great confusion of affairs, that I should set myself right with the law and gain some reparation for my some-time forfeited lands.

So to the great city I went, posting by the main road from Edinburgh, and seeing a hundred things which were new and entertaining. I abode there most all the winter, during the months of December, January, February, and March, for there was much to do and see. My lodging was in my kinsman's house near the village of Kensington, and there I met a great concourse of remarkable folk whose names I had heard of and have heard of since. Notably, there were Master John Dryden, the excellent poet, my Lord Sandwich, and a very brisk, pleasing gentleman, one Mr. Pepys, of the Admiralty. I had great opportunity of gratifying my taste for books and learned society, for my kinsman's library was an excellent one, and his cellars so good that they attracted all conditions of folk to his house. Also I had many chances of meeting with gentlemen of like degree with myself, and many entertaining diversions we had together. Nor did I neglect those in Tweeddale, for I sent news by near every post that went to the North.

But when the spring came, and there was no further need for tarrying in the South, with a light heart I net off homewards once more. I journeyed by Peterborough and York in the company of one Sir C. Cotterell, a gentleman of Northumberland, and abode two days at his house in the moors, where there was excellent fishing. Then I came northwards by the great Northumberland road by the towns of Newcastle and Morpeth, and crossed the Cheviot Hills, which minded me much of my own glen. At Coldstream I crossed the Tweed, which is there grown a very broad, noble river, and then rode with all speed over the Lammermoors to Edinburgh. I stayed there no longer than my duty demanded; and when all was settled, one bright spring day, just after midday, set out for Barns.

The day, I remember, was one of surprising brightness, clear, sunshiny, and soft as midsummer. There are few ways I know better than that from the capital to my home—the bare, windy moorlands for one half, and the green glens and pleasant waters of the other. It was by this road that I had come to Leith to ship for Holland; by this road that I had ridden on that wild night ride to Dawyck. Each spot of the wayside was imprinted on my memory, and now that my wanderings were over, and I was returning to peace and quiet, all things were invested with a new delight. Yet my pleasure was not of the brisk, boisterous order, for my many misfortunes had made me a graver man, and chastened my natural spirits to a mellow and abiding cheerfulness.

At Leadburn was the inn where I had first met my servant Nicol, my trusty comrade through so many varying fates. I drank a glass of wine at the place for no other cause than a sentimental remembrance. The old landlord was still there, and the idle ostlers hung around the stable doors, as when I had passed before. Down in the bog-meadow the marsh-marigolds were beginning to open, and the lambs from the hillside bleated about their mothers. The blue, shell-like sky overhead arched without a cloud to the green, distant hills.

When I came to the place on the Tweedside road, called the Mount Bog, I dismounted and lay down on the grass. For there the view opens to the hills of my own countryside. A great barrier of blue, seamed with glens, all scarred in spots with rock and shingle, lifting serene brows from the little ridges to the wide expanse of the heavens. I named them one by one from east to west—Minchmoor, though it was hidden from sight, where fled the great Montrose after the fatal rout of Philiphaugh; the broad foreheads of the Glenrath heights above my own vale of Manor, Dollar Law, Scrape, the Drummelzier fells, the rugged Wormel, and, fronting me, the great Caerdon, with snow still lining its crannies. Beyond, still further and fainter lines of mountain, till like a great tableland the monstrous mass of the Broad Law barred the distance. It was all so calm and fragrant, with not a sound on the ear but the plash of little streams and the boom of nesting snipe. And above all there was the thought that now all peril had gone, and I was free to live as I listed and enjoy life as a man is born to do, and skulk no more at dyke-sides, and be torn no longer by hopeless passion.