SMITWOOD
That I am alive to this day and fit to write this tale, I owe to William
Baillie. He saw me fall and the press close over me, and, though hard
beset himself, he made one effort for my salvation. "Mathy," he cried,
"and Tam and Andra, look after your man and get him up," and then once
more he was at death-grips. They obeyed his bidding as well as they
might, and made a little ring in the centre around me, defending me with
their weapons. Then they entwined us and lifted me, senseless as I was,
to the light and air. As for Kennedy, he was heavy and florid, and his
life had gone from him at the first overthrow.
I do not know well how I was got from the fray. I think I would have
been killed, had not the Ruthvens, whose best men were wounded, given
way a little after. Their trick of surrounding the enemy, by spreading
wide their wings, was not wise and met with sorry success. For it left
their middle so weak, that when Kennedy and the valiant Earl had been
mastered, there remained no resistance. So when my friends made haste
to push with me to the back they found their path none so hard. And
after all that there was nothing but confusion and rout, the one side
fleeing with their wounded, the other making no effort to pursue, but
remaining to rest and heal their hurts.
As I have said, I was unconscious for some time, and when I revived I
was given a sleeping draught of the gipsies' own making. It put me into
a profound slumber, so that I slept for the rest of the day and night
and well on to the next morning. When I awoke I was in a rough cart
drawn by two little horses, in the centre of the troop who were hurrying
westward. I felt my body with care and found that I was whole and well.
A noise still hummed in my head and my eyes were not very clear, as
indeed was natural after the fray of the day before. But I had no sore
hurt, only little flesh scratches, which twinged at the time, but would
soon be healed.
But if this was my case it was not that of the rest of the band. The
battle had been like all such gipsy fights--very terrible and bloody,
but with no great roll of dead. Indeed, on our side we had not lost a
man, and of the enemy Kennedy alone had died, who, being a big man and a
full-blooded, had been suffocated in his fall by the throng above him.
It was just by little that I had escaped the same fate, for we two at
the time had been in death-grips, and had I not been thin and hardy of
frame, I should have perished there and then. But the wounds were so
terrible on both sides that it scarce seemed possible that many could
ever recover. Yet I heard, in after days, that not one died as a result
of that day's encounter. Even the Earl of Hell and his daughter Jean
recovered of their wounds and wandered through the country for many
years. But the sight of the folk around me on the march was very
terrible. One man limped along with a great gash in his thigh in which
I could have placed my open hand. Another had three fingers shorn off,
and carried his maimed and bandaged hand piteously. Still a third lay
in the cart with a breast wound which gaped at every breath, and seemed
certain ere long to bring death. Yet of such strength and hardihood was
this extraordinary people that they made light of such wounds, and swore
they would be healed in three weeks' time. Perhaps this tenacity of
life is due in some part to their excellent doctoring, for it is certain
that these folk have great skill in medicaments, and with
herb-concoctions, and I know not what else, will often perform wondrous
cures. I have my own case as an instance--where first I was restored
from a high fever by their skill, and, second, from a fit of suffocation
far more deadly.
The storms of the day before had passed and a light frost set in which
made the air clear and sharp and the countryside plain even to the
distances. We were passing under the great mass of Tintock--a high,
hump-backed hill which rises sheer from the level land and stands like a
mighty sentinel o'er the upper Clyde valley. We travelled slow, for the
wounded were not fit to bear much speed, and many of the folk walked to
suffer the horses to be yoked to the carts. After a little I espied the
captain walking at the side, with his shoulder and cheeks bandaged, but
as erect and haughty as ever. Seeing that I was awake, he came over
beside me and asked very kindly after my health. His tenderness toward
me was as great as if I had been his son or nearest blood-kin. When I
told him that I was well and would get down and walk beside him, he said
that that would be a most unbecoming thing and would never do, but that
he would have a horse brought me from the back. So a horse was brought,
an excellent black, with white on its fetlocks, and I mounted; and
despite some little stiffness, found it much to my liking.
He told of the end of the battle and all the details of its course. He
was in the highest spirits, for though his folk were sore wounded, they
had yet beaten their foes and sent them off in a worse plight than
themselves. Above all he was full of a childish vanity in his own
prowess. "Saw you that muckle bullion, Kennedy, Master Burnet? I gied
him some gey licks, but I never could win near eneuch to him for his
muckle airm. You grippit him weel and he'll no bother us mair. His ain
folk 'll keep quiet eneuch aboot the affair, I'll warrant, so we may
look to hear naething mair aboot it. I'm thinking tae, that the Yerl
'll no seek to come back my gate again. I tried to mak him fecht like a
gentleman, but faith, he wadna dae't. He just keepit cuttin' at my
shanks till I was fair wild, and telled some o' our ain folk to tak the
legs frae the body wi' a scythe-stick. I haena seen a fecht like it
since that at the Romanno Brig fifteen years syne, atween the Faas and
the Shawes, when they were gaun frae Haddington to Harestane. Our folk
wad hae been in't if they hadna come't up ower late and juist seen the
end o't."
"And will you have no farther trouble about the matter?" I asked. "If
the justice gets word of it will you not suffer?"
"Na, na," he said, with conviction, "nae fear. Thae things dinna come to
the lugs o' the law. We didna dae ony hairm except to oorsels, and
there's nane o' us killed save Kennedy whae dee'd a naitural death, so
there can be nae word aboot that. Forbye, how's the law to grip us?"
And he turned on me a face full of roguish mirth which looked oddly
between the bandages. "If they heard we were at Biggar Moss yae day and
cam after us, afore the morn we wad be in the Douglas Muirs or the
Ettrick Hills. We're kittle cattle to fash wi'. We gang slow for
ordinar, but when aucht presses we can flee like a flock o' stirlins."
"Then where are you going?" I asked.
"Where, but to Lancrick," he said. "There's a fair comes on there
Monday three days, and the muir is grand beddin'. I didna ask your will
on the maitter, for I kenned a' places the noo were muckle the same to
ye, provided they were safe and no ower far away frae the wast country."
"That's true enough," I said, thinking sadly of Marjory and my miserable
plight. I had not told Baillie anything of my story, for I did not care
to commit it to such ears. But I was glad that we travelled in this
airt, for I had still in my heart a wild hope that by some fortunate
chance I should be in time to save my love.
About midday we came to Lanark Moor, where the baggage and shelties, as
well as most of the women and children, were left behind to find an
encampment. As for us, we pushed on to the town to see what was doing
and hear some news of the countryside. I had no fear of detection, for
in my new guise I passed for the veriest gipsy in the land. I was still
clothed in my suit of crimson, but the fight had made it torn in many
places, and all smirched with mire and bog-water. Also, my face was not
only stained with the captain's dye, but the storms and dust of the
encounter had deepened its colour to the likeness of an Ethiop. I had
not a rag left of gentility, save maybe the sword which still swung at
my side. In this fashion I rode by Baillie's elbow in a mood neither
glad nor sad, but sunk in a sort of dogged carelessness. The entrance
to the town was down a steep path from the moor, for the place is built
above the gorge of Clyde, yet something lower than the surrounding
moorlands. Far on all sides I had a view of the wide landscape, from the
rugged high hills of Tweeddale and the upper Clyde to the lowlands in
the west which stretch to Glasgow and the sea.
But when we came to the town there was a great to-do, men running about
briskly and talking to one another, old women and young gossiping at
house and close doors, and the upper windows filled with heads. There
was a curious, anxious hum throughout the air, as if some great news had
come or was coming ere long. I forgot for a moment my position and
leaned from the saddle to ask the cause of a man who stood talking to a
woman at the causeway side. He looked at me rudely. "What for d'ye
want to ken, ye black-faced tinkler? D'ye think it'll matter muckle to
you what king there is when you're hangit?" But the woman was more
gracious and deigned to give me some sort of answer. "There's word o'
news," she said. "We kenna yet what it is, and some think ae thing and
some anither, but a' are agreed that it'll make a gey stramash i' the
land. A man cam ridin' here an hour syne and has been closeted wi' the
provost ever since. Honest man, his heid 'll be fair turned if there's
onything wrung, for he's better at sellin' tatties than reddin' the
disorders o' the state." And then the man by her side bade her hold her
peace, and I rode on without hearing more.
By and by we came to the market-place where stands the ancient cross of
Lanerick, whereat all proclamations are made for the Westlands.
Straight down from it one looks on the steep braes of Kirkfieldbank and
the bridge which the Romans built over the river; and even there the
murmur of the great falls in Clyde comes to a man's ear. The place was
thronged with people standing in excited groups, and the expression on
each face was one of expectancy. Folk had come in from the country
round as on some errand of enquiry, and the coats of a few of the
soldiery were to be discerned among the rest. But I had no fear of
them, for they were of the lowlands regiment, and had no knowledge of
me. The sight of us, and of myself in especial, for Baillie had changed
his garb, caused some little stir in the crowd and many inquisitive
looks.
The captain came up to me. "There's dooms little to be dune here," he
cried; "the place is in sic a fever, I canna think what's gaun to
happen. We may as weel gang back to the muirs and wait till things
quiet doun."
"I know not either," said I, and yet all the time I knew I was lying,
for I had some faint guess at the approach of great tidings, and my
heart was beating wildly.
Suddenly the crowd parted at the farther end and a man on a wearied grey
horse rode up toward the cross. He held a bundle of papers in his hand,
and his face was red with hurry and excitement. "News," he cried
hoarsely, "great news, the greatest and the best that the land has heard
for many a day." And as the people surged round in a mighty press he
waved them back and dismounted from his horse. Then slowly and
painfully he ascended the steps of the cross and leaned for a second
against the shaft to regain his breath. Then he stood forward and cried
out in a loud voice that all in the market-place might hear. "I have
ridden post-haste from Edinbro' with the word, for it came only this
morn. James Stewart has fled from the throne, and William of Orange has
landed in the South and is on his way to London. The bloody house has
fallen and the troubling of Israel is at an end."
At that word there went through the people a sound which I shall never
forget as long as I live--the sigh of gratitude for a great deliverance.
It was like a passing of a wind through a forest, and more terrible to
hear than all the alarums of war. And then there followed a mighty
shout, so loud and long that the roofs trembled, and men tossed bonnets
in air and cried aloud and wept and ran hither and thither like madmen.
At last the black cloud of the persecution had lifted from their land,
and they were free to go and tell their kinsmen in hiding that all
danger was gone for ever.
As for myself, what shall I say? My first feeling was one of utter joy.
Once more I was free to go whither I liked, and call my lands my own.
Now I could overmaster my cousin and set out to the saving of my lass.
Indeed I, who am a king's man through and through, and who sorrowed in
after days for this very event, am ashamed to say that my only feeling
at the moment was one of irrepressible gladness. No one, who has not
for many months been under the shadow of death, can tell the blessedness
of the release. But even as I joyed, I thought of Marjory, and the
thought recalled me to my duty.
"Have you a fast horse?" I said to the captain.
He looked at me in amazement, for the tidings were nothing to him, and
in my face he must have read something of my tale.
"You mean--" he said.
"Yes, yes," said I; "it means that I am now safe, and free to save
another. I must be off hot-foot. Will you lend me a horse?"
"Take mine," said he, "it's at your service, and take my guidwill wi'
ye." And he dismounted and held out his hand.
I mounted and took his in one parting grip. "God bless you, William
Baillie, for an honest man and a gentleman," and I was off without
another word.
It must have been a strange thing for the people of Lanark to see me on
that day, as they ran hither and thither to tell the good tidings. For,
in all my savage finery, I dashed up the narrow street, scattering folk
to the right and left like ducks from a pond, and paying no heed to a
hundred angry threats which rang out behind me. In a little I had
gained the moor, and set my face for Douglasdale and my lady. Smitwood
was but ten miles away and the path to it easy. In a short hour I should
be there, and then--ah, then, it could not be otherwise, it must be,
that Marjory should be there to greet me, and be the first to hear my
brave news.
I passed over the road I had come, and had no time to reflect on the
difference in my condition from two hours agone, when abject and
miserable I had plodded along it. Now all my head was in a whirl, and
my heart in a storm of throbbing. The horse's motion was too slow to
keep pace with my thoughts and my desires; and I found me posting on
ahead of myself, eager to be at my goal. In such wild fashion I rode
over the low haughlands of Clyde, and forded the river at a deep place
where it flowed still and treacherous among reeds, never heeding, but
swimming my horse across, though I had enough to do to land on the other
side. Then on through the benty moorlands of Douglas-side and past the
great wood of the Douglas Castle. My whole nature was centred in one
great desire of meeting, and yet even in my longing I had a deadly
suspicion that all might not be well--that I had come too late.
Then I saw the trees and the old house of Smitwood lying solemn among
its meadows. I quickened my horse to fresh exertion. Like a whirlwind
he went up the avenue, making the soft turf fly beneath his heels. Then
with a start I drew him up at the door and cried loudly for admittance.
Master Veitch came out with a startled face and looked upon me with
surprise.
"Is Marjory within?" I cried, "Marjory! Quick, tell me!"
"Marjory," he replied, and fell back with a white face. "Do you seek
Marjory? She left here two day's agone to go to you, when you sent for
her. Your servant Nicol went after her."
"O my God," I cried, "I am too late;" and I leaned against my horse in
despair.
BOOK IV--THE WESTLANDS
CHAPTER I
I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN AT THE FORDS O' CLYDE
For a second I was so filled with despair at Master Veitch's news that
my mind was the veriest blank and I could get no thought save that
bitterest of all--that my lady was gone. But with a great effort I
braced myself to action.
"And what of my servant Nicol?" I asked, and waited breathlessly for the
answer.
"Oh, he was away on the hills seeking ye, Master Burnet. When he got no
word Marjory was in sic a terror that nothing would suffice her but that
he maun off to Tweeddale and seek every heather-buss for word of ye. He
hadna been gone twae days when half-a-dozen men, or maybe more, came wi'
horse and a' and a letter frae you yoursel, seekin' the lass. They said
that a' was peaceably settled now, and that you had sent them to fetch
her to meet you at Lanerick. I hadna a thocht but that it was a' richt
and neither had the lass, for she was blithe to gang. Next day, that
was yestreen, here comes your servant Nicol wi' a face as red as a
sodger's coat, and when he finds Marjory gone he sits down wi' his heid
atween his hands and spak never a word to any man. Then aboot the
darkening he gets up and eats a dinner as though he hadna seen meat for
a twal'month. Then off he gangs, and tells na a soul where he was
gaun." The old man had lost all his fine bearing and correct speech,
and stood by the door shivering with age and anxiety.
A whirlwind of thoughts passed through my mind. Now that the old order
was at end, Gilbert's power had gone with it, and he was likely to find
it go hard with him soon. There was but one refuge for him--in his own
lands in the west, where, in his great house of Eaglesham or his town
dwelling in Glasgow, he might find harborage; for the very fact that
they were in the stronghold of the Whigs made them the more secure.
Thither he must have gone if he had any remnant of wit, and thither he
had taken my lady. And with the thought my whole nature was steeled into
one fierce resolve to follow him and call him to bitter account. My
first fit of rage had left me, and a more deadly feeling had taken its
place. This earth was too narrow a place for my cousin and me to live
in, and somewhere in these Westlands I would meet him and settle
accounts once and for all. It was not anger I felt, I give you my word.
Nay, it was a sense of some impelling fate behind driving me forward to
meet this mm, who had crossed me so often. The torments of baffled love
and frustrated ambition were all sunk in this one irresistible impulse.
I clambered on my horse once more, and a strange sight I must have
seemed to the gaping servants and their astonished master.
"I am off on the quest," I cried, "but I will give you one word of news
ere I go. The king has fled the land, and the Dutch William goes to the
throne." And I turned and galloped down the avenue, leaving a throng of
pale faces staring after my horse's tail.
Once on the road I lashed my animal into a mad gallop. Some devil
seemed to have possessed me. I had oft thought fondly in the past that
my nature was not such as the wild cavaliers whom I had seen, but more
that of the calm and reasonable philosopher. Now I laughed bitterly at
these vain imaginings. For when a man's heart is stirred to its bottom
with love or hatred all surface graces are stripped from it and the old
primeval passions sway him, which swayed his father before him. But
with all my heat I felt a new coolness and self-possession. A desperate
calm held me. In a little all things would be settled, for this was the
final strife, from which one or other of the combatants would never
return.
The dull November eve came on me ere I reached the Clyde. 'Twas no
vantage to ford the stream, so I rode down the left bank among the damp
haughs and great sedgy pools. In a little I had come to the awful gorge
where the water foams over many linns and the roar of the place is like
the guns of an army. Here I left the stream side and struck into the
country, whence I returned again nearly opposite the town of Lanark, at
the broad, shallow place in the river, which folk call the Fords o'
Clyde.
Here there is a clachan of houses jumbled together in a crinkle of the
hill, where the way from the Ayrshire moors to the capital comes down to
the bank. Here there was an inn, an indifferent place, but quiet and
little frequented; and since there was little to be got by going further
I resolved to pass the night in the house. So I rode down the uneven
way to where I saw the light brightest, and found the hostel by a
swinging lamp over the door. So giving my horse to a stableman, with
many strict injunctions as to his treatment, I entered the low doorway
and found my way to the inn parlour.
From the place came a great racket of mirth, and as I opened the door a
glass struck against the top and was shivered to pieces. Inside, around
the long table, sat a round dozen of dragoons making merry after their
boisterous fashion. One would have guessed little indeed from their
faces that their occupation was gone, for they birled at the wine as if
the times were twenty years back and King Charles (whom God rest) just
come anew to his throne.
I had never seen the soldiers before, but I made a guess that they were
disbanded men of my cousin's company, both from their air of exceeding
braggadocio which clung to all who had any relation to Gilbert Burnet,
and also since there were no soldiers in this special part of the Clyde
dale save his. I was in no temper for such a racket, and had there been
another room in the house I should have sought it; but the inn was small
and little frequented, and the accommodation narrow at the best.
However, I must needs make the most of it, so shutting the door behind I
sought a retired corner seat. I was still worn with my exertions of
yesterday and weary with long riding, so I was blithe to get my limbs at
rest.
But it was clear that three-fourths of the company were in the last
state of drunkenness, and since men in liquor can never let well alone,
they must needs begin to meddle with me.
"Gidden," said one, "what kind o' gentleman hae we here? I havena seen
sic a fellow sin' yon steeple-jaick at Brochtoun Fair. D'ye think he
wad be willin' to gie us a bit entertainment?"
Now you must remember that I still wore my suit of torn and dirty
crimson, and with my stained face and long hair I must have cut a rare
figure.
But had the thing gone no further than words I should never have stirred
a finger in the matter, for when a man's energies are all bent upon some
great quarrel, he has little stomach for lesser bickerings. But now one
arose in a drunken frolic, staggered over to where I sat, and plucked me
rudely by the arm. "Come ower," he said, "my man, and let'sh see ye
dance the 'Nancy kilt her Coats.' You see here twelve honest sodgers
whae will gie ye a penny a piece for the ploy."
"Keep your hands off," I said brusquely, "and hold your tongue. 'Twill
be you that will do the dancing soon at the end of a tow on the castle
hill, when King William plays the fiddle. You'll be brisker lads then."
"What," said he in a second, with drunken gravity. "Do I hear you
shpeak treason against his majesty King James? Dod, I'll learn ye
better." And he tugged at his sword, but being unable in his present
state to draw it with comfort, he struck me a hard thwack over the
shoulder, scabbard and all.
In a moment I was ablaze with passion. I flung myself on the fellow,
and with one buffet sent him rolling below the table. Then I was
ashamed for myself, for a drunken man is no more fit for an honest blow
than a babe or a woman.
But there was no time for shame or aught save action. Three men--the
only three who were able to understand the turn of affairs--rose to
their feet in a trice, and with drawn swords came towards me. The others
sat stupidly staring, save two who had fallen asleep and rolled from
their seats.
I picked up my chair, which was broad and heavy and of excellent stout
oak, and held it before me like a shield. I received the first man's
awkward lunge full on it, and, thrusting it forward, struck him fair
above the elbow, while his blade fell with a clatter on the floor.
Meantime the others were attacking me to the best of their power, and
though they were singly feeble, yet in their very folly they were more
dangerous than a mettlesome opponent, who will keep always in front and
observe well the rules of the game. Indeed, it might have gone hard with
me had not the door been flung violently open and the landlord entered,
wringing his hands and beseeching, and close at his heels another man,
very tall and thin and dark. At the sight of this second my heart gave
a great bound and I cried aloud in delight. For it was my servant
Nicol.
In less time than it takes to write it we had disarmed the drunken
ruffians and reduced them to order. And, indeed, the task was not a hard
one, for they were a vast deal more eager to sleep than to fight, and
soon sank to their fitting places on the floor. Forbye they may have
had some gleam of sense, and seen how perilous was their conduct in the
present regiment of affairs. Then Nicol, who was an old acquaintance of
the host's, led me to another room in the back of the house, where we
were left in peace; and sitting by the fire told one another some
fragment of our tales.
And first for his own, for I would speak not a word till he had told me
all there was to tell. He had had much ado to get to Caerdon, for the
hills were thick with the military, and at that wild season of the year
there is little cover. When he found no letter he set off for the
hiding-place above Scrape, where he knew I had been, and found it
deserted. Thence he had shaped his way again to Smitwood with infinite
labour and told Marjory the fruit of his errand. At this her grief had
been so excessive that nothing would content her but that he must be off
again and learn by hook or crook some word of my whereabouts. So began
his wanderings among the hills, often attended with danger and always
with hardship, but no trace of me could he find. At last, somewhere
about the Moffat Water, he had forgathered with a single tinker whom he
had once befriended in the old days when he had yet power to help. From
this man he had learned that the Baillies had with them one whom he did
not know for certain, but shrewdly guessed as the laird of Barns. With
all speed he had set off on this new quest and followed me in my journey
right to the moss of Biggar. Here all signs of the band came to an end,
for most of the folk of the place knew naught of the airt of the gipsy
flight, and such as knew were loth to tell, being little in a mood to
incur the Baillies' wrath. So naught was left for him but to return to
the place whence he had started. Here he was met with the bitter news
that I have already set down. He was thrown into a state of utter
despondency, and sat for long in a fine confusion of mind. Then he fell
to reasoning. There was no place whither Gilbert could take a woman
save his own house of Eaglesham, for Dawyck and Barns were too near the
hills and myself. You must remember that at this time my servant had no
inkling of the momentous event which had set our positions upside down.
Now, if they took her to the west they would do so with all speed; they
had but one day's start; he might yet overtake them, and try if his wits
could find no way out of the difficulty.
So off he set and came to this inn of the Clyde fords, and then he heard
that on the evening before such a cavalcade had passed as he sought.
But he learned something more the next morn; namely, that my cousin's
power was wholly broken and that now I was freed from all suspicion of
danger. Once more he fell into a confusion, but the one thing clear was
that he must find me at all costs. He had heard of me last at the town
of Biggar not fifteen miles off; when I heard the great news he guessed
that I would ride straight for Smitwood; I would hear the tidings that
the folk there had to tell, and, if he knew aught of me, I would ride
straight, as he had done, on the track of the fugitives. So he turned
back to the inn, and abode there awaiting me, and, lo! at nightfall I
had come.
Then for long we spoke of my own wanderings, and I told him many tales
of my doings and sufferings up hill and down dale, as did Ulysses to the
Ithacan swineherd. But ere long we fell to discussing that far more
momentous task which lay before us. It behooved us to be up and doing,
for I had a horrid fear at my heart that my cousin might seek to reach
the western seacoast and escape to France or Ireland, and thus sorely
hinder my meeting with my love. I had no fear but that I should
overtake him sooner or later, for fate had driven that lesson deep into
my heart, and to myself I said that it was but a matter of days, or
weeks, or maybe years, but not of failure. I was for posting on even at
that late hour, but Nicol would have none of it.
"Look at your face i' the gless, sir," said he, "and tell me if ye look
like muckle mair ridin' the day. Ye're fair forwandered wi' weariness
and want o' sleep. And what for wad ye keep thae queer-like claes?
I'll get ye a new suit frae the landlord, decent man, and mak ye mair
presentable for gaun intil the Wast."
I looked as he bade me in the low mirror, and saw my dark face, and
wind-tossed hair, and my clothes of flaming crimson. Something in the
odd contrast struck my fancy.
"Nay," I said, grimly, "I will bide as I am. I am going on a grim
errand and I will not lay aside these rags till I have done that which I
went for to do."
"Weel, weel, please yersel'," said my servant, jauntily, and he turned
away, whistling and smiling to himself.
CHAPTER II
AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND
I slept like a log till the broad daylight on the next morn woke me, and
with all speed I got up and dressed. I found myself much refreshed in
body. My weariness was gone, and the dull languor which had oppressed
me had given place to a singular freshness of spirit.
When I went below I found my servant ready and waiting, with the horses
saddled and my meal prepared. The soldiers had gone early, paying no
score; for when their liquor had left them they had wakened up to the
solemn conviction that this countryside was not like to be a pleasant
habitation for them for many months to come. So they had gone off to
Heaven knows where, cutting my bridle-rein as a last token of their
affection.
It was near ten o'clock ere we started, the two of us, on our road to
the West. I had travelled it many times, for it was the way to Glasgow,
and I found myself calling up, whether I would or no, a thousand
half-sad and half-pleasing memories. At this place I had stopped to
water my horse, at this cottage I had halted for an hour, at this hostel
I had lain the night. Had I not looked at my comrade every now and
then, I might have fancied that I was still the schoolboy, with his wide
interest in letters and life, and little knowledge of either, with half
a dozen letters in his pocket, looking forward with fear and hope to
town and college. Heigh-ho! Many things had come and gone since then,
and here was I still the same boy, but ah! how tossed and buffeted and
perplexed. Yet I would not have bartered my present state for those
careless and joyous years, for after all this is a rugged world, with
God knows how many sore straits and devilish temptations, but with so
many fair and valiant rewards, that a man is a coward indeed who would
not battle through the one for the sweet sake of the other.
As we went Nicol talked of many things with a cheery good humour. His
was an adventure-loving mind, and there were few things which he would
not brave save the routine of settled life. Now, as the November sun
came out, for the morn was frosty and clear, his face shone with the
sharp air and the excitement of the ride, and he entertained me to his
views on the world and the things in it. The ground was hard as steel
underfoot, the horse's hooves crackled through the little ice-coated
pools in the road, and a solitary thrush sang its song from a wayside
wood and seemed like a silver trump calling to action and daring.
"What think ye o' the hills, Laird?" said my servant. "Ye've been lang
among them, and ye'll ken them noo in anither way than if ye had just
trampit ower them after wild-jucks or ridden through them to Yarrow or
Moffatdale. I've wandered among them since I was a laddie five 'ear
auld, and used to gang oot wi' my faither to the herdin'. And since
then I've traivelled up Tweed and doun Tweed, and a' ower the Clydeside
and the Annanside, no to speak o' furrin pairts, and I can weel say that
I ken naucht sae awfu' and sae kindly, sae couthy and bonny and hamely,
and, at the same time, sae cauld and cruel, as juist thae green hills
and muirs."
"You speak truly," said I. "I've seen them in all weathers and I know
well what you mean."
"Ay," he went on, "thae lawlands are very bonny, wi' the laigh meadows,
and bosky trees and waters as still as a mill-pound. And if ye come
doun frae the high bare lands ye think them fair like Heev'n. But I
canna bide lang there. I aye turn fair sick for the smell o' moss and
heather, and the roarin' and routin' o' the burn, and the air sae clear
and snell that it gars your face prick and your legs and airms
strauchten oot, till ye think ye could run frae here to the Heads o'
Ayr."
"I know all of that," said I, "and more."
"Ay, there's far mair," said he. "There's the sleepin' at nicht on the
grund wi' naething abune you but the stars, and waukin' i' the mornin'
wi' the birds singin' i' your lug and the wind blawin' cool and free
around you. I ken a' that and I ken the ither, when the mist crowds low
on the tap o' the hills and the rain dreeps and seeps, or when the snaw
comes and drifts sae thick that ye canna stand afore it, and there's
life neither for man nor beast. Yet wi' it a' I like it, and if I micht
choose the place I wad like best to dee in, it would be in the lee side
o' a muckle hill, wi' nae death-bed or sic like havers, but juist to
gang straucht to my Makker frae the yirth I had aye traivelled on. But
wha kens?" and he spurred up his horse.
"Nicol," said I, after a long silence, "you know the errand we go on. I
have told you it, I think. It is to find my cousin and Mistress Marjory.
If God grant that we do so, then these are my orders. You shall take
the lady home to Tweeddale, to Dawyck, which is her own, and leave me
behind you. I may come back or I may not. If I do, all will be well.
If I do not, you know your duty. You have already fulfilled it for some
little time; if it happens as I say, you shall continue it to death.
The lass will have no other protector than yourself."
"E'en as ye say," cried he, resuming his hilarity, though whether it was
real or no I cannot tell. "But dinna crack aboot siccan things, Laird,
or ye'll be makkin' our journey nae better than buryin'. It's a
wanchancy thing to speak aboot death. No that a man should be feared at
it, but that he should keep a calm sough till it come. Ye mind the
story o' auld Tam Blacket, the writer at Peebles. Tam was deein', and
as he was a guid auld man the minister, whae was great at death-beds and
consolation, cam to speak to him aboot his latter end. 'Ye're near
death, Tammas,' says he. Up gets auld Tam. 'I'll thank ye no to
mention that subject,' he says, and never a word wad he allow the puir
man to speak."
So in this way we talked till we came to where the road leaves the Clyde
valley and rises steep to the high land about the town of Hamilton.
Here we alighted for dinner at an inn which bears for its sign the Ship
of War, though what this means in a town many miles from the sea I do
not know. Here we had a most excellent meal, over which we did not
tarry long, for we sought to reach Glasgow ere nightfall, and at that
season of the year the day closes early.
As we rode down the narrow, crooked street, I had leisure to look about
me. The town was in a ferment, for, as near the field of Bothwell Brig,
where the Whigs had suffered their chiefest slaughter, it had been well
garrisoned with soldiers, and the news of the Prince of Orange's landing
put the place into an uproar. Men with flushed, eager faces hurried past
with wonder writ large on their cheeks; others stood about in knots
talking shrilly; and every now and then a horseman would push his way
through the crowd bearing fresh tidings to the townsfolk or carrying it
thence to the West country.
Suddenly, in the throng of men, I saw a face which brought me to a
standstill. It was that of a man, dark, sullen, and foreign-looking,
whose former dragoon's dress a countryman's coat poorly concealed. He
was pushing his way eagerly through the crowd, when he looked into the
mid-street and caught my eye. In an instant he had dived into one of
the narrow closes and was lost to sight.
At the first glance I knew my man for that soldier of Gilbert's, Jan
Hamman, the Hollander, whom already thrice I had met, once in the Alphen
Road, once at the joining of the Cor Water with Tweed, and once at the
caves of the Cor, when so many of His Majesty's servants went to their
account. What he was about in this West country I could not think, for
had he been wise he would have made for the eastern seacoast or at least
not ventured into this stronghold of those he had persecuted. And with
the thought another came. Had not he spoken bitterly of his commander?
was he not the victim of one of my fair cousin's many infamies? had he
not, in my own hearing, sworn vengeance? Gilbert had more foes than one
on his track, for here was this man, darkly malevolent, dogging him in
his flight. The thought flashed upon me that he of all men would know
my cousin's plans and would aid me in my search. I did not for a moment
desire him for an ally in my work; nay, I should first frustrate his
designs, before I settled matters with Gilbert, for it was in the
highest degree unseemly that any such villain should meddle in matters
which belonged solely to our house. Still I should use him for my own
ends, come what might.
I leaped from my horse, crying on Nicol to take charge of it, and dashed
up the narrow entry. I had just a glimpse of a figure vanishing round
the far corner, and when I had picked my way, stumbling over countless
obstacles, I found at the end an open court, roughly paved with
cobbie-stones, and beyond that a high wall. With all my might I made a
great leap and caught the top, and lo! I looked over into a narrow lane
wherein children were playing. It was clear that my man had gone by
this road, and would now be mixed among the folk in the side street. It
was useless to follow further, so in some chagrin I retraced my steps,
banning Nicol and the Dutchman and my own ill-luck.
I remounted, making no answer to my servant's sarcastic
condolences--for, of course, he had no knowledge of this fellow's
purport in coming to the Westlands, and could only look on my conduct as
a whimsical freak. As we passed down the street I kept a shrewd lookout
to right and left if haply I might see my man, but no such good luck
visited me. Once out of the town it behooved us to make better speed,
for little of the afternoon remained, and dusk at this time of year fell
sharp and sudden. So with a great jingling and bravado we clattered
through the little hamlets of Blantyre and Cambuslang, and came just at
the darkening to the populous burgh of Rutherglen, which, saving that it
has no college or abbey, is a more bustling and prosperous place than
Glasgow itself. But here we did not stay, being eager to win to our
journey's end; so after a glass of wine at an inn we took the path
through the now dusky meadows by Clyde side, and passing through the
village of Gorbals, which lies on the south bank of the river, we
crossed the great bridge and entered the gates just as they were on the
point of closing.
During the latter hours of the day I had gone over again in mind all the
details of the doings of past weeks. All seemed now clear, and with
great heartiness I cursed myself for errors, which I could scarce have
refrained from. The steps in Gilbert's plan lay before me one by one.
The letter had given him only the slightest of clues, which he must have
taken weeks to discover. When at last it had been made clear to him,
something else had engaged his mind. He must have had word from private
sources, shut to the country folk, of the way whither events were
trending in the state. His mind was made up; he would make one
desperate bid for success; and thus he shaped his course. He sent men
to Smitwood with the plausible story which I had already heard from my
servant, how all breach was healed between us, and how this was her
escort to take her to me. Then I doubted not he had bidden the men show
her as proof some letter forged in my name on the model of the one I had
lost on Caerdon, and also give her some slight hint of the great change
in the country to convince her that now he could do no ill even had he
desired it, and that I was now on the summit of fortune. The poor lass,
wearied with anxiety and long delay, and with no wise Nicol at hand to
give better counsel, had suffered herself to be persuaded, and left the
house with a glad heart. I pictured her disillusion, her bitter
regrets, her unwilling flight. And then I swore with redoubled
vehemence that it should not be for long.
We alighted for the night at the house of that Mistress Macmillan, where
I lodged when I first came to college. She welcomed us heartily, and
prepared us a noble supper, for we were hungry as hawks, and I, for one,
tired with many rough adventures. The house stood in the Gallow Gate,
near the salt market and the college gardens; and as I lay down on the
fresh sheets and heard the many noises of the street with the ripple of
the river filling the pauses, I thanked God that at last I had come out
of beggary and outlawry to decent habitation.
CHAPTER III
THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES
The next morn the weather had changed. When I looked forth through the
latticed panes to the street, it was a bleak scene that met my
eyes--near a foot of snow, flakes tossing and whirling everywhere, and
the roofs and gables showing leaden dull in the gloom. Had I been in
another frame of mind I should have lost my spirits, for nothing so
disheartened me as heavy, dismal weather. But now I was in such a
temper that I welcomed the outlook; the grey, lifeless street was akin
to my heart, and I went down from my chamber with the iron of resolution
in my soul.
My first care was to enquire at Mistress Macmillan if she knew aught of
my cousin's doings, for the town-house of the Eaglesham Burnets was not
two streets distant. But she could give me no news, for, said she,
since the old laird died and these troublous times succeeded, it was
little that the young master came near the place. So without any delay
I and my servant went out into the wintry day, and found our way to the
old, dark dwelling in the High Street.
The house had been built near a hundred years before, in the time of
Ephraim Burnet, my cousin's grandfather. I mind it well to this day,
and oft as I think of the city, that dreary, ancient pile rises to fill
my vision. The three Burnet leaves, the escutcheon of our family, hung
over the doorway. Every window was little and well-barred with iron,
nor was any sign of life to be seen behind the dreary panes. But the
most notable things to the eye were the odd crow-step gables, which, I
know not from what cause, were all chipped and defaced, and had a
strange, pied appearance against the darker roof. It faced the street
and down one side ran a little lane. Behind were many lesser buildings
around the courtyard, and the back opened into a wynd which ran westward
to the city walls.
I went up the steps and with my sword-hilt thundered on the door. The
blows roused the echoes of the old place. Within I heard the resonance
of corridor and room, all hollow and empty. Below me was the snowy
street, with now and then a single passer, and I felt an eerie awe of
this strange house, as of one who should seek to force a vault of the
dead.
Again I knocked, and this time it brought me an answer. I heard
feet--slow, shuffling feet, coming from some room, and ascending the
staircase to the hall. The place was so void that the slightest sound
rang loud and clear, and I could mark the progress of the steps from
their beginning. Somewhere they came to a halt, as if the person were
considering whether or not to come to the door, but by and by they
advanced, and with vast creaking a key was fitted into the lock and the
great oak door was opened a little.
It was a little old woman who stood in the opening, with a face seamed
and wrinkled, and not a tooth in her head. She wore a mutch, which gave
her a most witch-like appearance, and her narrow, grey eyes, as they
fastened on me and sought out my errand, did not reassure me.
"What d'ye want here the day, sir?" she said in a high, squeaking voice.
"It's cauld, cauld weather, and my banes are auld and I canna stand here
bidin' your pleesur."
"Is your master within?" I said, shortly. "Take me to him, for I have
business with him."
"Maister, quotha!" she screamed. "Wha d'ye speak o', young sir? If
it's the auld laird ye mean, he's lang syne wi' his Makker, and the
young yin has no been here thae fower years. He was a tenty bit lad,
was Maister Gilbert, but he gaed aff to the wars i' the abroad and ne'er
thinks o' returnin'. Wae's me for the puir, hapless cheil." And she
crooned on to herself in the garrulity of old age.
"Tell me the truth," said I, "and have done with your lies. It is well
known that your master came here in the last two days with two men and a
lady, and abode here for the night. Tell me instantly if he is still
here or whither has he gone."
She looked at me with a twinkle of shrewdness and then shook her head
once more. "Na, na, I'm no leein'. I'm ower neer my accoont wi' the
Lord to burden my soul wi' lees. When you tae are faun i' the hinner
end o' life, ye'll no think it worth your while to mak up leesome
stories. I tell ye the young maister hasna been here for years, though
it's blithe I wad be to see him. If ye winna believe my word, ye can
e'en gang your ways."
Now I was in something of a quandary. The woman looked to be speaking
the truth, and it was possible that my cousin could have left the city
on one side and pushed straight on to his house of Eaglesham or even to
the remoter western coast. Yet the way was a long one, and I saw not
how he could have refrained from halting at Glasgow in the even. He had
no cause to fear my following him there more than another place. For
that I would come post-haste to the Westlands at the first word he must
have well known, and so he could have no reason in covering his tracks
from me. He was over-well known a figure in his own countryside to make
secrecy possible; his aim must be to outrace me in speed, not to outwit
me with cunning.
"Let me gang, young sir," the old hag was groaning. "I've the
rheumaticks i' my banes and I'm sair hadden doon wi' the chills, and
I'll get my death if I stand here longer."
"I will trust you then," said I, "but since I am a kinsman of your
master's and have ridden far on a bootless errand, I will even come in
and refresh myself ere I return."
"Na, na," she said, a new look, one of anxiety and cunning coming into
her face, "ye maun na dae that. It was the last word my maister bade me
ere he gaed awa'. 'Elspeth,' says he, 'see ye let nane intil the hoose
till I come back.'"
"Tut, tut, I am his own cousin. I will enter if I please," and calling
my servant, I made to force an admittance.
Then suddenly, ere I knew, the great door was slammed in my face, and I
could hear the sound of a key turning and a bar being dropped.
Here was a pretty to-do. Without doubt there was that in the house
which the crone desired to keep from my notice. I sprang to the door
and thundered on it like a madman, wrestling with the lock, and calling
for the woman to open it. But all in vain, and after a few seconds'
bootless endeavour, I turned ruefully to my servant.
"Can aught be done?" I asked.
"I saw a dyke as we cam here," said Nicol, "and ower the back o't was a
yaird. There was likewise a gate i' the dyke. I'm thinkin' that'll be
the back door o' the hoose. If ye were awfu' determined, Laird, ye
micht win in there."
I thought for a moment. "You are right," I cried. "I know the place.
But we will first go back and fetch the horses, for it is like there
will be wild work before us ere night."
But lo and behold! when we went to the inn stable my horse was off. "I
thocht he needit a shoe," said the ostler, "so I just sent him doun to
Jock Walkinshaw's i' the East Port. If ye'll bide a wee, I'll send a
laddie doun to bring him up."
Five, twenty, sixty minutes and more we waited while that accursed child
brought my horse. Then he came back a little after midday; three shoes
had been needed, he said, and he had rin a' the way, and he wasna to
blame. So I gave him a crown and a sound box on the ears, and then the
two of us set off.
The place was high and difficult of access, being in a narrow lane where
few passers ever went, and nigh to the city wall. I bade Nicol hold the
horses, and standing on the back of one I could just come to within a
few feet of the top. I did my utmost by springing upward to grasp the
parapet, but all in vain, so in a miserable state of disappointed hopes
I desisted and consulted with my servant. Together we tried the door,
but it was of massive wood, clamped with iron, and triply bolted. There
was nothing for it but to send off to Mistress Macmillan and seek some
contrivance. Had the day not been so wild and the lane so quiet we
could scarce have gone unnoticed. As it was, one man passed, a hawker
in a little cart, seeking a near way, and with little time to stare at
the two solitary horsemen waiting by the wall.
Nicol went off alone, while I kept guard--an aimless guard--by the gate.
In a little he returned with an old boat-hook, with the cleek at the end
somewhat unusually long. Then he proposed his method. I should stand
on horseback as before, and hang the hook on the flat surface of the
wall. When, by dint of scraping, I had fixed it firmly, I should climb
it hand over hand, as a sailor mounts a rope, and with a few pulls I
might hope to be at the summit.
I did as he bade, and, with great labour, fixed the hook in the hard
stone. Then I pulled myself up, very slowly and carefully, with the
shaft quivering in my hands. I was just gripping the stone when the
wretched iron slipped and rattled down to the ground, cutting me sharply
in the wrist. Luckily I did not go with it, for in the moment of
falling, I had grasped the top and hung there with aching hands and the
blood from the cut trickling down my arm. Then, with a mighty effort, I
swung myself up and stood safe on the top.
Below me was a sloping roof of wood which ended in a sheer wall of maybe
twelve feet. Below that in turn was the great yard, flagged with stone,
but now hidden under a cloak of snow. Around it were stables, empty of
horses, windy, cold, and dismal. I cannot tell how the whole place
depressed me. I felt as though I were descending into some pit of the
dead.
Staunching the blood from my wrist--by good luck my left--as best I
might with my kerchief, I slipped down the white roof and dropped into
the court. It was a wide, empty place, and, in the late afternoon,
looked grey and fearsome. The dead black house behind, with its many
windows all shuttered and lifeless, shadowed the place like a pall. At
my back was the back door of the house, like the other locked and
iron-clamped. I seemed to myself to have done little good by my
escapade in coming thither.
Wandering aimlessly, I entered the stables, scarce thinking what I was
doing. Something about the place made me stop and look. I rubbed my
eyes and wondered. There, sure enough, were signs of horses having been
recently here. Fresh hay and a few oats were in the mangers, and straw
and dung in the stalls clearly proclaimed that not long agone the place
had been tenanted.
I rushed out into the yard, and ran hither and thither searching the
ground. There were hoof-marks--fool that I was not to have marked them
before--leading clearly from the stable door to the gate on the High
Street. I rushed to the iron doors and tugged at them. To my amazement
I found that they yielded, and I was staring into the darkening street.
So the birds had been there and flown in our brief absence. I cursed my
ill-fortune with a bitter heart.
Suddenly I saw something dark lying amid the snow. I picked it up and
laid it tenderly in my bosom. For it was a little knot of blue velvet
ribbon, such as my lady wore.
CHAPTER IV
UP HILL AND DOWN DALE
I rushed up the street, leaving the gates swinging wide behind me, and
down the lane to where Nicol waited. In brief, panting words I told him
my tale. He heard it without a movement, save to turn his horse's head
up the street. I swung myself into the saddle, and, with no more delay,
we made for our lodgings.
"There is but one thing that we may do," said I. "The night is an ill
one, but if it is ill for us 'tis ill for them." And at the words I
groaned, for I thought of my poor Marjory in the storm and cold.
At Mistress Macmillan's I paid the lawing, and having eaten a hearty
meal, we crammed some food into our saddle-bags and bade the hostess
good-bye. Then we turned straight for the west port of the city.
It was as I had expected. The gates were just at the closing when the
twain of us rode up to them and were suffered to pass. The man looked
curiously at my strange dress, but made no remark, as is the fashion of
these taciturn Westland folk, and together we rode through and into the
bleak night. The snow had ceased to fall early in the day, but now it
came on again in little intermittent driftings, while a keen wind
whistled from the hills of the north. The land was more or less strange
to me, and even my servant, who had a passing acquaintance with many
countrysides, professed himself ignorant. It was the way to the wild
highlands--the county of Campbells and Lennoxes--and far distant from
kindly Christian folk. I could not think why my cousin had chosen this
path, save for the reason of its difficulty and obscurity. I was still
in doubt of his purpose, whether he was bound for his own house of
Eaglesham or for the more distant Clyde coast. He had clearly gone by
this gate from the city, for this much we had learned from the man at
the port. Now, if he sought Eaglesham, he must needs cross the river,
which would give us some time to gain on his track. But if he still
held to the north, then there was naught for it but to follow him
hot-foot and come up with him by God's grace and our horses' speed.
I have been abroad on many dark nights, but never have I seen one so
black as this. The path to the west ran straight from our feet to the
rugged hills which dip down to the river edge some ten miles off. But of
it we could make nothing, nor was there anything to tell us of its
presence save that our horses stumbled when we strayed from it to the
moory land on either side. All about us were the wilds, for the town of
Glasgow stood on the last bounds of settled country, near to the fierce
mountains and black morasses of the Highlandmen. The wind crooned and
blew in gusts over the white waste, driving little flakes of snow about
us, and cutting us to the bone with its bitter cold. Somewhere in the
unknown distances we heard strange sounds--the awesome rumble of water
or the cry of forlorn birds. All was as bleak as death, and, in the
thick darkness, what might otherwise have seemed simple and homelike,
was filled with vague terrors. I had shaped no path--all that I sought
was to hasten somewhere nearer those we followed, and on this mad quest
we stumbled blindly forward.
When we had gone some half-dozen miles a light shone out from the
wayside, and we descried a house. It was a little, low dwelling, with
many sheds at the rear; clearly a smithy or a humble farm. My servant
leaped down and knocked. The door was opened, a warm stream of light
lay across the snowy road. I had a glimpse within, and there was a
cheerful kitchen with a fire of logs crackling. A man sat by the
hearth, shaping something or other with a knife, and around him two
children were playing. The woman who came to us was buxom and comely,
one who delighted in her children and her home. The whole place gave me
a sharp feeling of envy and regret. Even these folk, poor peasants, had
the joys of comfort and peace, while I, so long an outlaw and a
wanderer, must still wander hopeless seeking the lost, cumbered about
with a thousand dangers.
"Did any riders pass by the road to-day?" I asked.
"Ay, four passed on horses about midday or maybe a wee thing after it,
twae stoot fellows, and a braw-clad gentleman and a bonny young leddy.
They didna stop but gaed by at a great rate."
"What was the lady like?" I asked, breathlessly.
"Oh, a bit young thing, snod and genty-like. But I mind she looked gey
dowie and I think she had been greetin'. But wherefore d'ye speir, sir?
And what are ye daein' oot hereaways on siccan a nicht? Ye best come in
and bide till mornin'. We've an orra bed i' the house for the maister,
and plenty o' guid, saft straw i' the barn for the man."
"Did they go straight on?" I cried, "and whither does this way lead?"
"They went straight on," said she, "and the road is the road to the toun
o' Dumbarton." And she would have told me more, but with a hasty word
of thanks, I cut her short, and once more we were off into the night.
From this place our way and the incidents thereof are scarce clear in my
memory. For one thing the many toils of the preceding time began at
last to tell upon me, and I grew sore and wearied. Also a heavy
drowsiness oppressed me, and even in that cold I could have slept on my
horse's back. We were still on the path, and the rhythmical jog of the
motion served to lull me, till, as befell every now and then, there came
a rut or a tussock, and I was brought to my senses with a sharp shock.
Nicol rode silently at my side, a great figure in the gloom, bent low,
as was always his custom, over his horse's neck. In one way the state
was more pleasing than the last, for the turmoil of cares in my heart
was quieted for the moment by the bodily fatigue. I roused myself at
times to think of my purpose and get me energy for my task, but the dull
languor would not be exorcised, and I always fell back again into my
sloth. Nevertheless we kept a fair pace, for we had given the rein to
our animals, and they were fresh and well-fed.
Suddenly, ere I knew, the way began to change from a level road into a
steep hill-path. Even in the blackness I could see a great hillside
rising steeply to right and to left. I pulled up my horse, for here
there would be need of careful guidance, and was going on as before when
Nicol halted me with his voice.
"Laird, Laird," he cried, "I dinna ken muckle aboot the Dumbarton road,
but there's yae thing I ken weel and that is that it keeps i' the laigh
land near the waterside a' the way, and doesna straiggle ower
brae-faces."
This roused me to myself. "Did we pass any cross-road?" I asked, "for
God knows the night is dark enough for any man to wander. Are you sure
of what you say?"
"As sure as I am that my fingers are cauld and my een fair dazed wi'
sleep," said he.
"Then there is naught for it but to go back and trust to overtaking the
path. But stay, are these not the hills of Kilpatrick, which stretch
down from the Lennox to the Clyde and front the river at this very
Dumbarton? I have surely heard of such. Our highway must lie to our
left, since we clearly have turned to the right, seeing that if we had
turned to the left we should have reached the water. If then we strike
straight from here along the bottom of this slope, will we not reach the
town? The chances are that we should never find our path, whereas this
way will bring us there without fail, if we can stomach some rough
riding."
"Weel, sir, I'm wi' ye wherever ye like to gang. And I'll no deny but
that it's the maist reasonable road to tak, if ye're no feared o'
breakin' your craig ower a stane or walkin' intil a peat-bog. But we
maun e'en lippen to Providence and tak our chance like better men."
So wheeling sharply to our left, we left the path and rode as best we
could along the rough bottom of the hills. It was a tract of rushy
ground where many streams ran. Huge boulders, tumbled down from the
steeps, strewed it like the leaves of a hazel wood in autumn. On one
hand the land lay back to the haughlands and ordered fields, on the
other it sloped steeply to the hills. Stumps of birk-trees and stray
gnarled trunks came at times, but in general the ground was open and not
unsuited for horses in the light of day. Now it was something more than
difficult, for we came perilous near oftentimes to fulfilling my
servant's prophecy. Once, I remember, I floundered fair into a trench
of moss-water with a vile muddy bottom, where I verily believe both
horse and man would have perished, had not Nicol, who saw my misfortune
and leaped his beast across, pulled me fiercely from my saddle to the
bank, and the twain of us together extricated the horse. In this
fashion, floundering and slipping, we must have ridden some half-dozen
miles. All drowsiness had vanished with the rough and ready mode of
travel. Once more the thought of my lady and her plight, of my wrongs
and my misfortunes, tormented me with anxiety and wrath, and stamped yet
more firmly my errand on my soul.
Now, however, we were suddenly brought to an end in our progress.
Before us lay a little ravine, clogged with snow, in whose bottom a burn
roared. It was a water of little size, and, in summer weather, one might
all but have leaped it. Now the snow had swollen it to the semblance of
a torrent, and it chafed and eddied in the little gorge, a streak of
dark, angry water against the dim white banks. There was nothing for it
but to enter and struggle across, and yet, as I looked at the ugly
swirl, I hesitated. I was nigh numbed with cold, my horse was aching
from its stumbling, there was little foothold on the opposing bank. I
turned to Nicol, who sat with his teeth shaking with the bitter weather.
"There is naught for it," said I, "but to risk it. There is no use in
following it, for we shall find no better place in a ravine like this."
Even as I spoke my servant had taken the plunge, and I saw horse and man
slip off the snowy bank into the foam. I followed so closely that I
lost all sight of them. To this day I remember the feelings of the
moment, the choking as an icy wave surged over my mouth, the frantic
pulling at the bridle-rein, the wild plunging of my horse, the roar of
water and the splash of swimming. Then, with a mighty effort, my brave
animal was struggling up the further side, where my servant was already
shaking the water from his clothes.
This incident, while it put me in better heart, vastly added to my
bodily discomfort. An icy wind shivering through dripping garments may
well chill the blood of the stoutest. And for certain the next part of
the way is burned on my memory with a thousand recollections of utter
weariness and misery. Even my hardy servant could scarce keep from
groaning, and I, who was ever of a tenderer make, could have leaned my
head on my horse's neck and sobbed with pure feebleness.
The country was now rough with tanglewood, for we were near the last
spur of the hills, ere they break down on the river. Somewhere through
the gloom lights were shining and moving, as I guessed from a ship on
the water. Beyond were still others, few in number, but fixed as if
from dwelling-houses. Here at last, I thought, is the town of Dumbarton
which I am seeking, and fired with the hope we urged on the more our
jaded beasts.
But lo! when we came to it, 'twas but a wayside inn in a little clachan,
where one solitary lamp swung and cast a bar of light over the snowy
street. I hammered at the door till I brought down the landlord,
shivering in his night-dress. It might be that my cousin had halted
here, so I asked the man if he had any travellers within.
"Nane, save twae drunk Ayr skippers and a Glesca packman, unless your
honour is comin' to keep them company."
"Has anyone passed then?" I cried.
"How could I tell when I've been sleepin' i' my bed thae sax 'oor?" he
coughed, and, seeing we were no sojourners, slammed the door in our
face.
We were numb and wretched, but there was naught for it but to ride on
further to the town. It could not be far, and there were signs of morn
already in the air. The cold grew more intense and the thick pall of
darkness lifted somewhat toward the east. The blurred woods and clogged
fields at our side gradually came into view, and as, heart-sick and nigh
fordone with want of sleep, we rounded the great barrier ridge of hill,
an array of twinkling lights sprang up in front and told us that we were
not far from our journey's end. Nevertheless, it was still dark when we
rode into a narrow, cobbled street and stopped at the first hostelry.
Now, both the one and the other were too far gone with weariness to do
more than drop helplessly from the horses and stagger into the inn
parlour. They gave us brandy, and then led us to a sleeping-room, where
we lay down like logs and dropped into a profound slumber.
When we awoke the morning was well advanced. I was roused by Nicol, who
was ever the more wakeful, and without more delay we went down and
recruited our exhausted strength with a meal. Then I summoned the
landlord, and asked, more from habit than from any clear expectation,
whether any travellers had lodged over night.
The man answered shortly that there had been a gentleman and a maid,
with two serving-men, who had but lately left.