THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER
The place we found ourselves in was a narrow passage, very lofty and
very dark, and with countless jags of rough stone on all sides to
affront the stranger. Some few paces led us into a wider place, lit by
some opening on the hillside, for a gleam as of pale moonlight was all
about it. There stood a sentinel, a tall, grave man, dressed in coarse
homespun, and brown of the face. Through this again we passed into
another straitened place, which in a little opened into a chamber of
some magnitude.
When I grew accustomed to the candle-light, I made out that it was a
natural cave in the whinstone rocks, maybe thirty feet in height, square
in shape, and not less than thirty feet long. The black sides were
rough and crusted, and hung in many parts with articles of household
gear and warlike arms. But the place was less notable than the people
who were sitting there, and greeted us as we entered. In the midst was
a table of rough-hewn wood, whereon lay the remnants of a meal. Lit
pine-staves cast an eerie glow over all things, and in the light I saw
the faces of the company clear.
On a settle of stone covered with a sheep's fleece sat an old man, large
of limb and tall, but bent and enfeebled with age. His long hair fell
down almost to his shoulders; his features as the light fell upon them
were strong, but his eyes were sightless and dull as stone. He had a
great stick in his hand which he leaned on, and at our entrance he had
risen and stared before him into vacancy, conscious of some new
presence, but powerless to tell of it. Near him, along by the
table-side, were two men of almost like age, square, well-knit fellows,
with the tanned faces of hillmen. I guessed them to be shepherds or
folk of that sort who had fled to this common refuge. Beyond these again
stood a tall, slim man of a more polished exterior than the rest; his
attitude had something of grace in it, and his face and bearing
proclaimed him of better birth. Forbye, there were one or two more,
gaunt, sallow folk, such as I had learned to know as the extreme
religionists. These were busy conversing together with bowed heads and
earnest voices, and took no heed of our arrival. To add to all, there
were two women, one with a little child, clearly the wives of the
shepherds.
Our guide went forward to the man who stood by the wall and whispered
something to him. In an instant he came to us, and, bowing to Marjory,
bade us welcome. "We are glad to see you here, Master Burnet," said he.
"I am rejoiced to see the gentlemen of the land coming forth on the side
of the Covenant. It is you and such as you that we need, and we are
blithe to give you shelter here as long as you care to bide with us. It
is a queer thing that two men of the same house should be engaged in
this business on different sides."
Here one of the others spoke up.
"I trust, Master Burnet, ye have brought us good news from the Lawlands.
We heard that ye had great converse with the godly there, and we will be
glad to hear your account of how the guid cause prospers over the
water."
Now I felt myself in a position of much discomfort. The cause of my
outlawry had clearly got abroad, and here was I, credited with being a
zealous religionist and a great man among the Scots exiles in Holland.
Whereas, as I have already said, I cared little for these things, being
not of a temper which finds delight in little differences of creed or
details of ecclesiastical government, but caring little in what way a
man may worship his Maker. Indeed, to this day, while I can see the
advantage of having fixed rites and a church established, I see little
use in making a pother about any deviation. So I now found myself in an
unpleasing predicament. I must avow my utter ignorance of such matters
and my worldly motives for thus seeking shelter, and in all likelihood,
win the disfavour of these folk, nay, even be not suffered to remain.
"I thank you for your welcome," said I, "but I must hasten to set
matters right between us. I am not of your party, though it is my
misfortune to have to seek safety among the hills. It is true I have
been in the Low Countries, but it was for the purposes of study and
seeing the world, and not for the sake of religion. If I must speak the
truth, when I abode there I had little care of such things, for they
were never in my way. Now that I am returned and find myself a
fugitive, I am not a whit more concerned with them. My misfortunes
arise from the guile of a kinsman, and not from my faith. So there you
have my predicament."
I made the declaration crudely and roughly, for the necessity was urgent
upon me of making it very plain at the outset. Another man would have
been repelled or angered, but this man had the penetration to see
through my mask of callousness that I was not ill-disposed to his cause.
"It is no matter," he said. "Though you were the most rabid malignant,
we would yet give you shelter. And, indeed, though you may not be of
our way of thinking in all matters, yet I doubt not you are with us on
the essentials. Forbye, you are a gentleman of Tweeddale, and it would
be queer if you werena right-hearted, Master John Burnet."
Some one of the disputants grumbled, but the others seemed heartily to
share in this opinion, and bidding us sit down, they removed our
travelling gear, and set food before us. Our appetites were sharp with
the long hill journey, and we were not slow in getting to supper.
Meanwhile the long man to whom we had first spoken busied himself with
serving us, for in that desert place every man was his own servant.
Afterwards Marjory went to the women, and soon won their liking, for the
heart would be hard indeed which was not moved by her pretty ways and
graces.
When I had done I sat down on the settle with the rest, and the fire
which burned in a corner of the cave was made up, and soon the place was
less dismal but a thousandfold more fantastic. I could scarce keep from
thinking that it was all a dream; that my landing, and midnight ride,
and Nicol's news, and my perilous predicament were all figments of the
brain. I was too tired to have any anxiety, for I would have you
remember that I had ridden all the night and most of the day without a
wink of sleep, besides having just come off a sea voyage. My eyelids
drooped, and I was constantly sinking off into a doze. The whole place
tended to drowsiness; the shadows and the light, the low hum of talk,
the heavy air, for the outlet for smoke was but narrow. But the man I
have spoken of came and sat down beside me and would engage me in talk.
"I do not think you know me, Master Burnet," said he; "but I knew your
father well, and our houses used to be well acquaint. I am one o' the
Carnwath Lockharts, that ye may hae heard o'. My name is Francis
Lockhart o' the Beltyne."
I knew him when he uttered the words, for I had often heard tell of him
for a gallant gentleman who had seen service under Gustavus and in many
Low Country wars. I complimented myself on his acquaintance, which
kindness he proceeded to repay. So we fell to discussing many
things--men I had known in Leyden, men I had known in Tweeddale,
together with the more momentous question of the future of each of us.
I gave him a full account of my recent fortunes, that he might have
wherewith to contradict any rumours as to my reasons for taking to the
hills. He in turn spoke to me of his life, and his sorrow at the fate
of his land. The man spoke in such unfeigned grief, and likewise with
such a gentleman-like note of fairness, that I felt myself drawn to him.
It was while thus engaged that he spoke a word which brought upon him
the condemnation of one of the ethers.
"Oh," said he, "I would that some way might be found to redd up thae
weary times and set the king richt on his throne, for I canna but
believe that in this matter loyalty and religion go hand in hand; and
that were James Stewart but free from his wanchancy advisers there would
be less talk of persecuting."
At this one of the others, a dark man from the West, spoke up sharply.
"What do I hear, Maister Lockhart? It's no by ony goodwill to James
Stewart that we can hope to set things richt in thae dark times. Rather
let our mouths be filled with psalms and our hands with the sword-hilt,
and let us teach the wanton and the scorner what manner o' men are bred
by the Covenant and the Word."
The speech was hateful to me, and yet as I looked in the dark, rugged
face of the man I could not keep from liking it. Here, at any rate, was
a soul of iron. My heart stirred at his words, and I could have found
it in me to cast in my lot even with such as these, and bide the bent
with naught but a good sword and faith in God. Howbeit, it was well I
made no such decision, for I was never meant for one of them. I ever
saw things too clearly, both the evil and the good; and whereas this
quality hinders from swift and resolute action, it yet leads more
plainly to a happy life.
Then the old man, him whom I have spoken of, beckoned to me with his
staff and bade me come and sit by him. He looked so kinglike even in
his affliction that I thought on the old blind king Oedipus in the Greek
play.
"Ye kenna me, John Burnet, but weel ken I you. Often in the auld days
your father and me had gey ploys hunting and fechting roond a' the muirs
o' Tweed. He was a guid man, was Gilbert, and I hear he had glimpses o'
grace in the hinner end."
"Maybe," said I, being in perplexity, for from the grace that he spoke
of, my father had ever been far.
"Ay, and I was sair vexed I saw him so little. For he had to bide at
hame for the last years, and I was aye busied wi' other work. Yeddie o'
the Linns was never an idle man, and less than ever in thae days."
At the mention of his name a flood of recollection came in upon me. I
minded how I had heard of the son of Lord Fairley, a great soldier who
had won high renown in the wars abroad: and how he had returned a
melancholy man, weighed down with the grave cares of religion, and gone
to the wilds of Tweed to a hut just above the Linns of Talla, where he
spent his days in prayer and meditation. The name of Yeddie o' the
Linns, as he was called among the shepherds and folk of these parts,
became an equivalent for high-hearted devotion. Then when the wars
began tales of him grew over the countryside. In stature he was all but
gigantic, famed over half the towns of France for feats of strength, and
no evil living had impaired his might. So at the outbreak of the
persecution he had been a terror to the soldiers who harried these
parts. The tale ran of the four men whom he slew single-handed at the
Linns, hemming them in a nook of rocks, and how often he had succoured
fugitives and prisoners, coming like an old lion from the hills and
returning no one knew whither. There was also the tale of his blinding
by a chance splinter from a bullet-shot, and how he had lived among the
caves and hills, dangerous even in his affliction. Had I but known it,
this cave was his finding, and half the retreats in Tweeddale and
Clydesdale were known to him. But now he was an old man, who had long
left his youth, and his strength had all but gone from him. He sat
alone in his great darkness, speaking little to the inmates or the
chance comers, save when he knew them for gentlemen of birth; for though
he might risk his life for the common people, he had no care to
associate with them, being of the old Kirkpatricks of that ilk, as proud
a house as is to be found in the land.
"You are not of us," he said suddenly. "I heard you say a moment agone
that you had no share in the inheritance of Jacob, but still chose to
dwell among the tents of sin."
"Nay," I said very gently, for he was very old and of noble presence,
"do not speak thus. Surely it is no sin to live at peace in the good
earth in honour and uprightness, and let all nice matters of doctrine go
by, esteeming it of more importance to be a good man and true than a
subtle disquisitioner--thinking, too, that all such things are of little
moment and change from age to age, and that to concern one's self much
with them is to follow vain trifles. For the root of the whole matter
is a simple thing on which all men are agreed, but the appurtenances are
many, and to me at least of such small significance that I care for them
not at all. I do not mind how a man worship his Maker, if he have but
real devoutness. I do not care how a church is governed if the folk in
it are in very truth God's people."
"You speak well, my son," said he, "and at one time I should have gone
with you. Nor do I set any great value by doctrine. But you are young
and the blood is still rich in your veins and the world seems a fair
place, with many brave things to be achieved. But I am old and have
seen the folly of all things, how love is only a delusion and honour a
catchword and loyalty a mockery. And as the things of earth slip away
from me, and the glory of my strength departs, I see more clearly the
exceeding greatness of the things of God. And as my eyes cease to be
set on earth, I see more nearly the light of that better country which
is an heavenly. So I love to bide in these dark moors where the pomp of
the world comes not, among men of grave conversation, for I have leisure
and a fitting place to meditate upon the things to come."
"It may be," said I, "that some day I also be of your way of thinking.
At present the world, though the Devil is more loose in it than I love,
seems to me so excellent that I would pluck the heart of it before I
condemn it. But God grant that I may never lose sight of the beauty of
His kingdom."
"Amen to that," said the old man very reverently.
Truly, my thoughts on things were changing. Here was I in the very
stronghold of the fanatics, and in the two chief, the old man and Master
Lockhart, I found a reasonable mind and lofty purpose. And thus I have
ever found it, that the better sort of the Covenanters were the very
cream of Scots gentlefolk, and that 'twas only in the _canaille_ that
the gloomy passion of fanatics was to be found.
Meantime Nicol, who cared for none of these things, was teaching the
child how to play at the cat's garterns.