Front matter

TALES

OF THE

COVENANTERS

BY

ELLEN JANE GUTHRIE

ELEVENTH EDITION

LONDON SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO GLASGOW: THOMAS B. MORISON 1920

CONTENTS.

A Tale of Bothwell Bridge The Laird of Culzean Peden's Stone The Murder of Inchdarnie The Laird of Lag The Sutor's Seat

INTRODUCTION.

The kings of old have shrine and tomb

In many a minster's haughty gloom;

And green along the ocean's side

The mounds arise where heroes died;

But show me on thy flowery breast.

Earth! where thy nameless martyrs rest!

The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise,

Have made one offering of their days;

For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake.

Resigned the bitter cup to take;

And silently, in fearless faith,

Bowing their noble souls to death.

Where sleep they, Earth?—by no proud stone

Their narrow couch of rest is known;

The still, sad glory of their name

Hallows no mountain into fame.

No—not a tree the record bears

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

Yet haply all around lie strew'd

The ashes of that multitude.

It may be that each day we tread

Where thus devoted hearts have bled;

And the young flowers our children sow

Take root in holy dust below.

O, that the many rustling leaves,

Which round our home the summer weaves,

Or that the streams, in whose glad voice

Our own familiar paths rejoice,

Might whisper through the starry sky,

To tell where those blest slumberers lie

Would not our inmost Hearts be thrill'd

With notice of their presence fill'd,

And by its breathings taught to prize

The meekness of self-sacrifice?—

But the old woods and sounding waves

Are silent of these hidden graves.

Yet, what if no light footstep there

In pilgrim love and awe repair.

So let it be!—like him whose clay,

Deep buried by his Maker lay.

They sleep in secret—but their sod,

Unknown to man, is marked of God!

Mrs. Hemans.

Scotland is indeed a land of romance. Her mouldering ruins are linked with legends and historical associations which must ever enhance their interest in the eyes of those who love to gaze on these the

Standing mementos of another age;

and the pages of her history teem with deeds of chivalry and renown that have won for Scotland a mighty name. Thus, while the annals of our country are emblazoned with the deathless names of those mighty heroes who fought and bled in defence of her freedom from spiritual bondage, the nameless mound, or simple cairn of stones, still to be met with on the solitary heath or sequestered dell, marks the spot where rests some humble champion of her religious liberties.

Although three hundred years have passed away—marked in their flight by great and startling events—since the reign of persecution in Scotland, yet the hearts of her peasantry cling with fondness to the remembrance of those hallowed days sealed by the blood of her faithful martyrs. Still is the name of Claverhouse execrated by them, and the story of "John Brown" is related from children to children while seated around the cottage hearth, in illustration of the lawless doings of the Covenanters' foes.

It must strike the mind of every unprejudiced observer, who reads the various histories of that stirring time, that the shocking and barbarous cruelties practised on the defenders of the Covenant by their relentless enemies, will ever remain a stain on the memories of those who countenanced or took an active part in such proceedings. Scarcely is there a churchyard extant in Scotland, laying claim to antiquity, that does not contain one or more stones, the half-obliterated inscriptions of which attest the fact, that underneath lies some poor victim of persecuting zeal.

Having lately visited different parts of Scotland intimately connected with many of the events which took place at that memorable time, I experienced an inexpressible satisfaction in the reception I met with at the different farm-houses in the neighbourhood, and hearing from the lips of their simple inhabitants the story of the cruel wrongs inflicted on the Covenanters in the days of their persecution.

During these pleasant wanderings, I gathered information sufficient to furnish the Tales contained in the present volume, in which the reader will, I trust, find much that is calculated to awaken fresh interest in those benefactors of our country, whose magnanimity and patient endurance were worthy of all praise, and who, for the cause of Christ and his Crown, laid down their lives on the scaffold or amidst the burning faggots.

THE SCOTTISH COVENANTERS.

A TALE OF BOTHWELL BRIDGE.

While staying at ——, in the parish of W——, I discovered that a standard, borne by the Covenanters at Bothwell Bridge, was still to be seen at the farm of Westcroft. Being very desirous of viewing this interesting relic, I set off one fine morning in the hope of obtaining a glimpse of the time-honoured banner. On reaching the village of H——, which lay on my way, I observed a very portly-looking woman standing by the side of the road, apparently enjoying the grateful breeze, as she looked east and then west, evidently in search of something amusing or exciting. Being now somewhat at a loss in what direction to turn my steps, I crossed over to where she was standing, in the expectation of obtaining from her the requisite information, when the following dialogue ensued:—

"Would you be so kind as to tell me the way to Westcroft?"

"That I will. I'll just go wi' you a step or two and show you the farm itsel'. But what are ye wanting at Westcroft, if I may ask the question?"

"I wish to see Mr. Anderson, as I understand he has got a standard that was borne at Bothwell Bridge."

"He has that—he has that; but it's often away frae hame, ta'en to Glasgow and the like, for ye see it's something to say, a body has seen the like o' that."

"From what I have heard, this seems to have been a great part of the country for the Covenanters to take refuge in."

"'Deed an' it was, but for my part I dinna ken much aboot them; my brother, again, was a great antiquarian, and rale ta'en up about these auld affairs."

"Does he live near here?"

"Oh! mam, he's dead;" and after a short pause added, "Now, you see that white house forenent the road?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's Westcroft; and if Willie Anderson be at hame, ye'll get plenty o' cracks about the Covenanters, for he has lots o' bees in his bonnet, him."

After thanking the good humoured dame for her information—upon which she replied I was welcome—I turned up the path leading to Westcroft. In answer to my request to see Mr. Anderson, I was informed he was in the fields; but that Mrs. A. was within, upon which a very intelligent-looking woman came forward, and, on my expressing a wish to see the standard, desired me to come ben, and I should have a sight o' the colours.

Following the mistress of the house, I was speedily ushered into a tidy little room, the walls of which were adorned with pictures, the most striking of which was one entitled "The Guardsman's Farewell," representing a gallant son of Mars in a most gorgeous uniform, on horseback, taking leave of a stout woman, attired in a yellow polka-jacket and a crimson petticoat, who was gazing upwards in the face of the departing soldier, with a look of agony impossible to describe.

"Here are the colours!" and, as she spoke, Mrs. A. produced from a drawer on old piece of linen covered with stains as dark as those exhibited in Holyrood—the surface of which displayed unmistakable bullet-holes, and bearing the following inscription in large red letters:—

"For the parish of Shotts,

For Reformation of Church and State;

According to the Word of God, and

Our Covenants."

Above was the thistle of Scotland, surmounted by a crown and an open Bible.

And this standard was borne at Bothwell Bridge! How my thoughts reverted to that fearful time, when the plains of Scotland resounded with the cries of the wounded and the oppressed; when men, embittered by party spirit and misguided zeal, wrought deeds of cruelty and shame, over which angels well might weep; when fathers were murdered in presence of their wives and children; and the widow slain while weeping over the dead body of her husband!

In thought I was traversing the bloody plains of Bothwell, when——but here I must present the reader with an account of that fearful fight, as related by the Laird of Orfort to his brother, while standing on the spot where was fought the last battle against the enemies of the good old cause:—

"On that moor," said the Laird, who, after a long silence, and without being conscious of it, by a kind of instinct, natural enough to a soldier, had drawn his sword, and was pointing with it. "On that moor the enemy first formed under Monmouth. There, on the right, Clavers led on the Life Guards, breaching fury, and resolute to wipe off the disgrace of the affair of Drumclog. Dalziel formed his men on that knoll. Lord Livingstone led the van of the foemen. We had taken care to have Bothwell Bridge strongly secured by a barricade, and our little battery of cannon was planted on that spot below us, in order to sweep the bridge. And we did rake it. The foemen's blood streamed there. Again and again the troops of the tyrant marched on, and our cannon annihilated their columns. Sir Robert Hamilton was our commander-in-chief. The gallant General Hackston stood on that spot with his brave men. Along the river, and above the bridge, Burley's foot and Captain Nisbet's dragoons were stationed. For one hour we kept the enemy in check; they were defeated in every attempt to cross the Clyde. Livingstone sent another strong column to storm the bridge. I shall never forget the effect of one fire from our battery, where my men stood. We saw the line of the foe advance in all the military glory of brave and beautiful men—the horses pranced—the armour gleamed. In one moment nothing was seen but a shocking mass of mortality. Human limbs and the bodies and limbs of horses were mingled in one huge heap, or blown to a great distance. Another column attempted to cross above the bridge. Some threw themselves into the current. One well-directed fire from Burley's troops threw them into disorder, and drove them back. Meantime, while we were thus warmly engaged, Hamilton was labouring to bring down the different divisions of our main body into action; but in vain he called on Colonel Clelland's troop—in vain he ordered Henderson's to fall in—in vain he called on Colonel Fleming's. Hackston flew from troop to troop—all was confusion; in vain he besought, he entreated, he threatened. Our disputes and fiery misguided zeal, my brother, contracted a deep and deadly guilt that day.

"The Whig turned his arm in fierce hate that day against his own vitals. Our chaplains, Cargil, and King, and Kid, and Douglas interposed again and again. Cargil mounted the pulpit he preached concord; he called aloud for mutual forbearance. 'Behold the banners of the enemy!' cried he, 'hear ye not the fire of the foe, and of our own brethren? Our brothers and fathers are falling beneath the sword! Hasten to their aid! See the flag of the Covenant! See the motto in letters of gold—"Christ's Crown and the Covenant." Hear the voice of your weeping country! Hear the wailings fof the bleeding Kirk! Banish discord; and let us, as a band of brothers, present a bold front to the foeman! Follow me, all ye who love your country and the Covenant! I go to die in the fore-front of the battle!' All the ministers and officers followed him—amidst a flourish of trumpets—but the great body remained to listen to the harangues of the factions. We sent again and again for ammunition. My men were at the last round. Treachery, or a fatal error, had sent a barrel of raisins instead of powder![#] My heart sank within me—while I beheld the despair on the faces of my brave fellows—as I struck out the head of the vessel. Hackston called his officers to him. We throw ourselves around him. 'What must be done?' said he, in an agony of despair. 'Conquer or die,' we said, as if with one voice. 'We have our swords yet.' 'Lead back the men, then, to their places, and let the ensign bear down the blue and scarlet colours. Our God and our country be the word,' Hackston rushed forward. We ran to our respective corps; we cheered our men, but they were languid and dispirited. Their ammunition was nearly expended, and they seemed anxious to husband what remained. They fought only with their carabines. The cannons could no more be loaded. The enemy soon perceived this. We saw a troop of horse approach the bridge. It was that of the Life Guards; I recognised the plume of Clavers. They approached in rapid march. A solid column of infantry followed. I sent a request to Captain Nisbet to join his troops to mine. He was in an instant with us. We charged the Life Guards. Our swords rang on their steel caps.—Many of my brave lads fell on all sides of me. But we hewed down the foe. They began to reel. The whole column was kept stationary on the bridge. Clavers' dreadful voice was heard—more like the yell of a savage than the commanding voice of a soldier. He pushed forward his men, and again we hewed them down. A third mass was pushed up. Our exhausted dragoons fled. Unsupported, I found myself by the brave Nisbet, and Paton, and Hackston. We looked for a moment's space in silence on each other. We galloped in front of our retreating men. We rallied them. We pointed to the General almost alone. We pointed to the white and scarlet colours floating near him. We cried, 'God and our country!' They faced about. We charged Clavers once more. 'Torfoot,' cried Nisbet, 'I dare you to the fore-front of the battle.' We rushed up at full gallop. Our men seeing this, followed also at full speed. We broke the enemy's line, bearing down those files which we encountered. We cut our way through their ranks. But they had now lengthened their front. Superior numbers drove us in. They had gained entire possession of the bridge. Livingstone and Dalziel were actually taking us on the flank. A band had got between us and Burley's infantry. 'My friends,' said Hackston to his officers, 'we are last on the field. We can do no more. We must retreat. Let us attempt, at least, to bring aid to these deluded men behind us. They have brought ruin on themselves and on us. Not Monmouth, but our own divisions have scattered us.' At this moment, one of the Life Guards aimed a blow at Hackston. My sword received it; and a stroke from Nisbet laid the foeman's hand and sword in the dust. He fainted and tumbled from the saddle. We reined our horses, and galloped to our main body. But what a scene presented itself here! These misguided men had their eyes now fully open to their own errors. The enemy were bringing up their whole force against them. I was not long a near spectator of it; for a ball grazed my courser. He plunged and reared, then shot off like an arrow. Several of our officers drew to the same place. On a knoll we faced about; the battle raged below us. We beheld our commander doing everything that a brave soldier could do with factious men against an overpowering foe. Burley and his troops were in close conflict with Clavers' dragoons. We saw him dismount three troopers with his own hand. He could not turn the tide of battle; but he was covering the retreat of these misguided men. Before we could rejoin him, a party threw themselves in our way. Hennoway, one of Clavers' officers, led them on. 'Would to God that this was Grahame himself,' some of my companions ejaculated aloud. 'He falls to my share,' said I, 'whosver the officer be.' I advanced—he met me. I parried several thrusts. He received a cut on the left arm; and the same sword, by the same stroke, shore off one of the horse's ears; it plunged and reared. We closed again. I received a stroke on the left shoulder. My blow fell on his sword arm. He reined his horse around, retreated a few paces, then returned at full gallop. My courser reared instinctively as his approached. I received his stroke on the back of my Ferrar; and, by a back stroke, I gave him a deep cut on the cheek. And, before he could recover a position of defence, my sword fell with a terrible blow on his steel cap. Stunned by the blow, he bent himself forward, and, grasping the mane, he tumbled from the saddle, and his steed galloped over the field. I did not repeat the blow. His left hand presented his sword; his right arm was disabled; his life was given to him. My companions having disposed of their adversaries (and some of them had two a-piece), we paused to see the fate of the battle. Dalziel and Livingstone were riding over the field, like furies, cutting down all in their way. Monmouth was galloping from rank to rank, and calling on his men to give quarter. Clavers, to wipe off the disgrace of Drumclog, was committing fearful havoc. 'Can we not find Clavers?' said Haugh-head. 'No,' said Captain Paton, 'the gallant Colonel takes care to have a solid guard of his rogues around him. I have sought him over the field; but I found him, as I now perceive him, with a mass of his Guards about him.' At this instant we saw our General at some distance, disentangling himself from the men who had tumbled over him in the mélé. His face, and hands, and clothes, were covered with gore. He had been dismounted, and was fighting on foot. We rushed to the spot, and cheered him. Our party drove back the scattered band of Dalziel. 'My friends,' said Sir Robert, as we mounted him on a stray horse, 'the day is lost! But—you, Paton; you, Brownlee of Torfoot; and you, Haugh-head, let not that flag fall into the hands of these incarnate devils. We have lost the battle; but, by the grace of God, neither Dalziel nor Clavers shall say that he took our colours. My ensign has done his duty. He is down. This sword has saved it twice. I leave it to your care: you see its perilous situation.' He pointed with his sword to the spot. We collected some of our scattered troops, and flew to the place. The standard-bearer was down, but he was still fearlessly grasping the flag-staff; while he was borne uprightly by the mass of men who had thrown themselves in fierce contest around it. Its well-known blue scarlet colours, and its motto, Christ's Crown and Covenant, in brilliant gold letters, inspired us with a sacred enthusiasm. We gave a loud cheer to the wounded ensign, and rushed into the combat. The redemption of that flag cost the foe many a gallant man. They fell beneath our broad swords, and with horrible execrations dying on their lips, they gave up their souls to their Judge. Here I met in front that ferocious dragoon of Clavers, named Tom Kalliday, who had more than once, in his raids, plundered my halls, and had snatched the bread from my weeping babes. He had just seized the white staff of the flag. But his tremendous oath of exultation had scarcely passed its polluted threshold, when this Andro Ferrara fell on the guard of his steel, and shivered it to pieces. 'Recreant loon,' said I, 'thou shalt this day remember thy evil deeds.' Another blow on his helmit laid him at his huge length, and made him bite the dust. In the mélé that followed, I lost sight of him. We fought like lions, but with the hearts of Christians. While my gallant companions stemmed the tide of battle, the standard, rent to tatters, fell across my breast. I tore it from the staff, and wrapt it round my body. We cut our way through the enemy, and carried our General off the field.

[#] The natives of Hamilton have preserved, by tradition, the name of the merchant who did this disservice to the Covenanters.

"Having gained a small knoll, we beheld once more the dreadful spectacle below. Thick volumes of smoke and dust rolled in a lazy cloud over the dark bands mingled in deadly affray. It was no longer a battle, but a massacre. In the struggle of my feelings, 'I turned my eyes on the General and Paton. I saw in the face of the latter an indescribable conflict of emotions. His long and shaggy eyebrows were drawn over his eyes. His hand grasped his sword. I cannot yet leave the field,' said the undaunted Paton; 'with the General's permission, I shall try to save some of our wretched men beset by those hell-hounds. Who will go? At Kilsyth I saw service. When deserted by my troops, I cut my way through Montrose's men and reached the spot where Colonels Halket and Strachan were. We left the field together. Fifteen Dragoons attacked us, we cut down thirteen and two fled. Thirteen next assailed us. We left ten on the field, and three fled. Eleven Highlanders next met us. We paused and cheered each other. 'Now, Johnny,' cried Halket to me, 'put forth your metal, else we are gone.' Nine others we sent after their comrades, and two fled.[#] 'Now, who will join this raid?' 'I will be your leader,' said Sir Robert, as we fell into the ranks. We marched on the enemy's flank. 'Yonder is Clavers,' said Paton, while he directed his courser on him. The bloody man was at that moment, nearly alone, hacking to pieces some poor fellows already on their knees disarmed and imploring him by the common feelings of humanity to spare their lives. He had just finished his usual oath against their feelings of humanity, when Paton presented himself. He instantly let go his prey and slunk back into the midst of his troopers. Having formed them, he advanced. We formed and made a furious onset. At our first charge his troop reeled. Clavers was dismounted. But at that moment Dalziel assailed us on the flank and rear. Our men fell around us like grass before the mower. The buglemen sounded a retreat. Once more in the mélé, I fell in with the General and Paton. We were covered with wounds. We directed our flight in the rear of the broken troops, By the direction of the General I had unfurled the standard. It was borne off the field flying at the sword's point. But that honour cost me much. I was assailed by three fierce dragoons, five followed close in the rear. I called to Paton—in a moment he was by my side. I threw the standard to the General, and we rushed on the foe. They fell beneath our swords; but my faithful steed, which had carried me through all my dangers, was mortally wounded. He fell. I was thrown in among the fallen enemy. I fainted. I opened my eyes on misery. I found myself in the presence of Monmouth—a prisoner—with other wretched creatures, awaiting in awful suspense their ultimate destiny." * * *

[#] This chivalrous defence is recorded in the life of Captain Paton.

And this standard had been borne at Bothwell Bridge; borne at early morn by the Covenanters, when hopes of victory animated their souls, urging them on to deeds of daring; and at evening, when the bright rays of the setting sun fell upon the deserted bridge—deserted by all save the dead and the dying—this banner blood-stained and riven, had been borne by some weary, perchance, wounded Covenanter, from the disastrous field, where perished the hopes of the Covenanting party.

I was roused from my momentary fit of abstraction by hearing Mrs. Anderson observe, as if in answer to her own thoughts, "Ay, it's rale dirty! but I was on the point of washing it the other day, when my husband said it was much better to let it remain as it was." Wash the standard stained with the blood of her forefathers! Convert the time-honoured relic into a clean piece of linen which would no longer bear the slightest resemblance to a banner that had been engaged in such honourable service! Surely she was joking. But no. There was no twinkle of merriment in those large grey eyes, which were fixed on mine, as if anticipating a glance of approbation for her thwarted intentions; not the slightest approach to a smile at the corners of the mouth, that had given utterance to the astounding declaration. I repressed a strong desire to laugh, and answered with becoming gravity, that I thought on the whole Mr. Anderson was right; and that it would be better to spare it the cleansing process, upon which she said, "May be ay;" and the venerable banner was replaced in the drawer.

Observing an old sword suspended from a nail on the wall, I inquired of Mrs. Anderson if there was any particular history attached to it? "'Deed there is," she replied, taking it down from the wall and placing it in my hands; that sword was employed in the killing o' two or three Royalists down by M—— yonder in the time o' the persecution. You see, the dragoons were drinking in a public-house that used to stand by the side o' the road near till M——. They were going on the next day to L—— to levy fines frae the Covenanters, a thing they had no business to do. And as they drank, their hearts were opened, and they boasted to the landlord that the wine-stoupa wadna contain the gold they should bring wi' them on their return.

"Now ye must know, that some one who was na' very friendly to their side of the question, happened to be in the house at that time, and heard their foolish talk; and what does he do, think ye, but rins awa' to some o' the nearest farms and collects several others like himself; for ye see people in these days were na' deterred by fear o' the laws frae just doing as they liket; and they all marched to the public-house, with the wicked intention o' killing the soldiers. Some say an old miller, o' the name o' Baird, who lived near here, and who had been a sore enemy to the Royalists, and had obtained a free pardon frae the Government, when aince he fell into their hands, headed the party. Wi' blackened faces, and guns, and swords, in their hands, they rushed into the room where sat the men. One of them, on perceiving their entrance, caught up a chair to defend hinself, but one o' the Covenanters thrust his sword wi' such force through his body, that it stuck in the wall behind him; while the others were finished wi' the butt-ends of their guns. Eh, sirs, but these were wild times. And this part o' the country was in a very disturbed state about that time; for just before the battle o' Bothwell Bridge, the royal army lay encamped all over the Muirhead up on the hill yonder; for it being a high situation, they had a good view o' all the country round; and whenever they ran out o' provisions, the soldiers just gaed to a' the farm-houses round about, and took away cattle, meal, butter, and everything they could lay their hands on without saying by your leave, or thank ye kindly for what they got. Ye must know that that standard belonged to the Telfords of Muirhead; it was one o' them that carried it to the battle o' Bothwell Bridge, and my husband's mother being one o' that family, he kens plenty aboot the Covenanters. Well, as I was saying, the dragoons went to all places they could think on to procure provisions for themselves, and provender for their horses, and they honoured Mrs. Telford often wi' a visit at these times—for she was well off in this world's gear; and I've heard my husband say—he had it from his mother, and she had it again from hers—that whenever the soldiers found there was more meal than they could conveniently carry away, they thought nothing o' tumbling the lave (remainder) a' doon the hill, not caring one straw how they were to be served that came ahint them. "However," continued Mrs. Anderson with a laugh, "they sometimes were cheated too, when they came to clear the byres and stables o' them that could ill afford to lose their cattle, as ye will hear by the following story o' the then mistress o' this house, who was sorely troubled by visits frae the thieving dragoons, who were sure never to go away empty-handed. Well, one day they came for the purpose o' stealing her cattle, when, just as they were conveying them away, she ran after them, telling them it was as much as their lives were worth, to take away her cows, as she had an order frae one of their officers, threatening with death the person who should touch them; so saying, she displayed an old receipt. The soldiers, as the woman suspected, not being able to read writing, and afraid of incurring the displeasure of their superiors, allowed the receipt to pass unchallenged, and departed, for once, empty-handed. Another time, they came to take her horses; and after they had removed them out of the stable, all except one old horse, which they did not consider worth the trouble of taking, and left them standing at the door, they entered the house, for the purpose of obtaining some refreshment. The mistress of the farm, on being informed of their intentions, managed, on some pretext or other, to slip away, after she had seen them seated round a loaded table, preparing to discuss the good things set before them, and entering the stable, loosened the sole remaining horse, and, mounting him, dashed off at a gallop, the others following in the rear. The dragoons hearing the noise attendant upon the departure of their stolen steeds, rushed out of the house, but too late to recover possession of the coveted horses, which in the most commendable manner followed their leader until they reached a place of safety. The soldiers returned to the camp highly incensed at being done out by a woman, and fully resolved never to venter near Westcroft farm again."

"Wicked people lived in these times," I observed.

"Ay," said Mrs. Anderson, "and good ones too; for I mind well o' my mother telling me, that even in her youth, people were far more strict and better in their conduct, than they were in my young days—ay," she added, with a shake of her head, "there is mony a strange sect started up now; and if a' are right that think they are, we maun be far wrong. But, as I was saying, my mother told me, that when young and able for the walk, she thought nothing of going ten miles to church. And one day she went to the kirk at O——, accompanied by a man and his wife; and while they were walking along the road, the man was standing pretty often, and looking at the crops, when his wife turned round and said—my mother told me she would never forget it—'James, are you not ashamed of yoursel', for casting your e'en at'oure the fields on the Lord's-day?' And for my own part, I mind well as a child, never being allowed to be seen out on a Sunday, binna it was when going to the kirk."

"I suppose you have frequently read the 'Scotch Worthies?'" I inquired.

"That I have, often and many a time," replied Mrs. Anderson, "eh, but these were the noble men—it's hard to say who were the best, they were all so good. There's Mr. Peden, what a bright example he gave to his people! Oh, but they were privileged who could hear the gospel preached by such a man! And eh, sirs, but he was sair, sair persecuted. I mind o' my mother telling me, when a little bit lassie, she had been shown a house near here, where that worthy man had a narrow escape for his life. You see he was coming to preach at an appointed place on the moors, and was spending the evening before-hand wi' a farmer who was a great friend o' the persecuted clergy, and never was known to turn one frae his door, even although certain death was the consequence o' its being found out. Well, just as Mr. Peden was seated at his supper, in the best room, the master o' the farm, frae the kitchen window, saw the red-coats advancing in the direction of the house. 'Wife, wife,' cried he, 'Mr. Peden is lost! Here are the dragoons come to take him. What can we do to save him?' Ye see, Mr. Peden was held in great veneration by them a'. 'Oh,' replied his wife, 'whenever the dragoons are within hearing, just you call out, Jock, put on your smock frock, and go off instantly to B—— for coals, and maybe the soldiers winna stop him.' The man did as he was desired, at the same time throwing the smock into the room where Mr. Peden was sitting. The latter perceiving the great danger he was in, instantly put on the carter's frock, and pulling his cap down over his forehead, put on as lubberly an appearance as possible, in order to look like the character he was assuming; and in this way passed his enemies without in the least exciting their suspicions; and very leisurely yoking the horse to the cart, he set off on his expedition. Thus, while the dragoons were searching the house for Mr. Peden, he was, through the mercy of God, far beyond their reach.

After a few remarks about the wicked deeds that were done in those days, the conversation turned upon the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, which Mrs. Anderson allowed was a cruel doing on the part of the Covenanters, although the Archbishop himself had caused the destruction of many of their body. "Ay," she said, "talking about that, I mind well o' a minister coming in here one night, who had just come frae Fife, and he told us that, in the house where he had been staying, the conversation one evening had turned upon the Covenanters, and the murder o' the Archbishop; and as they were speaking about him, the mistress o' the house went till a drawer, and pulling out two letters frae the King to Archbishop Sharpe, threw them on the table wi' a great air of consequence—for ye must know that she prided herself on her descent frae the Archbishop. The minister read the letters carefully, and having observed the look of importance with which the woman had produced them, he said to her, 'My good woman, I do not see any use in your keeping letters that belonged to that evil man, who did our forefathers such bad service; with your leave I shall put them into the fire.' 'You shall do no such thing!' replied the woman; 'these letters hae been in my possession this mony a day, and it's not very likely I kept them so long to allow them to be burned in the end.' Now for my own part," said Mrs. Anderson, "I think she did perfectly right; for losh pity me! if people were to be condemned for the evil doings o' their ancestors, we might a' hide our heads thegither; and besides, I think it a nice thing to hae these auld relics in one's ain house: there, now, a gentleman was very anxious, a short time ago, for me to send the banner and sword into the Antiquarian Society in Edinburgh; but no, no, says I, I'll just e'en keep them, were it only to show that my forefathers were fighting for the good old cause; but here comes my husband, and he will be able to tell ye plenty about the Covenanters."

Scarcely had Mrs. Anderson finished speaking, when her husband entered. "Here, Willie," she said, addressing him, "I am so glad you have come, for this lady is very anxious to hear some of your stories about the Covenanters."

"Indeed, ma'm," replied Mr. Anderson, taking off his hat on observing me, "it's not much that I know about them, but the little I have came from my forefathers, and you're welcome to it, if you think it would interest you; in the meantime," he added, "I suppose you have seen the standard and sword?"

"Indeed I have; it was the knowledge that you had such things that brought me here to-day."

Mr. Anderson smiled as he observed, that "the standard itself was nothing to look at, being made of such humble materials, but that the silk ones borne by the wealthy farmers and lairds were splendid indeed. Now, for instance, there was Mr. G——, of Green Hill, the standard he had was of the finest yellow silk, with the motto, 'Christ's Crown and Covenant,' engraved in letters of gold; ay, but it was bonnie to see! And I mind well, when the great meetings in connection with the Reform Bill were held throughout the country, that there was one at B——, and the people wished to get all the banners that could be procured, as there was to be a grand procession. Well, as I knew of Mr. G—— having this one, away I went to Green Hill, to see if he would let me have it for the above purpose; and as I was not personally acquainted with him, I got a line from the minister of the parish, testifying that I was trustworthy. Armed with this, I made my request known to Mr. G——, who received me very kindly, saying, that the banner was sadly torn and destroyed, but, if I could manage to get it repaired, I was welcome to it. Accordingly, I brought away the standard, and my wife having got it patched up a little, I took it to B——; and, oh, had you but seen the people's faces, as I laid before them the venerable banner: there was not a dry eye in the whole assembly. Men, women, and children mourned and wept; while gazing on the standard stained with the blood of their forefathers, who nobly fought and died for the cause of the Covenant."

"And who, pray, bore the standard, now in your possession, at Bothwell Bridge?"

"A young man of the name of Telford, who lived up at the Muirhead yonder. My mother was one of that family, and they had many a thing that belonged to the Covenanters; amongst other articles, the musical instruments they made use of when going to battle. My mother kept them until they fell to pieces with age; and the last time I saw the drum, it was holding rowans that the children had gathered; while the bugles which sounded the retreat at Bothwell were devoted to purposes equally peaceful and innocent."

"Can you give me any account of the young man who carried the standard on that occasion?"

"Yes ma'm," replied Mr. Anderson, and after a moment's pause, as if to collect his thoughts, he furnished me with the particulars comprised in the following story:—

On the evening of the 21st of June, 1679, while the royal army lay encamped on Bothwell Moor, a young man might have been observed stealing round the base of the hill, on which the farm of Muirhead was situated, apparently anxious to avoid being seen by any of the hostile army that lay around. He paused every few moments in his progress, as if to assure himself that he remained undetected, and listened eagerly to catch the least sound that gave warning of impending danger. But all was silent. No sound broke in upon the almost Sabbath stillness of the scene, save the voices of the sentinels as they went their solitary rounds.

Young Telford, for it was he, succeeded in gaining the farm-house in safety, and gently raising the latch, was speedily clasped in the arms of his mother, who had started to her feet, apprehensive of danger, on hearing her house entered at that unseasonable hour.

"My son! my son!" exclaimed the delighted woman, "'the Lord be praised, who in his great mercy hath spared you to gladden my eyes once more; but where is Thomas? Why came he not with you?"

"He could not, mother," replied her son, "else had he flown to see you! He stays to guard the banner committed to his care, and as we expect to encounter the foe to-morrow, he charged me to tell you, that never while he lives shall it fall into the hands of the enemy." The mother's eyes glistened at this proof of bravery on the part of her absent son, and gazing fondly in the face of the one now beside her, she inquired with a faltering voice, "and where have you been since last we met? For it seems to me an age since you and Thomas departed to join the ranks of the Covenanters."

"I have but shortly returned from Morayshire," replied her son, "where I sped with the fiery cross through moor and valley, terrifying the inhabitants with the false alarm that the Macdonalds were preparing to descend upon them, in order to prevent them from advancing to aid the royal forces. The peasant was aroused from his slumber, when the unearthly glare streamed in at his cottage window, as onwards I sped. Armed forces who were marching thitherward, swiftly returned to their homes, on hearing the appalling cry! "the Macdonald's are coming!" The bold Highlander turned pale with apprehension as I passed with the fatal symbol of war and desolation, and the fond mother pressed still closer to her bosom, the child who might soon be fatherless, on beholding the fiery track of the herald of woe."

"Oh, Willie!" cried Mrs. Telford, clasping her hands as she spoke.

"Still onwards I sped. Terror was visible on the faces of all, as again the warning voice proclaimed amidst the stillness of night the approach of the Macdonalds. At that dread name, the alarm flew from house to house; signal fires flamed upward from each mountain summit; all thoughts of leaving their country were abandoned, and the King may in vain expect men from thence."

At this moment a low tap at the door interrupted young Telford in the midst of his narration. Without one moment's hesitation, he darted towards the entrance, and presently returned with his arm round the neck of a young girl, whose lovely countenance was almost hid beneath the shepherd's plaid which she had hastily donned to protect her head from the cool breezes of evening.

"Jeanie!" exclaimed Mrs. Telford, warmly embracing the blushing stranger, "how fortunate! just to think you should chance to come when——!"

"It was no chance, mother," interrupted her son, "I durst not venture near Jeanie's house, in case the soldiers might send a bullet after me; so I bade a little boy go to the farm, and tell her that there was one she might wish to see in this house to-night, and, as he could remain but a few minutes, the sooner she came, the better for us both."

"Oh, Willie!" sobbed the weeping girl, "could you but know the cruel state of suspense I have been in these three months back, not knowing where you were, or what might be your fate, you would never, never go away again! Oh! say you winna leave me," she implored, gazing upwards in his face with eager beseeching eyes, while tears coursed rapidly down her cheeks; "say you winna go!"

"Tempt me not, dearest," replied her lover in a voice expressive of the deepest anguish, as he drew her fondly to his bosom, "I cannot—must not remain. To-morrow we may chance to encounter the foe, and I could not endure the thoughts of entering the field, without again obtaining a mother's blessing, and one more glance from those bright eyes; so I stole from the camp, while my brother remained behind to guard the banner. And now I must return, for I may be missed; and I should not like to be long absent at a time like this. Mother, your blessing on me and my absent brother, that we prosper in the fight," so saying, he knelt to receive the desired benediction.

"May the God of battles, in whose hands are the issues of life and death, be unto you both as a rock of defence in the hour of danger, and restore you once more to me, my beloved son," exclaimed his mother, placing her hands on his lowly bent head, and weeping as she spoke; "the Lord knows," she continued, "the bitterness of my heart this night, and yet why should I grudge you in so good a cause? Rise, my son, rise; and may the Power above, who is able and willing to help us in the time of need, guide you in all safety, and strengthen me in the hour of trial."

Young Telford sprang to his feet, and clasping his betrothed in his arms, was about to comfort her with assurances of his speedy return, when he perceived she had fainted.

"My poor Jeanie!" exclaimed Mrs. Telford tenderly, then pointing to the door, she conjured her son to hasten away ere his betrothed recovered her consciousness, and thus spare her the agony of witnessing his departure.

"Ay, far better it should be so, mother," replied her son, "and yet it is hard to leave my Jeanie thus; but tell her I only went to spare her further pain;" so saying, he placed the unconscious girl gently in a chair, imprinted a kiss on her clay-cold forehead, wrung his mother's hand, and was gone.

Scarcely had he disappeared, ere Jeanie Irving, with a deep-drawn sigh of anguish, opened her eyes, and fixing them with a wandering vacant look upon Mrs. Telford, who had placed her upon her own bed, and was now bending over her with almost maternal solicitude depicted upon her benevolent countenance, inquired where she was, and if she had been only dreaming he had seen her Willie.

"'Deed and it was no fancy," replied Mrs. Telford; "Willie was here sure enough, but don't speak any more about him just at present, like a dear, good girl; he will be back to-morrow evening to tell you all about himself, and where he has been; so just remain quiet for a little while, and I will go to Mr. Irving and tell him that you will stay here a day or two, to comfort me in the absence of my sons;" so saying, and without tarrying for an answer, away she ran to execute her mission.

Early on the following morning, Jeanie Irving, whom no reasoning on the part of Mrs. Telford could induce to remain in bed, posted herself at the door of the cottage, eager to obtain the first glimpse of him she loved, should he return according to his promise. In the meantime the royal army had advanced towards Bothwell, where the Covenanting party was stationed, and soon the mighty roar of cannon proclaimed to the startled ears of Jeanie that the fighting had commenced. In her wild eagerness to ascertain the fate of her lover. she was about to rush madly forward in the direction from whence the sounds proceeded, and the almost frantic efforts of Mrs. Telford were scarce sufficient to restrain her from executing her purpose. For a few hours the thunder of the cannon, mingled with the firing of musketry, struck terror to the hearts of the affrighted women, who clung to each other, pale and speechless; while pealed forth the death-knell of many a gallant heart. Then came a lull, even more dreadful in its terrific calmness, for it proclaimed the battle was over—that the fate of their loved ones was decided. And now might be seen riderless horses galloping wildly across the plain, and mounted horsemen spurring their jaded steeds beyond their powers of endurance; while more slowly, and dragging his weary steps along, the wounded Covenanter strove to find safety in flight from the disastrous field. With a scream of delight, Jeanie bounded forward on observing the figure of a young man, evidently making towards them; but, on nearing him, she found to her consternation it was Thomas, and not William Telford, who now approached, staggering under the load of the banner, which, soiled and torn, he laid at his mother's feet.

"Thomas!" screamed Mrs. Telford; "but where is Willie? Oh! wherefore so silent?"

"Speak, I implore you, speak," gasped forth Jeanie Irving, "is he killed? Is he wounded?"

"He is a prisoner!" was the sad reply.

"God be praised it is no worse!" fervently ejaculated the weeping girl; "I shall yet save him, or perish in the attempt."

"And you, Thomas, what of yourself?" demanded Mrs. Telford, observing the ghastly expression of her son's face, while traces of blood were yet apparent on his coat and hands. The young man, without a reply, uncovered his head, and displayed, in so doing, a frightful gash on his forehead. "My son, my son!" groaned forth the afflicted mother, "Oh! this is hard—hard to bear. I thought I had taught myself to say with resignation, 'the Lord's will be done;' but, oh my rebellious heart!"

"'I said I should bring it back to you, mother, if life were spared me to perform my promise, and I have done it," proudly exclaimed her son. "I have brought it in safety; but, alas! from a dishonoured field. Treachery has lost us the day, and ruined our cause for ever. But Willie and I did our duty. While a ray of hope still animated the bosoms of our leaders, we would not quit the field. Willie was mad with rage. He fought like a lion. Every soldier he encountered fell beneath his sword. My care was the banner. Three dragoons attacked me. Encumbered with the standard, I called upon Willie for assistance. He came hewing down all in his way. A musket was upraised to shoot him. I struck it down, and, in so doing, received this wound on my forehead from a cowardly ruffian, who took advantage of my being engaged with another, to inflict the dastardly blow. I fell with the banner beneath me. Then the dragoons, aided by two others, rushed upon Willie, and bore him away. They would have killed him, but for the Duke of Monmouth, who commanded them to spare his life. I struggled to regain my feet; but fainted away through loss of blood. On recovering my senses, I observed a dragoon stealing up to deprive me of my standard; but one blow from the butt-end of my musket despatched him, and, grasping my banner in my hand, I made another effort to rise, and succeeded. Captain Paton advanced. 'My poor fellow,' he said, 'you are sadly wounded; get off the field as swiftly as possible;' so saying, he took some herbs from his pocket, and applying them to the wound, staunched the blood; then, taking me by the arm, he moved onwards a few paces by my side, as though to protect me from further injury—the road in this direction being clear of the Royalists, who were murdering my comrades right and left at the other end of the field. I thanked the noble Captain—whose eyes gleamed with pleasure on observing the uncaptured standard—and proceeded on my way in safety. Having ascended an eminence, I turned to look on the bloody plain. There stood Captain Paton, as I had left him, leaning on his sword, and gazing on the fearful scene around him, apparently overwhelmed with grief. General Hamilton, with a party of officers, was advancing towards him. I looked again. They were slowly quitting the field. And I continued my solitary flight."

Mrs. Telford, at the close of her son's narrative, threw her arms around his neck, and wept aloud. "My poor Thomas," she exclaimed, "grateful should I be to the Lord, who hath spared you to return this day to your home; but, oh! when I think on my noble Willie a captive in the hands of these cruel, blood-thirsty men, my heart feels like to burst with its load of sorrow; and, yet, what can I do to save him?"

"Mother," said Jeanie Irving, "for such you have been to me, do not despair. A voice whispers in my heart that Willie will soon be free—that he will yet live to bless and comfort us all. Do not give way to grief, but trust in God, who, I feel assured, will grant the wishes of our hearts in this matter."

"The widow—for such Mrs. Telford was—soothed and comforted by the earnest assurances of the kind-hearted and hopeful maiden, embraced her warmly, and blessed her for her dutiful resignation to the will of Providence. But a high and noble purpose had filled the loving heart of the simple Scottish girl; and it was the determination to free her lover that caused her eye to sparkle, and her cheek to burn, with the sweet anticipations of hope, as she dwelt on the triumph of obtaining her lover's pardon, even should she kneel at the feet of the Duke of Monmouth to obtain it. Accordingly, at an early hour on the following morning, when Mrs. Telford and her son were locked in the arms of slumber, Jeanie Irving, acting on a previously adopted resolution, stole gently from her couch and dressed herself hastily; then, kissing Mrs. Telford silently on the forehead, she knelt down and prayed fervently for guidance and protection during her absence; and, snatching a small bundle of necessaries prepared over-night for her journey, and placing a letter—informing Mrs. Telford of the step she was about to take—on the table, she noiselessly opened the door, stood for one moment, while her lips moved as if she was engaged in mental prayer, shut it slowly, and departed. Having been informed by Thomas Telford that the prisoners were to be taken to Edinburgh, thither Jeanie determined to proceed; but on arriving at Linlithgow, she heard no tidings of their having passed that way. Fearful lest some change had been made regarding their destination, Jeanie Irving stood irresolute, not knowing what to do, but, on second thoughts, she proceeded to the house of her aunt, a sister of her mother, who resided in Linlithgow, there to await their coming, lest something might have occurred to delay their progress. Mrs. Johnstone—which was the name of her aunt—received her niece very kindly; but on her expressing her surprise at seeing her enter so unexpectedly, the long-sustained fortitude of Jeanie Irving gave way, and she burst into a passionate flood of tears. Amazed and distressed at the sight of her niece's grief, Mrs. Johnstone soothed and comforted her to the best of her ability, and was rewarded for her kind sympathy by the recital of Jeanie's hopes, fears, and intentions respecting her lover's escape, which she confided to the willing ears of her aunt, when her sorrow allowed her the power of utterance.

"Oh, my dear lassie!" said Mrs. Johnstone, at the close of her niece's narration, "you do not know the difficulty of the course you mean to pursue; you never can succeed. Willie Telford will be so closely guarded that you will not get near him; do not go on, but stay with me at least until we hear something regarding the destination of the unfortunate men."

At this moment a distant murmur of voices was heard, mingled with the trampling of many feet. Nearer came the sounds; louder swelled the tumult, till none could mistake its meaning. Poor Jeanie turned as pale as death; her heart told her the prisoners were approaching. Grasping her aunt by the arm, she staggered towards the window, and what a dismal sight greeted her eager eyes! Onwards came the dragoons—their plumes waving—their horses prancing. Next advanced a body of men, to the number of about five hundred, foot-sore and weary; wounded, and prisoners. Jeanie Irving groaned in agony. The quick glance of affection soon descried the stately form of William Telford. Amidst the motley crowd, he walked erect and proudly, as though he were marching onwards to victory—not to a prison—perchance to death.

The eyes of Jeanie Irving seemed about to start from their sockets on beholding the sad procession; but new horrors awaited her. She beheld some of the sympathising spectators, while advancing with cups of cold water to moisten the lips of the wounded portion of the prisoners, and a morsel of bread to comfort their weary hearts, beaten back with oaths, and contumely by the rude soldiers, who, insensible to all the softer emotions of humanity, seemed determined to make their captives feel the wretchedness of their lot. She saw her beloved William stunned by a blow from the butt-end of a musket, while endeavouring to procure nourishment for a sinking comrade.

On beholding this outrage inflicted on the object of her affections, Jeanie Irving screamed and struggled to free herself from her aunt's grasp, as if for the purpose of springing out into the street, in order to join her lover. Indeed, so excited did she become in her endeavours to carry out her wishes, that her aunt, fearful of the consequences that might ensue, should she be permitted to retain her station at the window, seized her in her arms, and dragged her away from beholding the dismal spectacle. On the disappearance of the melancholy cavalcade, Mrs. Johnstone placed Jeanie Irving on her bed, and would on no account hear of her attempting to rise until she had partaken of some repose; and, indeed, poor Jeanie, overcome as she was with fatigue and anxiety, felt the necessity of obeying her aunt's wishes in this respect. Shortly after lying down she fell into a sleep, apparently broken at first by the agitating thoughts that chased each other through her mind, for she moaned and shivered in such a manner that Mrs. Johnstone grew apprehensive lest the distress under which she laboured might yet throw her into a fever. Gradually, however, she grew calmer, and at length, to her aunt's delight, all the sad events of the day seemed forgotten in a tranquil slumber. On her awaking, refreshed and strengthened from her long repose, Mrs. Johnstone, who now perceived the danger of thwarting her in her intentions of endeavouring to free William Telford, represented the strong necessity there was of her remaining quiet, for a few days longer, as, should she set off instantly on her journey, she might get herself into trouble, and thus by her rashness lose the only chance of saving her lover. This last argument, skillfully introduced by Mrs. Johnstone, had great weight with her impatient niece; and she accordingly remained with her aunt five days, during which period she carefully abstained from alluding to the topic which so entirely engrossed her thoughts. But on the morning of the sixth day she again expressed her intention of proceeding to Edinburgh, in order to learn the destination of the prisoners. This time Mrs. Johnstone threw no obstacles in the way of her niece's departure, but going to a closet she took from thence two bundles, one of which she handed to Jeanie Irving, while the other she retained in her own possession. Jeanie eyed her aunt with astonishment, while that worthy person proceeded very leisurely to donn her bonnet and shawl, and at length ventured to inquire the meaning of such preparations.

"It is just this, my dear lassie," said Mrs. Johnstone in answer to her niece's inquiry, "I am a lone widow with no one here to care for me, or to mind whether I go or stay, so I have determined upon accompanying you to Edinburgh, in order to protect and assist you as far as lies in my power. When you came here and told me your sad story, I resolved upon going with you, and laid my plans accordingly. Two days ago a boy was dispatched to tell your father and Mrs. Telford where you were, and that they need not feel anxious about you, as I should tend and love you as though you were mine own child. Now, don't say one word against this, Jeanie, for my mind is made up on this subject."

Poor Jeanie Irving, quite overcome with this proof of affection and kind interest on the part of her aunt, threw herself into her arms, and sobbed aloud, thanking her through her tears for her promised protection, which she assured her would prove invaluable, as she should require a faithful guide and counsellor to cheer and advise her 'mid all the trials and disappointments she was prepared to encounter. All being thus satisfactorily arranged, Mrs. Johnstone proceeded to settle some little household affairs prior to departing with her niece—such as stopping the clock, locking up closets, throwing water on the fire, and sundry other little arrangements which all careful housekeepers know to be essential before leaving home. The rays of the setting sun were gilding the towers of the ancient fortress of Dunedin, as Mrs. Johnstone and her niece entered the Scottish capital. All was terror and confusion. Dragoons marched along the streets with all the insolence of petty power which subordinates know so well how to assume;—members of the opposite faction stole noiselessly on their way, as if afraid of attracting the notice of the swaggering soldiers, who seemed fully aware of, and to enjoy the terror they inspired; while aged citizens, whose care-worn faces betrayed the anxiety under which they laboured, stood together in groups as if discussing the events of the day. Jeanie, with the natural modesty of her sex, drew the shepherd's plaid still closer around her, to screen her face in some measure from the insolent gaze of the dragoons, some of whom peered underneath the covering as they passed in the hopes of obtaining a glimpse of the carefully-shrouded face.

"Pull it off her, George," said a soldier to his comrade, one of these who failed in their attempts to get a look of Jeanie Irving, "pull it off her, and let us see what she's like; what in the name of wonder makes her hide her face in that manner? Pull it off her, I say."

"No, no, don't do that: let the woman alone," exclaimed another of the party, observing that the one named George was about to obey his friend's instructions; "she is not annoying us; and see that party of men, yonder, watching us with threatening looks, as if eager to take advantage of the slightest provocation on our part, to commence an affray. Come, let us be peaceful." The soldier thus admonished abandoned his purpose, and allowed Jeanie and her aunt to pass on their way unmolested.

"Thank God!" inwardly ejaculated the trembling women on finding themselves freed from the rude grasp of the dragoon, and quickening their steps, they turned into a less noisy and crowded street. But soon a new alarm struck fresh terror to their trembling souls, for the deep roll of a drum was now, distinctly heard. Onwards it came; and Jeanie Irving, trembling in every limb, fearing, she knew not what, grasped her aunt by the arm, as she stood breathless and agitated, waiting the result. Soon a large party of soldiers appeared in sight, one of them bearing a huge drum, which he beat at regular intervals; while another read aloud a proclamation, warning the citizens of Edinburgh, under pain of death, to abstain from visiting the prisoners at present stationed in the Greyfriars Church-yard, save when bringing them provisions, such as should be approved of by the sentinels. Jeanie's heart beat wildly with renewed hope on hearing that the prisoners were merely confined in an open churchyard, and that their friends would be permitted to take them food at stated intervals. It was true that sentinels were stationed there, who would no doubt keep a strict watch over all comers; but what can youth and ingenuity not achieve? Thus full of sanguine anticipations respecting the ultimate success of her scheme, Jeanie Irving accompanied her aunt to the house of a mutual friend, with whom Mrs. Johnstone meant to stay during their sojourn in Edinburgh, which she now devoutly hoped might prove a short one. Mrs. Hamilton received her visitors very graciously; expressed her satisfaction when Mrs. Johnstone informed her that their visit was likely to prove a longer one than she, under present circumstances, could have wished; and steadfastly refused all offers of remuneration, which Mrs. Johnstone was anxious she should receive, to compensate in some measure for the trouble they were likely to occasion her.

"No, no, my dear friend," said Mrs. Hamilton, while she proceeded to make preparations for her evening meal, "don't—if you please, say any more on that subject; it's little I have, but, please God, that little shall always be at the service of the few friends I have now remaining; losh pity me, are you not my cousin, thrice removed on my mother's side, and just to think o' one relation taking money off another? I never heard tell o' such a like thing; no, no, stay wi' me as long as you like, and welcome;" so saying, Mrs. Hamilton proceeded leisurely to put one of her best damask cloths on the table, which she soon covered with plates of bread and butter, some newly-made jelly, etc; in short, the best of everything the house could afford, was brought forth to do honour to her welcome guests. "Now, sit your ways down," said Mrs. Hamilton, after she had completed the arrangements to her own satisfaction, and, taking Mrs. Johnstone by the arm, she seated her at the head of the table, motioning Jeanie to sit beside her, "sit your ways down, and partake of what is before you." Mrs. Johnstone proceeded, greatly to the delight of Mrs. Hamilton, to make an active onslaught on the good things with which the table was abundantly supplied. "That's right, my dear," exclaimed the hospitable widow, her eyes beaming with pleasure, "but, Jeanie Irving, what has come over you, lassie?" she enquired, astonished beyond measure on perceiving that the maiden in question evinced not the slightest disposition to assist her aunt in the arduous undertaking of demolishing the huge pile of bread and butter placed so temptingly within her reach. Jeanie, by way of answer to this anxious inquiry, hastened to assure Mrs. Hamilton that she was indeed making an excellent meal; and wishing to turn the conversation into another channel, she expressed a desire to know whose was the sword hanging on the opposite wall. Mrs. Hamilton's good-natured face lengthened considerably as she replied with a faltering accent, that it had belonged to her husband, who perished at the battle o' Pentland Hills. "Indeed," said Jeanie Irving, greatly interested in hearing that her kind hostess had also been a sufferer from those sad religious differences; "and pray"—here she suddenly stopped short, on observing Mrs. Hamilton raise her apron to her eyes, and apparently wipe away an unbidden tear. After a pause of a few moments, during which time Jeanie Irving remained mute, with her eyes fixed on the sword, Mrs. Hamilton inquired of her friend what it was that had brought her to Edinburgh in these stormy times. In reply to this rather confusing question, Mrs. Johnstone pressed Mrs. Hamilton's foot under the table, at the same time darting a glance in the direction of her niece, who entirely engrossed by her own sad thoughts, did not overhear the question, as if to warn Mrs. Hamilton against alluding to that subject in her presence.

Shortly afterwards the eyelids of Jeanie Irving displayed symptoms of closing, observing which, her thoughtful hostess offered to conduct her to her sleeping apartment; a proposal which poor Jeanie, overcome as she was with a load of anxiety and grief, but too gladly accepted; so, bidding her aunt an affectionate good night, she followed Mrs. Hamilton, who led the way into a small but neat bed-room, &c. After expressing her wishes for the comfort of her guest, left her to repose. On Mrs. Hamilton's return to the parlour, both she and Mrs. Johnstone drew in their seats considerably nearer the hearth, with the evident intention of enjoying a nice, comfortable gossip over the glowing embers; and Mrs. Johnstone, as the reader will be prepared to hear, regaled her friend with a long and circumstantial account of her niece's love-affair, together with the sad circumstances attending it, which had occasioned their sudden visit to the Scottish capital. "Wae's me," exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, at the close of her friend's sad recital; "to think o' a bonnie young creature having gone through sae much sorrow already, and likely to suffer a hantle more ere she's by wi' it! Oh! are'na the ways o' Providence dark and unscrutable to the like o' us, poor blind mortals as we are? Dearie me, Mrs. Johnstone, but I sadly fear your niece winna get much to comfort her here. I fear it's a doomed boat she's embarked in. Willie Telford will never be able to escape from his cruel captors. Oh, but my heart's wae for the poor sweet lassie; and ye say her life's bound up in his?" Mrs. Johnstone replied in the affirmative, adding, "that it would be much better not to damp the bright hopes entertained by Jeanie Irving regarding her lover's escape." "Don't be afraid o' me saying anything that would harm the winsome bit lassie," interrupted Mrs. Hamilton, raising the corner of her apron to her eyes, "no, no; I know too well what it is to suffer, ever to add to the distress o' a' fellow-creature. Well do I mind the day when my husband gaed awa to the Pentlands. 'Jeanie,' says he, 'I feel uncommon sad at leaving you this day, my woman,' says he; and says I, 'Why John?' for ye see I didna quite take up his meaning, 'why should ye be so grieved, when ye're going to fight a good fight for the Covenant?' says I. 'Oh,' quo' he, 'I feel as if I never should see you again,' says he; and wi' that I took to the shivering all over. 'If that be your thought,' says I, 'John, do bide wi' me, for I've many a time heard people wiser than me say, it's ill going away frae hame wi' sic gloomy thoughts in one's mind.' 'Ah, na, Jeanie, my woman,' says he, 'may be it's a foolish fancy on my part, an' it wadna do to yield to it;' an wi' that he gaed awa, an' I never set my eyes on him since syne. Was'na that a sad, sad thing! an' many's the time I've blamed mysel' since then for not making him bide at hame, but ye see, it was a' in the cards, an' what will be maun be." Thus having testified her submission to the stern decrees of fate, Mrs. Hamilton turning to Mrs. Johnstone, abruptly demanded of her if she was a believer in dreams?

"Well," said Mrs. Johnstone in reply, "I really do not know what to say on that point, for I have had one or two very strange dreams in my lifetime, which have been fulfilled to the very letter; but whether it was that my mind had been running so much on these matters during the day-time, and that this caused them to form the subjects of my dreams by night; or, that they were sent to me as warnings of what was to happen, I cannot tell; but what makes you ask that question, Mrs. Hamilton?"

"Oh, nothing, but just that I had a most extraordinary dream the night before I heard tell o' my husband's death, which, if you will not laugh at me for relating such a thing, I should like to tell you."

On Mrs. Johnstone assuring her that the opinion she herself entertained on the subject of her own dreams was much too serious for her ever to ridicule those narrated by other people, Mrs. Hamilton commenced as follows:—

"Well, as I told you before, it was the night preceding the day on which I heard tell o' the death of my husband, and I could not well account for it; but the whole o' that day I had been rale douie and dispirited, just as one often feels before hearing bad news o' some sort or other; so much so, that I gaed away early to my bed, in hopes that a good sleep would do me good. For a long time, not one wink o' sleep could I get, do what I could, until at length, in a fit of desperation, I sprang out of bed, and took a turn or two up and down the room, to see if that would cool the fever of my blood. It did so, and shortly after I fell into a deep slumber. Well, Mrs. Johnstone, during that sleep I had the following dream, which even yet impresses me more than I should like to tell. Methought the door of my room suddenly opened, and in stepped a figure all clad in white, and o' a fair and beauteous countenance, which, approaching the side o' my bed, said in a sweet mournful voice, which sounded just like the sighing wind, 'Jeanie Hamilton, you must this instant rise and follow me!' Upon which I replied, 'And wherefore am I to follow you?' 'Ask no questions,' said the beautiful vision, 'but come away.' Well, wi' that I raise out o' my bed, almost as it were in spite o' myself, and away I gaed after the figure, which seemed to me to flee swiftly as a soul, when freed from its mortal coil, would cleave the air in its passage to another world. Onwards we went, until we came to a dark dismal plain; and never did I see anything so dreary as the aspect o' that place! Then my guide stopt, and taking me by the hand, said, 'now I must lead you; our way lies through this moor;' and I thought in my sleep that I trembled all over, as hand in hand with the radiant figure I traversed the desolate-looking plain, which to my horror I perceived to be thickly strewn with dead bodies. Oh, how my heart sickened at that fearful sight! there they lay, the old and the young, all huddled together, sleeping the last long sleep of death. 'Stop, stop,' I said to my guide; 'oh, do let me turn back—I cannot go onwards; what means this? why have you brought me here?' The vision smiled sadly, and without a reply, still motioned me onwards. I could not resist. A mysterious indescribable power, as it were, impelled me to follow, until at length it paused, and pointing to the prostrate form of a man, whom to my horror I discovered to be my husband, lying cold and stiff, with a deep wound on his forehead, said, 'It was to take a last look of him you loved so well that I brought you here,' and with that it disappeared. The cry of anguish which I uttered on hearing this awoke me from my slumber: and oh, Mrs. Johnstone, you cannot think what I suffered from the remembrance of that dream, for, from that moment, I felt convinced that my husband had perished on the battle field. Well, in the course of the following day, when a near neighbour, who had been at the Pentlands, came to apprise me of John Hamilton's death, I told him, so convinced was I of the truth of my dream of the previous night, before ever he had spoken a word, that I knew he had come to tell me o' my husband's death. The man stood staring at me in breathless astonishment, apparently at a loss to comprehend my meaning, until I told him o' the strange dream I had had; and what do you think, Mrs. Johnstone," added Mrs. Hamilton, sinking her voice to a whisper, "my husband had been killed on the previous day, and by a sabre wound on his forehead."

"Bless me," exclaimed Mrs. Johnstone, at the close of her friend's narration, "that is the most singular thing I ever heard; undoubtedly it was a warning sent to prepare you for the sad news you were about to hear."

"That is just my own opinion on the matter," said Mrs. Hamilton, as she proceeded to put a huge piece o' coal on the top of the smouldering embers; after which signal of preparation for departure, the friends retired to rest.

Immediately after partaking of breakfast on the following morning, Jeanie Irving expressed her intention of at once proceeding to the Greyfriars' Church-yard, to see if she could by any means obtain admittance to William Telford. Accordingly, accompanied by her aunt, who would on no account permit her to go forth alone—and carrying in her hand a small basket of provisions, which the kindness of Mrs. Hamilton supplied—she set forth on her mission. The nearer they advanced towards their destination, the more did poor Jeanie Irving's heart sink within her; for the first time since leaving home she dwelt cooly and calmly on the arduous undertaking before her, and realized the real difficulty of the task she had determined to achieve. Mrs. Johnstone perceiving how much her niece was engrossed by her own thoughts, abstained from addressing her until they arrived at the Greyfriars' Church-yard, the gate of which was surrounded by a numerous crowd of men and women clamorous to obtain admission to the prisoners.

The sentinels apparently took advantage of their situation to annoy and insult the trembling petitioners, many of whom they bade go about their business, after having deprived them of the provisions they carried; others, again, they permitted to enter, but not until they had taken from them the greater portion of the food and clothing they had brought to comfort and assist their friends. With a trembling heart and faltering steps, Jeanie Irving was advancing towards the sentinels, when a sweet feminine voice whispered in her ear, "For God's sake! leave that worthy woman behind, and take me with you; three going in at once would excite suspicion, and there is one in that church-yard I must see to-day, yet I lack courage to venture in alone." Jeanie Irving turned and looked on the speaker, whom, although clad in the meanest attire, and having her face concealed beneath a coarse woollen shawl, she perceived by her graceful bearing to be some person of consequence, and being of a kind sympathising nature, she at once acceded to the wishes of the stranger, and turning to her aunt, explained the necessity there was of her remaining without until she returned. Mrs. Johnstone, who had also arrived at her own conclusions regarding the individual who was addressing her niece, expressed her willingness to comply with her request; accordingly, Jeanie Irving, whose arm was instantly grasped by the trembling hand of her new acquaintance, continued her way towards the gate. Fortunately, the sentinel who stood nearest the shrinking maidens proved to be less strict than the others, and allowed them to enter the church-yard without interruption. With eager eyes did Jeanie Irving and her companion scan each group of men as they passed, in order to discover the faces of those so fondly loved. Apparently the stranger soon discovered him she sought, for suddenly disengaging her arm from that of Jeanie's, she bade God bless her! for her kindness, and darted towards an elegant young man, evidently of high birth, who stood a little way apart from the others. Jeanie Irving paused for a few seconds to witness the rapturous greeting exchanged between the pair, and again continued her wistful search.

In the meantime, William Telford was standing in a remote corner of the church-yard engaged in earnest conversation with three others, when the trembling shrinking form of a young girl advancing towards them caught his eye. One glance was sufficient; and Jeanie Irving was that instant clasped in the arms of her lover.

"Jeanie," gasped forth William Telford, as again and again he kissed the cold lips of her who lay speechless on his shoulder. He could say no more. Both were overcome with an excess of joy almost painful in its intensity, but hearts and eyes were busy during the time that speech was denied them.

Those individuals who were standing near them, respecting the feelings of the lovers, withdrew a little aside, in order that they might enjoy uninterrupted intercourse.

"Willie!" at length Jeanie Irving found voice to say. "is it only a dream, or am I indeed gazing once more on your dear face, which has never for one moment been absent from me? it has haunted my thoughts by day, and my dreams by night; but oh, Willie," she continued, "I must and will get you from hence; my heart will break in twain should you remain much longer in this damp unwholesome place; but how can it be managed?"

"Think not of such a thing, my dearest girl," replied William Telford; "any efforts on your part would only entail destruction on your own head, and add fresh misery to that I am called upon to endure."

Perceiving an expression of intense anguish pass across the face of the disappointed maiden, as he attempted to dissuade her from her purpose, William Telford forbore saying any more on the subject, but turned the conversation into another channel, by demanding of Jeanie Irving how she had been since last he saw her, and whether his mother and brother were well. To these inquires on the part of her lover, Jeanie replied, by giving him a detailed account of all that had happened since his departure; dwelling on the grief she experienced on beholding the sad procession pass along the streets of Linlithgow, and how she longed to spring from the window to embrace him again, and, if need be, share his imprisonment. To all of which proofs of love on the part of her he idolised, William Telford could only reply, by straining her still closer to his bosom, and imprinting a dozen kisses on her forehead and lips.

"My poor Willie, how thin and pale you are!" said Jeanie Irving, gazing tenderly in her lover's face, while tears ran down her cheeks as she spoke, "but sit your ways down and partake of what I have brought you, for it is easy to see from your appearance that many suns have risen and set since you have eaten a good meal;" so saying, she uncovered her basket, and making William Telford seat himself on a neighbouring mound, supplied him with eatables from her store. "And now," she said after her lover had finished his repast, "you must in your turn inform me how you and your companions have been treated since you came to this horrid place."

"Like brute beasts," was the indignant reply, "and not like men possessing immortal souls. Night after night have we been forced to lie in the open air without a covering of any kind to protect us from the rain or the unwholesome dews of evening. And should any of us chance to raise our heads, in order to change our position, or to look about us, we are fired at immediately. Only last night there was a poor fellow shot beside me for merely raising his head, forgetful for a moment of the savages who were near him watching with lynx eyes his slightest movement."

"Oh, Jeanie," continued her lover, "many and many a time have I lain down cold and supperless, with nought in the world to comfort me but thoughts of you; when the calm cold stars shone above my head like so many bright spirits watching over and pitying us in our loneliness and misery. Oft have I for hours gazed and gazed, while my companions around me were locked in slumber, wishing myself an inhabitant of the brighter world beyond. But now, dearest Jeanie, the sight of your sweet face has in a great measure restored me to myself, and I would fain live for your sake."

"And you shall live," passionately exclaimed the enthusiastic girl; "I will throw myself at the feet of the Duke of Monmouth, nor rise from that posture until he has granted my request."

"You would never be allowed to see him," sadly replied her lover; "there are those around the Duke's person who would jealously exclude any of our party from the presence of his Grace. He is a noble fellow," continued William Telford, "and were every one like him, we should not have been pining here like so many cattle in a pen."

"Promise me, Willie," suddenly interrupted Jeanie Irving, "that should I contrive means of escape from this horrid place, you will take advantage of them."

William Telford paused one moment ere he replied, but at length he said, placing his hand in hers, "For your sake, clearest, and that of my widowed mother, I will; but oh, take care, Jeanie, both for your own sake and mine, what you do; consider how precious you are to me; plunge not yourself into difficulties on my account; it may be that our captors may relent, and and I may yet be free."

"Trust them not," replied Jeanie Irving, "they resemble the tiger, which once having tasted blood, thirsteth for more; no, no, my Willie," she continued, "a woman's wit must save you here; so trust to me for speedy deliverance—but in the meantime I must be going, for I left my kind aunt at the gate, who will necessarily feel anxious should I not return soon."

"Why came she not in with you?" inquired her lover.

Whereupon, Jeanie Irving recounted to him the singular adventure she had met with at the gate, and asked of him who the handsome young man was the stranger had flown to, on entering the church-yard, but William Telford could afford her no information on the subject.

After a warm embrace, and an assurance on the part of Jeanie Irving that she should, without fail, return on the morrow, the lovers parted, and hastening past the sentinels, who did not seek to detain her, Jeanie rejoined her aunt, who was awaiting her return with the utmost impatience. On the following morning. Mrs. Johnstone and her niece again set off for the Greyfriars' Church-yard, the latter with a heart lightened of half its former load of grief, and indulging in sweet anticipations respecting the approaching interview. On nearing the gate, they observed groups of people standing conversing together, evidently discussing some important piece of news, many of them with smiles of satisfaction on their faces, while the sentinels walked their rounds with gloomy dissatisfied countenances, as if something had occurred to make them more than usually sullen. Mrs. Johnstone having inquired of a bystander the reason of the prevailing excitement, was informed that, on the previous evening, young Lord C—— had escaped from the church-yard, disguised as a female, and that the sentinels were dreadfully annoyed at the occurrence, as they had received particular directions regarding his safety. The thoughts of Jeanie Irving instantly reverted to the interesting couple of the preceding day; and she fervently thanked the Almighty that she had in some measure been instrumental in the young man's escape, while the idea, instantly occurred to her, that in a similar manner might William Telford be conveyed from thence. This time, on advancing to the gate to seek admittance, the sentinels gathered round them, uncovered the basket, helped themselves pretty largely to a portion of its contents, and examined both women closely in order to as certain that they carried no disguises about with them after which precautions they permitted them to pass. Jeanie Irving immediately made her lover acquainted with the escape of Lord C——, and informed him as to her intentions, of taking him from thence in a similar disguise. Sick and enfeebled from his close confinement in the damp church-yard, William Telford listened eagerly to Jeanie's proposals, and it was finally agreed upon between them that she should watch well her opportunity when the attention of the sentinels was otherwise occupied, to steal in with a bundle of women's clothes, array her lover in the feminine garb, and embrace a favourable moment to lead him forth. In pursuance of this arrangement, each morning beheld Jeanie Irving stationed near the gate watching with eager eyes the least symptom of abated vigilance on the part of the sentinels to venture in. During the space of five days no suitable opportunity presented itself, but on the morning of the sixth the sentinels being attracted from their posts by a street broil, Jeanie darted past them with the rapidity of lightning, and flew towards her beloved William, bearing the precious burthen. Withdrawing a little apart from his companions, young Telford was speedily arrayed in his disguise, and many of those who witnessed the proceeding bade God bless and prosper him in his attempt. All being now in readiness, Jeanie Irving, whose nerves were strung up to the highest degree of tension, took the arm of her lover and advanced toward the outer gate. Oh, what a moment was this! They had passed two of the sentinels in safety, but just as they arrived within reach of the other, whose back was at that moment turned towards them, he wheeled suddenly round, and staring Jeanie full in the face, advanced towards her, exclaiming, "So, ho, my pretty maiden, you would fain retreat without paying toll; come now, don't be in such haste, but just tarry a moment, and let us become better acquainted." So saying, the soldier put his arm around her waist and attempted to snatch a kiss. At sight of this indignity offered to the woman he loved, the blood rushed to William Telford's brow, and darting on the brutal fellow, he dealt him such a blow on the head as felled him to the ground.

"What, ho, treachery, treachery!" shouted the other sentinels, suddenly apprized of the real state of affairs, and darting upon William Telford, they tore off his disguise, and dragged him back to the church-yard, kicking and swearing at him the while. Pale and speechless, with horror at the failure of her scheme, Jeanie Irving attempted to rejoin her lover, but was rudely pushed back by the infuriated sentinels, who threatened that, if she ever dared to show her face there again, they should tear her limb from limb. In an agony of feeling impossible to describe, Jeanie Irving dragged her fainting steps to her temporary home, and scarcely had she crossed the threshold ere her trembling limbs gave way, and she fell senseless on the floor. With a cry of grief, Mrs. Johnstone flew to her side, and raising her tenderly in her arms, with the assistance of Mrs. Hamilton, conveyed her to her bed, and strove by every means in her power to soothe and comfort her in her distress. But the fearful excitement the poor girl had undergone during the last few weeks proved to have been too much for her delicate nature to sustain; reason forsook her throne, and for weeks her life trembled in the balance. We must now leave Jeanie Irving stretched on her bed of sickness, and return once more to her unfortunate lover, whose situation was rendered even more wretched than before on account of the brutal treatment of his captors, who incensed beyond measure at his attempted escape, strove by every possible means to embitter his already unbearable lot.

About this time a bond, by permission of the king, was presented for the prisoners to sign, certifying that they should under no pretext whatever take up arms in future against His Majesty; and those who appended their names to this document were instantly to be set free. Many of the poor men pining for their homes, and weary of their long confinement, signed it readily, in order to obtain their freedom.

Yet a numerous body, amongst whom was William Telford, refused to sign the paper, and, indeed, many of them were denied the opportunity of doing so. Then an order arrived from King Charles, to the effect, that thirteen of the ringleaders of the rebellion, and who approved of the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, were to be placed in prison for a time, and then executed. Twelve had been already selected from amongst the prisoners, and either accidentally or designedly, the fatal paper was placed in the hands of young Telford; he took it with an untrembling hand, and with the fear of death before his eyes, wrote, that he could not on his conscience declare that he esteemed himself wrong in taking up arms in the cause of the Covenant, or, that he considered the killing of the perjured prelate, Archbishop Sharpe, a murder; and this done, he was marched off with his companions. The determination of these devoted men to suffer death in support of their opinions created a great sensation among the more moderate portion of their party; and immediately on their arrival at the prison, they were awaited upon by several of their clergymen, who impressed upon them the folly, not to say criminality, of sacrificing their lives, when, by merely signing the required bond, they might long be spared to comfort their weeping friends. Eleven of them, persuaded by their ministers, appended their names to the document, but the remaining two, one of whom was William Telford—whose pride would not allow him to retract his opinions—remained firm in their determination to suffer death rather than yield the required submission.

These two prisoners were supported in their inflexible resolution by their companions, who while visiting them in prison, expressed their sorrow and repentance at having signed the bond, stating that since then, they had neither known peace nor happiness as their inhuman adversaries treated them, in consequence of their having done so, with the utmost cruelty and contempt, styling them turn-coats, and doing all in their power to render them wretched at the thoughts of what they had done.

Shortly afterwards, the companion of William Telford was publicly executed, while he himself, from some unknown cause, was led back to his old quarters in the Greyfriars' Church-yard.

Months rolled on, and as the winter advanced the prisoners began to experience the bad effects of their long exposure in the open air; indeed, so sick and enfeebled did they become, that the public authorities at once saw the necessity of adopting means for their removal. A memorial to that effect was despatched to the King, who gave orders that a ship should immediately be provided to transport the prisoners to Barbadoes, where they were to be sold as slaves; yet so little were His Majesty's orders obeyed in this respect, that it was the fifteenth of November ere the captain declared the ship in readiness to receive them. In order to get the prisoners removed to the ship without the knowledge of their friends, they were conveyed away at an early hour in the morning, and on their arrival on deck they were instantly stowed away under the hatches, which were carefully chained and locked, in order to prevent their escape. Twelve days was the ship detained in Leith Roads, and during that time the poor men were treated with the greatest inhumanity.