I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING
They had scarce been five minutes gone when the full folly of my action
dawned upon me. To be sure I had saved the miller from death, but I had
now put my own neck in the noose. I had given them a clue to my
whereabouts: more, I had brought the hunt down on lower Tweeddale, which
before had been left all but unmolested. It was war to the knife. I
could look for no quarter, and my only chance lay in outstripping my
pursuers. The dragoons dared not return immediately, for four unarmed
soldiers would scarcely face two resolute men, fully armed and strongly
posted. They could only ride to Abington, and bring the whole hornets'
nest down on my head.
Another reflection had been given to me by the sight of these men. In
all likelihood Gilbert had now returned and resumed the chief command of
the troop, for otherwise there would have been no meaning in the journey
to Dawyck and lower Tweeddale which these fellows had taken. And now
that my dear cousin had come back I might look for action. There was now
no more any question of foolish and sluggish soldiery to elude, but a
man of experience and, as I knew well, of unmatched subtlety.
The miller was for thanking me on his knees for my timely succour, but I
cut him short. "There is no time," said I, "for long thanks. You must
take to the hills, and if you follow my advice you will hold over to the
westlands where your friends are, and so keep the pursuit from
Tweeddale, which little deserves it. As for myself, I will go up the
Wormel, and hide among the scrogs of birk till evening. For the hills
are too bare and the light too clear to travel by day. To be kenspeckle
in these times is a doubtful advantage."
So without more ado I took myself off, crossed the fields with great
caution, and going up a little glen in the side of the big hill, found a
very secure hiding-place in the lee of a craig among a tangle of hazel
bushes. I had taken some food with me from the mill to provision me
during my night journey, and now I used a little of it for my afternoon
meal. In this place I lay all the pleasant hours after midday till I
saw the shadows lengthen and the sun flaming to its setting over the
back of Caerdon. Then the cool spring darkness came down on the earth,
and I rose and shook myself and set out on my way.
I shall ever remember that long night walk over hill and dale to the Cor
Water for many reasons. First, from the exceeding beauty of the night,
which was sharp and yet not cold, with a sky glittering with stars, and
thin trails of mist on the uplands. Second, from the exceeding roughness
of the way, which at this season of the year makes the hills hard for
walking on. The frost and snow loosen the rocks, and there are wide
stretches of loose shingle, which is an accursed thing to pass over.
Third, and above all, for the utter fatigue into which I fell just past
the crossing of Talla. The way was over the Wormel and the Logan Burn
hills as far as Kingledoors. There I forded Tweed and struck over the
low ridge to Talla Water. Thence the way was straight, and much the
same as that which I had come with Marjory. But now I had no such dear
escort, and I give my word that my limbs ached and my head swam
oftentimes ere I reached my journey's end.
It was early dawning when I crossed the last ridge and entered the Cor
Water valley. There was no sign of life in that quiet green glen, a
thing that seemed eerie when one thought that somewhere in the hill in
front men were dwelling. I found that short as had been my absence I
had almost forgotten the entrance to the cave, and it was not without
difficulty that I made out the narrow aperture in the slate-grey rock,
and entered.
In the first chamber all was dark, which struck me with astonishment,
since at five o'clock on a good spring day folk should be stirring. But
all was still, and it was not till I had come into the second chamber,
which, as I have told, was the largest in the place, that there were any
signs of life. This was illumined in the first instance by a narrow
crevice in the rock which opened into a small ravine. The faint
struggling light was yet sufficient to see with, and by its aid I made
out the old man who had spoken with me on that first night of my
journey.
He was sitting alone, staring before him as is the way with the blind,
but at the sound of my steps he rose slowly to his feet. One could see
that the natural acuteness of his hearing was little impaired by years.
I paused at the threshold and he stood listening; then he sank back in
his seat as if convinced it was no enemy.
"Come in, John Burnet," he said, "I ken you well. How have you fared
since you left us? I trust you have placed the maid in safe keeping."
I had heard before of that marvellous quickness of perception which they
possess who have lost some other faculty; but I had never yet had
illustration of it. So I was somewhat surprised, as I told him that all
as yet was well, and that my lady was in good hands.
"It is well," said he; "and, Master Burnet, I fear you have come back to
a desolate lodging. As ye see, all are gone and only I am left.
Yestreen word came that that had happened which we had long expected.
There was once a man among us whom we cast out for evil living. He has
proved the traitor and there is no more safety here. They scattered
last night, the puir feckless folk, to do for themselves among the moors
and mosses, and I am left here to wait for the coming of the enemy."
"Do you hold your life so cheap," I cried, "that you would cast it away
thus? I dare not suffer you to bide here. I would be a coward indeed
if I did not take care of you."
A gleam of something like pleasure passed over his worn face. But he
spoke gravely. "No, you are too young and proud and hot in blood. You
think that a strong arm and a stout heart can do all. But I have a work
to do in which none can hinder me. My life is dear to me, and I would
use it for the best. But you, too, are in danger here; the soldiers may
come at any moment. If you go far to the back you'll find a narrow way
up which you can crawl. It'll bring ye out on the back side of the hill.
Keep it well in mind, lad, when the time comes. But now, sit ye down,
and give us your crack. There's a heap o' things I want to speir at ye.
And first, how is auld Veitch at Smitwood? I once kenned him well, when
he was a young, 'prising lad; but now I hear he's sair fallen in years
and gien ower to the pleasures of eating and drinking."
I told him all of the laird of Smitwood that I could remember.
"It would be bonny on the muirs o' Clyde in this weather. I havena been
out o' doors for mony a day, but I would like fine to feel the hill-wind
and the sun on my cheek. I was aye used wi' the open air," and his
voice had a note of sorrow.
To me it seemed a strange thing that in the presence of the most deadly
danger this man should be so easy and undisturbed. I confess that I
myself had many misgivings and something almost approaching fear. There
was no possibility of escape now, for though one made his way out of the
cave when the soldiers came, there was little hiding on the bare
hillside. This, of course, was what the old man meant when he bade me
stay and refused to go out of doors. It was more than I could do to
leave him, but yet I ever feared the very thought of dying like a rat in
a hole. My forebodings of my death had always been of an open, windy
place, with a drawn sword and more than one man stark before me. It was
with downcast eyes that I waited for the inevitable end, striving to
commend my soul to God and repent of my past follies.
Suddenly some noise came to the quick ear of the old man, and he stood
up quivering.
"John," he cried, "John, my lad, gang to the place I told ye. Ye'll
find the hole where I said it was, and once there ye needna fear."
'Twas true, I was afraid, but I had given no signs of fear, and he had
little cause to speak of it. "Nay," I said haughtily, "I will not move
from your side. It were a dastardly thing to leave you, and the two of
us together may account for some of the fiends. Besides there is as
much chance of life here as out on the braeside, where a man can be seen
for miles."
He gripped me fiercely by the arm so that I almost cried out for pain,
and his voice came shrill and strange. "Gang where I tell ye, ye puir
fool. Is this a time for sinfu' pride o' honour or mettle? Ye know not
what evil is coming upon these men. Gang quick lest ye share it also."
Something in his voice, in his eye, overcame me, and I turned to obey
him.
As I went he laid his hand on my head. "The blessing o' man availeth
little, but I pray God that He be ever near you and your house, and that
ye may soon hae a happy deliverance from all your afflictions. God bless
and keep ye ever, and bring ye at the end to His ain place."
With a heart beating wildly between excitement and sorrow I found the
narrow crevice, and crept upward till I came to the turning which led to
the air. Here I might have safely hid for long, and I was just on the
point of going back to the old man and forcing him to come with me to
the same place of refuge, when I heard the sound of men.
From my vantage-ground I could see the whole cave clearly and well. I
could hear the noise of soldiers fumbling about the entrance, and the
voice of the informer telling the way. I could hear the feet stumbling
along the passage, the clink of weapons, and the muttered words of
annoyance; and then, as I peered warily forth, I saw the band file into
the cave where sat the old man alone. It was as I expected: they were
some twenty men of my cousin's company, strangers to me for the most:
but what most occupied my thoughts was that Gilbert was not with them.
"By God, they're off," said the foremost, "and nothing left but this
auld dotterel. This is a puir haul. Look you here, you fellow,"
turning to the guide, "you are a liar and a scoundrel, and if your thick
hide doesna taste the flat o' my sword ere you're five hours aulder, my
name's no Peter Moriston. You," this to the old man, "what's your name,
brother well-beloved in the Lord?"
At their first coming he had risen to his feet and taken his stand in
the middle of the cave, by the two great stone shafts which kept up the
roof, for all the word like the pillars in some mighty temple. There he
stood looking over their heads at something beyond, with a strange,
almost pitying smile, which grew by degrees into a frown of anger.
"Ye've come here to taunt me," said he, "but the Lord has prepared for
you a speedy visitation. Puir fools, ye shall go down quick to the
bottomless pit like Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, and none shall be left to
tell the tale of you. Ye have led braw lives. Ye have robbed the widow
and the fatherless, ye have slain by your numbers men ye darena have
come near singly, ye have been the devil's own braw servants, and, lads,
ye'll very soon get your wages. Ye have made thae bonny lands o'
Tweedside fit to spew ye forth for your wickedness. And ye think that
there is nae jealous God in Heaven watching ower you and your doings and
biding His time to repay. But, lads, ye're wrang for yince. The men ye
thocht to take are by this time far from ye, and there is only one left,
an auld feckless man, that will no bring muckle credit to ye. But God
has ordained that ye shall never leave here, but mix your banes to a'
time wi' the hillside stanes. God hae pity on your souls, ye that had
nae pity on others in your lives."
And even as I watched, the end came, sudden and awful. Stretching out
his great arms, he caught the two stone shafts and with one mighty
effort pushed them asunder. I held my breath with horror. With a roar
like a world falling the roof came down, and the great hillside sank
among a ruin of rock. I was blinded by dust even in my secure seat, and
driven half-mad with terror and grief. I know not how I got to the air,
but by God's good providence the passage where I lay was distinct from
the cave, and a rift in the solid rock. As it was, I had to fight with
falling splinters and choking dust all the way. At last--and it seemed
ages--I felt free air and a glimmer of light, and with one fresh effort
crawled out beneath a tuft of bracken.
And this is why at this day there is no cave at the Cor Water, nothing
but the bare side of a hill strewn with stones.
When I gained breath to raise myself and look around, the sight was
strange indeed. The vast cloud of dust was beginning to settle and the
whole desolation lay clear. I know not how to tell of it. It was like
some battlefield of giants of old time. Great rocks lay scattered amid
the beds of earth and shingle, and high up toward the brow of the hill
one single bald scarp showed where the fall had begun.
A hundred yards away, by his horse's side, gazing with wild eyes at the
scene, stood a dragoon, doubtless the one whom the ill-fated company had
set for guard. I hastened toward him as fast as my weak knees would
carry me, and I saw without surprise that he was the Dutchman, Jan
Hamman, whom I had already met thrice before. He scarce was aware of my
presence, but stood weeping with weakness and terror, and whimpering
like a child. I took him by the shoulder and shook him, until at last I
had brought him back to his senses, and he knew me.
"Where are they gone?" and he pointed feebly with his finger to the
downfall.
"To their own place," I said, shortly. "But tell me one word. Where is
your captain, Gilbert Burnet, that he is not with you to-day?"
The man looked at me curiously.
"He is gone on another errand, down Tweed toward Peebles."
Then I knew he was seeking for Marjory high and low and would never rest
till he found her.
"I will let you go," said I to the man, "that you may carry the tidings
to the rest. Begone with you quick. I am in no mood to look on such as
you this day."
The man turned and was riding off, when he stopped for one word. "You
think," he said, "that I am your enemy and your cousin's friend, and
that I serve under the captain for his own sweet sake. I will tell you
my tale. Three years ago this Captain Gilbert Burnet was in Leyden, and
there also was I, a happy, reputable man, prosperous and contented, with
the prettiest sweetheart in all the town. Then came this man. I need
not tell what he did. In a year he had won over the silly girl to his
own desires, and I was a ruined man for evermore. I am a servant in his
company who worked my fall. Remember then that the nearer I am to
Gilbert Burnet the worse it will fare with him." And he rode off, still
pale and shivering with terror.
I mused for some time with myself. Truly, thought I, Gilbert has his
own troubles, and it will go hard with him if his own men turn against
him. And I set it down in my mind that I would do my best to warn him of
the schemes of the foreigner. For though it was my cousin's own
ill-doing that had brought him to this, and my heart burned against him
for his villainy, it was yet right that a kinsman should protect one of
the house against the plots of a common soldier.